See. The movie's filled with the kind of enjoyable banter that I really like in a movie. Anyway, I could tell you more as I have the whole movie more or less memorized (I'm cursed with a mind that can pick up a movie script in 2 or 3 viewings but couldn't remember your name if you paid me), but I don't want to ruin it for you. Just go see it. Perhaps the best fairy tale ever. 
     Speaking of movies, and seeing as we'll be doing Hamlet a little later on, I would like to take this moment to recommend another of my favorite movies to you. First see Hamlet (starring Mel Gibson). Then rent Rosencranz and Guildenstern are Dead. A fine, fine movie based on a play by Tom Stoppard. It drives home an interested point about being a minor character in someone else's story. It details the activities pursued by Rosencranz and Guildenstern, two minor characters in Hamlet who, through several bad twists of fate got themselves killed by the King of England. The two characters have no idea who they are and what they're doing. They're not sure which one is which and go through the entire movie just trying to figure out exactly what's going on. It stars Tim Roth and Gary Oldman, as well as Richard Dreyfus as the Actor. By the way, if you ever come across a copy of this movie for sale, let me know. Thanks. 
     Well I should run now. I've got English class in about 45 minutes, and it takes me almost that long to get to the school. By the way... you'll notice that I've added a new page to my site entitled The Big Bad Wolf. This is my own version of Little Red Riding Hood. Read it (it's not long) and let me know what you think. Farewell for now. 

"Inconceivable!" 
                  Vessinni                                                                                                                             James 
 

Week 4 (Sept. 27th- Oct 1st) 
     Welcome, welcome, welcome to another edition of this thing I'm writing on the internet. Well, it's official, we've begun the Odyssey. Honestly I haven't a clue why everyone is panicking. I guess that could be because I haven't even seen the book yet. Oh woe is me. Still, I'm fascinated by this particular work. Greek mythology has always sparked my interest. I am a true Hercules and Xena fan (and the crowd groans at pathetic James). No really... it's a good show... honestly... I'm dying here aren't I? 
     One thing that really interests me about Greek myth is that it is so easily mixed in with their reality. Whenever you hear a Greek story, like the Odyssey, being told it tends to be based on historical fact, recounting events that really happened. But somewhere in the mix of all this non-fiction the element of mythology comes in and changes everything. For example, they arrive on the island of the Cyclops. Now... sailors are always arriving on mysterious islands and discovering that they are inhabited by cannibalistic savages. But in Greek storytelling it reaches beyond that and the natives become Cyclops. The element of the gods is physical in Greek myth. If a man were to manage to climb Mount Olympus he would see the gods (and no doubt be killed). Somewhere the lines between real and unreal get fuzzed in Greek myth. 
     This is a trick to storytelling that amazes me. Often trying my hand at writing I find myself wishing to write an epic story spanning centuries. However, it eludes my as to how I can fit my story into prerecorded history without becoming unbelievable. I strive to achieve that which myth has attained so easily. 
     Honestly I'm very tired now and I think my words are beginning to fuzz in my head. More discussion on the Odyssey next week. I can't wait till we start Hamlet... at least I'll be able to find something to talk about then. Good play. Not his best though... I like his comedies. Tragedies are too tragic. Farewell for now all you people out there in English land (hmmm... England?....). 

                                                                                                                                                              James 
 

Week 5 (Oct. 4- Oct. 8th) 
     Okay... I was late (very late) for class on Tuesday. Not my fault. I was doing an exam for Earth Science. Couldn't be helped. STOP PERSECUTING ME!!!!!...... huh.... oh sorry.... carried away... Anyway, back to the Odyssey. Geez... this voyage will never end. Even Gulliver only took about 7 years to reach England, and he didn't have a ship!!! I'm really having a time coming up with things to say about this story, still not having the book. Please bear with me. Ummm... any of you folk Star Trek fans? I doubt you are (I meet so few). But in case by some miracle there is a trekkie in the lot of ya, I present to question of The Odyssey vs Star Trek: Voyager. Here we have two ships, two captains, unable to reach home. Their journeys are filled with adventure. One could even consider the Borg to be Cyclops (with that whole eye implant thingy). Okay... well... that's about as far as I can go on that topic. I hate this.... 
     Dum, dee, dum... Okay, I'm going to have to shoot myself now. I'm having one of those days when no matter how hard you try the page is always blank. Hey... that actually kinda sounds profound. Cool. Profound... okay, here's profound for ya (I came up with this in my Medieval Studies class when we discussed pilgrimage): 

In modern times the pilgrimage leads to Disneyworld, and the masses flock to gaze upon those most holy bones of Mickey Mouse. 

     Wow... sometimes I scare myself. No doubt I've scared you now too. I'll go to english class tomorrow and everyone will have moved to the other side of the room. They wisper," Stay away from that weird guy in the trenchcoat... some crazy Disneyworld freak!" I shouldn't worry... no one's reading this anyway. 
     I really wish we'd get to the point when we can actually see each others sites. Maybe then I'll be able to find more to talk about. Hopefully soon. Really I don't see why it's taking this long. Is it the HTML thing? If anyone's having trouble with the script I'll be happy to provide what assistance I can. Just remember, I don't use the MUN system for anything. Not e-mail... nothing. So don't go asking me questions about system difficulties, I won't have a clue. But if you need help figuring out this ever growing confusion of HTML scripting let me know. I'll try to give you what advice I can and might be able to provide you with some documentation on simple web page creation (I have tons). 
     Anyway... farewell all you crazy cats. Remember... a mind is a terrible thing to waste... so go waste your youth instead. 

                                                                                                                                                                       James 
 

Week 6 (Oct. 11- 15th) 
     Okay, I've decided to write a little today. I know the week's not yet over... it's only Tuesday. But hey... preliminary marks are coming out later this week so I figure why not pack a little more in. Besides, we've started Hamlet. 
     Now I don't know if any of you have ever read Hamlet before. I found it to be quite enjoyable and so far doing it in school is a hoot (man I've got to stop using these really outdated expressions). Two problems I see though: first, it took us over an hour to get through  Scene 1; and, second,  I've got this really annoying copy of the complete works of Shakespeare written on Bible paper so it's hell trying to turn the bloody pages!!! Personally I think we should be acting this play, at least from our desks. It really loses something when all read by one person. It all just blends together into something like," Who's there? Nay, answer me; stand, and unfold yourself. Long live the king! Bernardo? He." Altogether it makes no sense. 
     But really , I tend to get sick of this educational tendency towards Shakespeare's tragedies. Macbeth in high school... Hamlet now. Not to mention all the other tragic stories taught in high school. Why not his comedies? Very poetic, entertaining, and no one dies! But no! It's our lovely story of the Prince of Denmark. A veritable bloodbath! Eight corpses in all! And in between the death you get Hamlet looking at various dead things (his father's ghost, Yoric) and otherwise being miserable. To quote Tom Stoppard," He's depressed! Denmark's a prison and he'd rather live in a nutshell." 
     No, actually I'm really glad we're doing this play... but I just hate the fact that no one ever mentions Much Ado About Nothing or Midsummer Nights Dream. One cannot truly appreciate a good writer until you sample all that he is capable of. Oh well. Maybe you'll all go out and read some other works of his in your spare time. It's well worth it, but not easy. Hell, I haven't gotten through most of them yet. 
     Okay... here's where I break until I finish this week's journal on Thursday. Please close your eyes and imagine the word "INTERMISSION" flashing brightly while bad elevator music plays in the background. Now stay like that until Thursday. Bye. 

                                                                                                                                                                             James 

     Continued from above. Welcome to the second half of the week! Unfortunately I'm two weeks behind in my journal updates so I'm going mostly from vague memories at this point. It's currently Halloween, but as I hate it when I leave vast sections out of my journal I shall write entries for every week I'm missing. Okay, enough of the confusing explanation of all this muck... on with the torture!!!! 
     Well... Hamlet. Hamlet, Hamlet, Hamelt. My observation shows that as of yet we have failed to mention one thing in class that I feel is important. This, quite simply, is the possibility that Hamlet is suffering from thwarted ambition. Now yes we have discussed ambition in class. But we mainly have talked of it as an obsession of Rosencranz and Guildenstern, it never actually being the true cause of Hamlet's problems. But one must consider that it could be a major part of Hamlet's desires. His father, the king, died... he was of age, yet his uncle becomes king. I'd be pissed. I mean this was his birthright! He looked up to his father as a god pratically. How could he be denied his place to follow in his exaulted fathers footsteps and not be upset? 
     Now I'm not saying that his is the core of Hamlet's actions, but it at least deserves consideration as one of the fires that fuels his lust for revenge. This combined with anger at his uncle's treachery, the incestuous marriage of his mother, his possible love for Ophelia that his position would deny him, and of course hs father's death, would drive most anyone mad. 
     Which poses another question. Is Hamlet mad? Well, I'm a stark raving looney if you ask me. It all depends on your interpretation of madness. I would say without a doubt that Hamlet is insane, but that does not mean he is not in control of his mind or his actions. "... madness, but there is method in it," are the words Polonious used to describe Hamlet's behavior. This is the very heart of the matter. Hamelt said himself that he would wipe all else from his mind in order to focus completely on what the ghost had told him. Hamlet acts on that premiss. He knows nothing else but what must be done to fulfill his vengeance. Madness unnerves people and hides truths. Hamelt knows this and uses it to his advantage. His is the madness of genius... or perhaps the madness of serial killers would be more apropriate. His actions define a giddy advancement towards a goal. 
     Okay... I'm feeling light-headed now. Haven't eaten yet. When I don't eat I'm prone to babble. In a few minutes I'll start on the next week. Slave, slave, slave, all I ever do. Buh-bye all you crazy people! Remember... uhh... oh geez... I've forgotten! 

                                                                                                                                                                         James 

Week 6 (Oct. 18th- 22nd) 
     We finally got our assignments back! Yaaay! Now if I could just figure out how to read our prof's handwriting I'd be okay. Incedentally I got a 7/10. He didn't seem to like my frequent use of the word "faerie" as opposed to "fairy". I guess I can understand that. The problem is I'm a fantasy reader/writer and in that genre almost any time you encounter the word it's spelt "faerie". Through force of habit I tend to use that spelling. Oh well, I'll know better next time. I'll be posting a copy of my assignment on this web page in the near future, complete with his comments. I will take that opportunity to discuss everything said. 
     Is it just me or are we progressing really slowly with Hamlet? I mean it's not that difficult to understand is it? I would have prefered a quick pace with Hamlet and slowed down the Odessey. I guess the language is a little hard to grasp at times, and there is a lot of little things in the play that you might not notice the first time through. But still. In my humble opinion we'd get through it a lot faster, and understand it a lot more, if we were all just assigned parts and read it out loud in class. I think I'd make a good Laertes, or Polonious, or Rosencranz and Guildenstern (they're really only one guy anyway). My acting ability isn't too bad... but I don't think I'm Hamelt quality yet... by far. 
     Have you noticed that throughout the entire play the women are the pawns of the men? I find this annoying as the two women in the play are perhaps in the greatest position to affect the end outcome of the entire cast. They're intelligent and in fairly high positions in the story. Instead they seem to be just manuevered around by the men. Ophelia placed to intercept Hamlet with her father and the King watching on. The queen, used by Claudius as gateway to the throne, and later to offer the poisoned cup to Hamlet. In the end Ophelia is driven mad and the Queen is killed by said poisoned cup. A rather unfair treatment of the only two women in the play if you ask me. It seems the plot is the territory of the men and the women are victims of it. Much like Rosencranz and Guildenstern in that way. 
     Anyway. Got to go now. One more entry to make in order to catch up. Write, write, write. Somebody shoot me in the head... please? I am the unfortunate portrait of a writer with writer's block. Bye bye. 

                                                                                                                                                                            James 

Week 6 (Oct. 25th- 29th) 
     At long last I have access to all your journals. Finally no more sitting here wondering if I'm the only person actually doing this. I'll be reading then later on today. Sometime in the near future I'll be giving my page a massive overhaul (adding my assignment, changing these rather morbid pictures scattered about). In that time I'll be adding new links to my links page. These will include the address to all your pages. By the way... a few of you do not have e-mail addresses on your pages. Why not? I may like to discuss some of the points you make and e-mail makes that so much easier (especially since I'm terrible with names and may not know who you actually are in class). If anyone wants to comment on my monstrousity please notice my e-mail is at the bottom of the page. I welcome all comments (even those that tell me to go to hell). In fact I'll be rather hurt If I never hear from you, especially if I take the time to read and comment on your page. 
     I'm bored. I really can't think of anything to say right now. My writer's block is in full swing and it's really cramping my style. It realy sucks since I just recently decided to try and get some of my work published. Hey... maybe instead of blabbling on about Hamlet this entry I'll give you a sample of my writing. Please let me know what you think. I love feedback (please be brutally honest. I went to the Fine Arts college in Corner Brook where half the course consists of everyone in you class telling you what's wrong with your work. I can take the beating.) 
     The following is the first draft of the begining of a story I have long wanted to write. It would detail the story of a three thousand year old immortal named Gif. The portion below has Gif alone in an old house waiting to die. Before he dies he intends to tell the tale of his life to the empty room. Before he begins this however, he is visited by the only person who comes to say good-bye, a man named Kai who is almost an animal in nature. Kai was one of Gif's sevants in life. Please judge this work only on the quality of writing. The story's not meant to make much sense to the reader at this point. Okay, here we go. 

     I can still remember the way droplets of rain would sit upon her hair, glinting almost like moonlight on the night’s deep waters. Still remember the tilt of her head, summoning rivulets to run smooth lines across her cheek and lips. And on the very edge of my memory is her voice. It is the sound of a praying soul, the only way I can describe it, but for everything I am worth I cannot recall a distinct moment when it spoke to me. Only the lingering passing of words, like after images of light flashed in a dark room. They stir me and so I must write. Write all I can remember, if only to convince myself that it happened, is real, and I haven’t lost my mind. 
     It rains now, as it did then, and in the torrent there are almost the fragrances of years lost long before man forgot them. The rain is as wine, and absorbs the very essence of history, and every sheet that splatters fiercely against my window carries the footsteps of passed peoples, the wind their final voices, and the thunder their everlasting passions. 
     I have come to hate the rain. 
     I blink involuntarily, wrenching tears from dry eyes. Water continues to invade the peace of my window and I see the shadowed reflection of myself buffeted, as if nature would have my likeness sponged from the surface. I open my mouth to speak challenge but my words catch in my marred throat and I only hiss. The darkness beyond continues. There is no one out there. 
     I turn away with effort, my eyes stinging from lounging too long and my knees paining with weatherworn joints. I have taken to a cane in later years out of necessity rather than style. I wipe the wetness from my hands, the condensation upon the windowsill having creased them as long-worn cloth. I focus upon my chosen room. The house was acquired less than a month ago and I have done little to indulge it. Most rooms were stripped when I first walked across the threshold, the past owners leaving little behind. Only a stench of mildew and half-rotted wood welcomed me. Only the contents of this rooms provided any sort of comfort. A large rug of faded colors lay next to a fireplace upon the hard wooden floor, its threads singed from bevies of embers and stained from years of ash. Upon it a rocking chair covered in a chipped and warped black paint. One of its rockers was cut from new wood and not yet painted and cushions sit spilling their contents through numerous tears atop the seat. . The walls are covered in peeling wallpaper of some nondescript color. The exposed areas are tinted yellows, and the room reeks of nicotine from the vices of the former occupants. Most of the wall hangings were destroyed, save the mirror, and a clinging layer of dust covers that. At times I look upon myself to find the same film covering me. 
     I pass the mirror above the mantle. Resting my hand I shiver at the cold marble, despite the heat of the fire below. I find it difficult to look, though I do not know why. I have changed little. My eyes still look as coal that has long been burnt. Framing them is the dark pigment that so long ago invaded my face, almost as one would paint a clown. The wear of years has bleached the rest of my skin white, the only shadows being those of the deepest feature; the underside of my nose, my mouth, and the three claw marks which cross down my left eye. I twitch as a few strands of my unkempt black hair bring an itch to my brow, and I move towards my chair. I know not why I have kept the vanity of such a mirror, except maybe to convince myself that I’m still here. 
I sit gently into the curve of the chair. I feel the wood strain against my weight, and then settle into a familiar groove. 
     I am dying. 
     The fire sparks violently from its shelter. It’s heat fleeting, dancing about my body, and breaking the chill for but a moment. I pull the blanket from the chair and wrap it about me. My eyes tear at the burning light and I feel my lips crack like old parchment. Stillness wraps itself about the room, and I feel it’s empty husk. Not even I am here anymore. 
     I feel the fire before me grow cold and die, the last embers smoke and are killed by the rain falling through the chimney. The wood is now black ash. It hardens in the chill and I am alone. I have forgotten my moments, and it seems now hours have long since past. But I cannot remember the day. Time does this to me, and is like the wind outside in the trees. It is a ghostly haunt at first, speeding the heart and bringing mild sweat to the brow. Then it becomes a soothing dirge, and you sleep by it, and know that you would lay awake should it stop. 
     A sound erupts from the far side of the room and I reach my gaze across the desolate space towards the entrance. It takes a moment for my vision to clear out the blur of distance but then I see him standing before me. I choke down tears as I recognize him, and I feel my mind slip for but an instant, stumbling down a path not yet meant for me… but soon. 
     He edges forward, steps made deliberate and light beneath his strong and wiry form. He would be tall if not for his constant hunch… as if at any minute he would either lurch upon you or take to all fours and run. His stained face intense and eyes seeking, the only one of us who still maintains a flesh color beneath the grime. The rain has turned the dust in his hair to mud, and it drips heavily from him trailing his passage. How long has he run, I am forced to wonder? His clothes suggest he has not stopped in days, managing to still hang on in their tattered form only through the efforts of the mud and sweat of his body and the few remaining stitches. He shivers in cold and finally falls to his knees upon the rug, barely an arms length from me. 
     “ Welcome Kai,” I say simply, my tongue betraying the gratefulness in my mind. Most I knew would not come. It is not in their natures. Good-byes are for childhood and romance stories, not immortals. I have always prepared to do this alone, but I am thankful for the company. 
     He stares at me with the same face as when first we met… like a great cat considering the savannas. His features, having changed little. help to stir my memory for the coming flood. Almost as if he knew. 
     “ You have come far?” I ask though the answer is obvious. One must tread carefully… and I have long since overstepped the line. 
     “ Far.” His voice seems not quite suited to speech. Much like my own it reaches out from his throat in a rasp, but I find his edge as a growl shadows his word. 
     “ Do the others know?” 
     “ They do.” 

     There. What do you think? Please let me know. Anyway. I gotta run now. Trick or treaters have begun showing up at my door and I must prepare. Enjoy your Halloween my fellow English victims. Farewell. 

                                                                                                                                                                             James

Month of November
     Okay, I know, I've been slack. Sue me, I've had a lot to do in the past month. Between finally getting my loan approved so I could actually continue school, working on bloody long projects for other classes, and doing assignments for this class I really haven't had much time. So rather than try and remember what it is we did each week in class I've decided to lump it all together into one entry, dealing mainly with Hamlet.
     It's really interesting how many different ways you can look at Hamlet. It's really a story that's all about interpretation, and different people can find different things in it. As everyone has already gathered, my favorite version of Hamlet is Tom Stoppard's Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead. My studies of this comedic version of Hamlet has allowed me that wonderful luxury of dismissing everything I ever thought I knew about the story and take a fresh perspective. It allows one to see things you might have missed before.
     For example, I have a theory. Taken from another idea, that Hamlet is mirrored in Laertes (only opposingly, Hamlet being a thinker with Laertes a doer), one can also reason that Hamlet is directly mirrored in Ophelia. Consider, the two of them at the beginning of the play are given advice by others, to which they respond in obedience. They also both suffer from the same problem of beating up on themselves for failings they do not necessarily have. Now, extend that a little further and consider the madness. Both characters go mad (to a point). Both do so after their respective fathers have died. So, it is concievable that in some off-stage event, Ophelia, like Hamlet, met the ghost of her father, who instructed her to get revenge upon his killer. As Hamlet did she goes mad (or perhaps an antic disposition). Then she reaches a point, as Hamlet did, wherein she ponders suicide. At this point however she choses to go ahead and kill herself, unlike Hamlet who was to scared to do so. It is perhaps an interesting plot twist that could be made into an interesting version of Hamlet.
     Am I babbling? I'm sorry, it's late. I should retire now and get some rest. Only a short time left before the semester ends. Till the final week. Farewell.

                                                                                                                                                            James

Final Week
     Here it is, the last week of classes. My god the semester went fast. I look back and it becomes a haze of english classes and missed psycology lectures. And, here it is, the final entry to this journal (at least for this semester, as I may continue this on my own just for the hell of it).
     Any regrets? Well, I wish this journal thing had worked out better for the rest of the class. I've looked over all of them and am disappointed that very few people wrote a great deal. It had been my hope to discuss ideas with my classmates, but that just wasn't to be I guess. Even those that I did e-mail about their pages didn't respond. Kind of a let down. Also more or less confirms my suspicion that no one has read my page either. I rather liked the whole web page idea and wish it could have worked better. But then, I have acomputer at home and know how to do this stuff, I gues that's an advantage.
     Any happy little things? Well, aside from an overall enjoyment of the course I must say that I liked sitting in a circle in class. It really helped the discussion factor, which I found was sorely lacking when we sat in rows. There are some rather intelligent and literary minded people in the class and it wa nice to hear what they had to say. The fact that we finally got to do a little out loud reading of Hamlet was also good, though I really didn't think Ophelia was my cup of tea. I'm more of a Laertes, in fact I played him once in drama class in high school. We did the last scene when he and Hamlet are dueling.
     I also liked that I got to do a lot of writing. Over the summer I've suffered from some severe writers block (which is like hell for me). This class helped me get over it. Though really I would have liked there to be more writing assignments (others in class would want to shoot me now). But seriously, I found the three assignments and the journal just not enough. I want to flex my literary muscles and really get into some creative writing (not this analytical stuff though, more like the "write you own fairy tale" thing). Such things please me. Had I the time I would do that extra assignment he suggested about "the books in my life". I think I could write a rather lovely little bit on that.
     Anyway, I hate long goodbyes. Better just to kill all the main characters and be done with it. I never got around to doing that page reworking I had planned. Oh well. Some other time perhaps. Farewell, and may the books you read swallow you whole.

                                                                                                                                                                         James
 

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