Hi friends and fans. Captain Zorikh here.
Sorry it’s been so long since an update here. Please accept my belated wished that you had a happy and joyous mid-winter holiday season and that the New Year finds you full of hope and optimism!
This year is starting out pretty busy for me!
Those of you who are not connected to me on Facebook, MySpace, or Going.com may have missed the latest from Zorikhville. I will sum up:
The Wicked Faire is happening this weekend, February 18-20 at the Doubletree of Somerset, NJ, and I am ALL OVER it! Below is a description of all that I will be doing, and below that is the schedule of when those things will be happening and where.
The biggest thing I will be doing there, the thing that the past two months of my life have been focused on, is a brand new grappling arts stage show, “Hit the Mat.” I have been thinking about, and talking about, doing a show like this for near two years now. Thanks to a wonderful confluence of circumstances, I have found myself with a cast, a script, rehearsal time and space, and a performance venue. This will be part of the activities in the Warriors of Doom Wrestling Room (“Ares’ Playground”). Other activities there will include demonstrations of submission grappling for fun and safety, challenge matches, viewings of my grappling movie “Redemption,” and games of Combat Twister!
http://www.captainzorikh.com/hitthemat
http://www.captainzorikh.com/redemption
http://www.captainzorikh.com/combattwister
I will also be hosting the Incredible Return of Captain Zorikh’s Costume Contest! With a wild and diverse selection of prizes led off by a $150 prize pack from Forbidden Planet! This is the “people’s costume contest” because you get to decide who gets the prizes! Captain Zorikh will keep the action moving but the true stars are you, the costume enthusiasts who enter and the people who love them and cheer! Categories will be made up on the spot! Prizes will be distributed! Costume death matches and dance-offs are not unheard of! Register on the spot and strut your stuff! http://www.captainzorikh.com/costumecontest
My Captain Marvel Culture lecture will be making its Wicked Faire debut, complete with updates to reflect recent developments! In case you haven’t been paying attention, I have been spending the past 7 years studying the history of the name “Captain Marvel,” the many superheroes who have used it, and their historical and sociological relevance. I say the “Captain Marvel” is the most important name to study in comics with regards to western popular culture and history. Come and find out why! http://www.captainmarvelculture.com
Everyone knows I have been doing armored swordfighting for over 20 years with a large medieval recreation group, so it stand s to reason that I might have absorbed a little information about the history of armor and chivalry, their development and evolution, and how this is reflected in the development of King Arthur stories. I will be sharing this info in my “History of Armor and Chivalry” lecture. This lecture has been a big success at I-Con for the past 6 years, and this is the first time it will be given at the Wicked Faire. http://www.newyorkknights.captainzorikh.com/
Finally, but not fatally (I hope!) Captain Zorikh, The Time Travelling Bard, will be giving an irreverent, entertaining musical performance. His songs have brought a tear to the eye, a lump to the throat, and a knife to the back of many a mighty warrior and lovely lass…and left ‘em laughing in the aisles. There are rumors of a guest appearance by the Death Star Repairman, last seen on the TV show Sci-Fi Science, with some old and new sci-fi themed rockabilly music, as well as a potential heckler!! http://www.myspace.com/captainzorikhmusic
Here’s the schedule…
Saturday:
1:00 – 2:00 Captain Marvel Culture lecture, Palace of the Eagles
2:10 – 3:00 Captain Zorikh, the Time Travelling Bard, Anansi’s Nest
4:00 – 5:00 Captain Zorikh’s Costume Contest, Magpie Bridge
7:30 – 8:00 Performance of “Hit the Mat,” Ares’ Playground
8:30 – Game of Combat Twister, Ares’ Playground
9:00 – Screening of “Redemption,” Ares’ Playground
Sunday:
1:00 – 2:00 History of Armor and Chivalry lecture, Palace of the Eagles
2:30 - 3:00 Performance of “Hit the Mat,” Ares’ Playground
3:30 Game of Combat Twister, Ares’ Playground
For more info on the Wicked Faire, including location, directions, and TICKETS, go to http://www.wickedfaire.com
I hope to see you there!
Captain Z
http://www.captainzorikh.com
Monday, February 14, 2011
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Today's dream: "If anyone has any free will left, follow me!"
Dream on the morning of Saturday, Jan 8, 2011
I’m out in the woods on a day-trip holiday. About 3-4-5 people and I decide to jump in a pond. It’ll be fun! We jump in. One of us (me?) drifts towards the edge of the pond and goes over a dam/barrier. About 4 or 5 of us wind up drifting down this small river, going over falls and barriers. One of us is a semi-hapless guy who has lost a “thing” in the water and we all go drifting after it. That “thing” will become the McGuffin of the story.
Soon we slide down a water ramp and wind up indoors in a structure of sorts. We are in a gray stone corridor and there is a sense that it is underground. We are being led by fit, young, black-clad security guards who keep on asking where “it” is.
We walk through a particular section where the corridor is a little wider and makes a turn when one of our number decides to do a forward roll. We wind up in a spot where the questioning gets particularly intense. The semi-hapless guy manages to whimper/mumble “Red Hook” and “Waterfall,” which was where the river was and where the “thing” got finally separated from us. The questioners are angry and don’t seem to understand. Very frustrating.
We go back to walking through that last section of corridor. At the section where the guy did the roll, now the two people guarding us (both female) do forward rolls as if it was part of their routine to do so at that spot. They begin to engage in a hand-to-had combat training routine and seem to forget about us. We pass by about a half-dozen security guys doing routines with each other using assault rifles. The guy who originally did the forward roll (Me? But he didn’t look like me. But through the rest of the dream I was “playing” him) thought about taking one of the guns away from the guards. There was the constant clamoring of the boss of this facility as to “where is it?” and the constant thought by me of “We were in the river, we lost it in the waterfall, we don’t know where it is.”
Then I entered a room where more of these guard-types were training on special apparatus. They were training drone-like, like mindless robotic soldiers with now free will. There was a doctor type (who was like a particular black doctor I think was on a sci-fi TV show) who was checking them out one by one. I happened to know him and asked what was going on. He said things were going great and he expected to begin his procedure (become one of the guards) soon.
So it seems that the “thing” turns people into these combat machines that serve the powerful guy who probably wants to take over the world or something. At that point I seemed to recall reading a capsulized description of this movie before it began.
The doctor started getting a little edgy, nervous, repeating himself, like he was hypnotized or brainwashed or something. I headed out of the room and found in a dark corner a bunch of normal-looking people cowering in the shadows. There was a middle aged/old lady, a small boy, and other normal, average people in dirty street clothes looking stunned, I said “who has any free will left?” One guy, the semi-hapless guy, who was now a portly, balding, bespectacled guy in a Hawaiian shirt clutching a tall potted plant, said he did.
Apparently these were people who got caught up in this complex and training system who were not perfect enough to be soldiers, so they wound up drifting into dark corners and cowering. It was quite possible that they might not get out of here alive. I said to the semi-hapless guy “Let’s go” and headed for a door at the end of this dark corridor a short distance away. About 3-4 people seemed to respond, but somehow they didn’t make it to the door. I think a guard or something may have come in and started to hustle these people away or threaten them. When I got to the door I turned around and whispered loudly “anyone who has any free will left, come with me!” Only the semi-hapless guy with the houseplant was with me.
There was a lot of play in my mind at this point about “Free Will” as I woke up.
I’m out in the woods on a day-trip holiday. About 3-4-5 people and I decide to jump in a pond. It’ll be fun! We jump in. One of us (me?) drifts towards the edge of the pond and goes over a dam/barrier. About 4 or 5 of us wind up drifting down this small river, going over falls and barriers. One of us is a semi-hapless guy who has lost a “thing” in the water and we all go drifting after it. That “thing” will become the McGuffin of the story.
Soon we slide down a water ramp and wind up indoors in a structure of sorts. We are in a gray stone corridor and there is a sense that it is underground. We are being led by fit, young, black-clad security guards who keep on asking where “it” is.
We walk through a particular section where the corridor is a little wider and makes a turn when one of our number decides to do a forward roll. We wind up in a spot where the questioning gets particularly intense. The semi-hapless guy manages to whimper/mumble “Red Hook” and “Waterfall,” which was where the river was and where the “thing” got finally separated from us. The questioners are angry and don’t seem to understand. Very frustrating.
We go back to walking through that last section of corridor. At the section where the guy did the roll, now the two people guarding us (both female) do forward rolls as if it was part of their routine to do so at that spot. They begin to engage in a hand-to-had combat training routine and seem to forget about us. We pass by about a half-dozen security guys doing routines with each other using assault rifles. The guy who originally did the forward roll (Me? But he didn’t look like me. But through the rest of the dream I was “playing” him) thought about taking one of the guns away from the guards. There was the constant clamoring of the boss of this facility as to “where is it?” and the constant thought by me of “We were in the river, we lost it in the waterfall, we don’t know where it is.”
Then I entered a room where more of these guard-types were training on special apparatus. They were training drone-like, like mindless robotic soldiers with now free will. There was a doctor type (who was like a particular black doctor I think was on a sci-fi TV show) who was checking them out one by one. I happened to know him and asked what was going on. He said things were going great and he expected to begin his procedure (become one of the guards) soon.
So it seems that the “thing” turns people into these combat machines that serve the powerful guy who probably wants to take over the world or something. At that point I seemed to recall reading a capsulized description of this movie before it began.
The doctor started getting a little edgy, nervous, repeating himself, like he was hypnotized or brainwashed or something. I headed out of the room and found in a dark corner a bunch of normal-looking people cowering in the shadows. There was a middle aged/old lady, a small boy, and other normal, average people in dirty street clothes looking stunned, I said “who has any free will left?” One guy, the semi-hapless guy, who was now a portly, balding, bespectacled guy in a Hawaiian shirt clutching a tall potted plant, said he did.
Apparently these were people who got caught up in this complex and training system who were not perfect enough to be soldiers, so they wound up drifting into dark corners and cowering. It was quite possible that they might not get out of here alive. I said to the semi-hapless guy “Let’s go” and headed for a door at the end of this dark corridor a short distance away. About 3-4 people seemed to respond, but somehow they didn’t make it to the door. I think a guard or something may have come in and started to hustle these people away or threaten them. When I got to the door I turned around and whispered loudly “anyone who has any free will left, come with me!” Only the semi-hapless guy with the houseplant was with me.
There was a lot of play in my mind at this point about “Free Will” as I woke up.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Today's dream: A View to Die For.
I have been a little under the weather for the past week, and I have not gotten very much sleem lately as I have been working and out of the house a lot for the past four days. Today, after getting home around 8:30, then putting on m,y armor and walking around Manhattan for a photography student, then getting home around one, I stayed home, slept for 3 hours, then worked on editing videos and watched the Giants beat the Vikings (football, not mythology). I got to bed tonight at about 2 AM. I woke up about 4:15 from the following dream:
About a half-dozen men are in a large, round room with large windows at the top of a tall tower near the southern tip of Manhattan. The view includes NY Harbor, New Jersey, the Statue of Liberty, Brooklyn, the East River, and the bridges there. The men are all people who have done something morally repugnant, ethically wrong, illegal, or just plain shameful, but have somehow gotten away with it.
Aside from the window, the room has a domed ceiling of rich , dark-colored wood. The window frames are likewise of that rich wood, as are the walls, which are about 6’ high. The general air of the room is of a library in a wealthy Victorian mansion.
The men are there at the invite of the owner of the place, an old man sitting on a red velvt couch at one end of the room. When one of the men asks what this place is, he explains that it displays panoramic views of great disasters, but always ends the moment before you would have died.
The men wonder why they are there, and each try to avoid talking about the various repugnant things they have done, although some people in the room recognize others for who they are. The old man watches knowingly, with a half-smile on his face.
At one point the conversation turns, and it leads to discussion about what a person’s favorite time to have lived would be. One fellow says “The 20th century, a more elegant time” and the view in the windows starts to change. The city appears older, the buildings more ornate, and shorter. “I’m talking about the nineteen-tens!” he says. The ceiling disappears, revealing a spectacular sunset.
“Wow! Now that is gorgeous!” he says, looking all around at the sky. The sky is a deepening blue and purple with clouds that are highlighted in magical tones of orange. There is also a yellow-orange glow on the horizon where the sun has gone down.
“Or the 1890’s! The Victorian age!” The walls disappear, although the window frames remain, extended all the way down to the floor now. “That’s what I’m talking about! Look at those ships! Not a steam engine to be seen!” Suddenly there is an explosion among the tall-masted ships docked in the East river. “Except that one.” Sparks like fireworks shoot out of the now-burning steamship. The man thinks it must be for the sake of a spectacular fireworks show we will now see in this panorama. He looks around to NY Harbor, and sees a fire with black smoke pouring out of it into the still-spectacular sunsetted sky..
The old man interjects, “Yes, the ironic thing is, the stem engine ended the steel industry in New York.”
“Wait! This is the great fire! This is ’99!” the previous man cries. Then realization begins to dawn on him. This fire burned New York City to the ground with great loss of life. “This room shows great disasters of history!” The flames grow higher. Panic starts to set in among the guests.” We see a view as if we were in, say, the 5th story of a building, so we can see in the windows of the top floors other buildings as the flames overrun them. In one window we can see a portrait of someone who might be famous or familiar burn up. The flames are now a raging inferno in the windows.
“But wait, you said it ends right before the moment we would have died, right?” The man is panicked. He looks around. Suddenly there is an image of a small flame leaping from a smoking pipe into a lighter. The man looks around the room. The windows are now dark. The walls and ceiling have re-appeared. Everyone appears dead, even the old man. He says, with curious fear “So, what? Do we now just…expire?”
And then I woke up, saying “Faaantastic!”
A postscript began, in which we say three people walking down a long transparent corridor or elevated tunnel through a futuristic New York. But I could not drift off to sleep enough to finish it.
About a half-dozen men are in a large, round room with large windows at the top of a tall tower near the southern tip of Manhattan. The view includes NY Harbor, New Jersey, the Statue of Liberty, Brooklyn, the East River, and the bridges there. The men are all people who have done something morally repugnant, ethically wrong, illegal, or just plain shameful, but have somehow gotten away with it.
Aside from the window, the room has a domed ceiling of rich , dark-colored wood. The window frames are likewise of that rich wood, as are the walls, which are about 6’ high. The general air of the room is of a library in a wealthy Victorian mansion.
The men are there at the invite of the owner of the place, an old man sitting on a red velvt couch at one end of the room. When one of the men asks what this place is, he explains that it displays panoramic views of great disasters, but always ends the moment before you would have died.
The men wonder why they are there, and each try to avoid talking about the various repugnant things they have done, although some people in the room recognize others for who they are. The old man watches knowingly, with a half-smile on his face.
At one point the conversation turns, and it leads to discussion about what a person’s favorite time to have lived would be. One fellow says “The 20th century, a more elegant time” and the view in the windows starts to change. The city appears older, the buildings more ornate, and shorter. “I’m talking about the nineteen-tens!” he says. The ceiling disappears, revealing a spectacular sunset.
“Wow! Now that is gorgeous!” he says, looking all around at the sky. The sky is a deepening blue and purple with clouds that are highlighted in magical tones of orange. There is also a yellow-orange glow on the horizon where the sun has gone down.
“Or the 1890’s! The Victorian age!” The walls disappear, although the window frames remain, extended all the way down to the floor now. “That’s what I’m talking about! Look at those ships! Not a steam engine to be seen!” Suddenly there is an explosion among the tall-masted ships docked in the East river. “Except that one.” Sparks like fireworks shoot out of the now-burning steamship. The man thinks it must be for the sake of a spectacular fireworks show we will now see in this panorama. He looks around to NY Harbor, and sees a fire with black smoke pouring out of it into the still-spectacular sunsetted sky..
The old man interjects, “Yes, the ironic thing is, the stem engine ended the steel industry in New York.”
“Wait! This is the great fire! This is ’99!” the previous man cries. Then realization begins to dawn on him. This fire burned New York City to the ground with great loss of life. “This room shows great disasters of history!” The flames grow higher. Panic starts to set in among the guests.” We see a view as if we were in, say, the 5th story of a building, so we can see in the windows of the top floors other buildings as the flames overrun them. In one window we can see a portrait of someone who might be famous or familiar burn up. The flames are now a raging inferno in the windows.
“But wait, you said it ends right before the moment we would have died, right?” The man is panicked. He looks around. Suddenly there is an image of a small flame leaping from a smoking pipe into a lighter. The man looks around the room. The windows are now dark. The walls and ceiling have re-appeared. Everyone appears dead, even the old man. He says, with curious fear “So, what? Do we now just…expire?”
And then I woke up, saying “Faaantastic!”
A postscript began, in which we say three people walking down a long transparent corridor or elevated tunnel through a futuristic New York. But I could not drift off to sleep enough to finish it.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Today's dream: I married Princess Di. I don't think she was into it
This morning I dreamed I married Princess Diana. I don’t think she was really into it.
We were in a private civil ceremony, and while she was dressed in her usual conservative elegance, I was in an over-sized sweatshirt and shorts (what I happened to be sleeping in). After an official said a few words, we were to sign a book. She signed first, very carefully caligraphing the letters, scratching them out several times and writing them over. Someone said she was doing her “chancellery hand.” I mentioned that I had several calligraphic hands that I could write in, but the fellows there said that it was traditional for it to be a Roman hand, which I knew to be big bold capital letters. I opted for a modern signature, but I didn’t want it to be my current illegible scrawl, so I drew it carefully. It wound up with oversized vowels, making it look like a child’s signature.
Also present was Prince Charles, Diana’s ex-husband, looking a lot younger than he does on the cover of that gossip paper with the headline about him being gay. It made me think that the picture was of Prince Philip, the Queen’s husband. Being as Diana was no longer wife to the Prince of Wales, I thought her title now was Duchess of York.
She did not speak to me, and barely looked at me during the ceremony and procedure, and quickly went of to lunch with a friend at a nearby café. I followed her there so I could suggest we get together sometime over the week to get to know each other a little before the big wedding that would take place a week later. Neither she nor her friend really seemed into it. Her friend even said some ostensibly polite but blatantly dismissive thing to me. I said some quasi-sarcastic thing about being sure that she would be a nice person if she wanted to.
I think I was selected mostly at random for this marriage, like she had to be married to someone for some reason, which was why I was unprepared for it.
Most of the rest of the dream has faded now. I think it may have been inspired by recent interactions with women I have met that don’t quite seem to develop into dates or relationships. This is all part of getting “back into the swing of things” after a particularly effective dismantling of my social life through the course of a recent relationship.
We were in a private civil ceremony, and while she was dressed in her usual conservative elegance, I was in an over-sized sweatshirt and shorts (what I happened to be sleeping in). After an official said a few words, we were to sign a book. She signed first, very carefully caligraphing the letters, scratching them out several times and writing them over. Someone said she was doing her “chancellery hand.” I mentioned that I had several calligraphic hands that I could write in, but the fellows there said that it was traditional for it to be a Roman hand, which I knew to be big bold capital letters. I opted for a modern signature, but I didn’t want it to be my current illegible scrawl, so I drew it carefully. It wound up with oversized vowels, making it look like a child’s signature.
Also present was Prince Charles, Diana’s ex-husband, looking a lot younger than he does on the cover of that gossip paper with the headline about him being gay. It made me think that the picture was of Prince Philip, the Queen’s husband. Being as Diana was no longer wife to the Prince of Wales, I thought her title now was Duchess of York.
She did not speak to me, and barely looked at me during the ceremony and procedure, and quickly went of to lunch with a friend at a nearby café. I followed her there so I could suggest we get together sometime over the week to get to know each other a little before the big wedding that would take place a week later. Neither she nor her friend really seemed into it. Her friend even said some ostensibly polite but blatantly dismissive thing to me. I said some quasi-sarcastic thing about being sure that she would be a nice person if she wanted to.
I think I was selected mostly at random for this marriage, like she had to be married to someone for some reason, which was why I was unprepared for it.
Most of the rest of the dream has faded now. I think it may have been inspired by recent interactions with women I have met that don’t quite seem to develop into dates or relationships. This is all part of getting “back into the swing of things” after a particularly effective dismantling of my social life through the course of a recent relationship.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
This morning's dream: Little Richard, Sleepy LaBeef, and Elvis Presely
Fun sort of a dream last night. It involved three of my favorite rock & rollers and a convention.
I was at a large convention of some sort (perhaps inspired by the fact that I had been at the Big Apple Comic Con for the past three days), and found myself sitting at a counter next to Little Richard. He was autographing a record album and I leaned over and asked “Richard Penniman?” He said yes.
He was younger looking that he is now, without makeup and with a very 1980’s sport of look, gerry-curled hair in a sort of afro-mullet, a silk sport coat, remarkably subdued, as if this was his off-stage persona.
I told him I was a big fan, and enjoyed his shows. He thanked me. He happened to be looking at something that had words or a name that included the work “le beuf.” I asked him if he had heard of Sleepy LaBeef. Sleepy is a great rockabilly singer whom I have seen several times but not for a few years. Sleepy does great shows and I said so. Then wouldn’t you know, I turned around, and he was coming onto the room to sign autographs! There he was, all 6’7” of him in his big black hat.
Little Richard had not heard of him, but I knew Sleepy should be a big fan, so I brought Richard over to Sleepy to meet him. Sleepy remembered me form the several times I have seen his shows. I said to him “I have Richard Penniman here” and he said “Oh, yes, the actor.” I think Sleepy may have been a bit confused and distracted. I said “no, no, Little Richard, the singer.” I think Sleepy must have been very distracted, because he could only briefly acknowledge that before turning back to deal with his autograph-seeking fans.
On our way back to the counter, Richard walked on his knees in disappointment. I started doubting that this was Little Richard because in concert it did not seem that he was quite so limber as to be able to do that. When back at the counter I grabbed his leg and felt his leg brace under his pants. That confirmed for me that it really was him.
Then somewhere in there Elvis showed up. Well, not Elvis himself, but a famous impersonator in a casual sport coat and tie. Somehow I got the three of them together, and they wound up on a line to meet someone. I don’t know who, but it was someone they all wanted to meet, along with lots of other people because it was a rather long line on the sidewalk outside. I then suggested that they sing something together. I can’t remember what they sang, but it was awesome to have Little Richard, Sleepy LaBeef, and a famous Elvis impersonator (or perhaps it was the guy from the Broadway show “Million Dollar Quartet”) singing together.
I was at a large convention of some sort (perhaps inspired by the fact that I had been at the Big Apple Comic Con for the past three days), and found myself sitting at a counter next to Little Richard. He was autographing a record album and I leaned over and asked “Richard Penniman?” He said yes.
He was younger looking that he is now, without makeup and with a very 1980’s sport of look, gerry-curled hair in a sort of afro-mullet, a silk sport coat, remarkably subdued, as if this was his off-stage persona.
I told him I was a big fan, and enjoyed his shows. He thanked me. He happened to be looking at something that had words or a name that included the work “le beuf.” I asked him if he had heard of Sleepy LaBeef. Sleepy is a great rockabilly singer whom I have seen several times but not for a few years. Sleepy does great shows and I said so. Then wouldn’t you know, I turned around, and he was coming onto the room to sign autographs! There he was, all 6’7” of him in his big black hat.
Little Richard had not heard of him, but I knew Sleepy should be a big fan, so I brought Richard over to Sleepy to meet him. Sleepy remembered me form the several times I have seen his shows. I said to him “I have Richard Penniman here” and he said “Oh, yes, the actor.” I think Sleepy may have been a bit confused and distracted. I said “no, no, Little Richard, the singer.” I think Sleepy must have been very distracted, because he could only briefly acknowledge that before turning back to deal with his autograph-seeking fans.
On our way back to the counter, Richard walked on his knees in disappointment. I started doubting that this was Little Richard because in concert it did not seem that he was quite so limber as to be able to do that. When back at the counter I grabbed his leg and felt his leg brace under his pants. That confirmed for me that it really was him.
Then somewhere in there Elvis showed up. Well, not Elvis himself, but a famous impersonator in a casual sport coat and tie. Somehow I got the three of them together, and they wound up on a line to meet someone. I don’t know who, but it was someone they all wanted to meet, along with lots of other people because it was a rather long line on the sidewalk outside. I then suggested that they sing something together. I can’t remember what they sang, but it was awesome to have Little Richard, Sleepy LaBeef, and a famous Elvis impersonator (or perhaps it was the guy from the Broadway show “Million Dollar Quartet”) singing together.
Monday, August 2, 2010
My dream this morning: Going up on a line in a movie shoot
So it seems that I was given a small but important part in a movie, and I was doing pretty good at memorizing my lines. We were shooting a scene in an empty lot next to a tall, blank, brick wall. I was supposed to wait a couple of beats, then say a line, then cross to another person in the scene while the main character said her line. We shot this a few times, but on the 4th or 5th take, I said some lines later in the scene to the person I had crossed to. But on that take, I did not get my first line right. When I tried to remember it, I couldn’t. My only explanation was that I had done the line so many times that I just went up on it. So I asked if anyone had a script handy, and no one did.
I went back into the room, which was adjacent to the lot (a somewhat good-sized room with a very high ceiling that was empty of furniture save for one corner where a whole office set-up, including desk, filing cabinets, bookshelves, printer, etc were located), where all my papers were on the floor. I had used to live in that room, but had recently moved out of it because it was being turned into an office. I gathered all my papers into a pile, but could not find my script in the pile. At the same time, the guy sitting at the desk (who happened to be the son of Tom Dolan, an English and acting teacher at Stuyvesant High School who directed the first two musicals I was in there) was trying to figure out how to run the printer (which was printing pages that looked like ditto machine prints) so that in would print a negative image. I didn’t have time to help him because I needed to find the script. I went back out into the lot, and right about then I realized this was all a dream. This was pretty surprising because I thought I could remember the weeks of rehearsals on this project.
I think part of this dream may have been inspired by the fact that I need to memorize a lot of lines for the Faux Real Theater Co's "Oedipus Rex" that I have just been cast in.
I went back into the room, which was adjacent to the lot (a somewhat good-sized room with a very high ceiling that was empty of furniture save for one corner where a whole office set-up, including desk, filing cabinets, bookshelves, printer, etc were located), where all my papers were on the floor. I had used to live in that room, but had recently moved out of it because it was being turned into an office. I gathered all my papers into a pile, but could not find my script in the pile. At the same time, the guy sitting at the desk (who happened to be the son of Tom Dolan, an English and acting teacher at Stuyvesant High School who directed the first two musicals I was in there) was trying to figure out how to run the printer (which was printing pages that looked like ditto machine prints) so that in would print a negative image. I didn’t have time to help him because I needed to find the script. I went back out into the lot, and right about then I realized this was all a dream. This was pretty surprising because I thought I could remember the weeks of rehearsals on this project.
I think part of this dream may have been inspired by the fact that I need to memorize a lot of lines for the Faux Real Theater Co's "Oedipus Rex" that I have just been cast in.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Disturbing dream about America
I just woke up from the following dream:
I was looking at a map of the United States, and it seems that a few years ago, a chunk of middle American states (mostly the ones stacked north of Texas extending all the way up to Canada) have been defined as areas which should belong to Native Americans. In fact, a big chunk of central Oklahoma and all of Kansas and Nebraska, as well as chunks of Missouri, Iowa, and maybe a little bit of Colorado have been defined as "B. B. B." I'm not sure what that stands for, but they are now an autonomous region administered by Native Americans.
So I was sitting in the window of the kitchen of my mom's old apartment on East 61st Street (only it was on the first floor in this dream, not the 4th floor, as in real life), and there happened to be a very large map of the US on the wall of the building across the street. There was a fight going on in the street over the situation represented by this map. It seemed to just be fistfights and grappling, and no one was getting bloody, so I stayed out of it. But then I saw that one guy, who had his arms held by three others, was just stabbed in the chest with a knife. I actually saw the knife being pulled out of his chest. That's when I reached in my pocket for my phone to call 911. But a police car pulled up right at that moment.
The people fighting started to scatter. I opened the windows so I could tell the cops which way they went, but one guy started advancing to the window, and I closed it, not knowing if he was a plainclothes cop or not.
Eventually I figured out he was, as a cop in a suit came to my window, which I opened. I told them I saw one of the guys who was fighting run around the corner, and that I witnessed a stabbing. The cop in the suit pulled out some papers saying they needed authorization to check my apartment for fingerprints (that fingerprint bit may have been inspired by something I saw in "Rules of Engagement" tonight). Then another guy reached right through the open window to grab something out of the kitchen. I smacked it out of his hand, and it turned out it was Woody Allen.
There was a little bit of discussion about checking the apartment, as I was sure no one came in from the street, and I wasn't comfortable with cops tromping through the place.
The theme of this dream, the fighting over the situation in America where a big chunk of it is given back to the Native Americans, was probably inspired by a debate I have been having on Facebook. It seems there is a guy who got an advertising circular from a used car dealer that included the words "Se Habla Espaniol! Trabajamos Con Tax ID!" He posted a picture on his FB page of the circular with that phrase circled in red and a yellow sticky that read "Bob- We live in America! We speak ENGLISH! 'NO BUENO!' You have permanent (sic) lost my future business."
This picture was followed by a bunch of supportive remarks, leading to accusation of a "Socialist Agenda" by the Obama administration, etc, etc, etc., and saying that this car dealer was not "pro American."
I found this quite disturbing. What's the big deal? So the car dealer speaks Spanish. In my America, we have the right to speak whatever language we want, and it is simply good business to be able to speak the language of potential customers.
Apparently there are bunches of people (some who call themselves a "silent majority") who really don't want people to use languages other than English here. Spanish seems to be the biggest target around here. Some of them are spouting a psuedo-Aristotlian quotation, "Tolerance is the last virtue of a decaying society" (which sometimes appears as "Tolerance and apathy are the last virtues of a decaying society" and sometimes it's "...decadent society"). Most of them are hollering "You're in America, SPEAK ENGLISH!"
They are actually taking offense at advertising and public signage that is not in English. They say that anything that makes it easier for someone who doesn't know English to get around and get along is hurting this country. They are calling for boycotts of businesses that speak Spanish (and presumably other languages). Some of them even admit, proudly, to defacement of advertisements in Spanish.
Another common theme among them is the stories of immigrants who came to America because they wanted to be Americans and learned English right away and assimilated. Assimilation with American society is a big thing among these folks. They claim that all these "push #2 to hear this message in Spanish" stuff is coddling lazy people who don't want to be Americans.
They claim that because the Founding Fathers spoke English, and the Constitution and Declaration of Independence were written in English, that no other language should be used in this country. They point out that a common language help commerce and gives a sense of unity.
Now I grew up in New York City, a multi-ethnic town with lots of neighborhoods loaded with non-English signage. I never saw it as any sort of threat to American society or as something not "pro-American." Heck, thanks to the signage, I know that "no se apoye contra la puerta" means "do not lean against the door." I had bi-lingual friends, and went to school right near Spanish Harlem. Half my high school was Asian. There was always a Spanish TV station or three on the dial. So to hear objections to businesses that speak Spanish and non-English signage and advertisements is to hear objections to the world in which I grew up. It sounds like they are objecting to my friends.
It is not a very far jump from boycotting businesses and defacing billboards to throwing rocks through windows and attacking store owners. Should restaurateurs refuse to serve people who speak Spanish while they are eating? Should Telemundo, Telefutura, and Univision be shut off the air? Should foreign-language newspapers be banned? Should we have education camps for non-English speakers?
This sounds like fascism. Yes, I am saying that, Fascism. Does Krystalnacht ring a bell? To get rid of all non-English advertising and signage would take an effort much like that. There are too many people in this country, citizens, immigrants, residents, visitors, and tourists, who enjoy speaking their native tongue or the language of their parents and grandparents to make the enforcement of English possible through boycotts and nasty letters alone.
If anyone wants to get ahead in this country, they are going to have to know English. But if they want to increase their customer base, it won't hurt to learn any other languages that happen to be in use in their neighborhood, or for that matter, the languages of any tourists or foreign visitors (such as students) that may come through their neighborhood. Market forces will lead to a common language being used. That is the history of language. Sure, we could force English Immersion on them, but the vehemence with which this message of "English first" is being spewed does not convince me that it would be done in a helpful and supportive way.
Furthermore, language is the preserver of a culture. Different languages, and different cultures, have different ways of seeing things, different values, different tastes, different aesthetics. Having a variety of cultures gives us a variety of ways of looking at the world and a variety of choices in dealing with the world. Just as you would want to eat different foods at different times of the day, it is beneficial to have the availability of different outlooks on the world. You may find one day that what you have learned is not helping you with your current situation. If there is someone else who has a different outlook with you, they might be able to provide a solution.
I find that permission and support of variety and diversity is a strong unifying influence. It is the promotion and effectiveness of that ideal that has carried these United States through a Civil War and a couple of World Wars (despite the hypocrisy of the sentiment at the time, what with things like Jim Crow laws, Japanese-American internment camps, Indian reservations, etc). There are few things that will anger a person like saying they cannot do something that they enjoy doing. One's right to say something, in any language they choose, seems far more worth fighting for than forcing people to speak only one language.
That psuedo-Aristotlean statement above does not hold true when you notice that ancient Rome, a society that was very tolerant and diverse, lasted for a thousand years, while the 3rd Reich, a society defined by its intolerant unity, barely lasted a decade.
So it's quite possible that this debate inspired my dream of fatal stabbing in a fight under a map of the US in which several mid-American states were given back to the Native Americans. I have no idea why Woody Allen was in there.
I was looking at a map of the United States, and it seems that a few years ago, a chunk of middle American states (mostly the ones stacked north of Texas extending all the way up to Canada) have been defined as areas which should belong to Native Americans. In fact, a big chunk of central Oklahoma and all of Kansas and Nebraska, as well as chunks of Missouri, Iowa, and maybe a little bit of Colorado have been defined as "B. B. B." I'm not sure what that stands for, but they are now an autonomous region administered by Native Americans.
So I was sitting in the window of the kitchen of my mom's old apartment on East 61st Street (only it was on the first floor in this dream, not the 4th floor, as in real life), and there happened to be a very large map of the US on the wall of the building across the street. There was a fight going on in the street over the situation represented by this map. It seemed to just be fistfights and grappling, and no one was getting bloody, so I stayed out of it. But then I saw that one guy, who had his arms held by three others, was just stabbed in the chest with a knife. I actually saw the knife being pulled out of his chest. That's when I reached in my pocket for my phone to call 911. But a police car pulled up right at that moment.
The people fighting started to scatter. I opened the windows so I could tell the cops which way they went, but one guy started advancing to the window, and I closed it, not knowing if he was a plainclothes cop or not.
Eventually I figured out he was, as a cop in a suit came to my window, which I opened. I told them I saw one of the guys who was fighting run around the corner, and that I witnessed a stabbing. The cop in the suit pulled out some papers saying they needed authorization to check my apartment for fingerprints (that fingerprint bit may have been inspired by something I saw in "Rules of Engagement" tonight). Then another guy reached right through the open window to grab something out of the kitchen. I smacked it out of his hand, and it turned out it was Woody Allen.
There was a little bit of discussion about checking the apartment, as I was sure no one came in from the street, and I wasn't comfortable with cops tromping through the place.
The theme of this dream, the fighting over the situation in America where a big chunk of it is given back to the Native Americans, was probably inspired by a debate I have been having on Facebook. It seems there is a guy who got an advertising circular from a used car dealer that included the words "Se Habla Espaniol! Trabajamos Con Tax ID!" He posted a picture on his FB page of the circular with that phrase circled in red and a yellow sticky that read "Bob- We live in America! We speak ENGLISH! 'NO BUENO!' You have permanent (sic) lost my future business."
This picture was followed by a bunch of supportive remarks, leading to accusation of a "Socialist Agenda" by the Obama administration, etc, etc, etc., and saying that this car dealer was not "pro American."
I found this quite disturbing. What's the big deal? So the car dealer speaks Spanish. In my America, we have the right to speak whatever language we want, and it is simply good business to be able to speak the language of potential customers.
Apparently there are bunches of people (some who call themselves a "silent majority") who really don't want people to use languages other than English here. Spanish seems to be the biggest target around here. Some of them are spouting a psuedo-Aristotlian quotation, "Tolerance is the last virtue of a decaying society" (which sometimes appears as "Tolerance and apathy are the last virtues of a decaying society" and sometimes it's "...decadent society"). Most of them are hollering "You're in America, SPEAK ENGLISH!"
They are actually taking offense at advertising and public signage that is not in English. They say that anything that makes it easier for someone who doesn't know English to get around and get along is hurting this country. They are calling for boycotts of businesses that speak Spanish (and presumably other languages). Some of them even admit, proudly, to defacement of advertisements in Spanish.
Another common theme among them is the stories of immigrants who came to America because they wanted to be Americans and learned English right away and assimilated. Assimilation with American society is a big thing among these folks. They claim that all these "push #2 to hear this message in Spanish" stuff is coddling lazy people who don't want to be Americans.
They claim that because the Founding Fathers spoke English, and the Constitution and Declaration of Independence were written in English, that no other language should be used in this country. They point out that a common language help commerce and gives a sense of unity.
Now I grew up in New York City, a multi-ethnic town with lots of neighborhoods loaded with non-English signage. I never saw it as any sort of threat to American society or as something not "pro-American." Heck, thanks to the signage, I know that "no se apoye contra la puerta" means "do not lean against the door." I had bi-lingual friends, and went to school right near Spanish Harlem. Half my high school was Asian. There was always a Spanish TV station or three on the dial. So to hear objections to businesses that speak Spanish and non-English signage and advertisements is to hear objections to the world in which I grew up. It sounds like they are objecting to my friends.
It is not a very far jump from boycotting businesses and defacing billboards to throwing rocks through windows and attacking store owners. Should restaurateurs refuse to serve people who speak Spanish while they are eating? Should Telemundo, Telefutura, and Univision be shut off the air? Should foreign-language newspapers be banned? Should we have education camps for non-English speakers?
This sounds like fascism. Yes, I am saying that, Fascism. Does Krystalnacht ring a bell? To get rid of all non-English advertising and signage would take an effort much like that. There are too many people in this country, citizens, immigrants, residents, visitors, and tourists, who enjoy speaking their native tongue or the language of their parents and grandparents to make the enforcement of English possible through boycotts and nasty letters alone.
If anyone wants to get ahead in this country, they are going to have to know English. But if they want to increase their customer base, it won't hurt to learn any other languages that happen to be in use in their neighborhood, or for that matter, the languages of any tourists or foreign visitors (such as students) that may come through their neighborhood. Market forces will lead to a common language being used. That is the history of language. Sure, we could force English Immersion on them, but the vehemence with which this message of "English first" is being spewed does not convince me that it would be done in a helpful and supportive way.
Furthermore, language is the preserver of a culture. Different languages, and different cultures, have different ways of seeing things, different values, different tastes, different aesthetics. Having a variety of cultures gives us a variety of ways of looking at the world and a variety of choices in dealing with the world. Just as you would want to eat different foods at different times of the day, it is beneficial to have the availability of different outlooks on the world. You may find one day that what you have learned is not helping you with your current situation. If there is someone else who has a different outlook with you, they might be able to provide a solution.
I find that permission and support of variety and diversity is a strong unifying influence. It is the promotion and effectiveness of that ideal that has carried these United States through a Civil War and a couple of World Wars (despite the hypocrisy of the sentiment at the time, what with things like Jim Crow laws, Japanese-American internment camps, Indian reservations, etc). There are few things that will anger a person like saying they cannot do something that they enjoy doing. One's right to say something, in any language they choose, seems far more worth fighting for than forcing people to speak only one language.
That psuedo-Aristotlean statement above does not hold true when you notice that ancient Rome, a society that was very tolerant and diverse, lasted for a thousand years, while the 3rd Reich, a society defined by its intolerant unity, barely lasted a decade.
So it's quite possible that this debate inspired my dream of fatal stabbing in a fight under a map of the US in which several mid-American states were given back to the Native Americans. I have no idea why Woody Allen was in there.
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