December 9th, 2003

darwinesque

Unravelling and Waiting for the Denouement...

I can entirely see how and why the philosophy behind The Matrix so utterly got into the psyches of mentalists and pushed them over the edge.

I'm wishing right now that this world I am in could be some invented reality...a dream from which I will awake, happy and safe...not alone and lost...

That, like Richard Bach's 'Jonathan Livingston Seagull', I could roll and dive towards the sheer cliff-face and come through into a better existence on the other side...

I spent my entire childhood wishing Narnia was real...I'd push through the wardrobe...arms outstretched...hoping to discover the Lantern Wastes and Mr Tumnus waiting for me...

Instead? In the words of the 'Grand Vizier' him/herself...

"So here we are.

Somewhere...

Still no nearer the Sultan's Palace..."

I'm trapped in one of Scheherezade's stories...with no control over what happens next...no idea where I'm going...buffetted about by ups and downs, waves of stupid emotions...

And Scheherezade herself doesn't seem to have an end in sight...just one tale after another after another...

I have no choice but to ride it out, and hope that I will reach the denouement safely...and that it will have a happy and satisfying end...

Ally McBeal has nothing on me.

What I want I cannot have. What I have I do not want.

And I cannot see an ending. This is no fairytale...but I so wish it was one...

*down the rabbit hole I go...spinning...past the familiar and onto the unfamiliar...into the dreaming and no hope of waking*
  • Current Music
    Depeche Mode : Blasphemous Rumours
darwinesque

Tired and ill...

Got to sleep at about 11am this morning...feeling really ill...had a migraine and was being sick all the time on an empty stomach...

Slept until 3pm...then had to get to theatre for the dress run.

Still being sick...still not eaten anything...only now I'm coughing up blood...

(terror visions of Moulin-Rouge lol...but I just smoked too much I suppose)

Dress run went relatively well...a few technical hiccups...and I mixed up one or two lines...but it will be fine.

We open tommorrow...and my first show is Thursday afternoon.

If you are wondering what I'm doing updating at this time of night when I should be at work...

I got sent home sick. Unpaid. But I was in no fit state to sit and type at a monitor ALL night...shouldn't be here now, but I'm going to bed in a bit...

Still feeling sick and migrainous...this had better pass before Thursday...

Ho hum.

*off to read over lines as usual*


'Death of Chatterton' : Henry Wallis


Thomas Chatterton
1752–70, English poet. The posthumous son of a poor Bristol schoolmaster, he was already composing the “Rowley Poems” at the age of 12, claiming they were copies of 15th-century manuscripts at the Church of St. Mary Redcliffe, Bristol. In 1769 he sent several of these poems to Horace Walpole, who was enthusiastic about them. When Walpole was advised that the poems were not genuine, he returned them and ended the correspondence. After this crushing defeat, Chatterton went to London in 1770, trying, with small success, to sell his poems to various magazines. On the point of starvation, too proud to borrow or beg, he poisoned himself and died at the age of 17. An original genius as well as an adept imitator, Chatterton used 15th-century vocabulary, but his rhythms and his approach to poetry were quite modern. The “Rowley Poems” were soon recognized as modern adaptations written in a 15th-century style, but the vigor and medieval beauty of such poems as “Mynstrelles Songe” and “Bristowe Tragedie” revealed Chatterton’s poetic genius. This gifted, rebellious youth later became a hero to the romantic and Pre-Raphaelite poets, several of whom, notably Keats and Coleridge, wrote poems about him.

The painting was exhibited with the following quotation from Marlowe:

'Cut is the branch that might have grown full straight
And burned is Apollo's laurel bough.'
  • Current Music
    Sisters of Mercy : Bury Me Deep