Seeking Wild

Another classic play, except the playwright himself is messed up.

This is one of the central problems for a Muslim trying to do oral interpretation: is it possible to separate a text from its author? If so, then how is that done? From our perspective, there is no deed without intention, a vessel does not pour out except that which is inside it. So how could a morally bereft person ever produce a literary text that actually has some merit?

I think that it should be clarified that when we perform something on the stage, we are not condoning it or becoming it. Often times the playwright is actually trying to achieve the opposite. For example, in a play like Volpone, Jonson is satirizing society and its deceitfulness.

This is not to say that it is okay for obscene things to occur on stage. Openly flaunting obscenity doesn't serve any purpose except to spread immoral things throughout society. But trying to show our inner flaws, to show us different angles of humanity, that's the purpose of performing.

Acting today has been so tarnished by Hollywood and co. that it is almost impossible to think of performance has anything but that. That's why we maybe need to produce a Muslim perspective of, oh, Macbeth or something. I think that would be cool.

Note: I am not talking about the Mosquers. It's a good idea, but I want to see some solid acting. For real.

"Of course, if they hit you with the bicycle the glass will not be half full or half empty, it will be shattered to pieces and you'll be dead or in the hospital."

Ode to a Seagull

If you haven't read this poem by Pablo Neruda, do it. This is why you should read poetry: it allows you to look at life in a starkly different and crystalline form.

I often come back to this: we ought to be thankful. And I'm not talking about Christopher Durang-style thankfulness, "You do not have cancer-at least not today." I mean the very fact that we can eat food and not have to poke ourselves with a needle is a simple blessing that millions don't have.

The ability to appreciate is the most precious of all.

The Long White Road

So.

Here I am once again, time slipping through my fingers like red rose petals, drifting slowly and inevitably. One fourth of my summer is already gone.

I am tired of making the same promises to myself, and not fulfilling them. Why is it that we need an external force to make us do things? Where does our inner drive to read books go the moment we step out of the University Pavilion?

Maybe there is no answer, except another question: What are you going to do about it?