My Soul Has Shifted….corrected version.


My Soul Has Shifted.

Indeed

  Let the truth be told, the week of Spring break this year is far and away not a break at all.  Everyone’s children are out and about, families traveling to be with families and the most beautiful weather we have seen around these parts in a year or so.  The temperatures have fallen to something close to ‘normal’, if there is such a bench–mark any more.  I’ve noticed even the most seasoned forecasters, professional media prognosticators on television here in Atlanta also the experts from Accu-Weather, State College, PA, shifted towards a ‘open the door and look outside before making a forecast’ method.  Two weeks prior to this cooler weather it has been near 20 degrees warmer then, ‘normal’. Anything ‘normal’ anymore?  With that said the trees have leafed out and the Azalea’s have bloomed beyond expectations. When spring and Easter here in Georgia, converge there is a simple beauty in nature.


Checking my e-mails this evening brought I spied the familiar group of faces.  ‘Rhonda Anderson’ sent me a 2nd notice from Facebook…”You were sent this via FB and you haven’t watched it and it’s URGENT”. My Dear Rhonda, Hotmail account has you in Spam, if you do not receive my attention after 30 attempts within thirty consecutive days please consider removing me from you’re a-list. Another favorite?  Is‘kunlunique.com’ and their 4th notice to e-mail/call some bank on the island of Hong Kong.  I wasted over a hour of my life tracking kunlunique.com and never go further than WHOIS.  Best standby in my Hotmail ‘spam folder’ would have to be GasolineCard@sicerbebat.com, no explanation needed.

  Turn you back for just a moment on the details of daily life? Something is going to fall apart.  How you can raise a family, keep a career on track and maintain a household? I am single slash no family. 7/24 is shy of making a week. In the metro Atlanta area come hell or high-water a handful of events occur.  It snows in early January, yeah everyone get a ‘free day off’. The State legislature convenes. For some unknown reason the night before the gavel drops there is a dinner in downtown Atlanta @the Depot or what remains of Terminus. “The Wild Hogs dinner”, also know as a lobbyist trough. This year, the dinner was a bit more exciting than lobbyist sponsored feasting. Vegans and Occupiers staged as cousins at the dinner. The Occupiers were treated to a rice dinner by The Vegans, across the street in The Occupiers camp..  A note to crashers, you would better suite your cause & agenda by waiting a day when the reps convene.  Following next into town is  Ringling Bros. & Barnum & Bailey Circus.  There are two traveling circuses’ one with more animals and the other with more aerial acts each year.  There was the motor cross event @The old Fulton County stadium, destroying the infield and outfield.

  Yes we are all ‘characters upon a stage’. This day begins, a player in a play, extremely satisfying and altogether un-nerving. Personal intuitive feelings the same as the first time I was in the swimming pool for lessons. Gripping the edges, chlorine taste of water in my mouth, trying as I might to lower my head beneath the surface, forcing air bubbles outward through my nose. Again and again I would sink a bit, the water at my chin, lower to my nose at the surface. The other children next to me? Oblivious. My legs beneath the water searching for the invisible balance, head slightly above and below the water line. The voice inside this small child’s head,  ‘I know I can do this’. My age held me from fear an emotion yet to be experienced. This child’s most inner-self and voice grappling for their communion. Soon enough edging below the water, a chorus is created, air from my nose escaping outward to water, resonating vibrations, synching. To me the bubbles sing, a natural and primal cadence. Satisfaction and accomplishment rising thru my head, my body, ” a conscious moment of a child?’ Feet and legs moving with purpose, little hands relaxed their grip from pools edge.  I urged my body to float freely, above or below the surface as chlorine disinfected waters embraced me, me the child.  A Jonathon Livingston Seagull moment?  Discovering me as me, a season of life begins?
How quickly my time passes, Fall then Winter, Spring into Autumn. Weeks become fleeting. Lasting a day? The months’ flying past, now a year seems as only a month. Time in my soul is feeling like currency, the dollar or euro, a bag of gold for yesterday, “pennies for your tomorrow sir??” My clock @home does not tick. The cool watch I have to match my glasses?  It seems to resist being set ‘on time’. i-phone? Embarrasses’ me with total accuracy, cannot argue with me it says, and in return I not.  What is that movement in the body of mine, what is the pull? In the fleeting of a moment I suspected and concluded. “ My soul has shifted.”


Many years ago I received a four-volume set from National Geographic. God-bless Reg Murphy, he is still on-board there. Once upon a time he was ‘Editor in Chief” of Nat Geo, having left as eic of The Atlanta Journal. Reg had been kidnapped back in the day and the FBI blew the ransom exchange, under the overpass of Georgia 400 at Holcomb Bridge road, ten minutes from where I sit today. Reg was returned but the kidnapper did escape. Reg’s kidnapper was caught many years later.  Seems he used the ransom money to finance his degree in medicine.

Anyhow the volumes covered 4 basic periods in recorded time. You know Mid-evil and Renaissance movement. Like Knights and druids, the Romans and Greeks.  Within these 4 volumes the rise, maturing and decline of governments, dogma’s set forth, conquest, inventions, artistry and mathematics. Nothing lasted forever, well maybe the math and science. One generation does rise and then another generation. Each busting their balls to be the best, the brightest, the most fair and enlighten generation or ‘civilization’.

I chance to say, as one whose life has afforded a unending time frame of solitude. From that solitude’s edge I did feel and sense ‘my soul shift’. I am stunned and wary, not enlightened. It was for a moment a perfect pitch of harmony, the whitest clouds with blue skies, the ocean’s waves and foam across the sands. I was there and I knew what it was.  No feeling fear, or wonderment, but a breathless wonderment. The clock may never tic again. Time and nature are one and the same, as a breath is exhaled and the next begins again. I witnessed my own soul as a tangible substance. Life will expire. And again ‘my soul will shift’.

McTell

‘Nichts zu machen’ Teil zwei


Vladimir speaks with speech………”They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it’s night once more.”

Cathedral of Saint-Nazaire Languedoc-Roussillon

The lands of Godot

“to hold the terrible silence at bay”

Waiting for Godot

Samuel Beckett

 

Vladimir speaks with speech………”They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it’s night once more.” In the play, Vladimir is simply implying how short the time we have, from birth to grave and in-between we are, or we exist in knowledge.

 

“Waiting for Godot”, has been so completely analyzed from historical point of view, to Freud, to political views it would be absurd for myself to attempt any sort of structured diagramming. The plot centers entirely on two men.  Beckett was defensive the play had to be cast of men only. Waiting for someone, “Godot”. Having  never met Godot and for a reason neither Vladimir and Estragon can recall. In three acts the tragicomedy contains on revolving and repetitive themes and action. The most obvious is referenced……..Vladimir and Estragon alone with themselves, the two friends are visited by a master with a slave and the two friends find themselves alone and Godot is a no show.

 

Set in what is now a southern part of France, the countryside was originally named Roussillon. The arid climate today produces wine grapes, peaches, apricots and such. Until the 1930’s the region of Luberon was mined for ocher quarries to provide coloration for cloth. The area of Russillon Luberon is also know for its vast cedars and pines. Their greenery contrasting the red, orange and yellow ocher mines and crystal  skies. It was here in 1942 the playwright Beckett fled from the invading and occupying Nazis, joining the French Resistance along with his girlfriend Suzanne. His identity as a Resistance fighter  compromised, Samuel hid in a friend’s attic along with his friends’ father for nearly a year. The year prior Beckett had evaded capture by the Nazis, traveling the countryside of Luberon, wandering its fields, sleeping in barns accompanied by Suzanne, his companion in the Resistance. Both returned to Paris together when the Nazis were driven from France near the war’s end. Beckett’s’ writing career was soon to follow.

 

“Waiting for Godot” tends to follow a pattern most  stark. Actor-to-actor, actor to audience (be spare here), lighting, which is mostly although shaded of sunlight or moonlight. The pattern is and I’ve tried to find a singular word to no avail is of ‘engage and disengage’ repetitively. The best instance is of two friends Vladimir and Estragon eating. A radish is produced, eaten. Nothing more. The beauty of the writing is not the characters in my opinion, nor the plot and  stage movements, it is simply the beauty of its demand on actors to ‘act’. Critics and audience have rushed the aisles to leave a production of Godot, only to return  ‘the next nights production’, heaving praise on the actors and Beckett, yet bewildering as it was the same performance, the same cast, the same production from the nights before.

 

Beckett once directed a production of Godot, lamenting he was a writer with no stage experience. He would imagine a scene for blocking in his mind, repeatedly tossing each one. By 1975 when he did direct Godot, his directing credits had provided him with hard earned experience. In his directing of Godot the major change or changes to the production mostly  the elimination of lines, something of a ‘conservation of character’, a more austere production. Yet again and again, no matter the director or actors, the focus for me is the craft of acting. Frankly Godot as indicated by Beckett himself, I think not, but from his notes such as this……..’tragicomedy contains twenty-one requests for help: ’14 ignored, 4 answered, 1 attempted, 1 not known, 1 on condition et j’en passé’. It is the play taken in its entirety as a ‘cloud of acting’, where the production in whole is the end. Akin to musical notes progressing not as a scale, rather into melody. Reasoning for me the love of one nights performance and the battering of a next nights’ production.

 

And in the end, we wait and nothing happens, and we wait. Beckett was asked many a time who Godot was, obviously we need some insight as he is why we are here. Was Godot represented on stage?  Colin Duckworth asked Beckett point-blank whether Pozzo was Godot, the author replied: ‘No. It is just implied in the text, but it’s not true’. Pozzo is the owner of Lucky the slave. Lucky as a character has a most difficult challenge, a six-minute monologue and here in the play it is either a rousing success or fop. Elements of rhythm rule the play, the characters and apparently the audiences’ approval or not!

My introduction to “Waiting for Godot began when I took a English course in college. Simply read and write something in a couple of hundred words about the play.  I did read it, hit the libary to inquire about it, wrote something about it and forgot about it. And then one day it happened. A student trying to enter the fraternity Alpha Psi Omega, a theatre fraternity was performing on a school cafeteria table during the lunch hour. Bold and brave the newbie actor, playing two parts from a scene in Godot while juggling three balls. All I could remember thinking is ‘damn interesting’. But take the thought and expand by a factor of a hundred. No, not an epiphany, but the spark that remains. And too the young actor I am thankful, in hindsight he was pretty good on his deliverance. The years have passed and my appreciation of the play remains as strong now as then.

 And in the end, we just wait. Quiet and then sound, the stage is light then dark. Hunger replaced by food as thoughts become speech…. Nothing happens. We wait………

Waiting on Godot

 

I still be waiting on Heaven and Earth


I still be waiting on Heaven and Earth to move my fingers across the page to scribe with freedom, just as the freedom of a one night stand of thrice decades removed, ”moving along shall we”? Oh the mighty blog of the second Millennium or what ever we are to name this decade number two.

Global connection upon my fingertips, fleeting bit of information, random thoughts, instant, nay same time information, or perhaps “just in time information”? Nay again the cursed words of “real time” communication.

Expelling grammar reprehensible to language scholars, weeding ideas to expose the soil of my thoughts, none committal yet then again never wrong, yeh never wrong, explained as a diagram of the latissimi dorsi or a frogs shoulder muscles, exposed to view, though I be neither the creator of such much less the keeper of thus.

So and to and to and fro the words will not come, thoughts brought forth thru conjuring of abstracts, haste a quaff of wine or perchance the bowl of tobacco to further review the course to follow, only constrained upon the seas by winds by tides and by soloist at the helm. I return then.

Yet alas I must rest on this thought as the surgeon before my appointed time draws toward. In the morn a doctor who thankfully, or more better yet “God thankfully” protest a practice of bile’s or humors or leeches too boot. Rather a shingle hung with oath towards prophet. Providing his service of true Craftsman. I salute your statue, skill and knowledge with patience. “Hail to medicine, hail the patient’s patience”. As I in turn hail thee my Good Surgeon.

I trust my blog will idle, till next I may profess. Stay well,

McTell and his elements.

Sed etiam nunc hodie……………

Body and mine seek-out the pain removed. Will there be devil upon my infliction?

From golden light upon a horizon the waking birds begin a song.

Has the “Good Doctor” performed with inspiration ? Rise up and now I wait.

Me mind and body synchronize, trusting. Are Heavens and stars aligned?

Is patience of this patient be rewarded? This body indeed proclaims.

At the end his talents richly honed, no measurement of Solidus will replace.

“A good surgeon has an eagle’s eye, a lion’s heart, and a lady’s hand.”

Medical Volvelle

Medical Volvelle

A rather large cloud.


Imagine a rather large cloud, as big and vast as the universe itself, moving across the furthest reaches of a sky above, inching towards the horizons, completing the points of the magnetic compass.  The further away consider the Greeks of literature and then the Romans and their plays of history. Move closer towards your eye level here and gaze upon the written word to follow………………

As a child near 50 years ago, these words to follow I first heard. In my teenage years, my mind and eye brought them to life within my soul. Reading again and again over the decades till just today, I am less perplexed, more entranced and just now understand why I always felt unfinished, unknowing, feeling there is within here, the written word may be a key or code, some “thing” to be discovered to fulfill a ending.

It has been written before I could read, history repeats itself. The point of musical notes only may be arranged in a limited yet nevertheless near infinite number of times. As the Greeks invented plots and characters, in-turn writers of the Roman empire embellished plots, characters and rearranged the previous writings. The constant is the cloud, stretching from the universe to man’s horizon, repeating in his time as his fathers, fathers time. A conclusion? Yes, a conclusion.

As I read the lines to follow, the cloud of its words have changed. What not I comprehend  at the age of 6years or the age of 20years or the age of 46years nor 55years of age. I see the lines describe the life I now have lived to have experienced the joys, the desperation, the follies and denials of the men of Greek,Roman and English. The men, the writers all experienced life the same. Reguardless of statue born into, forced upon them or destiny’s course yes irreversable, madding and rewarding.

My decades may have advance at time of metes and bounds, those small and frustrating calculations used to circle mountains from base to summit. Some years of time or longer having been measured with rods and chains, covering the fly over territories many miss from their lofty carriage. Mapping of these times are centered with temperance of knowing and to often I know to this we yield. “History repeats itself”. From those words the clouds of knowledge are shared to those who see and listen and pass along as they received.

All the World’s a Stage by William Shakespeare

All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;

They have their exits and their entrances,

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms.

Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad

Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,

Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,

Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,

In fair round belly with good capon lined,

With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws and modern instances;

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;

His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide

For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness and mere oblivion,

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

The cloud presents

 

If you ain’t into Shakespeare and need a guide dog..thank Lebby Eyres……

The Seven Ages of Man

by Lebby Eyres

Shakespeare would have us believe that the Seven Ages of Man go something like this: infancy (mewling and puking); boyhood (whining and shining); lover (sighing); soldier (jealous, with a beard); justice (fat and wise); pantaloon (spindly spec-wearer); second childishness (oblivious to everything).

Well, you can’t say that Shakespeare is too complimentary about his sex, but that’s fair enough, really. However, seeing as this was written a good 400 years ago now, we couldn’t help thinking that it was time for a bit of an update. But we discovered, while some parts fall short of defining what is modern-day man, others were still eerily accurate. So here goes…

Infancy

A formative time for the male race. While Shakespeare’s brat is nurtured by a nurse, who probably had several other brats to look after too, modern-day man is breast-fed, adored and spoilt by his mother, leading to a life-long dependence on the woman and/or fascination with large breasts, rather than some scrotty offerings that have fed half the village.

 

Boyhood

Whining, shining, creeping like a snail unwillingly to school? Sounds reasonable.

 

Lover

Blimey. Just how early did they get it on in Shakespeare’s time? Seems a bit of a leap here. For his “lover”, read our spotty adolescent. And while old Will might have been penning a few romantic lovenotes or two, this generation of teenage lovers are rather to be found scrawling “Debbie takes it up the arse” behind the bike sheds. And as for the eyebrow bit – well, your average 15-year-old will probably be aiming a little lower…

 

Soldier

Leaving aside the few thousand men that actually do join the army aged 18, the majority of men have to direct their aggressive, man-killing urges elsewhere. Apart from that, Shakespeare’s description is pretty accurate. Full of strange oaths? Just your average football fan. Bearded like the pard? Student. Jealous in honour and quick in quarrel? Punch-up over mate’s girlfriend. Seeking the bubble reputation, Even in the cannon’s mouth? Okay, it’s a while since I did English A Level, but I’d say this pretty much equates to that strange habit small blokes have of picking on the tallest guy in the pub.

 

Justice

Seeing as people tended to kark it a bit earlier in Shakespeare’s day, this description surely matches today’s middle-youth. So, yes, we have the fat belly, from one too many lagers rather than, perhaps, too many large chickens, and as for the wise saws, well, blokes of a certain age (mid-thirties up) do tend to bang on a bit and always think they’re right. Sadly, Will’s man does seem a bit more mature than today’s middle-youthers, however – the regression to second childishness has already begun, with an obsession with gadget, fast cars and doling out “justice” via a computer game.

 

Pantaloon

Looks a bit odd at first sight, but then we find that a Pantaloon, instead of being a type of trouser, is actually an “old wealthy suitor”. Rich, retired and mean and miserly, the pantaloon had a penchant for younger women, despite the fact, as we can see from Shakespeare’s original, he had specs, love-handles, and was a bit spindly. Any of your dad’s lecherous mates, then.

 

Second childishness

Shakespeare’s man ends up blind, deaf and oblivious to everything. Except themselves, we might add.

Only Shakespeare remains the same and you??

 

Will the real Ernest please stand up.


This will be a true Joy.  Thinking for a few days and as always in the back of me mind. What to blog? Sunday night SAG awards in USA.  The main man of a craft never perfected, always chased, analyzed, criticized, praised, loathed, loved, under-over rated, a quest to make…

“El ingenioso hidalgo don Quijote de la Mancha” less than a footnote of Grail searching.

Ernest Borgnine

The thought came to me today while at work, ” I’d only begun the blog, not finished on Ernest Borgnine.  Feelings of unfinished business did not panic myself, but the feeling I had forgotten to mention this is a work in progress and unfinished.

The story of my fondness for EB goes I suppose as with many a fan.  The television sitcom “McHales Navy” was extremely popular to children and adults alike when I was a child from the age of seven to eleven years old.  Research show the TV show although lasting only four years, nevertheless produced an amazing 138 one half hour shows.  The years from 1962 till August of 1966.

I have to stop for now, but I did, I did, I did unearth the for me the tastest 10minutes of Acting, a complete one man act in one act showcasing the craft, chased, scorned, a actor showing all seven emotions, conveying a story in layers, reveling so much with so little..

Obviously because I refuse to pay to publish @this point in time, I offer up a “link” to the Actor and his Craft.  The most beautiful 10minutes.

In advance the story is about 9/11, as the shadows of the World Trade Centers disappear, the sun shines and the ephieny of his wife demise is realized in tragedy bracketed with the Joy of life.

http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/Gm8LfW1N7rQ?fs=1&hl=en_US