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Bizah's blog: "Bizahmind"

created on 05/25/2007  |  http://fubar.com/bizahmind/b85730
A fragement, supposedly written by a poet named "Anon" or "Onon" in the late 16th century. If one is able to ignore the misogynistic undertones, this lewd bit of scribbling is quite amusing on a purely purile level. Enjoy... "Imagination! Potent Sprite That brings to every yearning Wight What most he wants, and instantly! Imagination! Let me see Discovered in thy Sacred Glass The Image of that Perfect Lass Intended from the Flood for me, My lawful wedded Wife to be! She died a thousand Year Ago? Will not be born till Hell sees Snow? I'll wed her yet in Fancy's Bow'r Enjoy her, ev'ry Leisure Hour; Build her a House or Mansion fair Of Substance thinner than the Air, And solitary , doubled be By blessed possibility! Art thou a Separated Twin? Then find thy Better Half within And join in Union Sphericall Thyself to self, as Plato's Ball. No ancient Goody weighs thy Bed; Betrothed art daily, nightly wed. Meek as upon her Wedding Night. Forever young, though thou grow old, Never jaded, never cold. Or wouldst thou have no single She, But Spouses in Plurality? The Sultan's, in his Hareem strait, A Blackamoor before the Gate? Or base Arabian's, kept in Tents? Thou hast their Choice, but not th'Expense. 'Tis said that Men who waste their Seed Toward their Coffins quickly speed; I say the thing that shortens Life Is an unsympathetic Wife. So to our Couch let us Retire; A Cup of Wine we may require; To take the Air our Friend we bid Who in the Dark all day has hid! Then gently, as with Bird in Hand Or Babe in Arms, we help him stand - See how he leaps, a Lapdog he, Eager for a Sport with thee! What wonder's this, and Magick too, His Transformation at thy Cue! His Helmet lifted, and his Sword - Th'appendage now becomes the Lord! The Turkey-wattle now an Arm! What Pow'r! What Strength, for Good or Harm! And if he droop or if he flag, Weaken or tire, fail or sag, Feed him on thy Fancy's food, Victuals rich as though think'st good! Haste thee, Thought, and bring with thee Emblems of Lubricity: Bums and Quims and wanton Wiles Beds and Cocks and nether Smiles! Now shake him well! Now grind the mill! Punish the boy and make him spill! Thy Teeth are grit, thy Shanks a-tremble, A snarling Beast thou may'st resemble, Yet mak'st Thanksgiving in thy Moan And Gratulations in thy Groan As from the Fundament arises At last the Bliss that still surprizes! Ah lovely is the Fruit thereof, The Forment and the Gum of Love: Do not despise nor in Disgust Turn from the Product of thy Lust, But stop t'admire. This is the Stuff The Ballocks brewed, one Drop enough A Man to make, if baked inside The Oven of a Fleshy Bride, Nine months' thence t'emerge a Child Puking, shrieking, red and wild. He will grow up to cut a Purse, To die of Drink or something worse - A Gibbet, or a Pauper's Grave. What Griefs, what Troubles thou dost save! Wash but thy Hand, and go thy Way, Free to conceive another Day. Go all to Altar and to Woe I shall not the Greenwood go. My Fancy free I'll ever keep I have not sown, I shall not Reap. The Devil and the World enmesh The Anchorite who hates the Flesh. The Flesh is we and we are it, Its Hunger, Fevers, and its Shite. Then let's be glad we perpetrate The little Sins and not the great: Better than Pride, or Anger pure, Better than Envy green for sure, Better than all the Sins of Mind, Is Lust of the unproductive kind: Blameless, fruitless, bland and free, A Rose without a Thorn for thee."

Vacate

Night bus through the midwest, down to Cincy to see an old friend. Reading performance theory and magical realism in the middle of the middle of the night sounds pretty appealing right now. I need a break from the rapid tedium of this city, if only for a weekend.

Viva la Barker

I recently finished re-reading Howard Barker's seminal work of performance theory, "Arguments for a Theatre," and was reminded once again of the darkly inspirational force of his writing and uncompromising artistic vision. Cruel, cold, and inflamatory, he has long been an implacable foe of the liberal British establishment, and champion of radical theatre worldwide. I can't say that I fully endorse his "Theatre of Catastrophe" or many of his specific views about performance, but I greatly admire his imaginative rigor, brash rhetorical style, and willingness to fuck with the established paradigms and sacred cows of contemporary theatre. For those of you unfamiliar with Barker and his works, here are a few choice and representative quotes from "Arguments..." "A carnival is not a revolution. After the carnival, after the removal of the masks, you are precisely who you were before. After the tragedy, you are not certain who you are." "There are more people in pursuit of knowledge than the accountants will admit...Some people want to grow in their souls...But not all people. Consequently, tragedy is elitist." "The Public, as an invention, becomes the enemy of the artist, a solid block of immovable entertainment-seekers whose numbers and subsequent economic power forbid intelligence." "We find quality to be revolutionary, discrimination subversive, unanimity a spiritual poverty and the intelligensia flinging its wits away, clambering through the decomposing heap of video and pop stars' bones that constitutes monetarist art." "It is not for nothing that the word 'cunt' operates both as the most extreme notation of abuse and also the furthest reach of desire, and not only in male speech, and in attempting to eliminate the word the thing itself is eliminated, since nothing can stand in for it. Since what cannot be expressed cannot exist dramatically, the attempt to abolish the word becomes an attack on the body itself - a veiled attempt to remove the body from dramatic space." "...if the People want your art they will obviously pay for it, and if they don't, by what right does it exist?" "Laughter appears to be a manifestation of solidarity, but it is now more often a sign of subordination. It is pain that the audience needs to experience, and not contempt. We have a theatre of contempt masquerading as comedy." "It is always the case that the audience is willing to know more, and to endure more, than the dramatist or producer trusts it with...A new theatre will not force anyone to be free. Rather it will be an invitation to ask what freedom is." "The usual focus of contemprorary theatre is how we live with one another on given moral predicates ('it is bad to hurt people', 'the unfortunate should induce feelings of pity', etc.), but clearly there is now a problem with the predicates themselves. A braver theatre asks the audience to test the validity of the categories it believes it lives by." "The verb 'to dramatize' is part of the kitsch vocabulary of issues, in which actors are employed as a means to a didactic end, the education of the ignorant audience, and by 'research' we are threatened with the spurious legitimacy of so-called facts. 'It's all right', the actors seem to tell you in researched plays, 'everything we demonstrate has occurred', is in effect 'true'. But the theatre is not true, it is not a true action, its very power, its whole authority comes from the fact that it is not true, and the idea of accuracy, or reference to a source outside the theatre walls, is fatal to its particular unsettling and revolutionary power....The theatre is without evidence, it 'makes believe', it forces belief." "(The Catastropist playwright) will not know how to structure a play, let alone make it well-made, and, what is more, will, in a spasm of shocking elitism, appear to be 'wrestling with his own demons', the very antithesis of the accessible play, where authors grapple with everybody else's demons. This is the theatre of selfishness, and its maker is someone who sees himself or herself unashamedly as an artist, the power of whose imagination is their sole claim on public attention." "...it is the performance which turns the audience from potential critics into collaborators and accomplices in an illicit act." "Let me state here unequivocally that theatre is without use, is the abnegation of use-value, and defies annexation or appropriation, being neither a diversion from the tedium of common life nor a palliative for deformed social relations, and therefore it reconciles no one either to his neighbor or his fate...Its nature is torrential, barbaric, non-evidential, its methods are those of plethora and excess, and by its very origin in simulation, theatre is an unlikely host for the ameliorative project of humanism and its hyperbole of truth." "Conscience kills art as surely as pity kills love."

Who's with me on this?

This massive, gaudy, ridiculously lavish carnival of a social network would be considerably more amusing to peruse (as would its ostensible purpose: to get one's ego stroked) if the intellectual caliber of its members was on average more impressive than that of a brain-addled Mongolian yak. Prove me wrong. Please, do. (Given this opinion, why am I still on, you ask? Because sometimes - not always - but sometimes, it's fun to shoot fish in a barrel.)

Liminal summer

My friend T and I were talking the other day about the bizzaro quality of our current psychic/emotional states in this strange, strange period before grad school. Back before undergrad, our young, plump egos filled us with anticipatory energy, convincing us that we were smarter, more talented, and wiser than all our compatriots. The sky was the limit and we were the cream of the crop, destined for great things. Eight years later we both share common ground in a very different emotional landscape. Our performance work here in Chicago has required a great deal of energy, money, time, and sacrifice, and although we would both happily do it all again, we feel utterly worthless, incompetent, and much less talented than those around us. Some of these feelings are objective: our standards of artistic success have risen considerably over the past few years, and we're consciously working to defeat all strains of dilettantism in our work. But there's more to it than that: I think we're facing some sort of fundamental death (or rebirth?) of our egos. Zbigniew Cynkutis of Grotowski's Polish Laboratory Theatre talked about a similar (if more legitimately dramatic) conundrum inherent in the life of a true actor (ie a non-dilettante): "...Broken knee. The price. Broken (first) marriage. Broken life. A loss of privacy. The devotion to this profession: but such a heavy life, heavy work against myself; yes, it was necessary to work against myself in order to be better, to achieve better quality. And this way of thinking made me feel that I was a very average actor. Not someone very talented. Not someone who had a calling....something came out of this work. It helped me to understand the life of others, my own life, the world. Maybe it was not a very well-selected job, but it was done honestly. But this job came to be like a scalpel in the hands of a surgeon. A lot of pain." - 'Grotowski's Laboratory Theatre: Dissolution and Diaspora,' Robert Findlay So go figure. In addition to all this hard-headed Grotowski theory, T and I have both been tearing through Buddhist literature (Trungpa, Chodron, Nepan, Thich Naht Hahn, Suzuki roshi), and T - Mr. intellectual masochism himself - has also been pouring over a lot of psychoanalytic theory (Lacan, Zizek, Freud...even Count Masoch himself). The common ground between the schools of thought is a desire to tear through the curtain of comfortable deceit and face the world in all its beautiful and horrible honesty. Peel away the protection and face things as they really are. And that is good, wonderful, freeing, the best thing I could hope for, sure. But it's also VERY VERY PAINFUL. And not only in purely "artistic" areas, since the deeper one delves as an artist the more the line between lived life and artistic life vanishes. For instance, although I'm very lonely for companionship these days, I've given up on all romantic endeavors. All of them, in every form. Why, for God's sake? Because for one, if I look at myself and my life as honestly as I can I know that I am emotionally and practically incapable of holding down a relationship, and for two, I have habitually used the presence of other people to distract me from the problems in my own life. It's all so obvious, but I don't think I've had the determination or courage or just plain stubbornness to look at it at face value until now. So instead of getting stuck back on my reliable old wheel of samsaric pain, I'm working to walk a new path, one that moves away from cultivating my own ego or hurting others. So although I might have anticipated that this summer would be a time of drunken laziness before the rigors of grad school begin, instead it's turning out to be a reductive period of self-reflection and release of the non-essential. Although this time is proving to be uncomfortable, I think it may turn out to be uncomfortable in the way one's nerves are plucked as a doctor excises a tumor. "The philosophical or intellectual understanding of pain is not enough. You must actually feel something properly. The only way to get to the heart of the matter is to actually experience it for yourself...Sudden enlightenment comes only with exhaustion. Its suddenness does not necessarily mean that there is a shortcut...One must make the journey because...at the point where you begin to be disappointed you get it." - "Cutting Through Spiritual Materialism," Chogyam Trungpa rinpoche
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