Epistemysics

Some theatre each day keeps the doctor away…

Castor and Pollux

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Sitting in the house this morning, listening to excerpts from the ACO’s next season, the following popped into my head: “No family is normal, but it’s those who try to be that you have to watch out for.”  (Or something along those lines.)  I thought it’d be a good opening line for a novel.  Probably not any type of novel that I’d want to write, though.  It’s very Anna Karenina, too, I think.

And now I’m sitting here this afternoon, and I can feel depression starting to seep in, and I suspect it’s because I haven’t written anything of my play for a while, being too absorbed in reading and other less useful activities.  God!  Why do I do this to myself?  Why haven’t I been writing?  Wallace, in a letter to DeLillo, said that he had problems with the task of regular writing, the keeping to a timetable and whatnot, the constant promises to oneself that are broken and rationalised away.  I know just how he feels.

Perhaps I should start something new, something…fun.  Not that my play is not fun, but now that it is more than idea, now that it has a shape and a projected shape, it suddenly has become something quite serious (or rather my relationship to it has become quite serious).  This is something that could get me somewhere.  But there’s a month or two of solid daily work to finish it, and I keep delaying, and delaying…  Maybe I need to transgress myself, to write something not useful, so that I will trick my psyche into writing more on the play.  If one takes up the call of writing, and escapes from the real world, where does one escape when the writing becomes your real world?

Moan, moan, moan.

I was just thinking the other day, “gee, I haven’t been depressed for a few months”.  Thank you, Irony.  Thank you.

But to something more productive this afternoon, I’ve been musing over usurping Shakespeare (as any modest writer does, of course).  Poetry is key, I think.  Poetry expresses something that cannot be expressed in prose, a sort of third dimension behind the words, when it’s done right.  If one wants to express more truths about character than Shakespeare, then one has to, while perhaps not out-poeting him, at least use poetry.

On expanding on Shakespeare’s psychology…  Perhaps the best way is to compare myself to Hamlet.  If I can find in myself something that isn’t in Hamlet, if I can find a method in my existence that isn’t represented in Hamlet, then I find something that Shakespeare never saw/chose to represent.  Easier said than done.

What makes a man?

Did Shakespeare ever explore a character’s shifting relation to his own memory?

Saw Castor and Pollux tonight.  Didn’t enjoy it as much as Griselda last year, but then I doubt anything could’ve lived up to it.  Music lacked a bit of pep.  But it had its moments.

So I ended up writing 23 lines on something new, though I don’t know anywhere near enough to make it go anywhere.  But it made a nice change.  Basically it was the opening of Richard III, except the character knew he was a character.  Very meta, very postmodern and all that.  Yeah.

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Written by epistemysics

December 6, 2012 at 1:28 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

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