Sunday, February 6, 2011

A Blessed Compulsion

It's Packer Bowl Sunday. Whoops. I mean Super Bowl Sunday. I imagine I'm one of a mere handful of people in the state of Wisconsin and most likely around the entire United States who won't be tuning into the Big Game this afternoon.

I was a huge football follower in my teens and early 20s. It offered a way to connect with my father, a loyal Minnesota Vikings' fan. He never missed an opportunity on a fall or winter weekend to watch--and cheer on--his favorite team as well as every other professional and collegiate ball toss aired on television.

Today I'm more interested in engaging in the sport of words. Since I'm the coach, receiver, and quarterback--the whole team really--in this game, I ask myself when I begin a writing project: What game plan should I use? If I toss these words into the air, is there anyone down field to catch them? How might it feel to carry one pigskin-wrapped metaphor into the end zone?

I debate whether to fall back and lob a pass or grasp the ball tightly under one arm and run for it. Is it possible for me to make a touchdown? A field goal? Or should I simply settle for first and ten? Then do it again.

I've thought about the power--and entertainment value--of words a lot lately. I spent the past two evenings, along with 28 other writers, reading my piece from Love Stories of the Bay at Stagenorth. It was a fascinating, terrifying, and exhilarating experience. These intense, captivating, and highly personal evenings caused me to wonder what causes each of us to write. And also, what draws over 250 people to a theater over the course of two cold winter evenings to hear what we have to say? Moreover, what motivates writers to write even if every single one of those theater seats remained empty?

I realize that, for me, just as well-prepared food nourishes my body, a well-written story feeds my heart and expands and lightens my spirit. Language, words, and metaphors have the power to ignite a fire in the soul. But, just like football, the written and spoken word is not for everyone. It pains me a bit to recognize this fact. I'd like to think that because I'm captivated by turns of phrase and word pictures others would be too.

In my January 24, 2011 blog entry under Rooted in Earth, Suspended from Sky ("The Soul that hears loving words becomes more loving") I wrote:
Yes, I have a passion for words. Why? Because words have the power to express feelings, unravel confusion, draw people into a web of community and connection, and bring deeper meaning to our lives.

I just turned the page in my journal and discovered this quote, 'The soul that beholds beauty becomes more beautiful.' I believe, in a similar vein, that the soul that hears loving words becomes more loving.
I continue on in that blog to quote Wisconsin Public Radio Here on Earth host, Jean Feraca. In her book, I Hear Voices, Feraca recalls a creative writing teacher who told Feraca's class that there were only two subjects worth writing about: love and death. (p. 122). Perhaps that's why our Love Stories of the Bay seem so potent. These stories of love--and death--describe our passionate connection to our dogs, wild animals, spouses, lovers, friends, parents, land, water, and our shared home here on the Chequamegon Bay.

After the past two nights on stage I feel freshly inspired to continue along my path as a writer. It's not easy. Writing is a lonely, solitary, and seemingly thankless business. And, possibly because this is so, writers long for loving support and encouraging words from their family and friends, audience, and readers.  

Thankfully, I was blessed with a father who not only watched football, basketball, and baseball most weekends. He read ... and also wrote. Perhaps because he so enjoyed the power and potency of language he passed some of his passion for words on to me where it lodged itself deep in my bones and DNA.

Perhaps, as Jean Feraca writes in her book, I write simply because I have no choice. Maybe I, too, suffer from what, per Feraca, "Denise Levertov once called the blessed compulsion of art." It's true that I can't not write. How's that for a double negative?

Whatever the inspiration for putting pen to paper or fingertips to computer keyboard, I believe Feraca illustrated one significant benefit to the writer's life with this quote from poet Louise Bogan: You cannot change your language without changing your life. (p. 133)

Monday, January 17, 2011

It's Wonderful! It's Frantastic! It's Animalistic!

OMG! Today marks three full months since I last posted an entry on this blog. What happened? Life. Work. Travel. An unyielding commitment to Rooted in Earth, Suspended from Sky and innumerable hours spent writing posts to that blog instead of this one.

Today I'm breaking my silence. I absolutely, positively have no choice. I must rave about Stagenorth's production of Animal Farm that Frances and I attended yesterday afternoon. Wonderful! 'Smarvelous! And I'll use another recently coined term here (created by my sister's partner, Frank, but also equally applicable to my partner, Frances) ... Frantastic!

Animal Farm is a visual spectacle indeed. Its directors and producers call it "a dark comedy ... a REVOLUTION." It is all that and so much more.... Written by George Orwell, the well-known author of 1984, this "dystopian allegorical novella" (per Wikipedia) was published in England in 1945. Time magazine later chose it as one of the 100 best English language novels (1923-2005).

Orwell intended to critique the Russian Revolution and its leader, Joseph Stalin, who was corrupted by greed, ignorance, indifference and wickedness. Orwell's vehicle for this fantasy tale was a barnyard of animals who grow tired of the abuses and neglect of their farmer-owner. They unite, rebel, and drive the farmer off Manor Farm. Renamed Animal Farm the barnyard begins to function under an entirely new set of rules, the seven commandments of Animalism, not the least of which is Commandment #7: All animals are equal.

All too quickly the pigs (Stalin and associates) begin their takeover of farm operations using the labor of the other animals to increase their wealth and privilege and advance their political agenda. By play's end we see that there's no difference, really, between the political maneuverings of men and the barnyard machinations of pigs. Ultimately, the audience's hope lies in the words of one character who reminds us that there are other farms ... and other revolutions.

The directors of this production, Kellie Pederson and Scott Griffiths, write in their director's note that they were drawn to Orwell's tale because of "its timelessness and poignancy that supercedes any specific political climate." Or simply put, once a human, always a human or, perhaps more accurately, once an animal, always an animal. Aren't we all?

Pederson and Griffiths created a cast of humans, puppets, and musicians that was a wonder to behold. Costumes/puppets were intricately detailed to the point that actors could move their puppets' mouths as they spoke and tap their own feet along with the two additional feet of their puppets as they walked, pranced, and circled around the stage.

The three musicians offstage helped ease audience members through the between-scene setups and an excellent wooden flutist (Michael "Scooter" Charette who played the Fox) wowed us from the stage. Though the entire cast joined in one Animalistic song there were several songsters who stood out from the herd: 17-year-old Grant Hasse who played the role of Boxer, the workhorse, had a fabulous voice and Kelsey Rothe as Mollie, the horse who longed for sugar treats and ribbons in her mane, was also entertaining. During intermission Mollie crooned to audience members in the lobby which ultimately foreshadowed her departure from the animal barnyard.

Frances and I knew one of the chickens and and one of the pigs which allowed us to view the performance with even more interest and awe. Sarah Garner, a massage therapist in the area and a former(?) member of Bedlam Theatre in Minneapolis, cawed and clucked, bobbed her head, and magically transformed her face into chickenesque expressions throughout the performance.

During curtain call, Sarah and her fellow hen, Leslie Wilson, received the loudest audience response. At the grocery store following the performance an acquaintance from Madeline Island who'd just seen the show said, "Oh, the chickens were the best part of the show."

Kristen Sandstrom, in her acting debut at Stagenorth, played Squealer, Napolean, the pig's (Stalin's) minister of propaganda. I know Kristen from my previous role as assistant innkeeper at Pinehurst Inn in Bayfield. Her parents, Nancy and Steve, own the Inn and Kristen assists in its operation. She played a powerful and convincing role as the marketeer (similar to her real-life job as marketing consultant?) for Napolean/Stalin. There were other shining moments when director Scott Griffiths mounted the stage to play roles as Napoleon's dog and Whymper, a man hired by Napolean as the go-between to trade with human society.

I could go on and on but I'll conclude with these famous last words: Don't miss the production of Animal Farm at Stagenorth (four remaining shows this weekend, Jan. 20-23). My hope? That it will claw, cluck, honk, moo, baa, and oink its way into your life and, ultimately, alter your world view.