Catching Up: Part 1.holidayz

On a very sad note: Ever since the weekend of the wine tasting, I’ve been enjoying one cocoa covered almond a day.  Today: the last of the bag has entered the pits of my stomach.  Good memories, good chocolate.



Pussy VonKatt, Ornament, Empty Chocolate Bag



Little Blog!  I am so very, very sorry that I have neglected you in the last 5 days.  It isn’t fair.  I know.  You really shouldn’t even want me back, but I love you.  I love you.  Doesn’t that mean anything to you?!  Just love me back, damn it!

Clearly it doesn’t matter either way: I get what I want.  And what I want is to continue writing like a mad man all over the place.

Right.  Well, I guess it’s not out of the ordinary for me to speak to inanimate objects like a blog or a piggy bank or my jam jar full of water.  Really, I will talk to anything that will listen.  Except human beings.  I usually just write my feelings to them.  I said in tenth grade, during a speech for Dave Lundquist’s class, “I’ve always been better with my hands than my mouth…(pausing here for innuendo tension and laughter) my writing hands and speaking mouth, that is.”  Yes, I remember things like this. 

Steve Mostly Sleeps



Pussy VonKatt is disappointed in me.  I can tell because her tail is starting to look a little less bushy and her wires are starting to peek out at the ends.  It’s not a great look for her, but then again, when was she ever a beauty.  I guess that’s in the eye of the beholder, right?  Anyway, looking at her now I also see my beetle nail clippers (aptly named Beetle Nail Clippers) and the small ornament of the World’s Largest Tin Family from my grandma.  They are the little things that remind me that home is just an ocean away.

Speaking of my grandma, here’s a story that she would appreciate.

So, I was leaving class on Wednesday after a very successful session of creative writing.  We were writing discussing an interesting method called “writing back.”  Basically, it’s the process of taking an already established story and writing about a non-featured character and telling their story.  It’s very Gregory Macguire, author of Wicked and Confessions of an Ugly Step Sister.  Anyway, I wrote about Free Willy’s opinion of Michael Jackson.  It was mostly about Willy being pissed that Michael Jackson stole the idea of being both black and white from an orca whale.  I thought it was funny.  And I never think I’m funny:  mostly I’m just odd.  Anyway, the story:  I am walking up the escalator at South Kensington tube station because I have no patience and love the way my legs look in motion.  When they’re still, they don’t do much for anyone, least of all me.  So I trip about a quarter of the way from the top (of course) and in the process I lose one of my flip flops.  Yes, it was the middle of November, less than 4 degrees Celsius, and raining, but my goodness do I despise socks and shoes; just like my granny.  I was unable to locate my shoe before getting to the top so I was basically dropped off at the top of the moving staircase in a heap of peacoat and jeans where I waited for my shoe to be delivered to me.  It was an epic moment.  I thought that my grandma would appreciate my choice of footwear though, so this one’s for you!

Chester Drawers is a character I’ve been creating during my time in London.  He also goes by the name: Level Up Kid.  He’s hilarious and I think you’ll probably have the chance to meet him very soon.  If you’d like to read a short snippet of his life, you can find it here:

http://www.facebook.com/note.php?created&&note_id=464252164479



Because Kelly and I Drink Together



Oh, I have another tube story!  So, I am leaving from Playwriting around 1-ish—play is going to be great, thank you—and I decide that instead of reading on the bus, I would tube it back and go for a run.  Boy am I glad that I did.  I have adopted this new policy of standing on the tube as often as I can; who knows why, really.  So I am standing against one of the faux-glass walls and the tube arrives at Leicester Square.  Suddenly, there are children everywhere.  They’re crawling, they’re dirty, they’re eating off the floor (okay that’s a lie, but they were definitely doing things that made them seem like tiny monsters).  On walks four women with strollers, three of them preggers…very, very preggers.  I swear they were the four girls from the British version of the pregnancy pact after one of them went to community college instead.  They proceed to shout and scream at the little creatures running around everywhere and talk loudly to each other about their sexual encounters.  I see that one of them has a ring on, but quickly feel less relieved when she starts to suck on it.  That’s right.  It was a mother fucking ring pop.  My first thought was, “holy shit where did you get that can you buy me one please I just want one so bad!”  It probably looked way better on her, with the matching velour track suit, than it would have ever looked on me.  I got off at South Ken and one of the kids hopped off behind me and hit the back of my leg with her pig tails.  (This immediately reminded me this girl that was in the caf at Gustavus one time.  She turned rather quickly and her wet, braided hair slapped me across the face.  It was not amusing.)  Anyway, pregnant mom #2 was pissed at the child and chased after her, hopping onto the platform.  Luckily they both made it back onto the train with some time to spare. 

I really, really did want a ring pop.  

Thursdays are always the best.  I get to go to a delightful class with a dynamite professor and see a show at nighttime.  Nothing wrong with this picture.  The piece we saw last Thursday also happened to be the show that I am writing my paper on and doing a presentation for.  Obviously, they’ll be great.  But on to the production!  For anyone not familiar with the play Blasted, I advise you against reading this paragraph as it may spoil the plot for you and spoil your appetite.  Written by Sarah Kane, deceased, Blasted is an anti war play that all other anti war plays should be measured against.  Here are some of the less than appealing aspects of the play: rape, masturbation, sodomy with a gun, excessive swearing, suicide, the sucking out and eating of a man’s eyes, urination, the death of a baby, and the eating of a dead baby.  How’s that for light-hearted?  The play was rough.  Real rough.  The production was fantastic, but the subject matter is not exactly a feel-good night at the theatre.  That’s okay though.  Not all plays need to be Legally Blonde or My Romantic History.  Seeing Blasted is an experience.  I was not offended by anything that happened on stage, far from it really.  I was prepared for it as I had read it a few times over, but I was not at all ready for the audience reaction to some of the more sensitive material.  When a soldier rapes and then proceeds to use the gun to ‘clean the victim out,’ the last thing you should be doing is laughing.  Yet, that’s precisely what happened. This leads to three possible conclusions: A) People were laughing because they were uncomfortable; B) People think that sex between men, complicit or not, is humorous; C) People find rape and sodomy funny.  None of these options are particularly comforting.  I was a little outraged, to be honest.  Audience aside: amazing production of a compelling, devastating play.

Oh, speaking of bad things happening to gay men: I had a drink thrown in my face on Saturday night and was subsequently called a faggot!  Isn’t that great!  Nothing like a little ignorance and douche-baggery to get you through the night.  I was pissed, but handled it well: danced some anger away before succumbing to ‘I HAVE TO LEAVE, NOW!’  It was a wakeup call that just because London is much more accepting of my sexuality, doesn’t mean that everyone is ready to open their minds to love, love, love.  Whatever, I’m better for it.  So: thank you, Ignorant Dude, for reminding me that “I’m more of a man than you’ll ever be, and more woman than you’ll ever have.”  No, that quote doesn’t quite work, given that I am not a transgendered individual, but I tried.  It’s probably the only time I’ll ever get to use it too…

Harry Potter is Epic.  It’s slightly more epic because I recognize locations.  I can’t say the scene from the film, but it’s the depiction of “A Place to Hide” in the book.  19…that’s my bus y’all!

No relevance: just pure magic

ZOMG! 

So, Thanksgiving happens to be right around the corner back in the states.  In an email I recently received, a relative of mine called it our forgotten holiday.  You know, I couldn’t agree more.  I always used to go to Illinois for Thanksgiving to visit my family down there.  Cousins, uncles, and other family would fly in from the east coast and Ohio and Florida to visit and we’d all just enjoy each other’s company.  But people have grown.  The triplets are seniors.  SENIORS!  Some family has passed on, two divorces have plucked at some seams, age has made fools of us all really.  But that doesn’t mean you love your family any less.  I don’t see them very often anymore, and that’s not fun.  Not fun at all.  But I still love them all and care for them deeply.

I was lucky enough to spend my summer in Walker; despite my protests that it would be the worst.  I had amazing co-workers.  I had my parents and my brother.  I got to stay with my grandpa and Karen and enjoy my time with them (what very little I had—when I left, they were already booking into NOVEMBER!).  I got to see my grandma in August.  I was very, very fortunate.  I guess this paragraph is a little irrelevant.  But when is missing your family ever irrelevant?



RAINBOW TREE!



I saw some antique golf clubs at the Portobello market this weekend when I went shopping with Izzy, Ben, and Garrett.  It made me think of a time when I was very little and my grandpa brought me out to Tianna.  He’s been to the golf course so many times that this would probably seem silly to him now, but I can still remember sitting with him in the golf cart in the garage getting ready to go to the driving range.  I learned how to smack a ball that day.  I can’t do it for shit anymore, but I think I probably could have been good.  I remember everything about that moment, down to the salmon shirt and the brown loafers my grandpa was wearing.  Silly, huh?  I guess the holidays just bring out the reminiscent side of me.

How did it get to be passed 2 in the morning?  This is awkward…  I more to say, but maybe this is just a two parter...

Peace, Love, and Coffee.

PS.  A very heartfelt congratulations to Jake Ferguson and Natalie Sheard on their engagement!  Immense love to both of you.

The Last Bottle of New Zealand Wine.christmassongz

This morning was the most beautiful, perfect morning I’ve had since I’ve been in London.  It finally feels brisk and there was not a cloud in the sky by the time I reached Holborn Station.  When you can see your breath against the wild blue yonder and listen to your favorite song at the same time, there’s an indescribable joy that wells inside of you.

Before I tell you about my thrilling evening on the bus, how bomb is Faith Hill when she sings “Where Are You Christmas?”!  Also: Trans-Siberian Orchestra doing Christmas/Sarajevo 12/24?  Done.  I am so ready for Christmas music.  Check out the Glee Version of Baby It’s Cold Outside.  Wam, Bam, Thank You Mam!  (Isn’t it odd that I heard this phrase for the first time from my old pastor, John Dainsberg?  Oh life, you have a silly way of pointing out semi-ironic hilarity!) 

So tonight I was riding the 19 back from Senate House Library (sitting on the upper level at the very front, of course) and I saw something rather shocking.  I watched a taxi cab collide with a motor cyclist.  Now, before I go on, I just want to say that vehicular accidents are always going to be frightening, regardless of injury or severity.  Seriously, they’re freaking crazy!  Anyway, there’s a ton of commotion from where I am sitting.  I had just put my bookmark into my novel—currently reading The Book Thief—and there, just out of the window, I watch a taxi cab clip a yellow motor cycle.  When the guy’s helmet hits the ground, I can hear it. 

Oofta.

Still, the dude gets up and he is PISSED!  And why shouldn’t he be?  Some incompetent driver just warped the shit out of his bike.  It was busted up, broken down—truth be told, it was quite the pose.  The man is up and crazy and running around like mad, shouting and screaming and banging on the taxi windows.  Then the taxi driver panicked, or just had a moment of severe misjudgment.  He sped off.  Sped off like a lunatic.  I immediately felt guilty that I didn’t write down the license plate.  I know that it was EU something…Ugh.  Well, the guy on the bike was fine too, or at least seemed to be, because he also took off like a crazy person, tearing after the taxi.  It was quite the scene.

I am reflecting on London, now.  Looking out our window and into the heart of Chelsea.  It’s beautiful, really; I will certainly miss this view. 

Four Weeks. 

That’s it.  When you write it down, it’s like a little piece of you flakes off and flutters down to the ground.  I think I can even see this one.  It’s wet and salty and now it’s on my desk.  It’s also telling me that drinking wine alone tonight was a choice.  But it is tasty New Zealand Wine—the last bottle!—and that brings back some good memories from this experience and makes the singular, pitiful sniffle worth it.

We made a lot of progress in Playwriting today, and that was an excellent way to start this Tuesday off.  Our piece is about social media creating an individual and giving that individual meaning.  I think it’s going to be entirely awesome.

I really should do some school work.  But I’m not going to.  Instead, I will finish this glass of wine, have another, continue to read my beautiful book, and listen to some Snow Patrol and OneRepublic.  Then, before I fall asleep, I will play some Dragon Quest IX.  It has been and will continue to be a great, great night.

 

Chauncery Lane.housematez

“This is Chauncery Lane…This is Chauncery Lane…This is Chauncery Lane.”

OMFG. 

We get it.  We’ve stopped at Chauncery Lane and we’ve been here for 10 minutes.  We get it.  We really, really do.  You’d think it would be calming, the lady’s voice over the intercom.  You’d think they would pick someone with a little more tone, a little more inflection, a little more pizzazz.  Nope!  Just robotic and irritating, especially when you hear the same thing over and over and over for a great length of time.

The tube had stopped because some asshole had assaulted another passenger and the emergency button was tripped to signal that a stop was needed and that the metropolitan police needed to be involved.  Ugh, what a process.  Although, I kept thinking throughout the whole thing that the scene could make a beautiful little one act.  I’m seeing fringe shows 6 times a week at the Arcola…duh.

And that’s how my day started on my way (with Katz) to the Brick Lane market for some Christmas Shopping!  The markets are great places to find, well, anything that tickles your fancy, including some divine, perfect gifts for your loved ones during the upcoming holidays.  Well, divine and perfect may be taking it a little far.  Still, some good finds today!

Most notable of the finds today were three objects that were literally right in succession.  I cannot tell you what they were because that would be giving away some presents!  All three of these mystery things were right next to each other and they all screamed, “Sibley, Kirsten, Laura.”  My heart smiled.  It was a situation that could not have been more perfect.  The fact that all of their Christmas gifts were within one view was just the icing on the cake that it was the right time to go shopping.  Anyway, this is a post for my future housemates for spring semester of our senior year, two of whom I have had the great, great pleasure of living with already.

Sibley- 

The ketchup tastes different here and you would hate that.  It’s sweeter, not as consistent, and there’s definitely no perfect complement to it. In other words: there is no ranch dressing in London.  That might be the worst.  Francine stopped by last weekend when I was putting some discarded bobby pins in my hair and thought that I should say hi to you for her.  I watched a little girl sing a song quietly to herself and then whisper what I can only assume to be lyrics in her ear.  “Sometimes I run…”  I saw some movies that I think will be Oscar noms come late February!  ZOMG!  Also, you’ve been a twenty something for two weeks now which means it’s my half birthday.  How are you feeling about being so OLD?!  Also, no one here knows what Erbs and Gerbs is...that means no one has tried a Narmer with Dijon and a Barq’s.  I ran into Amanda Fink at my residence hall, too!  She was in our Writing Fiction Class.  I always sat next to her when I was down on the end and she did that one compost pile about pokemon comics?  Anyway, small world, right?  Do you have any classes with Baker?  *Grins nonchalantly* 

Love and missing you like we all love and miss Jon Benet,

Josh

Laura-

Whenever I say your name as one of my housemates I always want to laugh and point and say, “new girl!”  I don’t know why.  It’s fucking weird.  I saw A LOT of tapestries down in BangloCity—Asian market in back alleys of north London, natch—and every single one of them should either be: a) in your tent, b) in your room, c) on your body, or d) all of the above at the same time.  I prefer option ‘d.’  Thanks.  ALSO, we have YOGA together this spring!  So many smiley faces would be here right now if I could only learn how to use emoticons on blogger.  Imagine them, will you?  I was riding a bus passed chipotle recently—not the same here, I don’t think—but I couldn’t help but remember the last time I was at chipotle which was definitely with you in St Cloud on our way home from Cori’s…Jesus.  What a great morning after!  Oddly, I think of you the most whenever I see gay couples here because I always think about your brother being in Europe and being so happy (he is still in Europe, right?).  I tried to catch you on skype today, my hippy lover, but you must have actually been ‘away’ as your status said.  Started drinking only out of recycled jam jars…always think of you on your farm!     

Love you like DDM loves Harry Potter,

Josh

Kirsten-

Hey, Mama!  So I’ve been trying to watch the A List online for the last three months and it definitely will not let anyone from the UK view it.  I think it must be that good/racy…either that or it’s copyright.  Probably the latter, but I like to think that it’s just too damn good for the UK… Is it?!  I may or may not have found the new stare bear.  Pictures will definitely be coming.  Speaking of GAC fixtures, I was going over my phone messages that were still left over from when I visited right before I left and I have a hilarious text from you about someone that found you with a whole group of friends exactly like him or her.  Is that too cryptic?  Tell me you understand it.  OMG.  Tomorrow I will remember to take a picture, but there is a dog that sits outside of this wedding dress shop on Sydney Street and it’s just a Sarah clone.  Though, when I sing to her, she doesn’t dance or wag her tail or attempt to cuddle the shit out of me.  Now that Hocus Pocus season is over, are you having any My Girl moments to tide you over until the sappy holiday movies grace ABC family?  I def had two…or three.  Was so happy to hear about your upgrade to JOB at the center and I am just so constantly impressed with you; I cannot wait for naps, too.

Love you more than weenahs and juice,

Josh

And now I miss every single friend I have at GAC.  BLERG!  I cannot wait to see every one of you very, very soon.  As of today, Sunday, November 15^th, I have less than five weeks left in London. 

Oofta.  Time flies.  (Speaking of time flying, little brother is going to be 19 this week...wtf?)

Lots of Love to everyone in my life tonight!  Hope you can feel it even if your in my room right now, across the hall, across a continent, across an ocean, or even across several oceans.  Nothing but love, love, love for all of the people in my life.

Peace, Love, and Coffee. 

Notes.iphonez

Not Pictured: My iPhone in my pocket

So I have developed the habit of carrying my iPhone with me everywhere in London.  Mainly, I play Scramble 2 and pretend that I am navigating important business ventures.  In a peacoat and with a new, European haircut I think I play the part semi convincingly.  Always with coffee in had too.  It seems so chic.  Oh if only people knew I was playing some free, knockoff version of Boggle!  Sometimes I think they do notice though and are silently judging me and my life choices.  Whateva!

I also use my phone’s notepad function with increasing frequency to remind me of the things that stick out day to day.  You’d think you would remember everything, living such a changing experience.  I find it to be quite the opposite; there’s so much stimulation everywhere that I cannot help but feel overwhelmed by everything that happens!  Then I forget the cool little things during the day.  Usually the big things are easy to remember, but, even though I like the little things more, I sometimes lose them in every other thing that happens here.  I guess that’s life in London.

Where was I going with this?  Ah, yes!  It’s time to share some entries in my phone!  Effectively, my little electronic notepad is serving as a mini blog…like Twitter…or Facebook…or Tumblr…or whatever.  Right.  So here’s some material from the iPhone of yours truly; I hope I can do them justice.  Chances are high that anyone reading this will be more inclined to think, what the hell are you telling us this for?  CUZ IT’S THE COOLEST!

Note 1: “Oryx and Crake by Margaret Atwood.  Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk by David Sedaris”

Can you tell that I’m a reader?  The first title I remember hearing about a while ago, years even.  I saw a guy on the tube reading it while I was flipping through the last pages of A Week in December.  He was smiling oddly and I thought that it must have been because of the book in his hands.  If a book forces a smile out of a Londoner in public…it must be pretty damn good.  So I wrote it down.  The second book is one that I have been meaning to read for a while—love(!) Sedaris.  I think it came out this summer, but apparently it’s becoming popular now.  I wrote them down so that I could remember to find and read them at some point.  I’ve already read 7 novels over here and I am currently thumbing through number 8, so I think it’s fair to say I could fit two more in!

Note 2:  “I don’t know if its shape reminds me of a FUPA or what, but there has always been a repulsion for me to the capital letter ‘B.’  It’s a little icky.  Okay, I’ll be honest.   It’s not the shape, it’s the way it looks on a paper.  Sure, it’s accompanied by a plus sign, but ugh.  There is nothing more unsettling than seeing that letter on something you thought you performed pretty well on, or at least mediocre.  Surprise!  You didn’t!”

I wrote this little self deprecating ditty when I was looking over some past assignments for Creative Writing.  I haven’t ever had my writing, at least of the personal variety, deemed B quality and it sort of unnerved me.  Anyway, just catastrophising.  Not worried about it anymore…sorta…*smiles nervously*

Note 3: “If there is one thing I love on the tube it is this: seeing someone who is reading the same book you are.  I love that shit.”

Truth.  I love it.  When you have that little spark of realization with the other person that you’re both reading the same novel and are more or less at the same part?  AH!  It’s so wonderful.  I can’t get over it even now.  I was sitting across from some woman on a nearly empty cart who was at the same part of “ONE DAY” and she actually shifted seats to come and discuss the book with me.  We both had similar feelings, which was nice.  Conversely, when I talked to a lady reading A Week In December, she hated the relationship between Jenni and (OHEMGEE I’ve forgotten his name) the lawyer.  I loved it and thought it was uplifting; so many of the characters are so sinister!

Note 4: “Drunk Irish man has lost his dog.  He is sad.  Does he really think that singing Auld Lang Syne is going to bring his dog back?!  Oh, I see, he’s wasted.  Haha.  How stereotypical.  Wait, why am I laughing at stereotypes?  Life fail!”

Right.  So it’s bitter out.  Like real cold, real wet.  I am only wearing a sweatshirt and flipflops.  Well not just those articles, but like, you know, those are important to note.  So.  I am outside the bus stop and at least four hundred fifty nine buses of the wrong number fly by before the 19 smiles down on my wet, frowning face.  As I am stepping on, a man with 9 teeth and breath that could knock out Courtney Love shouts into my face: “Does this go to battersea?!”  I reply that yes, it does, you’ll just have to take another connecting bus if you would like to cross the river.  “I lost my dog when all those fireworks were going off.  He fucking ran away, you know?  I have to find’m.”  I frowned and said that I hoped he’d find his puppy.  “He’s just a puppy, poor ol’ boy.”  I board the bus and climb to the upper level to listen to my iPod and read.  Incidentally, it was when I was finishing ONE DAY and crying…remember that?!  From below, I hear the Irish man break into Auld Lang Syne at the top of his lungs.  In between breaths, he sometimes reminds the people around him that he’s lost his puppy.  They try to console him, and I hear a sniffle or two.  I wonder if it would be easier for him to find his dog if he wasn’t so wasted.  Maybe he knows that he’s not coming back?

Note 5: “Little Girl on the Tube: what do you mean Blackfriars is closed?!”

Seriously, the girl was probably younger than ten.  I know I am terrible with children’s ages, but she was what I could classify as a 6-9.  Is that okay?  They’re pretty much all the same then anyway.  I mean I wasn’t, I was lovely.  But all other children, they’re the same. 

 

So, Blackfriars is this tube station that has been closed FOREVER!  I really don’t think it has ever been open.  It isn’t scheduled to receive people until 2011 because of construction.  For some reason, the little girl was mortified at the idea of it being closed.  I get that this does not sound at all amusing or even note-worthy, but to see a little girl so shocked that a tube station was closed, with an odd mixture of excitement and repulsion on her face, was too comical to not write down.  If it helps, imagine me imitating the little girl exclaiming, “WHAT DO YOU MEAN BLACKFRIARS IS CLOSED?!”  There.  Better, yea?

Note 6: “St Paul’s Cathedral; A Week In December.”

One of the latest books I’ve read was Sebastian Faulk’s, A Week In December.  The book follows seven individuals along the seven days before Christmas Eve and their interactions with each other and their world.  The novel is set in London, and it was so cool to read about places that I actually walk by everyday or hear about when I read the papers.  Anyway, I was on my way back from the Tate Modern and the fireworks show when I found myself nearly all alone on the Millennium Bridge looking up at St Paul’s Cathedral.  What a sight, especially when it’s all lit up at night.  The scene also is the cover of the above mentioned book, so I of course had to take a picture on my phone.  I thought it was neato burrito.

There are a few more notes on the pad, but I definitely need to save them up for a different entry about the crazy shit my friends say.  Most of them are quotes from Jenny Katz and even a few from Izzy Brown.  I think they’ll be more interesting when they’re piled into one entry about these crazy cats. 

It’s better, nes café?

Theatre.storiez

I don’t think that many people know that I have a playlist that I write to.  I cannot actually produce anything great without pure silence, or without typing steadily along to the music of my “That Mood” soundtrack.  It’s more or less a combination of songs that make me feel reflective and provocative, lyricless anthems.  Anyway, that’s what I am writing to now.  The song Dancing by the artist Elisa is currently playing.  Also, this is highly irrelevant!

I have stories to tell!  So I guess that’s nice.  I have stories about the last few days in London, little moments that have really ‘stuck in my craw.’  (Ten points to anyone who understands this reference that isn’t my mother.)

SO, right, I’m a natural storyteller, and it only makes me sense that I should share my gift with the world.  God, I wish I were that cocky/confident to be able to write/say such things without actually rolling my eyes and laughing at myself.  I hope that no anonymous reader ever feels like I am the prickiest prick in the world because I am definitely nothing but kidding when I compliment myself.  It keeps me on my toes, being self deprecating.  Anyway, all of them somehow involve the theatre, which I didn’t notice until just now.  Oddballs!

Story 1:  An Empty Seat

It’s Tuesday evening and I have been granted the rare opportunity of seeing a show on Press Night.  Typically this is the evening where all of the Theatre hotshots flood the art world centers with pens and paper, ready to evaluate, critique, deconstruct, compliment, and everything in between.  However, my playwriting professor, Marina Calderone, was unable to use her comp tickets for the performance (Which I just realized I haven’t mentioned!  It was An Ideal Husband at the Vaudeville Theatre) so she gave the three of them to Jamie, Jenny, and I.  What a gem, right?  Originally she had just received two tickets and was going to give them to the girls, but asked if me if she should enquire for an additional ticket.  I was quite taken aback; what a friendly gesture right?  So, we arrive to the theatre only to discover that our seats were in the third row, center of the dress circle.  They were what you might call some of the best seats in the house.  Definitely not going to complain!  The performance of the first act dragged a bit, to be honest.  It was a little slow and quite melodramatic.  I can’t tell, still, if it’s the writing or the production that is at fault here.  Maybe a little bit of both?  Anyway, I notice after the first scene that the theatre is packed full.  To my right, however, there is an empty seat next to a string of three people.  Odd, no?  The three of us, then an empty seat, and then three more people.  You’d think they would have just put all six of us together in an unbroken chain.  I thought it was a little strange. 

So, intermission comes and I need to pee and need a snack.  My lack of supper and very limited movement through the first act—OMG the rows were so close together!—had made me a bit restless.  I noticed that Jamie had left though already, so I hung back to wait with Jacque.  It was then that I turned to the family on my right.  There was an older lady closest to me followed by her son and her son’s girlfriend.  I turned to the woman, dressed to the nines with a small hat in her lap, and asked if she was expecting someone in the seat next to her.  She smiled and closed her eyes. 

“Well, yes.  I always buy a seat for my husband, you see?  He passed in 2007.  But, I know he would not have wanted to sit on my lap for the entirety of the show so I always buy him his own seat.” 

Her response came off so focused, so profound, that I hardly knew what to say.  “That’s a very nice, loving gesture.”  I turned back to Jacque who was busy with her phone, so I looked to the safety curtain instead.  I realize how dramatic this must sound, believe me I do, but I teared up a bit.  How often do you have the chance to share a moment like that with a complete stranger?  I felt so grateful that she felt like she could open up like that and so fortunate that we shared such a nice moment.  When I looked back to where she had been sitting, I noticed that she had left with the rest of her group.  They didn’t return after the interval.  Halfway through scene four, I found myself wondering if her husband was enjoying the show.

Story 2: My Romantic History

We saw a new play last Thursday called My Romantic History.  It premiered this past year at a festival in Edinburgh.  (I cannot get that city out of my life!  It’s even in the novel I just finished and the one I am currently reading…Sign much?)  It received great, great reviews and I was so pumped to see some not-so-known theatre.  On our way to the venue, a little black box place right outside of an O’Neil’s, we happened to pass some high school students that were playing on a playground in the middle of a park.  It was dark, so it struck me as odd that they would be playing, puttzing at such a chilly time of day/night. 

We got to the theatre and laughed SOLIDLY for the duration of the 90 minute show.  It was uproarious.  The funniest part for me, however, was during an early scene when one of the characters, Tom, is talking about the horniness we experience in adolescence and relates it to each boy having a “spunk shooting water pistol.”  I was dying of laughter at this point, and the actor playing Tom realized it—and he should have, I was sitting in the front row, RIGHT behind him—and he turned to me and finished his aside while making and maintaining perfect eye contact.  I nearly passed out of laughter.  I love when the fourth wall is broken and you become the victim; it’s character building.

After copious amounts of laughter and a great feeling of satisfaction upon leaving the theatre, we set off for our journey home.  Along the way home, in the same spot that the high school aged kids were hanging, a police car’s sirens were whirring and an ambulance had parked in the grass. I couldn’t help but wonder if it had something to do with the obvious hooligans we saw earlier climbing on the play ground equipment.  Guess we’ll never know?

Story 3: The Woman in Black

The title of this story is also the name of the most terrifying piece of anything that I have ever heard/seen/read.  That’s all I have to say about it.

Good story, no?

Right, so I am preparing myself to go see Deathtrap with Jonathon Groff tonight.  And some other actors, I'm sure, but they're irrelevant right now!  Team Jesse, bitch!  I guess that means I will have seen four shows in a week. 

Jealous? :)

Some Moments Like This.kellyclarsonz

There are times that I forget this experience is going to end.  Then I have conversations that bring the actual world back into focus.  The world where being in London is not always going to be a reality, the world where people disappear on flights and probably won’t be seen again, the world where you can fall so hard and hit the pavement and there’s no way to get back up without forcing yourself to take that step off the ground. 

I have conversations like this:

Facebook Chat with Rachel DeFoe

JOSH:             My weekend was a lot of fun.  Punctuated by a great movie, a roller disco, and a ton of fireworks.   Not much wrong with that picture.

RACHEL:       Oohhh that sounds randomly fun.  YES about coffee/lunch because we leave in less than 6 weeks now and that makes me sooo sad.

JOSH:             Wait.  That’s not real. 

Nope.  I won’t believe it. 

You can’t make me.

She made me.

But you have to be thankful, grateful for moments like these.  Without them, you’d have nothing to hold on to when your feet actually have to touch the ground.    

I call my dad.  He doesn’t pick up so I leave him a voicemail.  (Miss you, dad!)

I call my mom (mumsy) and tell her I’ve been upset.  She tells me to keep being a sponge.  I realize she’s right.  ‘Absorb it, Josher.  Take it all in.’ I tell her I will.  ‘I know you will,’ she replies.

I think you have to look for the moments that remind you that you can still be you even in a place so far, far away from the radiant warmth of wherever you call home.  It’s those moments, the ones where you realize you’re still you, that help keep you grounded here and in touch with the world back home.  Believe me, I am the first advocate for immersing yourself in your present experiences—IMPULSIVE, remember!—but when you don’t remember who you are, the little events that happen in everyday life can serve as one hell of a brutal reminder that, hey, you are still actually you and that’s not going to change.  I have moments like this all the time.

Like yesterday, for example, I had a very typical ‘Josh’ moment.  When I was alone in the IES Centre, just waltzing on my way to grab some water from the cooler before class, I managed to trip down a flight (YES AN ENTIRE FLIGHT) of stairs.  I stumbled down on step which turned into a panicky trot that slipped into a jumbling of feet and knees, and turned into all fours on the stairs and an actual barrel roll down the last few steps.  I stood up immediately, mortified at the thought that someone would have seen me.  Luckily, I seemed to go unnoticed.  Then, I laughed.  I actually laughed so hard I shook.  I mean, how me is tripping down a flight of stairs?  Clumsy, klutzy Josh.  Goodness.  It somehow felt so good to be me, even if being me meant rug burn on my left knee.  Good times!

I watched this Youtube video of me doing a slightly intoxicated version of Rose’s Turn on an empty tube car. It’s called Jacque’s Vlog #9.  I swear that she carries that flip camera at the most inopportune times.

Then there was today on the bus.  I never, never take the bus anywhere, primarily because I am so impatient (working on it, I swear!).  But today, for some reason, I decided that it would be nice to read the last few chapters of my book on the way back to the residence hall and I couldn’t accomplish that on the sweating, crowded underground.  So after nine 38s in a row and a 55, the 19 rolls around and is basically empty. Joy!  I climb to the top and watch for a brief moment as the umbrella shop passes outside the window of the bus.  It’s a cool little place, I think.  It must get crazy busy in this wet city.  Anyway, I pull out my earphones and open up to page 371 of ONE DAY by David Nicholls.  The stores pass outside and the pages turn with a crinkly eagerness by someone who is mentally engaged in the classic ‘end-of-the-book’ debate.  Do you keep reading at your normal pace and finish this fantastic work, or do you take it slow and savor it to the very last page?  I never savor.  I just want to know everything.  And every time I read the last sentence of a great novel, I think, why didn’t I slow down?!  Some people never learn.  So I read on, bravely.  And then, just 10 or so minutes into my 45 minute bus ride, I finish page 385 and start bawling in my seat.  Fucking authors.  Why, why, why?!  I won’t say why, just know that I was upset…clearly. 

Right, so I am train wreck.  Luckily, the bus was still pretty vacant, and the only people around were in the far back of the top level.  The worst was when people would board, climb the stairs, and stare at my puffy face with a mixture of curiosity, pity, and discomfort.  What do you say to crying twenty something rifling through the pages of novel on a bus?  Apparently you say nothing.  And that was just fine by me.  When I get back to the hall, I have a measly 6 pages left so I sit on my bed, finish my book, and ruffle my lips as I fall back on to my bed. 

Crying after reading a phenomenal book while in a public place.

Yep, still me.