Thursday, July 25, 2013

19:00: Play: The Interpreter – A Lithuanian Drama

Interpreter - PLAKATAS 2Free performance of the play ‘The Interpreter’ written by Laima Vincė and directed by Alicia Gian (USA) and Marius Mačiulis (LT). Seating is on a first come first serve basis and subject to capacity. Please arrive early for best seating. The house opens at 6:30.
Directors – Alicia Gian (USA)/ Marius Mačiulis (LT)
Playwright – Laima Vince
Stage Design – Angė Kupšytė
Costume Design – Indrė Budreckytė
Sound Design – Deimantė Ponelytė
Performance duration – 90 min. (without interval)
Actors:
Ridas Jasiulionis
Alina Leščinskienė
Arturas Varnas
Larisa Kalpokaitė
Laura Height (UK)
Renata Kutinaitė
Indrė Jaraitė
Tadas Gudaitis
Paulius Valaskevičius
Inga Filipovič
Knots are found in place of cut off tree limbs
Unfeeling, lifeless, blanketed in bark,
But still living, a part of the tree,
Their bodies decay, ever hardening,
Similar to stumps, to roots, to veins,
Their communion limited,
A slight touch of one another through bark,
Touching, trying, shifting closer 
To touch without touching                   (Virgis Malčius)

“We’ve already decided – we don’t talk about Lithuania when we’re together, because it’s cold there, it’s dark there, and it’s rains without stopping.”
Directors Alicia Gian and Marius Mačiulis say they labeled the bilingual production a “national patriotic drama” as a provocation – to make the audience reflect on what exactly this beloved motherland is. “She is like a young girl struggling to put on a national dress” Mačiulis comments. “Who will come and help her?”
They love their motherland from a distance, because each had their own reasons for leaving it. Adele could not support herself on a meagre retirement pension, so she went to England to find a job. Natasha was sold into sex slavery by her boyfriend. Joana left home hoping to find her true love. While Julius…
Julius used to believe in Lithuania, he shared in its euphoric experience of national liberation by helping it communicate with the English-speaking world. Twenty years later, he still does just that, but his Lithuania is very different now, scattered across the globe, though mostly over the British Isles. Julius lives in Buenos Aires with his Argentinian partner Xavier and every morning receives phone calls from welfare institutions in the UK, serving as an interpreter for fellow Lithuanians. They are the ones who personify Julius’s Lithuania – a homeless pensioner, an unemployed man abusing the British welfare system, a childhood friend named Joana with whom he used to play in a sand box underneath the singing pine trees. This childhood friend rekindles in Julius a nostalgia for his country while at the same time, reminds him of its betrayal. Joana stood aside when Julius became a victim of a hate crime in school. Perhaps, if she had come to him and wiped the blood off his face, he wouldn’t have left Lithuania. While communicating with Joana, regardless of distance, he rediscovers his Lithuanian identity which he left behind twenty years ago. Although Julius, played by Ridas Jasiulionis, sits thousands of kilometers away, he serves as the only channel of connection between Joana (Alina Leščinskienė) and the nurse (Laura Height) who treats her at the South London Women’s Health Clinic on nearly a daily basis. The two are bound together by a country neither of them has seen for years, and the more Julius thinks of it, all the more the distance between him and Xavier (Arturas Varnas) grows. It becomes harder and harder for Julius to maintain a professional distance between his work as a translator and his concern for his fellows citizens living abroad. Finally, he and Joana have to make peace with the difficulties of their past. A second chance – to wipe the blood away – can always be discovered.
 Laima Vincė is an author, translator, poet, and journalist. For more than twenty years, Laima has been interested in the historical changes happening in the Baltic states. When Lithuania was still occupied by the Soviets, she came to study poetry translation with Marcelijus Martinaitis at Vilnius University and to participate in the Singing Revolution; in 2008 she published a book of memoirs entitled “Lenin’s Head on a Platter” about the experience. After 20 years, in 1994, she returned to Lithuania as part of the Fulbright scholar program to teach poetry translation theory and creative writing at Vilnius University and at Vytautas Magnus University. She currently translates contemporary Lithuanian poetry and prose into English. She has received more than one national American award for her work such as the prestigious National Endowment of the Arts award and a PEN translation award.
In 2012, a reading of the play “The Interpreter” was staged at the National Drama Theater as part of the Lithuanian playwriting festival “Versme.”
This production is a part of the Baltic Pride 2013 events program. Performances on July 27th and 28th are free to the public courtesy of the US Embassy of Vilnius.
Seating is limited. Please arrive early to find a seat. Doors opens at 6:30PM.
For more information on the production please visit www.vkamerinisteatras.lt
Language: Mixed language production – Lithuanian and English
Location: Vilniaus Kamerinis Teatras / Vilnius Chamber Theatre, Konstitucijos pr. 23B
More information here.

Friday, July 19, 2013

Notes from Enroute to Iceland...

And so here I am,
skimming over the sunset,
trail blazing through cloud cover,
hurtling towards Reykjavik,
peeling a boiled egg
from the black chickens
I left behind in my backyard in Maine,
which I had the foresight
to boil before I left,
passengers staring at me,
as though I were
one of those village women
one spots occasionally
on provincial buses
heading nowhere
and somewhere...


july 19, sacred bee, craigslist, women for men, portland, 64.
stung by a giant bumble bee right next to my left eye
shamanic visioning, drumming, ancient sensings, intuitive connections.
earliest mornings birds singing around the house. crow caws for corn.
fog over ocean holding the smell of fish. expectancy. purpose. bright
yellow gold finch brings good luck.


Riding the circle of the island. Sun has risen into a hazy sky. Heatwave. Goldfinch, my mother's good luck bird, flies next to me, to my right. The ocean has a smell of fish. Seagulls dot the low tide seaweed. Some kind of fish is around, reminding me of years back when I was lobstering and pogies were chased by bluefish and came up onto the shore by the hundreds. Free bait. Today, I do not need to haul a lobster trap. I can simply enjoy the sense of smell of fish as I bike along. Pushing the bike up the last hill, I stop to smell a rose, wet with last night's rain and this morning's dew, I rub my forehead against the pink wetness, a blessing.

If I can see everything as a blessing, I'm okay. Yesterday going into the grocery store, I see something dark and enormous on my shirt, then under my hair and crawling. I startle and start to brush it off, ask for assistance, but what I learn is a giant bumble bee crawls up my face somehow and stings me at the corner of my left eye. I get an ice cube from a kid who works there. Ride with my groceries to the dump with my friend. I have had a dream where tiny white wiggly worms are in a cup of tea she gives me and she is then going into a bedroom and yelling at her son, somehow he is connected. After she dumps her trash, she is standing by the trunk, making loud brushing noises for a long time. She gets back in the car and says maggots have gotten into her trunk from the trash bag. Everything so connected. As to the bee, I mix a paste of baking soda and water, use ice, take benadryl and zone out, but the pain remains. An achy sort of feeling this morning. When I come back from the store, I go to the bathroom mirror to look at my eye, and a different stinging insect is on the other side of my hair. I simply shake it off and it flies away, but the bee. Sacred bee. I've just watched a video about women who take care of bees, their bee hives. The synchronicity of ancient practice of bee keeping and women's frame drumming. I touch the drum stored in the open space at my feet, and give it a quick tap, light a candle, and set it in the middle of the room. Burn a tiny piece of sage. 

I got burned by the sun a few days ago.. Staying out longer than usual, I did not notice it happening. I sat alone on some distant ledges, put my feet in a tide pool,
scraped a toe on a barnacle. Unfamiliar territory and tide so low there was no hope of submerging. I leave that area after a time and go back to the sandy beach, which was so full, I could not find a space to park my bike earlier. This time there is space and I go to the sand, submerge, sit, paint. A young woman opens up to my friend and me. Her mother had died when she was very young. Overdose. She opens her little wine coolers in their plastic tubs with rip off covers. One after another. I tell her I am in 'recovery' and she accidentally spills wine on my shirt. When I leave, I have her promise she will not continue swimming when nobody is there. I watch her from the top of the stairway while I'm leaving, swimming fluidly in the water, slightly drunk. It is like looking through a glass darkly, except I would never be content swimming when under the influence. I would have to find trouble. 

The big AA roundup this weekend on the mountain. I want to go and yet I don't want to go. First the oppressive heat and then the bee sting. I'll have to experience the feeling of loss. The separation from my tribe. I'm invited. A friend will even go to the lengths of driving over an hour to pick me up, but in the end I have declined. I'll have to lean into my feelings, as they say now, and trust that all is truly well. My mother's mantra. Yesterday, I've painted my lawn sale donkey head mask white with pink inner ears and I have decided I'll have to paint a sacred bee on its forehead, a reflection of where I am in the moment. The left side of my  head aches. I remember a few years back when a bee actually flew into my ear. My ear ached and eventually I had it checked out. I'd pulled/pushed the bee out of my ear with my little finger. Perhaps there was something I did not want to hear. Perhaps now, something I do not want to see from my intuitive knowing. I'll keep it as simple as possible this weekend and no matter what I do try and be present and not hurry or worry.

 A wonderful scent comes from seemingly nowhere.Almost like a cedar chest. The candle is burning. 

Thursday, July 18, 2013

My Last Evening on Peaks...

So, I left the literature class I am teaching at the University at 6.45 and thought, "Oh, if I call a cab, I can catch the 7.15 ferry and be home a whole hour earlier." So, I call the cab. By 7.05 the cab has not shown up and it is not likely I will catch the 7.15 ferry. So, I save the cab fare and hop on the city bus, which happens to come speeding down the road the moment I have this thought. The bus lets me out smack dab in the middle of an enjoyable outdoor concert. I rock out to the music, meander down to the ferry, sighting a guy giving a reading at Longfellow Books flanked by a Star Wars Storm Trooper and a Wookie, lost in his own soundless Star Wars reverie behind the plate glass window, and get to the ferry terminal at 7.45. I settle in to wait for the 8.15. A woman from my neighborhood dressed in a flowery sundress and flat sandals breezes past. "Hey," she shouts over her shoulder, "want a ride to Peaks?" "Sure," I say, popping up from the bench, trotting behind her retreating back towards the warf, my stuffed briefcase unbalancing me. I climb into speed boat and settle down among piles of banana boxes overfilled with groceries for her three children. We speed off across the bay, see the sun set, a huge red orb in the ocean, and arrive on Peaks just a tad after the 7.15, just in time to watch as the Machigonne slowly chugs past us on its tired return to Portland.

Prologue to A Charmed Existence

 
            I stood in the doorway while the priest administered the last rites.  He anointed my mother’s forehead with holy oil and said gently, “Through this holy unction may the Lord pardon thee whatever sins or faults thou hast committed.”  Her eyes were closed, and I could not tell if she was conscious.
            As the priest was leaving, he squeezed my shoulder and whispered, “The doctor said it won’t be long now.  May God give you comfort and strength during this sorrowful time.  I’ll be just down the hall if you need me.”  He looked at me with kind eyes and quietly left the room.
            I walked slowly to the end of the bed and picked up the hospital chart for Maeve Murphy O’Driscoll, age 82, admitted two days before with congestive heart failure.  I leafed through its pages as if they would decode the mystery of her.
            I inched closer to my mother.  Her eyes remained closed, her breathing shallow.  Her lips were gray, but what shocked me the most was her complexion, resembling blue-veined marble, cold and hard.  Out of nowhere a memory from my childhood washed through me.
            Each night our mother would tuck both us and our favorite stuffed animals in, kiss our foreheads, and turn off the light, saying “Sweet dreams, my darlings.”  But one night the routine was different.  Just as we were padding down the hall to our bedroom, the phone rang.  Mummy said, “Hop into bed, and I’ll be right along as soon as I answer that call.”  I climbed into my side of the bed with Rosy, my pink velvet rabbit.  Orla snuggled up with her blue corduroy elephant that she had oddly christened, “Turtle,” and promptly fell asleep as she was suffering from a cold.  When Mum came in, Orla was snoring softly.  Mum blew her a kiss and walked over to my side of the bed.  She sat down gently, kissed me on the forehead and just sat there, staring at my face.  I reached up and caressed her cheeks, warm and velvety soft.  “Mmmmh,” I remember saying, “Just like Rosy.”  She smiled and took both my hands, kissing them.  She glanced over at Orla and then leaned conspiratorially toward me, her index finger to her lips.  “Shhhh,” she said and then whispered in my ear, “Goodnight, my beautiful, perfect wee girl.”  She kissed me a second time on the forehead, and I felt doubly loved.  But more than that, special.  Mum turned out the light and said, “Sweet dreams, my darlings.”
          A rasping sound brought me back to the present.  I glanced down again at my mother’s ashen face with the lines of oxygen protruding from her nose and felt a tidal surge of unexpected tenderness and remorse.  “Oh, Mummy.”  I started to cry and reached for her hand, ready at long last to forgive.   Her eyes fluttered and opened and as they focused on me, she feebly squeezed my hand.  “Fiona,” she gasped, as if the mere mention of my name caused her anguish.  She took a few labored breaths.  “I need to...explain.  Please,” she pled, “Come closer.”  Grimacing, she closed her eyes.
            I sat on the edge of the bed and leaned nearer to her face.  Over the next few minutes I listened, first with confusion and then with astonishment, to the last words spoken by my mother.
            As she lay there with tears streaming down her cheeks, I knew that she wanted her daughter’s absolution more than her God’s.  But, I could not pardon her, as the priest had, for whatever sins or faults she had committed, for a new, rising anger possessed me.  Instead, I confessed the secret that I had harbored for most of my life.  As she listened her eyes widened and then closed, never to open again.
            I dropped her hand and stood, staring at her lifeless body.  At first I was speechless, but as the rage bubbled up inside me, it finally broke the surface.
            “A silent mouth is melodious.”
            I heard a sound behind me and turned.  There, in the doorway, stood the priest.  His fingers were clawlike as he clenched his Bible, and his eyes had narrowed.  He shook his head and said, “May God have mercy—”and then turned on his heels and left.
            I finished the sentence for him.  “On my soul.”

 

Monday, July 15, 2013


july 11 

a cardinal flies through the open screen door
then out
a crow feather finds me on the grass as i start
riding the circle
i hold it in my left hand and it comes with me
endless events swamp the island
i have a deja vu
can i slow down long enough to feel?

Thursday, July 11, 2013

Anyone chasing ghosts with Laima tomorrow?

Laima is offering a fun event surrounding her middle reader book "The Ghost in Hannah's Parlor," which I loved reading. Anyone else up for chasing ghosts at 12:30?

http://peaksislandpress.com/2013/07/11/walk-with-laima-vince-and-discover-the-inspiration-for-the-ghost-in-hannahs-parlor/