All entries for Friday 15 October 2004
October 15, 2004
Hello my modern women,
And your modern men as well.
Hello to single mothers,
Struggling all alone
(Not Modern by choice,
But by another’s,
Who did not know at all).
And Hello to career-ladies,
Too busy for children (or men),
In chic and stylish, 2 bedroom flats,
With that rich unlived in smell.
And Hi There all you Lesbo’s
Childless, for obvious reasons,
You steal our modern women,
And that’s why we like you,
(Not that they were ever ours).
And Hello to all you others,
Who I care for not too much,
Not that you care,
I have no time to list you,
And you have none at all,
For I must cook the meal,
My modern women shall soon be home.
Most Modern Women, almost all the old,
Enjoy shopping to extremes,
Musky, fruity, sweet and sour fragrances flying,
Against the air at us
Your Modern Men,
Who wait patiently by the counter
Offering to pay for what you want,
But do not and are unlikely to ever,
Knowing you will say ‘no’
I apologise if this poem is disjointed,
However my reasons are perfectly good,
My Modern Woman could not stand still,
Upon her pedestal,
While I paint her portrait,
I am sorry again, to all modernity,
For I must now swiftly go,
A Modern Man must cook the meal.
Though many hours have you been,
I have none, now.
When I think of “my Britain” I think of the local,
Heads of beer more attractive than the people drinking,
The lads making bad innuendoes and belching,
When I think of “my Britain” I think of football,
England struggling against minnows,
And getting paid an infinite more than doctors,
When I think of “my Britain” I think of multi-culture,
Children glad to sit bored outside assembly,
Because their God is not our God is not our Queen,
Is not us.
And “my Britain” is William Regal sipping tea,
In a wrestling ring, in America, in tights,
And the British Bulldog is another wrestler showing that in Britain,
Tights are traditional.
And “my Britain” does not exist,
As Britain is no longer a place where St George,
(Who never visited, or wrote, or called)
Slayed the dragon or convinced him/her/it/they/who?
With cold British charm,
That vegetarianism was the answer.
Because “my Britain” is a dream,
A vision, illusion, delusion, hallucination, or phantasm,
(Delete as appropriate or not at all)
Of a view of the Thames from Embankment,
The Bridge under cold blue light, warmly seeing,
The best view in Britain.
And Britain is a bubble,
That restricts, holds in, and is my house and street,
In which resides, at our discretion,
A bench on the river where one can see
People’s houses reduced to candles lighting a view just for the bench,
Where I once cried for “my Britain”.
Death is thug,
and poses as cross with bloody pagan graffiti
Death is Supervillain.
Wears cape and mask in attempt with,
dark wings blotting sun,
to look like saviour.
Death is Blade.
Each and every,
that has ever reflected Hell’s looting fire,
Death is Crashing.
Used by us, blood turns black, and vainly pulling up,
we splinter him/she/
IT into tower.
Love poems don’t work.
When I write them I
Gush, with overwhelming (underfelt)
And common emotion, that looks like
A paper heart, placed over cheap chocolates,
That are fittingly brown and smelly.
And when I write happy,
Roses are red like hearts,
And tears are joyous crystals,
And when I write sad,
Roses become scarlet, blood-red (still like hearts)
And there are no more tears,
Because crystal-like as they were,
Some pillock stole them.
Then there’s always the problem that I,
(Spotty, inexperienced kid with bad hair day)
Don’t know of what I speak,
I’ve never written or received a tear-stained letter,
Smelling slightly of rose-water,
I’ve never poured my heart out,
To an uncaring bitch,
Never wondering how exactly a heart can be poured
(Her underwear would be blood-stained surely?).
So what exactly should I write?
I don’t see how a girl can be like a Summer’s Day,
Or love can be like a hundred and one humdrums.
So should I compare my heart to the spots on my face?
Both red, both hurting,
But only one slick and unpleasantly greasy.
Both bursting when I see your face,
Spewing forth my love.
Like I did the first night I drank beer.
Then in the morning,
The hangover hammering on my temples,
Splitting with a chisel, the average from inspiration,
So that I wrote a poem of love,
Mine for you,
Complete with metaphor, simile,
And me an (oxy) moron,
Perfumed with the delicate scent
Of stale beer and feelings.
My love poem did not work.
This is not a love poem.
3. In Theatron, explore the model of the Theatre of Dionysos, which represents the theatre as it may have been during the Lycurgan period (338 – 326 B.C.E.). Compare and contrast its stone skene with the wooden Phlyakes stage.
i.What possibilities and limitations for performance does each type of scene building allow or impose?
Possibilities: Dionysos – Much more space, allows the actors to move around a lot more, elaborate scene changes are now possible.
Phylax – More intimate, allows subtler acting as everyone can hear, possibility to make performances slightly less stylised.
Limitations: Dionysos – Huge audience so would have to be very loud to be heard, actons would have to be very large to be seen, hard to make sure all the audience can see.
Phylax – Not much room for scene changes or action, wouldn't be able to have a lot of scenery. Wouldn't have that grand feel.
ii.The action of the Eumenides is set in three locations. What are they?
Temple of Apollo at Delphi
iii.How might these scene changes have been staged?
Phylax – Backdrop, imagination, move on/off stage.
Dionysos – Change of scenery, move across/to different area of the stage.
i.The 4th century B.C.E. Phlyakes vases from the south of Italy show temporary wooden stages which we believe are similar or identical to those that would have been used for comic performance in the 5th century B.C.E. How adequate or appropriate would such a stage have been for the performance of tragedy in the 5th century B.C.E., in particular the Eumenides?
It wouldn't quite encapsulate the epic feel of the play, and wouldn't give the actors much space to move around, ie. the furies chasing Orestes might have been a problem. That said Greek acting was very much about the voice and the storytelling, not the action so any place with a stage could be adequate, though a grander theatre would be more appropriate.
ii. Where could Klytemnestra, Apollo and Orestes have performed in the opening scene of the play?
Not quite sure what these questions are looking for, but I'd have had the first scene performed with Klytemnestra and Apollo at the front of the stage, then have Orestes enter from behind the audience, through the aisle, as if pursued by the furies.
iii. Where could the chorus have performed?
Perhaps run in after Orestes, then perform on the ground in front of the stage, only going up to the stage when needed as part of the trial.
i. Is it possible to determine whether the ancient vase paintings are depictions of theatrical performances, or of the myths upon which the plays are also based?
To me it seemed on a very pedantic level that the vase paintings depicted the myth as in the play it was stated the furies didn't have wings and on the vase they did.
On a more general level it's hard to tell, I suppose it would make more sense for them to depict the myths as it's a more grandiose depiction, a painting of a myth would seem to be of more impact than a painting of actors pretending to be in a myth.
ii. In the light of your response to i. above, how significant may ancient vase paintings be as evidence for ancient theatre practice?
I think that these vase paintings could be very significant as evidence to ancient theatre practice as one of the main ways for Greek people to be told myths would have been theatre, and many ancient Greek plays depicted myths, so theatre would have provided the most complete recounting of a myth, as such Theatre may well have been the basis of the visualisations of the myths, and so could be very significant.
A week after my first blog and what's changed?
1. No-one's read my first blog.
2. I'm not as ill as I was last week.
3. I'm a year older.
Always found that strange how you're apparently exactly the same age for the whole year, then magically you become a year older overnight. It's an excuse to get presents I suppose. So I got lots of cards with money and book tokens from various members of my family (who were too cheap to pay for the postage of an actual present). A card and a big bottle of Southern Comfort from my flat-mates and even a card from Anna of the English and Theatre Studies crew, which was very sweet of her considering she only found out it was going to be my birthday the day before.
On said Birthday I also went to see the Pilate Workshop in Stratford. While it started well, with a great first hour (highlight was a Tony Blair impression, where his voice is drowned out by people hammering crucifixes behind him). But the second half ruined it, that's not to say there weren't good things, but towards the end it just got ridiculous. This was the first play I didn't clap for at all (and I've clapped for terrible school-boy productions of Macbeth, and strange conceptual plays in Edinburgh where you don't know what's going on), which was a shame as the actors were good and tried hard, it's just the writing and direction was terrible. After getting drunk soon after I finished the night with requesting She's Electric as my birthday song in Score, and then watching several episodes of Sex in the City. Fun was had.
So I'm feeling considerably more rainbowy than I was last week, even though I didn't get into Hamlet or Accidental Death of an Anarchist. Doesn't bother me if their productions are drab, un-colourful and definitely not rainbowy.