jmac1949's Open Salon Blog

1974 – Karma and Dharma, the Jew who died Praying in the Mud

Fri, 17 May 2013 22:05:17 -0400

Right off the top I’m going to apologize for the pretension and length of this post. I try not to mingle my Memories with my more contemporary BS but this one just jumped up and bit me on the ass, so here goes:

Bachi, Karma and Dharma…: If you Google the word Bachi you get everything from taiko drumsticks, to Bachi Burgers, to Naomi Hirahara’s novel, to random blog entries that address the principle that “what goes around comes around.”

I first encountered the word in Keiko Alvarez’s posts on Open and Our Salon and I left a comment on Bachi 15: “Apparently Yurimoto misinterprets "bachi" as "karma", and as I understand "karma," it has little or nothing to do with perceived "good or evil" so b&k would be two very different things; hence the confusion of your editor; that is if your editor had a coherent understanding of "karma". Don't even get me started on "Dharma, for the Dharma that can be written or spoken is not the true Dharma." Still a well written tale and it's good to know where the Lamborghini came from R&L ;-) We exchanged some PM’s and I ended up sending her this: “I can believe that a whole bunch of people who take on the title of "Ed-I-Tor" couldn't find their butts with both hands.

As for Karma, originating in ancient Indian sanskrit the meaning is interpreted as "action" or "doing"; whatever one does, says, or thinks is a karma and this is understood as that which causes the entire cycle of cause and effect (i.e., the cycle called saá¹ƒsÄÂÂÂÂÂra). In Buddhism, the term karma is used specifically for those actions which spring from the intention (Sanskrit: cetanÄÂÂÂÂÂ, Pali: cetana) of an unenlightened being.

There are two classes of determined deeds which always produce good or bad results (fixed results, P. niyato-rasi) respectively, and a class of deeds which may produce either good or bad results (non-fixed results, P. aniyato-rasi) presumably depending on the context, although the Buddha does not elaborate (DN 3.217). Good karma is described as generating merit (P. puñña, S. puñya), whereas bad karma is described as demerit (apuñña/apuñya or pÄÂÂÂÂÂpa).

And then there are the unintended consequences of well intentioned actions, which tosses the entire concept of cause and effect out the window. If I could, I would attach the piece I wrote about how I was nearly murdered in a one sided knife fight in 1974, which I believe to be an excellent example of karma. Suffice it to say that I had the opportunity to learn something about myself, but the lesson didn't stick... it took another three or four near death experiences over the next thirty-five years for me to figure things out…”

Which leads to the tale of the Jew who died Praying in the Mud…: I think that this story comes from either Jerzy Kosinski or Elie Wiesel, I’m not sure but my oldest and best friend David Petersen told it to me and I paraphrased it in my PM to Keiko: “The Hebrew mitzvah, as with English "commandment," refers to a moral "deed" performed as a religious duty. As such, the term mitzvah has also come to express an "act" of human kindness. The tertiary meaning of mitzvah also refers to the fulfillment of a mitzvah and perhaps the most poignant example of a "karmic" action is the mitzvah in the apocryphal tale of the Jew found praying in a concentration camp during the Holocaust.

The Sonderkommando, camp guards who were often inmate Poles or Jews appointed by the Germans, demanded to know why he would risk his life to pray to a G_D that had abandoned them to their fate in the camps. His answer was simple, "I am going to die here or there, sooner or later; and if you kill me now, it will make no difference except to end my suffering here. The reason I was praying to G_D was to ask Him not to allow my suffering to turn me into someone like you."

The Jew who was about to be killed had dutifully performed his mitzvah with every good intention by obeying the commandment, providing the guards with an opportunity to find redemption and in dying for his Faith, thus proving that the value of an idea or belief cannot be killed with a club to the head. The karmic evil was his death; the karmic good is that his story lives on.”

Just as the three definitions of mitzvah overlap so do Bachi, Karma and Dharma: Bachi is understood to mean the balance of “cause and effect” in this lifetime, while Karma has multiple levels to action, intent and event that interweave with balance, cause and effect. Dharma is about order and its Sanskrit root dhri, means "that without which nothing can stand" or "that which maintains the stability and harmony of the universe." To the Hindu it means the religious and moral Law or Natural Law governing the conduct of the individual and of the group .^[6] The literal meaning is, from the Sanskrit, decree or custom. ^[7] As well as referring to Law in the universal or abstract sense, dharma designates those behaviours considered necessary for the maintenance of the natural order of things.^[8] Dharma may encompass ideas such as duty,^[9] vocation, religion and all behavior considered appropriate, correct or morally upright.

The idea of dharma as duty or propriety derives from an idea found in India's ancient legal and religious texts, that there is a divinely instituted natural order of things (rta), and that justice, social harmony and happiness require that people discern and live in a manner appropriate to the requirements of that order. The guidelines and rules regarding this, accumulated in a body of literature called the Dharmashastra.^[10] In these texts civil law is inextricably linked to religion. The Shastras include instructions on the correct way to perform religious rites and rituals, as well as the way to lead a morally pure life.

Dharma in the Buddhist scriptures has a variety of meanings, including "phenomenon", and "nature" or "characteristic". Perhaps the very best description of my understanding of Dharma lies in this observation, “The Dharma that can be written or spoken is not the true Dharma." Dharma cannot be communicated. It can only be experienced, which brings me to:

… Longhair - a Macho Totem: Montrose is one of Houston's older neighborhoods. Located a couple of miles from downtown, Montrose serves as the haven for the few artistic types in Houston, for gays and lesbians, a center for the underground drug culture and various other fringe elements. Of course I lived there, with an English bulldog named Nellie and Janeen, a very bright, fundamentally masochistic redhead with great legs and a rich daddy.

On the night of February 12, 1974, we'd just returned from dinner and were sipping white wine at around 11:30 in the front room of our apartment. The entire building vibrated from what sounded like two or three small explosions. The dog went nuts, barking her lungs out in the low frame of the picture window that opened out onto the pool in the central courtyard. I opened the door just as my best friend and neighbor, Kevin, was about to knock. He was looking up at the second floor walkway.

I pushed Nellie back inside with Janeen, stepped out and closed the door behind me. When I glanced up, I saw Longhair with two girls in their early twenties marching toward the staircase that lead down to the entrance of the lobby in front of the building. Behind them were the splintered remains of the front door of a vacant apartment. I remember Kevin saying, "Hey fella, what's your problem?"

I noticed that one of the girls was carrying a half filled Hurricane glass and watched Longhair twist his face and scream," None of your fuckin' business!"

Filled with foreboding and a simultaneous empathy for Longhair's rage, I remained silent – just following the scene. We were distracted by the screeching East Texas accent of Gladys, the 60 year old resident owner/manager of the complex. She stood at her front door dressed in a slip and housecoat with her hair in rollers, "I own these apartments and this is my fuckin' business!"

Two things struck me: First - I felt like I was in a movie. The casting couldn't have been better and the scene seemed preordained. I could not remember having seen such ugly people in my life. Mundane, semi-homely citizens turned into monsters before my eyes. Secondly I was shocked to hear "good-ole, church-goin' Gladys" use the F-word. The three intruders were descending the staircase to the lobby and Longhair hurled a vague threat as he stepped onto the concrete deck of the courtyard, "Get back inside and nobody'll get hurt!"

Gladys shouted across the courtyard to the assistant manager, "Get his license plate number Al. I'll call the law!"

Al was standing on the second floor walkway in his boxer shorts holding a .357 Magnum in his right hand; so, possessed by this weird empathy for Longhair's rage and unconsciously submitting to my role is this cosmic ballet, I said to Kevin, "Come on let's go talk to this clown before Al shoots somebody."

Kevin nodded and we walked silently around the pool to the lobby. We stepped into the large, square room where I saw the silhouette of Longhair framed in the doorway to the carports. Gladys, in her usual penny-pinching, had not replaced the burnt out bulbs and the lobby was illuminated only by the meager light that spilled in from the street and the courtyard. Longhair's right hand came up as he screamed, "I told you motherfuckers to stay inside!"

"Kevin, he's got a knife," was all I could get out before he was on top of us. His first pass was at Kevin and as I moved to my right, deeper into the lobby to flank him, Longhair followed through, and around, to me. In one slash he ripped through my shirt. Throwing both hands forward and pushing back on the balls of my feet, I managed to avoid all but the tip of the blade which barely scratched my stomach muscles.

All of this happened in less than a second, but true to every physical crisis I’d previously experienced, everything shifted into slow-motion and I was in the movie. I was the P.O.V. With a backhand slash, Longhair's blade ripped through my right pectoral muscle to the bone. At that point I finally realized I was in a fight. In my peripheral vision I glanced at Kevin bailing out of the lobby and into the courtyard. Longhair made a straight pass across my face. I jerked my head back and simultaneously moved in with a thumb to his throat and my right forearm blocking his backhand. The adrenaline rush and the speed at which this happened allowed no conscious recognition of the impact of the blade in the right side of my chest and we were distracted by the clatter of the knife as it hit the vinyl tile floor.

We both went after it, banging heads as we bent down. I distinctly remember the flash of my sunglasses as they fell from my shirt pocket and then Longhair came up with the knife in both hands. I grabbed his wrists and dug my thumbs as deep and hard as I could into the nerves and small bones.

Against the back light of the doorway we both realized that the blade was broken about three quarters of an inch from the handle. I clearly remember the dumbfounded and frightened expression of surprise in his eyes. Then there was scuffling and bodies everywhere as Kevin arrived with the cavalry. It had all happened in less than five seconds.

I walked out of the lobby and into the light of the courtyard where I could see the blood on the front of my shirt. Using my left hand I covered the torn hole in my chest and walked through the crowd of tenants into my apartment. The dog was barking and jumping in the window. Her rear feet tangled in a lamp cord and as I came through the door, I saw it topple. Janeen was on the verge of panicked tears. I don't think I said anything to her, but I went directly to the bathroom.

I opened the top buttons of my shirt and wiped away the blood to inspect the damage. There was a four inch gash over my right pectoral and the white sinew and exposed muscle gave it the look of freshly butchered meat. My adrenaline was giving out and I could feel the beginnings of shock coming on. Holding a towel over the wound, I came back into the front room. Gladys and several tenants crowded around Janeen and Nellie continued to bark. Someone told me to lie down on the couch and wait for the ambulance. I acquiesced until Kevin came into the room and asked, "Is he all right?"

Kevin's voice brought me up out of shock and I said, " Hey man, cancel the ambulance and take me over to Ben Taub Emergency. I just need some stitches."

After Janeen found the keys to her Mercedes, the three of us left for the hospital. She got into the back and I rode shotgun while Kevin drove through the light traffic, only pausing at the stop lights on the edge of midnight. Everything seemed to be under control. I sat quietly reassuring Janeen that I was okay and fighting off the effects of shock. Then, when we approached the traffic circle at Mecom Fountain, in the span of a few short breaths I felt my right lung collapse. All of the muscles of the right side of my chest and back contracted in an excruciating spasm as my body attempted to occupy the empty cavity that used to filled with my lung. It felt like someone had hit me with a baseball bat and I doubled over in pain. Kevin glanced over and asked, “Are you okay, man?”

I looked up and said, “I don’t know, maybe I’m hurt worse than I thought.”

I sat there gasping for air and heard the angry sounds of blaring horns and squealing tires as Kevin broke out through the oncoming traffic. With nothing else to do but cope with a lot of pain, I reviewed the sequence of the fight in my mind and located the point in time and space when I'd taken the blade into my chest. It was the final backhand, just before the knife hit the floor. I was surprised that I hadn't realized it instantly. My mind now registered that the grating impact of steel and bone was a sensation not unfamiliar to me.

At Hermann Hospital I was in the ER and on the table in less than a minute. When they cut away my bloody shirt, I looked down to see about half an inch of broken blade protruding from my chest. My comment was the simple epithet, "Jesus Christ."

The knife had split the bone of my fifth rib and after he administered a local anesthetic, I watched the resident ER doctor use a fancy pair of stainless steel pliers to pull the broken blade from my chest. With a tube in my deflated lung the pain began to ease, and after I signed the consent form, they rolled me off to surgery.

After the cops, the surgery and the other shit, Longhair’s brother - who was a musician I knew from California - arranged a meeting: Reds and beer, a family argument over one last song, and a previous conviction for possession of marijuana; this against nine years at the same job, a wife and a baby on the way. It was the Grand Old Opree of my poor white trash roots. Longhair was my cousin, my older brother, my great grandfather, my origins. An expensive trial and hard time in a Texas prison made no sense to me; so when the DA called, I declined to press charges for attempted murder. Longhair paid part of my hospital bill and then faded away into a place far away from my life. I hope he never hurt anyone else. I have my doubts, and every night for two years I played it all back in the freeze frames of my mind right up to the point of impact.

Out of it all, came a personal mythology that explained a lot of things for me: For G_D knows how many life times, I made my living as the good soldier. That is: I killed people for other people who paid me and gave me the right to take what I wanted, when I wanted it, so that they wouldn't have to get their hands dirty. I was, as always very, very good at my work.

If somebody got into your face and became a problem, you could choose to make them go away and five seconds later – there was no problem. The herd might stare at you with fear in their eyes; but, provided the self selected victim was politically insignificant, the alpha leaders indulged this occasional blood letting as an object lesson. These were lives charged with somatically generated drugs of fright, flight and fight and their hormone induced intoxication left no doubt that you had a purpose in life: Follow orders, stay alive and "make that other poor, dumb sonofabitch die for his country." It was from these lives that I knew the grate of steel against bone.

Longhair had unknowingly presented me with three gifts: First the indisputable awareness of my own mortality, second the evolution of my personal myth, and finally, my purpose for being - to get out of this life with no one else's blood on my hands.

I know it's bullshit; but it's my bullshit and so far it seems to work for me.

Next up on JMac1949 - Memories, 1969 – Cleaning Keys, a Thanksgiving Disaster, Getting the Call and Envy at the Odyssey.

1969 – THE SERPENT's Logo, the Confessional & Tom

Thu, 16 May 2013 09:05:08 -0400

THE SERPENT’s Logo…: I designed and created the logo for the Odyssey’s initial production of THE SERPENT from this:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Serpiente_alquimica.jpg

…and I converted that to this:

Odyssey Theatre Ensemble October 1969

And after the reviews came out I painted signs and billboards on plywood panels over the storefront windows on two sides of the theater:

Odyssey Theatre Ensemble October 1969

In my research I discovered that the Ouroboros predates the Medieval alchemical illustration that Ron Sossi had given to me and the first known appearance of the motif is in the Enigmatic Book of the Netherworld, an ancient Egyptian funerary text found in the tomb of Tutankhamun from the 14th century BCE which was rendered as two snakes eating each other’s tails. The first appearance of a snake eating its own tail shows up 1500 years later with this Gnostic gem stone from Roman era Alexandria:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Egyptian_-_Gnostic_Gem_with_Scara...

… a Fat Head…: Among the thousands of drawings and photos of relics of the symbol in a Google image search of ouroboros, it seems that with the exceptions of the Mayan serpent god Yaxchilan and this 1500 year old Chinese ceramic:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:YaxchilanDivineSerpent.jpg

http://assets.listpilot.net/healingdao/images/snake_head_zodiac_Han...

... that I might be among the very few people who created a human/serpent/dragon chimera as a design which started to make me wonder if I could copyright the thing; and then, oh crap, wouldn’t you just know it? That rat-bastard Michelangelo beat me to it!

http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bTq50LFOSqY/T1HgR8WXkRI/AAAAAAAAA0I/_G-Ra...

… the Confessional…: One of the critically acclaimed scenes from our performance of THE SERPENT was the confessional in which, after our slow motion reenactment of the Zapruder film of assassination of President John F. Kennedy, we all stood in front of the audience and publicly admitted to a personal secret sin.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iU83R7rpXQY

I don’t recall my “original secret sin,” probably some recollection of petty theft or a relational sin of omission; but I wasn’t satisfied with it so I dug a bit deeper. After a conversation with Sam G. and Ron Sossi I came up with this single sentence, which I didn’t particularly consider to be an admission of anything sinful; but it proved to be something of a shock to a lot of people:

“I have fallen in love with a man and as much as I love him, whenever we make love, I’m not really there; because my father’s ghost keeps whispering over my shoulder.”

http://4.bp.blogspot.com/NmtZW_n8xzw/s1600/Stonewall+Inn+Riots+1969...

At the time I didn’t know the Stonewall Riots from my left elbow and in my naiveté I never considered what I had to say as particularly courageous. Here’s the twist, neither Ron Sossi nor Sam G. told me anything about what was happening in NYC. They just listened to my proposed change and encouraged me to say it on stage.

Insofar as I know, the only Google image of Tom L. from Short Circuit 1986 http://www.aveleyman.com/ActorCredit.aspx?ActorID=31515

… and Tom Takes Me out for a Beer: (I double checked with Tom before I wrote this bit so what follows is the best we can recall of the event.) It would probably have been a Thursday or Friday night when I revealed my “secret sin,” and since I was looking directly into the audience when I delivered that confession, I had a clear view of their individual reactions. After over forty years I honestly can’t recall how they reacted; but after the show that night, Tom Lancaster asked me if I’d care to join him for a beer.

Tom was, at age thirty two, the oldest, most professional and most conservative member of the ensemble cast. He’d grown up in an upper middle class white bread Republican suburb of Cincinnati, Ohio, attended a military prep school and been a leading member of his fraternity at Northwestern. He wore either Levi denim cowboy shirts with matching jeans; or, if he came from the set of some TV show or movie, he wore a button down oxford dress shirt and slacks. His hair was always trimmed short and he was very polite and almost always pleasant with an easy smile and hardy laugh. In short Tom was the last person you might expect to be...

(When we spoke over the phone to compare notes, we laughed when I joked that his work in the closet was perhaps the best acting performance of his entire career. His reply was that he’d had decades of rehearsal to perfect the role.)

Up until that point, Tom and I had worked together but never socialized outside of the group activities of the Odyssey tribe; so I really didn’t think much about it until we pulled into the parking lot of The Stampede bar in West Hollywood and Tom mentioned that I might prepare myself for something of a surprise. We walked past a row of big Harley motorcycles into the packed bar and everyone in the place knew Tom…turned out that he worked there as a bartender… turned out it was a gay bar.

Neither of us can remember the specifics of that night except that we had a few beers and met damn near everybody in the place and that Tom expressed his admiration for my courage in “coming out.” I never really considered myself “in the closet,” nor did I consider myself to be “gay,” so I couldn’t really understand what he was talking about. It would be years before I realized what it must have been like for Tom as he grew up the late 1940s and early ‘50s and kept himself a secret from his family, friends and class mates. If anything, growing up in the alternate universe of Texas had made me so unsure of myself, so utterly self absorbed and so desperately struggling to establish my own identity, that I considered my developing sexuality as an after thought. I was really more concerned with discovering who I was, rather than what I might be.

Tom’s personal fetish was the movies, Western movies in particular, and he’s the only person I every met who had his own Wurlitzer jukebox, stocked with all the old standards from Gene Autry and Roy Rogers and Sons of the Pioneers to Patti Page and Buddy Holly; and to this day I love punching the buttons on that thing:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nzxz0M7Wws0

Next up on JMac1949 - Memories, 1969 – Cleaning Keys, a Thanksgiving Disaster, Getting the Call and Envy at the Odyssey.

People of the Book - 28th Scroll of the Second Book

Tue, 14 May 2013 09:05:40 -0400

The Twenty Eighth Scroll

Joab returned to Jerusalem with my message for King David. Barak and Gideon remained in Geshur and became couriers who alternately traveled to and from Jerusalem to carry messages to and from King David and my friends in his counsel. Weeks became months and my stamina and sight slowly improved. Neither taste nor smell came back to me but the blurred vision of my left eye became less clouded and with the staffs I was able to move about freely. Each night my bit of candied poppy grew smaller and other than the pins and needles in my legs and feet, my aches and pains subsided. The strength of my upper body grew to compensate for the weakness of my legs but one rainy morning my staff slipped on a wet rock and I tumbled down a slope. I was unharmed, but when Gideon came to help me up I was enraged. “G_D damn it,” I swore, “When will the scales of infernal justice return me to myself?”

Gideon had never heard me utter an angry word, nor had he ever heard me take G_D’s name in vain; because I had never done so in my life. I pushed his arms away, struggled in the mud to my knees and there poured out of my mouth a torrent of blasphemy that would have made Joab blush. I cursed my legs! I cursed my poor sight! I cursed that I had no sense of time and place. I cursed that food was ash in my mouth! I cursed the fact that I could not stand on my own feet and I cursed G_D for taking these things from me! I raised my fist and screamed at the cloudy sky! I cursed G_D for taking my family from me and cursed HIM for taking my wife and son! I raged and cursed until my beard was wet with spittle and I had no breath to speak. Gasping for air, I finally accepted Gideon’s outstretched hand and regained my footing.

We returned in silence to my chamber in King Talmai’s garden where I sat on the edge of my bed and drank wine until I closed my eyes and fell asleep in a drunken stupor. Gideon sent for Tamar who calmed his concern by telling him that my rage was a good and necessary sign that I was finding my way to recovery. I slept through the day until Tamar’s servants brought the evening meal to my bed. I was still drunk and angry. I ate nothing but demanded more wine. Tamar ignored my rude manner and said, “Oh you shall have more to drink, but it will be of a very different vintage. The time has come for you to face your loss and to begin to accept how it has changed you; but before you can do that you will suffer even more. However long and how much you suffer will depend on how hard you cling to the past.”

With that she poured black red wine into a small gold chased silver bowl and handed it to me. “Drink this,” she said, “and we will sing you a lullaby.”

I sat up and took the bowl from her hands and I drank it all without taking my lips from the rim. Light danced over her eyes and smile and as she refilled the bowl, my mind returned to Jerusalem and a night years before when my family were guests of King David – the night when he took up his harp and serenaded Tamar, Yael and Rebekah as irresistible beauties who would capture the hearts of the great men of the Nation. In that drifting light Tamar’s eyes and smile reflected that time of innocence.

Music began and she handed me the second bowl of wine. She stood up and extended her bare leg from the folds of her dark purple cloak. “Shall I dance for you,” she asked. I heard myself reply, “If you wish.”

It was at that moment that I recalled the dream from the time I slept in this very bed on my last night in Geshur after Absalom fled here to protect Tamar. Maachah and I had traveled north at the behest of King David. Tamar had completed her initiation as a priestess to Asherah and that night I dreamt that she was in my bed, this very bed. I looked around me and saw all twelve of the priestesses of Asherah surrounding Tamar and when they turned to me, Tamar was transformed in her divine regalia. It felt as if we’d slipped back in time to that night in the banquet hall of King Talmai. Adorned in sheer cloth, finely meshed chains of gold, and virtually nothing else, Tamar whirled and danced with grace and abandon. Her long hair shined with oil, jewels, and feathers. Drawn back into a single tight braid, it was crowned by an elegant golden comb that extended over her ears and cheeks to her jaw and neck. Her lips were stained with deep purple, her bare skin glistened with oil and she was without doubt the most alluring woman I had ever seen in my life.

The twelve voices of the priestesses harmonized with the music and in the glow of the lamps the entire room seemed to vibrate with that harmony. It was then that I realized that the bittersweet taste of the black red wine lingered on my tongue, or was that merely a memory like David’s harp and his serenade for Tamar, Yael and Rebekah. In my mind’s eye they danced, still only children; and all that was left to me was a terrible sadness and the irresistible vision of Tamar dancing through that vibrating light.

I wept until I fell into the dream. Straddling my hips naked except for the golden comb in her dark hair, Tamar’s oiled skin glistened in the dim flickering light of the lamps. She clawed at my chest and every thrust of her hips against mine took me deeper into her like an animal in heat. My nose filled with her fragrance and the scent of those oils. Time stood still and we were transported, for how long I do not know, until the moment I poured into her and suddenly felt so forlorn and weary that I burst into tears like some lost child desperate to find his mother.

She leaned into my scarred cheek and kissed my tears.

1969 – Opening Night, a Standing Ovation but No Curtain Call

Mon, 13 May 2013 10:05:49 -0400

Opening Night…: As I remember there were no open previews of THE SERPENT, rather we came to consensus that the production was as ready for an audience as it would ever be. So at 7:30pm on the first Thursday of October in 1969, the audience began entering from the tiny lobby into our little storefront black box theater each carrying a playbill in hand that listed the members of cast, the production support staff of the Odyssey and this note from Ron Sossi:

Odyssey Theatre Ensemble October 1969

The first thing the audience saw as they found their way into the seats was the cast going through our thirty minute series of yoga exercises that we performed to find focus before each workshop or rehearsal. We all began in synchronized movement, but because we varied in our abilities to execute and sustain each pose, we soon separated each into our individual routines. There was no music. Other than the ambient noise of our movements, the murmur of the audience as they softly spoke with one another and the sound of our rhythmic breathing, the theater was very quiet. House lights were low so that the audience could see their way but there was no color and no set except for the 4x4x8 foot flat black plywood box in the center of the brown canvas mat that covered the entire stage. The women wore long sleeved cotton pastel floral print dresses that came to mid thigh and the men wore yellow mesh cotton t-shirts and black cut off jeans. We were all barefooted and no one wore any stage makeup.

As the last seat filled we moved toward the box and when the house lights went to black we mounted the edges along the periphery in a primitive squat. Our cue was the flash of red as the center stage Fresnel flared and we all flew through the air as far as we could and landed on the mat as animals in the Garden of Eden; and so began the journey through Genesis and van Itallie’s bare bones structure of the ceremony for theater.

… Standing Ovation but No Curtain Call …: I cannot recall the exact sequence of our performance except to say that it began with movement and no spoken word and roughly followed Genesis until the moment when all of us except the actors designated as Adam and Eve became a hybrid of the Tree of Knowledge and the Serpent. When Eve tasted the apple, she spoke and that drew Adam to her side. He tasted the fruit and we exploded from our formation as the tree and went into rhythmic percussion and vocalized music as we broke through the fourth wall and moved into the audience with apples in hand to coax them down onto the stage into our Bacchanal. Gradually things got out of hand as they are wont to do during the frenzy of Bacchanalian celebration and there was some arbitrary sign of G_D’s displeasure (probably a light and sound cue) that made us abandon the audience in the midst of the party and wander off into forlorn laments like drunkards caught up in a crying jag that bordered on the catatonic:

Odyssey Theatre Ensemble October 1969

Don’t ask me how, because I still have to compare notes with my old friend Tom Lancaster to try to reconstruct the sequence of the performance, but we segued through the stories of Genesis, through Cain and Able and the tower of Babel into the Assassination of John F. Kennedy. We wrapped the evening up with massive ballet of war which left everyone on stage dead, followed by a post apocalyptic zombie prom dance while we slowly hummed the melody of Harold Arlen, E. Y. Harburg and Billy Rose’s Broadway jazz standard "It's Only a Paper Moon". The performance finished as we turned to the audience serenading them with an A cappella rendition of the song. We took the cynical lyric to heart and sang it simply without any jazzed up show biz flourish, as if we singing from the choir balcony at the back of a church.

http://philosophyofscienceportal.blogspot.com/2010/06/its-only-pape...

Since our stage had no curtain, lights slowly faded to black as we hummed our way back stage and as the last member of the cast exited, the last light extinguished was the red glow of the Fresnel focused on the empty center of the stage.

The audience was literally left in the dark for about ten seconds and then the house lights came up low to reveal the empty stage. It usually took another few seconds for the applause to begin and to our great pleasure on that opening night the audience, critics and all, gave us a sustained standing ovation. They expected our return to the stage for a curtain call; but early on we’d made the decision that because our performance was so outside traditional theatrical ritual, that we would not emerge from back stage until the last member of the audience had left the theater.

… Rave Reviews…: On Friday all newspaper reviews of our performance of THE SERPENT were glowing with praise; but it was Dan Sullivan, the young theater critic of the Los Angeles Times, who put the fledgling Odyssey Theater on the map. I can only paraphrase what he wrote but it opened with something like: The Odyssey Theatre Ensemble’s performance of Jean Claude van Itallie’s THE SERPENT is a more genuine religious experience than anything you’re likely to encounter in any church this Sunday…

That single sentence sold out houses for the next nine months and the Odyssey went from barely making the rent to pulling in over $12,000 a month at the box office. In 1969 the newly minted LA Drama Critics Circle recognized Arturo Ui, of the Center Theatre Group/Mark Taper Forum and our avant-garde companion group The Company Theatre, for consistent high quality in production. It would be ten years and I would be long gone from the LA theater scene before the LADCC similarly recognized the Odyssey’s 1979 production of Chicago Conspiracy Trial. Throughout the decades that followed, Ron Sossi and people who have contributed to The Odyssey Theatre have continued to mount award winning productions; but it was THE SERPENT that started the ball rolling and laid the foundation for The Odyssey’s reputation for quality theater in Los Angeles.

http://ladramacriticscircle.com/2nd-photo-essay-awards-2011/

… and the Chipmunk: I’m not sure when Richard Grey brought Leah, the mouse who taught English as a second language to her class of adult immigrants at Hollywood High, to see THE SERPENT. It was most likely sometime in October and I’m not sure what they really thought of it. I feel fairly certain that since it was neither Shakespeare, nor Bernard Shaw, nor Rodgers and Hammerstein that they were a bit bumfuzzled by it all; but, both of them were very much impressed and enchanted by the performance of Jill Baskel. Richard immediately dubbed her “the Chipmunk” and much to my surprise, when they invited her for drinks after the show, she joined us. We all squeezed into Leah’s VW Bug and drove the short distance to the Dresden Restaurant on North Vermont in Los Feliz.

http://takesunset.com/neighborhoods/los-feliz-los-angeles-ca/

Finally away from the tribe at the Odyssey, Jill and I had the chance to carry on an uninterrupted conversation. It only took a couple of cocktails before the middle aged fellow at the baby grand piano persuaded Jill to sing a song. That she was such a talented and dedicated actor was more than sufficient reason for me to hold her in high regard, but Jill also had one of the cleanest and most powerful singing voices I had ever heard. She was accomplished at everything from operatic aria to jazz standards to show tunes to popular folk and contemporary music.

She sang for the clientele at Dresden’s for nearly an hour and when it came time to pay the bill, the waitress said that the owner was so impressed with Jill’s voice that our drinks were on the house. Richard left the waitress an extravagant tip and we returned Jill to her tiny studio apartment. After thanks and good night Richard and Leah headed back to Wilton Place and as I walked her to the entrance of the building Jill thanked me for the night away from the press of the Odyssey tribe, then she gave me a peck on the cheek. I was walking on air all the way back to the house.

As I remember one of Jill’s favorite songs was this Lennon and McCartney tune which she sang with the same wistful grace as this lady:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iRYMdAQWsmc

Next up on JMac1949 - Memories, 1969 – THE SERPENT's Confessional & Tom Takes Me out for a Beer after the Show

Three Mothers

Sun, 12 May 2013 01:05:33 -0400

http://background-pictures.feedio.net/happy-mothers-day-cards-happy-mothers-day-cards/media27.onsugar.com*files*2011*05*21*4*1718*1

I had to check to make sure, but after a quick google I've verified that Sunday May 12th is Mothers' Day. I've met many Mothers of damn near every variety in my sixty some years and for the most part they've been pretty good people. My own mother and I share a genetic and cultural combination of nature and nuture that made us both overly concerned with what we thought other people might think of us as individuals and as members of our family. This made us both nervous and suspicious about other people and ourselves.

My poor mother never understood that she was somewhere out on the limb of bi-polar lite and that with a daily dose of lithium she would most likely have found some balance in her life. That imbalance colors my regard for her memory; but I will say this for the woman, in lieu of coherent medication, she worked. She never stopped moving from the moment she got out of bed until she tried to find some sleep. In total she lived a good life and she did give me that gift that keeps on giving, the strange mental/psychological condition that churns your grey matter into feeling that no matter what you do, it will never be enough to set things right. Amazing how much a person with a paranoid affective disorder and low self esteem can accomplish.

The other mother that I've known well is my wife of twenty odd years. I must confess that although I never fell in love with 'Obin, I did fall in love with her books. Any woman who had a personal library of over a thousand books, was definitely someone I needed to know. I grew to love her and her son and despite our trials and tribulations we've grown content with one another. I've come to the conclusion that love and contentment are actually preferrable to passion and desire and take much less energy to sustain. Though the question of my step-son's character growth was never really in doubt, there was a decade between 15 and 25 where it was a bit touch and go; but that was resolved when the grandson was born.

Which leads to the daughter-in-law and mother of the grandson. So far there has been more than a bit of conflict betwen her and my wife, but since I returned to the homestead in October 2012, their conflicted emotions seem to be working toward some unspoken equilibrium if not resolution. I'm not sure how my presence has fit into that process I suspect that it may have something to do with the fact that I prepare all family holiday meals. My wife has told me that I somehow work like somekind of emotional catalyst on this family and now at least she and her daughter-in-law can speak with one another without exploding into outrage, anger and pain.

Anyway for what it is worth, today is Mothers' Day and I wish every mother a moment when they can have the opportunity to be glad that they are alive. It took me the better part of fifty years to gain that perspective and all that I can say is that it feels a whole lot better than sitting in a corner, avoiding people because you think that they might think that you are somehow unworthy of their attention or love and then resenting them for neglecting you.

Please Mothers, for your own sakes, let all the slights and angst go for one day and allow for the possiblity that someone might actually appreciate what you have done for them. It could be worse:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PTVUsCTn2Ug