The American Experience continues…
Sometimes, even here in the very sensible midwest …
… things get mixed up.
Barbed wire, roses, poison ivy, all share orderly fence posts,
sensibly convoluted.
Anarchy … the soul of one, just one … twists, for want of other choices …
… on structure meant for broader devisings, other purposes, different borders, other times.
Romance, or the triumph of absurdity, it is February. Valentine’s Day is approaching, and the Temporary Museum of Enfant Terrible Culture attempts a small play. Something started considering twinned tyrannies.
Conflict, plays should have some conflict. Conflict moves the plot along and develops the characters, but the various writers, directors, actors, etc. here in the tent are conflicted. Surely this isn’t “theatrical” conflict, even if it is very dramatic. It is the response to decisions.
It seems The Deciders, exerting purloined powers, have squashed various scripts and sets; but have provided only expectations. Inept expectations suggested certain types- action (more filmic than stage) – delightful love (more greeting card than dialogue) – or triumphalist historical dancing (certain skill limitations). As a consequence the above heavily-edited script and set are all we have. Perhaps as we move to Valentines Day we can produce more, but it is okay if you peruse the above and add your own thoughts.
We would like you to know that this single petal of a rose, still vibrant and alive, may be all you get this week.
Dressing For The Winter Dance Herb Eaton
My Friends,
aren’t we awaiting The Winter Dance,
the enchantment of an attending beauty
accompanying our follies and awkward gyrations
up marvelous stairs, isolated
from the cold?
My Friends,
isn’t it possible, beyond the
frivolity of summer’s silky, sultry, streaming
green jungle beats,
that we shall acquire a less supple outer garment
to humbly clothe
our beauty?
My Friends,
aren’t we all a bit distorted, maybe nervous and convoluted,
doing a graceless dance
while arranging our new
dull and wrinkled layers?
My Friends,
won’t it be nice, The Dance Hall,
as our crinkling outer wraps are shed,
lead by an honor guard past our
pretty and petty pride,
thankful to be a living corsage
to serve Beauty.
My Friends,
isn’t it best to joyfully dance
until the tune ends?
Anachronistic Anarchist by Herb Eaton 