Apparently I suck at hiatuses

Well, also, I do take requests, and fastlad, my dearest friend who I haven't talked to in way too long, has asked me to snark about this stupid article, which I will because I love him and also because it's a really stupid article and I feel like being bitchy on a topic that a) merits it b) but isn't important enough to make my brain explode.

It should be short. I mean, here's the title:

Brooklyn Virgin Discovers Naked Dancing"

Here's how it starts:

Somehow it happened that in all the years I’ve lived in New York City, I’d never been to Brooklyn. But when I heard that choreographer Noémie Lafrance had a new show opening in Williamsburg, I decided it was as good an occasion as any to venture beyond Manhattan for the first time. I loved the music video she choreographed for Feist’s “1234” in 2007, and “Rapture”—her piece for aerialists staged on the side of a Frank Gehry building at Bard College—was undeniably awesome. So on Tuesday night, I boarded the L train (heading away from the West Village) and made my way to hipsterville. I’d heard from my more global friends that Brooklyn is a charming borough inhabited by cool young families, gourmet cheese shops, and creative intellectuals. It has parks! And trees! And slow walkers aren’t mowed down on the sidewalk! But I’m what you might call a bona fide Manhattanite. Or, to be more precise, a bona fide Upper East Sider. I’ve traveled the world, I said to myself—how exotic could Brooklyn really be?

Perhaps my tweed J. Crew jacket and Tory Burch ballet flats weren’t the best wardrobe choice for that day, but I overcame the fact that I was a total Williamsburg misfit and hoped my foreigner status wouldn’t be glaringly obvious to the natives. (It was)..

It gets more annoying from there. Apparently girlfriend was shocked, shocked, at the realities of downtown* theatre, from lack of proper accomodations to nekkid performers to I can't even read all that shit to be honest. Short version:

"I'm a total pointless snob with nothing remotely interesting to say and particularly not about this show I'm supposed to cover, (I don't know much about Art, but I know what I -don't- like, even if I feel totally insecure about it); but if I write this piece in an archly kidding-on-the-square 'ironic' tone (see, I AM hip, I know 'irony' is what all the cool kids do these days...maybe) people will think I'm ever so charming and clever and amusing."

Not.

-plonk-

The first comment sums it up really:

good riddance and don't come back. we don't need you.

just sorry I never invited her up to my former digs in Queens, and don't I feel DARING for saying that. or, um, not? i did and do consider myself damn lucky to have a (nice, at that) place to live in the city (or anywhere for that matter, look around you you stupid toff) at all?

Oh yeah, and yes, it is depressing that this is a (presumably paid) piece for Vanity Fair and not someone's livejournal, as another commenter noted. Indeed.

(*Williamsburg is often considered an extension or 'new'(er) "downtown," i.e. the East Village moving East. Yes Virginia, that certainly DOES include, nay, is probably by now OVERWHELMED by, a fuckload of privileged gentrifiers and/or other annoying UES twits faux-"slumming" it for the length of the nearly-as-inflated-as-Manhattan-by-now-lease or the evening, respectively, so girlfriend there shouldn't have felt remotely out of place unless she's really so damn insecure that a couple of equally-pretentious hipsters glaring over their black-rimmed glasses gives her the vapors)

"Yes, and."

This is just sort of a general rumination on what some people call "constructive discourse/action."

In improv theatre, or certain acting exercises in regular theatre, we used to have this trope called “Yes, and.”

Yes and…” is about accepting the premise that someone has made an offer. You can use that as a starting point….then either:

* Build on it — adding your ideas, perspective, etc.
* Add a twist or new angle…
* Deepen it…and engage…..with a question, hypothesis, emotion, etc.
* Or if you must ‘reject it’ - start by first acknowledging the ‘offer’ and the inherent good parts (come on….there’s something you can find!)

How it works in an improv context, for example: someone says,

“I went to the store yesterday,”

and you say, “Yes, and you bought a can of peas.”

and they say, “Yes, and there was a peculiar mark on the outside of the can,”

and you say, “Yes, and i noticed it was the same as the one I found on the inside of my wrist this morning…”

and from there you build a story.

Or, whatever, not a wonderful example; point is, it’s different to going,

“I went to the store yesterday.”

“No you didn’t, you went to the circus.”

…because that just sort of makes it grind to a halt. And you might have had the best of intentions: oh, shit, the store, that’s boring, let’s go somewhere more exciting! but in fact, it’s better to just go with whatever it is and -add.- And if it sucks at the end of it, as it often does: hey, you start something else.

Quote of the day, 9/16/07

I mean, so much of the evil that men do to one another has at its core the inability of people to empathize with another person's position. Say when you're seven, you find yourself slightly more drawn to Johnny than you are to Jane. This is not a conscious decision on your part, it just happens, it's an instinct like...liking the color blue.

Now in less tolerant times, you were put to death for this attraction. As time went on, this punishment was sometimes reduced to mere castration, or just imprisonment. Until recently this attraction was considered so horrific that society pretty much expected you to lie to yourself about your sexual and emotional feelings, and if you couldn't do that, certainly expected you to shut up about it and go live your life bottled and terrified; and if you would be so kind as to never have any physical closeness with anyone ever, when you were buried you could know that society would feel that you had handled your disgraceful situation with tact and willpower. That was one cheery option--nothing, and then the grave.

Or, you might make a false marriage with some woman who wouldn't know what was going on with you, and you could both be miserable and unfulfilled. That was another respectable option. Or you might kill yourself. There's not a lot of empathy evident in the people who prefer these options.

I mean, I certainly realize how insane it would be to ask a heterosexual to deny his or her natural sexual feelings and perform homosexual acts that went against their nature. If I can have that empathy, why can't others have that same empathy in reverse? I want some empathy here!

[Goes into an affirmation] I am the predominant source of...well, fuck that.
[Throws his note cards over his shoulder, drives on ahead.]

--Christopher Durang, from Laughing Wild

"...all of this has happened before, and all of this will happen again..."

As I may have mentioned hither and yon, before coming into the wacky world of online feminism, I was a member of an organization that I will here refer to as Dyke Drama Collective, a Downtown theatre that is/was started in the early 80's and is for the women, by the women, very on-a-string, very DIY let's-put-on-a-show. It's had its high points--alumnae include Holly Hughes and Sarah Schulman; and I should say I had a show of my own (directed, wrote, co-produced) at one point. Had some good times with some of the regulars, onstage and off. I don't mean to say this without any affection whatsoever. Just, I was indirectly reminded, elsewhere, just now, from an allusion to the endless Online Dwamas with the Usual Suspects, of this:

Right about when I knew it was time to leave the DDC (which was, I reiterate, not -nearly- as obnoxious as erm some people in terms of the Usual Dread Subjects, on the whole; the younger set far less so than the older ones, whom i didn't know as well, true, still)

...anyway, shortly after 9/11, one of the (older, whom I didn't know very well) women used Vulva puppets, Mr. Rogers-like, (complete with squeaky voice and syrupy intonation) to enact her sentiment that dark as the times were, maybe the crumbling of the phallic structures symbolized a better time to come for Pussies. (or however she put it. there was nauseating cutesiness, was the bottom line, besides the, well, that).

a few years later, i ran into her at the friendly local wimmins' book co-op (which later got bought out by an individualist if still leftie entrepreneur, on account of the wimbon who was "collectively" running it by basically letting crunchy wide-eyed twenty year olds staff the place on a "volunteer" basis basically ran it into the ground, business-wise).

She was all, oh, hi! I can't remember your name. (obligatory exchange) Hi! Good to see you! Say, I'm house managing tonight, why don't you come and staff for me?

Now, the way Dyke Drama Collective works is, everyone pitches in and works volunteer on a system of what's called "sweat equity." You help your sisters with their shows, and the space as a whole, goes the idea, and when it comes time to do your show, you'll get help with yours. In practice it didn't always work out quite so neatly, but anyway. "Staffing" means you help clean up before and after the show (usually not much to do), sit and take tickets at the door or wait downstairs to meet and greet, maybe run some light errands. In return you get basic "sweat equity" and of course to see the show for free. Not a bad system, and a perfectly reasonable suggestion. Except, I hadn't been to the place for several years. But, okay. I tell the woman, politely, sorry, no can do, but good luck!

She goes, in so many words,

"Why not?"

I bit back the first four or thirteen responses ("um, hello, I -might- actually have something else to do, did it occur to you, person-I-haven't-seen-in-several-years, and you don't even remember my damn name?") and said, rather less pleasantly,

"I'm busy."

She did drop it then, at least. The temperature perked back up a few notches, we made with the conversational noises, she bought her copy of -off our backs- or -Tidewombon Periodical- or -Craft Your Way To The Revolution- and maybe a vegan cookie/paperweight or so. Goes off. And that was that.

The brief reunion did leave me with a warm glowy feeling of sisterhood, though. Unless it was acid reflux from the herbal tea.

This is just gorgeous.

Ravenmn reports on the Minneapolis/Heart of the Beast Theatre Mayday parade, a tradition since 1975. This year's theme, "Somos Agua" ("We are Water"); the above photo, which I hope it's okay for me to gank, is "the Mother of Waters." More commentary and more stunning pics at Fly By Night, check it out.

Maybe it's the weather turning warmer or something

...maybe i just want to get the hell awayyyy. or maybe I'm watching Battlestar Galactica and the description of the living arrangements keep bringing it to mind.

but for whatever reason, i am finding myself fascinated by the idea of this:

Living in Antarctica

****

HARPER: Snow! Ice! Mountains of ice! Where am I? I...I feel better, I do, I...feel better. There are ice crystals in my lungs, wonderful and sharp. And the snow smells like cold, crushed peaches. And there's something...some current of blood in the wind, how strange, it has that iron taste.

MR LIES: Ozone.

HARPER: Ozone! Wow! Where am I?

MR LIES: The Kingdom of Ice, the bottommost part of the world.

HARPER: Antarctica. This is Antarctica!

MR LIES: Cold shelter for the shattered. No sorrow here, tears freeze.

HARPER: Antarctica, Antarctica, oh boy oh boy, LOOK at this, I...Wow, I must've really snapped the tether, huh?

MR LIES: Apparently...

HARPER: That's great. I want to stay here forever. Set up camp. Build things. Build a city, an enormous city made up of frontier forts, dark wood and green roofs and high gates made of pointed logs and bonfires burning on every street corner. I should build by a river. Where are the forests?

MR LIES: No timber here. Too cold. Ice, no trees.

HARPER: Oh details! I'm sick of details! I'll plant them and grow them. I'll live off caribou fat. I'll melt it over the bonfires and drink it from long, curved goat-horn cups. It'll be great. I want to make a new world here. So long as I never have to go home again.

MR LIES: As long as it lasts. Ice has a way of melting...

--Tony Kushner, Angels in America: Millenium Approaches

"The Secretaries"

riffing off this last post on womens' anger.



is a play by the Five Lesbian Brothers of which I am particularly fond, although I do love all of their work, that I've seen/read, at least.

We are secretaries and we do things secretarial
And once a month we kill a guy and cut him up for burial.

--Shh! Shh! Shh!...

So, yeah, you get the premise right up front (in the actual play as well). As always, the fun is in getting there.

In the rustic town/suburb/something of Big Bone, new girl Patty joins the receptionist pool at the Cooney Lumber Mill, at the beginning of the month (this is important). It is the chance of a lifetime; a million girls would kill for the job.

--o, not literally! Ha, ha! You're so funny. (And I love your hair).

no, seriously! There's no competition here! The girls are so sweet, really:

PATTY (to audience): They all seemed to know each other so well. I thought I'd never fit in. And I wanted to. Almost more than anything. I worried constantly about what they thought of me.

(PEACHES re-enters)

PEACHES: Here you go, Ashley (she hands her a strawberry Slim-Fast)

PATTY: Is that stuff any good?

ASHLEY: You never tried it?

DAWN: Look at her. Her body's only perfect.

PEACHES: I envy you, Patty. I never see you eating.

PATTY: Oh, I eat plenty. I'm having a salad for lunch today....

And Susan, the boss, is, well, everyone just loves her. Well, not in that way; the girls aren't that way, (except for Dawn, the resident lesbo; watch out for her! Ha, ha!

PATTY: I had no idea! You're so pretty!

ASHLEY: She gives the Big Bone Organization for Women a bad name! The lumberjacks think we're ALL lezzies.)

...so, yeah. Susan. Great boss. Great motivator. Great role model.

PATTY: (Entranced) Mmm. I really love you, Miss Curtis.

SUSAN: (Feigning embarassment) Oh, my.

PATTY: (Also embarassed) No, I mean. I really admire you. I admire you and your work and your--the way you are. I wish--I wish I was more like you.

SUSAN: Thank you, Patty. See? That's how easy it is to accept a compliment. Want to practice?

PATTY: (Laughs) Oh, well, I don't think--

SUSAN: Nonsense. Ready? Patty, you have wonderful taste in clothes.

PATTY: Really?

SUSAN: No, Patty. You say, "Thank you." Accept the compliment, don't question it, Patty. Patty, your typing skills are superb.

PATTY: Oh, I--thank you. Thank you very much.

SUSAN: Good. Patty, your breasts are better than any set of implants.

PATTY: Miss Curtis!

SUSAN: Just say, "Thank you."

PATTY: Thank you.

SUSAN: Better. But I can see I'm going to have to work on you...


Then the new girl and apparent new favorite of Susan (which doesn't bother anyone else, particularly Ashley, AT ALL) gets promoted from lowly receptionist to full-blown secretary. And now she is really part of the cul--team. Which includes regular meetings of the Big Bone Organization of Women (BOW). headed, of course, by Susan; and inextricably connected to the Cooney Lumber Mill and thus the job; as is the entire town.


SUSAN: Well, shall we begin?

(They all take hands and bow for the invocation)

We thank you for the opportunity to meet for shakes and fellowship. Please help us to word process without error, to follow the SlimFast Plan, and to make it through that time of the month together. (the invocation is over and they release hands). And speaking of that time of the month, since we're just completing our last cycle, no bloodstains anyone, I hope.

(All except Patty click and giggle [special "Secretary" language they all speak])

PATTY: Wait a minute, you mean you're all on the same cycle?

SUSAN: I'm sure you'll sync up soon, Patty. It's what happens when we women spend so much of our time together.

PATTY: I have heard that. I guess I never spent that much time with my women friends before.

PEACHES: (To Susan) I have a problem with bloodstains.

(There is a tense silence).

PATTY: Well, Peaches, just rinse them right away with a little cold water, and never, under any circumstances, never EVER rinse them with hot. That sets the stain...

Sound advice. Patty's clearly still not quite tweaking everything yet, though; not the giggle-click language, not why Susan collects everyone's used tampons, and not really this bit, either:

SUSAN: We just need your signature right here.

DAWN: It's a celibacy agreement, Patty.

PATTY: I don't understand.

SUSAN: One thing we all appreciate in BOW is healthy relationships. We all date, of course. But a girl needs to know how to say no and the rule just makes it easier.

ASHLEY: You want to keep your sweater, don't you, Patty?

DAWN: Here's a pen, Patty.

So she signs the agreement...but she's still surreptitiously having sex with Buzz, the sensitive lumberjack who rescued her from the cruder attentions of some of the other lumberjacks (Chip, Woody, Sandy...) Not that the others don't know. There are no secrets in Big Bone.

As the month wears on, the strain begins to manifest a bit more clearly.

PEACHES: Susan...said Mr. Kembunkscher isn't happy with my performance. She said he said I'm not the right size. Can you believe that, Patty? Fat, old, baldy-top Mr. Kembunckscher....Susan said he said none of the girls can be over a size twelve. Damn him. I bet that fat old hog hasn't ever tried to diet....I'd like to prick him with a needle.

PATTY: Peaches...I think you're fine the way you are. Mr. K...has no right to dictate what size his employees should be. Really. it's not legal.

PEACHES: Sure. Maybe in a court of law. But in Big Bone there's only Cooney law...Patty, I have to stop eating solids....Susan said you could help me...If you see me with a bear claw or a bag of mixed nuts in my hands, just give me a little slap on my face, OK?...

PATTY: Peaches, I'm not going to slap you...

But eventually, Peaches, in terror of losing her job, persuades Patty to help.

(Patty gives Peaches a tap on the cheek).

PEACHES: That's not hard enough and it won't work.

(Patty gives Peaches a stronger tap).

Patty!

(Peaches slaps Patty hard. Patty slaps Peaches back even harder).

There. Yes. That was good. Thank you, Patty. Thank you.

Soon enough, Patty is slapping Peaches--hard--without a second thought.

Meanwhile, Ashley's got her own problems:

(It is late, and Ashley is working on a little statue of Susan made out of office supplies).

ASHLEY: (Talking to herself) Just a minute, Susan, don't leave yet. I'm almost finished. I need a head. It's easy for Patty to make things; she had a mother...I think we ought to give Patty an "A" for effort. An "F" for faker? You think you know someone and it turns out they aren't sweet and nice after all. Just rotten and bad like everyone else. Still, you shouldn't compare me and Patty like that. It's not fair. It's not fair. Patty doesn't know you like I do. I do. I know you. Don't forget how well I know you. I know all about you, Susan...

and Dawn finally works her predatory magic on Patty:

PATTY: Well, what about the celibacy rule?...

DAWN: It doesn't count if it's two women, Patty. I can't believe you don't know that.

Although Dawn has apparently given Patty her first orgasm at the fuck motel, Patty still "likes lumberjacks." Specifically, Buzz. Tensions arise, inevitably; but the pettier jealousies and backbiting also seem to be fuelled by...something else. Things get darker and stranger. Susan chastises Dawn for her transgression...in a very intimate place...with her teeth. Patty goes on a surreal midnight ride with Susan, which culminates when they run over a wombat:

PATTY: I better take a look. (Gets out and looks under the car). It's still alive. You don't have a gun?

SUSAN: I detest guns. What are you going to do?

(Patty removes a tire iron and takes a swipe in the air)

Oh, I can't watch.

PATTY: (Coaxing the wombat out from under the car) Come here, little fella...

(Patty beats the wombat to death with the tire iron. Patty gets so into it that Susan has to stop her)

SUSAN: That's enough, Patty. It's dead.

PATTY: I just hate to see anything suffer.



...and so we roll around to the very last day of the cycle. 29 accident-free days. The longest the lumber mill ever goes without one. Back in the office, everyone's hard drives seem to have been erased, the uber-boss is shouting for his reports, and things are...well...

(Ashley re-enters. She's holding...a bottle of toner. She's got black marks around her mouth)

PATTY: Ashley, what's your password?

ASHLEY: It's a secret. If I tell you I'll have to kill you.

DAWN: Ashley, give me the toner.

ASHLEY: Sure, Dawn. (She eats the rest of the toner and tosses the bottle to Dawn). You'd better order more. We're almost out.

PATTY: What are you doing?

ASHLEY: You stay the fuck away from my job. I'm next in line, got it?...

DAWN: Leave her alone, Ashley.

ASHLEY: Aw, isn't love sweet.

MR K...: (Voice-over) Hello? Hello, is this thing on?...

PEACHES: I'm having my lunch, you fat pig. You know, lunch? What people eat to live? I'm eating my lunch, you dumb fuck. Leave me alone!

DAWN: Oh, shut up, Peaches!

PEACHES: Don't tell me to shut up! I starve myself and look at me, I'm fat. Patty eats whatever she wants whenever she wants to. She eats a dinner! She eats a dinner!

PATTY: I'm sorry.

PEACHES: Yeah, you're sorry and I'm fat.

ASHLEY: Stop saying that word!!!

PEACHES: FAT! FAT! FAT! How do you like that, you stupid anorexic?...

PATTY: The report!

DAWN: Oh, fuck Kembunkscher, Patty! You fuck everybody anyway!

ASHLEY: (To Peaches) If you don't shut your fat trap this minute, I'm going to come over there and shut it for you, you whore!

PEACHES: (Referring to Patty) I don't think I'm really the whore in this room, but you can call me that, if you like...

Susan returns at this juncture, which only escalates matters. Big hair-pulling catfights and so forth. Eventually, the crisis is dealt with...but there's still the evening meeting to contend with. And here it is. Patty finally confronts Susan with her worst fears:

PATTY: I'm not stupid. I notice things.

SUSAN: What things, Patty?

PATTY: Like every girl has a jacket. A lumberjack jacket.

SUSAN: They're nice jackets aren't they? Good and warm. Better made than a woman's coat. Have you ever noticed that, Patty? How men's clothes are better made than women's and usually half as expensive? It's a crime. A while ago, before you came on, we decided to rectify this crime. We decided we wanted good jackets, too. It gets cold in winter. Only the lumberjacks won't give us their jackets, so we take them.

(PATTY tries to bolt. ASHLEY and DAWN grab her...)

PATTY: You kill them, don't you! You kill the lumberjacks!

Which, well, duh. And the next bit of information is probably not a huge surprise to those who were following along: tonight's target is none other than Buzz.

PATTY: He loves me.

SUSAN: I love you. Peaches, Ashley, Dawn--we love you. Buzz doesn't love you. He loves an idea of you. I even love the killer in you. Now that's love...

PATTY: Why Buzz? Buzz never hurt anyone. Why not one of the others? Why not Hank or Sandy--the way he's always pawing at the girls...

SUSAN: We don't kill them because they're bad. We kill them because we're bad.


Further agonized requests for explanation don't help much:

PATTY: Peaches, how could you do this?

PEACHES: I don't know, Patty. It's fun. There's food. We can eat. There's pizza and ice cream and Kahlua and you can mix them together. And it's dark, Patty. And we yell. A sound comes out of my mouth, huge, like I never could have imagined...

And Susan, after a dramatic climax wherein Patty stabs her with a phone message spike ("Good girls don't stab people, Patty"), first elicits a confession:

PATTY: You made me do it.

SUSAN: You wanted to do it. You loved it, didn't you? Admit it, Patty...

PATTY: Yes!...

SUSAN: You never liked Peaches, did you? You just pretended to like her.

PATTY: Yes, yes.

SUSAN: Dawn was your toy, wasn't she?

PATTY: Yes, I used her.

SUSAN: And you wanted Ashley to die, didn't you?

PATTY: Yes, I loathe her. I despise her.

SUSAN: And Buzz is a lousy fuck, isn't he?

PATTY: Yes, yes, the bastard!

SUSAN: But most of all, you hate me. Isn't that right, Patty?

PATTY: Yes! Yes! I hate you. I hate you.

(PATTY collapses in SUSAN's lap, crying...she has crossed over)

and then offers her own, more or less:

PATTY: I see someone, behind the facade. Someone who hurts and needs. What happened to you, Susan?

SUSAN: Okay. My story goes like this. I was born and then I was fucked over and fucked over and fucked over so many times that I can't separate it out anymore...

and so it comes to pass that Kill Night rolls around. and after a moment of backpedalling wherein she tries to turn the ax on her "friends" instead of the hapless, drugged Buzz ("God, Patty, get a grip"), goes through with the deed, and earns her jacket.

PATTY: (To audience) My first Kill Night. It seems so long ago. Susan took it on the lamsoon after that. Now I'm office manager and I love it. I do things differently, but as we say in BOW, it's all in the execution.

ALL: ...We're at the end. We should provide a moral for this story
But this is not a moral tale or complex allegory...

*********

But of course, it is a moral tale, and it is a complex allegory; a very complex one. As co-author Lisa Kron puts it in the intro to the published play,

LISA: The play examined the ways in which women are the enforcers of sexism. The rules that are enforced involve weight, food, sexuality. Proof that we were covering uncharted territory was in the disconnect between the responses of men (notably male reviewers) and women. Women recognized what we were doing because they had experienced it. Men did not because they had never seen it before, never had it described to them. Male viewers often focused on the cartoonish violence at the end of the play where poor Buzz is killed with his own chainsaw. The emotional violence between the women did not show up on their radar. They tended to see the play as a revenge fantasy, which it clearly is not. The only likable character in the play is Buzz, and before his bloody execution Susan Curtis makes clear that he does not deserve to die: "We don't kill them because they're bad. We kill them because we're bad."

But it's actually even more complicated than that, from this audience member's perspective. For one thing, it's not just internalized sexism but internalized homophobia, and the ways in which lesbophobia plays out among straight women, how it acts as an enforcer. Unlike the male homophobic equivalent, though, it's not the main dish in this toxic banquet; the token lesbian is "tolerated" (and hilariously, of course, also, the homoerotic undercurrents among the "straight" women are made blatantly overt; it wouldn't be a Five Lesbian Brothers play otherwise...).

No; what's really vital is that the women tamp down their anger, at least until such time as they are allowed a "safe" target for it. What this play is about, it seems to me, is the extremely poisonous results of stuffing back real, legitimate anger in the name of "getting along" and "being a good girl" and even "sisterhood"--the play skewers a wide variety of targets, from classic Cosmo-reading hetgirl culture to certain expressions of feminism. The common denominator is the incredibly warped idea of "friendship" and "love" that these women have. And part of the reason they act this way, it's pretty clear, is that they are not used to love, much less love among women (sexual or otherwise). "Chloe liked Olivia;" it's still a radical concept. And these women, like so many women, feminist and otherwise, are struggling to integrate this novel idea with the ancient messages of

"There's not enough to go around"

and

"Other women are your competition for those scarce goods."

Now throw in some other ancient messages:

"Good girls don't get angry. Particularly not at the people who love them and only want what's best for them"

"Good girls aren't selfish."

"Good girls aren't boastful or openly self-promoting or proud of themselves."

"Good girls control themselves, particularly physically. Don't eat too much. Don't fuck too much. Don't desire too much. Don't be greedy. Don't be fat. Don't be a whore. (You don't really need that, do you?)"

"A woman's work is never done."

"The Eternal Feminine beckons us upward. (Always be improving yourself! And if you're feminine: always be helping others to improve, also!)

"Idle hands are the devil's playground."

and, just for good measure,

"Now, girls, you're both pretty. (But you are special. Don't tell the others)

"Everyone can make it if they just work hard. (But there's only room for a few people at the top; you can only make it if you're really special). If you can't make it, it's your fault. (You didn't work hard enough. You aren't special enough. What's wrong with you?)

***

No wonder they're all fucking crazy.

No wonder we're...

well.

Ironically, warped as Susan is, in a way she's onto something. Not with the monthly murders themselves; that ritual sacrifice is nothing more or less than a safety valve to maintain the fucked-up system that's firmly in place, no more or less so than the "Particutions" in "A Handmaid's Tale."

No; what's a little closer to genuine health is the naked, unapologetic claiming of her "badness." The thing is, it's not even necessarily "badness;" it's just...there. But seeing what's there, really seeing it, is the first halting step on the path out of the woods, perhaps.

And what's there, what the authors of this play have seen and put before us: that "we," we women, are, at the end of the day, only human, no more, no less. That while there is indeed a system of institutionalized sexism that affects us in particular ways, it does not say anything about our inherent nature, or even what we're each of us individually capable of right now.

We could be murderers.

We could be rapists.

We could be child molesters.

We could start wars.

We could be torturers, and thoroughly enjoy ourselves doing it.

We could commit matricide, parricide, infanticide.

Same as anybody else.

And sometimes--not nearly as often as men, statistically, perhaps, but sometimes--we do, we do do those things.

All of that and more.

And--and this is the hard part: we still don't really get that many points if we don't do those things; because, as Lisa Kron notes, there is also emotional violence. From women, and between women. Terrible, awful violence.

And often enough, not only does it not show up on mens' radars, it doesn't show up on ours, either.

And this, too, perhaps, is our cultural legacy:

"If you can't see it touch it quantify it, it doesn't exist. If you can't see the wounds, there was no real harm."

Ah.

But you do see the results, is the thing, one way or another, eventually. The results are broken bonds, failed movements, irrevocably damaged relationships and psyches and souls...and those invisible damages lead their bearers to go on to commit more tangible harms.

Such is life.

"Those to whom harm is done, will do harm in turn..."

In the end, I think the moral is quite clear: it starts with owning your shit. No need to own the shit of others, mind; the system of institutionalized sexism is quite clearly laid out. That was not our creation; not our idea, no.

What we own, for good and for bad, is what we're capable of. Our power, used for good or ill, effectively or ineffectively. Our--yes--agency. Our shadow, too.

"We don't kill them because they're bad. We kill them because we're bad."

It's awful...and it's freeing. Yes. The rage is there. The hate is there. And the love, too, lying under all the crap like the last winged creature in Pandora's box.

It's not that there is no "out of here." It's that the way out, as in the Inferno, lies not up and away but down and through.

And that, that, is examination. That is the "work" that must be done.

At least: it's a start.

So:

Nobody knows I'm a thespian

My main theatrical thing is/was writing, but I've trod the boards a few times. My stage resume is short but glamorous. One of my earliest roles, as mentioned elsewhere, was a giant card. Later I would go on to tackle such meaty challenges as Third Chorus Girl From The Left in Oklahoma, or, most recently, Green Fairy in Astonishingly Ill-Conceived Production of Iolanthe at Dyke Drama Collective, which is probably worth a story in itself, sometime. As a girl, I was in a family friend's pastorela (Nativity play)three years running: once as a dancer, twice as the roller skating angel who comes in to bilingually announce the birth of the baby Jesus, after comically crashing offstage and then limping back on.

But my finest moment onstage, and possibly ever, was in a university production of a little play called Sapientia. Perhaps you've heard of it. It would be more likely if you happen to be an aficionado of dramatic works by tenth century nuns.


So, Sapientia, by Hroswitha Von Gandersheim. One of the grad-student dramaturgs decided this would be a cool thing to put on as a late night cabaret, as it ran well under an hour. What her other criteria were in choosing this, I do not know, although I have my suspicions (more on this later). The original text was a bit...problematic. It may be the world's only play to contain a ten-minute explanation of a mathematical problem, for a start (as proof of the existence of God. don't ask me how. i was never very good at math).

The plot and characters and dialogue were, well, not nuanced, but then it was a "morality play." Gist: a wise woman (the eponymous Sapientia) and her three little daughters, Faith, Hope, and Charity are spreading the word of Our Lord Jesus, when news of them is and their subversive new faith is brought to the ears of a Roman emperor, don't remember which. It starts with an "H," I think. Let's call him "Hattie." Hattie has Sapientia hauled in front of him, but, being a reasonable tyrant, he tries at first to talk sense into her, to get her to Come To The Dark (pagan) Side. Sapientia defeats him in a dazzling show of logic (viz math problem), so naturally, Hattie's only recourse is to torture and kill each of her daughters, slowly and horribly, unless they recant their heretical faith. None does, and they are, each in their turn, gloriously and bravely (and bloodily) martyred, followed, at last, by Mother herself. The End.

Now, it seems quite likely that this play was not intended to have been performed per se, seeing as how it called for special effects that would've made Mel Gibson plotz with delight--beheading, disembowling, budding adolescent breasts sliced open only to spurt milk instead of blood (more on this in a moment)--and tenth century convents, as far as I know, were not known for their sophisticated SFX technology. Neither are producers of late night university black box cabaret shows, of course, but this did not daunt our director, who also dabbled (to put it kindly) in design.

So, for instance, she made paper-mache kiddie "heads" for Hattie's henchperson to throw before Sapientia's agonized eyes as proof of the dastardly deed, per script directions; they landed with a hollow "thunk," as I recall, and the one meant to represent mine had blonde curls glued to it, probably culled from Barbie dolls. Faith, the eldest (age twelve, in the script), had her tits cut off. Since she has a line about "Behold, instead of blood, a stream of milk is flowing!," the director decided to have her wear water balloons filled with yep, you guessed it.

My role as Hope, the second daugher (age ten) was to be eviscerated. Since there wasn't an opportunity to go backstage and change costume,--white nightie-like outfits for all of us--her solution was to sew a rather bulgy pocket on the front of my nightie with red velveteen intestines stuffed inside, later to be tweezed out by the henchperson (cackling with Pythonesque glee all the while). Sadly, they had a tendency to peek out of the pocket before it was disemboweling time, which kind of spoiled the, you know, surprise.

Now by this point of course you're saying, "oh, that sounds like brilliant camp! of COURSE the director meant for it to be funny!" And she did, she did. Mostly. I mean, she did have a good sense of humor, and there was that one rehearsal where Faith's water-balloon tit was tied too tightly and when they went to "slice" it the liquid kind of arced across the stage in best money-shot fashion, and after the director finished rolling around on the floor she said, rather regretfully, "no, no, that's too funny, we can't use that." Which to me suggests, in retrospect, that yes, she did want people to laugh...but if it was "too funny," then there wouldn't be any chance of it being taken seriously as a piece of historical interest, which I do think she kind of wanted to happen. Too.

To this end, she'd devised some odd and rather elaborate conceits. For instance, she'd decided that there should be a frame device showing that this is a play being put on by nuns, for nuns, in a convent. Okay. So it's an all female cast, all right; the emperor is a munchkin of a girl about half the size of the chick playing Charity, the adorable eight-year old, but it's okay: it's a play within a play! It all makes sense now! To further establish this, the director had us start by pantomiming a "evening in the life of" before actually starting Sapientia. This meant having us enter by solemnly filing in to the accompaniment of some kind of medieval chant (very pretty), sitting down, and eating a meal, which turned out to be cold rice in wooden bowls. In total silence. And full house lights. Then the head nun/emperor would stand up, clap her hands peremptorily, and this would signal "Let's Put On A Passion Play!"

So, since this is a late night cabaret in a tiny forty seat black box, what this means is that we're sitting mere inches away from our friends and classmates and (God help me) relatives, all merrily passing beer and wine from hand to hand and already laughing their asses off, facing them head on without even a shadow to hide in or a saving line of dialogue, trying to eat cold rice, while the tension builds...and builds...and builds. And let me tell you, if you don't think trying to do this without cracking helplessly the fuck up is an acting challenge the likes of which would stump Meryl Streep, you are wrong, wrong, WRONG. From there on, it only got worse.

Because, you see, in addition to the Charles Ludlam level of props, dialogue, acting, etc., there were a number of additional Ed Woodian factors which weren't intended to happen at all. Like: the stage manager left the backstage phone off the hook one night, so that just as my (first of several) tearful "goodbye, dear Mother, we shall be reunited in Heaven" speech was reaching its impassioned climax--*riiiiing.* There were music cues that didn't go off, light cues that were forgotten (as in, just when the beheading ax was coming down), flubbed lines, dropped torture implements--we were collossally klutzy, collectively, and none of us real actors, to boot.

But the gaffe I still remember most fondly, probably because it resulted in the only standing ovation I have ever gotten in my life, was this:

After I had been degutted, the director decided that it would be cool and maybe even kind of moving to have me give my deathbed speech from the electrics room, which was behind a glass window at the far end of the theatre. So Cardinal Fang-ette would drag my emptied carcass upstage, whereupon my earnest little face was to appear at the window, Sappy would come and press her hands to the glass, and I would have my
swan song...then, blackout.

Unfortunately, the acoustics weren't great, so I had to shout to make myself heard. That was with the door open. But the henchperson would keep forgetting, and, unable to resist the sheer drama of the "slam" noise, shut the door, on opening night.

The actor playing Sappy was of course facing away from the audience, so she didn't even pretend to not be laughing, that bitch. Me, I simply didn't realize, until afterward: once the door was shut, no one could hear anything I said. So there I was, overemoting my little heart out...and looking like a cross between Theda Bara's thallidomide cousin and a guppy. What the hell: applause is applause.

It was sheer love, of course. It really couldn't have been otherwise.