The Change and Transformation Brigade

By David Tinling

Our brave little band incarcerated, are their seminal heroes also locked up, away from American awareness and action. How is it that so many cultural leaders, along with their ideas have faded into obscurity, perhaps the subject of academic essays or studies, but absent from the lives of everyday citizens? If half of the remarkable positions taken by our historical figures had been put into practice we might very well be way beyond our current cultural wars, our deadlocked congress, our battling news sources. Adults seem to be too far along in their personal growth to welcome transformation and opportunity. It is the young, the students who must be given a chance to have a clear view of our history, to value and understand science and to rise above our racist and misogynistic past. What are the chances that schools will develop such curricula? What are the chances that corporations 217 and politicians will be open to such ideas and their consequences? How likely is any citizen to become a believer in the hopeful possibilities for us all embodied in the remarkable lives and work of our splendid actors? Could John and his secret film find an audience somewhere and make a difference for us all?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669821427

David Tinling

David Tinling is a mind-body physician who graduated from the University of Washington School of Medicine and was on the faculty of the University of Rochester Medical School. He lives in Vermont, where he writes fiction and poetry and makes conceptual art.

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Copyright © 2022 by David Tinling.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

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Rev. date: 04/22/2022

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What is it that brings advocates to march on Washington? Are there wrongs to right? Injustices to address? A forgotten or maligned group to advocate for a cause?

When Clark Phillips and Peggy Stone signed on to perform at the American-Canadian border to honor the friendship of these two great nations they had no idea that this would mark the beginning of their crusade to Washington.

Clark was a 38 year old, white poet and cultural historian who had been trained in a variety of therapies from hypnosis to Energy Psychology, and a diverse range between. He was a performance artist who mixed his poetry with therapy to engage a current issue.

Peggy was a 41 year old, black activist and artist who performed with Clark and had good common sense that she used to keep him grounded. Clark had a penchant for zany ideas that she could usually shut down in the offing, often to his displeasure, but ultimately with his gratitude. They had been married for a dozen years, living in tents, cars, dismal rooms and now a cabin in Vermont.

They lived in the mountains of central Vermont on a few acres where their ample garden nourished them and their quiet mountain place provided the solitude each needed for making art. Early on they met through an urban arts group where they discovered the talent for performing together. It was challenging to specifically define their performances. She might paint. He would recite poems. He might hypnotize her and then she would paint in trance. Or he might hypnotize himself and create a new poem, often engaging the audience and the people and place where they were performing. Sometimes they enacted little dramas where they were famous people. Peggy had a lovely, light, soprano voice and her music would often underscore what they were doing. They frequently brought audience members to the stage and Clark hypnotized them and enlisted their participation in making art or writing poetry. The audience almost always loved this part of the performance. They had developed a reputation for supporting and enabling artists who were experiencing dry periods, unlocking new creative energy and action.

CLARK

WHAT IS IT ABOUT BORDERS? I LOVE THEM. THE POSSIBILITIES THAT LIE ON THE OTHER SIDE. THE ESCAPE FROM HERE. HOW MANY CANUCKS OUT THERE? I FEEL HALF CANADIAN. MORE NORTH AMERICAN. HOW DO I GET DUAL CITIZENSHIP? MONTREAL FEELS LIKE OLD FRANCE. TORONTO IS AN INTERNATIONAL DELIGHT, SO CLEAN, POLITE AND, WELL, CANADIAN. VANCOUVER IS WHERE ASIA AND THE PACIFIC BEGIN. IF WE DID LIVE IN A CITY, INSTEAD OF RURAL VERMONT, ANY OF THOSE THREE WOULD DO. I DON’T KNOW WHERE I’M GONG WITH THIS. TOO MUCH NOISE AT THE BORDER. ENERGY FLOODING CROSSWISE. A NO MAN’S LAND. I’LL TRUST THE TRANCE. LET THE POEM WRITE ITSELF. HELLO DEAR POEM. HERE ARE PAPER AND PEN. WRITE. YES. WRITE. GO AHEAD. CAN YOU SEE ALL THE WAY TO THE ARCTIC? TO THE NORTH POLE? OR, THE OTHER WAY, TO THE CARIBBEAN, TO THE SOUTHERN BORDER. CAN YOU FEEL THE HEAT AND THE CONFLICT, THE LONG STANDING DIVISIONS, THE BIZARRE WALL REMNANTS, THOSE SKELETAL REMAINS IN THE DESERT, THE STILL RACIST AND EVANGELICAL SOUTH. HOW DO THEY RATIONALIZE A CHRISTIANITY THAT SO FEARS BLACKS?

It was a lovely spring day in a park on the American side of the border where they were performing on an outdoor stage to an audience who had brought their own chairs, blankets and picnics. Peggy was in trance and was painting images of Native North Americans at a time before there was a Canada or United States. She was singing while she painted, more a kind of pleasant humming than any audible lyric. Clark was creating a new poem, also in trance, about the land before the people, but dense with birds and wildlife. The audience felt the strong connection between Peggy and Clark, who seemed to be moving and performing in rhythm together, some in the audience slowly rocking to and fro in harmony with the performers. This went on for over thirty minutes and then Clark broke out of his trance and poem and asked if anyone in the audience wanted to join them.

PEGGY

OH, CLARK, BABY, I CAN SEE YOU CLEARLY NOW. SOME GOOD WORK TOGETHER TO SHOW US THE WAY OUT OF OUR GRAY, DIMMING, IGNORING OF EACH OTHER, SOLITARY WALKS, THE SAME OLD SCENE, OUR COUPLES FILM, WITHOUT MUCH TO DO WE DIMINISH EACH OTHER, TURN OUR HEADS AWAY, AND THEN WE GET THIS ELECTRICITY AND ALL THE DUMB STUFF DISAPPEARS AND IT IS A TRUE DUET. JUST LOOK AT US WHOLE WITH BOTH PARTS SHINING, AND LOVING PORTRAYING THE PARTS, YOUR STAR MY SUNLIGHT. WHY THE HELL DID THESE NATIVE PEOPLES ARRIVE HERE? I DON’T KNOW ANY, HAVEN’T SEEN MUCH ABOUT THEM, JUST THE DUMB HOLLYWOOD STEREOTYPES, BUT I AM SENSING SOMETHING, A BOND BETWEEN BLACK AND RED, A BRIGHTNESS IN EACH OTHER, OUR COMPLAINTS JUSTIFIED, EACH TAKEN FROM OUR NATIVE LANDS, SHIPPED TO STRANGE ENCLOSURES, PLANTATIONS AND RESERVATIONS, CUT OFF FROM OUR NATIVE ARTIFACTS, OUR GODS AND CEREMONIES, OUR ANCESTORS. I WANT TO PORTRAY THEM, IMAGINE THEM HERE WITH US, DOING THE WORK, BRINGING HEALING TO THOSE BITTER, DEEP SCARS, THAT NEVER SEEM TO DISAPPEAR, EACH DAY SHINE THIS BRIGHT LIGHT ON US THROUGH OUR TRAVAILS.

A young Native American man got up and walked directly to the stage. The certainty and rapidity of his moves were such that the stage was his to command, nobody else had time or presence to respond. He said that he was a writer who couldn’t write. He had been a soldier in a joint operation with two countries in Central America where he had been wounded and since his recovery, trying to write about the war experiences, he found himself staring at the blank page, going out for walks, stopping at a bar for a beer, home again and turning the television on, but never getting the pen to paper, never writing.

Clark was very welcoming, pleased to have another writer on the stage, and Peggy turned and smiled towards him, putting him at ease for this new adventure. Clark asked him for his name. It was Ken. He then said Ken in almost every sentence he uttered. He had Ken sit down in a red Adirondack chair with comfortable cushions to enhance the desired relaxation. Clark was a student of the Milton Erickson techniques, the great American hypnotist, who used indirect language to induce trance. He responded to what Ken said with questions, commented on his clothing, added bits about the weather and the audience, and soon Ken was yawning, which Clark remarked on, always with a permissive tone and grammar, it was Ken’s choice to relax, to be here relaxing, to want to write again, and soon Ken’s eyes closed and he slipped into a comfortable trance relationship with Clark.

PEGGY

I DON’T UNDERSTAND A LOT OF THIS. I SEE THAT CLARK TRUSTS ME AND TRUSTS OUR PROCESS, SO I CAN FIND A WAY THROUGH ALL HIS WORDS, HIS TRANCE THING, HIS ENGAGING WITH THE AUDIENCE, AND LET IT REVEAL ITSELF IN MY DRAWING AND PAINTING. IT WAS NOT SO CLEAR AT FIRST, IT TOOK TIME, A LOT OF TRANCE FOR ME, AND LETTING AN INNER PAINTER JOIN IN, SOMEONE WHO APPEARED TO BE CONNECTED TO HER ANCESTORS, SEEING THINGS THEY MUST HAVE SEEN IN AFRICA AND IN OUR SOUTH, THE DARK STORY OF THEIR SLAVERY. I BEGAN SEEING THEM IN MY DREAMS AND THEY CAME TO MY SKETCH PADS AND EASEL, TOUCHED MY HANDS, CREATING WITH ME IMAGES I HAD NEVER SEEN BEFORE. CLARK SAID IT WAS MY DNA THAT WAS OPENED UP WHEN WE SAW A WAY TO WELCOME IT IN. SOMETIMES THAT MAKES ME LAUGH. IT SEEMS TO CLEAR MY MIND AND PRESENT ME WITH RIPE VISIONS, COLORFUL FIELDS OF LIGHT AND SHADOW.

Clark avoided the war in Central America. He avoided the writer’s block. He slowly, seemingly in tune with Ken’s respirations, spoke about the artist in Ken. How he had discovered his creativity as a boy, how his heart was lifted up by reading and viewing, how he had been storing up so much to say and offer everyone. He then suggested there might be some way, of his choice, that he could join Peggy and Clark in what they were creating.

For two minutes Clark and Peggy said nothing. You could hear her brush on the paper. The small audience was quiet. The noise of trucks and cars passing by suddenly became apparent. Then Ken opened his eyes, slowly got up and went to Peggy’s side. He picked up a brush and dipped it into red paint which he slowly applied over the image of a young Native American. He was methodical and deliberate and then began covering what he had done with black paint and when he was done he came back to the comfortable chair, closed his eyes and began to cry. Nobody spoke. Ken cried for ten minutes, then stopped and took a few deep breaths and looked around. He smiled at Clark, waved to someone in the audience and said, I’m all right. It’s OK. Thanks. Thanks. Ken shook Clark’s hand. Peggy gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. He walked out into the audience who applauded. And that was it. That was what happened to get Clark and Peggy to have their own march on Washington, their own crusade. It seemed to have inspired them and brought something to life that insisted on being dealt with.

CLARK

IN THESE PERFORMANCES I DISCOVER SO MANY FOLKS WHO ARE SHUT DOWN, BUT DYING TO EXPERIENCE FREEDOM. MODERN LIFE IS PACKED WITH CONSTRAINTS: ROLES, TASKS, DUTIES, FRUSTRATIONS, AND ESCAPES. HYPNOSIS ALLOWS ONE TO OPEN UP A NEW PATH, NOT GET STUCK ON THINGS, WITH ALL THEIR LANGUAGE AND RATIONALIZING THAT KEEPS THEM SHUT DOWN. WHO NEEDS GUARDS OR PRISONS WHEN MANY DO THAT GRIM WORK THEMSELVES. ONCE THEY ENTER THIS NEW SPACE IT IS NOT SO COMPLEX AS SOME WOULD HAVE IT. THEY WANT LOVE, SUCCESS, JUSTICE, AND FREEDOM. THEY HAVE JUST BEEN LOOKING FOR IT IN THE WRONG PLACES. SO THE TRICK IS, AND IT ISN’T TRICKY, I DON’T LEAD THEM, AS MESMER DID, I FOLLOW THEM, PICK AND CHOOSE THE WORDS AND BEHAVIORS TO RESPOND TO, TAKING MY SUGGESTIONS FROM THEIR SUGGESTIONS, SO THAT I AM PRESENTING THEM WITH THEMSELVES, NOT MY NOTION OF THEM OR MY CREATION, BUT THEIR OWN TRUE BEING, ALL THE TIME LOCKED DOWN AND ASKING TO BE FREE.

Driving home in the late afternoon they spoke intensely about Ken, sharing feelings about what he had gone through, while relieved that they seemed to have helped him. This was all magnified by familiar family stories. Clarks’s Great Grandfather had been killed in Viet Nam. Peggy’s older brother never returned from a haphazard mission in the Middle East. And their personal losses were not all for the current government was waging military operations in Central America as well as Southeast Asia. Everyday there were casualties. This seemed to be an endless war America had with the rest of the world, ever since 9/11, what some called police actions but veterans and the families of the missing, killed and wounded servicemen saw as an endless war. Now America was more on her own as her major allies had dropped out of these many conflicts. They were not, however, silent about stupid wars.

PEGGY

I HAVE HAD SO MANY BEAUTIFUL EXPERIENCES WHEN OUR AUDIENCES JOIN ME AT THE EASEL. I SEE HOW CONNECTED THAY ARE TO CLARK AND IT ALMOST ALWAYS LIGHTS UP WITH ME. AT THE EASEL I LET THEM PICTURE THEIR OWN RESOLUTIONS, SOMETIMES PLACING MY HAND ON THEIRS, SOMETIMES SINGING AS THEY PAINT, SOMETIMES DIVIDING UP THE PAINTING, EACH OF US COLORING ONE SIDE, MOVING TOWARDS THE OTHER, WHICH ENGAGES THE AUDIENCE WHO SOMETIMES CHANT OR CHEER FOR US TO MERGE AS ONE RENDERING, AND IT USUALLY BRINGS THE TWO OF US VERY CLOSE TOGETHER. ONCE A GRANDMOTHER HELD ME AND CRIED FOR A LONG TIME BEFORE SHE PUSHED BACK, SMILED AND WALKED AWAY WITH OUR PAINTING IN HER HANDS. WHAT A PICTURE! WORDS DON’T SUFFICE. AND SO I HAVE COME TO LOVE THESE SESSIONS, TO LOOK FORWARD TO THEM WITH VISIONS OF NEW AND HEALING PAINTINGS, NEW ARTIST FRIENDS IN OUR STUDIO OF LIGHT.

Peggy was driving and couldn’t stop talking about Ken. Nobody has ever been so intensely involved with painting. He hardly noticed me. Did you see the sweat pouring off of him? I thought he was going to paint everything red and then he slowed down a little, you may not have noticed, but the tension went out of his arms and hands as he covered it all in black and I saw a few tears. Some folks would have wanted to get him talking about it, right?

Clark shook his head, No, no way. His talking will be in his writing. That’s what he wanted help with and he broke through whatever was constraining him. If I had got him talking we would have to see it as therapy and his condition as a problem.

CLARK

CREATIVITY CELEBRATES OUR MARVELOUS MINDS AT THEIR BEST, ENGAGING BILLIONS OF NEURONS IN MAKING SOMETHING NEW. IT LIFTS US UP AND SUPPORTS US THOUGH BURDENED BY LIFE’S ONGOING STRUGGLES. WE EMPOWER OUR CHILDREN TO BE CREATIVE IN THEIR PLAY, THEIR DRAWINGS, THEIR STORYTELLING. HOW ENGROSSED AND EXCITED THEY ARE WHEN DEEP IN THEIR IMAGINATIONS. THEN, FOR MOST OF THEM, WE CUT IT OFF, TEACHING THEM FACTS, HISTORY, SCIENCE, LANGUAGE, MATH, WHILE BARELY TOUCHING ON ART AND CREATIVITY. FOR A FORTUNATE FEW WHO STAY ENGAGED, MAKING MUSIC, WRITING POETRY, PAINTING AND DRAWING, IT MEANS THEIR FULLY FORMED ADULT PERSON WILL BE MULTI-DIMENSIONAL, NOURISHED BY THE ARTS, STILL ENGAGED IN THE CREATIVE PROCESS. AND ALL OF THIS MIGHT MAKE ONE A BETTER SCIENTIST, THINK OF EINSTEIN AND HIS VIOLIN. SO WHEN I WORK WITH ADULTS I ENGAGE THAT CHILDHOOD ARTIST, BRING THEM ALONG INTO ADOLESCENCE, INVITE THEM TO EXPRESS THEMSELVES ONCE AGAIN.

Clark was quiet, looking out on the mountains, I could have derailed him. He only needed a nudge to get the motor going again.

Peggy started to sing. Softly, humming a little, then whistling an old folk song about the weariness in life.

You could have sung that with Ken.

That’s what I was thinking.

When they got home they had a light supper and a gloss of wine and sat outside watching the sun go down.

"We need to do more, Peggy, more than these little performances. More than a few poems, some songs and paintings. The military actions are all fucked up. At home it isn’t much better. Another cop killing. People going hungry. The plutocrats owning Congress. A President who makes Trump look like