Coping skills

As those of you who’ve kept up with this blog are aware, My Beloved One’s son now lives with us.  He’s taken to molesting the cat with stifling attention as he was once taught to do with a service-dog at Parry Center.  Only, our cat is not a dog, and he doesn’t seem to have the slightest interest in being a service-cat.  So, while the boy cradles the cat, the cat stretches his claws, contorts his back and tail into strange shapes, and goes a wee bit cross-eyed, wondering what on earth he did to have the life hugged out of him.

“Don’t torture the cat” we say.
“It’s a coping skill!” the boy points out.

It’s difficult to find an argument for that.  Will the boy feel the same about coping skills when the cat copes with the violation of overzealous affection, and sticks a claw in the boy’s eye?

“The cat flippin’ scratched me!” I imagine the boy shouting, as he kicks the cat.
“It’s his coping skill!” we could say, defending the cat, but then the boy might kick us.

Our coping skill for this situation has been to keep the cat shut away in the bedroom, safe and sleeping, during the boy’s hyper.  It was yesterday morning, during this sort of ‘keep them separated’ moment, that I—still foggy from waking only seconds before—tried the three step method: 1. open the bedroom door quickly, 2. walk through it very quickly, and 3. shut it behind me quickly so that the cat doesn’t get out.  Thus, I would have done my duty of keeping the cat away from the boy, and the boy away from the cat.  All would be well; the cat would still have a tail, the boy would still have two eyes, and I would be staggering on my way to the kitchen for my morning meeting with the coffee pot.

Alas, I failed the three step method.  As I opened the door to shoot myself out, I shot my foot into the door frame instead of into the living room.  Of all the petty annoyances to put up with first thing in the morning!  I’ve simply got bad luck with feet, in general.  When I was Nine I jumped off of the monkey-bars and broke my foot.  When I get a new pare of shoes—as walking is my means of transportation—they last about two months, then I’ve walked a hole into one or both of the soles.  Thumb tacks, nails, and metal coat hangers have all taken turns lodging in one foot or the other, and I stub my toes curiously frequently.  But I could tell—even before the sound of my foot meeting the door frame registered—that something was somehow out of order.

“Good God that hurt!” I thought to myself.  Though, I’d already scrambled to the kitchen and made a cup of coffee when my Beloved One pointed out I’d broken my wee toe, and hopefully not part of the foot its attached to.  Ahah!  That made sense of the strange circumstances of my wee toe; why the bottom side was bleeding, and the top side was starting to swell and compete for prominence with the intendedly big toe at the other end of the line up.  That’s why it felt as though my foot was being beaten repeatedly by a sledge hammer I couldn’t see.  It explained—perfectly—the new, strange, and annoying pain from such a small part of the body.  Small part of the body, small pain, but a strange sort of pain that’s actually pissed me off a bit!

I spent yesterday split between to modes.  Half spent fussing over my wee toe, icing it and elevating it.  The other half spent ignoring it, grunting, and hobbling around to get things done, the logic of which I tried to explain to the boy as we walked to the store to get groceries for dinner…

“Is it broken?”  he asked, sweetly.
“So it seems,” I confessed.
“Does it hurt?”
“Yes.”
“But you’re still walking!”
“There are things that need to be done.  Life doesn’t stop because of owies.”

I was hoping he’d say something sage-like (for a boy), such as “I think I get it”, or even “that sucks!” but such a response never came.

This morning the swelling seems to have gone down a wee bit.  That is to say, whilst it is still swollen, it no longer looks like a glow worm finger puppet.  What’s new this morning is some spectacular polka-dotted bruising.  One purple stripe down the wee toe, and a blue smudge near the toe next to it.  My Beloved one keeps urging me to go to the Doctor, but as I have no insurance, I don’t see the productivity of doing that.  It’d be one thing if I’d accidentally cut off half a leg with a chainsaw, but with something like this, what’s the point?  Why go to confirm that something is wrong, without actually being given anything to improve it.  I’m sure they might wrap it to the toe next to it, and give a prescription for a crutch or a cane to help the wobbles, but a prescription doesn’t really help me.  No insurance, and not enough to fill the scrip, let alone pay the overstuffed doctor’s bill in the post a month from now.

Who knows what the day shall bring.  The question of dinner for tonight has already raised its ugly head.

At least I had already arranged for both yesterday and today off.  It’s back to work tomorrow, and the five days following.

©  Jeffrey Puukka, 2009.

Will then, Shakespeare now.

On Ex Libris, I discovered an article written by Leland Ryken (English professor at Wheaton) about Shakespeare and the Geneva Bible.

I shall have to spend a bit of time reading Ryken’s essay more deeply.  A chunk on the bus, a chunk after work, a chunk with my cup of tea, and so on.  I can certainly appreciate these sorts of essays for whatever fruit they may potentially bear when the time comes to not only interpret Shakespeare’s writing in the rehearsal room, but understand the components of the man himself.

However, some thoughts did immediately surface.

Shakespeare’s Use Of The Bible

“There are passages in which reference to the Bible is not strictly required to construe what Shakespeare has written, but where we are invited to see an allusion or echo.”  (Ryken)

When we analyze Shakespeare now—we sometimes forget that we’re reading from our vantage point, atop the mountains of scholarship amassed in the 393 years since Shakespeare’s death.  When Shakespeare was alive, times were different, religion was different, popular culture was different,  household names were different.

In Shakespeare’s day, if someone wanted to make an illustrative comment about suffering, nothingness, or poverty, they may likely conjure up images of Job.   That would have been a story with which many people were familiar.  (Shakespeare makes this allusion himself, in fact, when he has Falstaff saying, “I am as poor as Job, but not so patient.” in Henry IV 2)  Today, if we wanted to make a similar comment, we might conjure up the image of King Lear.

Today, we quote Shakespeare frequently.  Shakespeare quoted (or wrote phrases that resembled) passages of the Bible.

It’s absolutely foolish to deny the fact that Biblical themes and characters are very frequently included as part of what makes Shakespeare’s writing work.  But also included are many mythical references (Roman, Greek, and other).  The Player’s speech about Priam in Hamlet, is just one huge example.

Shakespeare’s Religion

As for arguments about whether Shakespeare was Catholic or Protestant and how important that is to his success as a playwright.  It’s clear that Shakespeare had (though not forever) received some support from a Catholic patron (Lord Strange/fifth earl of Derby).  For a time, that meant some financial stabilization.  I have also read some scholarly ruminations that Shakespeare may have had some minimal connections (friends-of friends-of friends-of friends) to people connected to the Gunpowder plot.  However, I can’t see that as anything too profound.  Lots of people have friends, including our friends.

At the end of the day, Shakespeare was a working, writing adult in a time of enormous change for England. The death of Elizabeth, James’ ascension to the throne, the very slow and gradual change from a Oral/poetic tradition to a printed, literary culture.  Everything was being shuffled around.  This shuffling—and its components—certainly influenced Shakespeare’s body-of-work as much as anything else.

Shakespeare was a writer.  He worked with a company of players.  It was imperative for their survival that he—and the players—work frequently, quickly, and successfully in order to bring an audience, keep them happy, and keep them coming back.  I can’t help but believe then that Necessity, coupled with a keen sense for what would/wouldn’t work for his audience, were likely the Mother and Father of Shakespeare’s invention.

©  Jeffrey Puukka, 2009

An update? An essay? A blog.

I shall start with the format suggested by Twitter, and countless improvisation games.  What are you doing? Well, I’ve made myself a lovely cup of tea, and lit a cigarette.  (Perhaps I should not have written that, any health conscious reader has probably just clenched their teeth, and will stop reading at this point.)  Now, I sit at the desk in the ‘bedroom hide-away’, stare at the computer before me, and attempt to type out some thoughts.  There’ve been many thoughts, lately, too.

I’ve been missing my Dad immensely, since he’s moved to the beach.  I miss our get-togethers.  I especially miss the get-togethers of times gone by, when the Pub at Edgefield was still smoke friendly, and the chess board was always on the table, precariously situated in between our drinks.  I’ve been thinking a great deal about theatre.  I’ve slowly been reading the Trevanian novel, Shibumi, which in a strange, abstract way, has only been encouraging me to think more about theatre.

I’ve always been the ‘quiet, introverted, lost-in-thought’ type as it is, but the last few weeks, even I feel like my thought processors have been on overdrive.

The boy whom I so often write and tweet about is gone for a weekend dose of respite.  With the flat deliciously quiet, my Beloved One says: “You’ve obviously been wanting to write.  You should write.  I’m tired of seeing the same old ‘A book is a book, yes?’ on your website.”

That raises a lovely point about girlfriends/boyfriends/lovers/spouses/partners:

There is no doubt that any relationship includes a healthy dose of maintenance.  It’s that maintenance—especially in the forms of commitment, intimacy, or sacrifice—that typically scares people my age away from participating in relationships at all.  However, whatever work there is, is well worth it.  The lovely perk that slowly sneaks up on you over time, is that after you’ve invested your trust and love in someone, they will surprise you time, and time again with care.  They care about you.  They crave your well being as much as you crave it yourself.  And sometimes, when you might be feeling rather confused or conflicted about what to do, they will make a suggestion that totally serves your best interests.

She surprised me—yet another time—the other day.  I was—yet again—in my chair in the bedroom ‘hideaway’ looking at the website of one theatre company or another.  She came in, rested on her knees beside the chair, kissed my hand as I glared at the computer screen, and said “You’ve got it bad, huh?”  (The itch.  The bug.  The gnawing teeth of the addiction.)  For a moment, I thought she had summoned her paranormal girlfriend skills. I had forgotten I’d confessed a few days earlier that the deep, unresolved need to return to directing, and to keep at it, hasn’t left since around Shakespeare’s birthday (April), when it always bites me especially hard.  Yes…I’ve got it bad.  I’m not ashamed of having it bad, either.  Why I’ve got it, is put better here, than I could hope to put it myself:

“A theatre is the laboratory of civilization; the dreamspace where we probe the soul, dissect politics and religions, and re-enact—always with our own particular spin—the universal struggles of humankind:  survival, love, ambition and reconciliation.  Who would not want to spend a lifetime investigating this?”

(Robert Cohen, director/scholar/theorist.)

My theatre career, if one could even call it that without laughing, has been comprised of about ten years of artistically ambitious choices, backed by poor personal decisions, and not enough balance, or clarity to really allow the goodness to come through.  The events of the last half-year have led me to break down and accept, (or grow up and embrace) two things.

1. There’s no doubt that I need to go forward, and include theatre as an equally central part of my life again, if I’m going to live up to my own expectations of living life on this planet, and not feel like a hack.
2. There is—however—no way that I am prepared to go about it in the same, flawed way.  There may not be a “right” or “wrong” when it comes to the aesthetic elements of theatre.  But there is a line between right and wrong when it comes to running a business.  Artists can be selfish and manipulative, and they can unwittingly cross that line in pursuit of getting the most use out of supporters or colleagues, and—quite simply—trying to survive.  I’ve made some poor choices, and some very wretched errors-in-judgment in the past.  They resulted in mistakes, and promises being broken.

I slightly feel like the last few years of not doing much theatre at all—at least, not on the scale which I prefer—has (in a way) been a personal form of atonement.  I’ve been homeless, I’ve been bored, I’ve lost some very talented collaborators who I used to think of as ‘crucial’.  There’ve been points I’ve felt a bit like I was drowning, under an ocean-liner’s load of regret collapsing on my shoulders.

I can’t go back and fix the past.  But, I have learned a great deal, and I can remember to reflect—going into the future—upon my poor choices in the past.  If I bump into people I used to know, with whom I fallen from grace, I can try to apologize.  But that’s all I can do for the past, along with learning from it, and doing things better, fairly, and right in the future.

Now that I’ve climbed out of the ocean onto the shore, I look to the future.  Theatre. I think.  What about theatre, I ask.  What is my place?  What will theatre be, a lifetime into the future?

I once—for being only one person—had an admirable personal library of plays, theatre history, scholarship, acting theory and so on.  With a three year history of moving, putting boxes in storage units, selling books at used bookshops for cash (desperately needed at the time), I only have a few remaining books of Shakespeare.  Whatever research I do now, I do online.

The more I peer into reviews, current culture, and current ambitions in theatre, the more I begin to feel like I was born too late to live a lifetime doing the sort of theatre I’ve trained to do.  America—that is, the United States, the churning kettle of diversity that it is—came late onto the scene of global civilization.  We’re a nation that’s only some 233 years old, if we count from the Declaration Of Independence.  Forgive me if I sound unpatriotic, but the United States does not—in my opinion—have a long, illustrious history of theatre.  (Mind you, I’m excluding the more ceremonial/ritualistic definitions, for the moment.)  Since the Greeks, I’d say Europe has a longstanding history.  Even before Shakespeare, traveling groups of players roughed their way across Europe presenting Miracle, Morality, or Passion plays, illustrating on contrived stages the motifs of religious teaching.  Britain has a longish history, when we look back at Shakespeare.  Russia would have to be Britain’s counter part, in my view, with the contributions of Stanislavski’s theories, and the Moscow Art Theatre.  But, America?  What does America have?  We have Broadway and its history of musical theatre, we have the Regional Theatre movement, and there we slightly burn out.

What happens next?

I’m starting to submit to the opinion that if there is an off-camera tradition for actors in the future to belong to, that theatre of the future, may resemble some of the avant-garde, performance arty work that one can see (or read about) cropping up in places like the Romanian National Theatre Festival.  Theatre that re-invents theatre.  Theatre that tries—as much as to simply do good work and to put on a good show—to change the relationship with its audience, or at least, the vantage point.  The further down that road one goes, one thing becomes clear.  The well attended theatre of the future, will be the ‘exciting’ theatre.  The best performance of text will become less and less important.  It will increasingly become about the most interactive experience.  Think Tony & Tina’s Wedding.  A specific example of what I mean, on our own shores, is at American Repertory Theatre. . .

Artistic director Diane Paulus has transformed the theatre into a club, to produce Randy Weiner’s The Donkey Show, a disco explosion of the words, images, and themes of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.  Now, I’m not in Boston, so I haven’t seen it.  But I don’t think the audience at the Donkey Show is seeing a beautifully acted performance of text.  What the photographs and video excerpts make clear that they are seeing, though, is beautiful men in g-strings, beautiful women wearing nipple-pasties, beautiful people dancing on platforms, and diving into mosh-pits.  That doesn’t sound like Shakespeare to me, necessarily.  But it’s not supposed to be Shakespeare, it’s the aftermath of Randy Weiner having been inspired by Shakespeare.

Is it theatre?  I don’t know.  It certainly seems Dionysian, and we must remember, Dionysus—with all of his spirit—has been the reining God of Theatre for some while.

One thing is clear.  In recent years, theatre companies all over America have been asking: Where has our audience been going?  Why isn’t a new one coming?

The first question is easy to answer.  That good old audience, who loved nothing more than to see a play on Friday evening or Sunday afternoon, has slowly gone to the graveyard.  The second question, Why isn’t a new one coming? is difficult.  Perhaps it’s not even the right question.  Perhaps the question to ask instead is where the next audience will be coming from.

Either way…  I can’t be doing all of this thinking for no reason.

It’s brewing.  Something comes anon.

©  Jeffrey Puukka, 2009