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Currently reading Ishmael Reed's novel "Mumbo Jumbo." First off, it's a delightfully strange read that's giving me a lot to think about. Second, it inspired me to make this abstracted dancer. I think of it as a dancer melting in the heat of a performance. If you see something else, that's cool. Enjoy. 
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A little over a year ago I got involved with a little local indie group called BYOT. The acronym stands for Bring Your Own Theater. Every month a group of folks get together, are given a theme, and writers get about 12 hours to put together a script. Actors and directors meet up the next day to spend the next 12 frantically bringing those scripts to life. It's a great time for a number of reasons, in no small part because it's often a group of sincere people acting in earnest together to bring to life something that didn't exist 24 hours earlier.
The clip above is from a recent show (performance starts about 3:24). Full disclosure, I wrote this segment -- shameless self promotion! However, I encourage you to stay on the Youtube page to drift through the many offerings. If you like what you see then here's two more details. One: BYOT is open to anyone in the Chicago area. Regardless of your status, amateur or pro, anyone can sign up for a shot. Never been on stage, but always wanted to try acting? This might be the chance to dip your toe. Maybe writing feels like an opportunity you want to explore, well, this could be the dive into the deep end that gets you going. So follow this link https://www.byotproductions.com/ for more info on what the organization is as well as how you can sign up. Two is this: tomorrow is the annual BYOT fundraiser. It promises to be a fantastic evening broken into two very different sets of performances. The start of the night is more traditional BYOT, but after a certain point the gears shift into more adult oriented shows, going from sketches and subtlety to outright burlesque. It's going to be wild and all the good kinds of weird. Local sponsors such as the Music Box Theater have already lent their support with generous donations, so why not bring yourself by to see what's so amazing? For more information, here's a word from BYOT's own wonderful Megan Richards: "We start with more traditional fare at 7:30 and then transition into our "after dark" portion of the evening at 9:30. Tickets for one of the events is $15 in advance or $20 at the door, tickets for both are $25 in advance and $30 at the door. You can purchase tickets at: https://that70sfundraiser.brownpapertickets.com/ and a link to the events below: That 70's Fundraiser: https://www.facebook.com/events/156107141717661/ That 70's Fundraiser After Dark: https://www.facebook.com/events/2017223115217714/ We adore you all. Come and hang out with us, celebrate BYOT's birthday, and keep this wonderful little company going for a long, long time!"  Though always tempted to call it Fate
Every story sounds like bait, Veils wove desperate to create Blindness to too late -- There's a hunger to sate. So follow a honey tongue Down the well sprung Then lie with the bones Left among. Devoured raw Pleased you saw The siren smile Though all the while Teeth in intestine Beg the question During digesting Why the obsession? Pleased to die for a passing lovely Swimming churning chum dumbly Happy calling vicious sharks Always proud of their bite marks. Take me out with a blow to the knees
Then swing that axe as you please. Cut my hands off, split my head, Sever the spine, and put me to bed. I won't mind. You're the best I could ever find. Bruise any organs that you choose. I swear to god I can't lose -- Amen... hey! Then do it again, But never ever warn me when. Take me between your thighs Then feel free to pluck my eyes, Break my teeth, tear my tongue, Bury me deep, and bust a lung. I won't mind Because I'm fucking blind. Your pillow talk is a coffin call, But I swear I don't mind at all. Amen... hey! Then do it again, But never ever warn me when.  The priest in black scapular and emerald capirote went on, “It seemed so obvious. Years of lip service begged the turning of a page. Sacred scripture made yawn inducing routine by decades of inclination towards the misperception of metaphor. The very idea itself, once so inspiring, turned into an impotent call to emotionless displays of empty gestures. As such, she felt it necessary to reacquaint the faithless, who mistook themselves for faithful, with the truth.
“Interrupting the preacher’s prosaic sermon with the toss of a Molotov, she burned the church. “Amidst the screams in the inferno she shouted, ‘This is all for you my dark savior,’ then embraced the flames. But she did not die. Such is the gift bestowed on the truly faithful.” Gordon stifled a yawn. Surreptitiously he glanced at his watch. If the sermon wrapped soon, and he hustled the family out, they might make it to the bagel shop in time for a fresh warm dozen. His wife, Cassandra, gently prodded him with her elbow. A grunt impersonating an apology, Gordon ceased checking the time. He nodded at her, acknowledging his error, and she took hold of his hand. A soft squeeze signaled forgiveness. She whispered, “He’s a bore, but I worry about the kids.” Gordon nodded again, “Gotta set an example. I know.” They glanced over. Rose and Louis sat staring up at the stained glasses windows. The depictions of Saint Lucinda burning the church, resurrecting the infernal Lord, it mesmerized them. The exquisite recreation of the faithless howling in torment as flames consumed them — Gordon often felt the windows spoke enough; he doubted he could set a better example than Lucinda. However, parents sometimes have obligations beyond their abilities. His father taught him that when they gutted Gordon’s brother. The preacher concluded, “Let us rise, and as one affirm our faith.” Cassandra stood, already speaking the creed, her words a breath ahead of the congregation, “We give thanks for knowing the infernal almighty, not its kindness, but proof of its existence. Its bloodlust killing apathy, we are awakened by the screams of the dead warning us not to doubt...” Meanwhile Gordon went on mechanically, “...that when the sleepers slumber too long, Lucinda shall strike a match, burn our eyes open, and fuel another revelation... The kids recited, “...for she so loves us all she burned herself, a living torch illuminating the truth.” The preacher smiled, and as one the congregation said, “Amen.” # Driving the boulevard of crucified, Gordon couldn’t help pointing at one writhing figure, “See him?” He slowed the car as Rose and Louis looked over. Rose said, “Yeah?” Gordon said, “I nailed him up.” “You did?” Louis said. He sounded excited. Gordon shrugged, “Well, it had to be done.” Cassandra turned in the passenger seat, “Everyone has to do their part.” Rose scrunched up her face in confusion. Cassandra asked, “What is it honey?” Rose said, “Nothing. It just seems, I dunno, excessive?” “He deserved it,” Cassandra said. She turned back around. She glared at the crucified corpses lining the boulevard, frowning at the sight of those still alive. She said, “They all deserve it.” Louis said, “I can’t wait to nail one.” Glancing in the rear view Gordon smiled, “You’ll get your chance buddy.” “When?” Gordon winked, "Patience li’l buddy.” # Pulling into the driveway Gordon saw a letter tacked to the front door of the house. He couldn’t help smiling. The red wax seal spoke of its contents. “Hey Louis,” Gordon said, “See that?” “Cool!” Before the car even stopped Louis jumped out. He run up the steps. Snatching the letter off the door he broke the seal. Cassandra said, “I’m happy, but I don’t know if he’s old enough.” Gordon patted her hand, “I was his age the first time.” Forcing a smile Cassandra quoted Saint Lucinda, “‘When called we must act.’” “He doesn’t look happy,” Rose said. Indeed, Louis looked disappointed. The rest of the family got out of the car. Before Gordon could ask Louis handed him the letter. Shoulders slumped Louis said, “It’s for Rose.” Rose stopped short. Gordon glanced over the letter. The expected bit of Scripture followed by a brief note summoning Rose to the next round of crucifixions. However, an extra paragraph informed that Saint Lucinda would be presiding over this event. “Lucinda herself is coming to witness the silencing of doubters.” Cassandra reached for the letter, “That’s wonderful.” Rose said, “I don’t want to do it.” Eyes on the letter Cassandra said, “Of course you do, honey. It’s an honor.” “I don’t care.” “If she’s not going to do it I will,” Louis said. Gordon said, “She’s going to do it.” “You can’t make me,” Rose said. Cassandra looked at her sternly, “You don’t have a choice.” # The week passed with all the peacefulness of a hurricane. At first Rose’s parents attempted to appeal to their daughter’s faith. Cassandra quoted Scripture, told stories about Saint Lucinda — “She led her followers across this country, spreading the new faith on a wave of blood.” However, Rose still refused until finally, frustrated and fearful beyond reason, her parents resorted to threats. They grounded her, took away the fourteen year old’s phone, and stopped feeding her. Every effort only seemed to strengthen the young woman’s resolve. Until one night Louis went in Rose’s room, “Can I ask you something?” Hesitantly Rose said, “Sure.” “Why don’t you want to silence doubters?” Rose said, “I dunno.” She worried about sharing her concerns with her nine year old brother. She didn’t think he would understand. Louis applauded when the screams came as the nails went in. She hid her tears. No one in the family noticed because they didn’t expect her to cry — blind faith. Louis nodded, “Okay, but it makes the world a better place.” She shared a half truth, “I guess I’m scared,” leaving out her thought, “That it doesn’t.” Louis said, “It’s okay to be scared. I’m scared what’ll happen to you.” Rose furrowed her brow, “What do you mean?” Looking at his feet Louis said, “I overheard mom and dad talking. If you don’t do it inquisitors will come for you.” Rose immediately hurried out of her room. She went downstairs to confront her parents. When asked if what Louis told her might be true her parents hesitated. Cassandra took a deep breath, “Yes. If you don’t do what’s expected, you’ll be taken away by inquisitors.” “Children aren’t usually told until after. That way it’s an honest choice, not something done out of fear,” Gordon said. Rose looked terrified for a moment. Then something flashed across her eyes. A steeliness entered her demeanor. She said, “If that’s the way it is, fine.” # On a raised dais seated upon a maroon throne, Saint Lucinda sat. Her skin looked like aged parchment. A purple river stemmed from her flowing robes. Her milk white eyes with their red pinpoint pupils surveyed the crowd. She waved a skeletal hand, a general gesture that never failed to make some believe she waved specifically at them. An acolyte in gold vestments set a microphone near her. At a 197, she no longer rose to address the assembled faithful. She spoke, “Today we silence those who have chosen not to believe what has been revealed. Where once there was no proof, our dark savior is with us. Let those who deny what is be nailed and raised as a warning to all who doubt what is true.” The crowd cheered. Black uniformed inquisitors led a procession of shackled people to a row of crosses. Those charged with nailing stood by their designated cross. Rose and Cassandra waited silently. Daughter with the hammer, mother with the nails, no one would’ve perceived anything amiss. After all, Rose showed no signs of being ill at ease. When the inquisitor arrived, shoving a doubter into position, Rose held out her hand. Cassandra gave her a nail. The inquisitor held the struggling doubter in place. Rose knelt down. She put the nail in place. Ignoring the doubter’s pleas she drove the nail into the wrist. Her mother handed her another, and she did the other hand then the feet. The inquisitor dismissed them as acolytes set about erecting the crucifix on the boulevard. Walking away Rose and Cassandra passed the dais. Saint Lucinda nodded at them in appreciation. Cassandra beamed. Rose forced a smile. Later that night Rose went out. She lied about wanting to go to the library. Instead she rode her bike to the boulevard of crucified. Pedestrians ambled along underneath the dying. Rose found the person she nailed. She waited for a couple to pass — young lovers holding hands — then said to the crucified, “I’m sorry.” The person smiled down at her, saying between gasps, “You... don’t... believe.” Rose shook her head. A sound cut through the stillness of the night. Those on the street looked up. The vast nebulous form of the dark savior drifted across the sky, a boiling cloud of teeth and eyes. Briefly it obscured the moon. The faithful raised their hands, and shouted praise to the deity they could see. Rose, however, pedaled home certain that gods are not always for the best.  "Dancing Skinless in Salt"
Waltz as prelude to a kiss We went dancing skinless, And I remember wondering this: What if our lips miss The move for a bit of bliss? So hours circling Hips slowly churning A frenzy to forget There's never a safe bet, Maybe we could love the regret, And yet, Not until strolling in a storm of salt, Home feeling like a burial vault, Caution seemed a fault. Neither sensing a sign to halt Head over heels somersault Lightning flashing together Zero doubt whether No longer lost, but sought. All hesitation an afterthought Tying a lover's knot To keep a heart caught. Took a little time the other day to put together this art piece. I don't really have anything to say about it other than I like the idea of ghosts that are only vaguely human. I mean, if you're ethereal why be confined to your old design? In any event, I had fun making this, and hope you enjoy.  Remember that old line about truth? It's like a meth addicted donkey kicking Shakespeare. That's why a lot of folks gravitate to nonfiction. It's always strange. So I dip into it from time to time. I also enjoy a bit of live storytelling. That's why I hit up certain storytelling events around Chicago. Besides getting a chance to practice my own pieces, shows are often populated by a wide variety of excellent folks telling a broad range of engaging stories.
The one I visit the most routinely is an event provided by Do Not Submit. This is an organization hosting "a series of free open mics around Chicago where people from all walks of life and backgrounds can come together each month to connect through the sharing of personal stories." And that's what I like about it. Events like those hosted by The Moth tend to be curated affairs. They don't typically welcome first time amateurs. They want polished performers, and while that can guarantee certain elements like comedic timing, spoken flow, etc., it can come at the cost of a human element. Sure, there are first timers at Do Not Submits who stumble a bit -- stage fright, choked up on emotion, hesitation to share intimate details -- yet that makes the sharing more touching in a way. It's hard for me not to be a bit cynical hearing a Moth regular tell, what is perhaps the hundredth time, their tale of woe, but when a woman gets up who has literally just a few weeks ago given stillbirth to her child share that story because she needs to tell someone, it's figuratively eating her alive, that's more powerful to me; her tears don't feel scripted. The story is less of a performance, and more a shared moment. We have so many filters these days to keep the reality of life at a distance -- we're aware of the truth without having to feel it -- sometimes that gut punch is a good wake up call. But it's not all grim spectacle. There are plenty of humorous anecdotes. The best tend to be when someone clearly has a moment of insight mid-performance, and thinking aloud causes a laugh. See, that's something lacking in Moth shows, where the jokes are often preplanned right down to the cadence of speech. I'm not saying one is better than the other. The Moth puts on an excellent show. However, their storytellers have mined the depths of their tales, and are ready to share that gold as efficiently and entertainingly as possible. Do Not Submit events, on the other hand, are usually more about people still trying to figure out what they need to say. Either way, I recently managed to remember I can record things with my phone. I've been promising to do this, especially for friends who live far from the city. So here is a clip of me performing at a Do Not Submit event in Andersonville. And if you live in the Chicago area, check out the link below. Maybe this is something you'd like to try, or simply see. Whatever you chose, you're welcome. http://www.donotsubmitchicago.com/ |
AuthorJ. Rohr enjoys making orphans feel at home in ovens and fashioning historical re-enactments out of dead pets collected from neighbors’ backyards. Archives
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