Friday, March 09, 2007

I have found many references that have brought me back to the strange concept of "returning to a chair" The original play I did in Too Much Light, where this title comes from was called: While the Wind Breathes in an Endless Sea of Hearts the Fool Returns to His Chair. I sat in a chair with a noose around my neck, a ball rolls on, I pick it up and toss it back to the person who rolls it on, they walk off, I return to the chair, a woman walks by and drops her handkerchief I give it back, bow, and by the time I bend back up she is gone, as I return to my chair a man stands behind the chair, I nod my head, he nods his head. I sit and he half points the gun at me (the gesture is ambiguous, he neither points nor offers the gun, it is just a gesture of putting ones arm out and having an object that is a gun sitting in that hand), I reach for my wallet, he takes it and hands me the gun, he leaves, I sit back down and the ball rolls back on. It is an endless cycle of distant encounters with objects of death increasing each time the fool returns to his chair.

So, all and all a pretty pathos filled short scene. But with it I bring into this prime time show a sense of an alienated Fool, compassionate but out of touch. And the Sea, water, has returned many times in my studies. A journey back, or forward to where the Fool already stands. And I also seem to have a fascination of dunking my head in water and then being slapped silly, I'm sure that will creep up in the show.

I'll end this with a line I found in an essay that debates the relations between an American Holy Idiot and the Russian Holy Fool:

"In the American Idiot there exists something that is innocent and destructive, sacred and dangerous. The idiot is one in whom opposite forces join together, in whom contrary forces come home to rest." - Dana Heller

John Pierson


Anonymous Yossarian said...

This is a somewhat overused passage, but nonetheless is still one I believe to be relevant to foolery in general, and the idea of using the out of place and the ridiculous to abrogate pain. (Taken from

An extract from the diary of Lieutenant Colonel Mervin Willett Gonin DSO who was
among the first British soldiers to liberate Bergen-Belsen in 1945.

I can give no adequate description of the Horror Camp in which my men and myself were to spend the next month of our lives. It was just a barren wilderness, as bare as a chicken run. Corpses lay everywhere, some in huge piles, sometimes they lay singly or in pairs where they had fallen. It took a little time to get used to seeing men women and children collapse as you walked by them and to restrain oneself from going to their assistance. One had to get used early to the idea that the individual just did not count. One knew that five hundred a day were dying and that five hundred a day were going on dying for weeks before anything we could do would have the slightest effect. It was, however, not easy to watch a child choking to death from diptheria when you knew a tracheotomy and nursing would save it, one saw women drowning in their own vomit because they were too weak to turn over, and men eating worms as they clutched a half loaf of bread purely because they had to eat worms to live and now could scarcely tell the difference. Piles of corpses, naked and obscene, with a woman too weak to stand proping herself against them as she cooked the food we had given her over an open fire; men and women crouching down just anywhere in the open relieving themselves of the dysentary which was scouring their bowels, a woman standing stark naked washing herself with some issue soap in water from a tank in which the remains of a child floated. It was shortly after the British Red Cross arrived, though it may have no connection, that a very large quantity of lipstick arrived. This was not at all what we men wanted, we were screaming for hundreds and thousands of other things and I don't know who asked for lipstick. I wish so much that I could discover who did it, it was the action of genius, sheer unadulterated brilliance. I believe nothing did more for these internees than the lipstick. Women lay in bed with no sheets and no nightie but with scarlet red lips, you saw them wandering about with nothing but a blanket over their shoulders, but with scarlet red lips. I saw a woman dead on the post mortem table and clutched in her hand was a piece of lipstick. At last someone had done something to make them individuals again, they were someone, no longer merely the number tatooed on the arm. At last they could take an interest in their appearance. That lipstick started to give them back their humanity.

Source: Imperial War museum

9:09 AM  
Blogger Even In Blackouts said...

This is beautiful and disturbing. Thank you for responding.

- John

11:48 PM  

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