In which we shall see: capslock, a French philosopher, a bus, a Holy Roman Emperor, Greek tragedy, a poster-child for Rogaine, a turtle's mother, chocolate, and obscure Latin.
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Many, many years ago (not quite before the earth's crust cooled - at least a few weeks later) I took an A.P. European History class. It was my first exposure to both "A.P." and "European History" and I had no idea what to expect... and the unexpected was what I got! As we were stumbling through preliminary introductions the very first day, the teacher caught us all up short by saying, "I'm about to tell you the ONLY thing you will remember from this class..." (This was actually before people used capslock for emphasis - I plead storyteller's license.)
"...Rousseau had an unsatisfactory sex life."
Blank stares. Slack jaws.
"Please turn to page such-and-such in your textbooks..." (which, incidentally, weighed a good three pounds and had NO pictures - and got heavier and heavier as I lugged it home that day when, as it was not only my first day of 10th Grade but was also my first day of High School, I missed the bus and had to walk the two miles.) It was the left page, I remember, and no more than five or six lines from the top it read: "Rousseau had an unsatisfactory sex life."
Well, there we had it.
And she was right - that WAS the only thing I remembered from that class. I thought I remembered one other thing about Emperor Constantine, but it turned out I was wrong.
Move ahead to 2007, Fall, and me stepping nervously into my first classroom containing the high school students (grades 9 - 12) to whom I was to teach Theatre History. Naturally, one of the first things I said was, "So, I'm going to tell you probably the only thing you'll remember from this class..." I fully expect that someday at least one of them will name their dog Rousseau.
It turns out, however, that I was wrong once again. My students will actually probably remember two things from my class.
Come with me to Ancient Greece, and the toddler-hood of Theatre - I'll introduce you to a man named Aeschylus (pronounced
Eh-shul-ous), also called the Father of Greek Tragedy. (Someday when you're playing Trivial Pursuit you'll thank me for this.) According to the picture of a sculpture of this popular playwright he had quite the thick head of hair in his prime... which evidently dwindled to chrome-dome-status in his later years. Now, in the natural world the Great Turtle has very few predators, since not many creatures have the capacity to break its outer shell. (This Discovery Channel commercial IS relevant - bear with me.) In fact, one of the only animals capable of menacing the large turtle is a species of eagle - one with the strength and wingspan that makes it possible to snatch an en-shelled turtle from the ground and lift it high in the air... at which point the eagle drops the turtle onto a protruding rock, cracking it open like an egg. Back now to Aeschylus - allegedly, the prolific playwright and his porcelain pate were out walking one day, and an eagle looking for lunch aimed his take-out at the nearest rock-like object. Tragedy - and a turtle - struck a little too close to home, and the playwright's pen was silenced.
See? My students remember a random French philosopher, AND that some other dude was (allegedly) killed by turtle. Progress!
So, the blog - some days you're the eagle, battling determinedly for lunch ("Take that, Crown Burger!"); some days you're the hapless playwright whose laurel-leaf hat is not nearly enough in the way of protective headgear; and some days you're the turtle, dragged gapingly away from reality TV and into sudden fears of heights and/or falling. I wonder about Aeschylus' Turtle - did he scurry (insomuch as turtles scurry) to the nearest overhang and a) wonder dazedly what just happened; b) curse the feathered menace that carried him away; c) weep over the fall that ended with a definite bang; or d) decide to call his mother and tell her that she really was right about the dangers of thrill-seeking? We may never know.
And there you have it.
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I read a suggestion somewhere that February 15th be declared "UnValentine Day" and I concur. In fact, I found this fun
book, that I recommend and from which I would gladly post artwork (including unValentine cards! Yay!) were it not illegal. So, go check it out, and enjoy, and pass me any of your leftover chocolate.
Oh, and as far as I can tell,
en medias res is a pretty much obsolete Latin phrase that basically means "in the middle of", i.e. starting a story or a play by dumping the audience into the middle of the action. In case you were wondering.
Watch out for falling turtles,
C
Meaningful phone conversations I had today: 1
Stupid things I did today: nothing springs to mind... oh, wait... nope, I'm good
Times I procrastinated: 5 (at least)
