On the saturday that group 5, marxists, recreated Don Quixote and Marxist Literary criticism, the whole day seemed epiphanic. In fact when I got home I immediately sat down and typed a out a blog entry about the filming process. I didn't post it so the movie wouldn't be spoiled and now it's time. Enjoy, with pictures interspersed.
On Saturday, November 22, 2008 I witnessed the resurrections of Sir Don Quixote of La Mancha and his squire himself, senor Sancho Panza. For on that day 6 people conspired and imitated the mighty knight and his squire, their adventures, their misfortunes, and their enchantment. As we, group 5 Marxists, discussed our challenge: entertain and inform, something happened. Apart from all the tangents: paper presentations, teacher evaluations, and work; we spent an entire day devoted to Cervantes’ epic and became so engrossed that for about 4 hours people changed; not to a completely new and different person but to a different tangent, a tangent they either didn’t know they had or hadn’t seen since childhood. Imaginations ran wild. Coleridge was rejoicing with beer in hand, happily arguing with the ever-talkative Karl Marx. All the while Sancho and DQ ran wild themselves, stretching adventures to their farthest circumference.
At 9 in the morning Heather was Heather; Sarah was Sarah. But at 1 in the afternoon Heather was an alternate version of herself that strangely resembled Sir Don Quixote of La Mancha. And Sarah found herself at ease sharing snowy boots with Don Quixote’s squire, his belly, his Sancho. Sarah is Sancho: Don Quixote is Heather. As our presentation slowly plodded through adventures we couldn’t help but pass between worlds. Don Quixote found himself purchasing champagne at the local T &’n C foods. Remember, Knights may drink wine but they never eat or sleep for their adventures require so much attention that nearly an entire day can pass without realizing it. Am I writing like Don Quixote talks? Is his anima swimming in my fingers and pouring into the text with each button pressed? Do we communicate with authors’ animas and their daemons through the words they arrange? What is a Child? Nature? Book? What happens when we die? Two words from our good, deceased friend Mr. John Keats: Negative Capability. Be uncertain, know you are and feel good about it. Know that you don’t completely understand why you’re dressed up as an elderly man in a book who’s dressed up like a knight errant, or squire, from ancient and sacred chivalric literature.
And as the evening eased away and the festivity dwindled, a flame reaching its last bit of spark, a light bulb flickering its last bit of insight, the Marxist group, number 5, was sad the adventures were over. One member was even heard to remark: ‘I don’t think I could have spent my Saturday doing anything better.’ Perhaps it was Sancho, perhaps it was DQ, or the innkeeper, could it have been Karl Marx, Lucas, Darth Vader or the cameraman? But no matter, because that day people realized that at the circumference of nonsense the hypothetical becomes a reality.
