The thing about Shakespeare...

Is that he always seems to need a heck of a lot of words to say something that could be said in what? Two? I mean yeah yeah, literary genius, language devices, that's all very well, but when I'm trying to learn my lines and I'm repeating six or seven thou's and hateth's when I could say what I'm trying to learn in six or seven words (and I'm a verbose sort of person) you do have to wonder what was going through the great man's head. I mean, really!
Ok, so lets be honest, when he wrote the play 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' it's...unlikely the poor bloke was in his right mind, (and using Puck to apologise, cos even if he's having a funny phase, that man could self edit). Don't get me wrong, I love how bonkers it is- kind of like me, but you look at Midsummer and then you look at, say, Hamlet, and you think, yeeeaahh, ok Shakespeare...
Mind you, he was a funny guy. I mean, I don't think I've ever had the fortune to partake in such amusing rehearsals, I spent most of the time on the floor laughing (and the rest of the time on the floor holding onto the legs of my true love, who hates me). Whether he was a farm boy or a secret Royal (I don't buy the whole gang of people idea, I mean c'mon, they'd have to have a Hive mind to synchronise their style to that degree, and I don't think there were ever that many people who were that brilliant in the same place) Shakespeare was brilliant. A bit like any one of you.
Because Shakespeare, if I'm honest, in my opinion was absolutely exceptional, and I'm not saying that any of you are going to sit down one day and write Macbeth, the sequel. At the same time though, no matter how low your self-esteem, how bad your latest grade or what kind of job/lifestyle/family you've got at the moment, I think it's important to realise that each and every one of you is brilliant. (Especially you, since you read my blog, obviously. ha) Because it's true! There's something special about every single person I've ever met, and I've got to tell you, it continues to astound me. Whether they can sneeze like donald duck,(yeah I know, so cool!!) or just know exactly what to say and when to say it.
Because if you think about it, it's not necessarily the fairies or the Athenians or the dukes that stick in your head when you watch A Midsummer Night's Dream, it's not those fantastic costumes or fancy (over worded) speeches, their ceremony or power. I tell you what, when I saw it the first time when I was twelve, all anyone could talk about was the mechanicals. A bunch of ordinary, average, clumsy people putting on a play in a play. The least remarkable characters, the ones who's very creation was a joke- and yet even as they stumble through their lines and overact into a tragedy so prolonged it's funny, they're great.
And maybe that's what was quite so stunning about Shakespeare. Not the sheer brilliance, or the way he painted words into a dance of tongues and an explosion of colour and emotion. Just the way he could recognise and forge something extraordinary into anyone or anything. Or maybe he just brought out what was already there.
It's a bit like my director said- it's all very well to want to enhance the mystery by saying there's some kind of conspiracy behind Shakespeare and his plays, something to make the intellectuals feel better and us ordinary folk less intimidated.
But isn't it magical enough to just think that some bloke, just an ordinary, average bloke five hundred years ago sat down in an inn with an old feather and a pot of ink and made something so beautiful, so brilliant, so outstanding that it's still alive even today, throbbing at the heart of our society?
Thinking like that, I guess I can probably forgive Shakespeare all those words. But just this once.

Gimme a sec..

..I'm feeling sentimental. Hello all! Did ya miss me? 'Course not, miss never ever updates any more can't be too popular around her lovely readers at the moment, but I promise I'm going to make it up to you. Promise. Really. I've written the post and everything, just in case I forgot. However, first off, I really am feeling rather sentimental, and I just wanted to say a token farewell to David Tennant. Yes, I watch Doctor Who but lets be honest, I've done worse. (I'll give you a clue, it starts with T and ends with t and has got a whole lot of guilty pleasure but not all that much plot in the middle) And really, David Tennant is just a fantastic actor, and that last episode was brilliant. Maybe Russel T Davies could have made it a touch more believable, but it was epic, and Tennant flew through it, pulling on my heartstrings, and even convincing a few tears (ok I admit, I was sobbing). It's a new year, a new doctor, new resolutions (ever actually kept to 'em?Yeah thought not, haha) In fact there's quite a lot of new things, but lets just have a moment to say goodbye to last year- 'cos you know what? It was fantastic.

Britain's education system...

You know the real problem with British school's these days? You know- apart from the obvious incapable dealings with the weather, persistent struggle against the addition of any useful subjects, abhorrence of a decent exam board or system and insistence on 'talking about our feelings.' Seriously, apart from all that, you know the real problem with British education today? Stationary. Well, stationary refunds, anyway.

Because, you see, in the past two weeks I've been doing practice examinations for my GCSE's, (which lets be honest, will be almost completely irrelevant by 2011) and I've got a really big problem with the way my school's been running things. I'm not referring to the 'men' in power's pointless struggle against mother nature and their own pride, or the bizarre tenacity with which the school insists on cramming two weeks worth of exams into one with only half their pupils present. No. I'm talking about the fact that before I travelled my 6,000 miles to go to school, I, like a good little school girl, got myself a new pack of pens. 4 of them, black Biro's, as specified by the exam boards our school has chosen (in it's infinite wisdom) to associate itself with.OK, I'll admit that one was, inevitably lost in the etha, most likely whilst my brother and I conversed in Pig Latin whilst going through security in Paris- (we were a little 'slaphappy' what with having just travelled for 13 hours watching my mini TV go technicolor and trying to convince ourselves the strange pieces of meat in our little tin foil packs really were pork, really...). However, the other three, perfectly fine looking, decent, average black Biro's remained in my possession. I even managed to get them to school.

In fact, I hung onto them whilst I unpacked my things (again), the boarders went on our weekend trip to the closest shopping centre (again) and I got soaked and freezing and hyper in a snowball fight (again).

But now, with my 'actual' GCSE biology, French reading and History exam looming, I find I am without a suitable implement, and I really honestly think I deserve recompensing.

Why you ask? Because, that school has destroyed all three of my lovely new black Biro's in less than two full weeks! No, my physics teacher did not finally lose all sense of reason and put them on the ice in front of his car before running them over repeatedly whilst cackling madly in his latest attempt to shut me up. No, because of our mock exams, all three pens are completely out of ink!

I mean, I know I've been criticised for being somewhat verbose, but it was all the school's fault for setting the questions in the first place- I swear! Really, they demanded that I wrote a sum total of 52 A4 pages so far...honest!

And now look! Three more big exams and I don't even have a pen. Can't even recycle it! I mean it's no wonder they've got problems with excess waste, the amount of exams we're having these days...I mean that's a heck of a lot of black Biro's!

Lets face it, climate change is happening, and it has been for a long time, and always has been going to (ice age anyone?), whether or not it's global warming speeding it up for quite such an eclectic multitude of reasons is debatable, but really, instead of looking back on a past we can't change, shouldn't we be looking forward to future that we can prepare for, and a present in which we can act?

I mean seriously, they're the educators, they ought to be providing the stationary in the first place! And whatever happened to the pencil?

Photos

It is a surprising but true urban myth that people living in the so-called ‘Third World’ think if their photo is taken, then their soul is captured inside the machine, and then pressed onto paper. They seem to be under the impression that their soul has been trapped: caged, you could say- and this will somehow prevent them from continuing to the next life after death.

I have no idea if this is true- having not yet died, it’s impossible to know. I do know that not everyone in the third world believes this- but there is an element of fear in seeing yourself on a piece of paper, and from a trip backpacking in India, I know at least a few uphold the superstition.

I’ll never forget when my mother took the photo of a young boy in India - his reaction was so unusual to me, it has remained in my mind clearly to this day: a feat which my maths homework has yet to accomplish. Mum took the photo whilst the boy watched curiously from his perch on a slightly rotting gate- when the flash went, he gave a little cry and threw his hands to his face, but realizing quickly there was no danger, he relaxed almost instantly. Mum came closer whilst he watched warily, although he smiled a little as she spoke to him (she’s good with kids). When she turned the digital camera round to show him his photo, he nearly fell off the gate in surprise- then he grabbed the camera and peered more closely at the tiny image, all but pressing his nose to the screen. He poked different parts of his face that he saw in the camera and rubbed his hair. Then he started to giggle, and laugh hysterically- he called his friends over, and all of them stared at the camera with expressions ranging from blank confusion to great amusement.

Eventually the boy gave Mum back the camera- smiling from ear to ear, and when we left, he and his friends chased after the truck, waving and laughing. His grandmother tried to give him to us; so he could have a better future, since he was an orphan and she knew she did not have much longer to live. We couldn’t take him, of course- but I wish we’d found out his name.

I only mention this because it seems a polar opposite to the far east’s obsession with photography. I’ve even seen the Hong Kong Chinese taking pictures of themselves and each other next to unremarkable office building, in Hong Kong! I’ve never understood it, and was only more bewildered when I had a close encounter of the Chinese Polaroid kind.

I was paddling in the sea, on a beach with some friends of ours- occasionally diving and jumping off the pontoon, but otherwise minding my own business- when two random Chinese guys came over and asked me, in poor and heavily accented English that was nonetheless polite, to take a photo with them.

At first, I presumed, so bizarre was their request, that they were asking me to take a photo of them with the camera a young girl who I could only assume to be their sister was holding. I gestured for the girl to give me the camera, getting out of the surf and wondering if my salty hands would damage it, when the boys shook their heads and repeated their request. Blushing and confused now, I asked them why, but they just repeated the question again, and I guessed that they either didn’t understand, or chose to ignore my own inquiry.

Unhappy and uncomfortable, I stood impassively, trying for a closed mouth smile as the girl took a photo with the boys on either side. Afterwards, they thanked me profusely, and I returned to paddling with our friends, waiting for them to burst out laughing or receive some loud exclamation from their friends or ask someone else for a photo. But they did none of the above, simply taking a few photos with each other and the girl before packing up their things and going to the pier to catch a boat back to wherever they came from.

I still don’t know what that was about- but I can see the convoluted attraction in a world based entirely upon artificial image in different places, with different people, at different times of your life- trying to preserve it on glossy paper, even as it slips away; because you can’t see it with unclouded eyes. A cage for our soul, or simply our eyes- perhaps the camera has provided a trap, albeit a pretty one, which is almost impossible to escape…Or maybe not: I wouldn’t know, I can only speculate.

I may have been some time...

Well, you've got to love Captain Oats, what with the heroic last words and all. You probably don't love me as much though, and it's understandable- I mean, I haven't posted in...how long? You see, THIS is why I never used my diary... Anyway, I'm NOT going to bore you with trips to Cambridge, Typhoon 8's in Hong Kong, random excursions to Wales and Somerset. I most certainly will NOT be mentioning scaling waterfalls and bathing in fresh water streams- or speed boating and yacht racing and nearly ripping my leg open in shark/pink dolphin infested South China sea on a paid job. And there's no way I'm even mentioning the massive black, yellow, red and green spider that was in the banana plantation next door and looked like something from a joke store in a completely non funny way. I'm not going to bore you with tales of the burmese python having been caught after eating a dog a month, including huskies. I will not drone about going boogie boarding in Australia, or missing the Perseid meteor shower but seeing wild dolphins, the milky way and numerous shooting stars. Surprisingly however- that then leaves me without that much to say. Oh well, maybe next time.
From somehwere in Australia, listening to 'Daydreamin' Blues', Kat.

Back to the alps- part two from Easter

So, I'm back, and since I'm ludicrously far behind, I think I'll just get started. So, where were we? Oh yes, graveyard barbeque's. Right, lots of things happened after that- include my mother and I dicing with death around the arc de triumph, and never actually following the cycle paths or going the right way down a one way street. No, I realise its not safe- actually, I realised it wasn't safe when a sixteen wheeled lorry overtook me and the wing mirror almost clipped my ear- it wasn't exactly chamomile tea on the relaxation meter I have to say. Anyway, eventually, we took our bicycles back; only to find that my mother bike wouldn't go back inside the funny beepy metal thingy. (don't ask, I'm not good with machines) Anyway, what it came down to was that it was getting dark and my mother was panicking, which was when the parisien bike people turned up. Which as also when my mother got down on the pavement on this funny little road island outside the Gare de Lyon and upended her handbag onto the ground- now in full panic mode. Amused I tried to get her to calm down- we hadn't broken or lost the bike, that much was obvious and now the authorities were here to help, not punish. My mother however, could see and hear nothing but the idea of a 300 euro fine,a d continued searching frantically through assorted tissues, tickets and makeup. The guy looked at me, and we began to have a conversation in french about what had happened, what they could do, and why my mother was bordering on the realms of the clinically insane. Eventually, everything was ok. Well, sort of ok, until we met up with my Dad a few days later and he told us we'd spent something like 800 euros on our little cycle. Suffice to say we won't be doing that again. Now, I think it's time I mention my brother's location- you may be wondering where in the general area of France, Hong Kong, and Sheffield he'd actually ended up, whilst me and my parents were on our whirlwind romp through Paris. Actually, he was in the Alps already with my Grandparents, where he was skiing up and down and doing stunt man jumps through more physical space than my mother, father and I covered in all our three days in the French capital. Unfortunately for me, this meant that when I got there, my reputation as skier extraordinaire was somewhat diminished. Still, we had fun, bombed (as in skiied fast down) black runs with my grandpa and father, leaped off ice jumps, chussed down blues for the hell of it and just had a laugh. Eventually, after my grandparents left, we even convinced Mum-who's slightly less sure of herself when it comes to standing on two 5cm wide planks of fibreglass and sliding down ice covered mountains-to actually come out as well. As much as I think we made progress, I have to admit my low point was definitely when, at a rest stop restaurant just off the piste, my mother leaned forwards whilst I supped my coke and told me there were a lot of similarities between me and Hitler. Suffice to say I comically spurted my last mouthful in shocked amusement- I mean, I thought I'd been being nice! Still, all it took was a cup of the best hot chocolate in the world from a cafe called Face Nord to settle our disagreement, and we ended up leaving the alps through the half building, half tent that was the airport in relative happiness- neglecting to mention to my brother the crazy guy in the parisien metro who thumped me for sitting down, and the other one who was about 23 who wanted to know if I wanted to go for a drink. When it comes to multi national 12 year old brothers, some things are better left unsaid.
Will update with part 3 soon, keep reading!

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