Part three of an accidental meditation on writing
(and the limits of contextually useful "R" words) . . .
I'm sick of love but I'm in the thick of it
This kind of love I'm so sick of it
I see, I see lovers in the meadow
I see, I see silhouettes in the window
I watch them 'til they're gone and they leave me hanging on
To a shadow
I'm sick of love; I hear the clock tick
This kind of love; I'm love sick . . .
Could you ever be true?
I think of you
And I wonder
I'm sick of love; I wish I'd never met you
I'm sick of love; I'm trying to forget you
Just don't know what to do
I'd give anything to
Be with you
--Bob Dylan, "Love Sick"
This has been a week of substantial breakthroughs with regard to The Work: A newly deepened, newly understood resolution to Beatrice's story arc has occurred, along with a more clearly seen and portrayed connection between Tony and Beatrice (transformed into something both simpler and more complex--the usual result of true insight). Lastly, a minor theme--Beatrice's writing--has been elevated to important-motif status; portrayed in parallel with Tony's art, critical elements of their relationship are examined from the oblique angle of their respective art. (This has forced me to rough-in what will be a body of Beatrice's poems. Thankfully, all those hack-saturated years of putting words in other mouths and pens--speechwriting and ghost-writing--made me a very good mimic: As models, I had certain actual poems in mind, and I think I've pretty much nailed their voice and approach--similar to the Beatrice horoscopes, which nod to at the tone of a specific astrological series.)
Also on my Ah-Ha! List this week was a sudden, unexpected comprehension of the relationship between the theater piece and the novel. Conceptually, I'm dealing with a triptych--the same themes and characters seen through three different media and three different stories. Each,, will have stand-alone artistic integrity (fingers crossed), but taken as a whole--as a three-part-single work--larger truths emerge. (By way of explanation, here is my long-held theory about the Star Wars films: With enough installments, in a large enough fictional time frame, the main characters of the story become the robots, C3PO and R2D2. Whether intended or not, the 'droids will eventually become central in much the same way Tom Stoppard shifted the focus of Hamlet from the Prince to Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. In a similar fashion, bigger truths are in evidence in my triptych--stuff not as obvious in any specific iteration.)
But having said this--having established three artistic "panels" and grouping them in such a way that each provides context for the others--what actually connects them? Pretend my project is like a Byzantine religious icon that folds up, providing portability for pilgrims. What functions as its hinges? Beyond juxtaposition, how do the panels touch each other?
The answer came to me in the middle of my steadily escalating exercise regimen. (With determination, I'm rectifying an unavoidable lapse in my fitness. After all, bench-pressing one's own weight invariably turns out to useful--how the hell do you think I scrambled back up on the path after dangling over Reichenbach Falls? To Douglas Adams' "Always know where your towel is" I add, "Perpetually train to easily lift your own weight.") There I was, working shoulders and triceps, and thinking about the libretto of the theater piece, when wham! I clearly saw one of the hinges of my triptych. In retrospect, I'm not certain if I was merely blind earlier, or if the libretto needed to reach a certain stage of development before the connection with the book became evident . . .
The triptych is not the same story told three different ways--it's the same psychological imperatives examined three times over. This distinction is critical. Beatrice and Tony are individually wired to fall in love with each other with disastrous results. Their end is as encoded in their psychologies as their beginning. Their collision with one another effectively seals the deal. Nic Roeg's previously mentioned observation about bad timing pretty much sums it up. Beatrice and Tony are both damaged individuals--possibly identically damaged. It's the attraction: The similarly skewed psychologies and emotional lives are instantly recognized by each of them at some level. This mirroring deeply connects them. That's the Love bit. But at the same time, Beatrice and Tony have chosen to approach their mutual non-normalcy in very different ways. The twin challenges of both disguising and accommodating their inner problems are unique to each of them--but, tragically, their approaches are utterly incompatible. And that's the Death-and-Destruction bit.
While conditions undoubtedly played an important part in maiming both of them, the damage itself, much like the injury Tony sustains during the fight in the novel, is then a given and, paradoxically, a-conditional. Downstream of the psychological and emotional damage, Beatrice and Tony are fated to simultaneously attract and repel each other. The story arc of the libretto is completely different from the story arc of the novel. But since we've once again joined our couple post-damage, the results are always the same. See it as a nihilistic variant of reincarnation--where enlightenment, and therefore advancement, is impossible.
But the novelistic and theatrical stories per se aren't the point--multiple iterations of the saga allow me to further map the psychologies of Beatrice and Tony--with shifting emphasis and perspective. Remember what I said about releasing inherent art and its companion dictate, realizing resonance? Well, once again, these kinds of artistic channeling are in evidence. Sometime during the past couple of weeks, I noted that the novel's relationship to the theater piece was one of parallel dimensions--same couple, in three different circumstances, all playing-out simultaneously. And pretty much, that's the point I've once again arrived at--but with more insight and a greater articulation.
I could have written a play. I could have authored a novel. There was no need to do both--or to add a post-modern pop album to the mix. But the resonance was exponentially greater in a triptych. Back then, I couldn't have told you why, but I recognized it. And further, I was wise enough to not only let the respective stories of book and libretto go where they wanted, but also allowed the projects to naturally collide and intertwine with each other, rather than imposing an assumption-based connection. In short, after carefully setting up the conditions for art to happen, I expedited the process by stepping back and letting the art occur--including the psychological and aesthetic double exposures created by the projects overlaying each other.
Explanation always comes at the price of oversimplification. But the point about expediting the art seems important enough to risk a seeming reduction of my thematic concerns. However, if I'm doing my authorial job, a lot of other things are also happening book- and libretto-wise. Here's a taste of some of that other stuff: The further--and possibly greater--tragedy of Beatrice and Tony is while their mutual damage is a given, their accommodations of it--say, the choice of a metaphoric cane versus a wheelchair versus a leg brace--are inherently flexible. Or, by rights, should have been. But somehow they weren't. A strong case can be made that the unique self-treatments of Beatrice and Tony for their personal past injuries also killed their future love. Discuss. Or, my case, write.
Which, come to think of it, is probably something I should be doing now . . .
PS: An extraordinary new version of "On Your Way (Beatrice's Song)" can be found in the Projects section of the blog sidebar to the right and also here. Bazz has continued to tweak it in order to find all the emotional nuances--and he's been jaw-droppingly successful. Merely listen to his reading of the line, "Better now to believe in this desire" and be amazed. Clearly, I am attached to this song in ways far out of proportion even to my role as coauthor, but nevertheless I declare this iteration to be special--very nearly the arrangement I hope to hear while standing in the back of a darkened theater.
A brief word about new new sidebar microsite: While it may sightly delay roll-up and refreshing of the site, I'm experimenting with featuring the newest versions of the Formal Absences theater songs on the top level of this blog and persistently so (ie, newer sidebar information will not force the songs into the archives). Going forward, the Projects section of the sidebar will always be found below my author's photo. Let me know if this kind easy access is helpful.
