World Theatre Day Message 2009

Today is World Theatre Day. On this day, I traditionally give over my bjournal to the writer of the International World Theatre Day Message. This year’s writer is Augusto Boal. You can see the original here.

All human societies are “spectacular” in their daily life and produce “spectacles” at special moments. They are “spectacular” as a form of social organization and produce “spectacles” like the one you have come to see.

Even if one is unaware of it, human relationships are structured in a theatrical way. The use of space, body language, choice of words and voice modulation, the confrontation of ideas and passions, everything that we demonstrate on the stage, we live in our lives. We are theatre!

Weddings and funerals are “spectacles”, but so, also, are daily rituals so familiar that we are not conscious of this. Occasions of pomp and circumstance, but also the morning coffee, the exchanged good-mornings, timid love and storms of passion, a senate session or a diplomatic meeting – all is theatre.

One of the main functions of our art is to make people sensitive to the “spectacles” of daily life in which the actors are their own spectators, performances in which the stage and the stalls coincide. We are all artists. By doing theatre, we learn to see what is obvious but what we usually can’t see because we are only used to looking at it. What is familiar to us becomes unseen: doing theatre throws light on the stage of daily life.

Last September, we were surprised by a theatrical revelation: we, who thought that we were living in a safe world, despite wars, genocide, slaughter and torture which certainly exist, but far from us in remote and wild places. We, who were living in security with our money invested in some respectable bank or in some honest trader’s hands in the stock exchange were told that this money did not exist, that it was virtual, a fictitious invention by some economists who were not fictitious at all and neither reliable nor respectable. Everything was just bad theatre, a dark plot in which a few people won a lot and many people lost all. Some politicians from rich countries held secret meetings in which they found some magic solutions. And we, the victims of their decisions, have remained spectators in the last row of the balcony.

Twenty years ago, I staged Racine’s Phèdre in Rio de Janeiro. The stage setting was poor: cow skins on the ground, bamboos around. Before each presentation, I used to say to my actors: “The fiction we created day by day is over. When you cross those bamboos, none of you will have the right to lie. Theatre is the Hidden Truth”.

When we look beyond appearances, we see oppressors and oppressed people, in all societies, ethnic groups, genders, social classes and casts; we see an unfair and cruel world. We have to create another world because we know it is possible. But it is up to us to build this other world with our hands and by acting on the stage and in our own life.

Participate in the “spectacle” which is about to begin and once you are back home, with your friends act your own plays and look at what you were never able to see: that which is obvious. Theatre is not just an event; it is a way of life!

We are all actors: being a citizen is not living in society, it is changing it.

~ Augusto Boal

I will further be celebrating by going to a theatre trade show (not an oxymoron) this afternoon, and then going to see a show tonight. What are you doing to celebrate World Theatre Day?

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The Cult of Done Manifesto

I love this!

The Cult of Done Manifesto

From Bre Pettis

  1. There are three states of being. Not knowing, action and completion.
  2. Accept that everything is a draft. It helps to get it done.
  3. There is no editing stage.
  4. Pretending you know what you’re doing is almost the same as knowing what you are doing, so just accept that you know what you’re doing even if you don’t and do it.
  5. Banish procrastination. If you wait more than a week to get an idea done, abandon it.
  6. The point of being done is not to finish but to get other things done.
  7. Once you’re done you can throw it away.
  8. Laugh at perfection. It’s boring and keeps you from being done.
  9. People without dirty hands are wrong. Doing something makes you right.
  10. Failure counts as done. So do mistakes.
  11. Destruction is a variant of done.
  12. If you have an idea and publish it on the internet, that counts as a ghost of done.
  13. Done is the engine of more. 
Interesting sidenote: (at least I think it’s interesting). I found this through my cousin’s blog, (Hi Morgan!) who found it through this blog, who got it from the original blog. On the blog at which it originated, I notice that this was written by Bre Pettis, the blog owner, and Kio Stark. Now, Kio Stark I discovered completely by accident when I was doing Stumble Upon one day. And for those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about, stumbling is really like mining for gold. You’ve got to sift through a lot of crap, but occasionally you hit gold. And finding Kio’s Municipal Archive was one of those finds. Very strange to ‘find’ her in completely different context. A six degrees of separation moment, (or in this case, four).
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I’d like to thank my grade seven class…

I’ve just learned I’ve been awarded my first blog award, the Fresh and Fabulous Award (originated at 6 o’clock stitch) by none other than the famous Mahoney Musings, who I forgive for calling me a crackerjack, even if she meant it in the best possible way. For the record, I also agree (with the requisite humility) with all the other complimentary things she said about me. Look! Here it is…

freshfab2

 

Do I have to make a speech?

Because I will. I just want to know if that’s what’s done. I can also cry a little bit if you’d like. Will there be a red carpet and paparazzi? Wait. That’s not my good side.

I feel a little bit like Marisa Tomei winning an Oscar for her best supporting actress for My Cousin Vinny. Really? I got an award for this?

Because the only crafty thing I’ve ever posted is the family recipe for Tomorrow Salad, and surely that isn’t going to be winning me any Organic Mommy awards, any time soon. Eat that Google! Ya, you just be sendin’ all the people searching for ‘Organic Mommy’ right here. Although, come to think of it, I have invented the BISS awards, and given you the highlights of my future, sure-to-be bestseller, parent guide — I Like Your Hair, Parenting on the Edge, and generally made you feel better about your own family life through my own moments of clarity, so it’s not I haven’t been contributing to the overall improvement of the internet parent’s mood. I just do it with words and not with hot glue guns. Which is just the kind of life philosophy I want to be remembered for.

Not that I’m not thankful for the award. I am. I LOVE getting awards. LOVE IT. I can probably list every single award I’ve received in my lifetime. Okay, so it’s not a huge list or anything, but they’re all MINE and I WON THEM, from my Perfect Attendance in grade 7, to that second place ribbon in the 100 m front crawl, I love them all both.

Do I hear an orchestra?

Fine. Be like that. I’ll wrap it up.

This is me winning the Fresh and Fabulous award.

 

And now, I have to award this to two other blogs. Hmmmm.

Since I’m winning this award somewhat on the dark side of craftiness I am going to award this to Post-it-Notes from Hades for her “traditional” North West Territories punch. I am also going to send out a little something to marginalia, who has just recently come out of a long hiatus from blogging, you know, as a little encouragement. He creates with photos and code. (Note: I will be checking back with both of you to ensure the proper display of said award in your sidebar. Your speeches may commence shortly, but I’m keeping the paparazzi for a while longer. And no, I don’t know what happened to your gift bags. That’s so weird you can’t find them.)

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Welcome spring!

I don’t think I’ve been quite so excited to greet a Vernal Equinox before. Welcome spring. Thank God you’re here. We thought winter would never leave.

 

 

I recommend getting the real song “Canada in Springtime” by Free Design from their Raindrops album. This will have to do for now.

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Please, Discipline your Elders

Recently, I had occasion to be hosting an event for children. The ‘for children’ aspect is important to note as I relay the rest of this story to you. Did you take note of that? A CHILDREN’S event.

This children’s event began with a reception. Since a reception is synonymous with free food and drink, there was indeed a cake and juice to be enjoyed by our guests.

I was doling out slices of cake when I was approached by a woman, in her sixties at a minimum:

Do you think I could have my cake for later?

As she said this, she pulled a TUPPERWARE CONTAINER out of her PURSE complete with a handy masking tape label on the lid and indicated that I should drop a piece of cake into it for her. She may have even shaken it a little at me, as in, “Hurry up minion, get a move on.” But perhaps my memory is just embellishing.

I wrestled my face under control and tried to stop my eye from twitching.

My worser self wanted to become a cake nazi and exclaim “NO! You mad cow. Give me that container and stop embarrassing yourself. No cake for you!”

My better self tried to rationalize: “Maybe she can’t take sugar this early in the morning. She’s just trying to manage her own digestive system. It’s not like ONLY the kids are allowed to have cake.”

I paused. My two selves wrestled. Thankfully, my better self won out and I GRACIOUSLY, and I cannot emphasize this enough, GRACIOUSLY placed a piece of cake in the proferred Tupperware. There. Awkward moment over.

But no, having found a patsy, she wasn’t done with me. Oh no.

Do you think I could have two pieces?

I paused. My two selves wrestled yet again. I gave one very long Buster Keaton blink before I CALMLY, and I also cannot emphasize this enough, CALMLY explained to her, that I was expecting another hundred guests so maybe we should get through everyone’s first piece before I started handing out seconds.

Oh, well then.

She closed her Tupperware container with a sharp snap that I believe was the Tupperware equivalent of slamming a door and harumphed off.

Yes, I believe the correct word is harumphed.

I can tell you, the whole incident gave me pause. Having been at the receiving end of many a sixty-year-old woman’s glare as Griffin had yet another temper tantrum in the grocery store, or the library, or church, or restaurant, (I have mentioned he was a very difficult toddler haven’t I?) it now gives me great delight to say:

Excuse me. Could you control your elder please? She is disturbing me. Honestly. Some people’s grandparents.

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Happy Birthday Sis!

It was exactly 40 years and 2 days ago, that I stopped being the centre of my parents’ universe. Arriving on the scene was the first of eventually seven siblings–a sister. Her first act of  muscling me out of the spotlight was deciding to be born a mere 2 days after my birthday and a pseudo-holiday to boot. They named her Colleen to keep with the Irish theme of her birthday.

christina-and-colleen3

The thing I really love about this photo is the sucker lying on the carpet in the foreground. This must be around Christmas 1971 I would think, since the first brother does not seem to have made an appearance yet.

We grew up fighting like cats and dogs which makes sense since her favourite pet was cats and mine was dogs (her cat was Fat Albert, my dog was Sunshine).  Her favourite colour was green (obviously) and mine was red. She has proof on tape cassette that I smacked her when she irritated me. Which, frankly, was often, (that she irritated me. I’m sure I only smacked her the one time). Thank God it’s getting harder and harder to find anything that will play tape cassettes.

I was always so loud, I couldn’t get away with anything. She was so quiet and demure and delicate. Oh you were, don’t deny it. She got away with sooo much. I remember one instance where I fought our mother like crazy because I didn’t like my lunch, but I couldn’t get my dessert until I finished whatever it was. Miss Cutie-Pants, bat my eyes, Colleen, showed our Mom her cleaned off plate and got her dessert while I raged for another half-hour at the injustice of it all. When Mom went to clean up she discovered little Miss Cutie-Pants had stuffed her food in a crack in the couch.

I kid you not. Such a sneak. But did I learn from her example? No, I did not.

She was a real girl. Not that I was exactly a tomboy, but I had no interest in getting my ears pierced or thinking about what hairstyle would suit me–at least not until I realized that Colleen thought those things were important, so I thought maybe I should pay attention a little more. She could glue and tape and colour and cook effortlessly, while I struggled with anything that involved fine motor skills. In the domestic department I was eventually relegated to peeling potatoes as my dinner time chore because I was deemed insufficiently able to do anything else. Colleen on the other hand was like a sous chef to our mother, being the type that hypothetically might get an cake icing set for one of her birthdays. 

But despite being very different, we did a lot of things together. We learned the Free to Be You and Me album by heart, and let us not forget Raymond Burr and the Cinderella album. We made up dances to Bad, Bad Leroy Brown and various songs off the first Shaun Cassidy album. We fell in love with the Muppet Show, and Diff’rent Strokes and the Sound of Music.  We giggled and tormented the quartet of brothers that followed. Sorry Bill, you bore the brunt of that.

And, I’m not sure when it happened, but at some point, she became the big sister. While I was dicking around in university obsessing about a major and writing papers on important topics like the Romantic poets, and worrying about why I didn’t get cast in the teacher’s pet project, she got a diploma in Early Childhood Education (top of her class), became the manager at a respectable university child care centre, got married to her high school sweetheart and had two babies. So much for the eldest forging the way. I was still the first to make out with a boy in the family living room, and you just can’t take those kind of accomplishments away from me.

Since we’ve grown up, she has become one of my closest friends. She’s looked after my kids (she was my Griffin-whisperer), and I thank God every day that she became a therapist that works with autistic kids (a good one), since having a child on the spectrum means that I’m frequently calling on her considerable knowledge on the subject, and crying on her phone shoulder.

She’s embarking on a brand new decade today, and since I still am chronologically anyway, the big sister, I can tell you, it’s not all bad on this side. It’s not all good either, but then neither were the twenties, or the thirties. Am I right?

Happy birthday little sis. I love you.

And to you readers, you all should go read her blog, wish her happy birthday, and then subscribe because she’s a fabulous writer too.

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I’m Dreaming of a White Birthday

I am now the answer to life, the universe, and everything.

I am also, I just learned, a primary pseudoperfect number.

Which is awesome because why would I be really perfect when I can be pseudoperfect?

Don’t answer that. That was rhetorical.

And the weather forecast is calling for snow.

SNOW!?!?!?!?!?

I know we were all excited about a White Christmas, the first in a decade on the West Coast. Well, that my friends, pales in comparison to my first White Birthday since moving away from the ‘Peg at the tender age of 6.

Maybe the universe is recognizing my new status as the answer to life, the universe and everything.

I may have to change my author name to Oracle of the Equinox. It has a certain ring to it don’t you think?

Again, rhetorical.

So, in keeping with a year-old tradition (it can still be a tradition, even if we did it only once). The Oracle of the Equinox requests a birthday limerick from you. Extra points if you can use the word ‘Oracle.’ Which should be challenging since not much rhymes with Oracle.

No swears; I want to keep my PG rating.

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Now THAT’S Choreography

This is the song that’s accompanying our dance in my beginner’s tap class (we’re going to have a recital and everything):

 

 

How have I never seen this before when 44 MILLION other people have? There’s no other explanation–you’ve been holding out on me. Don’t try to deny it.

I totally want to do treadmill choreography now.

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Coming into the Middle of the Conversation

I love coming into the middle of conversations. You get to hear the oddest statements and then try to figure out how the conversers got to a place where that statement made sense. For instance, this is what I overheard the 4-year-old saying:

Elvis isn’t dead, he’s American.

Now, granted, he’s four and maybe there’s no conversation in which that statement made sense. Both my boys have absolute certainty in areas they know nothing about and are wont to make supreme declarations of truth that go something like “It can’t be a full moon tonight because the socks on my floor are pointing North, so clearly, Mom, you are wrong.” Ask them a question about pretty much anything, and they’ll give you the facts as they absolutely know them to be. Unless, it’s “Who ate my dark chocolate Caramilk bar?” Don’t expect a straight answer on that one.

I don’t pretend to be a Middle of the Conversation Listener of professional status, however. That honour has to go to my Dad. He is the unchallenged King of Coming Into the Middle of a conversation. Usually he waits until someone spits out an interesting word like ‘sex,’ or ‘plumb line’, and then makes a whole set of assumptions about what must have come before that to get to that word. His real genius though is in his ability to stitch two unrelated conversations, neither of which he’s been attending to, into one. So, for instance, if one conversation was about the state of Aunt Isabel’s health and another conversation was about the state of Gertrude’s home renovation, and someone over here says ‘lumbago’ and someone over here says ‘varnish,’ Dad will interject with “They can cure lumbago with extract of varnish?”

God love him.

The man did lay an entire floor of hardwood in my house, so I won’t needle him too badly.

Except to note that the last time we drove by Rona, the four-year-old asked if that was where Grandad worked. I guess when you’re observed to be going to a certain place pretty regularly, in the four-year-old’s world, that must be where you work.

This is a perfect depiction of what a conversation is like at my family’s dining room table (with eight kids, various signficant others, grandkids, and a professional Middle of the Conversation Listener, you can just imagine. The good part starts at 4:30.

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Reaper

So, we’ve seen two episodes of Season 2 of Reaper so far (although I missed 20 minutes of last night’s, which I shall catch up with in due course)  

What do we all think?

Favourite moments?

Favourite quotes?

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