David X Novak
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The Death of a Trump Supporter

7/15/2019

 
​
I felt a twinge of joy and glee
    On hearing that you died,
Such execrations hurled at me
    From your lips must subside.

How so much bile, invective, hate
    In one man’s heart took anchor
I could not guess, nor obviate,
    How much uncouth, vile rancor.

The paths behind us we have trod
    Get covered by new grasses,
And you—farewell to meet your God— 
    Commit no more trespasses.

I mourn as much as man may do
    Newly escaping malice:
Surely there was a charm to you
    Beneath the crude and callous.

Rudeness beseemed to you a strength,
    Superb self-estimation
As drove your thoughts in breadth and length,
    Life one long execration.

Had you but learned to breath a while,
    To lessen the invective— 
To randomly let loose a smile
    Nor seldom nor selective— 

The news which came to me a shock
    Might have produced more grieving,
But I must mourn while taking stock:
    Some pain with you is leaving.

On Learning the Death of a Peer

7/15/2019

 

The poet was a pompous ass
And now the man has died, alas— 
His verses they have all come down
From off the web, and his renown,
Which he, in life, boldly declared
Perpetual, has disappeared.

That he was loved by one or two,
As man or poet, this I knew,
But men who dish out such contempt
From reciprocity exempt
Will never prove to be, in life
Nor death, this world with malice rife.

He hated homosexuals,
Jews, colored people, and who else?
So picayune, his coterie
Did not have room for even me,
And he made known his great disdain— 
Could he have been a soul in pain?

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,
Frameworks of fame begin to rust,
As seldom anymore you hear
His name, but that is life, I fear— 
Perhaps his kindness was reserved
For wife and children, death disturbed.

Perhaps they mourn him and they grieve,
Lamenting that he had to leave;
But let his soul reside in peace
And from life’s malice find release,
Discord he did so much to sow:
Sleep well, apart from worldly woe.

Theater vs. Drama vs. Storytelling

7/14/2019

 
A massive protest occurred in Chicago yesterday against the ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) policies of the US government which have seen countless immigrants housed at detention centers (including concentration camps) throughout the country or “disappeared,” children torn from their parents even amid growing concerns about a pedophilia scandal engulfing high reaches of government. It was one of the largest protests I’ve personally witnessed in the last 2+ years, though you would never guess it from this morning’s headline at the Chicago Tribune:
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The protest ended after a march past ICE headquarters around 1pm; as it happened, Silk Road Rising, located across from the main protest ground, hosted two play readings (at 3pm and 7pm respectively) as part of a “Staging the Stans” project, which I saw.

The first, titled Uzbek, was a stand-up comedy routine, not a play, focusing on themes Russian bureaucracy. Whatever its merits (the actor did a good job), the piece falls outside my purview—though it raises the question, to what extent may unembellished storytelling be classed as theater?

The second, The Store by Olzhas Zhanaydarov, had more substance to it. A two-hander, two actresses face the audience and alternate telling each character’s experience of “the store” with very little interaction between them, and that both perfunctory and pro forma. There was no drama. There were no “stakes.” There was only a mass of reminiscence. Each character told her story, as it were, in either case a dismal affair. That said, the experience—dealing with a case (based on true life) of modern-day slavery occurring in the heart of Moscow—was compelling enough.

The situation described was bad, with the details, as they piled up, showing it to be worse, and worse, and worse, ending only with the death of one of the protagonists. The subject might have done well as a short story; and I don’t wonder if the play’s author mayn’t have found it in such a format—or at least a first-person account in the tabloid magazine. (I say it that way not to diminish horrendous experience, but to qualify it as literary.)

The chief interest lay in the subject matter—and I wonder, would the play bear repeated viewing, or reading? Would a first viewing have been undermined by revelation of the underlying conceit—or, to say it differently, if so-called spoilers had killed all surprise? (I don’t have an answer for that question, though it may be telling, that, knowing what I know, I would be unlikely to revisit the play even in a fully staged performance.”)

The “action,” such as there were, consisted only of two characters talking, at you, the audience, not to each other, with some minimal stage shenanigans revolving around a children’s playlot swingset. The narrator (of the stage directions) was scarcely audible, but nothing was missed, because nothing happened of import; the interest lay in the monologues, each individually and then some in the way they were made to bounce off of each other in juxtaposition.

Modern day slavery—in all its excruciating detail—deserves attention; and the play was worthy in that respect. It was theater, but was it drama? That is another question I have wrestled with, coming to no firm conclusions—though one of my plays, a four-hander, comes close to merely accounting an individual story sans climacteric.

Alison Croggon, on the difference between reading a play or seeing it staged, writes, “I don’t see how one cancels out the other, or how ‘literary’ and ‘dramatic' qualities are mutually exclusive. (Nor, by the way, is all theatre writing ‘drama’—did Beckett write ‘drama?’).” This speaks to another issue which has exercised my imagination in the past—the difference between theater and drama. I have always posited myself—not without pomp—as a practitioner of “drama” explicitly and not just theater, which rightfully comprises many disparate elements.

When it comes to defining drama I find myself at loose ends, however. Generally, I have relied on the Socratic distinction between Comedy and Tragedy, albeit leaving more room for a mix between these polar opposites—if indeed opposite they are. I cannot be sure, because while I have felt, through my own practice and study, to have gotten a hang of the former, what constitutes the latter leaves me flummoxed and perplexed. (I have not read Aristotle on the matter; and recognize that other traditions exist which owe nothing and do not subscribe to the traditional Western dichotomy.)

With Croggon—upon whose judgement you can rely—I find myself at antipodes a little bit. The first time I ever read Beckett—after I had struck out on my own as a playwright—one thing that shone clearly through the words on the page to me might well be summarized: this man really understands comedy. For me, comedy is part and parcel to drama—ergo, Beckett must be drama. That is what he wrote.

The critic sees things from one perspective; the craftsman from another. The critic might have the broader view, the artist his hard-won myopic confidence. We use the same words but differently—and it behooves one to squint in an attempt to understand what his counterpart across the aisle means.
​
​That said, one thing shone forth from both presentations at Silk Road Rising: the strong accent on immigrants and issues of immigration, regardless the Russian context, made the plays (or “pieces”) feel intensely relevant to the calling for justice which prompted so large a gathering in the Chicago morning. More than a play purporting to auspices of “art for art’s sake” would have done.

Remainder

7/10/2019

 

​   
I stand a solitary man
        Beset by various plagues,
Wondering if to weather them I can
Even as time reduces me to rags.

    “Things fall apart; the center” fails— 
        I strive to keep my balance,
Upon the promontory. About me wails
The wind of changing fortune and condolence.

    Let me not lapse into self-pity.
        The city swirls indifferent,
As I persist in my existence gritty;
My world dissolves, and leaves me without referent.

    She whom I loved, and he on whom
        Depended for my strength
And sustenance, have either left the room
Or edge doorward, to cover left no length.

    I stand; but must before too long
        Lie down to sleep forever,
Knowing that I was insufficient strong
To win the battle; insufficient clever.

    Let time press down on my remains
        Obliterating them,
For I have seen dispersed my treasured gains
And seen the jewel fall from love’s diadem.

Red Hat Marauders

7/10/2019

 

Red hat marauders in the night
Believe themselves the arbiters
Of what is good and what is right,
As final conquest they rehearse,
    When all who don some other hat
    Will be pressed down and steamrolled flat.

Red hat believers in the use
Of lies, deception, cheats and fraud
To gain their ends, strive to confuse
Through euphemism, Greed with God,
    But treating truth like a backgammon
    Reveals them servants but of Mammon.

Red hat thugs (never shy to hurt you)
Wield weaponry backed by invective,
Claiming themselves to hold all virtue
(Albeit inconstant and selective),
    And boast God-loving patriots
    Themselves when really all are sots.

The red hat, not innocuous,
Became a symbol of their hate,
Which they exude like oozing pus
Whilst claiming that it makes them great— 
    Republicans, who aim to fight us
    To death which are themselves detritus.

The Red Hat Brigade

7/10/2019

 

It’s interesting what they have made,
The red hat pedophile brigade,
A pipeline to their deep desires,
Fanning, not tamping, lustful fires!

With children separated from
Their families—lacking dad and mum— 
A child is ripe for the abuse
Considered by Red Hats “right use.”

You see them crawling in the shade,
The pitiful Red Hat Brigade,
Deplorable unto their cores
Making life safe for predators.

What else do you expect, dear chump?
Your vote has made this place a dump,
Lie in this bed you all have made,
O red hat pedophile brigade!

Indeed, it seems you well are sons
Of Washingtons and Jeffersons,
Willing the beast which has two backs
Through rapes and unprovoked attacks.
​

They Brought Him Flowers (Manet)

7/9/2019

 

The painter wasted syphilitic,
Yet no existence eremitic
His waning years—friends visited
Albeit along his illness sped:
Flowers deposited in vases
Became his theme, not forlorn faces
Of pretty lasses, vanished quite
The human form, and then—goodnight!
​

Picture
From Manet and Modern Beauty at the Art Institute

After the Accident

7/8/2019

 

While life persists,
Trouble and suffering ensue,
Nor there is much that you can do
While life persists.

Until you die,
The winds of fortune have you at
Their mercy; naught be done with that
Until you die.

You fail again,
Keep failing forward; the attempt
Leaves not a living soul exempt.
You fail again.
​

Oh Lord, I beg
For mercy in the time remaining,
And for hope’s salve to my complaining,
Oh Lord, I beg.

For Services Rendered by W. Somerset Maugham

7/5/2019

 

A year ago in April Griffin Theatre held an unstaged reading of For Services Rendered by W. Somerset Maugham. It felt a little hokey, per my recall; but when I blogged about it after I scant mentioned the event itself. I have a book; and so I read the play thereafter.

Tonight, without having remembered that, I saw Griffin’s fully-staged production of the same play. It redeemed itself; or rather, the deficiencies of my imagination were filled in by an excellent cast (one part was played by a weak, miscast actor, but otherwise the ensemble was well-fitted to the roles and they acted well) and expected top-notch direction by Robin Witt, one of Chicago’s finest.

It is too late in the evening for me to breakdown what I liked about the play. It was of and for its time, to be sure, but I wish more of our contemporary plays were filled with elements—including a high seriousness—of Maugham. He was a greatly popular playwright—for a moment, the greatest—but I nearly lament that I could not write like him.

The political situation in my country has ruined the possibility of writing the type of play I did; and personal circumstances prevent my trying a hand at something else. But even if such a format were permitted me in my times, my own creative deficiencies would prohibit me. I adapted one Maugham story; but the resultant play was nothing like a Maugham play.

He of course both wrote original theatrical works, and adapted his own stories for the stage. What a remarkable talent, Mr. Maugham.

Kids in Kages

7/4/2019

 
Even if I live to be an old, old man (instead of merely an old man), I will never equal Marcus Bales in his ability to find new (and appropriate) words to old songs. Once in a while I try my hand, because a phrase jogs my mind, but following through, erecting a structure for the entirety, usually fails me.

Here is one such effort, to the tune of “Love and Marriage,” popularly sung by Frank Sinatra.
​

Kids in Cages

Kids in cages, kids in cages,
You have to wonder just what it presages— 
Let me tell you brother
It’s ev’ry child snatched from its mother.


Kids in cages, kids in cages,
It hardly matters how much it enrages,
Ask the average voter,
The topic couldn’t be remoter!


Try, try, try to care about them, it’s a confusion,
Try, try, try, till growing numb leads to collusion.


Kids in cages, kids in cages,
You have to tremble at what it presages— 
Let me tell you brother,
It's ev’ry child, the truth beguiled,
It's ev’ry child snatched from its mother.
​

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