All posts by Analyn Revilla

What is a Heart?

playwriting

A conversation over instant message begins with:

A: What’s worse than losing your mind?
B: Death.
A: How about a heart turning to stone?
B: That’s death

I began with an inquiry on the expression “heart of stone”. With the approach of Mother’s Day, I wanted to have a heart-to-heart connection with my mom. I felt the distance between Hawaii and Los Angeles has created a permanent rift between us, and especially since I’ve never been good at initiating a phone call. During the times I tried, I couldn’t have a conversation with her because of the blare of her television. “Mom, turn down the TV”. “What?!” I’m afraid my mom’s heart has turned to stone. She lives alone, and she’s old. Ever since my father died, I think she’s walled off her heart.

This is my idea about the heart. It’s the engine that drives life literally and figuratively. In the literal sense the brain is the “control” center akin to the operating system of the computer. It regulates the body’s optimal homeostasis and gives the commands to the organs and glands to do their jobs. If there is an imminent threat I need to get away from then my brain tells my adrenal gland to give my body a little extra boost of adrenalin. So the gland drops a dose of the adrenalin into my blood stream, and my heart pumps the blood through the rest of my body. At the same time this flow of the blood removes toxins and other byproducts from the respiration of the cells. With every exhale the impurities are taken away. Every breath in and out is a cycle of life.

So that’s the mechanics of the heart. The heart is referenced with a breadth and depth linguistically in the Romantic and Germanic languages. The heart is the container of our emotional life. It is the motor of our motivations and aspirations. We use heart in our language that expresses our soul, spirit and our body.

If my “heart is not into it” then I either won’t do it or I do it badly.

If I don’t get the “heart of the matter” then I am missing the essence or the point.

If my “heart stood still” then I could either have been frightened that I catch my breath or I’ve been hit by a bolt of love at first sight.

If I’m “disheartened” then I’ve lost my spirit for something that I once had courage for. There’s the Latin origin of heart “Coeur” in courage. To be lion-hearted is to be brave and courageous.

When I say, “Don’t play with my heart” then I’m asking you to please be gentle with me.

I saw a production of Beth Henley’s play, Crimes of the Heart, at the Rubicon Theater in 2010. I savored that scene between Babe Botrelle and Barnette Lloyd in the kitchen where she describes how she shot her husband because she didn’t like his looks. The thrust of those words stood for her anger at her husband’s cruelty because of her affair with a 15 year old black teenager. After shooting him in the stomach, she made a big pitcher of ice-cold lemonade which she drank thirstily while he bled and moaned asking her to call for help. Out of her customary politeness she offers him a glass of lemonade – the whole thing executed with an absence of mind. In a 1998 review by Jamie L. Jones in the Harvard Crimson, he noted that:

It should not surprise audiences of Crimes of the Heart to learn that Babe Botrelle did not kill her husband when she shot him (she aimed for his heart but hit his stomach): she’s a good Southern woman, after all, and among the other myths she heard about men and women, she undoubtedly learned that “the only way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

It’s fascinating how the heart in language to represent the real, intangible and yet powerful aspects of our persona.

Going back to a heart turning to stone, I researched that the leading cause of death for women (short term and long term( is aortic aneurism where there is an abnormal bulge in the wall of the artery (the artery being the largest artery in the body). Medically, what can cause aortic aneurysms are (source: www.webmd.com):
• Atherosclerosis, or hardening of the arteries, which weakens arterial walls.
• Hypertension (high blood pressure).
• Local injury to the artery.
• Congenital abnormality. A number of conditions, such as Marfan syndrome or bicuspid aortic valves are present at birth and can cause weakness of the artery walls.
• Aging
• Syphilis used to be a common cause of thoracic aneurysms, but it is no longer as common

Could a long-term psychological-emotional trauma of a heartache lead to a heart of stone in its fullest sense. An emotional wound that won’t heal could render a person to choose to stop feeling their feelings as a protection, and so they become cold and unfeeling. There is a medical condition called Calciphylaxis. In Wikipedia, it cites that ‘a severe calciphylaxis can cause diastolic heart failure from cardiac calcification, called “heart of stone”.’ Also from the same source: Calciphylaxis can result from “chronic non-healing wounds and is usually fatal. Calciphylaxis is a rare but serious disease.”

Women tend to have a longer life span than men. Imagine generations of women whose husbands or boyfriends have died in the war, natural causes, illnesses or accidents. Some women succumb to the grief. It’s been 14 years since my father died. Since 2001, every year, my mother still prays novenas and holds masses for his death anniversary and birthdays. She carries a vial containing his ashes wherever she travels. I’ve stopped asking why she does it, because she responds with a sigh that sounds like I’ve treaded into private territory. Whether she does it from a sense of duty or the ritual of honoring their marriage, I feel she hasn’t allowed herself to move past the grief. I don’t mean for her to “get over it”, because that sounds like it is nullifying the sacrament of their marriage. Though I wonder if she still carries the torch for her departed beloved.

There is also the biblical aspect from the book of Ezekiel on the heart of stone:

Therefore say to the house of Israel: Thus says the Lord GOD: It is not for your sake, O house of Israel, that I am about to act, but for the sake of my holy name, which you have profaned among the nations to which you came. I will sanctify my great name, which has been profaned among the nations, and which you have profaned among them; and the nations shall know that I am the LORD, says the Lord GOD, when through you I display my holiness before their eyes. I will take you from the nations, and gather you from all the countries, and bring you into your own land. I will sprinkle clean water upon you, and you shall be clean from all your uncleannesses, and from all your idols I will cleanse you. A new heart I will give you, and a new spirit I will put within you; and I will remove from your body the heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh. I will put my spirit within you, and make you follow my statutes and be careful to observe my ordinances. Then you shall live in the land which I gave to your ancestors, and you shall be my people, and I will be your God. (Ezekiel 36:22–28)

With the guidance of Jeffrey Keuss in understanding this scripture, he breaks it down to the Word of God (or the Hebrew word Rûaḥ which means the Breath or Spirit of God) which brings life to the inanimate stone.

as God breathed his spirit (rûaḥ) upon creation at the beginning of all things, this same spirit will remove that which is inanimate stone and bring life where once there was death. As deep calls out to deep, the same breath that blows away stone will reside as a living spirit to animate and enliven. This much is clear: bones come together in Ezekiel 36, but they don’t live until the spirit is breathed on them. It is the Spirit of God that animates, and it will also be the Spirit that preserves, redeems, and restores.

I ask these questions of myself that were suggestions from the same posting:

In Hebrew culture, having a “heart of stone” means that the core of one’s being is lifeless. What are parts of modern life that leave you feeling as if you are experiencing a “hardening of heart?” Conversely, in what ways have you experienced the rûaḥ of God breathing new life in creation of a “heart of flesh?”

Jeffrey Keuss is a professor at Seattle Pacific University.

I know my Mom has the heart of a woman, the heart of a mother and the heart of a human being. She is warm and tender and full of love. In writing about this I see now that this has been a season for me where I’m trying to put life where I feel I’ve stagnated. From my last blog Lilac Time I shared that I am feeling a dead end with my corporate job. My heart ache is not having the title of “Writer” in my Linkedin profile. I love Nancy Beverly’s profile. Flat out “Writer”. I wondered if anybody’s put down “Mother”. That resume of work experience and aptitude would be at the top of the list of the most desirable people to work with. (Maybe not everyone would agree.)

But within the last 10 minutes of writing this post I bought tickets to fly to Hawaii on my mother’s birthday which falls on Memorial Day this year, May 25th. It’s my chance to make a heart-to-heart connection with her, and I can turn down the volume of the TV myself.

Lilac Time

playwriting

By Analyn Revilla

The lilac season is very short. My room is suffused with its sweet scent. Lilacs have an allure with its delicate heads bowing to the ground in a humble curtsy. They remind me of childhood days in the cold north. I don’t know the physiology of these plants, similar to the bulbs of tulips and daffodils, that need the cold winter to hibernate. I look at the bouquet often even as I type words on the page. The cursor blinks and it waits to obey the next action.

Lately, I’ve been into analyzing dreams. I describe mine as fantastic. I think anyone who remembers their dreams would probably use ‘bizarre’, ‘strange’, ‘amazing’ when they put together the images and scenes that play out in their dreams. When I awake I’m curious to know what my dreams mean; are there messages being conveyed? I want to linger in bed and let it play out, but duty calls and I have to get up. I intuit that I could be missing out on something of value in my dreams, and I decided that I need to pay closer attention to it.

It was April in Vancouver and the lilacs were in full bloom. My dog Chloe and I walked on a street that had a generous hedge of lilac bushes. I wrote a poem that year called “Lilac Dreams”. Like dreams the lilacs were ephemeral, like the fog that sits on the lake. The moment is surreal, because it’s a tangible reality that lasts for a such a brief period of time.

So it goes with dreams. You’re in it during the REM stage of sleep which lasts maybe 3 minutes. Everything that happens feels real and has dream logic. One moment I am washing my face under the running waters of the kitchen sink and the neighbors can see me through the window then it changes. I’m sitting in a car with a girlfriend and we’re driving a slushy narrow road that we decide that we can’t travel on any further. So we turn back. I get out to direct my friend turn the car around. My feet are in the freezing cold lake and I have this magnificent strength to push the car onto the paved road so it doesn’t fall into the lake. Then another friend, a man, and I argue whether or not to continue on the motorcycle on the same road. There’s a tricky hairpin turn that forces the rider to glide into the opposite lane to navigate the way, but risks slamming head on with oncoming traffic. Plus the icy conditions will make it harder than it already is. I told him I’m not going to risk it. He said he’s going to go for it.

I’ve been researching dream symbols and this is what I’ve deciphered about my dream. People in my conscious life can appear in my dreams, and each one of them is an apparition of me. In my dream there was a woman and a man. They are the female and male aspects of me. The number 2 occurs in each scene. Two represents “the balance of masculine and feminine energies; or some balance in some area of life that is needed” (source “The Dream Book” by Betty Bethards). The kitchen is a work area where plans and schemes are “cooked”, and preparations for nourishment are made. There’s also a window which is the ability to see beyond a given situation – a view to the other side – “inter-dimensional awareness” (“The Dream Book”)

The feminine aspect intuits that we can’t continue the journey, so the decision is to turn back and not continue with the journey. A car is symbolic of the daily physical life and how it is used to manifest what I want. The course of the car is parallel to the direction my life is going. I am not behind the wheel so I am not in charge of the my life’s direction. A motorcycle means a need to have balance. The images in my dreams are symbols of a dialogue between my masculine and feminine aspects. My masculine nature decides to continue the journey despite the risks of the road conditions and the weather. My feminine aspect says ‘Wait. Stop. I’m not ready to take the risks.”

What context is this dream juxtaposed against? I’ve been seriously evaluating my career path and I’ve decided that I need a change and I need growth. My feminine side wants to be safe and it fears change; while my masculine side wants to bolt out and ‘go for it’ despite the limiting parameters.

This dream does not seem to give me an answer as to which course to take, but it examines the conflict within. So, I need to sit more with the decision and make the right choices with wholeness of being. How will I navigate this change? At times of upheavals I remind myself to be kind with myself by being aware of my feelings, being in touch with them and accepting them wholly. I need to balance both sides of me: one who wants to be a bull and charge forward and the other who wants to be bearish and roll with it.

The subconscious is like a winter scene where everything appears silent and still on the surface, but underneath it, there is the teeming subconscious – full of creativity. It flows and churns eddies of images. These dreams come to consciousness and my active consciousness is the tool to manifest them. I liken the lilac season to dream time. The moment is fleeting, and I have to be present and aware of the fruits they bear.

Middlegate Station – “The Last Roadhouse”

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By Analyn Revilla

On my road trip to Idaho on the motorcycles with Bruno, we spent a night at a motel-RV park with a mini-mart, a bar and gas station.  It was during this trip that I was kicking around the idea of ‘the edge’.  What is it about?  At Middlegate Station, a place to stop for weary travelers, I discovered a community that lives on the edge of the loneliest highway in America, Highway 50 in Nevada.  The roadhouse sits on the junction of Highway 50 and Highway 361.

In this age of internet and commercial industry, Middlegate Station is remote.  There were stretches of the road when we didn’t encounter another car for hours, except for transport trucks which were infrequent.  With smaller gas tanks, we took every opportunity to fill up, not knowing where the next gas station will be open or operable.  The map was only second best to word of mouth for reliable information.

We filled up at Gabbs and talked to the attendant who told us that the road is decent and recommended to gas up at Middlegate, because beyond that she didn’t know what’s opened.  Gabbs is a small mining town that experienced a downturn when the magnesium mine closed.  It was close to 3 pm when we rolled into Middlegate.  Inside the bar, there were windows that faced northeast on the L of hwy 50 and hwy 361, and a young man grilled hamburger meat.  At his feet was a toddler and further into the dark room, an older man behind the counter talking with two men who watched the TV with the volume at high.

We decided to refresh with some drinks before filling up the tanks.  I ordered a dark beer and Bruno had white wine.  It tasted good.  We looked at the menu.  “Freedom Fries”.  I told Bruno to keep quiet so as not to give away his French accent.  There were  $1 dollar bills pinned, stapled and taped on every surface of the place, except for the table tops.  The walls and ceiling were stained with tar from tobacco and grease.  The little girl started to cry.  The young man and older man, both with similar features, looked at each other.  They communicated without words.  Father and son spoke gently to the young baby, telling her gently that her mom will be back later.

I finished my beer and told Bruno I could have another one it tasted so good, and I wanted to know more about this place, these people.  There was something special about them.  Go ahead he said.  But I wouldn’t be able to get back on the bike if I had another drink.  I was exhausted after 2 days on the bike, and I wasn’t trained for these long hauls.  Then I thought I knew what the pony express riders felt when they rode from station to station at break neck speeds while trying to avoid getting killed.  My situation wasn’t as dire, but like them I was gloriously happy to come upon this haven.  We decided to stay, ‘if they have room’ I said.  The old man had watched us and listened to our conversation.

I asked if they had a room, and the old man said “Let me check.”  I was surprised by his answer, because the place looked deserted except for the local people, and there were only a handful there.  He checked his book, then said there is one room left.  I wondered if he was kidding me.  We took the room.  He gave us the key and the direction across the courtyards towards the row of trailers that were subdivided into rooms.  We finished our beers and moved the bikes closer to the trailer motel.

The room had a double bed and a single bed, a night table and lamp.  The toilet and tub were clean.  The space was cramped but the important thing was it was proudly clean and complete.  There were towels and grooming paraphernalia.  We unloaded the bike, put the gear on the single bed then headed back to the bar for food and more beverages.  After that we played horseshoes at the pit.  The proprietor, the old man, came to watch and made a friendly passing comment.  Bruno beat my pants, though he’s never played the game before.  Afterwards, we took a long nap and woke up at twilight.

Upon waking Bruno offered to get me something to drink at the bar.  He left me inside the room, and I lounged and listened to the falling twilight.  I heard voices and cars outside.  Bruno walked in with the beer and he had ice for his white wine. His news was there were some new people that checked in.  So they were busy after all.  The old man had expected others, so we were lucky to get a room.  Bruno urged me to get up to see the sunset.  We walked around.  The foothills were shadows upon the setting sun on the wild West.  It was in the middle of nowhere.  They have generators for electricity.  What about water?  Is there a well or do they have to bring that in?

We joined the others in the bar.  Beer and wine flowed, a man played the guitar and sang Western songs.  He did both really well too.  The locals and the new comers had known each other from before.  They had returned to film the 2nd half of the documentary ‘The Last Road House’.

In 2011, Ryan and Lisette Cheresson and their friends from New York were headed off to Burning Man.  The convoy stopped at Middlegate Station for some rest and to refresh their supplies before they got back on the road.  The couple were impressed by the people in this nowhere place which embodied strength and soul.  It was a community that lived off the grid, and in 2013 they found out that the owners Freda and Russ Stevenson were struggling to maintain their livelihood.  Their small community of people living in RVs and trailers relied on energy powered by a diesel generator.  With this documentary their intention is to draw attention to the need of this community to have access to a clean source of energy.  As the price of diesel had risen dramatically high, they want to help the community try to get funding for solar energy.

This was the edge living in the outback without any of the infrastructure that we take for granted.  Yes, there was water for my showers at Middlegate, but at what cost?  There was cold beer and hot food, but at what cost?  I read someone’s critique about the hamburger served at Middlegate, and wondered if the person even considered the energy that brought that food on his plate in the middle of nowhere.

I experienced that edge during that 18 hour period.  It was in the fierce grit of people who were hanging on to the remains of a lifestyle choice.

‘The state of Nevada ranks fourth in the nation for solar energy capacity. There are currently 84 companies in operation in Nevada that provide solar energy, but Fredda said the $750,000 start-up cost is way out of her price range. Fredda has applied for several grants to install a solar array at Middlegate, all of which have been denied. If you’re not on the grid and can’t put energy back into it, you don’t qualify. This puts people like Fredda in an impossible situation. “If you’re not on the grid,” she says, “you’re a second-class citizen.”’

The edge was in the gracious hospitality of the inhabitants to strangers in an inhospitable environment.  The edge was the bond between father and son soothing the baby in her need and cry for her mother.  The edge was the man singing with his one of a kind acoustic Gibson guitar.  The edge was his deep gratitude and joy that Ryan remembered to bring him the proper tool to fix his guitar, because there wasn’t a luthier or Guitar Center nearby in any direction.

A conversation with the 22 year old, Maggie Urban-Weale, a journalism major and volunteer for the crew  was a reminder of believing in something good and not expecting rewards.  Later that evening, as we all walked to our respective rooms, we hung out under the moonlight and finished our drinks.  We invited her in to play guitar, and she sang ‘Closing Time’.   Speaking with the youngest of the crew members, I was reminded of hope and beauty.  The young people of today want a better tomorrow, and they’re striving for it with this project.

“There are an estimated 200,000 people in America living off-grid. Many of these people, who lack access to municipal utilities like power or water, are the ranchers, miners, and truckers who keep America moving. Middlegate keeps those ranchers and truckers moving, and is one of the region’s only social hubs. Places like Middlegate are important not only for their historical value, but because of their significance in rural communities.”

“Artistically, we are interested in the juxtaposition of the old and the new—how new technology (such as solar) can help save historic places (like Middlegate). We’re also interested in the interplay between the rugged individualism that categorizes much of the rural West and their need for governmental assistance. As one academic told us, for the people of Middlegate to reach out and ask for help means that their situation is dire.”  – http://www.lastroadhouse.com/

To book a room at Middlegate Station go to their website. http://middlegatestation.net/Home_Page.html

Middlegate Station
Middlegate Station

“Revival” by Carla Neuss

playwriting

By Analyn Revilla

The First Manifesto of the Cocktail Nation:We, the Citizens of the Cocktail Nation, do hereby declare our independence from the dessicated horde of mummified uniformity – our freedom from an existence of abject swinglessness. We pledge to revolt against the void of dictated sobriety and to cultivate not riches but richness, swankness, suaveness and strangeness, with pleasure and boldness for all.

BE FABULOUS.

— The Millionaire of Combustible Edison

(Glenn, Joshua. “Cocktail Nation; Or, How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Just Be Fabulous.” Utne Reader 65 (September/October 1994)

“Revival” is featuring at the Acting Artist’s Theatre in West Hollywood and it opened last Sunday, January 18th. Carla Neuss and I had a conversation on the weekend before it opened. She arrived from Friday’s rehearsal, and seemed focused and relaxed. It was the first rehearsal without any glitch. She produced and directed the play for its premiere in Los Angeles. The play was featured in Oxford in 2010, and was the winner of the 2010 Oxford New Writing Festival.

The inspiration of the play was the revival of cocktail lounge culture that emerged in the 1990’s. She started writing the play around 2009, at a time when she was looking to work on a lighter piece apart from her thesis. From her experience of working in a bar and dating a bartender in Oxford, she taught the actor who plays Crispin how to properly mix drinks.  There are specific order and techniques in making a cocktail. The magic potion is a combination of three things. Similar to the creation of a new perfume that has its base notes, middle notes and high notes –  a cocktail has the base spirit that is the main flavor of the drink, the modifier/mixer that blends with the base without overpowering it, and a flavoring that rounds out the whole packaging.

A mixologist is a craftsman like an artisan of food, pottery or glassmaking. He considers the environment and its inhabitants when creating the concoction. The play begins with Tyler, a regular patron of the unnamed bar, and he tells a story about being a knight errant. An angel offers him a chalice brimful of potion to regain his strength. He asks Crispin “make me that drink.” There are four rules that patrons of the bar must abide by. Rule #4 is drink requests are not permitted. “Only stories or inclinations should be presented to the bartender for him to utilize or ignore at his discretion.”

One of the challenges of producing this play was finding the right actor to play Crispin. The play is 90 minutes long without any intermission, and Crispin is onstage at all times while patrons arrive and leave. With each entrance and departure they spin a web of their realities, dreams, aspirations and woes. Crispin works to enhance their stories with his custom made drinks. Carla told me that she had to reach out to Ben Moroski with whom she collaborated with on another project last year. When casting the role she sought someone who had a strong presence without the showmanship. The role of Crispin needs an actor who can be the eye of the storm while the other characters whirl in the vortex around him with their pretenses and their stumbling truths.

I asked Carla how she chose to collaborate on projects.  She said she’s only been back in California for a year, having spent the previous 4 years in Oxford. She’s building her network from word of mouth. I heard about the play from James Svatko, the actor who plays Fred in “Revival”. James was the producer and director of “The Last Train” a play written by Natacha Astuto. I told James it was delightful to see him another role wearing a jacket instead of his prison cell overalls (from ‘The Last Train’). After the opening performance last Sunday, James and I had a brief moment to greet each other at Harlowe’s, the bar next door to the theatre.

I asked Carla if there was any particular group that she hoped to attract with this play. The context of the question is that most theater goers I’ve seen at Ahmanson, Geffen and Pasadena Playhouse are in the mature age range. We agreed that theater competes with other genres of entertainment. As an art form a play asks of its audience to invest intellectually, and draw upon their experiences and imagination to understand what it is about. The audience can be moved by a scene, but understanding what the play is all about is challenging. Perhaps the topic of mixology can attract some of the younger crowd, especially the cocktail lounge culture. On opening night, the play’s program can be used to get a ten percent discount on a customized cocktail at Harlowe’s. (I don’t know if this applies throughout the run of the play.)

A mysterious liqueur in the play has its own revival in history. Crispin, in his quest to help the world transcend beyond the ordinary life had found Crème Yvette on e-Bay. The liqueur had not been produced since 1969. The setting of the play does not refer to a specific period, but it probably occurs before the 2009 when the production of the liqueur was revived by the Cooper Spirits Company. The arrival of the box that holds the precious nectar made from raspberries, wild strawberries, blackberries, and cassis from the famed Aquitaine region and blended with dried violet petals is a ceremony. Crispin puts on ethereal music, (Arvo Part’s “Spiegel im Spiegel”) on the turntable, then lays out a lace mantle. He pours the violet-garnet hued Crème Yvette into a crystal glass and takes his first sip.

The cult of the cocktail is a successful religious ceremony transformed into a secular rite. The bartender is the high priest, the drink is the sacramental cup, and the cocktail lounge is akin to a temple or cathedral that uses lights, music, and even ceiling fixtures to reinforce moods of comfort and inspiration.(Lanza, Joseph. “Set ’em Up, Joe: A Cocktail Primer.” Esquire, 127.4 (April 1997): 74 – 75)

Crispin’s bar is this place of transformation. What is a story without the heat between a man and woman? Enter Jo, a beautiful young woman played by Adrienne Whitney. She supports her studies in literature as an escort. She uses the bar as a regular spot for her rendez-vous, but she’s also attracted to Crispin. She becomes a catalyst to change the homeostasis of the bar. Victor Gurevech plays Tyler, the young dreamer who voraciously upholds the rules of the bar. Tyler looks to Crispin for relief from the mundane world. Joseph Martone plays two supporting roles, both as escorts of Jo. He did marvelously in maintaining his composure when his moustache slipped from his upper lip to cover his mouth just as he was to start a story.  Then there is the pastor, Fred, (played by James Svatko).   Fred is simply a man who needs a break from his job description ‘to love all people’.

Crispin listens to their stories and mixes their drinks.  The customers’ wear their lives on their jackets, ties, costumes and breathes it out through their skin. Their realities mix with the sanctity of Crispin’s bar.  The revival is opening the eyes to our humanity while striving for perfection.

 “There’s a feeling you can get sometimes… something triggers it and you suddenly feel all your fingers and toes and you loop up and the people around you are smiling and you are talking about something big and important and beautiful and the world feels like not a such a bad place to live after all – it feels like it was meant to be good…” – Crispin (from “Revival”).

Revival is playing on weekends from  January 18 at 8pm and will continue on Saturdays, January 24, 31, and February 7 at 3pm and 8pm.

Method Writing

playwriting

By Analyn Revilla

I created my first chapbook and shared it among my fellow writers in my method writing class. “Process” is the philosophy and the practice of the class. It was not about the product. The reward of the process was the product, and for the class it was putting together a chapbook that contained a collection of writings we had done during the class. The philosophy was to write from the deep voice and to express this voice using tools.

I looked over the pages I had written over the past 10 weeks of the class. I couldn’t find any real gems that stood out or was good enough to publish into a chapbook. I found my journal entries were scattered themes, and showed my tendency to avoid getting into the story of who I am. But I had to mine what I’d done, or make something new with what I already knew. I felt frustrated and fear that the raw stuff wasn’t good enough. I lashed out my feelings in unusual ways, and learned something about my behavior patterns when I feel at a loss. It felt like school when I would cram the night before an exam and wished that I had gone to class and done the homework.

I stuck with it, and I found some entries I could rework and dig deeper into. I surprised myself at what came forth. It was a slippery slope, though in the end I got enough material to make a decent chapbook. The five pieces I put into the chapbook were made up of: a new poem, three journal entries (that I polished from its raw form) and one from one of my blogs from way way back (“Play It Loud”). I reviewed the blogs before picking one. I felt dismayed and disappointed in the lack of eye and attention I had put into some of them. I saw my attention was more about the product rather than the process. After getting it out of me, I published it without putting in the extra time and elbow grease to clean up mistakes and edit parts that would be make some ideas more palatable and digestible.

What I learned, in keeping myself within the boundaries of the material, was that I still had to edit and polish the rough stuff. This has been my weakness in writing – going over the raw material and shaping it into something that has worth to somebody. In creating the chapbook I also learned to care about the product. Sounds confusing right? Didn’t I just finish a writing class about the process and not the product? It’s like acting, as described by the teacher. The best acting is acting without making it a conscious effort. Writing with process in mind is being aware of the tools without product in mind, and being consistent to a schedule of writing. When I do this then my writing will lead to a product.

The relationship of my chapbook to my blog is I need to pay attention to what I’m bringing to the writing of the blog. What I’m sharing with you are the truth of my stories, how skillful I am to write from a deep voice and some basic grammar tools. I remind myself to take care of the basics and then I’ll have something of worth to share with you.

“I Am A Poet”

playwriting

By Analyn Revilla

A glance into her eyes made me avert mine away. She’s acted crazy before.   She began, “I had a conversation here yesterday with three women. There were four generations, about ten years apart. I think I was the oldest. I’m 84.” I listened. Her charcoal rimmed eyes were droopy and her lips were red matching her manicured feet. I sat naked on my towel and she sat in a full bathing suit across from me in the dry sauna. She was away for two and a half months because she fell. Her body though thin and maybe brittle looked supple and strong for her age. Our flip flops dried on the wooden floor, we dripped chlorine and salt through our pores.

“I’m at an age when I fall a lot. You see, I move like a teenager.” After a pause, she spoke slowly and deliberately. “Well, my family took my car away, and it’s the worst – the worst thing anyone can do to me.” I was transported back to being fourteen, and living in Edmonton. Determined to get my driver’s license, I snuck out the Toyota Celica all over the flat city. It was the only way to get out. I knew how she felt. “It’s like taking your freedom away” I said. “Exactly,” she said. And because I understood her, she was compelled to expose herself to me. “I’m bipolar”. I could’ve told her, “I’m alcoholic”, and let her make up her mind. I didn’t know the medical implications of being bipolar, though I’ve heard people use the word a lot. She takes 5 different pills daily. But sometimes she forgets to take them. I finally understood why she acted crazy in the past.

“It bothers me that doctors can’t figure out what’s wrong with me. I’m not an idiot. I’ve written books that were published”. She looked down at her body between the mental lines as though picking the exact words to convey her truth. Finally she said, “I’m looking for someone to drive me around. I’d pay of course, and generously. I just need someone two days a week so I can do my banking and errands. Do you know anybody who might be interested?” I ride a motorcycle. “I’d offer to drive you but I don’t have a car. I can ask around” I said. “Ok”, she got up to leave. “I’m Analyn. What’s your name?” She stood sideways by the opened door while the heat of the sauna escaped with her, “I am a poet” she declared then walked on.

A Pilgrim On the Edge

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by Analyn Revilla

The seed I planted in my mind before leaving LA was to experience the open road to rediscover my edge.  I felt I had lost it during the past few years in trying to survive living in a big city.  I’m no longer surprised, but happily accept, when events endorse my faith that the universe will give you what you ask for though I may not know when or how it will manifest.

Homeward bound along the I395 we spent our last night of our vacation in Lone Pine, CA.  The magnificent Mount Whitney, at 14,505 feet, is a beautiful backdrop to a “small town with lots of charm”.  This town has grown to become a mecca for travelers, hikers and tourists since the Mt. Whitney trail was completed in 1904.  I discover that I came here as a pilgrim.  There was time when I looked at a mountain and I would imagine the traverse up, studying the contours and ridges to determine a way up to the top.  When we passed through Lone Pine two weeks ago, I described to Bruno my feeling of loss – why wasn’t I surveying a trail to climb up?  What a strange feeling to be aware of the loss, and then accepting the loss.

I haven’t hiked very much since I moved out here.  My excuse was the heat and dryness of the mountain ranges in SoCal which I was not accustomed to, compared to British Columbia, where the forest and meadows are lush and the flowing creeks spray cool mountain waters.  I had allowed this joy for the wilderness wither away as I embedded myself into the living of a desert city, yet a mosaic of cultures.  The tiles of faces, languages and smells from the streets are both an invitation and assault on the senses.  Which one to choose?

Riding, alone with my own thoughts, and only the wind to brush my jacket and pants, and whistling in my ears, I focused on the terrain.  There’s always something to be prepared for:  debris, crossing deer or elk, open cattle, falling rock, weather pattern changes, looking to see if Bruno is still behind me, the curve coming up, state patrol, the unwrapping scenery of mountains, valleys, basins and rock formations.  This is a beautiful country.  Every turn is breathtaking.  As one local in Snohomish Valley described, ‘God couldn’t have painted a better picture’.  Certainly, people are more apt to look at the bikes with its zig-zag of bungee chords to tie down whatever we deemed as ‘necessary’ for the journey.  That too changed on a daily basis.  We made trips to the post offices every few days to send back home the  simple little treasures , souvenirs and dirty clothes we had accumulated.

The daily grind of the road didn’t wear me out, except for a fresh fatigue from the intake of conversations, scenery and preparing for the next day.  I tried to meditate on ‘the edge’.  How did ‘Stella Got Her Groove Back’? (I never saw the movie, but the title was apt for my situation.)  How will I relearn to look at a mountain and have that joyful curiousity to climb it to the peak?  It took miles and miles of riding alone and just letting things happen.  Without expectations we chewed up the miles between LA and Hayden, and back down to LA again, doing a loop that closed again at Lone Pine.  I don’t know how it happened, but it happened – not by design – but simply accepting what was present at the moment, and making choices and adjustments as needed.

The choice between forging ahead into unknown territory or staying one extra day to fix the bike; the choice to decline the offer of a shelter overnight from a stranger because of the rain and lateness of the day; the choice to accept a round of beer at the saloon from a traveler who cared to ask, ‘Where are you guys from?’.  Regardless of the choices made, I see now that there is not a right or wrong.  It’s a matter of accepting the results of the choices made.   I’ve always pondered the quote from Miles Davis:

If you hit a wrong note, it’s the next note that you play that determines if its’s good or bad.

– Miles Davis (1926 – 1991)

We rounded back to Lone Pine because we had determined we didn’t want to take the I5.  I’ve traveled along this path many times before, and I had never seen the Sierra Nevada, so it seemed to be the natural choice to make.  The first night into California we stopped at Susanville.  The motel owner welcomed us with the ‘biker special’ at $50 for a simple and clean room stocked with a fridge and a microwave.  By this time, we had learned to make nutritious and delicious meals using simple ingredients and cooking in the microwave.  I was still masturbating my brain to figure out how to get my groove back, but I was fully absorbed in fullness of traveling and the ripening of the end of a trip.  I had seen a lot of faces of the desert with its terrains and living and non-living habitats, such as the family living in Middlegate, Nevada running on a diesel generator and the beginnings of a solar energy.  Certainly these inhabitants of the desert are pushing to maintain a type of life on the edge.

Black Rock Solar is solarizing one of our country’s historic roadhouses. It’s Middlegate Station, on the loneliest road in America – Highway 50 in Nevada.

If you’ve stopped in whilst bumping around in the desert, you were probably glad for the cold drink or ice cream sandwich to wash the dust from your lips. But cold in the Nevada desert doesn’t come cheap. Off the municipal electric grid and powered 24/7 by a diesel generator, Middlegate’s future is in doubt after years of rising fuel costs.

Middlegate’s owners – Fredda and Russ Stevenson – and Black Rock Solar have secured a State Office of Energy loan and are working to secure more funding for a larger array to keep Middlegate Station viable with the power of the sun.

(http://www.blackrocksolar.org/news/2014/the-last-nevada-roadhouse-needs-your-help/)

The story above is the beginning of yet another blog I’d like to write about, as it is a story in itself.  But it watered the seed of my initial inquiry about getting the edge back.  One of the crew members, a bold and wise young woman, told me that you never really lose the edge because you always have the edge.  It didn’t dawn upon me till today that it’s like the knife that loses its sharpness.  A knife will always have an edge, but how it is used and maintained defines the kind of edge it has.  Using its metal against ceramic or breaking open a coconut shell with the wrong type of knife will chip or dull the edge.

A journey is the process of letting the inner wisdom spring forth, and giving that joyful creation the environment it needs to self-acutalize.  A journey into the desert just as prophets and gurus have practiced emptying oneself to transform was what I had been doing.  I had an intention but I didn’t have the ‘know-how’, and was left without a choice but to accept – accept what I had become, and then re-orient myself to move towards where I want to be.  There will be a re-learning to develop better habits to replace others which I have decided I need to out-grow.  Like a river that meanders around the bends and creating oxbows as it matures, there is a wholeness in both edges of a knife.  I’ve pierced sharply up a terrain and I’ve also shredded down loose scree from the top, and tumbled on my hands and knees; and bounded back up with a richer perspective.

My pilgrimage to Mount Whitney has just begun.  I left Lone Pine yesterday with a map and couple of books about ascending Mt. Whitney, along with tips from a local guide in the adventure store.  I feel the butterflies dancing in my belly and the perspiration on my palms thinking about the possibilities.  I could try to hike in the winter geared in cramp ons and ice picks.  That would be my first time, but it is a possibility that the guide described to me.  Staying on the edge has many possibilities.

 

Possibilities

On the Road Through Oregon

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by Analyn Revilla

The signs of the road is a language in itself.  After 3000 miles of tracking across Nevada, Idaho, Washington, Oregon and California I’ve decided that it’s a language which I had taken for granted.  It was riding through Oregon’s  highway 31 that I took notice of two signs which to me was an oxymoron.  When leaving a small town the speed limit changes from 25 to 45 and upwards, and during this transformation there is a pair of road signs in this order.

1.  ‘DO NOT PASS’

2.  ‘PASS WITH CARE’

There is very little distance between these posts (maybe less than a few hundred yards).  I decided to interpret the law as ‘Do not pass’, but if you’re going to break the law, well you better ‘Pass with care’. i.e.  Make sure you don’t get caught.

I tried to find more information about this and found something in the internet was from Oregon’s Department of Transportation manual that describes the technical details of how to implement this law.

2. 2B-28 DO NOT PASS (R4-1) should be installed approximately 1000 feet in advance of the taper that begins the passing lane.

Minimum Size 36” x 48”

3. 2B-30 KEEP RIGHT EXCEPT TO PASS (R4-16) should be installed where the passing lane attains full width or at the beginning of the first skip stripe.

Minimum Size 36” x 48”

4. 2B-29 PASS WITH CARE (R4-2) may be installed in the two-lane section approximately 1000 feet beyond the end of the taper (if sight distance is adequate to permit passing).

Minimum Size 24” x 30”

source http://www.oregon.gov/ODOT/HWY/TRAFFIC-ROADWAY/docs/pdf/english_chapter_3.pdf

And with that I have my  aha moment.  It is with these technicalities that we can sometimes become non-sensesical in our well-meaning intention.

I dug a little deeper and looked through the driver’s manual, and found multiple scenarios of when a driver should not pass:

No Passing

Do not cross the center line to pass when:

  • You are in a no-passing zone, which is an area that is marked for no passing by a solid yellow line in your lane. A “DO NOT PASS” sign may also be posted. Do not attempt to pass a vehicle if you cannot safely return to your lane before entering a no-passing zone.
  • Your view of oncoming traffic is blocked because you are on a hill or in a curve.
  • You are approaching an intersection, railroad crossing, or other area where your view of oncoming traffic is limited.
  • You are at or in an intersection.
  • You are at or on a railroad crossing.
  •  The vehicle ahead is stopped at a crosswalk to permit a pedestrian to cross

Well that was boring.  I just think it takes common sense.

One of the most interesting signs along the open road was on I97 which I’ve traversed for the first time yesterday.  It was the sign post for the 45th parallel.  When I lived in Salem (and was working on a project of ODOT – ironically) I would take my little Toyota Tercel on the I5 to Portland and cross the 45th parallel frequently during my jaunts to meet with friends at one of the many local breweries.

(I didn’t stop to take a picture of me at the 45th parallel, but pretend that GMC truck is my red Suzuki SV650.)

The 45th Parallel on I97 from Shiniko Junction

One thing I’ve decided on (and I kinda knew this all along, but this trip has reinforced what I’m looking for in life now), is my enjoyment of the open and friendly nature of small town folks compared to bigger towns and cities.  There’s a naïveté that comes from living in a small place where you know people by name, or at least by habit of seeing them, and extending that warm hospitality to strangers when they’re passing through your home.

Yesterday, one of the bikes had an electrical problem.  We had to stop every hour to cool down the engine while traveling along I97 into the city of Bend.  I was in Bend 20 years ago, and it was a smaller community to what it has currently grown into.  I almost wish Bruno had a chance to experience it as it was then because today it feels like another large cosmopolitan city.  The downtown core boasted nice restaurants, boutique shops and microbreweries along the river; and the city had its fair share of Subarus also.  Definitely, Bend has come into its own as a world class destination.  The State Patrol man who pulled me over for riding my bike between cars told me so.  He was nice.  He didn’t give me a ticket, but reminded me that though they practice lane sharing in Europe and California, this is not so in Oregon.  After checking into a motel we found a place to eat with good food and wine.  Despite the basic needs being met, we felt a little let down, because we missed the warmth of small town folks.  We noticed that the restaurant was rather quick to move us along.  In our minds, we thought maybe because we were tourists, and not the usual suspects who were repeat customers.

So, we spent a so-so night in Bend, and the next day decided to steer clear of bigger towns.  We got as far as La Pine (30 plus miles south on the I97) where we filled up the tanks.  I asked the gentleman who pumps the gas if he knew of a motorcycle mechanic between his town and the next big town.  He  recommended a place called Peak Performance.  We rode around a little while and asked for directions from other people, and found the garage a mile down from the main drag.  A large man with a beard was cleaning his fingernails with a knife.  ‘What can I do ya for?’ he asked.  We got off the bikes and Bruno explained that his fan wasn’t turning on and he was loosing coolant.  The big man thought glanced at me then said, ‘It’s all her fault’.  His words broke the ice and gave me relief.  After he suggested some reasons as to the root cause of the problem, he said he’ll be right back.  Within minutes he returned and told us to ride the motorcycles to the back where somebody was waiting to help us.

We talked with the mechanic who tinkered a bit, and feeling like we were in his hair, we asked if we could leave him with the bike for a couple of hours.  Sure, he said.  We told the owner our plan to stay the night in La Pine.  He recommended a a simple and clean motel.  Cool, that’s all we want.  Before going, we asked for his name.  Mark, he said.  Later, we checked into ‘The Highlander’ where we dropped off some gear and got something to eat at the nearby Harvest Hut.  In less than 2 hours we were back to check on the bike.  The mechanic, Alan, said the problem was a loose wire and showed us the spot in case it happened again.  When we asked how much for the repair, he said, ‘Well I didn’t really spend very much time on it.  $20.’  Unbelievably cheap for the quick service and fixing the problem.  We gave him $40, and he smiled such a wide grin.  ‘Where are you folks staying?’ he asked.  We gave him the answer, and he wished us well.

We all leave our impressions in this life in many forms, including sign posts.  Certainly being earth friendly is a good thing all around, but more impacting is being heart friendly.  It’s genuine goodness that does not mean to be a passing trend but a lasting legacy.

P.S.  If you like wine and you’re passing through Lakeview, Oregon towards the California border, there’s a place called ‘Stringer’s Orchard’ in New Pine Creek.  It’s a good stop before crossing into California for some wine tasting and homemade preserves.  The winemaker specializes in wine and spirits from the wild plum, and the taste is very special in a good way.

 

Stonehenge in Maryhill Washington

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by Analyn Revilla

Live from Goldendale, Washington, while listening to Hank Williams on my laptop, and my hubby is packing up the motorcycles with our gear; I’m thinking of what to share with you that will give your day a panache.  Been on the road since last Monday, over one week ago.  We started from LA and drove through California towards Nevada taking the backroads on a pair of two wheels each.  I ride a Suzuki SV650, and Bruno rides a Honda Shadow 1100.  We’re traveling with my electric guitar and a Line 6 XT with headphones, so that I can noodle at the end of the day when we pull over after a day’s ride.  Our destination was Hayden, Idaho.  It’s just a few miles north of Coeur D’Alene.  We left his buddy Jean Pierre and his family just yesterday.

What’s over here near Goldendale?  There’s a life size replica of Stonehenge in Maryhill.

Stonehenge in Washington State

This was a memorial that Sam Hill built to help us remember that war is not the answer.  Sam Hill was Quaker and was a proponent of peace.

Hill constructed two notable monuments. The replica of Stonehenge, at Maryhill, commemorates the dead of World War I, while the Peace Arch, where today’s Interstate 5 highway crosses the U.S.–Canada border, celebrates peaceful relations and the open border between the two nations – Wikepedia

We visited Stonehenge two hours ago; the replica was impressive as it sat on the edge of the Columbia River, and to the west was a view of Mount Hood.  A few yards away from Stonehenge stood a war memorial dedicated to fallen soldiers from the surrounding area.  The period spanned from WWI thru Afghanistan.  Despite the impressive site, we noted the bare flagpole stand.  We found this strange.  The flowers were dried.  The other two cars that drove to look at the monolith site did not bother to visit the war memorial.

This monument that Sam Hill created has not made the lasting impact he meant it to have.  I stood beside Bruno at the memorial to make a silent prayer.  I thought, despite his efforts to help us to remember that ravages of war and how it only tears families apart and distances cultures from one another, we still continue to carry on with our prejudices.

Traveling through backroads of Nevada and Idaho, I was a little apprehensive, because of my racial background.  I was not sure if I would encounter blatant racial prejudice.  When a dog smells the phenomes of a fearful person it makes the dog fearful too.  Don’t be afraid, I told myself.  Face your fear, and I discovered that 99% of my fear is in my head.  I have met wonderful and kind folks through this part of the country that have been labeled as red-neck country.

I ride on and open my heart, open my mind to the open road.  Take it as it comes, and face your fears.

The Last Train – A Thriller to Mine for the Heart

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by Analyn Revilla

James Svatko, the producer of the play, “The Last Train” has taken this French written play and produced its first English and North American performance at the Hollywood Fringe Festival. He found the play in Stage32 and contacted the playwright, Natacha Astuto, who lives and works in Switzerland, and they worked together on the translation. After that, it was James who completed the work with his actors and director to present the truth of this psychological thriller.

In James’ own words, “There is no one truth but a series of truths that one often has to follow to get to the truth” With that, the team has been through a major revision since after the premier of the play at Schkapf Theatre last June 5th. As any living work of art, it will continue to evolve. Starting with the writer’s initial impulse, Natacha was curious about writing a play set in an enclosed environment. Her imagination brought her to two characters, incarcerated for at least 20 years, bunked in the same cell. She layered the secrets that the men keep to themselves which are the subtexts in every word uttered and every gesture displayed. This is neatly packaged by the careful surveillance of a female guard, who controls what passes in and out of the cell. However, this situation is incited by external forces – a storm and a visit from an unknown woman with unknown motives.

When James embarked on the journey, perhaps he had a roadmap at hand, or maybe he had a sketch of where he wanted to go with it. Upon reading the story, it was clear that the play would be demanding for any actor who is chosen for any one of the four characters. Though tempted to wear the hats of the producer, the actor and the director, he chose to give up the role of the director so that he could focus on playing the lead character of Jack.

Natacha was comfortable to allow the artists to interpret the play as they imagined it. She expressed her curiosity as to how her words would be acted upon on stage, and also what an American’s perspective could be. After the first two performances at the Fringe, she and her husband Cedric arrived from Switzerland. They decided to get involved by giving the cast and crew a little push (a la Natacha, “un petit coup de pouce utile”) to help them further along in translating and rendering the performance closer to the essence of the story. A psychological story is as complex as any human being.  This story is a stew of four distinct personalities confined in a jail cell for an unbeknownst period of time, reigned upon by a freak thunderstorm that has knocked out the power and renders the doors of the cells inoperable. (It is in modern time as the cells are opened with a swipe card, and not the traditional keys.)

When I saw the premier of The Last Train on June 5th, James commented that he was just happy and relieved to get the first one out there, because of the anticipation and ‘premier’ jitters (par for the course). His main thrust in producing this play is to make an impact on people, to make them think and wonder to the point that they are drawn in, so that they have a conversation with the actors, at the end of the show, while they are still in character. This is a wonderfully creative way to evolve the story.

I told James that I wish I had not read the play before seeing the premier, because I had set myself up with expectations. I walked out of the theatre feeling, ‘huh…, so that’s how it was interpreted on stage.’ I had hoped for more, and it’s not fair to hope for more, because I had already built the story in my imagination from my first absorption. I suppose it is like the first time you make love. Subsequent experiences after the first time will be different.

So, I was enthusiastic to see the noticeable differences between the first performance and the one that had been tailored with insight and suggestions by Natacha and Cedric. The first was Robert, played by Benjamin Mitchell. In the premier he bolted like a young and unbridled colt dissipating energy; while in the second interpretation he started as smoldering embers building up to a fury. I found this was powerful, because it built up the suspense.  Benjamin commented that he had contemplated on the cue that Robert is a ticking time bomb, so he adjusted his tempo to be a slowly burning fuse.  Jack was also more defined personality in the revised version.  These adjustments help us, the audience, to perceive these psychological phases roll out, like wheels moving forward on pavement. Each revolution is the same, but different in space in time. It is Jack, but it’s not the same Jack in the previous scene.

In the first 3 scenes, the interactions between Robert and Jack, establishes that Jack is the reasonable, mature and mothering type. When the conversation tilts on being out of control, he is quick to diffuse a potential heated situation with ‘Want some tea?’ He appears as the normal one who can gauge situations, have perspective and act with reason. He shows his capacity for compassion when he appears concerned over Robert’s attempted suicide, and possibilities of him trying again with success. He bides his time with the hope of getting out on early parole for good behavior. His character could be described by someone from the parole board as a ‘well-adjusted’ individual.

James clarifies the psychological stages that the character of Jack transmutes from beginning to end, starting with the nurturing type with Robert.  Upon the arrival of the mysterious and provocative Louise (played by Victoria Hopkins), who insists to meet the men in the cell, and to conduct her interview in the cell, he changes to contemplation then suspicion. Why would she want to expose herself to two strangers incarcerated for manslaughter in a confined room? Her questions are strangely non-threatening and almost pointless: “How long have you been incarcerated?”, “What’s your schedule on a typical day?” Has she not done her homework before hand; looked at their files to know the answers to these questions? Her motive becomes apparent only after she’s alone with Jack.

The scene, before the last, reveals the true nature of Jack’s illness. As he answers her questions in the midst of the brewing storm that knocks down the power, he decides that she is not someone from the parole board evaluating his mental fitness to be released from incarceration, so he seizes the chance to incite Robert by taunting him as being paranoid. James aptly describes the last phase as the realization phase, because Jack goes into action upon recognizing Louise Dupont. “Dupont. You could have found something better”.

The movements between the phases happen quickly in a 1 hour play. It takes thought, technique and execution to convey the psychological moments in live theatre, in the absence of the omniscient narrator, and the team has done this all very well.

Just as Benjamin had made adjustments to his character then this also affects the other characters. Victoria (Louise) toned down her sexual allure between the premier and the 5th performance. I thought this was also powerful, because it complimented Robert’s slow burn. Though conscious of Robert’s sexuality and veiled threats; her target is Jack, and she needs to preserve herself for that purpose. Louise is a mother who suffers, and she needs vengeance to appease her loss like the Greek goddess Demeter who walks and searches under every rock for her daughter Persephone. Jack is not compliant, as he distances himself to assess the situation so that he can navigate the situation to his advantage.

Marianne (played by Jennifer Lewis) upped her ante in the game in the revised performance. She was more invested, and this was important, because she needs to expound that she is the figure of authority in this menagerie. Marianne oversees the two men, and has probably known them for as long as they’ve been in jail. She’s a woman in an all-male environment, and she’s proud of it, as though only she has the capacity for this work. In her mind, in her unique position, she has to prove that she is in control at all times.

I asked James if there were purposeful crossovers of elements of a Greek tragedy in this particular production. His response was only in the direct violence that plays out between Louise and Jack. I also noted hubris, because Robert is a proud man. His pride is his downfall in that he overlooks other possibilities that he is the normal one, and that he is worthy of being free again. His pride keeps him strong to accept his sentence.  He is dynamic because he struggles with his conscience, whereas  Jack does not.  He is purposeful and ruthless to achieve his goal.  C’est fait accomplit.  He is not capable of transformation.  He can only show his character’s chameleon abilities – to hide the truth and is therefore evil natured. Natacha made the point in our interview that we don’t know where evil lies, and so we can be duped by appearances.

By now, as we are near the close of the festival, and The Last Train is at the eve of its last performance the cast, the director, Justin Morosaand Natacha and Cedric are transformed by this worthy journey of bringing us this well thought out and performed work. Justin described that with each performance he wants to get closer to the truth. The Last Train IS a heart-full performance, and the team has given us the opportunity to mine deeper into the human heart. Last performance is tomorrow night at 10:15 at Schkapf Theatre.