Words, Words, Words

I haven’t written in a while, and it’s because I’ve grown weary of words. I guess I’m not alone because some of my favorite bloggers (Arjewtino, Crse, Blue Girl) are also taking long breaks between posts. While I can’t speak for any of them, I can speak for myself. I just don’t know what I want to say.

Well, that’s not exactly true. I  know just what I want to say, but it’s probably best if I don’t say it.

In general, I want to say “stop lying.”

I also want to say “stop oversimplifying.”

And I also want to point out that there aren’t always “both sides” to a discussion and more often, there are many more than two. Pierre Beaumarchais said “It is not necessary to understand things in order to argue about them.” To him I offer a resounding “yep.”

I want to say all of these things, and yet I don’t because I’m tired of the words. I’m tired of the arguing and the posturing and the repositioning.

I’m tired of news programs and op-ed columns and even blogs that are contrived and untrue.

I’m waiting to read a genuine and real sentiment, a humble and tentative thought, a hope, a glimmer, an uncertainty. The rest is just gilt over a hollow core. In Poor Richard’s Almanac, Benjamin Franklin said “an empty bag cannot stand.”

Right now, it seems most of these empty bags have bylines and airtime.

“We can alter the spicy according to your taste.”

Reg and I like to keep memorable fortunes from the cookies we get with our weekly (sad, but true) Chinese takeout. As English teachers, we get a kick out of the weirdly used articles and other things that happen during translation. Clearly we’re not alone because there is a whole website, engrishfunny.com, dedicated to the strange constructions that happen when languages and cultures don’t quite connect.

Reg’s sister just moved to Japan and sent back a goody box including for me a water bottle that says “every day a bird flies by my house.” If you think about it, it’s a sweet thought, a little appreciation of nature and of the simple things, and for certain, far more interesting than “today is the first day of the rest of your life.”

Some of our favorite cookie fortunes seem equally profound:

• “Rivers need springs.”
• “Watch your character, for it becomes your destiny.”
• “A peaceful mind generates power.”

We keep them on the refrigerator (where else, right?) to inspire and amuse us. Don’t they just sound deep? I mean, any kind of imagined wisdom coming from an exotic source who isn’t necessarily fully fluent in English just seems like something we should listen to doesn’t it (think Miyagi, or Yoda, for that matter)?

So we take heed when we are advised “Now is the time to make circles with mints, do not haste any longer.” It is indeed the time. Do not haste…any longer.

On books

“Books well used are among the best things, abused among the worst.” Ralph Waldo Emerson

I love Emerson’s philosophies because they often center around the idea that we should do our own thinking.

This is an important philosophy when it comes to books, I think. Too often, we see a book held up as Truth (capital T intended) or at least the Truth of the moment (think DaVinci Code) that kind of sweeps us all along in the current of its thinking, until much later, we emerge, shake the water out of our ears and go, okay, maybe not.

Some books are regarded as having more worth than others because of when and by whom they were written. We treat with skepticism modern writers with their non-linear reflections and questioning rather than proclaiming style and hold up anything written by dead white guys from days of yore (aka, the classics). We see biography and history regarded as more valid than fiction, and lately, and even within the fiction genre, we find multiple sub-genres: romance, realism, magical realism, sci-fi, speculative fiction, chick lit, and you get the idea.

But with these simple categorizations, we miss, well, we miss a lot. My good friend, Christopher Barzak, has written two novels that defy these kinds of easy genre-based descriptions. The most recent, The Love We Share Without Knowing, is particularly difficult to pin down. This is its strength.

If you’re looking for a typical love story: boy meets girl, is confronted with a significant obstacle to her affections, overcomes obstacle, love wins in the end, then this is not the book for you (you want something by Nicholas Sparks). Instead Chris’s novel doesn’t provide us with easy or even any answers about love. We get questions in a world where the dead and living hold company together and where people drift between these two worlds in dreams and even in the guise of a fox. Love becomes dark and grasping, lonely and desperate, and it refuses to be silenced by death. And yet the darkness doesn’t exist just for darkness’s sake but rather to make room for the light because in the midst of the lonliness and death we come to realize what is at the heart of the novel’s overlapping stories. The ghosts are supernatural manifestations of a truth that is presented as a hunch…that we leave in others’ lives our traces, our love, in more ways than we will ever fully realize.

Chris, along with two others from the Oakland Center for the Arts, formed a book club based on the more democratic idea that written expression is valid. Period. Chris, Brooxie, and Ric began the book club (of which I am now the caretaker) with six book choices that were as diverse as the people choosing them. The idea was always that we weren’t going to be one of *those* book clubs that only read the classics or books that had otherwise been culturally stamped as worthy. We’ve taken this idea one step further and recently created a member-suggested reading list that includes a graphic novel, a collection of short stories, a feminist pulp novel set in 1930’s New York, and Japanese fiction.

That’s the abuse, I think, to which Emerson refers. The abuse occurs when certain books are deemed as having the answers and other books are cast aside as not worth our attention. No, he would say, that’s not how we use books well. We use books, fiction or non-fiction, as windows into the culture in which they were created. They are glimpses, nothing more. It is up to us to make Truth and then to redefine it when we need to.

There’s a Bug in my soup.

Photo by Robert Dennick Joki

“I am a super mother bug!”

Last week, our lead in the Oakland’s upcoming production of Bug, Terri, and I talked about the difficulty of yelling that line. This week, suddenly, I feel like yelling it all of the time, if for no other reason than to make my children think “Mom’s losing it. We’d better settle down,” and then they’d probably bring me pillows and diet cokes and all would be well.

So, this is the show…THE SHOW… that has been the larger body around which Reg and I (and many, many others) have been orbitting for the past week or so. I’d forgotten what it was like to be married to an actor because Reg hasn’t done a show for years. Responsibilities are a little mommy-heavy this week, and add to that that I’m one of the production coordinators of the show, and yeah, it’s been a little bit buggy. We’re doing everything from stage combat to negotiating buy one get one bug light deals at Lowe’s. And we’re eating a lot of soup.

Did I really say that I’d bake four dozen cookies? What was I thinking?

But here is the deepest secret that nobody knows. Here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud.

I love it. I love the energy, I love the comradry, I love the giving-all-for the show vibe that’s permeating nearly every facet of my life this week. There’s nothing like it. My role is entirely supportive. Mostly, I sit in awe of the talented people who are really making it happen (you know who you are). So, I’ll bake the cookies and get the bug lights and run the microscope down to the theater and dig through my plant containers looking for rocks that resemble teeth because it’s for the show. THE SHOW.

I hope you’ll come and see it.

Here’s the official Press Release:  In light of the economic climate, The Oakland Center for the Arts will be offering several discounts during the run of Bug, the opening show of 2009. Performances are February 20, 21, 27, 28, March 5, 6, 7, at 8 pm and March 1 at 2 pm.

Directed by Robert Dennick Joki and featuring Terri Labedz, Ron Aulet, Ric Panning, Lisa Skerkavich, and Jim Canacci, the dark drama follows a couple on a slow descent into madness in a seedy motel room.

During the opening weekend, all students who show ID will be admitted for only $5. Regular student tickets will be $10 the following two weekend.

$5 discounts are being offered to anyone who shows a ticket stub from the Pavlik fight at the Chevy Centre. Also, Military members will receive a $5 discount with proof of ID.

Regular ticket prices are $15 for adults, $12 for seniors 55 and over, and $10 for students. Group rates are available for parties of 10 or more. Ticket price also includes admission to the Star Gallery, where artist Gail Trunick’s work will be on display through March 7.

Reservations can be made by calling (330)746-0404. Visit oaklandcenter.com for more information, and check out myspace.com/oaklandcenter for additional internet-only discounts to be announced.

The Oakland, a non-profit community theater and arts organization, is located in downtown Youngstown at 220 W. Boardman St.

Eloquence

“Thank you for what you are doing.” –The Organizer

Tomorrow is Presidents’ day. I thought about beginning this post with a quote from President Obama (I love how that sounds) or from President Lincoln, both of whom are known for their oratory prowess.

But I’m not thinking about presidents right now. I’m thinking about the theater. My life, our lives, for the past week and a half or so have been the theater. More specifically our theater: the Oakland Center for the Arts.

There has been a series of potential setbacks surrouding our upcoming production, and yet we’ve met them as a community of people who are striving to bring art that asks tough questions to a larger community who needs to consider these questions.

So this afternoon, four of us from the board met at a Kravitz’s deli to talk theater. We took our laptops and notebooks to the deli’s side room to get down to business. As always when a board meets, most of our conversation centered around improving…on what we could do better.

At a nearby table, five women were enjoying lunch together. We barely noticed them until their conversation turned to local theater. We overheard the name “Oakland” and then several statements about us like “I hear they’re all volunteers at the Oakland.”

The four of us fell silent and listened a little, and then Brooxie asked, “should we chime in?” We turned in unison and said, “Hi, we’re from the Oakland.” What followed was a friendly discussion about local theater. They asked questions and we answered. We added one of the ladies’ names to our email list because she was the group’s “organizer,” as they all claimed.

We thanked them for their interest . As they bid us goodbye, the Organizer turned and said, “Thank YOU for what you do.”

Although her statement may not have had *presidential* oratory, it was the most eloquent thing I’d heard all week. Is there anything more eloquent, really, than a thank you? Than an acknowledgement of dedication and service and passion?

It was perfect and simple and serendipitous, and it brightened us.

Thank you.

To Yuri

“I don’t like people who have never fallen or stumbled. Their virtue is lifeless and it isn’t of much value. Life hasn’t revealed its beauty to them.”

Today is the birthday of Boris Pasternak, who is unquestionably most well known for his novel Dr. Zhivago, which is better known as the 1965 film* starring Julie Christie and Omar Sharif.

I first discovered Zhivago during “the blizzard of 93.” This three day storm (March 12-15) crippled much of the Northeast part of the nation. Locally, it meant that I was literally stuck in my apartment, unable to pull my car out of the carport for three days. Local officials ordered the closing of all “non-essential” businesses, and because I was in my twenties…a grad student…I had little food (or perhaps, more significantly, not enough cigarettes) in my apartment.

I was fortunate that “non-essential” businesses didn’t include the corner convenience store. So in the middle of the blizzard, I suited up in my parka and boots, and I walked the half mile to the store to stock up on frozen pizzas and smokes. While I was there, I decided I might as well grab a video. I chose Dr. Zhivago for two reasons: it was long; it was one of the few films left at the store that I’d even consider watching.

After an hour’s walk, I shook the snow off, popped a pizza into the oven, put Zhivago into the VCR, and I fell in love with Yuri, Lara, Tonya, and even, to some extent, Pasha. As soon as the film ended, I immediately picked up the novel (which I happened to have purchased at an all-the-books-you-can-fit-in-a-bag-for-50-cents sale at my local Salvation Army store) and began reading.

I love Zhivago because it takes a complicated historical era and presents it in a complicated way. Yuri and Lara find each other, despite both having married and being truly in love with their childhood sweethearts, out of need and fear and longing. There are no clear villains or no clear heroes. Each and every character is beautiful and flawed and significant…just like real people. Each and every choice is multi-level and resonating…just like real choices. There is loss and sacrifice and pain and love, which are, of course, the hallmarks of the human condition.

It’s only February 10^th, and if you live in the Northeast, we’re bound to get some more snow, so grab a copy of Pasternak’s novel or the DVD or both, and get ready to be moved beyond expectation and simplicity.

 [*A few years ago, PBS remade Zhivago, and while the PBS version is more true to the novel, I simply couldn't handle a blonded Kiera Knightly as Lara. She's too physically insubstantial to embody such an iconic character. And also, the PBS remake lacks the cinematic brilliance of David Lean's 1965 materpiece.]

Explaining

“Never explain–your friends do not need it and your enemies will not believe you anyway. ” Elbert Hubbard

I was messing around on the internet the other night when I came across this quote. I like it. My friend who lives across the street once gave me similar advice when I asked, “do you think I over-reacted?” She said, “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s don’t second-guess yourself.”

I’m a second-guesser, a middle child.

 But it’s true, the quote that is. Our friends don’t usually require that we explain ourselves.

Our enemies will only ever see us through a particular lens. No amount of explaining will change that.

So why do we explain? I guess it’s for the folks in between friend and enemy.

More likely, it’s because we’re somehow not quite confident that we’re fitting in. From an evolutionary psychology standpoint, it makes perfect sense.

Yeah, so I’m trying to explain less, but I still can’t quite get past the need to try and control how others perceive me.

That’s why I would never want anyone to judge me by my MP3 (white trash Ipod) list, my book collection, or the contents of my underwear drawer. Because you know, there might be a ”Four Minutes” (kiss my ass, it’s good song), a Twilight, or a thong granny panties in there somewhere.

The Visitor

A funny thing happens on this side of 40, as I’ve discovered. I am inspired by teen and twenty-somethings for their energy and their idealism, but I’m also ready to jump in front of traffic for them. I’m in this middle place between working alongside and protecting the [slightly] younger generation.

In “I am Becoming the Woman I’ve Wanted,”  Jayne Relaford Brown writes what has become the anthem to approaching middle age: “I find her becoming this woman I’ve wanted, …who knows where she’s going and travels with passion.” For me, Brown’s words don’t quite ring true.  I don’t see myself in them.

It’s been time for me to leave the identity of the cool teacher/mentor/older friend behind and to become something else. It’s hard for me to accept getting older when in my head, I’m still about twenty-two. There is a filiment of a line between staying proverbially young at heart and becoming ridiculous and also between welcoming the natural qualities of age and turning curmudgeonly.

Who this person will be I’m not exactly sure, but  in the meantime, Margaret Atwood’s cautionary poem, “The Moment,” seems a better fit:

The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,

is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can’t breathe.

No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.

“Watch it now…here he comes!”

“He doesn’t look a thing like Jesus, but he talks like a gentleman, like you imagined when you were young.”

Today’s quote comes from The Killers’  “While You Were Young.” I couldn’t resist the Jesus reference. I’m not sorry.

Enjoy the day. Enjoy the return to idealism for a little while.

What’s Next? An Ode to January in Ohio

Anyone who watched the West Wing during its tenure knows that fictional Pres. Jed Bartlett (Martin Sheen) would mark the end of a discussion with the firmly stated question “What’s next?”

I was thinking about “what’s next” yesterday morning. In Northeast Ohio, we’re in the middle of what meterologists are calling a “deep freeze.” January is a tough month for us Ohioans anyway. We’ve got the post holiday let down, and two months of snow and gray skies ahead. It’s hard to find that thing that we’re looking forward to to anchor us.

Even the school kids are feeling it. When fall moves into winter and brings with it the cold, we don’t notice as much because we’re marking time with a series of celebrations: Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas.

Not so in January. In January, we’re measuring our lives in Eliot’s coffee spoons, getting from one small moment to the next.

Yesterday morning, I went to wake my girls. Mira (9) asked her usual January morning question: “Did you check the tv? Do we have a snow day?” Then she launched into a teary rant about how hard third grade is and there’s too much homework and we’re never going to get a school day. I sat on the side of her bed and told her that January is like this, and that we just have to get up and get going, and that little by little we’ll feel better, that it’s really about forward motion.

I also pointed out that next week was going to be a good week, that we were getting a new president and the LOST was coming back. “Mommy,” she said, “Those are adult things. I’m a kid. I want a snow day.”

Gwennie (5) tried another tac: “Mommy, you have to check my fever I think I’m sick. I have a tummy ache.” Then she got to the heart of it: “Mommy, I want to stay home with you.”

Corita Kent wrote “Life is a succession of moments. To live each one is to succeed.” That about sums up January in Ohio for all of us, the little ones and the big ones.