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“The Rock of Cashel” does not refer to that cluster of buildings constructed on top of the rock: St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the Round Tower (one of the finest in Ireland), the Vicar’s Choral or the beautiful Bishop-King Cormac McCarthy’s Chapel.

No, the Rock of Cashel refers directly to the gigantic lump of limestone which rises out of the lush plains of Tipperary (the Vale) and upon which all of the ancient buildings have been sited.

early unknown artist’s rendering

I captured this image on the way up the hill toward the complex early in the morning before the gates were opened.

I wanted to get there before the tour buses arrived, and as a result of my fortitude, I had nearly 45 minutes completely alone up there, on top of that wind swept Rock, strolling the perimeter and absorbing the energies of my ancestors who had lived, ruled, and been buried there.

Cattle grazing below the rock just to the Northwest

Hore Abbey
founded by Cistercian monks in 1272 is off to the Southwest, just below the Rock

As we look east across the face of the Rock

we come to understand that the land in this heart of Munster is rich, filled with limestone and other minerals.

It is almost possible to understand why the High King of the O’Brien clan donated it to the Catholic Church. He hoped to put an end to its function as a fortification and through his gifting, curry favor enough to win the right to keep it as part of his holdings, as “manager” for the Church. The O’Brien’s, by the way, had come into possession of the Rock after Carthage (MacCarthy), King of all the Eoghanacht and ruler of Cashel in 1045, was treacherously burned alive in his bed.

The O’Briens expected the Bishops to prevent the MacCarthy’s, then the most powerful (and historians say, most benevolent; for example, they did not exact tribute) of the clans in Munster, from going to war with them and winning it back.

Their plan, however, had an ironic twist to it when Cormac McCarthy, who was both a Bishop and a King was appointed to the Cathedral. He rose swiftly to power in the early 1100’s, building his magnificent chapel during his reign.
Cormac’s Chapel

The Rock had been the seat of the High Kings of Munster for centuries. Brian Boru was crowned here in 977 and there is archaeological evidence that the Rock was used as a center for High Chieftains of Ireland as far back as the 4th century.

This is significant because of the buildings we see there now, the Round Tower is the oldest and it was not constructed until around 1100 A.D.

The Round Tower, at 28 meters high, is also the tallest building on the Rock. St. Patrick’s Cathedral, standing right next to it was not begun until 1235, 135 years later.

The South facing entrance to St. Patrick’s Cathedral

Next, we see the Cathedral’s castle style fortification, which was not added until the 14th century.

Notice how close the buildings are to one another? Literally inches away. This is because of the limited space on top of that rock–the stonemasons had to be skillful.

Inside the Cathedral, looking up

Also inside, looking up. And out!

It’s interesting to know that this Cathedral was laid out in an aisle-less cruciform, which is quite unusual.

On one wall we find the man the Cathedral was built to honor

accompanied by a couple of Bishops doing their thing.

This 16th century nave and stonework comes just around the time the Rock is attacked (1647)by English Parliamentarian troops under Murrough O’Brien, 1st Earl of Inchiquin. The English troops destroyed the structures and stole everything of value, including priceless antiquities, in their greed.

I love these carvings, with their proud animal motifs, which somehow managed to survive

As I move forward on my Pilgrimage, it seems important to visit places where the McCarthy’s lived and loved.

I began with this Rock. It is a way of getting in touch with my mother’s side of my soul.

And what a wonder Cormac MacCarthy created to feed all of our souls.

His chapel is a unique example of Romanesque architecture due to it’s twin towers on either side with their strong Germanic influence, interior and exterior arcading, barrel-vaulted roof, carved tympanum over both doorways, magnificent North doorway and chancel arch, and now, those recently discovered colorful frescos hidden for centuries(!) after having been painted over by Protestant religious reform leaders who decided they were too exuberant, and therefore sinful.

Here it is

The Chancel Arch

close up of the fresco work look closely, you can see a face in the middle
grotesques

and look at these arches. wow!

Here’s some of those carved tympanum to marvel over

and look up there!
closer….

And then we come upon the resting place of the King, the Bishop, the MacCarthy himself. Except that he’s no longer there. The tomb has been opened and his bones and ashes….No idea.

Bishop King Cormac McCarthy

“I am an offspring of the dead… My ancestors are the illustrious multitudes of the defunct, grand and innumerable. My lineage is longer than time.”
― Thomas Ligotti

And that’s one of the things you come to understand on Pilgrimage.

Blessed Be

This is Brigid, one of the earliest known images of her that I could find

Brigid is actually a very important triple Goddess, representing maiden, woman and crone.

She is the most important Goddess in ancient Irish religion and there are many stories about her and her role.

Unknown artist

stained glass by Mary Leen

We celebrate Brigid’s feast day, Imbolc, on February 1st. It is one of the four major Gaelic seasonal festivals—along with Beltane, Lughnasadh and Samhain. Imbolic is critical because it marks the welcoming of Spring.

We find Imbolc mentioned in some of the earliest surviving Irish literature and there is evidence that it has been an important festival since Paleolithic times. In fact, the inner chamber of the Mound of the Hostages on the Hill of Tara, the spiritual heart of Ireland, is aligned with the rising sun on the dates of Imbolc and Samhain.

However, the patriarchy within the Catholic Church, fearing the fertility aspect of the rituals, as well as its empowerment of women, conscripted the festival day (as with so many ancient worship days), turning it into the festival of Saint Brigid, a Christianization of the goddess. And here she is:
The Christianized Goddess,
Saint Brigid. Lovely girl.

At Imbolc, Brigid’s crosses were woven from straw and a doll-like figure of Brigid, called a Brídeóg, would be paraded from house-to-house. Brigid was said to visit one’s home at Imbolc and thus, fires were kept burning all night to light the path.

To receive her blessings, people would make a bed for Brigid and leave her food and drink, while items of clothing would be left outside for her to bless. Brigid would then be invoked to protect homes and livestock. Special feasts were had by families and entire communities, holy wells were visited due to her extraordinary healing powers and the night time was a time for practice divination.

The Mother Goddess, in her exalted state

This is all prelude to the fact that I began my pilgrimage today.

I began it with a clear intention: to visit and honor the Goddess, dip my hands into her sacred waters and then bathe my head, anointing myself.

A kind of baptism at 61, my 7 year, in the waters found eternally bubbling up from the Goddess Brigid’s well in County Kildare.

The rain ceased just before I took this photo, leaving the air smelling unimaginably sweet, fragrant with fresh flowers.

All around me was lush greenery fed by clean, pure oxygen, nourished though total silence except for the sound of birds singing and water gently bubbling. It was peaceful and powerful. I felt myself going deep within the presence of the Divine.

And then, unbidden, a gift.

As I stood up from my ablutions within the well, a feather floated down and landed beside me.
The appearance of that feather brought tears to my eyes. I felt oddly humbled, then, deeply grateful.

It is now in my hire car, where it will travel with me across Ireland throughout this pilgrimage of healing and re-finding myself.

As is the tradition, I tied my clootie, a red silk cord in this case, onto a branch and made my invocation.

A clootie is usually a piece of cloth, dipped into the waters of the well, then tied while saying a prayer of intention, onto the branches of the Whitethorn or Ash tree which is always found growing beside a healing well. However, a clootie can also be an offering of anything one feels moved to give.

I was struck by this woman’s poem.

As I moved away from the well and began my walk out of this ancient, holy space, I stopped to take this picture of the statue of beautiful Brigid, built thoughtfully over the stream which bubbles out of the ground several yards away, rather than over, or too close to, the ancient well.

It was time to leave. Yet it was so peaceful, so sweetly fragrant, that I would have like to have stayed all day. However, please remember, the rain which had so kindly stopped was making its move to return.

So I drove into Kildare village to visit the Sheela na Gig hidden underneath the tomb of Bishop Wellesley in Saint Brigid’s Cathedral.
photo taken from a small lane behind the building and outside of the walls

This is a very unusual Catholic institution. It is said to have been erected in 523 A.D., shortly after Saint Brigid’s death. According to the Church’s version, Brigid was an Abbess who lived with a small group of nuns, practicing healing arts, in a simple wooden compound.

In her honor, they constructed this massive stone Cathedral to replace the former, simpler dwelling. For many centuries after its construction, Kildare maintained a unique Irish experiment; the Abbess ruled over a double community of women and men, and the Bishop was subordinate in jurisdiction to the Abbess. This is just not the way it is usually done.

However, what is really interesting is that in Pagan times, the enclosure which the church is now situated within was known as Brigid’s Fire Temple. The walls were at that time made of Hawthorne hedges, not stone. And yes, there were fires: fires kept lit by a small group of virgins. Not Christian nuns but Priestesses dedicated to the Goddess Brigid.

Men were not allowed within the walls of that hedge enclosure ever. It was women’s Sacred Space, pure and consecrated to the Goddess. The people respected it as such. Sadly, I am not surprised that the Church tore down the hedges and put up a stone wall, then constructed a monument to the patriarchy.

The fire pit has been restored and sits next to a round tower, the second highest one in Ireland, which was ordered by the Bishop to be built there.

This creates an interesting yin/yang or yoni/lingam type of relationship and perhaps that is what was intended. We know that the early Pagan Christian brothers in Ireland were attempting to do honor to the old ways before Rome ran amuck and began ruling with its unloving reach.

It’s worth noting that there is a very phallic neolithic round tower on the Hill of Tara itself.

In any case, it is a strange juxtaposition within the Cathedral walls, this balanced male and female energy in what was once sacred female space. I am just thankful they didn’t obliterate the sacred feminine entirely.

Moving inside the church, I had to crawl down the wall onto the cold tile floor and then lay down in order to capture this image of the Sheela na Gig hidden underneath the corner of the Bishop of Wellesley’s tomb.

Many thanks, by the way, to the kind local fellow who helped the unknown eccentric white haired woman, with her physical challenges, to get back up off the ground.

Curiously, Wellesley did not have this Sheela destroyed.
This was a rather bold move by a man of the Church because the associations with Sheela na Gig’s are very much about strong female power. They are, after all, pagan carvings of Goddess mothers spreading their vulva wide apart. Here is a better preserved one in which the details are clearer.
Perhaps the Bishop understood that through paying homage to the ancient beliefs of the local people, he might increase his Church’s membership.

I then noticed that every window in the church had a Brigid’s Cross.

And one other curious thing: this carving of a skull and crossbones.
This is exceedingly rare to find inside a cathedral.

It was added, according to the little handwritten sign on the wall, “in 1708 to demonstrate that even in the midst of life we are also in death and no matter what we do….we will be held accountable.” An odd way to reference heaven and hell, I thought.

And then I sat in a pew and immersed myself for awhile in the beautiful interior of Saint Brigid’s Cathedral…

…gave my thanks and quietly left.

Pilgrimage begun. Blessed Be.

Below is very well researched and written link to more information on the Goddess and her traditions than I have been able to provide you. Happy reading.

http://www.druidry.org/library/gods-goddesses/brigid-survival-goddess

Someone you enjoy hanging out with.

I enjoyed a spirited discussion about one of the courses we’d shared together with this animated, smiling and thoughtful man who was genuinely interested in the union of advocacy and theatre I’ve been doing for so many year.

He asked me questions which weren’t just perfunctory, “what do you do” words, but wanted to know about the challenges I might have run into along the way. And he had an ease about him in the midst of some slightly more tightly wound people that drew me to him.

His wife was just as friendly, just as curious, just as easy to talk to and the three of us found ourselves gravitating toward each other during breaks for the entirety of a day, sharing opinions, insights, and many jokes.

they bring the same energy to their “formal” presentations

The next day, after reading the bios of some more of my fellows, it dawned on me who his wife was: Amal Allana, one of the keynote speakers, and a very important figure in theater in India.

When I met them over breakfast the next day, I said to Amal,
“I feel so stupid. I didn’t realize who you are.”

“Oh, I am somebody?”, she laughed.

“What I mean is, that you are giving today’s keynote. If I hadn’t read your bio last night I wouldn’t have realized that you would be speaking.”

Nissar interjected.
“But you don’t know who I am?” He had a twinkle in his eye (and in truth, I still didn’t know the extent of it).

“Why, you’re her husband.” I teased him back.

“Oh, now you have hurt my feelings. I feel very sad. I am just a husband?”

He sounded a bit more serious and I wasn’t sure if we were all teasing one another anymore. I said, with no joke in my voice,

“I’m sorry but I haven’t read your bio yet. I know from our conversations so far that you must have something to do with lighting and set design and of course, theatre. And I imagine you are very good at it because the things you have shared with me have been very thoughtful. I’m sorry if I don’t know who you are. I’m a stupid American who lives a sheltered life.”

“Nyla,” he said, “I am only teasing you. I am glad you don’t know who I am anymore than I know who you are. This means we have met, the three of us, as real people. Just ourselves. We are equals and we are friends.” He touched me reassuringly and Alana laughed.

“Oh, I like this”, she tittered, looking at her husband. “Nyla,” she continued, “you are a good person. You have an interesting mind. We will talk more later. But sadly, I now must go prepare for my talk.”

“I want to hear more about your film project, the Choices one.” Nissar said as they turned away.

And then they walked off, arm in arm, affectionate spouses who are also clearly equal partners.

I decided to put an end to my ignorance. I googled Nissar. This is what came up:

http://www.tta.co.in

The man designed and decorated set for Richard Attenborough’s Gandhi.

and this:
http://www.mumbaitheatreguide.com/dramas/interviews/21-nissar-allana-interview.asp#

and together, these two warm, pretentious free people, bring this:
http://www.thehindu.com/thehindu/mp/2005/07/21/stories/2005072101000100.htm

I will cover Amal’s talk in a future posting because it was powerful and very important.

This entry is for Nissar, who was not speaking at Oxford this time.

“So Nyla,” he said, sometime later that evening, “have you figured out what I do yet?” He laughed good naturally.

“Oh, something or other to do with theatre which has made you famous it seems.” I smiled at him. “Unless that is a different Nissar.”

He liked that and said, “Maybe it is, maybe it is.”

Amal turned to him and said, “Oh, I sometimes think it is a very different Nissar” and then she smiled impishly at me.

A “famous man” with a “famous wife” who is comfortable with himself and completely unimpressed by the trivial externals. A man who is nice.

Days and many conversations later, when he asked if he and Amal could come visit me in Oregon next year when they come to America, of course I said yes.

We had become friends, just us, as real people.

At the bus stop.
“I think everyone’s calmed down now, y’know. Since the vote. We can get on with our lives again.”

“Eh, ee don’t cum to mah work no more since that vote happened.”

“It’s all such progress though, isn’t it? We’ll benefit from it immensely.”
____

In a cafe.
“We’re off to the South of France next month to decide which village we want to live in for the rest of our lives.”

“Oh, lovely!” (looking at menu) “”I’m going to have a pudding, you see. So perhaps we could share a starch? And then we could each have our own meat.”

“Agreed.”

(Laying menu aside) “June is a dreadful month here. It’s always raining. I try to pop on over to Dublin on the weekends when I can.”

“But you’re off to Crete again soon, aren’t you?”

“Oh yes. To the same place as always. We feel quite comfortable there.”
____

Outside University Gates
1) “But I can’t decide about Balliol, Mummy. I need a tea first.”

2) “I have to wear this fucking “failed” shirt until dark. Wankers.”

3) “Are you fuckin’ mental? You know what he’s like when he’s on!”

4) (Young man racing up, eagerly)”Hey, do you know where everyone’s having lunch?”
(Two lads glancing slyly at one another) “Oh, sorry mate. We et already with Master Paine.”

_____

At the social
1) “Van Gogh is terrifyingly present in the luminescence of his vision.”

2) “The guy was a boxer–who knows if he could even play the piano.”

3) “We need to make the words delicious and chewable.”

4) “I’m studying German now. At last. In a couple of years I may just give up speaking English entirely. I’m serious.”

5) “I was thinking, it’s been at least three weeks since my publisher said he’d send on that advance.”

6) “Shopping and fucking? Sounds like a good day to me.

Di Trevis in a rare moment of stillness
and

Phoebe Zeitgeist challenging and confusing with their presentation

First, the sublime:
The masterclass with Di Trevis, legendary actor’s teacher, accompanied on piano by Dominic Muldowney, the Music Director of the Royal National Theatre. Too much to process right now but a couple of things jump to mind immediately.

She has been spending a good deal of her time in Palestine lately, working to help young people consider other options than strapping on a bomb, through her work with the Freedom Theatre of Palestine.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Freedom_Theatre

She spoke of how valuable the Freedom Theatre’s work is because they redirect angry, despairing and/or depressed people into the act of co-creation within the communities in which they find themselves trapped, often with bombs going off overhead in the evening.

“How much better is it to offer someone an opportunity to learn lighting, build sets, work on costumes, learn acting, actually manage a theatre, and through that work, find an outlet for your voice?”, she asked.

When asked her thoughts on popular theatre and the choices that play selection committees or the actual A.D. themselves make when they choose their seasons, she said,

“Well, it’s tragic. Every theatre now seems to care more about playing it safe and catering to their funders than making exciting theater. Let’s face it, usually an A.D. will say, we need two or three musicals, one or two surefire hits, and we can then slot in one “risky” production.

We show every manner of violence on stage these days without giving it a thought other than how many tickets it might sell. We show rape, we show child abuse, hell, we could probably show the rape of a child if it were done in neorealism and presented as arty. But the sad thing is that we cannot, and dare not, discuss Zionism because we’ve been told that would bring about the end of our theatre. The money will simply dry up if we make our moneyed patrons too uncomfortable. All other politics may be safe but we do not touch Zionism. And that’s bullshit.”

Her time in Palestine has had a huge impact on her sense that theatre can be a valuable tool in righting injustice if it gets off the big stage and away from expensive sets and out into the community.

“What is wrong with the priorities of theatre Boards?” she asked, rhetorically. “I mean, why on earth do they need to spend thousands of dollars on new light boards, fancy revolves, high tech sound equipment, set designs, costumes, buildings, but they expect actors to work for free to subsidize their investments? I mean, I have worked with actors who cannot afford a fucking haircut, brilliant actors who are expected to wait tables or hold down some other job just so they can perform? Theatre companies have their priorities all wrong.”

When working in the classroom, Di, emphasized that we need to get back to the basics. Define the action. Pretty Stanislavian, but with a twist of reductionism. She feels its a travesty that so many beginning or amateur actors think that weeping or becoming hyper emotional on stage is “good acting”. “That is a misunderstanding of the method. Well, actually, it’s a lack of a method, a lack of technique”.

I watched her work with one woman and it was like watching time lapse photography. She asked the woman to read the text. Just read it in place. Then, layer by layer, she had her re-do it, answering a series of questions about space, audience, message, use of pause, body and muscle action, until in less than 15 minutes, the woman delivered an excellent version of the words she had at first sort of overacted.

For myself, the work on repetition of a phrase within text was an eye opener. She called it the “Bellwether Effect” and likened it to a rule of 3, with the need to move the human heart, regardless of whether you are playing comedy or tragedy or singing a musical. Exploring the gestus within the repetitions helps to expose the most powerful delivery within a certain state of mind, whether it is comical point or dramatic.

Regarding musicals and singing text, she stated that one must consider each song like a small play of its own within the main play and stressed how important it is to follow the rules of telling the story.

She has very strong feelings against actors wearing microphones on stage, whether it’s for a musical or not.

“Everyone thinks it is so professional to mic their actors now, as though it is high art. But here’s the thing, when you mic an actor they then do not have to do the reach. The actor, deprived of doing the full reach, will never get the full emotional impact. It then steals the potential truth needing to be told from the audience. If the theatre is so huge that microphones have to be used for audiences to hear the performers you want to question what the real intention of the company is. And I would say it is to make money, lots of money, probably at the expense of their actors.”

There was considerable mention of, and work on, not being seduced by the beauty of the music when you are singing, but rather steeling oneself to remain with the importance of the lyrics. “Let the music be beautiful if it is beautiful. Your job is to sing the story truthfully”.

She said so many amateur theatre made the mistake of casting musicals for the “best” or “prettiest” voice, when in fact, often the magic occurs with the untrained voice which is unafraid to go within its guts. As an actor who sings but is not a singer, I appreciated that.

Moving ahead some hours to the second part of the day, we come to Phoebe Zeitgeist and their workshop in which the actors do not use their voices at all until they have found the “raw and naked truth at an animal level of the text they are determining to deliver”.

From Milan, Italy, the group was young and very intense. They first presented a fragment, an “immediate composition”, rather than an improvisation, which the Director feels it a dated approach. I have to say, it looked and felt like structured improvisation to me, sort of like what you might see at a comedy improv night when the cast has tuned into one another and done some advance work on punchlines, timing etc. But what do I know?
There was a lot of noise within the silence because the third character was a musician, who used drums in both traditional and non-traditional ways, cymbals, and a xylophone. Plus the actors kicked a lot of bells and cymbals around the floor as they physically assaulted one another in some kind of meditation on power and control.

Two men were dressed only in soiled underwear the entire time, except for when they each donned horses tails in an S&M struggle which ended with them making love roughly.

It reminded me so much of early Living Theatre work of the 70’s and some of my own early actor’s training workshops that I couldn’t help but laugh out loud a few times. Who knows? Maybe that was what they wanted. However, as I looked around the room at the scholars and academics in the room, they looked annoyed and several were openly smirking at the action on stage.

It all went on for a long time until we were treated to a video, which incorporated voice and lights.

Then it was the talk back. The Director read a lengthy paper in her beautiful Sicilian accented English about their process of deconstruction of expectation and a lot of other stuff. She also explained that the video was a staged version of what we had witnessed today, only each workshop performance is a research for them so no two are the same.

When it was time for questions, no one spoke. I felt bad for them because they had worked very hard out there, so I asked about the physicality within the power-and domination-leading-to-sex part of the improvisation, er “immediate composition”. “Within that construct, how do you determine who is going to be the top in any given performance?” I ended my question with.

My fellows sniggered but I was serious and besides, I wanted to give something back to them, which at least could be some sense of interest.

They spoke to one another in Italian for a few moments, taking my question very seriously, and then answered that there are subtle cues within the mood of the observers, in the musician’s accompaniment, and in the text, which they have in their minds even if they are playing unclothed, or “fully exposed” and in silence.

All in all it was a very Italian, very 70’s feeling piece and the workshop felt the same. Still, it was alive and the company has a definite voice.

As people filed out of the room leaving them standing alone up front, I approached and said, “Thank you for taking such a risk today and for sharing your work with us”. They seemed so happy to be approached and each one of them took my hand, shook it, embraced me, and we all parted feeling a little bit better about things.

Men wear jackets. The slightly rumpled tweed is still very much in favor for those who self identify as academics.

Women wear sensible, expensive looking leather shoes. A few of the younger women sport black boots and heels are occasionally seen on the younger, non-English women.

There exists a surfeit of men of all ages wearing neatly cropped beards. It seems de riguer to stroke or pull on one’s beard when one is engaged in conversation.

Vegetarian food usually means some form of pasta.

The double decker buses which run regularly are all electric hybrids and most are equipped with wi-fi.

Very few women color their hair. My white mane does not stand out like it does at home.

Likewise, very few women of any age wear make up. Clean faces shine everywhere except among the non-native English speaking women from other countries. Even then, it is artfully applied. However, curiously, nail polish seems big.

Double cooked chips are a “thing”.

There is more sugar involved in the daily English diet than I have seen in years. It starts with biscuits (which are cookies) or sweet rolls at breakfast alongside coffee or tea with multiple spoonfuls of sugar added, continues into lunch where one starch and perhaps a protein, or a whitebread sandwich, will be supplemented by a “pudding”, which is a sticky sweet cake, then afternoon tea includes a few twee little sandwiches plus a lot of cakes, custards or bicuits, and concludes with a dinner of one starch, a small portion of carrots, beans and/or beets if one is lucky, and concludes with a pudding, often a cheesecake or chocolate/caramel thing which is larger than the protein. I am desperately missing my veggies and a good salad. I try to avoid the biscuits and most puddings.

As a bit of a counterbalance to all of that sugar, most people do a good bit of walking. Though my bum has gotten weary from so much classroom sitting and I take my breaks walking in the gardens of St. Hugh’s. Strangely, very few of my fellows do the same.

There is a definite, though certainly unspoken (and perhaps even unconscious) hierarchy around here. At the very pinnacle are the German speaking professors actively teaching and publishing.

When I asked, “Why German?” I was told “Because it the language of the financial center of Europe”. And of course, since a big thread of this summer session includes Brecht and the post-dramatic community, German seems to be the ticket into the inner sanctum.

Following down the hierarchy, we come next upon the Professors currently affliated with a university. Indeed, the very first question I am invariably asked is, “What is your affiliation?  Uni or other?”.

Then, the students currently enrolled in University, and particularly those whose advisors are here as their fellows. Curiously, non-English students receive higher stratification than those who are England born.

Those of us who identify as theatre people enjoy a kind of “special” status and are accepted as intellectuals and artists who are desired in company.

Very strange to me is that the medical professionals are a bit apologetic about their status, especially if they are GP’s and not specialists.

No one admits to being a merchant of any kind and social workers are discussed as if they are an embarrassing necessity.

I have brought the word and concept of disability with me into every interaction and though I am open about my own, no one else mentions it. Not even the Professor who appears to be very much on the Autism spectrum.

One tiny success is that yesterday, finally, one of my fellows who was presenting on the topic of what should political theatre look like today actually included the words “people with disabilities” in her presentation as she discussed working toward a fuller inclusion. I felt a small frisson of success.

I have experienced repeated cognitive dissonance here, interacting with, and learning from, people who profess a commitment to “elevating the masses” and changing society while doing so from a position of total privilege and unaware of the irony.

When we discuss political action and I share my experiences Chairing two Human Rights Commissions, one Disabilities Commission, countless terms on school advisory committees or city planning committees or national policy making bodies I am always applauded for my efforts.

When I enquire or pursue what my fellows are doing, most of them discuss the books they have written or are writing, though a few do serve in political positions through their connections and money.

All self identify as radicalists or political leftists.

Cognitive dissonance from a blue collar Amerikan.

Tony Kushner with Tom Kuhn

Tony was asked by one someone in the class (who had previously admitted a preference for complete adherence to the performance text) about how he, as an author, playwright and screenwrighter, felt about that issue.

I was curious how he would respond. I had had a conversation while rehearsing Madame Arcati in Blithe Spirit a year ago about that very subject when I had raised the issue that a couple of the references, written when they were, would now be considered racist. The text in question didn’t serve any critical purpose in propelling the storyline forward nor would it’s removal in any way damage the fidelity of the story. It was simply something which was written by Noel Coward so that Madame Arcati could get another laugh and it was at the expense of people of color. Given my history working in the anti-oppression arena for so many years I stated that I would not be speaking the lines as written.

There were also a couple of lines by other characters which served the same purpose: eliciting laughter from people of means while marginalizing the Other. I thought we should edit those, too. Had the lines carried social and/or intellectual weight with an outcome of stimulating thought, I would not have argued to remove them because they would then have served a different purpose. But that was not the case. They were a couple of 40’s racist and sexist attitudes glibly tossed off by supposedly witty intellectuals (whose characters were fully well established through other means). They existed for cheap laughs.

My feeling was, and remains, that we become complicit in furthering such attitudes when we do not take pro-active measures. Cutting a couple of non-critical lines seems a fair way to up-cycle a show and make it relevant to today’s audiences. Certainly people do it all the time through costuming, set design and/or the setting of historical plays in different situations than they were written for. Sometimes to brilliant effect.

The argument I faced on behalf of keeping these particular lines in was based upon the belief, like my Oxford classroom fellow’s, that an author’s text is sacred and that it is our duty to perform a script exactly as it is written, with complete fidelity to the text. Additionally, the theatre in question feared possible legal actions due to some self appointed “Guardian of the Realm” who allegedly had a history of reporting edits of scripts back to the licensing houses and demanding action.

So I was definitely interested in how Tony, the author of the much produced Angels in America, would respond to this.

First, he laughed good naturally.

“My show has been performed hundreds of times all over the world by now, and by the way, I am truly grateful for that. However, if I worried about every edit or adaptation someone made to my text, I would never get anything else done.

You need to let go of your concern for fidelity to the text in your own work. Particularly as it becomes more popularized. And as producers, directors, performers, it is healthier to develop that same attitude.

If a change works, then it’s thrilling and exciting. I mean, look at how many variant versions there are of Hamlet, Galileo, the Greek tragedies, and on and on.

I was once invited to attend a production of Angels by a colleague. He had literally edited out nearly two hours of the text! But the thing is, it worked. For his audience and in his region of the world, it worked. It didn’t hurt the overall point of my piece, it simply re-arranged and drove to the conclusion in a different fashion.

I could see why he made the changes where and when he did. It wasn’t how I envisioned the piece when I wrote it, it was a little bit uncomfortable for me at first, but it worked. And let’s face it, Angels is a big piece. (laughing) But it worked. It was powerful and it worked and that should be our concern.”

He concluded, “A narrative should be more than a series of plot points but also about character, intention, emotion, purpose. All of it. I hope this answers the question.”

Tom Kuhn then followed up with the point that many great authors simply lifted ideas and even lines from other great authors, and certainly many great directors sometimes took some out.

I appreciated this approach to the subject. I have been involved in a few productions over the years in which text has been edited by the director merely to cut the running time, sometimes badly, sometimes with more success. The suggestion that we should feel free to edit thoughtfully for relevance of content or clarity or, and especially for, anticipated cause and effect, makes perfect sense to me.

I don’t think my classroom peer was entirely convinced but he did seem to be re-considering. And isn’t that why we do the work?

Such a voice!

Inducted into the South Australian Music Hall of Fame just two months ago, Robyn Archer’s talent makes it easy to see why. An out lesbian in a country which keeps such things mostly under wraps, she has still been invited to sing with the Sidney Philharmonic, the Nexus Opera, and in London on the West End at the Wyndham Theatre.

I had no idea who she was and sat with her at meal time, exchanging tales of the fight for marriage equality in our respective countries and worrying over how the Brexit vote might influence upcoming Australian and American elections.

Imagine my surprise when our highly promoted and lauded evening’s entertainment turned out to be my dinner buddy. She is definitely not a self promoting braggart of a theatre person, which just makes me like her even more.

Robin sang us a Cabaret program of 23 songs, including rare gems from Tuchoslky, Hollaender, Wedekind, Bizet, Kreisler, Ringelnatz, Weill, Eisler and Brecht, and even with two encores, neither her voice nor her energy seemed to wear out.

I was impressed by her abilities, a genuine Cabaret artist, not only capable of singing complex arrangements requiring a supple voice and range versatility, but able to act out and embody the characters within the stories she was telling.

Robyn was accompanied on piano by Michael Morley,

the Emeritus Director of Drama at Flinders University, who has written widely on European and German theatre, has been published by Methuen Press, and been musical director for a number of professional productions in South Australia, San Francisco, and overseas. Michael was awarded the South Australian Premier’s Award for Lifetime Achievement in the Arts in 2012.

He was a brilliant pianist, a funny sidekick who harmonized on a few musical punchlines, and really, just a very nice man. He and I walked over to the hall together before the show and on the way there, he related how much he was looking forward to hopefully getting some sleep tonight. Since this has been my quest since I’ve arrived, we commiserated, shared an ironical laugh and then wished each other sweet dreams 🙂 .

But then, the show they delivered was such high energy, entertaining, thought provoking, hilarious, and occasionally downright poignant that I forgot my fatigue and it certainly seemed that for the duration, so did he.

It was a lovely way to end a very long, cerebral overload kind of day.

Lunch with a Japanese theatre director, a German scholar of theatre and communications, an English socialist magician(!) and an Australian secondary school drama teacher. What a range of experiences and ideas! They were all fascinated by my earlier “cracker barrel” on social justice work on behalf of–and working beside– people with disabilities, especially my use of theatre techniques to help the “oppressed of the oppressed” (as Hans called those of us with disabilities and to which I agree) find and then use our voices to demand change in social and political policies.

I had no idea that what I’ve been doing for nearly twenty years was considered so “revolutionary” in other countries.. Just proves what a sad state the world is really in for those of us who experience disability in our daily lives. Augusto Boal’s Theatre of the Oppressed didn’t recognize nor sufficiently incorporate disability when it sought to mobilize the marginalized. Social class, race and gender were the primary targets. I’m here shedding light on the genuine intersectionality of disability and why that matters.

Advocating to bring the needs of PWD beneath its branches

I found myself discussing the hierarchy of disability, which many may deny but which I have certainly felt, seen and worked against and the dirty truth that within disability cultures, people with intellectual disabilities are generally perceived as at the bottom.

Having spent my time in special education, I experienced that first hand, and of course, spending 14 years Directing the Abuse Education and Prevention (Training) Unit for the State of Oregon exposed me to the political realities within the service system, but my real education in this had to be while serving as Chair of the Commission on Disabilities. I watched it play out by my peers with disabilities who were elected to represent the interests of their constituent groups. I remember working very hard to facilitate a different outcome, beginning with the idea that we should do some cross disability education among ourselves if we were to be effective within the general population.

As we talked of these things, it was if a light went on for the Japanese woman. She teared up and asked if she might email me later with some ideas she is just beginning to develop. Of course I said yes.

I’m grateful for the reception of my experiences and the things I have to offer and so glad not to feel like the outsider I was worried I might be.

Meanwhile, there are just so many amazing sessions to choose from every day that it is almost overwhelming, the brilliance surrounding me is incredible.

Tony Kushner, Tom Kuhl, Di Trevis and Thomas Bailey this evening in a round table discussion followed by the premiere of a dramatic fragment.

It’s all a bit awe inspiring and I’m just so happy!

The front entrance to the world’s first University museum, free to all

“My cabinet of curiosities” is how the museum’s founder, Elias Ashmole, described the original collection he donated to the University of Oxford in 1677.

And what a cabinet of curiosities it has become! Spanning three wings and towering four stories, the museum hosts huge collections of archaeological specimens side by side with fine art. It has one of the best collections of Pre-Raphaelite paintings, majolica pottery, English silver, rare coins, book engravings and geological specimens of any museum. It even had the stuffed body of the last Dodo bird ever seen but, sadly, the bird decomposed before new protocols for preservation were developed, so that now all that remains is a claw and its head.

The archaeology department includes the bequest of Arthur Evans and so has an excellent collection of Greek and Minoan pottery. The department also has an extensive collection of antiquities from Ancient Egypt and the Sudan, and the museum hosts the Griffith Institute for the advancement of Egyptology.

Since I only had a couple of free hours to explore (I could happily spend weeks inside, browsing room after room) I decided to focus on the ancients and the tactile, beginning with the marble collection of the Earl of Arundel.

First, the women:
This is Minerva, Roman goddess of wisdom and sponsor of the arts. She sprang, fully armored, from her father, Jupiter’s head. That’s an unknown Roman lad and lady in attendance.

This piece is known as “The Wounded Amazon”.
Missing all of those limbs and her poor head, she is definitely wounded. I love the draping of her gown.

Here we have “the headless muse”, thought to be Clio, the proclaimer of great deeds, Zeus’s historian daughter.

The foot, the foot! And her posture…

“Some say the Muses are nine: how careless!
Look, there’s Sappho too, from Lesbos, the tenth.” Plato

And look again! It’s the colossal head of Athena, the Greek version of fair Minerva. Athena, the Goddess of wisdom, courage, truth and justice.

What would a dash through antiquities be without a Sphinx?
AD 50-200

And as a theatre person, how could I not include this 1st century BC Greek tragedy mask?

Moving to Minoan Crete, we have two very important Snake Goddesses. AE 1106
It is thought by some that they represent the Paleolithic tradition of honoring women, particularly the domesticity they shepherded so successfully.

We’ll end this brief collection of female figures with this disturbing Egyptian frieze carved in high relief.

It depicts Leda, wife of King Tyndaeus of Sparta, being raped by Zeus in the form of a swan. We’ve all heard that story.
It’s part of the normalization of rape culture, right? In any case, the two nymphs on her sides are holding eggs which symbolize the conception of her children, Helen of Troy, Clytemnestra, Castor and Pollux.

It seems fitting after this that we move along to the Boys:

Old Jupiter himself

Hercules, fighting the Nemean Lion. Off to the left you can see the missing upper body of the nymph, Nymea, who holds an oak wreath for the winner. Do we think it was the lion?

And here, gentle Eros, sleeping. His torch is down, however, which is not a good sign. It signifies death.

This next piece is pretty dramatic. We see the Trojan priest, Laocoon, and his sons fighting flesh eating snakes. No wonder so many people have Ophidiophobia (fear of snakes).

Pliny the Elder says this sculpture was made by three Rhodian sculptors: Hageandros, Athenodourous and Polypros, who were commissioned to create a warning. It is believed Laocoon had sex in the temple of Apollo- a big no no.

And here we find Apollo himself

the God of Learning, Truth and Music. He’s beautiful, isn’t he? He is. And look at that quiver for his arrows! So very Greek (even though this statue is Roman)

Speaking of phallic centric art? Get a look at this gentleman.

His name is Min.

Min is a Pre-dynastic Egyptian God, from 3300 BC, Temple of Koptos. This boy is huge. All that’s left of the penis he is holding is a stub but you get the idea. He is, of course, the God of Reproduction. Great feasts and orgiastic rites were held in his honor so that he could spread his semen around. People were worried about their harvests….

So, let’s end our little trek through the wonders of stone with this fabulous crocodile God, Sobek, who also cared about harvests. He is the chief God of the Fayum and his sculpture was taken from “The Labyrinth Pyramid” at Hawara.

Sobek is known as a “fluid” God. He is also Apotropaic, which means he keeps evil away. He protects the people, the Pharaohs, the Nile’s fertility, all of it.

I leave him to protect you, dear reader, and me, as we go about our lives. May your days and nights remain as fertile as you wish them to be, in whatever form that fertility may take.

Blessed Be.