Friday, October 23, 2009
Monday, August 31, 2009
Thursday, May 21, 2009
She spoke in the school-girlish strains of old women in darkened rooms trapped with the faintest delight...asked that I bring her a cup of coffee and "oh, a cookie?"or something sweet. The halls were mahogany. The steps curved upward; doors and chair rail built in another time before us when people were smaller--then the light at the landing and the pleasant smile she extended as I reached her. She took the bag with a little laugh, didn't eat or drink--just let ithe bag sit between us like a monument to her worthiness. We sat in a room full of books: against walls, on the couch, under chairs. Old posters, playbills and photographs stacked together and gathered. With her coat pulled up around her shoulders, a wilted flower pinned to the lapel, and a crooked finger, she leafed through a century. "I've pulled together some pictures to show you. Would you like to see them?" A house, a girl, a boy, a field, a boat, a plane, written on..."Graduation Day"..."1915"..."Wedding Day"..."1946"..."Here's mama, very beautiful...Here's Papa, handsome, dark...Here's brother before he became so angry." A pause. "I don't know when he became so angry"...then a self portrait, black and white, of sadness struck across her cheek...when reality set in, an epiphany of coming into being and the rupture of pullling away, into a poetic madness, with strokes of genius. The beginning and the end,...a lifetime ago of efforts without redemption. She looked up, smiled her little school-girlish smile and asked why I was headed back out into the sun.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Open Book TV
DON'T MISS
A Bit of Fort Greene’s Lit Life On TV
By Ben Fractenberg Fort Greene has a long literary tradition. Walt Whitman edited The Brooklyn Eagle while living in the neighborhood, and luminaries like Richard Wright and Marianne Moore once called the area home.
A new show called “Open Book,” premiering tonight on Link TV, will feature Fort Greene writers and artists on its first two shows. The pilot episodes include Jeffrey Wright (above, reading Walt Whitman at the Whitman houses), Carl Hancock Rux reading Henry Miller and Tony Award-winning poet Suheir Hammad performing her work.
Executive Producer Ina Howard-Parker said the series seeks “to show how all of us are interconnected through the stories we tell.”
“Open Book” will travel to a different location each week highlighting local writers. Clips of author segments will then be available to social networking sites and blogs through embedded video.
“Our aim is to help writers and publishers reach diverse and diffuse audiences through the media they’re already consuming, and then to bring them back to books,” Howard-Parker said.
The program can be found on Time Warner Cable channel 34 (MNN) at 11 tonight and will be rebroadcast on May 13 at 11:30 p.m. It can also be found on Dish and Direct TV at 8:30 tonight. For cable channels outside of New York, see Link TV’s site.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Fort Greene & Clinton Hill: Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow
In case you missed it, this comes from another local blog, posted by Norman Oder, dated Wednesday, April 29, 2009
In discussion about Fort Greene and Clinton Hall, history, transition, gentrification, and, yes, Atlantic Yards
It’s hard to do justice to the sometimes compelling, sometimes disjointed, wide-ranging panel discussion concerning Fort Greene and Clinton Hilll presented last night by the New York Times’s blog The Local at the Brooklyn Public Library’s Dweck Center at Grand Army Plaza.
But the session, titled “Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow,” did touch on the important and sometimes fraught intersections of neighborhood transition, development pressure, and race/class relations. (Of the panelists, two were black and two were white.)To read more of Norman Oder's coverage, go to Atlantic Yards Report - http://atlanticyardsreport.blogspot.com/
But the session, titled “Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow,” did touch on the important and sometimes fraught intersections of neighborhood transition, development pressure, and race/class relations. (Of the panelists, two were black and two were white.)To read more of Norman Oder's coverage, go to Atlantic Yards Report - http://atlanticyardsreport.blogspot.com/ Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Up From The Mississippi Delta
Memory takes a lot of poetic liscence. It omits some details; others are exaggerated according to the emotional value of the articles it touches, for memory is seated predominantly in the heart—Tom Wingfield in The Glass Menagerie, by Tennessee Williams
Memory and history, like fraternal twins, are the offspring of the same parent—a series of events—and both are subject to change. They may stem from the same place and have many similarities, yet manifest themselves differently; both are informed by environment, culture and the time in which they are formed. During the 2007–08 theatre season, the Mississippi Delta—that alluvial plain (technically it is not a delta) between the Mississippi and Yazoo Rivers in the northwest section of the state of Mississippi—gave birth to several distinctly different productions that oscillate between memory and history—including one which, at first glance, does not seem to be about the Delta at all.
This past April and May, Chicago’s flagship Goodman Theatre produced playwright Ifa Bayeza’s The Ballad of Emmett Till, directed by Oz Scott. At BRIC Studio in downtown Brooklyn, 651 Arts presented (as part of its season-long Mississippi Delta Heritage Project) the latest installation of Ping Chong & Co.’s Undesirable Elements/Secret History project, a play called Delta Rising, written and directed by Chong collaborator Talvin Wilks. The third production under consideration here—one that did not explicitly focus on the Delta—is the fourth Broadway revival of Tennessee Williams’s Pulitzer–winning Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, directed by Debbie Allen. Since it was the first Cat to be performed by an all-African-American cast (James Earl Jones, Phylicia Rashad, Anika Noni Rose and Terrence Howard were featured), Allen’s production was, in effect, about the Delta, and it offers refracted insights into what that storied land has meant to America in the past century and what it might signify to us today. Indeed, what Bayeza’s play and the Ping Chong/Talvin Wilks collaboration share with Allen’s revival has less to do with the region that parented all three projects than it does with a complex depiction of identity and history, stirring questions about the place the Mississippi Delta still holds in the American psyche.
No American playwright painted images of the Delta as often or as poetically as Williams did. Born in 1911 in Columbus, Miss., and raised in Clarksdale, the writer drew upon the Delta as a primary source of inspiration throughout his career. In his hands, the American South became a dilapidated, idyllic, aristocratic landscape yellowing with antiquity and held together by its mythology. The portrayal of the region that emerges in Williams’s texts recalls Don Quixote’s remembrance of a more fulfilling time in his past in Camino Real : “that green country he lived in which was the youth of his heart, before such singing words as Truth!” Infused with existential symbolism, Williams’s plays were written with religious piety and painted broadly with della Robbia–blue brushstrokes; like the preferred interiors of his character Blanche DuBois, Williams’s image of the Delta was cast in a light no brighter than that of a dim candle, the rude remarks and vulgar actions of reality softened by its haze. As his semi-autobiographical protagonist Tom Wingfield makes clear at the top of The Glass Menagerie , Williams is offering not the illusion of truth but rather “truth in the pleasant disguise of illusion.” One of those illusions was that the Delta had been a realm utterly dominated by white Americans, even as it was silently occupied by people of color.
First staged by Elia Kazan in 1955 and adapted for the screen three years later with Paul Newman and Elizabeth Taylor, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof famously centers around the dysfunctional marriage of a young couple—the alcoholic, brooding Brick and his sexually frustrated, childless wife Maggie—and their interaction with Brick’s family as they gather on a Mississippi estate for the birthday celebration of its fatally ill patriarch, Big Daddy. In its most controversial version (and there were several), Brick alludes to the source of his depression: the homosexual nature of his friendship with a football buddy who, once rejected by Brick, recently drank himself to death. The theme of the play, as stated by its troubled protagonist, is mendacity—Brick’s disgust with the world and its lies. The play’s African-American characters, Sookey and Lacey, two servants, function merely to support the business of the main action. In both the original stage and film versions, Sookey and Lacey are whisked quietly on and off, in and out of the frame, like ghosts without dimension or even the minstrelsy or the comic relief afforded by such actors as Hattie McDaniel decades earlier. (The original Broadway production also featured two unnamed blues musicians portrayed by singer-guitarist Browns McGhee and blind harmonica player Sonny Terry.)
For the most part, in Williams’s plays, African Americans are depicted as the curiously silent other lurking in the sidelines of servitude. Except in a few later (and lesser known) works, they are void of conflict or epiphany, either referenced with derogatory playfulness (as Amanda Wingfield does in Glass Menagerie when, intercepting her daughter’s offer to serve dessert, insists “You be the lady this time and I’ll be the darkey!”) or absent altogether. His half-drawn representations of African Americans were a testament to the time and place in which they were written. Jim Crow laws were in full effect, and Mississippi led the nation in African American lynching well into the 1930s. America’s receptiveness to Williams’s illustration of the South as the wounded sister of an old familial battle (the Civil War), desperately clinging to romantic notions of jonquils in a bygone era, could be credited to his evident talent as a writer—but it also spoke to the nation’s need to reconcile with its past and emerge as a unified front. In dramatic terms, non-whites were scarcely considered human; the black Mississippians in Williams’s plays were voiceless, apolitical, marginalized, oppressed people who knew their place and kept their mouths shut, barely existing in a Delta of cotillions where fading debutantes in frocks of voile and silk entertained a multitude of Sunday afternoon gentlemen callers—so many, in fact, Amanda says she had to “send the nigger over to bring in folding chairs from the parish house.”
The truth is the Mississippi Delta has always been much more complicated than anything these silent stereotypes might suggest.
In Debbie Allen’s all-black Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, the issue of race was subtracted as the obvious difference between the silent servants in the background and the troubled, loquacious white family in the foreground; so the re-casting of race created a recognizable humanity that was most likely previously unavailable to audiences in the 1950s. Considering that the play’s original text was unedited, the premise of the Pollitt family as a wealthy black family was surprisingly believable, especially given the portrayal of Big Daddy by the indomitable James Earl Jones as a wealthy plantation owner who happens to be black—a fact not inconsistent with the Delta’s history. Contrary to common belief, there have long been blacks in the Delta who owned land and exerted significant influence on the development of the region. As early as 1870, Hiram Rhoades Revels was the first black politician to represent Mississippi in the U.S. Congress. Five years later, Blanche K. Bruce became Mississippi’s first black U.S. Senator. Despite these historical landmarks, “the real history of the Delta seems to have been forgotten and is compounded by our lack of education,” suggests Delta Rising writer/director Talvin Wilks.
Revisiting his experience of Allen’s production of Cat, Wilks claimed, “You walked away from the show with whatever you thought you already knew of the Delta. What I would have liked to have seen is a valid experience of African Americans in the Delta, even without changing the text. The script did work with Big Daddy as an African-American overachiever addressing issues of self-hatred and assimilation.” But Wilks went on to suggest that Allen’s Cat failed to surpass notions of a “Hollywood gimmick,” referring to a current trend to draw African-American audiences to Broadway with star-studded black productions, following the success of the 2004 revival of Lorraine Hansberry’s A Raisin in the Sun starring hip-hop mogul Sean Combs.
Allen’s Cat is the third Broadway show with an all-black cast in four years to have done exceptionally well, especially with a predominately black audience, reported the New York Times. (The other hit named was The Color Purple.) Despite the dismissal of Cat by some critics (the production was not nominated in any of the 30 categories of the 2008 Drama Desk awards, nor did it garner any Tony nominations), the play’s sold-out run suggested the promise of a “new” audience for New York’s commercial theatre. But Allen says that, for her, the idea of “all-black really isn’t an issue. The characters,” she mused in a Times interview, “are so universal. I know them. We’re coming into it like an explorer, just discovering the lives of the people.”
Though the Mississippi Delta has been the birthplace of many successful African Americans, including Morgan Freeman and Oprah Winfrey, it remains today one of the most economically disenfranchised regions in the country. With its 37-percent African-American resident population—the largest in the country, as prospective Democratic presidential nominee Barack Obama recently pointed out—Mississippi represents the lowest per-capita income in the nation. (In this part of the still racially polarized South, in a contest split along racial lines, Senator Obama won the state’s Democratic vote by 90 percent, half of his voters being white.)
Conceivably, this statistical and demographic profile might be an indication of the evolution of ideas of race and identity in the region—a reality that may explain why Allen reset her revival of Cat in a “more recent time period” than its original setting, thus de-emphasizing the play’s precise convergence in time with the Emmett Till tragedy. In her conversation with the Times, Allen dismissed the year of the play’s conception as the year “Emmett Till was lynched in Mississippi.” She added: “There weren’t any black men [like Brick] in the Sugar Bowl or the Rose Bowl. We don’t have to talk about the year; we just adjust.”
Allen’s production of ‘cat’ was on Wilks’s mind as he conducted interviews with several native Mississippians for Delta Rising. The project remained true to Ping Chong and Co.’s process of using interviews in an extended residency to create a final script that the participants themselves—three black, one Asian, one white, varying in age from 20 to 71—performed in Brooklyn.
Pointing to a history of which he himself was admittedly unaware, Wilks found himself impacted by what he learned from his cast, especially Shermel Carthan, an acting student at the California Institute of the Arts. Carthan is the descendant of James Carthan, an African-American sharecropper and prohibition-era moonshine manufacturer who in 1939 purchased 60 acres of Delta land once belonging to a Native-American Choctaw reservation. According to Carthan, his grandfather was “the only African American, at the time, to own land” in the small town of Tchula, Miss., 61 miles north of Jackson. The area’s overwhelming poverty did not prevent his grandfather’s initial investment from growing tenfold. Shermel Carthan’s father Eddie would grow up working his way through law school while farming his family’s 600 acres and raising cotton, soybeans and wheat. An educator at Saints College in Lexington, Miss., Eddie Carthan would later become a business developer for the U.S. Department of Commerce in the Office of Minority Business Enterprise; a president of the Mississippi Family Farmers Association; and, in 1977, the first black mayor of Tchula, where he served two terms. Carthan would eventually see his political career marred by an arrest and trial for the murder of Roosevelt Granderson, an African-American alderman—a charge of which he was acquitted in 1982. Recalling Brick in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, Shermel Carthan grew up in “the White House,” one of the largest mansions in Tchula, set on an 18th-century plantation complete with slave quarters. Before entering college, Carthan attended two private boarding schools: Interlochen Arts Academy in Michigan and Piney Woods—the latter founded in Mississippi in 1909 by an African-American minister, Laurence Clifton Jones.
In Delta Rising, Carthan describes Minister Jones, with a proud, articulate southern twang, as “an African American with $3.17 [in his pocket], a bible, and a dream to educate black people.” Despite the murderous threats of Klansmen, Jones’s Piney Woods school was established in a desperately poor section of rural Rankin County, under the shade of a cedar tree, with the students using a fallen log as a desk. The story goes that Jones delivered a sermon so powerful that members of the Klan actually “took up a collection” to help establish the school, and by the end of its fifth year, Piney Woods received a charter from the governor of Mississippi. In the 1920s, Piney Woods began a separate division for blind students. The school followed the example of other black institutions of higher learning such as Fisk, Hampton and Tuskegee; it is where five members of the Five Blind Boys of Mississippi would meet in the early ’30s and, soon thereafter, form a gospel quartet.
The secret history of the Mississippi Delta is its real history—one often overshadowed by mainstream images of slavery, the Ku Klux Klan and a black/white racial divide. “These forgotten histories,” Wilks insists, “are a paradigm for larger issues [in America], and it takes projects like Delta Rising to bring attention to them once again.” He and Chong braided into Delta Rising the interrelated stories of other notable Mississippians: Toni Seawright, the first African-American Miss Mississippi to compete in the Miss America beauty pageant; E’Dena Hines, the granddaughter of the actor Morgan Freeman and a successful MFA acting candidate at New York University’s Tisch School of the Arts; and Virginia Wing, a Chinese-American actress born in Marks, Miss., whose great uncle became a successful Delta businessman at the beginning of the 20th century despite both the efforts of white Mississippi planters to replace post–Civil War black labor with Chinese labor and the legal barriers created by the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882 (the first U.S. law to exclude immigrants on the basis of race).
Another performer/participant in Delta Rising was Gene Dattel, born in Greenwood, Miss., in 1944. His grandfather fled Latvia to escape Eastern European pogroms and avoid being drafted into the Russian army. After arriving in the U.S. via Ellis Island, Dattal’s family became part of a burgeoning culture of Jewish immigrants. Dattel told the story of the first Jewish synagogue built in Clarksdale in 1912: “It became a town affair. The lumber company donated lumber. The sheriff’s office donated free prison labor. Citizens who planned to run for office made cash donations. The Torah arrived on the 3 p.m. train at the railroad depot and was passed from hand to hand by anyone willing to pay $100 for the honor. The local colored band led the parade.”
Less than five months after ‘Cat on a Hot Tin Roof’ opened on Broadway in March of 1955, Emmett Till, a 14-year-old African American from Chicago who was vacationing in Money, Miss. (a small town in the Delta, eight miles north of Greenwood), stopped at Bryant’s grocery store, owned by Roy and Carolyn Bryant, to buy some candy. Till—the cousin of Shermel Carthan’s mother, as it was revealed in Delta Rising—was accused that day of “whistling” at the 21-year-old Carolyn. Several days later, Roy Bryant and his half-brother J.W. Milam, along with Carolyn Bryant, abducted Till from his great uncle Moses Wright’s home, beat him, undressed him, shot him, tied a 70-pound cotton gin fan around his neck with barbed wire, and threw his body into the Tallahatchie River near Glendora, Miss. When the missing boy’s disappearance was investigated, Bryant and Milam admitted that they had taken the boy from his great uncle’s yard but claimed that after a talking-to they had let him go.
Till’s nude body was discovered tied with the fan, his genitalia hacked away, his facial features too distorted to positively identify his remains. According to Till’s mother, the sheriff called for an immediate burial “because he knew it wouldn’t be good for the state of Mississippi for the people to see what had happened.” The grave of Till was dug and his body was about to be placed in the ground when his mother, Mamie Till-Mobley, rallied to have Chicago officials demand that the state of Mississippi return her son’s body. At an open-casket funeral in Illinois, the corpse was photographed by the press: The boy’s right eye was missing; he had a broken nose and a bullet wound to the head. Fifty thousand people attended the funeral in Illinois. Although Bryant and Milam were indicted for the kidnapping and murder, an all-white jury deliberated for a little more than an hour and found the men not guilty. Following the trial, and after photos of the mutilated corpse were published in Jet magazine, Milam and Bryant confessed to killing Till in a story in Look magazine (published in January 1956), for which they were paid $4,000.
That same month, Baby Doll, another Tennessee Williams–authored project set in the Mississippi Delta, opened in movie houses across the country. The film’s trailer announced that it was filmed on location in Benoit, Miss., with “real live Mississippi extras.” The residents of Benoit who appeared in the film with spoken lines were white; those who were black appeared sitting silently, grinning underneath a tree, except when they were called upon to break out in song .
Meanwhile, Cat on a Hot Tin Roof closed on Broadway in November 1956, one year and two months after the Till trial.
“Did Emmett Till ever really exist?” one reporter asked rhetorically in an Associated Press article published Nov. 16, 1955, soon after the acquittal of the accused killers. “Or is this little Negro boy only a figment of the imagination? What the state of Mississippi has done, in substance, is twice to deny the existence of Emmett Till.” The reporter, Inez Robb, concluded: “Until the streets of its cities and the cabins of its sharecroppers are safe for all its children, a large segment of the nation must echo the cry—What kind of a land do we live in?”
The Till tragedy is well known today as a turning point in the Civil Rights Movement, one that brought attention not only to the Mississippi Delta but to the brutality of race oppression in the Jim Crow South. Based on numerous interviews over the past decade with Till’s family, teachers, classmates and eye-witnesses to the 1955 slaying, Ifa Bayeza’s jazz-infused play The Ballad of Emmett Till was developed in the Goodman’s New Stages Series as well as at the Eugene O’Neill Theater Center’s 2007 National Playwrights Conference. The Till case has spawned several documentaries, books and other theatre projects over the years, including, most recently, solo performer Michael Wiley’s touring play Dar He: The Lynching of Emmett Till , now being filmed by Mississippi Public Television. Robert Falls, the Goodman’s artistic director, said that the subject of Till in Bayeza’s play allows us to “examine our own lives and actions through the prism of an epoch-defining moment in history.”
Speaking from Chicago, Bayeza says of her play, “I was drawn to Emmett and he to me. He walked in, planted his feet, took over the lead and took me on a journey. Emmett’s story is the story of of Every Black Boy, much like Huck Finn came to symbolize every American Boy—the difference being that the black male child’s journey into manhood has been frequently blighted. My play is a universal coming-of-age drama about the aborted quest of the boy-hero to become a man. I believe it has a singificance beyond the temporal.
“From the beginning,” Bayeza continues, “the narrative of Emmett Till has had a mythic impact that has resonated through the decades. On the the day Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat, she was thinking about Emmett’s mother’s decision to have an open casket. Both gestures reflect the role of ordinary people and the valor of individual black women in the coming struggle.” Bayeza cites the examples of Fannie Lou Hamer and Muhammad Ali. Hamer, a Mississippi sharecropper, had spotted one of the Milam brothers, perhaps Emmett’s alleged murderer, among the sheriff’s deputies who confronted her when she tried to register to vote. In that moment, Hamer “decided to become an activist, and that decision took her all the way to the 1964 National Democratic Convention, which brought the Dixiecrat cabal to an end,” says Bayeza. Ali, who is the same age as Emmett would have been today, hurled stones at an Uncle Sam poster he found in a train station in an act of protest upon hearing of his murder. Julian Bond, Cleveland Sellers and many other activists who came of age in that time credit the Till case with their political awakening. The spontaneous outpouring of grief of the thousands of mourners who lined the streets of Chicago for the viewing of Emmett’s body foreshadowed the nonviolent protests and mass gatherings that became the hallmark of the Civil Rights Movement.
Over 10 years in the making, The Ballad of Emmett Till began as a one-act and was expanded into a full-length play in what the author calls four “movements.” Bayeza first presented excerpts of Emmett Till at the Arna Bontemps African American Museum in Alexandria, La., where she was named the 2003 Arna Bontemps Centennial Scholar, then debuted the first movement of the play in a public staged reading at Actors Theatre of Louisville in Kentucky. Staged by Sue Lawless, the play-in-progress was then presented as part of the Juneteenth Legacy New Plays Festival, also in Louisville, and went on to a September ’05 reading at the Fountain Theatre of Los Angeles, directed by John Wesley—who appeared as Moses in the Goodman’s production.
Emmett Till was also selected in 2005 by Brown University’s Rites and Reason Theatre and Providence Black Repertory Company as the inaugural project for RPM Mainstage, a new-play development partnership, and Bayeza began a six-month residency at Brown to develop the full-length version. The first staged reading of all four movements happened at Providence Black Rep in March ’06, directed by the late Marsha Z. West.
Emmett Till is structured, Bayeza says, as “a jazz integration of past and present, the living and dead, factual accounts and creative interpolation.” The first movement explores the intimate relationship between a mother and her only son. The second traces Till’s coming of age during the apogee of 20th-century American racism, resulting in his abduction and murder. The third movement integrates the trial of his murderers with the “trials that [Till’s] family must face in seeking justice and his soul’s effort to come to grips with what has happened”—a “crucifixion,” as Bayeza depicts it. The final movement, “Daylight,” conjures Till as a Christ-like figure facing death, resurrection and eventual ascension. In her notes for the play, Bayeza describes these four movements as “concentric—from a duet of mother and son…to a septet of the family…to the full ensemble chorus of the public trials, returning again to the duet in the final movement.”
In one scene, as Till arrives in the Delta, Bayeza poignantly writes about the teenager’s internal observation of the land before him. Till says:
Mississippi!… The delta,
far as the eye can see.
Flat fertile, serene. Emerald ocean,
white caps of cotton. Sweat sittin’ on you
like skin. What else could you ask for?
Bayeza’s story unfolds as a recitative of sensory experiences befalling an urban teenager who’s never been to the rural South. “He is the urban descendant of an agricultural South experiencing culture shock,” according to a Variety review of the Goodman production. “Absolutely the funniest moments come with Emmett trying to learn to pick cotton and kill a chicken.” Bayeza employs an impressionistic style to write about history, race and the segregated South, as opposed to simply reporting the facts. Like a series of conceptual photographs of life and death, the interplay of safety and danger come into focus according to the viewer’s abstract or literal interpretation of experiences; the play closes with the boy’s “broken body standing upright, naked, crippled, blood-soaked, maimed” as (according to the stage directions) “the future assembles.” Emmett’s ascension is portrayed as a reunification of mother and son.
Bayeza’s use of sound and imagery to capture an event that famously defined for a nation the Mississippi Delta and the stain left by its connotation almost directly responds to a statement about form made by Williams in his introduction to The Glass Menagerie : “Everyone should know nowadays the unimportance of the photographic in art: that truth, life, or reality is an organic thing which the poetic imagination can represent or suggest, in essence, only through transformation, through changing into other forms than those which were merely present in appearance.”
Williams’s view—a kind of postmodernist approach to representing life through a subjective, idealized romantic lens—champions what Bayeza’s imagination in The Ballad of Emmett Till similarly allows: a re-photographing of time and place that, once removed from the immediacy of its history, offers a deeper and more in-depth analysis of it. As Delta Rising ensemble member E’Dena Hines, who took part in a New York reading of Emmett Till two years ago at the New Federal Theatre, puts it, Bayeza’s play “brought to life a people and a time I had never spent time thinking about. Ifa gave a voice to this silenced moment in history. The fluidity of the story and the influence of music made for a great piece of theatrical history.”
However, others see Bayeza’s impressionistic approach less sympathetically. A Time Out Chicago critic wrote, “If Bayeza’s script hewed closer to lean docudrama than misty sketches laced with false, we-survived-this triumphalism, or if its one fearless dramatic element—a brutal recreation of Till’s slaughter by male relatives of the white woman Till allegedly whistled at—were the show’s centerpiece rather than a last-minute, guilt-inducing sneak attack, this ballad would resonate. Instead, it just makes you wish Emmett Till had a better literary executor.” But demanding that the playwright refrain from iconic, poetic impressionism as a mode of revisiting atrocity is to ask the artist not to magnify the event or historical circumstances that inspired the play—it is like demanding that George Bernard Shaw not use the trials of Joan of Arc to speak to the author’s socialist, humanitarian goals, or that Brecht refrain from converting his eponymous protagonist in Saint Joan of the Stockyards into an icon of Marxist principles in Weimar-era Germany. If the play based on The Diary of Anne Frank had not abstracted the character of Frank as a saintly, sentimental martyr of the Holocaust in order to promote democracy, the lessons of her tragedy may well have been lost on the audiences of the McCarthy era in which the play was first presented.
Whatever her ultimate aims, Bayeza’s depiction of Till, like Tennessee Williams’s and Talvin Wilks’s and Ping Chong’s delineation of the Delta, remains true to the memory of a subjective eye. For Bayeza, Till as a character evokes the protagonist of “sacred dramas, such as the pageant plays of early Christianity.” “Till’s was a spiritually based family, and his story is replete with Christian metaphor,” says Bayeza.
In Delta Rising, meanwhile, the cast members ask each other, “What does the Delta mean to you?” The answer: an amalgam of experiences, sights, sounds and tastes—soy sauce chicken, black-eyed peas; an African-American beauty queen’s refusal to allow a white racist’s public dismissal of her to impact her own triumphant moment; the confusion of a little Chinese girl when bowed to by an older black male; the accidental drowning of that same little girl’s brother, which forever impacted the woman she would become.
In deference to Williams, whose own insight had adhered to an era of social blindness, it must be acknowledged that he crafted plays with a poet’s prophetic ear for the transcendence of the time and space in which the text was written. One might imagine that an African-American Maggie, when speaking to her husband Brick in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, is also speaking to her author as well as to the play’s speechless black characters when she warns: “When something is festering in your memory or your imagination, laws of silence don’t work, it’s just like shutting a door and locking it on a house on fire in hope of forgetting that the house is burning. But not facing a fire doesn’t put it out. Silence about a thing just magnifies it. It grows and festers in silence, becomes malignant.”
Yanga
YANGAAfro-Mexican History in Dramatic and Lyric Verse
The following text was commissioned by the Tribeca Performing Arts Center and Montclair State University. After a period of research I wrote this regarding African maroon colonies in Mexico and Afro-Mexican history. It combines lecture, poetry and libretto intended for dance and music. YANGA premiered at the Tribeca Performing Arts Center, directed and choreographed by Anita Gonzalez with original music by Cooper-Moore.
Yanga
Revolutionary African Slave in Mexico near Veracruz around 1570 who built a small free colony of indigenous and African people. For more than 30 years it grew, partially surviving by capturing caravans bringing goods to Veracruz. However, in 1609 the Spanish colonial government set itself to regain control of the territory. Eventually, he was able to a treaty between his renegades and the Spaniards, resulting in an area of self-rule with the additional proviso that only Franciscan priests would tend to the people, and Yanga's family would be granted the right of rule. Finally, in 1630, the town of Yanga, Veracruz was officially established. It remains to this day. Five decades after Mexican independence Yanga was made a national hero of Mexico by the diligent work of Vicente Riva Palacio.
La Malinche
(aka Malintzin, Malinali or Doña Marina) a Nahua woman from the Mexican Gulf Coast. She was sold into slavery by her mother and eventually wound up the slave of Hernán Cortés . She would later become his secretary, interpreter, and played an active and powerful role in the Spanish conquest of Mexico. She was also a mistress to Cortés and gave birth to his first son, Don Martin- Commendador of The Military Order of St. James who is considered one of the first Mestizos (people of mixed European and indigenous American ancestry). In Mexico today, La Malinche remains iconically potent. She is understood in various and often conflicting aspects, as the embodiment of treachery, the quintessential victim or simply as symbolic mother of the new Mexican people. She is often known by the pejorative term La Chingada ("the violated one"). The term malinchista refers to a disloyal Mexican. Daughter of an Aztec Nobleman, she was sold into slavery by her mother.
Bishop Bartoleme de las Casas
First Bishop of Chiapas; Spanish colonist in Mexico, priest, scholar, historian and 16th century human rights advocate for the rights of native peoples. He was in part responsible for the repeal of the laws which allowed the Indians to be used in what amounted to slave labor gangs. This was the econmienda system. Government officials were willing to go along with this attempt to end the system for they feared that a new class of feudal lords would arise in the colonies. The Spanish colonists were outraged at this interference. Las Casas attempted to set up a colony on the coast of Venezuala where the native people would be treated properly. It failed largely because of the bad example set by the colony's neighbors. Because of pressures from the colonists, the encomienda system was restored. Las Casas returned to Spain and was eventually able to bring about the great debate of 1550 in the Spanish capital of Valladolid between Las Casas and the advocate for the colonists Juan Gines de Sepulveda. He influenced the French essayist Montaigne's views about the new world.who petitioned for the liberty of Indian Slaves while advocating the importation of African Slaves.
La Malinche
(aka Malintzin, Malinali or Doña Marina) a Nahua woman from the Mexican Gulf Coast. She was sold into slavery by her mother and eventually wound up the slave of Hernán Cortés . She would later become his secretary, interpreter, and played an active and powerful role in the Spanish conquest of Mexico. She was also a mistress to Cortés and gave birth to his first son, Don Martin- Commendador of The Military Order of St. James who is considered one of the first Mestizos (people of mixed European and indigenous American ancestry). In Mexico today, La Malinche remains iconically potent. She is understood in various and often conflicting aspects, as the embodiment of treachery, the quintessential victim or simply as symbolic mother of the new Mexican people. She is often known by the pejorative term La Chingada ("the violated one"). The term malinchista refers to a disloyal Mexican. Daughter of an Aztec Nobleman, she was sold into slavery by her mother.
Bishop Bartoleme de las Casas
First Bishop of Chiapas; Spanish colonist in Mexico, priest, scholar, historian and 16th century human rights advocate for the rights of native peoples. He was in part responsible for the repeal of the laws which allowed the Indians to be used in what amounted to slave labor gangs. This was the econmienda system. Government officials were willing to go along with this attempt to end the system for they feared that a new class of feudal lords would arise in the colonies. The Spanish colonists were outraged at this interference. Las Casas attempted to set up a colony on the coast of Venezuala where the native people would be treated properly. It failed largely because of the bad example set by the colony's neighbors. Because of pressures from the colonists, the encomienda system was restored. Las Casas returned to Spain and was eventually able to bring about the great debate of 1550 in the Spanish capital of Valladolid between Las Casas and the advocate for the colonists Juan Gines de Sepulveda. He influenced the French essayist Montaigne's views about the new world.who petitioned for the liberty of Indian Slaves while advocating the importation of African Slaves.
The Chronicler
Academic Lecturer.
Enmascados
Masked Characters (Slaves/ Maroon Warriors)
Solemn procession begins. The chant resounds. Yanga is still and silent. The line is lead by the Chronicler, who carries books, papers, several objects and instruments. La Malinche is among the evangelists and those who sing. The Enmascados, carrying the corpse of Hernán Cortés, sing as they enter.
I.
ENMASCADOS
Oh Bounty of Export
Holy Holy
Rich cargo packed
in the bottom
Holy Holy
Our God Almighty
Premium expenditure
cacao, honey,
wax, copal
Holy Holy
pelts of Jaguar
soft pelts of flesh-
Oh Holy
human
flesh
coastal
regions
sweet sugar waters
Our Lady of Mercy
Blessed Virgin
soft pelts of flesh
fruit of your
womb
Open, open
ripe and moist
rich expenditure
increase
All things blessed
Traffic of Mulattoes
Navigation of the
Yucatan & Tabasco
Mestizos Junkies
ruby eyed addiction
for beans
and skins
Virgin cacao
vagina
Holy
dew wet soft
moist
pulpy softness
Mestizos Junkies
luxury of
Criados
and
Negroes
Bozales
freshly picked
repartimientos
Holy Holy
God Almighty
Tapeacans
Tlascalans
feast of leg and arms
roasted gingerly
on wooden spits
sauteed Criados Bozales
fitted
by God's divine constitution
by God's divine anointing
by the Virgin menstrual sacrament
by the Holy birth of Jesus
all Negros
Cartilage
and muscle
and breast
and uterus
washed in blood
vertebrae by vertebrae
Sanctified
for heaven's stolen
pavement
stolen from these
mountains of
Negros Bozales
for fist
for teeth
for gums
for lips
for spit
for tongue
O hail our
Holy Mother
full of
Holy Grace
O hail our
Holy Son
Our
Holy Ghost
Espiritos
O Hail
the
white Bird
perched
on the
white head
of
this Holy charge
Castillian laborer
Y gente negra
en Mexico
Exclavos Negros
fitted by
constitution
by constitution
among the hedges
of the Heathens
O Blessed
and Bountiful beautiful
Bolivia
The Yucatan
The Andes
Converting
to obedience
these and some
Amen
II.
THE CHRONICLER
(at the lectern, mid-speech as the corpse is moved from place to place)
Cortes, the much heralded Spanish Explorer died and was laid to rest in the family vault in 1547...yes...uh...Fifteen years later, his son, Don Martin...uh...had the body moved to New Spain where Cortes was laid to rest...yes...next we find...next to his wife....Dona Catalina. The corpse was moved fifty two years later to the...uh...church of St. Francis. One hundred and sixty five years later (1794)...uh...his remains would be moved again to the Hospital Of Jesus of Nazareth where they were placed in a crystal coffin secured by bars and plates of silver, surmounted by a bust of the Conquistador. Twenty nine years later...uh...to dissuade zealots from breaking into the tomb and scattering the ashes...the corpse of Cortes...his remains were moved again. Today, the whereabouts of his remains are unknown.CortesAfrican. Mexican. Afro-Mexican. Afro Mexican. Mexican people of African ancestry. African Mexicans of the coastal regions of Guerrero, Oaxaca, Michoacán, Veracruz, Campeche, Quintana Roo, Yucatán. About 200,000 Africans were brought to Mexico during the time of the Spanish Empire. When the Spaniards first arrived in Mesoamerica, they brought with them African slaves for labor. The decline of the Amerindian population and the Pope's prohibition against...uh...Amerindians...prompted the importation of slave labor from Ghana, Côte d'Ivoire, Senegal, Gambia, Nigeria, the Congo, Angola. During the colonial period, Spaniards prohibited marriage between the two races in order to discourage alliances. Africans soon outnumbered Europeans in certain areas, and the Spanish implemented many tactics to ensure that they remained the dominant racial group in Mesoamerica. In the early days of the colonial period, slavery was very harsh, and lead to rebellions. In 1609 there was a black rebellion in Veracruz, lead by Gaspar Yanga and Francisco de la Matosa. After fierce battles, Yanga came to negotiate a peace with the viceroy Luis de Velasco. A black community, called "San Lorenzo", later renamed Yanga, was founded and still exists; a free African village in Nacimiento, Coahuila and a few villages along the Texas-Mexico border were also populated with Indio Africans, from which line Vicente Guerrero, Commander-in-Chief of the Mexican army during the last years of the independence war with Spain, is descended, later becoming President and a fierce abolitionist of African slavery. Guerrerro not only had African and Indigenous blood but is descended from the Asians as well. It is well known that an estimated 100,000 Asians were brought to Mexico in slavery on the Manila to Acapulco galleons. The Asians were labeled "African" because the Spanish wanted more slaves, and by law only Africans could be slaves. Most of the Asians did come from places where people were dark, such as Malaysia, and the southern Filipine Islands, including the island of Negros, so named because the Negritos who lived there. During the periods of African slavery, many Africans escaped to the mountains and formed what are known as “maroon” colonies, or palenques, composed of African males, Indigenous women and their mongrel off-spring. Many Afro-Mexicans make their homes along the coastal regions of Huatulco in Oaxaca...Coyolillo in Veracruz. In Mexico, African cultural practices and traditions can still be found. El Ciruelo, Costa Chica southeast of Acapulco...Guerrero... The climate is very hot. Playa Ventura and Punta Maldonado in Guerrero. Their tribes vary. The Amuzgos...the Tlapanecos and Chatinos. Cerro del Indio 608, Cuajinicuilapa 8932, Maldonado 892, Montecillos 893, El Pitahayo 2365, Punta Maldonado 1110, San Nicolás 3275, El Cacalote 119, Cerro de las Tablas 255, Copala 6540, Azoyú 4244, Banco de Oro 164, Barra de Tecoanapa 1024, Huehuetán 1827, Juchitán 2846...El Ciruelo 2397, Collantes 2325, Santa María Chicometepec 1477, Corralero 1597, Cerro de la Esperanza 1058, Lagunillas 495, El Azufre 451, Chacahua 714, Charco Redondo 444, El Lagartero 91, Llano Grande 260, Zapotalito 829, Morelos 2028, Lagunillas 69, Santo Domingo Armenta 2739, Lagunillas 129, Callejón de Rómulo 541, Santiago Tapextla 1566, Llano Grande 1065, Mártires de Tacubaya 839, San José Estancia Grande 916, Santa María Cortijo 968...Slave rebellions have their origin almost as early as the introduction of the slave trade in the Americas. Cuban slaves, for instance, rebelled from the very beginning and were severely punished. According to the records of Governor Manuel de Rojas, dated 1553, several slaves were captured in the mines of Jobabo, dismembered and their heads planted on stakes. As early as the 15th century in Santo Domingo on the sugar plantation of Admirel Diego Colon, many of the rebels were hanged. Spaniards also sent many African slaves from Santo Domingo, Puerto Rico and Cuba to the mainland territories of Mexico, Honduras, Guatemala, Neuva Granada and Venezuela. In Lima a rebellion ensued when a fleet approached the Peruvian coast. In the era of colonial Mexico, between 1519 and 1650, as many as 120, 000 African slaves were employed, a response to the labour shortage and the decline of the Indian population. Many insurrections ensued and occasionally it was thought that insurrections were warnings from God that man had sinned against human nature by enslaving Negroes. Nonetheless the Hispanization of negroes was relatively successful. In Mexico, one negro from Angola called Yanga who lead a maroon colony for over thirty years. It is recorded that in his settlement he had some sixty huts housing approximately eighty adult males, twenty four Negro and Indian women, and an undetermined number of children. The settlement was essentially a war camp, but as a colony they had employed certain techniques for survival which are of keen interest. No doubt many of their survival techniques were learned on slave plantations and in the exchange of information with indigenous peoples. The extant of such adaptations of maroon colonies is not widely known and yet there is some record existent of the horticulture and economies of those renegade colonies lead by Africans and Indian tribes in Spanish territories, specifically in what we now know as Mexico, Here I offer a list of cultigens such as chile, yams, sweet potatoes, bananas, sugar cane, dry rice, maize, groundnuts, tobacco, cotton, etc. To make their settlement, the maroons of Yanga’s village planted many seedlings and cultivated gardens, creating a community of sorts whereby they could be independent, and were also adapt at hunting and fishing. Even butter was made from fat and the pistachio nut and the pine tree did afford them lumber for building dwellings and from beeswax and oil were able to make candles for light...honey was used as was . Hereupon we shall look. Uh...yes.
III.
LA MALINCHE
(As she is raped)
My face burns against the rock
of the great market.
Singed fragments of a girl.
To become a woman
I am scattered across the earth
and planted beneath its layers.
To become a woman
I lay wait in harvest.
To become a woman,
I stand beside the rock and burn
nipples hard against soft swells
where fear resides
cupped in the hands of the Priests
Who are as naked me...
I am covered in bruises.
Conquistadors.
Explorers
Exploring.
Conquering.
Claiming land.
Their land.
They are all as naked as me.
Praying to the assailant
their God.
And their God is naked.
As naked as a girl
who is about to become a woman.
He is bleeding for the first time,
like the girl
in the hands of the assailant
in the hands of the priests.
All covered in blood
the color of vermilion.
Smeared across the terrain
of my face.
Smeared with Holy hands.
I am bruised.
God is bruised.
Only the priests
bruise themselves
with daily ablutions and vigils.
I am virgin.
God is virgin.
Only the priests
have wives and children
and Aborigine concubines.
I am starving.
God is starving.
Only the priests
fast by will.
I am pierced.
God is pierced.
Only the priests
cut themselves
with the thorns of aloe.
To become a woman,
you must
learn the language
of the marauder.
You must dawn
gay apparel and sing
and dance in the market place
of Azcapozalco.
All Holy...divine...
My blood is nothing...
All Holy...divine...
My beauty is ugliness...
IV.
INVITATION to THE FEAST
ENMASCADOS
The bride
she is veiled and wreathed
in flowers and strings of stones
from the aqueduct.
Pearls in her teeth for you.
The halls have been scented
with perfumes of desire.
Come to the maiden's chambers.
Her courts are crowded with
herbs and flowers.
The guests endowed with gifts.
Come.
The banquet table is dressed
in cotton and ewers of wine.
Come.
The men have purged fine tobacco.
The women have packed the leaves
into hand carved pipes.
The young men have fashioned
pipes of tortoise and silver.
The young women have mixed
the leaves with herbs
Take it into your mouth.
Take it into your breathing.
Come in
Breath in
Pulverized leaf
root and herb
So many
will visit your eyes
Come to the banquet table
There is meat and game
vegetables and fruits
from our hills
laden in delicate sauces
We will regale your palate
with confections
and maize and sugar
Come.
Beyond to the fire that burns
In the bellies of our women
Our women are plump and naked
Without veils
Come
Come to the banquet table
There is an ornament at its center
Your roasted head
Come
Come
V.
THE CHRONICLER
(at the lectern, mis-speech)
La Malinche, born in Paineila, now called Vera Cruz, in the province of Coatzacualco. She was one of twenty Aztec virgins given to Cortes by Tabascan slave traders. She is not like the others. She is the only child of a wealthy Aztec nobleman who died when she was very young. Her mother gave her daughter's inheritance to the son she'd never had. The son sired by her second husband. When one of the mother's slaves died, she replaced the corpse with the warm body of her daughter La Malinche .The merchant traders sold La Malinche to the noblemen of Tabasco. The noblemen of Tabasco delivered La Malinche to the Spaniards. The Spaniards offered her to Cortes. She speaks many languages. Cortes employed her first as his translator, then as his secretary, then as his mistress...and from between her would come the Mulatto bastard son of Cortes...Don Martin...Commendador of the military of St. James. What better reason to liberate the Indian slave? Fragility finds itself gracing her frame...a womb as rich as the island soil, tongue prime for cultivating.
VI.
YANGA
Chief Hatuey was tied to a tree.
Chief Hatuey was tied to a tree
to be burned.
Chief Hatuey was tied to a tree
to be burned
in the land where he had been born and so revered.
Chief Hatuey was asked by the mestizos to
purse his lips and turn his tongue
to speak
Chief Hatuey was given a chance
by fire
and it was promised him
according to
Holy papers
that he would
receive the reward of land
where he
had not been born
and yet so revered.
Chief Hatuey was tied to a tree to be
burned to purse his lips and
turn his tongue to speak
Jesus for the sake of heaven.
Chief Hatuey asked
Will my assailants be
this Heaven?'
If it is so
Then I will not
want to go
where I
find men so cruel
VII.
SLAVE AUCTION
ENMASCADOS
Beautiful! Beautiful!
Indian creature!
Tropical fruit.
Her hair is black.
Her eyes are black.
But her skin is not
as black as ugliness.
Her golden shoes
and golden shawl
as beautiful as the hills
Beautiful
Indian creature!
VIII.
CONVERSATION OF YANGA & LA MALINCHE
LA MALINCHE
It was my mother who
passed me between her thighs.
who bled me out.
Blood of my blood.
Who set me to work.
who snatched my father's legacy
from the palm of my hands
who sold me.
I was made sweet for strange kisses.
My wounds were seasoned with bitters
I was small and fragile
Do not judge me.
There are no statues of me.
What will they know?
That I spoke the languages of the assailant?
That to survive I lay open to more than one man?
That I betray the woman who warned me of the Chieftans?
The Chieftans ordered the death of the Spaniards with whom I dwell.
My head would also have been staked upon a rod.
Will they remember my legs held into the air?
Will they remember my face pushed into the earth?
Will they remember my hair wet across my mouth?
Will they know my mother’s secret?
Will they know my father's death?
Will they receive my half brother's inheritence?
Hernan, he came into me without the threat of death.
Hernan he came into me without the threat of enslavement
Do not judge me.
YANGA
Thirty three years, the life span of their Jesus.
Thirty three years I have been running
against the air.
My pupils travel blindly
So as not give off light
from beneath the lids.
I have buried myself beneath the soil
and lay still while creatures feed from my hide
and assume me dead...
The blood they suck is mine.
Still warm...
My ears are where they lay their eggs..
My mouth is a cavern for insects
I do not move my tongue
Or spit or chew for fear of being heard.
I am a house of insects
warm...
I move beneath the dust
Lay low.
I bow and kiss the earth's carrion.
I whisper prayers to a familiar mountain.
I drink my urine for salt.
I call on the Gods of my virtue.
I give thanks.
I am quiet by the sugar mill.
I am silent by the silver mines.
LA MALINCHE
My body holds the seed of the Conquistadors.
My tongue twists with their language.
I am called diplomat.
I am called traitor.
I am a bridge for access.
I know the way.
This thing I carry
I will not kill it.
I will carry it with me.
It will be my gift.
It will be he
He who will inherit a father.
He who will not know his mother.
He who will not be born a woman.
He who will be a viceroy.
He who will speak more languages than I have known.
He who will not know shackles.
YANGA
Will he know that I was netted?
Will he know my skin dressed in sun?
Will he know the winds at night?
Will he know your shame?
Will he wear your medallions?
Listen...
All the great rivers are resting.
I am priced at three hundred.
You are priced at twenty.
Will he know how to count?
LA MALINCHE
He will be free...
YANGA
By night they came with a furious impetus - they wounded fifteen, two of them died. We killed as many Mexicans as we could, and they still came with combined forces. At dawn, fearlessly surrounding us on two sides, when it pleased our lord Jesus Christ , all Holy to give us strength, all things blessed, we sheltered ourselves with launches, with a good cut and thrust and they, advancing shoulder to shoulder, ninety three days we had combat every day and every every night. Bbringing with them five bloody heads on sticks, which they claimed among them to be La Malinche's, and sounding a cursed drum, the most accursed sound, most dismal, diabolical and unholy making great fires/, uttering loud yells and whistles with stones and arrows. God has given us this victory in everything. Our Lord Jesus Christ in whom we believe and may God pardon the unholy savages. Cortes. All holy. Sandoval. All Holy Pedro de Alvarado/. Holy Trinity. Advancing. Dona Marina cursed mother, virgin whore lifted up. They are advancing. The savages drink brackish water! We break and destroy their idols and burn the barricades. We wish to conquer kindly. We are advancing and setting oratories on fire and burning idols. We place our banners. The vessel of Ponce de Leon lands in Veracruz/ Drawing the wretched into the plaza. We spear some by afternoon. The wretched come to our camp, seeking firewood and herbs and roots and food. Their canals are filled with blood. We advanced/ falling upon the wretches now numbering 800 dead. Those canoeing for fish, we catch and kill. Those asleep in houses we set on fire. On the day of the festival of the Apostle Santiago, the miserable creatures, thin and afflicted, dying of hunger, pitiful, come advancing. We advance against them. We now count our slaughter. We number 12,000 dead on the thriteenth day of August at the time of vespers on the day of Senor San Hipolito in the year one thousand five hundred and twenty one, thanks to our Lord Jesus Christ and our Lady the Virgin Santa Maria His blessed mother with thanks to our Lady of Crypts and unmarked graves. Blessed. Blessed. Blessed. Blessed all and everyone. “
IX
THE CHRONICLER
We find that the African slave and the multi-racial Indian and mulattoes composed the labor gangs mining for silver in order to pay for the upkeep of Spanish bureaucracies in the new land; the viceroys, the judges of the audencia , the legions of clerks, the friars and parish priests. Silver reimburses the crown for the cost of naval escorts. Despute massive importations of slaves to fulfill labor demands in sugar plantations and mines,a century of depression incurred. The economy revived only after the growth of the laboring population. In Mexico City Spaniards numbered about 72,000, Indians numbered about 80,000, Africans and mulattoes numbered about 10,000. Mestizos - who ran the gamut of skin color made up the rest...Vercruz, the oldest city and the chief port of New Spain, lay on the Gulf of Mexico. Hot and muggy most of the year, it came completely alive when the Holy fleet from Spain dropped Holy anchor in its beautiful harbor, arriving with money to spend. Incoming viceroys, archbishops, and diverse royal dignitaries . All Holy Cortes introduced the first African slaves - mostly of Islamic faith, hailing fom the western Sudan, the Congo, the Gulf of Guinea. We find that Spanish slavery dates back to the 8th Century when Christians and Moors enslaved their captives. Spaniards also enslaved Indians. As many as 200,000 Indians. Slaves were numbered in the year 1542 - the date which abolished INdian slavery. By 1650, about 120,000 Africans were imported - maybe 130,000, by the end of the colonial year. Because African men outnumbered their women by two to one, many took Indians for their wives. Their offspring were labeled "Zambos." They. as well as the mulattos (children of Spanish fathers and African mothers) eventually exceeded the "pure" African. By the end of the colony, mulattos and diverse African castes formed 10 percent of the total population. This is also true of most Caribbean islands where modern day Hispanics exist like Puerto Rico where the Negro came to constitute a strong racial element in the colonization of Puerto Rico ( Please read "Puerto Rico: A Political and Cultural History by Arturo Morales Carron). Negros there were introduced into Puerto Rico from the beginning of colonization. As the indigenous population dwindled, the negros came to supply the labor for mining and agriculture - and soon the most important asset in developing the sugar industry. By 1531, the Spanish population numbered 426. White inhabitants were scarce in the second half of the 17th century - San Juan numbered around 820. In 1673, but small pox, measles, and spotted fever claimed the lives of hjalf the number of whites between 1689 and 1690. However, prior to that, in 1531, the African slave population increased by leaps and bounds. The census indicates 2,264 slaves that year. Foreigners even smuggled in unlicensed slaves. By 1846, the African slave population of new imports reached slightly over 51,000. Not to digress, but it makes any argument for "white latinos" in Caribbean ports like Mexico and Puerto Rico and Santa Domingo, (who built sugar mills worked by African slaves during the sixteenth century) Brazil, etc. etc. etc. - ridiculous - since most of these lands were originally populated by Indians and were forced to co-exist and reproduce with Spaniards and Africans - thus creating a mixed race of people largely unidentifiable by blood. Back to Mexico. Mexico, Africans did not take kindly to slaveryt and in one protest in Veracruz in 1735, they had to be....put down....by rifles.
They enriched the culture of New Spain in music and dance. The Marimba is a m,usical instrument so much a part of Veracruz and the Chiapas and the jarabe and the sones are of African descent - now traditional Mexican dances. Shall I sing for you now???
X
BISHOP BARTOLEME DE LAS CASAS
Nine Kings
A handful of reeds
hands holding reeds and arrows
Hummingbird with a head
of feathers.
Smoking shield with curls
rising-the Obsidian serpent,
blades along its back
my angry Lord
a diedem worn by Him,
archer of skies
piercing arrow, heaven
a bloody leg
and the last child...
who was the first King...
soon to return.
XI
YANGA
(SURAHS OF THE QUARAN)
Al Fatihah
Bismillahir rahmanir rahim
Alhamdu lillahi rabbil alamin
arrahmanir rahim
maliki yawmiddin
Iyyaka na' budu wa iyyaka nasta'in
Ihdinis siratal mustaqim
siratalladhina an'amta 'alaihim
gharil maghbudi alaihim wa laddallin
Amin
In the name of Allah, the most merciful
the most kind, all praise for Allah
The Lord of the worlds, the most
Merciful, the most kind
Master of the
day of judgement, you alone we worship
and you alone we ask for help.
Guide us along the straight waYANGA
The way of those whom you have
favoured
and not of those who earn your anger
nor of those who go astray.
Amin
An Nas
Bismillahir rahmanir rahim
qul a'udhu birabbin nas
Malikin nas. Ilahin nas
Min sharril waswasil khannas.
Alladhi yuwaswisu fi sudurinnas.
Minal jinnati wannas.
In the name of Allah, the most
merciful , the most knd.
Say, I seek refuge in the Lord
of mankind.
The king of mankind.
The God of mankind.
From the mischief
of the
sneaking whisperer
who whispers in the hearts
of mankind,
from among Jinn and mankind.
Amin
Al-Kafirun
Bismillahir rahmanar rahim
Qul ya ayyuhal kafirun
La abudu ma Ta'budun
Wa la antum abiduna ma a'bud
Wa la ana abidum ma abadtum
Wa la antum abiduna ma a'bud
La kum dinukum walia din.
In the name of Allah,
The most merciful, the most kind
Say, O Disbelievers!
I do not worship what you worship.
Nor do you worship what I worship.
I shall never worship what you worship.
Neither you worship what I worship.
You have your own religion
and I have mine.
Amin
Holy women
Women, divine nature
throughout the ages
in the year of our Lord, 1531
the Virgin Mary appeared
at the hill of Tepeyacac
Ancient sacred place
Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe.
They say it was Mary
The mother of Jesus
At The Hill Of Tepeyacac
That was not your Virgin
you saw roming the hills of
sacred places
she would not know the way
to travel, she would not
understand the songs coming from
the mouths of ancients
buried beneath our holy cape...
Her unvarnished body is too pure
for such a place, her back too white-
her hands too soft,
the rocks on that sacred hill
would rend the tissue beneath her feet
had she romed there... no,
that was not
your Santa Maria
walking
that was Maria Congo you saw there
that was Maria Angola you saw there
that was Magdelena Criollo you saw there
that was Ana Bran Mulatta you saw there
that was Catallina Ladinos Bozales you saw there
that was Our Lady Maria Negra Esclava you saw there
Restricted from gold and pearls
and silks
with no trim of velvet
She was dressed in coarse wool,
her feet danced after sunset,
her voice grated against moonlight
her shoulders were strong in the Puebla-
her head faced water
her lover resides in water forever
her son resides in water forever
her father resides in water forever
they are drifting
toward her
her eye is looking for
Diego and Juan and Manuel still...
For Muhammed and Abdoul still
She is singing Selah, Allah,
She is singing Selah, Allah
Amin
XII
BISHOP BARTOLEME DE LAS CASA
In eternal servitude
and humble submission
to the Holy Roman Emperor
King of the Romans, Italy
And Spain, Archduke of Austria
Titular Duke of Burgundy
And with the blessing
Of His Holiness
Pope Paul III's
Who did decree the Sublimis Deus
And declared the enemy of the human race
All who opposes all good deeds in order
to bring men to destruction,
beholding and envying this,
invented a means never before heard of,
by which he might hinder the preaching
of God's word of Salvation to the people:
he inspired his satellites who, to please him,
have not hesitated to publish abroad that the Indians
of the West and the South, and other people of whom
We have recent knowledge
should be treated as dumb brutes
created for our service,
pretending that they are incapable
of receiving the Catholic Faith.
We, who, though unworthy,
exercise on earth the power of our Lord
and seek with all our might to bring those sheep
of His flock who are outside into the fold
committed to our charge, consider,
however, that the Indians are truly men
and that they are not only capable
of understanding the Catholic Faith
but, according to our information,
they desire exceedingly to receive it.
Desiring to provide ample remedy for these evils,
We define and declare by these Our letters,
or by any translation thereof signed by any
notary public and sealed with the seal of
any ecclesiastical dignitary,
to which the same credit shall be given
as to the originals, that, notwithstanding
whatever may have been or may be said
to the contrary, the said Indians
and all other people who may later be discovered
by Christians, are by no means to be deprived
of their liberty or the possession of their property,
even though they be outside the faith of Jesus Christ;
and that they may and should, freely and legitimately,
enjoy their liberty and the possession of their property;
nor should they be in any way enslaved; should the contrary happen,
it shall be null and have no effect.
I Bartoleme de las Casas
Bishop of Chiapas in Guatemala
declare all human beings rational beings
with souls and lives herby and forewith
to be protected,
and request the release of those
within my posession.
And the abolition of the endomienda
According to Aristoleian principles
And in this Confesionario
Bartoleme de las Casas
Submit to you
He that is known as God to me
has visited me
early morn in my chambers
shown me a creature caught
in a wooden trap
and thereupon my eyes did mourn.
He that is known as God to me
Did put on my tongue
the taste of torn flesh and split bone
and I bled from my ears.
A thousand winged things
took flight above my head
and the stench of a feasted corpse
filled my chambers
And tho all things were made
whereby anything was made
by Him who is known as God to me
I did not know the origin of these
That hungered to chew dying flesh
I did not know the origin of these
That made such a monstrous sound
and when I thought I would be taken up
in their beaks
As suddenly as they appeared they vanished
And a sweet fragrance filled my nostrils
And music such as I have never heard came into my ears
And light so blinding
It made me weep
Blinded my eyes
And he who is known as God to me
Pulled back the sky
And revealed his breasts
And like a suckling infant I opened
My mouth
To receive his milk
And then it became known to me
that it is God who sustains us and not we ourselves.
That He has made earth and is the author of flesh
And no man should hunt man
No flesh should own flesh
There is no flesh other than He has made
And it became known to me
there is no good to the hunt of his creatures.
Hereupon this day I write to you
And ask the release those slaves within my possession
Who faint and die in this sultry climate.
They are too weak to cultivate the soil.
They are to meek to build our fortress.
I offer only this...
send Castillan and Negroe labourers
to fulfill the mission.
They are course and can withstand.
Surely the same God that prophesied to me
Now speaks to you
Send the Castillan and Negroe labourers
And let the Indians go free.
The African is better suited by constitution
to endure the climate and the toil imposed
upon the feeble and effeminate Aborigine.
Amen.
ENMASCADOS
Oh Bounty of Export
Holy Holy
Rich cargo packed
in the bottom
Holy Holy
Our God Almighty
Premium expenditure
cacao, honey,
wax, copal
Holy Holy
pelts of Jaguar
soft pelts of flesh-
Oh Holy
human
flesh
coastal
regions
sweet sugar waters
Our Lady of Mercy
Blessed Virgin
soft pelts of flesh
fruit of your
womb
Open, open
ripe and moist
rich expenditure
increase
All things blessed
Traffic of Mulattoes
Navigation of the
Yucatan & Tabasco
Mestizos Junkies
ruby eyed addiction
for beans
and skins
Virgin cacao
vagina
Holy
dew wet soft
moist
pulpy softness
Mestizos Junkies
luxury of
Criados
and
Negroes
Bozales
freshly picked
repartimientos
Holy Holy
God Almighty
Tapeacans
Tlascalans
feast of leg and arms
roasted gingerly
on wooden spits
sauteed Criados Bozales
fitted
by God's divine constitution
by God's divine anointing
by the Virgin menstrual sacrament
by the Holy birth of Jesus
all Negros
Cartilage
and muscle
and breast
and uterus
washed in blood
vertebrae by vertebrae
Sanctified
for heaven's stolen
pavement
stolen from these
mountains of
Negros Bozales
for fist
for teeth
for gums
for lips
for spit
for tongue
O hail our
Holy Mother
full of
Holy Grace
O hail our
Holy Son
Our
Holy Ghost
Espiritos
O Hail
the
white Bird
perched
on the
white head
of
this Holy charge
Castillian laborer
Y gente negra
en Mexico
Exclavos Negros
fitted by
constitution
by constitution
among the hedges
of the Heathens
O Blessed
and Bountiful beautiful
Bolivia
The Yucatan
The Andes
Converting
to obedience
these and some
Amen
II.
THE CHRONICLER
(at the lectern, mid-speech as the corpse is moved from place to place)
Cortes, the much heralded Spanish Explorer died and was laid to rest in the family vault in 1547...yes...uh...Fifteen years later, his son, Don Martin...uh...had the body moved to New Spain where Cortes was laid to rest...yes...next we find...next to his wife....Dona Catalina. The corpse was moved fifty two years later to the...uh...church of St. Francis. One hundred and sixty five years later (1794)...uh...his remains would be moved again to the Hospital Of Jesus of Nazareth where they were placed in a crystal coffin secured by bars and plates of silver, surmounted by a bust of the Conquistador. Twenty nine years later...uh...to dissuade zealots from breaking into the tomb and scattering the ashes...the corpse of Cortes...his remains were moved again. Today, the whereabouts of his remains are unknown.CortesAfrican. Mexican. Afro-Mexican. Afro Mexican. Mexican people of African ancestry. African Mexicans of the coastal regions of Guerrero, Oaxaca, Michoacán, Veracruz, Campeche, Quintana Roo, Yucatán. About 200,000 Africans were brought to Mexico during the time of the Spanish Empire. When the Spaniards first arrived in Mesoamerica, they brought with them African slaves for labor. The decline of the Amerindian population and the Pope's prohibition against...uh...Amerindians...prompted the importation of slave labor from Ghana, Côte d'Ivoire, Senegal, Gambia, Nigeria, the Congo, Angola. During the colonial period, Spaniards prohibited marriage between the two races in order to discourage alliances. Africans soon outnumbered Europeans in certain areas, and the Spanish implemented many tactics to ensure that they remained the dominant racial group in Mesoamerica. In the early days of the colonial period, slavery was very harsh, and lead to rebellions. In 1609 there was a black rebellion in Veracruz, lead by Gaspar Yanga and Francisco de la Matosa. After fierce battles, Yanga came to negotiate a peace with the viceroy Luis de Velasco. A black community, called "San Lorenzo", later renamed Yanga, was founded and still exists; a free African village in Nacimiento, Coahuila and a few villages along the Texas-Mexico border were also populated with Indio Africans, from which line Vicente Guerrero, Commander-in-Chief of the Mexican army during the last years of the independence war with Spain, is descended, later becoming President and a fierce abolitionist of African slavery. Guerrerro not only had African and Indigenous blood but is descended from the Asians as well. It is well known that an estimated 100,000 Asians were brought to Mexico in slavery on the Manila to Acapulco galleons. The Asians were labeled "African" because the Spanish wanted more slaves, and by law only Africans could be slaves. Most of the Asians did come from places where people were dark, such as Malaysia, and the southern Filipine Islands, including the island of Negros, so named because the Negritos who lived there. During the periods of African slavery, many Africans escaped to the mountains and formed what are known as “maroon” colonies, or palenques, composed of African males, Indigenous women and their mongrel off-spring. Many Afro-Mexicans make their homes along the coastal regions of Huatulco in Oaxaca...Coyolillo in Veracruz. In Mexico, African cultural practices and traditions can still be found. El Ciruelo, Costa Chica southeast of Acapulco...Guerrero... The climate is very hot. Playa Ventura and Punta Maldonado in Guerrero. Their tribes vary. The Amuzgos...the Tlapanecos and Chatinos. Cerro del Indio 608, Cuajinicuilapa 8932, Maldonado 892, Montecillos 893, El Pitahayo 2365, Punta Maldonado 1110, San Nicolás 3275, El Cacalote 119, Cerro de las Tablas 255, Copala 6540, Azoyú 4244, Banco de Oro 164, Barra de Tecoanapa 1024, Huehuetán 1827, Juchitán 2846...El Ciruelo 2397, Collantes 2325, Santa María Chicometepec 1477, Corralero 1597, Cerro de la Esperanza 1058, Lagunillas 495, El Azufre 451, Chacahua 714, Charco Redondo 444, El Lagartero 91, Llano Grande 260, Zapotalito 829, Morelos 2028, Lagunillas 69, Santo Domingo Armenta 2739, Lagunillas 129, Callejón de Rómulo 541, Santiago Tapextla 1566, Llano Grande 1065, Mártires de Tacubaya 839, San José Estancia Grande 916, Santa María Cortijo 968...Slave rebellions have their origin almost as early as the introduction of the slave trade in the Americas. Cuban slaves, for instance, rebelled from the very beginning and were severely punished. According to the records of Governor Manuel de Rojas, dated 1553, several slaves were captured in the mines of Jobabo, dismembered and their heads planted on stakes. As early as the 15th century in Santo Domingo on the sugar plantation of Admirel Diego Colon, many of the rebels were hanged. Spaniards also sent many African slaves from Santo Domingo, Puerto Rico and Cuba to the mainland territories of Mexico, Honduras, Guatemala, Neuva Granada and Venezuela. In Lima a rebellion ensued when a fleet approached the Peruvian coast. In the era of colonial Mexico, between 1519 and 1650, as many as 120, 000 African slaves were employed, a response to the labour shortage and the decline of the Indian population. Many insurrections ensued and occasionally it was thought that insurrections were warnings from God that man had sinned against human nature by enslaving Negroes. Nonetheless the Hispanization of negroes was relatively successful. In Mexico, one negro from Angola called Yanga who lead a maroon colony for over thirty years. It is recorded that in his settlement he had some sixty huts housing approximately eighty adult males, twenty four Negro and Indian women, and an undetermined number of children. The settlement was essentially a war camp, but as a colony they had employed certain techniques for survival which are of keen interest. No doubt many of their survival techniques were learned on slave plantations and in the exchange of information with indigenous peoples. The extant of such adaptations of maroon colonies is not widely known and yet there is some record existent of the horticulture and economies of those renegade colonies lead by Africans and Indian tribes in Spanish territories, specifically in what we now know as Mexico, Here I offer a list of cultigens such as chile, yams, sweet potatoes, bananas, sugar cane, dry rice, maize, groundnuts, tobacco, cotton, etc. To make their settlement, the maroons of Yanga’s village planted many seedlings and cultivated gardens, creating a community of sorts whereby they could be independent, and were also adapt at hunting and fishing. Even butter was made from fat and the pistachio nut and the pine tree did afford them lumber for building dwellings and from beeswax and oil were able to make candles for light...honey was used as was . Hereupon we shall look. Uh...yes.
III.
LA MALINCHE
(As she is raped)
My face burns against the rock
of the great market.
Singed fragments of a girl.
To become a woman
I am scattered across the earth
and planted beneath its layers.
To become a woman
I lay wait in harvest.
To become a woman,
I stand beside the rock and burn
nipples hard against soft swells
where fear resides
cupped in the hands of the Priests
Who are as naked me...
I am covered in bruises.
Conquistadors.
Explorers
Exploring.
Conquering.
Claiming land.
Their land.
They are all as naked as me.
Praying to the assailant
their God.
And their God is naked.
As naked as a girl
who is about to become a woman.
He is bleeding for the first time,
like the girl
in the hands of the assailant
in the hands of the priests.
All covered in blood
the color of vermilion.
Smeared across the terrain
of my face.
Smeared with Holy hands.
I am bruised.
God is bruised.
Only the priests
bruise themselves
with daily ablutions and vigils.
I am virgin.
God is virgin.
Only the priests
have wives and children
and Aborigine concubines.
I am starving.
God is starving.
Only the priests
fast by will.
I am pierced.
God is pierced.
Only the priests
cut themselves
with the thorns of aloe.
To become a woman,
you must
learn the language
of the marauder.
You must dawn
gay apparel and sing
and dance in the market place
of Azcapozalco.
All Holy...divine...
My blood is nothing...
All Holy...divine...
My beauty is ugliness...
IV.
INVITATION to THE FEAST
ENMASCADOS
The bride
she is veiled and wreathed
in flowers and strings of stones
from the aqueduct.
Pearls in her teeth for you.
The halls have been scented
with perfumes of desire.
Come to the maiden's chambers.
Her courts are crowded with
herbs and flowers.
The guests endowed with gifts.
Come.
The banquet table is dressed
in cotton and ewers of wine.
Come.
The men have purged fine tobacco.
The women have packed the leaves
into hand carved pipes.
The young men have fashioned
pipes of tortoise and silver.
The young women have mixed
the leaves with herbs
Take it into your mouth.
Take it into your breathing.
Come in
Breath in
Pulverized leaf
root and herb
So many
will visit your eyes
Come to the banquet table
There is meat and game
vegetables and fruits
from our hills
laden in delicate sauces
We will regale your palate
with confections
and maize and sugar
Come.
Beyond to the fire that burns
In the bellies of our women
Our women are plump and naked
Without veils
Come
Come to the banquet table
There is an ornament at its center
Your roasted head
Come
Come
V.
THE CHRONICLER
(at the lectern, mis-speech)
La Malinche, born in Paineila, now called Vera Cruz, in the province of Coatzacualco. She was one of twenty Aztec virgins given to Cortes by Tabascan slave traders. She is not like the others. She is the only child of a wealthy Aztec nobleman who died when she was very young. Her mother gave her daughter's inheritance to the son she'd never had. The son sired by her second husband. When one of the mother's slaves died, she replaced the corpse with the warm body of her daughter La Malinche .The merchant traders sold La Malinche to the noblemen of Tabasco. The noblemen of Tabasco delivered La Malinche to the Spaniards. The Spaniards offered her to Cortes. She speaks many languages. Cortes employed her first as his translator, then as his secretary, then as his mistress...and from between her would come the Mulatto bastard son of Cortes...Don Martin...Commendador of the military of St. James. What better reason to liberate the Indian slave? Fragility finds itself gracing her frame...a womb as rich as the island soil, tongue prime for cultivating.
VI.
YANGA
Chief Hatuey was tied to a tree.
Chief Hatuey was tied to a tree
to be burned.
Chief Hatuey was tied to a tree
to be burned
in the land where he had been born and so revered.
Chief Hatuey was asked by the mestizos to
purse his lips and turn his tongue
to speak
Chief Hatuey was given a chance
by fire
and it was promised him
according to
Holy papers
that he would
receive the reward of land
where he
had not been born
and yet so revered.
Chief Hatuey was tied to a tree to be
burned to purse his lips and
turn his tongue to speak
Jesus for the sake of heaven.
Chief Hatuey asked
Will my assailants be
this Heaven?'
If it is so
Then I will not
want to go
where I
find men so cruel
VII.
SLAVE AUCTION
ENMASCADOS
Beautiful! Beautiful!
Indian creature!
Tropical fruit.
Her hair is black.
Her eyes are black.
But her skin is not
as black as ugliness.
Her golden shoes
and golden shawl
as beautiful as the hills
Beautiful
Indian creature!
VIII.
CONVERSATION OF YANGA & LA MALINCHE
LA MALINCHE
It was my mother who
passed me between her thighs.
who bled me out.
Blood of my blood.
Who set me to work.
who snatched my father's legacy
from the palm of my hands
who sold me.
I was made sweet for strange kisses.
My wounds were seasoned with bitters
I was small and fragile
Do not judge me.
There are no statues of me.
What will they know?
That I spoke the languages of the assailant?
That to survive I lay open to more than one man?
That I betray the woman who warned me of the Chieftans?
The Chieftans ordered the death of the Spaniards with whom I dwell.
My head would also have been staked upon a rod.
Will they remember my legs held into the air?
Will they remember my face pushed into the earth?
Will they remember my hair wet across my mouth?
Will they know my mother’s secret?
Will they know my father's death?
Will they receive my half brother's inheritence?
Hernan, he came into me without the threat of death.
Hernan he came into me without the threat of enslavement
Do not judge me.
YANGA
Thirty three years, the life span of their Jesus.
Thirty three years I have been running
against the air.
My pupils travel blindly
So as not give off light
from beneath the lids.
I have buried myself beneath the soil
and lay still while creatures feed from my hide
and assume me dead...
The blood they suck is mine.
Still warm...
My ears are where they lay their eggs..
My mouth is a cavern for insects
I do not move my tongue
Or spit or chew for fear of being heard.
I am a house of insects
warm...
I move beneath the dust
Lay low.
I bow and kiss the earth's carrion.
I whisper prayers to a familiar mountain.
I drink my urine for salt.
I call on the Gods of my virtue.
I give thanks.
I am quiet by the sugar mill.
I am silent by the silver mines.
LA MALINCHE
My body holds the seed of the Conquistadors.
My tongue twists with their language.
I am called diplomat.
I am called traitor.
I am a bridge for access.
I know the way.
This thing I carry
I will not kill it.
I will carry it with me.
It will be my gift.
It will be he
He who will inherit a father.
He who will not know his mother.
He who will not be born a woman.
He who will be a viceroy.
He who will speak more languages than I have known.
He who will not know shackles.
YANGA
Will he know that I was netted?
Will he know my skin dressed in sun?
Will he know the winds at night?
Will he know your shame?
Will he wear your medallions?
Listen...
All the great rivers are resting.
I am priced at three hundred.
You are priced at twenty.
Will he know how to count?
LA MALINCHE
He will be free...
YANGA
By night they came with a furious impetus - they wounded fifteen, two of them died. We killed as many Mexicans as we could, and they still came with combined forces. At dawn, fearlessly surrounding us on two sides, when it pleased our lord Jesus Christ , all Holy to give us strength, all things blessed, we sheltered ourselves with launches, with a good cut and thrust and they, advancing shoulder to shoulder, ninety three days we had combat every day and every every night. Bbringing with them five bloody heads on sticks, which they claimed among them to be La Malinche's, and sounding a cursed drum, the most accursed sound, most dismal, diabolical and unholy making great fires/, uttering loud yells and whistles with stones and arrows. God has given us this victory in everything. Our Lord Jesus Christ in whom we believe and may God pardon the unholy savages. Cortes. All holy. Sandoval. All Holy Pedro de Alvarado/. Holy Trinity. Advancing. Dona Marina cursed mother, virgin whore lifted up. They are advancing. The savages drink brackish water! We break and destroy their idols and burn the barricades. We wish to conquer kindly. We are advancing and setting oratories on fire and burning idols. We place our banners. The vessel of Ponce de Leon lands in Veracruz/ Drawing the wretched into the plaza. We spear some by afternoon. The wretched come to our camp, seeking firewood and herbs and roots and food. Their canals are filled with blood. We advanced/ falling upon the wretches now numbering 800 dead. Those canoeing for fish, we catch and kill. Those asleep in houses we set on fire. On the day of the festival of the Apostle Santiago, the miserable creatures, thin and afflicted, dying of hunger, pitiful, come advancing. We advance against them. We now count our slaughter. We number 12,000 dead on the thriteenth day of August at the time of vespers on the day of Senor San Hipolito in the year one thousand five hundred and twenty one, thanks to our Lord Jesus Christ and our Lady the Virgin Santa Maria His blessed mother with thanks to our Lady of Crypts and unmarked graves. Blessed. Blessed. Blessed. Blessed all and everyone. “
IX
THE CHRONICLER
We find that the African slave and the multi-racial Indian and mulattoes composed the labor gangs mining for silver in order to pay for the upkeep of Spanish bureaucracies in the new land; the viceroys, the judges of the audencia , the legions of clerks, the friars and parish priests. Silver reimburses the crown for the cost of naval escorts. Despute massive importations of slaves to fulfill labor demands in sugar plantations and mines,a century of depression incurred. The economy revived only after the growth of the laboring population. In Mexico City Spaniards numbered about 72,000, Indians numbered about 80,000, Africans and mulattoes numbered about 10,000. Mestizos - who ran the gamut of skin color made up the rest...Vercruz, the oldest city and the chief port of New Spain, lay on the Gulf of Mexico. Hot and muggy most of the year, it came completely alive when the Holy fleet from Spain dropped Holy anchor in its beautiful harbor, arriving with money to spend. Incoming viceroys, archbishops, and diverse royal dignitaries . All Holy Cortes introduced the first African slaves - mostly of Islamic faith, hailing fom the western Sudan, the Congo, the Gulf of Guinea. We find that Spanish slavery dates back to the 8th Century when Christians and Moors enslaved their captives. Spaniards also enslaved Indians. As many as 200,000 Indians. Slaves were numbered in the year 1542 - the date which abolished INdian slavery. By 1650, about 120,000 Africans were imported - maybe 130,000, by the end of the colonial year. Because African men outnumbered their women by two to one, many took Indians for their wives. Their offspring were labeled "Zambos." They. as well as the mulattos (children of Spanish fathers and African mothers) eventually exceeded the "pure" African. By the end of the colony, mulattos and diverse African castes formed 10 percent of the total population. This is also true of most Caribbean islands where modern day Hispanics exist like Puerto Rico where the Negro came to constitute a strong racial element in the colonization of Puerto Rico ( Please read "Puerto Rico: A Political and Cultural History by Arturo Morales Carron). Negros there were introduced into Puerto Rico from the beginning of colonization. As the indigenous population dwindled, the negros came to supply the labor for mining and agriculture - and soon the most important asset in developing the sugar industry. By 1531, the Spanish population numbered 426. White inhabitants were scarce in the second half of the 17th century - San Juan numbered around 820. In 1673, but small pox, measles, and spotted fever claimed the lives of hjalf the number of whites between 1689 and 1690. However, prior to that, in 1531, the African slave population increased by leaps and bounds. The census indicates 2,264 slaves that year. Foreigners even smuggled in unlicensed slaves. By 1846, the African slave population of new imports reached slightly over 51,000. Not to digress, but it makes any argument for "white latinos" in Caribbean ports like Mexico and Puerto Rico and Santa Domingo, (who built sugar mills worked by African slaves during the sixteenth century) Brazil, etc. etc. etc. - ridiculous - since most of these lands were originally populated by Indians and were forced to co-exist and reproduce with Spaniards and Africans - thus creating a mixed race of people largely unidentifiable by blood. Back to Mexico. Mexico, Africans did not take kindly to slaveryt and in one protest in Veracruz in 1735, they had to be....put down....by rifles.
They enriched the culture of New Spain in music and dance. The Marimba is a m,usical instrument so much a part of Veracruz and the Chiapas and the jarabe and the sones are of African descent - now traditional Mexican dances. Shall I sing for you now???
X
BISHOP BARTOLEME DE LAS CASAS
Nine Kings
A handful of reeds
hands holding reeds and arrows
Hummingbird with a head
of feathers.
Smoking shield with curls
rising-the Obsidian serpent,
blades along its back
my angry Lord
a diedem worn by Him,
archer of skies
piercing arrow, heaven
a bloody leg
and the last child...
who was the first King...
soon to return.
XI
YANGA
(SURAHS OF THE QUARAN)
Al Fatihah
Bismillahir rahmanir rahim
Alhamdu lillahi rabbil alamin
arrahmanir rahim
maliki yawmiddin
Iyyaka na' budu wa iyyaka nasta'in
Ihdinis siratal mustaqim
siratalladhina an'amta 'alaihim
gharil maghbudi alaihim wa laddallin
Amin
In the name of Allah, the most merciful
the most kind, all praise for Allah
The Lord of the worlds, the most
Merciful, the most kind
Master of the
day of judgement, you alone we worship
and you alone we ask for help.
Guide us along the straight waYANGA
The way of those whom you have
favoured
and not of those who earn your anger
nor of those who go astray.
Amin
An Nas
Bismillahir rahmanir rahim
qul a'udhu birabbin nas
Malikin nas. Ilahin nas
Min sharril waswasil khannas.
Alladhi yuwaswisu fi sudurinnas.
Minal jinnati wannas.
In the name of Allah, the most
merciful , the most knd.
Say, I seek refuge in the Lord
of mankind.
The king of mankind.
The God of mankind.
From the mischief
of the
sneaking whisperer
who whispers in the hearts
of mankind,
from among Jinn and mankind.
Amin
Al-Kafirun
Bismillahir rahmanar rahim
Qul ya ayyuhal kafirun
La abudu ma Ta'budun
Wa la antum abiduna ma a'bud
Wa la ana abidum ma abadtum
Wa la antum abiduna ma a'bud
La kum dinukum walia din.
In the name of Allah,
The most merciful, the most kind
Say, O Disbelievers!
I do not worship what you worship.
Nor do you worship what I worship.
I shall never worship what you worship.
Neither you worship what I worship.
You have your own religion
and I have mine.
Amin
Holy women
Women, divine nature
throughout the ages
in the year of our Lord, 1531
the Virgin Mary appeared
at the hill of Tepeyacac
Ancient sacred place
Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe.
They say it was Mary
The mother of Jesus
At The Hill Of Tepeyacac
That was not your Virgin
you saw roming the hills of
sacred places
she would not know the way
to travel, she would not
understand the songs coming from
the mouths of ancients
buried beneath our holy cape...
Her unvarnished body is too pure
for such a place, her back too white-
her hands too soft,
the rocks on that sacred hill
would rend the tissue beneath her feet
had she romed there... no,
that was not
your Santa Maria
walking
that was Maria Congo you saw there
that was Maria Angola you saw there
that was Magdelena Criollo you saw there
that was Ana Bran Mulatta you saw there
that was Catallina Ladinos Bozales you saw there
that was Our Lady Maria Negra Esclava you saw there
Restricted from gold and pearls
and silks
with no trim of velvet
She was dressed in coarse wool,
her feet danced after sunset,
her voice grated against moonlight
her shoulders were strong in the Puebla-
her head faced water
her lover resides in water forever
her son resides in water forever
her father resides in water forever
they are drifting
toward her
her eye is looking for
Diego and Juan and Manuel still...
For Muhammed and Abdoul still
She is singing Selah, Allah,
She is singing Selah, Allah
Amin
XII
BISHOP BARTOLEME DE LAS CASA
In eternal servitude
and humble submission
to the Holy Roman Emperor
King of the Romans, Italy
And Spain, Archduke of Austria
Titular Duke of Burgundy
And with the blessing
Of His Holiness
Pope Paul III's
Who did decree the Sublimis Deus
And declared the enemy of the human race
All who opposes all good deeds in order
to bring men to destruction,
beholding and envying this,
invented a means never before heard of,
by which he might hinder the preaching
of God's word of Salvation to the people:
he inspired his satellites who, to please him,
have not hesitated to publish abroad that the Indians
of the West and the South, and other people of whom
We have recent knowledge
should be treated as dumb brutes
created for our service,
pretending that they are incapable
of receiving the Catholic Faith.
We, who, though unworthy,
exercise on earth the power of our Lord
and seek with all our might to bring those sheep
of His flock who are outside into the fold
committed to our charge, consider,
however, that the Indians are truly men
and that they are not only capable
of understanding the Catholic Faith
but, according to our information,
they desire exceedingly to receive it.
Desiring to provide ample remedy for these evils,
We define and declare by these Our letters,
or by any translation thereof signed by any
notary public and sealed with the seal of
any ecclesiastical dignitary,
to which the same credit shall be given
as to the originals, that, notwithstanding
whatever may have been or may be said
to the contrary, the said Indians
and all other people who may later be discovered
by Christians, are by no means to be deprived
of their liberty or the possession of their property,
even though they be outside the faith of Jesus Christ;
and that they may and should, freely and legitimately,
enjoy their liberty and the possession of their property;
nor should they be in any way enslaved; should the contrary happen,
it shall be null and have no effect.
I Bartoleme de las Casas
Bishop of Chiapas in Guatemala
declare all human beings rational beings
with souls and lives herby and forewith
to be protected,
and request the release of those
within my posession.
And the abolition of the endomienda
According to Aristoleian principles
And in this Confesionario
Bartoleme de las Casas
Submit to you
He that is known as God to me
has visited me
early morn in my chambers
shown me a creature caught
in a wooden trap
and thereupon my eyes did mourn.
He that is known as God to me
Did put on my tongue
the taste of torn flesh and split bone
and I bled from my ears.
A thousand winged things
took flight above my head
and the stench of a feasted corpse
filled my chambers
And tho all things were made
whereby anything was made
by Him who is known as God to me
I did not know the origin of these
That hungered to chew dying flesh
I did not know the origin of these
That made such a monstrous sound
and when I thought I would be taken up
in their beaks
As suddenly as they appeared they vanished
And a sweet fragrance filled my nostrils
And music such as I have never heard came into my ears
And light so blinding
It made me weep
Blinded my eyes
And he who is known as God to me
Pulled back the sky
And revealed his breasts
And like a suckling infant I opened
My mouth
To receive his milk
And then it became known to me
that it is God who sustains us and not we ourselves.
That He has made earth and is the author of flesh
And no man should hunt man
No flesh should own flesh
There is no flesh other than He has made
And it became known to me
there is no good to the hunt of his creatures.
Hereupon this day I write to you
And ask the release those slaves within my possession
Who faint and die in this sultry climate.
They are too weak to cultivate the soil.
They are to meek to build our fortress.
I offer only this...
send Castillan and Negroe labourers
to fulfill the mission.
They are course and can withstand.
Surely the same God that prophesied to me
Now speaks to you
Send the Castillan and Negroe labourers
And let the Indians go free.
The African is better suited by constitution
to endure the climate and the toil imposed
upon the feeble and effeminate Aborigine.
Amen.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
MYCENAEAN
MYCENAEANCARL HANCOCK RUX
©Carl Hancock Rux
PROJECT DESCRIPTION
Mycenaean is a multi-disciplinary performance narrative/opera oratorio in twelve movements, in which several disparate characters (Fulcrum Dreamers) are pulled into a vortex of apocryphal urbanity, both ancient and contemporary, forcing each character to examine their historical memory and the daily human will to survive. Structurally, Mycenaean is a multi-media theatrical narrative; reformatting the modern opera as a spectacle of relationships between live performances, live video manipulation, movement and electronic music. Text will alternate between monologue, dialogue and song. Music is a constant throughout, and the movement of the piece is highly stylized, informed by gestures and dance. Two kingdoms are paralleled—one felled in its third century, the other, in the midst of recovery and prevention of a third world war as it moves toward its third century as a nation. In the fictional American city of Fulcrum, several citizens complain of chronic insomnia accompanied by apocryphal images of an ancient Greek city in ruins called Mycenae. When a young Documentarian records and digitally films their testimonies of alternative identities and memories of Dorian wars, images that are both contemporary and antiquated manifest themselves on screen—the Fulcrum Dreamers become the chief topic of the news and entertainment media. Rumored by some to be radical subversives creating a coded language amongst themselves, potential postulants, or schizophrenic out patients in need of medical treatment and incarceration. As a captivated nation tunes in tales of war and an attempted reconstruction, and desperately tries to decipher the meaning of it all, the number of Fulcrum Dreamers grows; a young soldier returned from the battlefield, sees himself as Hippolytus on the road of Mycenae, reunited with army of recently slain comrades; a reclusive visual artist becomes obsessed with making funerary masks; a conservative talk show host and Fulcrum Dreamer skeptic, unwillingly imagines himself as a military mortician collecting the remains of ancient citizens and railing against the political structure that brought about the destruction of the city of his lineage. Blurring boundaries between tangible space and the reality of dreams, Mycenaean is intended as a theater of the personal and the political, cognitive estrangement rather than propaganda, debate rather than polemics.
First presented and developed in various stages as a work in progress at The Bowery Poetry Club, HERE Arts Center, BRIC Studios/651 Arts (NYC), Mass MOCA, (North Adams, Mass.) the Pillsbury Playhouse (Minneapolis, Minn), the Washington Performing Arts Center. Mycenaean received its first workshop in the spring of 2005 at CalArts, and was presented at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill Performing Arts Center (Jan. 2006), MYCENAEN premiered at BAM/Next Wave that same year to (gulp) disastrous reviews and almost sent this writer running for the suicide chamber. After the hiring and (shall we say mutually agreed upon "letting go") of its initial director, sevreal out of city tries, a succesful CALARTS run, and a long rehearsal process in New Jersey where cast and crew attempted to recreate the set, opening night was i failed to catastrophic proportions (including an actress falling over footlights). The performance gradually pulled itself together but not in time for critics. The New York Times noted some great performances (Rux, Tony Torn) as did Variety ( Helga Davis) but with more venom, theater critics (such as Brooklyn's own Kerri Allen who even mentioned her "bad review" in a lecture in Seoul Korea!) lamblasted the premiere as if they'd been personally assaulted by art beneath their intelligence and aesthetic values. Marred by opening night reviews describing audiences walking out in droves (an exxageration but nonetheless), the show eventually pulled itself together but not in time to save face. As writer performer Laurie Carlos always asks, "What do you know?" What I know (in retrospect) is that writng and producing are two very different things, meant to be exclusive of the other, and both are nothing without institutuional support. I think I knew that before, but ad faith in the process and commitment of the company as well as my owrk's thesis. What I know is combining dream theory in the social context of war with Greek mythology, video, music and movement in a Bush-era had nothing to do with linear theater or traditional storytelling. The ears of audiences and perhaps critics alike were no longer attuned to the complexity of say, an Adrienne Kennedy inspired poetic riff on war and its affect on the fractured American psyche. If, for instance Kennedy's brilliance came to light in a Vietnam era, when language, protest, music, performance genres and image clashed about like so much overhead shrapnel, it wasd not only due to Ms. Kennedy's genius but to the complexity of the audience's eye and ear to accept a raped balding housewife, Queen Victoria, the bloody presence of Patrice Lumumba and a black girl's conversion to a screeching owl as a direct statement about race, gender and identity in a time when the subject could no longer be represented in simple or linear terms. Fast forward to the Bush era, many critics became confused (if not downright offended) by "multi-racial casting", the mention of Jean Racine and dream theory in the same production. Farbeit from me to EVER compare my talents to Ms. kennedy's genius, but what "what I know" is I personally have looked over countless reviews that spat at Ms. Kennedy's hallucinations and I have sat with Ms. Kennedy and listened as she painfully expressed her dissapointment with and dismissal by the "American theater" world. To attempt to do the very thing most artists are taught NEVER to do, which is talk back or defend their own work, I offer here that if the illogical structure of MYCENAEAN was "overstuffed" (as Ms. Allen so accused it) it was with the "stuff" of one hundred years : German Expressionism, dadaism, the black arts movement, Italian contructivism, the illogical structure of dreams as performance according to principles outlined by Strindberg in which all dialogue, all thoughts, all scenes are born out of the dream perceptions of the protagonist. There was no wall dividing reality from the unconscious , and those things that were considered sotherworldly are tangible and attainable by all characters. Often one character is represented as two characters (though they are introduced to the audience as ca gradual emerging of characters as it it occurs via a sharing of gestures, and a synchronicity in clanguage.) Neither time nor space(according to traditional theater conventions) were important. The characters were split into dualities, and their thoughts came from the dreamers unconscious. If Freud's theories concentrated heavily on the perceived gap between the conscious and unconscious (and this also had a lot to do with my inclusion of dream theories from the first and second World war as well as government sponsored psychic studies during the early 1970s) MYCENAEAN twas sometimes intended as texture (not toilet paper) and occasionally there should have been something you could hook onto that would clue you into the next moment. Needless to say, for some that was true. For others it was not. What boggles my mind is not the failure of the play as much as the failure the critic to see what was there, even if what was there was didactic and abstract (as were the times). Didactisiscm and abstraction are NEVER unintentional on my part. I see it as complicated as the cultural shifts in the American vernacular for race terminology and detrita of political correctness; as schizophrenic as "the taste makers" taste for bitter and sweet. I am easily a playwright who has (strategically) regurgitated abstraction and didactiscism as a defensive that codifies, marginalizes, oppresses and excludes in order to prove how the same is often used as a code to marginalize the oppressed or to simply exclude the irrelevant from the relevant conversation at hand. A tactic rarely sacrificed or modified or simplified for the cause of inclusion. The conceit of my ill-fated play is itself the conceit of the ill-fated critic who, admittedly felt a "twitter with excitement" when "something monumental" has "clearly come over the horizon" like the film version of Sex and the City (only to be almost as dissapointed by the promise of that "monumental film'"as as she was by MYCENEAN...but not quite.) The soup the rest of us were dorwning in, the mud and mineral of an American/European discourse, a density we had to wade through in order to earn our right to speak- a new presidential administration into being, was something like the mad ramblings of an unbathed homeless person in the middle of the night, and that was the play and it was good (or atleast it felt good to the performer in me if not the ego of the writer in me). Well,though we got some seriously dismissive comments from reviewers, there were conversations, responses, emails and letters that spoke to the discourse we knew we were engaged in. Blows my mind how some people can claim to be so lost and in the dark, and others can see so clearly--maybe because performance is (again) moving toward the realm of feeling and experiance. One critic made a point of mentioning the "multi-cultural cast", which was the first time it occurred to me the group of artists I was collaborating with would be perceived as "multi-cultural". In fact, we probably had more in common culturally with eachother than the critic did with non-traditional performance. We all come to the theater (or the space cleared for perfromance) with different intentions. I think the ones who come with the lightest load are the ones who walk out with plenty. When I read a recent review of Roger Guenveur Smith's "Who Killed Bob Marley?", I was reminded again that some critics seem to come without any real cognitive skills or tools enabling them to critique non-linear theater/music/text, etc. There's always such a huge gulf between what the people see and what the critics see. When I was in school and first read Homer, Euripedes, Sophocles, Tennessee Williams, Hemingway, Keats--i didn't know what the hell any of them were talking about. I certainly didn't think they were speaking to me. But their language was forced upon me (for which I'm grateful) and it allowed me to access Adrienne Kennedy, Paule Marshall, Gwendolyn Brookes, Ntozake Shange, Amiri Baraka, Miguel Pinerro, Ai, Robbie McCauley, Erik Ehn, August Wilson, etc. I think we have to hold fast to the language we are speaking, and recognize that just because some people don't speak it doesn't mean they don't need to learn it. Here's one guy who reviewed Mycenaean and spoke to what he saw, not what he thought he should've seen. I don't single him out because he liked it, I single him out because he questioned it, experianced it, dismissed what he could not grapple with and offered an explanation of what he thought the point was. For purely selfish reasons, I offer the following review from J. Jordan which was published on Theater.com.
"Mycenaean is one of those pieces that struggles to defy categorization. It's not exactly a play. It decries itself a "poetic opera," and while its performers do at times speak frilly lacy words and occasionally break out into song, none of this can hide the truth of what Mycenaean really is: performance art. This is not a bad thing. I like performance art. If you like it too, you'll like Mycenaean.According to the BAM press release, Mycenaean is adapted from writer/director/producer/actor Carl Hancock Rux's poem "Mycenaean Born" and his recently released novel Asphalt, and is also inspired by the Hippolytus myth. The press release advises the story is of a modern mythical town whose inhabitants are plagued by dreams of the destroyed city of Mycenae. Thankfully, both the press release and the poem were provided for reference, or I can assure you I would never have fully understood what, exactly, took place on stage at the Harvey. I still don't fully "get it" and I had a press packet. To be fair, I didn't want to "get it"..if I did, I would've stayed home and watched TV. If you like to have your plot spoon-fed to you, this is not the show for you. So, then, what happens in Mycenaean? I don't know. It's full of dreams, chaos, violence, and ultimately fear. Its tales are told from several perspectives, in the manner of dreams being retold, each scene compartmentalized and rehearsed enough to stand on its own. Many of the pieces fit together nicely to create a certain mood..no, a sense of being. I don't go to performance art for plot. I go to have an experience. Mycenaean provides many such mini-experiences within an overall arc. Some are told through outright and refreshingly good acting mixed with dance, song and poetry, accompanied by music and video. The male principal, Carl Hancock Rux, who plays a mix between Racine (in this case a wandering DJ who was a hit in France, as well as the author, sort of) and Hippolytus, has a voice alone worth the trek to Brooklyn. It made me want to wrap myself up in it with a good book on a stormy day. All the acting was so good, no other actors stand out. Helga Davis, Patrice Johnson, Tony Torn, David Barlow and Ana Perea made their jobs seem effortless. The dancing worked most of the time but occasionally felt like too much..honestly, everyone on stage was participating in activity, to the point that it became impossible to really follow along. I wasn't sure where to look, but wherever I did, I was engaged. The music, created by Rux and Jaco van Schalkwyk, draws from influences from all over the world and helps guide us through the pieces. The videography, created by Pablo Molina and Jaco van Schalkwyk, occupies two see-through panels defining the stage; it was beautiful, but not essential. I hardly had time to pay attention to it given all the work the actors were putting forth on the stage. The element I liked best about this production was the chorus. Usually when I see a show with a chorus I spend most of the time grumbling about how poorly the individuals go about presenting themselves as a collective. With this group it was almost painfully obvious how much they'd rehearsed their unison. In action, they ceased to be individuals and operated as one, harmonizing better than any chorus I've heard, making me think that, had I been in ancient times attending such a performance THIS is what the chorus would have sounded like. The masks, designed by Alison Heimstead, were beautiful and amazing, chilling in their lack of emotion..a stark contrast to the actors, who are nothing but emotion..but they were used too sparingly. The costumes, coordinated by Toni-Leslie James, were thoughtfully modest, allowing the actors to wear them instead of the other way around, as it should be. They were, however, inexplicably trimmed with tie dye, which should be reserved only for Grateful Dead concerts. Given that the piece is about violence and its only outcome..more violence..if the costumes were going to be tie-dyed at least they could have been done so with blood."
And yes, if the play was any good, I wouldn't have to explain it, right? Right. Wrong. Ok...you decide.
AND NOW THE PLAY...
MYCENAEAN
Cast of characters
ARICIA
DOCUMENTARIAN
DREAM THEORIST
ARACHNE
TALK SHOW HOST
HIPPOLYTUS
FULCRUM DREAMERS
TITLE: IBID
INTERIOR: The Foundry, an abandoned space converted into a facility for research. Cement floors, heavy arches of stone. Tables, video equipment, computers. Television monitors, philosophical equations etched on the walls.
ARICIA is caught somewhere between sleep and consciousness; a still life in a decrepit room of windows and doors—portals as eyes, television monitors, and shattered mouths nailed shut.
The DOCUMENTARIAN stands at his table of video and audio equipment.
The DREAM THEORIST sits on the other side of the table with books and stacks of paper scattered before her.
Upstage, seen through a narrow portal, DREAM THEORIST is an emotionless figure, sitting in a chair with her loom. The TALK SHOW HOST is seated at his desk, talking into a microphone.
ARACHNE
“While men are dreaming…”
TALK SHOW HOST
This is a test.
ARCHNAE
“They do not perceive that it is a dream.”
TALK SHOW HOST
This is only a test.
ARACHNE
“Some will even have a dream in a dream.” -
TALK SHOW HOST
A test of the emergency broadcast system.
ARACHNE
“And only when they wake…”
TALK SHOW HOST
In the event of a real emergency,
ARACHNE
“—will they know it was a dream,,, and so, when the Great Awakening comes upon us…”
TALK SHOW HOST
You will be notified.
ARACHNE
“—shall we know this life to be a great dream.”
TALK SHOW HOST
This is only a test.
ARACHNE
“Fools believe themselves to be awake now.”
ARICIA rises from the table, walks toward a northern wall, walks through it. The wall gives way to what exists beyond the room; the transparency of flowers shifting in the scarcity of light, city ruins, both ancient and contemporary; the hollowed facades of buildings, a desolate landscape of cranes rising up from the earth, buildings collapsing, their remnants— rotted and angular, their rooftops; black tar squares on sharp right angles, a sharp silhouette of buildings cast against a dismal sky, light bleeding through windows, cutting across the floor with laughter, the pulse of helicopters resounding above, commerce beneath dirty bombs, the reiterated prayers and salutations of the citizens, and the unintelligible drone of televised news broadcasts. The earth is pulled back, nothing becomes something; becomes water, becomes earth–an infinite plain of grey retreating into the distance, the rapid digression of earth retreating into nothing, then returning as texture; the rough hewn hands of dead wood stalks, wood twisting upward from the earth–branches of bent corpses moving into earth, into water, toward nothing again, a vast and unending plain of transparent flowers again. The landscape retreats to nothing again. ARICIA stands and faces a colossal current of transparent space, vapid and multiplying. She looks into her shadow, touches it with her hand. On the other side of antiquity, shadows multiply on the wall. Secrets are whispered to her through the transparency that separates them. As they speak, ARICIA paints on the wall with her hands—diagrams of dissected bodies, primitive designs for funerary masks.
TITLE: PARADOS
DREAMERS
It was the Anax of men
Leader of the Achaeans
Who lead us there
Against our will
Was his sin
The sins of Atreus
Agamemnon’s blood
Priam’s son
Our city rises from the sea
Mt. Zara to the south
Our walls came down
Our fortification
Our Cyclopean walls
An acropolis
To the south, the Lion’s gate
Attacked the citadel
I was supplying the graves
With gold
I was digging the grave circles
I was manning the ramp house
I was fashioning gold for the Lion’s head
They came and we were unaware then…
From the sea
They felled us
TITLE: FIRST EPISODE
The shadows retreat to nothing, their voices cease. ARICIA backs away from the wall with some trepidation, returns to her bed, and returns to a dream. The DOCUMENTARIAN retrieves his camera, gets the right angle. ARACHNE pays attention. DREAM THEORIST listens from her room.
TITLE: ARICIA: A PAINTER OF DREAMS
ARICIA
Once, when I was a girl, one born with a fortune of dissension and war, I was fishing…I was fourteen and I had been sent down to the Eridanos waters to fish… but the fish were so beautiful…so at peace in their element, and I did not want to be a murderer…or a magistrate…I could not pierce their flesh or deprive them of their aquatic dreams… I removed my clothes… Bathed amongst them… in their aquatic dream… our flesh touching each other’s…mine was red, like the volcanic sands of Thera, red cliffs of lava submerged in blue… I swam amongst them, down into their sacred dwelling places, steered toward the sun that lay at the bottom of the deep…swam to the peninsula that forms the southern arm of the Bay… emerged at a rock…and there were women…who spin and weave on the old looms on the top of the hills that overlook the beaches…they saw me emerge cool and naked and red… covered in aqua coral…my skin shimmering and taut, sleek and iridescent like the scaled skin of the fish…they were frightened…they threw small stones at me…at my flesh… flesh they could not understand…my back, my scalp…crimson bleeding into aqua…so dark…so wonderfully iridescent…and young and dark and so different from my their own…copper…blackish copper…red Tabasco dirt, crimson bleeding into aqua…Now I am born Mycenaean, which is to say I am marginalized at the dawn of an inverted alchemy; a twilight without relevance. Now I am born Mycenaean which is to say I am not born…
TITLE: DREAM THEORUM
A rehearsal; the DOCUMENTARIAN and the DREAM THEORIST proceed to log their work, hypothesizing and questioning themselves out loud into hand held recorders, writing, retrieving books, reciting passages, making new equations on the a chalk board, moving objects about the room in order to solve philosophical problems–an attempt at an investigation. As they speak, the DOCUMENTARIAN and the DREAM THEORIST experience awkward breaks in their train of thought. Momentary lapses, sudden distractions mid-sentence.
DOCUMENTARIAN
As a video Documentarian I’m tracking the lives of several contemporary individuals plagued by insomnia. Video/audio…experimental techniques. Target material–
DREAM THEORIST
Fulcrum dreamers.
DOCUMENTARIAN
People plagued with insomnia and reoccurring dreams. A similar dream–
DREAM THEORIST
A singular dream…complex targets.
Video of diagrams fade up on screens
DOCUMENTARIAN
I film them as they give testimony—
DREAM THEORIST
As a dream theorist—scientist and student of lucid and precognitive dreams, my work centers on an archeological dig. Dream Theory; Telepathic transfer of information. Tachistoscopic presentations.
DOCUMENTARIAN
As the world media offers continuous references to international terrorism and wartime occupation—
Awkward pause
DREAM THEORIST
Heraclitus, Greek philosopher—540 B.C.
DOCUMENTARIAN
Observations are made—
DREAM THEORIST
Heraclitus made the observation that each man retreats into a world of his own during sleep. Chuang-tsu, 350 B.C, raised questions–
DOCUMENTARIAN
Philosophical questions are raised—
DREAM THEORIST
Raised philosophical questions by considering dreams.
DOCUMENTARIAN
It appears that it has become difficult for the Fulcrum dreamers to differentiate their dreams from their reality–
DREAM THEORIST
Blurring lines between the world they now live in –
DOCUMENTARIAN
And the world they think they may have once inhabited.
DREAM THEORIST
“Civilization and its Discontents”. Freud
DOCUMENTARIAN
It is easy to…we are all quite naturally a little…
Awkward pause
What I’m attempting—
DREAM THEORIST
Fragment of an internal thought
Beauty…happiness…
DOCUMENTARIAN
—Via video and audio recordings…
DRFEAM THEORIST
Continuation…
Elusive…escapes us.
DOCUMENTARIAN
Is to archive subconscious realities.
DREAM THEORIST
I’m attempting to disprove—
DOCUMENTARIAN
We are attempting to chronicle chronic dreamers.
DREAM THEORIST
Memory: prescient dream theory.
DOCUMENTARIAN
Their sleeplessness…
DREAM THEORIST
Sleep. REM sleep. Rapid Eye Movement. Neurophysiologic research—
DOCUMENTARIAN
A query
Jouvet; cortical stimulation.
DREAM THEORIST
An epiphany
Jouvet found that cats exhibited pseudo-hallucinatory behavior at REM times.
DOCUMENTARIAN
Acting out aggressive and other instinctive behaviors.
DREAM THEORIST
A suggestion
See feline behavior and sleep patterns.
DOCUMENTARIAN
It would seem that these people who complain of sleeplessness—
DREAM THEORIST
Jouvet states that sleep is the guardian of dreaming–a direct reversal of Freud’s dictum.
DOCUMENTRIAN
The Fulcrum dreamers, however, do not seem to have dreams when they are asleep. Their dreams occur when they are awake.
DREAM THEORIST
An entirely new phenomena.
DOCUMENTRIAN
Their dream hangs on a frame, ripe with symbolism.
DREAM THEORIST
Searching through another book
Freud; The significance of symbolism—
DREAM THEORIST
There is a—
DOCUMETARIAN
Appears to be a transformative—
DREAM THEORIST
Transference of…
DOCUMETARIAN
Of information—
DREAM THEORIST
Between them.
DOCUMENTARIAN
Of communication between them.
Awkward pause.
DREAM THEORIST
See remote viewing, “pseudoscience”.
DOCUMENTARIAN
We have invited them here…
DREAM THEORIST
The dreamers have been invited here…
DOCUMENTARIAN
They were brought to this facility—
DREAM THEORIST
Abandoned…
DOCUMENTARIAN
An abandoned foundry—subsidized.
DREAM THEORIST
Abstract non sequitur. Internal.
We are…abandoned–
DOCUMENTRAIAN
The work is…
DREAM THEORIST
Subsidized. There have been other such studies…experiments of the Para psychological type.
DOCUMENTARIAN
See psycho kinesis studies, 1972. Uri Geller.
DREAM THEORIST
See “Mind to Mind” by René Warcollier. French chemical engineer, 1930s. Long distance telepathy experiments.
DOCUMENTARIAN
The Dreamers have volunteered--
DREAM THEORIST
To be studied—
DOCUMENTARIAN
To participate in this—
DREAM THEORIST
Study.
DOCUMENTARIAN
For an unspecified period of time…
DREAM THEORIST
There have been other such studies– classified CIA experiments countering Soviet parapsychology studies. Double blind protocols preventing artifactual results.
DOCUMENTARIAN
I was invited to participate in this study–
Awkward pause
DREAM THEORIST
New thought.
In the throes of changing socio-cultural practices and political upheaval, what inspires chronic insomnia, parapsychology and habitual dreaming?
DOCUMENTARIAN
Actual events. The battalion that—
DREAM THEORIST
Who were…
Awkward pause
DOCUMENTARIAN
Lost
DREAM THEORIST
Aricia, a painter of dreams. Clairvoyance. Physiographic drawings. The drawings are coded, a written language, decipherable…but they are also…serve as a…In her drawings and paintings, she sees the dissected body of her lover, one of the missing soldiers who were…
Awkward pause
DOCUMENTARIAN
The common belief is that these dreamers are only responding to—
DREAM THEORIST
Responding only to their subconscious.
DOCUMENTARIAN
Actual events.
DREAM THEORIST
Past.
DOCUMENTARIAN
Present.
DREAM THEORIST
Future.
DOCUMENTARIAN
Person.
DREAM THEORIST
Place.
DOCUMENTARIAN
Thing.
DREAM THEORIST
Object.
DOCUMENTARIAN
Distance.
DREAM THEORIST
Past.
DOCUMENTARIAN
Present.
DREAM THEORIST
When we are sleeping, our consciousness is untied from our waking concepts of time…
DOCUMENTARIAN
But, the Fulcrum dreamers—
DREAM THEORIST
—seem to have no concept of time.
A pulse ambiance begins. Lights up on ARACHNE
ARACHNE
I am an old woman, not yet thirty…eroding the tissue, the tendon, the muscle...my silence is coarse with heavy hands, my anger is falling wherever it is natural to fall, my beauty is too elusive to center the room, too severe…my reptilian nature. An optic dance. Ever so often, there is a slight miracle that reminds me I am not one of the renderings on your wall.
Pulse becomes more present.
TITLE: FIRST STASIMON
TESTIMONY OF DREAMS
*Indicates dreamers echoing the news.
ARACHNE/DREAMERS
And in the news today…Heavy mortar attack against our base…Patrol at dawn… All were asleep, except the guards, who stood without…*Mycenaean roads…Between two cities… Thoughts abstracted…Another yell, another cry…Also in the news…From the depths, breaking through… Up from the earth, an explosion came…and all the world went up in air… The soldier’s blood...The shore rolled up…Troops advancing… Spume…Deadly venom…Bodies ripped…A little girl with pulled back skin, her gums exposed…Leaders call for a nation state…We did stand still in sovereignty…Guns held high… Gunmen fired…Automatic weapons…Soldiers patrolling the northern edge… Coalition forces continued their attacks to destroy…Capturing the regime…String of attacks on the troops…Soldiers wounded...Soldier missing…Living underground with too many dead…Up from the sea, it came with fire…Soldier found with missing bodies…A rocket-propelled grenade…Airborne death…Bodies ripped...Torn apart.
Guns held high…The sky of blood.
THE DREAM THEORIST approaches ARICIA, observes the drawings again. The DOCUMENTARIAN films.
ARICIA
These dreams.
DREAM THEORIST
Yours?
ARICIA
No. Mine.
DREAM THEORIST
This being…
ARICIA
Not ours.
DREAM THEORIST
These cameras.
ARICIA
Are they yours?
DREAM THEORIST
Not mine.
ARICIA
They’re watching, these cities.
DREAM THEORIST
These dreams.
ARICIA
Morning.
DREAM THEORIST
Did you sleep?
ARICIA
No.
DREAM THEORIST
These mornings of walking,
ARICIA
On camera.
DREAM THEORIST
This news.
ARICIA
This feeling of being.
DREAM THEORIST
These dreams.
ARICIA
These walks.
DREAM THEORIST
These mornings.
ARICIA
This indifference.
DREAM THEORIST
These cameras.
ARICIA
These dreams.
DREAM THEORIST
Yours?
ARICIA
No, mine.
DREAM THEORIST
This being.
ARICIA
Not ours.
DREAM THEORIST
These men.
ARICIA
These women.
DREAM THEORIST
This city.
ARICIA
This morning.
DREAM THEORIST
This ancient way of being.
ARICIA
Hippolytus on the road.
Lights up on HIPPOLYTUS, crouching in a hollowed space in the belly of the
earth.
DREAM THEORIST
Mycenae.
ARICIA
I’ve been having these dreams since…
ARACHNE
Bones, acres of bones. *
ARICIA
Always surround me…
ARACHNE
Mycenae.
ARICIA
The first dream came when I…
ARICIA / ARACHNE
--was walking Electra…
DREAM THEORIST
I don’t know what that means
ARICIA
And then I met others -
DREAM THEORIST
Who’d had similar dreams…
ARICIA
Of war and Pylos…
ARACHNE
Others who’d had dreams…
ARICIA
Of Mycenae.
ARACHNE
Brownstone buildings…ancient temples…**
DREAM THEORIST
The volcanic eruption.
ARICIA
Hippolytus.
DREAM THEORIST / ARACHNE
On the road of Mycenae…
ARICIA
In the dream he is a survivor of war…
ARACHNE
What survives? Artifacts of life…
ARICIA
When I paint, I see others…
DREAM THEORIST
When you paint…
ARICIA
My TV is always on…
DREAM THEORIST
And your radio…
ARICIA
My radio. Talk radio. The news.
DREAM THEORIST
The first dream came when you were…
ARICIA
I was watching the news. I was…
ARACHNE / ARICIA
Pulled into it. *
DREAM THEORIST
And you saw?
ARICIA
Saw myself…I can’t describe it…
DREAM THEORIST
The same as now?
ARICIA
Except a long time ago…I was there…
ARICIA/ARACHNE/DREAM THEORIST
Mycenae. **
MUSIC SPEEDS UP /TRANSITIONS
Transition; ARICIA is transported to another space, another body. A soldier’s body in a dense wooded area. ARACHNE stands, ushers her toward. Only the two of them live in this moment.
ARICIA
Peer left. Jab right. Heavy mortar attack against our base.
ARACHNE
Patrol at dawn.
ARICIA
All were sleep, except my guards, who stood without—Mycenaean roads…
ARACHNE
Between two cities…
ARICIA
My thoughts abstracted…
ARACHNE
Then a yell, another cry.
ARICIA
From the depths, breaking through.
ARACHNE
Peer left. Jab right.
ARICIA
Up from the earth, an explosion came—and all the world went up in air.
ARACHNE
The soldier’s blood.
ARICIA
And the shore rolled up…a troop advancing…
ARACHNE
Spume.
ARICIA
And deadly venom. Bodies ripped, a little girl –
ARACHNE
With pulled back skin –
ARICIA
Her gums exposed, lay in my arms. Peer right. Jab left.
ARACHNE
The leader’s call for a nation state.
ARICIA
We did stand still in sovereignty, but then it came, and my gun held high—
ARACHNE
The sky of blood.
HIPPOLYTUS
I am no hero.
ARICIA
One fled the scene. The gunmen fired. Automatic weapons. Soldiers patrolling the northern edge. Coalition forces continued their attack to destroy, to capture the regime. A string of attacks on our troops. Soldiers wounded.
ARACHNE
Too many dead. Then up from the sea, it came with fire.
ARICIA
Fire breathed on me. A rocket-propelled grenade. Airborne death. My body ripped. Torn apart. And with my gun held high—
ARACHNE
The sky of blood.
TITLE: HIPPOLYTUS
HIPPOLYTUS stands before ARICIA. He is covered in dust.
HIPPOLYTUS
Soft lament
I am no hero.
I am no hero….
I am no hero…
I am no hero…
ARICIA
Seeing him for the first time.
Hippolytus?
DREAM THEORIST
Aricia?
ARICIA
Hippolytus? Despite my plea, you went away with your self in tact—all think you dead, they told us so. We heard of the carnage, and the--
ARICIA /DREAM THEORIST
Dismemberment.
ARICIA
From my room, I dreamed of you, but not in sleep…in waking hours. Your body, every limb, comes to me. All that I know of it, and those parts of yourself you’ve kept from me. I know them too. Better than if you were here next to me. You’ve come back to me, with your voice in place—use it. Say things to me.
HIPPOLYTUS
I’m not standing here, not the whole of me. Foot detached. Heart split. Head gone.
ARICIA
But you are whole, as I see you now. A woman here, she sang to me of your return. She did not say your name, but I knew it then—that it was you who would come after all these years. I witnessed your calamity. Saw the rending of your body. I reached out, my arm went through an open opening. An emptiness. A wound not caused by blade or bullet or any force—but by something else. By what you know.
ARICIA/DREAM THEORIST
Speak it to me/Speak to me.
HIPPOLYTUS
With what sound? With no tongue?
ARICIA
With your voice…Our city fainted waiting for you and all her sons. The wind, the water, swallowed us whole with its sad lament, and then the sun came and stayed too long. With too much heat—we almost died…but those of us who remain…we’ve found a place, a shelter here, in this cavern hewn from stone, from another war, long ago. From here we sup with the ancients. I came with canvass and brush and measuring tape, electric with intentions. I walked through the remains of our city on roads cut in to a desert near the summit—and I came to circular hearths preserved at Pylos…these roads surrounded by tomb walls where one walks carefully…somber with expulsion.
HIPPOLYTUS
Immortalized by Homer…
ARICIA
These roads that lead us back to ruination.
HIPPOLYTUS
A hovel cut into rock with water stairwells toward fresh springs…
ARICIA
Yes. It’s where I am. Do you see it? Will you come to it?
HIPPOLYTUS
I fell…
ARICIA
You…
HIPPOLYTUS
--fell on this surf of churning sand, dragged by my own horses… my body dismembered in a trail of blood… bloody on its sodden soil, son without chord or placenta—or breast for drinking…climbed into the belly of the earth to hide myself, in a crater…to bury the few pieces of me that I could find beneath ash and pumice, behind a wall of smoke.
ARICIA
But you are whole as I see you now. And you see me, where I am. Come to it.
HIPPOLYTUS
Sodden soil.
ARICIA
They came to study us, to film our dreams. Monitor our thoughts. In exchange for squatters rights --send planes to drop boxes of butter and bread. They give us water, and promise us soon, our city.
HIPPOLYTUS
Our city.
ARICIA
To lure us back they tell us this. But we know better in our dreams, and live here incarcerated, like others did before us. They film us here. Monitor our thoughts, where we are separated from human practice….
HIPPOLYTUS
Our city?
ARICIA
Long since dead. What’s left of it is for archeologists to sift through how we lived. Hippolytus, enlightened son of Troezen’s corrupted throne, will you come back?
MUSIC SHIFTS/CHANGES
HIPPOLYTUS
Aricia, daughter of Pallas, who was assassinated before taking his rightful place in office-like your father, whose throat was cut, and your brothers whose bodies I did see slaughtered beneath my father’s blade…like them, I will be labeled a threat to my country if I come back, and speak what I know. Because of what they’ll say are cryptic messages in my dreams. We are the descendants of a family tree rife with rich and powerful men, who engaged in ruthless and shiftless laws. Here is the legend that bears our name. I am safe here, a soldier beneath the ground, a slaughterer of men—though I’ll not be like the rest of you, incarcerated there, vanquished to face an infallible destruction.
ARICIA
Before you were a destroyer of bodies, you were a builder of buildings. Will you come back and be that with me again?
HIPPOLYTUS
Can I return a hero, rewarded for all I’ve done? For dying, and coming back again?
ARICIA
Say to them what you have said to me, that you are not. Speak to them—your dreams.
HIPPOLYTUS
Lost between the sheltering smooth of that false sovereignty, where my body was whole… I am as yet too familiar with dismemberment, have come to accept the separation of tendon and bone…I want to keep the rest of me.
HIPPOLYTUS retreats to his hovel. Music cross fades into dream music
TITLE: SECOND STASIMON
THIS MORNING
ARICIA returns to her drawings. The DREAMERS proceed to chant. The DOCUMENTARIAN and the DREAM THEORIST carefully observe them
DREAMERS
This Coffee.
This morning.
These cities.
These dreams.
These walks in these cities.
These mornings.
These cameras.
This feeling of being,
Of waking, in dreams.
The DREAMERS continue under the following.
DOCUMENTARIAN
Their dream borrows its mythological frame from an elusive city
DREAM THEORIST
…Mycenae. An ancient Greek civilization.
DOCUMENTARIAN
Their dreams—
DREAM THEORIST
Off handed correction
Dream. Singular. Noun. Involuntary.
DOCUMENTRAIAN
--places them as survivors of an ancient Greek civilization…devastated by war.
DREAM THEORIST
Mycenae.
DOCUMENTRIAN
Bronze Age, sixteenth to thirteenth century B.C.
DREAM THEORIST
From her own papers
After the volcanic eruption of Thera and the Greek take over of the ancient city of Crete, the southern most part of Greece became the home of an advanced society. Reaching its zenith around the thirteenth century.
DOCUMENTARIAN
A kingdom once thriving in architecture, the arts, agriculture, great wealth—
DREAM THEORIST
Only to be completely destroyed within two or three centuries…leaving little evidence.
The DREAMERS stop chanting abruptly. There is a space of silence. ARICIA is in a furious state of drawing during this silence. All watch her.
DREAM THEORIST
Interpreting the drawings.
She sees a soldier. He lives in the ground. A trench. A foxhole. He is safe there. He won’t come out. She asks him to climb out of the hole, to join her. He will not. He is safe…he is safe, in the belly of the earth. Safe.
beat
The DREAM THEORIST looks through her notes. Reads.
The volcanic eruption of Thera 1650 B.C. Rhyodacite magma. The plinian column during the initial phase of the eruption was about 23 miles high. The removal of magma caused the volcano to collapse, producing a caldera. Ash. Most probably, the eruption most probably caused the end of the Minoan civilization. (shift in thought) …Superficial analogy—Evans & Newman (1964): dreams serve as a memory filter rejecting redundant memories. Old memories are not erased. Links between memories are modified in dreams. Repeated dreams result from constant interruptions of certain memories. This theory—though long outdated--came at a time when there seemed to be…a need for…
awkward pause
ARICIA
A need for dreaming.
MUSIC BACK IN
DREAMERS chant continues.
DREAMERS
This indifference.
These cameras.
This coffee.
These dreams.
Yours?
No, mine.
This being.
Not ours.
These cameras.
Are they yours?
Not mine. They’re watching, these cities.
These dreams.
Morning..
Coffee.
Did you sleep?
No.
These mornings of walking,
On camera.
This news.
This feeling of being.
These dreams.
These walks.
These mornings.
This indifference.
These cameras.
Coffee.
These dreams.
Yours?
No, mine.
This being.
Not ours.
These men.
These women.
This city.
This morning.
This ancient way of being.
MUSIC/AMBIANCE CONTINUES TO SPEED UP
Overlapping dialogue.
I’ve been having these dreams since…
Bones, acres of bones, always surround me…
Mycenae, I’d never heard of it before but…
I know it was an ancient Greek civilization of the Bronze Age
It existed between the sixteenth to thirteenth century B.C…
The first dream came when I…
I was walking Electra… I don’t know what that means
Reaching its zenith around the thirteenth century,
The Mycenaean kingdom thrived in architecture,
the arts, agriculture…. great wealth.
I know it was destroyed within two or three centuries,
leaving little evidence…
And then I met others who’d had similar dreams…
of war and Pylos…
Others who’d had dreams of Mycenae…
Brownstone buildings…ancient temples…
After the volcanic eruption of
Thera and the Greek take over of Crete…
Hippolytus was destroyed on the road Mycenae…
In the dream I am a survivor of war…
What survives?
Artifacts of life,
My TV is always on,
and my radio. Talk radio. The news.
The first dream came when I was watching the news.
I was pulled into it.
Saw myself…
I can’t describe it…the same as now, except a long time ago…
I do not drink, or use recreational drugs of any kind.
I have no history of psychological problems or…
I was there…Mycenae…
Instruments fall from the sky: violins, tiny pianos, a lute, a liar, a harp. A dance ensues among them.
TITLE: TALK SHOW
The TALK SHOW HOST interviews the DOCUMENTARIAN and The DREAM THEORIST. In a separate space, ARACHNE listens and laughs throughout, occasionally repeats what’s being said.
TALK SHOW HOST
This is a test. (MUSIC BUMPS OUT) This is only a test. Dreamers. Greece. War? Pylos? Bones, acres of bones? Documentarian? Fulcrum. Yes. No. I dunno. This is a text. This is only a test. Tell us a little about what it is you’re doing—uh—doing over there in Fulcrum…
DOCUMENTARIAN
Well, my work is centered on an investigation of the subconscious—
DREAM THEORIST
Pötzel phenomenon. Fragmentary.
TALK SHOW HOST
Well, I mean you’re dealing with some very sick people, right? These Fulcrum dreamers?
DREAM THEORIST
Partial perceptual response. Activated state of dreaming.
TALK SHOW HOST
Did they have some kind of rupture or injury that results in this zany manifestation of the illogical?
DOCUMENTARIAN
I’m recording dreams—
TALK SHOW HOST
It’s an anthropological dig yes?
DOCUMENTARIAN
Well, I’m documenting—
DREAM THEORIST
Lowered threshold for unconscious perception. Hildebrandt’s paradox, as cited by Freud.
DOCUMENTARIAN
The socio- cultural interactions of townspeople who are plagued by similar imaginings of the end of a civilization—and they’re plagued with this on a daily basis.
TALK SHOW HOST
Your video documentation of these confessions has been serialized and airs live. Yes?
DOCUMENTARIAN
Yes.
TALK SHOW HOST
Let’s go to the tape. (No images appear. Uncomfortable moment. ) That’s enough. Are we supposed to believe that what we’re seeing on the screen is really the manifestation of—?
DOCUMENTARIAN
You’re not supposed to believe anything, necessarily, if you don’t want to.
TALK SHOW HOST
Are people taking Fulcrum seriously? I mean, it’s such an odd thing…
DOCUMENTARIAN
I don’t see what’s—
TALK SHOW HOST
I mean, these Fulcrum dreamers, they’re really in need of psychiatric treatment for spirit possession, aren’t they?
DREAM THEORIST
Original stimulus. Unconscious thought;
TALK SHOW HOST
Alright. Let’s talk about the money, the money, the money, the people’s money…who’s money is being spent on--aren’t they just some kind of religious fanatics?
DOCUMENTARIAN
No. Well, you see—these are just, normal, working class people.
ARACHNE
Working class.
DOCUMENTARIAN
And the numbers of the residents of Fulcrum who complain of not being able to sleep--
TALK SHOW HOST
We’re talking about a small group of people in a small town—
DOCUMENTARIAN
who are having these dreams, that number is growing.
TALK SHOW HOST
--who all of a sudden have decided that they can’t sleep, some say they haven’t slept in almost a year—
DREAM THEORIST
Exaggerations. Phantasms, if you will.
TALK SHOW HOST
No, I won’t--these people, they—these people—
DREAM THEORIST
Inversions of the personality.
TALK SHOW HOST
These perversions of personality, do they really see ancient Greek cities and temples—
DREAM THEORIST
Well…
TALK SHOW HOST
Some of them have given themselves Greek names—
DREAM THEORIST
Idiosyncrasies; Perversities.
TALK SHOW HOST
And are convinced the world is going to implode—
DREAM THEORIST
The dream state is not a framework through which we govern memory.
TALK SHOW HOST
And turn to dust—
DREAM THEORIST
We are as capable of dreaming about events of the future, as we are events of the past—
TALK SHOW HOST
And begin all over again as an ancient Greek city. Am I right?
DREAM THEORIST
Their dreams are real. At least for them
DREAM THEORIST
Of course, you may be a bit skeptical, as scientists we have to be extremely skeptical of any phenomena that cannot be tested in a controlled laboratory environment, but these people have been carefully—
TALK SHOW HOST
It’s a sect—a religious sect, right?
DOCUMENTARIAN
Well, I don’t know— I wouldn’t categorize it as a religious sect or anything like that.
DREAM THEORIST
Their dreams are a critical narrative, creating some link between the past—and the present. Between then and now—them and us.
TALK SHOW HOST
But they do experience spirit possession of some sort, yes?
DOCUMENTARIAN
On occasion they have been known to exhibit—
TALK SHOW HOST
How often do they get out? Do you let them out? I hope you don’t let them out.
DREAM THEORIST
Uri Geller—
TALK SHOW HOST
Who?
DREAM THEORIST
Geller. Psychic studies, Stanford Research Institute. California, 1972. As a child in Germany Geller claimed a mysterious orb of light touched him and endowed him with magical powers—his spoon spontaneously curled up in his hand and broke .
TALK SHOW HOST
Uri who’s spoon did what?
DOCUMENTARIAN
Look, I’m not forming an opinion of any sort, you’re welcomed to do so but—
TALK SHOW HOST
No no, let’s go back to the footage, we’ve seen your footage and-
DOCUMENTARIAN
If you’d let me finish—
TALK SHOW HOST
Are they in a trance of some kind?
DOCUMENTARIAN
There are, well, I guess, the body does respond in some way to the experience they’re having.
DREAM THEORIST
We all sleep and eat and dream.
DOCUMENTARIAN.
Well, no. I mean, there are moments--right, where they are completely in the place they are dreaming of
DREAM THEORIST
We are all dreamers.
TALK SHOW HOST
Sleepwalking?
DOCUMENTARIAN
Perhaps that’s an oversimplification.
DREAM THEORIST
We do not necessarily have political dreams or alter our ways of life because of our dreams; we are not all dream obsessed—
TALK SHOW HOST
How many residents of Fulcrum are having these nightmares?
DOCUMENTARIST
I can’t say. I have documented more than one hundred who claim to have the same dream.
TALK SHOW HOST
Over a hundred? A singular dream? They all see the same thing?
DOCUMENTARIAN
Yes, well not really…their dreams locate each of them in the ancient Greek city of Mycenae.
TALK SHOW HOST
I was reading the paper the other day and there was an article—well, one psychologist, researching the townsfolk of Fulcrum and this shared dream syndrome, described the problem as “a community’s shared phobia, a unified fear of imperialism and new political order, fear of dominance”—
DOCUMENTARIAN
But I don’t know if we should call it a problem, I don’t see how he, the psychologist, could begin to understand the matter or the phenomenon if he begins there—identifying it a s a problem to be solved.
TALK SHOW HOST
But it’s a national and supranational problem? Fear, fear, fear, isn’t it? I mean, well—isn’t it possible that these subversive memories, these so-called dreams, are simply the invention of some radical notion of doing away with the current political structure and building a new one—
DREAM THEORIST
And because their dreams don’t necessarily happen when they sleep, they are seeing and experiencing something we are not.
TALK SHOW HOST
Isn’t there a political motive to all of this?
DOCUMENTARIAN
I can’t say, but I don’t think so. I don’t know. Some of the dreams they’ve shared are very personal, and have nothing at all to do with…
TALK SHOW HOST
Yes but wouldn’t you say that this is more of a political thing than a phenomenon—
DOCUMENTARIAN
I don’t know what this—
TALK SHOW HOST
Nobody has the exact same dream. That’s just plain weird. And why of ancient Greece? And what of their accusations, this paranoia--do you think there’s anything to these accusations, that--that they’re being watched by the government—
DOCUMENTARIAN
I can’t say that’s not true, that they’re not, but—
DREAM THEORIST
The reality of the dream is the reality of the psyche.
TALK SHOW HOST
Ok. We’re out of time for today. Thanks for joining us. Good night.
DREAM THEORIST
Dreams are passageways from our conscious to our unconscious. Children often experience nightmares, if, let’s say—they are left alone in their bedrooms in the dark. That fear of isolation induces psychological inventions of the imagination—inventions of the psyche. The psyche being more than just psychological nature… Edward Elinger said the psyche has a non-personal, historical, cosmic dimension to it—Ellinger defends this not as doctrine but as humanity’s empirical discovery, and once the discovery is made a person who dreams can live in relation to that non-personal dimension…
Sucked into a dream
Which could mean that dreams have properties more valuable than those employed by children to conjure Gods and Monsters. (shift, the DREAM THEORIST is slowly being sucked into a dream, surrounded by murky images of a children’s book and a window)) .As a child I often had dreams of someone just outside my bedroom window, of a hand coming through the blinds toward my face, its grip at my throat, pulling me effortlessly out of my bed, through the blinds, into the dark that permeated the space beyond the comfort of my bedroom…this fear…the feel of it, the rush of air on my bare legs as I am pulled so swiftly with out much effort, the feeling of my bare feet dangling in air with out any ability to touch the ground, to feel a solid surface, that feeling of feet in air…that motion… of invasion…my vulnerability…the taking of your flesh. The notion of being impenetrable and suddenly invaded…vulnerable with a false sense of security…the promise… but there is an intruder…fear becomes you…it has happened before…is possible…to be taken away from what you know…taken out of context…separated from…snatched into the dark…effortlessly…then to cease to exist…you no longer exist outside your room, your bed, your security… others, at one time or another...I suppose…have had this happen.
She climbs up onto the table, collapses there. ARACHNE walks into her dream. Speaks from the end of the table, into the DREAM THEORIST’S ear.
ARACHNE
You say we are dreamers. We are not dreamers. We are destitute of dreams. We are not dreaming—we are reminded…of great cities and great falls, of the Dorian burning. Of an impregnable nation, a nation where the poor are ruled by the wealthy, where the wealthy rule a well ordered beaurocratic government. We make no distinction between that world and this one. Already the rivers are interrupted and the air is taxed—fresh meat is the prayer of the unborn infant—auctioned to the highest bidder. We are born Mycenaean, which is to say we come to be as our forefathers; citizens of empire, a deprecated bloodline flowing at the dull and will full pace of a recompense, a tormenting gradualism. We are born into a nation with one God—who, like Zeus—has dominion over all the world. (Arachne’s voice reverberates) The blood of your king will evaporate like the blood of King Atreus. The Argive and Dorian armies already advance against your city. You will cower behind ditches… It was the King, who made his own son King, who will set the dogs loose at our feet. In this ghetto, this city and technological eyes…drenched in fire. We are the descendants of a family tree rife with rich and powerful men, who engage in ruthless and shiftless laws. We are destined again for an infallible destruction. You are Mycenaean, which is to say you have always known something about the repetition of history.
TITLE: THIRD STASIMON; A SON COME HOME
As ARACHNE and the DREAMERS exit, a song is heard. HIPPOLYTUS is seen, standing on a lighted path.
A son is coming home
He’s afraid
Of the dreams.
He will come home…
He’s afraid.
Some of us,
We are not afraid
Of the dreams.
Tapestries of dreams
Gods and mortals.
Some of us,
We know what the dreams mean.
Dusty temples,
Sacrificial stones,
Dry with no bloodstains.
The nation-state,
Empirical shift,
Called into being.
We know what the dreams mean…
TITLE: AT THE LION’S GATE
ARACHNE, in the form of three women in silver funerary masks, greets Hippolytus at the Lion’s gate (the city of MYCENAEAN dreams. The DOCUMENTARIAN, who adjusts his camera, is unaware of HIPPOLYTUS’ conversation. At first, she calls to him in four different languages—Arabic, German, French, and Italian.
ARACHNE
Soldat.
Sind Sie lebendig oder tot?
Ihre Träume warten Sie.
Soldat. Êtes-vous vivant ou mort ?
Vos rêves vous attendent.
Soldato. Siete vivi o morti?
I vostri sogni li aspettano.
Soldier…
Soldier…
Soldier?
Welcome.
Welcome home soldier.
You comin’ inside?
HIPPOLYTUS
What?
ARACHNE
You comin’ inside? Comin’ in.
HIPPOLYTUS
No..
ARACHNE
Where you from soldier?
HIPPOLYTUS
Not from—to…
ARACHNE
Where you goin’ to?
HIPPOLYTUS
Nowhere. Here. There.
ARACHNE
How long you been there?
HIPPOLYTUS
I don’t…I don’t know.
ARACHNE
Tell me what you know. Tell me what you see soldier.
HIPPOLYTUS
I can’t…can’t see…
ARACHNE
Do things seem different to you soldier?
HIPPOLYTUS
Different from what?
ARACHNE
Way it was—before. What you lookin’ for soldier?
HIPPOLYTUS
Just a…a place to be.
ARACHNE
Who you lookin’ for soldier?
HIPPOLYTUS
Nobody.
ARACHNE
Are you living or are you dead? They said you were dead. All thought you dead. She brought you back, fixed your body in the dream.
HIPPOLYTUS
Who?
ARACHNE
The one you’re lookin’ for. She brought you back.
HIPPOLYTUS
What?
ARACHNE
Do you dream, soldier?
HIPPOLYTUS
What?
ARACHNE
What do you dream?
HIPPOLYTUS
I…I don’t—
ARACHNE
You do. She met you oft times in your dream. You were on the road of Mycenae. That dreadful cry came up from the depths – That mountain wave of water did rear up with horns and scales. Your men, your horses were in fear. You let your grip upon the reigns soften. Hippolytus. Your charge dashed forth, dragging you behind. You were dismembered on the road to Mycenae. She saw your body in the dream and made you whole. Now you’ve come back after the fact. It’s not over.
HIPPOLYTUS
What ain’t over?
ARACHNE
Everything. Everything. You’ve come back, after the fact. It is not over. Now that you’ve come back, after the fact, you comin’ inside?
Dream a little while.
You comin’ inside?
Dream a little while.
Dream.
Dream a little while.
Dream.
Come inside. Dream a little while.
Come inside. Dream a little while.
You livin’ or dead?
Come inside.
You’ve come back
After the fact.
Come inside.
Dream a little while.
Soldier.
Soldier
Harsh interrogation and lights bump in. Voices question.
DREAMERS
Soldier? Do you understand why you were sent here? You were one of the soldier’s reported missing. It’s in the news. You’re in the news. They thought you’d died. You’ve made a lot of people very happy. Everyone is happy to see you. What we do here is record dreams. It’s very simple. We film you, we record you. You’ll just give us your dreams. Whatever’s on your mind. We have to ask you some questions–formalities.
Did you sustain any injuries ?
HIPPOLYTUS is violently cast into a dream state; thrown through ancient cities, chases ghosts of soldiers long dead, tries to compose himself—until he finds himself re-experiencing the attack on his battalion.
HIPPOLYTUS
Peer left. Jab right. Heavy mortar attack against our base. Patrol at dawn. All were sleep, except my guards, who stood without—Mycenaean roads, between two cities, my thoughts abstracted…then a yell, another cry…from the depths, breaking through.
DREAM THEORIST
Did you have sexual relations of any kind with anyone while you were on tour of duty?
DOCUMENTARIAN
If so, male or female?
ARACHNE
Did you engage in unprotected sex while on tour, male or female, vaginal, anal, oral?
DOCUMENTARIAN
Do you know if you’ve contracted any sexually transmitted diseases..
ARACHNE
Do you have a history of depression, psychosis, mental retardation, or any such diagnosed mental illness?
HIPPOLYTUS
Peer left. Jab right. Up from the earth, an explosion came—and all the world went up in air, the soldier’s blood, and the shore rolled up…a troop advancing, spume and deadly venom. Bodies ripped, a little girl, with pulled back skin, her gums exposed, lay in my arms.
ARACHNE
Do you have a history of drug use? Does anyone in your immediate family ?
DREAM THEORIST
Did you indulge in drug use or alcohol intake while on tour?
DOCUMENTARIAN
Have you ever had any surgery of any kind?
ARACHNE
Please confirm your passport number. Please confirm your social security number.
ARICIA
Before you were enlisted what was your political affiliation?
DREAM THEORIST
Did you vote in the last election?
ARICIA
What was your political affiliation?
DREAM THEORIST
Did you or have you engaged in sex with–
DOCUMENTARIAN
Anyone from another country or outside your race within the last year?
HIPPOLYTUS
Peer right. Jab left. The leader’s call for a nation state, we did stand still in sovereignty, but then it came, and my gun held high—the sky of blood.
ARICIA
Do you experience headaches or chronic dreams?
DOCUMENTARIAN
Are you the biological father of anyone that you know of?
ARACHNE
Have you ever been involved with a radical political movement of any kind.
ARACHNE
Please confirm your e-mail account before you were enlisted.
HIPPOLYTUS
One fled the scene. The gunmen fired. Automatic weapons. Soldiers patrolling the northern edge. Coalition forces continued their attack to destroy, to capture the regime. A string of attacks on our troops. Soldiers wounded.
DREAM THEORIST
Please confirm your date of birth and your address.
DOCUMENTARIAN
Its just procedure.
HIPPOLYTUS retreats to his hole in the belly of the earth.
TITLE: FIFTH STASIMON
EVENING NEWS
.
DREAMER
A woman was found today…
DREAMER
The Fulcrum dreamer had been accused of…
DREAMER
One of many dreamers who have been held at a Government operated site…
DREAMER
Attorney General said he was not surprised at public accusations of war crimes….
DREAMER
To ensure the safety of…
DREAMER
The woman hung herself from a rope she’d made….
DREAMER
Also in today’s news, the former President said…
DREAMER
The German Chancellor was…
DREAMER
A girl was found drowned.
DREAMER
Residents…
DREAMER
Rehabilitation will cost…
DREAMER
Cost more than…
DREAMER
Work halted…
DREAMER
Ruination
DREAMER
City in ruins
DREAMER
Families of victims
DREAMER
Chronic insomnia
DREAMER
Scattered remains
DREAMER
More soldiers returning
DREAMER
Soldiers due to return
DREAMER
Government officials say many will require—
DREAMER
Rehabilitation
DREAMER
One of the state’s worse Sleeplessness…
DREAMER
Long abandoned…
DREAMER
—crime rates. Mayor appeals for rehabilitation funds…
DREAMER
Demolition began—
DREAMER
Over the last several years…
DREAMER
Several citizens
DREAMER
Fulcrum City complaining of sleeplessness
DREAMER
Daily dream occurrences.
DREAMER
More than one hundred come forward
DREAMER
Having not slept
DREAMER
Find they dreaming
DREAMER
A study continues—
NEWSANCHOR 1
The ongoing documentary airs—
DREAMER
Public paranoia
DREAMER
Comparing it to the demise of an ancient empire—
DREAMER
—as possible subversives. Government officials have—
DREAMER
Decrepit Fulcrum building used as site specific—
DREAMER
Walking dreamers.
DREAMER
Many soldiers returning.
DREAMER
Officials say the soldiers are in good spirits and looking forward to time spent with their families.
DREAMER
Looking to effectively integrate them back into society—
DREAMER
Also in the news, due to the federal deficit, and burdened by tax cuts and military spending, the government is putting into place health care reimbursement ceilings, and early expiration of health care benefits, as an incentive to–
DREAMER
Officials say ensuring patriotism—
DREAMER
Officials say Homeland Security expansion—
DREAMER
Officials will investigate and prosecute anyone aiding and abetting—
DREAMER
Democracy is in a downward slump
DREAMER
Expatriates say—
DREAMER
Officials say expatriates—
DREAMER
Guilty parties—
DREAMER
Tortured and executed—
DREAMER
In a humane fashion—
DREAMER
The President, responding to complaints—
DREAMER
Tortured and slaughtered one million children today-
DREAMER
American farmers say—
DREAMER
Pussy Willows are in bloom this spring—
DREAMER
American farmers blame–
DREAMER
Pussy willows for—
DREAMER
A downward slump.
DREAMER
Pussy is in bloom this spring—
DREAMER
American farmers protesting…
DREAMER
The average man—
DREAMER
Uninformed and grossly uneducated—
DREAMER
When asked for further clarification, the president concluded his speech by saying—
DREAMER
“The mongoose is having coffee with the quail in the wondrous fluffs of a quagmire.”
DREAMER
The soldier, who had been reported missing…
DREAMER
A hero’s welcome is planned for soldier who was reported missing after an attack…
DREAMER
Officials say the soldier is in good spirits…
DREAMER
Good spirtits.
DREAMER
—and looking forward to returning to their families.
HIPPOLYTUS / DREAMERS
Peer left. Jab right.
Heavy mortar against our base.
Patrol at dawn.
All were sleep, between two cities—
And then a yell,
Another cry… breaking through
And all the world went up in air
Troops advancing
Bodies ripped
A little girl
A sky of blood.
I am no hero.
TITLE: SECOND EPISODE
HIPPOLYTUS RE-MEMBERED
MUSIC CHANGES/SHIFTS
HIPPOLYTUS
He was coming from, I was walking toward. I was walking toward something, having arrived at nothing. He was crossing the avenue, my brother—the remains of a boy crossing pernicious pavement channels. An easy task—straight and steady steps, swift celerity—aiming himself somewhere with an equestrian swagger that defied the shame of his body; hair matted, face distorted—head cracked open dry, clothes drenched in water, a dark countenance masking a fragile frame. I’d flown through a turbulent sky—landed safely on even ground, a dazed survivor. Pushing back pavement with sturdy strides, people passing me—tried to reacquaint myself with myself. Tried not to provoke the quake of dreams or trigger the eruption of things that have been sewn tightly into the lining of my stomach…an almanac of wars and cracked concrete shifting. The city was falling in the year of its reconstruction. The year of city renewal and city planning; of renaming streets and changing demographics, renovating buildings and erecting irrelevant statues, of sweeping fetid bodies beneath the gratings. Old graves were apostatized and cemented over with neon animation. New graves were dug for those who could not survive the metamorphosis of terrified urbanity. New buildings had been propped up, bronze and cast iron plaques tacked onto their edifices, an eternal reminder of the dead in their absence—but the dead were not absent—the dead were everywhere monuments had been erected to mark their demise. In the aftermath of war, dead men and dead women and dead children awakened to an attempted restoration. They walked among us, and where they walked they walked freely, through the tumbling of urbanity, through newly erected structures that had not been there before; they made pathways where pathways used to be. The dead put their ears close to the ground, their hands to the walls, asked old buildings to tell them a story, to give testimony. The dead relied on the memory this city has been built upon, footprints and forgotten gestures layered in rock, how we talked with our tongues, what we said through our lips, what we meant in our voiceless ness. And where they walked, they walked freely…
FOURTH EPISODE
TITLE: A HERO’S WELCOME
HIPPOLYTUS stands before an audience in an auditorium full of laughter. He is clearly nervous. Citizens watch him on their television sets. The TALK SHOW HOST is seated at his desk on stage, waiting for HIPPOLYTUS to continue his war stories to entertain the public. The TALK SHOW HOST throws a fistful of confetti at HIPPOLYTUS as he speaks. A laugh track plays under.
TALK SHOW HOST
Uh-huh…and then what?
HIPPOLYTUS
Almost indiscernible
We were half a mile up…
TALK SHOW HOST
Uh-huh…yeah?
HIPPOLYTUS
By the mudflats…
TALK SHOW HOST
By the mudflats….uh-huuuuuuuuuuh?
HIPPOLYTUS
On the road of Mycenae…
TALK SHOW
Yeah, yeah, oooooh, yeaaaaaahhhhh, uh-huuuuuuuuh—ssssssssssss—uh-uhhuh?
HIPPOLYTUS
We had barely left the gates of Troezen…we had horses and…
TALK SHOW HOST
Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh.
HIPPOLYTUS
We were to patrol by day and camp out that night…
TALK SHOW HOIST
Mmmmhhhhmmmmm….hhhhhmmmmm…eeeeow.
TALK SHOW HOST
Uh-uh-uh.
HIPPOLYTUS
And it was…an ambush…
TALK SHOW HOST
Wuh0huh—wuh-huh.
HIPPOLYTUS
I saw one man down, without his hands…another man had no arms…
TALK SHOW HOST
Yeah, and theeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeen?
HIPPOLYTUS
Some of the civilians…the women…
TALK SHOW HOST
C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.
HIPPOLYTUS
One had a baby on her back, a little girl—
TALK SHOW HOST
Sssssssssssssss
HIPPOLYTUS
So then we split up the unit, and…and I went up ahead, in front of the others, walked over all the bodies…
TALK SHOW HOST
Oho oho oho oho oho?
TALK SHOW HOST turns toward the camera—talks to the television home audience, recites the State of the Nation. The audience joins in.
TALK SHOW HOST
…And this I speak from the ancients, of all things there is the word that speaks wisdom to man, and man upon first hearing it is dumb to its understanding. Listen not to me for wisdom–but to the word and know that they are one. Be mindful of this; mindfulness is the ground of being, to speak one’s true mind, and to keep things known in common, serves all being…just as laws made clear uphold our city. As for those men who are now ennobled souls collected in a dominion of divine honor amidst our great protectorates…we are bereaved. Yet we must esteem them as ordained burden bearers now gathered in sundry branches of heroism. They were predestined to serve us. They rest now in the succor of a greater federation than we know in our pedestrianism. I ask that those beneficent forces of defense that bequeathed their lives for ours, allow me to speak to you the sentiments with which they forged our path; we have landed. We have come ashore on a solid embankment. No longer shall we hurl about. We have landed here with our voices in tact, and we resound our proposal with proactive aggression–let us proceed with our regime…of systematic liberty.
The city appears before HIPPOLYTUS, desolate and full of memories.
HIPPOLYTUS
Beneath balding trees covering blue stone in sorrel, brownstone buildings bathed in rain, bleed into the gutters, sheets of plywood nailed across their mouths. They nod to apathetic strangers who pass them by, take for granted their nineteenth-century walls sitting quietly with trapped tongues behind chicken wire fences, waiting in the shadow of broken street-lamps, dying patiently on the land of their birth, rusting carcasses of metal; gored, stripped, tireless cars parked at their feet. These betrayed houses, born to German lawyers, Dutch farmers, Jewish tailors, Irish workers, tobacco merchants & financiers, on the land of long gone Native hunters…they incline their ears down toward the bridge and across the water, where the sound of hammering and drilling draws near. The sound of reconstruction, of newer, corporate, more lucrative structures— inspires trust. Soon, men will come back to small, insignificant neighborhoods like these. They will come back with flashlights and plans for renovation. They’ll come back—as they have always--reminded of the fading beauty of Italiante rowhouses on wide tree-lined boulevards. They will rediscover the classic frames and elaborate details of unified blockfronts, touch the surface of sandstone, explore the rusticated basements and mansard roofs, and remember that these buildings have been standing for years and years and years. These buildings have been dying for years and years and years. (Lights change as Hippolytus begins to cross back upstage, DOCUMENTARIAN records him) Survived many wars and many conversions, withstood the desertion of their builders and welcomed masses of new immigrants. Someone will come, and tend to their decay. You can hear these buildings praying to themselves as you pass them by.
Lights come up downstage left as ARACHNE crosses downstage. The TALK SHOW HOST hears her, is thrust into a dream.
ARACHNE
I remember…a man who watched the news, all of his days. He was approaching his twilight years; his hair was electric light, a well-ordered anarchy above his face. I remember a man whose head was on fire. The top of his head was on fire. He was…
TALK SHOW HOST
Bones…acres of bones all around me, scattered across the beaches of Thera. The red dirt sands of Thera, Dry white bones. The light of the blue screen…the cameras hidden in the rocks as I follow the roads… my foe is seated in my living room…watching me follow my father’s blood on my father’s roads…and my father’s blood means nothing to my foe. I collect the bones, one by one. Pick them up….pick them…nothing more than the planted grove of elms above the tombs… The rocks resound with voices coming from a blue screen. Let it be remembered, it is was their words that brought us their voices, it was the absence of their words where their voices took over… that coaxed the rock, and bent the branches into a repetitive chorus. Citizens of Mycenae—here we are! Visible to all in our shame… we are destitute even of the third realm of dreams; Hildebrandt’s paradox wherein there is no difference to multiply between our virtuosity and our deterioration…we walk entrapped, here, saddled and forlorn; vanquished, and ruthless are the Gods we served in store front church basements and cave dwellings from which we heard of the betrayal of our magistrates…no sooner had we rejoiced in our expectations were we deceived! And the King’s son rose up as King with his father’s sins still moist and gleaming on his tongue, twisting rudimentary vowels—ruthless are the Gods of a bloody Jesus!
TITLE: THIRD EPISODE
THE REALITY OF DREAMS
The DOCUMENTARIAN watches his film. The DREAM THEORIST listens. DOCUMETRIAN records himself, he is revealed on screens
DOCUMENTARIAN
This space. This light. This room. This medium. This camera. This is a camera. It’s just a camera. It’s documenting a dialogue…they share their dreams of ancient wars in ancient cities, and in so doing so, they co-inhabit another space…this is a workroom, just a workroom. An observation deck for re-enactment. In early Chinese society dreams were believed to be our way…As the numbers of Fulcrum dreamers increase, how can I believe or disbelieve in something. There is no faith…In some cultures, dreams were said to…There are reports that dreamers are increasing but – During the Middle Ages, dream divination declined as it was. There are however, reports of dreams in both…God uses dream states as a means of…The problem, I suppose—is the ability to distinguish between divinity and reality…if we can carefully document their dreams and keep them safe from—those…of us…who are not dreamers…Those who are suspected of being dreamers…those who may be suffering from some traumatic event, people in need. Fear and anxiety. It’s important to all concerned parties. There is a privacy to dreams. They’re not so easily translated….We are compelled to continue our work…Ordered to…Supply them with answers until they are satisfied, but they are never…They demand we deliver a Dreamer who can-the soldiers, they want answers from the soldiers, they-who is they? I’ve given them more footage, the log notes, they ask the same damn questions. The soldiers, they are not allowed to…
DREAM THEORIST
We.
DOCUMENTARIAN
No one is…allowed…to…the dreamers, we are…not allowed…they film us, record our thoughts but we are not allowed…I came here to complete…I was invited here to…my work centers…Our work is not longer possible. Our dreams are no longer…possible. We are not allowed to dream.
DREAM THEORIST
Where?
DOCUMENTARIAN
To these…these circular hearths… at Pylos…we are not allowed to dream…
DREAM THEORIST
We are not…
DOCUMENTARIAN
Allowed to leave here.
ALL DREAMERS
None of us.
MUSIC/AMBIANCE BEGINS/continues under ARACHNE
ARACHNE advances
ARACHNE
You are not allowed. You are not allowed to leave here if you live here. You are not allowed to be here if you have not already been here. You are not allowed to say you can see, to say you can see me if you cannot. You are not allowed to see me for the first time and report me back to the ones who have never seen me. You are not allowed to see me with your language for them. You are not allowed to visit me in my despair if you do not know my despair. You are not allowed to be geopolitical about this. Not here. You are not allowed to vote for me. You are not allowed to cry for me. You are not allowed to suspect me of treason, or madness, or anarchy, or broken-heartedness. You are not allowed to believe in my existence if you do not know whether or not I am experiencing an existence. You are not allowed to say anything to them about me. You are not allowed to be a reporter…a go between life and death…simply because you have read books on polity and representation.
TITLE: DIAGRAMS FOR DISSECTED BODIES
ARICIA
You have to fight for your vision, strain your blindness as far inward as it can go until something cripples your already crippled blindness, and turns itself back toward sight. You cannot keep silent this earthly peril. Finish. It is finished. Hippolytus…I’m finished. I can say that now. Not until now, have I been able to say…truly say…this is my work. This is my work and I am finished. The work is not finished. It can’t be. My process toward the work that is mine is finished. In my work, hopefully you are compelled to do your work. One comes here, to this work…to this space…to do their own. That is the purpose of this…this dream…this space, this light, this medium. To do work of one’s own, not to witness but to interact. To co-inhabit a spatial enlightenment of working. Will you come to it?
HIPPOLYTUS
A man is dead. Or does he live? Can you see him? Is he broken?
ARICIA
In my dream I saw a man…broken into pieces. In my drawings, I tried to piece together his remains…You have returned, with all of yourself, with your blood contained…your sight in place…will you speak this time, when they hail your service?
HIPPOLYTUS
What do you want me to say?
ARICIA
Say something.
DOCUMENTARIAN
This is a camera. Just a camera.
DREAM THEORIST
This is a camera. It belongs to them. They keep us here.
ARICIA
When they turn the cameras on us again. Will we repeat this show of ours, this elaborate dance, while they parade the corpses down the streets, and hide them away—as they have done before? Will you stand by as you did just now, or will you speak this time, of friend and foe, of dreams and blood…reveal the stain that will not clear?
HIPPOLYTUS
Could I say more? Any more than some have already said? When you pieced me back together…Did you place my tongue?
TALK SHOW HOST
The Bipartisan Lobbyists, Radical Conscientious Observers,
HIPPOLYTUS
Did you put one in my mouth?
TALK SHOW HOST
The queers, the dykes, the Jews, the whores.
HIPPOLYTUS
Did you intend it to make the sound you want to hear?
DOCUMENTARIAN
One room, one frame of mind.
HIPPOLYTUS/DREAM THEORIST
Forget my tongue, it’s lost its words.
ARICIA
What it is to me it must be to you—not a mystery.
TALK SHOW HOST
This is a test…
HIPPOLYTUS
I am born to a woman who was born to a minor,
TALK SHOW HOST
This is a man…
HIPPOLYTUS
I am born to a man, born to even less than me, who paid the nation more than his share of ten percent for prolonged breathing. Who, in my eyes, was the bravest of soldiers, descendants of Hector, and conquerors in that war before Illium.
TALK SHOW HOST
This is the news…
HIIPOLYSTUS
Could I say more, without disgracing his belief? Could I find truth if it means their lie? I could not—any more than you—murder my mother or father, who also live in me, along with what I know.
HIPPOLYTUS
To save their lives, and their belief in this…it would cost nothing for me to keep silent.
TALK SHOW HOST
Yes?...No?...
ARICIA
I don’t understand.
HIPPOLYTUS
I want to love you.
ARICIA
I don’t understand.
HIPPOLYTUS
Build a house for you from the ground up with nothing. I know how to do that.
ARACHNE
Storm clouds…
HIPPOLYTUS
We can have a place.
ARACHNE
Wind…
DOCUMENTARIAN
When they turn the cameras on this time, I’ll say nothing. Nothing at all.
ARACHNE
Percipitation…
DREAM THEORIST/ARICIA
I don’t understand.
HIPPOLYTUS
LOOK AT MY HANDS!
DOCUMENTARIAN
I’m not the MURDERER!
DOCUMENTARIAN
I want to get OUTTA THIS ROOM!
ARACHNE
Cold front coming in…Hot back going out, all are lobbying for air…
HIPPOLYTUS
The room I want to build. The space I want to build. solid, a room of wood, with axe and auger. A room without nails. I’ll erect a connecting vestry with beaded poplar and oak rafters.
ARICIA /DREAM THEORIST
I don’t understand.
DOCUMENTARIAN
There’s nothing here, nothing more to see or study.
HIPPOLYTUS
There is nothing—NOTHING more here for me to know but dust and rock and martyred soldiers and the shame of my father’s tormented rule, and heinous death…
DREAM THEORIST
I don’t understand your cynosure.
DOCUMENTARIAN
I have an eye.
HIPPOLYTUS
I have my hands.
DOCUMENTARIAN
I have a camera. A camera lens, turned on me.
HIPPOLYTUS
I’ll make a world–make all there is.
DOCUMENTARIAN
I’ll tell them there are no such thing as dreams. I’ll say I’ve never had them.
HIPPOLYTUS
I want to build a spring garden that just may bloom before the rains come. I want to build a vestry…Solid.…
DOCUMENTARIAN
I want to live.
HIPPOLYTUS
I’m making room for us to live without debate and thesis…
DREAM THEORIST
Do you think, it is possible for the sons of men who held position on National Committees of Restitution, to rebuild collapsing walls?
DREAM THEORIST/ARACHNE
Take to it.
ARICIA
Do you think they’ll allow you to rest your ancestral thyrsus. It’s still wet with the blood of the Minatour.
ARACHNE
Bring them in. bring them in! Show them this city we’re in.
HIPPOLYTUS
We can leave this city. We can build our own. We’ll have a room built without nails. A window, a chair, a place to sleep without dreaming. We’ll have a TV screen, and every channel will smile at us I have a room I want to build.
ARICIA
I have a memory that goes too far back, There is no room for old memories in new rooms.
HIPPOLYTUS
We will rebuild this corner of the earth that is ours and embellish the whole of it with agreement.
ARICIA
Hippolytus…should they ask you again of–of what the dreams have shown you…
HIPPOLYTUS
I will be without reply.
DREAM THEORIST
They won’t believe you. .
ARACHNE
High winds, low breeze, at the mouth of falling cities. Affliction on a sunny day…
HIPPOLYTUS
So happy was I at the thought of building a room for the pleasure of our life’s span, I’d let my grip upon the reins soften…and that dreadful cry came out of the depths of the waves and resounded, shattering stillness, that mountain wave of water did rear up, spewing forth that monstrous foe with its horns, sharp as any missile’s aim, and scales, green as commerce. My body is now a mass of wounds. I can locate them for you. You can put your hand inside and see that I am hollow. I just want to
ARICIA
I painted cave murals on my kitchen walls, I painted death masks on the sides of Bodegas, I painted doors over all of them so the scattered bones of our cadavers could reunite with themselves and rise up and run…run…flee the conquering of mythical events. In this painting…here, I built a sanctuary…in which to repent for my life’s mistakes…in which I could patiently wait for redemption. In this drawing, I made a bridge between myself and the rooms of Helio Oiticia.
DOCUMENTARIAN
I just wanna have a nice day…
ARICIA
I drew a dance to summon the voices of Asturian Socialists…I made a house in which I could have dinner and conversation with Franco at the war table. I prepared a meal of anarchy and cultural resistance. A resistance at the end of reactionary rule…With the freedom of my brush…my wrist…the art I make makes inroads backwards. My pigments are made of mercenary blood. I make Proto-romantic skies. Proto-realist moons.
HIPPOLYTUS
I don’t understand.
ARICIA
I’m making a thousand moons under which a man or a woman could run by night or day, could be free-free even within the chambers of one’s own mind.
DOCUMENTARIAN
A nice day…
HIPPOLYTUS
I just want to love you.
ARICIA
I’m making light by which to flee the marketplace of Oradour-sur-Glanes…
HIPPOLYTUS
I just want to love you.
ARICIA
Before the Sentinels blocked their exits. Moons with transcending light to flee the province of Kibungo near Tanzanian borders. Acres and acres of open terrain, an even plain, on which one can find natural grounding.Where one can leap years into safe pastures. I’m making funerary masks with which to cover your shame.
HIPPOLYTUS
I don’t understand.
ARICIA
We have not been invited here to live, my love. We have been exiled here to die.
ALL (repeated)
I just want to love you. I just want to have a nice day. A nice day. Love you. I want. I just.
ARACHNE
Storm clouds coming in. cold front going out. Precipitation. All are lobbying for air.
(end of dream)
©Carl Hancock Rux
PROJECT DESCRIPTION
Mycenaean is a multi-disciplinary performance narrative/opera oratorio in twelve movements, in which several disparate characters (Fulcrum Dreamers) are pulled into a vortex of apocryphal urbanity, both ancient and contemporary, forcing each character to examine their historical memory and the daily human will to survive. Structurally, Mycenaean is a multi-media theatrical narrative; reformatting the modern opera as a spectacle of relationships between live performances, live video manipulation, movement and electronic music. Text will alternate between monologue, dialogue and song. Music is a constant throughout, and the movement of the piece is highly stylized, informed by gestures and dance. Two kingdoms are paralleled—one felled in its third century, the other, in the midst of recovery and prevention of a third world war as it moves toward its third century as a nation. In the fictional American city of Fulcrum, several citizens complain of chronic insomnia accompanied by apocryphal images of an ancient Greek city in ruins called Mycenae. When a young Documentarian records and digitally films their testimonies of alternative identities and memories of Dorian wars, images that are both contemporary and antiquated manifest themselves on screen—the Fulcrum Dreamers become the chief topic of the news and entertainment media. Rumored by some to be radical subversives creating a coded language amongst themselves, potential postulants, or schizophrenic out patients in need of medical treatment and incarceration. As a captivated nation tunes in tales of war and an attempted reconstruction, and desperately tries to decipher the meaning of it all, the number of Fulcrum Dreamers grows; a young soldier returned from the battlefield, sees himself as Hippolytus on the road of Mycenae, reunited with army of recently slain comrades; a reclusive visual artist becomes obsessed with making funerary masks; a conservative talk show host and Fulcrum Dreamer skeptic, unwillingly imagines himself as a military mortician collecting the remains of ancient citizens and railing against the political structure that brought about the destruction of the city of his lineage. Blurring boundaries between tangible space and the reality of dreams, Mycenaean is intended as a theater of the personal and the political, cognitive estrangement rather than propaganda, debate rather than polemics.
First presented and developed in various stages as a work in progress at The Bowery Poetry Club, HERE Arts Center, BRIC Studios/651 Arts (NYC), Mass MOCA, (North Adams, Mass.) the Pillsbury Playhouse (Minneapolis, Minn), the Washington Performing Arts Center. Mycenaean received its first workshop in the spring of 2005 at CalArts, and was presented at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill Performing Arts Center (Jan. 2006), MYCENAEN premiered at BAM/Next Wave that same year to (gulp) disastrous reviews and almost sent this writer running for the suicide chamber. After the hiring and (shall we say mutually agreed upon "letting go") of its initial director, sevreal out of city tries, a succesful CALARTS run, and a long rehearsal process in New Jersey where cast and crew attempted to recreate the set, opening night was i failed to catastrophic proportions (including an actress falling over footlights). The performance gradually pulled itself together but not in time for critics. The New York Times noted some great performances (Rux, Tony Torn) as did Variety ( Helga Davis) but with more venom, theater critics (such as Brooklyn's own Kerri Allen who even mentioned her "bad review" in a lecture in Seoul Korea!) lamblasted the premiere as if they'd been personally assaulted by art beneath their intelligence and aesthetic values. Marred by opening night reviews describing audiences walking out in droves (an exxageration but nonetheless), the show eventually pulled itself together but not in time to save face. As writer performer Laurie Carlos always asks, "What do you know?" What I know (in retrospect) is that writng and producing are two very different things, meant to be exclusive of the other, and both are nothing without institutuional support. I think I knew that before, but ad faith in the process and commitment of the company as well as my owrk's thesis. What I know is combining dream theory in the social context of war with Greek mythology, video, music and movement in a Bush-era had nothing to do with linear theater or traditional storytelling. The ears of audiences and perhaps critics alike were no longer attuned to the complexity of say, an Adrienne Kennedy inspired poetic riff on war and its affect on the fractured American psyche. If, for instance Kennedy's brilliance came to light in a Vietnam era, when language, protest, music, performance genres and image clashed about like so much overhead shrapnel, it wasd not only due to Ms. Kennedy's genius but to the complexity of the audience's eye and ear to accept a raped balding housewife, Queen Victoria, the bloody presence of Patrice Lumumba and a black girl's conversion to a screeching owl as a direct statement about race, gender and identity in a time when the subject could no longer be represented in simple or linear terms. Fast forward to the Bush era, many critics became confused (if not downright offended) by "multi-racial casting", the mention of Jean Racine and dream theory in the same production. Farbeit from me to EVER compare my talents to Ms. kennedy's genius, but what "what I know" is I personally have looked over countless reviews that spat at Ms. Kennedy's hallucinations and I have sat with Ms. Kennedy and listened as she painfully expressed her dissapointment with and dismissal by the "American theater" world. To attempt to do the very thing most artists are taught NEVER to do, which is talk back or defend their own work, I offer here that if the illogical structure of MYCENAEAN was "overstuffed" (as Ms. Allen so accused it) it was with the "stuff" of one hundred years : German Expressionism, dadaism, the black arts movement, Italian contructivism, the illogical structure of dreams as performance according to principles outlined by Strindberg in which all dialogue, all thoughts, all scenes are born out of the dream perceptions of the protagonist. There was no wall dividing reality from the unconscious , and those things that were considered sotherworldly are tangible and attainable by all characters. Often one character is represented as two characters (though they are introduced to the audience as ca gradual emerging of characters as it it occurs via a sharing of gestures, and a synchronicity in clanguage.) Neither time nor space(according to traditional theater conventions) were important. The characters were split into dualities, and their thoughts came from the dreamers unconscious. If Freud's theories concentrated heavily on the perceived gap between the conscious and unconscious (and this also had a lot to do with my inclusion of dream theories from the first and second World war as well as government sponsored psychic studies during the early 1970s) MYCENAEAN twas sometimes intended as texture (not toilet paper) and occasionally there should have been something you could hook onto that would clue you into the next moment. Needless to say, for some that was true. For others it was not. What boggles my mind is not the failure of the play as much as the failure the critic to see what was there, even if what was there was didactic and abstract (as were the times). Didactisiscm and abstraction are NEVER unintentional on my part. I see it as complicated as the cultural shifts in the American vernacular for race terminology and detrita of political correctness; as schizophrenic as "the taste makers" taste for bitter and sweet. I am easily a playwright who has (strategically) regurgitated abstraction and didactiscism as a defensive that codifies, marginalizes, oppresses and excludes in order to prove how the same is often used as a code to marginalize the oppressed or to simply exclude the irrelevant from the relevant conversation at hand. A tactic rarely sacrificed or modified or simplified for the cause of inclusion. The conceit of my ill-fated play is itself the conceit of the ill-fated critic who, admittedly felt a "twitter with excitement" when "something monumental" has "clearly come over the horizon" like the film version of Sex and the City (only to be almost as dissapointed by the promise of that "monumental film'"as as she was by MYCENEAN...but not quite.) The soup the rest of us were dorwning in, the mud and mineral of an American/European discourse, a density we had to wade through in order to earn our right to speak- a new presidential administration into being, was something like the mad ramblings of an unbathed homeless person in the middle of the night, and that was the play and it was good (or atleast it felt good to the performer in me if not the ego of the writer in me). Well,though we got some seriously dismissive comments from reviewers, there were conversations, responses, emails and letters that spoke to the discourse we knew we were engaged in. Blows my mind how some people can claim to be so lost and in the dark, and others can see so clearly--maybe because performance is (again) moving toward the realm of feeling and experiance. One critic made a point of mentioning the "multi-cultural cast", which was the first time it occurred to me the group of artists I was collaborating with would be perceived as "multi-cultural". In fact, we probably had more in common culturally with eachother than the critic did with non-traditional performance. We all come to the theater (or the space cleared for perfromance) with different intentions. I think the ones who come with the lightest load are the ones who walk out with plenty. When I read a recent review of Roger Guenveur Smith's "Who Killed Bob Marley?", I was reminded again that some critics seem to come without any real cognitive skills or tools enabling them to critique non-linear theater/music/text, etc. There's always such a huge gulf between what the people see and what the critics see. When I was in school and first read Homer, Euripedes, Sophocles, Tennessee Williams, Hemingway, Keats--i didn't know what the hell any of them were talking about. I certainly didn't think they were speaking to me. But their language was forced upon me (for which I'm grateful) and it allowed me to access Adrienne Kennedy, Paule Marshall, Gwendolyn Brookes, Ntozake Shange, Amiri Baraka, Miguel Pinerro, Ai, Robbie McCauley, Erik Ehn, August Wilson, etc. I think we have to hold fast to the language we are speaking, and recognize that just because some people don't speak it doesn't mean they don't need to learn it. Here's one guy who reviewed Mycenaean and spoke to what he saw, not what he thought he should've seen. I don't single him out because he liked it, I single him out because he questioned it, experianced it, dismissed what he could not grapple with and offered an explanation of what he thought the point was. For purely selfish reasons, I offer the following review from J. Jordan which was published on Theater.com.
"Mycenaean is one of those pieces that struggles to defy categorization. It's not exactly a play. It decries itself a "poetic opera," and while its performers do at times speak frilly lacy words and occasionally break out into song, none of this can hide the truth of what Mycenaean really is: performance art. This is not a bad thing. I like performance art. If you like it too, you'll like Mycenaean.According to the BAM press release, Mycenaean is adapted from writer/director/producer/actor Carl Hancock Rux's poem "Mycenaean Born" and his recently released novel Asphalt, and is also inspired by the Hippolytus myth. The press release advises the story is of a modern mythical town whose inhabitants are plagued by dreams of the destroyed city of Mycenae. Thankfully, both the press release and the poem were provided for reference, or I can assure you I would never have fully understood what, exactly, took place on stage at the Harvey. I still don't fully "get it" and I had a press packet. To be fair, I didn't want to "get it"..if I did, I would've stayed home and watched TV. If you like to have your plot spoon-fed to you, this is not the show for you. So, then, what happens in Mycenaean? I don't know. It's full of dreams, chaos, violence, and ultimately fear. Its tales are told from several perspectives, in the manner of dreams being retold, each scene compartmentalized and rehearsed enough to stand on its own. Many of the pieces fit together nicely to create a certain mood..no, a sense of being. I don't go to performance art for plot. I go to have an experience. Mycenaean provides many such mini-experiences within an overall arc. Some are told through outright and refreshingly good acting mixed with dance, song and poetry, accompanied by music and video. The male principal, Carl Hancock Rux, who plays a mix between Racine (in this case a wandering DJ who was a hit in France, as well as the author, sort of) and Hippolytus, has a voice alone worth the trek to Brooklyn. It made me want to wrap myself up in it with a good book on a stormy day. All the acting was so good, no other actors stand out. Helga Davis, Patrice Johnson, Tony Torn, David Barlow and Ana Perea made their jobs seem effortless. The dancing worked most of the time but occasionally felt like too much..honestly, everyone on stage was participating in activity, to the point that it became impossible to really follow along. I wasn't sure where to look, but wherever I did, I was engaged. The music, created by Rux and Jaco van Schalkwyk, draws from influences from all over the world and helps guide us through the pieces. The videography, created by Pablo Molina and Jaco van Schalkwyk, occupies two see-through panels defining the stage; it was beautiful, but not essential. I hardly had time to pay attention to it given all the work the actors were putting forth on the stage. The element I liked best about this production was the chorus. Usually when I see a show with a chorus I spend most of the time grumbling about how poorly the individuals go about presenting themselves as a collective. With this group it was almost painfully obvious how much they'd rehearsed their unison. In action, they ceased to be individuals and operated as one, harmonizing better than any chorus I've heard, making me think that, had I been in ancient times attending such a performance THIS is what the chorus would have sounded like. The masks, designed by Alison Heimstead, were beautiful and amazing, chilling in their lack of emotion..a stark contrast to the actors, who are nothing but emotion..but they were used too sparingly. The costumes, coordinated by Toni-Leslie James, were thoughtfully modest, allowing the actors to wear them instead of the other way around, as it should be. They were, however, inexplicably trimmed with tie dye, which should be reserved only for Grateful Dead concerts. Given that the piece is about violence and its only outcome..more violence..if the costumes were going to be tie-dyed at least they could have been done so with blood."
And yes, if the play was any good, I wouldn't have to explain it, right? Right. Wrong. Ok...you decide.
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MYCENAEAN
Cast of characters
ARICIA
DOCUMENTARIAN
DREAM THEORIST
ARACHNE
TALK SHOW HOST
HIPPOLYTUS
FULCRUM DREAMERS
TITLE: IBID
INTERIOR: The Foundry, an abandoned space converted into a facility for research. Cement floors, heavy arches of stone. Tables, video equipment, computers. Television monitors, philosophical equations etched on the walls.
ARICIA is caught somewhere between sleep and consciousness; a still life in a decrepit room of windows and doors—portals as eyes, television monitors, and shattered mouths nailed shut.
The DOCUMENTARIAN stands at his table of video and audio equipment.
The DREAM THEORIST sits on the other side of the table with books and stacks of paper scattered before her.
Upstage, seen through a narrow portal, DREAM THEORIST is an emotionless figure, sitting in a chair with her loom. The TALK SHOW HOST is seated at his desk, talking into a microphone.
ARACHNE
“While men are dreaming…”
TALK SHOW HOST
This is a test.
ARCHNAE
“They do not perceive that it is a dream.”
TALK SHOW HOST
This is only a test.
ARACHNE
“Some will even have a dream in a dream.” -
TALK SHOW HOST
A test of the emergency broadcast system.
ARACHNE
“And only when they wake…”
TALK SHOW HOST
In the event of a real emergency,
ARACHNE
“—will they know it was a dream,,, and so, when the Great Awakening comes upon us…”
TALK SHOW HOST
You will be notified.
ARACHNE
“—shall we know this life to be a great dream.”
TALK SHOW HOST
This is only a test.
ARACHNE
“Fools believe themselves to be awake now.”
ARICIA rises from the table, walks toward a northern wall, walks through it. The wall gives way to what exists beyond the room; the transparency of flowers shifting in the scarcity of light, city ruins, both ancient and contemporary; the hollowed facades of buildings, a desolate landscape of cranes rising up from the earth, buildings collapsing, their remnants— rotted and angular, their rooftops; black tar squares on sharp right angles, a sharp silhouette of buildings cast against a dismal sky, light bleeding through windows, cutting across the floor with laughter, the pulse of helicopters resounding above, commerce beneath dirty bombs, the reiterated prayers and salutations of the citizens, and the unintelligible drone of televised news broadcasts. The earth is pulled back, nothing becomes something; becomes water, becomes earth–an infinite plain of grey retreating into the distance, the rapid digression of earth retreating into nothing, then returning as texture; the rough hewn hands of dead wood stalks, wood twisting upward from the earth–branches of bent corpses moving into earth, into water, toward nothing again, a vast and unending plain of transparent flowers again. The landscape retreats to nothing again. ARICIA stands and faces a colossal current of transparent space, vapid and multiplying. She looks into her shadow, touches it with her hand. On the other side of antiquity, shadows multiply on the wall. Secrets are whispered to her through the transparency that separates them. As they speak, ARICIA paints on the wall with her hands—diagrams of dissected bodies, primitive designs for funerary masks.
TITLE: PARADOS
DREAMERS
It was the Anax of men
Leader of the Achaeans
Who lead us there
Against our will
Was his sin
The sins of Atreus
Agamemnon’s blood
Priam’s son
Our city rises from the sea
Mt. Zara to the south
Our walls came down
Our fortification
Our Cyclopean walls
An acropolis
To the south, the Lion’s gate
Attacked the citadel
I was supplying the graves
With gold
I was digging the grave circles
I was manning the ramp house
I was fashioning gold for the Lion’s head
They came and we were unaware then…
From the sea
They felled us
TITLE: FIRST EPISODE
The shadows retreat to nothing, their voices cease. ARICIA backs away from the wall with some trepidation, returns to her bed, and returns to a dream. The DOCUMENTARIAN retrieves his camera, gets the right angle. ARACHNE pays attention. DREAM THEORIST listens from her room.
TITLE: ARICIA: A PAINTER OF DREAMS
ARICIA
Once, when I was a girl, one born with a fortune of dissension and war, I was fishing…I was fourteen and I had been sent down to the Eridanos waters to fish… but the fish were so beautiful…so at peace in their element, and I did not want to be a murderer…or a magistrate…I could not pierce their flesh or deprive them of their aquatic dreams… I removed my clothes… Bathed amongst them… in their aquatic dream… our flesh touching each other’s…mine was red, like the volcanic sands of Thera, red cliffs of lava submerged in blue… I swam amongst them, down into their sacred dwelling places, steered toward the sun that lay at the bottom of the deep…swam to the peninsula that forms the southern arm of the Bay… emerged at a rock…and there were women…who spin and weave on the old looms on the top of the hills that overlook the beaches…they saw me emerge cool and naked and red… covered in aqua coral…my skin shimmering and taut, sleek and iridescent like the scaled skin of the fish…they were frightened…they threw small stones at me…at my flesh… flesh they could not understand…my back, my scalp…crimson bleeding into aqua…so dark…so wonderfully iridescent…and young and dark and so different from my their own…copper…blackish copper…red Tabasco dirt, crimson bleeding into aqua…Now I am born Mycenaean, which is to say I am marginalized at the dawn of an inverted alchemy; a twilight without relevance. Now I am born Mycenaean which is to say I am not born…
TITLE: DREAM THEORUM
A rehearsal; the DOCUMENTARIAN and the DREAM THEORIST proceed to log their work, hypothesizing and questioning themselves out loud into hand held recorders, writing, retrieving books, reciting passages, making new equations on the a chalk board, moving objects about the room in order to solve philosophical problems–an attempt at an investigation. As they speak, the DOCUMENTARIAN and the DREAM THEORIST experience awkward breaks in their train of thought. Momentary lapses, sudden distractions mid-sentence.
DOCUMENTARIAN
As a video Documentarian I’m tracking the lives of several contemporary individuals plagued by insomnia. Video/audio…experimental techniques. Target material–
DREAM THEORIST
Fulcrum dreamers.
DOCUMENTARIAN
People plagued with insomnia and reoccurring dreams. A similar dream–
DREAM THEORIST
A singular dream…complex targets.
Video of diagrams fade up on screens
DOCUMENTARIAN
I film them as they give testimony—
DREAM THEORIST
As a dream theorist—scientist and student of lucid and precognitive dreams, my work centers on an archeological dig. Dream Theory; Telepathic transfer of information. Tachistoscopic presentations.
DOCUMENTARIAN
As the world media offers continuous references to international terrorism and wartime occupation—
Awkward pause
DREAM THEORIST
Heraclitus, Greek philosopher—540 B.C.
DOCUMENTARIAN
Observations are made—
DREAM THEORIST
Heraclitus made the observation that each man retreats into a world of his own during sleep. Chuang-tsu, 350 B.C, raised questions–
DOCUMENTARIAN
Philosophical questions are raised—
DREAM THEORIST
Raised philosophical questions by considering dreams.
DOCUMENTARIAN
It appears that it has become difficult for the Fulcrum dreamers to differentiate their dreams from their reality–
DREAM THEORIST
Blurring lines between the world they now live in –
DOCUMENTARIAN
And the world they think they may have once inhabited.
DREAM THEORIST
“Civilization and its Discontents”. Freud
DOCUMENTARIAN
It is easy to…we are all quite naturally a little…
Awkward pause
What I’m attempting—
DREAM THEORIST
Fragment of an internal thought
Beauty…happiness…
DOCUMENTARIAN
—Via video and audio recordings…
DRFEAM THEORIST
Continuation…
Elusive…escapes us.
DOCUMENTARIAN
Is to archive subconscious realities.
DREAM THEORIST
I’m attempting to disprove—
DOCUMENTARIAN
We are attempting to chronicle chronic dreamers.
DREAM THEORIST
Memory: prescient dream theory.
DOCUMENTARIAN
Their sleeplessness…
DREAM THEORIST
Sleep. REM sleep. Rapid Eye Movement. Neurophysiologic research—
DOCUMENTARIAN
A query
Jouvet; cortical stimulation.
DREAM THEORIST
An epiphany
Jouvet found that cats exhibited pseudo-hallucinatory behavior at REM times.
DOCUMENTARIAN
Acting out aggressive and other instinctive behaviors.
DREAM THEORIST
A suggestion
See feline behavior and sleep patterns.
DOCUMENTARIAN
It would seem that these people who complain of sleeplessness—
DREAM THEORIST
Jouvet states that sleep is the guardian of dreaming–a direct reversal of Freud’s dictum.
DOCUMENTRIAN
The Fulcrum dreamers, however, do not seem to have dreams when they are asleep. Their dreams occur when they are awake.
DREAM THEORIST
An entirely new phenomena.
DOCUMENTRIAN
Their dream hangs on a frame, ripe with symbolism.
DREAM THEORIST
Searching through another book
Freud; The significance of symbolism—
DREAM THEORIST
There is a—
DOCUMETARIAN
Appears to be a transformative—
DREAM THEORIST
Transference of…
DOCUMETARIAN
Of information—
DREAM THEORIST
Between them.
DOCUMENTARIAN
Of communication between them.
Awkward pause.
DREAM THEORIST
See remote viewing, “pseudoscience”.
DOCUMENTARIAN
We have invited them here…
DREAM THEORIST
The dreamers have been invited here…
DOCUMENTARIAN
They were brought to this facility—
DREAM THEORIST
Abandoned…
DOCUMENTARIAN
An abandoned foundry—subsidized.
DREAM THEORIST
Abstract non sequitur. Internal.
We are…abandoned–
DOCUMENTRAIAN
The work is…
DREAM THEORIST
Subsidized. There have been other such studies…experiments of the Para psychological type.
DOCUMENTARIAN
See psycho kinesis studies, 1972. Uri Geller.
DREAM THEORIST
See “Mind to Mind” by René Warcollier. French chemical engineer, 1930s. Long distance telepathy experiments.
DOCUMENTARIAN
The Dreamers have volunteered--
DREAM THEORIST
To be studied—
DOCUMENTARIAN
To participate in this—
DREAM THEORIST
Study.
DOCUMENTARIAN
For an unspecified period of time…
DREAM THEORIST
There have been other such studies– classified CIA experiments countering Soviet parapsychology studies. Double blind protocols preventing artifactual results.
DOCUMENTARIAN
I was invited to participate in this study–
Awkward pause
DREAM THEORIST
New thought.
In the throes of changing socio-cultural practices and political upheaval, what inspires chronic insomnia, parapsychology and habitual dreaming?
DOCUMENTARIAN
Actual events. The battalion that—
DREAM THEORIST
Who were…
Awkward pause
DOCUMENTARIAN
Lost
DREAM THEORIST
Aricia, a painter of dreams. Clairvoyance. Physiographic drawings. The drawings are coded, a written language, decipherable…but they are also…serve as a…In her drawings and paintings, she sees the dissected body of her lover, one of the missing soldiers who were…
Awkward pause
DOCUMENTARIAN
The common belief is that these dreamers are only responding to—
DREAM THEORIST
Responding only to their subconscious.
DOCUMENTARIAN
Actual events.
DREAM THEORIST
Past.
DOCUMENTARIAN
Present.
DREAM THEORIST
Future.
DOCUMENTARIAN
Person.
DREAM THEORIST
Place.
DOCUMENTARIAN
Thing.
DREAM THEORIST
Object.
DOCUMENTARIAN
Distance.
DREAM THEORIST
Past.
DOCUMENTARIAN
Present.
DREAM THEORIST
When we are sleeping, our consciousness is untied from our waking concepts of time…
DOCUMENTARIAN
But, the Fulcrum dreamers—
DREAM THEORIST
—seem to have no concept of time.
A pulse ambiance begins. Lights up on ARACHNE
ARACHNE
I am an old woman, not yet thirty…eroding the tissue, the tendon, the muscle...my silence is coarse with heavy hands, my anger is falling wherever it is natural to fall, my beauty is too elusive to center the room, too severe…my reptilian nature. An optic dance. Ever so often, there is a slight miracle that reminds me I am not one of the renderings on your wall.
Pulse becomes more present.
TITLE: FIRST STASIMON
TESTIMONY OF DREAMS
*Indicates dreamers echoing the news.
ARACHNE/DREAMERS
And in the news today…Heavy mortar attack against our base…Patrol at dawn… All were asleep, except the guards, who stood without…*Mycenaean roads…Between two cities… Thoughts abstracted…Another yell, another cry…Also in the news…From the depths, breaking through… Up from the earth, an explosion came…and all the world went up in air… The soldier’s blood...The shore rolled up…Troops advancing… Spume…Deadly venom…Bodies ripped…A little girl with pulled back skin, her gums exposed…Leaders call for a nation state…We did stand still in sovereignty…Guns held high… Gunmen fired…Automatic weapons…Soldiers patrolling the northern edge… Coalition forces continued their attacks to destroy…Capturing the regime…String of attacks on the troops…Soldiers wounded...Soldier missing…Living underground with too many dead…Up from the sea, it came with fire…Soldier found with missing bodies…A rocket-propelled grenade…Airborne death…Bodies ripped...Torn apart.
Guns held high…The sky of blood.
THE DREAM THEORIST approaches ARICIA, observes the drawings again. The DOCUMENTARIAN films.
ARICIA
These dreams.
DREAM THEORIST
Yours?
ARICIA
No. Mine.
DREAM THEORIST
This being…
ARICIA
Not ours.
DREAM THEORIST
These cameras.
ARICIA
Are they yours?
DREAM THEORIST
Not mine.
ARICIA
They’re watching, these cities.
DREAM THEORIST
These dreams.
ARICIA
Morning.
DREAM THEORIST
Did you sleep?
ARICIA
No.
DREAM THEORIST
These mornings of walking,
ARICIA
On camera.
DREAM THEORIST
This news.
ARICIA
This feeling of being.
DREAM THEORIST
These dreams.
ARICIA
These walks.
DREAM THEORIST
These mornings.
ARICIA
This indifference.
DREAM THEORIST
These cameras.
ARICIA
These dreams.
DREAM THEORIST
Yours?
ARICIA
No, mine.
DREAM THEORIST
This being.
ARICIA
Not ours.
DREAM THEORIST
These men.
ARICIA
These women.
DREAM THEORIST
This city.
ARICIA
This morning.
DREAM THEORIST
This ancient way of being.
ARICIA
Hippolytus on the road.
Lights up on HIPPOLYTUS, crouching in a hollowed space in the belly of the
earth.
DREAM THEORIST
Mycenae.
ARICIA
I’ve been having these dreams since…
ARACHNE
Bones, acres of bones. *
ARICIA
Always surround me…
ARACHNE
Mycenae.
ARICIA
The first dream came when I…
ARICIA / ARACHNE
--was walking Electra…
DREAM THEORIST
I don’t know what that means
ARICIA
And then I met others -
DREAM THEORIST
Who’d had similar dreams…
ARICIA
Of war and Pylos…
ARACHNE
Others who’d had dreams…
ARICIA
Of Mycenae.
ARACHNE
Brownstone buildings…ancient temples…**
DREAM THEORIST
The volcanic eruption.
ARICIA
Hippolytus.
DREAM THEORIST / ARACHNE
On the road of Mycenae…
ARICIA
In the dream he is a survivor of war…
ARACHNE
What survives? Artifacts of life…
ARICIA
When I paint, I see others…
DREAM THEORIST
When you paint…
ARICIA
My TV is always on…
DREAM THEORIST
And your radio…
ARICIA
My radio. Talk radio. The news.
DREAM THEORIST
The first dream came when you were…
ARICIA
I was watching the news. I was…
ARACHNE / ARICIA
Pulled into it. *
DREAM THEORIST
And you saw?
ARICIA
Saw myself…I can’t describe it…
DREAM THEORIST
The same as now?
ARICIA
Except a long time ago…I was there…
ARICIA/ARACHNE/DREAM THEORIST
Mycenae. **
MUSIC SPEEDS UP /TRANSITIONS
Transition; ARICIA is transported to another space, another body. A soldier’s body in a dense wooded area. ARACHNE stands, ushers her toward. Only the two of them live in this moment.
ARICIA
Peer left. Jab right. Heavy mortar attack against our base.
ARACHNE
Patrol at dawn.
ARICIA
All were sleep, except my guards, who stood without—Mycenaean roads…
ARACHNE
Between two cities…
ARICIA
My thoughts abstracted…
ARACHNE
Then a yell, another cry.
ARICIA
From the depths, breaking through.
ARACHNE
Peer left. Jab right.
ARICIA
Up from the earth, an explosion came—and all the world went up in air.
ARACHNE
The soldier’s blood.
ARICIA
And the shore rolled up…a troop advancing…
ARACHNE
Spume.
ARICIA
And deadly venom. Bodies ripped, a little girl –
ARACHNE
With pulled back skin –
ARICIA
Her gums exposed, lay in my arms. Peer right. Jab left.
ARACHNE
The leader’s call for a nation state.
ARICIA
We did stand still in sovereignty, but then it came, and my gun held high—
ARACHNE
The sky of blood.
HIPPOLYTUS
I am no hero.
ARICIA
One fled the scene. The gunmen fired. Automatic weapons. Soldiers patrolling the northern edge. Coalition forces continued their attack to destroy, to capture the regime. A string of attacks on our troops. Soldiers wounded.
ARACHNE
Too many dead. Then up from the sea, it came with fire.
ARICIA
Fire breathed on me. A rocket-propelled grenade. Airborne death. My body ripped. Torn apart. And with my gun held high—
ARACHNE
The sky of blood.
TITLE: HIPPOLYTUS
HIPPOLYTUS stands before ARICIA. He is covered in dust.
HIPPOLYTUS
Soft lament
I am no hero.
I am no hero….
I am no hero…
I am no hero…
ARICIA
Seeing him for the first time.
Hippolytus?
DREAM THEORIST
Aricia?
ARICIA
Hippolytus? Despite my plea, you went away with your self in tact—all think you dead, they told us so. We heard of the carnage, and the--
ARICIA /DREAM THEORIST
Dismemberment.
ARICIA
From my room, I dreamed of you, but not in sleep…in waking hours. Your body, every limb, comes to me. All that I know of it, and those parts of yourself you’ve kept from me. I know them too. Better than if you were here next to me. You’ve come back to me, with your voice in place—use it. Say things to me.
HIPPOLYTUS
I’m not standing here, not the whole of me. Foot detached. Heart split. Head gone.
ARICIA
But you are whole, as I see you now. A woman here, she sang to me of your return. She did not say your name, but I knew it then—that it was you who would come after all these years. I witnessed your calamity. Saw the rending of your body. I reached out, my arm went through an open opening. An emptiness. A wound not caused by blade or bullet or any force—but by something else. By what you know.
ARICIA/DREAM THEORIST
Speak it to me/Speak to me.
HIPPOLYTUS
With what sound? With no tongue?
ARICIA
With your voice…Our city fainted waiting for you and all her sons. The wind, the water, swallowed us whole with its sad lament, and then the sun came and stayed too long. With too much heat—we almost died…but those of us who remain…we’ve found a place, a shelter here, in this cavern hewn from stone, from another war, long ago. From here we sup with the ancients. I came with canvass and brush and measuring tape, electric with intentions. I walked through the remains of our city on roads cut in to a desert near the summit—and I came to circular hearths preserved at Pylos…these roads surrounded by tomb walls where one walks carefully…somber with expulsion.
HIPPOLYTUS
Immortalized by Homer…
ARICIA
These roads that lead us back to ruination.
HIPPOLYTUS
A hovel cut into rock with water stairwells toward fresh springs…
ARICIA
Yes. It’s where I am. Do you see it? Will you come to it?
HIPPOLYTUS
I fell…
ARICIA
You…
HIPPOLYTUS
--fell on this surf of churning sand, dragged by my own horses… my body dismembered in a trail of blood… bloody on its sodden soil, son without chord or placenta—or breast for drinking…climbed into the belly of the earth to hide myself, in a crater…to bury the few pieces of me that I could find beneath ash and pumice, behind a wall of smoke.
ARICIA
But you are whole as I see you now. And you see me, where I am. Come to it.
HIPPOLYTUS
Sodden soil.
ARICIA
They came to study us, to film our dreams. Monitor our thoughts. In exchange for squatters rights --send planes to drop boxes of butter and bread. They give us water, and promise us soon, our city.
HIPPOLYTUS
Our city.
ARICIA
To lure us back they tell us this. But we know better in our dreams, and live here incarcerated, like others did before us. They film us here. Monitor our thoughts, where we are separated from human practice….
HIPPOLYTUS
Our city?
ARICIA
Long since dead. What’s left of it is for archeologists to sift through how we lived. Hippolytus, enlightened son of Troezen’s corrupted throne, will you come back?
MUSIC SHIFTS/CHANGES
HIPPOLYTUS
Aricia, daughter of Pallas, who was assassinated before taking his rightful place in office-like your father, whose throat was cut, and your brothers whose bodies I did see slaughtered beneath my father’s blade…like them, I will be labeled a threat to my country if I come back, and speak what I know. Because of what they’ll say are cryptic messages in my dreams. We are the descendants of a family tree rife with rich and powerful men, who engaged in ruthless and shiftless laws. Here is the legend that bears our name. I am safe here, a soldier beneath the ground, a slaughterer of men—though I’ll not be like the rest of you, incarcerated there, vanquished to face an infallible destruction.
ARICIA
Before you were a destroyer of bodies, you were a builder of buildings. Will you come back and be that with me again?
HIPPOLYTUS
Can I return a hero, rewarded for all I’ve done? For dying, and coming back again?
ARICIA
Say to them what you have said to me, that you are not. Speak to them—your dreams.
HIPPOLYTUS
Lost between the sheltering smooth of that false sovereignty, where my body was whole… I am as yet too familiar with dismemberment, have come to accept the separation of tendon and bone…I want to keep the rest of me.
HIPPOLYTUS retreats to his hovel. Music cross fades into dream music
TITLE: SECOND STASIMON
THIS MORNING
ARICIA returns to her drawings. The DREAMERS proceed to chant. The DOCUMENTARIAN and the DREAM THEORIST carefully observe them
DREAMERS
This Coffee.
This morning.
These cities.
These dreams.
These walks in these cities.
These mornings.
These cameras.
This feeling of being,
Of waking, in dreams.
The DREAMERS continue under the following.
DOCUMENTARIAN
Their dream borrows its mythological frame from an elusive city
DREAM THEORIST
…Mycenae. An ancient Greek civilization.
DOCUMENTARIAN
Their dreams—
DREAM THEORIST
Off handed correction
Dream. Singular. Noun. Involuntary.
DOCUMENTRAIAN
--places them as survivors of an ancient Greek civilization…devastated by war.
DREAM THEORIST
Mycenae.
DOCUMENTRIAN
Bronze Age, sixteenth to thirteenth century B.C.
DREAM THEORIST
From her own papers
After the volcanic eruption of Thera and the Greek take over of the ancient city of Crete, the southern most part of Greece became the home of an advanced society. Reaching its zenith around the thirteenth century.
DOCUMENTARIAN
A kingdom once thriving in architecture, the arts, agriculture, great wealth—
DREAM THEORIST
Only to be completely destroyed within two or three centuries…leaving little evidence.
The DREAMERS stop chanting abruptly. There is a space of silence. ARICIA is in a furious state of drawing during this silence. All watch her.
DREAM THEORIST
Interpreting the drawings.
She sees a soldier. He lives in the ground. A trench. A foxhole. He is safe there. He won’t come out. She asks him to climb out of the hole, to join her. He will not. He is safe…he is safe, in the belly of the earth. Safe.
beat
The DREAM THEORIST looks through her notes. Reads.
The volcanic eruption of Thera 1650 B.C. Rhyodacite magma. The plinian column during the initial phase of the eruption was about 23 miles high. The removal of magma caused the volcano to collapse, producing a caldera. Ash. Most probably, the eruption most probably caused the end of the Minoan civilization. (shift in thought) …Superficial analogy—Evans & Newman (1964): dreams serve as a memory filter rejecting redundant memories. Old memories are not erased. Links between memories are modified in dreams. Repeated dreams result from constant interruptions of certain memories. This theory—though long outdated--came at a time when there seemed to be…a need for…
awkward pause
ARICIA
A need for dreaming.
MUSIC BACK IN
DREAMERS chant continues.
DREAMERS
This indifference.
These cameras.
This coffee.
These dreams.
Yours?
No, mine.
This being.
Not ours.
These cameras.
Are they yours?
Not mine. They’re watching, these cities.
These dreams.
Morning..
Coffee.
Did you sleep?
No.
These mornings of walking,
On camera.
This news.
This feeling of being.
These dreams.
These walks.
These mornings.
This indifference.
These cameras.
Coffee.
These dreams.
Yours?
No, mine.
This being.
Not ours.
These men.
These women.
This city.
This morning.
This ancient way of being.
MUSIC/AMBIANCE CONTINUES TO SPEED UP
Overlapping dialogue.
I’ve been having these dreams since…
Bones, acres of bones, always surround me…
Mycenae, I’d never heard of it before but…
I know it was an ancient Greek civilization of the Bronze Age
It existed between the sixteenth to thirteenth century B.C…
The first dream came when I…
I was walking Electra… I don’t know what that means
Reaching its zenith around the thirteenth century,
The Mycenaean kingdom thrived in architecture,
the arts, agriculture…. great wealth.
I know it was destroyed within two or three centuries,
leaving little evidence…
And then I met others who’d had similar dreams…
of war and Pylos…
Others who’d had dreams of Mycenae…
Brownstone buildings…ancient temples…
After the volcanic eruption of
Thera and the Greek take over of Crete…
Hippolytus was destroyed on the road Mycenae…
In the dream I am a survivor of war…
What survives?
Artifacts of life,
My TV is always on,
and my radio. Talk radio. The news.
The first dream came when I was watching the news.
I was pulled into it.
Saw myself…
I can’t describe it…the same as now, except a long time ago…
I do not drink, or use recreational drugs of any kind.
I have no history of psychological problems or…
I was there…Mycenae…
Instruments fall from the sky: violins, tiny pianos, a lute, a liar, a harp. A dance ensues among them.
TITLE: TALK SHOW
The TALK SHOW HOST interviews the DOCUMENTARIAN and The DREAM THEORIST. In a separate space, ARACHNE listens and laughs throughout, occasionally repeats what’s being said.
TALK SHOW HOST
This is a test. (MUSIC BUMPS OUT) This is only a test. Dreamers. Greece. War? Pylos? Bones, acres of bones? Documentarian? Fulcrum. Yes. No. I dunno. This is a text. This is only a test. Tell us a little about what it is you’re doing—uh—doing over there in Fulcrum…
DOCUMENTARIAN
Well, my work is centered on an investigation of the subconscious—
DREAM THEORIST
Pötzel phenomenon. Fragmentary.
TALK SHOW HOST
Well, I mean you’re dealing with some very sick people, right? These Fulcrum dreamers?
DREAM THEORIST
Partial perceptual response. Activated state of dreaming.
TALK SHOW HOST
Did they have some kind of rupture or injury that results in this zany manifestation of the illogical?
DOCUMENTARIAN
I’m recording dreams—
TALK SHOW HOST
It’s an anthropological dig yes?
DOCUMENTARIAN
Well, I’m documenting—
DREAM THEORIST
Lowered threshold for unconscious perception. Hildebrandt’s paradox, as cited by Freud.
DOCUMENTARIAN
The socio- cultural interactions of townspeople who are plagued by similar imaginings of the end of a civilization—and they’re plagued with this on a daily basis.
TALK SHOW HOST
Your video documentation of these confessions has been serialized and airs live. Yes?
DOCUMENTARIAN
Yes.
TALK SHOW HOST
Let’s go to the tape. (No images appear. Uncomfortable moment. ) That’s enough. Are we supposed to believe that what we’re seeing on the screen is really the manifestation of—?
DOCUMENTARIAN
You’re not supposed to believe anything, necessarily, if you don’t want to.
TALK SHOW HOST
Are people taking Fulcrum seriously? I mean, it’s such an odd thing…
DOCUMENTARIAN
I don’t see what’s—
TALK SHOW HOST
I mean, these Fulcrum dreamers, they’re really in need of psychiatric treatment for spirit possession, aren’t they?
DREAM THEORIST
Original stimulus. Unconscious thought;
TALK SHOW HOST
Alright. Let’s talk about the money, the money, the money, the people’s money…who’s money is being spent on--aren’t they just some kind of religious fanatics?
DOCUMENTARIAN
No. Well, you see—these are just, normal, working class people.
ARACHNE
Working class.
DOCUMENTARIAN
And the numbers of the residents of Fulcrum who complain of not being able to sleep--
TALK SHOW HOST
We’re talking about a small group of people in a small town—
DOCUMENTARIAN
who are having these dreams, that number is growing.
TALK SHOW HOST
--who all of a sudden have decided that they can’t sleep, some say they haven’t slept in almost a year—
DREAM THEORIST
Exaggerations. Phantasms, if you will.
TALK SHOW HOST
No, I won’t--these people, they—these people—
DREAM THEORIST
Inversions of the personality.
TALK SHOW HOST
These perversions of personality, do they really see ancient Greek cities and temples—
DREAM THEORIST
Well…
TALK SHOW HOST
Some of them have given themselves Greek names—
DREAM THEORIST
Idiosyncrasies; Perversities.
TALK SHOW HOST
And are convinced the world is going to implode—
DREAM THEORIST
The dream state is not a framework through which we govern memory.
TALK SHOW HOST
And turn to dust—
DREAM THEORIST
We are as capable of dreaming about events of the future, as we are events of the past—
TALK SHOW HOST
And begin all over again as an ancient Greek city. Am I right?
DREAM THEORIST
Their dreams are real. At least for them
DREAM THEORIST
Of course, you may be a bit skeptical, as scientists we have to be extremely skeptical of any phenomena that cannot be tested in a controlled laboratory environment, but these people have been carefully—
TALK SHOW HOST
It’s a sect—a religious sect, right?
DOCUMENTARIAN
Well, I don’t know— I wouldn’t categorize it as a religious sect or anything like that.
DREAM THEORIST
Their dreams are a critical narrative, creating some link between the past—and the present. Between then and now—them and us.
TALK SHOW HOST
But they do experience spirit possession of some sort, yes?
DOCUMENTARIAN
On occasion they have been known to exhibit—
TALK SHOW HOST
How often do they get out? Do you let them out? I hope you don’t let them out.
DREAM THEORIST
Uri Geller—
TALK SHOW HOST
Who?
DREAM THEORIST
Geller. Psychic studies, Stanford Research Institute. California, 1972. As a child in Germany Geller claimed a mysterious orb of light touched him and endowed him with magical powers—his spoon spontaneously curled up in his hand and broke .
TALK SHOW HOST
Uri who’s spoon did what?
DOCUMENTARIAN
Look, I’m not forming an opinion of any sort, you’re welcomed to do so but—
TALK SHOW HOST
No no, let’s go back to the footage, we’ve seen your footage and-
DOCUMENTARIAN
If you’d let me finish—
TALK SHOW HOST
Are they in a trance of some kind?
DOCUMENTARIAN
There are, well, I guess, the body does respond in some way to the experience they’re having.
DREAM THEORIST
We all sleep and eat and dream.
DOCUMENTARIAN.
Well, no. I mean, there are moments--right, where they are completely in the place they are dreaming of
DREAM THEORIST
We are all dreamers.
TALK SHOW HOST
Sleepwalking?
DOCUMENTARIAN
Perhaps that’s an oversimplification.
DREAM THEORIST
We do not necessarily have political dreams or alter our ways of life because of our dreams; we are not all dream obsessed—
TALK SHOW HOST
How many residents of Fulcrum are having these nightmares?
DOCUMENTARIST
I can’t say. I have documented more than one hundred who claim to have the same dream.
TALK SHOW HOST
Over a hundred? A singular dream? They all see the same thing?
DOCUMENTARIAN
Yes, well not really…their dreams locate each of them in the ancient Greek city of Mycenae.
TALK SHOW HOST
I was reading the paper the other day and there was an article—well, one psychologist, researching the townsfolk of Fulcrum and this shared dream syndrome, described the problem as “a community’s shared phobia, a unified fear of imperialism and new political order, fear of dominance”—
DOCUMENTARIAN
But I don’t know if we should call it a problem, I don’t see how he, the psychologist, could begin to understand the matter or the phenomenon if he begins there—identifying it a s a problem to be solved.
TALK SHOW HOST
But it’s a national and supranational problem? Fear, fear, fear, isn’t it? I mean, well—isn’t it possible that these subversive memories, these so-called dreams, are simply the invention of some radical notion of doing away with the current political structure and building a new one—
DREAM THEORIST
And because their dreams don’t necessarily happen when they sleep, they are seeing and experiencing something we are not.
TALK SHOW HOST
Isn’t there a political motive to all of this?
DOCUMENTARIAN
I can’t say, but I don’t think so. I don’t know. Some of the dreams they’ve shared are very personal, and have nothing at all to do with…
TALK SHOW HOST
Yes but wouldn’t you say that this is more of a political thing than a phenomenon—
DOCUMENTARIAN
I don’t know what this—
TALK SHOW HOST
Nobody has the exact same dream. That’s just plain weird. And why of ancient Greece? And what of their accusations, this paranoia--do you think there’s anything to these accusations, that--that they’re being watched by the government—
DOCUMENTARIAN
I can’t say that’s not true, that they’re not, but—
DREAM THEORIST
The reality of the dream is the reality of the psyche.
TALK SHOW HOST
Ok. We’re out of time for today. Thanks for joining us. Good night.
DREAM THEORIST
Dreams are passageways from our conscious to our unconscious. Children often experience nightmares, if, let’s say—they are left alone in their bedrooms in the dark. That fear of isolation induces psychological inventions of the imagination—inventions of the psyche. The psyche being more than just psychological nature… Edward Elinger said the psyche has a non-personal, historical, cosmic dimension to it—Ellinger defends this not as doctrine but as humanity’s empirical discovery, and once the discovery is made a person who dreams can live in relation to that non-personal dimension…
Sucked into a dream
Which could mean that dreams have properties more valuable than those employed by children to conjure Gods and Monsters. (shift, the DREAM THEORIST is slowly being sucked into a dream, surrounded by murky images of a children’s book and a window)) .As a child I often had dreams of someone just outside my bedroom window, of a hand coming through the blinds toward my face, its grip at my throat, pulling me effortlessly out of my bed, through the blinds, into the dark that permeated the space beyond the comfort of my bedroom…this fear…the feel of it, the rush of air on my bare legs as I am pulled so swiftly with out much effort, the feeling of my bare feet dangling in air with out any ability to touch the ground, to feel a solid surface, that feeling of feet in air…that motion… of invasion…my vulnerability…the taking of your flesh. The notion of being impenetrable and suddenly invaded…vulnerable with a false sense of security…the promise… but there is an intruder…fear becomes you…it has happened before…is possible…to be taken away from what you know…taken out of context…separated from…snatched into the dark…effortlessly…then to cease to exist…you no longer exist outside your room, your bed, your security… others, at one time or another...I suppose…have had this happen.
She climbs up onto the table, collapses there. ARACHNE walks into her dream. Speaks from the end of the table, into the DREAM THEORIST’S ear.
ARACHNE
You say we are dreamers. We are not dreamers. We are destitute of dreams. We are not dreaming—we are reminded…of great cities and great falls, of the Dorian burning. Of an impregnable nation, a nation where the poor are ruled by the wealthy, where the wealthy rule a well ordered beaurocratic government. We make no distinction between that world and this one. Already the rivers are interrupted and the air is taxed—fresh meat is the prayer of the unborn infant—auctioned to the highest bidder. We are born Mycenaean, which is to say we come to be as our forefathers; citizens of empire, a deprecated bloodline flowing at the dull and will full pace of a recompense, a tormenting gradualism. We are born into a nation with one God—who, like Zeus—has dominion over all the world. (Arachne’s voice reverberates) The blood of your king will evaporate like the blood of King Atreus. The Argive and Dorian armies already advance against your city. You will cower behind ditches… It was the King, who made his own son King, who will set the dogs loose at our feet. In this ghetto, this city and technological eyes…drenched in fire. We are the descendants of a family tree rife with rich and powerful men, who engage in ruthless and shiftless laws. We are destined again for an infallible destruction. You are Mycenaean, which is to say you have always known something about the repetition of history.
TITLE: THIRD STASIMON; A SON COME HOME
As ARACHNE and the DREAMERS exit, a song is heard. HIPPOLYTUS is seen, standing on a lighted path.
A son is coming home
He’s afraid
Of the dreams.
He will come home…
He’s afraid.
Some of us,
We are not afraid
Of the dreams.
Tapestries of dreams
Gods and mortals.
Some of us,
We know what the dreams mean.
Dusty temples,
Sacrificial stones,
Dry with no bloodstains.
The nation-state,
Empirical shift,
Called into being.
We know what the dreams mean…
TITLE: AT THE LION’S GATE
ARACHNE, in the form of three women in silver funerary masks, greets Hippolytus at the Lion’s gate (the city of MYCENAEAN dreams. The DOCUMENTARIAN, who adjusts his camera, is unaware of HIPPOLYTUS’ conversation. At first, she calls to him in four different languages—Arabic, German, French, and Italian.
ARACHNE
Soldat.
Sind Sie lebendig oder tot?
Ihre Träume warten Sie.
Soldat. Êtes-vous vivant ou mort ?
Vos rêves vous attendent.
Soldato. Siete vivi o morti?
I vostri sogni li aspettano.
Soldier…
Soldier…
Soldier?
Welcome.
Welcome home soldier.
You comin’ inside?
HIPPOLYTUS
What?
ARACHNE
You comin’ inside? Comin’ in.
HIPPOLYTUS
No..
ARACHNE
Where you from soldier?
HIPPOLYTUS
Not from—to…
ARACHNE
Where you goin’ to?
HIPPOLYTUS
Nowhere. Here. There.
ARACHNE
How long you been there?
HIPPOLYTUS
I don’t…I don’t know.
ARACHNE
Tell me what you know. Tell me what you see soldier.
HIPPOLYTUS
I can’t…can’t see…
ARACHNE
Do things seem different to you soldier?
HIPPOLYTUS
Different from what?
ARACHNE
Way it was—before. What you lookin’ for soldier?
HIPPOLYTUS
Just a…a place to be.
ARACHNE
Who you lookin’ for soldier?
HIPPOLYTUS
Nobody.
ARACHNE
Are you living or are you dead? They said you were dead. All thought you dead. She brought you back, fixed your body in the dream.
HIPPOLYTUS
Who?
ARACHNE
The one you’re lookin’ for. She brought you back.
HIPPOLYTUS
What?
ARACHNE
Do you dream, soldier?
HIPPOLYTUS
What?
ARACHNE
What do you dream?
HIPPOLYTUS
I…I don’t—
ARACHNE
You do. She met you oft times in your dream. You were on the road of Mycenae. That dreadful cry came up from the depths – That mountain wave of water did rear up with horns and scales. Your men, your horses were in fear. You let your grip upon the reigns soften. Hippolytus. Your charge dashed forth, dragging you behind. You were dismembered on the road to Mycenae. She saw your body in the dream and made you whole. Now you’ve come back after the fact. It’s not over.
HIPPOLYTUS
What ain’t over?
ARACHNE
Everything. Everything. You’ve come back, after the fact. It is not over. Now that you’ve come back, after the fact, you comin’ inside?
Dream a little while.
You comin’ inside?
Dream a little while.
Dream.
Dream a little while.
Dream.
Come inside. Dream a little while.
Come inside. Dream a little while.
You livin’ or dead?
Come inside.
You’ve come back
After the fact.
Come inside.
Dream a little while.
Soldier.
Soldier
Harsh interrogation and lights bump in. Voices question.
DREAMERS
Soldier? Do you understand why you were sent here? You were one of the soldier’s reported missing. It’s in the news. You’re in the news. They thought you’d died. You’ve made a lot of people very happy. Everyone is happy to see you. What we do here is record dreams. It’s very simple. We film you, we record you. You’ll just give us your dreams. Whatever’s on your mind. We have to ask you some questions–formalities.
Did you sustain any injuries ?
HIPPOLYTUS is violently cast into a dream state; thrown through ancient cities, chases ghosts of soldiers long dead, tries to compose himself—until he finds himself re-experiencing the attack on his battalion.
HIPPOLYTUS
Peer left. Jab right. Heavy mortar attack against our base. Patrol at dawn. All were sleep, except my guards, who stood without—Mycenaean roads, between two cities, my thoughts abstracted…then a yell, another cry…from the depths, breaking through.
DREAM THEORIST
Did you have sexual relations of any kind with anyone while you were on tour of duty?
DOCUMENTARIAN
If so, male or female?
ARACHNE
Did you engage in unprotected sex while on tour, male or female, vaginal, anal, oral?
DOCUMENTARIAN
Do you know if you’ve contracted any sexually transmitted diseases..
ARACHNE
Do you have a history of depression, psychosis, mental retardation, or any such diagnosed mental illness?
HIPPOLYTUS
Peer left. Jab right. Up from the earth, an explosion came—and all the world went up in air, the soldier’s blood, and the shore rolled up…a troop advancing, spume and deadly venom. Bodies ripped, a little girl, with pulled back skin, her gums exposed, lay in my arms.
ARACHNE
Do you have a history of drug use? Does anyone in your immediate family ?
DREAM THEORIST
Did you indulge in drug use or alcohol intake while on tour?
DOCUMENTARIAN
Have you ever had any surgery of any kind?
ARACHNE
Please confirm your passport number. Please confirm your social security number.
ARICIA
Before you were enlisted what was your political affiliation?
DREAM THEORIST
Did you vote in the last election?
ARICIA
What was your political affiliation?
DREAM THEORIST
Did you or have you engaged in sex with–
DOCUMENTARIAN
Anyone from another country or outside your race within the last year?
HIPPOLYTUS
Peer right. Jab left. The leader’s call for a nation state, we did stand still in sovereignty, but then it came, and my gun held high—the sky of blood.
ARICIA
Do you experience headaches or chronic dreams?
DOCUMENTARIAN
Are you the biological father of anyone that you know of?
ARACHNE
Have you ever been involved with a radical political movement of any kind.
ARACHNE
Please confirm your e-mail account before you were enlisted.
HIPPOLYTUS
One fled the scene. The gunmen fired. Automatic weapons. Soldiers patrolling the northern edge. Coalition forces continued their attack to destroy, to capture the regime. A string of attacks on our troops. Soldiers wounded.
DREAM THEORIST
Please confirm your date of birth and your address.
DOCUMENTARIAN
Its just procedure.
HIPPOLYTUS retreats to his hole in the belly of the earth.
TITLE: FIFTH STASIMON
EVENING NEWS
.
DREAMER
A woman was found today…
DREAMER
The Fulcrum dreamer had been accused of…
DREAMER
One of many dreamers who have been held at a Government operated site…
DREAMER
Attorney General said he was not surprised at public accusations of war crimes….
DREAMER
To ensure the safety of…
DREAMER
The woman hung herself from a rope she’d made….
DREAMER
Also in today’s news, the former President said…
DREAMER
The German Chancellor was…
DREAMER
A girl was found drowned.
DREAMER
Residents…
DREAMER
Rehabilitation will cost…
DREAMER
Cost more than…
DREAMER
Work halted…
DREAMER
Ruination
DREAMER
City in ruins
DREAMER
Families of victims
DREAMER
Chronic insomnia
DREAMER
Scattered remains
DREAMER
More soldiers returning
DREAMER
Soldiers due to return
DREAMER
Government officials say many will require—
DREAMER
Rehabilitation
DREAMER
One of the state’s worse Sleeplessness…
DREAMER
Long abandoned…
DREAMER
—crime rates. Mayor appeals for rehabilitation funds…
DREAMER
Demolition began—
DREAMER
Over the last several years…
DREAMER
Several citizens
DREAMER
Fulcrum City complaining of sleeplessness
DREAMER
Daily dream occurrences.
DREAMER
More than one hundred come forward
DREAMER
Having not slept
DREAMER
Find they dreaming
DREAMER
A study continues—
NEWSANCHOR 1
The ongoing documentary airs—
DREAMER
Public paranoia
DREAMER
Comparing it to the demise of an ancient empire—
DREAMER
—as possible subversives. Government officials have—
DREAMER
Decrepit Fulcrum building used as site specific—
DREAMER
Walking dreamers.
DREAMER
Many soldiers returning.
DREAMER
Officials say the soldiers are in good spirits and looking forward to time spent with their families.
DREAMER
Looking to effectively integrate them back into society—
DREAMER
Also in the news, due to the federal deficit, and burdened by tax cuts and military spending, the government is putting into place health care reimbursement ceilings, and early expiration of health care benefits, as an incentive to–
DREAMER
Officials say ensuring patriotism—
DREAMER
Officials say Homeland Security expansion—
DREAMER
Officials will investigate and prosecute anyone aiding and abetting—
DREAMER
Democracy is in a downward slump
DREAMER
Expatriates say—
DREAMER
Officials say expatriates—
DREAMER
Guilty parties—
DREAMER
Tortured and executed—
DREAMER
In a humane fashion—
DREAMER
The President, responding to complaints—
DREAMER
Tortured and slaughtered one million children today-
DREAMER
American farmers say—
DREAMER
Pussy Willows are in bloom this spring—
DREAMER
American farmers blame–
DREAMER
Pussy willows for—
DREAMER
A downward slump.
DREAMER
Pussy is in bloom this spring—
DREAMER
American farmers protesting…
DREAMER
The average man—
DREAMER
Uninformed and grossly uneducated—
DREAMER
When asked for further clarification, the president concluded his speech by saying—
DREAMER
“The mongoose is having coffee with the quail in the wondrous fluffs of a quagmire.”
DREAMER
The soldier, who had been reported missing…
DREAMER
A hero’s welcome is planned for soldier who was reported missing after an attack…
DREAMER
Officials say the soldier is in good spirits…
DREAMER
Good spirtits.
DREAMER
—and looking forward to returning to their families.
HIPPOLYTUS / DREAMERS
Peer left. Jab right.
Heavy mortar against our base.
Patrol at dawn.
All were sleep, between two cities—
And then a yell,
Another cry… breaking through
And all the world went up in air
Troops advancing
Bodies ripped
A little girl
A sky of blood.
I am no hero.
TITLE: SECOND EPISODE
HIPPOLYTUS RE-MEMBERED
MUSIC CHANGES/SHIFTS
HIPPOLYTUS
He was coming from, I was walking toward. I was walking toward something, having arrived at nothing. He was crossing the avenue, my brother—the remains of a boy crossing pernicious pavement channels. An easy task—straight and steady steps, swift celerity—aiming himself somewhere with an equestrian swagger that defied the shame of his body; hair matted, face distorted—head cracked open dry, clothes drenched in water, a dark countenance masking a fragile frame. I’d flown through a turbulent sky—landed safely on even ground, a dazed survivor. Pushing back pavement with sturdy strides, people passing me—tried to reacquaint myself with myself. Tried not to provoke the quake of dreams or trigger the eruption of things that have been sewn tightly into the lining of my stomach…an almanac of wars and cracked concrete shifting. The city was falling in the year of its reconstruction. The year of city renewal and city planning; of renaming streets and changing demographics, renovating buildings and erecting irrelevant statues, of sweeping fetid bodies beneath the gratings. Old graves were apostatized and cemented over with neon animation. New graves were dug for those who could not survive the metamorphosis of terrified urbanity. New buildings had been propped up, bronze and cast iron plaques tacked onto their edifices, an eternal reminder of the dead in their absence—but the dead were not absent—the dead were everywhere monuments had been erected to mark their demise. In the aftermath of war, dead men and dead women and dead children awakened to an attempted restoration. They walked among us, and where they walked they walked freely, through the tumbling of urbanity, through newly erected structures that had not been there before; they made pathways where pathways used to be. The dead put their ears close to the ground, their hands to the walls, asked old buildings to tell them a story, to give testimony. The dead relied on the memory this city has been built upon, footprints and forgotten gestures layered in rock, how we talked with our tongues, what we said through our lips, what we meant in our voiceless ness. And where they walked, they walked freely…
FOURTH EPISODE
TITLE: A HERO’S WELCOME
HIPPOLYTUS stands before an audience in an auditorium full of laughter. He is clearly nervous. Citizens watch him on their television sets. The TALK SHOW HOST is seated at his desk on stage, waiting for HIPPOLYTUS to continue his war stories to entertain the public. The TALK SHOW HOST throws a fistful of confetti at HIPPOLYTUS as he speaks. A laugh track plays under.
TALK SHOW HOST
Uh-huh…and then what?
HIPPOLYTUS
Almost indiscernible
We were half a mile up…
TALK SHOW HOST
Uh-huh…yeah?
HIPPOLYTUS
By the mudflats…
TALK SHOW HOST
By the mudflats….uh-huuuuuuuuuuh?
HIPPOLYTUS
On the road of Mycenae…
TALK SHOW
Yeah, yeah, oooooh, yeaaaaaahhhhh, uh-huuuuuuuuh—ssssssssssss—uh-uhhuh?
HIPPOLYTUS
We had barely left the gates of Troezen…we had horses and…
TALK SHOW HOST
Oh. Oh. Oh. Oh.
HIPPOLYTUS
We were to patrol by day and camp out that night…
TALK SHOW HOIST
Mmmmhhhhmmmmm….hhhhhmmmmm…eeeeow.
TALK SHOW HOST
Uh-uh-uh.
HIPPOLYTUS
And it was…an ambush…
TALK SHOW HOST
Wuh0huh—wuh-huh.
HIPPOLYTUS
I saw one man down, without his hands…another man had no arms…
TALK SHOW HOST
Yeah, and theeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeen?
HIPPOLYTUS
Some of the civilians…the women…
TALK SHOW HOST
C’mon, c’mon, c’mon.
HIPPOLYTUS
One had a baby on her back, a little girl—
TALK SHOW HOST
Sssssssssssssss
HIPPOLYTUS
So then we split up the unit, and…and I went up ahead, in front of the others, walked over all the bodies…
TALK SHOW HOST
Oho oho oho oho oho?
TALK SHOW HOST turns toward the camera—talks to the television home audience, recites the State of the Nation. The audience joins in.
TALK SHOW HOST
…And this I speak from the ancients, of all things there is the word that speaks wisdom to man, and man upon first hearing it is dumb to its understanding. Listen not to me for wisdom–but to the word and know that they are one. Be mindful of this; mindfulness is the ground of being, to speak one’s true mind, and to keep things known in common, serves all being…just as laws made clear uphold our city. As for those men who are now ennobled souls collected in a dominion of divine honor amidst our great protectorates…we are bereaved. Yet we must esteem them as ordained burden bearers now gathered in sundry branches of heroism. They were predestined to serve us. They rest now in the succor of a greater federation than we know in our pedestrianism. I ask that those beneficent forces of defense that bequeathed their lives for ours, allow me to speak to you the sentiments with which they forged our path; we have landed. We have come ashore on a solid embankment. No longer shall we hurl about. We have landed here with our voices in tact, and we resound our proposal with proactive aggression–let us proceed with our regime…of systematic liberty.
The city appears before HIPPOLYTUS, desolate and full of memories.
HIPPOLYTUS
Beneath balding trees covering blue stone in sorrel, brownstone buildings bathed in rain, bleed into the gutters, sheets of plywood nailed across their mouths. They nod to apathetic strangers who pass them by, take for granted their nineteenth-century walls sitting quietly with trapped tongues behind chicken wire fences, waiting in the shadow of broken street-lamps, dying patiently on the land of their birth, rusting carcasses of metal; gored, stripped, tireless cars parked at their feet. These betrayed houses, born to German lawyers, Dutch farmers, Jewish tailors, Irish workers, tobacco merchants & financiers, on the land of long gone Native hunters…they incline their ears down toward the bridge and across the water, where the sound of hammering and drilling draws near. The sound of reconstruction, of newer, corporate, more lucrative structures— inspires trust. Soon, men will come back to small, insignificant neighborhoods like these. They will come back with flashlights and plans for renovation. They’ll come back—as they have always--reminded of the fading beauty of Italiante rowhouses on wide tree-lined boulevards. They will rediscover the classic frames and elaborate details of unified blockfronts, touch the surface of sandstone, explore the rusticated basements and mansard roofs, and remember that these buildings have been standing for years and years and years. These buildings have been dying for years and years and years. (Lights change as Hippolytus begins to cross back upstage, DOCUMENTARIAN records him) Survived many wars and many conversions, withstood the desertion of their builders and welcomed masses of new immigrants. Someone will come, and tend to their decay. You can hear these buildings praying to themselves as you pass them by.
Lights come up downstage left as ARACHNE crosses downstage. The TALK SHOW HOST hears her, is thrust into a dream.
ARACHNE
I remember…a man who watched the news, all of his days. He was approaching his twilight years; his hair was electric light, a well-ordered anarchy above his face. I remember a man whose head was on fire. The top of his head was on fire. He was…
TALK SHOW HOST
Bones…acres of bones all around me, scattered across the beaches of Thera. The red dirt sands of Thera, Dry white bones. The light of the blue screen…the cameras hidden in the rocks as I follow the roads… my foe is seated in my living room…watching me follow my father’s blood on my father’s roads…and my father’s blood means nothing to my foe. I collect the bones, one by one. Pick them up….pick them…nothing more than the planted grove of elms above the tombs… The rocks resound with voices coming from a blue screen. Let it be remembered, it is was their words that brought us their voices, it was the absence of their words where their voices took over… that coaxed the rock, and bent the branches into a repetitive chorus. Citizens of Mycenae—here we are! Visible to all in our shame… we are destitute even of the third realm of dreams; Hildebrandt’s paradox wherein there is no difference to multiply between our virtuosity and our deterioration…we walk entrapped, here, saddled and forlorn; vanquished, and ruthless are the Gods we served in store front church basements and cave dwellings from which we heard of the betrayal of our magistrates…no sooner had we rejoiced in our expectations were we deceived! And the King’s son rose up as King with his father’s sins still moist and gleaming on his tongue, twisting rudimentary vowels—ruthless are the Gods of a bloody Jesus!
TITLE: THIRD EPISODE
THE REALITY OF DREAMS
The DOCUMENTARIAN watches his film. The DREAM THEORIST listens. DOCUMETRIAN records himself, he is revealed on screens
DOCUMENTARIAN
This space. This light. This room. This medium. This camera. This is a camera. It’s just a camera. It’s documenting a dialogue…they share their dreams of ancient wars in ancient cities, and in so doing so, they co-inhabit another space…this is a workroom, just a workroom. An observation deck for re-enactment. In early Chinese society dreams were believed to be our way…As the numbers of Fulcrum dreamers increase, how can I believe or disbelieve in something. There is no faith…In some cultures, dreams were said to…There are reports that dreamers are increasing but – During the Middle Ages, dream divination declined as it was. There are however, reports of dreams in both…God uses dream states as a means of…The problem, I suppose—is the ability to distinguish between divinity and reality…if we can carefully document their dreams and keep them safe from—those…of us…who are not dreamers…Those who are suspected of being dreamers…those who may be suffering from some traumatic event, people in need. Fear and anxiety. It’s important to all concerned parties. There is a privacy to dreams. They’re not so easily translated….We are compelled to continue our work…Ordered to…Supply them with answers until they are satisfied, but they are never…They demand we deliver a Dreamer who can-the soldiers, they want answers from the soldiers, they-who is they? I’ve given them more footage, the log notes, they ask the same damn questions. The soldiers, they are not allowed to…
DREAM THEORIST
We.
DOCUMENTARIAN
No one is…allowed…to…the dreamers, we are…not allowed…they film us, record our thoughts but we are not allowed…I came here to complete…I was invited here to…my work centers…Our work is not longer possible. Our dreams are no longer…possible. We are not allowed to dream.
DREAM THEORIST
Where?
DOCUMENTARIAN
To these…these circular hearths… at Pylos…we are not allowed to dream…
DREAM THEORIST
We are not…
DOCUMENTARIAN
Allowed to leave here.
ALL DREAMERS
None of us.
MUSIC/AMBIANCE BEGINS/continues under ARACHNE
ARACHNE advances
ARACHNE
You are not allowed. You are not allowed to leave here if you live here. You are not allowed to be here if you have not already been here. You are not allowed to say you can see, to say you can see me if you cannot. You are not allowed to see me for the first time and report me back to the ones who have never seen me. You are not allowed to see me with your language for them. You are not allowed to visit me in my despair if you do not know my despair. You are not allowed to be geopolitical about this. Not here. You are not allowed to vote for me. You are not allowed to cry for me. You are not allowed to suspect me of treason, or madness, or anarchy, or broken-heartedness. You are not allowed to believe in my existence if you do not know whether or not I am experiencing an existence. You are not allowed to say anything to them about me. You are not allowed to be a reporter…a go between life and death…simply because you have read books on polity and representation.
TITLE: DIAGRAMS FOR DISSECTED BODIES
ARICIA
You have to fight for your vision, strain your blindness as far inward as it can go until something cripples your already crippled blindness, and turns itself back toward sight. You cannot keep silent this earthly peril. Finish. It is finished. Hippolytus…I’m finished. I can say that now. Not until now, have I been able to say…truly say…this is my work. This is my work and I am finished. The work is not finished. It can’t be. My process toward the work that is mine is finished. In my work, hopefully you are compelled to do your work. One comes here, to this work…to this space…to do their own. That is the purpose of this…this dream…this space, this light, this medium. To do work of one’s own, not to witness but to interact. To co-inhabit a spatial enlightenment of working. Will you come to it?
HIPPOLYTUS
A man is dead. Or does he live? Can you see him? Is he broken?
ARICIA
In my dream I saw a man…broken into pieces. In my drawings, I tried to piece together his remains…You have returned, with all of yourself, with your blood contained…your sight in place…will you speak this time, when they hail your service?
HIPPOLYTUS
What do you want me to say?
ARICIA
Say something.
DOCUMENTARIAN
This is a camera. Just a camera.
DREAM THEORIST
This is a camera. It belongs to them. They keep us here.
ARICIA
When they turn the cameras on us again. Will we repeat this show of ours, this elaborate dance, while they parade the corpses down the streets, and hide them away—as they have done before? Will you stand by as you did just now, or will you speak this time, of friend and foe, of dreams and blood…reveal the stain that will not clear?
HIPPOLYTUS
Could I say more? Any more than some have already said? When you pieced me back together…Did you place my tongue?
TALK SHOW HOST
The Bipartisan Lobbyists, Radical Conscientious Observers,
HIPPOLYTUS
Did you put one in my mouth?
TALK SHOW HOST
The queers, the dykes, the Jews, the whores.
HIPPOLYTUS
Did you intend it to make the sound you want to hear?
DOCUMENTARIAN
One room, one frame of mind.
HIPPOLYTUS/DREAM THEORIST
Forget my tongue, it’s lost its words.
ARICIA
What it is to me it must be to you—not a mystery.
TALK SHOW HOST
This is a test…
HIPPOLYTUS
I am born to a woman who was born to a minor,
TALK SHOW HOST
This is a man…
HIPPOLYTUS
I am born to a man, born to even less than me, who paid the nation more than his share of ten percent for prolonged breathing. Who, in my eyes, was the bravest of soldiers, descendants of Hector, and conquerors in that war before Illium.
TALK SHOW HOST
This is the news…
HIIPOLYSTUS
Could I say more, without disgracing his belief? Could I find truth if it means their lie? I could not—any more than you—murder my mother or father, who also live in me, along with what I know.
HIPPOLYTUS
To save their lives, and their belief in this…it would cost nothing for me to keep silent.
TALK SHOW HOST
Yes?...No?...
ARICIA
I don’t understand.
HIPPOLYTUS
I want to love you.
ARICIA
I don’t understand.
HIPPOLYTUS
Build a house for you from the ground up with nothing. I know how to do that.
ARACHNE
Storm clouds…
HIPPOLYTUS
We can have a place.
ARACHNE
Wind…
DOCUMENTARIAN
When they turn the cameras on this time, I’ll say nothing. Nothing at all.
ARACHNE
Percipitation…
DREAM THEORIST/ARICIA
I don’t understand.
HIPPOLYTUS
LOOK AT MY HANDS!
DOCUMENTARIAN
I’m not the MURDERER!
DOCUMENTARIAN
I want to get OUTTA THIS ROOM!
ARACHNE
Cold front coming in…Hot back going out, all are lobbying for air…
HIPPOLYTUS
The room I want to build. The space I want to build. solid, a room of wood, with axe and auger. A room without nails. I’ll erect a connecting vestry with beaded poplar and oak rafters.
ARICIA /DREAM THEORIST
I don’t understand.
DOCUMENTARIAN
There’s nothing here, nothing more to see or study.
HIPPOLYTUS
There is nothing—NOTHING more here for me to know but dust and rock and martyred soldiers and the shame of my father’s tormented rule, and heinous death…
DREAM THEORIST
I don’t understand your cynosure.
DOCUMENTARIAN
I have an eye.
HIPPOLYTUS
I have my hands.
DOCUMENTARIAN
I have a camera. A camera lens, turned on me.
HIPPOLYTUS
I’ll make a world–make all there is.
DOCUMENTARIAN
I’ll tell them there are no such thing as dreams. I’ll say I’ve never had them.
HIPPOLYTUS
I want to build a spring garden that just may bloom before the rains come. I want to build a vestry…Solid.…
DOCUMENTARIAN
I want to live.
HIPPOLYTUS
I’m making room for us to live without debate and thesis…
DREAM THEORIST
Do you think, it is possible for the sons of men who held position on National Committees of Restitution, to rebuild collapsing walls?
DREAM THEORIST/ARACHNE
Take to it.
ARICIA
Do you think they’ll allow you to rest your ancestral thyrsus. It’s still wet with the blood of the Minatour.
ARACHNE
Bring them in. bring them in! Show them this city we’re in.
HIPPOLYTUS
We can leave this city. We can build our own. We’ll have a room built without nails. A window, a chair, a place to sleep without dreaming. We’ll have a TV screen, and every channel will smile at us I have a room I want to build.
ARICIA
I have a memory that goes too far back, There is no room for old memories in new rooms.
HIPPOLYTUS
We will rebuild this corner of the earth that is ours and embellish the whole of it with agreement.
ARICIA
Hippolytus…should they ask you again of–of what the dreams have shown you…
HIPPOLYTUS
I will be without reply.
DREAM THEORIST
They won’t believe you. .
ARACHNE
High winds, low breeze, at the mouth of falling cities. Affliction on a sunny day…
HIPPOLYTUS
So happy was I at the thought of building a room for the pleasure of our life’s span, I’d let my grip upon the reins soften…and that dreadful cry came out of the depths of the waves and resounded, shattering stillness, that mountain wave of water did rear up, spewing forth that monstrous foe with its horns, sharp as any missile’s aim, and scales, green as commerce. My body is now a mass of wounds. I can locate them for you. You can put your hand inside and see that I am hollow. I just want to
ARICIA
I painted cave murals on my kitchen walls, I painted death masks on the sides of Bodegas, I painted doors over all of them so the scattered bones of our cadavers could reunite with themselves and rise up and run…run…flee the conquering of mythical events. In this painting…here, I built a sanctuary…in which to repent for my life’s mistakes…in which I could patiently wait for redemption. In this drawing, I made a bridge between myself and the rooms of Helio Oiticia.
DOCUMENTARIAN
I just wanna have a nice day…
ARICIA
I drew a dance to summon the voices of Asturian Socialists…I made a house in which I could have dinner and conversation with Franco at the war table. I prepared a meal of anarchy and cultural resistance. A resistance at the end of reactionary rule…With the freedom of my brush…my wrist…the art I make makes inroads backwards. My pigments are made of mercenary blood. I make Proto-romantic skies. Proto-realist moons.
HIPPOLYTUS
I don’t understand.
ARICIA
I’m making a thousand moons under which a man or a woman could run by night or day, could be free-free even within the chambers of one’s own mind.
DOCUMENTARIAN
A nice day…
HIPPOLYTUS
I just want to love you.
ARICIA
I’m making light by which to flee the marketplace of Oradour-sur-Glanes…
HIPPOLYTUS
I just want to love you.
ARICIA
Before the Sentinels blocked their exits. Moons with transcending light to flee the province of Kibungo near Tanzanian borders. Acres and acres of open terrain, an even plain, on which one can find natural grounding.Where one can leap years into safe pastures. I’m making funerary masks with which to cover your shame.
HIPPOLYTUS
I don’t understand.
ARICIA
We have not been invited here to live, my love. We have been exiled here to die.
ALL (repeated)
I just want to love you. I just want to have a nice day. A nice day. Love you. I want. I just.
ARACHNE
Storm clouds coming in. cold front going out. Precipitation. All are lobbying for air.
(end of dream)
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