9:00am - roll out of bed and shower
9:50am - leave for Prof. Aksenova's apartment for breakfast/chat 'n' chew
11:30am - walk to MXAT
12:10pm - view Little Vera
2:20pm - lecture with Anatoly Meronovich re: The Master and Margarita
3:30pm - research in MXT museum (Gordon Craig materials)
5:00pm - dinner at new "Japanese" place across from MXT (not going back)
5:45pm - wander Moscow a bit
7:00pm - Three Sisters at the "Little Theatre Near Stanislavski's House" (or something like that)
9:15pm - return home
9:45pm - begin e-mails, deal with sublet issues, and other things (blog)
Midnight - beddy-bye.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
The Art of the Ho-Hum
I don't think I'm a Kama Ginkas fan. It's not that I don't appreciate what he does onstage, but what he does onstage is so very literary, and watching a play where it is all "in the language" when you don't know the language is a problem.
Tonight the The Amazing ART D'turg 4 (I'm going to start experimenting with names for our gang of 4 - or perhaps just that? "The Gang of Four?") went to see Ginkas's MEDEA at МТЮЗ. Not a bad night at the theater ... but not great.
Medea, as I viewed the production, was reduced to domestic drama. Children are mere playthings in the divorce of two people who were once in love. In many productions, the reveal Medea and Jason's children -- murdered by their mother -- is a dramatic one. Blood! Red lighting! Costume Changes! Something dramatic and striking.
For Ginkas ... eh. Medea took her two babes -- two very plastic dolls -- and slit their throats. No blood spewing everywhere; no wailing and lamentation; no sound. Amidst this quiet, the "corpses" are put in plastic bins, very neatly, and drowned. It was striking, but not visceral. Had I understood the text before hand I might think differently, but I couldn't. What I saw were two plastic pawns - representing children - unemotionally disposed of.
Jason's response? He sighed, leaned on a wall, and then washed his hands of it all after his wife "flew away."
And, oh boy, did she fly. Not to get too literal, Ginkas got literal. Medea put on a shiny gold aerial costume and floated away into the stratosphere. But that is where it go interesting (for me).
You see, in the Euripides's Medea she is "borne aloft, away from Corinth" at the play's end (in versions of the myth that I've read, she is taken away in a chariot pulled by dragons which were a gift to her from her grandfather, Helios). So here she was, at МТЮЗ, borne aloft.
But before Ginkas's Medea flies away, she puts on a gold costume - which makes me think Ginkas twisted the story (I should note that up until this point what Ginkas had presented was already heavily adapted). Perhaps Medea, maybe, killed herself?
What was actually spoken may contradict this; but, who knows. (Oh wait, the Russians do, that's who.)
You see, in Euripides Medea gives Jason a wedding gift - a cursed golden gown and tiara that, when worn by Jason's bride-to-be, bursts into flames and consumes both the girl and her father (when the father tries to rescure her he sticks to the gown. As he tries to pull away from her, he rips the flesh from his bones, which then catch fire).
Not a pleasant way to die, but a very memorable one. So, I was looking for that golden outfit onstage. The only one that appeared was the aerialist outfit Medea dons to fly away. Which leads me to think that, maybe, Medea - after killing her own children - kills herself? A murder-suicide where Medea uses the spell-bound gown to off herself?
Enhancing this theory of mine is the shape of the costume - a bird; or, a phoenix. The phoenix will burst into flames, self-immolating itself, and then emerge from its ashes. Medea, in the Euripides, does emerge from her ashes -- she flies away from the ruin of her Corinthian life; but, perhaps for Ginkas wanted to paint this metaphor more clearly?
And perhaps this clear-painting is an act of suicide? I mean, the suit could have been any color of the rainbow -- why gold?
At any rate, there were really interesting choices that Ginkas made; but, I can only rely on my powers of perception to decipher them -- and they are powers limited by language.
Ah well. 2 more weeks of this ... and then, no more Russia. I have to say, I look forward to hearing my mother tongue again; but I'm going to miss some of the "throw my hands up in the hair in exasperation" confusion.
So, I need to make the most of my time from here on out.
Tonight the The Amazing ART D'turg 4 (I'm going to start experimenting with names for our gang of 4 - or perhaps just that? "The Gang of Four?") went to see Ginkas's MEDEA at МТЮЗ. Not a bad night at the theater ... but not great.
Medea, as I viewed the production, was reduced to domestic drama. Children are mere playthings in the divorce of two people who were once in love. In many productions, the reveal Medea and Jason's children -- murdered by their mother -- is a dramatic one. Blood! Red lighting! Costume Changes! Something dramatic and striking.
For Ginkas ... eh. Medea took her two babes -- two very plastic dolls -- and slit their throats. No blood spewing everywhere; no wailing and lamentation; no sound. Amidst this quiet, the "corpses" are put in plastic bins, very neatly, and drowned. It was striking, but not visceral. Had I understood the text before hand I might think differently, but I couldn't. What I saw were two plastic pawns - representing children - unemotionally disposed of.
Jason's response? He sighed, leaned on a wall, and then washed his hands of it all after his wife "flew away."
And, oh boy, did she fly. Not to get too literal, Ginkas got literal. Medea put on a shiny gold aerial costume and floated away into the stratosphere. But that is where it go interesting (for me).
You see, in the Euripides's Medea she is "borne aloft, away from Corinth" at the play's end (in versions of the myth that I've read, she is taken away in a chariot pulled by dragons which were a gift to her from her grandfather, Helios). So here she was, at МТЮЗ, borne aloft.
But before Ginkas's Medea flies away, she puts on a gold costume - which makes me think Ginkas twisted the story (I should note that up until this point what Ginkas had presented was already heavily adapted). Perhaps Medea, maybe, killed herself?
What was actually spoken may contradict this; but, who knows. (Oh wait, the Russians do, that's who.)
You see, in Euripides Medea gives Jason a wedding gift - a cursed golden gown and tiara that, when worn by Jason's bride-to-be, bursts into flames and consumes both the girl and her father (when the father tries to rescure her he sticks to the gown. As he tries to pull away from her, he rips the flesh from his bones, which then catch fire).
Not a pleasant way to die, but a very memorable one. So, I was looking for that golden outfit onstage. The only one that appeared was the aerialist outfit Medea dons to fly away. Which leads me to think that, maybe, Medea - after killing her own children - kills herself? A murder-suicide where Medea uses the spell-bound gown to off herself?
Enhancing this theory of mine is the shape of the costume - a bird; or, a phoenix. The phoenix will burst into flames, self-immolating itself, and then emerge from its ashes. Medea, in the Euripides, does emerge from her ashes -- she flies away from the ruin of her Corinthian life; but, perhaps for Ginkas wanted to paint this metaphor more clearly?
And perhaps this clear-painting is an act of suicide? I mean, the suit could have been any color of the rainbow -- why gold?
At any rate, there were really interesting choices that Ginkas made; but, I can only rely on my powers of perception to decipher them -- and they are powers limited by language.
Ah well. 2 more weeks of this ... and then, no more Russia. I have to say, I look forward to hearing my mother tongue again; but I'm going to miss some of the "throw my hands up in the hair in exasperation" confusion.
So, I need to make the most of my time from here on out.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Pegatha
Tonight I saw Verdi for the first time: Macbeth. Gorgeous.
Not my first time at the opera, though. Sitting in the upper balcony of the Bolshoi, I reminisced about my first time. I was 12, I was special. Pegatha made it so.
Peggy Keller was my music teacher at Our Lady of Ransom Catholic School. Staffed by the Congregation of the Sisters of Saint Felix, OLR was a "powder-blue collar" (as I like to term it) school where shoolsisters and lay women taught us our ABCs. Miss Peggy (or "Pegatha" or "Piggy") Keller was the music teacher.
We were not nouveaux riche -- we were a step above the working class. Barely. My parents chose it because it had the most nuns, per capita, of all the Catholic schools in our area (St. Paul of the Cross; Mary, Seat of Wisdom; St. John Brebeuf; St. Isaac Jogues).
Migdalia Sanchez's father was a mail carrier. Mark Mocarski's parents were immigrants from Poland. There were many first generation kids in my class -- primarily from the Philippines and Poland -- and no one was "wealthy." Sorta'. At best, we were "upper middle class."
We didn't go to the opera for fun.
But I went to the opera at age 12 because I was "special." You see, in 7th grade you got to take a 1/2 day off of school and go to the Lyric Opera. It was a big deal. In 8th Grade you were Confirmed by the bishop; and, you graduated. In 7th ... eh. You got a special field trip. It was culture; it was a "day off;" it was one of the milestones by which we grade schoolers marked our existence.
BUT, I was a 6th grader. A select few -- OK, 2 -- 6th graders were taken with the 7th graders to see "Carmen" at The Lyric (picture it, Chicago, 1990 ...).
I slept. Not through the whole thing, but I slept. We, being a suburban Catholic school, were relegated to the upper upper balcony of the Civic Opera House. It was hot, it was dark, there was a pleasant hum of strings. Everyone, at one time or another (Ms. Keller included), dozed.
But then we awoke. The green, aged copper gate closing; Carmen's "Toreador," death. You did not sleep through those parts. You were a kid watching lust and violence at your OWN school kid's matinee!
Peggy Keller made sure I was there.
She liked me. I was attentive, musically inclined, and I love art. Ms. Keller liked me, so she gave me the chance to watch Bizet's masterpiece. It wasn't a great production, but it changed my life.
It did.
Sitting in the bronze jewel box that is the Civic (now Lyric) Opera House of Chicago, you are dazzled. Guerin's curtain, the enormous lobby, the gilt and ghoulish drama/tragedy masks that adorn the theatre... you are in a palace of the arts. It hits you like a brick. I sat there, at age 12, wowed.
Age 13 wasn't great -- a terrible production of L'elisir d'amore; or: SNORE! THE OPERA.
At any rate, at age 12 Ms. Keller invited me to be a big kid. She trusted me to comprehend, in part, the beauty being offered to me. I did, and I was grateful.
Ms. Keller died a couple of years ago. Cancer. Tonight, as I sat watching my first Verdi -- my first amongst many MANY operas since those two at the Lyric -- I thought about how lucky I was. I was a kid at a, now closed, "powder-blue collar" school and was given the chance to escape the trappings of suburbia. I took it, and ran with it - and tried to give back in whatever ways I could (when I got to high school, and had a bit of influence in the performing arts department, I made sure my alma mater - Our Lady of Ransom - was on the list of grade schools invited to the student matinees). It was never much, but it was what I could do. I knew my roots, and appreciate them.
Sitting in the Bolshoi tonight was memorable - in both the past and present tense.
Not my first time at the opera, though. Sitting in the upper balcony of the Bolshoi, I reminisced about my first time. I was 12, I was special. Pegatha made it so.
Peggy Keller was my music teacher at Our Lady of Ransom Catholic School. Staffed by the Congregation of the Sisters of Saint Felix, OLR was a "powder-blue collar" (as I like to term it) school where shoolsisters and lay women taught us our ABCs. Miss Peggy (or "Pegatha" or "Piggy") Keller was the music teacher.
We were not nouveaux riche -- we were a step above the working class. Barely. My parents chose it because it had the most nuns, per capita, of all the Catholic schools in our area (St. Paul of the Cross; Mary, Seat of Wisdom; St. John Brebeuf; St. Isaac Jogues).
Migdalia Sanchez's father was a mail carrier. Mark Mocarski's parents were immigrants from Poland. There were many first generation kids in my class -- primarily from the Philippines and Poland -- and no one was "wealthy." Sorta'. At best, we were "upper middle class."
We didn't go to the opera for fun.
But I went to the opera at age 12 because I was "special." You see, in 7th grade you got to take a 1/2 day off of school and go to the Lyric Opera. It was a big deal. In 8th Grade you were Confirmed by the bishop; and, you graduated. In 7th ... eh. You got a special field trip. It was culture; it was a "day off;" it was one of the milestones by which we grade schoolers marked our existence.
BUT, I was a 6th grader. A select few -- OK, 2 -- 6th graders were taken with the 7th graders to see "Carmen" at The Lyric (picture it, Chicago, 1990 ...).
I slept. Not through the whole thing, but I slept. We, being a suburban Catholic school, were relegated to the upper upper balcony of the Civic Opera House. It was hot, it was dark, there was a pleasant hum of strings. Everyone, at one time or another (Ms. Keller included), dozed.
But then we awoke. The green, aged copper gate closing; Carmen's "Toreador," death. You did not sleep through those parts. You were a kid watching lust and violence at your OWN school kid's matinee!
Peggy Keller made sure I was there.
She liked me. I was attentive, musically inclined, and I love art. Ms. Keller liked me, so she gave me the chance to watch Bizet's masterpiece. It wasn't a great production, but it changed my life.
It did.
Sitting in the bronze jewel box that is the Civic (now Lyric) Opera House of Chicago, you are dazzled. Guerin's curtain, the enormous lobby, the gilt and ghoulish drama/tragedy masks that adorn the theatre... you are in a palace of the arts. It hits you like a brick. I sat there, at age 12, wowed.
Age 13 wasn't great -- a terrible production of L'elisir d'amore; or: SNORE! THE OPERA.
At any rate, at age 12 Ms. Keller invited me to be a big kid. She trusted me to comprehend, in part, the beauty being offered to me. I did, and I was grateful.
Ms. Keller died a couple of years ago. Cancer. Tonight, as I sat watching my first Verdi -- my first amongst many MANY operas since those two at the Lyric -- I thought about how lucky I was. I was a kid at a, now closed, "powder-blue collar" school and was given the chance to escape the trappings of suburbia. I took it, and ran with it - and tried to give back in whatever ways I could (when I got to high school, and had a bit of influence in the performing arts department, I made sure my alma mater - Our Lady of Ransom - was on the list of grade schools invited to the student matinees). It was never much, but it was what I could do. I knew my roots, and appreciate them.
Sitting in the Bolshoi tonight was memorable - in both the past and present tense.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Betty White, Mom, and Other Things I Miss from the US
Sorry Mom, you get second bill -- the reviews I've been reading of Betty White on SNL are AMAZING! What can I say? I'm your son, and I was taught to value a good bit of bawdiness.
American TV is something I am missing. I haven't beeen an avid TV viewer for years. There are some shows I would watch religiously - like Top Chef or Project Runway, which was viewed with my queer friends in Dan, Frank & Craig's gorgeous apartment in Brooklyn, or The Daily Show and the Colbert Report. Otherwise ... I'm a take it or leave it kinda' viewer.
But TV events have always been a priority. Betty White hosting Saturday Night Live -- that would have been a priority. Golden Girls is one of my all-time favorite shows, which I watched when I was kid, and then re-discovered in constant reruns on Lifetime (every now and then me and my former roommate, Chris, would sit in our DC apartment and get drunk and pig out on snacks while watching the Girls on TV). Great writing, great actresses ... just great great great!
But I'm not in the US -- so I can't even watch the clips here. Ah well. I can read the reviews and think up my own sketches in my head -- I'm quite sure Ms. White will not disappoint when I finally return to the States and get to Hulu the whole shebang.
I guess Betty White was hosting the "Mother's Day" episode. I was reading an article on it, and it said that traditionally the Mother's Day weekend episode of SNL features a female host and predominantly female sketches -- and many SNL alum come back and make appearances. Very cool to have traditions like that, I think.
Today, though, was not Mother's Day in Russia. Nope, it was Victory Day. Classmates and I went to go watch the "parade." For the first time in its history, Americans and other NATO members would be marching in the review of troops that takes place on Red Square.
The review of troops is different from the Parade, though. The parade, down Tverskaya -- which is the main avenue of Russia -- was nothing like we know and love. There were no marching bands or even military bands. There was no music, period. There were no Shriners driving around in tiny cars or other social organizations. There were tanks. And rocket launchers. And ballistic missiles. And terribly old tour vans that contained soldiers of one form or another that tagged along at the end.
By and large, it was an inhuman parade down Tverskaya.
Metal, machinery, and might were the ruling themes of the parade. It wasn't a joyous affair but an impressive one. But what was that impression, exactly? I'm not quite sure. I turned to Laura, my classmate, after about thirty minutes of the parade and remarked that it was boring. Her response: "Yeah. And disturbing -- some of these machines were used to kill people."
As my classmates and I have observed througout the past few days, as rehearsals for the parade took place, parades in the US involve the local fire department polishing the firetruck and wearing their dress uniforms. The Inaugural Parade has some troops in it, but no missiles or tanks or other objects capable of oblivion. Our parades seem more celebratory ... these parades? More ... what?
We were very silent as we watched the tanks roll down Tverskaya. Across from us, a twenty-somthing Russian was waving the hammer and sickle. He was alone in doing so -- Russian flags surrounded him. Some people cheered as the plumes of diesel fuel choked air. I waved at a car load of troops, and "oohed" at the fly over of the fighter jets that sky-wrote the Russian flag in the air ...
but I can't say I smiled. Smiling came later in the day when I Skyped with my Mom (and Dad). Having taken their plates from the kitchen table, they gathered around their desktop in the "family room" so we could have a "meal" together - for them: breakfast; for me: dinner. It was odd, but so was so much about today, and so is so much of life.
While I'm sure the oddities of life will be abundant this summer (they are never far away for my family), sitting in my parents' house, having a "meal" at the same table, no matter how awkward, will be lovely. Tolya asked us, last Friday, if any of us four dramaturgs could see ourselves living in Moscow. I honestly answered "yes." I have my gripes and complaints about Moscow, but I could live here; however, for right now: I want to go home.
In 34 days I will.
American TV is something I am missing. I haven't beeen an avid TV viewer for years. There are some shows I would watch religiously - like Top Chef or Project Runway, which was viewed with my queer friends in Dan, Frank & Craig's gorgeous apartment in Brooklyn, or The Daily Show and the Colbert Report. Otherwise ... I'm a take it or leave it kinda' viewer.
But TV events have always been a priority. Betty White hosting Saturday Night Live -- that would have been a priority. Golden Girls is one of my all-time favorite shows, which I watched when I was kid, and then re-discovered in constant reruns on Lifetime (every now and then me and my former roommate, Chris, would sit in our DC apartment and get drunk and pig out on snacks while watching the Girls on TV). Great writing, great actresses ... just great great great!
But I'm not in the US -- so I can't even watch the clips here. Ah well. I can read the reviews and think up my own sketches in my head -- I'm quite sure Ms. White will not disappoint when I finally return to the States and get to Hulu the whole shebang.
I guess Betty White was hosting the "Mother's Day" episode. I was reading an article on it, and it said that traditionally the Mother's Day weekend episode of SNL features a female host and predominantly female sketches -- and many SNL alum come back and make appearances. Very cool to have traditions like that, I think.
Today, though, was not Mother's Day in Russia. Nope, it was Victory Day. Classmates and I went to go watch the "parade." For the first time in its history, Americans and other NATO members would be marching in the review of troops that takes place on Red Square.
The review of troops is different from the Parade, though. The parade, down Tverskaya -- which is the main avenue of Russia -- was nothing like we know and love. There were no marching bands or even military bands. There was no music, period. There were no Shriners driving around in tiny cars or other social organizations. There were tanks. And rocket launchers. And ballistic missiles. And terribly old tour vans that contained soldiers of one form or another that tagged along at the end.
By and large, it was an inhuman parade down Tverskaya.
Metal, machinery, and might were the ruling themes of the parade. It wasn't a joyous affair but an impressive one. But what was that impression, exactly? I'm not quite sure. I turned to Laura, my classmate, after about thirty minutes of the parade and remarked that it was boring. Her response: "Yeah. And disturbing -- some of these machines were used to kill people."
As my classmates and I have observed througout the past few days, as rehearsals for the parade took place, parades in the US involve the local fire department polishing the firetruck and wearing their dress uniforms. The Inaugural Parade has some troops in it, but no missiles or tanks or other objects capable of oblivion. Our parades seem more celebratory ... these parades? More ... what?
We were very silent as we watched the tanks roll down Tverskaya. Across from us, a twenty-somthing Russian was waving the hammer and sickle. He was alone in doing so -- Russian flags surrounded him. Some people cheered as the plumes of diesel fuel choked air. I waved at a car load of troops, and "oohed" at the fly over of the fighter jets that sky-wrote the Russian flag in the air ...
but I can't say I smiled. Smiling came later in the day when I Skyped with my Mom (and Dad). Having taken their plates from the kitchen table, they gathered around their desktop in the "family room" so we could have a "meal" together - for them: breakfast; for me: dinner. It was odd, but so was so much about today, and so is so much of life.
While I'm sure the oddities of life will be abundant this summer (they are never far away for my family), sitting in my parents' house, having a "meal" at the same table, no matter how awkward, will be lovely. Tolya asked us, last Friday, if any of us four dramaturgs could see ourselves living in Moscow. I honestly answered "yes." I have my gripes and complaints about Moscow, but I could live here; however, for right now: I want to go home.
In 34 days I will.
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Dear Sweet Poopin' Jesus
I bought a laptop in Russia. I was very proud of myself -- I took the metro to the mall (a very American looking mall) and walked into the equivalent of Russia's "Circuit City." It was large, there were plasma screen TVs on the wall, and there were computers. After some deliberations, and some conferences with the servicemen (two of whom spoke English), I plopped down my credit card and invested in my newest piece of technology. A necessity, I feel, when traveling Europe by the seat of my pants. Now, I can surf the web and find directions, articles and numerous other niceities for getting around.
Of course, everything on my computer is in Cyrillic. Why shouldn't it be? But, there's only a limited number of words that I need to know successfully navigate a computer, right? How hard can it be?
Um, it's hard.
Right now I'm in Starbucks desperately trying to find a way to change my computer's "display language" so that I can recognize what the heck it is that I'm doin' with my lovely little "maly malchik" (my tiny computer's name). In time, I'm sure I will pull myself, and Maly Malchik, together. But for now, Dear Sweet Poopin' Jesus, I have no idea what I'm doing on this thing.
Of course, everything on my computer is in Cyrillic. Why shouldn't it be? But, there's only a limited number of words that I need to know successfully navigate a computer, right? How hard can it be?
Um, it's hard.
Right now I'm in Starbucks desperately trying to find a way to change my computer's "display language" so that I can recognize what the heck it is that I'm doin' with my lovely little "maly malchik" (my tiny computer's name). In time, I'm sure I will pull myself, and Maly Malchik, together. But for now, Dear Sweet Poopin' Jesus, I have no idea what I'm doing on this thing.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Cognitive Dissonance
"Jesus is coming - look busy!" I love that saying. I first encountered it on one of those campy refrigerator magnets where illustrations of 1950s housewives appear against vibrant backgrounds with inappropriate sayings plastered above their heads in bold lettering. Today I thought of those magnets as I stood in the dorm kitchen making breakfast.
It isn't Jesus but NATO that's coming to Moscow, so I guess the Russians are preparing to look busy as various fighter jets from various decades roared in the skies over the dorm at 10am this morning. They were terribly loud, and, today being our first of several free Tuesdays, some of my classmates *were* sleeping-in (until the rehearsal for the air show began).
It's been interesting in Moscow for the last week. As my computer crashed and died (and it is now slowly pulling itself out of its coma) and the world inside the dorm went through some storm and stress, the world outside made itself beautiful. Moscow is beginning to flower, and as we approach May 9 - Victory Day - the streets are beginning to be adorned with orange and black and yellow and red ribbons.
There's a lot of Red in Moscow. Some of it is very ... interesting. Like the circus. We went to the circus on Sunday and it was amazing! Cotton candy and acrobats and death defying feats of strength and artistry -- and Communism!
Yep - the hammer and sickle was raised over the audience at the circus. Why? Because Russian history is, in part, Soviet history -- it was the Soviets who helped defeat Hitler. So ... it makes sense that the hammer and sickle are raised, right? Because if they aren't then we're revising history and that is bad, right?
Beyond my Western mind being blown (air raid drills are a memory for me -- albeit a distant one), there was the theme of the circus itself. The performers emerged in army fatigues, and scenes of reality and fantasy would reveal themselves. In the bright lights of "day," the troops would perform impressive balancing acts using items that they seemed to collect from the materials around them (well, ok - maybe finding the tight-rope was a bit far-fetched). They were idle soldiers entertaining themselves -- and the wounded (carried into the ring on stretchers with bloodied bandages wrapped around their heads or arms).
The reality of what we were celebrating was never far from the illusion, even when the illusion took over.
As the lights dimmed and the soldiers fell asleep, from the troop emerged a female soldier who was gazing dreamily at the sickle-shaped moon. Slowly she stepped out of her skirt and military boots to reveal a beautiful pink sequined circus outfit. She was then catapulted to the rafters so she could fly through the air with the greatest of ease on her flying trapeze.
Then, before day break, a video would play: documentary footage of the battlefield. Soldiers storming Berlin - bullets flying, planes dropping bombs. Images normally found on the History Channel loomed over the sleeping soldiers below. But, as day broke and both night and documentary sobriety receded from view, so did the tension -- THE CIRCUS WAS IN TOWN!
Yes, the circus came to the circus. Beautifully theatrical and theoretical (a theater presenting a theatre of war that is visited by a theatre), a 1940s flatbed truck wheeled onstage carrying beautiful girls in party dresses who sang songs, danced with the GIs and brought gold-suited strongmen, clowns, and monkeys with them. It should have been precious, but it wasn't -- the frosting colored performers were the perfect remedy to the somber black and white documentary images.
It was after this that the flag of the USSR was raised. In what was, I believe, the fall of Berlin, Soviet banners were hoisted throughout the arena - including a massive flag that would send chills down any baby-boomer's spine. Then came the parade of swastikas -- the captured banners of the Third Reich were laid at the feet of ...
who? "Is that supposed to be Stalin?" was my remark to Rachel. But I don't think it was supposed to be Stalin. The white-haired commander, mounted on a black and white horse, received the banners and then began a massive equestrian show. Between the emotional juxtaposition of horror and beauty and the thwack of "sign and signification," I was dumb-founded, overwhelmed, and thoroughly entertained.
The circus might be have been the best thing I've seen in Moscow. No joke -- I'm studying at some of the most storied and respected institutions in the world, and it was the circus that left me speechless.
It isn't Jesus but NATO that's coming to Moscow, so I guess the Russians are preparing to look busy as various fighter jets from various decades roared in the skies over the dorm at 10am this morning. They were terribly loud, and, today being our first of several free Tuesdays, some of my classmates *were* sleeping-in (until the rehearsal for the air show began).
It's been interesting in Moscow for the last week. As my computer crashed and died (and it is now slowly pulling itself out of its coma) and the world inside the dorm went through some storm and stress, the world outside made itself beautiful. Moscow is beginning to flower, and as we approach May 9 - Victory Day - the streets are beginning to be adorned with orange and black and yellow and red ribbons.
There's a lot of Red in Moscow. Some of it is very ... interesting. Like the circus. We went to the circus on Sunday and it was amazing! Cotton candy and acrobats and death defying feats of strength and artistry -- and Communism!
Yep - the hammer and sickle was raised over the audience at the circus. Why? Because Russian history is, in part, Soviet history -- it was the Soviets who helped defeat Hitler. So ... it makes sense that the hammer and sickle are raised, right? Because if they aren't then we're revising history and that is bad, right?
Beyond my Western mind being blown (air raid drills are a memory for me -- albeit a distant one), there was the theme of the circus itself. The performers emerged in army fatigues, and scenes of reality and fantasy would reveal themselves. In the bright lights of "day," the troops would perform impressive balancing acts using items that they seemed to collect from the materials around them (well, ok - maybe finding the tight-rope was a bit far-fetched). They were idle soldiers entertaining themselves -- and the wounded (carried into the ring on stretchers with bloodied bandages wrapped around their heads or arms).
The reality of what we were celebrating was never far from the illusion, even when the illusion took over.
As the lights dimmed and the soldiers fell asleep, from the troop emerged a female soldier who was gazing dreamily at the sickle-shaped moon. Slowly she stepped out of her skirt and military boots to reveal a beautiful pink sequined circus outfit. She was then catapulted to the rafters so she could fly through the air with the greatest of ease on her flying trapeze.
Then, before day break, a video would play: documentary footage of the battlefield. Soldiers storming Berlin - bullets flying, planes dropping bombs. Images normally found on the History Channel loomed over the sleeping soldiers below. But, as day broke and both night and documentary sobriety receded from view, so did the tension -- THE CIRCUS WAS IN TOWN!
Yes, the circus came to the circus. Beautifully theatrical and theoretical (a theater presenting a theatre of war that is visited by a theatre), a 1940s flatbed truck wheeled onstage carrying beautiful girls in party dresses who sang songs, danced with the GIs and brought gold-suited strongmen, clowns, and monkeys with them. It should have been precious, but it wasn't -- the frosting colored performers were the perfect remedy to the somber black and white documentary images.
It was after this that the flag of the USSR was raised. In what was, I believe, the fall of Berlin, Soviet banners were hoisted throughout the arena - including a massive flag that would send chills down any baby-boomer's spine. Then came the parade of swastikas -- the captured banners of the Third Reich were laid at the feet of ...
who? "Is that supposed to be Stalin?" was my remark to Rachel. But I don't think it was supposed to be Stalin. The white-haired commander, mounted on a black and white horse, received the banners and then began a massive equestrian show. Between the emotional juxtaposition of horror and beauty and the thwack of "sign and signification," I was dumb-founded, overwhelmed, and thoroughly entertained.
The circus might be have been the best thing I've seen in Moscow. No joke -- I'm studying at some of the most storied and respected institutions in the world, and it was the circus that left me speechless.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Thoughts
Today I priced laptops -- just in case (the inevitable case, it seems) that my laptop will not be resurrected. Not the greatest of situations, but sh!t happens and God gave us credit cards.
So I price laptops. Here, there, everywhere: where shall Joe get a laptop? HP.com or on the streets of Moscow? Should I worry about US compatabilty?
As I ponder these questions, I also ask myself: is a laptop all that necessary? Can I get around Europe without one?
Life existed before laptops. As I hand-write my essays in a leather bound notebook (to be transcribed and re-imagined on my parents' computer in Illinois), I debate my dilemma. Should I lay down more money for another computer; or, should I just plan ahead and risk the perils of being internetless in an ever increasing online world?
Time will tell. Hopefully I won't be stranded in the mountains of Spain, raising my fists towards Heaven in anger, cursing my lack of technology.
So I price laptops. Here, there, everywhere: where shall Joe get a laptop? HP.com or on the streets of Moscow? Should I worry about US compatabilty?
As I ponder these questions, I also ask myself: is a laptop all that necessary? Can I get around Europe without one?
Life existed before laptops. As I hand-write my essays in a leather bound notebook (to be transcribed and re-imagined on my parents' computer in Illinois), I debate my dilemma. Should I lay down more money for another computer; or, should I just plan ahead and risk the perils of being internetless in an ever increasing online world?
Time will tell. Hopefully I won't be stranded in the mountains of Spain, raising my fists towards Heaven in anger, cursing my lack of technology.
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