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This spoke to me
Long live the king. The king is dead. This week in Australian politics – the Prime Minister, Kevin Rudd was politically assassinated. In the space of 24 hours the incumbent party’s power brokers stirred the cauldron and the caucus came together to nominate the first ever female as leader of the country.
Was ever a man so powerful made so weak? Barely containing the emotion of defeat, the man, once king, flanked by his immediate family stood at the dais, giving his departure speech as he listed his achievements to the press and the people. Many they were, including the now famous apology to the indigenous people of Australia, in addition to education, tax and health reform.
Here was a man who had commanded the highest popularity of any Prime Minister in history, sent to the backbenches like a whimpering schoolboy. This was no way to treat a king, cried the leader of the opposition. The irony not lost on the public that the loudest voice of outrage came from the opposing side.
So what happened? Perception is what happened. And relationships are what didn’t.
Kevin Rudd created the perception that he was a ‘can do’ guy who worked hard and got the job done. He had passion, fervour, toughness and diligence for the policies and programs the country had ‘given him a mandate’ to implement. After all this was the man who single handedly (working with a small team) fought of the GFC in Australia with the stimulus package.
But the cry went out after he (and his small team) returned from the Summit on Global Warming with no Emissions Trading Scheme in place. “Who is this man who says he will then doesn’t?” Questions began to grow – “What does this man stand for?” The tide of perception began to turn as the king’s political opponents capitalised on every slip up, every policy failure, every opportunity that presented itself.
Scrutiny on the king then turned to his relationships. He had the highest turnover rate of staff of any political leader. He was known to be ruthless: a hard man to work for; asking his staff to work 20 hours a day, weeks on end. It was nothing to receive a call at 4.00 in the morning to have a report ready by 6.00am, or so the stories went.
Yet on the day of his political death, the man at the microphone spoke of what he’d done, as he listed his achievements. And of these none could be questioned.
But this, once great man, was not aware that it was ‘How’ he had gone about his work that had created his reversal of fortune. He had long used his social credits at the expense of – ‘doing good things for the country’. He had prioritised task and outcome over process and people. Irony evident again in the sum of his pursuits: of, for and by the people.
And so once again in history, the humble spectator is reminded that as the mighty rise so can they fall: opinion, perception and the invisible threads of ‘feelings’ taking subjective precedence over the pragmatic and practical evidence of achievement.
And so goes the tale of the Tragedy of King Kevin: the man who focused on the ‘what’ at the expense of the ‘how’.
Reading Plato’s dialogues I came across this forward by W.H.D Rouse:
“Socrates himself described his object as that of a midwife, to bring other men’s thoughts to birth, to stimulate them to think and to criticise themselves, not to instruct them.”
More and more I see the power of non-didactic learning through forms of applied theatre – how through dialogue, metaphor and the creation of a fictional world we facilitate the transposition of an actual world and interweave it with the consideration of new perspectives, alternate possibilities and trialed scenarios. In Applied Theatre we separate or distance ourselves from the everyday and fictionalise the characters and the world we inhabit.
Whether they be scenes, monologues, interviews or soliloquies I relate to the scenarios that are being played before me because I see others and myself with new eyes. My learning and growth are enabled by my capacity to discover myself through observation and reflection. I separate myself from conditioned patterns in order to integrate new perspectives. By engaging in this form of theatre I become more whole.
Axel, who never had a rocking horse, once rode a bright blue tricycle calling it his ‘Athenian Rhapsody’. He loved to play the tuba in bed, and when he was feeling particularly happy, would sit on the loo in the outside shed, pants around his ankles oompa-pa’ing till the cows came home.
That was quite a while ago; the tuba and the tricycle have gone, yet he can still hear the triangle sound the bell made on his tricycle, and still remembers the scraping of the old keys on the ancient tuba.
Axel listens to old sounds very well (all the time): he loves Bach, Mendelssohn and Donovan. He loves to eat crumpets with honey and drink a large white mug of milky tea; it reminds him of summer fishing trips to Lake Eucumbine, mushrooms and gnats in the full-sun morning air, (he loves to talk fishing when he’s playing chess with Carl the orderly, often quoting from his favourite magazine, ‘Modern Fishing’).
Axel was once an expert at fly fishing; tying the ‘super moonshadow’ to perfection (he named the fly after what he thought was a Donovan song, written by Cat Stevens).
When the hospital staff remember to buy him a new box, Axel loves to drink Lady Grey tea made from tea bags, he prefers tea bags, he feels that somehow they bring clearer definition to tea making.
Axel thinks a lot about definition, noting how the edges of his bed are very clearly defined by the clean-blue hospital blankets that drop suddenly to the ocean of the grey linoleum floor. He likes the smell of cleanblue, it’s somehow a new sea to sail and sometimes the feel of his favourite jumper when he was a boy: a definite edge of beginning and end. He knows that soon he’ll cross the floor-grey ocean, sailing under a white sheet. But this is not a thing Axel dwells on for very long, he prefers to think of such things as his next chess move and flirting with Miriam the night nurse.
–
Axel has just beaten Carl in a game of chess. He’s said goodnight to Miriam, a long quiet goodnight, a good long, good night. He won’t wake again, he knows this; and is peaceful.
When his last breath comes he hears; a faint scraping sound and a single precious note from a triangle bell on a bright blue tricycle.
They’re good sounds.
They are old sounds.
They bring him
Sitting on the bleachers. 8 rows back. Five minutes into the game something unusual happens. The home team receives the ball behind the 22; they’re under territorial pressure and the opponents have the ascendancy. The usual pattern of play is to kick the ball behind the opposition’s line in order to gain ground, then run forward, receive the return kick and continue this way until one team kicks for the touchline. It’s tactical, and one could argue, the ‘correct’ way to play, but for spectators it becomes deadly boring, uninspiring and disheartening.
But today they’re not playing ‘usual’; they’re playing for ‘keeps’. The home team; the Reds; run the ball. A murmur ripples through the crowd. “They’re running it, they’re keeping possession.” The crowd hasn’t seen this style of play for a very long time; perhaps the younger ones have never seen it.
At the breakdown, support players pour in and the ball is retained, they go again into a new phase of play and another breakdown. The Reds retain possession again and again as phase after phase of play they grind their way back into the opponents territory. This is thrilling stuff. It’s a hard way to play. The opposition team, the Bulls; determined men from South Africa; where success in Rugby is valued currency, provide relentless defense. The game continues this way, and for 80 minutes we witness one of the toughest and most courageous displays of rugby ever played.
I’m attending the game with three of my four sons and their friends. It’s my second son’s birthday. I look over to Daniel and attempt to call above the crowd, at that moment they’re yelling abuse at the referee; in their opinion the ref has made an unbelievably stupid decision; “bullshit, bullshit, bullshit” they deride in unison. I make the attempt again and shout out: ‘this is brilliant stuff – what a great birthday present’. Daniel grins back and nods. Father and sons; we’re having a great time. Can you script this stuff? I think to myself.
The ingredients are all here. A great story is unfolding. The Reds; my team (please excuse the use of the possessive pronoun, passion and history require it) are the underdogs. They’ve been in decline for nearly a decade. It’s been a miserable time for Red’s supporters. The Bulls are the top team. The referee is making shocking decisions in the Bull’s favour. There are flashes of brilliance on both sides. The game seesaws, teetering on the brink of devastation and elation. Nothing is certain. Spectators are treated to rugged ‘keep possession at all costs’ play from the Reds. The Bulls begin to make uncharacteristic mistakes, but then regain composure.
The game continues this way. Both teams have points on the board. The Reds remain ahead by 7 (the total number of points of a converted try). Its ten minutes to go before full time and the Reds are keeping the Bulls out, only metres from their line. I’m sweating and yelling, the boys are sweating and yelling, the crowd is sweating and chanting. ‘Come on You Reds’. It’s tense. The Reds deserve to win. They’ve dared to do something out of the ordinary. Hard pressed the Bull’s supporters would concede this fact. But no one is giving ground today.
And then at last: with the final whistle – there is jubilation in our voices and in our hearts. The underdog has prevailed and ten years of dejection vanishes in a heartbeat. We roar, we hug, we parade – we share a moment that will be long lasting in our regaling and our celebration.
This was great theatre: unscripted sport for the masses. A story my boys and I will well remember.
But is this audacious to call it great theatre: to compare events on the sporting field to scripted masterpieces of our time? Similar ingredients exist, yet there are the obvious differences including the absence of verisimilitude. Perhaps it is the appeal of the prevailing metaphor of: heroic struggle, display of courage, and daring in the face of adversity: a theme common in human history. Perhaps it is about the joy of bearing witness to it and the shared experience of uncertainty and triumph. Perhaps it doesn’t matter if the term is used loosely. However I can’t help consider the possibility that similar experiences await me in a different arena. Could it be that one day I will take my kin to the Theatre and together we will be exhilarated by the story that unfolds? Will we chant and cheer in the bleachers and go home with soaring hearts and aching sides? Will we say? We have been to the Theatre and it was extraordinary.
If words were halved, such as gentle
men for example and used less often
in such activities as; policy debates, domestic feuds, jobapplications
and innercriticattacks, would more time exist for silence
and to listening for it?
I found a few minutes earlier
filled with silence,
at that time my mind paused its chattering ways
and half of me was able to observe the other.
It is something that I seek to do more often
as the experience offers respite from the
persistant need to be constantly explanatorial.
This need often occurs in the form of an internal competition,
where two voices and sometimes more, vie one against the other,
with selfcertified gladiatorial certainty.
One voice might, for example, say such a thing as:
‘it is not good enough to rest upon your laurels – you must continue
to be loquacious and insightful, speak up, be cleverer’.
(Note the oftenused expression of ‘you must’, this a favourite. Usually
followed by: ‘you should, they should and he or she should’.)
Another voice will counter; ‘let him be, let him be simple, if he wants
to stop for a minute let him’. This plaintiff voice however, will most
likely be overshadowed by another who will shout, calling me
to re-use words from my history, demanding that I repeat and rehash
them until I’ve succeeded in doubling and redoubling their meaning
into a meaningless re re un re rehearsal of something that falls out
in the unresolved shape of complexity and disturbance.
The silence that I yearn for suggests to me
to continue the halving of words.
To play with them a while:
Thin king. Hat red. His story. Mind full. Am bit. Not ice.
And to continue to halve by half,
with the half that observes the halving half,
to find just a word to hold the silence?
Martin Challis © 2010
A profound presentation – on creativity, learning and education and the insight to know the difference.
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