Fontastic

The most annoying part about using writing that I didn't intend for the internet isn't editing for content or length, but it's the stupid fonts. For the life of me I can't get one consistent font. Oh well...life could be worse.

As Spring Awakening gets closer and Tech Week starts soon, I've been wrapping up my brief stint as dramaturg. (If you don't know what that is, that's okay. Wikipedia is helpful.) The final thing I needed to do was create a brief historical introduction to the show.

            Spring Awakening was adapted from a play by the same name written by the German playwright Frank Wedekind in 1891. Wedekind (1864-1918) led a storied life, having an affair and an illegitimate child and also working in the circus. He eventually entered the theater and became known for his satirical writings and performances. He served a nine-month prison term for “assaulting the dignity of the monarch.” The play wasn’t performed until 1906 and was banned or censored for indecent and subversive subject matter. It was first staged in English in New York City in 1917, but the Commissioner of Licenses claimed that the play was pornographic. It was only allowed one performance. The musical adaptation appeared off-Broadway in 2006 and subsequently moved to Broadway where is won 8 Tony Awards, including Best Musical. It was adapted for television in 2008 and there is currently a movie adaptation being produced. Spring Awakening has been immensely popular since it’s premiere, especially among teenagers and college students.

            Taking place in a rural town in Imperial Germany during the early 1890’s, Spring Awakening is grounded in the culture of its time. School dominated the life of middle class boys during this period. The Gymnasium, a secondary school focused on the study of classical languages, was designed to prepare pupils for university entrance exams. Upon graduation they have the opportunity to apply for spaces at universities. Instruction was heavily dependent on memorization and public recitation and teachers were fully empowered to use corporal punishment in their classrooms. Secondary schools were exclusively for boys until the end of the century, when girls were granted some limited access to it. However, schools were strictly sex-segregated after elementary school.

            Any discussion of sexuality was strictly forbidden by the moral code of the day. Sex outside marriage was taboo, especially for women. The religious values of the day stressed prudence and temperance and the value of family honor. Premarital sex was considered a smear on that honor. However, it was far more common than the literature of the day let on. Because parents did not discuss such matters with their children, it was quite common for them to have to deal with a pregnancy on their own. Abortion was still illegal across Europe, so any procedures would have been performed by someone without formal medical training. The mortality rate for such procedures was very high.

             At the same time that religion was more strictly enforcing standards of morality, people were falling away from organized religion. Church attendance fell sharply and many younger people felt increasingly distant from the faith of their parents. There was a feeling that the spiritual emptiness was a new phenomenon, and as such was vilified by traditionalists and conservatives. Friedrich Nietzsche, a publically avowed atheist, wrote of this time, “God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him.”

Lecture on Ethics

The world in silent stillness waits
As those few, those happy few
Sink deeper into pages and words
Images of things unlearned and unknown
Unthinking, they grasp lessons from the text
And scratch them onto paper.
Eyes droop closed
Only to snap back open,
The dream wasn't and you're still here.

Alternative Spring Break

       I thought that, just because the news coverage had stopped months ago, everything had been cleaned up. Hurricane Sandy hit the Northeast at the end of October. We arrived in New York City in late February as part of Georgetown University Hurricane Emergency Relief Efforts (GU HERE), and much of the damage still remained. We spent our days clad in white Tyvek suits, respirators, and goggles to protect ourselves from the mold building up in the houses we were working in. Mold removal is a tedious process that involves scrubbing every visible surface with a special cleaning solution.

       Spending endless hours working on a house, only to be told that we weren’t anywhere close to finishing, gave me a profound understanding for the sheer amount of work required to rebuild after a disaster like Sandy. It’s work that is likely to continue for years and that is already being forgotten.

Edison's Wisdom

The floor sits empty by 5 am. Well, almost empty. Here and there a solitary figure slumps over a desk. Some are typing, one or two are packing up, but the vast majority of them have fallen asleep. As the sun starts to filter through the south wall, these last stragglers rise and shuffle out to class. Or to a resting place a bit more comfortable than their wooden cubicle.

Around 7 or 8 the flow reverses and those who had passed a night in bed take up their posts. Coffee and muffins mingle with readings and problem sets as the carts begin to roll. Slowly a days worth of words finds its way back to the shelves. By noon both the shelves and the tables stand full. And equilibrium sets in.

Those who stumbled out early this morning return after dinner, groggy and clutching their fourth espresso of the day. They search for their usual haunts and fall into now-familiar chairs. The floor begins to buzz. The sound leaks out gradually. It first reaches the rows of wooden cells in each corner, then crawls into the stairwell. By 10 pm the whole building is filled with an inescapable hum. People battle for seats and tables and even spots on the carpet, as long as they're near an outlet. The printers spit out page after page without ceasing.


By midnight the last of the night's visitors trickle in. They search in vain for an empty place before descending to the bowels of the building. A lucky one grabs the last desk, hidden in the far corner under the flickering light no one had bothered to fix yet. As she put down her bag and began unpacking the evening, now morning's work, she noticed speck of neon green just out of view. She looked up. And she alone smiled.

So...Lazy

A number takes the place of a moment

All that is left is to acknowledge

Only objects that stand alone

Powerless, you are carried onward by the current

Grief and sorrow mingle indiscriminately

Anguish

Heavy, weighed down by memories,

She lies, curled up with her blanket and book

A solitary figure

A man steps forward,

Knee deep in forgiveness,

And out into the sun 

Sometimes, when I want to write something but am far too lazy, I collect some lines from old pieces and stitch them together. 

Weekend Plans

Never wear heels. Ever. Whoever thought brick was a good idea, historic she'd heard it called, needed a good smack. The thousands of cracks sat like baited traps, waiting for anyone foolish enough to try stilettos instead of flats. She cursed the man, it had to have been a man, who made that amazingly stupid decision so many years ago. Carefully picking her way through the minefield she at last came to the house. She didn't have the address, but the flashes in the window and the music leaking onto the street were clearer than any sign. The steps were cement, thank God, and about as even as anything on this aging street. The door swung open and she leaned into the doorway, bathed in light and sound.

Without having to ask, he knew what the answer would be. He stood there, frozen, before her door, wanting to knock. His hand hung motionless in mid-air as if held by some force-field. Then he realized how ridiculous he looked and he stepped back, letting his hand fall limp by his side. She'd never say yes anyway, yeah, it's not worth asking. Having convinced himself of this, he returned to his room. Despondent, and looking forward to another weekend doomed to Stargate Atlantis, he gathered his laundry that lay strewn about the floor. He grabbed the hamper and headed to the elevator. Might as well do something productive. When the doors swung open he stepped in. The doors closed. And then opened again. She hopped in, breathless, and looked at him. She dress, her hair, her heels all said she was going out. They exchanged weak smiles and stared at the doors.

She sat behind the counter, watching the clock hands slowly march towards midnight. She hated the graveyard shift, especially tonight. Earlier she had watched waves of faces with plastic cups and fruit juice file by. She knew they'd be back tomorrow for Advil and water. But for the moment she envied them. As the little hand crossed ten her phone lit up. And now the texts begin. Where are you? Wanna go out? I know this great party tonight. Can I borrow that one black dress? This was the worst part. Every week she let them know she couldn't go out tonight, that they should have fun, but please don't text her. And every week, after drink three or four most of them forgot.

Wanderland

There are moments when everything you put on paper grates your soul. And you know it’s absolute crap. Something inside you impels you to string letters and thoughts together and then that same thing graciously informs you that you can’t keep any of it. And you go back and forth and crumple used-up pages, tossing them on the floor. Except you’re writing on a computer now so you don’t even get the satisfaction of doing that. You hit delete and stare again at that mocking blankness.

You try again, hiding this time behind the safe, anonymous pronouns. No identity. No latent associations. Just him and her. It, them, us, we, they. You wish you could be brave and put your story down. Shout from atop a stage that this is me. But you can’t, won’t. You are buried deep within the verse. You build up walls around yourself. They shatter and fall, but the rubble burying you serves just as well. No light gets in and you remain.

Writing is hard work. Life is harder. Don’t worry. The punch still tastes just as good.

Maybe I Should Try Coffee...?

A million people stare at you
As you stand naked, bathed in light, surrounded by darkness
Move, they shout, dance, sing, laugh, cry
Live

Well not actually a million...
More like twenty
And you're not actually naked
Although the boxers are feeling awfully small just now
And they aren't shouting. Or even talking.
The silence seems somehow worse though.

They want you to create mist
Not with a fog machine or even a paintbrush
But with yourself.
How do you do that?! What does that mean?
But you try anyway.

Your world narrows to the three walls,
Stained with the writing of years past
They bear messages barely worth reading
The view is stunning: whitewashed wall
And aged carpet, never cleaned.
You ask why you're sitting here, now?
No answer appears.