Final Scene from "The Chains"

This is the stage interpretation of "Let My People Go,"a spoken word poem that concluded Muse Creative Arts Ministry's production of "The Chains" a couple of weeks ago.

The combination of this piece and the monologue right before was incredibly powerful. The man on his knees as the piece starts is portraying Spartacus, the former gladiator turned slave revolt leader who delivers his speech to us from the cold shores of the river Styx--from death.

Originally, we were planning on ending on a somewhat positive note, saying "even if you fail to break free from the chains that bind you, all that matters is that you try." My co-director (also the actor playing Spartacus) suggested a better idea:

"If you try alone, you will fail. And failure sucks."

That's a direct quote.

This Is Art: Yom Kippur Poetry

The following piece of spoken word poetry is "Hebrew Mamita" by Vanessa Hidary. I have to admit that I wasn't planning on posting anything specific in honor of Yom Kippur, one of the holiest of Hebrew holy days. I wasn't expecting to feel so compelled to share something beautiful about this beautiful day appointed by God to usher in atonement for sin and sin nature.

The decision to post "Hebrew Mamita" on my art and lifestyle blog came after a spontaneous visit to an informational event sponsored by our campus's chapter of CUFI (Christians United For Israel). A good friend of ours who is now Josh's coworker is the vice president of CUFI here at Roberts, and we went to support him.

I was so glad that we decided to attend what turned out to be an (admittedly long) message about the human need for atonement and the ways that different people seek to achieve it. I could be wrong, but the "Hebrew Mamita" seems to be one way that Jewish Vanessa Hidary attempts to atone for the sins done to her people still today by the ignorance of the popular culture.

So much power--religious, political, personal, etc.--can be communicated through art.

Neil Gaiman "For Amanda, An Appreciation After Christopher Smart, Sort Of"

**READER ADVISORY** There is an instance of (censored) strong language some will find objectionable in the poem included in this post.

The purpose of this post is no doubt a bit unique.

I would first like to shed some light for the currently oblivious crowd of lit-lovers who have yet to make his acquaintance to the off-beat and infinitely charming Neil Gaiman. Gaiman is a poet, novelist, writer of short stories and non-fictional musings, lover, fighter, dreamer, and magic-maker--not to mention the fact that he is British and has one of the most delicious accents imaginable. His creative mind is wild and limitless but at the same time controlled, collected, and narrated in a level and soothing tone of voice that no one can quite duplicate.

I recently watched all of the YouTube videos recorded at the "Ninja Gig" of Amanda Palmer, Gaiman's musician wife, at Good Records in Dallas this April. To my delight, Gaiman decided, as he often does, to humbly read a few of his favorite poems, one of which had recently been written about his beloved wife.

All of the poems we beautifully written and even more beautifully read. I cannot recommend enough "The Day the Saucers Came." Make sure you listen to Gaiman recite it rather than just reading it for yourself. It really makes all the difference. The thing that struck me the most, however, was that in my fandom I had never yet discovered the following poem dedicated to Amanda Palmer and that scouring Google didn't turn up any text versions of this beautiful work. All I seemed to find were video recitations.

Well, for those who come behind me, I leave you this, the written version of Gaiman's "For Amanda," that you may pour over it's beauty and sweetness over and over again. Keep in mind that poems written specifically for performance can vary from reading to reading and that many words in this particular piece may be different in other versions available online.

For Amanda, An Appreciation After Christopher Smart, Sort Of

by Neil Gaiman

For I shall enumerate my lady’s charms although they are numberless.

For firstly, she has a smile like a beam of sunlight breaking through a cloud in a medieval painting.

For secondly, she moves like cats and panthers, and also she can stand still.

For thirdly, she has eyes of a color that no two people can agree on which I remember when I close my eyes.

For fourthly, she laughs at my jokes, sings unconcerned on the sidewalk, and gives money to buskers as a religious act.

For fifthly, she f*cks like wild cats and thunderstorms.

For sixthly, her kisses are gentle.

For seventhly, I would follow her or walk behind her or in front of her wherever she wished to go, and being with her would ease my mind.

For eighthly, I dream of her and am comforted.

For ninthly, there is no one like her, not that I’ve ever met, and I’ve met so many people, no one at all.

For tenthly, she squeals when I say “wastepaper basket,” and also in the morning, eyebrowless and waking, she always looks so perfectly surprised.