"Things Never Happen the Same Way Twice"

Ah, it's been 2 weeks since I last posted, which might have something to do with work and a little play. Things have been tumultous in the past 2 weeks, but not necessarily bad. I turned in my first paper, had to give up going to Much Ado About Nothing, had my first Oxford style tutorial and just won a coveted ticket to Kevin Spacey's perfprmance of Richard III. Those are only the big things that have heppened, but it's still really overwhelming. The one thing I have realized is that at some point I stopped being a tourist and started taking sights and places for granted, but that also coincided with a security within the people who've surrounded me for the past month. When I wrote my first paper one of my friends edited for me. If you've never had someone edit a paper then you have no idea how much trust you need to put into that editor on many different levels. For one, they will see your greatest flaws, and you WANT them to, but you also need to trust that mechanical flaws will not be the pawns by which to judge the person. Thank god I have a friend here who can not only be my editor, but someone who encourages my self confidence. But it's not just one person who has enriched this experience for me; there are many people who have wandered into my life this summer for the first time or as re-acquaintances who have shaped this experience into a time that will be achingly painful to say good-bye to. Though reunions are already planned and re locations are in the works, and next summer is just 11 months away, we will never have this place or time ever again. Words and pixels will replace these experiences, and will be the things we rely on to bring us back during the dead of winter to the croquet only, the Momma Swans, the pre-tutorial anxieties, the kebab carts, paper topics, Purple Turtles, Macbeth, bus rides and river walks. As things begin to wind down and people's conversations move from papers to departure times I have to remind myself to take this all in and savor the days we have left with each other in this time at this place. I reminded them about this during our last high table--to take a look around at the people on the benches because this moment will never be recreated. Though this might sound dreadful to some, it is my interpretation that these fleeting moments become a part of who we are. As I've already posted somewhere in cyber space: When you get used to a place it becomes routine, and that familiarity leads to complacency, but not with the friendships that have formed. Forever thankful for the people who surround me who give me laughter and love.

"It isn't Narnia, you know," sobbed Lucy. "It's you. We shan't meet you there. And how can we live, never meeting you?"

Longtime the Manxome Foe He Sought

The last couple of days have been difficult, and there are probably many people who think it's foolish to feel a little homesick and out of place in such a privileged experience. Firstly, there have been increased thoughts that this class I am taking, Restoration Drama and Literature, is not just out of my comfort zone, but out of my abilities to understand. I was really looking forward to delving into Paradise Lost, but we spent about one hour on it, on the first day, and then were told that we probably won't come back to it. I spent DAYS reading that book and annotating, AND doing my own research to prep me for discussions. Oh well. Next to the plays. I have always had a very diffcult time visualizing plays that I am not familiar with, and these 5 are no exception. I looked feverishly for video productions, and was only able to find one before I left. I find that I have to read numerous summaries before I begin reading the plays, then have to go back to the summaries as I am reading, just to make sure I am on the right track. Sometimes I don't feel worthy of being here, but was reminded this morning by my gracious (and all knowing) mother that I can persevere, and that I DO deserve to be here. As I trudge through the poems for today's discussion I have to keep telling myself that learning is about needing to ask questions, and to also remind myself that I need to STOP giving into reason. Nature should be my guide, but as you all know, my mind LOVES to get the best of me, and often prohibits me from success. This is my Jabberwock, and though I know it MUST be slain, I've yet to find my vorpal sword.

The other sources of discontent come from simply being homesick. With Aaron's birthday a few days ago, my mom's surgery yesterday, and my 4th wedding anniversary tomorrow, I just feel sad and disconnected from my sources of strength. As it is so cliche, I have to say, This too, shall pass, and things will move forward in this city of spires.

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

"The Devil Can Cite Scripture for His Purpose"

Much anticipation for last night's performance of Merchant of Venice in Stratford-upon-Avon, not the least of which was surrounding Patrick Stewart portraying "villain", Shylock. We had heard rumors that the play was set in present day Las Vegas, and those rumors didn't disappoint. Vegas, on many levels, seems absolutely appropriate to breathe sin into the souls of all of the players, especially Shylock--the notorious money lender (who happens to be a Jew) who demands to be repaid with a pound of Antonio's flesh if he defaults on the loan. So is where we begin--at a casino in Vegas where Bassanio and Antonio agree to ask Shylock for the money that will allow Bassanio to travel to "Belmont" in order to pursue, and woo, a wealthy heiress, Portia (Insert an Elvis impersonator, portrayed by Lancelot, crooning tunes throughout the rest of the play).

Yet we do not ever get to "Belmont", rather we travel to a stereotypical, Debutante yielding, southern town. Portia is supposedly a southern belle, with a creepy resemblance to Dolly Parton, both in appearances and speech. She and her mistress, Nerissa, are presented as talk show hostesses preparing for some type of game show that will allow Portia's suitors to compete for the chance to marry her. They look, and sound, like bimbos. And though we soon learn that this public Portia is merely a facade to protect the vulnerable and HIGHLY insecure private Portia, I have a very difficult time appreciating this artistic license. One of the reasons I always admire Portia as one of Shakespeare's greatest heroine's is due to her strength and wittiness. I could barely see a glimmer of her in this version.

There were also quite a few stereotypes that were brought to the forefront in this version, and though they subtly exist, peppered throughout the original version, these were uncomfortably evident. The only conclusion for the superficial southern belle, the incoherent Mexican, the gangster-thug-best-friend and the neanderthal-brute Prince of Morocco is to try and spread the politically incorrect stereotypes around so the play doesn't overtly drip with anti-Semitism. But the play IS anti-Semitic and in the 21st century we have to recognize that, not try to bury it beneath comic relief. Has the world learned ANYTHING about the dangers in turning someone else's suffering into laughter? And is it REALLY accurate to say that a southern belle suffers as much as a Jew? Or even MORE than a Jew? But maybe that's the point--in keeping true to Shakespeare's time, who would have cared if a Jew suffered, even the loss of his only child? (Which brings me to a brief blip about Jessica, rather, the actress who played her: She. Was. Awful.)

As I have always said about this particular play--it makes me uncomfortable to see it billed as a comedy, albeit a tragic comedy. In this version, Shylock's conversion to Christianity was painless, unemotional and inconsequential. His yarmulke was taken off his head, his tallit slid from his shoulders and he turned and walked out, with the most emotion coming from Gratiano, who violently spit at his back. The saving grace of this production was it's closing scene, which was speechless except for Elvis singing "Are You Lonely Tonight". The lights faded to blue and each character was left standing alone on the stage, whilst Portia twirled uncomfortably in the middle of them all, having only one of her 5 inch heels, weeping. That was the most powerful and tragic scene of the performance, and well worth the 3 hours leading up to it.

"I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano,-

A stage, where every man must play a part;

And mine a sad one." Antonio, I.i.77-79

Experience vs. Liberty

My first day of class was yesterday afternoon--it was definitely something to write home about. The cap for the class size here is 6, with an exception for the Shakespeare page to stage class, which is 12. On the information sheet we received upon arrival, professors gave nice, detailed instructions as to when and where they'd be meeting the class. Ours simply said, " Walk past Brown's restaurant and the Catholic church and 2:00 and I'll be looking out for you" (insert furrowed brow and re-read). I intermittently asked around if anyone knew this man (just enough to seem intrigued, but not enough to come off as desperate) until finally my right-sided lunch buddy said, "Yes (pause), he's very British". I asked if he wore a monocle or used a scarf covered cane and unfortunately my hopes were dashed when he informed me that no, he merely swaddled his shoulders with rabbit fur.

So begins my anticipation of Dr. West. We've been informed that Oxford professors, or any British professor for that matter, is called a Doctor, and if we choose to refer to them as professors, we'll be quite "daft". I am not making this up, and not using these words to sound Oxfordian. It turns out Dr. West has the ability to melt the fear within all six pupils as he chatted to us about his compulsive coffee drinking, his work at "The Other College" and his admittance that this particular course is a new adventure for him as well (not to be mistaken as a newbie in any sense--he's been a teacher at Oxford and Cambridge for quite some years, yet usually focuses on Milton). Our regular meetings are usually twice a week, in his office at his "home" Oxford college. Oxford contains 39 colleges, each one focusing on a different subject matter or age level.

Today was spent studying--and vigorously trying answer the questions he posed to all of us yesterday. The one that continues to throb in my head, though, has to do with experience vs. liberty. I come back to this because I believe there might be some truth behind the claim that it is impossible to achieve ultimate liberty beneath the layers of experience. For myself, this is in the form of understanding expectations of this program and the knowledge of the difficult tasks that lie ahead of me. Academically, I cannot be fooled by Dr. West's warmness and comfort-ability--and this is not as dire as it might sound to some of you--rather, a little bit of pride that gleams with each summer successfully completed. Yet, on the other hand, a slight twinge of sadness when I begin to understand that this is not, in fact, Hogwarts. It's finding the balance between the two that will be a challenge, and that balance means the difference between living a solitary life, and one of sinful balance (insert smiley face) but if ever there was a place to seek this out, it is here.

"The world was all before them, where to choose

Their place of rest, and Providence their guide:

They hand in hand with wand'ring steps and slow,

Through Eden took their solitary way" P.L. XII 646-49

Down the Rabbit Hole

We are here--after a frightening near miss of our plane in Boston, we made it to England on Tuesday morning around 11:00. Thanks to JetBlue's known mechanical problems on our plane at RDU, we had to make an emergency landing at JFK--20 minutes before we were scheduled to land in Boston. As the temperature in the cabin neared 100 degrees, and our leisurely layover in Boston began melting away, it became quite clear that we were going to have a problem. Thanks to my parents, who were already stationed in BOS, Delta held the gate for us, as Aaron and I rushed past security, down the long moving sidewalk and up to the terminal where we were whisked in to board. And we may have had to pay off a rental car driver to get us to the correct terminal . . .

So our adventure began, and as I sit in this cottage in Oxfordshire, it's hard to imagine that we almost didn't make it. After touring the countryside over the past three days, it's hard for me to imagine being anywhere else, ever. If you've not been here, then you must know that the contrast between the green landscape and the gray skies, flecked with a constant pulse of gold, is how most days begin and end. There is something inspirational in this weather, rather than the depressing reputation it often garners. Though my summer reading has yet to be unpacked, I've been studying this place and the people with an intensity I hope not to lose over the next 7 weeks.

I feel like I've been plonked down somewhere that looks, and sometimes feels, similar to real life, but with a very different energy. As I exited Alice's Shop in Oxford this morning, I was reminded to eat whatever says, "Eat Me", and to drink whatever says, "Drink Me", and to take my chances with the Queen of Hearts, even if it means showing up for tea with a motley crew. How else should adventures begin and end?

"I wonder if I've been changed at night? Let me think. Was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I'm not the same, the next question is, 'Who in the world am I'? Ah, that's the great puzzle!" ---Alice