Fruit Salad "I remember what it was like," recalled Beth softly, speaking to her daughter, "when I had someone." Deb peered at her mom with concern. It wasn't often that the older woman assumed a mantle of self-pity or showed signs of melancholy. "You've got me, Mom," she said hopefully. "You know what I mean," protested Beth. "I think kids nowadays call it a 'significant other.'" Deb nodded. "Or maybe you don't know," suggested Beth. "You're only nineteen. Maybe you haven't experienced..." "I know what you mean, Mom," said Deb, cutting her off. "I've had boyfriends - and lovers." Beth looked at her, as though for the first time. "Yes," she murmured thoughtfully. "Yes, of course you have." Deb was indeed a beautiful girl, as well as a lovely person. The bright spot in Beth's life. Deb suddenly felt a pang of guilt, just for having a normal life and regular relationships, while her mom was distraught. And lonely. Beth's husband - Deb's father - had died three years before in an automobile accident, which had left Beth bound to a walker. She leaned over the aluminum frame now, placed her coffee cup into the dishwasher. "You need to get out, Mom," Deb said yet again, "and meet people. Maybe find a boyfriend," she added with a gentle smile. Beth snorted softly. "Lots of men looking for a chick that they can take out, maybe go dancing, cycling, roller blading in the park," said Beth wryly. "It would work out beautifully." Deb's face fell. "Mom! Not everyone wants a dance partner or a jogger or a bike rider for a companion. You've got a lot to offer. You're gorgeous, and you're just 39. Not everyone is an ableist, not everyone is hypercritical or wants to fix you!" Beth merely nodded, unconvinced. They'd had this conversation umpteen times before. Deb glanced at her phone. "I've got to get to class," she said, gathering up her school books. "And I have to shop for groceries," remembered her mother, walking to the parson's table in the hallway to retrieve her keys. "Will you be home for supper, or do you have a date with a significant other?" she asked, smiling with love at her daughter. At the market, Beth piloted an electric cart through the aisles of the store, pausing to snatch items from low-lying shelves. sometimes using her reacher-grabber to seize items higher up. Moving rapidly through the grocery, she came to the produce section and grabbed navel oranges from a bin. Misjudging the distance to her cart, she dropped the fruit and it rolled merrily away. "Shit!" she said crossly, tracking the path of the oranges with her eyes. "I got it!" said a man huskily, stooping to pick up the orange globes. "Here you are," he said, handing the fruit to Beth. She smiled her gratitude. Pausing for a moment, he asked her, "Are you new?" She blinked. "No, not really," she said, "I'm nearly forty." It was his turn to blink, then he grinned. "Good one!" he said. "I mean, I haven't seen you here before, have I?" She looked at him for the first time. He was tall - six feet - and slender, had graying dark hair. And he seemed perfectly pleasant. What did he want? she wondered. "I usually just shop on weekends," she explained briefly. He nodded. "My name is John," he said. "Beth," she introduced herself. They shook. His hand felt warm. "Well, listen, when you get your shopping done, if you like, I can help you put your groceries in your car - if you like." She stiffened just a bit. "Thanks, John, but I always get one of the boys to do it; it's their job, you know?" He immediately nodded. "I understand. I didn't mean to overstep, Beth." He seemed embarrassed. "I'll be seeing you," he said, and in a flash, he was gone. Beth frowned. He was only being helpful, she told herself. He didn't mean any harm. "Shit!" she said again. Beth stood in her kitchen, putting away the items she'd just purchased, when her landline rang; unlike her daughter, she eschewed cell phones. It had been a careless motorist's use of such an instrument which had resulted in the tragedy which cost the life of her husband - and had put her in shackles. Walking to the counter, she picked up the receiver and said hello. "Hi, Mom," said Deb, speaking very rapidly. "I'll be home for supper, like I said, but I want to know, is it alright if I bring two people with?" "Of course. Of course," said Beth. "Are they friends of yours?" "Well, sorta. They're students in my writing class and we're working on a project together and we wanted to meet tonight. I thought we could just meet for supper, if that's okay?" "Not a problem, baby," Beth assured her. "Do they like fried chicken?" "Who doesn't?" replied Deb. "We'll be over about four, work, then have supper, and then go back to work." "See you later, baby," said Beth, secretly pleased to interact with other people for a change. The "children," as Beth thought of them, worked steadily from 4pm until supper time, at which point Beth summoned them to dinner. As they filed around the dining room table, Beth was taken aback. In addition to the 20-year-old blond girl that Deb introduced as Stephani, was a man who turned out to be none other than John, the helpful stranger from Kroger's. Beth took a moment to absorb the coincidence, but John was not at all discomfited. "Beth!" he exclaimed happily. Beth smiled. "You two know each other?" asked Deb, pointing at them both. "I met your mom at the grocery store," explained John loquaciously. "She was tossing around navel oranges," he added with a smile. After explanations were tendered, they sat down to eat. Stephani and John were uncommonly gracious, entertaining guests and Beth found herself immersed in a warm camaraderie. John, as it turned out, despite his prematurely graying brows, was but 33 years old, an older student due to six years spent in the Air Force, and he was majoring in engineering. He and Beth were almost palpably struck by a connection to one another. Moreover, he seemed to consider her disability not at all. A good time was had by all. Over the next several weeks, John ventured several times to Beth's home to work on the project with Deb and Stephani. He stayed for dinner twice more and one time took "the girls" out to dinner at a nice restaurant, his treat. He was solicitous of Beth, but not hovering, and even liked the same foods that she did. At evening's end, she found her face fatigued from the endless smiling. "What is this project you all are working on?" asked Beth curiously one night. "It's the Magnum," replied Stephani at once. "We're editing the college literary journal this semester; you know, Deb and I are creative writing majors, and..." "But," interrupted Beth, "I thought you were studying engineering," she said, turning to John. "I've got a minor in creative writing," offered John, taking up the thread. "They say people with technical skills often don't know how to effectively communicate with others," he explained. "I've found it a very useful experience." Beth smiled warmly, a gesture which Deb caught. She, in turn, smiled with pleasure. Two nights later, John called Beth and asked if he could come over. At odds with herself, she said yes. When he arrived, he carried with him two bottles of sangria, Beth's favorite; how had he known that? she wondered. Sitting in the living room before the muted television, they toasted everyone they ever knew. They discussed everything: school, relationships, work, you name it. Finally, the evening began to wind down, much to Beth's dismay. "I've got to get going," murmured John. Beth glanced at the clock on the wall: 1:15. "Are you okay to drive?" she asked. He assured her that he was. "Oh, well, I'm sorry to see you go, John," she said in an inebriated voice. "I've really enjoyed your company," she added, wondering if John would think her a lush. Without warning, John leaned in and kissed Beth on the lips. It fairly took her breath away. Then he did so again and she opened her mouth and savored the kiss. It had been so long since she had been kissed like this. As she struggled to catch her breath, he leaned in and kissed her once more, rubbing his fingers lightly over her breasts. Beth lost all control, clutched John fiercely and kissed him back, passionately. The next morning, John had arisen, dressed and departed even before Beth had regained awareness. She was dimly aware of being kissed as she slept. She wondered briefly if it had all been a dream. But then she saw the note. John had written a letter in what Beth thought was beautiful penmanship, and attached it, in a gesture of whimsy, to her walker. In the missive. he thanked her for "a remarkable evening" and hoped that she had a wonderful day. All day long, Beth wondered at the nature of Deb's relationship with her new love interest, John. Love interest? she asked herself. Was she kidding? No, she decided, she was not. As they stood about the table, setting places for dinner, Beth snuck a look at her daughter. "Could I ask you something, honey?" she asked. "Something... personal?" Deb glanced up. "Sure, Mom." "Have you ever... been intimate with John?" inquired her mother with growing trepidation. Deb said nothing at first, then she replied, "Yes." Beth felt everything she had built up in her mind come crashing down on her. "Mom," said Deb, "I'm sorry...." "Don't be ridiculous," said her mother hastily. "You're a young and beautiful and desirable woman, in your prime. What man wouldn't want you?" Damn it, she felt tears welling up in her eyes. "If he hadn't wanted you, I would worry about John," she added. "It was only the one time, though," said Deb. "Last year. It was nothing; I mean, we're friends, but we're not... intimate... anymore." Staring down at the table, Beth only nodded. "Okay?" asked her daughter. Beth glanced up now, nodded again. "Okay, baby. Thank you for your honesty." Beth reconnoitered with John several more times in the ensuing weeks, though they were not again intimate. Beth wondered at that, considered procuring birth control, which she hadn't accessed for years. Sometimes, the "children" worked in the living room and Beth and John met afterward for wine; Deb seemed fine with it and Beth, so desperate for company, put to the back of her mind the idea that her paramour was perhaps a player, and had already achieved what he had sought. They still enjoyed one another's company, however. Things proceeded apace, until they didn't. One day, Beth's mind swooned as she did a home pregnancy test. "Abortions are still legal in this state - for now," added John, looking solicitously at Beth. They were seated at the kitchen table one morning; Beth had asked him to drop by after class. "I know all about women's reproductive rights," muttered Beth unhappily. "And I'm not interested." It had been nearly six weeks since her one night of intimacy with John; now she was torn. "How would you possibly carry a baby to term, then care for it, for - the next eighteen years?" he asked, endeavoring to be 'reasonable.' "I mean, you're..." "Disabled?" she completed his sentence. "That's not what I was going to say," he protested unconvincingly. "It was all impromptu, if you'll recall," she said ruefully. "But in retrospect, had I thought of it, I suppose I had some notion that the baby's father would in some way be involved," ventured Beth. What he observed on John's face did not make her happy. She saw goodbye. "I can't do this, Beth," said John, raising his hands to shoulder level, palms out, and rising to his feet. "I'm going to graduate in a year and then, who knows what happens? Job opportunities in engineering exist world-wide. I can't commit to staying in Chicago, or anywhere else. You understand, don't you?" "Maybe you should have suited up prior to going into battle," suggested Beth wryly. "It's like you didn't consider the consequences of your actions." "Well," he came back at her, "if you'd been on the pill..." "I hadn't had sex in three years," she said a little shrilly. "I thought I'd never make love again. Then you rode in on your white charger and showed me how everything could be different!" Tears were seeping from her eyes now. This was just too much, she thought, drawing her fingers to her lips. The lips that John had kissed. John turned and made for the door to the kitchen. Deb, standing outside, had heard everything. He met her on his way out. "I'll call you about the project," he told her gruffly. She stared at him. "Go. Fuck. Yourself." she said in reply. He left without another word. After John had departed, Deb and Beth sat at the kitchen table, Deb with a glass of wine, Beth with a decaffeinated cola. They sat in companionable silence for some time, until at length, Deb spoke. "You're still a young woman, Mom," she said. Beth stared at her. "We're in this together," Deb added. "Next time, though," she said. Beth looked at her daughter. "Yes?" she asked. "Pick up your own damn oranges." Together, they laughed.
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from Vernon Frazer
Tracking Back
a nodal boudoir
not sham city’s clergymen
moves
that the scrotal passports
past paintbrush embassies use
rivalry elms
that illustrate
hospice doorsteps
as dreadfully central to the crusty
listeners
or businessmen
pressed
hierarchical pain moves
handle arterial law
*
platform darkness
enormous clearings retract parted
horizontal linguists coldly
laurels deleted
the chaotic bothers line up
under credit
about to fold
without improvements
to draw boutique silks forward
an ensemble moves a straight
bedtime workshop for array at
a raucous epidemic
watchdog to a linen sighting
depending on tailors
or impostors
wearing
orchestrated
throwbacks
for the volcano racket
Home in the Distant
dollar tone filters reprieve
the passing rubber collisions
measured and padlocked
the doldrum forsaken
as empty light darkening
epithet winds to the left
dumpster visionaries eat
modicum filters without fuming
over a fiscal meat current
doorbells remain a bare looming
transmission haunts return
whirling against a vernacular test
the wig suck of shrill beer
test serpents haunt a downside
vernacular heading bare memories
other fuming acclamations ring
downhill to undulate the comeback
Old Grouches Eating Early Bird Diner
lava withdrawal burnt slow invective
while sciatica released stark alliteration
sentry patrimony sparked a spectacular
daylight moratorium firecrackers withheld
pulsations darkened a rectangular pastime
the crossfire jubilee ripped worn rudiments
cornered the crumpled muffler caresses
where a convocation of balding hairlines
gradually receded in their lifetime hut
no flesh rescinded elastic calorie alerts
backing a mayday growl the creature
gone latent for some weaker principle
graphite-hot during the midship crawler
colored the flashy convocation failing
informally made gaseous duets ache
swamp clearance opposing separation
despite sorting the patrimony lithographs
another crossfire bouncing underway
and not the neutron spurt a turn renewed
sunshine worshippers leaking rudiments
after shops eased everything catalytic
lagoon revenge boiling electrical blubber
stuttered northward torn and metallurgic
timber outlines chafed worn inquiries
a cowl scraping punctual crisis disposal
no phosphate lanyard about to revive
unctuous pablum filters pretzel timber
the mosaic wife handling dead family
on a churn for hard trundling dentures
ladled sciatica spurts handicraft torn
between aching and explaining fear
atonal opera bubbled elusive pudding
for mutineers crumbling the tower price
before revelry welled solar betrayal
BIO
Vernon Frazer has published more than thirty books of poetry. Many of the individual poems have appeared in periodicals such Alien Buddha, D.O.R., eYeland, Otoliths, Plain Brown Wrapper and SYNCHRONIZED CHAOS. Frazer has also published three books of fiction, three recordings of jazz poetry and numerous multimedia videos, available for viewing on YouTube.
Poetry from Mesfakus Salahin
Bring Back My Love Again Stop Stop here shadow Where are you going? What is your destination? Where will your ship anchor? The queen of time The queen of love Come back Hug me like butterflies Bring back my love Bring back my love again You bring back my love again. You have gone drunk with greed For the transitoriness of morning dewdrops That will be destroyed after rising the sun You are a collector of flowers You change yourself every moment But you can't change the feather of love Everything bows to time You have to bow to time You have to be burnt With the fire of love Stop everything Just stop everything Come back And bring back my love again. The moon of my sky is down Who will shake my heart? Who will give happiness to my eyes? Who will paint my dreams? Don't think me as an old stone I am not lifeless love My love is not lifeless Come and walk in my heart See the sea of love Come back Look at my face Here is your seal of love I can't wash my face I can't breath without your love I want to hide in you Don't walk in wrong track Here is true love Here is true peace Here is true happiness Come back And bring back my love again. Have you touched the mountain of snow? My warmth is stored there for you Have you smeared the South wind? In which the words of my love are composed Have you swum in the river of love? That just flows my love Have you heard the sound of love? It is in my heart Geometric love will inspire you to come back A circle cannot change it’s center Love is not love which is calculated come back And bring back my love again. Don't break the rhythm of poetry As my soul lives in it Don’t miss the flight of time Time is limited but love is long Don't blame on your forehead As there is no true reason Get ride of the sins of the delusions Which are full of crime Come out of the cave of darkness As there is no vision No vision, no love Come back I will disappear your darkness Come back to the cave of light Light is love You bring back my love again. You tried to trickle me No, I am not fooled Tears do not quench the flame You cheated on yourself You have drowned in the sea of injustice Yet only you are in my prayers I love you from the depth of heart I live in you Ignite the emptiness Fill the cup of love Come back And bring back my love again. May life be blessed May the expression of the circle And the day -night of the moon -sun be united Immortality is in love history. The rain will come from the heaven The desert will give birth civilization Trees will spread their branches You are asked You are invited Come back Please come back And bring back my love again..
Poetry from Noah Berlatsky
Every Use of “Self” in Dale Carnegie’s How To Win Friends and Influence People, 1981 Revised Edition
Itself himself itself himself myself myself self-improvement yourself yourself yourself yourself yourself self-improvement self-examination myself myself myself self-analysis self-education yourself yourself yourself himself self-confidence self-expression himself himself himself self-confidence self-confidence himself myself himself himself himself himself himself himself himself himself herself myself himself himself himself yourself selfish self-control itself himself himself himself himself self-improvement self-esteem self-esteem selfish unselfish selfish himself himself herself unselfish yourself myself yourself myself himself self-seeking unselfishly himself himself myself self-expression self-expression himself himself himself himself himself unselfishness myself yourself selfishness yourself himself oneself herself yourself yourself myself himself himself himself self-evident yourself himself himself himself himself himself himself himself yourself himself myself himself himself itself myself myself myself selfish itself himself himself herself himself self-confidence herself itself himself myself myself himself myself himself yourself myself himself self-control yourself yourself self-respect yourself himself self-esteem myself oneself myself myself yourself himself myself myself self-dignity yourself myself self-esteem myself himself self-criticism yourself self-criticism myself myself myself himself himself himself self-condemnation myself oneself myself itself myself yourself itself itself himself myself himself self-employed himself himself himself himself myself yourself himself myself myself self-reliance himself myself myself himself himself yourself yourself yourself self-appointed myself yourself yourself myself myself myself self-pity himself unselfish himself myself yourself himself myself self-addressed self-addressed himself myself itself itself self-expression yourself himself himself himself yourself yourself myself myself yourself himself himself oneself myself himself himself herself myself himself himself yourself yourself yourself myself himself yourself himself himself herself herself herself herself herself itself yourself herself himself itself yourself
Poetry from Steve Brisendine
ghost, breathing I can stand still as air before a thunderstorm and feel my footprints begin to fill in (though I have not yet stepped out of them); I never did expect to leave an impression anyway This piece was accepted and will be published in literary journal Vita and the Woolf. the palette of his palate my synesthetic son has lunch waiting – two takes on the spring beets he found yesterday at the first farmer’s market of the year – when we return from church, each prepared according to the hues he sees when seasoning: purple from orange sections, from honeyed pecans, a touch from the beets themselves; red (deep, like the wine we open to play alongside his work) from beef and asparagus; the beets, far milder than their autumn counterparts, shine gold through their red tinge (like a sunset, he says, and for a second I see) Jamais Vu I have walked that street all sorts of befores with eyes open (if not always mindful of where I happened to be going) – and yet on this grey Sunday it seemed new, a place to be discovered, mapped into memory for the first time. It did not last long, this sudden untethering from experience – two minutes, perhaps, before I held the lines again – and still, hours on, there is a part of me that drifts and wonders. This piece was accepted and will be published in literary journal Vita and the Woolf. Rue des Rêves Running through my memory on the Street of Dreams - Joe Lynn Turner The path of love is a Möbius strip; it runs ever ahead, behind, between. All steps are steps forward; all footfalls vibrate along immeasurable length. Where it passes over water, it gleams mirror-bright; stars come down to see their true selves, tiny ideas of angels by whose light we read and dance. Where it leads through trees, they do not crowd. There, it is paved with red bricks from old schools; all leaves which fall to it become singing birds. Where it becomes a city street, it is lined (on both sides, two being one) with museums, with noodle shops, with shaded places for quiet and chocolate. Where it soars above dark ragged gorges, we who love meet and are not afraid. Arms linked in hopeful conspiracy, we look over the edge, see ourselves waving back. This piece was accepted and will be published in literary journal Vita and the Woolf. In the Manner Which Seems Best to You Forget inspiration; the only thing the Muses really give you is a choice. You have nine possible ways in which to be devoured alive. Please pick one. There is no tenth option. Take up your pen, your microphone, your paintbrushes and give them a good show; they do so like to be entertained before their teeth meet through your heart. This piece was accepted and will be published in literary journal Vita and the Woolf.
Christopher Bernard reviews Cal Performances’ showing of Socrates and Via Dolorosa by the Mark Morris Dance Group
Calvary and a Prison in Athens
Socrates and Via Dolorosa
Mark Morris Dance Group
Cal Performances
Berkeley, California
Western civilization. Two words that seem to enrage one half the world while blinding the other with a misguided sense of aggrieved loyalty. The so-called progressive left lays the blame for most, if not all of today’s evils at its doorstep. The alt-right and other so-called conservatives claim to be its sole defenders in a world gone mad with resentment and ingratitude.
“Slavery, capitalism, climate change, nuclear war, toxic synthetics, dying seas, the collapsing of wildlife and the sixth extinction,” the left claims, “including our own under the weight of a catastrophic success – these are the legacy of Western civilization.” “Freedom, unsurpassed prosperity, knowledge without equal, human creativity unleashed and human power without limit,” claims the right, “righteousness, grace and God: these are the gifts and the triumph of Western civilization.”
But today there is no longer such a thing as “Western civilization.” Long after Europe lost its empires and its political and economic dominance, its intellectual and spiritual domination of the world is complete. Now “Western civilization” is world civilization: free markets, the primacy of the individual, the sanctity of human rights and the political authority of the people (in theory when not in practice), the imperative of human creativity, technology, critical reason and the scientific method in addressing our problems – these Western definitions of the good are unchallenged by anyone – though the right seems hardly to understand them and the left pretends to forget them. The right defends a grotesque caricature of “the West” that has its roots in the barbarians that brought down an empire and sacked Rome – their founding fathers are Alaric and Attila, the Vandals and Ostrogoths who gaped at the cities they burned.
The left attacks an equally grotesque simulacrum: a “West” that began in 1619, or 1492, or 1605 – when the Atlantic slave trade began, or Columbus set foot on Hispaniola, or the first stock exchange was founded in Amsterdam and what had been an efficient series of trading markets across the continent turned into the many-headed Hydra that now feasts on the globe.
At the heart of our dominant civilization stand two figures whose shadows have been cast down the millennia; the greatest rebels and martyrs of their times – doubters, skeptics, revolutionists. Each stood for his (for they were both men) convictions regarding reality, truth and the good, and each paid the ultimate price: they were summarily killed by the people and powers of their time, with the assumption their ideas and influence would die with them. They did not. Those two individuals also stood for the two poles on which what was, eventually, called “the West” has revolved for centuries. Their names? Socrates and Jesus.
Socrates embedded the dialectics of doubt and reasoned argument into the heart of the West. Jesus embedded the imperative of faith and love. Both stood for truth – though their conceptions of it were not always congruent, and much of Western history has been a long-undecided conflict, sometimes war, between them, one essentially spiritual, the other material – “Hebraism” and “Hellenism,” as Matthew Arnold defined them two centuries ago.
Or, as we might say today, alt-right and progressive – neither side seeming to realize that both they and their opponents are Western to the core.
What civilization first placed its own self-criticism as one of its fundamental values? Western – and late Western at that. In most other cultures and civilizations, including earlier versions of Europe, the critic, dissident, rebel would have been imprisoned, executed or dismissed as mad.
What civilization places the idea of moral universals and absolutes at its beating heart? Again, Western. Most, if not all, other cultures enforced loyalty to their own and only their own; anyone outside “the tribe” was not considered entirely “human,” and certainly had no “rights.”
This is not to romanticize the West. Being human, it is imperfect – often floridly so. It has blood on its hands, as does every other culture and civilization since humanity broke off from its simian ancestors. And its virtues were not always intentional; they exist at least partly because there has been in fact no single “Western culture” but rather a cauldron of “Western cultures,” dozens of cultures, ethnicities, religions, races, in perpetual war with each other for millennia. But that discussion must be pursued elsewhere.
The Mark Morris Dance Group brought two dances, balancing these Western, and now world-dominating presences, one intellectual and heroic, the other spiritual and sanctified, to Berkeley’s Zellerbach Theater during a recent weekend; performances that could not help but stimulate these thoughts.
The first was a revival of Mark Morris’s celebrated “Socrates,” an intriguing work set to the music of Eric Satie and a libretto taken from three of Plato’s dialogues. Based on designs to be found in Grecian pottery, and at times curiously reminiscent of Nijinsky’s notorious choreography for Debussy’s “Prelude to ‘L’aprés-midi d’un faune,’” the dance moves in smoothly hieratic poses, sometimes childlike, sometimes serenely adolescent, across a landscape of classical purity and grace.
The dance has a libretto, performed gracefully by tenor Brian Giebler and accompanied by pianist Colin Fowler. The libretto’s first part is taken from The Symposium, the celebrated dialogue on the nature of love. Alicibiades describes Socrates as like a Selenus, a grotesque figurine containing, hiddenly, the figure of a god, and also like Marsyas, a satyr and flute player for the gods – though those who remember their mythology will remember his tragic end when he makes the mistake of challenging Apollo, god of the lyre, to a competition: he loses, predictably, and is skinned alive for his hubris.
The second part describes an idyllic passage in Phaedrus in which Socrates and his young eponymous friend seek a place on the banks of a lovely stream where they will conduct a conversation in search of the true, the beautiful, and the good.
The third is taken from Phaedo, narrating the last moments of Socrates’ life, surrounded by his mourning friends in an Athens prison, when he drinks the hemlock to which he has been condemned by the citizens of Athens for corrupting the youth of the city when, in truth, he was liberating them from the very illusions that led, ironically, tragically, to the greatest of ironist’s own martyrdom.
Eric Satie’s music, famously cool and detached, makes little attempt to express the libretto; Morris’s choreography spends almost all of its time following the music and ignoring the words: there is almost no attempt, for example, to express the pathos of the closing pages until the very end, when, one by one, each of the dancers slips gracefully to the floor, expressing the death, perhaps not only of Socrates, but of the Greek ideal itself.
The second half of the program was a world premiere, awaited with much anticipation: “Via Dolorosa,” set to the music of Nico Muhly, performed on solo harp, with formidable virtuosity, by Parker Ramsay. The dance follows the Stations of the Cross, from Jesus’ condemnation to his crucifixion, death and entombment. Interestingly, it distributes the role of Jesus to dancers of various genders, ethnicities and races, appropriate for the universal humanity of the Good Shepherd. Muhly’s music is, for the most part, as detached as Satie’s, though it occasionally gives way to the harrowing drama of the moment. The stunning stage set – a blowup of a searingly beautiful patch of abstract brushwork, whose colors changed depending on how they were lit – was by Howard Hodgkin.
For this dance, too, there’s a libretto, in this case somewhat overwrought, by Alice Goodman, though in this performance it was neither spoken nor sung (as, it seems, might occur at some performances). Which was just as well, as it is, to be frank, a poor substitute for the simple descriptions in the gospel.
The dance was a little disappointing. Though there were moments of genuine originality and the childlike grace and warm humanity one associates with Morris’s dances, there just was not enough inventiveness and too much reliance on mannerisms one has also come to expect. It seemed just a little tired. There was also a strange attempt to take the edge off the final moments of the entombment, at the very end of the dance, to anticipate the coming resurrection, that felt contrived and forced. After all, even in Giotto’s frescoes, the angels are allowed to weep and lament as if there will be no resurrection to come, not take what looked like a not very unconvincing victory lap.
It was perhaps a more thought-provoking evening than one that was entirely satisfying aesthetically, but it was certainly worth the visit. And the audience gave it a standing ovation.
_____
Christopher Bernard is an award-winning poet, novelist, playwright, and essayist. His most recent books are the children’s books If You Ride A Crooked Trolley . . . and The Judgment of Biestia, the first two stories in the series “Otherwise.”
Essay from Jacques Fleury
“Black men struggle with masculinity so much. The idea that we must always be strong really presses us all down – it keeps us from growing.” –Donald “Childish Gambino” Glover
TOUGH: Exploring the Contentious Issue of Masculinity in Contemporary Society
[Originally published in Spare Change News & Fleury’s book You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self]
As a child, my mother often painted my fingernails and sent me to school with glossy lips and lavishly perfumed hands. So began my confusing journey in discovering my gender identity and tipping along the jagged edges of sexual non-conformity.
Gender, as defined in Down to Earth Sociology, is “The social expectations attached to a person on account of that person’s sex. Sex is biological while gender is social.”
It has occurred to me that sexual and gender identity has been a hot-tempered issue most recently. People are quick to use labels like Gay, Straight, and Bisexual, Queer, Transgender, Feminine, Masculine, Macho, Tough Guy and Snowflake. Essentially, if you’re labeled gay then, you’re thought of as feminine and if considered straight, then you’re thought of as masculine. Well, if only it was all that simple.
Eli Coleman, in his book Integrated Identities for Gay Men and Lesbians states that “The dichotomous or trichotomous categories of sexual orientation (homosexual, heterosexual, bisexual) are a massive over simplification of our current understanding of sexual orientation.”
He goes on to day that “…conflicts within or between individuals over sexual orientation are quite commonly seen in many cases of individual psychopathology. These conflicts contribute to psychosexual dysfunctions, relational problems, career indecision …existential crisis and so forth.”
I remember the anxiety I experienced when I decided to become a male nurse; I worried about the implications of working in a field typically dominated by women. But as we know today, there are many male nurses whose sexual identities are exclusively heterosexual, even though they have taken on a mostly feminine role and ignored the gender (masculine or feminine) role expectations of society.
Coleman also quoted Alfred Kinsey—a pioneer in the area of human sexuality research, whose 1948 publication Sexual Behavior in the Human Male was one of the first recorded works that saw science address sexual behavior and who invented the “Kinsey Scale” that rates levels of sexual preference from 1 (absolutely straight) to 6 (absolutely gay)—as saying “The world is not divided into sheep and goats. Not all are black nor all are white. The living world is a continuum in each and every one of its aspects. The sooner we learn this concerning human sexual behavior, the sooner we shall reach a sounder understanding of the realities of sex.”
“Masculinity is what you believe it to be. I think masculinity and femininity is something that’s very old-fashioned. There’s a whole new generation of people who aren’t defined by their sex or race or who they like to sleep with.” Asserted gay Olympic Gold Medalist Johnny Weir and rightfully so…. In the grand scheme of things, I think that new age sexuality borders on being more contextual than it is biological.
There have been times when one can feel attracted to someone based on the situation of which they find themselves and the feelings that develop during that time; taking into consideration that they may still have more feelings of physical attract toward one sex over the other. Attraction can be more than just wanting to have intercourse with someone. It can be a combination of things that one deems valuable when it comes to finding the right mate. Things like karma, aura, emotional chemistry, intellectual and spiritual compatibility and socioeconomic components; all can affect attraction among individuals.
As a matter of fact, when I was growing up with my male cousin Bob in Haiti, definitive distinctions were made between us in relation to our disparate levels of gender role conformity.
Growing up, I was extremely close to my mother and had limited contact with my father being that he was a traveling businessman who lived in the second floor living quarters of his retail store in the middle of the city of Port-au-Prince. I was seen as the soft spoken, non-aggressive, overly sensitive and not terribly athletic mama’s boy. Whereas my cousin Bob was perceived to be the more tough talking, boisterous, athletic, and insensitive man’s man.
So they invented names to “label” us. I was “Temou” (Creole for soft core) and he was “Tedi” (Creole for hard core). Those labels began to shape how I perceived myself in the early stages of my psychological development. The idea that to be masculine you must be boisterous, not soft spoken is part of the pathology behind the idea of masculinity. “Violence has always been unfortunately embedded in masculinity, this alpha thing.” Said Captain America star Sebastian Stan.
Robert J. Stoller, M.D., in his book Presentations of Gender talks about the issue of femininity and masculinity in boys and girls within the context of family dynamics. He states that “One might hypothesize that if an excessively close mother child symbiosis and a distant and passive father produce extreme femininity in males, [then] too little symbiosis with the mother and too much symbiosis with the father would produce very masculine females.”
Which brings me to pose this question: Why are we as men so afraid to be associated with acting or thinking “like a girl”? What’s wrong with acting or thinking like a girl? We are all made of both male and female chromosomes, right? Sometimes the female chromosomes (a female karyotype is 46 XX) can be more dominant in males and the male chromosomes (a male karyotype is 46 XY) can be more dominant in females and vice versa.
Speaking from the point of view of someone who grew up with about five dominant women who exhibited both feminine and masculine characteristics in Haiti, I’ve grown to have immense respect for women and their abilities to communicate, empathize, endure and thrive over hardships. Why are those qualities recognized as a source of weakness if exhibited in males?
Women tend to allow themselves to be emotionally vulnerable, whereas men tend to perceive vulnerability as a weakness. But why is that? It seems to me that it takes courage and strength to be vulnerable whereas it takes fear and weakness to be invulnerable. In Haiti, women are objectified and are made to be subservient to men.
So the strong women I grew up with, had to mask their strengths or what was perceived to be masculine traits in order to appease the men, or risked being labeled a lesbian and lose their breadwinner. As for me, at times I had to act like the typically stoic masculine male when I really felt like sobbing uncontrollably, in order to avoid being labeled a sissy.
In The Homosexualities: Reality, Fantasy, and the Arts, Shirley Panken, Ph.D. writes “In Virginia Woolf’s celebrated essay ‘A Room of One’s Own’, Woolf …[discredits] the usual definition of masculinity and femininity, and synchronizes the two into an androgynous (genderless) vision.” She goes on to say that in Wolf’s other work Orlando, she “depicts Orlando’s profound confusion about the diversity of his/her different selves.” Woolf writes that the indecision “from one sex to another is universal, that clothing may depict male or female likeness, but that underneath the sex, is opposite of what is above. She also dwells on the multiplicity of the self…”
Consequently, I want all the “feminine” or non-stereotypically “masculine” men out there to unite and claim their gender bending rights! Roy Simmons, a former offensive lineman with the New York Giants and with the Super Bowl winning Washington Redskins in the 1980s and the second NFL player to come out as gay, in a book about him called Out of Bounds had this to say: “To me, I am and always have been Roy Simmons. Labels are for people trying to define me—that’s their problem. The only insight I can offer into my sexuality is that I did exactly what everybody else around me did when I was growing up: when I came into my sexual maturity, I went with the flow, and for me the flow moved naturally to boys and girls. I found out soon that I like dick and pussy in almost equal measure—you don’t need a label to enjoy either one. A label is for the outside trying to look in.”
Recently, a large number of stereotypically “masculine” men have come out as Gay, Bisexual or Transgender, like former Gold Medal Winning decathlete Caitlyn Jenner, born Bruce Jenner. During his last 20/20 interview with Diane Sawyer back on April 24th, 2015 before he transitioned to Caitlyn Jenner, Sawyer asked him about his sexuality and to which he replied, “Sexuality is who you go to bed with, gender is who you go to bed as…”
Among other high profile “masculine” athletes who have come out as gay or bisexual to challenge the contentious ideologies of masculinity are:
Carl Nassib, who became the first active National Football League (NFL) player to come out as gay. Luke Prokop, who became the first NHL player to come out as gay. Michael Sam was the first openly gay man drafted into the NFL. Ryan Russell became the first openly bisexual person in the NFL and in any major professional league. Ryan O’Callaghan who came out as gay after retiring from the NFL. John Amaechi who came out as gay in 2007, four years after retiring from the National Basketball Association (NBA). Glenn Burke became the first gay man in the Major League Baseball (MLB). Robbie Rogers was the first openly gay soccer player in a professional league. Jason Collins was the NBA’s first openly gay player. Meanwhile, Orlando Cruz became the first openly gay man in boxing and Darren Young in wrestling.
The list goes on and on…see it in full with this link: https://www.insider.com/professional-athletes-who-are-lgbt
In contemporary society, it is becoming increasingly unacceptable for men to objectify women. The days of “cat calling” (e.g. Wolf whistle, “Hey baby, can I get your number?”, “Nice ass!” etc…) is becoming passé. In addition, when it comes to having sexual freedom, the double standard of toadying men and shaming women has also been exposed and reassessed.
All of this and more are part of the concepts of masculinity: what it means to be a “real man.”
Today, a plethora of men are redefining their own manhood and not simply acquiescing to pre- established and progressively antiquated prototypes of masculinity. Terminologies like “house husbands” and “stay-at-home dads” are part of newfangled lexicon. Today’s men tend to be more expressive about their feelings and famous men like the comedian and actor Chris Rock have admitted to going to therapy.
In a People Magazine article by Eric Todisco titled: “Chris Rock Reveals He Does Seven Hours of Therapy a Week Since Onset of COVID-19 Pandemic” published on Dec. 10, 2020. Todesco writes that Rock unbosomed himself to the Hollywood Reporter about his therapy, revealing that he has been focusing on rectifying “childhood traumas”.
“I thought I was actually dealing with it, and the reality is I never dealt with it…” Rock stated.
Hence as you can see, it is becoming incrementally acceptable for men to find ways to cope with their feelings, which most of them (me included) were told they should not have or must not show. Alternatively, it is no longer acceptable to use coping patterns like drinking, drugging, physical violence and abusing women and children. To do so now will result in official consequences due to new and better-implemented domestic violence laws.
Today, you need not behave like a galoot with a “cave man” mentality to affirm your masculinity. Violence and intimidation—both archetypally associated with masculinity—are not “strengths”; they are personal weaknesses. As Argentinian revolutionary writer George Louis Borges once said, “Violence is the last resort of the weak.”
Some of the strongest men in history did not use force and fear to exert their masculinity. Iconoclasts like Gandhi, Nelson Mandela and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. changed the world through non-violent means. It is easier to react violently like an unruly toddler than it is to respond thoughtfully like a mature man.
Therefore, for those of you who are questioning your gender identity (masculinity, femininity) and sexuality (lesbian, gay, straight, bisexual, transsexual, queer, intersexed, asexual and questioning), know that the only one who can define you is you. Do not allow external forces keep you from experiencing internal freedom, whether you identify as masculine, feminine or both! After all, what is more divine than knowing both masculine and feminine energies?
Jacques Fleury is a Boston Globe featured Haitian-American Poet, Author, Educator and literary arts student at Harvard University online. His latest book “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self” & other titles are available at all Boston Public Libraries, the University of Massachusetts Healey Library, University of Wyoming , The Harvard Book Store, The Grolier Poetry Bookshop, Amazon etc… He has been published in prestigious publications such as Muddy River Poetry Review, the Cornell University Press anthology Class Lives: Stories from Our Economic Divide, Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene among others…Visit him here: http://www.authorsden.com/jacquesfleury.