“Two Protons”

How did Shakespeare do it? He wrote an entire play (maybe more than one) in iambic pentameter – defined as a poem featuring five feet (or “iambs”) per line. An iamb is two or three syllables with emphasis on the second or third syllable, i.e., “two households, both alike in dignity.” A two-syllable word can be a single iamb, i.e. “alike”, because the emphasis is on syllable number two.

I know. If you’re not a poetry geek – and I’m not – who cares? I am, however, a Shakespeare fan and enough of a word geek to look at Will’s genius and see it as something within my ability to emulate. I mean, five beats per line. How hard can it be?

Harder than it looks, that’s for sure! I wasn’t aiming for a full-length play, either; just a poem. A simple verse that doesn’t even rhyme! My natural rhythm is four iambs per line. Creating space for that fifth beat just about did me in. In fact, this grandiose notion occurred almost a year ago. It slipped off my radar when it proved more difficult than I’d expected and less complex things distracted me from the challenge. It resurfaced last week, when I decided to resume drafting blog posts during my lunch break. I blew the dust off my office “blog log”, took it to my not-normal café, ordered a chocolate chai with extra foam, opened the journal’s cover, and a piece of paper – well-scribbled upon – fell onto the table. Oh, ye gods, I thought, my nod to Shakespeare!

Upon revisiting my effort, I decided it wasn’t that bad. It was, in fact, pretty good, and so my chocolate chai sat cooling by my elbow as I spent the next half-hour counting syllables and rearranging iambs into something loosely resembling a Shakespearean-style verse.

And so, with apologies to the Bard and no further ado, I humbly present my minuscule ode to soul sistah Ter, who is always my better half.

Enjoy!

* * *

Two protons, mirrored in identity,

being sprung from a singular atom, when split and parted

do remain connected as if by a force unseen,

unknown yet known by far better than each knows itself.

For home and home exist with these particles.

’Cross stars and space, identical response is prov’n.

Though dust and dark matter conspire to confound, the bond

Ne’er breaks nor weakens. Twin parts of one whole, space is

an illusion, and real for one is as much for the other.

Reading Material

I’m one-third of the way through my annual visit to The Night Circus and it’s as magical as ever despite its familiarity. There are no throwaway scenes, no skip-over passages; in fact, there are scenes where I wriggle with delight at what I know is to come. Everything is so beautifully executed. It’s a joy to read.

The best book this year was ML Rio’s debut novel If We Were Villains, and unexpected feast that I was compelled to pick up and subsequently read twice in a row. I finished the last page, then flipped immediately to the first and started over again—in the same sitting! A book that good is always a treasure, probably because they’re so rare. Villains was favourably likened to Donna Tartt’s The Secret History, so I proceeded to read that as well.

It wasn’t the same at all. None of the characters was remotely likable, and the tragic secret that bound them was something I’d have done just because the guy was so insufferably irritating. Nor did I find the professor who supposedly seduced his idiot students into committing the original, accidental, crime particularly charismatic. The whole story left me utterly cold.

But the most disappointing read of 2017 had to be Juliet’s Nurse. The premise was certainly intriguing, especially to a Shakespeare fan who has three different versions of Romeo and Juliet on DVD (and Tybalt steals the show in every one), but the execution fell far short of the expectation. It’s hardly the author’s fault that I’d hoped for a new twist on the tragedy and she gave me more of the nurse’s background than I anticipated. The kids weren’t even born at the beginning of this story. Once I realized that we weren’t starting with the Montague/Capulet conflict in full swing, it was quite engaging, and it was a bonus to meet Tybalt as a child, even if it was never entirely clear why he grew up with such a hate-on for the Montagues. The so-called blood feud was barely explained let alone investigated, but what really bugged me was the portrayal of Juliet as a sweet young thing and Romeo as an awkward stripling suddenly turned conniving traitor to the precious girl’s tender (ha!) heart.

I’m sorry but, hello? Has the author even read the play? Seen the movie? Romeo as a double-crossing womanizer? Seriously? I have never seen him as anything other than a poet with heroic intentions too easily foiled by fate and his own romantic nature. Juliet, on the other hand, is a pampered, impetuous firebrand whose willful passion drives the whole story.

So, toward the end of the novel, I was reading to get it over with, caring nothing for any of the players and bitter that the news of Tybalt’s death was given tabloid drama status and the reason for it never fully defined—except, of course, for that amoral scoundrel being solely responsible. Honestly, when I wasn’t impatient with the nurse’s histrionics, I was snickering at the play by play. I was saved by my library card on this one—I borrowed rather than bought the book, which had been haunting me for some while. In the end, the story I told myself about the story was far better than the story I was told!

It’s good to be reading again, though. Of late, I haven’t been as immersed in words as much as behooves my creativity; I can’t write if I don’t read, as it seems I need the work of other writers to inspire me. I have learned how to write (and how not to write!) through their efforts, for all of which I am grateful whether or not I actually enjoyed the experience. I think now, with few weeks of vacation ahead and my mind turning from mere survival to more pleasurable pursuits, it might be time to renew my passion for my craft and see where it takes me.

I Wish I Wrote That!

books that deserve to be read

The Night Circus

Station Eleven

If We Were Villains

Each of these novels had me rending my garment on first read, they were so astoundingly, beautifully written. I’ve read the first four times in four years (with the fifth scheduled for this Christmas). I’ve read the second twice, with the third time pending. I’ve just finished racing through the third, and fully intend to read it again, slowly, to savour the details missed in my zeal to see what happens next. Magical tales in their own right, the language and style of the authors (all women—coincidence?) is pure art. Villains was partly written by Shakespeare, as it features hefty chunks culled from his plays, but he also inspired the “pidgin Bard” bandied so easily between the characters. Geez, it was an astonishingly gorgeous read; I fell so deeply into the story that it became real at the expense of my reality—and it urged me to improve my own craft.

I love English. I treasure grammar as much as I do the imagery conjured by the words. Prose can be poetry, after all, and after relishing novels like these three (among others), I long to be a poet myself.

I have had no problem with purple hyperbole in the past, but the glory in these novels lies in the simple beauty of language. A few well-chosen words can ignite brighter joy and sharper horror than a rampant stream of syllables. This trio of young women has created a wonderland in words, and though I may be similarly gifted, I am always in awe when a story excites my imagination and no scene is filler.

I love to write. I love to read. I can’t do one without doing the other (I must read more!), and why would I want to, when inspiration and aspiration are stimulated as one?

While I’m raving, I must include Z in the list of books I wish I’d written. It’s a completely different story in a completely different style, yet executed with the same respect for the written word and the talent to portray raw emotion as airbrushed fancy. Strong characters will always drive a story, of course, but set design and stage direction are important, too. Keeping it simple is the hard part. I struggle with it every time I put pen to paper. Books like those at the top of this post do more than entertain me. They teach me, absorb me, frustrate me, excite me, and inspire me.

They also exhaust me—and that’s the most fun of all!

How Goes It, Will?

 

 

Yesterday was the final day of Shakespeare’s “first folios” exhibit at the UVic Legacy Art Gallery – located a paltry two blocks from the office. Four folios under glass, each with a write-up to give meaning to the visual. Ter and I meant to go last weekend, but our plans were waylaid and the event fell off our radar. If a co-worker hadn’t reminded me this afternoon, I would have missed seeing them. Even if you don’t like Shakespeare, as a writer, one must pay due homage. Fortunately, I love Shakespeare.

 

However, I admit I am unfamiliar with more than the titles of the bulk of his work. Of his entire output, I’ve actually seen four plays (and on film rather than live, my bad): Romeo and Juliet, The Taming of the Shrew, Hamlet, and Othello; but, like most folks, I am aware of so much more – too many to mention here. The folios exhibit only served to remind me that I have but scratched the surface of his genius. Fortunately, his plays are still produced and performed at every turn, on TV, at the beach, at the playhouse, on Youtube, on DVD and Blu-Ray. I reckon at some point we’ll see Hamlet talking to himself as a hologram.

 

So how can I say I love him when I hardly know him? Gee, can he being the most prolific, most famous, most revered and respected writer of all time have anything to do with it? His stuff has endured. Ironically, he was likely not as respected in his heyday as he is now – plays were naught but cheap entertainment and playwrights a gang of penniless charlatans in search of wealthy patrons to supplement their habit. I know what I’d have had to put out to get someone to support me … not that there were many (if any) female writers in Will’s time. Heck, we weren’t even allowed to play a female role on stage!

 

But back to the exhibit. Wow. I took some time from work and hiked over, grateful in the end that the display is so small, as I was able to knock it off in twenty-five minutes. Two of the folios are actually owned by the Legislative Library here in Victoria!?! Each was opened to a relevant page but the print is so small that I couldn’t get close enough to read without concussing myself on the glass. No matter. It was enough to learn that Charles I owned a copy of the first folio at some point (not the one I saw, but one in the 1632 print run) and had scribbled notes in the margins while languishing in prison. And a fair number of copies of the third folio, while awaiting binding, were destroyed in the Great Fire of London in 1666, which makes copies of them extremely rare. Who knew?

 

If I stood and stared for long enough, my mind – as with the dialogue when spoken – began to interpret the words so that they made sense. I still can’t fathom why, in the 17^th century, the letter “s” was printed as “f”; it really does confuse things. And might have caused me a moment’s embarrassment had I laughed out loud over “Richard the Fecund” in the second folio’s table of contents. Just looking at the tiny print and the absurd spelling of so many words was humbling. So much of our daily vernacular was sprung from those pages. They say he had a vocabulary of over 8,000 words. I have no idea if that’s good or not, but it sure sounds impressive. However many words he had at his command, he made the most poetic use of them. He had an enviable grip on emotional manipulation of the audience, that’s for sure!

Wherefore Art Thou, Romeo?

More care to stay than will to go ...

Romeo and Juliet are like vampires: a permanent fixture in popular consciousness who lie dormant for a while then, when the cycle comes full circle, are revived once more. The latest version of Shakespeare’s homage to star-crossed love is adapted by Downton Abbey’s Julian Fellowes and produced in part by Swarovski Entertainment—the crystal people. Ter and I saw it on the weekend and yep, it’s a gem.

I’m a big Shakespeare fan, but not such a snob that I have issues with a writer tweaking the lingo. “Adaptation” suggests that a script will differ somewhat from the original, and what tinkering Fellowes did with the dialogue worked fine for me. The scenery was stunning, the plot true to form, and the lovers were indeed young enough if not to be actual teens then to be taken for them.

My benchmark production is Franco Zeffirelli’s 1968 version with Leonard Whiting and Olivia Hussey—that film boiled over with the tangled emotions of new love blooming amid ancestral hate. This one fell a little sort in that regard despite some serious smouldering by the fabulously hot-tempered Tybalt and the poetic portrayal of Romeo himself. The kid who played him made this movie more than a pretty bauble. He was Romeo: the sweet, ardent, honorable fool of Fortune. The guy who played Friar Laurence was equally good.

No complaint about anyone else, either. They all wielded Will’s words with relative ease. No society ever spoke in iambic pentameter, so it was refreshing to hear the iconic lines delivered with an everyday rhythm that made them sound natural. The one thing I would change—and Ter didn’t notice it, so I may be picking nits—was an overused soundtrack. There were scenes where the music was unnecessary and even, so I thought, intrusive. That said, this is easily the most beautiful version of the story I’ve ever seen, and I’m watching for more of Douglas Booth (Romeo) in future.

Zeffirelli’s masterpiece still trumps them all, and Baz Luhrmann’s modern-day version with Leonardo diCaprio and Clare Danes sits firmly in second place, but for sheer gorgeousness as well as a decent effort, this one is a hair more than too flattering sweet to be substantial.

Vanity, Thy Name is Vader

I’m a big fan of Star Wars. Okay, I’m more a Vader ho than a series fan, but hey, what can I say? I like tall men in boots, cloaks and black masks, and there’s a really hot and husky rhythm in his respirator. 

Admittedly, that may be too much information. My passion for the Dark Lord, however, is why I was particularly excited to see “Episode III: Revenge of the Sith” some years ago. Being third in the story sequence but sixth (and last) in the movie series, it promised to provide closure on the story of Anakin Skywalker’s betrayal of his Jedi training and descent into service of the evil Galactic Empire. This was the episode where we witnessed his transformation from star pilot hero to mechanized villain, or how a handsome and promising young warrior went so horribly, tragically wrong. 

Great garment-rending plot potential, yes? I thought so. But all six episodes are “leave your brain at the door” popcorn movies spinning the universal tale of good vs. evil, with the hero triumphant and the bad guy finding deathbed redemption. At its best, it’s a fun romp through space. At its worst, it’s a mindless monster that became an example of art imitating life by consuming its creator and spitting out the Emperor of Mass Marketing. No matter. I went in with my eyes wide open, caring solely for Anakin’s tipping point and Vader’s subsequent rise. 

Ter and I saw the movie before our dear friend Treena did. That we saw it first was a bit of a surprise, as Treena is a frequent cinema flyer averaging two or three movies per month. She’s also got fairly high standards when it comes to screenplays and dialogue. After I saw the film, she asked me how it was, I gushed, and she followed up with a question about the dialogue: Were there any memorable lines? 

“Treen,” I replied, exasperated, “this is Star Wars, not Shakespeare!” 

Some years later and I find this at the bookstore:

 

 

Oh, I am Fortune’s fool …