Among the barbarians

Just back from the latest opera from Philip Glass, Waiting for the Barbarians, based on J.M. Coetzee's novel, libretto by Christopher Hampton. A striking, troubling piece of work.

The story goes something like this: an administrator of a frontier town watches with increasing horror while agents of the state, sent from the capital, torture and kill in the name of the truth and in the service of defending country and empire against a feared barbarian advance. The administrator, a man who enjoys his pleasures as well as his peace, develops an ambiguous, perhaps redeeming affair with one of the captured and tortured barbarians.

He endures a difficult journey with the barbarian to deliver her back to her people, for which he is branded a traitor, imprisoned and tortured like the barbarians before him. Before he is apprehended, though, while he is still journeying with the woman, his lover now, it is conceivable that she might yet return with him, live with him in his frontier town. But the treatment she has received makes that impossible, despite the hope of the administrator.

Back in the town, the citizens, first pliant in the name of state security, then complicit in the name of empire, turn against the administrator, returned from his journey a convict. But when the army fails in their attack on the barbarians, when the aggression brings only more hardship and not less, the town turns back to the administrator, finally, and away from the ongoing, debased warmongering of the state. The townspeople throw away the shades given them by the state – yes, sunglasses, which from the start of the performance mark the choice to observe a different truth, dark and distorted.

Now's an appropriate time to say that there is nothing subtle about the drama in this opera. It is entirely a product of its times, and that is what makes it effective, particularly disturbing. Philip Glass, I should mention, writes of "a bold allegorical approach," and states that "[t]o reduce the opera to a single historical circumstance or a particular political regime misses the point." While I agree there's some heavy allegory here, I insist on missing the point. I saw precious little in the way of narrative arc or character development or dramatic tension or drive: just some very bad people, a witness, a mob and some other, innocent people. Six years ago this would not have offered much. I hope that in fifty years it offers nothing more. But this opera is very powerful now, and precisely because such obvious, unsubtle horror is happening so obviously and unsubtly in the world.

The voice in my head is saying I'm the one that's guilty of oversimplifying. But what I'm saying is narrowly intended: I'm not referring to a drama that's considering the fog of war, the quest for beauty, the burden of empire, the will to power. Philip Glass writes that his opera concerns "confrontation, crisis and redemption." The confrontation and crisis are of the clearest sort, so over-the-top it's absurd: it's Waiting for Godot turned into an address from the War President. That we must recognize this for precisely what it purports to be is shattering.

I left the theater feeling that the greatest hope this opera offers, in the clarity of its absurdity, is that it will in time be reduced to a historical footnote for its simplicity. My companion, however, was not so optimistic. I don't believe Mr. Glass is, either. The characters, for instance, spend as much time lying on the ground as standing, as though they just don't have the strength to make it through an entire scene upright. All of them, every character, except the two highest ranking, most rotten state agents, who stand through nearly every scene they're in. Our protagonist, the administrator who fights for rightness and redemption, he ends the opera on a low note – literally: his last note is perhaps his lowest of the night – and he's lying down again, forced down as the ceiling of the sky descends on him, slowly.

And he is confused, the administrator, at the end of the play. In his confusion, the drama achieves its most complex insight. It's as damning as all the rest. The administrator still recognizes something good in his city, but knows the worst now. Yet having witnessed and been subjected to the worst, he cannot understand it. It stares him in the face, he says, but he can't see it. Not seeing, what can he do? He can go on, follow a road that might lead nowhere, he says, as he's forced to his belly again.

Something is terribly wrong. It's clear and horrible, it's all around and everyone's part of it. That's the confrontation and crisis. Redemption? Perhaps, but first the administrator has to understand the nature of what's gone wrong, why and how, then get a better idea where he might be headed.

At last I can mention the music and sets. Because in acknowledging open questions I've finally got around to admitting depth to this opera, and with depth, artistry. The orchestral and choir work is rich and haunting, and there are dream sequences that are all orchestra and choir. Classic Glass, all shifting rhythms and lowly changing textures, with drive and beauty as well as tension. And the set is a stunning thing of flowing screens and changing lights.

With the dreams, their music and the luminous world, we have something more, something that the corrupted world of state and burgher cannot entirely efface. Something that promises redemption after all, if we're strong enough to endure what we're part of, overcome what we've created, understand, perhaps, what we might be.

Three beginnings

Why am I still plagued by stupid things I've done that are now long over and past? How is it that I still cringe, sometimes vocalize uncontrollably when I recall some dumb thing I did, what, two weeks ago, two years, even ten or more? In front of friends or strangers, doesn't matter, though the one group has obviously gotten over it, and the other likely never cared, or at least I shouldn't.

A cat with whom I'm on fairly familiar terms has invested a lot of energy in making clear to me and certain others that life is little more than alternation between physical satisfaction and spiritual indignation. Where one is present, the other will not be. Much of this philosophy, it's plainly obvious, has to do with not being able to reach doorknobs. Still, the cat may be on to something.

It's a werewolf's moon tonight. Well, not exactly, I mean it's not full, but it's large and glowing white, with thick ropes of cloud passing across it. There's a sharpness to its light, as if you can see more deeply into the shadows and darkened sky. And now there's a chill to the air, too, so that the day was a dream of summer heat, but the night is wakeful with cold communion.

Feel free to finish these or whatever in the comments.

Buzkashi, get it?

Some time back, I asked what sport could be more impressive than fierljeppen. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you buzkashi. What you see above appears to be the very beginning of a competition.

Popular in Afghanistan, Buzkashi translates roughly as 'goat taking.' But don't be fooled: you use a calf. The field of play is variable, about the size of a town, small city or large village. Play can go on for days and occurs entirely on horseback. The riders use short whips to spur their horses or attack other players. The whips no longer include balls of lead at the tips; likewise, use of knives is now discouraged.

Before the game, the calf is beheaded and disemboweled, its legs are cut off at the knees, and the carcass is soaked in cold water for twenty-four hours to toughen it sufficiently to withstand the violent use it will see in the course of the competition. If the calf is undersized, the carcass may be filled with sand to add weight.

The action of the game consists in getting ahold of the calf carcass, carrying it away from the other players and around a flag at the edge of the playing area, then throwing the carcass into a scoring circle, or 'Circle of Justice.' There are not many rules as to how to go about doing this or preventing it from being done. You're not supposed to tie the calf carcass to yourself or your horse, and you're not supposed to hit the person carrying the calf carcass on the hand. Just about anything else will do, and vigorous play often leads to broken bones and copious bloodletting. Most players will attempt to play through any injury, except the ones who are drowned, but that is not so common anymore.

The horses are highly trained. Well-trained horses will stop on a dime and wait once their rider has been thrown. The best trained horses will accelerate to a hard gallop the instant their rider secures the calf carcass. Uniforms for the riders include high leather boots with sturdy heels, padded jackets over heavy robes, and fur hats made of fox or wolf.

The game winner is accorded great respect and given a wide berth wherever he goes.

Hello humility

I played basketball yesterday in an organized, team setting for the first time since maybe elementary school. Which made for a fairly ridiculous evening.

For starters I had to explain to a bunch of practice-loving children of the Protestant Revolution that no, I couldn't remember a real practice, but yes, I had played basketball, and no, I wasn't a streetballer.

Then we began the period of interminable exercises. Trouble hits when I can't follow a simple pass and weave routine that's all the more complicated because this lazy guy cheats up to start a half court ahead of the rest of our line, but when everything goes to hell everyone wants to give the American helpful tips on how he can practice better. Thank you Team U.S.A.

I was surprised when we moved on to the two-handed chest pass practice. It's not like we've got all day in the gym. We need to use our time for that? But I was even more surprised to realize that I really don't throw my two-handed chest pass with two hands, and it might be helpful if I did.

After that came the array of arcane pass and shoot exercises along with an exercise that reputedly pertained to zone defense but in effect had more to do with a bunch of us standing in concentric circles and yelling.

Finally we got to play an actual game and I realized that, in addition to the two-handed chest pass, there were a couple other things I ought to work on that might be useful, like making shots and not running into people. It didn't help, however, that everyone wanted to show the American what real coaching is -- thanks again Team U.S.A. -- so they'd call out whatever came into their heads the second I touched the ball, and they'd do it in Dutch, and I didn't feel as though I had the option of just shutting them out since I was trying to convince them to let me play on their team, and it all got rather confusing and not conducive to making any more shots, or seeing the passing lanes, or dribbling.

So I was feeling less than confident when play stopped. Fortunately, this is Amsterdam, so I got a beer with a few of the players at the bar along the far wall. It turns out that liking beer was my best move of the night. That and already being friends with the really tall guy who's the top player on the team earned me at least another week.

I can't wait to show them what I've really got.

Traveling reflections 4: Get off the curb

Why is it so hard to wait on a curb in New York City? It's just not easy there to resist the urge to stand in the street while waiting to cross it.

The sightlines are not appreciably worse in New York than elsewhere. Those couple steps don't offer even the plausible illusion of getting anywhere faster. And those who wait in the street in New York wait on the curb in the cities to which they travel or return.

The crowds? There're more people off the curb than on, everyone wedged into a small margin of gutter closely policed by yellow cabs. Still you have to do it, it gets in the bones. An expression of the New Yorker's impatience? Sounds closer to the truth, but doesn't account for tourists; and by this explanation I'd expect more street standing in Mediterranean or Asian cities, sun and Buddha notwithstanding. Whatever draws people into this curb-defying culture when in New York binds this culture to New York, so that it makes no sense, has no appeal elsewhere.

What is this ethos, where does it come from? How can such distinct behavior at once be so place-specific and so automatic, so pointless and so insistent, so mundane and so irresistible?

Traveling reflections 3: Reminiscing on the road

In my rearview mirror there's a motorcycle, pretty far out, so that bike and rider are shadows shimmering in the heat coming off the highway. Standing out from the shadow, front and center, the bike's headlamp is a pearl above the blacktop. The cycle rides dead center of the three lanes, and behind, directly and to either side, come the cars silently pouring over the hill, and I think to myself, looking forward to the sky opening over the road ahead then back again to the rearview mirror, I don't remember this exactly, but I feel like I do, maybe I saw something like it in a movie.

I'm in the back seat, in the car with three other people. Music plays through the small speakers recessed in the doors. Each of us in the car knows the song, something epic with screaming guitars and a chorus to sing along to, loudly, and the sound of it fills the afternoon strip mall landscape as it goes rushing by. We pull into a parking lot, stop the engine and the music with it, get out of the car, hear the sounds of other traffic and parking cars, walk across the lot to go ask for donuts and coffee under fluorescent light that outshines the sun. Then it's back to the car with the music that picks up right where we left off, so that it's hard to imagine that we ever left this little space, though we've got the donuts and coffee to prove it. Still the memory is dubious.

We take a long train ride, pass along the coast, see the ocean stretch away, pass harbors here and there and small towns. We get to our destination, a bigger town, and we're met by friends in a car who take us to pick up a couple things, like bread. But there's no bakery in this town. We drive through the center, one or two streets with bars and performing arts spaces and brick buildings but no bakery. We drive a long way out on the state route, and across from the mall there's a bunch of stores and one of them, in a building that looks like a big plastic house or a place that sells carpets, is the bakery. We drive the same way back almost to the train station, because that's where the apartment is, where it's been the whole time, and I see a bakery across the street but it's gone out of business. I think to myself I don't ever remember a town without a bakery.

Traveling reflections 2: The man who was not Ray M.

One very pleasant evening of the trip was spent in Dorchester, outside of Boston, with an old friend and his wife. The night was a slow progression of food and drink out on their balcony, lined with willow sticks, trimmed with blue sky then a handful of stars, until the very small hours of the morning.

This friend is, among many other things, a wine enthusiast. And he is as generous in his enthusiasm as he is subtle in taste. We had a lot to drink, and it was good.

Less good, however, was the long ride the following afternoon to our next destination. I woke in rough shape. I couldn't feel my extremities, and only managed to thank my friend with a series of weak invocations and unsightly spasms. Had there been an iota of hydration left available in my body, I would have wept.

Instead I drove to Connecticut. Near the end of our journey, pulling into a pharmacy for supplies, I thought I recognized another friend, Ray M., going even further back. The guy was approaching his car and I was still in mine as I yelled "Ray!" at him through the passenger window. He looked around before getting into his car, so I yelled "Ray M.!" and pulled up next to him. He looked back through his window and I yelled my name. Opening his eyes wide, he got out of his car.

As I turned off the radio and got out of my car, he introduced himself to my traveling companion. By the time I was around the car, my traveling companion was inside shopping, and Ray was waiting for me.

"How long's it been?" he asked. "Ten years?"

"Must be," I said. But to hear him speak, it felt even longer.

He'd been on hard times. His car was a wreck, he had kids but no job, was recently married and couldn't afford his cigarettes. His voice even sounded different. The cadence troubled me, or the new intonation of mean struggle and failure. I asked about the rest of his family. He spoke of his mother, but didn't mention his brother or sister.

Still, he looked glad to talk, share what he could. We talked for almost five minutes. Five minutes is longer than two days when you're covering more than ten years. Then we shook hands, clasped arms, wished each other all the luck in the world, hoped it wouldn't be ten years until the next time.

And he wasn't the friend I thought I knew, I've no idea who he might have been.

Traveling reflections 1: The in-flight movie

Fresh back, still jet lagged, where better to begin than the end? The entertainment for our flight included, among other things, Hollywood's take on America's increasingly agonized political engagement, in the form of X-Men 3: Revenge of the Political Scientists, or something like that.

Before I go any further, there are two coincidences I feel obliged to mention. First, I have now seen all three X-Men films, all of them in airplanes. Second, I read a little review of this film in the New Yorker, which is odd because I don't often have my hands on the New Yorker, and when I do I mostly only read it for the cartoons, a particular article or the occassional poem, but rarely the little reviews. At any rate, the reviewer found this latest X-Men installment vastly inferior to the prior two releases. If I remember correctly, however, I thought those first two sucked, while I found this latest to be something else entirely.

So be it; about the film -- consider it by the following key: Charles Xavier, refined, kingly on his throne, is Europe; Logan, the loner and leader, man of action and few words who believes in a preeminent right to personal choice, is America; Magneto, gathering his brotherhood in the cities and forests, is The Reactionary; the guy who is responsible for the cure is Religion; the President, naturally enough, is Representative Democracy; Hank McCoy is Enlightened Government; and Phoenix is The Football.

Every character in this film is flawed and does something wrong, with the possible exception of Hank McCoy. No character is pure evil, though some resort more obviously to evil and censurable actions. The ending is ambiguous.

Logan, lacking the insight of Xavier's philosophic and aristocratic tradition, defies Xavier's wishes, leading to very bad consequences which Logan must correct at great cost.

Xavier's own course of action, an attempt to impose restraint where another man, younger in appearance and temperament, saw illegitimate control, was likewise flawed and led to his own demise.

Magneto is the new wave in violent ascendance. He is the oppressed come to power and the science of the future made immediate, without the patience of Xavier's wisdom. Deeply tied to Xavier, Magneto runs amok without him.

The President is weak though well-intentioned. The guy responsible for the cure falls back foolishly on a retrograde faith. Hank McCoy -- troubled, brave, the most visionary character in the film -- is nonetheless dependent on the powers that be around him. And speaking of the powers that be, there's the Phoenix.

What is the Phoenix? She's a nod to adolescent ticket buyers for one thing, which is too bad for the purposes of this post because I could use a little more clarity and less vapid, PG sex zombie stuff here. But she's most explicitly a higher power. Of what nature, I'm not sure. The people roused, human potential unchained? I don't think so. Truth? Perhaps, but the ultimate statement is awfully cynical. In the absence of better information, why not stay close to the literal? She is Power, and Logan loves her. I'll leave it there -- blame me or blame the film -- but plug in your own choice for the concluding thought, immediately below.

America, says X-Men, has made a mistake, and to make right, to take the world forward, America must destroy the Power to which it is devoted, once it has dispensed with the Reactionaries.

I should note that the film, in the context of this timeless dilemma, makes more or less overt references to present day political actors. Hank McCoy, I suggest, is not one of them, and the hope he represents at the end of the film is not vested in any one actor on the political stage today.

I would now like to switch gears, however, and mention that I noticed a lot of copies of In Cold Blood lying around a lot of bureaus all along the northeastern corridor of the U.S. I expect this coincidence has at least something to do with the film Capote. I wonder whether anyone in the near future will be picking up a copy of Thucydides' History of the Peloponnesian War, or Eric Hobsbawm's The Age of Revolution, or perhaps something still more contemporarily inclined to go alongside a few vintage X-Men pamphlets.