Thursday, August 30, 2007

I feel that I record after Guildenstern, the book (thoughts) he writes for Rosencratz... In Postmodern Zone characters do not search for authors, they creat them.
Shakespeare is more fiction than Hamlet (according to Stoppard) -- and I know more about Ros and Guil more than I know about Tom Stoppard.
Theatre is what cannot be translated -- like dreams. At least, PoMo theatre.
Well, art shouldn't be translated; it must be created ANEW. Personal, yours.
I try to keep all historical (factual) info at --PostMo ...

Sunday, August 26, 2007

600 Files : idiotopedia

or Language of Angels : a book Guildernstein write for his best friend Rosencratz to read after their death. Stoppard

Maybe this directory '600" was waiting so many years for a writer... and a reader.

It got them : pre-production period of the Theatre UAF Spring 2008 -- the characters do not search for an author anymore. They use "MySpace.Dot.Com" -- where characters write and read each other.

... using cell-phones.

Oh, it must be!

The sunset of the West is the surise of the Global. One language, one feeling, one thought. From many into one!

We call it "multiculturalism" of hubugs.

Yes, now we can speak by exchanging things (Hello, Gulliver), or pix of them (digital images).

My cat is a writer, she looks at me!

At It...

Sunday, August 19, 2007

"3sis07" -- second life of Three Sisters?...
details are at -- my theatre blog.
I am in the "Chekhov's mood", I record, and I do not want comment on 2007 and what I see.
Special, almost non-Russian brand of existentialism. "Russian writer" is supposed to react, to sufffer, to cry, to preach... He always was with the heart of playwright, I show you, my stage directions are not read by actors... Why would you need to know what I think?
I don't believe you want to know...
Chekhov is a man of "Russia After Slavery" (post-1861), post-Soviet Russia in some sense... And what do you see in "free" country?
One would expect that everybody will be Dante, or Pushkin, at least, but -- no! "Free serfs" do not write or even read. They "live"! They enjoy living Americana style. Then and now. Relax, Antosha, have a hot dog, sweet prince.
Common place?
Too many people to talk about life and death, Prince Hamlet is Dead, Mr. Stoppard.
Why should I cry over them, who do not cry over their empty lives?
They need a doctor, not a wiseman.
Okey, doctor, you can write your stories. For yourself. And the like-you.
I have news for you, mister. Chekhovs died very much the same way as the rest of us.
What did you write, sir?
The Three Sisters?
Never heard.
I, write, too. Just finished writing one very important memo.
So, what is your story about? About the three chicks. Good title for a porno movie.
Take off your glasses, my dear writer. Why do you have them on all the time, on every photo? There is nothing new to see. Same-o, same-o... Yes, I am talking about life 100 years after your death, a century later! No, Dante, no a single one, but everybody is writing. They read only each other, it's recording their phone conversations. Thanks to you, our literature is a small talk, shows about nothing...
BTW, thanks.
I know what to expect.
There are a lot of people who lived and died without reading Chekhov. There will be more of them (they are not born yet). Billions!
As if you never existed.
Do you remember your grandfather, anton, yes, the one who bought his freedom?
What did he do with it?
Open a shop?
Pss, I won't talk about it.
Another name for mediocracy.
You are a doctor, you know this disease, the being healthy.
-- Where do I put this my note on Chekhov?


Monday, August 13, 2007

Remembering Self

I know I'm wrong.

I know I'm right.

 She is my wife, this woman in white.

She crosses the street,

She walks away,

She is on her own...

Look at me! Hey!

I must be dreaming, I must be mad -

This woman is leaving! Please, wait! ...

I'm trembling, not yet, please, not yet...

I know this city, I know this street,

This corner, this woman, This tree...

It is me... at the corner, old tree...

It's cold, she is gone, I am done...

My leaves... getting dry, getting grey

My heart... Down Falling... Too late.

I lost. I am here. Silently brave...

 A tree is a tree.

Like a stellar above my own grave.

It was written many years ago. At the times when I believe that it possible for me to write a book, fiction, it was before I became webmaster.

No, I don't remember it. I simply know that it was me.

No, not me, somebody else.


Monday, August 06, 2007

* from webmaster2.0
I don not use "webpages about webpages" directorieies : NTL, before my summer is over, I went back to (webmaster1.0) -- to mark (summary) of my WEB2.0 move.

Anatoly-Web (before 2007), webmaster1.0 -- mostly about technical aspects of webbing.
Webmaster2.0 -- philosophy. (At least, it was started this way -- "Beyond Stage", "enotes" and etc.)
"Webman's Diary" (Dostoevsky) is an outdated concept. And I won't get use to blogging...

MY Webpages are the workplace for me. I work on...

"Private in Public" (Stanislavsky about nature of theatre) : that's my method.

*** Important:
how to arrange my workshop for making CD?

[ using the (new) Apple notebook? ] The big issue = STYLE.

Friday, August 03, 2007