Sep. 30th, 2013

timeripple: (intellectual dilettante)
It turns out that my alter ego--or one of them--is an Oscar Wilde character. Why is nobody surprised?

September is over and I've been writing not enough, but taking in vast amounts of media. I've become addicted to Welcome to Night Vale and Elementary, watched most of Coffee House at long last, and attended the theatre. Of Sam Shepard's Buried Child, I say: intriguing and infuriating work, in which contradictions casually occupy the same space and horror and comedy obscenely intertwine. Shepard's brilliant dialog serves less to convey information than to underscore what is not said. Perpendicular to the central mysteries is a disturbing gender and generational dynamic, in which the female characters exist either as plot points or as objects upon which the male characters enact the full force of their outrageousness. The text invites not analysis but speculation; the audience must reconcile itself to non-reconcilliation as the play's hideous absurdities both repel and fascinate.

I've also been blogging less opaque reviews at Clarissa's Bookshelf. And gardening (the arugula is spectacular) and attempting to better my piano skills and entertaining the cat Copernicus. I found a marvelous Ted Hughes poem the other day, but I'm saving it for winter.

And now I'm going to go procrastinate by reading Diana Wynne Jones, and you can't stop me.


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