shakespearean regrets

11.11.02 @ 7:47 p.m.

Shakespeare time, ha ha, big surprise. It is a monday night, after all.

Shakespeare class has made do what I usually think of as the unthinkable. I wrote... in a book. It's a crime to me to write in a book. I don't know. It feels... icky. I hate highlighting in books. And yet today I wrote *TONS* in my copy of King Lear. I've come to a decision regarding all my duplicate copies of Shakespeare plays. As I clearly cannot bring myself to part with many of them, I might as well write my notes, bring notice to themes and repeated words, etc. I scribbled all over Act 3 Scene 6 which today we staged in different ways.

I now curse my inability to act. I would have loved, loved to play Edgar once we actually got started. I was struck by inspiration, by a fantastic way to portray Edgar's pretended madness and because I was too late, because I could not speak, I was forced to watch my classmate's painful performance.

Okay, so he did pretty good, but he was as inhibited as, well, I am. I wanted to sit on the floor with my hair pulled in front of my face and mutter to myself and maybe make the teddy bear and panda barettes that I wore today on a whim speak some of the lines. I'd rock back and forth and hug my knees, and when 'the foul fiend bites my back,' I'd jump and stare accusingly at the table. Now I actually *want* to do the performance project rather than the paper, but who could I work with? I don't know anybody in that class.

Good fucking lord, E*'s watching Hamlet, yet another Hamlet and it's too much. It's just too much Shakespeare and I cannot take it. I just can't do it tonight. I suppose that means I'll have to go elsewhere and work on my story, I guess. And I need some chocolate, damnit.

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Previously

fuck it @ 08.01.05
fanciful imaginary sea voyages to come @ 07.20.05
*dies* @ 07.19.05
more ootp @ 07.17.05
harry potter: driving our children into devil worship @ 07.17.05