Shakespeare's Nostalgia...and Where It's Taking My Soliloquy!

This is part two to my Shakespeare soliloquy. I don't like it as much as the first, but it's only a rough draft.


A dangerous tune to which we danced
I'th'beginning o'our glorious fame.
Whence I left kindred Lancashire
T'drain lively London's fortunes dry,
(5) Met me said courtiers,
All o'whom desired my assistance.
Rapacity, avidity;
No excesses lessen'd m'desire
For those treasures freely given,
(10) And as such, freely taken.
But O! Vivid, dark, doom'd Macbeth!
Hecate was my lum'nous glory,
My bitter, acrid enchantress,
Unsullied partner t'sultry Nyx;
(15) Her impassioned speech t'th'Weird Sisters
Was my prized contribution
T'th'cursed play, our James ancestry.
O! Fair is foul and foul is fair!
How dost life seem now, so artless,
(20) Lacking th'substance o'intrepid man!
Ah me, how foolish. My dull brain
Was wrought with things forgotten.
How well our own Edward writ it!
Truth, Brooke was th'tortured soul o'Macbeth
(25) And so writ th'lines eternal: Life's
But a walking shadow, a poor
Player that struts and frets upon
The stage and then is heard no more....
T'was such idyllic tyranny
(30) Upon a soul, so that refrains
O'mine t'were heard by God in Heaven!

I Wrote This Story Called "The Waiter"

and I really like it so far, but it needs a lot of work. So if anyone likes proof reading...

The Waiter

“I don’t come here often.”
I nodded, twirling my fork in the soupy wreckage otherwise known as tortellini. It really didn’t matter. I knew he was excusing his poor taste in restaurants, but that wasn’t the problem. There was no real problem. Except for me.
He glanced down at his soggy fetuccini alfredo and exhaled a meager sigh. “I’ll drive you home.”
I shook my head and fiddled with my spoon. “No thanks.”
He raised an eyebrow. “It’s a long walk.”
“I don’t mind it.” I really didn’t. I never mind walking.
He gave a resigned shrug. “See you."
“Yeah.” I nodded and looked up into his face. He was one of those people who looked perpetually tired. His brown, practically gray hair was lank and his eyes gave off a faint glimmer, like a light bulb at the end of a long, dank sewer. “See you.”
I heard the bells on the door jingle as he left. I grabbed a few sugar supplement packets and opened the first. Splenda. I poured a small amount into my hand and tentatively sampled the hard white flakes. They were bittersweet, and I had half a mind to spit them out. They spread through my mouth like a virus, and I quickly downed some of my water to rid myself of the taste. I do that everywhere: sample the sugar packets at restaurants to see which one’s best. Not that I ever use them. Real sugar is just fine for me.
The waiter sauntered up to my table. “Mind if I sit? It’s my break.”
I glanced around the room. Plenty of similar velvet booths were empty, and this table happened to have a terrible draft. “I don’t see why not.”
The waiter smiled and sat down across from me and grinned softly. The waiter was definitely Oriental, but his eyes were a hazel green that caught my interest. The waiter wasn’t what you’d call good looking, but he did have a sort of charm that made me want to stare at him all day.
“That your boyfriend?” the waiter asked, gesturing, unperturbed by my staring, to the door.
I shrugged. “I don’t mind him.”
The waiter’s eyes twinkled. I couldn’t look away. “You don’t mind him? How romantic.” The waiter laughed, leaning forward slightly and closing his eyes. It was a nice laugh. You might call it sincere.
“Well, he’s nice, he doesn’t mind me-” I couldn’t think of anything else.
The waiter chuckled. “Am I nice?”
“Sure.”
“Well, I don’t mind you. Does that make me your boyfriend?”
I considered that. “I know almost everything about him.” The waiter’s eyes laughed. “No, really,” I explained, “there’s not much to know. We’ve known each other for a long time.”
The waiter nodded. I could tell he understood. It was just one of those things. “What if you knew everything about Heath Ledger? Would he be your boyfriend?” I marveled at the perfect seriousness, no sarcasm involved.
I gave that one some thought. “He’s dead.”
“That’s a problem?”
“Maybe. No. It depends.”
“Depends?” The waiter’s eyes shone.
“It depends on the person they were when they were alive.”
The waiter nodded. “That makes sense.”
“What’s your name?”
“Haven’t got one.”
I stared at the waiter. “Haven’t got one?”
The waiter pointed to his nametag. It was blank. “Haven’t got one.”
“Sorry.”
“Why?”
I wasn’t sure. “You’re the first person I’ve met without a name.”
The waiter was amused. “Do I seem worse for wear?”
“I guess not.”
The waiter glanced at his small black watch. 11:30 pm. “It’s almost closing time. I can give you a ride home after I finish cleaning up, if you don’t mind waiting.”
I didn’t mind. I never do.
We made love in his room that night. The waiter was surprisingly gentle. The waiter probably knew it was my first time. Still, it wasn’t awkward, like I’d imagined my first time would be. I’d never cared about the whole virginity thing in the first place, but I’d never gotten around to getting rid of it. Afterwards I showered and the waiter gave me a ride home.

… … … …

“You’ve got to understand,” she told me sheepishly, sipping her black coffee and staring intently into my eyes. Another habit she’d picked up from the waiter.
I nodded. I knew how easy it was to get caught up in a person.
“The waiter knew so much,” she continued fondly, letting her hand stroke the handle of her mug, “I could say anything and he’d understand. Anything.” Her eyes cleared for a moment. “I never loved him.” She mused, “but I let myself believe I did. We’re all able to trick ourselves like that, I think.” Another tentative sip. “You know most of the rest.”
I nodded again. I knew that things had gone on like that for months. She would go to the restaurant at 10:30, hang out for an hour, help clean up, go to the waiter’s house, have sex, shower and go home. All very methodical, invariable, and according to her, wonderful. Then it just ended.
“Everyone has to wake up from a dream sometime,” she told me, “and I got to dream for a long time. I guess I was lucky.”

… … … … …
“The waiter wasn’t at the restaurant one day. Just like that. I asked the hostess, who had gotten to know me over the past few months, if the waiter was sick. She didn’t know.
I was scared. I realized how much I depended on him, on the connection we shared. I know it sounds corney, but I was addicted to him. I ran to his house, but I think part of me knew he wouldn’t be there. I couldn’t comprehend it. He just disappeared. Gone. It’s possible he never existed. Not that I’m crazy. It’s just one of those things.”
“The door of the waiter’s house was unlocked, but it didn’t feel like I remembered it. The waiter’s Subaru was gone. I went inside.
“Everything was gone. A bare, cold skeleton of a house was all that was left. I didn’t find any of it unnatural though. It just felt like the way life worked. His bedroom was empty too, not that there had been much in it in the first place. The waiter lived like a monk. I walked to the bathroom as slowly as my feet would let me, running my fingers over the stark walls of his bedroom. I didn’t feel a thing. Maybe it was a dream after all. Maybe I hadn’t woken up.”

… … … … …

“I still don’t think I’ve woken up,” she whispered. “I don’t think I’ll wake up until he comes back.” She pulled a small, white rectangle out of her purse. “This is the waiter’s nametag,” she explained, handing it to me. “You see? Nothing.”
I turned the nametag over in my palm. Terrence. “Yeah,” I said, handing the nametag back to her, “nothing.”
Sometimes people need to keep dreaming.



Good? Bad? Ugly?

Sometimes All You Need Is a Musical and A Wendy's Frosty (not the vanilla kind)

Life has been really stressful lately, and part of me feels as though it's my fault. I've got about two good friends at my school. I'm not doing so well in math--Okay, I'm almost failing. I've got competitions for my best sport in the upcoming weeks and I don't feel like I'm strong enough. I need to get a job and I haven't got a car yet to get anywhere, much less my liscense. Boys are being stupid (not that that's new).

That's why I jump at the happy chances. Sometimes you just need to jump in your friends unsafe car to go watch a cheesy musical. Sometimes you need to catch up with the people you've been missing for months. Sometimes you need to play with the radio and the GPS (which I forgot to name--dang it!). Sometimes you have to turn the wrong way at the light and wonder how to get home from there. Sometimes you need to go to Wendy's, freak out because you think it's closed, then realize the drive thru's open and buy two frosty's and sit in a Walmart parking lot and enjoy chocolatey goodness. And sometimes it makes everything better. Especially if it's a good friend who will put up with your crazy antics (and doesn't mind being bitten).

And maybe sometimes you have to help your friend dress up as a mummy (or a crash test dummy). Sometimes you have to dress up as a hippy (who got cold and put on her jacket) and go trick-or-treating and garage haunted housing. Sometimes you have to play mafia and find (to your utmost shock) that Bean and Anberlin lover killed you off. Sometimes you have to watch a scary movie you can't deal with and scream (yes, I'm sorry to admit, I do scream during scary movies). Sometimes you have to eat a rediculously large amount of candy. Sometimes you have to dash outside and try in vain to make curfew.

Hee hee, life feels better now.

I Haven't Got Anywhere Else to Write This, and I Need to Copy and Paste It, So Here Goes

Life may never be looked back upon with complete and utter objectivity. There are too many things in the way: grief, guilt, general trifles, all of which seemed so senseless and trivial, now plague the haggard mind. With this idea in grasp, Richard Rodriguez fills his passage with a nostalgic tone, purposeful diction and a mysterious narrative structure.
Understandably, Rodriguez fills his passage with a nostalgic tone frequently used with any sort of family gathering in mind. The purpose of reminescence in his passage is to establish the trade-off between a family in itself and a family combined with the excess of wealth and, arguably, modern society. Mama Rodriguez in particular finds necesity in clinging to yet "Another Christmas" (Rodriguez, line 20) in which the spark of jubilant excitement lacks the luster of Rodriguez's youth. The idea that "...it was not quite...the Christmas one remembers having had once..." (Rodriguez, lines 33-35) furthers the initial wave of nostalgia. The almost remorseful tone of Rodriguez indicates his mother's sorrowful longing for the days when she told her children to expect riches.
Initially, Rodriguez's diction difinitively points to the sought-after wealth of his family and the ironic lack-luster existence it entails. From the ownership of "shiny mink jacket(s)" (Rodriguez, line 29), "expensive foreign cars" (Rodriguez, line 25) to the jobs of "business executives" and "lawyers" (Rodriguez, lines 2-3), it is easily comprehended that Rodriguez's mama's predictions hav come true. And yet, the happiness she wished for seems to have eluded her entire family and their style of living. The sadness expressed in his mother seems to be the effect of the realization of the hopelessness in her family's situation. Rodriguez specifially points to his new life as "paradise" (line 36), but one does not come to hte comclusion that he believes what he states.
Most interestingly, Rodriguez's intriguing narrative structure introduces a surprise: the depreciated father and his unexpectedly tenuous relations with his oldest son. Throughout the entire piece, all emphasis lies on the relationship between mama Rodriguez and her children, minimally mentioning his father. This lack of literary presence may cause one to wonder at Rodriguez's motives for even bothering to mention the man at all; his name makes only small appearances, when the grown daughters and sons shout at their "father"Rodriguez, line 28) or when mama Rodriguez askes Richard to bring "Daddy" (Rodriguez, line 39). As if papa Rodriguez lies amidst crumpled Christmas wrapping paper and worthless expensive trinkets, forgotten. This idea only grows more potent by the end of the passage, when Rodriguez realizes the absence of his father's involvement in the family, merely asking if his son is "going home now" (Rodriguez, line 46). The fascinating unimportance of his father furthers the idea of the less-than-perfect life the Rodriguez family gained. It is as if Rodriguez realizes the futility and emptiness of his family's circumstances.
With his nostalgic tone, purposeful diction and intriguing narrative structure, Rodriguez paints a portrait of his family life and the disillusionment it brings. The futility which engulfs the reader is but a reflection of Rodriguez's work of art, however, and one can only imagine the emotions which play in the midst of the author's mind.

I'm Really Frustrated With My Shakespeare Class Because They WON'T Comment on My Soliloquy

So I'm posting it on here, dang it! I have to write a soliloquy from Shakespeare's point of view, and my idea is that he didn't write a large majority of his plays. He's reflecting upon the hour of his death, and this is what's running through his mind (this is only the opening--I haven't written the other four segments yet).


How now? Are my days curs'd to end as such?
T'would be well deserv'd, i'faith. Night pulls th'veil
O'Nyx 'cross my frail eyes; surely day's gone.
O! That I could sink i't'the Khaos from which I sprung,
Or else fly t'Aether on silken clouds; No-
I am Pontius, curs'd t'wash my bloodied hands
Which do reek o'th'carnage of life's o'erthrows.
Aye, what suff'ring does plague my haggard mind
As if some serpentine poison settled,
Seeping int'those fescennine crevices
Which the soul doth attempt to sepulcher.
Still, was it not fate's hand which interven'd?
Hath I all the blame? No no, surely not.
For if conscience made cowards of us all,
Good England would lack much posterity;
'Tis better the world gain the folio,
Be it hardly of my own withered hand,
And reap the benefits of truest art
Gained by perfidious means 'n'motley pens.
Th'most fervid of pens was Edward de Vere,
That solemn, poetic aristocrat;
Then Sirs Francis Bacon, Walter Raleigh
And th'intellectual Edmund Spencer,
Those gentlemenly philosophicals;
Last came Lord Brooke and Sir Philip Sidney,
And his charitable sister Mary
Of whom th'incomparable pair were sprung.
Ah! Art ardent memories t'plague me such?
Whilst wonders became masterpeices
In this circle of stage worthy players,
I scarcely gave to't, yet recieve th'applause!
Yet peace-I'll let reminecence take hold And live in blissful recollection
Until night pulls it's everlasting shade.

Techno and Apple Salad. What Can I Say?

Sometimes life hits you in the face with a baseball bat. Other times, it pitches the ball to you at a hundred and ten miles per hour. But you know, it's better than standing in the outfield, watching everyone else screw up and getting no action. Which is how I've been feeling recently. But things are starting to change. Like my wallflower role might be disappearing. Maybe I've hit the dancefloor. But I feel like I've lost something. Maybe a perspective. But I'm not going back. No way. Life only comes once. And people change. I think I've changed. Some of it's subtle, some of it's not. I wonder if anyone will be able to tell. I wonder if it will make a difference. All I can do is keep dancing. I guess that's all we can expect from anyone. It's a little hard. But it's way more fun. I'm excited. Hopefully I'm making the right choice. I was doing fine on my own. But I think there were costs. I was very lonely. And maybe too ambitious. It's a cold way to live life. And in retrospect, what's more important: the place I make it to, or the life lived to get there? I've gained so much by losing that initial ambition. I'm so much happier, even though things are just as tough; maybe tougher. And I'm not as lonely. I want to help. I want to love them the way they've loved me.

Today's Not the Day to do Anything Spectacular. Hot Cocoa Works.

Sometimes I wish I could disappear into the world of dusty novels and scrawled notebooks, where no one can hurt me and I can hurt no one. Things would be so much simpler. If I could vanish like an elephant and let night consume me. I could tie a ribbon around my world and take it with me too. If it could be that simple, I would escape in an instant. Leave everything that was taking over my mind and grinding against my heart. How's that for angst?

Since I can't do that, I'll have to make due with listening to "Tune Out" by the Format and reading Dance Dance Dance by Haruki Murakami, simultaneously watching Little Miss Sunshine. It'll have to do.