Friday, August 24, 2018











The Antigone Syndrome
How all is lost in a whim of fate.
Theater Musings







by









Gary Beck
garycbeck@yahoo.com
www.garycbeck.com
www.facebook.com/AuthorGaryBeck


© 2018




            A princess of the great house of Laius, that rules Thebes, has everything her world provides. Her parents, Oedipus and Jocasta, rule wisely and well. She is betrothed to Haemon, son of Creon, brother of Jocasta, the foremost lord in the land, after the king and princes, Eteocles and Polyneices.
            Antigone has wealth, luxury, position and love, until plague strikes Thebes. Oedipus sends for Tiresias, the blind prophet, who reluctantly reveals the plague is punishment for Oedipus' patricide and incest. Jocasta hangs herself in shame. Oedipus blinds himself and renounces the throne.
            Eteocles and Polyneices, one of whom will be  king, do not  seem to be overly distressed at the revelation that their father is their brother and their mother is their sister. They are powerful lords,  to be feared if provoked by public comment. They agree to alternate rulership and Eteocles rules first.
            Antigone and her fragile sister, Ismene, must live with the shame and humiliation of being offspring of incestuous parents. When they venture out of the palace, they feel the oppression of judgment by the people of the city, who do not dare confront them openly. The shame is unbearable, yet they must persevere, determined by their class and position. But Thebes is a small kingdom and everyone knows their dreadful story and awaits further disaster, which they believe will inevitably strike this cursed House.
            At the end of Eteocles agreed term of rulership, he refuses to vacate the throne. He banishes Polyneices, who returns with an army and besieges Thebes. The long suffering Thebans had endured the Sphinx killing anyone who entered or left the city, who couldn't answer the riddle: what walks on four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon and three legs in the evening? Oedipus' answer, man, vanquished the Sphinx and freed the city. Then Thebes was ravaged by plague. Now war was devouring their children and loved ones in the struggle between two brothers for rulership.
            Antigone and Ismene were surely blamed for the woes inflicting the people, for it was the curse on their House that brought these horrors to Thebes.
            When Eteocles and Polyneices fought in single combat and killed each other, Creon, brother of Jocasta, became king. He proclaimed honorable burial rites for Eteocles, who defended his city, but exposure to the wild beasts for Polyneices, who attacked his city.
            Antigone went to Creon, surely a demeaning action for a former great princess to beg of her uncle, and asked permission to give burial rites to her brother, according to law and custom. Creon refused. She insisted it was her duty to give her brother burial rights, desperate to overcome her shame by performing the honorable ritual.
            Creon issued a proclamation:  'Anyone giving burial rites to Polyneices would be killed'.  Antigone left defiantly, asserting it was her duty to the gods to give her brother burial rites. Creon's son, Haemon, knowing how stubborn they both were, tried to intervene to save his betrothed, but Creon wouldn't listen.
            Antigone, driven to near madness by shame, gave Polyneices burial rites, perhaps seeking redemption in the hallowed ritual. Creon found out and had her buried alive. Haemon killed himself and Ismene went mad, thus tragically ending the rule of the House of Laius.
            Antigone, a woman of intelligence, beauty. breeding, had everything, then lost everything to cruel fate, which destroyed her for the sins of her father’s father. She was an innocent victim, who might have become a great queen, but became a tragic figure, a creature to be pitied, possibly admired by a few, for her death with honor. Yet it is reasonable to assume that Antigone could not live with the burden fate had placed on her and chose to die, rather then live with shame.
            The actress must create a complex role, but perform it simply, so the audience feels her anguish and pities her for her loss and suffering. Yet this is not a dramatic reenactment, nor the scholarly retelling of a myth. This is a passionate, soaring character, tormented by the horrible discovery of her parents relationship and her brothers’ death. She is noble, dignified, arrogant, righteous, tortured and prefers death to a life of shame. The actress must make the audience feel her character’s suffering, in order to sustain the intensity of the play.

Thursday, June 21, 2018

Acts of God

Let the Egyptians boil in the foam of their roiling
Red Soup, choke on goat bones, meet the wrath
— though, think about it:  They were just grunts,
doing the Man’s business.  Sometimes, the Hebrews
were the mercenaries.  This time, the Egyptians
were Chaldeans and Persians and, for all I know,
Prussians.

Moses walks into McDonald’s with Aaron and stutters
his order for a large f-f-f-fries.  Aaron rolls his eyes. 
“Take a breath, little brother, no rush. Sigh a moment
of peace.  God knows, you seared your hands wrestling
the bush, and your face, the ripples of your scars are
hard to look at.”

Miriam, the youngest, wanted to take that raw face
in her hands and fold it to her breasts as if to suckle
the sad, stunned boy inside.

God claims full measure.
​--​

Six distractions
during five dances by the Chicago Repertory Ballet

Mother sins. Women save.

The dance,
elegant clumsy thighs,
thick steel, smooth strength.

Mother thunder. Women meadow.

The dance,
sleek ancient,
buttocks beauty.

Mother stone. Women touch.

The dance,
shoulder, shoulder, shoulder,
blue pulse.

Mother shut. Women shout.

The dance,
long leg, long arm,
sinewed song.

Mother dark. Women shine.

The dance,
full-bodied Alleluia
and thanks be to God.

Mother fear.  Women hope.

---
Stone and flesh


Eternal, I stand dark before
boulder on boulder on
boulder on boulder, floor
to cave ceiling, voiceless
idol, her face the top, with
toddler brother’s hand in
mine —- our dread, our
yearning, our electricity too
frail to puncture her stone
skin and guts and mind and
heart, her vengeful glare
lighted by all the lights of the
Cosmos, blinding, one stealing
around to the next cave and
the same idol, and my brother
staying behind to bash his
skull all the days of his life
against the stern inert flesh.

---

Words and phrases from William Styron’s book about depression, highlighted in yellow by my brother several years before his suicide — a found poem*

wasn’t cheered by the festive occasion dank joylessness habitual pretense failure of alleviation laid low gloom crowding in excruciating near-paralysis maintain rosy view need day over shadows encroaching anxiety and dread demanding struggle obliterated any enjoyable response
close to actual pain drowning suffocation positive and active anguish immobilized trance of supreme discomfort helpless stupor full-time exhaustion almost measurably worse brownout ferocious inwardness immense distraction

guilt and self-condemnation absence of hope leaden and poisonous mood pattern of distress intensity and relief incomplete letup immediate upheaval nearly helpless a bullet through his brain

black despondency

melancholia howling tempest in the brain less zestful waiting to swoop down indifferent suffocating gloom aching solitude violent thoughts near paralysis sapped drained without savor absence of dreams death a daily presence think ceaselessly of oblivion

stretched on such a torture rack dependence a world soon obliterated full of anguish suffering crucifixion

an end to myself either course was torture inner convulsion despair beyond despair an irreversible decision oncoming disaster extinction inadequate apologies go out in silence numbly unresponsive some last gleam of sanity

only duty try to get well

the abyss mysterious in its coming still shaky

struck again grip of depression at its ghastliest unrealistic hopelessness genetic roots

a dark wood horror of depression only remedy behold the stars



*Words and phrases highlighted in a paperback edition of Styron’s Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness (Vintage). Each stanza is from a different chapter in the book.

Patrick T. Reardon


Monday, May 28, 2018


Kids in Florida

The Trials of Nuremberg
never slowed down the anguish
that man tried to pass on within a stepping stone
of dissociated guilt…
And if Buddha is your “thing”
Well then bow down to the chanting
harmony of want…

Do we ever climb into the space that
saves seventeen kids? Theorize what
agony is within our own little mind…

Prancing with false bravado…a
Twitter rant or faceboob comment about
how actors can play the role of deviant
political farce…
Then the sickening larva will
lick their glistening lips…looking
over the bodies of souls in camps or
step around the blood of a freshman band member…

Crying “the horror, the horror…” That was good
enough for Marlon Brando…but it could never
extinguish the rationalization of another, another
Pathetic look-away.

Dan Provost

Devout



At length

we are born to wonder…

My God is better

than yours—but,

in the end…the same place

will be dark…

Rancid…

Smelling of sweat.



Deep –we will think

for years, but settle

nothing…in failure

mode of whatever

sin may be in vogue

today…

Dan Provost

Jesus in the Garden

 Gethsemane…

You begged.

You failed.

Others have pleaded

on a smaller stage,

Maybe not with big

time consequences…

But tasted the poison too…

And they wanted to get out just

as much as you did…

When their sentence was announced

and the blood refused

to stop flowing…

All of you died…

Some with fanfare…

Others in fields in

the middle of nowhere…

Jesus…your morality is commendable

An unselfish spirt …

Who to some, was killed

for our sins…I just

know of others

who took the quiet

way out…No prayers

or books were written

about them…Some

pained faces, staring

into a faceless mirror…

Day after day after

day…

Dan Provost



Sunday, May 20, 2018


             Over The Process

I ran amongst the best only to realize they were all worn out as me .

I made it to the front the best never concern themselves with what others are doing .

One day we sat amongst one another .
We were what most considered to be the standouts at what we did.

I still after all these years can't figure out what I do to begin with.


"Hey man great job on that last one I read fucking really made me laugh" .

Randy said to me in his usual laid back manner .

He had been at this as long as me.

It's just unlike me he had been knocking down doors and winning the race long before l even knew I was in the running .

"I appreciate it bud ".

Stan was silent .

Stanley was a far more polished writer than I.
And found success quickly and easily once made some fellow writer's hate him.

I didn't hate him I simply respected his gift and kept my distance .

To them both I was the freak of nature a worn out train wreck that could hold his own .

Crazy wasn't a act when it came to me .

I lived my work and most respected that although in my ever declining health they recognized a sinking ship for what it was .

We saw the kids catching up they flew by us as if they were really doing something .

Most made sure they said hello to Randy as they passed .

None said shit to me .

Most never understood the only true competition is ones self .
Not letting your ego override your ass .

I let the others chase their own tails  as I sat there in the sun relaxed not giving a single damn.


I was over the process long before I even began .


John Robbins


                Paint By Number

Beyond this page there is nothing more for you to see.
I bare no truths you cannot read .

I am miles and miles of pavement concrete and stone .
Broken bones mended now replaced by something far more brutal than you can comprehend.

Being tuff means nothing.
It is no badge of honor .
If you live to be seventy and never knew a ounce of pain then I believe you never lived a day in your life.

Pain is just something we cannot avoid .


I hate to tell you that.
I hate to be the one that admits the truth when so many rather protect you with a lie.

Don't chase dreams when you can have happiness instead.
Don't feed you ego's cravings to say your tougher than the rest.

Don't believe the bullshit in old westerns .

Death comes quickly for most and never soon enough for miserable fucks like me .

We all bare are scars .
Sometimes it really is best to leave well enough alone .

John Robbins

                               Pimple Popper


She always spent her nights watching pimple popping videos and sometimes she wondered why she was alone.
Some were small others looked like something out of B horror movie .
All filled with pus .

The woman who made the videos just kept talking like everything was normal as she squeezed and scraped out more and more from these people.

For her it was another day at the office and for my friend it was her entertainment .

She got me to watch a few with her my stomach turned as I fought of the urge to puke as we spoke on the phone .

It became a regular thing .

And I had to question her sanity but then I would have to look at myself in the process .

We talked every night as she sent video after video.

Most men wanted naked pictures I just wanted anything but to see another damn infected sore popped in front of my eyes.

The nights we didn't talk I really missed that woman .
Now every time I saw a zit I thought of her .

It was a strange relationship indeed .

John Robbins


The Page Won't Have Me
I was burnt out for months I was swinging for the fences and hitting them out of the park.

Then one day it happened.
I sat there hung-over feeling like shit I had a deadline, but I never worried over deadlines.

I stared at the page.

Nothing was there.

I once saw a highway now I simply saw a page with no direction.

I panicked.

It no longer was a hobby it was my job I swam with the sharks and now here I was standing upon the shore afraid to even dip my toes in the water.

What the fuck was happening!
I couldn't afford to choke and I wasn’t about to grant the wishes of those who yearned to see me fall flat on my ass.

We were about to face a drought.
And I was fucked in the worse way possible.

I found the nearest bar and vanished into a corner booth.
Maybe I was losing it finally.

People always leave.
The page never had.

The mental ward was always an option least there I could hide amongst the forgotten.

Everyone was lost far to deeply within themselves to give a damn about you.

I sat in front that page bottle in hand like some scalper waiting in line for hours just to get those tickets and make his hustle.

I sat there like some woman waiting for a man who was off enjoying his life while she wasted hers alone.


I needed a home and I needed a drink, the page stood before me like some tempting lover.

She knew I needed her she simply wasn’t having me tonight.

John Robbins 

Sunday, March 18, 2018

The Story I Always Wanted to Write:
An Ode to My Childhood Imagination

Welcome to the City, once called Salem, changed to Slam, a bit of scratching on the road sign.  Maybe it’s a change in the atmosphere, more rays allowed through, but here people could do amazing feats.  Just the kind of feats I wanted to do as a kid.

Slam City is where you can find…

a slender robotic assassin with ebony liquid skin, probably inspired by The Matrix;

a man with implements on his feet large enough to cause an earthquake.  I called him Stamper, imagined his thudding steps shattering the world to its center.

A guy who could leap a tall building in a…well, you know.  Kangaroo. I drew him once or twice, complete with hat and bionic legs.

Because who wouldn’t want bionic legs?  

A figure from my dreams with gun metal gray hair and a mouth sewn shut, stitched dark clothing, went by the name Silence.  He was probably inspired by The Crow.

I drew his costume in between drawing the one I would wear when I could save the world.  Superhero was going to be my hobby, I suppose.  I settled for writing about them instead.

An unfortunate fool who turned the wrong knob in an experiment and became a living creature of stone, dubbed Cement.

My family pet, the barky Chihuahua, blown up into a fifteen-feet tall monster, his bug-eyes bouncing along a dark street.

A character inspired by Jim Carrey’s Mask with purple skin, a lavender suit, and two ping- pong paddles to spin him into manic orbit.  He would deliver jokes I had not written yet.

Maybe I read too many comics.  Maybe I watched too many films.  These days, I embrace my graphic novel reading and blog about it.

To finish this world out, an entire race called The Lizards who lived on the bottom, darkened level of the metropolis, led by a scarlet-clad reptile man called Levine.  Surely this many-leveled world was inspired by my frequent visits to Batman Forever.

Another race of creatures called The Sand who live in the outer recesses where the urban landscape meets what used to be forest.

I dreamed their stories daily in my childhood walks with my father and his large black dog.

In those reflections, I saw a figure with the wings of a hawk and the body of a man who could swoop down deliver them all, if he only cared. 

JD DeHart

Wednesday, January 17, 2018

Green Sandal Monologue

Laundry has to be done, but I am not doing it today. I am on break today. All day long.  The world is not perfect, you will not find it this way and you will not be responsible to leave it this way. 

Strawberry wine is good when executed correctly; when the air gets to it, it tastes like tires. Drunkenness is not essential to a good drink. If the drink isn’t good, then you might want to shoot it down fast. But, then, why did drink it in the first place? The best winery in town is actually outside of town; you can settle for the closer one, but the air gets to the wine too easily there. You will be embarrassed if you buy it as a gift for someone.

I do not like lawn chairs but I do like a nice chair to sit in the shade, beneath an umbrella. I burn too easily. My sandals are clumped up with grass. It will need to be mowed again, sometime after I finally do laundry. The dogs bring in evidence of the yard each time they step back into the house. Summer goes quickly, but so does everything else; in autumn, the feeling of death is in the air. It is the process of leaving something behind; winter comes and we sit quietly in our houses, staying warm; spring opens up the opportunity but be careful because cold still comes as part of the package – sometimes, rarely, and without warning.

JD DeHart