Sometime of the Night

As you may have gathered, I have turned my little black box into use as a journal of sorts. And this week has been particularly strange in that my Thursday was actually Wednesday, and it trickled downward from there. It is rather humorous, for example, to take a cab with a double gin and tonic in hand and explain to the cab driver that all is well and that it is just water. Supreme.

I look forward to watching the third episode of this season's LOST, which I have thus far been unable to catch due to activities extracurricular. I look forward to devouring more from Greenblatt's so excellent "Will in the World". Warhol was right. The idea of waiting for something makes it more exciting.

There is a speculation mentioned early on in that piece about how a young 11 year old Shakespeare might very well have found his way to see Her Majesty Elizabeth's appearance at a show in Kenilworth in 1575 where the players were, shall we say, underwhelming, and he then captured some of this memory in scenes of A Midsummer Night's Dream directed toward the virgin Queen.

As Greenblatt states, "... the playwright relied not on elaborate machinery but on language, simply the most beautiful language any English audience had ever heard". Tonight shall be ever restful. And a happy Friday to you to.

OBERON

Well, go thy way: thou shalt not from this grove
Till I torment thee for this injury.
My gentle Puck, come hither.
Thou rememberest
Since once I sat upon a promontory,
And heard a mermaid on a dolphin's back
Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath
That the rude sea grew civil at her song
And certain stars shot madly from their spheres,
To hear the sea-maid's music.

PUCK

I remember.

OBERON

That very time I saw, but thou couldst not,
Flying between the cold moon and the earth,
Cupid all arm'd: a certain aim he took
At a fair vestal throned by the west,
And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow,
As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts;
But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft
Quench'd in the chaste beams of the watery moon,
And the imperial votaress passed on,
In maiden meditation, fancy-free.
Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell:
It fell upon a little western flower,
Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound,
And maidens call it love-in-idleness.
Fetch me that flower; the herb I shew'd thee once:
The juice of it on sleeping eye-lids laid
Will make or man or woman madly dote
Upon the next live creature that it sees.
Fetch me this herb; and be thou here again
Ere the leviathan can swim a league.

PUCK

I'll put a girdle round about the earth
In forty minutes.

Exit