March 30, 2004

Please tell me this is a dream, Part II

Monday was an interesting day. I shall tell you the story of Monday. Read on . . .

I have been coming down with something vaguely unpleasant, so I slept through breakfast and Chapel and dragged myself lazily over to Heath-Hardwick about half an hour before English Lit II. I wanted to have a little extra time so I could ask Dr. Batts about borrowing his . . . "sword."

*thinks for a second* I guess I haven't actually explained on here why I would need to borrow such a thing. You see, I was challenged to a duel last Thursday over a fine point of personal honor involving a noble lady, a bit of fine lace, and a an all-you-can-eat steak dinner. We were all set to square off at precisely 11:00 in the morning on Tuesday (today). The thing is, when I was busy sparring with Martinez (my second) on Saturday, I put a nasty dent in the guard that made my sword really difficult to hold. So, naturally . . .

Uh, right. Not sure where that last paragraph came from. In actuality, Dr. Batts divided my Shakespeare class into two groups and assigned the first group to perfrom Act III of A Midsummer Night's Dream on Friday, and the second group to perform Acts IV and V on Monday. We had to come up with costumes and suitable settings ourselves and it would be for a test grade. I was, of course, in the second group. If you know anything about the play at all, you'll recall that Pyramus and Thisby both stab themselves with a sword during the play-withn-the-play at the end of Act V. Everything should now be clear to you. I will move on.

I chatted briefly with Dr. Watson in the hall and found that Dr. Batts was not in his office at all . . . I suppose he was at Chapel. The first half of English Lit II consisted of a group presentation on Conrad's Heart of Darkness. It was . . . decent. They managed to bring in a rather impressive amount of foliage and turned the front of the classroom into a jungle. After they finished we still had over 20 minutes to listen to Dr. Watson (and that always makes me happy).

So Dr. Watson was expounding on Conrad's philosophy of writing, as it were, telling us that Conrad thought that literature ought to communicate truth(s), and things of that nature. And he decided that we looked a little too asleep or something, I guess . . . In any case, he asked if anyone in the class had encountered any particularly profound truths in anything they had read. This is a survey course, and he ought to have known he wasn't going to have many volunteers. I myself was sitting in the back, as usual, happily eating a small box of Nerds that I had acquired during the presentation, and devoting half of my attention or so to completing my Shakespeare homework.

Dr. Watson: "Wheeler! You're always reading . . . In fact, you're always reading during my class, even. In all that you have read, have you come across any great truths?"

Me: *gapes*

I mean, for heaven's sake! What kind of question is that to drop on a poor, unsuspecting introvert in a class of 30 people?! And, of course . . . well, you all know what I've been reading of late. The first two names that pop into my head are Oscar Wilde and Saki . . . and I just couldn't bring myself to go there.

Sample quotes:

"Monogamy is the Western custom of one wife and hardly any mistresses." -Saki

"You can't expect a boy to be vicious till he's been to a good school." -Saki

"I think that God in creating Man somewhat overestimated his ability." -Wilde

"Seriousness is the only refuge of the shallow." -Wilde

"Most people are other people. Their thoughts are someone else's opinions, their lives a mimicry, their passions a quotation." -Wilde

I wasn't doing that, period. So I carefully danced around the question for a painful ten seconds or so, and it got picked up by someone else . . . Who started quoting "The Dream of the Rood" of all things . . . While he was doing that, I came up with something that I could use to vindicate myself. I quoted The Misfit from Flannery O'Connor's "A Good Man is Hard to Find"

"Jesus was the only One that ever raised the dead, and He shouldn't have done it. He thrown everything off balance. If He did what He said, then it's nothing for you to do but thow away everything and follow Him, and if He didn't, then it's nothing for you to do but enjoy the few minutes you got left the best way you can-by killing somebody or burning down his house or doing some other meanness to him. No pleasure but meanness."

*Thanks to Mr. Fry as the party responsible for my knowing that quote . . .*

Of course, I'm rather an idiot. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to wave the copy of A Midsummer Night's Dream that was sitting directly in front of me and say, "Lord, what fools these mortals be!" Ah, well . . . I've never claimed to be able to think quickly in situations like that.

Now, on to Shakespeare, and I shall try to be brief. I was chosen by the powers that be to play Puck, Peter Quince (Prologue in the mini-play), and Francis Flute (Thisby in the mini-play). I wasn't entirely satisfied with the costumes that were provided at the dress rehearsal on Sunday, so I went around and borrowed a few things from Wilson and Anna "Costume Shop" Olson to supplement.

Act IV, Scene 1: I play Puck. I am barefoot, wearing a maroon pillowcase as a . . . shirt, or something. I also have on blue, spotted . . . ummm . . . kitty-cat ears. And freaky-weird glasses, also . . . I liked them because no one could make eye contact with me for more than three straight seconds without looking away. I have two short lines to deliver, and lots of down time listening to freaking Oberon expound at length on this and that. Ideally I could have found various creative ways to act puckish while he was talking, but practically it just isn't very easy. I did a bit of slinking around . . . fiddled with Bottom's ears . . . and mostly just stood there. It was annoying. Finally I escaped to prepare for scene two.

Act IV, Scene 2: I play Quince and Flute. I am wearing a sheet. But it isn't a sheet, it's a toga. Shut up. Quince wore Wilson's fedora. Flute was bareheaded. Quince was sitting down. Flute was leaning casually against the wall. Quince spoke in a slow, low-pitched, measured tone. Flute tripped over his words and babbled frenetically. It kinda worked. The freaking toga would not stay on as I moved back and forth. And Shannon was in my way once or twice. Other than that, no problems . . .

Act V, Scene I: All three (five?) of my characters are present in this scene. Quince comes out when the play begins and very nervously recites his prologue. Then it is time for the dumbshow. I have the lion bring out my wig when they enter, and when I introduce each character I had instructed them to strut . . . or something. Basically, do anything that would make a pause seem more natural when I changed into Thisby. The wig, of course, had gotten itself horribly tangled up, and I had to perch it on my head briefly before moving on. Exit Peter Quince.

Thisby . . . is just flat out no fun when you actually have to act her out with the clothes and the faux-emotion and the romantic gook. Ick. But that's no reason to only give it a half-effort, now is it? I was just generally pleased that my voice wasn't cracking in the higher pitch (due to my cold). Finally, the mini-play ended. I sympathize with the Athenian craftsmen. Exit Francis Flute.

About ten lines later, Puck is supposed to come back on, alone. I'd forgotten it was so quick, so when everyone joined me backstage within about 20 seconds, I said, "You've got to be kidding me!" I didn't even have time to find my place before I went back out. Fortunately, I had the first eight lines of that soliloquy memorized, and I found my spot while I recited them. Helpful tip: Trying to look natural while properly wielding a broom and fumbling with a book and then trying to read out of it while wearing glasses that do not allow any peripheral vision . . . can't be done. Just thought I'd let you know.

I had also taken the liberty of memorizing the final speech of the play, and I very pointedly closed the book and delivered it. I also had my eyes closed, so I wouldn't risk getting distracted. No one could tell because of the glasses. I managed to not fall off the stage while I paced and spoke, and that was the end. I was very much relieved by this. And that is all there is to tell. Hopefully I'll have a grade by tomorrow.

Two more things of interest (to me, at least). We watched The Graduate on Sunday night. I enjoyed it thoroughly. It deserves a spot on the AFI list . . . although, as always, I wouldn't have rated it quite so high. It's not for everyone, of course, but all college students should watch it, just for fun. Or as a how-not-to guide to life. Or something.

I contributed to American History today. It was momentous. Dr. Johnson was winding down his series of World War II lectures and, duh, D-Day came up. Also known as (written on the board) "Operation Overload."

I raised my hand: "Ummm . . . Overload?"

Dr. J: "Oh. What did I put?" *fixes it*

Me: *nods and smiles*

Dr. J (slightly peeved): "The only contribution he's made all semester and he corrects my spelling!"

Me (throwing up hands defensively): "Sorry! English major . . .!"

About thirty seconds later he referred to August 14th, 1945 (Japan's surrender) as "VE Day." I waited a couple of minutes until class was over to point it out. Clearly I deserve extra-credit on the upcoming test . . . which is over seven freaking chapters covering from 1900-1945!!! Insanity!!!

And now, two very impatient and high-strung personages are demanding my immediate attention. I must away. Farewell.

Posted by Jared at March 30, 2004 02:58 PM | TrackBack