John Simm, are you ever not grumpy? And why is it adorable? Also, bonus Persian poetry.
I'll be honest, I wish John Simm wouldn't do plays. I want him readily available to me while he does exciting new things. I'm an ocean away from England and no one made bootleg Youtube clips of Elling. But him starting Hamlet does have one direct benefit to me: press. I love his interviews. He's such a miserable bastard. (In this interview with the Guardian, he bites his fingers, snarks about Hollywood, and apparently is drinking the entire time.) Love.
Secondly, I just picked up a book of Persian poets in the Middle Ages. This one by Rumi (translated by Coleman Barks) struck me. It reminds me a lot of Sam, especially in early season one. It's gorgeous.
Who Says Words with My Mouth
All day I think about it, then at night I say it.
Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?
I have no idea.
My soul is from elsewhere, I'm sure of that,
and I intend to end up there.
This drunkenness began in some other tavern.
When I get back around to that place,
I'll be completely sober. Meanwhile,
I'm like a bird from another continent, sitting in this aviary.
The day is coming when I fly off,
but who is it now in my ear who hears my voice?
Who says words with my mouth?
Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul?
I cannot stop asking.
If I could taste one sip of an answer,
I could break out of this prison for drunks.
I didn't come here of my own accord, and I can't leave that way.
Whoever brought me here will have to take me home.
This poetry, I never know what I'm going to say.
I don't plan it.
When I'm outside the saying of it,
I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.
Secondly, I just picked up a book of Persian poets in the Middle Ages. This one by Rumi (translated by Coleman Barks) struck me. It reminds me a lot of Sam, especially in early season one. It's gorgeous.
Who Says Words with My Mouth
All day I think about it, then at night I say it.
Where did I come from, and what am I supposed to be doing?
I have no idea.
My soul is from elsewhere, I'm sure of that,
and I intend to end up there.
This drunkenness began in some other tavern.
When I get back around to that place,
I'll be completely sober. Meanwhile,
I'm like a bird from another continent, sitting in this aviary.
The day is coming when I fly off,
but who is it now in my ear who hears my voice?
Who says words with my mouth?
Who looks out with my eyes? What is the soul?
I cannot stop asking.
If I could taste one sip of an answer,
I could break out of this prison for drunks.
I didn't come here of my own accord, and I can't leave that way.
Whoever brought me here will have to take me home.
This poetry, I never know what I'm going to say.
I don't plan it.
When I'm outside the saying of it,
I get very quiet and rarely speak at all.