Rockville, Maryland, March 24-26:

The Piercing Eloquence troupe wrapped up its tour in fine style at Montgomery College, where, coincidentally, Sasha Olinick, one of the fine actors in the American Shakespeare Center’s Summer/Fall season works. Sasha’s Feste in Twelfth Night is AWESOME, all the moreso because his completely-different Cornwall in King Lear and Elbow/Barnadine in Measure for Measure also rock. Go see Twelfth Night right now. No, literally, go right now. …No, don’t actually go right now.

N.B. I know the meaning of the word ‘literally,’ but this literally/actually joke is a private shout-out to the rest of the Piercing Eloquence tour on this, the much-belated final chronicle of the tour.

Our stay at Montgomery College was fantastic because they treated us like kings, or at least dukes. They gave us presents, they had fruit platters in the dressing room, and, most importantly, they put us up in a FANTASTIC hotel. It was not, perhaps, my personal favourite, because the Belmont Inn in South Carolina and the Partridge Inn in Georgia get style points for being from the nineteenth century, and the place in the Florida Keys (La Siesta?) gets style points for having eighty-five palm trees and an ocean. However, these suites in Gaithersburg were certainly luxurious. Everyone got their own bedroom, and the bedrooms shared a living room/kitchen. Having a kitchen is just about the most blessed thing one can imagine after having been on tour more or less since September, precisely at the moment that even the sight of the bizarre architectural façade of a Bob Evans makes one want to barf.

Here are some pictures of my suite:

They have WILLIAM MORRIS prints on the wall! Ten points: the most reasonable thing a hotel can do if denied the advantage of being from the nineteenth century. The hotel also had one of the best hotel fitness rooms we saw on tour, and a happy hour with free wine, beer, and food, most notably hummus, one of my two and a half favourite food items. So you could go to the gym and then drink wine with increased justification! Heaven. Sheffield visited Ginna whilst we were here; Evan stayed with Jacki; Scot celebrated his birthday by trying to hide the fact that it was his birthday from the rest of us; everyone was happy.

Despite the fact that these were our last shows on the road, I remember fairly little about them, especially compared with the previous shows in Virginia Beach and in Minnesota. The auditorium had a central seating area that was a good five or six feet lower than areas along the side and in the back of the auditorium, which were roughly the same height as the stage. In explaining it this way, I suddenly realise that it’s the same basic format of the Blackfriars, only without seating along the sides and in the back of the stage, and larger in square footage, if not in number of seats. An odd wall came down from the ceiling in front of the seating area in the back, which we were told made it very difficult to hear. So, once again, we had to resonate in each other’s faces, but thankfully it would be the last time, at least for these shows: in addition to being the most beautiful theatre I’ve ever been in, the Blackfriars also has just about the World’s Best Acoustics.

The only distinctive things I recall about our performance of Taming of the Shrew would appear to not bespeak the best of the audience, so I have to place a disclaimer that I think it was a very friendly and attentive audience, and a good show. I was still having a lot of fun exploring the icing on Bianca’s physicality, to continue to borrow the metaphor from Gremio’s line “My cake is dough.”

However, during my first scene as Bianca (which I unofficially think of as the “Will you any wife?” scene, after yet another Gremio line), a woman’s cell phone went off. It was doubly unfortunate for her that she was sitting in one of the seats onstage, and perhaps trebly unfortunate that there is a fairly lengthy portion of the pre-show in which Chris Seiler beats Chris Johnston with a whacker noodle for being on his cell phone. (“I’ll call you back in five minutes!” WHACK “I’ll call you back in fifteen minutes!” WHACK “I’ll call you back after the show...and tell you what a wonderful time I just had!”) The Use of Cell Phones is also what makes actors Very Sad, as is evidenced by the whacker noodle ‘long tears’ made famous in The Great Whacker Noodle Massacre and Its Redemption.

The cell-phone started going off in the middle of my line, but as that line is very much in the business of being demur and making my books and instruments my company, it didn’t even occur to me to lay the whacker noodle into the cell phone perpetrator. God and my fellow troupe members know, I’ve got no aversion to adding text to justify spur-of-the-moment bizarre occurances, but not if it would break character. So I just stopped, and stared at the woman with the tuneful shoulderbag, using the default response taught to me by Diego Arciniegas of the Publick Theatre in Boston, still one of my favourite directors of all time, as a way to deal with the airplanes, helicopters and sirens that sometimes appear in Sidley Park, Syracuse, Italy, or Elizabethan London if your theater is outdoors in the middle of a city. Just stop, counselled Diego. And stare. And he was right, as he was in so many things. Audiences respond to actors staring at an airplane as though the actors had reinvented the wheel, or perhaps even the airplane.

Of course, it’s a little different when you’re staring at an animate object no less than five feet away, and that animate object is desperately tearing through her shoulderbag whilst the inanimate object inside the bag starts to go through the second cycle of its ringtone. My ever-resourceful Papa/the ever-resourceful Mr. Seiler, having also had some prior experience with slugging Mr. Johnston during the pre-show for having a fictional cell phone, borrowed a whacker noodle from her neighbour and gave the girl one solid Whack of Remonstrance.

The cell phone, being inanimate and insensible, continued to ring. Or, more accurately, melodically beep.

Mr. Seiler, dismayed either that the woman still was unable to locate the cell phone in her bag or that the whacker noodle did not have the same effect on real cell phones that it did on the fictional one in the pre-show, decided to press on. The only problem was that, instead of going over to Gremio to be ‘enticed’ by the truly hideous quasi-cloisonné double-headed tiger bracelet, I had cross downstage to counter Baptisa’s whacker noodle initiative. Somehow, we all sorted ourselves out, and the scene continued; I couldn’t even tell you what was left out, or if anything was, but I think the audience was as distracted as we were and probably did not notice that anything had gone wrong. …Aside from a cell phone going off for what seemed to me to be about a minute, and probably seemed to be about eighty-five minutes to the girl who possessed it.

The only other thing I remember about this Shrew was the voluminous number of people who decided to visit the bathroom during the scene where Raffi and I are waiting to make an entrance from the back of the house. When someone random passes through the lobby of any given theater whilst I’m waiting there, which is a common occurrence when we perform on college campuses, I always give them a huge wave and a slightly farcical grin. I found that the best defence was a good offence as far as receiving looks for being dressed in a huge blue-and-pink paisley dress, or as a boy, depending upon the show that has me waiting in the lobby. But whenever it’s actual audience members, I always feel awkward. It’s a mixture of ‘I see you care deeply enough about our show to visit the bathroom 10 minutes before the end’ and ‘So, howzabout that suspension of disbelief?’

Our final Merchant of Venice on the road was not what I would have wished our final Merchant of Venice on the road to be, in order to provide a nice close to this narrative. But I suppose humans feel the need for narrative so strongly precisely because our lives, in most cases, lack a good structural narrative. In the interest of preserving the narrative of my last post, I kept this fact apart, but now it must out: after our last performance of Merchant in Virginia Beach, which had been so revelatory for me on so many counts, Aaron announced that the show had run about quite a few minutes over its best running time. I don’t recall the actual figure by this point, but it was some horrendous amount like ten minutes, and as the character with the most lines in the show I was probably responsible for a healthy (or unhealthy) percentage of that. The upshot of this fact was that we were asked to tighten up our cues as much as humanly possible, and the upshot of that request was that I spent the final show on the road thinking predominantly about picking up cues and eliminating any hairbreadth of a pause.

I by no means believe in pause-ridden Shakespeare, but, on the other hand, I have enough faith in myself in a person who likes to Move the Text that I stopped thinking about it, and that was obviously the place I had gotten to in Virginia Beach. And I appreciate that perhaps the show in Maryland was better than its immediate predecessor for the audience, but I felt straitjacketed simply by having to think very hard about something other than telling the story—it’s precisely the same reason why the first show in an any acoustically difficult space was trying for me, because I always had to keep part of my mind on this utterly technical point.

I know I strive, as an actor, to reach a point where I am no longer thinking—perhaps we all do, though in working with this troupe of actors for an entire year I was able to glean enough to speculate this may not be everyone’s goal. But I think I came to the point of being halfway-decent, as an actor, when I learned how to shut off as much of my thinking brain as possible and just be a little stupid. (My eternal thanks to Dennis Krausnick of Shakespeare and Company for leading me to that point.) And in order to do what I think is my best work, I need to not-think about verse, and not-think about text work, and not-think about pacing. And, even in my modesty, I think I did that many times within this season. But it didn’t happen with the Merchant at Montgomery College.

But Aaron was happy with the show, which is more important than the skewed opinion of my internal judge. Afterwards, he announced with some triumph that the show was back to its original length, and asked us if we noticed the difference. Ginna, I recall, thought it was a great show, but Josh made some comment about feeling as though he was in his head, with which I more than sympathised.

We had what amounted to a day off in between the two performances, when only a couple of people had a workshop in the morning. (I participated in an interesting workshop about direction in which both Ginna and I agreed that we were very glad we don’t do the darker and more violent Kate/Bianca Bound scene that we tried as a redirection.) I decided to go into D.C. to go to a museum, and, perhaps to the shame of my Art-Historian mother, was taken with a desire to go to the Air and Space Museum over an art museum.

I took three astronomy courses in college and am consequently a kind of dilettante astronomer, my current efforts being constrained to reading relevant newspaper articles with interest, possessing a proclivity to the Air and Space Museum, and reading physics-for-the-masses books like The Fabric of the Cosmos by Brian Greene. These are tasks well-befitting my abilities, as none of them involve math. But I found the Air and Space museum less enchanting than it had been for me at, say, age eight, and narrated to one of my dear Astronomy professors from B.U. that my mind would have rather preferred more Space and less Air, however my lungs might feel about the matter.

That evening, I had dinner with my aunt, uncle, and cousin, the self-same who were proud witnesses of One of the Finest Moments of Theatre, Shakespearean or Otherwise, That I Have Ever Seen. We went to a Chinese restaurant, under the false impression that they had Dim Sum all day. It was no matter, because Dan and I went to get Dim Sum the following morning, and I think I ate enough Dim Sum to have sufficed for the previous evening, and perhaps the following evening, as well.

Here is a picture taken after our final performance. We have our hands in the ‘Fancy Bred’ circle that we would do prior to some performances. Points go to Head Historian Paul for the orchestration of this photo, which as you can possibly infer, involved a ladder. When he first asked for a ladder I thought he was going to try to do a re-creation of the 1987 Henry V picture of the first production that led to the formation of Shenandoah Shakespeare, later the American Shakespeare Center. I am glad that he did not, because no one would have been able to recreate the leather shirt on the esteemed Dr. Ralph Alan Cohen, FEDADOM, and the smiley unbearded face of Jim Warren. (This photo is by the rehearsal hall in the Blackfriars, and if you, dear reader, go on a guided tour of the theatre, you can see this picture yourself.)

As I look at this photograph, it seems to me as if the unseen photographer is saying to Alisa, ‘Give me sexy, baby,’ and to Ginna ‘Give me cool, baby, work it,’ and to me ‘Give me overcompensation for the fact that you’re sad the final show on the road wasn’t the experience you hoped, yeah.’ I do not mean to put overcompensation on anyone else’s smile, but knowing that Josh confessed to a similar opinion of the show, I do wonder about the fact that we’re almost the smiliest ones in the photograph. Besides Dan. But Dan is smiley because he’s one of the best people on earth.

Piercing Eloquence 2007-2008

I couldn’t ask for a more talented group of actors to roam the east half of the U.S. in three vans with. Thank you.

"Is it a world to hide virtues in?"

There were four questions, of which we had to do any two. I chose the Disgrace and The Great Gatsby questions because I didn't do the Merchant of Venice and while I found Jeni Couzyn's poem The Red Hen's Last Will and Testament to The Last Cock on Earth simply delightful, I was not up to writing an essay on why the poem “functions as a witty feminist statement”. I was up to taking David Lurie apart piece by piece, and to dithering over why Jay Gatsby invented himself and how successful it was.

I'll give y'all something to read. Here's Ms Couzyn's The Red Hen's Last Will and Testament to The Last Cock on Earth in full.

Mr Cockatoo I'm through.

You

can take your splendid

reasoning and quick

precision and elegant

vision somewhere

else.

You can take your

fine red comb and fast

feathered sex and high

concepts somewhere

else.

Your race can take its

good influence and careful

words and strong wings and

bright eyes some other place.

You may be the

last manifestation but

you're not worth it.

Now

that there's artificial

insemination since the

evolution of the cock

 

as a different species

you may as well whither

too.

Hens need something

else. You make us feel

abandoned. You make us

feel like a place cocks

Pop into. We stay in the

place alone.

 

We await your

visitation. You pop in and

pop out. When we wake up

in the morning it is

silent.

All the hens in the

farmyard feel exactly as

I do about you. We have

decided to quit.

You all

can take off on your

massive Coxes High Powered

Jet Propelled

wings.

We hens will stay here

laying our eggs in the

warm straw, dreaming of

foxes.

Next up I have Visual Literacy, somewhere in the far-reaches of October. I have a lot of summarizing to do, so expect my blogging to be spotty. Adieu.

I am on my way to the Isle of Man (a place I find difficult to separate from assorted Fast Show Sketches)

Ostensibly the point of this journey is to deliver one of Nigel Colborn and my storming performances of the phenomenon that is Green With Envy. For the uninitiated, an explanation: Nige and I are wheeled out every so often to perform in front of scant audiences in the furthest flung corners of this country (we count Whitby, Clacton on Sea and Barrow in Furness amongst our conquests). The latest gig is at the Gaiety Theatre, Douglas, Isle of Man.

However, I do have another (covert) mission. The Isle of Man is notable for a number of things. It is the residence of both Sir Norman Wisdom (93) - who lives in the Abbotswood Nursing home, Ballasella  (he is the one on the right in this photograph). And Rick Wakeman (59) whose exact address is unavailable. The Bee Gees were born here but did not hang around very long. It boasts the oldest parliament in the world (the Tynwald). It has a strange three legged emblem called a triskelion emblazoned upon its coinage and stamps. It is the last place in Britain to abolish the birch (up until 1976 it was administered to the bare buttocks of assorted hooligans and petty thieves) - interestingly one of the reasons for its abolition was the worry that birchees would sell their stories to the News of the World.

Finally, and this is the point, they have a specific variety of cat - The Manx Cat - that has no tail. It is my mission to find one of these as a sop to the armies of cat nutters who are after me at the moment. 

09:17 First step is the train to London. I am keeping a sharp eye open as I realise that the arms of the International Movement of Cat Nuttery are long and influential. Who knows who could be following me carrying a umbrella loaded with a deadly dose of Catnip and just waiting their time? Currently I am cunningly disguised as a hockey Mom.

10:00 Ha. They have managed to shut the entire Victoria Line apparently for “routine maintenance” but I don’t believe a word of it: they are trying to force me onto the northern line where I will be helpless. However, I have found another route: true, it involves swimming along an foully polluted Victorian sewer but I am at the peak of fitness and extraordinarily well trained. Fortunately I remembered to include a rather fetching Lycra One Piece bathing suit in my Hockey Mom disguise.

10:30 I have made it on the Gatwick Express. I am now disguised as an itinerant swineherd (the smell helps to keep people away). I am due to rendez-vous with Nigel in about 40 minutes or so.

10:40 Curses. I have just read my blog comments on my spiffy iPhone. I may be heading into a trap. Nigel, my old chum and fellow artiste has been turned and is definitely in the pay of the fiendish Cat Nutters. I will need to exercise extreme caution at all times.

12:35 Climb aboard a very small aeroplane with propellors and wipe clean seats. I don’t think Nigel knows that I know but you can never be too sure. 

13:35 Isle of Man airport. It is one of the nastiest imaginable days. Grey and rainy and windy. My search begins in earnest. There are no cats matching the description in the environs of the airport. We drive to Douglas via a rather unimpressive stone bridge that is home to the fairies apparently. It is important to greet them as you pass or else something dreadful will happen. (I have often suspected that fairies are pretty evil deep down - just look at the Arthur Rackham version as opposed to the Disney Tinkerbelle/Kylie Minogue stereotype). I call out cheerful greetings and feel a little foolish.

14:15 A bland lunch in the hotel while watching grubby seagulls frolic in a filthy sea. A sudden thought: how can I tell the difference between a genuine, tail less Manx cat and an unfortunate amputee? It will look extra suspicious if I go around asking awkward questions.

15:10 Nigel has gone for a kip. This is my chance. Disguised as a suitably salty sea dog I venture forth in search of cats. There are none to be seen. The weather is too nasty and all sensible felines are curled up in front of a fire. Dash and tarnation: foiled again. I caught a glimpse of this mysterious character following me while pretending to photograph salvias.

16:00 We start out for the theatre - admittedly slight prematurely but we need to run through the technical bits and work out how we are going to begin the show. When we first started we began with a rather neat bit of Shakespeare. There are two gardeners in Richard II who moan about the state of England. We then moved on to dressing up as scientists doing a survey. Next (when all that information about people was lost by the government) we were Civil Servants. Tonight we were going to be disgraced bankers but, seeing that this is a tax haven, we decided that it might not be terribly tasteful so we are masquerading as American Presidential Candidates. I will be Barack Obama and Nigel will, I hope, be Sarah Palin.

22:30 Gig over. A fabulous theatre full of velvet and gold leaf, great staff, acceptable sandwiches but, yet again, rubbish publicity so an audience of only about 100. Those that came left happy. It is very annoying as we are exceptionally good. Maybe we should go to America or South Africa or somewhere.

Our impersonations of American presidential candidates were masterful.

I am just disguising myself as Cary Grant in To Catch A Thief so that I can clamber across rooftops searching for the elusive Manx cat. Nigel is, so he claims, in bed but he could be anywhere - that damned elusive cattist agent. We leave at 5:30 in the morning. I have seven hours of search time. (5:30: on a Sunday morning. Honestly. Bloody ridiculous.)

There is an appalling pianist singing a strangled version of Lady in Red just beneath my bedroom window. Oh God...he is now murdering Coldplay, as a medley. No wonder they had the birch on this island.

5:30: Disaster. All night I have searched without success: from the back gardens of Peel to the alleyways of Jurby . 

Pas de chats.

Now it is time to retreat to the mainland. I feel devastated. I must return catless to face the music. Nigel is wearing a look of great satisfaction: he will doubtlessly be richly rewarded by his cattist paymasters. Perhaps I should leap from the aeroplane? maybe not, it is the sort of thing that Flybe frown upon and, anyway, I am not convinced that there are any parachutes on this route.

I am listening to What You Have Is Good by Departure Lounge. The picture is of the ceiling of the Gaiety Theatre.

Dear loyal readers and that one emotionally stunted stalker in Bangkok:

Today begins a new era in the fortunes of Morbidiculous... or maybe it's really more of an epoch!

Era or epoch? It's so hard to decide, I hate these moments of crisis! They remind me of dilemmas. :O

Well anyway, as I was saying. Thanks to the purchase of a brand new laptop computer, we are officially "back in the game", if I'd ever played anything even resembling a sport in my life! But the expression will do for now until the entire foundations of language change! HURRY THE FUNK UP.

So first of all, new updates should be regular and forthcoming!

Secondly, it is now October, as I discovered when I was attacked by that pack of wall calendars (it's a long story, it involves man playing God and then reaping some dire consequences) and you know what that means, don't you?

HALLOWEEN IS APPROXIMATELY 26 DAYS AWAY, GIVE OR TAKE!

Of all the secular, non-denominational holidays not even celebrated in my native country, Halloween is without a doubt my favourite! Shortly followed by Dias de la Muertes, both in terms of placement on my  list AND chronologically! How about that for convenience! It was very thoughtful of the establishers of tradition to include me in their plans!

To celebrate the next twenty six days of anticipation and then the one day of unrelenting terror and dread, Morbidiculous will be attempting to follow a horror theme! Spooky.

Nightmares await!

Uuuuuh, wrong kind of nightmare, R.L Stine.

Still not quite there, keep trying!

You know what? CLOSE ENOUGH. :O

So, to sign off: the variety of links that's become habitual, some of which may or may not entertain you; how should I know, I'm not your mother, leave me alone, get your kicks elsewhere, sickos! >:O

Gamers Bill of Rights Demanded; world poverty still a non-issue

Help, help, we're being repressed!

And so I reach my daily Monty Python paraphrase quota. For the time being. :/

10 Things PC Games Must Always Include

Clearly this is a crisis on a global scale, damnit! FOR WE HAVE STRENGTH IN NUMBERS.

8 Museums You Won't Be Bored By

Pfft, I have better things to do with my time than visit museums!

...I'm lying... no I don't. :(

9 Reasons Not To Date A T Rex

I didn't say they were GOOD reasons.

(People always manage to find a reason to back out of commitment... QUITTERS)

Shakespeare Insult Generator

Shakespeare could be quite the acerbic playwright - here is proof in the form of an online Shakespearean insult generator!

The internet has once again fulfilled a dream... my dream of having an ill-tempered 15th century bard living inside my computer!

....WHAT DO YOU MEAN THAT WASN'T WHAT MARTIN LUTHER KING JR WAS TALKING ABOUT. LET ME SEE THAT CIVIL RIGHTS PAMPHLET. :|

That was reported as being new science and it is science in the sense that the experiment can be conducted by other people to see if they obtain similar results. However, the underlying idea certainly isn't new and 400 years ago Shakespeare published a little play on this subject which many people have watched called The Tragedy of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. The entire story line is based on a person who is greatly stressed and his attempts to verify what is objective truth and what is his own mental projection. The character Hamlet shows how easy it is to misconstrue and project onto obviously random phenomena a pattern as in: ...

Act 3, Scene 2 -

HAMLET - Do you see yonder cloud that's almost in shape of a camel?
LORD POLONIUS - By the mass, and 'tis like a camel, indeed.
HAMLET - Methinks it is like a weasel.
LORD POLONIUS - It is backed like a weasel.
HAMLET - Or like a whale?
LORD POLONIUS - Very like a whale.

Act 5, Scene 2 -
OSRIC - Sweet lord, if your lordship were at leisure, I
should impart a thing to you from his majesty.

HAMLET - I will receive it, sir, with all diligence of
spirit. Put your bonnet to his right use; 'tis for the head.

OSRIC - I thank your lordship, it is very hot.

HAMLET - No, believe me, 'tis very cold; the wind is
northerly.

OSRIC - It is indifferent cold, my lord, indeed.

HAMLET - But yet methinks it is very sultry and hot for my
complexion.

OSRIC - Exceedingly, my lord; it is very sultry,--as
'twere,--I cannot tell how. But, my lord, his
majesty bade me signify to you that he has laid a
great wager on your head: sir, this is the matter,--

Whitson: "People see false patterns in all types of data, imagining trends in stock markets, seeing faces in static and detecting conspiracies between acquaintances,” Whitson said. “This suggests that lacking control leads to a visceral need for order—even imaginary order."

Shakespeare understood this problem which Galinsky and Whitson test with their experiments and he goes on to the obvious next steps, which are: How can we protect ourselves from projecting our own thoughts and biases upon data and furthermore how can we trick others into revealing their hidden thoughts and biases?

Act 2, Scene 2 -

HAMLET - I have heard
That guilty creatures sitting at a play
Have by the very cunning of the scene
Been struck so to the soul that presently
They have proclaim'd their malefactions;
For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak
With most miraculous organ. I'll have these players
Play something like the murder of my father
Before mine uncle: I'll observe his looks;
I'll tent him to the quick: if he but blench,
I know my course. The spirit that I have seen
May be the devil: and the devil hath power
To assume a pleasing shape; yea, and perhaps
Out of my weakness and my melancholy,
As he is very potent with such spirits,
Abuses me to damn me: I'll have grounds
More relative than this: the play 's the thing
Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king.

Act 3, Scene 2, line 72 -

HAMLET -to Horatio: - Give me that man
That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him
In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart,
As I do thee.--Something too much of this.--
There is a play to-night before the king;
One scene of it comes near the circumstance
Which I have told thee of my father's death:
I prithee, when thou seest that act afoot,
Even with the very comment of thy soul
Observe mine uncle: if his occulted guilt
Do not itself unkennel in one speech,
It is a damned ghost that we have seen,
And my imaginations are as foul
As Vulcan's stithy. Give him heedful note;
For I mine eyes will rivet to his face,
And after we will both our judgments join
In censure of his seeming.

I’m not kidding. I’m reading Germaine Greer’s Shakespeare’s Wife right now and it’s her assessment that Shakespeare’s best-selling poem, “Venus and Adonis” was Renaissance porn. It’s not EXPLICIT porn and it’s couched in a beautiful metaphoric form but yeah, I can see how it could be interpreted as porn. I’d put it more in the lyric erotica category myself but it was the 1590s after all, so who can say?

It seems that during the plague when all of the theatres were closed and Shakespeare had no income coming in, he composed these erotic verses to bring in some much needed cash. Greer points out that “Venus and Adonis” was widely read, had at least eleven reprintings in Shakespeare’s lifetime and that most of the copies remaining had been handled so much that they were in tatters. Greer makes a lot of fascinating arguments around this idea (about Ann Hathaway, older women, sexuality and patronage) but what I’m most interested in at the moment is that this, our most treasured playwright, turned to this form in times of economic hardship. He wrote a best selling erotic poem when he couldn’t pursue his work in the theatre.

I too am short on cash and while no plague has closed down the theatres (gratefully!) they may as well be closed to me given the level of my current access to working in them. SO, I’m thinking about going the way of Shakespeare and Anais Nin and who knows who else and selling my art in a new form. Of course, if I’m going to do it their way, I’ll need a patron first, I guess. And I don’t really relish the idea of writing porn, per se. Maybe I’ll write some good feminist erotica instead. 

On a podcast of Radio Lab (my current favorite radio show) they talked about this archeological dig in Egypt at the start of the century, which is essentially an ancient garbage dump. Among the fragments of gnostic texts and gospels of Jesus, they found lots and lots of the same scraps of paper. Something that had been sort of mass produced, and clearly very popular. Guess what it was. That's right. Porn. (Here's the show if you want to hear the story: egyptian trash )

 I suppose all this makes me wonder what else I could do that might be in this neighborhood. I mean, I'm not going to make a porno, clearly but how can I sell out just a little bit just like those that have come before me and my hero, Shakespeare? 

Here's a pretty "Venus and Adonis"-y type song although instead of horse metaphors, I'm using something a LITTLE more contemporary. It also has pretty silly instrumentation. Listen here: Laptop

blue, pure sky and the sun gleamings on the trees and fields. It was

surprising that Nature had gone tranquilly on with her golden process

in the midst of so much devilment. (Crane 29)

Nature doesn’t exist. This is not to say that trees, grass, plants, etc. don’t exist, but rather that the idea of nature as a one individual is false. Henry Fleming thinks otherwise. This character created by Stephen Crane in The Red Badge of Courage is used to illustrate the common thoughts and fears of a soldier during war. Henry believes “Nature” as a universal being that everyone can relate too. In the selected passage we can identify that Henry believes Nature should represent the “devilment” of war that encompasses it. However, nature is realistic and continues on throughout time as planned without representing human involvement.

            The idea of Nature occurs throughout the novel. Henry continually has an internal conflict between fear and courage. Very indecisive, he fights in battle and flees for safety. Much like Hamlet, Henry can’t stick to his “gut” instinct, the opposite characteristic of a hero. Henry can’t fight against the “monster” (Crane 25) as much as Hamlet can’t kill King Claudius. Thus Henry tries to find an idol, something or someone he can follow. He turns to “Nature.” In this selected passage we first identify the interaction between the two. Henry has just finished fighting in his first battle and realizes that Nature has continued on without him, without sympathy. He has more of a belief that Nature will characterize the evilness of death and destruction as it did in Julius Caesar. In the play by Shakespeare, “a lioness hath whelped in the streets; and graves have yawn’d, and yielded up their dead… [and] drizzled blood upon the Capitol” (Shakespeare 2.2. 18-22). However, none of such occurs in The Red Badge of Courage, but rather Nature ignores the war and continues on “tranquilly.” It contrasts the romantic idea of Henry Fleming and the realistic novel.

            Crane illustrates realism through his texts. In The Open Boat he also uses an unexpected situation like the continuity of nature to support his point. The Oiler, Billy, the only character whose name is given, dies. In an ideal story, he would have survived because he was the hardest worker, however that is not life. Life is unfair. Through the selected passage we can infer that the romantic Henry Fleming is confused between Nature, a mythical being, and nature, the realistic world around him. Nature doesn’t exist.

     one life at a time. He wished to rush forward and strangle with his fingers

                             He craved a power that would enable him to make a world-sweeping

                             gesture and brush all back. His impotency appeared to him, and made

                             his rage into that of a driven beast.

       The Red Badge of Courage is a search for Henry Fleming’s manhood. The youth believes he must fight with honor and ferocity in order to feel that he has made the transition from a boy into a veteran fighter, thus becoming a man. Despite his initial successes in battle, his internal fears are ignited, forcing him to flee the battleground. He seemingly wavers between this sense of bravery and self-worth, and guilty realization throughout the story. After deserting the battle, he attempts to find excuses that could ease his suffering, ultimately forming a plausible reason. Just as a squirrel Henry sees in the forest scamper into the brush to avoid a falling pinecone, mankind follows similar natural laws. He links human behavior with that of the natural world, but this connection ironically, as illustrated in the selected passage, describes his behavior in all circumstances and states of mind, even his periods of reckless courage.

       Henry sees nature around him as merely a reflection of himself. A forest animal was created with deep instincts to escape danger in order to preserve the self. Henry, believing that he was facing imminent death at the hands of the rebels, dropped his weapon and ran like “Death [was] about to thrust him between the shoulder blades.” He felt that if a Godly, natural creature like a simple squirrel was intrinsically made to avoid any danger, a reasoning human should at least be able to do the same. Therefore, he compares himself to an animal because he sees human instinct as compatible with the instincts of surrounding nature. Humans, natural being themselves, should act accordingly. Those who remained behind to resist the danger were unnatural “fools.” While the selected quotation appears before the comparison is made, these lines nevertheless embody his entire range of behavior, not only his cowardice but also his resistance of the enemy.

       Henry finds himself with such a hatred for the enemy that he yearns for a weapon more powerful than his rifle, one that could slaughter more than one soldier at a time. He wanted to make a wild “world-sweeping gesture” to “brush all back.” This quickly growing rage, like that of a “driven beast,” evokes the behavior of the natural world. A lion or wolf, when drawn into a fight, never fights passively. The animal will draw upon its last resources of energy to kill the opponent in the majority of situations. The animal, once in a fight, knows only one objective. It will wither vanquish the other beast or die in the fight. There is rarely a semi-violent match in which the animals leave wounded but endure. Similarly, Henry, despite his concerns for his bravery and manliness in battle and fears of retreating, becomes transformed by the battle into an animal of sorts. His wrath knows no limitations. Instead, he reaches an inhuman level of aggression. He even lusts for the opportunity to dismiss the services of his weapons and return to the primitive style of hand-to-hand combat. He wishes he could strangle the rebels with his own hands. While some may perceive this desire as sickly, it meshes with Henry’s own view of man’s relationship with nature. The natural laws and principles that govern lions and wolves reign over man with an equally forceful grip. When confronted with inevitable danger, nature flees. When involved in combat, nature achieves a vicious level of aggression. Henry believes that man should do the same.

       Stephen Crane, in composing these lines, appeals to the universal war character. The literature of war usually portrays the hero as a strong, courageous, fierce, but not reckless fighter. However, Crane relates the realism of war to the reader by portraying the common soldier’s experience in the chaos of a fight. War is the story of the common man, not these fictional heroes. Emotions become overwhelming, and men begin to act outside of their typical personalities. Henry Fleming is a clear example of the metamorphosis of a common man thrown into the heat of war. He doubts himself, feels like a seasoned veteran, runs from battle, concocts a litany of excuses, and charges the enemy without fear in a matter of two days. His sudden rage and primitive, apparently inhuman demeanor is truly a shocking state of mind of which the reader is given a glimpse in The Red Badge of Courage. This desire to kill and destroy is even one of the attractions of marching to war. It is not always the romantic images of gold, glory, and God. There is an innate human instinct and enjoyment to destroy buildings, landscapes, and other men. J. Glenn Gray, author of The Warriors, states that men who volunteer for war are excited by only a few aspects of conflict, one of them being the opportunity to kill, destroy, and render helpless. This realistic emotional state has been investigated in other war literature works. In Shakespeare’s play, Hamlet is overwhelmed by a lust to mercilessly torture King Claudius. He runs the king through with a poisoned sword and forces the poisoned wine down the king’s throat. In the true depiction of modern warfare, Anthony Swofford in Jarhead nearly attacks his commanding officer for refusing him the chance to fire at an enemy leader.

       Men become stricken by the necessity to kill, and to kill with one’s own hands. Henry Fleming realizes this connection between man and the natural world, and Stephen Crane expresses the bond in a depiction of the common man’s struggle in war, through both the cowardice and the aggression.

If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved."

These words are some of the most beautiful that ever were penned. William Shakespeare, for all the nonsense that he displays at times concerning love and marriage, wrote words worthy of the nature of love. Love runs through the veins of a true lover like fire, ever consuming and every marking them with it complete takeover. Love never quits, never fails, never removes itself from the mind of one who has been seared with its brand.

I have not been in love. I find that each time I am tempted to believe I am, once the object of that love is removed, it was only counterfeit.

Yet this love withstands all storms, and bears all things, even unto the end of time. Physically, we all wear down under the sickle of time. We all begin to bear the marks of life, and start to fade. But love doesn't fade, it does not alter when it alteration finds.

Much of the Arab World seems to me (an American) to be obsessed with Shakespeare!  Yes, I do think there is a place for Shakespeare in the literature curriculum, but I think it is being entirely overdone.  I think one or (certainly not more than three) Shakespeare plays should be included in the curriculum, but other time should be spent on more interesting and valuable literature.

I spoke with some British friends I have who told me that British children are started on reading Shakespeare at age 11!  When I asked what for, one of them finally told me that knowledge of Shakespeare is used as an adult mainly to impress other adults.  OK, I'm American, and I find much of the language terribly hard to understand.  I really can't see it being useful to most people to learn much of this sort of antiquidated language.  Yet, throughout the Arab World, so many university programs seem to focus on extensive reading of Shakespeare!

About fifteen years ago, I had a friend from Libya.  He went on and on about how when he was in school, they had performed Shakespeare's plays in Arabic, using all the correct classical Arabic endings for words (as opposed to using the local dialet of Arabic).   People in my present country have told me similar things.

Where I live now, I often have country nationals who have earned university degrees in English (as a second or third language) talk to me about how they read a lot of Shakespeare in university.  At the same time, their command of ordinary English vocabulary is often lacking.  Some of them cannot write clear English sentences.  Wouldn't the time spend studying Shakespeare be better spent in English composition classes, and/or reading literature that uses language currently used, particularly when they are subsequently in jobs requiring a good command of English?

Eileen

Much of the Arab World seems to me (an American) to be obsessed with Shakespeare!  Yes, I do think there is a place for Shakespeare in the literature curriculum, but I think it is being entirely overdone.  I think one or (certainly not more than three) Shakespeare plays should be included in the curriculum, but other time should be spent on more interesting and valuable literature.

I spoke with some British friends I have who told me that British children are started on reading Shakespeare at age 11!  When I asked what for, one of them finally told me that knowledge of Shakespeare is used as an adult mainly to impress other adults.  OK, I'm American, and I find much of the language terribly hard to understand.  I really can't see it being useful to most people to learn much of this sort of antiquidated language.  Yet, throughout the Arab World, so many university programs seem to focus on extensive reading of Shakespeare!

About fifteen years ago, I had a friend from Libya.  He went on and on about how when he was in school, they had performed Shakespeare's plays in Arabic, using all the correct classical Arabic endings for words (as opposed to using the local dialet of Arabic).   People in my present country have told me similar things.

Where I live now, I often have country nationals who have earned university degrees in English (as a second or third language) talk to me about how they read a lot of Shakespeare in university.  At the same time, their command of ordinary English vocabulary is often lacking.  Some of them cannot write clear English sentences.  Wouldn't the time spend studying Shakespeare be better spent in English composition classes, and/or reading literature that uses language currently used, particularly when they are subsequently in jobs requiring a good command of English?

Eileen

My non-genealogy visitors desperately searching for what "past is prologue" means increased dramatically on Friday - thanks to Senator Biden.  In response to an accusation that his camp always looks to the past instead of keeping an eye on the future, he flashed his million-dollar smile and proclaimed, "Past is prologue."  I was watching, and I laughed out loud.  But, I didn't realize that 500 people would visit my blog the next day.  So, thanks Joe, for the surge in visitors here.  I do apologize that I won't be voting for you, but I have admired you in the past.  Because of this increase, I decided to tell the poor folks looking for answers what "what's past is prologue" means.

In The Tempest by William Shakespeare, Act II, scene i, the character of Antonio utters the phrase "what's past is prologue".  In Antonio's speech, he was trying to convince the character of Sebastian to murder his sleeping father so that Sebastian could become king.  All that had happened up until then - their past - was merely a prologue to the great things to come if they went through with the deed.  A prologue was a preface to a play or novel that "set the scene" and provided some background information.

The phrase that Shakespeare invented came to mean that the past is a preface to the future - we can't forget the lessons of history.  The National Archives and Records Administration has a dramatic sculpture entitled "The Future" which has the phrase inscribed on its base (albeit with "what is" in lieu of the contraction that Mr. Shakespeare used in his play).

I chose the title for this blog years before blogs were invented - I wanted to use it for a genealogy web page that I never got around to creating.  For me, the phrase emphasizes the importance of our own personal genealogy and history as a force in shaping our own lives.  We can't forget our ancestors that have gone before us; history has lessons to teach us about how we can live today.

So, if you are visiting this blog to find out where the now famous sound bite came from, there you have it.  If you searched for the term because you're writing about the play, you may want to visit The Tempest Study Guide.  But do read the play.  Better yet - see it!  That's how it was meant to be "heard" and it's one of the best.

And now back to our regularly scheduled genealogy blogging...

McKellen's turn

Ian McKellen takes his shot at the consummate villain role, and a well-aimed shot it is. I generally like my Shakespeare acted within its own time frame, but for a modern production, this one isn't bad. The 1930's sets, backdrops, and music are over-the-top in their presentation, lending a surreal, supremely fascistic aspect to this history play. It translates well. McKellen's delivery of Richard's famous lines is spot-on. Watching Maggie Smith is a joy, as usual, and veterans Kristin Scott Thomas, Edward Hardwicke (better known to Americans as Sherlock Holmes's Watson), and Nigel Hawthorne perform admirably in important supporting roles. On the down side, Annette Bening and Robert Downey, Jr. are almost comically miscast, their presence jarring and shallow. Then again, it's a rare American "movie star" who isn't routinely upstaged, and badly, by classically trained British actors.

Mark in Ma.gnolia

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a friend of mine, studying at drama school, was asked to write a manifesto, a defence of why he acts. He didn't really explain all that much about it, but I just started writing.

________________________________________________

I act, first and foremost, because I love words. Because I love the words on the page, the words on the tongue, the words flying thick and fast through the air.

I act because I love to act. I love trying to understand another human being – and one presented to me, wholly existant, in the script.

I act because I believe in the theatre, and I believe in film. I believe in the power of these creative titans to change the way people think, the way they approach issues, and the way they relate to their fellow human beings. I believe that both theatre and film occupy crucial roles in any society, and that they provide a voice that deserves it place in the discourse of the nation.

Asking me to defend my love, my profession, my joy, is completely disingenuous. We do not ask accountants to justify their role in society. We do not ask lawyers, taxi drivers, teachers or public servants to explain why they chose the career that they chose. We do not ask because we view these professions as crucial to the running of society.

And yet there is a perception that theatre and film are somehow superfluous. That both are part of the ‘entertainment industry’, which seeks nothing more than to make obscene amounts of money and be the centre of attention. And yet any flourishing society has artistic strength commensurate with its political strength. The age of Pericles was also the age of Phidias. The age of Lorenzo de Medici was also the age of Leonardo Da Vinci. The age of Elizabeth was the age of Shakespeare. I do not seek to compare myself to Phidias, da Vinci or Shakespeare, but there is a place for theatre and film in any sophisticated society, culture and nation.

But what makes me simultaneously angrier and sadder than anything else is this idea that ‘art’ is only made for and by some sort of chardonnay-sipping, self-congratulatory elite. This is a recent divide that has only come about since television enforced concepts of ‘high’ and ‘low’ culture, but we must find a way to curb this insidious, cancerous ideology. To re-claim the status that the theatre held in Shakespeare’s day, when the playhouses were always fighting claims of being dangerous to public morality.

And these are not contradictory ideas – arguing the centrality of art to a great society and defending the popular appeal of art. Nothing affects you so much as sitting in a theatre and being surrounded by the sensory experience of the theatre. Hearing the words. Seeing the costumes, and the lights, and the performers’ spit fly out of their mouths, smelling the sweat dripping down their face. Theatre is a visceral experience. It cannot be escaped by changing channels, or its impact diminished by an ad break.

In the 200,000 years that humans have existed, we have not found a single medium so confronting, engaging and powerful as theatre. Theatre has greater potential to affect, effect, confound and impact than any other institution in modern society.

And yet, at the same time, you can watch something like The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (Abridged) and piss yourself laughing at two straight hours of loving, affectionate iconoclasm.

THAT is why I act.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

This is the sonnet I had in mind whilst writing Valerian and Alaric - love is not love which alters when it alteration finds.

It turns out that my twenty-ish children already know Patinkin very well from his role as Inigo Montoya in The Princess Bride, a movie that a better father would perhaps have watched with them.  (This picture shows him in that movie with Andre the Giant and Wallace Shawn.) But personally, I hadn't seen Patinkin at all, not in Evita or Sunday in the Park with George, not as a concert singer, and certainly not on television.  No matter.  For all his work in musical theater, Patinkin is a remarkably good Shakespearean actor, and it was a privilege to see him as Prospero. 

This show (directed by Brian Kulick) gets off to a bit of a slow start with a meandering and not especially terrifying shipwreck scene.  But it picks up as soon as Patinkin and Elisabeth Waterston (as Miranda) take the stage.  Their first scene together, of course, consists mostly of a long-overdue and somewhat long-winded explanation by Prospero of how he and Miranda came to be marooned on their island.  Patinkin kept our attention throughout this well-directed scene and throughout the play.

I couldn't help, however unfairly, comparing this Tempest to the one we saw at the Stratford Festival in 2005 with the late William Hutt as Prospero.  This week we saw a low-tech, low-budget production in a barely adequate performance space, while the Stratford show (in a first-class theater many times larger) went first class on all aspects of costuming and special effects.  And Patinkin's supporting cast, taken as a whole, simply doesn't compare to the repertory company at the Stratford.  Nor can any other Prospero could measure up to William Hutt.

But Patinkin shares with Hutt a fine, musical, modulated speaking voice, excellent timing (and the use of expressive pauses), and a talent for making Shakespeare's language immediately intelligible.  Patinkin, who is 55, is of course a far more physical Prospero than Hutt was at the age of 85 -- and he sings! 

Nyambi Nyambi is a particularly sympathetic Caliban with some of the play's best lines; I enjoyed his performance very much. The energetic drunken scenes with Stefano (Steven Rattazzi), Tinculo (Tony Torn), and Caliban are nicely done. Angel Desai is a spunky (if surprisingly pudgy) Ariel with an unrequited longing for her master. I realized during this show that both Miranda and Ariel ask the same question: "Do you love me?" -- Miranda of Ferdinand, and Ariel of Prospero.

I avoided the reviews before seeing this new Tempest, but now I've seen The New Yorker's snide comment that "Patinkin doesn't seem to connect with the other actors or with the text." 

As to Patinkin's supposed lack of connection with the text, I thoroughly disagree; he understood and relished every noble line. As to his connection "with the other actors," The New Yorker seems to be knocking Patinkin for playing the character that Shakespeare created.  Antonia was able to usurp Prospero's dukedom in the first place because Prospero was an introvert who detached himself from the citizens of Milan to devote himself to his books. 

Moreover, Prospero's relationship to every character except Miranda, from the "shipwrecked" noblemen of Naples and Milan to the spirit Ariel and the Caliban, who are both his slaves -- is one of control and manipulation. In several scenes, Prospero merely stands, invisible to the other characters, at the edge of the action (making comments to the audience) watching to see what happens. How surprising is it that any Prospero should seem "unconnected" from other characters? As for his relationship with Miranda, we were convinced from the start that father and daughter had a warm and affectionate relationship.

Freud diceva che il sogno è "la via maestra per esplorare l'inconscio..."

ed io aggiungo:DI CHE "MATERIA SONO FATTI I VOSTRI SOGNI ?

La riflessione mi giunge dal profondo e mi porta oggi a condividere con voi questo mio pensiero.Ma voi che pensate dei sogni?Sognate?E poi ricordate quei sogni?E che valore date al sogno?E infine per voi la vita è meglio se si sogna o la qualità di essa è deprivata di un elemento importante quando quel sogno(perchè tutti sogniamo) non viene mai alla luce?

Se riflettiamo sul fatto che passiamo all'incirca 23 anni a dormire di cui pare circa 4 a sognare..forse vale la pena chiedersi se quell'angolo di vita onirica racchiude in se un "segreto" a cui dovremmo dare ascolto.Sappiamo benissimo che se l'uomo non dorme non è in grado di vivere a lungo,e che la nostra psiche non è in grado di superare lunghi periodi di insonnia,ma sinceramente non ho trovato da nessuna parte l'informazione che mi fa intravedere che l'uomo non possa sopravvivere senza sognare...o ancor meglio senza ricordare i suoi sogni.

A questo punto un'altra domanda mi sorge spontanea..PERCHE' DUNQUE SOGNIAMO?

"Secondo Freud è dall'inconscio dell' individuo che si originano i sogni. L'inconscio esprime essenzialmente desideri, che nel sogno trovano una loro "realizzazione allucinatoria". Il sogno è quindi la rappresentazione dell' appagamento mascherato di desideri repressi in un modo tale, e tramite immagini, che assicurano che loro intima natura non sia svelata. " (ahimè non ricordo dove l'ho letta)..Ma è risaputo che da buona discepola Junghiana questa affermazione non mi basta..ovvero la trovo limitante. Ascoltando la voce dei nostri sogni noi entriamo in contatto con la parte più profonda della nostra anima;approdare ad informazioni su di noi che nascondiamo alla luce della ragione..anche gli incubi che tanto ci fanno paura ..in realtà ci permettono di svelare un patrimonio interiore che l'inconscio spinge verso la rivelazione. Ma ahime'non sono molti che riescono a decodificare la simbologia del messaggio onirico e si è portati a credere che gli incubi stessi non abbiano senso

(Anche il mio grande papà quando io piccola mi svegliavo in piena notte per un brutto sogno..risolveva la cosa dicendomi.."dai cucciola hai solo mangiato troppo e"..e già allora la cosa non mi convinceva!!)

Secondo me ,ripeto è proprio negli incubi che si annidano "informazioni importanti",che vogliono essere comprese ..o risolte...; maggiormente quando si è vissuto un trauma e si è rimosso..l'inconscio spinge a quell'informazione se la stessa è fondamentale per la nostra serenità.

"La vita psichica, quale sistema autoregolantesi, è equilibrata come la vita del corpo, cosicché per ogni iperfunzione si determinano tosto e necessariamente delle compensazioni: senza di ciò non potrebbe esistere né un normale ricambio organico né una psiche normale

"Il sogno non soltanto non obbedisce alla nostra volontà, ma si pone addirittura, e molto spesso, in stridente contrasto con le intenzioni della coscienza. Il contrasto però non è sempre così marcato: talvolta il sogno può anche staccarsi in misura assai tenue dall'atteggiamento o dalla tendenza della coscienza, apportando lievi modificazioni... il concetto di ‘compensazione' riassume significativamente tutti i tipi di comportamento del sogno" (Jung opere )

Nel sogno non c'è ne spazio ne tempo ,non c'è logica,ci appartiene nella nostra più profonda intimità;non può essere decodificato con un linguaggio razionale poiché è proprio attraverso il suo simbolismo che entriamo in contatto con le nostre più profonde aspirazioni..

E' un esperienza unica e diversamente elaborato da ognuno di noi:
I sogni liberano il mistero che unisce anima e spirito, individuale con universale. Servono alla nostra realizzazione e offrono alternative sulla realtà ordinaria; aprono, a mio avviso, la via al vedere le cose in modo diverso, rivelano emozioni e comprensioni segrete, desideri e necessità, parti rifiutate di noi, talenti non sfruttati e ciò che manca alla nostra totalità. Spesso sono immagini totalmente irrazionali che però aprono la strada a qualcosa di più vasto di noi; oppure ci offrono risposte ai nostri problemi, qualcosa che la mente conscia non riesce a risolvere, e in questo modo si trasformano in maestri spirituali.(da guruji.it/ilsogno)

Vi posto un articolo che ho letto che trovo interessante per approfondire la nostra riflessione

Durante i sogni esistono diversi livelli di consapevolezza:

• Livello 0: vi svegliate al mattino e non vi siete accorti di aver sognato.
• Livello 1: vi svegliate, non ricordate nulla, ma durante il giorno, improvvisamente vi viene alla memoria un sogno o uno spezzone di sogno che avete fatto la notte precedente.
• Livello 2: vi svegliate e conservate ancora il ricordo dell'ultima parte del sogno che stavate facendo. Tanto più vi confrontate con gli spezzoni di sogno che vi tornano a memoria, quanto più iniziate a ricordare. Alla fine riuscite a ricordare intere sequenze oniriche.
• Livello 3: state sognando ma non siete coscienti del fatto che si tratti di un sogno. Tutto è totalmente reale e normale, anche se accadono le cose più singolari. In questa fase siete molto consapevoli, ma non realizzate l'idea di essere in un sogno.
• Livello 4: vi ritrovate nel bel mezzo di un sogno e siete consapevoli del fatto che state realmente sognando. Questo è quello che si chiama "sogno chiaro" o "sogno lucido". Potete comunicare coscientemente con i personaggi che incontrate nel sogno, e pilotare il sogno stesso anche se in quel momento state dormendo.

La classe principe del sogno è quella del sogno lucido: essere, cioè, coscienti durante il sogno. Abbiamo la capacità, in ogni momento, di pilotare il contenuto dei sogni e di essere coscienti, in ogni istante, delle nostre possibilità di controllo.

In quest'ambito si prospettano, dunque, molte opportunità:

• risolvere direttamente paure e problemi;
• migliorare le nostre performances: ad esempio, fare un training per imparare a giocare meglio a tennis, o imparare una lingua straniera;
• sperimentare situazioni che nella dimensione corrente, a causa dei vincoli fisici e sociali, sono fortemente limitate;
• attingere informazioni future dagli spazi precognitivi;
• risolvere incubi;
• stimolare la creatività;
• espandere la conoscenza in qualsiasi direzione;
• ecc.

La dimensione del sogno rende possibile l'accesso ad ambiti liberi da vincoli e limiti spazio temporali, dove possiamo intuire (trovare) la nostra origine. Pertanto, ogni notte ci offre la possibilità di tornare (immergerci) alle nostre radici (origine).

Purtroppo, però, la nostra coscienza è talmente indirizzata verso la parte fisica e materiale di questo mondo, che il ricordare il sogno vissuto diventa sempre più raro. Ciononostante, ciascun lettore è certamente in grado di ricordare almeno un sogno importante e incisivo, che ha mosso qualcosa nella sua vita. Questa è una motivazione sufficiente per far rivivere in sé la dimensione del sogno, dischiudendo almeno un poco la porta della propria vera essenza.

Dottor Paul Kircher (Fonte: Lumen, maggio 2005)

Vi consiglio di andare sul sito "tg0" per completare la lettura

Perchè sogniamo?

Che dirvi di più ,cari amici viandanti,che non sia già stato detto ....

Piu' importanti per me sono le vostre riflessioni e le vostre opinioni a tal proposito...

vi aspetto..e buoni sogni 

foto presa da : http://www.highrender.com/Immagini/Immagini/Sogni.jpg

This week has been a great blogging one for me. For the first time in months since summer vacation, I posted consistently and promoted my blog and seen my stats rise (and sometimes fall again but not so much). More people have subscribed to my feeds (thank you, you know who you are).

I’ve found two great blog sites that totally resonate with what I do.

Becoming a Fiction Writer- ESL teacher, works abroad, dares to dream of writing fiction and starting out on her writing journey as well. Couldn’t believe it when I stumbled upon her blog.

The Art of Nonconformity – the title itself resonates with what Live Out of the Box is all about. The blog combines traveling, personal development and running a small business. His goal is to visit all the countries in the world. He’s already done 100. Sweet.

This short story excerpt is my last one. The fiction bank is now empty till I finish another one. The next project is in the literary and general fiction genre which means it will be based on real life, with an ordinary character who has something extraordinary happen to him and he has to make the decision whether to change his life or let it remain the same. It’s for anyone who has ever dared to dream and inspire them to take stock of their lives.

The thing is writing it is proving to be tricky, difficult and elusive. It’s not writer’s block. It’s just that I can’t seem to get it right no matter how many pages I’ve consumed (I write –longhand. I write with any good quality black pen because writing with the Chinese brush proved to be much too difficult.). I can’t seem to get the protagonist’s characterization. Too transparent. He’s a walking empty shell which he already is but I’d like him to have more life. He deserves it. Because of that, I can’t muster enough motivation to continue with the story which as you know, is anathema to any writer. Not if you keep hating what you’ve already written.

I keep on writing thinking I’ll get there if I keep it at it.

I managed to finish two pages.

And hate them.

Write, write.

Crumple, crumple,

Shoot, shoot. Yes! A 3 pointer.

Dunk shot.

Ooh, I could so try out for the NBA if this continues.

So, finally I changed gears. I left it alone. Shut it in the drawer and throw away the key. I figured the answer will eventually come to me.

And it did.

In the form of corned beef.

I was eating corned beef for dinner and listening to Steve Pavlina’s podcast, What is Your Purpose? when it suddenly struck me (the idea not the corned beef) that I had lost touch with my passion to write fiction. I thought for sure that this burning earth shattering force would stay with me forever but it turned out it decided to take a break eating doughnuts and left me to fend for myself. These past few months, I was too focused on writing, writing, writing that I wasn’t reading anymore which was the one thing that led me to this passion in the first place.

I was burned out.

I needed a chance to learn once more. I needed to unblock the clog and suck everything back in again. To reconnect with what drove me to pursue writing in the first place.

It’s scary because I’m not used to doing that. I’m more of a go-go-go kind of girl. It would mean postponing all my goals till I’m sure I’m ready to move on. If you really want to go after my goal, you must commit to it. Go all out. Don’t just push it with your cute ‘lil pinkie (it’ll push its little pinkie right back at ya too). Push it with all your body and soul. And I realize if I need to do this, it also means letting go.

Letting go and rediscover your love again.

Starting next week, I’ll spend my days catching up on my reading, watching movies and learning and getting inspiration from other materials. No work for now except the teaching. Can’t wait!

So I’m leaving you with the excerpt of my short story, Can You Have Dinner with Shakespeare?. It’s a 1,080 short story. It’s a mixed bag of fantasy, children’s literature, quirkiness and all out weirdness involving pirate ships, storybook characters and The Bard himself. Enjoy!

Can You Have Dinner with Shakespeare?

If you knew we live on a flying pirate ship, you’d think we’re crazy.

But we do.

It’s not mostly fun, by the way. We spent most of our days cleaning the decks, adjusting the sails and staring up at the puffy white clouds. So it was a welcome change when Uncle Ben suggested we invite literary characters over for dinner.

If you don’t know how to invite them, here’s how it works: You look for the particular book, address the invitation, stick it inside and throw the copy out into the sky.

Mum drove us nuts, shouting orders here and there. The decks have to be scrubbed clean. The sails were changed to newly washed sheets. We had to take out our new china and polish the candelabras till you could finally see their gold. We boys also had to take baths and be on our best behavior.

At six, our first guests came. Like ephemeral creatures, they fluttered wraithlike and alighted on our ship.

“Hello, Hansel and Gretel.”

“Hello, Mrs Dalloway.”

The couples wasted no time in occupying our halls. Scarlett O’ Hara and Rhett Butler glided past us with their haughty Southern air. Heathcliff and Catherine Earnshaw were much too locked in their eternal passionate embrace. I think they were making up for lost time.

While I directed Dorian Gray to the nearest mirror, Mum ushered two guests to our dining hall.

Mr and Mrs Darcy sat primly on our table. At first, they were delightful and charming and even made small talk to their hosts about lands and houses that nearly bored me to tears. But as they drank more from our watery soup and bit from our potatoes, their rosy cheeks gradually lost their luster. They became paler and paler and talked less and less. Finally, they ceased to talk at all and by then, you could really see right through them! When dinner was over, they seemed to have aged a lot and were starting to look their right years (considering when Jane Austen first released their novel) and left the table with slow agonizing steps.

--End of Excerpt

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No corned beef? It’s alright. Let others have their own literary dinner by sharing the invitation.

The first mention of the scandal was in the article, "Toaster Amnesty Hits Warrington", which initially seemed like a straightforward measure to combat crime.  A representative of the scheme, a Mr Shaun Kelly of Liverpool, claimed that toasters were being collected in order to curb violent toaster-based violence.  

Any regular readers will know that the Sherby57 team take nothing at face value.  After creating the Sherby57 Tactical Toaster Task Force (aka The S57TTTF), and setting them loose of the mean streets of 'The Wire' (not to be confused with Baltimore), it was only a day later that the cracks in the story became apparent.  We then published the article "Toast Conspiracy?", which compared a similar removal of toasters in Aberdeen.  Reported in The Daily Telegraph, the story documents how Aberdeen Council have removed toasters from all offices, in a (sad) attempt at saving some money. Could a similar thing be happening in Warrington? It was difficult to prove.

From this point forward, many differing theories arose on what was actually going on.  One of the first steps we took was to speak to our Goot Investigative Team (GIT) and see if the Evil One was likely to be involved.  They had heard some rumours that The Crow was developing a technique to use 3rd party firmware on standard toasters to turn them in to a £600 model.  We looked on E-Bay but could find no evidence for this.  The Crow is a tricky customer though, and so we cannot write this theory off. Please let us know if you have bought a toaster recently in suspicious circumstances.

Many of the other theories came from avid Sherby57 readers. Aside from useless comments from the likes of Bettys, who said, "Make mine a bagel, lightly browned", many interesting ideas came to light.

Dixonsmafia, was quick to praise the scheme in it's original intent, commenting on other white goods-based crime, "A member of staff in our office was enjoying a cool glass of water when these thugs burst in and put the water in a kettle. The member of staff had no option but to settle for a hot drink!". This gave some credence to the original story, but things were soon to change.

Someone calling themselves 'I wish to remain anonymous', believed it was actually a hidden agenda from the government called "Toaster Evaluation" linked to the controversial staff-robbing national Job Evaluation scheme.  This was quickly followed up by 'Disgruntled Toast Fan', who exclaimed, "Is it a “Toast Restructure”? or a “Re-organisation of Toasters”?".  Both of these citizens seem to believe that this is a sinister government programme, possibly attempting to remove toast from our diets.

The Invisible College, spouted some metaphysical stuff that made my head ache. And maybe that was the point.  After wearing a fiction-suit of David Dickinson for a few days before returning to the supercontext, I have to say that they may actually have a point.

Next, we were joined by Miss Dionne Warwick (no relation to the singer), who won the 2007 Sherby for Comment of the Year.  Miss Warwick attempted to enrich the debate by quoting some of the many times that toast appears in Shakespeare.  Who could forget immortal lines such as, "Toast, Toast! My kingdom for Toast!", and "“Is this Toast which I see before me…”?  She then further enlivens the debate by giving us some scientific information on the nature of toast.  What is this mysterious Maillard reaction to which she speaks? Is it something to do with ducks? Well I'll just have to check on Wikipedia. I've just checked and it's some kind of chemical reaction. You can read about it here.  And it's nothing to do with ducks.

The final theory comes from Russell Hobbs, whose ideas deserve to be repeated in full:

"Speculation is rife that the WBC toasters were removed in order to prevent potentially earth destroying crumb collision experiments by maverick scientists attempting to create the conditions that existed a billionth of a second after the first bread was toasted. Government scientists fear such experiments could result in the creation of black holes, a condition that occurs when the bread becomes superheated and turns black before igniting, sometimes resulting in a hole in the bread.

It was initially believed that effects of these “black holes“ could be negated by an over-application of butter and jam, but further scientific speculation has suggested that they could result in the END OF THE WORLD !!!

News channels have reported that a group involved in a failed attempt at using crumb collision technology in a café on Fleetwood pier yesterday have fled to Europe and gone underground. Intelligence reports expect them to be making further attempts today."

Russell certainly provides us with the most thought through theory, and by some twisted logic, it makes it most likely to be true.  The "WBC" of which he writes is thought to be the avant-garde pseudo-terror cell, the Warrington Bread Collective.  One theory suggests that the WBC is secretly controlled by none other than...Goot The Crow.  It's like spirals within cogs, within windmills, within wheels, all wrapped up in a juicy melon. We're through the looking glass here people.

The quest will never end until we have the answers we need and deserve. If you have any further insights to the whole affair, please leave a comment. Although we don't have any factual answers, I did attempt to solve the emotional quandary in the moving poem, Toast Me.  I hope it helps.

Until next time, keep toasting.

FOOL.  Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun; it shines everywhere.   (III.1.40-41)

And Adi, were he familiar with Twelfth Night, I am certain, would have this response for me:

VIOLA:  This fellow is wise enough to play the Fool/ And to do that well craves a kind of wit.  (III.1.61-62)