The poet's pen turns them to shapes

The Doctor and the Bard

Part of my day job is to evaluate school childrens' handwriting--to see if it's either too slow, illegible, or otherwise nonexistant, so as to warrant assistive technology. Usually, a specialized pencil grip or keyboarding practice is suggested. Ironic, then, that I have some of the worst handwriting  of any adult you will encounter. Sure, if I think about it and focus on making it legible, it looks fine, but why would I do that when 99% of my written communication is through a keyboard?

Even more ironic, then, that my father always writes in a precise, but not fastidious Copperplate at all times. He even has the artistic training and inclination to sweep out fanciful cursive scripts when the occasion calls for it. He loves computer gadgetry, but collects pens and writes all his notes by hand. And of course, he's a terrible hunt-and-peck typist.

So when the subject of cursive handwriting not being taught in schools anymore came up, we gently butted heads about the usefulness of handwriting in our modern era. Cursive was good enough for Shakespeare, right? Why isn't it good enough for me?

I learned cursive in school. My handwriting is much more legible in cursive than manuscript, but damn, does it cramp my hands after a paragraph. No wonder all these kids I see at work have issues. It takes more fine motor skills and muscles to create ink-on-paper words. Of course, if we had more practice, we'd be able to do it faster and with less pain. Practice is always the thing!

In school, I remember I'd be able to memorize things better if I wrote them down myself. Up until high school, when my computer fiend father inevitably got me a Palm Pilot and a portable keyboard, I wrote things out in longhand, and indeed, it helped my studying. But in college, when everything was done on my laptop in my dorm, typing was the only way to go. I still did fine in my studies, BTW.

But this past Christmas, when my dad gifted me a fanciful lined notebook of the type he was more apt to use on a regular basis, I wasn't sure what to do with it. I felt I should fill it with something worth the time and effort of carefully writing it in a legible hand. At that point, I was halfway through my Trippingly Project. What was more worthy of such a fine notebook than all the words I was burning into my brain every week?

Even now, I've only written eleven of the 40 speeches I've memorized into this notebook. It's hard, and takes concentration, because I can't fix it once it's set down. What pressure Shakespeare must have had to get it right the first time, what with how expensive paper and ink was in his time! I'm sure he made mistakes and added shit in the margins or deleted things with a scrawl. It's more visceral to see writing on paper; it's so much more permanent a record of a writer's thoughts and mental journeys. But damn, does it hurt. 

Cure for boring Shakespeare

There's no such thing as boring Shakespeare... unless you count Henry VIII ;)

If you're not already listening to this podcast, I pity thee. Especially now, since Ehren Ziegler has 100 fantastic episodes under his belt--wherein he breaks down the plays line by line, unpacking more meaning and context than you might never have thought possible. It's like a Shakespeare TARDIS. 

He recently commemorated his 100th with a very special show full of listener appreciation and fascinating theatre history. Also, he happens to give Trippingly on the Tongue his seal of approval. *wink wink*

Just thought I'd give a hearty HUZZAH shout-out to Ehren for his epic accomplishment and to wish him all the best to continue with the Chop Bard podcast and its awesomeness. I'm proud to be part of the Shakespeare blogging community :) 

Few love to hear the sins they love to act

He's got 99 problems and sea is definitely one.

Whenever you're feeling low, just read some of "The Painfull Aduentures of Pericles, Prince of Tyre" and you'll realize that your lot ain't that bad. Pericles gives Job a run for his money. He's shipwrecked, his wife dies, he gives up his daughter for adoption, vows not to shave, hears that his daughter is dead fourteen years later, and falls into nearly catatonic depression. Then this very hirsute gentleman is serenaded by his not-dead daughter and reunited with his not-dead wife and all is well. Only Doctor Who/Sherlock writers Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss write more infamously heartbreaking tales.

The story starts out innocently enough (or as innocently as Greek adventures go) with Antiochus' riddle. He offers his daughter's hand in marriage to whomever can solve it, but failure assures that the suitor's head will join the rest that so boldy furnish the anti feng-shui decor of the palace. Brave Pericles arrives and checks out the goods, then says he accepts the challenge of the riddle. He figures it out almost instantly: Antiochus is committing incest with his own daughter. This totally sinks Pericles' proverbial boat (he sinks his literal boat later), and he spouts this very subtle speech, delivered with a wink, which lets Antiochus know that the jig is up:

Pericles, Prince of Tyre, Act I, Sc. I

Pericles: Great king,

Few love to hear the sins they love to act;
'Twould braid yourself too near for me to tell it.
Who has a book of all that monarchs do,
He's more secure to keep it shut than shown:
For vice repeated is like the wandering wind.
Blows dust in other's eyes, to spread itself;
And yet the end of all is bought thus dear,
The breath is gone, and the sore eyes see clear:
To stop the air would hurt them. The blind mole casts
Copp'd hills towards heaven, to tell the earth is throng'd
By man's oppression; and the poor worm doth die for't.
Kings are earth's gods; in vice their law's their will;
And if Jove stray, who dares say Jove doth ill?
It is enough you know; and it is fit,
What being more known grows worse, to smother it.
All love the womb that their first being bred,
Then give my tongue like leave to love my head.

If music be the food of love, play on

Duke Orsino is in love with being in love. He's so hopelessly in love with it that he opines as he opens the play with his famous speech. It waxes with as apt a metaphor as any for that most coveted of emotional states, comparing love to plant life that must be fed--almost Audrey II-like--with so much nourishing music that it would rather die of being gorged than go without.

At the start of Twelfth Night, the Duke adores countess Olivia so much that he likens himself to a hart in the wood, passively and happily pursued by the "cruel hounds" of his desires. He lies back, awaiting Valentine, the messenger, to give him word of his beloved's condition. Unfortunately, she is so overwhelmed with grief over her brother's death that she swears to cloister herself in her chamber for seven years. Orsino, understanding and even exalting the depth of her passion expressed thusly, imagines how orgasmic things will be when she comes out of her funk and decides to focus all her affections on Orsino himself. 

For the Duke, the melancholy associated with spurned love is as exciting as love itself and he wallows in it for his own appetite's sake. He can't even get off his ass to woo this sad Olivia; he sends messengers--and even the cross-dressed Viola (calling herself Cesario)--to woo Olivia in his stead. He's so obsessed with being rejected and being in sickly sweet despair that he doesn't even notice that his boy Cesario is actually a woman who has fallen in love with him. Needless to say, all is well in the end, just as soon as the breeches and yellow cross-garters are set aside and everyone reveals their true selves.

Orsino would LOVE fandom culture if he were around today. Set him in front of a Netflix-connected TV and put on Downton Abbey or Sherlock or Doctor Who and he'll likely swoon with all the unrequited romances before him. Give him an iPad with fanfiction on it, and he'll definitely implode... or start a tumblr blog. Because being in a serious fandom is much like standing in a packed theatre watching a stirring play--they both give us an intimately shared emotional joyride. Smiles or tears, the feels alone are high fantastical.

Twelfth Night, Act I, Sc. I

Duke Orsino: If music be the food of love, play on;

Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.
That strain again! it had a dying fall:
O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound,
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odour! Enough; no more:
'Tis not so sweet now as it was before.
O spirit of love! how quick and fresh art thou,
That, notwithstanding thy capacity
Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there,
Of what validity and pitch soe'er,
But falls into abatement and low price,
Even in a minute: so full of shapes is fancy
That it alone is high fantastical.