One step into the dark, and then one more
Until we come to light, oh darling mine -
But that journey may shake us to the core,
So shall we brave the night to chance sun's shine?
And what of it - the darkness we will see
Is stifling to the chance of dazzling light.
Why should we, in the lack of dawn-light's sheen,
Press further still into this stretching night?
And yet the darkest night is full of stars;
Each one burns from the simplest act of love
And makes the paradise within our hearts
As real within us as the skies above.
If hand in hand we storm the pressing dark,
Perhaps, my dear, we might just reach our mark.
This was written in class last Friday. I hope you like it, and I hope the significant otter does too.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Regarding Dreams
For lack of a better word, my subconscious is a bit of a tease. It provides me regularly with vivid dreams, including one I remember from last month, when, during a slow zombie invasion of the island I lived on, the most terrifying creature by far - the one that jolted me out of sleep and made me jump back in my bed, gasping - was a squirrel. Incidentally, not a zombie squirrel. Just a regular one. But even a normal squirrel will get angry if you poke it with a stick to try and ascertain its zombic nature. And then jump at you.
However, upon learning that I needed a dream to report for class, it refused to provide me with any. At least, any worth reporting.
Then I got sick, and that changed everything. Over the course of sleeping most of the weekend, I had a multitude of dreams.
During one, for instance, my boyfriend and I were picnicking on the shore of a lake. He was eating a roast beef sandwich, and I had a cheese-and-tomato one (I only eat meat on rare occasions). I was wearing a light blue sundress. We heard a rumble in the forest behind us, and, turning, saw a whole stampede of mythical creatures coming toward us - dryads, naiads, centaurs, nagas, fauns, griffins, dragons, all those lovely beasts. The creatures parted to run around us and our blanket and disappeared, one by one, into the depths of the lake. Suddenly, we were transported to the top of a hill, at night, under a blanket of stars.
Others were as mundane as shopping with my mother and not being able to find a pair of jeans that fit quite right.
However, upon learning that I needed a dream to report for class, it refused to provide me with any. At least, any worth reporting.
Then I got sick, and that changed everything. Over the course of sleeping most of the weekend, I had a multitude of dreams.
During one, for instance, my boyfriend and I were picnicking on the shore of a lake. He was eating a roast beef sandwich, and I had a cheese-and-tomato one (I only eat meat on rare occasions). I was wearing a light blue sundress. We heard a rumble in the forest behind us, and, turning, saw a whole stampede of mythical creatures coming toward us - dryads, naiads, centaurs, nagas, fauns, griffins, dragons, all those lovely beasts. The creatures parted to run around us and our blanket and disappeared, one by one, into the depths of the lake. Suddenly, we were transported to the top of a hill, at night, under a blanket of stars.
Others were as mundane as shopping with my mother and not being able to find a pair of jeans that fit quite right.
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
In honor of reading Hamlet...
Probably my favorite of Hamlet's soliloquies (yes, more than "To be") performed by one of my favorite recent Hamlets.
Friday, February 8, 2013
Pardon me while I strut and fret for a bit.
I'm not particularly verbose. This has posed a problem on many occasions, when my lack of words has come across as unhappy, angry, or disapproving. There are very few people to or around whom I really talk. Because of this, I've always felt sort of off among the characters Shakespeare created, and having played a few, that's somewhat problematic. Even Hamlet, who spends a lot of time by himself, seems to spend most of that time talking. Even though there are characters I relate to, I can't imagine myself as a character.
At the same time, though, I understand why this is. These characters' entire existence is showing an episode of their lives to people, and in order to do that, they must speak. They've got their hour upon the stage, two or three if it's a long one, and that's it. In that time, they have to show us everything. What they want, why they want it, how they're going to get it, and why we should care. When the last line is spoken, they fade into nothingness, existing only in the imaginations of the audience and the actors who play them.
And yet these characters, existing only when they are observed, are everything. They correlate nearly directly to real people and the archetypes those people inspire. Everyone knows a Cassius, or a Lady Macbeth, or a Helena, or even a Bottom. Both nothing and everything, created in the clay of a few thousand words, these characters tell the stories the only way they can. By talking.
Which brings me back to my original point. I know for a fact that my vocabulary is nowhere near that of Shakespeare, and I don't speak nearly as often as his characters. But that doesn't mean my words are any less powerful for their lack in number. Much more important is the choosing of words, picking their perfect rhythm, finding the ways in which they fit together and click. I like words, and I believe they like me too. Even if they don't come out of my mouth that often.
I'm not particularly verbose. This has posed a problem on many occasions, when my lack of words has come across as unhappy, angry, or disapproving. There are very few people to or around whom I really talk. Because of this, I've always felt sort of off among the characters Shakespeare created, and having played a few, that's somewhat problematic. Even Hamlet, who spends a lot of time by himself, seems to spend most of that time talking. Even though there are characters I relate to, I can't imagine myself as a character.
At the same time, though, I understand why this is. These characters' entire existence is showing an episode of their lives to people, and in order to do that, they must speak. They've got their hour upon the stage, two or three if it's a long one, and that's it. In that time, they have to show us everything. What they want, why they want it, how they're going to get it, and why we should care. When the last line is spoken, they fade into nothingness, existing only in the imaginations of the audience and the actors who play them.
And yet these characters, existing only when they are observed, are everything. They correlate nearly directly to real people and the archetypes those people inspire. Everyone knows a Cassius, or a Lady Macbeth, or a Helena, or even a Bottom. Both nothing and everything, created in the clay of a few thousand words, these characters tell the stories the only way they can. By talking.
Which brings me back to my original point. I know for a fact that my vocabulary is nowhere near that of Shakespeare, and I don't speak nearly as often as his characters. But that doesn't mean my words are any less powerful for their lack in number. Much more important is the choosing of words, picking their perfect rhythm, finding the ways in which they fit together and click. I like words, and I believe they like me too. Even if they don't come out of my mouth that often.
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