Friday, August 22, 2003
Saturday, August 16, 2003
Possible stagings for a ballet based on two musical pieces heard on KVOD (CPR's classical station):
Symphony in E Minor (?) by (?)
They dance across tightropes; first a pivot, then a sudden turn, and the arms stretch as bestowing some gift, the silent gift of the forest; the nymphs join them in swirls, half circles, and they dance among the boughs and fly across the treetops; they group into various circles and continue their swirling gestures, and then a single one, clad entirely in a sparkling gown of gems, comes to the center; the others crowd around her and they begin to dance in formation. She looks through the darkness interrupted by the glimmering light of her jewelled attire and sees the youth, who has emerged from the forest; she crosses to him and bows deeply, then flits away; the others hound the confused youth, who looks first here and then there – everywhere fairies! He makes a confounded gesture and turns into himself, withdrawing from its sheath the golden sword and gazing at it for a moment in sorrowful awe.
The fairies now gather together and their dancing heightens; they are about to introduce the youth to the fairy queen, who had teased him on his arrival in the forest. The fairies take the leaves and branches of the trees and begin weaving them into a garland; the fairy queen, ascendant, watches as they perform the earth rituals that are characteristic of her reign and glory. The youth, meanwhile, is taunted and tormented by giggling groups of fairy girls, poking at him from here and there, giggling off. A group of young girls is forming the garland and doing a special dance; one twirls in the center, followed by another, and everywhere are wings and glitter.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the forest, Casandra is stumbling after her lost lover, and looks under each twig and leaf, all the while haunted by the conspiring fairies, who confuse her and drop hints of a Presence from their hiding places in the undergrowth. Roland (the youth) has taken out his sword and is gazing at its gleam in the half obscured sunlight of the branches.
The king emerges from the other end of the forest and is sending out hunting parties to look for his lost daughter Hannah, who has disappeared as if under a spell. The fairy queen is lowered from the branches by the fairies and crowned with the awesome garland of boughs, and when it crowns her fire consumes her and she becomes a being of flame and light, subsuming the youth. All exit, leaving Casandra to peer alone through the forest. It is completely dark and the quest for Roland is hopeless. The king’s troops have faded into the background, leaving her alone on stage. She comes upon a fawn sitting on a stump, and she beseeches him and falls on her knees, gesturing that he might aid her. But the fawn refuses and dances off. She calls after him and he brings a troupe of fawns in turn, who chase after her. She runs, but the fawns are in hot pursuit.
Meanwhile the king has re-emerged from the trees and sees the retreating fawns; he joins the chase with his legion of knights. Deeper in, the hem of Casandra’s dress has been caught on a branch; she clutches madly at it, and one of the fawns sees her. He begins to dance madly and exuberantly, calling after the fawns. Meanwhile, Ogden, a particularly intelligent and crafty fawn, is leading the hounds of the king on a wild goose chase; after him are riding the cavalry, and the dogs pursue the fawn through the trees. The horses whinny and neigh, for they cannot go through the thick undergrowth. The men dismount and make to pursue after the fawn; but as they leave their horses and disappear into the thickness of the forest the fawn appears around the bend with the dogs chasing after him and now makes as if to chase the soldiers into the undergrowth! The horses, spooked, gallop after him. Cassandra finally frees herself and runs into a clearing where there is a large lake. As she approaches, angry pixies rise from the water and grab her, hoisting her into the air and making her to do floating turns and pirouettes. Finally the bedraggled king emerges at the lake with his soldiers, looking after the departed Cassandra and crying, “Oh Hannah, my daughter!”
The Banks of Green Willow by George Idle
The youth emerges from the forest into a long valley; there are dottings of flowers and butterflies that flutter slightly and delicately from the stems. The youth wanders through endless meadows of blue skies; the sun is high, it is midday. He gazes around, as if lost, but enjoying the scenery. There is a brook flowing down the middle of the valley, out of the woods, which have thinned into occasional and delicately silver aspens. The youth climbs a series of hills that stand at the edge of the scenery and comes to a large vista, overlooking the whole area. He sees in the distance Troy, and again raises the sword; the gleam of the burning city catches and elaborates the gleam of the steel. He lowers the sword, and as he does, we see Cassandra run into the valley from the forest, followed by an escort of angry pixies. They depart after her into the forest, and she now looks all about and is overwhelmed by a large pair of butterflies. The butterflies begin dancing and gesturing to the brook and the whole of the valley. Meanwhile, Roland sits down and begins to weep. Cassandra looks across the stream and herself sees Troy. She begins to bend in dance, weaving and turning, a slave to her memory, the wailing loss of Troy. Roland too has begun to dance, and their dances join with the delicate butterflies and the soft flowing brook. Birds begin to sing and a lazy cloud drifts across the sky, shaping into a castle. Now Cassandra is remembering the kindly old king, who used to dangle her on his knee as a child, and would read her from a book, The Annals of Troy. She is lost in revery. Roland too sits, remembering the marketplaces and the broad squares, the endless seccesion of carriages, and the hem of Helen’s pink gown that trailed across the plazas so long ago; her attendant ladies in purple, and the triumphant figure of Paris – now lying skewered by the sword in the valley of Pergamum. As he falls again under the backdrop of memory, the sun rises over the horizon and a light trickles across the body-strewn fields.
Symphony in E Minor (?) by (?)
They dance across tightropes; first a pivot, then a sudden turn, and the arms stretch as bestowing some gift, the silent gift of the forest; the nymphs join them in swirls, half circles, and they dance among the boughs and fly across the treetops; they group into various circles and continue their swirling gestures, and then a single one, clad entirely in a sparkling gown of gems, comes to the center; the others crowd around her and they begin to dance in formation. She looks through the darkness interrupted by the glimmering light of her jewelled attire and sees the youth, who has emerged from the forest; she crosses to him and bows deeply, then flits away; the others hound the confused youth, who looks first here and then there – everywhere fairies! He makes a confounded gesture and turns into himself, withdrawing from its sheath the golden sword and gazing at it for a moment in sorrowful awe.
The fairies now gather together and their dancing heightens; they are about to introduce the youth to the fairy queen, who had teased him on his arrival in the forest. The fairies take the leaves and branches of the trees and begin weaving them into a garland; the fairy queen, ascendant, watches as they perform the earth rituals that are characteristic of her reign and glory. The youth, meanwhile, is taunted and tormented by giggling groups of fairy girls, poking at him from here and there, giggling off. A group of young girls is forming the garland and doing a special dance; one twirls in the center, followed by another, and everywhere are wings and glitter.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the forest, Casandra is stumbling after her lost lover, and looks under each twig and leaf, all the while haunted by the conspiring fairies, who confuse her and drop hints of a Presence from their hiding places in the undergrowth. Roland (the youth) has taken out his sword and is gazing at its gleam in the half obscured sunlight of the branches.
The king emerges from the other end of the forest and is sending out hunting parties to look for his lost daughter Hannah, who has disappeared as if under a spell. The fairy queen is lowered from the branches by the fairies and crowned with the awesome garland of boughs, and when it crowns her fire consumes her and she becomes a being of flame and light, subsuming the youth. All exit, leaving Casandra to peer alone through the forest. It is completely dark and the quest for Roland is hopeless. The king’s troops have faded into the background, leaving her alone on stage. She comes upon a fawn sitting on a stump, and she beseeches him and falls on her knees, gesturing that he might aid her. But the fawn refuses and dances off. She calls after him and he brings a troupe of fawns in turn, who chase after her. She runs, but the fawns are in hot pursuit.
Meanwhile the king has re-emerged from the trees and sees the retreating fawns; he joins the chase with his legion of knights. Deeper in, the hem of Casandra’s dress has been caught on a branch; she clutches madly at it, and one of the fawns sees her. He begins to dance madly and exuberantly, calling after the fawns. Meanwhile, Ogden, a particularly intelligent and crafty fawn, is leading the hounds of the king on a wild goose chase; after him are riding the cavalry, and the dogs pursue the fawn through the trees. The horses whinny and neigh, for they cannot go through the thick undergrowth. The men dismount and make to pursue after the fawn; but as they leave their horses and disappear into the thickness of the forest the fawn appears around the bend with the dogs chasing after him and now makes as if to chase the soldiers into the undergrowth! The horses, spooked, gallop after him. Cassandra finally frees herself and runs into a clearing where there is a large lake. As she approaches, angry pixies rise from the water and grab her, hoisting her into the air and making her to do floating turns and pirouettes. Finally the bedraggled king emerges at the lake with his soldiers, looking after the departed Cassandra and crying, “Oh Hannah, my daughter!”
The Banks of Green Willow by George Idle
The youth emerges from the forest into a long valley; there are dottings of flowers and butterflies that flutter slightly and delicately from the stems. The youth wanders through endless meadows of blue skies; the sun is high, it is midday. He gazes around, as if lost, but enjoying the scenery. There is a brook flowing down the middle of the valley, out of the woods, which have thinned into occasional and delicately silver aspens. The youth climbs a series of hills that stand at the edge of the scenery and comes to a large vista, overlooking the whole area. He sees in the distance Troy, and again raises the sword; the gleam of the burning city catches and elaborates the gleam of the steel. He lowers the sword, and as he does, we see Cassandra run into the valley from the forest, followed by an escort of angry pixies. They depart after her into the forest, and she now looks all about and is overwhelmed by a large pair of butterflies. The butterflies begin dancing and gesturing to the brook and the whole of the valley. Meanwhile, Roland sits down and begins to weep. Cassandra looks across the stream and herself sees Troy. She begins to bend in dance, weaving and turning, a slave to her memory, the wailing loss of Troy. Roland too has begun to dance, and their dances join with the delicate butterflies and the soft flowing brook. Birds begin to sing and a lazy cloud drifts across the sky, shaping into a castle. Now Cassandra is remembering the kindly old king, who used to dangle her on his knee as a child, and would read her from a book, The Annals of Troy. She is lost in revery. Roland too sits, remembering the marketplaces and the broad squares, the endless seccesion of carriages, and the hem of Helen’s pink gown that trailed across the plazas so long ago; her attendant ladies in purple, and the triumphant figure of Paris – now lying skewered by the sword in the valley of Pergamum. As he falls again under the backdrop of memory, the sun rises over the horizon and a light trickles across the body-strewn fields.
Monday, August 11, 2003
You drank from the well of the fountain of truth
The waters drained down your throat
As the cascades triumph down the mountains
Each trumpeting their call,
A fiery voice proclaiming to the masses of the world:
So the glorious air is the space that flows from earth to heaven
So the whirlpools of stars are gathering Holy names
So the unity of an instant becames the space of eternal – the transcendant one.
The waters drained down your throat
As the cascades triumph down the mountains
Each trumpeting their call,
A fiery voice proclaiming to the masses of the world:
So the glorious air is the space that flows from earth to heaven
So the whirlpools of stars are gathering Holy names
So the unity of an instant becames the space of eternal – the transcendant one.
Sunday, August 10, 2003
Last night was the night from hell. Let me explain: 3 glasses of wine + 2 guys (1 of whom you've slept with and the other who you think is cute). They hook up after 4 glasses of wine, leaving you to be sad-drunk and miserable on the couch. You feel angry. You feel depressed. You cry, you go out to the balcony and moan, you take a shower and wail, hoping to be noticed but at the same time terrified of having anybody see how completely stupid you are.
That doesn't really make you understand how bad I felt, but it at least maybe explains what happened. I don't know. I don't wanna go into it. I just have to say that after a day of moping about and recovering, I am so fricking angry at Joey and John even if I have no reason to be. I wish something bad would happen to them.
At least Brit and Chris are my friends. Yay for Brit and Chris. Strike that night from my life, if you please.
:-P Yuck yuck yuck yuck.
That doesn't really make you understand how bad I felt, but it at least maybe explains what happened. I don't know. I don't wanna go into it. I just have to say that after a day of moping about and recovering, I am so fricking angry at Joey and John even if I have no reason to be. I wish something bad would happen to them.
At least Brit and Chris are my friends. Yay for Brit and Chris. Strike that night from my life, if you please.
:-P Yuck yuck yuck yuck.
Friday, August 01, 2003
There have been three forces in the history of earth under God: there have been those who have named, those who catalogued and recorded those names, and those who have destroyed the names and sought to kill anything but a pure and holy emptiness of white flame. Adam is the great sinner of the beginning, naming everything in correspondence with the unimaginative will of a ruthlessly categorical YHWH. Generations of Jewish scholars have, for 5000 years and more, preserved these names and transmitted them with a continent but ultimately impotent reverence. Springing from the same branch are Eve and the great matriarchs, pure founts of language and knowledge that led to and climaxed in Shakespeare; I see them also in the uncouth Ginsberg, who created and twisted language into an entirely different being; they are the sublime aspect of femininity that opposes Adam's ordered account of the world and actively subverts it so as to allow in the world a pulchritude of love. Man is a disgusting creature who tries to exalt himself over and above the feminine. But for his efforts, he is purged of even his masculinity in the pure and holy white flame of their sheer power and creative exuberance, which is the last category of naming, wherein we find all great prophets; but it is so difficult to tell the difference between the elevation of creation and the sublimity of destruction that we hesitate where to put the voices. Now is the great artist one who created or destroyed? Who valued or who left in ruin? But here! Here in study is the root of all evil, for we are placed by study among the recorders of the names, we come to hold the names dearer and closer to our hearts, we gaze with a countenanced suspiscion at any who would rob us of our dear, our great, our Holy names.
In prayer too, one should declare the names in the spirit of nothingness, for a name is nothing, but, being part of that nothing, is as infinitely holy as silence.
In prayer too, one should declare the names in the spirit of nothingness, for a name is nothing, but, being part of that nothing, is as infinitely holy as silence.