The Endless Possibilities of Paper Mache: Imagination vs. Armageddon in the Cold War

The Endless Possibilities of Paper Maché

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Imagination vs. Armageddon

in the Cold War

By Jo Swanson

History is often in the eye of the beholder. I have tried to recreate events, locales and conversations from my memories of them. As a storyteller I have made a few changes to help with the aesthetic flow of the tale, but have tried to the best of my ability to make it true to the events and characters as I recall them. Some names have been changed to protect the privacy of friends. Some identifying characteristics and details such as physical properties, occupations and places of residence may have been changed or remembered inaccurately. For any such mistakes I apologize and hope that the overall narrative will make up for such lapses. Thank you for your interest in my story.

Copyright 2012 - Jo Swanson

Smashwords Edition

Chapter 1

The right combination, so I’m told,

Of the elements will make gold.

Fire, water, earth and air

In a vessel, mixed with care,

Transforms ingredients into treasure,

Rare and valued beyond measure.

So many try and many fail,

Misunderstanding the truer tale:

Alchemical recipes yield not mere metal;

Life is our gold and the world is our vessel.

Memorial Day weekend, 1980: The bluegrass band twanged out a Pete Seeger song. Heads bobbed in time, some people sang along. Littered among the audience on the grass lay home-made shields, bolt cutters, climbing equipment, gas masks, medical supplies and a multitude of signs. ’No Nukes!’ they proclaimed, ’Shut it down!’ ’Save the children!’

To the left of the stage, beyond a thin line of trees, rose a chain link fence topped with barbed wire. On the other side of the fence stood an impressive line of police officers, each one neatly in place; six feet apart, legs slightly splayed, hands on hips. They watched us impassively; on the lookout for any wrong move.

Brian and I lay next to each other on the warm earth, dozing in the sun, surrounded by hundreds of other exhausted people. Most of us were dressed in white with colored bandannas around our necks. The kerchiefs smelled sharply of lemon juice, meant to mitigate the effects of tear gas. Skeptical of holistic remedies, I also brought a gas mask but it was bulky and hard to see through, so it remained in my pack - to serve as extra weight and a very uncomfortable pillow.

Looking back, I think we were pretty naïve. We had come up from Boston all ready to take over and occupy the construction site for Seabrook’s new nuclear plant. We were organized in small ‘affinity’ groups. Each group was prepared to stay indefinitely once we crossed the fence, but that first step was proving to be much harder than expected. Anyone who got within reach was instantly gassed, clubbed or both. The lemon-soaked kerchiefs were useless against direct hits and fingers are easily bashed when they grab chain-link. A few daring affinity groups succeeded in clipping holes in the fence, only to be swarmed by dozens of cops, who poured through the opening with clubs waving and cans spraying. Having spent the past twenty-four hours in a series of painful failed attempts, we now understood that, regarding occupation strategy; pacifism is no match for violence.

Thus enlightened, the demonstrators were now rethinking their plan. Voices buzzed around us as people huddled together to brainstorm new strategies.

Do you think we should try to find the others? I pulled off my kerchief and lay it over my sun-burnt face. Brian and I had been separated from our affinity group in the morning’s chaos.

Mm-mm, Brian replied, unmoving. We’ll find them later. This is good right now.

Neither of us noticed the tight knot of men worming through the crowd, heading our way. I only turned at the last moment because of the worried looks on the musician's faces. I followed their gaze just in time to see the men surrounding us. They wore non-descript work clothes, not police uniforms. Wasting no time, four of them scooped up Brian and began dragging him back towards the road.

Hey! I shouted, scrambling to my feet. I ran at them and threw my arms around the one part of Brian I could reach, his rapidly receding legs. Digging my steel-toed boots into the soft earth I made like a human anchor and did slow them down for a minute or two. Then one dropped back, grabbed me around the waist and yanked me off. With Olympic ease he hurled me into a nearby couple's picnic. By the time I had extricated myself, Brian was being tossed into an unmarked, white van. He didn't struggle. I and the other protestors, all thoroughly trained in passive resistance, could only stare in shock as the van drove away.

I found the rest of our affinity group and told them what happened. For the next twelve hours we searched frantically but Brian was not to be found. The police said they didn’t have him and, from the tone of their response, couldn't have cared less. Seabrook's small-town judicial system was not fond of anti-nuclear protests; processing hundreds of prisoners is expensive and time-consuming. Their new policy was merely to beat us back until we went away. As far as they were concerned, a missing protestor was one less problem.

Finally word reached us that a single policeman had been inadvertently struck with a grappling hook, which had been thrown at the fence by a young man whom they now had in custody. The officer was fine (his helmet repelled the hook), but this was considered a serious offense. The suspect had been arrested at the concert, we heard. He had medium-length brown hair, short beard and was dressed in white clothing. Since Brian fit that very broad description, we crossed our fingers and waited.

Sure enough, Brian was released the following day, but not before they threw the book at him. He was charged with ‘Felony Assault on a Police Officer,’ possible sentence? Up to seven years.

Why they chose Brian to be the scapegoat I couldn't imagine; he wasn’t near the fence when it happened and no one in our group had even brought a grappling hook. The perpetrator’s description could have fit half the men at the protest. The only thing that possibly set Brian apart from the other look-alikes was familiarity; as a regular Clamshell organizer, he had been to other Seabrook protests. If they were going to pick their suspect at random, it might as well be a face the police recognized. Too bad for Brian it was the wrong one.

*******

In my dream, I am speaking with Jerzy Grotowski, legendary theatrical genius. He is silver from head to toe, shining like a god, but that doesn’t seem unusual to me. We are having a long, detailed conversation about life and theater. He is answering all my questions and I am listening as hard as I can, but his words are going in one ear and out the other.

I can’t remember all this! I cry in frustration. He nods understandingly and leans in close to whisper,

Meet me at the Orson Welles at eleven o'clock.

I woke up on my bedroom floor; must have dozed off while meditating. In the hallway outside Mom was vacuuming, bumping the walls as she passed. I looked at my watch, two o'clock. The dream poked into memory. Eleven o'clock, I mumbled, Grotowski wants me to be at the Orson Welles Theater at eleven. OK, I thought, what the hell else is there to do?

Of course, there was plenty to do. I could look for a real job for starts. I could admit that my dreams of being a great actor were complete fantasies. You see, I met Grotowski the year before. He was looking for young actors to invite to Poland for a theater workshop. I wanted desperately to be chosen but didn't make the cut. So now it was time to face facts, pick a trade and take a place in the rat race but… not yet. I groaned and rubbed my face to wake up.

Jo? Mom cracked open the door and looked down at me. Are you all right?

Mmm yeah, I just fell asleep for a minute. Do you want any help with cleaning?

No thank you dear, I'm just tidying up a bit. Are you cooking tonight?

You could hardly call it cooking. Prep Chef was my pretentious title but grunt labor was more apt; I had an evening shift at a natural foods restaurant, chopping vegetables. If I stayed long enough they would teach me how to make the soups.

Nah, I have acting class, then I might go to a movie.

That's nice. Would you like some dinner? I'm making spaghetti. Stephan and Nina are going to join us, and Hamid... she looked around the hall at the closed doors and up toward the attic, as if seeing her possible guests through wood and plaster. Almost every room in my childhood home was now rented to Harvard students. I slept on the study floor. I wasn’t planning to stay long, only until I recovered from the break-up with Eddie. As soon as the storm of loss faded I would certainly pull my life together; find a real home and a real job and get on with it.

No thanks, Mom, I'll eat in the Square. She looked disappointed.

I could make you an omelet, she offered.

Really… I’m not hungry, but thanks anyway.

Maybe tomorrow morning for breakfast?

Sure, that would be great.

Satisfied, she smiled and moved down the hall, vacuum cleaner merrily crashing against the baseboards. I reached for my journal to jot down the dream.

*******

Between the branches of passing pine trees, grey-green glimpses of Fresh Pond rolled by. Joggers ran along a path and dogs, noses pressed to the ground, pulled their owners onwards around the water. I watched for while from the bus window, then settled back into the molded plastic bench, closing my eyes, inviting the dream to memory’s surface.

It didn’t need much encouragement, almost instantly I was there with Grotowski, nodding and saying, mm hmm, and I understand, though I still couldn’t hear him clearly. My comprehension was purely visceral: I just knew that, whatever ‘it’ was, I wanted to spend the rest of my life doing it. How unfair that it wouldn’t be recalled! All I could remember was the time and place of Grotowski’s invitation.

The bus rumbled into Harvard Square’s underground station, releasing us in a dank, dimly-lit tunnel. I jogged to the Red Line, token in hand, to slip smoothly through the turnstile and onwards to the platform… too late. The train had just left. Its departing tail-lights receded into darkness, leaving the station eerily quiet. Giddy after running, enveloped in the rare and momentary stillness of that space, I launched into a monologue:

Wheels have been set in motion! my voice echoed down the tunnel, and they have their own pace; to which we are … condemned. Each move is dictated by the previous one - that is the meaning of …

A shrill giggle cut me short. I hadn’t noticed a passel of teenage girls leaning against the far wall;. I cleared my throat loudly and slunk to a bench, hoping that more people would come soon and make the space normal again; at the moment it was a little embarrassing.

Better get over your self-consciousness, I mumbled, or you’ll never be much of an actor. Still, I sat on that bench and stared at my toes, not once looking at the girls in case they were looking back, until the next train arrived.

My destination was one of Central Square’s grand old buildings. Its large, low-rent offices housed many creative enterprises, including the Coalition for Direct Action at Seabrook and my acting class. I ran up the wide, wooden stairs and on down the hall, towards a room from which resounded thudding feet. I slipped inside, kicked off my sandals and took a place in the back of the group, loudly counting out jumping jacks.

After another twenty minutes of workout, our teacher, Steve, instructed everyone to lay on the floor and he led us through a visualization exercise: We slowly traversed our bodies from the toes on up, imagining light in each joint, breathing into it, stretching it and then moving on to the next joint. These exercises were much harder for me than the running and jumping because they required patience. But it was worth it; when the white light in our crowns shot straight up to the universe, my heart was finally at rest. For an instant my head was completely clear, no thoughts, nothing to fret about and then…

Take five minutes, Steve said, then meet back here with your objects.

Objects? a puzzled voice inquired. It was Harley; tons of creative energy - short memory for assignments. He was not alone in forgetting, several heads wagged in confusion. Luckily I remembered that we had been instructed to ‘bring an object that meant something to us but nothing valuable or irreplaceable’ (sometimes these theater exercises got rowdy). Tucked in my pack was a slightly battered Barbie doll. It wasn’t even Barbie, it was Midge, Barbie’s freckled friend. I had suspected the object would be used as the basis for an improvisation and I already had a character in mind for Midge.

Yes, objects, Steve replied patiently. Never mind, just find something around here and meet back in five. I felt a little bad for Harley until we were back in a circle, objects in hand, and Steve said, Everybody pass your object to the person on your left.

What? I blurted. Steve looked at me evenly. He had a shock of red hair above and an equally red beard. His eyes were grey and unnervingly observant.

This is an improvisation exercise. It’s meant to be spontaneous, just in case you had anything in mind, Jo.

Reluctantly I handed Midge to the woman next to me and reached for whatever item Harley (who was sitting on my right) had found. He plunked a large rock into my hand. I glowered at him.

A rock… really?

I like rocks, Harley said. "At least you’re not working with a pencil," he said pointedly towards the person on his right, but she did not notice; too busy contemplating the sneaker in her hand.

Quiet please, Steve pushed himself to his feet and walked around the circle behind us, delivering instructions. You will each have three minutes. Your goal is to let yourself be moved by the object you now have. Don’t plan anything, (a glance at me) and don’t let your head get in the way. This is not about being clever, it’s about being real. With those enigmatic words he sat back down. All right, who wants to begin?

The woman on my left, Lizbeth, raised her hand. She was usually pretty quiet, it was not her style to be so assertive. I think Midge inspired her.

Lizbeth? Steve smiled and pointed to the center of our circle, please take the stage. Lizbeth walked to the middle, took a deep breath and, clutching Midge to her chest, began to skip around the circle.

I’ve got a dolly, I’ve got a dolly, Lizbeth sang in a high, thin voice. After a few rounds she stopped and just stood there, gazing down at the doll.

What does it make you feel, Lizbeth? Steve asked quietly.

Sad, she replied in the same small voice. Then, with a look of panic, added, I don’t know why. Steve nodded encouragingly.

Ask your heart, not your head, he said. Lizbeth looked back down at the doll.

Poor baby, she murmured. Then, in one smooth motion, she popped Midge’s head off. I stifled a squeal as Lizbeth methodically pulled off all the doll’s arms and legs until only the well-endowed torso was left. This she hurled across the room, where it bounced off a wall and rolled under a table. I made a mental note of its location and turned back to see Lizbeth cradling Midge’s remaining body parts.

There there, she cooed, all better. A moment of silence followed as we stared, transfixed by the odd Madonna and (pieces of) child.

Thank you Lizbeth, very good, Steve said. Who’s next? One by one we took stage with our items. At the beginning of each improv the audience waited, in a moment of pure unpredictability, as actor and object faced each other. Then, when inspiration arrived, the actor leapt into the abyss with it… at least that was the goal. For some it was easier than for others. For example; when my turn arrived I sat cross-legged with the rock in my hand, completely unmotivated. The longer I sat, the less I felt like doing anything at all. After a minute my back began to hurt. I curled over the stone and became a stone myself, feeling oddly safe and unconcerned about my performance. The seconds ticked by.

Is that it, Jo? Steve asked.

I am a rock, I sang, I am an eye-yie-yie-yie-land.

And a rock feels no pain, eh? he prodded.

And an island neeeever cries.

Thank you, Jo, he sounded supremely unimpressed. Feedback anyone?

That was boring, Harley said. Several heads nodded agreement. I was a little hurt.

It doesn’t have to be clever, I argued, it just has to be real.

Was it? Real? Steve asked.

It’s what I felt, I insisted but my improv was just a cop-out and everyone knew it. What I felt when I looked at that rock was the same emotion I always felt, all the time. I was sick to death of it. A lump rose in my throat. I tried to swallow it back down.

"Well it was boring," Harley had to have the last word. My fist tightened over the rock and, just for an instant, I wanted to hurl it at his head.

You wanna see boring, I asked, tears rising unbidden (which only made me madder), I’ll show you boring. Crying is boring. Every improv the same old thing; anger, sadness, blah blah blah. I was only trying to be interesting. Here, take your stupid rock. I thrust it back at him and he took it, nonplussed.

It’s what I feel, he muttered. Steve cleared his throat loudly.

Let’s keep our criticism constructive, OK Harley? Thank you Jo, that last part was interesting. Next.

*******

After class I walked down Mass Ave to the Orson Welles Theater. I had only been away for a couple of years, living in Texas with Eddie, but when I returned my hometown seemed very different. The pinball cafés and pizza joints where I used to hang out with my gang were all gone, along with the second-hand clothing stores selling cheap cotton dresses from India. Now the strip was lined with gourmet restaurants, red brick bank branches and glittering boutiques whose frocks would cost me a week’s pay. I passed them all without looking in the windows.

At least the Orson Welles was still the same. Its white stucco exterior stood out against the night. Bare bulbs lit classic movie posters displayed at the entrance. Humphrey Bogart embraced Ingrid Bergman. King Kong embraced Faye Wray with one hand and the Empire State Building with the other. I took a spot between them on the sidewalk and waited.

What was I waiting for? I wondered. A sign perhaps; a tip of the hat from my unconscious, a signal to let me know that dreams do come true, that there was something worth waiting for just down the street, coming my way. The clock struck eleven. I stood completely still, barely breathing for a minute and then….

The formerly quiet street suddenly burst into activity. Young men appeared from the shadowy alleys, from cars pausing to drop them off, from the adjoining arcade. I didn’t know any of them... but I might like to, I thought. Almost a year had passed, eleven and a half months, since Eddie had walked out of my life. Surely it wouldn’t hurt so bad to try again. The young men swirled around me like leaves, all in passing. They moved on in their different directions and left me alone again in front of the theater, a one-woman show.

I shrugged and looked at my watch, 11:02. That was probably it; the message that silver Grotowski intended to convey: Men come and go. Eddie was gone and he certainly wasn’t coming back. Time to get on with it. Life is short and it ends alone. I turned to leave but then saw one more young man coming across Mass Ave straight towards me. This one I knew.

Brian! I called. He looked at me curiously. It’s me, I persisted, Jo Swanson... from Seabrook? A slow smile spread across his face, the look of recognition and remembrance.

Jo SWANson! He exclaimed, spreading his arms wide for a hug. How are you?

Great Brian, kind of a lie, Wow it’s good to see you again. I guess we lost touch, huh?

Yeah, that’s my fault. I’ve been moving around a lot, he said, not entirely cheerfully. School, work, attorneys... say, are you doing anything? Want to join me for an ice cream?

Sure, I replied. I was actually waiting for you, I think. He raised a quizzical eyebrow. It’s a funny thing. You’re not going to believe this but... I told him about my dream and we had a good laugh, then headed down the block towards the ice cream parlor.

So how's your case coming along? I asked, when we were seated with our sundaes. Brian shrugged.

"Pretty good I guess, it's hard to tell. I have an excellent legal team. The Lawyers Guild