enfinblue's Bluey (credit to Fifi for the nickname!) Diaryland Diary
"I am seeking, I am striving, I am in it with all my heart." -Vinc3nt V@n Gogh
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Shak3speare is a drunken savage with some imagination, whose plays please only in London and Canada." - Volt@ire
Who needs the French, anyhow? ;-)
I have been thinking tonight - as I rest my weary arse and prepare with dread to reembark upon work with my boss again present tomorrow - about two radio programs to which I listened with relative interest today.
The first was about some Shak3speare festival held in Str@tford--upon-Av0n, complete with diplomats in garden party hats, children dancing, and champagne cocktails. The show was a repeat broadcast, hence I wasn't really listening to it again this time. Unfortunately I can't remember the details from last time, either. I seem to have a tendency to multi-task, without doing any undertaken activity particularly well. But moving on...
The second was about the fact that no one writes letters anymore. (Well, dear BoXx has a bunch of us at least writing post cards, so that is a start. :))
It is true. I remember writing letters, and taking great pains to do so. Even now, when I write in long hand, I think, "What a lovely thing to do!"
Handwriting is now wickedly difficult for me because my hands have become untrained for anything but typing, but I just love to see the character of a person in his or her handwriting. For it is there. Typing is a very poor substitute.
This is so, you know. Just as "hugging trees is a poor substitute for having my arms around you." (THAT was one of the MOST romantic things my boyfriend Andrew, the theatre actor, ever wrote to me. He was delightfully...theatrical...)
But anyhow. That deserves a grand SIGH. The past is lovely but things are never the same again...
Where was I?
Oh. So they were talking about the epistolary form, and I was thinking, "Gee, I should write my diary as if I were writing a letter, instead of some new form of quick and dirty electronic purge."
So here goes:
My dearest diary,
I was thinking today that I might like to share with you how much I hope that Willi@m Shakespeare, The Bard, actually looked like the unauthenticatable
(You'll excuse me for the gross misstep, of course, of inserting HYPERTEXT into a LETTER.)
This portrait greatly resembles the Ch@ndos portrait, do you not think?
But this portrait has something more. It has a wink and a smile in it. It has an invitation to the pub and a smell of sweat and dirt and other unmentionable body odours about it. This portrait is living.
I suppose that if you were to ask me were there any historical figures whom I would have liked to have met, I would top the list with The Bard.
Second is difficult. This is not a question that I have pondered often, really. The answers to things like this accumulate in the back of my mind like the papers that pile up under my computer, or in confused piles on my desk at work: One day I just notice that they are there.
If you happen ever to encounter someone with a knowledge of time voyage and willing to share, Ed!th Wharton and Mary C@ssatt would also be high on my list. Oh and Modigli@ni. No, scratch Modigli@ni - I probably would have tried to save him. How about Frida K@hlo instead? And don't forget Jane Aust3n and George Eliot. Oh whatever. I simply must meet Modigli@ni, too. Besides, he slept with Anna Akhamatova, to whose nose the poet scientist once unflatteringly compared mine. Thank you.
Your ever-loving,
EB.
|9:57 p.m. - 2008-07-27
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
|
Come al solito - 2011-04-16 unfettered spending - 2011-04-15 How does it go? - 2011-04-14 Whirlwind. - 2011-04-13 bleak that flips over to daffodil - 2011-04-08 |