Results of Ruminations

I believe that Shakespeare exited from my life for a number of years, his charm unknown to me until I reached the resplendent wonders of middle school. I attended Oak Canyon Junior High and there was 'forced' to read a lot of things that, had I had my druthers, I would never have acknowledged as being in existence. I was, after all, still contentedly running through my second or third pass of Anne McCaffery's Dragonriders of Pern series, the Animorphs serial, and whatever Spider-Man paperback I'd snatched up from Media Play the last month. Junior high, of course, was a time for determining identity, and nothing could do that as well as Shakespeare. We were asked to read Much Ado About Nothing , but since reading the translation on the opposite page was too much effort--and my best friend's sister thought the guys in the film version were hot--we ended up watching the movie and getting nothing out of it except naked bums. In response to the required project, w

John Milton calls William Shakespeare "Dear son of memory, great heir of fame", and it is from the prophet-poet I get the title of this--and the next few--posts. In light of my return from London, I've been charting the ways in which Shakespeare has been molding, shaping, and haunting my life. Since I'm not doing so well with my fiction, I thought I'd indulge in the Internet's purpose: To talk about oneself. The next few posts, dribbled out every once in a while, will document how William Shakespeare has come to be one of the dominant forces in my life. It's taken as my own version of Dominic Dromgoole's Will & Me: How Shakespeare Took Over My Life. While I haven't had nearly as much exposure to the Bard--nor from as early a point in my life--I still have over 4,000 words in my rough draft...and that only takes into account about half of my memories, loosely sketched. So, if hearing the results of these ruminations intrigues you, read on.

My past is haunted with prophetic gasps of a future love affair with Shakespeare. The specters are oblique and furtive, but they're certainly there. In one of those rare instances of if-someone-came-back-in-time-to-tell-you sort of things, I would certainly have believed the time traveler of my future obsession with the Bard. "He'll captivate your imagination," she'd say, "and tell you of yourself. You'll grow and become disillusioned and regain faith all by virtue of what he'll teach you. You'll resist only a little at first, but it won't last. It'll be inevitable, like moon to tides." And I'd say back, "What about Spider-Man?" because I'd still be enamored of the web-slinger who defined my early childhood. And she'd say, "You'll name your first born Peter." "Okay," I'd answer back. "But your third child will be named William." I'd think for a moment, t

Note:  This is an unedited recounting of my time in London. It is very long.  [UPDATE: I forgot to edit out the last names of some of the students. I've gone through and done that here.] Day 1 and 2 (January 7 and 8, 2014) Lots happened over these two days. We had few delays--some were airline related, some logistic related--to get us from Salt Lake to London. The transatlantic flight was murderous; I couldn't get into a comfortable position, though I did manage to snag some sleep. The lady to my right threw all of her stuff on my lap then passed out. I rubbed her back. I'm glad my wife is here. The lady on my left was kind of reminiscent of Kathleen Nugent. She didn't talk to me, but she did expand into my personal space as she slept. It was kind of funny. Anyway, it took us forever to get off the plane, through customs, and claim our baggage. We were supposed to land at 9:35am; an hour long delay in Dallas, however, plus our mass of people getting through

This post is extremely personal, in that it's not trying to modify itself to suit a diverse audience. It's my feelings that came from today's experience at the Holy Trinity Church in Stratford-upon-Avon where I saw Shakespeare's grave. It was indescribable, but here's my best go: We pulled up in front of the Holy Trinity Church and there walked up through the short graveyard to the entrance. Moss-covered tombstones toothed their way through the grass. A feeling of transcendence began to float over me. Normally, when I enter a European church, I'm overwhelmed by the architecture and the piety that's plastered over the walls. That's how I felt in Saint Giles' Church at Cripplegate. Not so here. It's sacrilegious to say that I was almost irritated by having the Bible being read aloud by a little woman off on one side, but I think it was because it was background noise; the words of Holy Writ weren't penetrating my disbelieving fog: I