How Could Anybody Write This?

When my Modern Drama teacher mentioned at the end of class yesterday that she "almost had to apologize" for the play we were reading next, I knew it was going to be bad. It was.

The play is The Homecoming, by Harold Pinter.

And here is my breakdown of the plot: Basically, a son returns to his family with his wife of six years. Then he calmly stands by as his three brothers and father plan on turning her into the family prostitute. She accepts this idea and demands certain business accommodations. The husband returns home to his three young sons. The end.

Obviously I have expedited a lot of the information of the plot, but essentially every core element has been included.

So I ask, what is the point? Why did Harold Pinter feel the need to "shock" me in such a way?

These aren't rhetorical questions, I seriously don't understand why I just read this crappy play.

I'm not one to be easily offended by literature. I claim to be a writer myself and I firmly believe in presenting realistic characters and situations. Any book (play, film, picture, etc. . .) that seeks to have cathartic power must portray darkness to truly demonstrate light. Sometimes those scenes of darkness can be offensive, but they are necessary for a true portrayal of redemption.

There is no attempt at redemption in Pinter's play, only darkness.

Here's a picture from one of the play's productions. This is around 12 hours after Teddy returns home with his wife, Ruth. That's not Teddy rolling around on the floor with Ruth either. And it only gets worse. . .

It just doesn't make sense.

A Two State Solution

I recently read an article that implied that the new US administration is going to actively seek the creation of a Palestinian state. I have mixed feelings about this. On the surface it sounds good, nobody can deny that the Palestinian people need and deserve a state of their own. However, nothing ever turns out well when politicians get together to redraw the lines on a map. I can't help but think that this attempt will not go any better. . .

To Find a Path in the Dark

Quick Story: When I came out of high school I was positive that I wanted to be an Engineer, like my father. I've always had an interest in the sciences etc. . . and I was sure that an engineering degree would capture my interest as well as put bread on the table. I first declared my major as a computer engineer, but after a mission I decided that I would rather do something else, so I changed to chemical engineering. Bad decision. I've always struggled with math. . . in short, I spent several hours a day trying to keep up with my 2 credit hour introductory chemical engineering class (even though I've taken all the math). It seriously was one of the worst semesters of my college career (I was also taking Hebrew at the time). It became pretty obvious, rather quickly, that I wasn't going to be happy as a chemical engineer. . . or any engineer for that matter. I then decided to do something that I was good at. . . I'm still not sure what that is, but I'm an English major now, and much happier. I like writing, reading is fun too; I guess I should have known from the beginning what path I should take. Too bad so much of life is spent just finding the pathways that will take us where we want to go, the ones that will bring us peace and happiness. On the other hand, some pathways are hard (frustrating) at the beginning, but at the end waits a big fat (allegorical) pot of gold. We just have to ask ourselves: is that really the "pot of gold" we're looking for?

The End

Wanderings

I have a headache. Fortunately, some of my best writing seems to be when my brain hurts. I guess the throbbing pain forces my mind into some semblance of productive activity--because all of the usual mind-numbing things become. . . less pleasant. Or, I guess it could be the 65mg of caffeine that comes in the Excedrin that I take to relieve the pain. Whatever the case, I tend to take refuge in writing when I feel as I do now.

Unfortunately, that is just what I am doing, taking refuge in writing. So don't expect any deep, well-thought-out blog posts right now. Not that I have done one of those in a while. . .

So, this has been my most productive blog month ever. Double digit posts this month, and it's February. I don't know what brought on this flurry of relatively unintelligent posts, but whatever, I feel like a real blogger now (not because of the un-intelligence, but because of the # of posts).

Cool story: I was in the Richards Building (BYU athletic facility) on Tuesday practicing my dancing. There were several upper-tier ballroom dancers, from BYU's tour team, who were also practicing. Anyway, they were running through their competition Latin routines and somebody decided to turn off the lights. Talk about mood lighting, especially with the pimpin' cha-cha that they were playing. I felt like I was in a scene from a movie. . . Kind of like Richard Gere and J-Lo dancing in a dark studio in Shall We Dance, but a billion times better, and sexier too, without clever film editing to make it look like real dancing. Ahhhhhhh. . . can I express how awesome dance is? Can I describe how cool it is watching the fast, precise movements of a really good Latin couple, when every move creates a perfect picture line? Is it possible to express how much more dramatic and exciting it is when all you can see is their silhouette? Can I paint the beauty of dance in words? Probably not.

Can I mention how beautiful ballroom women are (except for their feet which tend to be kind of gross and smelly:). . .can't have everything can we?)?

Oh, one more. Can I express how much like an infant I feel in the world of dance? Actually, yes I can. . . I feel like a grain of dust floating in a solar nebula, succumbing slowly, ever so slowly, to the increasing gravity of the proto-sun, where I will then be part of a 12 billion year nuclear reaction that will fuse all of the hydrogen atoms into helium, then helium into carbon, and so on, until all its fuel is spent and it becomes a white dwarf, which will eventually cool until it is a hunk of incredibly dense rock, slowly drifting in space. Yep, that's how I feel. Actually, that's pretty much what is happening anyway, according to scientific theory, so I guess that really isn't much of an allegory.

Will I ever master the use of , ; :?

My head still hurts.

Red, White, and Blue

I was walking through Brigham Square this week at about five thirty when I was stopped in my tracks by the powerful chords of the national anthem blaring over the loudspeakers from the ASB. People around stopped as well, and together we watched as the ROTC lowered the U.S. flag. It was a beautiful moment, as the vast majority of people stopped the pace of their busy lives to pay homage to one of the defining symbols of this nation. For some reason, our flag is a powerful symbol for me. I feel a kinship with it that is difficult to explain; as if we are on a common journey. Perhaps we are. I love America. Thank you for listening.

The Bald Soprano

Here is an excerpt from Eugene Ionesco's The Bald Sorprano. It's a poem.

The Fire

The polypoids were burning in the wood
A stone caught fire
The castle caught fire
The forest caught fire
The men caught fire
The women caught fire
The birds caught fire
The fish caught fire
The water caught fire
The sky caught fire
The ashes caught fire
The smoke caught fire
The fire caught fire
Everything caught fire
Caught fire, caught fire

MRS. MARTIN: That sent chills up my spine. . .
MR. MARTIN: And yet there's a certain warmth in those lines. . .
FIRE CHIEF: I thought it was marvelous.

You can't get writing better than that.

My New Camera Takes Pictures!!!

Here are some of my first pictures with my new digital camera.


My sister's kitty, Sahara.









My nephew's first haircut.