Additional Randominity

And so it goes...and so it goes....

I have a newfound respect for Evelyn Waugh, due to the fact that I've torn through Brideshead Revisited and found it wonderful to delve back into classic works of fiction. The scene of Julia "weeping over the death of her God" was particularly moving - and I'm so happy for Sebastian! Nearly done with it, and am already wondering what classic I ought to delve into next. Perhaps it's time to read part two of Middlemarch (a book I had to leave off reading when I left Austria - ah, the complexities of reading schedules!).

My ankles are killing me. It's very odd. I don't think I've done anything particular that should cause this pain. My only thought is that perhaps it's early rheumatism? Or that the cold and the wearing of platform heels - no matter how sturdy - are having an effect even now? Fortunately, I've found a way of binding my feet in ace bandages that seems to support my ankles (and keep them warmer in this nasty cold!).

Which leads me to: apparently this is the coldest it's been in New England...ever...for some time? It certainly feels bitter cold.

I've been getting alternately anxious, paralyzed anxious, and head-over-heels enraptures (before returning to anxiety) over KOF. At this time, I should like to butt into my little Clerk of Nervous Ticks to remind him to check the previous ledgers and tally it up to mid-production jitters. Quite typical, quite usual. And, in the words of Geoffrey Rush in Shakespeare in Love (or at least the words written for him): "It's a mystery!" Bear that in mind. But to add in neat lines for the better calming of my inner clerk:

Musician thingy might be resolved after all. So...there.

E-mails have no intrinsic power to hurt. Duh. (Comes back to that modern communication thesis for a potential Ph.D. I have...later on that.)

Thursday's rehearsal went swimmingly and...(drumroll, maestro!)...we have a show. It was such a relief to work a scene, not merely block it with what working is possible given limitations; it was such a relief to see that the actors were willing to give it their all, even beyond expectations; it was such a relief to see the play coming to life.

And to jostle the Clerk's memory of other performances: remember Pirates? Remember how much we tried to do and it looked like it wouldn't do and then, miraculously, it did? Remember the night you were able to pronounce to yourself, "We have a show"? Yes, well...we're not quite at the "we have the [whole] show" bit yet (since we haven't blocked everything yet), but the sensation of relief, of seeing some sort of finished product or hope of such product is there. Must rewatch Pirates to jostle memory further.

Oh, it doesn't seem possible I even did that show, sometimes. All these plays seem to fade into nothing more than picturebooks and DVD's. I suppose that's why Mr. Dougherty attempted to get us into the habit of recording daily our theatrical experiences. Not so much for the relief of getting that evening's rehearsal or epiphany (loightning 'as just struck moi brain) but in order for our older selves to remember that event. Yes. Waugh said all that we possess is our past - although I suppose he wrote that in high poetry, because our past is not truly ours since it, too, is a dependent gift on God; that is, from the purely theological stance, which I'm sure he knew, sin is the only thing we can take full credit for; howsomever, in the poetical sense....

And here am I, not finishing my sentences or even letting them gestate into full-blown phrases. Fortunately, I believe such commonplaceness of our current inability to speak, to communicate, to bend words to our will, or to even know that we desire words or once we have them what to do with them - all this will work quite prettily into my Movement as Dialogue thesis which is percolating madly in my brain at the moment. (Note to self: must seek out information from those in the know as to whether going straight for Ph.D. is plausible or whether 'twould be better to simply write and publish the thing without university support?) Of course, regardless, I must define my central thesis first. My thoughts are blowing about the core - I feel as though I've got my hands on one of those balls of electricity that shoot forth sparks from the heart of it that one can play with and manipulate with no danger to the self. But I want the core, not the sparks. I need to make my way through the braided strands to the heart of the question itself.

And Waugh has left his post-modern mark upon my writing tonight. Silly, high-blown phrases, puffed-up self-importance (and the hypenated newspeak! My thesis rears its ugly head again. Poor thesis - no name, gender or identity! I shall call him Terence the Thesis. He may keep Waugh's Aloyisius company) - anywho. "Words! Why speak I still of words! I am stuffed full of them!" Or something like that from poor Liam's mouth! I meant to write more in the latest tale. I ended up doing a lot of reading and watching VeggieTales and the first few episodes of Lost and some bonus features from Sky Captain than anything particularly...I was about to say constructive, but creative might be the better word. But need I create at every moment? I hardly think so. Give yourself a Sabbath, Emily - for Heaven's sake (quite literally)! And equally for Heaven's, if not for the sake of yourself, the English language, or any poor, besotted and bedumbed (or is that benumbed) person who happens to peer through these haphazard annals - quit this silly journal for the night.

Bon soir, mes amis. (Bon soir, la lune!) Voila, le journal (pas le romain) pour mon cour publique - full of sound and fury, signifying...memory.

Mood: Pensive
Music: Flipping between Shall We Dance with a wonderful new version of "Sway with Me" (yaaaaaaaaaaaaay!) and The Village with the loverly violin solos (strange that cat gut should wring men's souls from their bodies).
Thought: Oh, Lord? What would You have me do?