BEST TELEVISION MOMENT EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER
BECAUSE AT THE END OF THE FIGHT WITH NOTHING LEFT
BUFFY KEPT FIGHTING
BUFFY WAS ENOUGH TO SAVE THE WORLD
SHE DIDN’T NEED ANYTHING BUT HERSELF TO SEE IT THROUGH
DO YOU REALIZE HOW OFTEN GIRLS GET TO SEE THAT? HOW OFTEN THEY ARE TOLD OR SHOWN THAT? LOOK KIDS! YOU ARE ENOUGH. JUST YOU JUST LIKE YOU ARE YOU ARE EXACTLY WHAT YOU NEED AND THAT IS THE GREATEST
The concept of “Finals Week” sort of baffles me.
At my school right now it’s a cesspool of glorified zombies *students* worn out teachers, empty coffee cups covering more ground space than paper, strewn papers, across laps and laptops, empty food containers and a general sense that nobody really knows what they’re doing.
My one classmate told me she hasn’t left her kitchen table since Monday.
And why? So you can memorize a bunch of stuff in a week and spew it back out in three hours? Only to promptly forget it?
Call me crazy, but I feel that a big final project you worked on over the course of a few months would be a far better judge of how much you’ve learned.
Funny you should say that…
I’m an adjunct professor. I’ve moved away from testing and towards the final project. Funny how popular my classes are. And they’re not easy, either in workload or subject matter. So you=correct.
warrioromen: “Call me crazy, but I feel that a big final project you worked on over the course of a few months would be a far better judge of how much you’ve learned.”
I am required to give a final exam. So I gave what I called the “almost final” in my Shakespeare course last week, and devoted this week, and the actual final exam period, to projects in which students present the text either in performance, on video, or online. Yesterday four groups presented.
The first student made an educational website that I believe we’re going to make the online home of our program; it’s that good. Next were three women performing their skit “Hipster Hamlet and the Lame Players,” in which hipster Hamlet, in black jeans, beanie, and shades, tries to coach the players through his own death scene, but they keep playing every other death scene from Shakespeare. We were howling. (And they pegged it, too: when they finally did the right scene, all their inept fakery suddenly became real. More moving than anyone expected, even the actors.)
Next a pair of young men demonstrated stage combat with the concluding swordfight between Macbeth and Macduff. They took us outside, where there’s a semi-circular lawn fronted by wide stone stairs, and backed by a curved wall looking toward the mountains. It was cold; everyone was squirrelly; we sat on the stairs facing the lawn (“wow! very concrete! much cold!” “You kids simmer down!”). The two men walked quietly behind the wall, careful with their swords—and then pounded back around so wildeyed and rageful that the whole group was shocked into silence. It was downright unnerving, the way those two just whaled on each other, and passers-by gathered behind us to watch. The actors’d had more than a month to work on their choreography, and you could tell that they didn’t even have to think about it—instead, they put their thought into the dialogue. It’s a very hard scene to do, with an odd emotional rhythm, a mess of confrontation and realization. But they were just magnificent.
When we came back to the room (cold, a bit breathless; one of the fighters walked beside me, and oh how he glowed), the last group had set up for their scene. They’d turned all the desks to face the dark windows instead of the board, in a semicircle around a stage area lit by six candles. A girl in a white chemise lay on a pallet in the middle; I’d forgotten they were doing the last scene in Othello, Desdemona’s murder. Daunting, to play and to watch, but given the term we’d been through, and the scene we’d just cheered for, our class was primed to give our best attention. You could sense how much we wanted these two to do well. You could feel good will in the silence.
There’s this Thing that happens in the best theater. You theater geeks could name it better than I, but it’s some alchemy of space and audience and actor and moment, in which the world falls away and there’s just the story, pure Story, coming true on stage. Othello slipped in, picked up a candle, and said to it, “It is the cause, my soul”—and we were completely transfixed. I know our theater program’s good, one of the best, and I’ve seen some remarkable work here, but in that moment, with that group, and those two gorgeous young people acting that language with such utter, loving, terrible conviction—I can’t describe it. More than one person said afterward that it was the best version of that scene they’d ever witnessed. It was fucking magical. “Okay,” I said. “This is what we’re here for.”
Which is an unnecessarily long way of saying, warrioromen, you are so fucking right. The end of a class shouldn’t be about telling me what you know. It should be about making that shit real.
wake up disney
petition for jennifer lawrence and emma stone to co-star in a movie as lesbian zombie hunters
but people who get all ‘think of the children!’ when you mention putting queer characters in kids shows piss me off so much
because I am thinking of the children
the queer children who are living in a world that tells them they are wrong at every turn, that denies their existence and refuses to allow them a happy ending
I’m thinking of those children
A comma splice walks into a bar, it has a drink and then leaves.
A question mark walks into a bar?
Two quotation marks “Walk into” a bar.
A gerund and an infinitive walk into a bar, drinking to drink.
The bar was walked into by a passive voice.
Three intransitive verbs walk into a bar. They sit. They drink. They leave.
THANKS FOR TEACHING ME THINGS THAT ENGLISH CLASS HAS FAILED TO ACKNOWLEDGE