I have frequently had reason to doubt the might of the pen- when employed in any truly satisfying engagement with a sword, the quill is bound to shatter. However, it does bear thinking about- that the threat of imminent violence, has yet to sway any bureaucrat intent upon harvesting forms in triplicate, whom I've observed. If you did choose to be literal, when testing the comparative might of pen and sword (you may well find yourself fantasising about literalism when confronting bank staff etc) you would find that a well aimed blow from your broadsword, impedes the average pen bearer somewhat more profoundly than their judicious ticking of an unfavourable box inconveniences you, the sword wielder- and the incovenience caused to them is rather more permanent and unambiguous.
Whilst I do not advocate violence (except when the sword is an epee and I am holding it), I am very much in favour of writing flippant, wildly caustic letters to banks and bureaucratic organisations. Not because letter writing is guaranteed to achieve much, but because it is a pleasure in itself. A pleasure that can easily be shared, thanks to technology, with friends and family all over the world.
If the aforementioned letters to banks etc. are effective, it may be because they prance so nicely to and fro, along the passive aggressive/outright aggressive razor- causing the reader (banker!) to dither between reactions; with a foot on either side of the blade, so to speak. That is, after all, how one entices a bureaucracy towards the most civil of self-inflicted castrations. Besides, the staff reading such letters tend to enjoy them an awful lot- and reward your efforts suitably, on the basis that you are the sole source of laughter in their working day.
I could proffer endless arguments, claiming to prove the superior might of both objects- and what they represent, but I don't particularly want to be serious, nor do I wish to dissect either too readily. After all, the word and the sword, the pen and the rapier, along with dewdrops, kitten whiskers, mittens and the odd whistling badger, are a few of my favourite things.
Which, of course brings me to my point.... musical theatre!
Actually, that is a lie. I don't have a point, and it is not musical theatre. Nor will it ever be. Not until they find something better than a walk on role for the badger.
Quite!
Denouements and confessions:
I have the intention of writing some reviews and other worthy things- eventually. I just thought I should make a post of SOME kind- the last blog I set up lay untouched for so long that I have forgotten how to access it. SO forgive me for this pointless ramble, a stream of consciousness bottom puff of fiddle faddle- I am merely another wordhound, marking its post, before it forgets where the damn thing is.
A concession to purpose:
A worthier word? If you love words... if they can make and break and move you, and you love good theatre, you must, must, must see The Taming of the Shrew performed by Propeller(www.propeller.org.uk). I had intended to write about it now, but as I only saw it yesterday, and this blog was only set up tonight, I feel a little coy- I don't want to overstretch myself because an excess of passion. I am still in the honeymoon phase with Propeller (and swear my passion will never fade), and though my love for Shakespeare has been long enduring, it has been a chaste love. As far as blogging goes I am an inexperienced bride. I couldn't hope to do the play or the production justice here tonight. Besides, I am still blushing at the level of engagement and sheer pleasure I experienced in the theatre yesterday. A sense of engagement and pleasure that continued even when the company appeared- fresh scrubbed civilians on the pavement, after the show. Did I mentioned that Petruchio singled me out of the audience, in Elizabethan fashion, to pick on? I had plenty to say to him but I wasn't sure if I should. The scamp. The scoundrel!
Sigh... as for the actors (and the characters), I could have kissed them all and brought them home in my pocket to keep. If it weren't for terminal shyness (well hidden), I would have liked to shower them with gratitude for their cleverness, heart and generosity.
Simon Scardifield was the player of a truly heartbreaking Kate-hung all about with hollowed out storm clouds after her taming. The performance explored some of the horror of taming, as well as the loss/ultimate loneliness that callow young men bring upon themselves by "taming". I could dawdle for ever on all of this.Performances variously electrifying, hilarious,hurtful and thoughtful will be discussed at the next sit down, click clack, snore, snore. At least, that is my intention at this very second in time (it may change).
I wish that I was not so shy- then I could have thanked each of these men for his hilarity, love and pain. Fool that I am, I felt it would be inappropriate to accost them with my gushing lay person's ignorance. Actually, that's an intellectualsation. I was just shy and self conscious.
I desperately want to see Propeller's production of Twelth Night, but their last performance in Australia was today- so that's it for now, for me and Propeller, unless of course they ever need a fencing master, or a riding teacher- ho ho... there's no theatre company I'd rather work for!
P.S I've been redeemed- my passion for theatre is finally revived, thanks to the Shrew and Propeller. I was afraid to go to the theatre, for the last few years after experiencing, so much of the reeksomely onerous stuff- Odious stench! Narcissistic pants! Tiresome wankery! Be gone!
