Week 12 - Goodnight, sweet prints.
And so here we are. The end of an era. A very, long, word-filled, keyboard-tapping, Joubert-reading, Thoreau-worshipping era. What can I say? It's been a great experience, I personally loved LiveJournal and it was a great way to express my interest about the texts we read and throw some creativity of my own into the vast mixing pot of the internet. At first, I will say, I was intimidated by this idea, it's not every day you'll have a lecturer encouraging everyone to surf the thrashing waves of the World Wide Web, exploring uncertain waters and getting caught in riptides. Why, just the other day I remember putting a pen to paper and marvelling at the difference between the natural curves of my hand and the tap-dancing of my fingertips against a keyboard. And so with this, I shall recount on the previous semester and what I have learnt, loved and shared.
The performance. It was great, it was a great deal of fun enacting a great piece of literature. Christianne and I were flawless in our accents and it seemed as though the stage came naturally to us! I couldn't have asked for a better person to do this with, she was great at playing her character, and I didn't think I did too bad myself! We seemed to get a great deal of encouraging signs as we slumped back to our seats after the performance. Whether it was a subtle under-the-table thumbs up, or a sharp whisper of "Great job, guys!" as the next performers got ready up front. Though once at our seats the realisation of what we had just done toppled over us, like a boulder falling from a cliff-face. We were hit, out for the count, exhausted and wanted to sleep off our achievement. Our greatest hope was that we would somehow stumble our way through this play with a brief understanding of our lines and an unconvincing, yet comprehensible New York accent. Though when we realised we pulled it off, much better than we thought we would have the excitement of it all was too much. It was time for a good nap. Though, of course, pride soon slumped into anxiousness as we watched the plays that soon came after. Play after play of brilliant acting, Mensa level memory skills and character development had my perched, wide-eyed on the end of my chair. Everyone was great! Their plays were magnificent and their presentation spectacular. It had been a great couple of weeks, and I shall not forget it any time soon.
A visual/awesome representation of Death Knocks, had Nat Ackerman
been replaced by Batman.
Of course, this semester would be nothing if it weren't for the figures such as Henry David Thoreau, Robert Frost and William Wordsworth. They all speak of things that I too dream of. As I look around the world I am confronted by materials that I believe steal the beauty that is Nature from this world. The great stone slabs of an office building, the bulking metal frames of an electricity poll, the plastic invasion into everything in our lives. I remember, there was a grey, metal structure that held up the lines over a train track. I saw a raven, it's black feathers of such pitch night, as it's daunting sharp talons clinked up against the metal structure. I remember the sound distinctly, even though it was faint. Clink, clink, clink. It was like a scythe through by skin. Clink, clink, clink. It made a sound so unnatural a stood in disgust as I watched this black, trudging predator scamper around for a morsel of food, a chip or another scrap. I thought of what sound it should make, it's talons thudding against a tree branch, or the gliding swoop as it picks up an unlucky mouse. These three writers inspired me in this sense. They were a voice of reason, they sung the same tune as me, there voices were heard flailing and falling through the wind waiting for someone to pick them up.
I'm not gonna lie. These birds are freakin' intimidating.
And so I shall end with a poem that I wrote in one of my previous entries. I do not repeat it to make up room, or too impress. I repeat it because I like it, I do not know what it is I like about it, it just seems to resonate with me. I hope you enjoy it, once again!
The Wooden Army
The King sleep always sneering,
The Queen places hands endearing,
The Knight rides loudly cheering,
The Bishop paces slightly leering,
The Castle's walls hide the clearing,
The Pawn holds his head in fearing.
The Player holds his Kingdom together,
Saves the damsel,
And lives forever.
Adieu.
The performance. It was great, it was a great deal of fun enacting a great piece of literature. Christianne and I were flawless in our accents and it seemed as though the stage came naturally to us! I couldn't have asked for a better person to do this with, she was great at playing her character, and I didn't think I did too bad myself! We seemed to get a great deal of encouraging signs as we slumped back to our seats after the performance. Whether it was a subtle under-the-table thumbs up, or a sharp whisper of "Great job, guys!" as the next performers got ready up front. Though once at our seats the realisation of what we had just done toppled over us, like a boulder falling from a cliff-face. We were hit, out for the count, exhausted and wanted to sleep off our achievement. Our greatest hope was that we would somehow stumble our way through this play with a brief understanding of our lines and an unconvincing, yet comprehensible New York accent. Though when we realised we pulled it off, much better than we thought we would have the excitement of it all was too much. It was time for a good nap. Though, of course, pride soon slumped into anxiousness as we watched the plays that soon came after. Play after play of brilliant acting, Mensa level memory skills and character development had my perched, wide-eyed on the end of my chair. Everyone was great! Their plays were magnificent and their presentation spectacular. It had been a great couple of weeks, and I shall not forget it any time soon.
A visual/awesome representation of Death Knocks, had Nat Ackerman
been replaced by Batman.
Of course, this semester would be nothing if it weren't for the figures such as Henry David Thoreau, Robert Frost and William Wordsworth. They all speak of things that I too dream of. As I look around the world I am confronted by materials that I believe steal the beauty that is Nature from this world. The great stone slabs of an office building, the bulking metal frames of an electricity poll, the plastic invasion into everything in our lives. I remember, there was a grey, metal structure that held up the lines over a train track. I saw a raven, it's black feathers of such pitch night, as it's daunting sharp talons clinked up against the metal structure. I remember the sound distinctly, even though it was faint. Clink, clink, clink. It was like a scythe through by skin. Clink, clink, clink. It made a sound so unnatural a stood in disgust as I watched this black, trudging predator scamper around for a morsel of food, a chip or another scrap. I thought of what sound it should make, it's talons thudding against a tree branch, or the gliding swoop as it picks up an unlucky mouse. These three writers inspired me in this sense. They were a voice of reason, they sung the same tune as me, there voices were heard flailing and falling through the wind waiting for someone to pick them up.
I'm not gonna lie. These birds are freakin' intimidating.
And so I shall end with a poem that I wrote in one of my previous entries. I do not repeat it to make up room, or too impress. I repeat it because I like it, I do not know what it is I like about it, it just seems to resonate with me. I hope you enjoy it, once again!
The Wooden Army
The King sleep always sneering,
The Queen places hands endearing,
The Knight rides loudly cheering,
The Bishop paces slightly leering,
The Castle's walls hide the clearing,
The Pawn holds his head in fearing.
The Player holds his Kingdom together,
Saves the damsel,
And lives forever.
Adieu.