Catch the bus downtown. It’s always early, for some reason, so leave now. As soon as you push the screen door shut behind you you’ll start to feel better. You’ll start to feel better as soon as your sneaker-feet hit the pavement, one and then the other taking you down the hill. You’ll pick up speed and feel better. Your errand is trumped-up but that’s okay. This is good for you. En route.
Look around at faces you don’t recognize. A universe in a city block, a new show every time you watch. The sunlight never hit the window of the fried chicken place quite like that before. The other people on this sidewalk, in motion beside you, they will never pass you in just the same way ever again. Brand new.
Wait for the bus near the corner, at the less-lonely stop. Think about the time you stood behind a tiny girl and her mother while the girl blew bubbles with a wand, and you watched one float closer and closer to her mother’s face and waited for her to notice it too, which she only did as she turned her head and it popped on her nose at the same time as she saw you looking, and you both laughed. Think about how you think about this every time you wait for the bus on this corner. Same old.
Remember yourself, on your way home from a club one middle-of-the-night, sticky red Robert Smith lipstick on your mouth, squatting down on the pavement to touch the fur of a stray kitten. The girl who stopped and asked you whose cat it was looked like a younger version of you, standing sturdy on long black-denim legs, and you could tell she saw it too and she smiled. Twin flames.
Feel the warm dry air blast your face as you step up into the bus. Hydraulic hiss, swipe your card, say thank you to the driver whether she looks at you or not. Stride down the aisle with the confidence of a person who doesn’t care if she stumbles on a moving bus. Sit down. It doesn’t matter at all where you sit. Choose a center-facing bench and spend the whole ride seeming not to stare at the guy across from you, cuz it’s awkward. He’s right there. He has really dark blue jeans and a puffy bright blue coat, and pristine white sneakers. You are on this bus together when either or both of you could have been someplace else, who knows where. This means something, you can feel it, but you don’t know what. He catches you looking. Aw man.
Someone on this bus smells like laundry, like a warm house. Red and white lights from the traffic on the street slide across the metal bars that curve around your cushioned seats. The street outside the window looks battered and lonely but you love it. Fling your heart out there, see if it comes back. Look down a million little streets you will never live on, think about a world full of people you will never be. Be yourself right here right now. Fuck yeah.
I have this friend who’s really into clowns. She has lots of clown figures and pictures in her room and a couple clown tattoos, and she finds a reason to dress as a clown at least once a year. I admit that I made fun of her the first time she told me about it, while she was cutting my hair in her living room. (That’s how I know her; she cuts my hair.)
“But no one likes clowns!” I said. I guess what I was thinking was, I don’t like clowns. She put me in my place.
“No, plenty of people like clowns, and I’m one of them,” she said. Then she went on to talk about how the idea of clowns, and the image of them, just resonates with her, and it made sense to me in that context. She’s a sensitive person and a punk; plenty of things make her sad. But she appears to enjoy the hell out of her life, like day to day, with all her conversations and interactions, and she’s a fucking riot. I get it: She’s a clown!
Still, let’s get real. A lot of people are afraid of clowns, probably for the same reason that any costume or mask that obscures a person’s face is scary—you don’t really know what you’re dealing with. There’s something horrifying, too, about a painted-on smile. We’ve all known people who wear a fake smile more often than they don’t, and they’re spooky to be around. Do they even know what they’re feeling underneath that death’s head grin?
This clown conversation took place in the spring, and it’s October now, the spooky season, my favorite time of year. I’ve got three dress-up events to go to this month and I plan to wear a different costume for each of them. Making costumes out of thrift store stuff and wigs is one of my greatest joys in life. For one of the events I plan to dress as a character from Stardew Valley, a video game I love, and for another I will probably not be able to resist reprising my Lydia Deetz costume, which I made entirely from clothing in my own wardrobe and is FLAWLESS. I just needed one more idea, so on Sunday morning while I drank coffee on the couch I poked around on Pinterest and opened up my mind. I don’t know if it was the sort of activated, full-moon/menstrual mood I was in, or what, but a picture caught my eye as if I’d never seen one before: the sad, pale face, huge eyes, and painted-on teardrop of a pierrot, the original sad clown. It just looked so perfect to me. Good god, how had I never realized that I love pierrots?! I love that they’re medieval, seemingly ancient, but I also love the deep-70s versions I’ve seen in those dreamy pastel paintings, the pink circles on each cheek and soft neck ruffs in shades of grey or white. It speaks to me, this delicate, feminine, genderless creature. Pierrot is a male character, but many modern interpretations of it are done by women, or are androgynous and childlike. Sometimes goofy, always sad. Pretty and poetic, with a broken-doll, antique-circus aesthetic that makes complete sense to my soul.
Right away I went upstairs to try on clothing, and while I was dragging stuff out of my closet I found the weird French dress I had to buy when I found it at a thrift store a year or so ago because it was clearly special but still haven’t worn because it just looks so odd. It’s got black and white stripes, a boatneck with a few buttons at the throat, and three-quarter-length, sort of floppy—dare I say clownish—sleeves. It also has a dropped waist and is rather short, which gives the skirt at the bottom a flouncy shape even though the dress is made of a heavy cotton. Yes, it’s too strange to wear on the street—it’s more like something Helena Bonham Carter’s Mrs. Lovett would wear to the beach—and I’m not a big one for dresses in general. But it is JUST the sort of thing a pierrot would wear.
I put the dress on, then started playing with make-up. A few lines of black eyeliner pencil exaggerated the largeness of my eyes and the naturally fretful shape of my brows. I painted on a creepy little heart-shaped red mouth and there it was: My own small face, only sadder and spookier. The dress hung just right too, the way it encouraged me to stand askance with my skinny wrists dangling from the cuffs, a middle-aged ragamuffin. Perfection. It had been awhile since I’d felt as pleased and satisfied as I did looking at this image in the mirror. I don’t want to overstate it, but it was a bit like seeing myself for the first time. This is the thing about costumes. Famously, they let you become someone else—but they’re also very good for showing you how to be yourself.
Once I was all jazzed up about the idea of this costume I got ready to go to one of my favorite thrift stores for a few other elements, like maybe a white turtleneck to wear under the dress that would suggest an Elizabethan neck ruff. It happened to be perfect autumn weather that day, sunny and cool, and I loved the way I felt in my clothing—a Cure t-shirt tied at the waist, oversized black jeans, and black sling-backs. I caught the bus downtown and hopped off at Chestnut Street, feeling fine, music in my ear buds. I hadn’t walked a block when my left shoe started to feel funny and heavy. A few more steps and it fell apart completely, dropping the sole on the sidewalk like a long turd. Terrible, but I kept my chin up. I stuffed the bottom half of the shoe in my tote bag and hobbled over to a different bus stop, knowing that if I could just get to the bountiful thrift store I’d find an inexpensive pair of shoes that I liked well enough. And I did, ballet flats with an ankle strap that will suit the pierrot costume and looked good with my jeans. (Five bucks!) I found the turtleneck I wanted, too.
Everything about this story is very me. The comedy, the tragedy, the strained dignity, the thrift store victories. And if walking out the door with a sense of purpose and a broken shoe isn’t a sad clown, I don’t know what is.
Long story short, I must count myself among the weirdos who actually like clowns, since I now see that I am one. A clown, that is. It’s a bit of an awkward development but I’m embracing it completely. I might even look for ways to thread some of my new identity into my everyday look: some theatrical eyeliner, maybe, or a more curvaceous lip line, something to accentuate the sadness that never really goes away, that can feel like my lot in life, that I often wonder if anyone else can see. I’ve found different ways of coping with it over the years, but maybe I’ve been missing something. Maybe playing it to the hilt is the best way through it.
Refuse to fall down. If you cannot refuse to fall down, refuse to stay down. If you cannot refuse to stay down, lift your heart toward heaven, and like a hungry beggar, ask that it be filled, and it will be filled. You may be pushed down. You may be kept from rising. But no one can keep you from lifting your heart toward heaven— only you. It is in the midst of misery that so much becomes clear. The one who says nothing good came of this, is not yet listening.
Earlier this year I confided to a dear pen-pal that I was going through a tough time. I don’t often like to tell people about tender personal matters face to face, but I find I can “talk” about them in writing. I’ll put them down on paper and then send them off, like hopeful little paper airplanes, into the hands of a trusted friend, and see what comes back to me.
So yes, in some ways I have had a sad, hard year. But as I told my friend in my letter, reading helps. Some books have been a downright salvation. I tore through Mark Haddon’s novel, The Porpoise, which is based on the ancient story of Pericles, a prince who goes to sea and has adventures. I had never read the myth before, and its details had me totally engrossed. There was something about the story, with its violence and passion; its birth, death, and rebirth; that I found uniquely comforting as I was dealing with the more elemental stuff of my own life. Using the strange, dream-like symbols of fantasy, myths like these cut to the heart of everything that’s real.
The stories we call fairytales and folk tales are like this too. My mother, when she was going through her own tough time, once mailed me a photocopy of the poem “A Prayer” by Clarissa Pinkola Estés. (I ask you, what would I do without my beloved pen-pals?) Estés is a Mestiza Latina psychoanalyst and a cantadora—a keeper of the old stories—who has recorded readings of several of her books. When my mom was feeling sad and lost, she listened to Estés read from Bedtime Stories, a collection of stories she learned from her family as a child, and they helped her get safely to sleep, where her unconscious, creative mind could start to sort out her troubles.
I’m thankful to my mother for introducing me to Estés, who has a dreamy voice and so much to teach us. In another one of her collections, Mother Night: Myths, Stories, and Teachings for Learning to See in the Dark, she talks about the need for these kinds of fantasies. Mother Night, she explains, is an ancient archetype, sometimes called Mother Sleep: “…not sleep like unconscious, but sleep as in opening the door to stories, ideas, innovations, inventions, and dreams.” She’s the “medial force” who “stands between the two worlds, handing things back and forth, informing the world that has grown too dry with things that are moist and alive. Things that rise from the unconscious, that rise from the dark.”
A few days after I sent my letter, my friend wrote back with another reading recommendation I’m thankful for: Feminist Folktales From Around the World. These are tales that were compiled and edited by a scholar named Ethel Johnston Phelps in the 70s and 80s, and that have recently been reissued in four volumes by the Feminist Press. “I love how sassy and possible the tales all are,” my friend wrote. This sounded like a very sound endorsement to me, so I got a copy of the first volume in the series, Tatterhood, and filled my head with its wild imagery while I reflected on the idea of possibility.
Phelps, in an illuminating preface, explains that before these stories and others like them were written down, they were told orally, mainly by rural women, for well over 1,000 years. When in the early 19th century they began to be compiled and put into print, it was by outsiders who were usually well-educated men of a different social class—and in the case of stories collected in Africa and Asia, a different nationality and race. She posits that the bias of these story collectors, along with the possible reluctance of the women to share their stories with a person who might ridicule them, could account for the relative lack of strong female heroines in the fairytales we’re all so familiar with today.
The stories in Tatterhood, by contrast, feature heroines who exist outside the made-up binary of young, beautiful, passive / old, ugly, horrible. Instead, they are adventuresome, sensible, brave, clever, and fun. Marriage is not the point of these stories, and it doesn’t usually matter what the women look like. The men, when they do appear, are more fully human, too—not boring stock heroes who do everything and save everyone, but real people who appreciate a woman with a bit of sense and sometimes need a hand themselves.
Take Tatterhood, the heroine from a Norwegian tale. She’s a charming and no-nonsense girl who saves the kingdom from a pack of destructive trolls, goes out adventuring on a ship by herself, and impresses the hell out of a young prince with her bravery and attitude, not her looks. I also loved “Janet and Tamlin,” a Scottish Borders tale, because when Janet falls in love with a knight, she goes out to rescue him from the fairy queen who’s holding him captive—at midnight on Halloween!
But my favorite heroine in this book is the plucky old woman in “The Hedley Kow,” a story from the north of England. Hard-working and undaunted by bad luck, she earns the friendship of a fun-loving goblin (the “kow”) who everyone else in the village thinks is scary and mean. This story in particular has a lot of humor in it, and as I read it I could hear the voice of my own hilarious grandmother, my mom’s mom, whose people come from that part of the world. When the old woman in the story finds a pot of gold by the side of the road, she says, “Ah! I feel so grand I don’t know myself rightly!” That’s just what my grandmother would say to me whenever anything special was about to happen. “You won’t know yourself!” she’d say approvingly, when my mother had gotten new furniture, or I’d won a prize in school. She’s the only person I’ve ever heard use that expression, and remembering her made me feel connected to the character in a way I could really feel. That’s the power of folk stories, I guess: the power of the folk themselves.
In her preface, Phelps says something about the tradition of women storytellers that I really liked. “The phrase old wives’ tales, now used derisively, takes on a new and more positive meaning—for the old wives’ tales were, indeed, the very rich and varied source of each nation’s heritage of folk literature.”
Yes! I promise to never again call a silly belief an old wive’s tale. The old wives sure know what they’re about, the grandmothers and the cantadoras. Let’s treat their stories with the love and respect they deserve—and let them teach us what’s possible.
In June I attended an unusual event at Parkway Central, Philadelphia’s wonderful main library. It’s such a wonderful library, in fact, that if you were feeling fanciful—or if you had recently looked through a book of type specimens—you might be inclined to call it eminently grand, bold and solid, magnificent.
Yes, our library is a special place, and the “Reading Type Specimens Aloud” event was unique. It was organized by The People’s Museums of Philadelphia, a project run by the artists Leah Mackin and Alina Josan, and its conceit was that anyone who looked through type specimens like the one above would want to read aloud from them—to “declaim their contents,” as the organizers put it. After looking at the books myself I see their point.
Type specimens were books produced by type foundries, the companies that manufactured the metal and wood type used in printing presses, to showcase the type for potential buyers. But rather than simply printing the alphabet in the different typefaces, they composed the type into sentences and turns of phrase, many of which were poetic or amusingly strange. Josan, who is a librarian in the Art Department, explained that the phrases were sometimes left over from print jobs, sometimes taken from popular advertisements, and sometimes composed especially for these books.
The organizers began the evening by going up to the podium and giving brief readings from a couple of the books. Afterward, the rest of us were invited to do the same. We milled around the room and looked at the books that had been pulled from the library’s collection, all of which were produced between the late 1800s and the 1920s—bona fine antiques, some with gold inlay or elaborately embossed covers.
The phrases I liked the best suggested a jumble of images that don’t usually go together, like strange, lyrical poems. In a book produced by the American Type Founders Company of Philadelphia in 1899, I found “Autumn Fashions, Damsels With Beautiful Dresses” and on the opposite page, “Trained FROG Catcher.”
Here’s another wonderful arrangement of phrases I found:
I didn’t go up to the microphone to declaim anything; it was nice, after I’d looked through the books, just to sit and listen to people read something when they felt so moved. One woman read some lovely words I didn’t understand from a book in French. Two different people read the thing about headache makers and pocket breakers; can you blame them? Someone else went up to the podium with a book and read, joyfully and very distinctly, “FIRST CREEP. THEN GO.” The whole thing was reminiscent of Quaker meeting, only much sillier.
Josan told us that Parkway Central is unusual in that books like these, which would be housed in a special collection in many other libraries, are in circulation and accessible to the general public—crumbling pages, broken spines, and all. As we browsed, the cover of one hardbound book that someone was holding came away from the spine and fell to the floor with a slap, but no one made a big deal out of it. It felt like a lesson: while we should be gentle when handling the books, the more important thing is that they get used, looked at, and loved.
I seem to love every book the Feminist Press ever publishes, so when they put out Laurie Weeks’ novel Zipper Mouth in 2011 I made a note to read it, then forgot for awhile. I finally got around to it this spring, and wow. There is a lot going on here.
The jerk on Amazon who said Bret Easton Ellis already wrote this book, only better, was wrong on both counts. It’s a different book, and hers is better. Though it was written by a woman and narrated by a female character, Zipper Mouth, in my opinion, would be better classified as the heir to Notebooks of a Naked Youth by Billy Childish. I’ve written about Childish’s wonderful novel on this blog before—in fact, one of the things I wrote about was the genderfuck of my extreme over-identification with its narrator, William Loveday, who is a man. Then along comes Zipper Mouth, offering us the female version of that sorta lovable antihero, who never stops spilling her guts in the same filthy, hilarious way.
The novel doesn’t have a ton going on in the way of plot. To sum up, an unnamed (young?) protagonist with a huge personality and a growing drug problem makes her way in New York in the ’90s. (I only know it’s supposed to be the ’90s from descriptions of the book I’ve read. It’s not really apparent from the book itself, at least to me, though the characters do wear a fair amount of animal print clothing.) Like Childish, Weeks has a rare poetic gift; the language in this book is insane. It may send you, as it sent me, googling excellent phrases and weird words to find out what they mean, or if Weeks made them up. A “vent figure,” if you didn’t know, is another name for a ventriloquist’s dummy. A “vaginal vault” as also apparently a real thing. Here’s Zipper Mouth, walking down a New York street in the dead of summer: “The dilapidated blocks had undergone a phase shift from zones combustible with violence to the sultry chiaroscuro of a black-and-white film starring Ava Gardner in a tropical setting.”
I find I want to call the narrator of Zipper Mouth Zipper Mouth, since we never learn her name—kind of like the lead in that show Fleabag who, as pretty as she is, seems to be named Fleabag. Zipper Mouth is marvelously messed-up. An adolescent grown-up who can’t stand to be around anyone ever, she betrays her need for connection through her obsessions with movie stars and unrequited real-life loves. She frequently composes letters to her obsessions, who include Vivien Leigh and Judy Davis, and incorporates them into her thoughts: a gushing of consciousness.
Like William Loveday, Zipper Mouth’s primary obsessions are love and lust, and any other emotions she can stoke up inside herself and wallow in when she’s alone. Throughout the novel, on every page really, she tweaks her mood with drugs or quasi-drugs, like cigarettes and caffeine and those speed-like herbal substances weightlifters (ab)use. In her various heady states, she wobbles on the walk-and-turn sober test between florid beauty and visceral revulsion:
“God I love everything, I thought, gazing out my window at passersby several stories below. Blossoms dripping from the trees, robins in love warbling among the peeping spring budlets, trash spilling festively from an orange dumpster. … Love leaked from my pituitary and converted on contact with my bloodstream into panic and I was swelling up, threatening to leave the ground and float off fast.”
Most of the descriptions in the novel are like this. They gave me intense sensations, and though the book is short—you could read it through in a couple of hours—I had to take frequent breaks to keep from feeling overwhelmed. I kept getting “worked up,” the way Zipper Mouth reports feeling when she listens to music and daydreams druggily, or reads something challenging and weird. In the final analysis, this novel does not have the substance of Notebooks (though both novels have strangely awkward endings); it needs to be more grounded, more finished. But it is literary body horror at its finest. If Zipper Mouth had a thesis statement, it would be something like this line she writes to Miss Davis in her mind: “The body is a great thing, Judy, a horrifying thing, a great and horrifying thing to be trapped in a body, anything can go haywire at any moment, you’re just hanging on with clenched teeth to a rope that swings your body sickeningly around and around over that bottomless and legendary thing we’ve come to identify as The Abyss.”
Three months on, I don’t find myself thinking about this novel; I had to rely entirely on my notes to write about it. There was something ephemeral about it even as I read it, the imagery hard to hold onto, the ideas slipping away like smoke. But it was everything to me while I was reading it. Sometimes I have a desperate need for a book like this, something that gives my inner demons a song to scream along to. Come to that, I made a note while I was reading it that I’d found the perfect musical accompaniment—the doomy noise of an industrial act called Terminal Brain Disease. While I lived (briefly, feverishly) inside Zipper Mouth’s mind, this music came pouring out of the cassette player that sat on the floor beside me, filling the room with its perfect attitude: Witness the absolute horror and wonder of simply being alive!
All of MarkHaddon’s fiction for adults has, until now, been rooted in contemporary realism: emotionally intelligent, yet possessed of a light touch and a sweetly British sense of the absurd. You could argue that his best-known novel, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, is a work of deep imagination; the book, though meticulously realistic, is told from the point of view of a teenager with Savantism. But with his new novel, The Porpoise, Haddon goes deeper still. This time he gives us the gods and goddesses of the ancient world, priestesses and pirates, carnelian and amber. It’s a different kind of storytelling, rich as brocade and powerful indeed.
Let’s get this out of the way: I am something of an Ali Liebegott superfan. It started 13 years ago with The IHOP Papers, her novel about a lovesick lesbian waitress named Francesca that I read almost straight through one hot summer afternoon while I sat at my desk. It’s a wonderful book—heartbroken and messy, packed with arresting images, so funny it hurts. Her next novel, Cha-Ching!, addressed the subject of addiction, and though the main character in that one was more mature, she was still just as tough and funny as I needed her to be. “She’d … always wanted to make a mood ring for alcoholics—the rainbow of colors could translate into words like lonely, and sorry, and marry me.”
Iceland was the last of the European countries to be settled, just over a thousand years ago now, by Viking explorers, Celtic women, and monks. Today the country has a relatively small number of people living on it; it’s around the size of the state of Ohio, which has some 11 million inhabitants, but only about 340,000 people live there. The island’s tumultuous natural features are a big reason for this. There are hundreds of volcanos and many of them are active. Evidence of their previous activities can be seen all around the countryside in the form of lava fields, which look sort of like regular fields because they’re covered in green moss but are rocky and cracked all over by fissures, some of them treacherously deep. The heat from volcanic sources creates warm geothermal pools and magnificent geysers. (The word geyser, in fact, comes from the Icelandic name of a huge one near Reykjavik, Geysir, which was the first such water spout modern Europeans had ever seen.) Parts of Iceland are covered in ice caps, including the largest glacier in Europe, and the glaciers’ constant melting feeds the rivers and results in some 10,000 waterfalls across the country. The Icelandic highlands, situated in the middle of the country, are mostly uninhabitable and largely without infrastructure; the rivers there change course frequently, even daily, and can’t be bridged. The country’s landscape is wild, stunning, and in many ways rare.
Iceland is also, of course, the land of the midnight sun. That’s the reason J and I chose to visit there over the summer solstice, the longest day of the year. Ever since I learned in school that, way up north, the sun is up around the clock in the summer and dark for most of the winter, I’ve marveled at the idea, have wondered for all these years what it would feel like if the sun never set. Now I know: It feels weird. Almost enchanted. During the week we spent there, it never really got dark. Even after sunset at midnight the sky stayed lit but dim, like the light at twilight, until it rose fully again at around 3:00 a.m. On sunnier days, as opposed to cloudy ones, slices of yellow sun peered through the slats in the blinds behind our bed and rested on my face, giving me the confused sensation—at two o’clock in the morning—that I was on a beach vacation and lying down for a nap on a drowsy afternoon. It felt moving, too—strange to think of people in another part of the world having a different sort of understanding with my old companions the sun and the moon—and very energizing.
The chaotic emotional stuff I’ve been going through in recent months has drained me, and I think something about the idea of drinking in full, 24-hour days of sunshine must have struck me as a kind of personal restoration technique. Sure enough, though I felt tired from traveling and from all the walking we did while we were there, I didn’t exactly get sleepy in the evening, the way you do naturally when it gets dark. It was as if my little internal battery was plugged in and getting recharged. One day I even refreshed myself the way the locals do, by soaking in a geothermal pool, right on a beach in Reykjavik. It was a grey day with a low, moody sky but I’d packed my bathing suit for our long urban hike in case we found a place to bathe. When we did find one I looked out at the unfriendly sea and felt dubious: Who goes to the beach on a cold, rainy day? Icelanders do, that’s who. We saw people trucking across the sand in bare feet, and others swimming in the ocean with mitts on their hands and feet to protect them from the sharp rocks on the bottom. Before I chickened out I went into the locker room to change, then hustled through the chilly air to a long concrete tub built into a platform on the beach. The water was only about as deep as a bathtub, and sinking gratefully into its warmth I had the embarrassing yet thrilling sensation that I was in fact taking a bath with a bunch of strangers. I eavesdropped on but couldn’t understand their conversations because they were in Icelandic, Russian, and rapid-fire French. My body was warm while a light, cold rain spritzed my face, which struck me as strange enough to be funny, and the pleasure of a rare feeling of pride filled me. I’d gotten myself to this beautiful, special place, I’d been brave enough to get naked in front of strangers, and here I was, quite literally basking in it.
One evening in Reykjavik, J and I went to a concert. It was the thing I was most looking forward to on our visit to Iceland, which sounds silly given what I just told you about the lava fields and geysers, but before this trip I had no frame of reference for things like that. Listening to live music in a darkened room, on the other hand—that’s an experience I already knew I loved. This show was to be experimental ambient music performed by Jo Berger Myhre on standup bass, and his collaborator Ólafur Björn Ólafsson, who plays keyboard and drums (sometimes with Sigur Rós!).
Most of the concerts in this Midsummer Music series took place in Reykjavik’s large and impressive concert hall, and I’d somehow gotten the idea that the series itself was something most people in town would attend, as part of a circus atmosphere I imagined would be created by the perpetual sunlight, everyone up all night and partying. Once there I found that, with the exception of a few to-be-expected drunks hooting out on the street late at night, most people were not deep in some wild revel but were in fact composed and very soft-spoken (and, of course, going about their normal business). Likewise, as we walked to the venue I saw that this show was being held “off site” at the kind of place I’m infinitely more comfortable than in some fancy concert hall: a small art space located in what looked like it had previously been a storefront. People in good outfits were standing around and talking quietly, drinking from bottles of beer. I felt at home.
We sat in folding chairs and waited for people to come out and begin playing the instruments, both electronic and organic, that were arranged a few feet in front of us. Slowly Myhre and Ólafsson, with the aid of a dude squatting on the floor and working a big, blinking mixer, began playing from their album The Third Script. I’ve read that the album was almost completely improvised, which of course means that each performance of it is also completely unique. We listened as the music built up slowly, crescendoed, then deconstructed itself back into its separate parts before disappearing again. Myhre pulled his bow across the strings and made the bass moan and cry. The more rhythmic sections lumbered inevitably but irresistibly, like a dance and a dirge at once. Higher sounds occasionally streaked across the music’s horizon. Tiny bells tinkled in the middle of all that space, like wind chimes in the countryside reminding you that there’s a house not too far away, comforting you; you’re not really alone.
I tried to resist it, but it was hard not to hear some elements of the music as reflections of the landscape around us: Ólafsson’s violent drumming as eruptions, Myhre’s bass as whalesong or the groaning of glaciers as they move, chafe, and break apart. And after all I do believe that, as a part of nature, we human beings possess the same qualities as the animals, earth, and atmosphere around us, so the art we make is necessarily formed from this elemental stuff. In any case, I loved the way the music made me feel. It matched something inside me, felt familiar. The movements of my life can be tectonic, rumbling low underground, or they can be sudden, violent, and smothering—a volcano. Whose can’t?
The writer of this review of The Third Script gives an interpretation of the album’s name that I find profound and beautiful (and according to the musicians themselves, he’s correct). He writes that he finds the music “meditative” and “ruminative,” as I did. Several times throughout the performance my chattering mind went blessedly quiet, even as the music activated my poor, overworked solar plexus, who always comes to life during highly emotional moments. I let the performance be a way to meditate and breathed into that space, letting all of my constituent parts, my mind and my body and whatever else, know that they were free to wake up, if that’s what they wanted to do.
When we left the gallery it was 10:30 at night and the white, cloudy sky was still lit up as bright as daylight. It had taken several days for the strangeness of the perpetual sunlight to properly register and make some kind of sense to me, and all at once, for just a moment, it did. It just gives you more time, that’s all. More of each day to live. We walked the short walk through the city’s downtown to our rented apartment, not hurrying the way you do in the dark, but strolling like we had during the day, trying to take it all in.
Over the years I have read many descriptions of full moon rituals. I seek them out because I want to feel more connected to nature—to all of life—and to give my spiritual self a voice. I guess I still haven’t fully embraced this mode of spirituality, but I love its imagery, symbolism, and ideas.
The details of the rituals vary but they always have some elements in common. Typically they center on releasing, letting go. With tonight’s full moon in my thoughts, I made a found poem out of some the phrases frequently used in these rituals. Distilled this way, the advice sounds possible and, to my surprise, practical.
Create a sacred space.
Share some wishes and
set your intention.
Chant using sounds of power,
take several deep breaths,
and conjure a connection to the divine.
Write it out.
Release and declare.
Release what no longer serves!
burn these papers,