For the one I love dearly,
It pains me not to be able to have this read during the service...
A Pink Wool Knitted Dress
In your pink wool knitted dress
Before anything had smudged anything
You stood at the altar. Bloomsday.
Rain- so that a just-bought umbrella
Was the only furnishing about me
Newer than three years inured.
My tie- sole, drab, veteran RAF black-
Was the used-up symbol of a tie.
My cord jacket- thrice-dyed black, exhausted,
Just hanging on to itself.
I was a post-war, utility son-in-law!
Not quite the Frog Prince. Maybe the Swineherd
Stealing this daughter's pedigree dreams
From under her watchtowered searchlit future.
No ceremony could conscript me
Out of my uniform. I wore my whole wardrobe-
Except for the odd, spare, identical item.
My wedding, like nature, wanted to hide.
However- if we were going to be married
It had better be Westminster Abbey. Why not?
The Dean told us why not. That is how
I learned that I had a Parish Church.
St George of the Chimney Sweeps.
So we squeezed into marriage finally.
Your mother, brave even in this
US Foreign Affairs gamble,
Acted all bridesmaids and all guests,
Even- magnanimity- represented
My Family
Who had heard nothing about it.
I had invited only their ancestors.
I not even confided my theft of you
to a closest friend. For Best Man- my squire
To hold the meanwhile rings-
We requisition the sexton. Twist of outrage:
He was packing children into a bus.
Taking them to the zoo- in that downpour!
All the prison animals had to be patient
While we were married.
You were transfigured.
So slender and new and naked.
A nodding spray of wet lilac.
You shook, you sobbed with joy, you were ocean depth
Brimming with God.
You said you saw the Heavens open
And show you riches, ready to drop upon us.
Levitated beside you, I stood subjected
To a strange sense: the spellbound future.
In that echo-gaunt, weekday chancel
I see you
Wrestling to contain your flames
In your pink wool knitted dress
And in your eye-pupils- great cut jewels
Jostling their tear-flames, truly like big jewels
Shaken in a dice-cup and held up to me.
Ted Hughes, Birthday Letters
Friday 8 August 2008
Monday 23 June 2008
The Day of the Diva
Sitting by an open window always gives one the feeling of great achievement, taking in a deep breath and allowing the fresh air to blow serenely onto your face. When in actual fact all you have done are the things you do naturally, you have no control on the weather. Or control over the fact that to survive a human has to inhale Oxygen and exhale carbon dioxide. I suppose the act of opening ones window, and the state of mind you are in while partaking in such activities could be classed as a sense of achievement. But only if you’re general state of mind puts you a notch above a chimpanzee… And without any further ado, we are back where we started, the same frame of mind that propelled one to open the damn window in the first place.
The day started perfectly normal, well normal if you are my cat. I woke pretty early as we have guests whom are not used to this city, so I thought the best thing to do was wake early and see them on their way. The alarm, which I did indeed set so no one else can be blamed, went off ridiculously early… 7:30. Who is awake at 7:30 on a Monday morning?? Anyway, I switched it off and curled over, making sure the duvet covered my head sufficiently enough to block out both the light and noise. Thus giving me more time in which to complain about it later in the day. (That was the normal bit I mentioned not the waking early). Anyway that was all shot to shit as the noise from several people taking showers and insisting on giving renditions, if a little less Maria Callas more Michelle McManus, of La Traviata. Please forgive me but I am damned if I want to woken by ‘Libiamo ne’lieti calici’, and not by my alarm clock. If I wanted to be woken at all I would have acknowledged the alarm with gratitude and sheer joy. But I didn’t, so I didn’t.
By 8:30 everyone was washed, dressed, cleaned and spruced and ready to leave in their finery for the day. Me however was just about stable on my feet. I threw on yesterday’s clothes, draped a pashmina around my neck then adorned sunglasses, a necessity I found when one has a headache. And I can tell you; today one had a very big headache. We left the house and made our way to the train station. Guests were put onto a train and I was nearly put into a coma, stupid bloody trains… this is London not some remote country village, no need for loud whistles and train horns! This state of shock put me completely off my morning coffee, so you can imagine how bad it was. I eventually made my way back home, picked up the mail, kicked out the cat and carried out my best impression of Norma Desmond by dramatically collapsing onto the sofa as if in a silent movie. I then realised the cleaner was coming and that we had run out of black bin bags, apparently another necessity. So I had to go to the local supermarket. Intending to spend nothing except the few pounds on the bags, I inevitably left with a ton of cleaning products, I’m sure the cleaner steals them, enough food to feed an army, some scented candles and a new serving bowl. Of course when I got home I noticed I had forgotten the bin bags. I blame the alarm clock.
I eventually mustered the energy to make myself an Earl Gray, just as the cleaner arrived, and I’ve been sitting here ever since, by the open window. The cleaner, whose name I don’t know is currently do the ironing. The one good thing about her is that she doesn’t speak. She’ll be off soon, and I wonder what on earth I am to do with my day… I dare say I maybe very proactive, and watch re-runs of Ground Force.
The day started perfectly normal, well normal if you are my cat. I woke pretty early as we have guests whom are not used to this city, so I thought the best thing to do was wake early and see them on their way. The alarm, which I did indeed set so no one else can be blamed, went off ridiculously early… 7:30. Who is awake at 7:30 on a Monday morning?? Anyway, I switched it off and curled over, making sure the duvet covered my head sufficiently enough to block out both the light and noise. Thus giving me more time in which to complain about it later in the day. (That was the normal bit I mentioned not the waking early). Anyway that was all shot to shit as the noise from several people taking showers and insisting on giving renditions, if a little less Maria Callas more Michelle McManus, of La Traviata. Please forgive me but I am damned if I want to woken by ‘Libiamo ne’lieti calici’, and not by my alarm clock. If I wanted to be woken at all I would have acknowledged the alarm with gratitude and sheer joy. But I didn’t, so I didn’t.
By 8:30 everyone was washed, dressed, cleaned and spruced and ready to leave in their finery for the day. Me however was just about stable on my feet. I threw on yesterday’s clothes, draped a pashmina around my neck then adorned sunglasses, a necessity I found when one has a headache. And I can tell you; today one had a very big headache. We left the house and made our way to the train station. Guests were put onto a train and I was nearly put into a coma, stupid bloody trains… this is London not some remote country village, no need for loud whistles and train horns! This state of shock put me completely off my morning coffee, so you can imagine how bad it was. I eventually made my way back home, picked up the mail, kicked out the cat and carried out my best impression of Norma Desmond by dramatically collapsing onto the sofa as if in a silent movie. I then realised the cleaner was coming and that we had run out of black bin bags, apparently another necessity. So I had to go to the local supermarket. Intending to spend nothing except the few pounds on the bags, I inevitably left with a ton of cleaning products, I’m sure the cleaner steals them, enough food to feed an army, some scented candles and a new serving bowl. Of course when I got home I noticed I had forgotten the bin bags. I blame the alarm clock.
I eventually mustered the energy to make myself an Earl Gray, just as the cleaner arrived, and I’ve been sitting here ever since, by the open window. The cleaner, whose name I don’t know is currently do the ironing. The one good thing about her is that she doesn’t speak. She’ll be off soon, and I wonder what on earth I am to do with my day… I dare say I maybe very proactive, and watch re-runs of Ground Force.
Thursday 17 April 2008
A night of endless dreaming
As the man lay there, all the thoughts of days previous seem to linger like the smell of mothers cooking… seemingly for hours yet somehow managing to escape before fully savouring each moment. Without lighting the room he drew back the bed clothes, knowing as he did so thoughts that plagued him would be removed. Each naked foot hit by a sudden wall of coldness. Each bare leg engulfed in the feeling of power, as though brought out of retirement. Each vertebrae aligning themselves as only memory would allow. The hands, wrists and arms all gracing, and savouring each gesture of performing this one last time, with only the sheer darkness as an audience.
The man walked out of the dark room, through the passages of his home and into a realm full of light. The light felt so warm, as warm as any bosom owned by a new sleeping babe. The light was bright and yet somehow remained so soft. The room was full of objects of his memory, a bed that his mother slept in, a basket he used to fill with blackberries. A picture of a girl and her dog, his Grandmother kept in her hall. The cream woollen rug he used to fall asleep on in front of the fireplace, after coming home from school. A pair of dancing shoes he had never returned after a school show. The same shoes that had once started him on the road that would eventually fulfil every hope and emotion he would ever face.
He reached his hand forward and picked up the shoes. For a moment he held them, still, motionless. Too afraid to move as all the energy once belonging to them slowly started filling the space around him. He raised his arm, and allowed his head to second the motion. Before he knew what had happened, the once silent room was filled with the sound of music. The shoes had managed to possess the thoughts and feelings of the man that had once owned them. He started remembering the ways in which he would dance while wearing the shoes. Remembering the ways in which he would feel during every step he’d take. He replaced the shoes onto his feet, allowing them to return to their rightful place. And, with the music that had been summoned by his thoughts, he started to dance.
He swayed and tilted. Turned and glided. Leaped and swooped. Each time feeling all the strength of his heart, urging the feet to press onward. Reminding the feet of how they used to be the epicentre of the body’s power. On hearing the sound of the overture, he instinctively started to dance the steps of his greatest role. The passion and intrigue of his character instantly filled his every limb. Each bar of music instructed an order of movement, the role was his once more. As he moved through each sequence the more he started to feel the abandonment of a soul full of desire. The desire to take forth and fly as high as he could with the wings he had been given. The light formed once more into darkness, but the music continued playing, and the body continued to listen. The feet still owned the power of movement. The head still owned the glimmer of passion. And the heart started to rekindle its love affair with desire.
As time wore onward, the shoes kept dancing, the heart kept urging, the head still reminisced. The music slowly reached for its dramatic climax, and, encouraging the forces, they continued to climb together. They continued the journey through time, through memory of movement. The man continued to dance through the darkened space, trusting the music and his soul. The music slowly started to fade, in the same way as the light. The shoes started to squeeze his feet outward, through the tops of the canvas. As if they couldn’t take any more. They wanted to return to the spot they had been found. The man struggled in the darkness to keep his balance as the feet and shoes feuded against one another. Each trying to omit control. The sides of his head also started to squeeze. Pushing the temples as far as they could inwards, towards the point the memories had started. The music started up again, this time much louder and crass. The light returned but was no longer soft as before. Each fragment no longer worked happily side by side, but struggled to find the power of control.
The man’s body could remain upright and he dropped to the ground instantly. As he did so the pain stopped. The light vanished and the music ceased. The moment was silent. Nothing stirred. The man lay there in the darkness, feeling nothing, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. Alone as he had started, with only the thoughts of the days previous…
The man walked out of the dark room, through the passages of his home and into a realm full of light. The light felt so warm, as warm as any bosom owned by a new sleeping babe. The light was bright and yet somehow remained so soft. The room was full of objects of his memory, a bed that his mother slept in, a basket he used to fill with blackberries. A picture of a girl and her dog, his Grandmother kept in her hall. The cream woollen rug he used to fall asleep on in front of the fireplace, after coming home from school. A pair of dancing shoes he had never returned after a school show. The same shoes that had once started him on the road that would eventually fulfil every hope and emotion he would ever face.
He reached his hand forward and picked up the shoes. For a moment he held them, still, motionless. Too afraid to move as all the energy once belonging to them slowly started filling the space around him. He raised his arm, and allowed his head to second the motion. Before he knew what had happened, the once silent room was filled with the sound of music. The shoes had managed to possess the thoughts and feelings of the man that had once owned them. He started remembering the ways in which he would dance while wearing the shoes. Remembering the ways in which he would feel during every step he’d take. He replaced the shoes onto his feet, allowing them to return to their rightful place. And, with the music that had been summoned by his thoughts, he started to dance.
He swayed and tilted. Turned and glided. Leaped and swooped. Each time feeling all the strength of his heart, urging the feet to press onward. Reminding the feet of how they used to be the epicentre of the body’s power. On hearing the sound of the overture, he instinctively started to dance the steps of his greatest role. The passion and intrigue of his character instantly filled his every limb. Each bar of music instructed an order of movement, the role was his once more. As he moved through each sequence the more he started to feel the abandonment of a soul full of desire. The desire to take forth and fly as high as he could with the wings he had been given. The light formed once more into darkness, but the music continued playing, and the body continued to listen. The feet still owned the power of movement. The head still owned the glimmer of passion. And the heart started to rekindle its love affair with desire.
As time wore onward, the shoes kept dancing, the heart kept urging, the head still reminisced. The music slowly reached for its dramatic climax, and, encouraging the forces, they continued to climb together. They continued the journey through time, through memory of movement. The man continued to dance through the darkened space, trusting the music and his soul. The music slowly started to fade, in the same way as the light. The shoes started to squeeze his feet outward, through the tops of the canvas. As if they couldn’t take any more. They wanted to return to the spot they had been found. The man struggled in the darkness to keep his balance as the feet and shoes feuded against one another. Each trying to omit control. The sides of his head also started to squeeze. Pushing the temples as far as they could inwards, towards the point the memories had started. The music started up again, this time much louder and crass. The light returned but was no longer soft as before. Each fragment no longer worked happily side by side, but struggled to find the power of control.
The man’s body could remain upright and he dropped to the ground instantly. As he did so the pain stopped. The light vanished and the music ceased. The moment was silent. Nothing stirred. The man lay there in the darkness, feeling nothing, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. Alone as he had started, with only the thoughts of the days previous…
Wednesday 16 April 2008
'Driving around in an automobile...'
It has officially been seven weeks since I started rehearsals for S.I.T.S. And so far it has been eventful. Although officially only five weeks of performances ,but we have already covered 18 venues, 3 countries and a total of 99 hours in a van. That is a lot of traveling while being cooped up into a space 1.5 meters x 1.5 meters.
In short this week off is mostly spent releasing any trapped frustration. Mostly by baking, walking in the opposite direction, knitting the odd stitch, smashing the odd plate and making lemonade.
Overall the shows are going well, I suppose. Except when you've driven 8 hours to west Scotland, done a get in, performed a show, done the get out, then spent the next 9 hours traveling to south Wales to find yourself up a hill, in the middle of nowhere, out of petrol. Stopping for the night in a service station Travel Lodge, driven another hour to the venue, done a get in to be told you have an audience of 4!!
And breathe.
The only solice I found in these troubled times were the knowing the weekend was being spent in my home town with family and friends. And the knowledge that the four performances in Harrogate actually had an audience.
"It's harder getting a ticket for 'Sword in the Stone', than it is to see David Tennant".
Needless to say the two days after the welsh debacle were spent with humans and alcohol. Although I've realised one small problem with this tour....
I REALLY DON'T LIKE CHILDREN.
But I have to admit that it's rather fun playing an autistic 12 year old.
Monday 7 January 2008
In this world that we trust...
With such an interesting, and unpredictable 2007, I can only help but wonder what this new year has in store. No sooner do we countdown with Big Ben than the year already throws to us some unexpected challenges.
This time last year I was about to embark on an altering journey throw the realms of Laura Ashley sofas and fabric, find a new meaning to love, and join forces with a band of rebellious Femme Fatal es up north and fall from a stool through a wall. Discover new productions and the value of solidarity... All the while, fighting a head on battle with 'He who shall not be named'*.
Twelve months ago I didn't how to defy gravity or realise how strong the market for porn was in this volatile world. Or what you can do with a B.A. in English! I had never seen Silvia Plath's art work and had never left the English shore.
I had never been in a white transit with a man I'd never met. Never found such hilarity in a drunken man at a bus stop: "Are you two together? Blut, blut". I hadn't yet seen how Dickens and Shakespeare could be compared or how beautiful Whitby could be. I hadn't yet seen the fabulous light of blossoming friendships and luxury... Or even heard that Dirty Dancing was now a 'classic play on stage'.
I invariably had more hair, less money, and slightly more sanity.
Now the man with a van is a co-star and employer with my new job. I cant go a day without singing about visiting a wizard... But I'm not gay...
Lets hope that the year to come has just as many twists and turns, that can only ever endeavor to make me the person I've become...
*See previous blog. June/July.
This time last year I was about to embark on an altering journey throw the realms of Laura Ashley sofas and fabric, find a new meaning to love, and join forces with a band of rebellious Femme Fatal es up north and fall from a stool through a wall. Discover new productions and the value of solidarity... All the while, fighting a head on battle with 'He who shall not be named'*.
Twelve months ago I didn't how to defy gravity or realise how strong the market for porn was in this volatile world. Or what you can do with a B.A. in English! I had never seen Silvia Plath's art work and had never left the English shore.
I had never been in a white transit with a man I'd never met. Never found such hilarity in a drunken man at a bus stop: "Are you two together? Blut, blut". I hadn't yet seen how Dickens and Shakespeare could be compared or how beautiful Whitby could be. I hadn't yet seen the fabulous light of blossoming friendships and luxury... Or even heard that Dirty Dancing was now a 'classic play on stage'.
I invariably had more hair, less money, and slightly more sanity.
Now the man with a van is a co-star and employer with my new job. I cant go a day without singing about visiting a wizard... But I'm not gay...
Lets hope that the year to come has just as many twists and turns, that can only ever endeavor to make me the person I've become...
*See previous blog. June/July.
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