A Thimblefull of Panic
I have had a stellar day so far. Really, truly.
Most of this is due to my Shakespeare class, which has been throughout this term one of the best and brightest things in my life. Today was recitation day. We had a quiz on the Tempest, which I aced with ease, and then I watched my classmates recite pieces of the work of one of my favorite writers with passion, clarity, and good humor. I heard old favorites ("To be or not to be," "St. Crispin's Day," "Now is the winter of our discontent") and new loves ("I left no ring with her," "Who's him that says I am a villain"). I saw some of the quietest people give moving performances, and no one suffered a crisis.
As to my own speech, I was put last, and so my stage fright (incredibly strong though I've performed my whole life) was in full force. I was doing the "Soft! I did but dream" soliloquy from Richard III, a work that by turns awes, excites, and terrifies me. In that speech, that personal musing born out of the horror of a nightmare and the pangs of guilt, the charming, villainous, magnetic, ambitious, nigh-invulnerable Richard has his downfall, and it is no one else's doing. He simply loses faith in himself and his right to upend the world for his goals. It is a portrait of the breaking of a man, and it all happens in his own mind.
I adore it.
Here is the text, so that everyone who reads this can adore it:
*In his dream, Richard is visited by the ghosts of everyone he has killed (11 people), and they prophesy his death in battle the next day*
[KING RICHARD III starts out of his dream]
Give me another horse: bind up my wounds.
Have mercy, Jesu!--Soft! I did but dream.
O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me!
The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight.
Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh.
What do I fear? myself? there's none else by:
Richard loves Richard; that is, I am I.
Is there a murderer here? No. Yes, I am:
Then fly. What, from myself? Great reason why:
Lest I revenge. What, myself upon myself?
Alack. I love myself. Wherefore? for any good
That I myself have done unto myself?
O, no! alas, I rather hate myself
For hateful deeds committed by myself!
I am a villain: yet I lie. I am not.
Fool, of thyself speak well: fool, do not flatter.
My conscience hath a thousand several tongues,
And every tongue brings in a several tale,
And every tale condemns me for a villain.
Perjury, perjury, in the high'st degree
Murder, stem murder, in the direst degree;
All several sins, all used in each degree,
Throng to the bar, crying all, Guilty! guilty!
I shall despair. There is no creature loves me;
And if I die, no soul shall pity me:
Nay, wherefore should they, since that I myself
Find in myself no pity to myself?
Methought the souls of all that I had murder'd
Came to my tent; and every one did threat
To-morrow's vengeance on the head of Richard.
Gorgeous. A monster to act, because the thought process behind the direct contradictions has to be clear. How can he say "Is there a murderer here? No. Yes, I am" and make any sort of sense? I had been working on this for a long time, but I worried that the stage fright would drive it clean out of my head.
Instead, it worked for me. As I started out of the dream, I felt the adrenaline drill a hole in the bottom of my stomach. I shook all over. I knew I was wild-eyed and unable to hold still. And then I realized I looked as I was supposed to--frightened out of my mind. Nothing else could have prompted Richard's contemplation. Everything clicked into place, in an enforced method acting sort of way. When I said "Cold, fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh," it wasn't anything more or less than the truth. Of course, I am not Richard, but the rest flowed from there. It was wonderful.
Then I gave a voluntary extra-credit presentation on music in Shakespeare. It went beautifully, and I sang for the class, and my voice sounded better than it ever had in practice.
I then left, went to lunch with friends, felt loved.
I visited my Shakespeare professor in his office hours, and he praised me, and we talked about the class at length, chatting like friends (which I hope we are), and he asked to record my singing for future classes. He told me my recitation actually accomplished the monumental task of, in a given production of Richard III, reversing three hours of unabated villainy and inspiring sympathy for the wretched man. I couldn't believe it.
I attended a dear friend's talk on his huge paper, which was about a Norman Archbishop and the doctrine of transubstantiation and the cults of the saints. It was fascinating, and he did incredibly well.
I then returned to my room and, not having much work for tomorrow, watched the season finale of season two of Slings and Arrows, a show I have rapidly fallen head-over-heels in love with (and will probably devote an entire post to when I have time). It was brilliant, as expected. I laughed out loud, even alone in my room, and other parts made me want to cry, and the Shakespeare (yes, it's about a Shakespeare company) made me want to stand up and cheer.
It's a beautiful, sunny day outside.
Now I even have time to write some sort of personal reflection (this, in case you couldn't tell), something which has eluded me all term.
Yet, even as I write this, a gnawing fragment of panic sits in my stomach. I feel insecure and inadequate. I worry, worry, worry. So the question is obvious: why? Why the hell, after this bloody marvelous day, do I not feel more than 100% brilliant?
It has to do with my other classes, really. I'm in Astronomy, which is wonderful and I do very well in it because it's intro-level. But there's a final project coming up, and I don't feel I've at all done enough on it. I can't work on it now either, because it has to be observation done at night, so I feel helpless. The other is Spanish. Now, any of my friends could tell you I hate this class, not for the material, but for the professor. She's disorganized and terrible at reminding us to do things and not very interesting and an incredibly harsh grader. As a result, my grade has suffered. I plan to take the class Pass/Fail (called scrunching here), and I will pass, but years and years of working for the best possible result means that I feel like a failure for having to do that.
So actually, it has to do with my persistent self-esteem issues. Even now, on the most rewarding of days, I don't feel like I'm doing enough. A little bit of me hangs back, panicking, messing with my mind. It probably always will.
I just have to learn to get past it.
Sorry for angsting at whoever reads this. I just had to put it all down.
Most of this is due to my Shakespeare class, which has been throughout this term one of the best and brightest things in my life. Today was recitation day. We had a quiz on the Tempest, which I aced with ease, and then I watched my classmates recite pieces of the work of one of my favorite writers with passion, clarity, and good humor. I heard old favorites ("To be or not to be," "St. Crispin's Day," "Now is the winter of our discontent") and new loves ("I left no ring with her," "Who's him that says I am a villain"). I saw some of the quietest people give moving performances, and no one suffered a crisis.
As to my own speech, I was put last, and so my stage fright (incredibly strong though I've performed my whole life) was in full force. I was doing the "Soft! I did but dream" soliloquy from Richard III, a work that by turns awes, excites, and terrifies me. In that speech, that personal musing born out of the horror of a nightmare and the pangs of guilt, the charming, villainous, magnetic, ambitious, nigh-invulnerable Richard has his downfall, and it is no one else's doing. He simply loses faith in himself and his right to upend the world for his goals. It is a portrait of the breaking of a man, and it all happens in his own mind.
I adore it.
Here is the text, so that everyone who reads this can adore it:
*In his dream, Richard is visited by the ghosts of everyone he has killed (11 people), and they prophesy his death in battle the next day*
[KING RICHARD III starts out of his dream]
Give me another horse: bind up my wounds.
Have mercy, Jesu!--Soft! I did but dream.
O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me!
The lights burn blue. It is now dead midnight.
Cold fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh.
What do I fear? myself? there's none else by:
Richard loves Richard; that is, I am I.
Is there a murderer here? No. Yes, I am:
Then fly. What, from myself? Great reason why:
Lest I revenge. What, myself upon myself?
Alack. I love myself. Wherefore? for any good
That I myself have done unto myself?
O, no! alas, I rather hate myself
For hateful deeds committed by myself!
I am a villain: yet I lie. I am not.
Fool, of thyself speak well: fool, do not flatter.
My conscience hath a thousand several tongues,
And every tongue brings in a several tale,
And every tale condemns me for a villain.
Perjury, perjury, in the high'st degree
Murder, stem murder, in the direst degree;
All several sins, all used in each degree,
Throng to the bar, crying all, Guilty! guilty!
I shall despair. There is no creature loves me;
And if I die, no soul shall pity me:
Nay, wherefore should they, since that I myself
Find in myself no pity to myself?
Methought the souls of all that I had murder'd
Came to my tent; and every one did threat
To-morrow's vengeance on the head of Richard.
Gorgeous. A monster to act, because the thought process behind the direct contradictions has to be clear. How can he say "Is there a murderer here? No. Yes, I am" and make any sort of sense? I had been working on this for a long time, but I worried that the stage fright would drive it clean out of my head.
Instead, it worked for me. As I started out of the dream, I felt the adrenaline drill a hole in the bottom of my stomach. I shook all over. I knew I was wild-eyed and unable to hold still. And then I realized I looked as I was supposed to--frightened out of my mind. Nothing else could have prompted Richard's contemplation. Everything clicked into place, in an enforced method acting sort of way. When I said "Cold, fearful drops stand on my trembling flesh," it wasn't anything more or less than the truth. Of course, I am not Richard, but the rest flowed from there. It was wonderful.
Then I gave a voluntary extra-credit presentation on music in Shakespeare. It went beautifully, and I sang for the class, and my voice sounded better than it ever had in practice.
I then left, went to lunch with friends, felt loved.
I visited my Shakespeare professor in his office hours, and he praised me, and we talked about the class at length, chatting like friends (which I hope we are), and he asked to record my singing for future classes. He told me my recitation actually accomplished the monumental task of, in a given production of Richard III, reversing three hours of unabated villainy and inspiring sympathy for the wretched man. I couldn't believe it.
I attended a dear friend's talk on his huge paper, which was about a Norman Archbishop and the doctrine of transubstantiation and the cults of the saints. It was fascinating, and he did incredibly well.
I then returned to my room and, not having much work for tomorrow, watched the season finale of season two of Slings and Arrows, a show I have rapidly fallen head-over-heels in love with (and will probably devote an entire post to when I have time). It was brilliant, as expected. I laughed out loud, even alone in my room, and other parts made me want to cry, and the Shakespeare (yes, it's about a Shakespeare company) made me want to stand up and cheer.
It's a beautiful, sunny day outside.
Now I even have time to write some sort of personal reflection (this, in case you couldn't tell), something which has eluded me all term.
Yet, even as I write this, a gnawing fragment of panic sits in my stomach. I feel insecure and inadequate. I worry, worry, worry. So the question is obvious: why? Why the hell, after this bloody marvelous day, do I not feel more than 100% brilliant?
It has to do with my other classes, really. I'm in Astronomy, which is wonderful and I do very well in it because it's intro-level. But there's a final project coming up, and I don't feel I've at all done enough on it. I can't work on it now either, because it has to be observation done at night, so I feel helpless. The other is Spanish. Now, any of my friends could tell you I hate this class, not for the material, but for the professor. She's disorganized and terrible at reminding us to do things and not very interesting and an incredibly harsh grader. As a result, my grade has suffered. I plan to take the class Pass/Fail (called scrunching here), and I will pass, but years and years of working for the best possible result means that I feel like a failure for having to do that.
So actually, it has to do with my persistent self-esteem issues. Even now, on the most rewarding of days, I don't feel like I'm doing enough. A little bit of me hangs back, panicking, messing with my mind. It probably always will.
I just have to learn to get past it.
Sorry for angsting at whoever reads this. I just had to put it all down.