Midwinter, darkness and dying. Drama and Ritual. Preparing for Rebirth.

Midwinter.  What a time.  The darkest, shortest days, the damp, the cold, the mists.  We huddle into ourselves and each other if we are lucky enough to have anyone to huddle into.  Hands firmly in pockets and head bowed against the harshness of nature at it's bitterest, we trudge and grumble our way through, battling the urge to sleep.  Just to sleep; sleep through it all, and wake up when it is over.

And then some bugger invented Christmas.

Now we must shop, spend, listen to wailing dirges, give money we haven't got to bleeding heart charities, attend endless parties and reunions, dig out address books, deck our living rooms with bright colours and sparkly lights, and then spend more money.

Why?

Despite myself, I enjoy Christmas.  I try not to.  like Ebenezer Scrooge, I spent much of the run up to the season of good will resenting the compulsion to 'be jolly', but then at the last minute get into the spirit of it.  On the day it is magical.  We can create something special, out of the wasteland of winter.  We can tap into something that is of the common spirit, something that connects us with our forebearers and our global family.  A toast at a christmas table is shared throughout many countries and generations.  Cultures that superficially have different religious beliefs often have a festival at this time of year, Chrismas, Solstice, Diwali, Eid. 

I find winter very depressing.  I feel oppressed by the absence of light.  The reminder that space is very cold, very dark, and ultimately, without light, that is all there is, a vast, cold, dark emptiness.  The absence of light is the absence of life.  A dreadful concept to the living.

After the shortest day, the light begins to return.  In pre-biblical times, in pagan culture, this was the point of the celebration.  In Christian culture it is the celebration of the promise of life through the symbolic birth of Jesus.  Diwali is the "Festival of Light".

When I prepare for Christmas, I prepare for the second half of winter.  Materialism and greed I see as modern day hoarding.  We need to ensure we have plenty in store to get through the dark winter months.  The glitter and noise keep us awake, lift our spirits just enough to enable us to engage in this final period of harvesting, sharing and storing.   My complaint about Christmas is that it is too one sided.  It overemphasises the celebration of life and plenty, but it is cowardly and false.  It ignores the necessary prerequisites of death and decay, and as a result we become unbalanced, clinging to shreds of life desperately, screwing our eyes shut against the inevitability, and the necessity, of death.  But we don't have to look far behind the veneer of glitter and noise to see the other meaning of this time of year.  It is plainly there.  It is in the piles of damp rotting leaves that fell from the trees in October.  It is in the corpses of half eaten birds that have been hunted by bored domestic cats.  It is in the newsflashes describing shock, pointless town centre murders.  It is in the homes of those of us who don't have a family to share a toast with, and those who wish that they didn't have a family, so that they could end their unhappy days in as dignified, dramatic, or painless way as they can work out.

The reason is still this:  life continues.  The cycle of life carries on, with or without you or me. And it will do, for quite a long time yet.  Life is bigger than me.  I don't have to be here.  I experience life, it gives itself to me, but it was there before me and will be there long after I am gone.  I can celebrate this fact or curse it.  In fact I do both with equal conviction.

Anyway, what has this to do with drama?  (Need that question be asked?)

All of these thoughts have come about partly because I'm a bit of an existentialist.  Also in reflecting the course of Konnektiv.  In this time of year everything stops.  I took the decision, for the first time, to cancel two weeks of rehearsals.  To cancel a planned performance.  These decisions were largely forged due to the fact that people are unavailable during this time of year.  The two battling forces of midwinter depression and the ritualised celebration and socialisations of Christmas, prevent any other meaningful activities from taking place.  This is a really big thing.  To let go.  To let something die.  To stand back and have faith that as the light returns, life will also return, and once again flourish.  Rebirth only follows death, it doesn't follow partial death or near death.

Without having planned it, we have been rehearsing "Urashima", the story of grief, loss and death, at this very time of year.  I find myself examining my own relationship with these things, how I experience grief, loss and death.  The rituals we have around loss and death, including the Solstice and the funeral rite, afford us a container to experience our responses, and a common language to describe our experiences.

I think about the rest of the group; the happy, fun filled rehearsals of summer and spring have changed.  We still laugh, but it is harsher.  There is a quiet hesitation.  A withdrawal.  Is it me?  Do others experience it?  I don't know how the rest of the group feel.  Is it the venue?  Is it the play?  Is it winter?  As we rehearsed Urashima last week, I experienced the group as being quieter than usual.  People sinking into their own worlds. A bit distracted.  I felt some anxiety.  Are we losing it?  What is happening?  I need to let go.  I need to let it lie, and then see if the ground is fertile enough for a rebirthing in the spring.

In the warm up session we created another sea of creatures.  We did this to look at ways that we could embody the creatures of the deep, in order to inform our physical representation of the undersea world, on the stage.  On reflection we also examined symbols of death and rebirth - immersion and creation.  Sometimes as pebbles, sometimes as anemone, as whales, eels, starfish and crabs, the group developed and shared their physical beings.  As these creatures, many of the group found it very difficult to move.  Often the positions ended up physically painful to hold, and yet when I suggested people change their position or their movement to something more comfortable, this was sometimes not done, or not to any great degree.  Some members found it easier than others to negotiate this drama.

I'm still, a week later, trying to work out what processes are occuring.  I can only speak for myself, and my own experience.  I feel that it is important to gain some reflections from group members, so maybe they will comment on this post - if they manage to read it all - it's a bit long and convoluted.

Oh yes - here are some pics:

As whales, heavy, heaving heavy bodies, with difficulty, accross the ocean floor.

The crabs became easier when the group left the notion that creatures can be suggested without having to become the crab.  A scuttle along the floor, on the knees, which soon became painful, was much easier when standing, and this was also more visually interesting to the spectator.

As pebbles, the group clumped together, moving in unison with the currents of the sea.

As eels, the group allowed the currents to flow around them, swaying in unison, and diving for cover in unison when a predator was spotted.

As salmon, the group moved effortlessly and easily.  The salmon was relaxed, going with the flow, enjoying the freedom of  moving in the vast water.

Mondays session was full as always.  I wonder sometimes if I pack too much in.  The fact that we are now rehearsing the third play, despite the fact that we thought we would be taking it easy for a bit, means that we are still fitting in rehearsal time so experimental time is very limited.

However, once we have done this last story, then the trilogy is complete and only need to be rehearsed briefly before performances.  We will soon be back to the nice lazy experimental physical sessions we used to love so much.

We have a list of performances lined up.  doing all three stories is a pain because we need everyone to be available.  Sometimes we will only do one and that is much easier.

Professionally, with each performance, we will become more polished and make improvements.  As confidence increases I hope that we will become bolder, larger, louder.  The stories are sophisticated, but not really subtle.  Characters are stylised, cartoon like.  Symbolism is very archetypal.

Urashima
I have taken on the role of narrator, through necessity as there is no-one else that knows it well enough/can learn the lines by the beginning of January.

I love this role.  Narrators are such fun to play.  Unfortunately the dual role of narrator/director means that once again I feel too much of a dominant role in the group for my own comfort.  I have a sense of urgency, because of the impending performance that means I feel a need to drive the pace forwards, keep people going.  Part of me longs to get back to the quiet, easy pace of the experimental sessions of old.  The play.  But another part just wants to do plays, this part is now my dominant part.  This part is driven and driving.  It doesn't really care about how people feel about how things are.  It just wants people to be in a particular place at a particular time, doing the thing that it wants in the way it wants it done.  It is happy for people to contribute, but is militant about what contributions are acceptable/unacceptable to fit in with the final vision.

This is not me facilitating, training, enabling.  This is me dominating, leading, creating.  It is a drive that I knew I had, but hadn't previously actually realised.  I used to think that as a therapist I didn't want to be a frustrated practitioner.  Now it's all about the drama.  I could cheerfully hang up my therapist hat and just do drama.  In my way.  In fact, this year, in the 1 year and 1 month since I graduated, that is what I have done.

I've stopped being a therapist and started being a practitioner.  I had a weird experience doing a pre-visualisation relaxation session, when I suddenly felt clumsy.  Like I couldn't do it.  A fraud.  Of course giggling teenagers don't help these moments of confidence loss.

I've been out of the loop.  On the positive side, when I get back into 'doing therapy' (eventually), I will probably find a new therapist hat that fits better.  If I could afford to keep doing supervision I would, because more than anything that would enable me to get back into the therapist role.  But really, Konnektiv group isn't about me being a therapist anyway.  It's about me being a practitioner.  Me absorbing myself into the drama and finding my dramatic self.  If others want to join me on the journey, then great for us all.  If not, I will be a bit lonely.



My own feelings about relaxation sessions I have attended.  Like performances, they can embarrass.  When is a relaxation session embarrassing?  Fear exposure and ridicule.

Things that could affect a relaxation session
1.  Lack of clarity in the facilitator
2.  Lack of conviction in the facilitator
3.  State of mind/emotional state of the group
4.  State of mind/emotional state of individuals within the group.
5.  Relationships between the facilitator and individuals within the group
6.  State of mind/emotional state of the facilitator

There are probably more.

Working with a large group.

I used to know someone who said that working with a large group is exactly the same as working in a small group.  At the time I disagreed with this.  Now I totally disagree.  I need to adapt my group excersises so that when the group is large, they don't go on forever.  I may take a leaf out of the dvt book, because I think part of the problem is the fact that we have to do everything with everyone, if the group is creating, devising, adapting as a group, rather than as a set of individuals, we can maybe use the size better, and also tap into that all important thing 'complicite', also 'co-operation', 'focus' - in group drama the focus needs to be both sharp and broad, as the actor is focussed on their own role and also the role of the group as a whole.  Being and percieving, acting and interacting.  Individual and group.

Monsters

What do our minds conjour up when we hear the word "monsters?"
I used this word in Mondays session, dividing the group into two, and instructing them that half were monsters from outer space, and half were monsters from the deep.
Themes flowed strongly, physically and psychologically:

1950's B movie
Gutteral noises
Characteristic movements
Simple desires
Need for safety
Suspicion of difference
Organisation vs chaos
Exploration vs defence

How would the session have panned out differently if I had used the term "creatures"?  or "inhabitants"? 
There was a sympathetic treatment by the group of the "monsters", the "home" monster", and the defence/aggression towards the "foreign" monster came after attempts at communication and understanding were frustrated.

Being denied the opportunity to communicate in English, group members became very expressive in their vocal and physical expression.  This may also explain the simplicity in their presentation, and they found the themes that they could communicate were very restricted.

Verbal language gives a lot of flexiblity and subtlety, and opportunity for rich and varied expression.  At the same time we sometimes use language to dissociate from our physiology.  Verbal language can be used to rationalise, distract, confuse, lie and bore. 

Body language, which can include non verbal sounds, does not rationalise, it communicates by experience, we have to actually 'feel something' to convey it.  We might think that the body cannot lie.  Politicians use clever body language lies, but we soon become accustomed to the stock presentations of the Blairs and the Camerons, the outstretched hand, the hand in the pocket, the steady gaze at the camera; and we see through these lies.  The range of physical utterances is very limited, and they does not reach us the way authentic communications reach us.  We wouldn't be so forgiving to an actor as we are to a politician.  If an actor was only able to speak with steady firm gaze, one hand outstretched and one in the pocket, we would never forgive them.  They would be sacked on the spot.  The actor must find, on some level, a truth in their physical utterances.  The truth must be personal.

Self awareness, emotional aliveness and confident communication are necessary requisites and unavoidable outcomes of the rawness of discovering these personal truths and putting them into action before a spectator.

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We also did some "slapstick" training.  Funny walks, bumping into each other, stumbling, falling, reacting to each other, before and after the collision.

Safety
How hard can we bump without hurting ourselves and each other?
What are the least painful parts of the body with which to collide with other actors/objects (such as the floor)
How do we speed these movements up, so that they look natural and real, whilst still maintaining safety for the actors?

Exaggeration is humorous.  It is a childlike, basic form of humour.  Also stretching out the suspense - taking a while to sway and totter before falling - this exaggerates the feeling of impending doom - the knowledge of our impending doom - flailing arms, wide eyes and gaping mouths, high levels of indignation - impotent rage is very funny.  It expresses high levels of anger but is safe.  Like a bear in a cage.

A root of sadism?  We seek our own anger in others, but render it impotent so that we can see it's full glory without being endangered by it. We may poke and prod, but we need to know that the bear cannot bite, so we put it into a cage.  It's roars of rage, fear and pain are thrilling and fascinating.  Safely the other side of the cage, a sadism holds a pointed stick.  We feel for that time that we can control rage, fear and pain.  We will not be victimised by them.  We are the master of them.

In drama, we pretend in one go to be the sadist, the bear, the victim and the master.  We pretend to victimise ourselves and each other - in pretend pain we gain pretend mastery, and as spectator, we are the pretend sadist, laughing a a pain that we know is not real.

Thus one of the roles of humour, that most accessible and enjoyable form of entertainment, is to enable us to engage with and acknowledge the darkest side of our nature.

Storm after the Storm (Nothing to to with Good Thunder)

This play was performed as part of a fundraising quiz night involving other Stafford community groups.

Thanks to All those who helped:


Joint fundraising Group - including - Stafford and District Voluntary Services; Wolverhamption & Stafford RSPCA; Child of mine
Chris Dickins (Gurusoul) cool music and sound production.
Haling Dene Centre - Venue (apologies re: the carpet)
Universal Social Club, Doxey - for the extremely reasonably priced rehearsal space
Rising Brook Fire Station - for the use of the community room and friendly wardens
Sara's mum and dad - the fantastic Black Box, helping with Sara's many lines and fabulous colourful costume.
Actors - Billie, Damon, Gabi, Georgina, Jamie, Merv, Raven & Sara - not just a great first performance of this play, but coming to loads of extra rehearsals, learning brave new skills, pushing the boundaries, testing yourselves, experimenting, helping with costumes, makeup, transport and bringing people along to the show.
Audience - For coming, clapping, answering the seemingly endless list of questions, laughing, having a good time and giving us your money.  Thank you very much!


Now a word on my favourite topic - emotions:

After a performance can be a very fragile time, emotionally.  Even if a performance goes well, which, I am pleased to say the Badger Kettle did.  I'm not sure how people who actually work creatively in theatre on a full time basis do it.  Maybe it becomes just like a job, and a bit boring after a while.


For me who bumbles along with my group of intrepid friends through ideas and improvisations with nothing but a whisp of an idea about what I am doing, and who creates without knowing that the object of my creation will be enjoyable to others, who takes huge risks, and then asks others to do the same (by engaging in creative activity, or by coming along to witness the results of months of creative work), the time after a performance can be tumultuous.  Emotions take unexpected twists and turns, I feel exposed and vulnerable.  Not that these emotions are not there at other times - they certainly are, they are not created through a performance, and the life events that become twisted with sometimes confused, confusing, perplexing tortured, feelings, are already happening and will continue to happen.


This might be a time of assimilation, or resolution of emotion, or it might be a stirring, an agitation and an explosion of emotion.  But emotion it is.  And raw.


Emotion is the stuff of life - it is where we get our energy from.  The whole spectrum.  I don't do negative emotion.  All emotion is positive, the love, the anger, the joy, the hope, the fear.  I'm not sure about guilt, but yes, maybe that is positive to.  I try to be guided by my emotions, when life allows.  I feed on them.  At times in my life the confused, clashing times when multiple emotions race around grinding and stopping me in my tracks, these are the times when I feel I may be experiencing mental illness.  I may call sadness gripped by a dark and angry guilt, depression, I may call fear strangled by entangled love and rage, anxiety.  Then I have to stop.  Let things settle.  Experience the intensity of what I call pain.  Immerse myself with gratitude in whatever moments of comfort I can get from friends and family.  And remind myself that it will pass.  And try to avoid catastrophising.  And try not to lash out at people close to me like a wounded dog with my back to the wall.  And try to carry on doing the things that I need to do to keep life going on a practical, day to day basis.


So, the blog is a week overdue.

Here are some pics

The narrator, harlequin, jester, storyteller, separate and yet fully involved with the story.  Her job is to magnify the action, seduce the audience, to know and love all of the characters, and to set the scene for the play.

The three novices show three different ways that we may respond to prejudice and fear.  We may want to capture or kill the objec of fear.  Or we may wish to sanitise - this can include rationalisation, 'cleaning' or 'curing'.  Alternatively, we may become overwhelmed by our fear and hide away, refusing to look at or make contact with the feared object.

Stylised movements, simultaneously slow and fast, some sudden and unexpected, different tensions, worlds collide in this story that broke all of the rules we made when we devised our method.

Relationships, motivations actions, interactions and reactions are all of utmost importance.  Every movement is choreographed according to the personality of the character, with each of these aspects in mind

The chase scene is fast and dangerous (literally, the cast have to be careful not to injure themselves, and part of the training is in how to do things such as fall, convincingly, at speed, and without hurting themselves).

 

The mysterious market seller.  Where did the wonderful kettle badger come from?  Where did the market seller come from?  Did the market seller know about the badger?  So many questions, we can never know all of the answers. 

Living beings of this physical world are of no concern to the priest, who lives in very satisfactory comfort, with three students (novices), who as well as learning the scripture, help out around the house.  Demons are much more terrifying.  They cannot be controlled, imprisoned, manipulated, bribed.  They are out of control, unpredictable and unknown.

The three novices learn fear and manipulation from their master, living also in fear of him, their fear enables them to be manipulated - but they also manage to rebel, though in an underhand way  that will ultimately fail to release them from the chains of their externally imposed morality - The priest is an authoritarian, pious man, who it seems teaches ignorance, greed, superstition and fear, along with the 'holy scripture'

Through mirroring the actions of the characters, the narrator becomes intimately involved with them.  She shows empathy and absorption in the story, encouraging the audience to respond in the same way.

The tinker teaches us to take life as it comes, to recieve each new experience with openness, if in doubt to offer trust and friendship, to listen to the stories of strangers, and, according to the story, loving companionship and good fortune may follow.

In this dreamlike dance sequence, the badger and the tinker become acquainted with each other.  Their mutual trust and openness leads to opportunity and good fortune

We managed a proper bow at the end of this play, having learned from the last rather chaotic ending in which the cast didn't have a clue what to do and kind of wandered off stage in a confused manner when the audience started applauding.