And There Are a Lot of Things the Lack of Which I Can Easily Associate With Theater Rhino, But Balls Is Not One of Them

Dave and I just got a note from a director friend of ours asking if we have any disco-style mirror balls we could lend Theater Rhino for their 30th anniversary revue next week. They only have four so far, and they want more.

Hard to believe that Theater Rhino doesn’t have a box of 38 mirror balls in storage somewhere. Surely this is not the first time in 30 years that a director at Rhino has thought of having lots and lots of mirror balls on stage at all once. First time in 30 weeks, maybe.

The Wrong Side of History, the Wrong Side of Morality, and the Wrong Side of Truth

My friend Terry sent me the text of an open letter that John Shelby Spong wrote to the Archbishop of Canterbury a few days ago. As usual, Bishop Spong just totally rocks.

This may be my favorite passage, though there are many to choose from:

You continue to act as if quoting the Bible to undergird a dying prejudice is a legitimate tactic. It is in fact the last resort that religious people always use to validate “tradition” over change. The Bible was quoted to support the Divine Right of Kings in 1215, to oppose Galileo in the 17th century, to oppose Darwin in the 19th century, to support slavery and apartheid in the 19th and 20th centuries, to keep women from being educated, voting and being ordained in the 20th and 21st century. Today it is quoted to continue the oppression and rejection of homosexual people. The Bible has lost each of those battles. It will lose the present battle and you, my friend, will end up on the wrong side of history, the wrong side of morality and the wrong side of truth.

I have to quibble about “The Bible has lost each of those battles,” because it isn’t the Bible that has lost those battles but rather those who have made absurd claims about what the Bible contains, claims that could have been disproven at any time just by reading the darned thing in large passages rather than picking at it a sentence or two at a time taken out of context, which is the usual practice.

But here’s the whole letter.

Dear Rowan,

I am delighted that you have agreed to meet with the House of Bishops of the American Episcopal Church in September, even if you appear to be unwilling to come alone. It has seemed strange that you, who have had so much to say about the American Church, have not been willing to do so before now. Your office is still honored by Episcopalians in this country, so our bishops will welcome you warmly and politely. We have some amazingly competent men and women in that body, many of whom have not yet met you.

There is clearly an estrangement between that body and you in your role as the Archbishop of Canterbury. I want to share with you my understanding of the sources of that estrangement. First, I believe that most of our senior bishops, including me, were elated, at your appointment by Queen Elizabeth II and Prime Minister Tony Blair. Most Americans are not aware that yours is an appointed, not an elected position. Those of us who knew you were keenly aware of your intellectual gifts, your openness on all of the great social debates of our generation and indeed of your personal warmth. We also believed that the Lambeth Conference of 1998, presided over by your predecessor, George Carey, had been a disaster that would haunt the Communion for at least a quarter of a century. An assembly of bishops hissing at and treating fellow bishops with whom they disagreed quite rudely, was anything but an example of Christian community. The unwillingness of that hostile majority to listen to the voices of invited gay Christians, their use of the Bible in debate as a weapon to justify prejudice, the almost totalitarian attempt made to manage the press and to prevent access to the wider audience and the dishonest denial of the obvious and blatant homophobia among the bishops made that Lambeth Conference the most disillusioning ecclesiastical gathering I have ever attended. The Church desperately needed new leadership and so many of us greeted your appointment with hope. Your detractors in the evangelical camp both in England and in the third world actively lobbied against your appointment. The hopes of those of us who welcomed your appointment were, however, short lived because in one decision after another you seemed incapable of functioning as the leader the Church wanted and needed.

It began at the moment of your appointment when you wrote a public letter to the other primates assuring them that you would not continue in your enlightened and open engagement with the moral issue of defining and welcoming those Christians who are gay and lesbian.

We all knew where you stood. Your ministry had not been secret. We knew you had been one of the voices that sought to temper the homophobia of your predecessor’s rhetoric. We knew of your personal friendship with gay clergy and that you had even knowingly ordained a gay man to the priesthood. You, however, seemed to leap immediately to the conclusion that unity was more important than truth. Perhaps you did not realize that your appointment as the archbishop was because you had different values from those of your predecessor and that your values were exactly what the Church wanted and needed in its new archbishop.

In that letter, in a way that was to me a breathtaking display of ineptitude and moral weakness, you effectively abdicated your leadership role. The message you communicated was that in the service of unity you would surrender to whoever had the loudest public voice.

A leader gets only one chance to make a good first impression and you totally failed that chance. Unity is surely a virtue, but it must be weighed against truth, the Church’s primary virtue.

Next came the bizarre episode of the appointment of the Rev. Dr. Jeffrey John, a known gay priest, to be the area bishop for Reading in the Diocese of Oxford. He was proposed by the Bishop of Oxford, Richard Harries. The nomination was approved by all of the necessary authorities, including you, the Prime Minister and the Queen. The fundamentalists and the evangelicals were predictably severe and anything but charitable or Christian. They and their allies in the press assassinated Jeffrey John’s character and made his life miserable. Once again you collapsed in the face of this pressure and, in a four-hour conversation, you forced your friend and mine, Jeffery John, who is not only a brilliant New Testament scholar, but also one who gave you his word that he was living a celibate life, to resign his appointment to that Episcopal office. The message went out for all to hear that if people are angry enough, the Archbishop will always back down. Your leadership, as well as our trust in your integrity, all but disappeared.

Shortly thereafter, you concurred in a “guilt” appointment by naming Jeffrey Dean of St. Alban’s Cathedral. It is a strange church and a strange hierarchy that proclaims that a gay man cannot be a bishop but can be a dean. Your credibility suffered once again.

When Gene Robinson in the United States was elected the Bishop of New Hampshire and, more particularly, when his election was confirmed by a concurrent majority of the bishops, priests and lay deputies at the General Convention (read General Synod), you appeared to panic. You called an urgent meeting of the primates of the entire Anglican Communion and allowed them to express enormous hostility. No one seemed to challenge either their use of scripture, which revealed an amazing ignorance of the last 250 years of biblical scholarship, or their understanding of homosexuality. By acting as if homosexuality is a choice made by evil people they violated everything that medical science has discovered about sexual orientation in the last century.

Just as the Church was historically wrong in its treatment of women, so now as a result of your leadership, we are espousing a position about homosexuality that is dated, uninformed, inhumane and frankly embarrassing. No learned person stands there today.

Then you appointed the group, under Robin Eames’ chairmanship, that produced the Windsor Report. That report confirmed every mistake you had already made. It asked the American Church to apologize to other parts of the Anglican Communion for its “insensitivity.” Can one apologize for trying to end prejudice and oppression? If the issue were slavery, would you ask for an apology to the slave holders? That report got the response it deserved. Our leaders were indeed sorry that others felt hurt, but they were not prepared to apologize for taking a giant step in removing one more killing prejudice from both the Church and the world. Those angry elements of the church were not satisfied by the Windsor report, inept as it was. They never will be until they have bent you and this communion into a pre-modern, hate filled, Bible quoting group of people incapable of embracing the world in which we live.

Next came threats issued by the primates of the excommunication of the American Episcopal Church from the Anglican Communion, as if they actually had that power. Ultimatums and deadlines for us to conform to their homophobia were treated by you as if that were appropriate behavior. When the American Church elected Katharine Jefferts-Schori to be its Presiding Bishop and thus the Primate of our Province, your response to that major achievement was pathetic. You did not rejoice that equality had finally been achieved in our struggle against sexism; your concern was about how much more difficult her election would make the life of the Anglican Communion. Once again, institutional peace was made primary to the rising consciousness that challenges what the Church has done to women for so long. When Katharine took her place among the other primates, she underwent with dignity, the refusal of some of those bishops to receive communion with her. Is that the mentality required to build unity?

Later you issued a statement saying that if homosexuals want to be received in the life of the Church, they will have to change their behavior. I found that statement incredible. If you mean they have to change from being homosexual then you are obviously not informed about homosexuality. It is not a choice or a sin, anymore than being left handed, or male or female, or black or even transgender is a choice or a sin. All of us simply awaken to these aspects of our identity. That truth is so elementary and so well documented that only prejudiced eyes can fail to recognize it. No one in intellectual circles today still gives that point of view credibility.

Next you declined to invite Gene Robinson to the Lambeth Conference of 2008. All of the closeted homosexual bishops are invited, the honest one is not invited. I can name the gay bishops who have, during my active career, served in both the Episcopal Church and in the Church of England. I bet you can too. Are you suggesting that dishonesty is a virtue?

You continue to act as if quoting the Bible to undergird a dying prejudice is a legitimate tactic. It is in fact the last resort that religious people always use to validate “tradition” over change. The Bible was quoted to support the Divine Right of Kings in 1215, to oppose Galileo in the 17th century, to oppose Darwin in the 19th century, to support slavery and apartheid in the 19th and 20th centuries, to keep women from being educated, voting and being ordained in the 20th and 21st century. Today it is quoted to continue the oppression and rejection of homosexual people. The Bible has lost each of those battles. It will lose the present battle and you, my friend, will end up on the wrong side of history, the wrong side of morality and the wrong side of truth. It is a genuine tragedy that you, the most intellectually gifted Archbishop of Canterbury in almost a century, have become so miserable a failure in so short a period of time.

You were appointed to lead, Rowan, not to capitulate to the hysterical anger of those who are locked in the past. For the sake of God and this Church, the time has come for you to do so. I hope you still have that capability.

John Shelby Spong, 8th Bishop of Newark, Retired

Some of the comments I’ve seen about this letter amaze me. For example:

Spong’s letter to [Archbishop] Rowan is most disrespectful. But consider the source: this is from a low-church bishop who seldom if ever wears the proper vestments to celebrate Mass. Such people have limited credibility until they improve their churchmanship.

I’ve seen many an argumentum ad hominem but an argumentum ad vestitum is a rarer creature.

Not So Hysterical

Dave and I saw Hysteria at the Aurora Theater today. I think there may well be a gripping play to be found somewhere in the whole unpleasant business of Freud’s recantation of his own seduction hypothesis, but this isn’t it. The farcical parts aren’t really very farcical — you don’t create a farce just by having characters hide in closets and slam doors a lot — and the serious parts are terribly earnest, one-sided, and clumsily contrived.

I have no idea what Dali is doing in the play — even though he’s the funniest character on stage, he has nothing much to do with anything. I got the feeling that the author was figuring if Tom Stoppard could write a play about James Joyce, Tristan Tzara, and Lenin all being in the same city at the same time, then by God he could write a play about the fact that Dali once visited Freud.

The play is occasionally funny — especially an unexpected series of events near the end — but only occasionally. At other times it’s pretty lame. Usually it’s neither all that bad or all that good, just uninspired and, I thought, oddly predictable.

Cut Sleeve Boys

Dave took me to see this movie on Tuesday — he’d seen it the night before and liked it a lot despite a lot of negative reviews, and he wanted to see it again.

I agreed with him — it’s a delight, a lightweight but skillfully told satirical romantic comedy about two gay Asian friends living in London. Some of it is a bit clumsy here and there, but on the other hand a lot of it is absolutely brilliant, both in its quirky observation of a subculture that there just haven’t been a whole lot of movies about, and in its shrewd storytelling technique. I was won over by the opening sequence alone — look at how much information is given to us before the first word of dialogue is spoken, and in ways that are both elegantly economical and laugh-out-loud funny.

The performances are terrific all around, and I thought Steven Lim’s as Melvin Shu was especially good, a remarkably rich and inventive portrayal of a remarkably shallow person. I thought Chowee Leow was completely endearing (in spite of being something of a bitch) as his friend Ashley Wang, taking the plunge into full-blown transvestitism for the first time.

I wonder whether some of the coolness of the reviews might have to do with critics not knowing enough about the subcultures involved to catch on to all the humor. There were an awful lot of very small and understated things that had Dave and me laughing hard — but I’ve been partnered to a first-generation Chinese-American man for nearly a decade and a half and so a lot of it for me was the laughter of recognition.

Oh, and Ash’s kitchen — oh my god. Every new camera angle had me laughing. The set designer must have had a ball — just the contrast between Ash’s and Mel’s kitchens alone tells us volumes about the two.

Well worth seeing before it leaves the theaters and metamorphs to DVD.

Trip North

Today is the last day of a short trip I’ve been taking in the northern counties.

The drive north

Tuesday afternoon I took off in the cobalt blue Chevrolet Cobalt I’ve rented for the week, crossed the San Rafael Bridge, and headed north on Hwy 101. The drive as far as Cloverdale is familiar to me by now, because I’ve been going to Billy Club gatherings up in Mendocino and Lake counties for a few years, but this time when I got to Cloverdale I left 101 and headed northwest on Hwy 128, a route I can’t remember ever taking before, though I think it’s possible that Dave and I drove this route once going the other way.

It’s a beautiful road, passing through small towns and winding through redwood forests. After maybe 90 minutes you reach the coast and connect with State Route 1, which is apparently called the Shoreline Highway in this part of the state, but which I will probably go to my grave calling it the Pacific Coast Highway because that’s what Route 1 is called in Southern California where I grew up. Until just a few years ago I thought it was PCH all the way up and down the California coast, and now every single time I drive along it, no matter how many times it’s been, I realize I have forgotten this and I have to relearn it.

From the end of 128 I headed north along (oh, to hell with it) PCH. This part of the highway I recognized as a part that I’ve been along with Dave, which is why I’m thinking maybe we took 128 back, since we didn’t get much further north than this and I know I wouldn’t have wanted to go back down the same way we’d come up. This is a beautiful road, too, running along gorgeous rocky beaches and with view after view of big white waves crashing against the cliffs.

Fort Bragg

Eventually I made it to Fort Bragg, which is where I was staying Tuesday night with my friend Joe and his fiancée Jenny, who I hadn’t met before. Fort Bragg is a charming small town with some great beaches. The three of us spent a couple of hours before dinner at Glass Beach, so called because the location used to be the site of a garbage dump and as a result there are always lots of pieces of sea glass among the pebbles. (Sea glass is what you get when a glass bottle is tossed around by the sea. The broken pieces get worn smooth and look very like pebbles.)

Back at home, while dinner was simmering, Joe and Jenny and I talked, and I learned that she is a psychologist. My bachelor’s degree is in psychology so I could ask a few intelligent questions about her work and follow her answers.

After dinner we walked into the downtown area and stopped in a restaurant bar for a glass of wine and more talk, then home and to bed. The next morning Joe and Jenny had an appointment with a personal trainer but after their workout we met up for coffee at their favorite coffeehouse in Fort Bragg, then traveled down to Mendocino where Jenny owns a house to wander another beach and be awed by another spectacular stretch of rocky coastline.

Heartwood

From Fort Bragg I headed next to the Heartwood Institute, a massage school out in the middle of nowhere where I would be camping Wednesday and Thursday nights. Heartwood has been the site of Billy Club New Year’s gatherings for nearly two decades, and I’ve been to the last three — in fact, I was general coordinator for the one two winters ago. The Heartwood gatherings have been my favorites — with the Billy Club gatherings, there seems to be a connection between the temperature and the seriousness, with the July Fourth gatherings at the one end being the most like a boisterous weekend at a gay resort, and the New Year’s gatherings at the other end being the most focused on community, spiritual growth, quiet contemplation, and good stuff like that.

So even though I have only been to three gatherings at Heartwood, I have all sorts of strong memories and associations with the place. The gathering three years ago was my fourth gathering, but the one at which I really started to feel connected to this group; the gathering two years ago was the first gathering for which I acted as general coordinator myself; last winter’s gathering was magical for me, the one at which I was the happiest from beginning to end, and hated to tear myself away at the end.

Sadly, though, the place has been sold, and the new owners have new plans that don’t have room for us to take over the place between Christmas and New Year’s. So, since I’m not going to see the place again at a Billy gathering, I wanted to come back on my own and spend a few tranquil days here.

On Wednesday afternoon I got a late start out of Fort Bragg, but I thought it would be about two hours to get there, so leaving at three seemed a bit tight but ought to get me there about five. I just needed to register by six which is dinner hour there or I’d be wandering around looking for someone to let me sign in so I could have dinner.

I’d underestimated, though, how long it would take to get to the middle of nowhere. The trip from Fort Bragg to Leggett is another one of those beautiful winding roads passing through more redwoods and by more staggering views of rugged shores, and I was torn between wanting to appreciate the journey and knowing from my watch and my mileage that I was falling badly behind my planned schedule.

From Leggett, it’s mostly highway up to Garberville, and then east to Bell Springs Road, which winds its narrow way up into the hills. Then the last four miles to Heartwood are along dirt road, and at 5:45 pm I pulled into the parking lot for the Welcome Center.

Fortunately my friend Douglas, who runs the Welcome Center and store at Heartwood, was expecting me and stayed open later than usual, so I was able to sign in, get my meal ticket, and get to the dining room by maybe ten after. Douglas and I ate dinner on the deck in back of the main lodge, which looks out over a beautiful view of rolling mountains stretching as far away as you can see.

Wednesday night I didn’t sleep for very long, waking up in the darkness around 3:00 am and unable to get back to sleep. I read a little, meditated a little, but I was feeling too restless somehow to sleep any more.

Yesterday morning, Thursday, after tossing the coins for the Yi Jing and meditating on the results, I decided that between breakfast and lunch I would not try to accomplish anything, but just do pleasant, relaxing things and just try to stay present and alert to everything around me at all times. I took a steep hike for about an hour and a half, then sat on the deck in back of the main lodge and looked at the view.

After lunch I went to the temple for some more meditation, but I found myself unable to sink very deeply into it. I was still feeling too restless. After 20 minutes or so I decided to switch to a walking meditation and I got up and walked slowly around the temple room. On my third time around, I started looking more closely out the windows, and at the large ornamental rocks on the window ledges. When I got to the large window, I reached out and placed my hands on the large dark green rock there — a very beautiful rock, very rugged with irregular swirling markings but very smooth — and at once I started crying. The tears subsided a minute or two later, but I had the feeling I had just figured out what the restlessness was about — there was some grief inside me that wanted to come out and I was being clueless and unaware of it. I went back to sitting meditation, but every few minutes I would start crying again, just for maybe half a minute and then it would subside again for a while.

When I left the temple I felt a lot less restless, and I went back to my tent and napped for an hour.

I still haven’t figured out what my crying was about. Does it have to do with my memories of Heartwood? I’ve had some wonderful times at Heartwood, many right there in that temple, including a couple of spiritual epiphanies or breakthroughs here that remain vividly with me. I’ve also had some sad memories there. I remember with great fondness how during one of the rituals in the temple at the gathering three years ago, a longtime member named Stewart sat on the ledge of that same window, called all the Billy Club members who had joined in the past year to sit at his feet, and told us all the history of the organization as though he were telling a bedtime story to a flock of children. The sad part is that as a result of some terrible events around that time and the bitter acrimony that unfortunately resulted, Stewart decided to leave the Billy Club, and that was the last gathering he attended and the last time anyone told that history in that manner — I learned later that Stewart’s storytelling had been a part of the Heartwood rituals for a long time, and that turned out to be the last time for it. That saddens me a lot, and I can’t look at that window any more without remembering both the high spirits I felt sitting before Stewart and the sadness of that loss. I vividly remember, too, the sight of Jean crying quietly all during the final ritual that year — I remember exactly where she was sitting that day in the temple, and my heart went out to her — she too had been badly hurt by the same events.

For last year’s rituals at Heartwood, the coordinators had built a fanciful portal in the middle of the temple out of branches and ribbons and decorations. The final ritual included each of us walking through the portal to be greeted into the new year and then turning to greet the person behind us. This probably sounds lame in writing but it was very moving and powerful in the event. Maybe the tears had to do with the beauty of that memory.

Or maybe I was crying over things in my personal life — work or relationship or friendships, I don’t know. I can identify things I’m saddened or frustrated by in my life, but can’t say whether any of them is why the tears came. Maybe it’s the combination of all of these things coming together to make me feel vulnerable and melancholy and glad to be back at Heartwood all at once.

Thursday night I got a massage from my friend Douglas, then a dip in the hot tub and to bed. I woke up a couple of times in the night but all in all slept well.

It’s Friday afternoon now as I write this, and also my 49th birthday. We’ll be having lunch soon, and then I’ll go meditate in the temple one more time, tear down my campsite, and head home to have my birthday dinner with Dave.

Our Town, the Opera

Dave and I went last night to Festival Opera’s production of Ned Rorem’s recent opera based on Thornton Wilder’s Our Town.

One of my longtime rules of thumb about musical theater and opera librettos is: Don’t adapt a much-loved classic unless either (a) you’re going to change it radically and subvert everyone’s expectations or (b) you’ve achieved much-loved classic status yourself, like Verdi adapting Othello. Otherwise you’re only begging everyone to compare what they actually see and hear not just against the original but against the idealized mythicized version of the original they carry around in their heads. You can be handsomer than somebody’s college boyfriend really was, but you can’t be handsomer than somebody’s fond memory of his college boyfriend — first, you just can’t be; and second, even if you could be, he would not allow you to be; and third, even if he allowed you to be, he would resent you rather than appreciate you for it.

A related rule of thumb of mine: Beware of adapting as a musical or opera any work that you know about only because you were assigned to read it in school or because your high school or college did a production of it. That’s the wrong kind of relationship to have with a work you’re adapting, like agreeing to spend a romantic month on a tropical island with someone because you’ve read his biography and admired it. Respect is great but if something about him isn’t actually getting you hard, you’re going to be bored long before it’s over. So unless you’ve reread The Red Badge of Courage on your own a couple of times since graduation just for the pleasure you get from the story, don’t try adapting it. It’s not that it can’t make a great musical or opera — I believe that anything can make a great musical or opera if you understand what needs to be done and you’re willing to do it. It’s that that relationship with the source is the wrong vantage point from which to have that understanding and that willingness. It’s that you’re not the right person to adapt it, and you’d do much better to keep looking for something you are the right person to adapt.

Our Town falls down on both of my rules of thumb and, in spite of some interesting music along the way, the result is plodding and heavy and charmless. Much of the time it felt to me like the librettist and composer were just going through the motions. Did either of them ever find an answer to the crucial question of how this story is going to be enhanced by singing it? Was either of them really excited to be telling this story in this way? If so, I don’t think it shows in the result. Except for a haunting piece sung by the dead in the cemetary in act three, I never felt the singing contributed anything; rather, it slowed everything down and made ponderous what is charming in the play.

The third act worked best, or maybe failed to work the least, because the play turns dark in the third act and the words there can bear a little better the stately gravity of this setting. But at the same time, act three of the play depends for its effectiveness on the seeming lightness of acts one and two. Telling us in act three that all that charm and lightness in the first two acts was concealing a great tragic emptiness seems kind of silly when when there has in fact been no charm or lightness, when everything has been plodding heavily along all the way through.

The libretto plods along heavily, too, and on a first hearing seems to consist of dialogue sections that should have been tightened for musicalization but weren’t, punctuated here and there by sections meant for set pieces written in clumsy rhymed couplets.

As I write this, I catch myself tending to idealize Our Town in my mind, to go beyond “you know, the opera doesn’t handle this element of the story well” to “oh, this was sooooooo good in the play!” Actually, while I like Our Town okay, it’s not a big favorite of mine and I wouldn’t go very far out of my way just to see it. But that’s what happens in the audience’s heads when you adapt something with that kind of iconic stature in the culture. There’s something in our brains that makes us unconsciously defend and glorify our icons, even if we never gave them much thought before they were challenged.

Location, Location, Location

I’ve been having a little problem where my USB modem often stops picking up a connection at my office desk in the afternoon — especially, it seems, on a hot afternoon, or at least the problem has been occurring more often as the weather’s been getting hotter.

But I’ve never had a problem on the train or on BART, as long as I’m not underground, so I’ve been figuring that it’s not lack of coverage, it’s that there’s something about my office building that is interfering with the signal. My cell phone can get a signal indoors just fine, but sometimes my modem can’t.

It occurred to me this afternoon to put a USB cable between the modem and my laptop and run the cable to somewhere I could get a better signal. So I tried it, and all I had to do was open the window slightly and put the modem between the glass and the screen, et voila. Then I moved the modem all the way to one side of the window to keep it out of direct sunlight, and I’ve been connected without a break since.