Interstitial Manhattan: Judith Malina's autograph

Wednesday in Manhattan, an ordinary day, an extraordinary day.

Won the lottery to Wicked, my name first one called.

Should I bother to record the events of yesterday or will I miss out
too much of today in the process?

Best to go forward, to the homes of Melville, Kerouac, Ginsberg, Twain...

Yesterday, the Lower East Side, rediscovered the real New York, the
streets, the slum goddess culture...

And the Living Theatre, with Judith Malina sitting beside me.

"Would it be too bourgeois of me to ask for your autograph?" I asked,
handing her my program for "The Brig."

"I used to do it all the time," the octogenarian said. She signed,
"To Greg, Peace and Love, Judith" and drew a big heart.

I think in Spanish casi todo el dia.

Es mi hogar esta ciudad, siempre, positively 4th street.

22. FUTILITYOF CONTENTION

To yield is to be preserved whole.

To be bent is to become straight.

To be hollow is to be filled.

To be tattered is to be renewed.

To be in want is to possess.

To have plenty is to be confused.

 

Therefore the Sage embraces the One,

And becomes the model of the world.

He does not reveal himself,

And is therefore luminous.

He does not justify himself,

And is therefore far-famed.

He does not boast of himself,

And therefore people give him credit.

He does not pride himself,

And is therefore the chief among men.

 

It is because he does not contend

That no one in the world can contend against him.

 

It is because he does not contend

That no one in the world can contend against him.

 

Is it not indeed true, as the ancients say,

"To yield is to be preserved whole?"

Thus he is preserved and the world does him homage.

THE WISDOM OF LAOTSE

The following passage was directed against the  argumentative philosophers of Chuangtse's time, especially the neo-Motseans, like Hwei Shih and Kungsun Lung.

2.4 THE FUTILITY OF ARGUEMENT.  Granting that you and I argue, If you get the better of me, and not I of you, are you necessarily right and I wrong? Or if I get the better of you and not you of me, am I necessarily right and you wrong? Or are we both partly right and partly wrong? Or are we both wholly right and wholly wrong? Since you and I cannot know, we all live in darkness.

Whom shall I ask to judge between us? If I ask someone who takes your view, he will side with you. How can such a one arbitrate between us? If I ask someone who takes my view, he will side with me. How can such a one arbitrate between us? If I ask someone who differs from both of us, he, will be equally unable to decide between us, since he differs from both of us. And if I ask someone who agrees with both of us, he will be equally unable to decide between us, since he agrees with both of us. Since you and I and other men cannot decide, how can we depend upon another? The words of arguments are all relative; if we wish to reach the absolute, we must harmonize them by means of the unity of God, and follow their natural evolution to the end of our days.

But what is to harmonize them by means of the unity of God? It is this. The right may not be really right. What appears so may not be really so. Even if what is right is really right, wherein it differs from wrong cannot be made plain by argument. Even if what appears so is really so, wherein it differs from what is not so also cannot be made plain by argument.

Take no heed of time nor of right and wrong. Passing into the realm of the Infinite, take your final rest therein.

I TOLD YOU SO

I hate to say I told you so.

How do I say I told you so, let me count the ways.

I appreciate that you should be allowed to save face and that gloating becomes no one. Gloating would be wrong. Gloating would be a mistake.

Quite possibly, it is sometimes necessary to say I told you so. For the record, perhaps. Just between you and me. It's not like I'm going to publish it in a letter to the editor or anything. Just a little nudge to get past the impasse of our mutual refusal to acknowledge the situation, that I told you so and that I told you so way, way in the past, long long ago.

I told you so a long long time ago. I told you so in the very beginning. It could very well be that if I were to say I told you so, it would initiate another round of your frantic rationalizations. You might try to argue and wave your arms. The agony would be prolonged again.

And would it really make any difference? At this point? The wise thing for me to do, I guess, would be to remain silent and carry on.

Or would you perceive my attempt at tactfulness as being smug? Would you read a smirk between the line of my closed lips? Maybe you would see it as weakness.

I could whisper behind your back, I told you so.

"Did you say something?" you would turn and ask.

"No," I would say. The germ of doubt would be planted, of course. We would look into each other's eyes and tacitly acknowledge the truth, that I indeed had told you so. We both would know full well -- at the moment of my barely perceptible whisper -- that I had told you so. You already know I told you so. I know you know I told you so. We are pretending I didn't tell you so, I know.

If I were to say I told you so, you might become sarcastic and call me the Oracle of Delphi and never speak to me again.

Other people are losing their jobs or worse, it would seem, as a result of all this. They're starting to drop like flies. I'm sorry.

Maybe time could be shifted, fractured into cubist bits of memory, as happens in the movie Deja Vu starring Denzel Washington, which really was a lot better than the reviews claimed. Or Memento. We could walk backwards and forget. Or Alain Renais' Muriel, which I watched just this morning on my portable DVD player while taking a drive in the country. Maybe we can mix things up and I wouldn't have told you so at all. We could distract each other. Neither of us would remember if I had told you so. Everything would be the way it was before I told you so.

Now I really wish I hadn't said a damned thing. It's awkward. They always say that on television, when truth bumps heads. "Awk-ward." People on the soundtrack think it's funny.

I don't want to be like the driver who insists on his right of way, fully aware of the semi-trailer running a red light in the intersection in front of him and yet he proceeds to barrel through because his own light is green. No insurance in the world covers "I told you so."

Clearly, there would be repercussions if I told you that I told you so.

I wouldn't want to say anything in bad taste. We regret to inform you that I told you so.. .

It's not like I was the only one who told you so. Most everybody did, now that I think about it.

Even so, I'm not going to say I told you so. I've decided not to.

I could say, I can't say I blame you, but I just can't.

Everything will be fine. Someday, we both will look back at all this, and you will turn to me, and you will tell me why you had to be so fucking stupid, and I will simply nod. I won't say a thing.

Going To A Town by Rufus Wainwright

I'm going to a town that has already been burned down
I'm going to a place that is already been disgraced
I'm gonna see some folks who have already been let down.
I'm so tired of America

I'm gonna make it up for all of the Sunday Times
I'm gonna make it up for all of the nursery rhymes
They never really seem to want to tell the truth
I'm so tired of you America

Making my own way home
Ain't gonna be alone
I got a life to lead America
I got a life to lead

Tell me do you really think you go to hell for having loved?
Tell me and not for thinking every thing that you've done is good
(I really need to know)
After soaking the body of Jesus Christ in blood

I'm so tired of America
(I really need to know)

I may just never see you again or might as well
You took advantage of a world that loved you well
I'm going to a town that has already been burned down
I'm so tired of you America

Making my own way home
Ain't gonna be alone
I got a life to lead America
I got a life to lead
I got a soul to feed
I got a dream to heed
And that's all I need

Making my own way home
Ain't gonna be alone
I'm going to a town that has already been burned down

The News-Gazette review of "Parasite Drag"

One knows not how to react to such a review as Patricia Stiller's
below. I may have to break down and see the play myself to provide
something less simultaneously adulatory and lacking.

Cast superb, but story is star of `Parasite Drag'
by Patricia Stiller
I think everyone has at least one moment in their lives that they hold
on to, bragging whenever possible to whomever might listen, "Hey, I
was there, man. " Being fortunate enough to attend the premiere
performance of Mark Roberts' new play "Parasite Drag" has become that
moment for me.
Roberts, the playwright in residence for the Celebration Company at
the Station Theatre in Urbana, adds to his previous hometown debuts,
"Welcome to Tolono," and "Rantoul and Die," with this profound and
intelligent tragicomedy that exposes one family's dysfunction from the
varying recollections of two brothers, Ronnie and Gene, who have
bitterly reunited to say goodbye to their dying sister.
Under the insightful eye of director Kay Holley, this intimate
portrayal of familial pain and survival stars Gary Ambler as the
younger brother Gene, a devout Christian who hides behind his faith in
order to avoid the realities of his life, both past and present.
Ambler's layered performance is courageous, vulnerable and well-paced.
Anne Shapland Kearns plays his wife Joellen, painting a very honest
portrait of an empty woman. Heart-wrenching.
Joi Hoffsommer plays Susie, the free-spirited wife of older brother
Ronnie. Hoffsommer takes what could have been a superfluous character
and gives her an impressive dimension that is irresistible.
And author Roberts plays Ronnie with brutal reality in a performance
that takes your breath away.
This brilliant production hits every mark in a perfect package that
seamlessly connects the necessary components.
Set designer David Harwell fills the intimate playing space with a
dynamic angular set, giving just a hint that things in this chunk of
suburbia are slightly askew.
Sound designer David Butler employs an inspired soundtrack, featuring
the wisely selected music of the 1970s' greatest musical philosophers,
each number masterfully carrying us through from one thought or
emotion to the next.
But the true star of the evening was the story itself, an absolute
masterpiece. And hey, I was there, man!
This production is intended for mature audiences only.
If you go
What: "Parasite Drag," an original play by Mark
Roberts.
Where: The Station Theatre, 223 N. Broadway Ave.,
U.
Creative team: Director, Kay Bohannon Holley. Assistant director, Mike
Harvey. Set designer, David Harwell. Sound designer, David Butler.
Cast: Mark Roberts, Gary Ambler, Joi Hoffsommer and Anne Shapland Kearns.
Remaining performances: 8 p.m. today, Sunday, May 15-20 and 23-26.
Tickets: $15 each; call 384-4000 to make reservations.
Running time: 120 minutes, including one 20-minute intermission.

narrativity

Identity Interlude

SEE THE BAUDRILLARD SERIES

inkhorn

The Word of the Day for May 14 is:

inkhorn \INK-horn\ adjective

: ostentatiously learned : pedantic

Example sentence:
The professor peppered his lectures with inkhorn terms of pseudo-Latin and Greek, a practice he felt essential to instilling in his students the proper respect for his knowledge.

Did you know?
Picture an ancient scribe, pen in hand, a small ink bottle made from an animal's horn strapped to his belt, ready to record the great events of history. In 14th-century England, such ink bottles were dubbed (not surprisingly) "inkhorns." During the Renaissance, learned writers often borrowed words from Latin and Greek, eschewing vulgar English alternatives. But in the 16th century, some scholars argued for the use of native terms over Latinate forms, and a lively intellectual debate over the merits of each began. Those who favored English branded what they considered ostentatious Latinisms "inkhorn terms" after the bottles carried by scholars, and since then we have used "inkhorn" as an adjective for pretentious language.

zen hammock

sitting doing nothing

parasite drag

new mark roberts play.

review in today's gazette by patricia stiller so sad. "Hey, I was there, man," she writes. twice.

maybe it is "a profound and intelligent tragi-comedy" and the greatest play of all time.

roberts himself is quoted in the daily illini weekly, the buzz, saying, "my kind of theater has danger. i like to feel like the theater can leap out at [the audience], grab their purse and take a big shit in it."

did george bernard shaw once say that? or am i thinking of august wilson? ashton kutcher?

i don't own a collective purse, certainly not one to be shit into (or should that be "shat"?), so i guess i'll wait for the broadway premiere before writing my own review. the title seems well chosen, though. i may not be able to say "i was there," but i might be able to boast, "i was too busy at the time."

in my hammock.

hammock time begins

This was one of the best weekends in recent memory. Hammock time
figured in. The Lathe of Heaven was so much fun to read, to imagine
along these lines, of someone who changes reality with his dreams...

Two of the movies I watched were exceptional. The Korean monster
movie, The Host, had just about everything a person could want in a
movie -- it's funny, sad, heartwearming, startling, unpredictable, and
political. Old Joy, a portrait of Oregonian granola types taking a
quiet walk in the woods, is the kind of TRUE independent movie that
always flies under the radar (although it was a Sundance discovery)
and that people say, "Nothing happened." But rarely does one see a
movie that captures people so unvarnished, thoughtful, philosophical,
and true, how old friends reunite and find they, and the world, has
changed. I mention both movies because both movies -- The Host and
Old Joy -- conclude with news programs playing in the background, the
media blaring the bad news of the war, the pundits, the endless
chatter of catastrophe, and both movies make the point of saying that
such news is quite beside the point of living. As the Korean movie
ends, the young boy says to his new-found guardian, let's just turn
off the news and eat, as they chow down in rice and noodles in their
isolated noodle stand, snow falling over Seoul. It's beautiful.

Old Joy and Mutual Appreciation are the two movies from last year that I found most surprising and amazing, one quiet and the other talky.
They're not like other movies.

The Word of the Day for May 06 is:

sprachgefuhl \SHPRAHKH-guh-fuel\ noun

: an intuitive sense of what is linguistically appropriate

Example sentence:
One review of the book praised the author's sprachgefuhl and her graceful, literary style.

Did you know?

"Sprachgefuhl? was borrowed into English from German at the end of the 19th century and combines two German nouns, "Sprache," meaning "language, speech," and "Gefühl," meaning "feeling." We're quite certain that the quality of sprachgefuhl is common among our readers, but the word itself is rare, making only occasional appearances in our language.

JACK: contrasting reviews

Event: JACK Quartet, Music Building, University of Illinois, Friday, May 4, 2007

Program:
Aaron Travers, ECLATS CYCLE
Helmut Lachenmann, STRING QUARTER NO. 3 "GRIDO"
Aaron Cassidy, STRING QUARTET
Iannis Xenakis, TETRAS

Program notes: Voluminous and ponderous

Critics: Lee, the midwestern Bjork, and her spouse PG, the Matthew Barney

REVIEW #1, by Lee
"It is like our house, the washing machine and the dryer, squeaky things, the basement.  You know, sort of dysfunctional environment music."

REVIEW #2, by PG
"This concert by Chris and friends totally rocked. The only way it could have been better would be if they had performed a la Charlotte Moorman and, at the end, kicked over their music stands a la The Who."

(Extra notes not incorporated into the reviews: the question of intentionality in the performance; the look of the score; the quietness that allowed for audible intrusions in the audience of chairs squeaking, face scratching, and farts; the ability to differentiate between styles in the composers, we could do it but we did not know how.)

The Very Last Picture Show; or, Choking on Pretzels

Come the end of the 9th Annual Ebertfest, Werner Herzog announced to the crowd that the end of the world was imminent, an idea both fitting and in keeping with Herzog's apocalyptic visions. After all, once you have dragged a ship over the Andes and hypnotized an entire film crew including actors and hung around to watch a volcano destroy an island, could the end of the world be that much more extreme? What's more, Herzog didn't care. He shrugged and vowed to continue making movies.

I have to agree with what Dan wrote here on the unofficial Ebertfest blog. Herzog's STROSZEK comes across as anticlimactic, considering the earlier films of the German New Wave director. That movie and SEARCHING FOR THE WRONG-EYED JESUS both reflect an America more than a little nuts and also more than a little familiar. I hadn't wanted to say anything. The thing is, no one wants to criticize Ebertfest, particularly when the principal figure was present and infirm.

I have great respect for Ebert. I miss his reviews, the cleverness and clarity of his intellect. But to criticize anything in this year's Ebertfest would have been tantamount to playing the "affliction art" card. To criticize the festival would be to criticize the man himself.

Even though it always has been a good festival, I tired years ago of the atmosphere of adulation surrounding the event. I attend the panels and as many of the discussions as I can. This year the panels were underattended it seemed, probably because Roger could not be in attendance. Even Herzog wasn't enough of a name to bring in throngs.

If, heaven forbid, this turned out to be the final Ebertfest, since we're talking about the end of the world anyway, BEYOND THE VALLEY OF THE DOLLS would be a strange – fitting and apocalyptic? – finale.

Ebert wrote that he was glad, since his speaking voice is on hiatus, he wouldn't have to explain why he wrote it. Mocking sex and society in a campy way with all the typical Russ Meyer flourishes – fast editing, crisp images, and Barbie Doll pancake makeup bustiness – the movie too marked the end of an era, when the Seventies fashioned itself into a commercial simulation of all that was real about the Sixties.

I had never made any connection between LA DOLCE VITA and BEYOND THE VALLEY OF THE DOLLS before this event. Both deal extensively with the idea of society falling apart in excess and decadence.

When LA DOLCE VITA was released, Fellini was vilified. I think even Billy Graham was quoted as saying it was the "most immoral movie ever made." The Catholic Decency board condemned it outright. The movie – easily acknowledged as a classic today– was a clear sign that the world had fallen to pieces, never to recover. God was the monster on the beach; all that had been pure and simple in humanity was a girl standing there, unable to communicate with the damned: Fellini's vision of the Rapture.

If religion condemned LA DOLCE VITA 40 years ago, in the current era of torture-tainment, there is a ponderous paradox in the fact that perhaps the film most roundly condemned as pornography has been THE PASSION OF THE CHRIST, a blood-hungry snuff film.

I watched it again recently; it is a film that could never have been made in the 1960s, let alone become a touchstone for thousands of devout churchgoers.

Could this year's Ebertfest also mark the end of the Bush era?

As cowardly as ex-CIA director George Tenet is in refusing to accept any blame for the continuing tragedy of the Iraq invasion, he marks another important figure jumping the sinking ship.

Another ironic note, in retrospect, occurred the day that George W. Bush choked on a pretzel.

The twisted, pretzel logic of those who tried in vain to follow the excuses and prevarications and duplicity of the new millennium has caused many to start gasping for breath, choking on their own rationalizations. It is no longer possible to excuse away the failed reconstruction, the increase in terrorism, the exposure of CIA agents to the media, the torture euphemisms, the spying, the melting down of human rights, bottomless corruption, and on and on.

Some think the lies surrounding the death of Pat Tillman will be the final nail in the coffin, with the religious right also finally jumping ship, no longer any way to avoid the admission that lies and deception, fear and smear, were what fueled this administration from the start.

The Champaign-Urbana News-Gazette was first noticed jumping the sinking ship when it ran an editorial on March 21, upset when it was revealed that U.S. federal attorney Patrick Fitzgerald was at one point on the list of attorneys Alberto Gonzalez intended to fire. Only three days earlier, the Gazette editorial condemned those criticizing the firings. The paper switched gears abruptly, without explanation.

Anyway, what this has to do with the movies, I'm not sure. I could claim it was inspired by the Politics in Movies, Movies in Politics panel at the festival. Not unlike Herzog's plan, though, I hope to be sitting here, eating my popcorn, watching intently as the world sputters to breathe, choking on pretzels. I hope I'm watching Fellini when it all goes down.

Satyricon, perhaps...

PG