Shopping Tips and Guidance by Mandy Claire

Time is getting closer to Christmas, and i's time to think about Christmas cards. This time we will have an ARTsy challenge for you, and it's going like this...

Tiden nærmer seg fraskt mot jul, og det er kanskje best å sette i gang med julekort-produksjonen? Vel, vi ønsker å se mange julekort i tiden fremover, og hvorfor ikke prøve seg på et par artsykort? Det har Marianne og Eva på StampARTic gjort og vi håper at mange av våre lesere også har lyst til å lage noe i denne stilen. Så her kommer en utfordring til dere...











Bakgrunnen er laget med gel medium, gesso, Lumiere og mini beads / Background is made with gel medium, gesso, Lumiere and mini beads.




Bakgrunnen er laget gel medium, Lumiere og distress blekk / background is made with gel medium, Lumiere and distress ink


Bakgrunnen er laget med distress blekk, vann og perfect pearls mist / background is made with distress ink, water and perfect pearl mists


Bakgrunnen er laget med distress og perfect pearl mists / bacground is made with distress ink and perfect pearl mists

In the play "Romeo and Juliet," by William Shakespeare, one of the PRINCIPAL, i.e. MAIN characters is a fiery fellow named MERCUTIO. The name (smart playwright) is based on Mercury (bored god), hence "mercurial."

In Act I Scene 4, Mercutio notices that Romeo is moping about a woman. Mercutio slowly wigs out about it in the famous "Queen Mab" soliloquoy. I here reprint the Bard's version and then give a short translation. For my money, this soliloquoy, INCLUDED IN BOTH FAMOUS FILM VERSIONS, is a brilliant treatise on the dark abilities of faeries.

O then I see Queen Mab hath been with you.
She is the faeries' midwife, and she comes
In shape no bigger than an agate stone
On the forefinger of an alderman,
Drawn with a team of little atomies
Over men's noses as they lie asleep.
Her chariot is an empty hazelnut
Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub,
Time out o' mind the faeries' coachmakers;
Her waggon-spokes made of long spinners' legs,
The cover of the wings of grasshoppers,
Her traces of the smallest spider web,
Her collars of the moonshine's watery beams,
Her whip of cricket's bone, the lash of film,
Her waggoner a small gray-coated gnat,
Not half so big as a round little worm
Pricked from the lazy finger of a maid;
And in this shape she gallops night after night
Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love;
O'er courtiers' knees, that dream on curtsies straight;
O'er lawyers' fingers who straight dream on fees;
O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream,
Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues
Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are.
Sometimes she gallops o'er a courtier's nose
And then dreams he of smelling out a suit;
And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig's tail,
Tickling a parson's nose as he lies asleep;
Then dreams he of another benefice.
Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck
And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,
Of breaches, ambuscados, Spanish blades,
Of healths five fathom deep; and then anon
Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes,
And sleeps again. This is that very Mab
That plaits the manes of horses in the night
And bakes the elf-locks in foul sluttish hairs,
Which, once untangled, much misfortune bodes.
This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,
That presses them and learns them first to bear,
Making them women of good carriage.
This is she ---

(And at this point Romeo interrupts him and Mercutio pauses for breath.)

Anne's translation (not meant for the stage):

This faerie, Queen Mab, is a miniature trouble-maker, all done up in finery made by bugs. When you go to sleep, she gives you dreams of your desires. Beware, though. She won't make you happy. In fact, if you follow her, she will smite you with dashed hopes, cold sores, and pregnancy. Mab isn't nice. Don't listen to her.

And now (drum roll, please), Mr. G's version of this seminal soliloquoy from "Romeo and Juliet," also featured in the 1971 Franco Zefferelli film and the 1996 re-make with Leonardo di Caprio:

 





 







 

 

 

 

 

 


Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," paper stress edition! I am not cut out to be a school teacher. The paperwork befuddles me. Love the kids, hate the dead, white trees.

Other than yesterday's navel gaze, I tried to stay as far away as possible from the 9/11 memorials. The Philadelphia Inquirer reported that an estimated 125,000 civilians died in the Iraq War. That's 40 for every American in 9/11. Little reality check there.

At the Shrine of the Mists we light candles for all children killed in warfare. No discrimination. It's how we roll.

Ah, well. On to brighter and lighter topics!

My three regular readers enjoyed the little clip below of "Mr. G's World," a day in the life of a high school drama teacher.  It must be very special to be a drama teacher/coach/director. How wonderful it must feel when you choose your favorite kid for the lead ... butcher Shakespeare like a pig roast ... pick a good-looking boy who can't act ... don't have to grade so many papers!

It's really eerie how the "Mr. G's World" clip mirrors the Snobville drama teacher, who (ironically) is also Mr. G. What a coincidence! Uncanny, really. If Snobville's Mr. G had an Aussie accent, I would swear it was one and the same man.

Last week I noted that Mr. G (the real one) and a trusty Snobville mom had taken a cleaver to "Romeo and Juliet," of all things. Readers, I am not exaggerating. They took out Tybalt. They took out Mercutio. And they took out Benvolio. Never mind overlooking the beautiful and truthful "Queen Mab" speech about faeries. They axed the whole character! How can you perform "Romeo and Juliet" without Tybalt and Mercutio?

Maybe I'll shuck out ten bucks to find out. Um, maybe not.

The cast list was made public today, and I must say that Mr. G (the real one) is as predictable as Old Faithful.

In our humble borough of Snobville live a family by the last name of Sparrow. There are several stair-step daughters, and they have had itty bitty roles on Broadway and in t.v. shows. Not because they're extraordinary (so far as I can see), but probably because their mom is plugged in to these things. Some moms are like that. They ought to be in the back yard building shrines, but they're calling agents and private acting coaches and making long treks to Manhattan.

It's gotten to be funny. If your last name is Sparrow in Snobville, Mr. G will give you the lead in the play. He pals around with this family, and even though the most recent Sparrow is a freshman, she lapped the other 30-some auditioners for Juliet as if she were Sea Biscuit and they were a pack of winded ponies.

Before the Sparrows arrived on Snobville's high school stage, Mr. G's daughter was still in the school. Needless to say, she got the lead in every play while she was there.

I. Kid. You. Not.

So Spare and I ran down how the last few years of Snobville drama have looked:

Mr. G's daughter
Mr. G's daughter
Mr. G's daughter
Mr. G's daughter

Sparrow
Sparrow
Sparrow
Sparrow
Sparrow
Sparrow
Sparrow
Sparrow
Sparrow

I think this provides a valuable lesson for all aspiring thespians in Snobville. Might as well get used to it now, kiddos. It's who you know. And after all, Hollywood has plenty of "royal families," doesn't it?

Oh, but Mercutio! Mercutio! If this post wasn't running long, I'd type in the whole "Queen Mab" speech!

I'll do it tomorrow.

Not since Mr. Bigwand has a personage come along who so richly deserves excoriation. We'll be having fun in Mr. G's world this year!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," recording a navel gaze on the tenth anniversary of the fall of the Twin Towers. The tragedy happened well before I began writing "The Gods Are Bored" -- just about the time when the Old Ones began a gentle tug on my soul.

First, the politics. I am one of those people who think we ought to examine this tragedy with a touch of hubris. Why did this happen in the first place? I ponder. One thing I believe to be absolutely true. The terrorists won. Our economy was already on the brink of a downward curve, and 9/11 just pushed things over the edge. You can feel differently if you like, but anyone with a drop of Scottish blood will tell you that a few determined warriors can plunge a mighty nation into bankruptcy.

Just an opinion. Opinions are entitlements.

On September 11, 2002, I was working at the job I loved -- writing -- at home, sitting just where I am now. In those days I had recently completed a long gig for ESPN. I had a t.v. on my desk, all hooked up to the cable. Mr. Johnson called me on the phone and told me to turn the t.v. on. When I did, one tower was already in flames, and the second plane was just tearing into the other one. Honestly, dear readers, my jaw dropped. Literally.

I watched the horror unfold, and then the little Jiminy Cricket on my shoulder said, "Get back to work!"

Just at that moment, the announcers said another plane had crashed in "rural southern Pennsylvania." That's where my farm is.

So I watched on, in ever-increasing horror, until the shock turned to rage. I turned the t.v. off and went back to my mundane reference book work. Damn if I was going to let terrorists keep me from earning a wage!

Of course I couldn't work. I was too horrified. And then it was time to go pick up The Spare from school.

The Spare was in second grade. Chances are she is one of the youngest Americans who will actually remember 9/11.

The elementary school was within an easy walking distance of Chateau Johnson. Almost every day a crowd of moms would be gathered in front of the school, waiting for dismissal. (I never let Spare walk home alone until she was in Middle School.) On this day there were easily ten times the usual number of parents on the lawn. One of them was weeping. Her brother-in-law had been on the 80th floor -- his first visit ever to the World Trade Center.

When the bell rang, I witnessed something I'll never forget. The kids came charging out as usual. They hadn't been told about the tragedy. But we parents knew. We rushed our children, grabbed them and held them tight. Rare was the child who didn't have a parent, or aunt, or older sibling, crushing his ribs.

I held onto the Spare for dear life. It turned out that her teacher had been called from the classroom. The teacher's daughter had been scheduled to take one of those flights and hadn't made it to the airport on time. Of all the classes in the school, Spare's was the only one that had an inkling it hadn't been an ordinary day.

Spare remembers. She remembers me telling her to go upstairs and not watch any channel but Nickelodeon. But when she turned on my upstairs t.v., of course it came onto the news channel, and she never switched.

Heir was in sixth grade. Her school had an assembly. The principal told them what was happening. She came home with a million questions.

The rest of the day is a blur. What chiefly stands out for me was seeing this horror unfold, stubbornly and angrily returning to work (Appalachian trait), and then grabbing my little one for dear life (human trait).

There are crazy people out in the world. Real psychos, who cling to any religious fervor that feeds their inner demons. Beware of these people. They come from every praise and worship team known to humankind. We never know when they will go over the tipping point and start blowing stuff up.

When a place like Norway isn't safe from terror, why should America not stand on guard against every lunatic fringe?

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