Some theatre each day keeps the doctor away…

The Rape of Lucrece

with one comment

It was either today or yesterday, I can’t quite remember…  (I always used to be of the opinion, when actors and other people on TV were being interviewed, that it was a bit ridiculous that they couldn’t remember the specific years they had acted in their movies, or done whatever they were being asked about.  “How many years ago was that?” they might ask themselves.   “That was ’86, or ’87, or ’85, maybe,” and so on.  Why couldn’t they remember their own lives?  How hard could it be?  Yet now I find myself in the exact same position, and I’ve come to notice it more with theatre than anything else.  I’ll be writing a review and wanting to refer to a play I’d previously seen, and I find that I can’t be certain what year it was that I saw it in.  How similar we all are, yes?)

Anyway, it was either today or yesterday, that I was watching the tennis and listening to a commentator extolling the virtues of a particular player’s forehand (or backhand, or whatever).  They were going into the adjectives to describe how wonderful it was.

The point being, I wonder if anyone has ever fallen in love with someone’s backhand?  I doubt it.  But it seems like just the thing a Murakami character would obsess over.

I have this thought, and then I find, in South of the Border, West of the Sun, that one of the characters has parents who are really into tennis.  How the coincidences abound when one observes the world!

Or, in iambic pentameter:

What meaning comes to those who look for it!

The mind gives life to all coincidence.

How fast our minds rotate this world of grey,
And give sweet airs to bland coincidence.

How minds can salt such bland coincidence,
Then find the fate in random casseroles!

What destiny we see in scattered chance!

What destiny we claim from lazy dice!

Such destiny he plucks from casseroles!

He plucks his destiny from casseroles!

He chews God’s purpose from a casserole.

He bites the purpose from a casserole.

How fate is forged from passive happenstance.  (Two meanings of ‘forged’ there, too.)  Lazy happenstance.  Sleepy happenstance.

What fate we swirl out of life’s long melange.

How fate can manifest from false melange.

How quick a portent jumps at eager gaze!

He looks for consciousness in hurricanes!

Hmm, that’s enough, I think.  I could spend all day doing this.

Speaking of coincidence: yesterday on my walk I was pondering how I haven’t been particularly depressed lately.  Then, this afternoon, that breath-stealing hound of despair took home in my frame and didn’t let go.  I hate my lack of discipline, but working harder – striving – seems futile as well.  The world keeps turning regardless.

Sometimes I feel that charity can only exist when one is well.

And how does one will the internal away?

Saw The Rape of Lucrece at the York Theatre at the Seymour Centre tonight.  Acted by one woman, with a guy playing a piano.  The poem’s recited, plus also sung in parts.  Pretty good, pretty good.  First time I’ve encountered the poem, too.  (I had meant to read it after Venus and Adonis, but hadn’t got around to it yet.)

Plenty – plenty – of great lines in it.  Sigh.

Tarquin pondering the rape:

A dream, a breath, a froth of fleeting joy.
Who buys a minute’s mirth to wail a week?
Or sells eternity to get a toy?’

“sells eternity to get a toy” – that was probably the line that most stuck out at me tonight.  Mind you she repeated it thrice, as it was in a song.  It probably wouldn’t have hit me as hard if she hadn’t.  (In other news – I feel like I could write a line like that.  I don’t always feel that way about Shakespeare’s lines.)

I certainly look forward to reading it sometime in the n ear future, though.

Interestingly, I found myself, every now and then, checking the iambic in some of the lines she was saying.  Actually counting it on my fingers, like I do when I write.  Clearly I’m in the habit of listening for it now, or something.

36/whatever in the novel.


Written by epistemysics

January 23, 2013 at 12:00 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

One Response

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  1. Are you depressed? I dont’ have time to be depressed. but I think i should be. But whatever.

    Anyways, South of the border west of the sun is one good novel…

    Neil san

    January 24, 2013 at 12:01 pm

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