Revised Consciousness - an epic poem

Why an earth would one even attempt to read or write a stream-of-consciouness, free-verse epic poem? Why not just call it a novel and extend the language to incorporate more of a narrative flow and a more thorough plot? Or shorten it to a pleasant little poem and distill the essence?

I don't know why Isolde thought this would be a good idea. But it is an interesting, though difficult and often impenetrable work. The basic setting is a woman alone (very alone, without any outside interference or necessity to perform the day-to-day) in her thoughts and the thoughts fall freely onto the page as little cadences. What happens to her is all delivered in this way as if the author has indeed recorded each and every thought that she might have over a period of time in the situation that she was in.

There are "rushes", where the thoughts about something come so fast and are so streaming you read - as it is written - almost too fast to keep up with the pace and you are made to feel excited and jittery yourself. One senses that the protagonist is moving physically at the time and blood is flowing freely. Then there are quiet, sad moments when the lines are a few brief words that seem stifled as if (though you are never told such information) she may be crying. And the over-worked, over-stimulated madness of thoughts darting in all directions and not really making any sense at all.

The main theme is an unravelling of the mind which has been hurt and shaken and is stretched to the limits: perhaps it has not had the opportunity to self-reflect for a long time or perhaps it has been avoiding doing so for fear of the darkness that it will encounter. There is certainly lots of darkness; a oft-returned to semi-dream-like state throws up fear and hallucinations and painful memories. But there is hope and optimism as the protagonist finds peace. In fact she finds  peace so deep, she begins to find the concept of peace rather cloying as thoughts circle and settle and "peace" is the only word in her head. It is used and over-used in self-parody an almost hysterical "peace" is shattered time and again and returned to. You begin to believe as the poem draws to its conclusion that it is time for her to leave her hermitage and re-enter the world, for you fear for her sanity.

The other most prominent feature is the growth of the naturalistic leaning; she feels far more attached to the natural world than to the human world and this is were she derives much of her learning, stripped as it is of fantasy and wild-imaginings and closer to an alpha-state of just being.

Overall, the most interesting thing is the extent to which the author uses linguistic device to portray mood and energy. Because of the subject matter - and perhaps because it is poetry - there is much repetition, so much that you hardly feel like reading passages which you have already a couple of times. But it quite important to do so,  because on further inspection, there is an extension, a slight twist which discloses some slight progress.

 I'm not sure the reader feels much empathy with the protagonist; one is essentially a voyeur to often hysterical and over-worked thoughts which are infuriating a lot of the time. But it is not really that important; if we looked inside the heads of the people we feel most fondly about, we would probably not discover much that wasn't infuriating. It is - I presume- intended to reflect the human experience, the human condition and the most frightening and successful thing is the way it reflects back to you.

6/10

"No, Mr Oesophagus, I am not going to swallow."or "Wrongholitis" for mixed ensemble and audience.

Something smelled fishy when the audience was handed paper and a choice of pens and were politely asked to doodle throughout the music. One was led to believe that it was some experimental way of seeing how the audience interpreted the music in drawings, so as to see what it invoked. But the audience participation didn't stop there.

The music itself started out reminiscent of a Strauss waltz on acid, very rigid and tight but slightly insane with nasally high trumpets and squeaky violins and all performers required to play at the very highest and lowest register of their instruments. Yes, but no, nothing particularly challenging.

The real fun began when an audience member creaked very loudly on a chair and this was echoed throughout the ensemble almost mocking the sound. A loud yawn from another audience member yieled a similar result.  After the over-loud rustling of sweet papers tickled its way through the registers of instruments in a similar way (all these motifs supplanted fragments of the waltz which carried on regardless), one became suspiscious that there were plants in the audience (of course there were). A few people crumpled up their doodle paper and tore it to shreds.

The formality of the usual performer/audience roles began to slip; people started trying to make subtle noises to interact with the ensemble, at first self-consciously, then more and more deliberately. One became ever more suspicious and confused that you weren't the only member of the audience not in on the joke as whatever happened in the audience was echoed again and again on the stage. The interminable - and by now grating - waltz continued over and again, refreshed only by what the audience gave it.

Then the trombones began to appear disgruntled with the conductor. At first it was just frowns and glances and then they deliberately tried to destroy the order in the waltz, playing whatever they wanted whenever they wanted, loud and obnoxiously. Eventually, one stood up and eloquently shouted over the music how utterly fed up he was and walked off. And the other two followed him off the stage. Anarchy erupted throughout the ensemble, and in the audience too. People were starting to get up and dance manically and sing along etc.

Eventually, a grey haired man walked up to the conductor, tapped him on the shoulder and told him he would sooner die than listen to any more of this hullaboo and produced pills from his jacket. The music stopped abruptly. The applause was not forthcoming.

This was billed as a piece of music rather than musical theatre, and although it was an uncomfortable and hysterical experience, it certainly did much to parody the lack of ownership that an audience has of the performers. Barriers were broken and you were forced to look at the players not just as sentient machines producing sounds for your enjoyment, but as real personalities. Of course this is not the case with audiences of other musics - rock, jazz, folk etc musicians all have a relationship with their audience. But classical music is so restricted by its formality, it was both unnerving and euphoric to see an interaction between the two camps.

On leaving, there was a further joke. What had appeared to be a sleeping or dead statue in the foyer had got up and walked out, leaving a note smeared in cement, "left, in disgust" and a trail of concrete footprints behind him. That'll take some cleaning in the morning!

7/10