John Ammerman’s adaptation of Jane Austen’s Persuasion, produced by Theater Emory, tells of love lost, love on hold, and love prevailing. I was able to watch production progress from first rehearsal through closing performance, thanks to my position as light board operator. I’ll tackle this paper both as audience observer and as production team member.
Anne Elliot, considered a near-spinster past 25, puts on a brave face as her father has spent their fortune toward the brink of bankruptcy. With her godmother, Lady Russell, a plan is concocted to restore their wealth while renting their estate to Admiral Croft and his wife, Sophie Wentworth-Croft. This brings Anne’s past immediately to her present, as she was once engaged to Sophie’s brother Frederick – an engagement broken thanks to the encouragement of her advisors, as he was at the time a poor sailor with no money or title. Has he forgiven her? Will he even remember her? Anne puts on a brave face while pining for her one true love which may never come to fruition.
I heard several classmates say that this play was not their cup of tea, but I’m a sucker for a romance. The play is long, but Ammerman did a fine job taking the highlights of the book and telling the story in both a beautiful and understandable way. The dance at the top of the show – directly atop Sara Culpepper’s beautiful scenic charge work in Kell-lynch Hall – immediately took the audience to the world of the early 1800s. Marianne Martin came through yet again with an amazing costume design, perfect in every way. Some of the young actresses were stunned that they had to wear corsets underneath their dresses, though the empire waist barely accentuates actual body shape. A nice touch, I thought, of the turbans worn by Lady Russell and Lady Dalrymple, which I assume are a nod to British occupation of India. Speaking of hats, the naval officers were superbly resplendent in their uniforms, complete with Napoleonic bicornes. Leslie Taylor’s lovely set allowed for a myriad of entrances and exits, and Ammerman carefully transitioned scene-to-scene with the actors becoming stage hands to move curtains and furniture. A bit of great advice I remember from one of my favorite directors, Actor’s Express co-founding artistic director Chris Coleman. He always cautioned his directing students to embrace scene changes. If they have to happen, have fun with them. Rob Turner and Teresa Findley did a lovely job with the soundtrack, complete with a gorgeous Beverly Sills aria to encapsulate the final kiss at play’s end.
Cynthia Barrett, the vocal coach, had a lot on her plate with a cast of 23 actors. Two of them young boys and two of them native speakers, granted, a good bit to handle. That still doesn’t excuse her ignorance of Kristie Denlinger as Mary Elliot. We hear her father and both sisters speak long before she does, and when she does, it’s a comical voice reminiscent of Nancy from Oliver or Mrs. Lovett from Sweeney Todd. She might as well be Joshua Jacobs’s Peep Show barker. Kristie is a student, and I assume getting course credit for the performance. Barrett could have worked with her more and forced her to lose the commonness while keeping the comedy. Mary is a comic character, but her speech patterns just don’t match her family members, and I find it grating to my ears and inexcusable.
As far as shining stars in the cast, there are certainly many; notably, Emily Kleypas in the lead role, as Anne. I’ve not seen her in a Theater Emory show before, but have enjoyed her work in student theater, Starving Artists Productions. So great to see my friend Brian Kimmel again, playing Frederick. Brian is not only a professional actor, but an alumnus – another nice touch for the Emory student actors who might wonder if one can take a theater studies degree into the real world. Stalwart favorites Kathleen McManus and Allen Edwards must relish their deliciously worded roles, allowing Austen’s beautiful language to ring beautifully to our ears. Nice, too, that the student actors are given young roles and the professional actors the older roles. By the time you arrive in collegiate theater, you should be able to put your can of grey spray away and let the old be old, you know?
As the play moves throughout several locations in England, integral to the play are the projections and light, which set the mood for each location. The audience follows quite easily via portraits and window gobos or pastoral outdoor scenes and leafy gobos. Not only am I a sucker for romance, I’m a sucker for gobos and hope to use one or two in mini-form for my ¼” scale set. Gobos are a simple and straightforward way to help the audience know where they are. For Persuasion, window gobos remind us whether we’re at Kell-lynch Hall, Camden Place, or Lady Dalrymple’s salon.
The lights were definitely a collaboration and compromise between director and designer. It was personally interesting to witness the give-and-take during tech weekend. Timings of transitions as well as “mood” colors were hashed out and agreed upon quite amicably. Can the focus be more on center stage with less wash to the sides? Should the last moment be in a romantic pink or a wintry blue? Discuss! Elizabeth Waldman’s job wasn’t easy, thanks in good part to those aforementioned projections. How does one light the set and the actors without washing out the projections? Good question. A good amount of side light, thanks to lighting booms in the wings, was one solution.
A great thing about theater lighting is the ability to gauge levels of light. Projections are set, depending on the strength of the machine and the bulb within. Light levels can range from extremely dim to extremely bright, depending upon the need for light in the scene. In transitions, the actors need to be able to see; in scenes, the audience needs to be able to see the actors – and varying levels between. Manipulation of light on stage is also a manipulation of the audience eye. “Hey, look over here,” so to speak. Lighting helps the audience pay attention and helps guide them through the story. Waldman did a lovely job guiding the eye through scenes, into transitions, and back again to the world of Jane Austen.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Monday, October 17, 2011
Review - Theater Emory's The Lieutenant of Inishmore
Martin McDonagh’s The Lieutenant of Inishmore, recently produced by Theater Emory, encapsulates a moment of time in early 1990’s IRA war-torn Ireland. Padraic is away, serving in the INLA, and has asked one simple task of his father, Donny: look after his cat (Wee Thomas) while he’s gone. The play opens with said cat, brain-dripping and quite dead, in the arms of Padraic’s childhood friend, Davey. Donny and Davey must decide whether to confess to the violent and self-obsessed Padraic that his only friend in the world – this cat – is dead, or cover up the truth.
Dark humor injects itself throughout the play, beginning with the duo’s mad decision and near-obsession to cover up the crime rather than confess and deal with the nasty consequences. Among their ideas: telling Padraic he’s merely sick, and substituting and shoe-polishing another cat. When Padraic arrives home, their plan is to tell him Wee Thomas has a disease that makes him smell like shoe polish and “get all orangey.”
I thought the entire ensemble was well cast, and the director effortlessly melded the stage crew as well. Thanks to vocal coach Cynthia Barrett for making the actors’ brogues, for the most part, crisp and clear. McManus was lucky to find actors up to the caliber and height of Tim McDonough. Mairead, the only female character, had a difficult task of playing with the boys and proving in the end to be an even more zealous maniac than Padraic, her love. I found Teissler the most difficult to understand, and for some reason chose to focus her gaze out beyond the audience above far stage left. Perhaps the choice was to invoke a dreamy sixteen year old with an eye to a future far from Inishmore, but I found it distracting. The easiest to understand, I thought, was Jonathan Durie, who (I think) was the only non-American on stage. A tip of the hat to Mark Cabus’s Christy, lollipop-wielding and eye-patched, entering with the most benign greeting, “How do!” only to take a sinister turn on Padraic with his henchmen. Krakovsky and Harland made a lovable duo backing up Cabus, and it’s too bad that the audience’s hearts had already been won over by the other comic team, McDonough and Read.
Not having read the script, I can only hope that a brilliant directorial turn was taken by Donald McManus in having Tim McDonough in character as Donny giving the curtain speech each night with Wee Thomas, very much alive, in arms. A beautifully subtle way to get the audience – and PETA – to both see a live cat from the get-go, and reassure that no animals will be harmed during the production. I found it off-putting and unnecessary, however, for an ASM to cook food for the cat onstage before show. At first I thought that the point was to get the smell wafting through the air, but the smell didn’t last. Then I thought it was to show off that the play had a working hotplate, but that’s not such a great feat. All in all, no one needs to see an ASM’s backside for a solid ten minutes. I chalked it up as simply confounding.
In Kat Conley’s beautifully designed set, the main piece is Donny’s home. The large roof beams were either an optical illusion or cunningly designed, as they looked quite heavy and I was shocked to not see them stretch to the floor behind stage. A great use of space in front of the stage, a rocky shore along the front of the set took us outside to the shores of Inishmore, and a steel structure at stage right became Padraic’s torture warehouse in Northern Ireland. Kudos to the poor actor having to hang upside down for a good ten minutes…not to mention his fellow actor who had no means of cutting him down if necessary, as the winch was operated from below. I thought the physical separation of playing space not only helped denote geographic distance, but helped drive home that Inishmore is an island, and there’s something isolated and self-sufficient about island dwellers: every man for him- or her-self.
Liz Waldman’s sound structure was thoughtful throughout. Highlights for me were the water-dripping with echo effect for the warehouse, and the live drumming for “The Patriot Game.” I could have done without “Are You Ready for a War?” sung by the full cast at the end. If the purpose there was to uplift audience spirits after a dark show…it was catchy, certainly, but too long, and uplifted nothing.
The costumes were unremarkable – with no offense meant to designer Ros Staib, who had a slim palette to work within, with blood-cleaning issues and lots of drab/dull scenarios to consider. A nod, certainly, to Mairead’s dress, made entirely of men’s shirts and ties.
I must take issue with Wee Thomas’s reappearance at the end of the show. By the time the cat comes home, the point of the play has already hit home: terrorism is a fool's paradise – pointless and creating needless hurt and confusion. Concretely put via the cat’s return: all this fuss for nothing. So, why the bright light and angelic chorus? All the audience needs to see is the cat appearing on the window ledge (pushed or tossed from below by a willing ASM). Pardon the use of this word, but: overkill.
I was fortunate to work on McDonagh’s The Pillowman at Actor’s Express some years ago, and had seen Theater Gael’s staging of The Cripple of Inishmaan. Though I hadn’t read this play nor seen it live before, I guessed it would be gripping, bloody, gory, unsettling…or all of the above. I was stunned to learn that McDonagh is quite young – just 40. He has a bevy of plays under his belt as well as – I think – In Bruges was his screenplay, yes? Seeing Theater Emory feature a young(er) playwright is a nice bookend to the 6x6 productions that will end the season. Theater Emory has done a lot to surprise in the past few seasons: showing Ad Hoc they can do musicals, too, and now some blood & guts. I look forward to Persuasion, the rest of this season, and beyond.
Dark humor injects itself throughout the play, beginning with the duo’s mad decision and near-obsession to cover up the crime rather than confess and deal with the nasty consequences. Among their ideas: telling Padraic he’s merely sick, and substituting and shoe-polishing another cat. When Padraic arrives home, their plan is to tell him Wee Thomas has a disease that makes him smell like shoe polish and “get all orangey.”
I thought the entire ensemble was well cast, and the director effortlessly melded the stage crew as well. Thanks to vocal coach Cynthia Barrett for making the actors’ brogues, for the most part, crisp and clear. McManus was lucky to find actors up to the caliber and height of Tim McDonough. Mairead, the only female character, had a difficult task of playing with the boys and proving in the end to be an even more zealous maniac than Padraic, her love. I found Teissler the most difficult to understand, and for some reason chose to focus her gaze out beyond the audience above far stage left. Perhaps the choice was to invoke a dreamy sixteen year old with an eye to a future far from Inishmore, but I found it distracting. The easiest to understand, I thought, was Jonathan Durie, who (I think) was the only non-American on stage. A tip of the hat to Mark Cabus’s Christy, lollipop-wielding and eye-patched, entering with the most benign greeting, “How do!” only to take a sinister turn on Padraic with his henchmen. Krakovsky and Harland made a lovable duo backing up Cabus, and it’s too bad that the audience’s hearts had already been won over by the other comic team, McDonough and Read.
Not having read the script, I can only hope that a brilliant directorial turn was taken by Donald McManus in having Tim McDonough in character as Donny giving the curtain speech each night with Wee Thomas, very much alive, in arms. A beautifully subtle way to get the audience – and PETA – to both see a live cat from the get-go, and reassure that no animals will be harmed during the production. I found it off-putting and unnecessary, however, for an ASM to cook food for the cat onstage before show. At first I thought that the point was to get the smell wafting through the air, but the smell didn’t last. Then I thought it was to show off that the play had a working hotplate, but that’s not such a great feat. All in all, no one needs to see an ASM’s backside for a solid ten minutes. I chalked it up as simply confounding.
In Kat Conley’s beautifully designed set, the main piece is Donny’s home. The large roof beams were either an optical illusion or cunningly designed, as they looked quite heavy and I was shocked to not see them stretch to the floor behind stage. A great use of space in front of the stage, a rocky shore along the front of the set took us outside to the shores of Inishmore, and a steel structure at stage right became Padraic’s torture warehouse in Northern Ireland. Kudos to the poor actor having to hang upside down for a good ten minutes…not to mention his fellow actor who had no means of cutting him down if necessary, as the winch was operated from below. I thought the physical separation of playing space not only helped denote geographic distance, but helped drive home that Inishmore is an island, and there’s something isolated and self-sufficient about island dwellers: every man for him- or her-self.
Liz Waldman’s sound structure was thoughtful throughout. Highlights for me were the water-dripping with echo effect for the warehouse, and the live drumming for “The Patriot Game.” I could have done without “Are You Ready for a War?” sung by the full cast at the end. If the purpose there was to uplift audience spirits after a dark show…it was catchy, certainly, but too long, and uplifted nothing.
The costumes were unremarkable – with no offense meant to designer Ros Staib, who had a slim palette to work within, with blood-cleaning issues and lots of drab/dull scenarios to consider. A nod, certainly, to Mairead’s dress, made entirely of men’s shirts and ties.
I must take issue with Wee Thomas’s reappearance at the end of the show. By the time the cat comes home, the point of the play has already hit home: terrorism is a fool's paradise – pointless and creating needless hurt and confusion. Concretely put via the cat’s return: all this fuss for nothing. So, why the bright light and angelic chorus? All the audience needs to see is the cat appearing on the window ledge (pushed or tossed from below by a willing ASM). Pardon the use of this word, but: overkill.
I was fortunate to work on McDonagh’s The Pillowman at Actor’s Express some years ago, and had seen Theater Gael’s staging of The Cripple of Inishmaan. Though I hadn’t read this play nor seen it live before, I guessed it would be gripping, bloody, gory, unsettling…or all of the above. I was stunned to learn that McDonagh is quite young – just 40. He has a bevy of plays under his belt as well as – I think – In Bruges was his screenplay, yes? Seeing Theater Emory feature a young(er) playwright is a nice bookend to the 6x6 productions that will end the season. Theater Emory has done a lot to surprise in the past few seasons: showing Ad Hoc they can do musicals, too, and now some blood & guts. I look forward to Persuasion, the rest of this season, and beyond.
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Celine, Her Mom, an Old Dude and Some Kids
First of all, we've been bamboozled. I was under the impression that Celine's show on the Oprah Winfrey Network was going to be a docudrama, what with "A New Show" being part of the title. No, no. The "new show" is her new show in Vegas. Man!!
12-15-2007 A New Day - The Last Concert. 723 sold out shows, 3 million+ spectators. What's next, Celine? The Taking Chances World Tour 2008-2009...with her ancient mom, her ancient husband, and her long-haired son. ...and when I say long-haired, I mean he's giving Zuma Rossdale and Paris Jackson a run for their money.
Jump-cut to screaming fans and Celine yelling, "Is that all right, ______??" (insert random name of city she's playing, because that's what she yells to her fans after every encore. Taking Chances boasted 133 sold out shows over five continents, blissfully ending February 2009.
Rene-Charles, also known as "RC," is the aforementioned long-haired son. ...and I hope you're sitting down, but he speaks French. Also blissfully ending with the concert: his long hair. He now looks like a normal blue-eyed boy. Back to her Florida home, where RC begins school and Celine begins invitro fertilization.
Cut to: Larry King, February 2010. "Are you trying?" (to have a baby), says King. "We're trying. We tried 4 times." Christ, I hope she means actual sex, not times of invitro. Damn, she means invitro. Cut to: the Oprah interview. She and Oprah crying, talking about her miscarriage and how they're on their 5th try. Invitro. Get your mind out of the gutter.
Have I mentioned that in and out of commercial breaks, the songs playing in the background are these exquisite midi file-type versions? Her hits and others. Truly awful.
So, the babies arrive October 23rd. Baby A and Baby B, to start - unnamed at birth. They are boys, eventually Nelson and Eddy. Perhaps a nod to Nelson Eddy, the late singer/actor? We'll never know - they didn't say, and Wikipedia won't confirm. The Vegas show is supposed to open 3-15-2011. Do THAT math. Less than five months, after gaining 60 some-odd pounds during pregnancy.
Celine, what's most difficult: delivering a baby or delivering a show? "Delivering a show." Wow.
We get to see her at home in Florida - big, white house on the ocean with a lot of big, white furniture. Even the twins' room has mostly white (with hints of green - she's no monster, for god's sake!) The living room includes one of those 60's round plastic chairs that you'd see in Ann-Margaret's room in Tommy. Awesome. At home: no show business. That's her rule. Two months before show, rehearsals begin. Celine says that during her pregnancy, she stopped vocal exercises because it would give her contractions, so she's well outta practice.
We also get to see her prep for breast pumping. No nip show, just prep. Pumping for her babies is what she loves about being a mom. Breast milk is food AND love.
BTW, I hope you're sitting down when I tell you that she's driven EVERYWHERE. I wonder if she knows how? Full-on limo, not just a big town car. Eff You, world.
Songs we get tastes of, trying out for the show: Open Arms, The Man in the Mirror, Ben (yes, there's a Michael Jackson tribute - as I said before, she's no monster). She tries Billy Joel's Good Night, My Angel, and she has a total mega breakdown. She can't make it through, and says she loves Billy Joel, but that song won't make the cut - the lyrics are too sad. She FEELS, yo.
Back at home, she's visited by the head designer from Versace. He arrives with personal gifts from Donatella herself (a handbag and sunglasses), from Milan, with a note. We get to hear about her worries over leftover baby fat - interestingly, easily seen in her normal clothes, but she is Spanx'd to the max or something because she's cutting a lovely figure in her gowns. She's a fan of the one-sleeve, one bare arm look. SO modern. Not.
We also get to see her 10-year old son's green-screen rehearsal for the James Bond montage - she'll have him with her onstage every night on film. Um, not really - his film will run while she has a costume change. Whatevs. Lovely bit of her telling us about how proud she is of him and how handsome he is, while he mock-mimes her the whole time. He pitches a fit - in french - I don't hear him speak anything else during the whole show, actually - that he's been given a break for the upcoming Chicago trip: no homework. Celine is in disbelief that THIS is her challenge: a kid who likes studying. Rene comforts her. He's a husband and father at home, not her manager. Ew.
Are you still sitting down? Celine's getting on a private jet. ...because it's time to fly to Chicago to The Oprah Show to announce her new show in Vegas. Worried about the babies travelling, but they're champs. Probably heavily drugged, too - who's to say.
Oprah tells her audience that this Celine appearance marks the most appearances EVER by a guest on the Oprah Show. Speaking of Oprah - you'll note that it's twice now the woman has been heavily featured on this program about someone else. Yes, we get it. This Celine program is on The OWN. She owns you. Also on this particular Oprah show - a woman with sextuplets. Random woman from somewhere USA with Celine, talking about how hard it is to raise multiples. Are you freaking kidding me? The millions of dollars and nannies help. Oh, wait - the random sextuplet mom doesn't HAVE millions or nannies. Celine just needs to yell for her ancient mom or some woman named Linda, and she's set. The Oprah appearance is live in Chicago literally the day before the Vegas show opens. Back on the plane to midi strains of Where Does My Heart Beat Now?
Driven from the private jet to Caesar's Palace, the marquee reads: Welcome Home, Celine. Thousands of fans/Caesar's employees line the driveway, steps and lobby to greet her & the fam. They have to move in to a penthouse there because her Las Vegas home is being renovated (because 4-month-old babies need room to roam) and isn't ready yet.
Costume fittings on-site next day: she doesn't want a lot of boob-focus. Food + Love makes her breasts bigger you see. There's also a super-short gold number. Let's just say, she shouldn't stand downstage in it. I lost count at about 8-10 costume changes throughout the show.
More family time - the babies are baptized on March 5th. Rene's three grown children (Anne Marie, Jean Pierre & Patrick, easily Celine's age) AND Rene-Charles are the godparents. It is at the church where we learn that the aforementioned Linda, who's always taking care of the babies, is her SISTER! Wikipedia tells me a few interesting things I'll interject here: Celine is one of 14 children (where are the others??) and Celine is Rene's third wife, and he had been divorced twenty years before he married Celine. He is 26 years her senior. "I know her since she was 12." Ew. It's a happy day, and as the babies are baptized, Stevie Wonder's midi'd "Overjoyed" plays as we fade to commercial.
Premiere day! Rene confesses that he's never been so nervous, and he hasn't been able to sleep. The rest of the production team says the same. Who's relaxed, but happy and can't wait: Celine! She sings "All Coming Back to Me" for sound check - and Celine loves her some sound checks.
Seriously, sit down: Celine does her own make-up. No joke. She's got a dresser, but didn't see another person touch her face.
12-15-2007 A New Day - The Last Concert. 723 sold out shows, 3 million+ spectators. What's next, Celine? The Taking Chances World Tour 2008-2009...with her ancient mom, her ancient husband, and her long-haired son. ...and when I say long-haired, I mean he's giving Zuma Rossdale and Paris Jackson a run for their money.
Jump-cut to screaming fans and Celine yelling, "Is that all right, ______??" (insert random name of city she's playing, because that's what she yells to her fans after every encore. Taking Chances boasted 133 sold out shows over five continents, blissfully ending February 2009.
Rene-Charles, also known as "RC," is the aforementioned long-haired son. ...and I hope you're sitting down, but he speaks French. Also blissfully ending with the concert: his long hair. He now looks like a normal blue-eyed boy. Back to her Florida home, where RC begins school and Celine begins invitro fertilization.
Cut to: Larry King, February 2010. "Are you trying?" (to have a baby), says King. "We're trying. We tried 4 times." Christ, I hope she means actual sex, not times of invitro. Damn, she means invitro. Cut to: the Oprah interview. She and Oprah crying, talking about her miscarriage and how they're on their 5th try. Invitro. Get your mind out of the gutter.
Have I mentioned that in and out of commercial breaks, the songs playing in the background are these exquisite midi file-type versions? Her hits and others. Truly awful.
So, the babies arrive October 23rd. Baby A and Baby B, to start - unnamed at birth. They are boys, eventually Nelson and Eddy. Perhaps a nod to Nelson Eddy, the late singer/actor? We'll never know - they didn't say, and Wikipedia won't confirm. The Vegas show is supposed to open 3-15-2011. Do THAT math. Less than five months, after gaining 60 some-odd pounds during pregnancy.
Celine, what's most difficult: delivering a baby or delivering a show? "Delivering a show." Wow.
We get to see her at home in Florida - big, white house on the ocean with a lot of big, white furniture. Even the twins' room has mostly white (with hints of green - she's no monster, for god's sake!) The living room includes one of those 60's round plastic chairs that you'd see in Ann-Margaret's room in Tommy. Awesome. At home: no show business. That's her rule. Two months before show, rehearsals begin. Celine says that during her pregnancy, she stopped vocal exercises because it would give her contractions, so she's well outta practice.
We also get to see her prep for breast pumping. No nip show, just prep. Pumping for her babies is what she loves about being a mom. Breast milk is food AND love.
BTW, I hope you're sitting down when I tell you that she's driven EVERYWHERE. I wonder if she knows how? Full-on limo, not just a big town car. Eff You, world.
Songs we get tastes of, trying out for the show: Open Arms, The Man in the Mirror, Ben (yes, there's a Michael Jackson tribute - as I said before, she's no monster). She tries Billy Joel's Good Night, My Angel, and she has a total mega breakdown. She can't make it through, and says she loves Billy Joel, but that song won't make the cut - the lyrics are too sad. She FEELS, yo.
Back at home, she's visited by the head designer from Versace. He arrives with personal gifts from Donatella herself (a handbag and sunglasses), from Milan, with a note. We get to hear about her worries over leftover baby fat - interestingly, easily seen in her normal clothes, but she is Spanx'd to the max or something because she's cutting a lovely figure in her gowns. She's a fan of the one-sleeve, one bare arm look. SO modern. Not.
We also get to see her 10-year old son's green-screen rehearsal for the James Bond montage - she'll have him with her onstage every night on film. Um, not really - his film will run while she has a costume change. Whatevs. Lovely bit of her telling us about how proud she is of him and how handsome he is, while he mock-mimes her the whole time. He pitches a fit - in french - I don't hear him speak anything else during the whole show, actually - that he's been given a break for the upcoming Chicago trip: no homework. Celine is in disbelief that THIS is her challenge: a kid who likes studying. Rene comforts her. He's a husband and father at home, not her manager. Ew.
Are you still sitting down? Celine's getting on a private jet. ...because it's time to fly to Chicago to The Oprah Show to announce her new show in Vegas. Worried about the babies travelling, but they're champs. Probably heavily drugged, too - who's to say.
Oprah tells her audience that this Celine appearance marks the most appearances EVER by a guest on the Oprah Show. Speaking of Oprah - you'll note that it's twice now the woman has been heavily featured on this program about someone else. Yes, we get it. This Celine program is on The OWN. She owns you. Also on this particular Oprah show - a woman with sextuplets. Random woman from somewhere USA with Celine, talking about how hard it is to raise multiples. Are you freaking kidding me? The millions of dollars and nannies help. Oh, wait - the random sextuplet mom doesn't HAVE millions or nannies. Celine just needs to yell for her ancient mom or some woman named Linda, and she's set. The Oprah appearance is live in Chicago literally the day before the Vegas show opens. Back on the plane to midi strains of Where Does My Heart Beat Now?
Driven from the private jet to Caesar's Palace, the marquee reads: Welcome Home, Celine. Thousands of fans/Caesar's employees line the driveway, steps and lobby to greet her & the fam. They have to move in to a penthouse there because her Las Vegas home is being renovated (because 4-month-old babies need room to roam) and isn't ready yet.
Costume fittings on-site next day: she doesn't want a lot of boob-focus. Food + Love makes her breasts bigger you see. There's also a super-short gold number. Let's just say, she shouldn't stand downstage in it. I lost count at about 8-10 costume changes throughout the show.
More family time - the babies are baptized on March 5th. Rene's three grown children (Anne Marie, Jean Pierre & Patrick, easily Celine's age) AND Rene-Charles are the godparents. It is at the church where we learn that the aforementioned Linda, who's always taking care of the babies, is her SISTER! Wikipedia tells me a few interesting things I'll interject here: Celine is one of 14 children (where are the others??) and Celine is Rene's third wife, and he had been divorced twenty years before he married Celine. He is 26 years her senior. "I know her since she was 12." Ew. It's a happy day, and as the babies are baptized, Stevie Wonder's midi'd "Overjoyed" plays as we fade to commercial.
Premiere day! Rene confesses that he's never been so nervous, and he hasn't been able to sleep. The rest of the production team says the same. Who's relaxed, but happy and can't wait: Celine! She sings "All Coming Back to Me" for sound check - and Celine loves her some sound checks.
Seriously, sit down: Celine does her own make-up. No joke. She's got a dresser, but didn't see another person touch her face.
"How Do You Keep the Music Playing" involves the real Celine wandering the audience, while a videotaped Celine performs a duet with live Celine. Rene says Celine herself thought it too pretentious, but he insisted. Double your pleasure, baby.
Day after premiere: Rene is Celine's biggest fan AND biggest critic. They have a critique session. Pretty much involving how she needs to move downstage in the top number to not get whacked by the falling drapery. It's actually a lovely effect that reveals the orchestra & singers. Rene proclaims, "This is the best show I've seen since I know you." She replies, "Come back tomorrow - I'm here every night." (NOTE - just for fun, went to see if that's true. Um, no, she does 4 shows a week AND it's going to cost you love three-figure range minimum, and don't think you can get tickets until at least New Year's.)
If you don't get tickets, here are some of the numbers you'll miss (among some I've mentioned already): Open Arms (opening number), Power of Love, This Is For You, The Reason, Declaration of Love, Love Can Move Mountains, All By Myself, River Deep/Mountain High, My Heart Will Go On (like she's gonna leave that one out). She reflects on "At 17," by saying that she was not a good looking teenager: bad teeth, extremely skinny, not good in school, didn't feel pretty. So, she feels for the teenagers out there. "Ne Me Quitte Pas," by Jacques Brel, is a song about love lost and strong despair. "One of the most emotional songs ever written," and she cries every night...and gets a standing ovation for it every night. Oh, the humanity.
Oh, and the James Bond montage. Goldfinger starts it, and it's just bad. Not her song at all. Oh, and she scats. She scats. Gonna crack into your bank account now??
Appropos of nothing, She loves her husband very much and says it's tough to live with her and it isn't easy because she's disciplined and she's intense. No shizz, Sherlock! Rene says that an interviewer asked Celine if she wants another baby and she answered that door is not closed. Celine ends with, "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Am I ready to be pregnant in Vegas and perform? Stay tuned!"
Day after premiere: Rene is Celine's biggest fan AND biggest critic. They have a critique session. Pretty much involving how she needs to move downstage in the top number to not get whacked by the falling drapery. It's actually a lovely effect that reveals the orchestra & singers. Rene proclaims, "This is the best show I've seen since I know you." She replies, "Come back tomorrow - I'm here every night." (NOTE - just for fun, went to see if that's true. Um, no, she does 4 shows a week AND it's going to cost you love three-figure range minimum, and don't think you can get tickets until at least New Year's.)
If you don't get tickets, here are some of the numbers you'll miss (among some I've mentioned already): Open Arms (opening number), Power of Love, This Is For You, The Reason, Declaration of Love, Love Can Move Mountains, All By Myself, River Deep/Mountain High, My Heart Will Go On (like she's gonna leave that one out). She reflects on "At 17," by saying that she was not a good looking teenager: bad teeth, extremely skinny, not good in school, didn't feel pretty. So, she feels for the teenagers out there. "Ne Me Quitte Pas," by Jacques Brel, is a song about love lost and strong despair. "One of the most emotional songs ever written," and she cries every night...and gets a standing ovation for it every night. Oh, the humanity.
Oh, and the James Bond montage. Goldfinger starts it, and it's just bad. Not her song at all. Oh, and she scats. She scats. Gonna crack into your bank account now??
Appropos of nothing, She loves her husband very much and says it's tough to live with her and it isn't easy because she's disciplined and she's intense. No shizz, Sherlock! Rene says that an interviewer asked Celine if she wants another baby and she answered that door is not closed. Celine ends with, "What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Am I ready to be pregnant in Vegas and perform? Stay tuned!"
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Poem as Parable: Wilfred Owen’s Harsh Lesson
So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
And took the fire with him, and a knife.
And as they sojourned both of them together,
Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,
Behold the preparations, fire and iron,
But where the lamb for this burnt-offering?
Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,
and builded parapets and trenches there,
And stretchèd forth the knife to slay his son.
When lo! an angel called him out of heaven,
Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad,
Neither do anything to him. Behold,
A ram, caught in a thicket by its horns;
Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him.
But the old man would not so, but slew his son,
And half the seed of Europe, one by one.
The story of how Abraham, in obedience to a direct command from God, nearly sacrifices his first-born son, Isaac, is one of the most perfectly written short narratives in the Old Testament. Parables teach a lesson, and Wilfred Owen takes his place among Aesop, Confucius and Plato in the canon of education via his “The Parable of the Old Man and the Young.” He keeps close to the Old Testament story, but takes a twist. This poem-length allusion receives an entirely unexpected ending, proclaiming disgust with war.
The war paralleling this poem is World War I, once given the moniker, “The Great War.” War, great? Not at all – “great” merely connotes “large.” Consider the gravity of the poem’s final line, when “half the seed of Europe, one by one” is destroyed. Seed, of course, a euphemism for ejaculate, represents millions and millions of lives. Human ejaculate contains anywhere from 180-400 million sperm. Estimates tally the total number of military casualties from World War I at 37.5 million overall, the United Kingdom at 1.6 million alone – Owen among them. The most bitter irony of all, the editor notes, is that Owen was killed in the final days of battle.
Owen himself was first-born, and the third line of this poem, “And as they sojourned both of them together,” implies that fathers walk with their sons into battle. Father Abraham sends his son to the sacrificial table and the son trusts enough to believe he will return home safely – a belief that becomes a horrible judgment error. The sacrificial allusion itself brings the entire Abraham story to mind, as Isaac’s birth came as both a joy and a surprise, with Abraham elderly, and Sarah beyond childbearing years. The name Isaac, roughly translated, is “he laughs,” and hearkens Abraham’s wife’s disbelieving guffaw when told she will give birth at her advanced age. Isaac, the solitary sacrificial lamb poetically representing millions of sons, rings a hollow laugh in Owen’s version.
The parable begins with images of “fire and iron,” whereas Abraham’s implements are simply fire, wood and a knife. Owen’s modernizing tactics become increasingly clear, with the anachronism of “iron” and images of tanks and cannon blasts. The Old Testament Isaac was merely bound to the pyre, but Owen’s Isaac is bound by modern battle-like adjectives, “straps and belts,” and then, unmistakably, “parapets and trenches” to create the funeral pyre. Staying true to the original plot, Owen continues with the angel’s stay of execution. His heavenly “angel” is lowercase, yet capitalization emphasizes the symbolic “Ram of Pride.” A capitalized Angel would perhaps pull more weight, but Owen’s Abraham does not take the free pass. In an ironic twist, Abraham here does what his Old Testament counterpart does not. One son sacrificed for the good of all stays in both the Old Testament and the New, but not here.
Owen is concerned both with the tragedy of war and with its bitter irony. How much less it would cost a leader to slaughter a single Ram of Pride instead of millions of young men “one by one.” The poem reveals the sheer ridiculousness of arrogant militarism. The Genesis story has no such moral. It ends with the Angel promising Abraham that his seed, multiplying like stars and sand grains, will “possess the gates of his enemies.” Its subject is the nation’s dream of victory; not pitying war but winking at its deceptive glory. Good war poetry, whether by Homer, Melville or Owen, conveys authenticity and guarantees its integrity by raw images and rough-hewn reportage. Owen gives us raw and rough-hewn, but in this poem he stands back from his subject matter: he is here to preach, and his matter is serious and specific. [The Ram of] Pride goeth before a fall, the hubristic idiom recalls, and the fall of millions in war begins with one blade stroke. Such loss, at such cost.
And took the fire with him, and a knife.
And as they sojourned both of them together,
Isaac the first-born spake and said, My Father,
Behold the preparations, fire and iron,
But where the lamb for this burnt-offering?
Then Abram bound the youth with belts and straps,
and builded parapets and trenches there,
And stretchèd forth the knife to slay his son.
When lo! an angel called him out of heaven,
Saying, Lay not thy hand upon the lad,
Neither do anything to him. Behold,
A ram, caught in a thicket by its horns;
Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him.
But the old man would not so, but slew his son,
And half the seed of Europe, one by one.
The story of how Abraham, in obedience to a direct command from God, nearly sacrifices his first-born son, Isaac, is one of the most perfectly written short narratives in the Old Testament. Parables teach a lesson, and Wilfred Owen takes his place among Aesop, Confucius and Plato in the canon of education via his “The Parable of the Old Man and the Young.” He keeps close to the Old Testament story, but takes a twist. This poem-length allusion receives an entirely unexpected ending, proclaiming disgust with war.
The war paralleling this poem is World War I, once given the moniker, “The Great War.” War, great? Not at all – “great” merely connotes “large.” Consider the gravity of the poem’s final line, when “half the seed of Europe, one by one” is destroyed. Seed, of course, a euphemism for ejaculate, represents millions and millions of lives. Human ejaculate contains anywhere from 180-400 million sperm. Estimates tally the total number of military casualties from World War I at 37.5 million overall, the United Kingdom at 1.6 million alone – Owen among them. The most bitter irony of all, the editor notes, is that Owen was killed in the final days of battle.
Owen himself was first-born, and the third line of this poem, “And as they sojourned both of them together,” implies that fathers walk with their sons into battle. Father Abraham sends his son to the sacrificial table and the son trusts enough to believe he will return home safely – a belief that becomes a horrible judgment error. The sacrificial allusion itself brings the entire Abraham story to mind, as Isaac’s birth came as both a joy and a surprise, with Abraham elderly, and Sarah beyond childbearing years. The name Isaac, roughly translated, is “he laughs,” and hearkens Abraham’s wife’s disbelieving guffaw when told she will give birth at her advanced age. Isaac, the solitary sacrificial lamb poetically representing millions of sons, rings a hollow laugh in Owen’s version.
The parable begins with images of “fire and iron,” whereas Abraham’s implements are simply fire, wood and a knife. Owen’s modernizing tactics become increasingly clear, with the anachronism of “iron” and images of tanks and cannon blasts. The Old Testament Isaac was merely bound to the pyre, but Owen’s Isaac is bound by modern battle-like adjectives, “straps and belts,” and then, unmistakably, “parapets and trenches” to create the funeral pyre. Staying true to the original plot, Owen continues with the angel’s stay of execution. His heavenly “angel” is lowercase, yet capitalization emphasizes the symbolic “Ram of Pride.” A capitalized Angel would perhaps pull more weight, but Owen’s Abraham does not take the free pass. In an ironic twist, Abraham here does what his Old Testament counterpart does not. One son sacrificed for the good of all stays in both the Old Testament and the New, but not here.
Owen is concerned both with the tragedy of war and with its bitter irony. How much less it would cost a leader to slaughter a single Ram of Pride instead of millions of young men “one by one.” The poem reveals the sheer ridiculousness of arrogant militarism. The Genesis story has no such moral. It ends with the Angel promising Abraham that his seed, multiplying like stars and sand grains, will “possess the gates of his enemies.” Its subject is the nation’s dream of victory; not pitying war but winking at its deceptive glory. Good war poetry, whether by Homer, Melville or Owen, conveys authenticity and guarantees its integrity by raw images and rough-hewn reportage. Owen gives us raw and rough-hewn, but in this poem he stands back from his subject matter: he is here to preach, and his matter is serious and specific. [The Ram of] Pride goeth before a fall, the hubristic idiom recalls, and the fall of millions in war begins with one blade stroke. Such loss, at such cost.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
The Inevitable Buzz Saw: Robert Frosts’s “Out, Out – ”
"Out, Out – " by Robert Frost
The buzz saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.
Call it a day, I wish they might have said
To please the boy by giving him the half hour
That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
His sister stood beside him in her apron
To tell them “Supper.” At the word, the saw,
As if it meant to prove saws know what supper meant,
Leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap -
He must have given the hand. However it was,
Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
The boy’s first outcry was a rueful laugh,
As he swung toward them holding up the hand
Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all –
Since he was old enough to know, big boy
Doing a man’s work, though a child at heart –
He saw all spoiled. “Don’t let him cut my hand off -
The doctor, when he comes. Don't let him, sister!”
So. The hand was gone already.
The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
And then – the watcher at his pulse took a fright.
No one believed. They listened to his heart.
Little – less – nothing! – and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.
“Out, Out – ” retells a gruesome tale of a pastoral scene turned tragic. Why would a poet choose such a scene? Frost’s first-hand witness invokes inevitable sympathy and pathos for a boy, yet the narrator remains emotionless. Perhaps the poem’s title hints at an answer, in the allusion to the final scene of Shakespeare’s “Macbeth.” The symbol of that flickering, brief candle represents the brevity of life. In “Out, Out – ” few personal comments are made on the poet’s part, suggesting an idea of the inevitability of death and the futility of life. A slice-of-life cycle: presented for consumption, digested, and passed, leaving the reader to proceed to another day, another poetic meal. Day is done – bring on another. It may be like yesterday, it may not. Frost himself said, “In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life. It goes on.” This has all happened before and will happen again. The reader remains with poetic crumbs on the plate, rather than with emotions wrung dry.
Vivid imagery at the onset: sound, sight and smell, permeate the senses. Against the din of the saw buzz, images of falling sawdust, stove-length sticks, the five mountain ranges and a Vermont sunset are meant to please, topped by the olfactory “Sweet-scented stuff” (3) wafted by a breeze complete a minds-eye view. The onomatopoeia of the opening salvo, “The buzz saw snarled and rattled in the yard” (1), is redoubled a bit later: “And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled” (7). The power tool has animalistic life. “Snarled” evokes angry dogs, wolves, and other wild beasts. “Rattled” conjures a venomous fanged snake giving imminent warning of a strike. The saw itself has a ring to it: the buzz of an angry yellowjacket or wasp hive. Each adjective resonates with sound and fury. The juxtaposition of the buzz-saw against a tranquil setting highlights the conflict between technology and nature, wherein the boy is forced to relegate his childhood, thereby going against Nature.
In this agrarian setting, a boy does the work of a man: operating a power saw. Boys, being boys, appreciate release from labor even more than their grown counterparts. How fortuitous that the boy’s sister, doing the work of a woman, arrives apron-clad, “To tell them ‘Supper’” (14), at which point he is “saved from work” (12). The buzz saw underlines the boy’s mechanical routine - this part of the day occurring by rote, each day, every day. Workaday ordinary, reinforced by the empty understatement, “And nothing happened: day was all but done” (9). The girl arrives, the men can “Call it a day” (10), the narrator regretfully adds, “I wish they might have said” (10).
“As if it meant to prove saws know what supper meant, leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap - He must have given the hand” (15-17). Ironically, to give one’s hand suggests a greeting in friendly handshake. This boy, in the end, gives much more than that. The buzz saw, a typically inanimate object, becomes a cognizant being, aggressively snarling and rattling. When the sister makes the dinner announcement, the saw demonstrates a mind of its own by “leaping” out of the boy’s hand in its excitement. The boy, still a “child at heart” (24), is not to blame for the accident; the saw is. Irony continues as the boy utters “a rueful laugh” (19). His laughter is a shocked outcry rather than a mere snicker.
The boy loses his hand in this nasty accident, but more tragically unexplainable is that while under the doctor’s anesthesia, the boy dies – apparently of shock. None in attendance can believe it. Senseless: a death signifying nothing. The boy pleads to a fellow child, his sister: “Don’t let him, cut my hand off, [sister!]” (25-26). In a lovely metonymous gesture, he holds up the hand “as if to keep the life from spilling” (21-22). Blood spills with a tilt of an arm, but life hangs in the balance. The boy’s gesticulation is a mere attempt, since nothing can be done, for he is still enough of an adult to realize that he has lost too much blood to survive. Above all, the boy hopes to maintain physical dignity in death, rather than die with a missing hand. A revelatory moment, “He saw all spoiled” (25), a vision of himself in future – a grown but incomplete man – explains the choice to let life spill. A choice – perhaps not shock at all.
Frost seems flippant in a concluding line, “No more to build on there” (33). At first the phrase seems a wry and callous reference to construction jobs where power saws are important to the overall build. But perhaps the narrator refers to life, in that there is nothing more to report. Life, eventually snuffed like an extinguished candle, the boy’s heartbeat or pulse that fades, “Little – less – nothing!” (32). Nothing can be built on nothing. Certainly sorrow, mourning and a tearful funeral will come, but none of that pertains to the poet’s message. The living have lives to lead, foundations to build upon.
By the end of the poem, the narrator runs out of words for the tragedy of the boy’s death. While the first twenty-six lines contain elegant metaphors and descriptions of the scene, the final eight lines are detached and unemotional. The narrator’s “So” and “No more to build on there” (27, 33) reveal that even the narrator is unable to find any explanation for a young boy’s death. A day happened, and in that day, this moment happened. In the last line of the poem, the narrator is completely detached, almost as if indifference is the only way to cope with the boy’s death. The people of this New England town “[turn] to their affairs,” (34) and can do nothing more than move on with their lives, as must we. The boy’s life, this poem, and life itself – a brief candle.
“Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.”
– William Shakespeare, Macbeth, Act V, Scene V
The buzz saw snarled and rattled in the yard
And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood,
Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it.
And from there those that lifted eyes could count
Five mountain ranges one behind the other
Under the sunset far into Vermont.
And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled,
As it ran light, or had to bear a load.
And nothing happened: day was all but done.
Call it a day, I wish they might have said
To please the boy by giving him the half hour
That a boy counts so much when saved from work.
His sister stood beside him in her apron
To tell them “Supper.” At the word, the saw,
As if it meant to prove saws know what supper meant,
Leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap -
He must have given the hand. However it was,
Neither refused the meeting. But the hand!
The boy’s first outcry was a rueful laugh,
As he swung toward them holding up the hand
Half in appeal, but half as if to keep
The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all –
Since he was old enough to know, big boy
Doing a man’s work, though a child at heart –
He saw all spoiled. “Don’t let him cut my hand off -
The doctor, when he comes. Don't let him, sister!”
So. The hand was gone already.
The doctor put him in the dark of ether.
He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath.
And then – the watcher at his pulse took a fright.
No one believed. They listened to his heart.
Little – less – nothing! – and that ended it.
No more to build on there. And they, since they
Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.
“Out, Out – ” retells a gruesome tale of a pastoral scene turned tragic. Why would a poet choose such a scene? Frost’s first-hand witness invokes inevitable sympathy and pathos for a boy, yet the narrator remains emotionless. Perhaps the poem’s title hints at an answer, in the allusion to the final scene of Shakespeare’s “Macbeth.” The symbol of that flickering, brief candle represents the brevity of life. In “Out, Out – ” few personal comments are made on the poet’s part, suggesting an idea of the inevitability of death and the futility of life. A slice-of-life cycle: presented for consumption, digested, and passed, leaving the reader to proceed to another day, another poetic meal. Day is done – bring on another. It may be like yesterday, it may not. Frost himself said, “In three words I can sum up everything I've learned about life. It goes on.” This has all happened before and will happen again. The reader remains with poetic crumbs on the plate, rather than with emotions wrung dry.
Vivid imagery at the onset: sound, sight and smell, permeate the senses. Against the din of the saw buzz, images of falling sawdust, stove-length sticks, the five mountain ranges and a Vermont sunset are meant to please, topped by the olfactory “Sweet-scented stuff” (3) wafted by a breeze complete a minds-eye view. The onomatopoeia of the opening salvo, “The buzz saw snarled and rattled in the yard” (1), is redoubled a bit later: “And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled” (7). The power tool has animalistic life. “Snarled” evokes angry dogs, wolves, and other wild beasts. “Rattled” conjures a venomous fanged snake giving imminent warning of a strike. The saw itself has a ring to it: the buzz of an angry yellowjacket or wasp hive. Each adjective resonates with sound and fury. The juxtaposition of the buzz-saw against a tranquil setting highlights the conflict between technology and nature, wherein the boy is forced to relegate his childhood, thereby going against Nature.
In this agrarian setting, a boy does the work of a man: operating a power saw. Boys, being boys, appreciate release from labor even more than their grown counterparts. How fortuitous that the boy’s sister, doing the work of a woman, arrives apron-clad, “To tell them ‘Supper’” (14), at which point he is “saved from work” (12). The buzz saw underlines the boy’s mechanical routine - this part of the day occurring by rote, each day, every day. Workaday ordinary, reinforced by the empty understatement, “And nothing happened: day was all but done” (9). The girl arrives, the men can “Call it a day” (10), the narrator regretfully adds, “I wish they might have said” (10).
“As if it meant to prove saws know what supper meant, leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap - He must have given the hand” (15-17). Ironically, to give one’s hand suggests a greeting in friendly handshake. This boy, in the end, gives much more than that. The buzz saw, a typically inanimate object, becomes a cognizant being, aggressively snarling and rattling. When the sister makes the dinner announcement, the saw demonstrates a mind of its own by “leaping” out of the boy’s hand in its excitement. The boy, still a “child at heart” (24), is not to blame for the accident; the saw is. Irony continues as the boy utters “a rueful laugh” (19). His laughter is a shocked outcry rather than a mere snicker.
The boy loses his hand in this nasty accident, but more tragically unexplainable is that while under the doctor’s anesthesia, the boy dies – apparently of shock. None in attendance can believe it. Senseless: a death signifying nothing. The boy pleads to a fellow child, his sister: “Don’t let him, cut my hand off, [sister!]” (25-26). In a lovely metonymous gesture, he holds up the hand “as if to keep the life from spilling” (21-22). Blood spills with a tilt of an arm, but life hangs in the balance. The boy’s gesticulation is a mere attempt, since nothing can be done, for he is still enough of an adult to realize that he has lost too much blood to survive. Above all, the boy hopes to maintain physical dignity in death, rather than die with a missing hand. A revelatory moment, “He saw all spoiled” (25), a vision of himself in future – a grown but incomplete man – explains the choice to let life spill. A choice – perhaps not shock at all.
Frost seems flippant in a concluding line, “No more to build on there” (33). At first the phrase seems a wry and callous reference to construction jobs where power saws are important to the overall build. But perhaps the narrator refers to life, in that there is nothing more to report. Life, eventually snuffed like an extinguished candle, the boy’s heartbeat or pulse that fades, “Little – less – nothing!” (32). Nothing can be built on nothing. Certainly sorrow, mourning and a tearful funeral will come, but none of that pertains to the poet’s message. The living have lives to lead, foundations to build upon.
By the end of the poem, the narrator runs out of words for the tragedy of the boy’s death. While the first twenty-six lines contain elegant metaphors and descriptions of the scene, the final eight lines are detached and unemotional. The narrator’s “So” and “No more to build on there” (27, 33) reveal that even the narrator is unable to find any explanation for a young boy’s death. A day happened, and in that day, this moment happened. In the last line of the poem, the narrator is completely detached, almost as if indifference is the only way to cope with the boy’s death. The people of this New England town “[turn] to their affairs,” (34) and can do nothing more than move on with their lives, as must we. The boy’s life, this poem, and life itself – a brief candle.
“Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.”
– William Shakespeare, Macbeth, Act V, Scene V
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Ports of Call: John Crowe Ransom's "Good Ships"
GOOD SHIPS
John Crowe Ransom (1888-1974)
Fleet ships encountering on the high seas
Who speak, and then unto the vast diverge,
Two hailed each other, poised on the loud surge
Of one of Mrs. Grundy's Tuesday teas,
Nor trimmed one sail to baffle the driving breeze.
A macaroon absorbed all her emotion;
His hue was ruddy but an effect of ocean;
They exchanged the nautical technicalities.
It was only a nothing or so until they parted.
Away they went, most certainly bound for port,
So seaworthy one felt they could not sink;
Still there was a tremor shook them, I should think,
Beautiful timbers fit for storm and sport
And unto miserly merchant hulks converted.
The phrase, “tea party,” of late, connotes a political bent, though John Crowe Ransom’s poem refers to a high-society afternoon gathering of a time gone by. Then, as now, individuals feel the burden of singlehood. Whether meeting at a bar, a party, online, or through friends, a pressure exists – real or imagined – to pair up. The couple in Ransom’s “Good Ships,” seek camaraderie, food and fun at the tea party, but do not seek each other.
Previously acquainted, these two fleet members of the fleet meet once again on the “high seas” of Mrs. Grundy’s tea party, as they “[hail] each other” at the gathering. “High” connotes the style or breeding of a tea party room or indicates the boisterous room itself. The conversation cannot be intimate, as they must contend with the “loud surge” of the other party-goers. While the party is in full swing, neither fleet-mate feels the need to “baffle the driving breeze” as each maneuvers their way from hors d’oeuvre to canapé to petit four.
The woman becomes more and more a deserted island with each bite of her absorbing macaroon. She speaks to the man, yet she appears more interested in her delicious cocoanut morsel rather than giving him her full attention. In ship shape, she wants to be left alone, privately stowing her booty. He, meanwhile, is, “ruddy but an effect of ocean,” inferring either the temperature of the crowded room causing him to flush or having found the spiked punch and pausing several times to replenish his personal vessel. A lovely turn of phrase, “exchanged the nautical technicalities” indicates the couple exchanging weather pleasantries to pass the time. How often are, “Read any good books lately?” or “Hot, isn’t it?” the only things to say in an awkward encounter? Clearly, the couple is not having an easy, breezy conversation. Why stop to chat when there are hatches to batten down?
After “only a nothing or so,” though probably an interminable amount of time for each of them, these ships are “bound for port,” or, headed home separately – each to their individual port. Steering sure and true, the ships find themselves “so seaworthy one felt they could not sink,” their hulls full of good food and drink. Their ballast allows temporary stability and control, leading toward gastrointestinal reactions as, “a tremor shook them” on their journey home. Their tremors do not seem to be tainted with regret, but rather perhaps shudders at the memory of their uncomfortable encounter.
The poem’s final line, “And unto miserly merchant hulks converted,” is a bit of a stumper. Thankfully, blog commenters came to the rescue. Pre-party, the couple are individually “fleet” and “beautiful timbers fit for storm and sport,” able to pilot through seas choppy or calm. Post-party, they are each “hulks,” or no longer seaworthy. They hoard their booty in a miserly fashion – perhaps feeling wrecked, unwieldy, and used for storage rather than voyage. There will be other afternoon teas, other ports of call. A solo rest at home is all they need.
An online biography of Ransom notes that he, “…primarily wrote short poems examining the ironic and unsentimental nature of life.” The symbolism for these two individual ships could just as easily include Mrs. Grundy’s entire tea party fleet. These two people are in no need of a date, let alone each other. They meet at a party and they move on – ships passing in the night, as it were. Mrs. Grundy is perhaps a lighthouse in the harbor for her guests. Her Tuesday home is the place where any port in a storm will do, but these particular ships have sailed.
John Crowe Ransom (1888-1974)
Fleet ships encountering on the high seas
Who speak, and then unto the vast diverge,
Two hailed each other, poised on the loud surge
Of one of Mrs. Grundy's Tuesday teas,
Nor trimmed one sail to baffle the driving breeze.
A macaroon absorbed all her emotion;
His hue was ruddy but an effect of ocean;
They exchanged the nautical technicalities.
It was only a nothing or so until they parted.
Away they went, most certainly bound for port,
So seaworthy one felt they could not sink;
Still there was a tremor shook them, I should think,
Beautiful timbers fit for storm and sport
And unto miserly merchant hulks converted.
The phrase, “tea party,” of late, connotes a political bent, though John Crowe Ransom’s poem refers to a high-society afternoon gathering of a time gone by. Then, as now, individuals feel the burden of singlehood. Whether meeting at a bar, a party, online, or through friends, a pressure exists – real or imagined – to pair up. The couple in Ransom’s “Good Ships,” seek camaraderie, food and fun at the tea party, but do not seek each other.
Previously acquainted, these two fleet members of the fleet meet once again on the “high seas” of Mrs. Grundy’s tea party, as they “[hail] each other” at the gathering. “High” connotes the style or breeding of a tea party room or indicates the boisterous room itself. The conversation cannot be intimate, as they must contend with the “loud surge” of the other party-goers. While the party is in full swing, neither fleet-mate feels the need to “baffle the driving breeze” as each maneuvers their way from hors d’oeuvre to canapé to petit four.
The woman becomes more and more a deserted island with each bite of her absorbing macaroon. She speaks to the man, yet she appears more interested in her delicious cocoanut morsel rather than giving him her full attention. In ship shape, she wants to be left alone, privately stowing her booty. He, meanwhile, is, “ruddy but an effect of ocean,” inferring either the temperature of the crowded room causing him to flush or having found the spiked punch and pausing several times to replenish his personal vessel. A lovely turn of phrase, “exchanged the nautical technicalities” indicates the couple exchanging weather pleasantries to pass the time. How often are, “Read any good books lately?” or “Hot, isn’t it?” the only things to say in an awkward encounter? Clearly, the couple is not having an easy, breezy conversation. Why stop to chat when there are hatches to batten down?
After “only a nothing or so,” though probably an interminable amount of time for each of them, these ships are “bound for port,” or, headed home separately – each to their individual port. Steering sure and true, the ships find themselves “so seaworthy one felt they could not sink,” their hulls full of good food and drink. Their ballast allows temporary stability and control, leading toward gastrointestinal reactions as, “a tremor shook them” on their journey home. Their tremors do not seem to be tainted with regret, but rather perhaps shudders at the memory of their uncomfortable encounter.
The poem’s final line, “And unto miserly merchant hulks converted,” is a bit of a stumper. Thankfully, blog commenters came to the rescue. Pre-party, the couple are individually “fleet” and “beautiful timbers fit for storm and sport,” able to pilot through seas choppy or calm. Post-party, they are each “hulks,” or no longer seaworthy. They hoard their booty in a miserly fashion – perhaps feeling wrecked, unwieldy, and used for storage rather than voyage. There will be other afternoon teas, other ports of call. A solo rest at home is all they need.
An online biography of Ransom notes that he, “…primarily wrote short poems examining the ironic and unsentimental nature of life.” The symbolism for these two individual ships could just as easily include Mrs. Grundy’s entire tea party fleet. These two people are in no need of a date, let alone each other. They meet at a party and they move on – ships passing in the night, as it were. Mrs. Grundy is perhaps a lighthouse in the harbor for her guests. Her Tuesday home is the place where any port in a storm will do, but these particular ships have sailed.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Personification is the Fine Print of Nye’s “Eye Test”
Eye Test by Naomi Shihab Nye
The D is desperate.
The B wants to take a vacation,
live on a billboard, be broad and brave.
The E is mad at the R for upstaging him.
The little c wants to be a big C if possible,
and the P pauses long between thoughts.
How much better to be a story, story.
Can you read me?
We have to live on this white board
together like a neighborhood.
We would rather be the tail of a cloud,
one letter becoming another,
or lost in a boy’s pocket
shapeless as lint
the same boy who squints to read us
believing we convey a secret message.
Be his friend
We are so tired of meaning nothing.
The B wants to take a vacation,
live on a billboard, be broad and brave.
The E is mad at the R for upstaging him.
The little c wants to be a big C if possible,
and the P pauses long between thoughts.
How much better to be a story, story.
Can you read me?
We have to live on this white board
together like a neighborhood.
We would rather be the tail of a cloud,
one letter becoming another,
or lost in a boy’s pocket
shapeless as lint
the same boy who squints to read us
believing we convey a secret message.
Be his friend
We are so tired of meaning nothing.
Personification is the Fine Print of Nye’s Eye Test
When visiting the optometrist’s office and reading down the eye chart, a patient is almost desperate to get it right. The doctor asks a patient to read what appears as mice-type, and it is nearly impossible. The patient wiggles in the chair and bears down, willing the letters to come into focus. Clarity fades, and with it, hope. Helpless tears make blurry vision no better, and desperation takes hold. What if those letters were desperately crying out to the patient as well? That is the personification Naomi Shahib Nye explores in her poem, “Eye Test.”
When visiting the optometrist’s office and reading down the eye chart, a patient is almost desperate to get it right. The doctor asks a patient to read what appears as mice-type, and it is nearly impossible. The patient wiggles in the chair and bears down, willing the letters to come into focus. Clarity fades, and with it, hope. Helpless tears make blurry vision no better, and desperation takes hold. What if those letters were desperately crying out to the patient as well? That is the personification Naomi Shahib Nye explores in her poem, “Eye Test.”
The desperate “D” begins Nye’s litany of individualized letters as she allows the patient and the eye chart to connect as one. “The P pauses long between thoughts,” as would a patient attempting to utter the correct letter aloud. The initial hope that the Eye Test will result in a score of 20/20 vision causes the patient to begin carefully and patiently, being “brave and bold” as the letter B.
The patient in this poem is a young boy, who has not gone to the eye doctor as a matter of course, as an adult would, but because he has been taken there. Perhaps his grades are slipping or perhaps he is not hitting the ball off the T as he used to do well. He has something to prove: that he can see. The brutal, teasing consequences of sporting glasses is not a future he envisions for himself, yet he “squints to read us.” The letters, too, ache to speak: “Can you read me?” they cry, begging for some kind of understanding. The boy wants to understand, believing, “we convey a secret message,” though the message is another language altogether from his – blurry and incomprehensible. The italicized plea, to “Be his friend,” is a piteous, mournful call that cannot be heard.
Nye further personifies helplessness and loneliness in the line, “We have to live on this white board together like a neighborhood.” Even early in the poem, Nye suggests that, “The B wants to take a vacation,” to no avail. Days pass, patients come and go, yet the letters feel they must dwell on their wall chart, the same proximity from their fellow letters as the day before. “Shapeless as lint,” the letters feel – alone and meaningless – the bits of what used to exist as a whole. The letters dwell in their neighborhood, perhaps like the dregs of their boy-patient’s pocket – once grand objects, now fragments, waiting in vain to be pieced back together.
The poet takes, perhaps, a jab at herself, or at her craft, in the lines, “How much better to be a story, story,” and, “We are so tired of meaning nothing.” An eye chart is merely a series of letters, or, as the poem itself puts it, “one letter after another.” So, too, are words and phrases that make up the written language – but letters put together for the purpose of an eye test, and letters put together to convey meaning are worlds apart. A poem does not wish to be a “story, story” such as an article, essay, or novel. A poem is the creative art that conveys its meaning in subtle and evocative ways. Perhaps Nye gives a nod to the truth that many believe poems mean nothing. The letters that make up the words of poems, then, are tired of trying to convey their meaning day after day, reader after reader, like an Eye Test patient.
Naomi Shahib Nye takes an unremarkable object like an eye chart on the wall and turns it into something beautiful and meaningful. The letters wish to “float like the tail of a cloud,” and in their searching to be understood, form the meanings of the words they try to convey. “Can you read me?” the letters ask? We can certainly try.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Learn Your Damned Homophones
Apparently I have nothing to say, so I'll recommend another lovely site, Learn Your Damned Homophones. Enjoy!
http://learnyourdamnhomophones.com/
http://learnyourdamnhomophones.com/
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Apps I could do without
ABCs of Boobs - Free - a collection of facts and information about breasts. Such as, "When erect, the average nipple is slightly taller than 5 stacked quarters." (handy for trivia night)
Beer Carbs - $0.99 - Beer Carbs lets you quickly find the carb amount of over 1,000 beers. (drink your damned beer, already!)
Blood Type Forecast Pro - $0.99 - Helps you forecast possible blood type of a child or one of parents (because you need this at the singles bar and your doctor can't figure this out for you??)
Crazy Spouse Daily Log - $0.99 - Keep a log of how crazy your spouse is and you might just notice a pattern and be able to predict just when they will be "The Craziest." (sigh)
Hi, Daddy! Pregnancy Calculator - $0.99 - Want to have a sweet night with your partner but afraid of being a father? No more fear! (how about condoms?)
Instant Bellydancer Volume 2 - $7.99 - (I won't even go into the description...because I know you already bought - for way too much - Volume 1)
iSin - $1.99 - Lets you track your sins as they happen, with all the details you may want to have at your fingertips when it's time to confess (wrap it up, there are other people in line)
Office Affairs Ideas - $0.99 - Office romances can be fun and successful, but you and your colleague must be subtle about it. Here are some guidelines on how you can give the relationship a real shot, while keeping a lid on possible problems. (never let your spouse borrow your iPhone)
SexTrack - $1.99 - The built-in iPhone accelerometer measures the dynamics of your adventures in the bedroom. It is easy to use (just put your phone on the bed close to the action) and adds to the magic of being together. (no comment)
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Art History Class Can Be Fun (if you try)
Write a fictional dialogue between any two aesthetic theorists, modern or historical, that we have read. They are discussing whether or not a particular work of art is beautiful. They may agree or disagree, partially or completely.
Tolstoy: Hegel, I’ve waited so long for this chat. May I call you Georg?
Hegel: Are you my wife?
Tolstoy: Not last I checked.
Hegel: Then…no, Tolstoy. Please don’t.
Tolstoy: Can I get you anything? A cup of tea…a glass of water?
Hegel: I’m dead.
Tolstoy: Right! Me too. We just seem so real!
Hegel: I’m sure some academics would say that we’re just as vital today as we were when we were alive.
Tolstoy: Do you find it strange that we’re speaking English when I speak Russian and you speak German?
Hegel: You think that’s strange…I died when you were three years old!
Tolstoy: I can’t even begin to wrap my head around that…but perhaps I’ll incorporate it into a novel soon. So. You know why I’ve called you here?
Hegel: Yes. Those little worship figures from ancient Mesopotamia…around 2500 BC, yes?
Tolstoy: Yes. Aren’t they wonderful? By the way, they say BCE now. Before the Common Era rather than Before Christ.
Hegel: Christ.
Tolstoy: I know.
Hegel: Well, before I agree that they’re “wonderful,” as you put it, let’s go with what we know. I understand that these figures were intended as prayer statues, to stand-in, perhaps, for human worshippers for the gods?
Tolstoy: That’s what we believe to be true, yes. Do you not see that the artist meant to convey to you the awe of the beholder as they gaze upon a god?
Hegel: Please. Spare me your yawn theory.
Tolstoy: (yawns)
Hegel: (yawns) Stop it!
Tolstoy: Just making my point that art is infectious. My yawn spawns your yawn – it’s the same thing.
Hegel: It is certainly not the same thing. A physical reaction like a yawn could simply indicate that you need to open a window. But I digress…we’re not here to argue about oxygen, are we?
Tolstoy: No, we’re not. I’m just saying that the emotions of the artist to the audience are tantamount to understanding and appreciating art – even these fellows.
Hegel: Oh. These are considered “art,” are they?
Tolstoy: Ah. I suppose now you’re going to tell me that “fine” art is the only art worthy of admiration?
Hegel: No, no – not at all. I think that philosophers like us have taken the idea of art philosophy and heightened it to a place higher than the art itself.
Tolstoy: How so?
Hegel: I believe I once said, in my Introduction to Aesthetics, that ‘…the philosophy of art is … a greater need in our day than it was in days when art by itself as art yielded full satisfaction’ (147).
Tolstoy: Meaning what?
Hegel: Meaning that the artist who created these creatures was in his time and we are in ours. Don’t think so hard. Look here: was the object necessary?
Tolstoy: Oh, I see! You’re saying that the artist wasn’t necessarily creating art for appreciation as an artwork, but because the statue had an intended purpose.
Hegel: Now you’re talking.
Tolstoy: Enlighten me some more.
Hegel: Try this on for size: ‘The beauty of art is beauty born of the spirit and born again, and the higher the spirit and its productions stand above nature and its phenomena, the higher too is the beauty of art above that of nature’ (136).
Tolstoy: That’s very ancient Egyptian of you, “Born of the spirit and born again.” Lah dee dah.
Hegel: Perhaps. An alleged Christian such as you should have plenty to say about multiple deities.
Tolstoy: Don’t get me started.
Hegel: I’m honestly trying to point out that you have overstepped your bounds with your theories of art and art appreciation. You’re a writer.
Tolstoy: What of it?
Hegel: I read some of your aesthetic criticism – if one can call it that – on my way here. In On Art, you say that an artist, “…must be able to express the new subject so that all may understand it. For this he must have such mastery of his craft that when working he will think as little about the rules of that craft as a man when walking thinks of the laws of motion” (175). Honestly. A simile?
Tolstoy: What’s wrong with what I said? I stand by those remarks.
Hegel: You’re simply tooting your own horn by lauding the artist. You are an artist. You’re too close to art to be able to critique it. Look at your ending salvo: “…a true work of art is the revelation (by laws beyond our grasp) of a new conception of life arising in the artist’s soul…” (176). Talk about appreciation of the ancient Egyptians – that’s certainly a summoning of the gods above to prove the greatness of the artist.
Tolstoy: Hey, we were going to talk about these prayer statues!
Hegel: Impossible. There’s no budging you. I could give my opinion all day, and you’d continue back to your point that the artist is the be-all, end-all. I’m more than happy to go back to…wherever it was you summoned me from.
Tolstoy: If you insist.
Hegel: Before I go…do you concur that you’re in no position to judge art?
Tolstoy: Absolutely not. I have opinions about a variety of subjects: literature, politics, religion. I’ll make my case against anyone, even you, Hegel.
Hegel: Yes, but will you win?
Tolstoy: It’s not about winning, it’s about expressing myself.
Hegel: Exactly. You, the artist - and your opinion that must be conveyed to the world. I just don’t buy it. Sorry.
Tolstoy: Let’s do this again some time.
Hegel: Let’s not.
Tolstoy: (yawns)
Hegel: (yawns) Stop it!
Tolstoy: Hegel, I’ve waited so long for this chat. May I call you Georg?
Hegel: Are you my wife?
Tolstoy: Not last I checked.
Hegel: Then…no, Tolstoy. Please don’t.
Tolstoy: Can I get you anything? A cup of tea…a glass of water?
Hegel: I’m dead.
Tolstoy: Right! Me too. We just seem so real!
Hegel: I’m sure some academics would say that we’re just as vital today as we were when we were alive.
Tolstoy: Do you find it strange that we’re speaking English when I speak Russian and you speak German?
Hegel: You think that’s strange…I died when you were three years old!
Tolstoy: I can’t even begin to wrap my head around that…but perhaps I’ll incorporate it into a novel soon. So. You know why I’ve called you here?
Hegel: Yes. Those little worship figures from ancient Mesopotamia…around 2500 BC, yes?
Tolstoy: Yes. Aren’t they wonderful? By the way, they say BCE now. Before the Common Era rather than Before Christ.
Hegel: Christ.
Tolstoy: I know.
Hegel: Well, before I agree that they’re “wonderful,” as you put it, let’s go with what we know. I understand that these figures were intended as prayer statues, to stand-in, perhaps, for human worshippers for the gods?
Tolstoy: That’s what we believe to be true, yes. Do you not see that the artist meant to convey to you the awe of the beholder as they gaze upon a god?
Hegel: Please. Spare me your yawn theory.
Tolstoy: (yawns)
Hegel: (yawns) Stop it!
Tolstoy: Just making my point that art is infectious. My yawn spawns your yawn – it’s the same thing.
Hegel: It is certainly not the same thing. A physical reaction like a yawn could simply indicate that you need to open a window. But I digress…we’re not here to argue about oxygen, are we?
Tolstoy: No, we’re not. I’m just saying that the emotions of the artist to the audience are tantamount to understanding and appreciating art – even these fellows.
Hegel: Oh. These are considered “art,” are they?
Tolstoy: Ah. I suppose now you’re going to tell me that “fine” art is the only art worthy of admiration?
Hegel: No, no – not at all. I think that philosophers like us have taken the idea of art philosophy and heightened it to a place higher than the art itself.
Tolstoy: How so?
Hegel: I believe I once said, in my Introduction to Aesthetics, that ‘…the philosophy of art is … a greater need in our day than it was in days when art by itself as art yielded full satisfaction’ (147).
Tolstoy: Meaning what?
Hegel: Meaning that the artist who created these creatures was in his time and we are in ours. Don’t think so hard. Look here: was the object necessary?
Tolstoy: Oh, I see! You’re saying that the artist wasn’t necessarily creating art for appreciation as an artwork, but because the statue had an intended purpose.
Hegel: Now you’re talking.
Tolstoy: Enlighten me some more.
Hegel: Try this on for size: ‘The beauty of art is beauty born of the spirit and born again, and the higher the spirit and its productions stand above nature and its phenomena, the higher too is the beauty of art above that of nature’ (136).
Tolstoy: That’s very ancient Egyptian of you, “Born of the spirit and born again.” Lah dee dah.
Hegel: Perhaps. An alleged Christian such as you should have plenty to say about multiple deities.
Tolstoy: Don’t get me started.
Hegel: I’m honestly trying to point out that you have overstepped your bounds with your theories of art and art appreciation. You’re a writer.
Tolstoy: What of it?
Hegel: I read some of your aesthetic criticism – if one can call it that – on my way here. In On Art, you say that an artist, “…must be able to express the new subject so that all may understand it. For this he must have such mastery of his craft that when working he will think as little about the rules of that craft as a man when walking thinks of the laws of motion” (175). Honestly. A simile?
Tolstoy: What’s wrong with what I said? I stand by those remarks.
Hegel: You’re simply tooting your own horn by lauding the artist. You are an artist. You’re too close to art to be able to critique it. Look at your ending salvo: “…a true work of art is the revelation (by laws beyond our grasp) of a new conception of life arising in the artist’s soul…” (176). Talk about appreciation of the ancient Egyptians – that’s certainly a summoning of the gods above to prove the greatness of the artist.
Tolstoy: Hey, we were going to talk about these prayer statues!
Hegel: Impossible. There’s no budging you. I could give my opinion all day, and you’d continue back to your point that the artist is the be-all, end-all. I’m more than happy to go back to…wherever it was you summoned me from.
Tolstoy: If you insist.
Hegel: Before I go…do you concur that you’re in no position to judge art?
Tolstoy: Absolutely not. I have opinions about a variety of subjects: literature, politics, religion. I’ll make my case against anyone, even you, Hegel.
Hegel: Yes, but will you win?
Tolstoy: It’s not about winning, it’s about expressing myself.
Hegel: Exactly. You, the artist - and your opinion that must be conveyed to the world. I just don’t buy it. Sorry.
Tolstoy: Let’s do this again some time.
Hegel: Let’s not.
Tolstoy: (yawns)
Hegel: (yawns) Stop it!
Thursday, February 10, 2011
What I'd Change About Healthcare
I don't usually have a ton to say about political hotbutton issues. Sure, I have my opinions about political parties, abortion, death penalty, tea parties, speed limit, gay marriage, whatever. I simply choose to lay low and let more vocal types go about their way.
I am lucky enough to have good healthcare. I have reasonable co-pays, reasonable prescription costs - including generic options - and can be admitted to any emergency room without fear of being kicked back out again.
I have two doctor's appointments coming up - one tomorrow, one Monday. Both annual visits, and both doctors have seen me for over 10 years. I don't necessarily look forward to poking, prodding and whatnot, but that's what annual visits are for.
The painful part is the paperwork. I just printed out 7 pages of crap for one of the doctors - the one smart enough to put the forms online so you can fill them out early rather than go 20 mintues early to sit in the waiting room and fill them out there. So much of it is family history that you've written out several times before. I want blanket authority to draw a big X on the page and write, "No Change Since Last Visit," and sign at the bottom. Is that so wrong?
I am lucky enough to have good healthcare. I have reasonable co-pays, reasonable prescription costs - including generic options - and can be admitted to any emergency room without fear of being kicked back out again.
I have two doctor's appointments coming up - one tomorrow, one Monday. Both annual visits, and both doctors have seen me for over 10 years. I don't necessarily look forward to poking, prodding and whatnot, but that's what annual visits are for.
The painful part is the paperwork. I just printed out 7 pages of crap for one of the doctors - the one smart enough to put the forms online so you can fill them out early rather than go 20 mintues early to sit in the waiting room and fill them out there. So much of it is family history that you've written out several times before. I want blanket authority to draw a big X on the page and write, "No Change Since Last Visit," and sign at the bottom. Is that so wrong?
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