I’m finishing up this week’s editorial staff column for newspaper right now, which probably would have happened a lot sooner if I hadn’t decided that tonight is the opportune time to begin writing a screenplay. A screenplay? What is wrong with me? I know, a question long in the making. Plays- probably not my forte, seeing as how I’ve never studied film or theatre before. But I’ve read plenty of Shakespeare, so I’ll be damned if I can’t write a monologue.
I have no idea what to name my screenplay (or even what it is about, for that matter), but I do have a title for my column.
Please, Abraham, I am not that man. by Kovacs and Co. I mean, what a well-crafted sentence, right (even if it has nothing to do with my piece)? My column also includes the words: “Yummy Yummy Screw Screw” and “E-mail my Heart.”
Stranger things have happened at 3:00 a.m.
You know, I like being a writer with no expectations or ambition. Consequently, everything I write is both fun and impressive.
Someday I’ll write something with substance. But today is not that day, Abraham.
This semester, I’m taking a course called Religions in Early Modern Drama, and right now we’re reading The Merchant of Venice. This is probably among my favorite of Shakespeare’s plays.
On a related note, I’ve learned so much about gold lately.
All that glisters is not gold; Often have you heard that told: Many a man his life hath sold But my outside to behold: Gilded tombs do worms enfold. Had you been as wise as bold, Young in limbs, in judgement old Your answer had not been inscroll’d Fare you well, your suit is cold.
from The Merchant of Venice. Act II Scene VII.
All that is gold does not glitter, Not all those who wander are lost; The old that is strong does not wither, Deep roots are not reached by the frost. From the ashes a fire shall be woken, A light from the shadows shall spring; Renewed shall be the blade that was broken, The crownless again shall be king.
from The Lord of the Rings by JRR Tolkein
Hey now, you’re an all star, get your game on, go play. Hey now, you’re a rock star, get the show on, get paid. And all that glitters is go-o-old. Only shooting stars break the mold.
from “All Star” by Smash Mouth (“AKA THE BEST SONG EVER, I LOVE SMASH MOUTH!” - third-grade Kasia)
The low beating of the tom-toms, The slow beating of the tom-toms, Low… slow Slow… low - Stirs your blood. Dance! A night-veiled girl Whirls softly into a Circle of light. Whirls softly… slowly, Like a wisp of smoke around the fire - And the tom-toms beat, And the tom-toms beat, And the low beating of the tom-toms Stirs your blood.
By Langston Hughes, still among my favorite poets.
"Post-Colonial Literature." The name of my tutorial for this semester. Listen Joseph Conrad, I know you’re Polish, but I can’t keep making excuses for you.
Sometimes, as I sit in my dinky dorm room and click through stumbleupon (when I really should be studying), I have phone conversations with my five-year-old sister who, alas, has not moved with me to Kansas City. My most recent conversation with Ania occurred just a few moments ago, as Ania was watching the Superbowl, despite the fact that my family has no interest in football whatsoever.
Ania: “There was a man who came out of the floor.”
Me: “A man came out of the floor? How?”
Ania: “It’s the half-time show.”
Me: “Oohh, it must have been one of the Black-Eyed Peas.”