Author Archives: weinberg

poetry, theater

not to be abed after midnight

I might as well leave you with Toby and Andrew for the hiatus. I have been writing a poem about Twelfth Night. Writing poems about plays is, I suppose, like composing music about music. But I like it. Anyway, I hope these gentlemen take better care of you, SOS, than I have been since coming here. They are great fun to drink with, although a little repetitive. (R&G, anyone?) You say honestly. Rest you merry.

TWELFTH NIGHT, ACT II, SCENE III. OLIVIA’s house.
Enter SIR TOBY BELCH and SIR ANDREW

SIR TOBY BELCH
Approach, Sir Andrew: not to be abed after
midnight is to be up betimes; and ‘diluculo
surgere,’ thou know’st,–

SIR ANDREW
Nay, my troth, I know not: but I know, to be up
late is to be up late.

SIR TOBY BELCH
A false conclusion: I hate it as an unfilled can.
To be up after midnight and to go to bed then, is
early: so that to go to bed after midnight is to go
to bed betimes. Does not our life consist of the
four elements?

SIR ANDREW
Faith, so they say; but I think it rather consists
of eating and drinking.

SIR TOBY BELCH
Thou’rt a scholar; let us therefore eat and drink.
Marian, I say! a stoup of wine!

Standard
Baltimore, education, science

from the backhanded department

Last week, there were people standing outside the Hopkins bookstore handing out free copies of The Origin Of Species to everyone who passed by. The edition was published, and I have to assume the effort was funded, by these people – “publishing the changeless word for a changing world.” It’s a Florida-based Christian publisher – and the back cover tells us, “A wealth of scientific discoveries since 1971 give a resounding answer to whether Darwin’s theory has been proved,” and otherwise refers to evolution as “an unproved theory.”

An interesting way to make your point, handing out copies of the foundation text of the theory you’re arguing against. I would think that the arguments of the Darwin would outweigh the commentary they’re trying to package it with.

Also fun, from the cover: “This [edition] is for use in schools, colleges, and prestigious learning institutions.” Not for the un-prestigious. I wonder how many colleges in the South they’ve been handing these out in? And if one more person tells me that Baltimore isn’t in the South, I’m going to have to refer the matter to the enormous statue of Stonewall outside the door. It may not be the deep South, but it sure isn’t the North.

Standard
women, writing

His wife, after all, often waited tables to support him.

…until mid-1977, Raymond Carver was out of control. While teaching at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, he and John Cheever became drinking buddies. “He and I did nothing but drink,” Carver said of the fall semester of 1973. “I don’t think either of us ever took the covers off our typewriters.” Because Cheever had no car, Carver provided transportation on their twice-weekly booze runs. They liked to arrive at the liquor store just as the clerk was unlocking for the day. Cheever noted in his journal that Carver was “a very kind man.” He was also an irresponsible boozehound who habitually ran out on the check in restaurants, even though he must have known it was the waitress who had to pay the bill for such dine-and-dash customers. His wife, after all, often waited tables to support him.

It was Maryann Burk Carver who won the bread in those early years while Ray drank, fished, went to school and began writing the stories that a generation of critics and teachers would miscategorize as “minimalism” or “dirty realism.”

– Stephen King in the NYT on the new Carol Sklenicka bio of Carver (and the new Library of America Collected Stories of Carver)

Standard
poetry

spontaneous, unliterary speech

In even a short run of spontaneous, unliterary speech, some combinations of consonants and vowels are certain to recur, even though we don’t take special note of them. On the other hand, if a few vowels and consonants recur with more than average frequency, we can’t avoid noticing their sound, and we become conscious as words as an auditory experience, not merely as a medium for conveying information. For many centuries now English poetry has used this recurrence of sound expressively, organizing phonic repetition so that it becomes clearly audible and relevant to other constructive aspects of a poem…

– Alfred Corn, THE POEM’S HEARTBEAT

Standard
Baltimore, the chorus

many are the monsters

Yesterday I taught a chorus workshop in the home of a professor here in Baltimore, to two faculty and four students. We worked on a passage from Judith Molina’s translation of Brecht’s adaptation of ANTIGONE. There was quiche. It was good. Things observed:

– Brecht completely rewriting choruses (Many are the wonders, but none more wonderful than man; Love undefeated in the fight) by simply changing the thesis statement (Many are the monsters, none more monstrous than man; Lust, not love…etc.)

– Why should the members of the chorus have the same point of view, or objective, even when they are all reciting a speech with a unified objective? They don’t have to. They can each have a different approach to it. Complexity = good.

– It is always worth it to get off book, no matter how long it takes, for the text exercises.

I then went to the Towson mall with one of my friends here, and bought a watch. Then I couldn’t use my eyes any more, so I got nothing done. And today I have to catch up on work. I’ve been sick a lot lately – five days of strep throat, several days of not being able to use one of my eyes.

Standard
a propos of nothing, the chorus, writing

in case you couldn’t tell

it is difficult to blog about the program. That’s why I haven’t been doing it. You would think that writing about writing would be a natural extension of writing. It is not. For me. Doesn’t work. One precludes the other.

So.

You would also think that I could write about the program itself, and that might be something in which people would be interested. Right? But every time I begin to do it, I feel as if putting anything up here at all violates the trust of the people I’m here with. Even the most boring activities. If I were, for example, to say “We had seminar today” (which we didn’t) I don’t at all know that my friends here would want others to know that. Writers = private people. Even I find myself becoming more introverted with each day here.

So I guess you shouldn’t expect me to say much for…what? Two years?

I could say that I like it here. Every time people ask me how the program’s going, I say, “It’s wonderful, I’m very lucky to be here.” Which is true. And when they ask how the people are, I say, “They are amazing. I love them.” Also true. When they ask me how the writing is going, I say, “I am questioning everything.” And that last, so help me, is the truest of the three.

I could also say this: I get to talk to a professor and students on Saturday about choruses, with regards to their performance of a Greek play, which should be fun. This is my third chorus outreach-related activity in four months in B-more.

I also think I might be able to make some general observations on what it is like to be a graduate student. General observations on Baltimore are going to be limited, because while school is in session, I almost never leave the Homewood campus bubble.

I’m going to try, though, because I need to keep writing here.

Standard
writing

past participle

If you have spent time trying to establish the truth of things as they happened, to remember truthfully, it is unsettling to blithely delete a memory and rewrite it with a few keystrokes. But it is a necessity to rewrite the events of the past. It is a “Il faut que.” Must. The truth of events as they happened is, most often, too shapeless and arbitrary to be a poem. And sometimes the truth is more than can be believed. The poem cannot always sustain the shock of it.

Standard