More Like Tinsel Than Like Butter

Having a Marilyn Hacker week. Her Love, Death and the Changing of the Seasons was the ’soundtrack’ to my bath a couple of days ago – the words she uses, the rhythm and colours of her sonnets.. I feel like I’m literally being picked up and whisked away to another world of blue bedrooms, dirty bars, spine-splitting kisses and summers in Lacoste. In comparison to me, Marilyn Hacker is.. well, old – older than my parents, more than three times my age. But reading what she has written, well.. I really wish I could be so damn cool and to look back at 65 and think “I have lived brilliantly so far and written it all down”.

I went to see my shrink today. He has looked after me since I was fifteen and in dire straits; nowadays he sees me once a week less to fix me, and more to just keep an eye on what I am up to. He really seems to understand me, in the same way that Lucien, my sister, and a handful of select friends do. He mentioned today that his living environment is a “him-themed chaos” – it is messy, yes, but it reflects him. His house is full of newspapers, magazines, books, journals, papers, art, sculptures and discarded coffee cups. My environment (ideally) would be full of books, vases of beautiful flowers, fairy lights, cups of fruity tea, darling music playing. Unfortunately, this is at odds with my current environment, which is ultimately my Dad’s environment – science magazines, yoga equipment, experiments (he’s an inventor of sorts), red explorer socks and ugly packing boxes. This, along with a whole bunch of other reasons, is making it quite clear – either Dad goes, or I do.

Other than house issues, there is too much to do. Tomorrow I have to try for an appointment to get my learner’s permit, simply so that I can get some ID – tomorrow night Lucien, I and some friends are going out for his birthday. Other than that, I have to do my laundry, go to the doctor, organize Lucien’s present, make a hat for Louise’s mad hatter party, find her a present, find an outfit for Lucien’s party… I have really left everything to the last minute. I might be able to bribe Fawkes to drive me around a bit – some of these things are on opposite sides of the city, and relying on public transport is ridiculous. Alas, it’s definitely not the kind of day where I can lay in bed til noon.

So I suppose I should be getting ready now. Sigh.

Mississippi Goddamn, Parts Un et Deux

Un – Nina Simone pouring liberally forth from the stereo… my favourite song is Ne Me Quitte Pas. But I’m pretty sure I already have a post with that title, so Mississippi Goddamn it is.

Oh, my younger sister’s pseudonym has changed back – she is once again Elle Campbell, rather than Cordelia – her middle name and half our mother’s maiden name, like my nom de plume. Visit her blog: Get Out Of My Loaf. There are only a couple of entries up so far, but it looks like it will be something definitely worth reading. I’m just so proud to have been the target of the title, the first time it was spoken – she meant to say “Get out of my life” alla Rik Mayall as Herod in Jesus Christ Superstar, but alas… the life came out a little strange. She’s cool, her blog is cool, so read it!

Work today: it was only 5 hours, but it felt like a couple of days. When I left, I was actually confused as to what day it is – I called Lucien and asked if it was his birthday yet. Oh, if only I could work at Myer again. I felt so valued there – I made friends, I was good at it, it was interesting. And I look a hell of a lot better in little black dresses, kitten heels and lipstick than I do in the horrid Baker’s Delight uniform. Plus I was earning 50% more per hour there. I am still applying for jobs there, passionately, but until they realize how fabulous I am, I suppose I better stick it out with my blah-job.

I wonder how much a shiny red Vespa costs…

The last couple of days I have been more sociable than I have in a long time, and it was nice. Darling Louise came over on Wednesday to play for the afternoon; we talked at length about her fundamentalist Christian dorm buddy who is driving her mental, as well as what I can do next semester if I don’t have to worry about university. On Thursday night, Fawkes and I had a whole bunch of friends over for poker and beer.. trés fun – we played a quick game that I won, then a tournament that I lost terribly. On Friday night, Nathan came over to play with Lucien and I; we made nachos, sat around and talked for eons, wiki-ed wholphins and played some ninja version of Super Smash Brothers.

Now that they are all gone, it’s just me and Nina… cold, but relieved. Maybe I can have a hot bath, read a book that is not prescribed, have some leisurely sleep, write something I want to – some me time!

…………………………………………………………….

Deux – Out of the Bath

What a strange experience – I flapped and flopped, lounged, sloughed away my outermost layers, drizzled upon myself all kinds of delicately scented witches brews, and soaked in a million lotions and potions. The best part was trying out a L’Occitane Immortelle creme masque – my skin feels brilliant. Winter plays havoc with everything about my body, so at least the skin on my face is temporarily fixed. As it worked, I read Hacker and relished the feeling of being completely warm; something I haven’t had all day.

Upon getting out, the water was so full of shampoo, bubbles, shaving lotion, gingko gel, creme masque and hair treatments.. it was practically opaque. I stared at it for a moment until shapes started appearing. First it was just a shadow, then it grew fingers that moved and waved until I could see the entire hand, reaching up at me. I screamed out loud and ran out of the room, breathing hard and summoning the strength to go back in and face my demon. I burst back into the room waving a hair brush to find that it was my faded pink exfoliating glove adrift in the water, disguised by the opacity of the water.

I felt like such an idiot.

Lucien called. It’s his birthday now, officially! 24.. the age, especially holding those numbers in my mouth as I say them makes him really seem in the realm of “grown ups” now. I used to tease him about being almost in his mid-twenties; now he really is. We’re going out later this week to celebrate at a particular cafe I’ve heard rave reviews about from many sources – apparently they have cherry flavoured beer. I have the urge, as soon as I am completely done with university for the year, to get so drunk I am charming, then so drunk I am theatrical, then so drunk I have to be carried home. The transition usually goes like this: normal Rose, happy Rose, daring Rose, charming Rose, risque Rose, ridiculous Rose, vaudeville Rose, legless Rose, obnoxious Rose, slurred Rose, vomiting Rose (this step is optional), ragdoll Rose, tearful Rose, remoseful Rose, sleeping Rose, drooling Rose, waking Rose, grumpy Rose, sick Rose, never again Rose. A girl for all seasons, or at least every type of drunk. I have only run the full gamut once, and I am aching to do it again – not because the whole thing would be enjoyable, but it is so nice to feel a little drama in ones life!

Women Everywhere: Rejoice!

The Catch-Up has been axed – cue the celebrations. It really was a blight in the already suffering Channel Nine schedule. It’s funny; the creator was a successful woman whose career I actually admire, Mia Freedman, and the four hosts were supposedly successful women (though Zoe Sheridan’s credentials are VERY questionable) – how could they fall so far short from what women really want? I don’t suppose we will ever know; women’s magazines generally recycle the same drivel and it sells for some bizarre reason. Maybe in some strange way this face of the media is telling women what they want, and that is why they devour it so readily? I’m not sure.

I am a woman, I suppose. It’s a bit strange saying that because I still consider myself a bit of a little girl lost; the world is huge and mystifying, and I am bewildered by how much I don’t know every single day. Some of the best magazine articles directed squarely at women were actually in Vogue; one article covered the burgeoning social phenomenon of ‘mommy cliques’ in Japan and how these have actually resulted in murder, another written several years ago about the lives and courtship rituals of Ireland’s modern-day gypsy people. I love reading the anecdotes about travelling in Farrago magazine and the contrasting memoirs of different Melbourne suburbs; I adore reading Good Weekend and Sunday magazines for the interviews with authors, artists, actors and other interesting people; I love reading about innovative women who carved out lives for themselves. Maybe it’s asking too much not to be assaulted by promises of ‘the scoop’ on Nicole’s hidden pregnancy, Paris’s prison trauma, how to spice up my marriage, toilet-training tips or recipes for impressing my mother-in-law. Bleh, bleh, bleh.

As for a television show? Maybe they could have employed women who were genuinely interested in moving forward, rather than basking in the shallow, ignorant and banal.

Unfortunately for me, Mia Freedman does have a prominent presence in the blogosphere since being “boned” from Channel 9, so we may see me getting absolutely flamed for all this.

The second half of this post is back to normal; tomorrow involves eating, sleeping, cleaning, two appointments, writing essays, running and reading. The apartment absolutely disgusting right now – my bedroom floor is a mass of clothes, dirty and clean mixed together, bits of paper and cardboard, lonely shoes, books, prescriptions, cd racks.. all mixed together in a weird sort of domestic soup. Lucien commented a couple of nights ago that he loved the nights we spent together in the bedroom I had when we first met – he described it like this: “It was so you, I felt so privileged to be admitted into what was your own, special, magical space.” I want my bedroom here to be like that.. that’s the job for tomorrow!

Haha.. a man with a Scottish accent on television has subtitles in English. You know, just in case people who speak English can’t understand English. What a joke – they do the same thing on Oprah when people from England, Scotland, Australia or Ireland come on the show.

A Smear on the Pavement

“You look like shit,” said a workmate today.

“Thanks.”

Anaemic, over-tired, undernourished and .. puffy (yes, my whole body is swollen, especially my neck/jaw area). Bad things. I have an exam tomorrow, but I am seriously considering ditching it to go see a doctor instead, and catching a supplementary exam in a couple of weeks when I’ll hopefully be feeling better. Right now I’ll just keep chowing down Nurofen and trying to spend as much time in bed as possible.

Oh. Yuck. On television right now, they are comparing the fertility of women in different age groups. They showed a 23 year old, then a 34 year old.. then a 44 year old woman who was seriously considering having another baby. I think this is the beginning of another rant – I have serious misgivings about women who deliberately have babies after the age of 40. Of course, there are always exceptions, but think about this – women in their late 40s and sometimes early 50s are now routinely giving birth, sometimes to multiples. When their children go to high school, they will be retiring. When their ‘babies’ are heading off to uni, they will be considering old age care facilities. When their kids are having their own kids, they will probably be either dead or close to it. Grrr.

Splendour in the Grass

Most of my daydreams aren’t about things or events or people.. they consist more of a million feelings, moods and colours, and an inconceivable yearning for something that I can’t quite grasp. Sometimes there are motifs and symbols that pop up. A daydream that has dominated right now is a little more detailed: it involves Lucien’s crappy old red car, lovingly called Chester, parked in a dry wheat field. The sun is low and hot, the air is still, and someone is playing folk songs on a guitar. Hanging from the branches of a dry dead tree are scores of little paper lanterns with flickering candles inside them. Laying on a worn tartan rug is me and my man, both dressed in white cotton, listening to the grasshoppers and smiling up at the sky, so happy to be in each others’ company.

Writing about it now makes it seem like some rubbishy commercial for perfume or something, but in my head it seems a lot more genuine and great. I am craving freedom – the kind of freedom that will result in those kind of moments that I will remember for the rest of my life as the happiest of my life.

“…recent spate of abandoned babies…” – the news. There was baby Kathryn, left at Dandenong hospital, then Sophie Joan left outside a church. Those two were lucky – their mothers did not want them, but at least left them outside institutions that were likely to take an abandoned baby under their wing.
Then there was that baby boy in Perth – he was found dead in a warehouse full of rubbish, as collected from 80,000 households by the council. It hasn’t been reported whether he was dead before or after being put in a bin, or how old he was. Three babies in a month.

The mainstream media in Australia have a knickers in a twist over it all, calling it an alarming ‘trend’. Abandoning babies is nothing new, and there are probably a ridiculous number of babies abandoned that are simply never found or never reported. My Mum was telling me about one of the women that she worked with back during her days working for the tax office. When this woman was a teenager, her dog found a dead baby in her backyard – it wasn’t clear whether it had been simply thrown over the fence, died of exposure or put out with the trash.. but the dog was apparently filled with a sense of fear, curiosity and awe, rather than wanting to eat it.
This woman was very overweight as a teenager, so the police immediately assumed it had been her baby and inflicted all kinds of invasive tests on her which ultimately proved that she was a virgin rather than a new mother.

I’m getting a bit sick of studying philosophy at university. When I first started studying philosophy, it was all about wonder and questions and possibilities – when I read texts and books, they would be stepping stones or a ‘ladder’ as Schopenhauer would put it… to read it and get to a new place, then be discarded. Philosophy at university isn’t about those things any more… it seems more and more insulated from what is real and human, and more and more tied up in contrived language games that ultimately mean nothing.

My first real taste of philosophy was through Jostein Gaarder’s Sophie’s World, back in Year 4 as recommended to me by the first teacher to truly believe in me, Lies (pronounced short, like the first part of Lisa). She was South African, and it was her to whom I can owe the general gist of my accent. For a 9 year old, it was heavy reading… but I devoured it. I adored it. Random trivia: one of the characters in the English translation has the same name as I do in real life. The fact that it was weaved through magical fiction somehow made it more mystical – and philosophy deserves to be. The world is a mystical, magical place.

Gossamer Forests

In my most recent stint staying at Mummy’s house, I went for a run by the river. When running by the Yarra, I’m never far from the city – you can hear the traffic, the trams, the trains.. and there is the constant threat of being run over by aggressive cyclists. But running along the Barwon river last night.. I was struck by the absolute beauty of it all. At one point I was surrounded by misty rain with very little visibility; I could only see that I was surrounded by trees. They looked kind of droopy and almost sad… with long, thin, soft needles hanging from their branches and littering the ground. But everything was so lush and intoxicating and deep and enchanting.. I lost myself for a minute.

At least I haven’t lost myself forever, as one of my friends seems to have. He will possibly be reading this, so I can’t say too much – basically he has become the worst type of egotist (caring only about himself, and other people only in what they think of him) and he is convinced this is a good thing. So I have decided to do a little social experiment – alas, I can’t reveal too much, for then he will know. But when all is said and done, he will either be himself with no pathetic facades or bravado, or no longer my friend.

Belinda, my lost doppelganger, once described the main thing that is wrong with our hands, feet and other extremities .. Rheinhardt’s syndrome, or something, it is called. She said it was like her fingers had been smashed with a hammer, and right now I really know the feeling. Waiting in the cold for an hour and a half for a taxi…. not a happy girl.

Everything right now is a little overwhelming. Work, plus school work, not seeing Lucien, huge feelings that can’t be quelled, transition, conflict, loneliness, boredom, inspiration attacking at the wrong time… I feel like I’ve taken a massive dose of painkillers before being pelted with stones. It’s all numb and I’m like a robot, but I can feel myself crumpling and bleeding out. It’s too much, I am sick of everything.. I want to retreat to a cave and be calm and solitary for a little while, somewhere where nothing can touch me.

I am being too deep and whiny – everything is fine. No, everything is RIDICULOUS. But I will stay sane; I’ll just keep picturing my gossamer forest and I will know that as soon as this passes, I can go there and take my sweet time doing whatever I want.

Another Post?

It had to be done. I shouldn’t post so much, it doesn’t really give people a chance to read it. But what can I say? This is probably more therapeutic for me than it is enjoyable for you, so what the hell.

Last night, I had visions of spending the weekend having ‘me’ time – taking a bubble bath, making masses of pumpkin soup, getting a pedicure and maybe a haircut, doing the NYCB workout a couple of times, as well as powering through MASSES of homework. I was really looking forward to this as an antidote to the week of hell I have just gotten through and the week ahead which will be much the same.

But at 10pm last night, my plan was quashed. I was in bed, catching up on some much needed zzzzzs when my littlest sister opened my bedroom door. I had no idea, but apparently my brother and sister are staying here ALL weekend – and last night, my Dad just left them here for me to look after while he went out. Now he has taken them out to go look at some galleries with his girlfriend, leaving the house like it has been hit by a bomb.

I am so angry. This is my apartment as much as it is his – he went to such lengths to enquire after Fawkes’s plans for the weekend, but did not even tell me that they were coming. So I have been effectively ousted. The plan is now to pack up laptop, violin and clothes and head back to my Mum’s house.. where I can do whatever the hell I want without anybody raining on my parade.

So, I know it’s radical, but it’s an idea – I am looking around for a studio apartment. It will cost more, be smaller, and I hate the fact that I just found something supposedly great and am considering throwing it away. But I can’t live with my Dad, I need to feel independent and stop letting him tell me what to do.

Get Lost

I said “get lost” to a homeless person yesterday – in the past, I have been known for having an incredibly soft touch with people less fortunate than me. I would buy muffins and pies for them, or stop and chat with the Big Issue sellers. There is one called Chris who sells in the Little Lonsdale St tunnel-thing between the Myer buildings – almost every day I worked there, I would buy him lunch and I got him Easter eggs and stuff. It wasn’t altruistic at all – seeing him so happy and surprised that someone could be so nice.. it made my day.

So, yesterday, I shocked myself. Have I changed, or did this woman deserve it?

This woman, let’s call her Rita, came into the bakery yesterday morning. I offered up the compulsory “Hi, how are you today? What can I get for you?”. She got huffy and refused to be spoken to, instead asking the other sales person (Maria) “Can I please have a glass of tap water?”Maria responded, truthfully, that we don’t have any glasses, we don’t have any cups at all – even the staff have to bring in their own drink bottles. Rita got incredibly angry at this point and started raining down a hail of verbal abuse on both of us, before storming out.

A couple of hours later, I was walking back from my lunch break when I noticed this woman sitting on a bench. “Please Miss, can you spare a couple of cigarettes?” I don’t smoke,which I explained. “Oh, can you spare a couple of dollars for some cigarettes then?” I reluctantly coughed up 50 cents for her and kept walking. “Thank you so much, and you gotta understand – I’m just like you, except I just have these psychiatric problems keeping me down.”

At this point, I wanted to run back at strangle her. I turned back, gave her an absolute death glare and said, “Get lost.”

A couple of hours later, she came back into the bakery. I didn’t recognize her straight away and offered up the ridiculous greeting again. She started yelling at me – “I’m fine, I just think it’s disgusting that you won’t even give a thirsty woman a glass of water!” And stormed away.

LOTS of people have psychiatric problems, not all of these people are living on the streets. It infuriated me beyond belief that she would use this as an excuse, especially for me who has her own set of psychiatric issues. And cigarettes? If she is so thirsty, and if that was the real reason she wanted my money, I would have gladly bought her a bottle of water – but no, all she wanted was my cash to support a filthy habit. This was more important than begging for money for a tram fare to the nearest counselling service, or a bottle of water, or food, or even.. shock horror, begging for a job.

It’s sad, but I have lost something. I am no longer so content to just hand out my money and goodwill to people. There are real reasons why people can’t get ahead in life – psychiatric issues alone just doesn’t cut it. I have my issues, but still I am struggling along to do things that I need to do and things that I want to do. This woman doesn’t give a damn about trying or struggling or even attempting to make things better – she’ll just blame the world, and be so deluded as to think that nobody else has problems. Nobody owes her cigarettes. If she wants cigarettes, she can work for them. If her current state doesn’t allow her to work for them, she will march on down to Centrelink to get some money to pay for therapy and medication so that she can work, rather than just skipping all the hard work and expecting them.

I am being cynical, jaded and showing shades of ‘holier-than-thou’, but I am fed up. Grrrr.

Beauty and the Beast Review

This is perhaps the most dangerous post I will ever write; certain people who were in the show do or might read this post sometime in the future, and could result in some broken bones or at least vicious rumours. But I can’t simply harp on about how good it was, et cetera, because the longtime drama/theatre studies student in me is begging for some critical analysis! So here we go.

Lucien and I made a mad dash from my work to the town performing arts centre to see the Saturday night show of Beauty and the Beast. Like I said, a lot of my friends were in it, and a lot of other friends had declared it the most spectacular and professional looking show our town had ever seen. So I had very high expectations.
In some ways, these expectations were well and truly exceeded. In other ways, the show fell a little short, but overall, it was an incredible production.

I’m sure that everybody is familiar with the story. The musical version surprised me – the majority of the script is lifted straight from the film, but other parts were new and just as delightful as the movie. Some of the new musical additions were brilliant; they really gave the Beast a ‘voice’ that he lacked in the film (bad pun, I know). One song that irked me though was “A Change In Me”; it was sung beautifully, but the lyrics got on my nerves and the melody was quite bland – apparently this wasn’t in the musical originally until Toni Braxton demanded a new Belle song during her run on Broadway, and it was tacked on to the show. The moral of the story? Composers shouldn’t bend to the demands of lacklustre divas!

The cast were on the whole brilliant, but there were a few real standout performances. Kimberlee Bone played Belle with a grounded sensibility that really separated her from the dime-a-dozen ingenues that saturate musical theatre, and her voice was beautifully resonant and bell-like. Tony Wasley absolutely stole the show as Lumiere; nailing the accent, dazzling with his singing, and outstanding in his characterisation, especially in moments with the feather duster Babette (played perfectly by Simone Lawless). Glenn Murray as Monsieur D’Arque was absolutely thrillingly scary, crazy, absurd and shockingly unsettling – he certainly made the most of his one song by making it one of the best in the show. And Ferri Bond as Mrs. Potts was gorgeous – she looked perfect, sang beautifully and exuded maternal warm-fuzzies.

There aren’t enough words to describe the rest of the principal cast – they all suited their characters to a tee and performed with gusto and precision. However, at times there seemed to be a little bit of .. cohesion missing from the scenes where multiple characters were on stage at once, for example, times when Lumiere, Cogsworth, the Beast, Madame le Grande Bouche, Belle and Mrs Potts were on stage together. Perhaps they didn’t like each other in real life? Or perhaps the direction of the show hadn’t quite extended to fleshing out relationships, hierarchy and motivations of character in these group scenes. At times, the blocking in the scenes appeared a little clumsy or even non-existent – when characters are wearing bulky costumes, it is paramount to ensure that they are not blocking each other or walking straight in front of the action, and at points in the show both of these things happened.

But for me, the Beast was a character who shook me to the core. Played by Ed Harcourt (who I had never seen perform before), I wasn’t sure what to expect. He had presence and then some; even when he was lurking in the shadows, he absolutely oozed whatever emotion he happened to have in him at the time. He physicalized the raw animalism of the Beast as much as embodying the spoilt little boy, although I have to say that the former trait came out perhap a little too much in the second act. As a singer, he had something rare and exciting after hearing (sorry guys) the same old voices in lead roles in our town for a long time – he had possibly the ideal tone. Can you have a crush on a voice? If so, I choose his – power, depth, clarity, and bursting with emotion. Ed surprised and delighted – highlights of his performance were, for me, his lament at the end of the second act, and all his interactions with Belle… the way he looked at her as she was reading to him made me melt. Lucien thinks I’m a little too liberal with my praise for Ed Harcourt, but I can’t find enough words to convey just how much I adored his performance, and just how much I can’t wait to hear his voice again.

The ensemble were fabulous, but at times I felt it could have done with a bit more padding – a mob isn’t really a mob if it only has about 8 people in it. Standouts were Asheigh Watson, Jessie Upton, Jazz Tweeddale, Leigh Murray, Michael Cunningham and Lachy Joyce. The ensemble singing was rich and spot-on, though at times certain members tended to fall half a beat behind in their dancing. In the tavern scene surrouding the “Gaston” number, the ensemble seemed like they may have been enjoying themselves a little too much though – during a couple of aside conversations between Gaston and LeFou, the volume and movements of the ensemble pulled focus a bit. But these guys really shone the most in Be Our Guest – the audience couldn’t have applauded louder.

As director, Bryce Ives obviously did a great job in getting the cast to give it their all – the level of enthusiasm was great overall, and the show was generally snappy and sharp. However, I took exception to a few of the decisions – i.e. the constant “deep breath” inclusions, where characters would stop and ‘breathe’ as if they were warding off a panic attack in the middle of dialogue. While this was humourous, it sort of acted as an alienation device – detracting from the ability of the audience to allow themselves to be wrapped up in the world of the show. Also, I felt that the pyrotechnics were a tad overused – at times they worked brilliantly (such as at the end of Be Our Guest), but at other times they seemed unnecessary and distracting (such as during the transformation scene – did we really need five? Our eyeballs suffered greatly, and the beauty of the score was ruined by the volume of FIVE explosions).

Costumes were fabulous – Gaston’s outfit was perfect, especially with it’s little leather codpiece. The ensemble’s costumes were great, but they seemed a little bright in the opening scenes. The enchanted objects costumes were gorgeous – the napkins headpieces were beautiful, and I especially adored Mrs. Potts’s costume. One enchanted object though, I have to say, looked silly – I think she was a corkscrew or something, but the weird combination of spiral tights, silver lycra and a purple skirt looked like some sort of alien… I also had a small issue though with Belle’s yellow ball gown – why did she have a huge sparkly yellow bow, circa 1986, in her hair? The dress just seemed a tad plain, considering that it came from an enchanted wardrobe living in the castle of a wealthy prince!

As for the orchestra – thumbs up guys, especially Amy Wert for keeping everything oh-so-precise and perfect, as usual! They definitely did the fabulous score justice.. sounding brilliant all the time. There was one person in the brass section who seemed a little shaky during some solos (grrr) but I was later informed that one of the trumpeters was a fill-in who was performing his first or second show, so he’s excused. I am also required to sing the praises of my sister who was playing cello – so I will say this:  nice  that she can finally tell the difference between FMajor and GMajor! No, she was very good in her solos!

Unfortunately, the over-enthusiasm of some of the audience drowned out some of the music – it’s definitely a pet hate of mine when audiences clap along in time to songs. AUDIENCES – your conception of tempo sucks, so leave it alone! Lucien always says I am a spoilt sport for refusing to clap in time, but I think it eeks of disrespect: applause should be reserved for after musical numbers, at the end of acts, and after particularly good one-liners – otherwise, it is distracting and annoying. But then again, I can’t exactly judge the audience, it is amateur theatre in a small town after all – theatre etiquette is less of concern than ‘cheering on’ their friends and family members.

Choreography by Mark McCabe was great, as usual – he got everybody moving and found ways of accommodating those who could dance as well as those who could really dance. His innovative ‘mug-banging’ choreography for Gaston was great… it was really something different and interesting! I’m not sure if it was done on Broadway, but if Mark invented it, well done! Lucien had issues with the use of punches in some of the choreography, but I actually thought it suited quite well – in that way, the choreography is less feminine and suits the male dancers better.

Ahh, anything else? Despite my issues, I loved it!

Balance? What Balance…

My world has changed. My schedule from now on means working 6:30am to 4pm, Monday to Friday. I am waking up before the sun, stumbling out of bed in freezing cold temperatures and tumbling back into bed before most of my favourite tv shows have even begun. I’m not sure how long I can tolerate this: it means no exercising, no real time to get essays done, no time to write or draw or cook, no real scope to go home and visit my family for a couple of days – otherwise I crash. It’s a little worrying; the plan is to slog it out for the holidays working full time hours, make squillions of dollars and then cut it down to two little shifts a week as soon as I go back to uni.

 One of the other perks is free bread, as I previously mentioned. I am not such a big fan of bread – I usually keep a multigrain loaf in the freezer for the occasional late-night-grilled-cheese craving. But I brought home a really dense loaf of rye home tonight and made pastrami and dill pickle sandwiches – possibly my favourite sandwiches in the world. Brilliant, and a cheap dinner with enough leftovers for lunch tomorrow!

Luckily, I am actually enjoying the work. I’m picking it up pretty quickly and starting to inject some panache into it. Working in Toorak this morning was an experience – I served at least 6 Mr. Big doppelgangers that gave me sexy eyes and paid with $100 notes. The way that Chris Noth moved and the way he looked at Carrie was always something that filled me with pangs of “ahhh”, and having six carbon copies seduce me over the counter this morning was quite an experience. My ego just about exploded and I ended up jumping around, smiling too much and being dorkily cute… my inner Carrie was sparked.

With me working and Lucien almost finished semester one exams, I’m looking forward to a little relationships renaissance, except reversed. Earlier this year, he spent six weeks living with me – he would work at a law firm all day and I would study, then he’d come home and we’d play. It was so nice to ‘play house’ – cooking dinner together, going on random dates, sleeping next to each other. Unfortunately I only have a single bed, so whenever Lucien sleeps over it’s a rather squishy experience; he is rather muscular and has broad shoulders so he takes up a lot of room. He is very lucky that I always sleep on my side. Anyway, he wants to come up and spend some time with me soon.. which means once again we can spend time together doing little things and not feeling rushed.

Something that has been on my mind a bit is Madeleine McCann. It’s stupid, but every small girl I see.. I look a bit more closely than I should. It is ridiculous – I live on the other side of the world, after all, but I really hope that somebody finds her. Maybe I am softening up in my ‘old age’, but I do feel for the parents. Once upon a time I would say that all little children were failed abortions, but seeing her parents on television just made me feel terrible. When I was younger, one of my greatest fears was losing my family – not by death, but just being separated and not knowing where they were or how to find them, mostly at airports. My littlest sister was 3 or 4 when we came back from Taipei and I would get so paranoid if she ran off. Somebody could so easily just grab her or lure her away. At the age of 9 I had to once fly alone from Taipei to Sydney to Melbourne with my other sister, who was 5, and I held her hand the entire way and wouldn’t even go to the bathroom unless she came in with me, I was so scared of losing her. So, I really hope they find her daughter.

It is well and truly bedtime now – only 6 and a half hours until I have to get up and run off to work. Bleh bleh bleh. Think of the money.. I keep telling myself.

« Older entries