Year 6, Day 0: Shakespeare Institute

I go to defend my philosophy today, such as it is.  It is not perfect, but it is mine.

I woke up this morning at 4:30 am.  I was not done sleeping, nor was I awoken by the pain in my shoulder that eventually set in minutes after opening my eyes... no.  I think it was because I turned over in my sleep and my unconscious brain said "wait a minute, there is something important happening today... so let's run through a to-do list of what still needs to get done before you walk the 200 metres to the Institute and start speaking (hopefully) intelligently on a topic you've spent five or so years studying." So, naturally, I tried rolling on to my other side to see if my brain could somehow turn off over there. 

"I should have bought a real desk chair when I first arrived in the UK and then my shoulder wouldn't hurt so bad right now." Thirty minutes later and I resign myself to my fate. I shall be the one under the academic microscope today. It's my turn. I'll get up now.

Have you ever read A Midsummer Night's Dream all in one sitting/standing/pacing around the kitchen in an early morning session of supposed thought inspiration? Yeah. Me neither. I thought I'd try though on this, the day of my defense. The guy can write, I'll give Mr. Shakespeare props there... and I quickly got sidetracked when Theseus spoke to Hermia about what she should realise about her father (aloud in my voice):

"To whom you are but as a form in wax
By him imprinted and within his power
To leave the figure or disfigure it." (I.i)

...He might as well have said, "And that is all that you are to him. Run." 

Ah, sexism. It's a good thing that's all fixed now, as women and men enjoy equal rights all across the globe. Yay. <end sarcasm> I put the play down.

I then read the first chapter of John Dewey's Experience and Education. Out loud. I was pacing the kitchen of my rented flat in Stratford-upon-Avon at 6:00 am, drinking coffee, and reciting the words: "There is always the danger in a new movement that in rejecting the aims and methods of that which it would supplant, it may develop its principles negatively rather than postively and constructively" ((Dewey 20) <--- force of habit).

Is this what I have done for the past five years? Are my principles based on research, collaboration, and experience or have they simply become a polarity of what my forebears (four-bears?) have posited?  Darn you, Dewey.  Get out of my head.  I put him down too.

I suppose it is high time that I took what I have learned and brought it to my life. Today is the (hopeful) end to my formal education. Will I feel different tomorrow? Too many Shakespearean plays were written about that very same quandary.

"Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabris of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Ye all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep." -- Prospero in The Tempest (IV.i.1879-88)

Year 6, Day 0 -- Words written: 0

Year 5, Day 232: Shakespeare Institute (via London) - Dystopia, Utopia, and everything In Between.

Can you visualise a dystopia?  I can.  I don't need to try either as it is the thing that wakes me up at night.  The only thing the fiction writers got wrong was that, when we get there, the 'magic' will still be in our minds, and super-heroes will not rise up to save us all.  It takes no effort at all to know that men in power have little to no imagination when it comes to the possibility of war, or famine, or all-out-destruction.  Historically, it has happened that men in power are always surprised when something goes wrong, even though it has been staring them in the face for, what feels like, their entire lives.  The rich get richer, the poor get poorer, and we all die young.

I've been fed that crap for so long, I don't even remember the first time I imagined that this world would end in my lifetime.  I don't remember when I first started thinking that it would be a good idea to train up just in case I had to fight for/ hunt my own food one day because all the markets would close forever.  It happened, but I don't remember when I started thinking it.

We, as a species, have figured out how to tell the dystopian tale.  The great war of the worlds, the Jurassic Park, the Twilight Zone, the steam-punk James Bond, a killer is on the loose and only a cheerleader can save the world,  the "Jim. With Endless Love we left you sleeping.  Now we are sleeping with you.  Don't wake up"-kind of story.  We, the artisans and dreamers, thought it up first, and the rest of the world has bought it hook, line, and help!-I'm-sinking sinker.  Why has fantasy fiction become the world that no one wants to live in, yet everyone feels is inevitable anyway?  Would you really want to live in a world with superheroes, if you were still you and only a few out there had a magical superpower?  What about a world filled with zombies?  Even that online quiz you took a year ago said you'd last only a month into a zombie apocalypse, so why would you want to imagine being there?

I liked watching I Am Legend because it was interesting for me to imagine New York City with waist-high grass, and playing golf off the end of the Intrepid (the giant aircraft carrier sitting in the waters of Manhattan).  I liked watching The Day After Tomorrow because it was interesting to imagine New York City flooded to the point where a cargo ship could float along 42nd street.  I did not like Independence Day, and did not see the sequel, and I don't enjoy watching The Last Man on Earth but I get it.  Dystopias are interesting for their composite parts, not for the reality they present.  I also get that stories, like I Am Legend, have thematic messages such as, "Live and Let Live" or "Take care of our planet" but all too often we, the artisans and dreamers, can only hear and see: "It takes a priveleged American man who can run fast and does the science-ing thing to cure zombie-ism" or "The world will just freeze up for a few years, a new Ice Age if you will, and all the world's pollution will magically disappear afterwards," or "The Postman will rise up, conquer the Tyranney [sp?], the new capital of America will be in Minneapolis, and everything will return to normal just as soon as THAT happens."

I think the trick of it is to find a way to imagine a utopia that doesn't bore you to tears.  Rock concerts and getting drunk are not the sole province of futuristic Biff Tannen and his Pleasure Paradise.  We can not go back in time, but we can imagine a time and place that would enjoy a modicum of pleasures from 1950s households without the latent racism, sexism, and laminate flooring.  (It took me until I was thirty, thinking back on the slew of words my grandfather would use when he was angry ("Of all the cotton-pickin'---") to realise exactly how ubiquitous that stuff was.)  There is a way to imagine a world better than ours where no one is waiting for the other shoe to drop, and still find the story compelling.  When did Star Trek move from finding brave new worlds and exploring new cultures to let's accidentally corrupt someone to our way of thinking and playfully court-martial the only guy who can save the world again and again?  Wars are not boring, I just don't want to live in one.  Fear is exhausting, so it is time to pick a new character trait and move on.  The focus should not be on the day to day lives of our leaders, watching the 10 Downing Street/1600 Pennsylvania Avenue show.  Imagine a world you (actually) want to live in, write the story, and bring me with you.  I want to go there.  Is it a world full of compromises and healthy discussion?  Collaboration and cooperation?  Or did you fall back into the world where Japan and Germany actually won World War II and we have to go back in time to fight the evilness?

(There can be a whole other blog post about how collaboration and cooperation are not the boring, happy concepts that conservatives might have you believe... a healthy discussion is one where you spend an hour preaching your gospel, listening for an hour to your opposition preach their gospel, agreeing on some points, disagreeing on others, changing laws/policy/insurance premiums to reflect those things agreed on, and then promise to come back next week with an open mind so that you can argue other points.  Plural thinking, an open mind, and a passionate belief system is the opposite of those that would close the borders, collect the taxes, and stand on the shoulders of their constituents, not to see farther by their great height, but rather to keep those beneath them down and down.  You must be compassionate where they are obstinate.  You must look to the quality of a man or woman, not the quantity of their wallet or liberal blog post likes.)

I will leave you with a poem written in a time of great turmoil, like this one, and that has hung on the walls of great people wishing to remind themselves that they too can spiral out of control, and maybe, just maybe, there is a moment of peace to be had if only we knew where to look for it.  It was the same year as Lindbergh made his Hop over the Atlantic, and the same year as the Great Mississippi Flood, it was nine years after the War to End All Wars, and twelve years before the Holocaust and the Nazi party decided to annex Poland:

"Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others,
even to the dull and ignorant; they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace with your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy." - Max Ehrmann, 1927.

"There is nothing good or bad, but thinking makes it so." - Hamlet (II.ii)

Year 5, Day 232 - Words Written: All of them.

Year 4, Day 360: Shakespeare Institute -- [REVIEW] A Midsummer Night's Dream at the Globe Theatre in London

Standing at the front of the yard, leaning against the stage just off-centre (with the requisite number of selfies having been taken), the evening began as many performances do... with the all-important safety announcements being intimated to the 1500 some odd patrons that were either standing as groundlings or sitting as gentry of the Globe Theatre.  I was reminded, almost immediately, that standing in the yard was an immersive, neck-craning, exciting, and survival of the fittest kind of experience.  As the announcer, Rita Quince, and her number one (not Bottom the Weaver, but Bottom the Health and Safety Manager) began their sales pitch to the audience they also announced the other members of the volunteers of the Globe (or rather, mechanicals of the Dream) standing about the yard.  Right from the beginning, the cast of this Dream was involved with me.

I could have reached out and touched Rita's feet as she tread the boards in front of me.  I could have done that several times during the show with practically every performer as they spoke, sang, and danced their way through a play I know better than I know papers and plays I have written myself.  Though I have stood at that very same spot in the yard for Twelfth Night (2002), Measure for Measure (2004), The Merry Wives of Windsor (2008), and A Midsummer Night's Dream (2008), I forgot exactly how captivating it can be to have a talented performer onstage look straight at you and just speak to you, rather than talk past you.

What followed after the health and safety announcements was one of the most immersive theatrical experiences that I have been a part of since I saw Fuerza Bruta in New York City three or four years ago.  If I'd actually had a moment to stop and think about it, I might have been upset that this production had taken so many liberties with the text (adding in songs, changing and excising some of the text), the design (this was the Globe afterall, so why were they so reliant on obvious spectacle?), the casting (Helena was Helanus), and the violent and sexual nature of the play altogether.  There were moments where the stage combat was either so well-rehearsed that I could not spot where the slapping sound or 'knap' was coming from or it was stage combat that was so passionate that the slapping sound was in fact real as actors grabbed each other and collided with one another onstage.  Also, everyone got undressed.  This is not to suggest that I mind such things, just more of a matter-of-fact observation.  As my wife has said, "I don't think I've ever been to a play with quite so many 'crotch-shots' as this one had."  I think she was observing that from our vantage point, we could see everything and from almost the same distance as a doctor might examine a patient.

Barring any objection I might have had with the no-original-practice design, the almost-gratuitous spectacle, the textual abbreviations, or any celebration of Kott-ian themes (I actually loved the choice to make Helena a man), I must say that the individual performances last night (4 September 2016) were the sum and total of one of the finest Shakespearean companies I have ever been privy to witness.  Quite simply, there was no one on that stage who was not unique in character, keen in voice (singing or speaking), or adept, agile, and possessing of pure physical prowess.  Please forgive the alliteration there, but I couldn't help myself, I was smiling the entire time.  I clapped like a fool even though my back and neck ached from standing still for so long.  It was a joy to watch, and to single out any one actor as better than another in this case would be a true disservice to this cast that has made me believe ensemble work is still alive and well in London.  I know that this review is coming late in the game (as there are only three sold-out performances left), but if I thought my body could handle standing still for another three hours, I'd do it again if only to be a part of that magic one more time.

I shall be back later with the regularly scheduled, edit-filled, blog post... but I thought this show was deserving of a write-up, if only so that I can remember it fondly later on.

EDIT:  There is some exciting news from the Globe as you can all watch this production in a live broadcast.  Read about it here.

Year 4, Day 360 - Words Written: (How long is a blog post?)

Year 4, Day 231: Shakespeare Institute -- Two sides to every story.

I have once again written about five blog posts since the last one I posted, and then either summarily dismissed and deleted them, or set them aside to be finished at some other unspecified time.  I am hoping this one will make it through my tireless need to self-edit.  I am still convinced that people, just nameless-faceless people, troll the internet looking for ideas to steal, so I am more than a little wary about posting anything anymore.  That being said, I have decided to take back my own voice and to stop being scared of expressing my thoughts, at least on here.  Edited to say: Read this one while you can because who knows how long before I delete it.

-----

Chapter 1:

One of my favorite quotes from the recent years of reading and writing are the first words of a philosophical treatise (read as, "book") that I had the pleasure of first picking up years ago.  It was, in fact, the first one of its kind that I picked up for my Master's course at NYU over five years ago now.  It was John Dewey's book, Experience and Education.  Several people in my life have heard me go on and on about this book on the philosophy of teaching, and fewer still have heard me speak about this idea I'm going to discuss here as briefly as I can.

"Mankind likes to think in terms of extreme opposites.  It is given to formulating its beliefs in terms of Either-Ors, between which it recognizes no intermediate possibilities.  When forced to recognize that the extremes cannot be acted upon, [human-kind] is still inclined to hold that they are all right in theory but that when it comes to practical matters circumstances compel us to compromise" (p.17).

This idea that man and woman are inclined to believe, think, act, and educate all within the concept of creating a polarity of thought to achieve these ideals feels correct.  The added stipulation that we compromise those extreme opposites when it comes to practical matters also feels like more than just truth, but bordering on a human fact of life.  'We will always want the best for ourselves, but will be forced to compromise our ideals when we must deal with the wants and needs of others.'  This is not an academic or scientific question that I am positing here, but rather something that I feel particularly qualified to pose, a philosophical idea.

Stay with me here as I would like to build on what Dewey has already stated.  What he was talking about was our tendency to create polarities, not only to define what we think and feel about the world, but also who we are, how we vote, what food/movies/books/ideas/people we like, and how we generally treat ourselves and others.  The first step in discussing this issue is by recognizing that Dewey's statement can be taken as truth.  This is most easily exemplified by the very existence of politicians.  If one politician states that they are (for example) against overly taxing people who make more than a certain amount of money, there is an immediate (human) response in voters to either agree or disagree with that idea.  By expressing a preference, the politician has created a polarity.  In fact, I could probably posit that without polarity, politics (and newspapers) would not even exist, but that is an entirely different discussion.

The strange reality of that situation (or any) is that the answer to that question, "Should we tax people according to their income?" is never so binary as saying, "I agree" or "I disagree," though the world as we know it has come to believe it so.  Sometimes we forget that we are dealing with human beings, who are as complex in thought as we ourselves have been known to be from time to time.  It is not a binary decision that has to be made, (and here is where I deviate from my mentor, Dewey,) it is also not degrees of compromise that we must consider as our alternatives to thinking decisions must be made one way or the other.  Though humankind "is given to formulating its beliefs in terms of Either-Ors", the mechanics of thought are not as two or even one-dimensional as believing one answer is the complete opposite of another.  Rather, think of the decisions that are expected of you on a daily basis as more organic than the choices that are made up or given to you by those roles or people in life that are served by creating polarities (politics, news, religion, interior design, etc.).  Put simply, and in parlance to those that might one day read this blog, think of these decisions as items on the menu at Starbucks.  One decision does not discount the validity or undo the decision made at another time or by another person.  These decisions you make at Starbucks (1-pump, half-caf, extra-shot, grande skinny vanilla mocha with a scoop of matcha) are as personal to you as your politics should be, your taxes should be, and your opinions on life should be.  We forget that the people we meet in life are as nuanced in their emotional maturity as we are.  That getting turned down for that job seemed like a binary decision on the part of that guy in the interview, but it was (and always will be) far more complicated a situation than just, "he didn't like you" or "the guy they hired was best friends with the CEO", even though popular fiction movies and news stories would have you believe it so.

Chapter 2:

The reason I have been thinking about this is not because I want to try and make life's simple decisions (i.e. to go to the bathroom or wait for the next rest stop) more and more complicated.  It is because I believe that I can be better in recognizing those polarities and ridding my life of thinking about them in that way.  The most poignant and recognized polarities in my world these days are racism and sexism.  This is not because I identify or know anyone that identifies as a racist or a sexist (in fact, I'm trying to picture an even moderately intelligent human being walking around and saying to folks, "Hi I am a sexist/racist" and I can't imagine who that would be).  Rather, I know LOTS of people who have identified racist or sexist tendencies in other people.  The 'conversation' usually begins with the words, "Everyone is saying..." or "I'm tired of hearing that..." or "People say...", or something that amounts to the speaker being on one side of their argument and 'people' being on the other side.  Republicans and Democrats have been using this tactic for as long as there has been a reporter there to record it.  The reason that this is important at all, is that this kind of thinking has even begun to affect the way that modern artwork is portrayed and interpreted.

Most recently, a twitter-hashtag cropped up on my Facebook feed called #StarringJohnCho.  The artist, William Yu, used an incredibly intelligent manner of addressing an issue of racism in the entertainment industry, and the artwork used one of my favorite actors as the subject of many movie poster mash-ups (John Cho - whose work includes Go On and Selfie, two tragically named yet brilliantly written and acted short-lived TV shows of the past ten years.)  John Cho in a picture that replaces Matt Damon's face with his as the star of "The Martian" was amongst the number of mash-ups I saw there.  It was interesting and even at times thought-provoking.

"I'm tired of hearing from people that they can't 'see' an Asian American actor playing the romantic lead or the hero, so I created #StarringJohnCho to literally show you," he said."

See the link here.

He's not wrong and he may have indeed heard from many people on the internet, in person, over the phone, or by smoke signal that some person or another cannot physically or metaphysically see an Asian-American actor as a romantic lead.  In the circle of people this twitter-author may keep to, there might even be a thousand comments to his website agreeing or disagreeing with this idea.

Not the artwork, neither the obvious message that has been handed to us, nor even the blatant problem in the entertainment industry that this artwork addresses has tried to polarize our thoughts.  In fact, the mash-up of these photos allows my imagination to run with ideas of cultural plurality on the level of Star Trek meets Star Wars (and all of the races, cultures, and creeds that might introduce.)  It is the artist, and the BBC reporter that wrote about it, who have provided us not only with the problem that we as human beings face, but also that which so many of didn't even know we craved: the answer.  ("Here is John Cho.  An Asian-American actor.  He looks like a leading man, doesn't he? Cast him as a leading man and all will be *maybe* forgiven.")  This artist and his reporter are two pieces to this one example, and yet there is no end to the polarities we face on a day-to-day basis.

Chapter 3:

On some level or another I believe that at one point in my life I have thought these things:

I believe that I must fight racism, because I have been told that it is form of hatred.

I must fight sexism, because that too, is hatred incarnate.

I must identify those that practice racism and sexism and work to banish them from our world.

I thought I'd address these two as representative of these kinds of polarities in our day-to-day lives as there are a few things that must be noted about racism and sexism.

Despite our world history, where sexism and racism have been very nearly palpable movements in political and cultural circles (and still are today in some African and Middle Eastern cultures, from what I understand), these are not ideas based solely on hate (though some would like to believe it so, because they would like to be thought of as fighting on the side of "love").  Sexism and racism are truly the weapons of those that wish to divide our understanding of the world into two camps.  It is the human condition to try and boil down our understanding of other people's motives into right and wrong, good and bad, up and down, left and not-left, and to be or not to be... though it is easy to do so, this can not and should not be the only question left to us: which side do we fall on?

There are many old sayings that continue to segregate, polarize, and partition our ideas, and my favorite is: "You gotta pick a side," or "There are two sides to every story."  What I will begin to do in my life is no longer accept the premise of these statements.  I have to stop thinking of the world in terms of black and white, or shades of grey as I compromise between two arbitrary, so-called opposites.  I must make my thinking reflect who I am as a person: complicated, muddled, plural-thinking, and three dimensional.  There are always more than two sides to any argument and if I can't find a third or fourth answer to some fairly simple questions I must begin to refuse the premise of the argument and ask a different question of myself.  Sometimes I hear people quoting Hamlet as if it were some kind of gospel, as if "to be or not to be" were actually a question, or indeed the only question that needed answering, when there is so much more to life than asking and answering queries of whether or not life should be lived at all.  I believe Shakespeare wrote it with a suicidal/homicidal, clinically depressed Prince of Denmark in mind, so if you fit that description, well, your life has already be kind of decided for you now hasn't it?  What's the point of it all?

To be, or not to be? That is the question—

Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,

Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,

And, by opposing, end them? To die, to sleep—

No more—and by a sleep to say we end

The heartache and the thousand natural shocks

That flesh is heir to—’tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished! To die, to sleep.

To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub,

For in that sleep of death what dreams may come

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause. -- Hamlet (III.i.57-69)

Year 4, Day 231 -- Words Written: 11,259 (for this chapter).

Year 4, Day 117: Shakespeare Institute -- Red.

I have written five long blog posts since October, and published none of them.  They were accounts of my gripes, concerns, problems, questions, and observations for the past three months.  I have also put in work on a play I wrote years ago so that it might one day be shot as a short film (probably not).  I have been heavily editing myself these past few months because of what I might say in a public forum, and how that will be used against me later on in life.  I am far more important to the world in my own mind than I am in real life.

In movies and on the television, we, as a society, are constantly shown dramatic representations of the masses, or the 'red shirts' of society.  In the original Star Trek series, all of the commanding officers of the Enterprise wore gold or blue shirts, the plebes, the technicians, the less-than-officers of the ship were relegated to wearing red and were, more often than not, the ones that died in every episode, unceremoniously and without much regard from their captain or shipmates.  The 'red shirts' died as they walked into traps, or when the ship had been hit by the enemy's photon torpedoes.  They were the ones to fall about the ship or go flying out into the emptiness of space.  The crew would have a moment of silence for their 'fallen comrades' and then by the end of each episode it was onto the next adventure.

When we see the statistic on the news, in paper or on the screen, of people hurt or killed somewhere those lives are the 'red shirts' of our world.  When we see those pictures, or lists of names, we pray that we aren't living in the episode where someone close to the protagonist of our story is now no longer on the show.  Occasionally it will be someone we once met that we can then pay tribute to on our Facebook wall, and 'have all the feelings' about for a day or so, and not so occasonally and far more tragically, it will be someone that makes us disappear from the TV show of our lives altogether. Or at least for a month or two before the inevitable 'press release' announcing the death of a loved one comes out, thanking literally everyone for the love and support they have shown to us during our troubled time.  It never occurs to us that we are the red shirts, and we are the statistics, and one day, we too will be relegated to a press release, and/or an obituary, and a tear or two from the people closest to us.  How does that make you feel?

There are two, and only two, possible responses to this:

1. Well, shit.  That kind of sucks.  You mean I'm not going to star in a movie in Hollywood, or become best friends with ScarJo or have a Kardashian at my wedding?  I'm not going to cure cancer, become a famous lawmaker/lawbreaker, or live the life of a suffering artist only to be appreciated late in life when I sell one of my paintings for a million dollars?  I'm not going to do any of that?  I'm going to spend the rest of my life as a boring, and quite possibly sad, teacher of theatre in some backwater town whose students will never amount to anything beyond corporate desk jockies and gas station attendants?  I will be average?  I'm going to die without having anything to show for it?

2. Wait a second, are you telling me that there are other people out there like me?  I'm not alone?  I'm not alone.  Do you think they'd want to star in a movie with me?  I bet they do.  Do you think that their story is just as interesting as mine is, or better?  Can I tell their story?  I want to tell their story.  I want to hear their story first, and then tell it to other people.  Do they think about the same stuff I do?  Are they afraid like I am?  Where do I meet these people?  Don't I see them on the street everyday?  It can't be that hard to smile at someone who passes me, because maybe they'll smile back, and then I won't be just a 'red shirt' to them... at least for the second, or minute, or hour that I get to spend with them.  I won't be average in their eyes, and when I am gone they will remember me just like I will remember them?

Was Shakespeare a 'red shirt'?

"When beggars die, there are no comets seen;
The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes." - Julius Caesar (II.ii.30)

"Dare'st thou die?
The sense of death is most in apprehension;
And the poor beetle that we tread upon,
In corporal sufferance feels a pang as great
As when a giant dies." - Measure for Measure (III.i.77)

Year 4, Day 117 - Words Written: More than you.

Year 4, Day 17: Shakespeare Institute -- I am Spartacus, and Caesar.

The fourth year of my PhD has begun, and the occasion has passed without any fanfare.  I am still writing this monster of a thesis, and will be for another two years.  There is no cause to celebrate this news as it would be like commemorating an un-birthday, a three-years of almost sobriety, or a Tuesday.  As in, the person experiencing the event considers the idea to be mundane so if you try to throw them a party, they will most likely find an excuse to leave early.  Now, because we were talking about it, I'd like to tell you my thoughts on the broad idea of meta-theatre, as it has pervaded my thesis and thus my life and everything in and around it.  Gather round children...

First, I must catch everyone up by answering the relatively easy question of: What is meta-theatre? According to Wikipedia, "metatheatricality is generally agreed to be a device whereby a play comments on itself, drawing attention to the literal circumstances of its own production, such as the presence of the audience or the fact that the actors are actors, and/or the making explicit of the literary artifice behind the production."  Did you get all that? In fact, meta-theatre or meta-drama are expressions that are still seeking exact definition within the western culture of theatre history and analysis, but this one definition is the principal way in which I would like to use the expression here. An act of theatre that is meant to comment on acts of theatre. It is a sometimes self-deprecating, sometimes self-effacing, but mostly just plain selfish act to find the theatre within your own actions. That is, however, what people have been doing since before Shakespeare wrote A Midsummer Night's Dream over four hundred years ago.  Only now, this meta-theatre comes in the form of Instagramming your food because an act of theatre to us human beings is now as ever-present as the cameras we document them with.

To be clear, there is nothing interesting about your food to the casual observer. There is also not anything interesting about your food to you, the photographer, past the moment of you eating it and photographing it, save for a little indigestion or a lot of gas.  It is in that moment you capture your point of interest on camera, however, that the act of personal theatre and thus an act of meta-theatre lies. The moment you point your camera at something, a plate of food - a little boy chasing down pigeons - yourself and three of your BFFs - incorrectly spelled public signage... it is in that moment that you are hovering in an act of metatheatricality. You are aware of the camera as it is capturing your experiences, or at least the experiences you may wish to convey to the "rest of the world" via Facebook. It could be the most mundane out-of-focus off-balance piece of crap shot you've ever taken... but right in that moment, you liked the idea of someone finding you important enough to document your life far more than you were actually enjoying the moment itself. You liked the feeling so much that you documented something else you saw five minutes later, which, if we are being honest, was equally "meh".

The reason this can be called meta-anything is that when you are taking the photo, you already know, even while it is happening, that you plan to look at this photo later on, or seconds after, to make sure that you got the shot that you wanted.  (This idea of "meta" is not cause for the term "meta" to enter your everyday vernacular, and if I hear you saying "that is so meta" I better like you enough NOT to throw something heavy or sharp at you.)

Now that everyone is caught up, here is why I've been thinking about it.  I have become desensitized to the theatre of everyday life.  I feel the same amount of consternation at a politician lying as I do when friends of mine misspell something on social media.  I feel that school shootings in the USA are just as tragic as the spoken, written, and publicized passive platitudes that inevitably follow them, "OMG, this is terrible!"  I fear dying as just a statistic far more than I fear living as one.  The theatre of life has been dulled, and I feel that the Sondheim lyric, "if life were only moments, then you'd never know you had one" should be amended to, "if life is made of moments, make a bigger moment and share it with everyone you know to punctuate the monotony of those other less important ones."  I am aware of all these things as they are happening to me, and yet I cannot stop them.  I am aware that I am absorbing all the stories, all the theatre, all the pain, strife, happiness, power, struggle, ends and beginnings of life all over the world and I have become dulled to it all.  So, after you've become aware of the dull or numb feeling in your life, what is the biggest problem you face?

It's finding the off-switch, the mute button, or the bookmark.  That moment when your eyes are tired, your ears hurt, your throat is sore, and you just need a shower and a nap.  Where nothing is quite so inviting as your pillow, a blanket, and a dark room where no one knows and no one cares.

You will decide whatever it is tomorrow, cause you've heard all that you can handle already today and it's not even noon.

Even this blog post... why did I write this?

Why are you reading it again?

I'm so tired I can only focus on those one sentence truth-bombs that Buzzfeed, Distractify, and politicians are so keen on, and I want so badly to have the energy again to think deeper than that.

Maybe there is a TV show on that can think it for me, or a song lyric that I can quote, or an internet meme that shows me the way, mostly so I can look like I have it together.

I have had the most boring day so I'll pretend to get excited about this spaghetti bolognese.

I won't complain about life unless I can simultaneously lecture someone on how they are doing it all wrong.

Wait, was that someone talking about me?

Hi, my name is David and I'm an addict of the attention I get when I turn on the microphone, and turn up the speakers to 11.

I'm a self-righteous jerk who knows everything about everything and I can't stop.

I can't.

For if someone must be Caesar, I shall fall on that sword.

For I am tired and don't know who else I could possibly listen to but myself.

"I could be well moved if I were as you.
If I could pray to move, prayers would move me.
But I am constant as the northern star,
Of whose true-fixed and resting quality
There is no fellow in the firmament.
The skies are painted with unnumbered sparks.
They are all fire and every one doth shine,
But there’s but one in all doth hold his place.
So in the world. 'Tis furnished well with men,
And men are flesh and blood, and apprehensive,
Yet in the number I do know but one
That unassailable holds on his rank,
Unshaked of motion. And that I am he
Let me a little show it even in this:
That I was constant Cimber should be banished,
And constant do remain to keep him so." -- Julius Caesar (III.i)

Year 4, Day 17 - Words Written: Over half of all the words.

Year 3, Day 338: Shakespeare Institute -- Pickwick not Drood.

As a PhD student, I am no longer graded on my performance to date.  I am given a current status by my supervisors based on what they think I will do in the future.  I could've just written the academic equivalent to "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times" and I'd have still gotten a 'giving cause for concern' if they thought I wouldn't be finished with the project in time.

I have to stop looking for a grade.  I spent 38 years in that system, and even when I got here (England) I was looking for the best grade I could get from the teachers that would soon be my PhD supervisors.  I was looking for approval from my teachers to know if I was doing the right thing.  They didn't tell me I had to stop.  Hell, I didn't even know that was a thing that I had to do.  The worst thing about the grade they give me... it's not even for me.  It's for the University.  So they know how I am doing, and it is my supervisors giving me a 'giving cause for concern' because they are worried about the University saying to them in a year's time, "Why didn't you say anything if you thought the candidate might not finish in time?"  I have to stop looking to these people for a grade because they are not interested in giving me one that is at all related to the work I have done...

I was about to say, "...for them."  I'm doing this for myself, right?  I'm writing this because I want to? What do I think is going to happen after all of this is done... a book deal, an adjunct professorship, a job flipping burgers while thinking deep thoughts about Shakespeare?  What?

Then I remember, it is not the destination that matters, it is how you get there.  This 80,000-word monster is the white whale to my Ahab.  I have never done something so momentous, or thoughtful, or conquered something this scary in my life.  It doesn't matter what anyone else's journey might be or have been when they get the PhD, my experience here is what matters and like a good friend of mine once said, 'It will be the hardest thing you ever do.'  He also added the caveat, 'and, probably not the greatest...' to that, but I am trying to stay positive here and this god-forsaken well-thought out piece o' crap is my Pickwick Papers, and hopefully not my Drood.

Oh, and never tell your supervisors about your health problems.  Just trust me.

---

  There once was a child who'd been diagnosed by every doctor in fifty miles as having fifty diseases, one for each mile and one for each doctor.  Without fail, for every new visit, the doctor said, "I can fix that."  The child would sit quietly, and look to his mother, she'd nod and smile, and then listen to each expert for surely this time they'd tell her they understood what she was going through.  The child would cough, and he'd open up wide.  The doctor would examine, write something on a sheet that would never be seen by anyone but maybe him or his staff when they wanted to remind themselves fondly of this visit.  The child imagined the nurses, sitting in rocking chairs, pining over this doctor's scribble one day saying tenderly, "What a lovely boy!  I do miss him so!"  The child hopped down from the examining table, as he'd done many times before, though it was sometimes a couch, a chair, a bench, or a great big bed with paper sheets that crinkled when you lay down.

  "What's wrong, momma?"

  "Shh, the doctor's talking, sweety." The child reminded himself that when the adults are talking, he should just listen and learn.  He'd ask her later.

  "What's wrong, momma?"

  "What did I just say?"

  "Oh, right.  Sorry, momma.  Sorry, doctor."  Maybe he'd ask her later.

  "Can we go now, momma?"

  "Ok, you sit down in the waiting room and I will be right out."

  "Yes, momma.  Bye, doctor."

  It was the same routine that was done on that last mile and with that last doctor.  "Depression," said one and "Flu," said another.  "Death," said one that his mother cried after leaving.  Couldn't any one of the professionals see what she was going through?  The waiting room smelled like antiseptic feet.

  "Let's go baby.  Just another mile, to another doctor."

  "I can fix that."

  "Shh. The doctor's talking."

  "Palsy."

  "Another more mile.  Just one more."

  "I can fix that."

  "Shh.  I need to hear him."

  "Rheumatism."

  So it went for fifty miles.  Fifty doctors.  Fifty diagnoses.  All of them knew how to fix the boy.  Each time the mother would listen to the doctor, maybe cry, and since none of them understood her she'd take the boy to the next doctor to see what was wrong with him.  The boy wondered if the nurses all went to the same antiseptic feet store for their air freshener, or if there had been a sale.  Never a complaint of how the waiting room smelled, just curiosity.

  On the fifty-first mile, the mother and child saw the last doctor.  They didn't know he was the last one, he just was.  The boy nodded and smiled and his mother looked to him.  Finally, this was someone who understood her.  There was no coughing, or opening his mouth wide.  There was no scribble that the doctor would make for his nurses' keepsake wall.  The mother and son then walked that fifty-one miles, passing each doctor they'd visited on the way back.  They laughed as they remembered what each one had said about the boy, and when they got to the one who'd said, "Death" they both cried when they laughed so hard their bellies hurt.

  On the last mile, the boy thought to ask his mother, "What was wrong, momma, and why did it go away?"

  "Well, that doctor he knew a lot of things.  I saw on his wall that he had a lot of keepsakes and scribbles from other doctors saying that he knew what he was talking about."

  "Did he say, 'I can fix that?'"

  "No, but I did."  The boy nodded and smiled and he looked to his mother.  Finally, this was someone who understood her.  When they got home, the boy and his mother made scribbles and keepsakes of their own, traded them, and laughed about them, and kept them on their wall, one for each mile and one for each doctor.

---

I'd like to tell you which character I am in this story, but mostly I'd like it if I didn't have to tell anyone who they are and who I am ever again, and have everyone just be happy to have read something coherent that I wrote at 8:00 am on Friday morning because I couldn't sleep.  I need sleep, and I get these things popping up in my head instead.  

Don't forget to tip your waitress.

Macbeth
How does your patient, doctor?

Doctor
Not so sick, my lord, as she is troubled with thick-coming fancies that keep her from rest.

Macbeth
Cure her of that! Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with some sweet oblivious antidote cleanse the stuffed bosom of that perilous stuff which weighs upon her heart.

Doctor
Therein the patient must minister to himself.

Year 3, Day 338 -- Words Written: A scribble and a keepsake.