Debrief

Putting Music to Tennyson’s “Ulysses”

Deborah Stokol — Sun, 20 May 2012 00:38:58 +0000

The song uses as lyrics the highlighted section of the fourth stanza.

Poem by A. L. Tennyson, 1833.

Music by Deborah Stokol, April 22, 2012

Recorded, sung, and played by Deborah Stokol (“hard roads” sound on Alesis Q-88), May 17, 2012

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with an agèd wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honoured of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this grey spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle—
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and through soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought
with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

A Toast for my Sister’s Wedding

Deborah Stokol — Fri, 16 Mar 2012 23:51:37 +0000

Good evening, my name is Debbie, and I’m Margot’s sister.

Of the 10,297 or so days I’ve known Marg—and I really should be careful with my math in deference to Joel—I don’t think more than one has passed during which she and I weren’t in touch in some way. That’s always felt like a priority, and I find it wholly reassuring to know that when we don’t communicate, something integral feels off-kilter, easily setting itself right with even a text.

We’ve gone on many literal voyages together—some as distant as Scotland, others as nearby as the library. Many nights have found us taking long, meditative drives up the Pacific Coast Highway, listening to Jethro Tull and Pink Floyd as we meticulously analyzed the state of our lives and measured our dreams against reality.

And many days have found us taking walks to the neighborhood park or UCLA’s sculpture garden as we made jokes, talked about such favorite books as Anne of Green Gables or those by Madeleine L’Engle, and quoted movies like Kill Bill and Spaceballs, often discussing these things with the same degree of gravity and attention we did our plans for our presents and futures.

But far more frequent have been the trips we’ve taken into our pooled imaginations. As kids, we played elaborate games that used our bunk-bed to pretend we rode a 19th c. train cabin escaping the unwanted attentions of the irritating Prince Harold. We narrated voice-overs to the pictures we drew side-by-side, creating complicated storylines in our made-up worlds. We wrote strange little stories about princesses, aliens, and stowaways and songs about dogs and foxes, and our parents, with whom we are incredibly close and could probably not be closer, amusedly looked at us as if we were speaking Martian. “Demnuevo con los bube maintzes?” “Again with the bube maintzes?” my mom would say, using the Yiddish term for Old Wive’s Tale. But we’d be rapt in our very serious discussion about this fictional character or that aspect of our daily existence and could be neither interrupted nor bothered to emerge from our conversational stupor.

And though we’re grown up now, very little has changed. Yes she’s a lawyer with poise and a home of her own, but she’s still the girl who danced to “Aqualung” and “Still Loving You” with wild abandon, the gifted painter so intrigued by Carol Lombard, and the multi-dimensional companion who balances sharp wit and profound insight with sweet dreaminess. And she’s still my dearest friend.

So, for a long time, I wondered, who would be the person for her? What form would he take? I’ve always been excited by the prospect of seeing her meet her match, while apprehensive about a few things as well. Would she be blessed enough to find someone deserving, who would challenge and nurture her as she would challenge and nurture him? Would she have to change or compromise parts of herself to be with this person? Would I get along with him, or would I have to lose my sister?

Marg has always been very open with me. So little has she held back that when she told me she’d met a mathematician named Joel but refused to divulge much else, I felt…ahso. He must be different. He must be special. And she must find him so. I figured she didn’t want to jinx things by talking about him, and I was right. So I waited anxiously, fervently hoping that this time, she had met The One.

I couldn’t be happier that person is Joel. I felt relief then happiness as Marg eventually told me about him and how happy he was making her. When I finally got to meet him, as three of us got omelettes one Sunday, it felt even better to like him from the get-go.

I felt comfortable, seeing how comfortable they were around each other, that neither one seemed to be changing or trying too hard, that they both just seemed glad to be there, to be having a good time and listening to what the other had to say and considering it with attention. I love knowing they go on adventures and both comprehend and learn from each other every day. I was thrilled to see my sister with someone so intelligent and deep, talented and cultured, cool and funny. And it gladdened me to see that each had finally met his or her loving match.

I can’t really put to words the sense of gratitude and satisfaction I feel or the wonderful things I wish for them, but whatever I hoped to feel about the marriage of my cherished sister and this special person is, believe it or not, less than what I feel right now at witnessing and being part of Marg and Joel’s wedding–and that’s saying quite a bit.

How hackneyed to say I don’t lose a sister but gain a brother and friend, but…it’s true.

So: I wish you bliss and good health, understanding and humor, optimism and patience, and most importantly, fulfillment. I toast your love and the beginning of what I hope is a joyful, harmonious, and meaningful life together.

Existential Crises Display Your Humanity

Deborah Stokol — Thu, 24 Nov 2011 02:50:25 +0000

I have to say I believe that if you have not had some form of an Existential Crisis during your adult life or formative years, you are not Human. Whether you believe in God or Darwinian Evolution or some variant of both or neither, you will likely agree that what separate Us–human beings–from the rest of the animals around us is not our incessant series of primal needs but our ability to think, to be self-aware in a way that can take form in lasting records, and to create things that did not exist before but that may endure once they have come into being. Possessing that ability to reason and create leads us to question Life, its ephemeral nature, and our own Existences within it.

When we compare our life-spans to the World’s and the pace at which It goes about a great degree of Its business, our time here is pitifully, perhaps mercifully, brief. This is a fact. So it stands to reason, then, that people should contemplate this concept at some point during that brief moment. We are all going to die. We all know this. And anyone who doesn’t think about this is lying to himself. So how could we not pause at some point to ask ourselves about our functions on this earth, wonder about the point to our lives, and grapple with the question regarding whether there is, indeed, a point, and if there is not, how we could go about finding one.

There are those who do not think about such things. You can call them the Simple Souls who take things at face value and do not cave to the curse of Knowing and Wondering. Or they are too busy. Or too pragmatic. I used to think them lucky and unburdened. But now, I neither envy nor disdain them; I simply comprehend that they are different from I and that Knowing is not a curse, per se, but a heavy mantle I willingly accept. The Simple Souls are Human, of course, but they live a life closer to that of a different class of animal. This sounds disparaging and/or intolerant, but that is not how I mean it. The truth is that if these wise or lucky or uncomplicated folk go about their days without stopping to think about those days in a meta-manner, they have reduced their existences to a series of needs, and if our needs govern our actions, that does not “lower” us to the level of animals, maybe, but it makes us analogous to them. There is nothing wrong with this; it just differentiates those making use of their reason from those who either choose not to use it or never had it in the first place.

You could say the Existential Crisis is a problem only the Bourgeoisie or the upper classes sustain, but someone without time and money can just as easily, perhaps more easily, begin to question his lot in life and whether he has a calling or a place here or if it is “‘all for naught”, and if it is, then attempt to figure out how he could remedy this situation, etc. So to claim those suffering Existential Crises are but the self-indulgent wealthy is as inaccurate as it is ignorant. Moreover, anyone who has taken a moment to notice the painful disparity in wealth between people and in the justice within the world’s many systems and in luck, and anyone who has seen the arbitrary temperament of Nature and Human Nature, has found himself facing an Existential Crisis and a Crisis of Conviction, one in which he has wondered Why? and either found a dearth of answers or has made the choice to wade through an outlook morose or apathetic by feeling gratitude, having perspective, and providing answers where none were supplied. This is not a diatribe against religion or those who are religious–far from it. Those who do not question the Truths of life because they subscribe to a series of principles laid out in an existing and extant religion, philosophy, ideology, or home-grown set of tenets that accounts for the questions such Truths must create, 1) are not necessarily Simple because of this, 2) may never even have considered a Crisis, 3) may have consciously rejected the need for a Crisis because they have answers, 4) may have arrived at comfort through a Crisis, 5) are still capable of doubt and Crisis, and 6) belong to a true and other camp of Human who displays its Humanity through its creation or following of a set of thoughts that describe life as containing something More–perhaps even an After-Life.

You could also argue those riddled with questions regarding Meaning and Meaning-as-it-relates-to-Life have found themselves in this “predicament” because they have “watched too many movies” or “read too many books” and so now, as a consequence, have unrealistic expectations about life and all-too-romantic dreams the unfulfillment of which yield days painfully mundane and ultimately meaningless. But that’s not the case, either. People have considered their Existences since they evolved from that animal, quadrupedal state. “Existentialism” simply names in Movement form what people have felt, even if in passing, for millennia. Movies and books have come into being because creative people sought to record such feelings and share them with others, and we treasure these records because they, too, give a name to something we have all felt since we could give names to feelings and not simply surrender to the visceral world of need.

“Suffering” an Existential Crisis, then, is a deeply Human thing. It may even be a rite of passage, one we must all go through at least once to make sense of what on a fundamental level lacks it. Of course, the Crisis may morph into something negative when you can little see the light or practical aspects behind and within life, and it becomes a true Crisis, rather than simply a series of questions the asking of which may still allow you to function (albeit groggily), when it leads to lethargy and despair and a Nihilism of the spirit. In its worst form, it could lead to anger, violence, and/or self-nullification. Those are the extreme cases, but the Crisis is and should be common, and ultimately, it does not have to be bad.

Crisis connotes a highly negative experience, but if it passes, it forms a cataclysmic event that may also act as a sort of catalyst. In its best form, it serves as an impetus to action. It forces the complacent out of our reveries (or forms of “dogmatic slumbers”, if you will) and reminds us of the ticking clock in our midsts. Without wondering about our purposes in life, we would simply sit here waiting for death. Without feeling Existential urgency, we would do very little during and with life. So the Crisis jogs our minds into finding a task and attempting to best make use of what time lies before us and abilities lie within.

Quite frankly, those who do not and choose not to experience some form of Existential Crisis are not and cannot be truly Human. If they have managed to avoid it, not through the use of numbing agents like substance or delusion but through a sort of compartmentalized, dogged, and efficient self-righteousness, they have become automatons. They have used their agency to shut off agency for good. Why question? To question is to lead to discontentment, they may think. So they choose comfort over catalyst. But think, rather, that the Existential Crisis reminds you not that you are “only Human”, but Wonderfully so.

Are we not Prisms?

Deborah Stokol — Sat, 19 Nov 2011 08:33:04 +0000

I used to think that who you are stayed the same no matter what happened to you–that the core of you, your essence, the stuff that gave you your identity, was immutable and that no matter what you experienced, you were as a circle around another circle on a tree ring, nothing greater. It was significant, of course, this experiential shaping, but it did not change the being you were beneath the trappings.

I don’t know that I believe that anymore. Or, if I do, it is that I believe that we–you and I–are like prisms. We refract light differently depending on the angle at which you gaze upon us. Now, again, that is not to say that who we are depends, as would be so in the perverted version of the Heisenberg Principle, on who looks upon us–only that we are not always the same person or people and that the situation in which we find ourselves is the thing that governs which self emerges most clearly and dominantly at any given moment.

That is to say, it’s not that I’ve given in to the truth behind either the “nurture” side of the nature v. nurture debate or that of the “nature” side, which I guess is the one I may have semi-unwittingly supported before–only that in my more mature state, I have thought that both have a deep impact on who you are but also that where before I thought the self unchangeable, I think that the meaning within the worn-out cinematic phrase “you’ve changed”–said with an air of melancholy or heavy disappointment–is, indeed, possible, and if cliche, then it’s a cliche born from truth and not unnecessary grandiosity.

I say this because I have changed. As I’ve said before, I did not think it possible. I clung to the stubborn belief that the “I” beneath the other “I”s and all the crazy things I had gone through or that I had learned and ingested was the same, no matter the age or place. But that’s simply not true anymore. In fact, I can little recognize the “I” of two years ago as it compares to the perhaps more adult incarnation of the “I” I see every morning in the mirror (and the “I” of two years ago little compares to the “I” of two years before that, and so on), unclear as it is at such an early hour.

Perhaps I over-think things. Be that as it may, I still believe that we are prisms. When we go through new things, the light we contain at our greatest hour can manifest itself in various ways within us, and that, in turn, can see its release from us in various forms. The things I held dear before are those I hold dear now. But am I the same I? I’m not so sure anymore that I am. My priorities may, at their core, be the same, but the way I comport myself, the things that I think when I’m driving long stretches alone with the music only touching one part of my consciousness, are not the same. I think it’s a function of age and that experience. I think that it follows that when you learn new things, the things you will consider will change. But there you go. Maybe buried deep (or really not so deep) within this new self is that old one and that older one and that older one still, but the one you see, the one I feel, is different. And maybe that’s OK. Maybe I’ll revert back to a self I was before. Or I won’t. And that’s OK too.

Awake

Deborah Stokol — Sun, 25 Sep 2011 17:18:24 +0000

Awake–

that is what I am

(perpetually)

My thoughts race

to a finish line

no one else can see

A Manifesto for Tonight–and not Just Tonight

Deborah Stokol — Wed, 31 Aug 2011 03:44:06 +0000

I will let my imagination soar, rather than having it sink into an abyss of discontentment. I will no longer live in the past but will incorporate it lovingly into my present and its future. I release myself from stress and anxiety. I purge myself of hate, malice, and intolerance. I liberate myself from self-comparison, self-loathing and a constant need for confirmation or the other forms it takes in affirmation or validation. I do not need the acceptance of those who would change me to conform to their ideals of right.

I want no more of resentment. I want no more of self-doubt. I want no more of gossip. I care not what others think of me, insofar as it leads me to question my selfhood for the worse. I will relax and be myself and know and like who that self is. I will not cloak faltering insecurity in livid arrogance, and I will not fear what I do not know or understand or what differs from myself. I will be patient–with others as with myself. I accept that I am and will always be far from perfect and that I will fail and do so often, but I comprehend that that is an unavoidable part of being human and that even though it does not always feel like it, being human is a privilege and a gift–as is the life in which I find myself and that I must–want to–claim and make my own.

I will be dutiful but will not lose perspective. I will perform my actions with integrity and intention. I will strive for excellence and enjoy what I do. I will bring light to life and bask in the light that others bring forth as well. I will take pride in my accomplishments and savor those of others. I will not be selfish. I will not be selfless. I will just be and continue, forging a path that can only be my own.

I disavow petty vendettas and painful self-consciousness to embrace tranquility, hopeful exuberance, and ultimate gratitude. I am thankful for who and what I have and for who and what I am. I will make the most of these things and will give back to my world. I am Deborah Ilana Nijensohn Stokol, with the glorious weight of selfhood and history at my back and the promise of daytime and night time ahead of me, and I am happy to be alive.

On Reading, 1.

Deborah Stokol — Sun, 21 Aug 2011 03:13:40 +0000

Perhaps I am a literary coward

because

I do not enjoy

the works of those

who describe

the Human Condition

in too graphic of terms,

preferring, rather,

the ones who may cloak it in shades of blue and innocence,

fleeting wisdom,

unshaded contours that are no less deep,

occasional irony that sears with greater potency,

who tip-toe around it as if it were sly and mercurial,

a sometimes kind,

often cruel,

little creature–

for that is what it is.

Rain Man

Deborah Stokol — Sat, 20 Aug 2011 06:30:18 +0000

My sister calls me “Rain Man” because I have an uncanny ability to remember people’s birthdays. It’s been that way for years. And while I was never bad at math, per se, I was never a luminary, either. So it’s not like I have some divine knack with numbers; I don’t (though admit to a superstitious fascination with certain dates and combinations).

I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I have synesthesia and see letters and numbers in color. But then again, so does she. And it’s not that I care more about this kind of thing than she does because I know out-and-out that’s just not true. Yet it’s become a point of pride with me and not necessarily with her.

I’ll recite these natal days to their owners at will, proving this feat with abandon and vigor, and sometimes even frightening them into thinking it shows some sort of not-so-latent obsession, like I set out to remember their birthday because it’s theirs, and whoa!..when really, once someone’s told me his or her birthday, I’ll pretty much remember what the person said–even if it was a life time ago, we’re not friends, and/or we haven’t spoken in years.

But just because it doesn’t illustrate some freakish obsession I may have doesn’t mean I don’t care a great deal and don’t put great effort into trying to make birthdays special for those I love, either. I do, and I do.

Sometimes, though, much as I would like to, I can do nothing about those days but stew.

There are certain birthdays I hold sacred and during which I think about the person all day but can do little but keep it to myself because that person has passed away or we are no longer in touch.

So for those for whom that may apply, just because I haven’t sent a happy day missive doesn’t mean I have forgotten; it just means I’m celebrating in silence.

On All-Consuming, but then Fleeting, Routines

Deborah Stokol — Sun, 14 Aug 2011 20:51:37 +0000

On Fleeting Routines

…That is what often happens. You go into an experience, live it to its fullest, immerse yourself in it until you’re almost tired of it but at the same time can little imagine any other reality but the one you’re in. You finish it, overwhelmed, exhausted, and satisfied. For awhile, nothing else seemed possible. Now, when you try to recall what took place in this colossal, certainly magical, time in your life, you cannot remember. You sometimes list details to yourself or to others, but they don’t feel vivid, and you rattle them off without the conviction that it was you who lived them or that they happened to you.

But as time passes, you gradually begin to remember. There will be a sight or song or stray comment that will call another memory to mind, and it will seem real again, like it was, indeed, you who lived it, and it happened to you. And then you will smile…

Recorded by Deborah Stokol, August 14, 2011, with Michel Legrand’s “Un Ete ‘42″ playing in the backrgound.

There comes a time of moderation

Deborah Stokol — Sat, 18 Jun 2011 02:21:11 +0000

There comes a time

when even those

with restless souls

must rest.

When they must lay aside

their want

to seize

a golden quiet

I never thought

I could so clean

give up the fire

burning

But even warmth

can grow too hot

if it burns the one

who trusts it

and the cool, if checked,

that calms her down,

can soothe the one who loves it.