Persephone Gallindo

Persephone is a new friend and fellow theatre enthusiast. Nay, more than enthusiast, for she represents the passions and interests of one who has been a professional on stage and behind it for many decades. I have been offering my meagre scripting skills in the development of one her acts for the Show Must Go On, though with only mixed results. She is another ambitious soul, who can only rail and stomp at the limits within which our somewhat flattened world exists. There is not nearly enough dimensionality and depth for truly satisfying theatre, or even enjoyable vaudeville.
But we are learning. An artist makes use of the tools at hand, and can discover virtuosity even in simple forms and limited behaviours. Persephone likely will find what she is looking for, and she is surrounded by others whose antics will likewise benefit immeasurably from her real world experience.

SL Shakespeare

Shakespeare becomes all things, yet for ever remaining himself.

Coleridge, Biographia Literaria

Persephone IM'd from the Globe Theatre to say she was catching the Second Life premiere of Hamlet, just as I was reading Rik Riel's post on the event in New World Notes. So I joined her and we watched.

Persephone could only watch, for voice failed to work and hence she heard aught but the sound of cameras clicking; I heard the lines quite distinctly - a mixture of accents and acting talents. I attend productions for the scenic design, and not for the quality of the singing or acting, which in SL is closer to posing, for we are masked altimes and can neither quiver a lip nor bat an eyelash, let alone recoil in horror from the apparation of a ghost. We lack spotlights to direct the audience's attention, so the speaking actor must move in an exaggerated way to identify himself. Francisco -or was it Bernardo - seemed stuck in a distracting stance, upstaging the gentler Marcellus.
The costumes were exquisite, the faces of the actors realistic and well consider'd. Clearly this has been the labour of many, but company founder and producer Ina Centaur deserved the applause she received.
The show website tells us the performers were bots - I can not be sure if this means they were scripted avatars, or replicated avatars of some fashion, but I will look forward to where the technology will take this talented group.
Finally, was it Shakespeare, or, was it Theatre? That is a more difficult Matter to decide. I saw the Merchant of Venice at the Globe Bankside in London last September: simple sets and staging will concentrate the attention of the audience to the performer and the lines. This first SL performance was an experiment, to be sure, an effort, an oeuvre, and impressive for the amount of energy and attention it has been lent by its producers. But we are still some ways from a truly compelling production in Second Life.

Revenant

I am haunted by these images, which I do not like, and which recur in dreams. I have met fantoms and vengeful spirits, and were I to write down all the instances of this kind which I have ascertained to have befallen others I know, the undertaking would be beyond measure laborious and troublesome. This particular ghost seems to have no purpose beyond reminding me of my own mortality, and I would be happy if it would leave off, for I do not need reminding, thank you very much.
I am troubled that he wears Dr. Fluxus' mantle and my cap - and that I have not seen the Doctor for many months. Perhaps it is a childish attempt to be annoying. I do not, will not, believe in portents.
Still, it has the most amazingly clean teeth!

All Dressed Up...

...and nowhere to go. By the time I was able to reconnect to the grid, rehearsal was over and I never had my chance to join in the Atomic Raygun Robot Jig.

Power, like a desolating pestilence, pollutes whate'er it touches; and obedience, bane of all genius, virtue, freedom, truth, makes slaves of men, and of the human frame, a mechanized automaton.

Shelley 1813

I was a slave to the music, that's all.

Smoke and Mayhem

Odd crashings, grindings and ejections from Second Life this week multiplied and resolved themselves into a sharp burning smell just as Caitlin's act was about to go on stage at The Show Must Go On rehearsal. I was certain I would not be able to appear; then a change of plans and I was free. Alas these happy circumstances turned black and acrid when a fan stopped spinning! White smoke and flame were quickly extinguished. I have spent the rest of my holiday afternoon finding and replacing vacuum tubes, steam boilers, condensers, testing and using bits and pieces of other machines, until I have now something that will serve until a new graphical engine arrives next week. I think it must have been the rusted robot's jokes - they blew a gasket in my world. Or some odd influenza that has been affecting so many of us this month.

Otello

Arriving late in Los Angeles, I missed the first, and best, act of Otello, with its powerful chorus and fight scene, which must have been exciting because of the curved stage floor, built to imitate the decking of ship. The rest of the opera was sung carefully, performed with a bare minimum of action, and never really left port.
Otello is one of the most passionate of operas. But perhaps because their footing was so unsure, none of the singers took advantage of the rich score and all its prompting for broad movement, vocal expression, or intensity. Iago was almost affable, a sort of grinning buddy doing his friend's unpleasant work. Ian Storey as Otello hung his head like a beagle, and lacked the commanding presence his role demands. Desdemona lacked nobility and grace. This is a passionate, bombastic opera, Verdi's masterpiece of men and women caught in a destiny that wrings every bit of soul and hope from their being. At least the orchestra and the chorus understood.

Kenroku

Kenroku-en 兼六園 has lain outside the gates of Kanazawa Castle in Ishikawa, Japan since 1676. The name means "Garden of Six Elements" referring to the six features that Sung Dynasty Chinese poets thought impossible to combine in one garden: vastness and intimacy; existing ruins and introduced structures; waters and pools and distant views. The Second Life version was created by brue Noel of AbleSeed Co., in Ishikawa, Japan.
This magnificent, peaceful and extensive build accomplishes that difficult combination with careful attention to detail and colour. From the shadow and modulated light within the buildings to the seasonal details which change as time passes - I first visited yesterday on the last day of winter, apparently, for the snow had melted away by this morning, except in cold pockets here and there, and fresh grass has sprung up everywhere, though summer foliage is not yet in - all demonstrate the patient and observant skill of its creator. Lazy koi weave in the pond, leaves blow about here and there and all is surrounded by a vast, glittering sea. Thank you, Hamlet, for guiding me there!

Vanity

Provided a man is not mad, he can be cured of every folly but vanity.
I just liked the picture.

Urania Theatre (after)

Urania Theatre (before)

The Urania proscenium was published by Joseph Scholz around 1880 in Mainz. I purchased this lovely broadsheet in 1983 at Pollock's Toy Theatre Museum in London. Would it not make a fine stage-within-a-stage, a theatrical frame, for Persephone's magickal act? But first I must add drama and atmosphere!

Sorcerer's Apprentice

When The Show Must Go On was yet a twinkle in Osprey Therian's eye, and our discourses compassed toy theatres with paper puppets and operatic treatments of the Song of Roland, we conceived of a magickal performance that included the sawing of an avatar in twain and her miraculous restoration to life. That act became the Alchimical Theatre of Doctor Fluxus, but the rending of the body was abandoned, because I kenned not how hemicorporectomy could be accomplished.
Now Broadway stage manager Persephone Gallindo has taken up that brave challenge, and I have undertaken to assist where I might.
How I wish Linden Script allowed a hierarchy of linked prims, instead of just one parent for her many children. I wish we had spotlights and shadows too.
Well, Persephone, we shall simply have to persevere.

A vision or waking dream?

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Imagine my surprise to discover I am bound to a creature who imagines for itself an independent existence, that is to say, independent of myself.

Why's Poignant Guide to Ruby

Odd things keep turning up on the internet. Here is one of the oddest I have seen. Have a look at Why's (poignant) guide to Ruby whether you program computers or not. An elf and his pet ham. A giraffe surrounded by weezards. Microscopic canaries. They teach you the ins and outs of the Ruby programming language. When they are not hijacking the text for their own nefarious purposes.
The author is insane. Certifiably insane. He may also be a genius.
Don't waste time here. Just go and read it.

From ancient Egypt to modern Thibet, the idea that "by means of regulated labour and the strict discipline of the senses and appetites, it was in the power of man to perfect his moral nature" has motivated the creation of communities of monks. In 1748 I had moral perfection very much on my mind, having returned from my first visit to China, still disguised as a man. It is hard to explain to modern reader how in that age we so completely accepted the belief that man was physically and intellectually equipped for perfection, but woman, with her "inverted" sex and passive nature, was flawed. I had travelled to the ends of the earth and back again and found all peoples in agreement on this point. On the contrary I deeply felt myself the equal to any man, and resolved to discover the truth among the deepest thinkers I could find. So without shedding my disguise I applied as a novice to XX.
I was not the only woman to have done so. Saint Margarita of Antoich held marriage in such horror that she fled the nuptial chamber and took refuge in a monastery under the name of Pelagius, eventually becoming prior of a convent. Her disguise was so complete that when the portress of the convent became pregnant and Pelagius accused of being the father, she was expelled and continued her devotions as a hermit nearby. Her true sex was revealed only upon her death. Saint Hildegund entered the Cistercian order as a lay brother until her death, and of course the life of Joan of Arc is well known. I felt there was no other way for my arguments to be taken seriously unless my listeners felt they were the opinions of a man.

At the monastery

From ancient Egypt to modern Thibet, the idea that "by means of regulated labour and the strict discipline of the senses and appetites, it was in the power of man to perfect his moral nature" has motivated the creation of communities of monks. In 1748 I had moral perfection very much on my mind, having returned from my first visit to China, still disguised as a man. It is hard to explain to modern reader how in that age we so completely accepted the belief that man was physically and intellectually equipped for perfection, but woman, with her "inverted" sex and passive nature, was flawed. I had travelled to the ends of the earth and back again and found all peoples in agreement on this point. On the contrary I deeply felt myself the equal to any man, and resolved to discover the truth among the deepest thinkers I could find. So without shedding my disguise I applied as a novice to XX.
I was not the only woman to have done so. Saint Margarita of Antoich held marriage in such horror that she fled the nuptial chamber and took refuge in a monastery under the name of Pelagius, eventually becoming prior of a convent. Her disguise was so complete that when the portress of the convent became pregnant and Pelagius accused of being the father, she was expelled and continued her devotions as a hermit nearby. Her true sex was revealed only upon her death. Saint Hildegund entered the Cistercian order as a lay brother until her death, and of course the life of Joan of Arc is well known. I felt there was no other way for my arguments to be taken seriously unless my listeners believed they emanated of a man.
I lived and worked with the lay brothers, awaking in the middle of the night to light the candles and set them in place at the choir, the chanting of the Pater, the Ave and the Creed, the reading of the psalms of the Nocturn, the first lessons, the Responsorium, Lauds, and back to the dormitory for our second repose, the morning Mass, awaiting the priests and seniors to finish in the lavatoriums, the daily Chapter, from which we novices were excused, until the sounding of the tabula sonatila, three strokes on a wood block, representing our coming into the world, our passage through life, and our transit through the portals of death, the signal that we might commence talking. The period of Parliament, during which the business of the monastery was conducted, was for novices a time to walk with our teachers and ask questions about scripture and regular observance. Then High Mass at ten, processions with relics and banners, followed by dinner in the refectory, washing and then several hours devoted to reading or labour. The youngest of us were encouraged to play outdoors in simple games and amusements, for it was the belief that as "bows always bent" we risked losing the power of "aiming straight at perfection". I usually engaged someone in a game of chess, or bowling on the lawn. We were not gloomy monks, and always surrounded by cheerful brethren. We worked through the afternoons, in the bakehouse, the cellars, the alehouse, or the fields. About five in the afternoon we returned for Vespers, and supper, followed by the collation when we were given a little wine and bread to last us until dinner the next day, and at last the bells called us to Compline and bed.
So my days passed in a calm and healing.
I had entered the monastery confused and restless: for I had escaped the Devil only a few short years earlier, and was thinking deeply on all I had learned in China. This was immediately noticed by my seniors, who gently encouraged me, without knowing why I suffered.

Readership surge

How odd that the number of my readers should double during the same period I am traveling and not making any posts. Most of the new visitors decline to stay for any appreciable length of time, so they must be arriving in error. The referring pages are images.google.some Scandinavian or eastern European country, and link directly to my images from Versailles.
Ah.
My photographs of that wonderful build rank on the first page of the large image search with Versailles as the search term.
Europe must be making summer travel plans.
Bon voyage tout le monde. Don't forget to pack your periwigs.

Forbidden Droplettes

I may not have made the front page of the People's Daily, or even the Beijing Evening News, but I drew no little attention bringing a solo Droplette act to the Forbidden City. I danced, I fainted, I danced again, until I was asked to kindly take my anachronistic antics somewhere else. I can't tell you what came over me. I usually conduct myself with gravitas when traveling. Well, troupe, there may be an audience for The Show Must Go On in China, but you must exercise better judgment than I did in your choice of venue.

Eight Random Facts about Me[me]

No one tagged me, but I'm sending you eight random facts anyway. Facts I have never admitted to anyone. Facts I almost cannot bear to admit. Facts I am sure you will not want to know. Tant pis. It's not a democracy, it's a blog.

1) I once fell in love with DD, an encyclopaediast, but foolishly accepted the unfortunate estate of marriage with the Devil instead, a very, very long time ago, and carry the scars to prove it. We fought like game-cocks, and the contest cost me dearly. I am still on the run from that eternal, dreadful doom, but he is preoccupied with the current state of Creation and generally leaves me alone.

2) I sleep with the light on.

3) I cannot rest when intoxicated. I will spew nonsensical speech for hours, and utterly annhilate the patience of those acquaintances foolish enough to encourage me. There is a faculty in the makeup of a woman's intelligence given over to fancy and puns when discretion is drown'd. Wine and beauty great souls should inspire, but I in my cups have a tongue that won't tire. Puns and execrable rhymes.

4) I never was a lover of business but now have just reason to hate it, as it keeps me these two months past from seeing my friends. Fie! We were born for play and gaiety, and still I labour like an anthill.

5) I have given up most of my possessions, but yet covet all the beautiful things of the world. I know I have not treasure enough to sate even the smallest share of my desire, and so consume the universe of forms extravagantly with my eyes, and store their pretty images in my heart, driving out all thought of the divine.

6) I was once thrown out of a monastery for impersonating a monk.

7) I aspire to be a poet and an artist, but an overlong life robs all urgency from the task. I too love opera, but cannot sing a note in tune, even were my life to depend upon it.

8) I do not, in fact, exist. Not in any measurable physical form. I do inspire and, not to put too fine a point on it, control one happy individual and thereby effect my will upon the world. Living through a proxy has certain advantages: I do not pay taxes. I may be insubstantial but I am not immortal and I am certain I shall, eventually, die. I do not believe in the soul, though I believe our imaginations include the memories of some of those who have gone before us.

And now I should tag others. But as the declared visitors to my blog are contained within a small gang of miscreants, most of whom have already bitten their memes, I hereby tag ye who lurk and read without commenting, you the unknowable and silent inheritors.

And Home again!

Striking a pose at Yuyuan Gardens in Shanghai.



And a bitterly cold New Year's day on the Great Wall.

I was unable to rouse any friends on an afternoon visit to Second Life, but did visit Privateer Space and was given a tour of this detailed and enormous build by new friend Muttonchops Chaplin, whom you will see piloting the aethercraft. Thank you, Mr. Chaplin, for rescuing me from some dreadful missteps and meteoric descents. I was impressed by a mustachioed robot and the ruins of an underground Martian civilization.





I was travelling incognito, of course, as Carnevale is just around the corner.