Souvenirs from an Era

A few weeks ago I woke 15 minutes ahead of the alarm, and when I tried to go back to sleep, I couldn't. Cheap Trick's "The Flame" was suddenly, inexplicably and without warning in my brain. Well, actually it was Maroon Five's "She Will Be Loved" - which is even more inexplicable, as they just plain turn me off - which then morphed into "The Flame." Sitting upright in bed, in the dark, I had three thoughts in rapid succession:

1) Damn, NPR for running that story about the Deering Mansion in Miami being haunted. I can't shake it. As either Huey, Dewey or Louie used to say: "I don't believe in ghosts, but I sure am scared of them!" The story made my restless nights even more restless.

2) Wow. Those two songs are structurally very similar. Someone should mash them up if they haven't already. Wow! I noticed an opportunity for a mashup! Look at me! Club DJ stardom is just minutes away!

3) Aww. "The Flame!" It's one of those songs from the soundtrack of my life. A song I may have enjoyed, but because it emerged on my radar at a certain critical moment in my development, I cherish it as a landmark of sorts.

Playing the song in my head, in bed in our dark room, I recalled how I'd relish listening to it at night, coming from my clock radio in my dimmed bedroom. I had a dimmer switch in the room I had from birth to 12 which I rarely turned all the way off. I remember how comforting that song was to me, in junior high, lying in bed, my room in artificial amber gloam, the rest of the house asleep. There are a handful of songs, images and other artifacts that whenever I encounter them, inspire a certain nostalgia that would not have seemed likely when I originally encountered them. Certain pop songs from 1988 - 1989 forever haunt me in ways that other don't. And I think it has everything to do with two things: the fact that that's when my family made our first big move; and that I was at the peak of puberty. (By the way: never move your family when one - the eldest, at least - is in the throes of puberty. It's more traumatic than a move at 10 or 15. I've asked around.)

If I really thought about it, I could find those musical or cultural artifacts that were in the background when I lived in these places that later proved to be memory markers.

• "Stand" by REM will forever be the song that introduced me to REM and the song that I identify most with arrival in my small town. I'd heard of REM, but never anything from them. I was 12 and whenever the video would come on MTV, Dad would get up and get my brother and me to do the Stand dance, encouraging me to accept our new, small town. I resented the new town so much, but couldn't resist Dad's enthusiasm. It's only years later that I appreciate what Dad was trying to get us to do: embrace place and bloom where planted.
• "Mary Moon" by Deadeye Dick is always the song that brings me back to 18, in a small west Texas university starting school completely - and I mean completely - clueless, but feeling utterly liberated and probably the most confident I've ever been in my life. I think I liked it because I had a "Mary Moon" reputation at my high school, but it was mocked, not celebrated. Here was a song that not only celebrated that archetype, but made her (sexually) desirable. Same me, new leaf.
• Fresh Air with Terry Gross on NPR became my best friend when I had to drop out of college after my first semester due to lack of funds. I still listen to the show as often as possible, but I remember discovering her in Houston, when I was in depression, knew no one and the future looked uncertain. When I think back on those days, those afternoons in my bedroom, I am so grateful to her and to the local NPR station for fostering and sating curiosity.
• The Indigo Girls were always playing from my stereo or from those of my best friends during my college years.
• Margaret Atwood and Kurt Vonnegut were my book buddies the year after college, when I joined Honey at his first station, in the city to which I would never return to live in a million years, but for which I have a soft spot in my heart.

I don't know what the cultural artifacts are that I associate with my current place. I'll probably find them in retrospect. Plus, we've been here long enough - almost 10 years - that I probably have cultural artifacts associated with certain periods in my life, as opposed to places. For instance, I associate Sigur Ros, Rilo Kiley and Ben Gibbard with the period I spent completing my thesis. A friend turned me onto Sigur Ros when he heard the topic of my thesis dealt with constructed languages and gibberish. They sing mostly in Icelandic, but occasionally in a fabricated language. They're so mellow and soulful that I was able to mope and comfort myself in their music as I plowed through. A coworker turned me onto Rilo Kiley and Ben Gibbard, breaking me of my prejudice against Death Cab for Cutie, much to the relief of my husband, who likes Death Cab. I can't place my finger on what it was about those two artists that spoke to me in that manic period, but I latched onto the music he shared, and that we already had in our collection, but I was too blindly stubborn to listen to.

I'm really curious what music or cultural events or artifacts will turn out to the be the familiar landmarks in my memory for this period of my life. It seems like this year and the coming year will likely be so momentous for us that there will be something that I always associate with this period. I'm just eager and curious to find out what it is. It'll probably be evident 5 or 6 years from now. And it'll probably surprise me. I never would've guessed something like "The Flame" would've been among my take-aways from 1988!

Maybe I was wrong

After I hit "publish" on my last post, I approached Honey and asked him if there was any book or work of art that changed his life. Without hesitation, he answered that a symphonic poem (whose title I can't recall) changed his life, and also gave me the title of a book that did, as well. The music wasn't earth-shaking, for him, but did measurably shape the way he thought about music. The novel was eye-opening for him and, according to him, changed his perception of life. Though, he admitted that I'd caught him at a moment of clarity and had I asked him the same thing after a long day of work, he'd've probably grunted and responded in non-sensical monosyllabic neologisms. When I told him I couldn't think of any work of art or book that changed my life, or measurably changed my thinking, he called me out.

"Annie changed your thinking," he responded, half in disbelief.

Because I'm a reflexive contrarian, I immediately dismissed his assertion, but he pushed it. "Before you saw Annie, you probably thought orphans were scary, or being an orphan was scary. But when you saw how all the orphans got to sing and do flips and have adventures, you got to thinking, 'maybe not having any parents isn't so bad.'" I don't think about it as having a profound influence on my thinking, he argued, because I was exposed to it at such a young age.

Score a point for Honey. Though, I contend that Annie's influence on my perception of life had less to do with her family situation and more to do with her will and resilience. And even Annie had her moments of self-doubt, which is kind of reassuring. Remember when she was hanging from the drawbridge by her fingernails and Punjab is attempting a helicopter rescue? In addition to Annie's optimism, I think that movie taught me that virtually every moment in life deserves a musical number. (Stop cringing Darla!) I'm not sure I would've deduced this with just any musical. Possibly, but damn Annie has spunk. I still wanna be her when I grow up. (Just look at my profile pic!)

So, I've been thinking this week about other works of art and books that changed my life. It's still hard for me to say any of these have been explosive revelations - most are small - but here goes nothin':

A Human Being Died That Night: A South African Story of Forgiveness - Pumla Gobodo Madikizela. I read this en route to, and during a vacation in, South Africa, 5 years ago. (One of the most inspiring travels of my life. How I long to return.) It's a moving memoir of torture and the post-Apartheid Truth and Reconciliation Commissions. Forgiveness was a huge theme in the commissions, and also in the book (hence the subtitle). However, this book was the first time I'd encountered the idea that forgiveness may not always be spiritually appropriate. Not forgiving is the opposite of what I was raised to believe. However, after I read this book, I sympathized with the notion more and no longer believe it is something every wronged person should necessarily do. Nor do I believe that it is always necessary to healing a wound.

Gandhi (directed by Richard Attenborough). Also released in the summer of 1982, this movie was probably almost as influential to my childhood as Annie. Dad took me to see it, I'm sure, because he wanted me to see a dramatization of the moral ideals he aimed to instill in us. What he didn't expect was that his 6-year-old daughter would not only sit through a 3-hour movie, but that she would fall in love with it and ask to see it again and again. (Thrice that summer, that I can recall.) Like Annie, this was so long ago, I can't recall the immediate impact. But I'm positive my aversion to institutionalized violence was influenced greatly by this movie. Additionally, because I enjoyed the story of Gandhi so much, and Dad revered him as an agent of goodness, it probably nudged me toward disallowing religious dogma to be the sole definer of my perception of, and relationship with, God. If God could use a Hindu like Gandhi to do Christlike work, then I couldn't believe he'd be punished in Hell just because he wasn't a Christian.

The Theater and Its Double - Antonin Artaud. Artaud wrote that theater's mission should be to evoke public catharsis. I agreed whole-heartedly when I read it as a 19-year-old theater student, and thought that ethic should also underscore religious worship. Might we be a kinder society if we had public spaces where we could meet and lather ourselves into a sob? It's hard to hate people when you see them a their most vulnerable and pitiful. It's also hard to dominate someone when you allow yourself to be seen vulnerable and pitiful. I still agree that catharsis, or at least perception-challenging, should be the main mission of theater. I'm more interested in storytelling these days - which originally lured me to the stage - but the higher notion of catharsis still informs my experience in a theater.

Sunday in the Park with George - Stephen Sondheim. This is one of those subtler life-changers; it's like a lover whom I discovered I loved only after years of platonic friendship. Joss Whedon, on Fresh Air yesterday, captured it best when he said that the first act of Sunday in the Park is about the burden of being a genius and the second act is about the burden of not being a genius. The first act of this musical deals with the drive of George Seurat as he works on his most famous painting, "A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte." The second act focuses on his possible (and fictional) direct descendant, George, a modern/performance artist, about a century later. I suspect most artists, when we're (dare I include myself?) in "the groove" of our endeavor, can identify with the first act George. But it's the second act that speaks to me more. Specifically, the duet "Move On." There's an exchange of lines between the descendant George and Dot that always rips at my heart -

George: I've nothing to say ...
Dot: You have many things ...
George: Well, nothing that's not been said
Dot: Said by you, though, George.

I suspect every artist feels this at some time or another. How can one person have anything insightful to add to the many comments on life that have already been produced? Is it even worth opening our mouths if we're anything short of blinding geniuses? But Dot encourages him. It's worth saying something because we're saying it. Later she sings, "Stop worrying if your vision is new/ Let others make that decision, they usually do!" How many times have I gotten the note from a director that I'm too much in my head, editing myself as I perform? I need to listen to Dot! It has changed my life, subtly, in that I've stopped thinking that just because I'm a middle-class white girl from a stable, loving family in a rich, democratic country, I have nothing of insight to add. I certainly need to produce more than I currently am, but we all have stories to tell and perspectives to share. Mine isn't any less important just because it's closer to "norm."

So there you have it: a few works that have changed my perception of life. I was wrong. Thanks for calling me out, Honey.

I'm closing with video from a performance from the 1984 run of Sunday in the Park with George. It's Bernadette Peters - of whom I was afraid until I was a teenager, because of her role in Annie - and Mandy Patinkin singing "Move On." I prefer the performance we saw several years ago with Raul Esparza and Melissa Errico; her voice was warmer and he didn't seem as broad. But I can't find video of that. The song ends around minute marker number 5. Enjoy!

Life-changing Art and Books?

Despite the silliness of everyone on Face book listing 25 random things about themselves, I must admit, I'd rather enjoyed quick-tour catch-ups on old friends, or learning more about new friends, and people I'm generally interested in. Now a college friend of mine decided she'd start her own "better-know-a-friend" note: name one book that changed your thinking.

My problem is that I can't. I'm not unaffected by what I read, but I'm hard-pressed to find a book that, when I put it down, leaves me feeling measurably changed. There are books that have spoken to some un-articulated truths I'd carried around inside me. God is a Verb, a book about mystical Judaism, articulated what I'd been growing to feel about our relationship with the divine. In particular, the notion of "creationing" or "raising holy sparks." It's been years since I've read the book, but if I remember, essentially, divinity is mutually nurtured by God and people (or, if you want to get into my micro-understanding: all creation). God communicates holiness to us via love and creation, and whenever we act in creation and mercy, we "raise holy sparks" back into divinity. And it's like an engine from there: God powers creation and creation powers God. A poor description on my part, but the book spoke to me, despite that I was wary because of the faddishness of Kabbalah. But it didn't change my thinking per se. It voiced what I already suspected to be true. Similarly, I ate far less fast food after reading Fast Food Nation, and I eat almost none, now. My response to the book didn't change my perception or action in grandiose ways. I'd worked in fast food before; I had family who had worked in meat-packing plants. The information wasn't new to me - just distilled. My pivot wasn't huge.

I'm always fascinated and confounded by people's claims that a work of art or a book or literature changed their lives. To be able to reflect and identify a piece of music, a poem, a painting, a play or whatever as a critical hinge in one's perceptions or an inspiration for action, suggests that that piece was personally earth-shaking. This leaves me wondering if I'm missing something. If other people can identify the piece of art, or the book that changed the way they viewed the world, then am I just callow? I'm not unaffected by art and literature. I'll reflect for days on something I've seen or read that's particularly good. And that reflection, I'm sure nudges my worldview in one direction or another. But nothing identifiably earthshaking. My earthshakings don't happen - or haven't yet happened - because of print or performance.

As earthshaking epiphanies go, personal experiences are my volcanoes, where art and literature are the geysers. Moving across the state, in the midst of puberty, to a much smaller town changed my life; living there for five and a half years changed my perception of it. Having to drop out of college after one semester due to lack of funds changed my life in that I had to start all over again. I ended up going to a different university where I made friends whose understandings of life shaped my understanding. There, I also met the man I eventually married. Dropping out of college changed my life. Getting married not only changed my life, but changed my perception of life. Moving across the country changed my perception of life. September 11 changed my life and my perception of life. The medical demons I've been wrestling the last couple of years have changed my perception of life, though not yet the way I live my life. If we ever have children, I anticipate that changing both the actions of my life and my perceptions of life. In fact I welcome the change - at least the latter.

Art was important to me during these shifts. Discovering that I enjoyed acting during my teenage years kept me emotionally intact and gave me a creative outlet for my frustrations. A few years later, the Chieftains and classical music lunch-hours serenaded my depression that resulted from dropping out of school. I read poetry during those months, which is something I'd never really done before or since. I also journaled like crazy, took a modern dance class that was a breath of fresh air and discovered, appropriately, Fresh Air. I can say with certainty that, during that time, Tchaikovsky's 4th symphony, especially the 2nd movement, followed by the 3rd, expressed the uncertainty of the those days, chased by the quirkiness and optimism that ultimately drives me. I fell in love with it. But did it change my life? Did it change my thinking? Did any of those activities or discoveries measurably change my perception of life? I'm positive they did, but their effects are very, very small compared to the events that drove me to them.

There probably is a book, or a play, or a film or piece of music that would rock the foundations of my world. But until or unless I come across it, print and art will slowly shift the ground beneath my feet, but the accidents and incidents of life will continue to the be the big shapers of the landscape of my perception. Am I alone in this?