Najib Amhali is een Marokkaans-Nederlands cabaretier, acteur en professioneel drummer. Ik koos voor Najib Amhali, omdat hij echt wel mijn favoriete cabaretier. Het is zo dat als ik 20 keer naar dezelfde fragment kijk ik nog steeds strijk lig van het lachen. Ik koos voor het videofragment Taxi, omdat het mij keer op keer gewoon aan het lachen brengt. Ik vind hem zo goed, omdat hij grappen maakt over eender wie. Dat apprecier ik wel erg. Ik koos voor Taxi, omdat het gewoon de waarheid. Ik weet niet goed hoe ik het moet uitleggen je moet het gewoon zelf horen dan begrijp je wat ik bedoel. 

Bijlagen:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SCddZD03d0Q   

Kate Peterson

Appearance

It was during the first snowstorm of the new year. The color green was something you saw in pictures tacked to the wall or in a memory from what felt like years ago. I was living alone in a studio apartment in a shitty section of west Cleveland. Everything was the same color in that neighborhood, even in the summer. It was the kind of dirty grey that gets swept up into the air of unfinished basements and cold storage warehouses. There were no stairs to get to my apartment. I was as far down as you can get without going under. I slept in the same room as the oven, but I liked the smallness of it. When I was young my sister and I used to zip each other into suitcases. We would drag the suitcases up and down the stairs, and all around the living room, laughing hysterically.

That first morning I wrapped a scarf around my neck and lit the stove. I tripped over my shoes on my way to the sink to fill the pot. I looked down at them accusingly, as if anyone but me could have put them there. I looked up after kicking them across the room and that was when I saw him for the first time. I wouldn't find out until later that he had been there for weeks. Inches away from me as I slept. An arm's reach as I showered and dressed each morning. He sat with me while I overcooked my eggs and searched the internet for a cat to adopt, each time deciding against it because I could imagine it snowballing into two or three until I became one of those women.

     The outside world that day, and every day since I had been living there, was a white swirling mixture of ground and sky. Set against the bright seamless backdrop was the outline of a man. He was fading in and out with each gust of wind, like a Polaroid gone backwards. But I saw him. I saw the tip of one of his pink fingers poking out of a hole in his glove. His hands were up against his mouth which was covered in a thick dark beard and his breath came in a long slow billow of white smoke, like the mouth of a gutter under a frozen street. His hood was pulled up over his head which made his eyes ever brighter in the shadow. I couldn't tell what color they were, but they seemed to have a reflection inside them like the round outline of a flashbulb in the eye of a magazine model. I didn't scream. I felt nothing like adrenaline, or dread. Or that feeling when your heart beats so fast it makes you want to throw up. Nothing like that happened. If someone told me that they saw a strange man staring at them through their window I would have expected to hear them say, "And then I screamed and dropped my glass and it shattered and I ran to the phone and dialed 911 and then I ran to my front door and pulled the deadbolt across and then I hid in the bathroom with the door closed and I couldn't stop shaking." But I didn't do any of that. I stood completely still as if someone was holding me there, and I watched as the man I saw so clearly disappeared into the endless white.

<  2  >

     There was nothing in my apartment that anyone would want. My possessions were piled in and out of boxes and I didn't even own a real bed. I had a mattress on the floor that tripled as a couch and dining room table. I did own a laptop but I took it with me to work. I didn't own a TV, or a toaster oven, or even a decent pair of shoes. I just decided that since there was nothing for him to steal, and I was sure he figured that out if he took a good look, that I would go on about my day despite his strange appearance outside my window. It felt less like a decision to ignore it, and more like it didn't happen at all. Or like it happens all the time. And that is exactly how it ended up. Each morning while I boiled water and ladled my mug into the steaming pot, I saw him. I didn't own a tea kettle either. I didn't see why people spent money on things like that when they could function perfectly well without them. But anyway, each night when I came home from work and my apartment was dark and quiet and anyone would think that I should be scared, I wasn't. There was no one waiting for me behind the shower curtain. Nothing was ever out of place. There were never any footprints circling my apartment, or scratch marks around my doorknob. I came and went peacefully and each morning I shared a moment with a stranger whose eye brows curled up like a puppy and whose fingers were always bent across his mouth.

     It went on for about a week that way. I continued to start my car ten minutes early with the keys dangling in the ignition, so it could thaw. I guess in hindsight that was a pretty stupid thing to do in west Cleveland anyway, random man or not. But I mean I just lived my life normally, with the exception of my gloomy window friend stopping by more and more often. Once while I was watching TV late at night, something caught my eye at the window. Of course it was him. I just kept on eating my popcorn until I was full and there was still half a bowl left. I hated to waste food, and I always felt bad for the little birds that hopped over the snow, and wondered what the hell they ate in this neighborhood at twelve below. So sometimes I would throw food outside for them. Or for the squirrels. So I went to the window. I had never really…confronted the man. I stayed a room's length away from him as he peered at me sadly. But that night I guess I got brave. I got up and saw his outline like the moon must have been fat and shining right behind him, casting a line of white around his face. My eyes went to the top of the window to unhook the lock, and when they returned to him there was only the snow. He had been erased by its pale hand. I put my face into the cold, that kind of cold that feels more like fire than ice, and I looked for him. The snow was covered in a layer of glass. I threw the leftover popcorn and it rolled like dice across the ground. There were no signs of his tracks. I noticed, as I pulled the window back down, that there was no moon that night.

<  3  >

     The next morning I saw the white grey billows of exhaust fumes pouring out of a piece of shit station wagon in front of my apartment. I saw the woman's eyes, and they were glossy and dull. I had seen her baby basset hound eyebrows before, on the man at my window. She just stared at the door as if she was waiting for someone to come out. I came out. She drove away.

     It happened that way three times. Not all at once, but spread so far out across two weeks that I had to keep reminding myself that it wasn't a déjà vu, and that yes, this had really happened before. The fourth time I decided had to be different. Something about her felt so much like the man at my window, but maybe it was just her coming and going. And her staring. And those eyebrows arching up. But her hands were not covering her mouth; they were white and exposed even in this weather, and they were gripping the steering wheel. So I could see that her lips were moving tightly against each other, and on top of each other, pulling in and out of her mouth. This fourth time she didn't drive away when I walked out onto the ice. I stood waiting for her to do it; to drive away as she always had. But she just looked ahead at the road, and then back into my face. Then I saw her hand move to the door, and the window rolled down. I walked towards her casually, not like someone who had seen her on three previous mornings, but like someone who was going to ask her if she needed directions. Or if she was alright. So I did ask her that, because I wasn't sure what else to say.

     The wind stole the words and spread them out across the trees and the pavement and the kicked over silver trash cans. She said nothing. She looked like she might drive away again. She put her hands back on the wheel and looked straight ahead. But then she turned and looked past me at my apartment. I looked back then too, like maybe I was missing something. She was looking at the right side of the house, at the space between it and the neighbor's fence, which was all of four feet. It was the space where I saw my window friend each morning standing, waiting to watch me curse at my hair for making me late.

<  4  >

     "Are you looking for him?" I asked. Feeling as soon as I said it, the longing to take it back. I wasn't sure what I would say if she asked "Who?" Oh, just that man who stares in my window every day. The one who for all I know could be a serial killer casing out his next victim. I know that's what people would think if I told them. But it didn't feel like that at all.

     But she didn't ask me who, she didn't say anything for about a minute, she just stared blankly back and forth between me and the apartment, and I knew that I would be late for work again. She looked like she was about to say something, her mouth kept moving and tears starting falling into it from her eyes. I remembered the landlord speaking to me in broken English, telling me how grateful he was that he didn't need to help me carry furniture. I remembered him telling me that a couple had lived there before me. And he kept saying something in Spanish that sounded like "tragic." And he kept shaking his head.

     "Do you need help?" I asked, coming a little closer to the window. She just kept crying, harder now. I squeezed my cell phone for the time and saw that I was still early. I always turned my car on too soon, and by the time I got inside it the snow was pouring from the roof like rain.

     "You can come inside and we can have some tea if you want." I said, imagining myself using a soup spoon to dish her out a ration of hot water.

     "Or maybe you just want to talk? Is that why you keep coming here?" I just kept talking. I didn't know what else to do with her.

     "What's your name? I just moved here a few weeks ago, actually I guess it's been more than a month. I don't know anyone. I work downtown at a magazine. I do graphic design." She started to calm down a little and looked at me.

<  5  >

     "Amy," she said quietly.

     "Hey Amy," I said, a little too cheerfully. "I'm Ellen. Is this where you used to live?" I said, pointing back at my little faded blue apartment and the trees, and the trash cans that were glued to the sidewalk now from all the ice. She stared at the apartment and nodded at it, as if it had asked her the question.

     "Well, did you want to come in for a little while? I can't stay long, I do have to go soon, but you can come in for a few minutes if you want. I know when I moved from my first house I always wanted to go back and see what they did to my old room. See if they painted it a different color or anything. I didn't paint anything yet. Maybe I will in the summer." I smiled at her, and she smiled back slowly, as if her face had forgotten which muscles it took to pull up the chapped corners of her mouth. She stared at the house, and then at me and then back at the house again, and without saying anything she unlocked her seat belt and got out of the car. We were standing there in the middle of the frozen street, her car was still running and dripping fluid, making a little puddle that was curling and flowing over the cracks in the ice and the dirty solid snow that was pushed up onto the curb.

     "Did you want to…?" I motioned to the keys hanging in the ignition. It was alright for me to leave my car running, but if hers got stolen I would feel pretty terrible.

     "Oh, yeah, thanks," she said softly. I watched her lean into her car and shut it off, pull the keys out and put them in the pocket of her coat. When she turned to face me again I smiled a sort of awkward, ok right this way, kind of smile, and turned to walk to the apartment. She followed me hesitantly and I heard her take in a deep breath. The cold air must have stung her lungs because she started coughing.

<  6  >

     "You ok?" I said, turning to look at her over my shoulder as I opened the door and walked in. She just nodded, and I saw her eyebrows start to go higher, and her lips start to pull into her mouth. I wasn't sure if this was such a great idea after all. What was I supposed to do with some strange sobbing woman? I remembered that I didn't have anywhere for her to sit, and it felt like an even worse idea. I took in a deep breath of the frozen air as we walked into the apartment.

     She was my first guest and I was suddenly a little self conscious about my housekeeping. I scooped up the cold soggy tea bags from the counter and threw them in the trash, and moved a few things around so I didn't look like a slob.

     "Do you want some tea? Or hot chocolate maybe? I don't have a coffee maker." I grabbed two mugs before she could answer, refilled the pot that was on the stove, and started it to boil. She didn't say anything, and I looked behind me to see her standing in what I guess had been her living room, looking around the apartment like Dorothy when she came out of her little spinning cabin.

     "I think I feel like some hot chocolate," I said, trying to break her from her daze. She stared at me as if she had forgotten where she was. "Sure," she said finally.

     I attempted small talk, mostly to myself, while the water boiled. I asked her questions and got a nod here and there. Finally I had two cups of hot chocolate and I stirred at them violently trying to get the lumps out.

     "I wish I had some of those tiny marshmallows. They're fun," I said, smiling awkwardly as I handed her the mug. It was from some rest stop in the Redwood Forrest, Paul Bunyan and his big blue Ox. I wished I would have noticed and given her the one with the Dalmatian instead. That would have seemed a little less awkward. My mom sent it to me because when I was little I loved Dalmatians. I tried to explain to her that, thanks to Disney, lots of little kids liked Dalmatians and that the phase was over, but she still kept sending me mugs and birthday cards with black spots.

<  7  >

     "I guess you could sit…on my bed if you want? I'm sorry, that's pretty creepy but I don't have any chairs yet." I looked around at the empty walls and the posters rolled up on the floor and told myself I would hang them up tonight. But I knew I wouldn't. She walked over to my bed and sat down on the corner. I pulled up a box full of books and sat down on it. I sipped at the hot chocolate and got a big chunk of powder. I hoped I had stirred hers a little better.

     "So, you lived here before me?" I asked quietly. Hoping not to start another round of hysterics; she had finally seemed to calm down.

     "Yes."

     "Did you live alone?" I squeezed the hot mug, already feeling like I knew the answer. She must have been part of the couple the landlord attempted to gossip with me about. Maybe it was a really bad breakup. Maybe he was still looking for her, still stalking her. I thought of the man who I guess was stalking me. But he didn't seem like he would hurt anybody. He was too sad, too cold and lonely.

     "No," she said, and then she breathed into the steaming mug, and I waited, hoping that maybe she would tell me her story so that I didn't ask the wrong question and make her cry.

     "I lived with my fiancé, Eric. He was a musician." She tried smiling. "We had rugs and towels hanging all over the walls," - she pointed to the tiny holes, the ones I never noticed - "and his friends would come over and practice."

     "Band practice in this place? That must have been crazy." She smiled bigger now. I was sure she was transporting herself back there, and I pictured four or five guys with guitars huddled around the bed where she sat and listened, maybe a drummer with his chair stuck inside the bathroom. She stopped talking and stared down into her mug. We sat in silence and then my eyes went to the window. He was back.

<  8  >

     Amy noticed the way I looked at the window suddenly, and she looked too, but nothing happened. She didn't see him. He walked closer to the window and cupped his hands around his face to peer inside. Then he looked sadder than he ever had. His cheeks pulled up and his forehead wrinkled like an old man. It looked like he was shaking. He put his palms flat on the window and I could see what looked like frost forming where the tips of his fingers touched the glass. I realized in that moment, what I knew I couldn't say out loud. Either I had a tumor growing in my brain that was making me see this man that she couldn't, or he was a ghost. He was her ghost. Her fiance's ghost.

     "Amy, what happened to him? To Eric." I halfway hoped she would say, "What do you mean? He's at work." But then that would mean that I had a tumor, and I couldn't afford a tumor. I didn't have health insurance.

     But she didn't say that. She just looked at me as if she didn't care how I knew, or what I knew. As if I wasn't even there. She stared into the air and her mind went somewhere else again. This time it wasn't somewhere happy at all.

     "He killed himself. Right over there." She pointed to the cramped bathroom. The yellow tiles. I pictured the man at the window, staring into the tiny mirror over the sink, with a gun inside his mouth. I thought about what questions were appropriate, if any. And what do you ask first? Why or how? I guess how was the less complicated one so I went with that.

     "Pills. He swallowed the whole cabinet full. I found him lying on the floor all curled up." She stopped and squeezed her eyes shut hard. I guess she was seeing it again. Seeing him. I looked at the window and he was squeezing his eyes shut too.

     "What was he like?" I tried changing the subject a little. I stared out the window at him as she spoke.

<  9  >

     "He was," she paused, "quiet. I never knew what he was going through. In his head. He just wouldn't tell me. He lost his job and they kicked him out of the band. They said they didn't need three guitar players, they said they looked stupid on stage with that many people. My parents never liked him. They didn't want us to get married. They said he looked like he belonged in a homeless shelter. But he loved that beard. I loved it..." She trailed off and looked down at her shoes, which were making a puddle on the wood floor.

     "I'm sorry, I don't know why I keep coming here. I just feel close to him here I guess. I never got to say goodbye." She sighed and looked around at the empty walls. I was sure now that the man at the window was dead. That he was Eric. That he was coming here for her. I guess it didn't sound as crazy to me as it should have.

     "I think he's been coming here too." I said, bracing myself in case she flipped out. She didn't. She just stared at me and squinted her eyes like she was trying to read the fine print across my face.

     "Someone's been coming to the window. I thought maybe he was homeless or, I'm not sure what I thought. But maybe it's him. He's there right now actually." I expected him to disappear as soon as she turned her head to look out the window, but he didn't. He stared into her eyes. She turned back to me.

     "There?" she said, confused, pointing to the frozen glass.

     "Yeah. He's looking at you. He seems really upset. Maybe he didn't mean to do it." I wasn't sure what I was doing. Being an interpreter for the dead? She looked at me at first like I was crazy, and I understood. But she didn't get up, she didn't throw the hot brown liquid in my face and run screaming for the door. I think she must have wanted this, deep down. She must have driven here needing to find something. Needing this to be real. Her face softened and she looked back at the window as she spoke. I looked back too and of course, maybe to make me look even crazier, he was gone.

<  10  >

     "Does he…talk?" she said, and I could hear the sane part of her trying to win out over whatever part believed it all.

     "Well he's gone now. But no, he doesn't talk. Not to me."

     She snapped her head back towards me, the fastest movement she had made so far.

     "What do you mean, he's gone?" She got up and went to the window. She looked out of it a little frantically, and then closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She stood there with her eyes closed for a long time. Just breathing.

     Finally she turned and looked around the apartment again, this time with the softest edge of a grin. She looked down into her mug and then up to me.

     "Thank you for this. For letting me come back."

     "You're welcome."

     "I'll let you go now. I don't want to make you late." She walked to the sink and put her mug down next to the dirty plates and cups. I followed her to the door as if it were still her apartment. The sun was so bright against the snow that I had to shield my eyes with the half empty Dalmatian mug.

     "It was nice meeting you." She said, smiling so that now I could see the row of white teeth that I never imagined existed.

     "Sure. I'm glad I could…help?" I said, searching for the words to describe or explain what just took place. She turned and walked back to her car, seeming almost a little embarrassed for having been there at all. Then to my left, from the side of the house came at first a shadow, and then a man. Eric. Now he had a name. I watched as he walked with his hands down from his face now and at his sides. He stopped and looked at me, right into my eyes, for a few seconds that seemed to stretch out longer than any other few seconds of my life. Then he walked forward again, catching up to Amy.

<  11  >

     "Amy!" I wanted to tell her that he was right there, he was right behind her. But I stopped. She turned to face me and she was really facing him. He was between us looking right into her face, close enough to touch her.

     "You're welcome to stop by anytime." I said, feeling like it sounded less genuine that it was. I guess I really did mean it. She got into the car and I watched as Eric got into the passenger's seat.

     "Thanks." She said, looking back at the house. I knew I would never see her again by the way she looked at it as she drove off, like she was saying goodbye.

Persoonlijke argumentering:

"Appearance" van Kate Peterson, een verhaal over een meisje, Ellen, dat steeds een man voor haar raam ziet staat. Later ontdekt ze dat de man, Eric, niet echt is maar slechts een illusie, een geest. Ellen woont alleen in een klein appartement. Eric is niet de enige die steeds voor haar huis staat, Amy ook. Amy is wel een echt persoon, ze was de verloofde van Eric. Hij pleegde zelfmoord in het appartement van Ellen waar ze vroeger woonden. Amy komt er vaak omdat ze nog steeds het gevoel krijgt dat hij nog bij haar is. Ze weet niet dat Ellen hem kan zien. Ellen vertelde het haar, ze schrok er niet van. Het was de laatste keer dat Amy langs het huis kwam. Eric stapt met haar in de auto. Amy weet het niet. Ik vind het wel een goed verhaal. De manier waarop het werd geschreven ook. Ik hou van het begin, hoe de dingen worden beschreven. Ik heb het verhaal met plezier en spanning gelezen. Ik merkte wel een foutje op. Eerst zei ze dat ze geen tv had en dan zei ze dat ze tv aan het kijken was? Naast dat, is het een goed verhaal.

PETERSON, K., Appearance. internet, juli 2011. (http://www.short-stories.co.uk/)

04-11-2012 om 00:00 geschreven door Seminarie FSF  

Ik heb gekozen voor het liedje Aicha van Outlandish. Ik koos dit liedje, omdat het onderwerp over de dingen des levens gaan. Ik heb echt respect voor deze band. Zoals gewoonlijk kies ik mijn liedjes omwille van het verhaal dat er achter zit. Het verhaal achter dit liedjes is dat de zusje van de zanger werd gepest omwille van haar hoofddoek. Hij zong dit liedje om haar een riem onder het hart te steken. Hij probeert de mensen te laten zien dat een hoofddoek dragen niet het gedrag van een persoon beïnvloedt. Mensen met een hoofddoek kunnen/kennen net zoveel als mensen die geen hoofddoek dragen. 

OUTLANDISH, Aicha. internet, 2003. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f0nFTdKlKLw)

Bijlagen:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f0nFTdKlKLw   

Romeo & Juliet is een toneelstuk van William Shakespeare. Het gaat over de liefde van Juliet Capulet en Romeo Montague, een onmogelijke liefde tussen twee tieners dat leidde tot een tragedie. Ik heb gekozen voor dit toneelstuk omdat dit stuk het eerste was waar ik aan dacht toen ik het woordje "theater" las. Uit dit toneelstuk zal ik de beroemde balkonscène bespreken. Bij de balkonscène veklaren Romeo en Juliet elkaar hun liefde. Juliet staat boven op het balkon en Romeo in de tuin voor het balkon. Ik vind het persoonlijk het mooiste en het vreemdste stukje. Ik vind het mooi omdat ze mooie en lieve woorden gebruiken en vreemd omdat ze besluiten te trouwen nadat ze elkaar nog maar net kennen. Deze scène wordt in de media nog steeds gebruikt. Ze spelen het na op een modernere, grappige manier of ze laten er zich gewoon door inspireren. Ik vind de stijl hoe de tekst is geschreven prachtig, het is net of je een gedicht aan het lezen bent.

Capulet's orchard.

Enter Romeo.

ROM:

He laughs at the scars of love when he’s never felt love’s pain. Quiet! what light breaks through that window?

It is the east, and Juliet is the sun rising!

Arise, fair sun, and kill the jealous moon,

Who is already sick and pale with grief,

That you, her maid, are far more beautiful than she is.

Don’t be her maid, since she is so jealous.

Her chaste, white gown is only sick and green,

And only fools wear it. Take it off and throw it away.

It is my lady; O, it is my love!

O, I wish she knew that she was my love!

She speaks, but she says nothing. what does that mean?

Her eye seems to be talking. I will answer it.

I am too bold, she’s not speaking to me.

Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,

Having some business, do beg her eyes

To twinkle in their sockets till the stars return.

What if her eyes were there, they in her head?

The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,

As daylight shames a lamp; her eyes in heaven

Would stream so brightly through the skies

That birds would sing and think it was morning.

See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!

O I wish I were a glove on that hand

So that I might touch that cheek! 

JUL:

Ah me!

ROM:

She speaks.

O, speak again, bright angel! for you are

As glorious to this night, that is over my head,

As is a wingéd messenger of heaven

To the white, upturned, wondering eyes

Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him

When he crosses the slow moving clouds

And sails upon the heart of the wind.

JUL:

O Romeo, Romeo! Why are you “Romeo?”

Deny your father and refuse to be called by your name;

Or, if you won’t, swear you are my love,

And I'll no longer be called a Capulet.

ROM:

Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?

JUL:

It’s only your name that is my enemy;

You are yourself, not even a Montague.

What's “Montague?” It is not a hand, or a foot,

Or an arm, or a face, or any other part

Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!

What's in a name? that which we call a rose

Would smell as sweet if it had any other name.

So Romeo, if he wasn’t called “Romeo,” would

Retain that dear perfection which he has

Without that title. Romeo, throw your name away;

And for that name, which isn’t part of you,

Take all of me.

ROM:

I take you at your word.

Only call me “love,” and I'll be baptized with a new name.

From now on, I’ll never be “Romeo.”

JUL:

What man are you who, wrapped in the cover of night,

Stumbles on my private thoughts?

 

ROM:

By a name that

I don’t know how to tell you who I am.

My name, dear saint, is hateful to me

Because it is an enemy to you.

If I had written it down on paper, I would tear the word from the page.

JUL:

My ears haven’t yet heard a hundred words

Of that tongue's speech, and yet I know the sound;

Aren’t you Romeo, and a Montague?

ROM:

Neither one, fair saint, if you dislike them.

JUL:

How did you come here, tell me, and why?

The orchard walls are high and hard to climb.

And the place means death, considering who you are,

If any of my kinsmen find you here.

ROM:

With love's light wings did I fly over these walls;

For rocky mountains cannot hold love out,

And what love can do, love dares to attempt;

Therefore your kinsmen are no threat to me.

JUL:

If they see you, they will murder you.

ROM:

It’s a shame, there is more danger in your eye

Than twenty of their swords. if you will just look sweet,

Then I am protected against their hate.

JUL:

I wouldn’t have them see you here for the world.

ROM:

I have night's cloak to hide me from their sight;

And, if you love me, let them find me here.

My life were better ended by their hate

Than death postponed, wanting your love.

JUL:

Who gave you the directions to this place?

ROM:

Love, that first prompted me to ask;

He gave me advice, and I gave him eyes.

I am no sea captain, but, if you were as far away

As that vast shore washed with the furthest sea,

I would risk everything for such a cargo.

 

JUL:

You know that the night hides my face;

Otherwise, a maiden’s blush would paint my cheek

For what you overheard me say tonight.

Gladly I would dwell on form, gladly, gladly deny

What I have spoken; but farewell polite words!

Do you love me? I know you will say, “Yes,”

And I will take your word. but, if you swear,

You may prove false. At lovers' lies,

They say Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo,

If you do love, pronounce it faithfully.

Or if you think I am too quickly won,

I'll frown, and be wicked, and tell you, “No,”

So you will court me. but otherwise, not for the world.

In truth, fair Montague, I am too affectionate;

And, therefore, you may think my behavior light.

But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true

Than those that have more knowledge to be unfriendly.

I should have been more unfriendly, I must confess,

But you overheard, before I was aware of you,

My true love’s passion. Therefore, pardon me,

And not attribute this surrender to light love,

Which the dark night has discovered.

ROM:

Lady, by the blessed moon up there,

That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops, I swear

JUL:

O, don’t swear by the moon, the inconstant moon,

That monthly goes through changes in her circled orbit,

For fear that your love prove as variable as the moon.

ROM:

What shall I swear by?

 

JUL:

Don’t swear at all;

Or if you will, swear by your own gracious self,

Which is the god that I worship,

And I'll believe you.

ROM:

If my heart's dear love,

 

JUL:

Well, don’t swear. Although I have joy in you,

I have no joy of this contract tonight;

It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden;

Too like the lightning, which ceases to exist

Before one can say, “It’s lightning.” Sweet, good night!

This bud of love, ripen by summer's breezes,

May become a beautiful flower when next we meet.

Good night, good night! May sweet repose and rest

Come to your heart such as that is within my breast!

ROM:

O, will you leave me so unsatisfied?

JUL:

What satisfaction can you have tonight?

ROM:

The exchange of your love's faithful vow for mine.

JUL:

I gave you my vow before you asked for it,

And yet, I wish I could give it again.

ROM:

Would you take it away? Why, love?

JUL:

Only to be honest and give it to you again.

And still I wish but for the thing that I already have.

My treasure has no boundaries, just like the sea,

My love is as deep as the sea; the more I give to you,

The more I have, for both my love and the sea are infinite.

I hear some noise within. dear love, goodbye! Right away, good nurse! Sweet Montague, be true.

Stay here a minute. I’ll be right back. 

Exit.

ROM:

O blessed, blessed night! I am afraid,

Standing in this night, that all this is only a dream,

Too promising and sweet to be real.

Enter Juliet above.

JUL:

Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed.

If that your love is honorable,

Your intention marriage, send me word tomorrow,

By one that I'll get to come to you,

Where and what time you will marry me,

And I’ll lay all my fortunes at your feet,

And follow you, my lord, throughout the world.

NURSE:

Madam!

JUL:

I come right away. But if you don’t mean well,

I beg you,

NURSE:

Madam!

JUL:

I’m coming

To end your pursuit of me and leave me to my grief.

I’ll send tomorrow.

ROM:

I’ll be waiting,

JUL:

A thousand times good night!

Exit. 

ROM:

A thousand times the worse for me, to want your light!

Love goes toward love as schoolboy away from their books;

But love goes from love, like boys towards school with heavy looks.

 Enter Juliet again, above.

JUL:

Listen, Romeo, listen! O I wish I had a falconer's voice

To lure this hawk back to me again!

Being a slave has a hoarse voice and may not speak aloud;

Or else I would go to the cave where Echo lives,

And make her airy voice more hoarse than mine is,

With the repetition of my Romeo's name.

ROM:

It is my soul that calls my name.

How silver-sweet is the sound of lovers' voices by night,

Like softest music to listening ears!

JUL:

Romeo!

ROM:

My dear?

JUL:

What time tomorrow

Should I send someone to you?

ROM:

At nine.

JUL:

I will not fail! It’s going feel like twenty years until then.

I have forgotten why I called you back.

ROM:

Let me stand here until you remember.

JUL:

I shall forget just to have you stand there,

Remembering how I love your company.

ROM:

And I'll still stay, to have you still forget,

Forgetting any other home but this one.

JUL:

It is almost morning; I want you to leave,

And yet I don’t want you to go any farther than a naughty child’s bird,

Who lets the bird hop a little from her hand,

Like a poor prisoner in his twisted ankle bracelet,

And, with a silk thread, plucks the bird back again,

So loving, but jealous, of his liberty.

ROM:

I wish I were your bird.

JUL:

Sweet, so do I.

But I should kill you with much cherishing.

Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow

That I shall say good night until it’s tomorrow.

ROM:

Sleep dwell upon your eyes, peace in your breast!

I wish I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest!

I will go right away to my ghostly priest's house,

To get his help and to tell him about my dear good fortune.

Exit.

Bijlagen:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OZLVlajiihI   

WAT IS CONCREET DE BEDOELING??
De bedoeling is dat u op regelmatige basis een bericht toevoegt op uw blog. U kan hierin zetten wat u zelf wenst.
- Bijvoorbeeld: u heeft een blog gemaakt voor gedichten. Dan kan u bvb. elke dag een gedicht toevoegen op uw blog. U geeft de titel in van het gedicht en daaronder in het bericht het gedicht zelf. Zo kunnen uw bezoekers dagelijks terugkomen om uw laatste nieuw gedicht te lezen. Indien u meerdere gedichten wenst toe te voegen op eenzelfde dag, voegt u deze toe als afzonderlijke berichten, dus niet in één bericht.
- Bijvoorbeeld: u wil een blog maken over de actualiteit. Dan kan u bvb. dagelijks een bericht plaatsen met uw mening over iets uit de actualiteit. Bvb. over een bepaalde ramp, ongeval, uitspraak, voorval,... U geeft bvb. in de titel het onderwerp waarover u het gaat hebben en in het bericht plaatst u uw mening over dat onderwerp. Zo kan u bvb. meedelen dat de media voor de zoveelste keer het fout heeft, of waarom ze nu dat weer in de actualiteit brengen,... Of u kan ook meer diepgaande artikels plaatsen en meer informatie over een bepaald onderwerp opzoeken en dit op uw blog plaatsen. Indien u over meerdere zaken iets wil zeggen op die dag, plaatst u deze als afzonderlijke berichten, zo is dit het meest duidelijk voor uw bezoekers.
- Bijvoorbeeld: u wil een blog maken als dagboek. Dagelijks maakt u een bericht aan met wat u er wenst in te plaatsen, zoals u anders in een dagboek zou plaatsen. Dit kan zijn over wat u vandaag hebt gedaan, wat u vandaag heeft gehoord, wat u van plan bent, enz. Maak een titel en typ het bericht. Zo kunnen bezoekers dagelijks naar uw blog komen om uw laatste nieuwe bericht te lezen en mee uw dagboek te lezen.
- Bijvoorbeeld: u wil een blog maken met plaatselijk nieuws. Met uw eigen blog kan u zo zelfs journalist zijn. U kan op uw blog het plaatselijk nieuws vertellen. Telkens u iets nieuw hebt, plaats u een bericht: u geeft een titel op en typt wat u weet over het nieuws. Dit kan zijn over een feest in de buurt, een verkeersongeval in de streek, een nieuwe baan die men gaat aanleggen, een nieuwe regeling, verkiezingen, een staking, een nieuwe winkel, enz. Afhankelijk van het nieuws plaatst u iedere keer een nieuw bericht. Indien u veel nieuws heeft, kan u zo dagelijks vele berichten plaatsen met wat u te weten bent gekomen over uw regio. Zorg ervoor dat u telkens een nieuw bericht ingeeft per onderwerp, en niet zaken samen plaatst. Indien u wat minder nieuws kan bijeen sprokkelen is uiteraard 1 bericht per dag of 2 berichten per week ook goed. Probeer op een regelmatige basis een berichtje te plaatsen, zo komen uw bezoekers telkens terug.
- Bijvoorbeeld: u wil een blog maken met een reisverslag. U kan een bericht aanmaken per dag van uw reis. Zo kan u in de titel opgeven over welke dag u het gaat hebben, en in het bericht plaatst u dan het verslag van die dag. Zo komen alle berichten onder elkaar te staan, netjes gescheiden per dag. U kan dus op éénzelfde dag meerdere berichten ingeven van uw reisverslag.
- Bijvoorbeeld: u wil een blog maken met tips op. Dan maakt u telkens u een tip heeft een nieuw bericht aan. In de titel zet u waarover uw tip zal gaan. In het bericht geeft u dan de hele tip in. Probeer zo op regelmatige basis nieuwe tips toe te voegen, zodat bezoekers telkens terug komen naar uw blog. Probeer bvb. 1 keer per dag, of 2 keer per week een nieuwe tip zo toe te voegen. Indien u heel enthousiast bent, kan u natuurlijk ook meerdere tips op een dag ingeven. Let er dan op dat het meest duidelijk is indien u pér tip een nieuw bericht aanmaakt. Zo kan u dus bvb. wel 20 berichten aanmaken op een dag indien u 20 tips heeft voor uw bezoekers.
- Bijvoorbeeld: u wil een blog maken dat uw activiteiten weerspiegelt. U bent bvb. actief in een bedrijf, vereniging of organisatie en maakt elke dag wel eens iets mee. Dan kan je al deze belevenissen op uw blog plaatsen. Het komt dan neer op een soort van dagboek. Dan kan u dagelijks, of eventueel meerdere keren per dag, een bericht plaatsen op uw blog om uw belevenissen te vertellen. Geef een titel op dat zeer kort uw belevenis beschrijft en typ daarna alles in wat u maar wenst in het bericht. Zo kunnen bezoekers dagelijks of meermaals per dag terugkomen naar uw blog om uw laatste belevenissen te lezen.
- Bijvoorbeeld: u wil een blog maken uw hobby. U kan dan op regelmatige basis, bvb. dagelijks, een bericht toevoegen op uw blog over uw hobby. Dit kan gaan dat u vandaag een nieuwe postzegel bij uw verzameling heeft, een nieuwe bierkaart, een grote vis heeft gevangen, enz. Vertel erover en misschien kan je er zelfs een foto bij plaatsen. Zo kunnen anderen die ook dezelfde hobby hebben dagelijks mee lezen. Als u bvb. zeer actief bent in uw hobby, kan u dagelijks uiteraard meerdere berichtjes plaatsen, met bvb. de laatste nieuwtjes. Zo trek je veel bezoekers aan.

WAT ZIJN DIE "REACTIES"?
Een bezoeker kan op een bericht van u een reactie plaatsen. Een bezoeker kan dus zelf géén bericht plaatsen op uw blog zelf, wel een reactie. Het verschil is dat de reactie niet komt op de beginpagina, maar enkel bij een bericht hoort. Het is dus zo dat een reactie enkel gaat over een reactie bij een bericht. Indien u bvb. een gedicht heeft geschreven, kan een reactie van een bezoeker zijn dat deze het heel mooi vond. Of bvb. indien u plaatselijk nieuws brengt, kan een reactie van een bezoeker zijn dat deze nog iets meer over de feiten weet (bvb. exacte uur van het ongeval, het juiste locatie van het evenement,...). Of bvb. indien uw blog een dagboek is, kan men reageren op het bericht van die dag, zo kan men meeleven met u, u een vraag stellen, enz. Deze functie kan u uitschakelen via "Instellingen" indien u dit niet graag heeft.

WAT IS DE "WAARDERING"?
Een bezoeker kan een bepaald bericht een waardering geven. Dit is om aan te geven of men dit bericht goed vindt of niet. Het kan bvb. gaan over een bericht, hoe goed men dat vond. Het kan ook gaan over een ander bericht, bvb. een tip, die men wel of niet bruikbaar vond. Deze functie kan u uitschakelen via "Instellingen" indien u dit niet graag heeft.


Het Bloggen.be-team wenst u veel succes met uw gloednieuwe blog!

Met vriendelijke groeten,
Bloggen.be-team

01-10-2012 om 13:56 geschreven door