Exchange of Views

No.

You’re wrong.

Totally wrong.

He never said that.

He never did that.

That can’t be right.

You must be mistaken.

You must have heard it wrong.

It was a misinterpretation.

They're lying.

You’re lying.

I don’t want to hear it.

Fake news.

Who says that?

Who would even say that?

They must have an agenda.

Anonymous sources don’t count.

Only traitors say that.

Why don’t people come forward?

There has to be proof.

A report means nothing.

Witnesses mean nothing.

A video means nothing.

Confirmation means nothing.

He didn’t mean it the way you take it.

It was taken out of context.

You have to listen the full tape.

You have to admire him for admitting it.

We all do stupid things.

Why didn’t you say something before?

Why are you going on about it?

Why did you wait so long?

That was then. This is now.

What’s done is done.

It’s too late to do anything.

You should have said something at the time.

Why must you persecute him?

Why is it such a big deal?

Why is that a surprise?

Everyone knows about it.

Old news.

He's changed.

Must you fixate on it?

What more do you want?

More important things going on.

You're going over old ground.

Why stir things up?

Ancient history.

That was in another country.

And besides, the wench is dead.

Free Verse

A found bit of poetry. Picture this being read in a basement coffee bar in front of a brick wall, accompanied by bongos:

Bahamas, Frisco
Celebration, New Mexico
Cure, Boca Raton, Camellia
Las Vegas, New Orleans
Gasparilla
Hawaii
Independence, Quick Lane
Military, Pinstripe
Texas, Holiday, Cheez-It
Camping World
Cotton, Peach, Fiesta
First Responder
Music City, Redbox
Orange, Belk, Sun
Liberty, Arizona
Alamo
Citrus
Outback, Rose, Sugar
Birmingham, Gator
Idaho Potato
Armed Forces, Lending Tree
CFP Championship

Anything is free werse if you throw enough line breaks at it.

More later,

Meanwhile: A Century Ago

In Flanders fields the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

    That mark our place; and in the sky

    The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

    Loved and were loved, and now we lie,

        In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

    The torch; be yours to hold it high.

    If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

        In Flanders fields.

- John McCrae, "In Flanders Field", 1915

More later

Play: War Stories

An Iliad by Denis O'Hare and Lisa Peterson, based on Homer's The Iliad, translated by Robert Fagles, Directed by Lisa Peterson, through May 16.

One-man shows are chancy things, even though they at beloved by theaters in these benighted days of reduced overheads. It all relies on just one voice, one talent, to carry it forward, and can drop easily into pretension and hyperbole.

Not the case here. We have one man (brilliant REP Actor Hans Altwies) as the unnamed Homer, telling his break-out hit, the Iliad. Homer is not blind, but instead is doomed to wander, telling and reinventing the tale as he goes. And he does a great job telling about war, history, and storytelling itself.

The story you know, or rather you should know. By odd serendipity, I am currently have the Fagles translation on my ever-growing pile of books by the bedroom. The story is late in the war between the Achaeans and the Trojans, and the tale of the great Greek hold-out, Achilles, and his noble opposition, Hector. The deal with the horse? That happens in another epic. This is a brutal tale notable for its graphic violence and horrible fates.

And it is more than that. It is about the nature of war and conflict and rage and how these things come easily to us and how, despite our rational natures, we are still prone to them, so that we can't get away from them even when we know they are horribly stupid and dangerous things.

And O'Hare and Peterson on the page, and Altwies on the stage, spin it into more. The original Iliad is a long haul, though in its original state it spellbound its Greek audience. The writers and actor do not revise (all the plot points are there), nor reinvent (no one is made more or less than they were in the original), but re-present, taking the original text and putting it into the mouth of a guy telling stories at a bar, or in a train station, or at a reunion. He pulls the tale into modern terms and in doing so humanizes the gods and heroes and in doing so makes them more real.

Altwies, to honest, is bloody brilliant, and literally spins a tale - digressing, explaining, and interjecting, turning the poem into something palatable for today's ears. And he does manage to hold the stage, sweeping us up in the epic, such that only when the torrent of phrase is interrupted do you blink and realize that you've been under a spell.

One-man shows are chancy things, but this one brings to a close an extremely effective season at the REP. Go see this one while you have the chance.

More later,

The Edsels of the World of Movable Type

While searching for something else, I found this poem by Clive James: The Book of My Enemy Has Been Remaindered. It is a wonderful read, and sounds even better read by Garrison Keillor.

This poem delights writers and reminds everyone else that writers are not necessarily the nice people you assume we are.

More later,

Steampunk Dreams

With more than just a tip of the top hat to Gil Scott-Heron and the lads at Wondermark.

The Revolution Will Not Be Telegraphed
You will not be able to stay home, old mate.
You will not be able to flee the smoke, go to ground, and lie doggo.
You will not be able to lose yourself on absinthe and opium,
Skip down to the club or the public for a quick one,
Because the revolution will not be telegraphed.

The revolution will not be telegraphed.
The revolution will not be transmitted in dots and dashes
Translated by Powell’s semaphoric boys.
The revolution will not show you stereographs
Transmitted to your handheld
Or posted broadsheet-style on the street for the plebes.
Of the Great Game and Chinese Gordon and Shaka Z.
The revolution will not be telegraphed.

The revolution will not be come to you over the mojo wire,
Distant electronic discharge accumulated on the babbage,
Quoting Jules V and Herbert G and Oscar Wilde
The revolution will not expect every man to do his duty.
The revolution will not evoke God and country.
The revolution will not lay back and think of England, because the revolution will not be telegraphed, Old Bill.

There will be no pictures of you and Bertie Wooster
Cradling a policeman’s hat, rushing down the block on the dead run,
or trying to slide that suspect soup tureen into the boot of a stolen lorry.
The Beeb will not be posing updates at the top of the hour,
or results from the outer boroughs.
The revolution will not be telegraphed.

There will be no engravings of the pinks at Homestead in the dailies.
There will be no engravings of the pinks in Haymarket in the dailies.
There will be no pictures of Spring-Heeled Jack in the dock at the Old Bailey, no shots of Albert in the can.
There will be no Muybridge sequence of Doctor William Gull fleeing an angry mob of consulting forensic experts and aether-linked mediums who had come to the same conclusion at the same time.

The ink-blurred protagonists of the penny dreads will not shed their copyrighted shackles and go blinking into the public square.
Aqualunged writers will not drive by and bang on the sides of their coach and fours, shouting out the numbers and roles they need,
hoping those released from literary Newgate will trade their freedom for a chance to once more play the Palladium.
No one will give a damn about what happened to Little Nell.
The revolution will not be telegraphed.

There will be no boffins providing exposition, no suffragettes in slacks smoking, no mute servant class made of dutiful coils and springs.
Its libretto will not be written by Gilbert.
Its music will not be penned by Sullivan, and it will not be sung by Lilly Langtree, nor dedicated to Emperor Norton.
The revolution will not be telegraphed.

The revolution will not be a glass-domed ticker tape unspooling
about an iron age, iron horse, iron chancellor.
You will not have to worry about the valley of death, about jam tomorrow, about standing on the burning deck.
The revolution is not a joy forever.
The revolution will not creep in on little cat feet.
It will not look where it treads.
The revolution will be a dark and stormy night.

The revolution will not be telegraphed, will not be telegraphed
will not be telegraphed, will not be telegraphed.
The revolution will be no busker’s show, Old Nick;
The revolution will be live.

More later,

American Justice

EX LIBBRIS

We did nothing wrong.
And even if we did, no one saw it.
And even if they saw it, no one will say.
And even if they say, no one will believe.
And even if they believe, there will be no evidence.
And even if there is evidence, there will be no investigation.
nd even if there is an investigation, there will not be an indictment.
And even if there is an indictment, there will never be a trial.
And even if there is a trial, there will never be a verdict.
And even if there is a verdict, there will never be a penalty.
And even if there is a penalty, no one will pay the price.
Because we did nothing wrong.
- J.Grubb, 2007

(With a tip of the lid to Frabjous Dave, safely in hiding in Canada, for the title.)

More Later,