Genius?

According to a recent article in the New York Times, Genius isn’t “who you are, it’s what you do.”

NY Times Op-Ed columnist David Brooks published an article this past week analyzing the modern scientific take on “Genius” as presented by scientific research. Science tells us that “Genius” does not come from some innate spiritual connection to a muse or the like, but rather a set of circumstances which are predictable, and more importantly replicateable. According to this research, what truly leads to a genius is practice, analysis, logical function of the brain, the ability to quantify and sort data, and the ability to develop and maintain a “deliberate, strenuous and boring practice routine.”.

Brooks uses the example of Mozart, who was not always a genius at the piano. In fact, suggests Brooks, Mozart’s early works are merely a clever amalgamation of others’ pieces. Mozart’s true key to this “Genius” we have labeled him with was his ability to practice for so long at such a young age. So my question is… what about Shakespeare?

Yes, it’s true, grammar schools during Young Will’s the time did provide the practice with language as outlined by Brooks. Though he was no University Intellect, Shakespeare did spend his young years meticulously translating Latin texts to English, making lists of synonyms in Latin, memorizing and re-writing portions of ancient documents, et cetera so on and so forth. But this was not unique to our Young Bard, this was education as an institution. Any who could afford the time to be sent to school would have had the same exact methodologies applied to their education. Those who went to University would delve even deeper into these methodologies, thereby (according to this article) given even more of that meticulous practice regime which Brooks claims is so key to the “Genius” factor. Marlowe, Kid, Johnson, Fletcher, Webster… the same educations but more. And yet these playwrights are often reduced to footnotes, if they are even mentioned, in the great books of general Theatrical knowledge which Shakespeare is our key and sometimes only player.

Consider a few numbers. An Elizabethan company learned a new play about every seventeen days, and depending on the play’s popularity it would be performed for a period of between one and two years. During a four-week period in the Autumn of 1595, fifteen different plays were recorded to have been performed. The first reference to Shakespeare as an actor was recorded by Robert Greene in 1592 (the famous death-bed utterance of “There is an upstart crow, beautified with our feathers, that with his Tygers heart wrapt in a Players hide supposes he is as well able to bombast out a blank verse as the best of you; and, being an absolute Johannes Factotum, is in his own conceit the only Shake-scene in a country.”). Green’s editor, Henry Chettle, later apologize publicly for the remark in the preface to his work “Kind-Heart’s Dream”. This apology leads us to believe the Shakespeare was already a well-respected thespian by 1592, and indeed records indicate that several of his plays (including Titus Andronicus, Henry VI, and The Comedy of Errors) had been performed and were popular before this time (Henry VI is supposed to have been written around 1589/1590). The theatres were closed due to plague from 1592-1594. We’re pretty sure Shakespeare returned full-time to Stratford in 1610 (though again, this is Shakespeare so nobody really knows). This gives Shakespeare a solid seven years of performance at the peak of his career in London (and likely more like eight or so). The cannon (that survives) is thirty seven plays large, and there is evidence that Shakspeare co-wrote another five plays which we either no longer have or have been attributed to others. So… for arguments sake… assume Shakespeare wrote fourty two plays. This averages out to five and a quarter plays per year, not a hefty sum considering that a playhouse had the potential to go through twenty two plays per year.

So… practice? While Shakespeare was without a doubt constantly writing (churning out a new play every two and a half months or so), this isn’t exactly the kind of intense practice that Mozart was getting. And truly, couldn’t one argue that other playwrights of the time were getting as much, if not more practice than Shakespeare was?

The reason why we remember Shakespeare’s plays is because of the clever wordplay, but it’s also because of his clever use and treatment of the human condition. He speaks of issues that effect us even to this day, four hundred years after his death. In his capable hands, the troubles of the universe are alit in ways that make them relevant to us, despite space and time.

And really, no amount of practice can make some so capable.

I’m not saying that Shakespeare made a pact with the devil or was blessed with some divine astronomical event at the time of his birth, but maybe the scientists need to take another look at their definitions. Not everything can be explained in numbers. Human beings are highly emotional and rarely rational creatures, and the discussion thereof thereby must maintain a sense of irrationality in order to parallel it’s true meaning.

A Very Bardy Birthday

On this very week, dear reader, our own Bard turns 445.

I say week as no one really knows the day upon which Shakespeare was born. The actual birth day of a child went unrecorded for the most part in Shakespeare's time as so many infants did not live until their baptism. Shakespeare was baptized on April 26th, 1564 in the Holy Trinity Church in Stratford Upon Avon.

Now, there are varying opinions on what this means. Some will say that traditionally, baptisms are held three days after the baby's birth (placing the Bard's Birthday on April 23rd). The Prayer Book of 1559 offers instructions to have infants Christened before the first Sunday or holy day following the birth unless there were some extenuating circumstance, in which case a curate's permission could be obtained to hold the Baptism on another day. A little bit of Calendar work tells us that in 1564, the 23rd day of April just so happened to fall on a Sunday. That Sunday, due to its proximity to the Feast Day of St. Alphege and the feast day of St. Mark has traditionally been an unlucky day, which means that Shakespeare's Baptism may have been one of those extenuating circumstances. So, like most aspects of the Bard's life, his day of birth still remains a mystery.

What it does mean, however, is that heads are being turned towards the Bard once more as the day of his probable naissance approaches. In fact, the Mayor of Chicago has proclaimed this April 23rd to be "Talk Like Shakespeare Day". In case you were having strange flashes of "Talk Like a Pirate Day" (September 19th of every year, more information can be found at talklikeapirate.com), yes it's just like that.

Now I don't know about you, but I am truly torn about this proclamation. On the one hand, it is wonderful that such attention is being drawn to the Illustrious Bard. It is also fantastic that individuals are being encouraged to think "Elizabethanly" and outside of their normal comfort zone in an effort to connect to a piece of Bardom. It sounds like a fun endeavor, and I do hope that people take it as such. But on the other hand, efforts like this merely encourage the stereotype of "speaking Shakespeare". Yes, CNN does concede that "It isn't as difficult as it sounds", but then they go on to list various ways of "Shakespeareanizing" one's speech (among the suggestions are to not "waste time saying "it." Just use the letter "t" ('tis, 'twill, I'll do't)", to "add the letters "eth" to the end of verbs (he runneth, he trippeth, he falleth)", and "to add weight to your opinions, try starting them with "methinks," "mayhaps," "in sooth" or "wherefore."".

Really, guys, it's not that hard. Most people speak Shakespeare every day without even knowing they are speaking Shakespeare. If in your life something has ever come full circle, been Greek to you, as obvious as the nose on your face, a wild goose chase, a foregone conclusion or the be-all and end-all, you're speaking Shakespeare. If you have felt faint hearted, fancy free, as merry as the day is long, more sinned against than sinning, stony hearted, like a laughing stock, like you’ve seen better days or not slept one wink, you're speaking Shakespeare. If you’ve ever been sick at heart, lain low, waited with baited breath, put your best foot forward, felt something in your heart of hearts or seen something in your mind’s eye, had a method to your madness or a spotless reputation, played fast and loose, gilded the lily or been snatched from the jaws of death, you're speaking Shakespeare. If you’ve ever been given cold comfort, been eaten out of house and home, killed with kindness, told the naked truth, been sent packing, seen a sorry sight, worn your heart upon your sleeve, had something set your teeth on edge, felt as though the world’s your oyster, had too much of a good thing, given the devil his due or waited forever and a day you're speaking Shakespeare. If someone has ever broken the ice, been dead as a doornail, the devil incarnate, had a heart of gold or a knit brow. If you’ve refused to budge an inch. If you know that every dog will have his day, as good luck would have it you're speaking Shakespeare.

So... why go on making faux intellectual statements about how to "Shakespeare up" your speech? Why not just take some time to pay homage to all of the things you actually say every day which came from the Man himself and don't make you sound like "that guy" at the office? You'll still be honoring the spirit of the holiday, you'll probably learn more than you will by throwing "forsooth" in now and again, and you won't make yourself into the laughing stock of corporate functions.

And if all else fails, just take a moment to read your favorite speech. Don't have one? You can borrow one of mine. Love's Labor's Lost; Berowne; line 1639 "Oh tis more than neede...". King Lear; Bastard; line 335 "Thou nature art my Goddesse....". Hamlet; Hamlet; line 1829 "Speake the speeche I pray you as I pronounc'd it to you...". Midsummer Night's Dream; Helena; line 240 "How happy some oer othersome can be..."

Happy Birthday, Will. The world is truly a better place for having you.

Shakespeare by any other genre....

These days, you see very few truly classically-framed productions. There are several reasons for this; the costumes are expensive and difficult to make (nearly impossible to fudge), period pieces are sometimes hard for a modern audience to connect to, and sometimes these hard-core traditionalist productions are merely seen as “doddery old bits of theatre” (usually because they are). The result of this is a lot of Shakespeare out there re-framed to a different context, be this context genre, era of time, or concept.

But is such re-framing necessary? Is it right? What does a director need to do in order to make choices about re-framing a show? Let’s take a moment to consider these questions.

I have a personal mantra which I frequently use when discussing such productions: NO CONCEPT SHAKESPEARE. No Hamlet on the moon, no Macbeth with flying monkeys, no Merchant of Venice in the year 2045 after the nuclear holocaust (yes, I have actually seen this in a production). It’s just not right. Taking the Bard’s work and demeaning it into your own little personal fantasy is not your job as a Director. It is not funny, it is not nice, and frankly it gets confusing. It is people like these Directors who give audience members scarring Shakespeare experiences and makes them Bard-shy.

So, you may be wondering, what qualifies as “concept Shakespeare” and what kicks a production over into this magical world of “re-framing” ?

If a Director’s choice supports the text and adds something to the production without being confusing, it is a re-framing. If a Director’s choice has no grounding in the text whatsoever, no explanation, and leaves the audience going “what?”, it is a concept.

Romeo and Juliet, the classic story of love kept sundered by an ancient family feud; set it in Israel and have R and J represented by Israeli/Palestinian actors. Set it on the Irish border between North and South and make Romeo a Northerner and Juliet a Southerner. Heck, set it in the American South pre-civil war and make Romeo the son of a plantation owner and Juliet the maid’s daughter.

Support the plot, support the setting, don’t destroy it.

I heard someone mention “Throne of Blood” the other day and how it was likely the best rendition of Macbeth they had ever seen, despite not using Shakespeare’s text. I’m in agreement with this statement. The story is supported by the genre and Kurosawa puts his own flavor to it. Sure, he takes liberties with the plot (no Macduff for one….), but the sense of a deadly downward spiral into madness and the fear that comes with it- pivotal to Mabeth- is retained.

I’m actually also a huge fan of "The Lion King". Again, Disney takes huge liberties with the central characters. The elements of the Hamlet plot are twisted and some omitted all together- but they couldn’t exactly have Nala go nuts and drown herself (it’s a kid’s movie for crying outloud!). What "The Lion King" does achieve is a righteous line of succession which angers us when it is not followed. We love Simba as we wish we could love Hamlet. And really, who can resist James Earl Jones kitty? Most importantly, it hooks kids. Kids. Watching Shakespeare. And LIKING IT!

So- support the plot, don’t confuse the audience, and remember- you’re playing Shakespeare, not your own demented twisted version of some dream you had when you were five.

Bard On Screen

Hello poor, neglected blog. I missed you- I truly did.

In an effort to find a topic I was enthused enough about to post on, a thought occurred to me. Shakespeare on Film.

In many ways, contemporary society has replaced the theatre with film. In Shakespeare’s time, theatre was a social media. It was a way to interact with not only your neighbors, but also the actors on the stage- to connect with the community in a very vocal and vivacious way. It was loud, raucous and boisterous- a far cry from the snooty opera boxes which come to the contemporary mind. Unless you happen to live in New York, chances are you’ve never been to a showing of a movie where individuals yelled at the screen in an effort to communicate with the characters. In our subdued, Freudian, inside-voice culture it is something highly frowned upon. What good would it do us anyway? The actors are not there in person, it is merely a projection of them we see before us. This impersonal artform leaves us with perhaps a more intimate perspective (we can, after all, watch the sweat trickle from Johnny Depp’s forehead in a film), and yet a less human one.

Despite all of this, film remains a social exercise. One goes to the movies on dates or with friends. Movies are a topic of general discussion as they are common ground- I can watch a movie from my living room and discuss said movie with someone across the country because the performance remains the same.

In general, Shakespeare on film is divided into two categories: made-for-film screenplays (like much of Kenneth Branaugh’s work), and taped stage plays. I will be discussing the former as taped stage plays have a whole slew of other complications.

We heard it from our High School English teachers and thereby it is forever engrained in one’s mind: do NOT watch the movie before you read the book. In the case of Shakespeare, I tend to disagree generally. Shakespeare, after all, is meant to be played before an audience- not read. It takes a well-trained mindset to read and make sense of Early Modern English. Many “Shakespeare virgins” find it difficult to understand on the page- and really who could blame them? The sentence structure is entirely different often times from what we use today, the words are frequently spelled differently, there is no sense of rhythm, key-words, or intonation. Shakespeare needs actors to breathe life into it. The great bard himself did not write to publish but rather for his ACTORS. Therefore, throw away your preconceived notions- if you want to love Shakespeare don’t go picking up a folgers, rent a good movie.

That being said, there are a surprising amount of bad film adaptations out there. Overall, I am extremely enthused with the work of Kenneth Brannaugh (his Love’s Labours Lost I believe is truly a triumph of the Shakespeare-to-film genre). He takes liberties on occasion (aforementioned Love’s Labours Lost, As you Like it, Othello, the infamous FIVE HOUR HAMLET…), but he’s KENNETH BRANNAUGH! The man has worked for those liberties and deserves to take them. He consistently puts forth an excellent, accessible film which is engaging and entertaining.

The largest problem with most Shakespeare on film is that it simply lacks vivacity. The film genre is by its nature more subdued than live theatre. The cameras show us the actors from a distance unattainable on a stage, thereby the acting style must be altered to accommodate. Truly, stage techniques when filmed often appear garish and overdone. And, to me, this is where the life in Shakespeare lies.

Shakespeare writes big characters- he never does anything by halves. Hotspur, Juliet, Sir Toby, Lady Macbeth- these are people who can barely be contained in the human body much less facial expressions. They require air, space, and above all human contact to bring properly to life. Wild, wacky antics on the camera are reduced down to their core- something which makes the thick language of Shakespeare difficult to palate. When Shakespeare doesn’t move and breathe and run from hot to cold in a millisecond, it dies.

A second major complication of Shakespeare to film is the lack of subtext. There is no subtext in Shakespeare. Anything a character thinks is said- perhaps in veiled terms or a metaphor- but nothing is left below the surface. There is no deeper meaning to hint at, nothing below the truly scrumptious language to dig into. I believe that most film actors rely on these kinds of subtext to deliver a performance. It is difficult to mean every word you say. But if you can’t trust Shakespeare to deliver truth from text, who can you trust?

Film is a director’s media. It uses pictures to tell a story. Shakespeare is entirely in his words. The word “audience” holds its roots in the Latin work “audientum” meaning “a hearing, listening”. When the Elizabethans came to the theatre, it was to “hear” a play not to “see” a play. The words of Shakespeare simply do not translate well to the visual media of film. It takes a skilled hand to make such a transition, one that (sadly) most directors and actors lack.

So… watch Shakespeare. But, more importantly, hear Shakespeare. And do your research- if the film stars some young, hip, pop-culture icons and leaves out the old RSC gang entirely, you should probably find something better to do with those three hours of your life.

The Twelfth Day of Christmas

In the spirit of the holiday season (what? It’s not New Years yet and we still have a few nights of Chanukah left, folks!) I would like to take a moment to reflect upon what is often viewed as Mister Shakespeare’s most festive play: Twelfth Night (or What you Will).

Twelfth Night’s title refers to the celebration of the twelfth night of Christmas. While in this day and age twelfth night really only matters in a popular Christmas Carol whose words nobody seems to be able to remember (FIIIIVE GOLDEN RIIIINGS!), the Elizabethans celebrated twelfth night with full holiday gusto. The celebration would have been complete with music, dance, feasting and (of course) a play. The popular opinion is that Shakespeare wrote Twelfth Night for the 1601 celebration of twelfth night held at Whitehall. We know for certain that the show was performed at Candlemas (February 2) of 1602 at Middle Temple Hall.

Twelfth Night is the only play of Shakespeare’s to have a subtitle. “What you Will”. This pairing of titles has always struck me as rather odd, for neither of them have really anything to do with the content of play itself. It is almost as if Shakespeaere dashed off the show in time for twelfth night but had no time to title it. I can picture the exchange backstage now- “WILL! They’re announcing your show, what should they call it?” “Oh, I don’t know Henslowe. What’s today? Twelfth night? What you will.”

Like many of Shakespeare’s comedies, Twelfth Night is an amalgamation of various plot items which are familiar to the Shakespearean cannon. It can be argued that, in his rush to put together a show for the twelfth night celebration, Shakespeare just threw a bunch of the “old tricks” into a blender and got Twelfth Night. Indeed, we have the story of a separated pair of identical twins (and all the hilarity and mistaken identity which ensues therein) as seen in The Comedy of Errors (written somewhere between 1589 and 1594). We have a woman who dresses as a man to serve a man whom she has fallen in love with as seen in Two Gentlemen of Verona (written in the early 1590’s). We have a comedic Falstaffican figure who drinks to excess and takes advantage of his rich friends (Falstaff was first introduced in Henry IV i- written around 1597). And last but not least, we have a false love letter written by a smart woman as a tool to manipulate her arch nemesis into tomfoolery as seen in The Merry Wives of Windsor (written in the late 1590s).

Noteworthy as a decidedly fresh vein for Shakespeare is the character of Feste, a new breed of fool for our bard. With the departure of Will Kempe in 1600, Robert Armin took up the role of Company Fool for the Lord Chamberlain’s Men. While Kempe’s fools were outlandish and raucous and Kempe himself was known for his improvised additions to the script (some say Hamlet’s “And let those that play your Clownes speak no more than is set down for them…” (1886-1888) is a direct reference to Kempe’s antics); Armin played a much more sedate fool- world-weary with an undeniable sadness. Lear’s fool, Feste, Touchstone- these are all Armin fools. Armin was also known for his amazing voice and musical talent, which Shakespeare used to great advantage in Twelfth Night- his most musical play. Feste sings no less than five songs and sometimes more like six or seven depending on the performance.

While written for a festive occasion, in my opinion Twelfth Night is much more of a problem play than a jaunt-through-the-woods-comedy. While the play does end in the tradition mass marriage (there are three in this show- Orsino to Viola, Olivia to Sebastian and Toby to Maria), the content of the play is far from Disneyland joviality.

Death hangs ever-present over Illyria. In the first scene of Twelfth Night, we learn of one death (that of Olivia’s un-named brother) and in the second scene we learn of two more (Sebastian’s and Olivia’s father). These deaths shape the world we enter greatly- if not for Olivia’s loss, Viola could have gone straight to her rather than donning britches. If not for Viola’s loss, she would have had a male compatriot- a much less desperate situation for a traveling woman. The umbrella of death immediately gives Illyria a melancholic tone- well-suited to its histrionic Duke.

Further into the play, it becomes apparent that a great section of Twelfth Night’s plot details the antics of Sir Toby and Company to bring down Malvolio, one of the few truly stable characters in the show. Once they have him in their clutches, the crew tortures (both physically and mentally) Malvolio to his breaking point, and when he is released he receives no just revenge for his nearly entirely unwarranted and outrageously embarrassing captivity. He storms from the stage at the end of Act Five declaring “I’ll be revenged upon the whole pack of you” (2548). Malvolio’s exit casts a shadow upon the end of the play, leaving the audience unsettled and with the distinct impression that, should this show continue for another act, the jovial comedy would quickly turn into a revenge tragedy.

In addition to the madly abused Malvolio, there is a second character whose story does not bode well- though he receives no closure. Antonio, the pirate who saves Sebastian’s life, is clearly onstage for the entire fifth act. His love for Sebastian has brought him to ruin in Illyria- having started the show as the captain of one of the most successful pirating vessels in Illyria’s waters, Antonio ends the play as a prisoner of his arch-nemesis- penniless and with no hope for the requisition of his love for Sebastian. He watches the entire fifth act: the reuinion of the twins, the marriage proposals, Malvolio’s return and departure, and says nothing.

So- Death? Torture? Unresolved stories? Love unrequited? This sounds not like a happy nuptial…. Or… really… anything like Christmas… So what are directors thinking when they stage Twelfth Night as a happy-go-lucky, festive and inviting piece of theatre right around dead-pine-tree-in-the-living-room time? 

Like all of Shakespeare’s plays, there is nothing straightforward about Twelfth Night.  Yes, the darker undertones are undeniable.  But everyone gets married in the end and that's what counts, right?  Twelfth Night also contains one of the most memorable and delightful scenes in the cannon; Act II scene iii, colloquially referred to as "the caterwauling scene".  There is something absolutely intoxicating about seeing this scene performed- I truly think it has to do with how much childish glee the actors take in making as much drunken, rowdy noise as humanly possible (and how far they drop when Malvolio comes in to break it up).  I think that's what makes Twelfth Night festive- the highs are incredibly high and the lows are rock-bottom (kind of like a family gathering).  What I can also say in favor of the festive choice for this show is that it leaves a pleasant taste in the mouth. Reminiscent of gingerbread cookies; it’s good because of that spicy bite, not in spite of it. 

The Dithyramb

This is a blog about theatre, thought, Shakespeare, and everything in between.  Let me start by telling you a story.  

Far away and long ago, in a time when Gods ruled from on high and the world was no larger than a certain set of islands in the Mediterranean, there was a ship. The ship was bound for Sicily and laden with treasure- glittering gold coffers filled to the brim with gems, pearls, wonderful and beautiful bolts of clothe with golden threads woven into its very fabric, statuettes of ivory, rings set with precious and shining stones larger than a child’s fist… all these riches the newly won property of the citharede Arion.

Arion was a man famed throughout Greece for his song. It was said that his musical poetry could move the Gods themselves. Arion had traveled to Sicily specifically to compete in the famed annual competition for song and music. The prizes were great, the competition greater, but Arion swept away all the judges and participants with his performance. His heart full to bursting with happiness and longing for his home in Corinth, Arion packed his prizes onto a hired vessel and set sail. The blue waters of the Mediterranean beneath him, Arion felt at peace and could barely contain his excitement to be closer to Greece with each passing instant.

But trouble always follows hard on the heels of success. Two days into the voyage, Arion’s ship was beset by pirates. The corsairs had heard of Arion’s victory and knew the ship to be full to bursting with prizes and riches beyond worldly compare. The pirates captured Arion’s small crew and brought the bard himself face to face with their own Captain.

The pirate Captain was a seasoned seaman and knew he could not let Arion live for fear of vengeance, but he was not without mercy. He gave Arion a choice: either the bard could take his own life on the deck of that pirate ship and be promised a proper burial on land when the ship next moored, or the Captain would give an order for Arion to be tossed overboard to meet his death in the salty brine.

Arion told the Captain that he would take his chances in the sea, but before he was thrown to his death he begged to bestow upon the sailors one last song. The Captain was moved by Arion’s plea and allowed him to sing.

The song Arion sang was unlike anything any of the sailors had ever heard. Ethereal, almost inhuman, it wafted through the air and brought courage and hope to even the most tired soul aboard that ship. Its words and melody snaked up through the air and called to Dionysus in prayer and reverie. And this song was the first dithyramb.

Arion’s song attracted a nearby pod of dolphins. They too were moved by the melody and, not wanting it to end, swam to him when he plunged into the foamy brine. Arion rode upon the point dolphin’s back to safety at the sanctuary of Poseidon and, eventually, to his home in Greece.

The Dithyramb was said to be invented by the Greek Bard Arion, though likely not during the above mentioned incident (a story taken from Herodotus). It was a hymn in homage to Dionysus in the form of a dialogue between an individual and a chorus. Aristotle credits the Dithyramb as the origin of Greek Theatre, thus making it the origin of theatre itself.

Theatre is the modern practice of story telling. In the glitz and glamour of Broadway, the lights and spectacle of the modern musical and the industry which has sprung into being around “THEATRE”, it is easy to loose track of the simplicity at its roots. Theatre is about humanism, a connection shared between the actors onstage and the people who have assembled to watch them.

There is a vital connection established in live theatre which film and television can never duplicate. While we will feel for the people who are presented larger-than-life before us, we miss the interpersonal link created by merely being in the same room as another human being. Sound, as we all know, is vibration. The voice is sound. Therefore, the voice of a live actor will create a vibration in the air which will be taken in by the audience members. It is the craft of an actor to hone and mould that vibration in order to effect the vibrations of the assembled audience, to leave them different from how they were when they entered the theatre space.

Though I cannot offer physical vibrations through the internet, I can offer intellectual stimulus. Vibrations of the mind. I am an actor. I have spent many years honing my craft, my voice and myself and have participated in theatre of various levels of professionalism for the past ten years.

I also have the nasty tendency to think a lot. I would like to call myself an academic, though I know that such a title opens my door to a barrage of demands for my credentials. I can say that I have an inquiring mind and some amount of intellectual background, though a deep-seated desire for more.

What I hope to offer here is insight. Thoughts. To be added to, bounced around, and shared.  The sound of an echo is always different from its initial sounding.  It returns to its creator changed in an utterly unpredictable way- often times richer and stronger than its initial sounding.  Here I begin my echo in hopes that it will return to me changed in a way I could never have imagined because that creative molding of ideas is the seed of all intellectual thought.

More to come…