Round two--or is it three?

Well, I'm back in London again.

And tomorrow Year 3 at Lispa begins. I'll be doing the pedagogical year, observing the Initiation Course classes and reflecting on them with the teachers and my colleagues in the third year.

I've decided to try to develop some of this Lispa-type experience for non-actors, especially people in midlife and older. I think there's a lot here for anyone trying to creatively reimagine themselves. And what else, after all, is midlife all about? I also think that in midlife and, I imagine, in the years following--this period of life that we live both backwards (in reflection on past experience) and forward (with knowledge that time is more limited now)--a Lispa kind of approach can be very helpful in integrating in a new way the people we are and have been.

I know that sounds a bit vague yet. It probably always needs to so as not to be too narrowly defined. But I'm here to get a better understanding of it myself.

Thus, I'm back in London again.

Moment of suspension

Ah, the moment of suspension. In Lispa training it's that moment when things could go in any direction, like when you're on tiptoe and can't hold your balance. Or it's the gathering moment when the ocean wave... is... almost... ready... to come crashing down. That's where I'm living now.

I just don't know what lies ahead. Two years ago I left ministry at age 53 and plunged into a two-year program in physical theatre, not as a performer but as someone needing to do creative work and feeling a pull into creative work of a different kind, not knowing where it would lead. Some people called it a foolish thing to do. (I wouldn't argue the point.) Some called it brave. (I'm not one to say.) Some called it a great leap of faith. I'm feeling that more than ever these days.

It's often been very hard for me to trust that things will work out well. (What is well, after all?) Especially for me to trust that things will work out for the good, that famous biblical statement from Paul notwithstanding. And now here I am, two years and a world of experiences on, on tiptoe, leaning, wavering, riding the cresting wave and not seeing what lies ahead. And somehow, for now at least, thank God, I'm OK with that.

That's not to say that I don't wish for clarity. I do. And I've had some plans in mind, but the route to at least one of the main ones has become blocked. But one of the teachings of Lispa is that the moment of suspension is the alive moment, the creative moment, and without it nothing truly new can happen.

It's not too much of a stretch to call it a statement of faith.

Starting over

At this point the question is probably, "Why bother?" Why start blogging again after so much time of silence and so much water under the bridge? I guess I'm entering into a reflective stage again. What's ahead? No answers right now, but you're welcome to accompany me as I reflect on the past two years and where I go next.

I've graduated from Lispa. The school year ended a week ago, and this week has been one of saying au revoir to folks. Some I'll never see again, some I'll see sooner than I think. But who can tell which is which? It's also been a week of trying to do things in London I haven't had time for, so I saw two movies and three plays, visited several museums, went to Evensong at Westminster Abbey, and had many a coffee appointment. Also a long visit with Thomas, the head of the school. Some of that conversation will lead to things I'll write about later.

But tonight, as I've just about finished packing up all my stuff--most of it to take home, some of it to store here for later shipping or carrying back (it's become incredibly expensive to check more than 2 bags)--it just seemed the time to blow the dust off the blog.

Further construction ahead. Drive slowly.

Tamil chorus, not Greek

As I did several times last winter, I've fled my cold house on a Sunday to blog from the warmth and calm of the British Library. I'm still living in the Clapton house. The person who was going to move into my room decided she was going to leave school, and by the time she changed her mind again I'd told my housemates that I'd stay, at least for the time being. Chances are probably better than 50-50 that I won't move at all. It can be hard to find a place for less than 6 months, and I'm going to try to shift my work schedule so I only have two weekday mornings after late nights when I need to get going so early.

Three weeks left in the term. We set the epic dramas aside for a bit and will return to them week after next when we have no classes. As usual, they haven't told us much in the way of scheduling, but the assumption is that we'll present a program of some of the better pieces from the term on the final Thursday night (March 4). I think the coal mining piece has a shot at being included, as does the piece I'm part of now.

After we learned and presented parts of speeches, we formed groups of about 18 to do choral work in support of one person giving their speech. Again, these were to be speeches that espouse ideas we don't identify with. (Apparently mine was so problematic in its ideas that people wouldn't even let me finish! In part I took that as a compliment. In part I'm still pissed off about it.) Our group has chosen a speech given by an Indian classmate, taken from one delivered by a leader of the Tamil Tigers, the recently defeated terrorist/independence group in Sri Lanka. It's in Tamil and she's done the translation for us, but part of the power of the experience is in its being in such a different language. The communicative elements become the sounds of the language and the commitment of the speaker and the chorus.

I assumed all along that we'd be doing some Greek chorus this term because I know that's been a key element in the Advanced Course the past two years--and the years before that, I'm sure. But this assignment is a new wrinkle, and with only one more week of classes, I'm wondering if we're not going to do Greek chorus at all. Frankly, I wasn't looking forward to the chorus work, because I've never been much moved by it when I've seen it, here or last summer in Greece--it just seemed like a lot of overly dramatic shouting in unison--but this has been pretty intriguing.

Then again, maybe it's always more intriguing for those in the chorus than for the audience! Which would be a failing trait.

One thing that's become more and more apparent this term: While it's important for the performer to draw on authentic emotions, what's most important is that the performance evoke authentic emotions/memories/associations in the audience or spectators. (It seems like "witnessing community" would be closer to an appropriate term than audience, but it sounds so highfalutin'.) We've probably all experienced seeing someone so turned-in on their own emotion (in a play, in a sermon) that it becomes off-putting. Or maybe we become distracted, worrying that maybe they're not OK. But performance isn't therapy--not for the performer anyway. Though it can have a cathartic effect for those who participate by watching/witnessing.

Snow and shape note

I don't know if this is normal for London or not, but another dusting of snow this morning. But it's clear and bright. I'll take this over rain any day. It seems like this week was the first time since I got back three weeks ago that the sun was out.

My epic drama group is devising a coal mining story based on the many stories of mining disasters in the coalfields of Kentucky, West Virginia, and Pennsylvania. My preference, of course, is one of the more southerly locations. Last night we learned a shape-note hymn that will work well in setting the tone aurally and in terms of bleakness. Idumea. You get a good sense of it from this link.

Next week we start working on speeches (not part of the epic dramas). We were encouraged to find an important speech that we might not agree with, or by someone who's not a hero of ours. I'm working on parts of Ronald Reagan's "rendezvous with destiny" speech from the 1964 Republican National Convention. I've never assumed that he wrote his own stuff, but there are some good turns of phrase in it.

Now I'll just have to resist the urge to wobble my head when I do it.

The first week back took an eternity. These past two have gone much more quickly. And in five weeks I'll be home again for a visit. Whew.

And six months from today is the end of school. The big question, of course: Then What?

Soon as from [London] I go,
What will become of me?
Eternal happiness or woe
Must then my portion be?

Nope. Doesn't quite fit, does it? Life's a little pale sometimes.

Still here

No, I haven't forgotten about the blog. I'm just under the gun to find a new place to live (again) and with work and school and that search, I'm not finding time to write.

We're working on epic dramas at school and "accessing deep emotions." It all comes down to the question, "Is it still possible to make people cry?" Learning lots. Being reminded of lots that I know from other contexts.

But right now I need to find a place to move to by Feb 8.

More later.

Panto

What could be more Christmas-in-London than going to a panto? As it looked increasingly certain that I'd be here for the holiday, I made a list of things I wanted to do. One was to get out of town on Boxing Day to go to a mummer's play or some other quintessentially British thing. That one I'll forgo for the trip home! But the thing I wanted to make sure I did was go to a pantomime. And so, last night, still assuming I'd be here, I went to what I thought would be the first of a few pantos. At least I got to one. And what an experience it was.

The show was "Aladdin" at the Hackney Empire theater. The posters show Clive Rowe, a huge black man and one of the grandest of the panto "dames," dressed as a woman with very pink cheeks, very red lipstick, and a wig that looks like a cross between Pippi Longstocking and Diana Ross. I'd never been to a panto before, but that gave me some idea of what the tone of things would be. But by the time a few minutes had passed, I could see it was going to be so much more raucous than I had expected.

The show started with a singing camel and the audience of kids and adults calling back to her. Then the villain came on to a great chorus of boos, which he only egged on. What fun it must be to grow up as a kid in London and go to these shows at Christmas! It was all very bright colors, broad humor, bad puns, great singing and dancing, cross-dressing, quick pacing (I'm learning so much about how comedy is all about rhythm), and great good fun. The show went on for three hours. Part old-style Broadway musical, part vaudeville, part fairy tale, part mellerdrammer, and quite a spectacle.

I wish we had this tradition in the US. For a taste of panto and the panto dame see this BBC piece. Unfortunately it doesn't capture at all how great an entertainer Clive Rowe is. See him sometime if you can.