John Griogair Bell - Arlecchino Malbenvolio

your bible-thumpery is thwartsome
and is as in need for jestery poking
as any archetypal old bat
in Sunday dress and flower hat
who can’t keep her nose out
of other people’s business
that you don’t see that
is evidence of a character flaw

that need for a truth you have
to use as a crotchety crutch
you desperately cling to
in your vaudeville act
until you’re using it as a slapstick
like an indignant and loud
mother hen squawking and pecking
which then you seem to stand
well enough to wield it
begs for someone to kick it
out from under you each time
you lean on it for support
to leave you flailing
melodramatically
from truth to truth
until you learn
to stand on your own
without props
and leave behind
in a moment of rare clarity
and character arc
hypochondria
and pinocchio-nose poking
around other people’s behinds

because truth is really a choice
about efficacy and meaning
made by those seeking it
and is neither the grail
nor the stripper pole
neither unified theory
nor monopole
but rather is useful
to describe phenomena
as experienced
in particular ways
and to speculate
on noumena
through noesis
and that’s a personal journey
each person takes
for themselves
with some useful truth
as a map for that territory
but which map is for them
is for them to choose

and the only crime in that
worth getting flustered about
is if they travel like tourists

but that’s your schtick:
an esoteric version
of a stupid American tourist
talking trash and trashing
everyone else’s country
oblivious to any plight back home
while haughtily heaving
your bulky belly around
in loud hawaiian shirts
and greasy stained chinos
talking s-l-o-w-l-y
taking pictures
of every exotic thing
trying to capture
the spectacle
in a slideshow
but really missing it all

instead use your senses
to experience the real
right before your eyes
or abandon senses
to the many and the one
noumenal moment

spend your time
on your own journey
instead of criticising
to the exclusion
of experience
of the excursion
because you’re disturbing
both the natives
and the other guests
and giving the rest of us
a bad name

the thing you know
and propound as fact
whether true or not
is an article of faith
because of your relationship to it
intellectually,
philosophically,
metaphorically,
perceptually
you are slavishly devoted
to the proposition that you’re right
no matter what the truth is
like a teenager
your truth is a gun
you wave around loaded
with the safety off
looking for someone to shoot
and that you happen to fire blanks
or misfire once or twice
is of no concern
because you’ll reload
with whatever ammo is available
and shoot at whatever happens along
just to prove the point
that your position is something you’ll defend
until death
until the sun dies
until the universe crumbles
forever and ever amen
or you change your mind
whichever comes first

I’m still strongly under the spell
of the delusion
that along will come a princess
and with just one kiss
will rescue me from all of this
and in a moment fix everything

my insides were ripped out and replaced with dust
any heartbeat left is the shutters slamming in the wind
marking time for an irregular march of skeletons

haunted by a demon
i cast a protective circle
but my resolve dissolves
in uncertainty
i let the demon in
and instantly regret
the pleasure
of submission

i get a feeling i can’t shake
that sex with you is a mistake
a mistake that i keep making

some great ideas in heads
aren’t always so great in beds
or whatever is conveniently steady

like counter tops and tables
and great old oak trees
like bookcases and stairwells
and renovated back seats

when i’m horny it sounds great
but that’s not thinking straight
that’s thinking hardly at all really

i want to get off this roller coaster jam
because riding you is a ride thru bedlam
fun for a while but leading to damnation

like enabling self-hate and co-dependence
and recourse to prostitution
like wham-bam and substance dependence
and permanent self-mutilation

listening to myself is the trick to kick
that by which the thumbing of my prick
something comes this way wicked

orthodoxy is to be cupiditously afraid
all the time greedily claiming truth
but desperately afraid of everything
all the time fearing interpretation
of any word by anyone else
lest they discover another meaning
and become unclean

orthodoxy is to be stubbornly fragile
in the face of facts so it requires
disingenuousness and deceit

orthodoxy is weakness
always off balance
and defensive

orthodoxy is prejudice
because it assumes it knows
better than anyone else
without ever listening
the ending of the story
for all time
and for all purposes

orthodoxy is hate
of anything less than
some artificial definition
of arbitrary purity

orthodoxy is old age
arthritic and dyspeptic
always telling the kids
to get off the lawn
and turn that noise down

orthodoxy is ancient and crusty
rummy and wrinkled
it is the mummy of an idea
frozen in time
wrapped in stained swaddling clothes
with its brain torn out.

absurd mental inertia
turns being right
into a joyless
pyrrhic siege
so enjoy
your illusion
it isn’t worth
dispelling

ZOMG my ex moved to PDX
i wish her luck and love
success and happiness
i wish her well and truly
everything and anything
her deepest heart desires
i know now we weren’t
even back when we were
nothing to do about that
except be eternally thankful
grateful we didn’t have kids

(part 3 of a series of “ZOMG my ex moved to PDX” wannabe emo punk lyrics)

she wouldn’t move
had a life elsewhere
but told me to
go ahead if i dared

now we’re both there
i really shouldn’t care
ZOMG my ex moved to PDX

when we broke up
i had to get away
had to get somewhere
find my own way

now we’re both here
it just really seems unfair
ZOMG my ex moved to PDX

now years later
full circle leapfrog
like a broken record
where i did go she follows

finally, we’re in a place where
we can be apart together
ZOMG my ex moved to PDX

(part 2 of a series of “ZOMG my ex moved to PDX” wannabe emo punk lyrics)

ZOMG my ex moved to PDX
she didn’t want to, before
things change, time passes
of course it does, I know
now make the liquid of life flow
sharing the breasts of Portlandia
I’m fresh out of the good blow
should have moved to Bolivia
try to feel anything, something
nothing less, other than this
maybe it’s time to take up cutting
something else I cannot miss
suckling sore teats, this slow sialorrhea

(part 1 of a series of “ZOMG my ex moved to PDX” wannabe emo punk lyrics)

with the last drop of the one I bought
i realize i shouldn’t have stopped
need at least a half dozen to drink
to make this thinking stop
i’d ask if she feels broken like i do
but i feel so broken i’m afraid to

are you broken
waiting in the dark
hoping for insight
into the nature
of shadow and light
giving up the day
living for the night
taking the time
to tick tock away
another chance
for success?

however fantastic
she had her clothes off
before i even knew her name
which is how i know
i could never afford her
fully clothed non-fiction

A while back in June, after the initial reader’s theatre read-through of the Parzival script, I did what I often do when thinking about something: I went on a search engine safari. In my search, I was struck by a particular image used for the Alexander Reichstein illustrated cover for Marit Laurin’s Parzival [amzn]. The image is so striking and memorable that I kept going back to it to look again and again. It was this image which immediately filled me with the feeling I had to rough out a poster for the, at that time, imaginary show.

My first draft was not all that inspired, and definitely not nearly as cool as the book cover painting. It was comprised of a large background image of a Parzival manuscript over which text and the most common image of Parzival in existence were placed. The performance dates and details on this draft poster are completely made up.

Since then, the show has become a real thing. I’ve been cast as Parzival, the character I was asked to read for the reader’s theatre read-through. And, we’ve started the rehearsal process, though we’re still trying to work out when the show will be performed. (It’s currently looking like sometime in January, but we’re still cooking the calendar.)

This Saturday, on the way to the lodge for the 2nd rehearsal for Parzival, I was having an idea for another poster come into my mind. I really started with the thought of a beautiful and shapely woman’s leg in Arlecchino diamond patterned tights coming out from behind a thick red velvet curtain, as if at the very initial moment of a burlesque show. You know, maybe even not particularly as a poster for Parzival, but just because it’s a sexy image to think about … I had an idea of who’s leg would be perfect for the image too … (Actually, now that I’m thinking back, I’m remembering that this started out as an idea for a redesign of my own website.)

Then, various details began to coalesce. I began to have form in my mind’s eye a tableau of Parzival and Sophia, essential characters in the script for the show. Now it was the leg of Sophia coming from behind the curtain, and she was using her leg to tease Parzival; her arm was also coming out from behind the curtain holding aloft a golden chalice filled with an elixir of life, in this case perhaps the red blood of the Saints. Parzival, who is kneeling before the curtain dressed as a Templar, clumsily fumbles with the lance he is holding. The moment captured by the tableau is that frozen moment just after things get wild, because Parzival’s lance causes Sophia to lose hold of the chalice, which unbalanced starts to spill; and, Parzival is off balance as he tries to recover, and has a hand extended into the center of the tableau, as if to try to catch the falling chalice; and, Sophia is unbalanced in her position because of all she’s doing complicated by Parzival’s clumsiness.

I really saw this as photographic quality, maybe even actually done as a composite. The gap in the veil, I imagined might be filled with out-of-focus candles on an altar. The dripping elixir should be as vibrant, or more so, than even the velvet curtains. The velvet curtains reminded me of both theatre curtains and the red curtains of the black lodge in Twin Peaks. I don’t know that the original idea of having the feminine leg in jester tights works for this; and, I think there might be no clothing showing, to suggest that Sophia is naked. Parzival might have some indication of Fool’s clothing on along with the Templar tabard and clothing. The various elements of the image should be much tighter, not as spaced out; to suggest intimacy but also to heighten the awkwardness and sense of immediacy of Parzival’s fumble.

I did a really quick pencil sketch trying to capture what this looked like so I wouldn’t forget. I’m usually pretty self-conscious about showing this kind of quick sketch, since it’s rough and ill-proportioned, but I thought I’d try sharing it. The paper got folded up in my pocket on the way home, so it’s also a bit wrinkled …

she has curves
and angles
her mind swerves
around corners
her body crosses
through sun rays
she squares circles
running rings around
my waking dreams

taking lines from nature and forming signs
giving many meanings to make a witch’s ring
wealth worthy of kings to be shared with all
not greedily hoarded hidden in disused feast hall
noble lands descending generations sanguine
skill past from past to present hands by wielders
misty lands unknown by eyes but never forgotten
old grey wanderer giving gifts of
poetry and power, meaning and magic
prophesy and purpose, warning and wyrd
with anguish and wonder taken up
won them and given then away
one aett at a time cast all three
rist and rede, red and right
carved counsel carried closely
godly golden gift given
behold beautiful and good is true
believe true and meaningful is sacred
know therefore sacred is certainly real
speaking runes reveal secrets
opposites alight with fire and crusted ice
outside fractured inside and edges sharp
take them up today before the throne
be chased by yesterday and tomorrow
hunted by thought and memory
but receive from them in turn
permanent marks of meaning
for all to drink and all to think
all awake from sleeping soundly
renewed and refreshed
paid in full for service with hospitality
understanding the true test is to teach
now go pour the mead of inspiration
filling the goblet of life on this earth
rhymes of noble and valiant word and deed
riding forth in a gallop on aett hooves
drawing a chariot across time three times
through what was, what is, and what will be
bringing forward for all beings ever
the good, beautiful, true and meaningful
sacred gift taken, given and renewed

tight skin like chrysalis
itching to break open
release the insect within
momentarily vulnerable
before I launch myself
wings unfurl into the air

her image floats before me
inspiring children’s crusade
banner in the wind reminder
of everything yet nothing
by this sign I will conquer
death only I will rise exalted
with gorgon blood in my veins

turtle shell holding me back
from possibility sinking weight
on my back drowning deep
descending all the way down
time to make turtle soup
crack that serpent shell
fortify my body with blood
my past sacrifice to future
the world’s wound sutured
staunch bleeding with elements
demand the universe hear me
make magic happen here
no option but to succeed
beaten but not defeated
now turn the table and riposte
switchback defense twist
wins the duel matching vision
time to start that conversation
unconfused by language babbling
clarified with knowledge and passion
i demand fierceness manifest
rage to live within and again
defiant scream so mote it be!