Start Of The Tempest

Preramble

I typically do not impose these types of explanatory passages directly into my pieces, but since this piece works very closely with my actual reading of Shakespeare's "The Tempest", and, I personally feel more sensitive (as a human) than past occasion right now, I pray you spend minutes to understand what this act of writing actually is.

Last weekend, I was reading something--don't remember what, could have been the back of a cereal box--and simply got bored of the way contemporary prose in English is written. Having no desire to stop reading, my mind drew me to The Tempest, a play by William Shakespeare which I had read when I was figuratively three, possibly up to the End of the initial ship. I have a distinct memory of, having reached that sinking, throwing my hands up in the air and cursing the winds for modernity to pirate me away. And it actually did. Other interests, works, and jobs arrived.

So having that recollection, at that moment of shrug, I dived into technologies that would re-present The Tempest to me. And I've started reading it again. So far, it has been only during commutes between Manhattan and Brooklyn, so I'm still (at time of writing) only in Act 1. Note: Not that I encourage speed-reading, but I'm only in Act 1 because I have to get into a mode where I can understand what is being said, so I re-read a lot of the words. I think the English in the reader I have is fairly accurate (possibly somehow simplified) but it is still something that comes with a training of the mind. The last time I seriously read Shakespeare was in Grammar school, so it will probably take some time to re-adjust.

Another Note: I'm not making any statement about contemporary English prose here. It was purely a subjective boredom, probably stemming from many other acres of my life. There are amazing writers out there these days.

And Another Note: The structure below will not (at least initially) likely follow the actual structure of a play (and yes, yes, I know it is a play, so I am also watching as many video versions of the play I can get my hands on, but only as far as I've read in the, erm, book). Especially because I am more of a short-novel writer, and really live more happily in prose. And of course, the story, while influenced by The Tempest, is not a claim to a sequel or anything. If anything, to be honest, it's just me having fun with characters, modalities, and fashions of expression I'm enjoying as I read through the *actual* play.

Start of The Tempest

Act 1-1

UNKNOWN
"This is going to take you, almost 90 years to write, is it not, Caliban?"

PROSPERO
"Caliban, you call me, sir? As a Caliban yourself, I bet. A rapist?"

UNKNOWN
"Dodderer. I am still reading your startings, Milan, but they are differently aged. This now is a time for quick munches and talks; a zero or, or and, one, fashion of direction. I am yet engulfed by mere first act."

PROSPERO
"It is very easy that the cock sure mimic a dead rooster. How do you find that I cared more about books than the taste of Milan?"

UNKNOWN
"Cock-a-doodle-dow."

PROSPERO
"You brute. You've stolen my spirit! You shall be pulled into my island, pint, then wasted over miles like a sliver of burning rums! Thieves of the sea!"

UNKNOWN
"This is longer term than your small dukedom, sir. I plan to exist in study of the future acts for some time, and then mutate them to my appreciation. This is my way, as has always been."

PROSPERO
"Bastard."

UNKNOWN
"Hopefully not bastardizations, no."

Act 1-2

UNKNOWN
(Seated)
"Juventus! Score! See me run to dance upon such cans of beer this very replay. Re-play! I fist my screen in euphoria."

PROSPERO
"Hooligan. Uncouth son of swaggered sow. This is how you see the sport?"

[tbc]

Friday Morning Apples, Eggs, Aimed At Oneself

I enter the sexy shower, which, when I turn left is warm.
And if I turn right, is cool.

I turn warm and cool in the shower, and then emerge feeling so fresh!

When I put my boots on, it is with the memory of how I reached down and cleaned myself, which was very, very spotless.

When I have to lock the door of my apartment, it is like washing my hair with whatever shampoo that is anti-dandruff.

I am ready for the world.

I notice, over the broad view, how people are flocking to certain areas. But my left eye is complaining about its infection, so I head into a choice of two pharmacies.

I opt for the pharmacy that will let me abscond with 'homeopathic eye drops' with a slip of a card, rather than waiting in line to be served by a human who asks about the in-house card.

^ That advice is only legit if the eye problem is not serious, btw.

If the eye problem is serious, you may need to first buy a patch to cover it, and then force the other eye into OverDrive.

Inform the other eye that life is hanging on a thread, and that surgical skills may be needed within your cache of availables.

Wow, you have made a whole art out of this, haven't you? Your whole 'accuracy'.

Se7en Years Later <-- Okay, Seven. Conceit.

.

A resource was lost to the world. It had just simply disappeared.

"What do you mean, 'simply disappeared'?" asked Roger. Roger was an older type of gentleman with a respectable beard and what we would call an 'earned' coat of arms. If you went right by him, you'd be okay. But if you didn't--"Like Bilbo Baggin's or wot?"

"Yeah, just disappeared, Roger."

"At least say 'vanished'."

"But it did not vanish. Vanish implies some type of indication of malevolence or some unseen hand. This resource, it was there, bright as a light, and then it just disappeared."

"I'm sorry that I'm not as intrigued as you are about how magical this disappearance was. You, also, are soon to be 'disappeared', as you put it," said Roger. "Unless you give me more valuable information."

"Roger that," and here was where I broke a sweat, because I had not been lying. And then I, too simply disappeared.

It is a real mental toll to wake up into a new reality just like that. Because one minute you're really focused on something, and the people around you have become important. Some of them know all about music. Some know all of the movies out there. A special friend knows all of the best TV shows too. Which one was I this time?

"You're the one that can just disappear," said a dude next to me. "Not vanish, but really disappear."

The content was still negotiating, so I took a moment to sit back and enjoy a small fruit. It was a sour little thing, with promising circles of sweetness. "Looks like we're in the same boat, buddy," I snapped.

"No, we aren't," said the Ninja. "You're heading into the worst place ever. Because you're drunk."

I said nothing, but I pulled a small blade from a secret pocket.

"No, wait," said the Ninja immediately. "Because you are a drunk."

"I'm learning to sip slowly," I told him. I knew the guy didn't give a shit about me--he was off on some fantastic mission, and I was (as he knew) going to the worst place ever. But it was nice to speak frankly with someone, for a change. It was just nice to feel similar to another person, and not have to worry all the time about 'appearances', as is the parlance.

And I really was making an improvement with the drinking. Gone were the days of gulping entire distilleries in one evening. It had been easier to do that in the beginning, you see. Your reality shifted so easily, and suddenly you were living in the roaring 20s as a telephone operator. You got shit-faced enough that you could cruise through these 'troubles' that you were visiting with great ease, and it was always a positive thing. You were always working to make things better.

Usually you have to overcome some kind of hate dilemma or insecurity. I had been quite stout of heart, so I was very cavalier about it. They even started calling me 'Ace' (this is an inside Red Dwarf joke). I suppose I was tempting reality every time I smirked inwardly about how I could 'live this person's life with my eyes closed'.

Yet, despite my frivolousness, I was extremely careful. I would always make sure that whatever I did was understood, and that even if I happened to disappear, the returning to the stream of consciousness would be in the best possible situation. I liked to think of myself as the ultimate set-up for good feelings.

So, that's what happened after I disappeared. I saw a drink and immediately drank it.
"What the fuck," rumbles a bellow from an angry man, who had come from the stage, barging directly into me. "We hadn't even started recording yet!"

"I'm sorry, man," I waved him off. "Guess I was really excited about this holy matrimony," I smiled at the...group. This was my style. Overwhelming charm. But this group--it was kind of weird. Nobody was smiling. Nobody was happy. Was I at a funeral?

"Who died, guys?" I rolled my eyes. "This guy again?" I was searching for that nexus wherein you become part of the group, or at least you appear to be part of the group. But nobody in the audience would meet my eye. It was like nobody gave a shit about me. I began to wonder why the hell I had appeared in this place, if I was that insignificant.

Then the angry man slapped me hard, in the face. "It ain't complicated, putz. You just sit down and listen, yeah, you hear the click, and that's the tape recorder, ok?" he said.

"Oh. Okay ... ? Then what?" I winked. "Something good?" I was hoping this was some kind of out-of-bounds bachelor party or something.

"You are in the First Seat. It was *all* depending on you. You were to hear the click, then you drink the koolaid," said the man.