On the Internet, I got real tired real quick as long ago as 1987, when I first encountered primitive usenet discussion groups on the Internet, of the way in which people (especially creative personalities and other outliers) are targeted for deliberate and malicious campaigns by anonymous thugs with nothing better to do.

My project “In the Matter of Herb Schildt” originated in this.

Here, I found a harmless and idealistic person being targeted for writing a sonnet on the Shakespeare discussion group, which is an evolution of usenet now on Google Groups. In response, I wrote a sonnet in modern form (abab cdcd efef gg rhyme scheme, not necessarily iambic pentameter) and a new sonnet for every response to the vicious, childish attacks that I knew would result.

For the one thing the bully (less a natural category and more an artifact of the “free” market) cannot understand, and can’t stand, is human solidarity.

What was most interesting was that a sort of professor, one Peter Groves, who’s published some crap on Shakespeare’s metre, participates only to egg on and to enable the bullies. Nothing could more clearly demonstrates how, in a society in which “domination is delegated to the dominated”, the effete elite relies upon and enables thugs to eliminate competition.

I wound up posting more than 10 original sonnets, in response to really crude attempts at verse from the professor and others, which quickly curdled into the vilest kind of childish attacks. But I realized that I needed to get the hell out of the discussion: to quote a sonnet finer than any I could write, it was “an expense of spirit in a waste of shame”.

Sadie Vasquez

23 November 2009

The Last of the Time Lords

 “People assume that time is a strict progression of cause to effect, but actually from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint – it’s more like a big ball of wibbley-wobbley, timey-wimey…stuff.”  This is the kind of thing you might expect to hear if you were to spend any time with the Doctor: A hastily-strung together scientific smart sounding sentence that doesn’t exactly make any sense to you.  He’s a brilliant man, a Time Lord, “The oldest and most mighty race in the universe. Looking down on the galaxies below, sworn never to interfere, only to watch.“  The Doctor is the last of the Time Lords, and as such he is doomed to travel through time and space alone forever, watching everyone he loves die.  However, he’ll make the most of the time he has with them.  The Doctor takes his friends on wild and fantastic trips in the TARDIS[1] to visit Shakespeare or the leader of England in 50,000 years.  They usually run into trouble and have to save some people, but the Doctor does his best to make sure nobody gets hurt and that everything is put right again before he moves on.

Sometimes during his travels the TARDIS acts up and doesn’t work properly.  When this happens, the Doctor must fix the TARDIS and stop the Cybermen from destroying the world and killing millions of people, all while finding a way to get Mickey and Rose back to their home universe.[2]  Somehow, he always manages to get it all better, and then he’s off to another adventure.

            When confronted with situations even HE doesn’t understand, he’ll begin pacing and rambling on incoherently about possible explanations or solutions.  In the case of “The Shakespeare Code,” the Doctor is faced with the challenge of identifying the alien species of the “witches” who are attempting to break their species out of eternal imprisonment in the Deep Darkness.  The Doctor decides to visit Peter Streete, the architect of the Globe Theatre, who has been imprisoned in the Bedlam Asylum after the witches “stabbed his wits.”  One of the three witches, Doomfinger, materializes as Peter finishes telling the Doctor everything he knows about the witches, including their fascination with the number fourteen.

Shakespeare asks the Doctor if he can stop Doomfinger.

“No mortal has power over me,” Doomfinger informs them.

“Oh, but there’s a power in words,” The Doctor replies. “If I can find the right one — if I can just know you…” he trailed off, thinking.

“None on Earth has knowledge of us.” Doomfinger tells him.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m here.” He replies, smugly. “Now think, think, think… Humanoid female, uses shapes and words to channel energy… ah, fourteen! That’s it! Fourteen! The fourteen stars of the Rexel planetary configuration!” he pointed a finger at her. “Creature, I name you Carrionite!” 
The Doctor will try out every possible option in his head until he discovers the answer.

            The Doctor usually encounters these problems while he is in the middle of saving a planet or group of individuals.  He tends to find trouble wherever he goes!  From the Carrionites in Shakespeare’s time, to the Raxacoricofallapatorian Slitheen family trying to make the Earth radioactive and sell it as energy, to the Racnoss attempting to claim Earth as their new home and devour it, there is no shortage of beings trying to harm others for personal gain.  The Doctor intervenes in each of these threats against Earth and saves its inhabitants from doom and destruction.   He always manages to come out victorious in the end.

            Although he may not be able to go on holiday to Ood System 6, or anywhere else, without becoming a prisoner or someone trying to kill him, he’ll still go.  He’ll still get caught.  He’ll still almost die.  He’ll still save the people in trouble, fix the problem, and he’ll get some good memories to think back on and joke about while he’s at it.  This man is no ordinary man.  He’s the last of the Time Lords.  He’s the Doctor.

i notice i like to pretend I’m talking to someone when I write. Perhaps everyone likes to do this…i’m not sure. But I certainly think that when I write I’m hoping that someone will read what i’ve written…even though nobody does.

The other day I was walking through Thomson Hall, and Lady Gaga’s song Bad Romance had been stuck in my head…it was playing in my mental stereo when somebody walking by me hummed the same part i was thinking of…interesting.

on a completely different note i was just reading some of william shakespeare’s sonnets and i couldn’t help noticing that in the first few he focuses so much on the beauty of youth and the ugliness of age, saying that to continue this beauty we must have children…at least that’s how I saw it. I’ve been so scared of getting older lately…it’s sad…so those sonnets really ring in my mind.

I haven’t been capitalizing standardly, because I decided to let my unconscious mind take control of what words I think should be capitalized…so yeah.

Germany is trying to make me sad.

Kurt Kreiler, author of The Man Who Invented Shakespeare which has had some acclaim in Germany, is stating that Shakespeare’s plays were actually authored by Edward de Vere.

Okay, it’s not exactly a new theory, and there are plenty of scholars who are saying that we really ought to take this theory seriously. But I really hope it’s just that: a theory. I like my idea of Shakespeare too much to be willing to part with it just yet.

Besides, just because your nickname is “spear-shaker” doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll choose some Pig Latin-ish version of that as your pen name, right?

Right?

I just know that when the English translation comes out I’m going to be buried in all 595 pages of it…

Avvertenza: se è la prima volta che vi imbattete sulla legge dell’attrazione universale e volete conoscerne il segreto, dovete leggere prima l’introduzione e proseguire in ordine con i vari capitoli, altrimenti sarà dura poter capire bene come stare meglio! Introduzione.

Pensate ad un’auto che viaggia nella notte, la luce dei fanali illumina la strada solo per cento metri, eppure potete percorreremigliaia di chilometri guidando nella notte perchè vi basta vedere i cento metri davanti a voi. E’ così che la vita si snoda, e se crediamo che dopo questi cento metri di strada i fanali dell’auto illumineranno i prossimi cento, la vita continuerà ad illuminarsi fino alla vostra destinazione, otterrete qualunque cosa vorrete solo perchè la volete!

“Salite il primo gradino con fiducia.
Non occorre vedere tutta la scala,
salite il primo gradino.”
M.L.King

Un’altra cosa che la gente si chiede è quanto tempo ci vorrà, quanto tempo occorrerà perchè si manifestino quell’auto, quella relazione, i soldi o qualunque cosa sia. Non esiste nessun libro d’istruzioni che dice se ci vorranno 30 minuti o 3 giorno oppure 30 giorni, dipende soprattutto da quanto voi siete sintonizzati con l’universo. Le dimensioni delle cose non contano per l’universo, sul piano scientifico non è più difficile attrarre qualcosa che per noi non è più enorme piuttosto che attrarre qualcosa che hai nostri occhi appare infinitamente piccola. L’universo fa tutto quello che fa con uno sforzopari a zero. L’erba non fatica per crescere, lo fa senza sforzo, è il grnde disegno. Dipende da tutto quello che succede nella nostra mente, da come vediamo le cose, se pensiamo che il tempo è proporzionale alle dimensioni del desiderio ci sbagliamo. Per l’universo non esistono regole, inviategli la sensazione di avere quello che volete e lo avrete!

Molti hanno più facilità con le cose piccole perciò è meglio cominciare con qualcosa di piccolo, un caffè per esempio, datevi l’intento di attrarre un caffè ogg. Provate ad immaginarvi di parlare con un amico che non vedete da molto tempo. Per un motivo o per l’altro qualcuno vi parlerà di quella persona. Quella persona vi chiamerà o avrete un suo messaggio.

“Molti si meravigliano di come riesco a trovare parcheggio, è sempre stato così dal giorno in cui ho capito il segreto. Mi basta visualizzare un parcheggio libero nel punto in cui io lo vorrei è il 95% delle volte lo trovo li pronto per me. Il 5% delle volte aspetto un minuto o due prima che qualcuno mi liberi un posto. Funziona sempre.” David Schirmer.

Sarah was wondering yesterday which books I would choose to take my Shakespeare studies further.  Well, the first one I picked up was one that I’d bought before the course started and then not had time to get round to, namely Beginning Shakespeare by Lisa Hopkins .  I’ve only had the chance to look at the first few pages but, although it’s clear that it is very much aimed at an undergraduate audience, it is nevertheless an interesting approach because what  Hopkins does is to examine Shakespeare in the light of each of the major theoretical positions of the last century or so.  I could imagine myself using this with a final year undergrad. class and using it as a springboard to give critical theory some real meat. 

What I found really interesting in the section I read today, however, was the way in which it linked in with the seminar we had last week in our Darwin series, which was entitled Darwin’s Other Legacy.  The speakers were looking at the way in which Darwin’s work was taken over by people who wanted to be able to say that various members of the human race were more highly evolved than others, drawing their distinctions in respect of race, gender and class.  We had a fascinating discussion as to just what extent this approach was still prevalent in society and not all our conclusions were particularly favourable to modern society. 

The first critic that Hopkins considers is A C Bradley, whose prime concern, as I’m sure many of you know, was with character and Hopkins makes the point that if you read what he has to say about the likes of Lady Macbeth and Othello then his position is very much that of those who sought to use Darwin to push their own superiority.  Lady Macbeth forgets what is owed to her social position but then she is a woman so what can you expect?  Othello isn’t thought of as an individual at all but simply as a Black man.  His behaviour is not dictated by his personality but by his race.

When I first started studying Shakespeare back in the 1960s, Bradley was still thought of as someone whose ideas were not to be disputed and as a result I’ve never actually gone back and rethought my position with regard to what he was ‘preaching’.  If Hopkins book does nothing else but push me into questioning some of the critics who were the gods of my youth, it will have been a useful read.

“Physics is like sex: sure, it may give some practical results, but that’s not why we do it.” – Richard Feynman

With this quote, Anthropology professor Jerry Moore concluded his keynote speech at the 17th annual Southern California Conference on Undergraduate Research (SCCUR), held this year at CSU Dominguez Hills. Moore’s point, in an address titled “Undergraduate Research in Difficult Times,” is that there is something wonderfully satisfying and pleasurable about university research that cannot be replaced by trade schools and technical training programs. People may see academic pursuits as a luxury in this slumping economy, but Moore argues that there must always be a place where people can learn, wonder, and discover. Research, as Moore puts it, is the best way to learn.

This weekend, Lillian (of Scientific Lillian) and I joined 400+ participants at SCCUR 2009 in embracing and celebrating the necessity and beauty of research, particularly at the undergraduate level. I got to sit in on two oral presentation sessions (including my own) as well as spend some time looking at posters during a poster session. I was impressed by the seriousness and dedication of the presenters as well as the creativity and range of the questions and approaches that they took. From 1950s Hollywood censorship to vanity sizing in women’s jeans, the presentations definitely ran a gamut of research topics.

During my own panel, the presenters spoke on Islamophobia in the US media and Renaissance rhetorical practices in Shakespeare’s Antony and Cleopatra. Presenting last, I talked about collaborative authorship in Renaissance theatre, particularly focusing on Henry VIII and The Two Noble Kinsmen. I wasn’t especially nervous as I had already given a preliminary version of this presentation at a previous conference. But at the same time, there is always a certain amount of insecurity about how your ideas will be received.

I think academic conferences are important for this very reason. Research can be lonely, but it is so so important to find your own tribe to share your ideas with and get feedback from. In my honors research colloquia, we’re always talking about inserting ourselves into the scholarly conversation and showing our awareness of previous scholarship. Oftentimes in undergraduate literary research, this means responding to journal articles and critical theories. But at some point, we hopefully begin to engage in real life debates with the people we used to cite in our papers. We will struggle to meet their challenges and questions and eventually we will emerge the better for it. Fancy ideas are just fancy ideas until you test them against an audience and persuade them to see things your way.

Personally, I also find conferences to be a great source of motivation to get cracking on my own research project in the same way that Googling grad school CVs already makes me worry about getting published. You’re filled with a nervous energy, but its the good kind that inspires your ambition and excites the spirit. Going to a conference with 400+ presenters really hits home the fact that a lot of people are doing exactly what you’re doing so you better work harder than ever if you want a shot at the whole professor thing.

Das Geheimnis des Schreibens ist, dass es von der Anschauung lebt. Banal genug. Leider aber kommt an dieser feststehenden Wahrheit keiner vorbei. Auch die Sprache lebt von den Bildern! Da die Sprache jedoch noch immer keinen Zugriff auf die Bilddatenbanken dieser Welt hat, muss sie mit inneren, geistigen Bildern vorlieb nehmen, mit magischen, heraufbeschworenen Vorstellungsbildern. Diese machen gewissermaßen die Seele eines Textes aus, das Unverkennbare daran und dann und wann sogar wohl das Unvergängliche — viele von Shakespeares Wortschöpfungen, wie Jago, Hamlet oder Richard III, gingen spornstreichs in die kollektive Bild- und Vorstellungs-Welt ein, als wären diese Phantasie-Gebilde direkt aus der Wirklichkeit gekommen!

Solche inneren Bilder sind immer das Resultat von Eroberungen. Die Art, wie Hamlet nach den Worten tastet, beweist es wohl: “Sein — oder doch eher Nicht-Sein? Was klingt besser?”

Was ich sagen wollte. Im Zeitalter des Copy-Paste ist es ein Leichtes, Text-Leichen zu produzieren. Ganze Leichenberge sind mit ein paar Tastengriffen zusammen getragen. Das steht jenseits von Fragen der Entwicklung und der Komposition, der Differenzierung, der Affinitäten. Und darum geht es ruckzuck. Es ist eine Fleißarbeit und schafft Müllberge der Redundanz.

Hingegen muss ein Text, der mehr sein möchte als eine Sammlung von Fakten (von wem auch immer beglaubigt), durch die harte Schule der Anschauung gehen, im Idealfall natürlich der äußeren, als eines Wirklich-vor-Ort-Seins. Das macht die Wertschätzung aus, welche Reportagen immer noch genießen. “Was, der war ehrlich dabei? In echt?” Zumindest aber ist für den Schreibenden innere Anschauung unumgänglich, also Betrofffensein, Involviertsein, das gute alte tua-res-agitur. Man muss die Sprache in sich so weit bringen, dass sie von ganz allein an die Gegenstände heran, in die Verhältnisse hinein drängt und dringt. Die Sprache muss zum sechsten Sinn werden, mit dem man den geistigen Gehalt der Weltzustände erfühlt.

Was die Sprache, über ihre fünf biologischen Konkurrenz-Sinne hinaus, vermag, ist, auch das Seelenleben eines Atoms oder eines Superstrings zu erforschen. Denn die Sprache ist unvorstellbar gierig! Die Sprache ist darum die Meisterin der Mimikry, der Mimesis, der nachschaffenden Anverwandlung! Stellen Sie sich einen Tisch vor. Und nun sage ich Ihnen laut und vernehmlich ins Ohr: “Tisch!” Und? Sofort werden für Sie Tisch und “Tisch” eins, untrennbar, nicht zu unterscheiden. Nur können Sie den “Tisch” jederzeit in die Tasche stecken, beispielsweise auf einem Blatt Papier, wohingegen der Tisch meist bleiben muss, wo er ist — es sei denn, Sie ziehen um.

Where Emma And I Would Go on a Date In Those Clothes-Number 1

Before we go anywhere tonight, Emma Watson, I would just like to say how gorgeous you look this evening. You’ve got this slightly eighties, all attitude thing going on. It’s fantastic. You almost always look great, but I really like this. Those black lace gloves? With the white stars? Destroying me.

So, seeing you like this it’s got me thinking about where we should go tonight. I know, I probably shouldn’t decide where we’re going based out what outfit you’re wearing, but that’s the kind of guy I am. Impulsive, fun, spontaneous and just generally amazing. It’s why we’re going out right? I thought so, Emma Watson.

So, where are we going? Firstly, you’ve got this classy bohemian thing going on. So, let’s begin by going to an expensive vegetarian restaurant, almost on the wrong side of the tracks. It’s almost certainly poorly lit, but the chef does this amazing menu, a blend of French and Chinese styles. You’re really going to like it, Emma Watson. He does things with Bok Choi that you wouldn’t believe.

After dinner, I think we should head into that student run theatre, down the street, the one above the record store. I should  take you to that record store one time as well. You feel cooler just by walking in the door, Emma Watson.  These uni students have been putting on Shakespeare all year. King Lear tonight. You cannot go wrong with the classics, Emma Watson. Always some new spin on things, without messing with the whole thing too much. 

After the play we’d slip out quietly and go the dimly lit dive bar next door. The beer on tap doesn’t have a label and the spirits are kept in bottles that just say ‘Scotch’ ‘Vodka’ and ‘Gin’ without any brand names, which are so a product of the commercialisation of enjoyment, Emma Watson. We’d have a couple of drinks, just enough to get our buzz on. Then I would call us a cab and give you my jacket if it was cold, Emma Watson.

Then I’d say goodbye to you, at the gate of your place. If I was lucky, I might steal a kiss.

That would be our night Emma Watson.

Sounds good doesn’t it?

Call me.

 PS-I wont be around for more than a week, so I wont be posting here or elsewhere for a little while. However this does give me some time to do a few new things, including finishing my epic film-noir inspired Emma Watson story. See you in a bit, kids and kidettes! Campbell.

Characters:

Larry

Lana

Gabriel

Act One, Scene One: The interior of the Bennett family car, driving through a snowstorm in the middle of Wyoming.  Lana and Larry are in the front seat; Gabriel is laying across the backseat.  He has his blackberry out; Larry’s knuckles are white.  Lana is knitting.

LARRY:  Well, this sure is a lot of snow.

GABRIEL:  Duh…If you would have asked me, I could have told you we were going to have to drive through snow.

LARRY:  Yeah.  Lucky for you, I know exactly where the middle of the road is.  Now, Gabe, shut the fuck up and let me drive.

GABRIEL:  Whatever, hoser.  It’s a good thing that I’ve got nothing to do.  If I were in New York, I’d be incredibly busy.  So busy.  It’d be incredible.

LANA:  Well dear, since you have nothing to do, would you mind winding this yarn for me?

GABRIEL:  It’s not like I have nothing to do.  Obviously, I’m in this car in the middle of a snowstorm and I can’t do anything.  I have stuff to do.   Tons.  Literally.

LANA:  Okay.  Thank you, Gabe.

GABRIEL:  Hey–are we even still on the road?

LARRY:  It’s not about being on the road, it’s about being in the middle of it.  And yes, to answer your earlier question, we are still on the road.

GABRIEL:  Yeah.  I’m sure.  Hey, do you know what time we’ll be back?  I might have a date with this girl I met at the last truck stop.  She’s so in love with me.

LARRY:  Uh-huh.  Didn’t you learn anything from the Tao Te Ching?   Enjoy the car ride.  Save the girls for later.

GABRIEL:  Right.  That’s what she said.

LANA:  Gabriel, honestly!

GABRIEL:  Booger.   

[close curtains]

So for those of you out there who have seen the amazingness that is Slings and Arrows, I present to you: Best Headline Ever.

Washington Shakespeare Company’s ‘Lulu’ needs a little mystery

Okay, so for those who have not yet seen the amazingness that is Slings and Arrows (for some reason), allow me to explain.

In the third season of the show, while the resident company attempts to stage King Lear, there is a guest company of young, overly energetic, often vapid musical theatre kids (ahh, stereotypes!) who are putting on a godawful rock musical called East Hastings. The lead character in the musical? A junkie hooker named Lulu.

That is why I giggled.

Please go watch that show.

“Nariz vermelho, sono e urina. Quanto à luxúria, senhor, ele a provoca e não provoca; provoca o desejo, mas leva embora a execução. Pode-se, portanto, dizer que muito beber seja o hipócrita da luxúria! Ele a cria e a destrói, excita e paralisa, persuade e desanima, levanta e faz murchar”.

Shakespeare.”Macbeth”.

While the Husband makes a flying visit to the US, I am living alone and unsurprisingly am proving unsuited to doing so.  I thought it would take me at least a couple of days before I stopped eating proper meals and started talking to myself, but no; I have plunged headlong into full-on crazy lady-mode.  I have even managed to get toothpaste in my hair.  Anyway, the only upside is that I can download all the horrible girlie music that I want.  And then shriek along to the new Leona Lewis song and attempt to reach her ungodly high notes from the latest single.  Not sure what my neighbours think.

Continuing my random and short-lived tradition of going to gigs on a Monday, this evening I have been to see Lisa Hannigan.  Another completely incongruous setting in the Royal Festival Hall.  I bet they don’t have too many gigs where there are fairy lights draped all over the instruments and a large glowing mushroom on top of the piano.  It was lovely and I highly recommend going to see her.  She is much more Irish in real life and her voice is beautiful.

The warm up guy was this bloke called Mundy and after he’d been playing for about half an hour he suddenly announced that he’d had a single on the Romeo and Juliet soundtrack and was going to play that.  The Romeo and Juliet soundtrack!  That was the background to my life as a fourteen year old girl.  I can’t have heard it in at least seven years.  (My car was broken into in 2002 and all my cds stolen, so I can be oddly precise about this.)

So now I’m going to download the Romeo and Juliet soundtrack and remember when it was ok – indeed, obligatory – to love Leonardo Di Caprio.  I had the poster on my wall and everything.

Random train of thought – we had to watch this film – and the 1960’s version – several times during SATs English.  For some reason, we were studying one of the really boring scenes between Paris and the Friar.  My friend Emma and I ended up learning it by heart.  “On Thursday, Sir?  The time is very short.”  Of all the Shakespeare there is, I get stuck with ridiculous lines in my head for all eternity about how my Father Capulet will have it so.

Post title, courtesy of Lisa Hannigan.

Se eu fosse virtual

Flávio Nickel

Imagem copiada de http://smeira.blog.terra.com.br/

“Chegou o tempo em que ou você é alguém@onde.oque ou você não é ninguém”

Se pudesse ser uma coisa, uma outra coisa, eu queria ser um software, digital, virtual. Não seria muito exigente. Bastava ser virtual. Se eu assim fosse, eu dominaria as dimensões do tempo e do espaço e viajaria pelo planeta digital e me deliciaria congestionando o tráfego na Trafalgar Square. Literalmente passearia pelos sites literários e num dia de sol enviaria um e-mail a Castro Alves e num navio negreiro, navegaríamos por mares nunca dantes navegados em companhia de Camões e Robinson Crusoe. Também por e-mail, convidaria Helena e Capitu para ir à Espanha assistir a uma tourada e mais tarde, em casa de Almodóvar, descansaríamos numa cama para três. Nas terras da Rainha, pesquisaria na Enciclopédia e com pontualidade Britânica iria ao chá das cinco com Shakespeare e Sherlock. Convidaria Rimbaud para um bate papo na Gallerie La Fayette e numa sexta à tarde me conectaria com Belo Horizonte, aonde iria ao clube da esquina, tomar um café com bytes em companhia de Milton e Lô Borges.

Ah, se eu fosse virtual! Se eu fosse virtual, teria memória sem limites e poderia guardar tudo do passado e do presente. Então, me presentearia com um álbum dos Mutantes. Seria amigo de Vinícius, de Chico e de Janis Joplin. Com Lennon e McCartney, Pena Branca e Xavantinho, formaria uma banda larga inusitada e tocaríamos juntos em MP3.. Seria virtual, mas com sentimentos e, com Noel e Adoniram, choraria melosas canções de amor numa rádio digital. Mesclaria Pixinguinha e Marisa Monte em uníssono, cantando Rosa, em poesia não em prosa, para fazer alguém feliz. Se eu fosse virtual, Bach me ensinaria que na música, a nota codifica o som, e eu o explicaria que na informática, o bit codifica a ação. Se eu fosse virtual e cometesse crimes, Dostoievski seria meu advogado e meus castigos minimizados. Poderia até ser processado, mas por processadores, que me mandariam pra Alcatraz. Lá eu escreveria minhas memórias do cárcere e um postal eletrônico para Marco Polo. Planejaria uma fuga lá para o reino de Khan, a quem eu contaria de minhas andanças pelas terras do sem fim. Depois, criaria um portal de games para jogar Dama com as Camélias e enviaria flores virtuais para Madame Bovary. Digitalizaria o amor, para que minha musa não guardasse de mim apenas impressões digitais e fundaria com Gullar a Academia Brasileira de Bytes. Não seria um Highlander, mas seria imortal. Se eu fosse virtual, simularia o meu Taj Mahal, onde leria As mil e uma noites em uma só, deitado confortavelmente em minha rede. Iria ao Louvre e admiraria cada píxel da Mona Lisa. Materializaria-me junto ao túmulo de Salvador e o tiraria dali para meu alívio e para a persistência de sua memória. Gravaria em placas homenagens a Sebastião Salgado, Picasso e Caetano constatando que a Guernica é aqui. Aprenderia com Freud sobre Édipo e o Ego num site de psicologia e entenderia que quando os sonhos assumem forma concreta, surge a beleza. Seria menino e correria Brasil afora em busca de pica-paus amarelos ou de uirapurus cantantes. Pularia carniça nas pinceladas de Portinari em companhia de Bardi e me deixaria deslizar nas curvas generosas de Niemeyer. Imprimiria elogios de louvor á brasilidade de Macunaíma e Mário de Andrade me convidaria para um banquete antropofágico em casa de Tarsila, numa mensagem com a Muiraquitã em anexo.

Se eu fosse virtual, conversaria com Da Vinci em código e compilaria com Einstein o quântico dos contos . Instalaria-me com Clarice em uma rede e a ouviria explicar sobre como (d)escrever o amor. Entenderia grego, português, inglês e outras línguas porque armazenaria todas as línguas na memória. Entraria nos arquivos do FBI, do DOPS, do SNI e da CIA, de onde hackearia informações sigilosas e as compartilharia com Henfil e Betinho. Criaria uma comunidade alternativa no Orkut e Raul Seixas seria o síndico. Em uma página de poesia, jogaria conversa fora com Drummond, depois andaríamos por uma rua qualquer de Itabira, e no meio do caminho, nos assentaríamos em um banco de dados também qualquer para escrever às crianças. Se eu fosse virtual, programaria com Júlio Verne, dez voltas ao redor da Terra, à velocidade de um download, num Led Zeppelin amarelo. Buscaria no Google, um trabalho para Marx e trocaríamos informações sobre workgroups. Após o almoço, Newton me ofereceria uma maçã e eu o convidaria a ensinar física aos engenheiros da Apple por videoconferência. Se eu fosse virtual, ao envelhecer, não me preocuparia com a forma física e nem sofreria cirurgias plásticas ou lipoaspiração. No máximo, Ivo Pitangui me atenderia em uma clínica de upgrades e eu sendo velho, não morreria. Bastaria um update, um download, e eu me renovaria como a Fênix.Tudo isso seria possível se Deus, o criador, fosse programador e, se no ato de me criar, tivesse feito um software, não um escritor. Ah, se eu fosse virtual.

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Andare a vedere uno spettacolo teatrale a Pontedera e imbattersi in una piacevolissima performance senza stereotipi cervellotici è già di per sé una bella novità. Se poi uno va a vedere uno spettacolo che si intitola Sogno di una notte di mezza estate e si ritrova a vedere davvero il lavoro di Shakespeare (e non una fantasia sessuale frigida con riferimenti al testo del tutto casuali, tanto per dirla con De Martis) allora ne viene fuori proprio una serata fuori dal comune.

Si divertono, i moviment-attori del Oskaras Koršunovas Theatre (più di quanto non traspaia dall’immagine qui riprodotta), e nel divertirsi coinvolgono e divertono anche il pubblico. Abène.

Ogni personaggio si presenta in scena con il proprio bagaglio: una tavola di legno, quasi una barella, o una tavola da pranzo, o una parete. Anzi, sarà che siamo in periodo di ricorrenze, ma all’aprirsi del sipario (si fa per dire) si illumina vividissima l’immagine di un Muro di Berlino che avanza verso il pubblico. La maestria con cui questi ragazzi e ragazze giovanissmi maneggiano ciascuno la propria tavolozza per inventare scene e situazioni è straordinaria, e fa dimenticare il disagio dei sovratitoli (alquanto necessari, considerando la recitazione in lituano…).

Un uso efficacissimo delle luci complementa l’effetto di scenografia virtuale e la contentezza del pubblico è tale che ci scappano anche due applausi “a scena aperta”.

Spettacolo sorprendente e godibilissimo, accompagnato per una volta anche da delle note di sala decenti (anche se l’accenno al “perimetro dell’infinito” faceva temere gli usuali pipponi…).

Per la cronaca: la versione in inglese del sito ufficiale appare un po’ stringatina – rispetto a quella in lituano, ma ci si può consolare con  la pagina inglese di Wikipedia sul regista Oskaras Koršunovas.

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I’ve had two recurring dreams in my life. The first was during the summer after 5th grade. My brother and I was spending the summer with my real dad while my mom and step-dad moved to Algood, Tennessee. The second has been over the past couple years.

In the first dream my family are in a house that I do not recognize but it is clearly my family’s house because my mom, step-dad, brother, and sister are all there. In the dream my family is being killed one by one by none other than Darth Vader. I am the only one spared because I am hiding behind this odd patterned chair and Darth Vader never finds me. I had this dream at least a couple of times a week while staying at my dad’s over that summer. When the summer was over my mom came to Mississippi to pick up my brother and I. Mom was very excited about the new house. She had gotten me and my siblings new bedroom suits. As we walked through the front door of the new house I stood for a few moments taking in what I saw. Then without being directed I went straight to my room. What is strange is that I wasn’t scared. At the time it was more of a confusion. I couldn’t understand how a house I had never been in and furniture I had not seen till that moment could have shown up in my dreams. The house was exactly, right down to the furniture pattern and arrangement, like in my dreams from that summer. I have never told my family about that first recurring dream. Needless to say, Darth Vader never showed up and killed my family, but I did hide behind that chair quite a bit when hiding from my siblings.

The second recurring dream always has a different location and different people in every dream, but the same action occurs. I am with someone that I don’t recognize and our vehicle (never the same vehicle) breaks down in the middle of the night. A couple always (never the same couple) stops to help us, but they take us to wherever they live. While we are at this house the couple that helped us begins to act strange. Ultimately, they drug the female I’m with and I’m trying to figure out a way to save her or find help. In the dream, the male character who helped us is always stalking me while I try to figure out a way to get away to get help or trying to help the female with me. It is a nightmare. It is in fact the most frightening dream I’ve ever had. I always wake up before I can save the female that is with me.

I had this dream again this past week, but this time two strange things happened. The dream began and is progressing as it always does. I don’t recognize the location and it is different from the past locations. I don’t recognize anyone in the dream except for the man who stops to help us. Still, all the people in the dream are different from those in previous dreams. When we (my companion and I) get to the couple’s house my dream jumps forward to the bad female sedating or drugging the female I’m with, but it is at this point that the first difference occurs. In the dream, I say, “this has happened to us before because I recognize the drugs.” When I say this in the dream I am looking at the bad female as she is prepping the syringe and at the metal tray containing all these medical instruments. As I’m looking at this tray and saying “this has happened to us before because I recognize the drugs” the second strange thing happens. As I’m looking at the tray of instruments and drugs there is a flicker. It was like in a TV show or movie and the police are looking at surveillance video and their is a flicker in the video because someone has stopped the camera and then turned it back on again later after the crime has been committed. Or somewhat like what JJ Abrams incorporates in the last episode of the first season of Fringe when Olivia Dunham is on the elevator. In the dream, after I say what I said and the flicker occurs I am outside being stalked by the bad guy. Then I wake up.

I find dreams very interesting. Throughout history the importance of dreams have been debated. This is seen in Shakespeare’s The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet. On the way to the Capulet’s masquerade ball there is a conversation between Romeo and his best friend Mercutio in Act I scene IV:
ROMEO:
And we mean well in going to this mask; But ’tis no wit to go.
MERCUTIO
Why, may one ask?
ROMEO
I dream’d a dream to-night.
MERCUTIO
And so did I.
ROMEO
Well, what was yours?
MERCUTIO
That dreamers often lie.
ROMEO
In bed asleep, while they do dream things true.

The issue of dreams and their importance are seen in “The Nun’s Priest’s Tale” in The Canterbury Tales, and also in Holy Scripture. Dreams are important in psychoanalysis thanks to Freud. It was a dream that inspired the Twilight Saga.

Do my dreams mean something? I have no idea! I just know that my experience with dreams, specifically recurring dreams, has been interesting.

…he left Italy and travelled into Greece, where he spent his time in military exercises and in the study of eloquence. He took most to what was called the Asiatic taste in speaking, which was then at its height, and was, in many ways, suitable to his ostentatious, vaunting temper, full of empty flourishes and unsteady efforts for glory.

Nice summary of both a character and the moral side of rhetoric.

This is from the Dryden Translation, The Modern Library Classics, volume 2, the chapter on Antony.

Words mean things.

I was speaking with a class of undergraduates the other day about “literally.” It now means “figuratively,” the opposite of its original meaning.  During a football game this weekend I heard the announcer refer to a player, “running out of his mind; he’s a hurricane, a hurricane, a literal hurricane.” He was not calling the Miami Hurricanes game! No, he was using the word in its new sense. Literally means figuratively.

This is how language works, as descriptive linguists know. The classic word to illustrate is “nice” which in Shakespeare’s day meant “foolish,” but no longer. Usage determines meaning now, and etymology is out.

Some may regret this ( I do) and others (me!) may even see in this a trend a threat to accurate communication and the enthroning of ambiguity, all part of a broader descent into disconnected individualism. If accurate this latter trend would be a harbinger of further anarchy. Politicians after all are the masters of cashing in (literally) on this use of ambiguity and saying one thing while meaning another.

All this becomes truly odd when matters of reality arise, or, should I say, the matter of reality. What is reality? What makes an entity real? These old metaphysical questions are not very fashionable in academic circles these days and this mood has spilled over into popular culture.

Consider the guy (see here) who married his “virtual” girl friend. It would seem that such a wedding is legal in Guam. Bring your machine, log on to your virtual reality world, and some real official on the island (for a fee I am sure) will wed you to an avatar! Many questions spring to mind, for example:

• Can such a wedding be annulled given that consummation is impossible?
• Can joint account check books be issued and if so what signatures will the bank require?
• Can the wedding be broken by simply smashing the machine, deleting the program or is a divorce necessary?
• Is it legal in Guam to marry someone who is insane?

All this as a result of the wildly odd phrase “virtual reality.” This phrase is so common now that we perhaps fail to grasp its nature, not unlike “square circle” or “dry water.” Virtual reality now means something  ….  well  ….  real, or “actually real.”

• But, if “literally” means “figuratively” what means figuratively?
• And, more importantly, if “virtual reality”  means “reality” what means reality?

As one of my students might say: I’m just like asking. (Hmmmm ….. I thought “I was asking.”)

Why bother? Not least because for people of faith in the Word words become centrally important and also because the chaos created by this verbal disregard will only further accelerate the already imminent dislocation in our society. So many are dislocated: from their history, their culture, their geography, their language. They do not know where they have come from. How can they know where they are? How will they ever get where they want to go?

It’s a literal like jungle out there!

To the NFT Studio - sorry, BFI Southbank Studio -yesterday, to see Terence Davies’  2008 poem to Liverpool.  Narrated beautifully by the writer-director himself  – alternately funny, moving, angry (never have I heard such venom injected into the phrase “curling irons”) –  it uses archive footage and sweeping landscape shots, classical and classic pop music to devastating effect.

As the credits ended, the Hairy Muse laughed: “I didn’t know I was taking you to see a great, big poem!”

Because a poem it was.  Not just because Davies quotes from Julian of Norwich, Shakespeare, Eliot, Larkin – and probably loads more writers that I missed – but because his own writing is so prismatic and affecting.  I loved the deft images: “radios brown as Hovis” and the use of what must be texts from the Catholic Church.  And his rapt, intense voice….

Wonderful.  We walked out over Waterloo Bridge afterwards, with new eyes for our own city.  The crowd of cranes around St [pauls and the Square Mile, the tethered river barges.  The people in the wind, with their flash cameras and their scarves.  The uplit Shell Building.  That crazy Eye.

Ah London…

No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change:
Thy pyramids built up with newer might
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;
They are but dressings of a former sight.
Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire
What thou dost foist upon us that is old;
And rather make them born to our desire
Than think that we before have heard them told.
Thy registers and thee I both defy,
Not wondering at the present nor the past,
For thy records and what we see doth lie,
Made more or less by thy continual haste.
This I do vow and this shall ever be;
I will be true despite thy scythe and thee.

Sonnet 123

thanks again to the sonnet a day.

So, Jedward are out. Does it matter? In concerns of life and death, no. Of greater importance to me is the recent death of my Dad, coupled with my Mum now being in hospital for the past two weeks. Is that though where the difference comes? People who are so concerned over the X-Factor results have had no life and death factor in their lives recently? Or is it a way of avoiding such concerns? Or am I too concerned myself? Is it a case of: “thou doth protest too much” as Shakespeare wrote in Hamlet. The complete quote being: “The lady doth protest too much, methinks”. Hamlet Act 3, scene 2, 222–230 spoken by Queen Gertrude.

Perhaps I’m worried about being sucked into something that would waste my time, when there is so much else to read or actually do. That I would end up liking the programme! Almost like an illegal drug. You know you shouldn’t take it, but loads of people you know are, so it can’t be too bad. Before long you get hooked. Such a comparison is not meant to make light of those addicted to drugs, yet I do believe we can get addicted to TV programmes, as well as TV as a whole. The consequences though are obviously not so damaging, severe, vicious or far reaching as drug addiction can be.

The only works of Shakespeare about which we can feel reasonably confident that we have the versions that the author intended are the poems Venus and Adonis and The Rape of Lucrece. That is because, in the early part of his career, Shakespeare appeared to think of himself more of a poet than a playwright and he wrote the latter largely as a means of supporting himself in the role of the former.

Read the full article here.