Surprisingly enough, over the last two days nothing untoward, bizarre or even naked has happened to me. The most mental it has gotten for me today is that I accidently left some green paper in a photocopier, later heard some girl bitching about the fact her pamphlets were printed all green-like, and secretly smirked to myself thinking, 'ahaaa! yet another victim of the GREEN BANDIT! BABABAABAAAAA!'. Perhaps I'm the only one, but I spend quite a lot of time when on my own imagining that the normal things that happen around me happen because I have special powers.
For example, in the elevator (thats 'lift' for those who are confused. You're welcome.) When the grating slides across and you start to climb those floors, I sometimes raise my hand up slowly as if I am the one controlling it. Anyone else? No? Only if I'm alone, obviously. Otherwise that would be weird, right? And then when the grate opens quickly I make a 'fuck off' sweeping motion with my hand as if the door is bending to my will. Is that weird? I literally don't even know anymore. Ha, I think the reason I can say all of this so willingly and freely is because I've been here a month now, and I'm pretty sure England, the Atlantic Ocean, and all of those who read my blog do not actually exist. Therefore no one will ever actually read this, its all in my mind anyway and I might as well be completely honest about the whole thing. So yes, 'every day action superhero'. Thats me. Like trying to guess when the kettle is going to click off when its boiled, and pointing at it at the moment when you think its going to, JUST IN CASE it coincides with the click. yes? I mean sure, it results in a lot of fruitless pointing, but still, when you do manage it, oh the joys to be had. yes indeed. Oh dear. even I begin to sense that I may be going too far.
It might be because I'm getting accidently slightly high. Seriously, the amount of pot being smoked in my apartment is almost silly. Those Lessogs KNOW how to smoke dope. I feel a bit like I'm having a good time against my will. You know those adverts with the child with the face made entirely of eyes, and in the background his mum is lighting up and beating a treasured pet with a golf club-which has the tag line 'I have a smokers cough... and I don't smoke.' I feel like there should be another one, just of me, looking a bit dazed with a grin on my face with the line 'I'm really weirdly relaxed and dispassionate about life.... and I don't do weed.' yeah man. yeaahhh.
People are funny aren't they? I came through the door bearing chicken and sneezing madly, and the two of them on the couch didn't even look up, didn't say a word, just carried on watching some 'football' game. (Incidently, it is NOT football. In no way do they use their feet. If anything it should be called Armball. Or Rugby For Pussies.) Whereas on the streets of Brooklyn I can literally stop for 3 seconds, look very slightly confused and have strangers falling over themselves trying to help me find my way. Very bizarre.
I really like Brooklyn, as an aside. I think it has something to do with its underdog status, and being from the North of England, I can identify with that. I will never forget my first night of University, where I had carefully and thoughtfully planned to worry about EVERYTHING, literally everything, from meeting people, to my face, to being sick inappropriately into some else's bag. The one thing I forgot to worry about was being from Warrington. Within about an hour, the cries of 'You're from WHERE?' were echoing around the Westwood halls, and I was subjected to listening, on repeat, a lovely ditty by the comedy geniuses who created the witty and damning 'London Underground Song' (jesus sarcasm is difficult to get across sans actual voice hearings), a song called 'Northern Birds'. To the tune of 'More than words.' yeah. Look it up if you're interested, but safe to say, I was slightly scarred. 'Northeerrrn birrds, are easy ugly whores who smell of burggers.' yeah. Just one of many lines that still haunt my Warringtonian soul.
What was I talking about? Ah yes, Brooklyn. I recognise the cheeky, a little down on its luck, slightly self-depreciating tone of the place, where the signs use words like 'wonderfulest', safe in the knowledge that they don't need to bend to the restricting laws of grammar, this isn't Manhattan damn it! Words roam wild and free here! And on a slightly less poetical note, its cheaper. Which is always good. I mean sure Manhattan is wonderful too, but I always feel a bit like I should be wearing more make up, or a less see through dress. Who needs that kind of pressure eh?
Anyway, I was going to say that I have nothing to report, and so wont be doing a post this evening. And yet I seem to have rambled anyway. God bless associate weed smoking, thats what I say. Yes. So anyway, I think I'll leave it there for today, I'm very sorry I've let you down, and at least I can leave you with the knowledge that there's a really great wall opposite me that I'm going to do some shadow puppets on for a while. Another pasttime of mine in the dark hours. I made a frankly brilliant 'french man whose toupee gets blown off unexpectedly' the other day. With the power of hands. No idea how to do it now of course, but that, my dear friends, is both the blessing and the curse of the ancient art of hand shadow puppeting. Ok. I definitely sense a 'you've gone to far with the inner workings of your sadness' beginning to brew. So off I go. Maybe make a cup of tea first. Dear me, its tough being a secret superhero.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
The kindness (and strangeness) of strangers
What I love about being in New York is that people will just tell you exactly what they're thinking at any given moment in time. Strangers, hobos, and loved ones alike.
In Britain, we have evolved a brilliant strategy for saying nothing, most of the time. Its a system fondly known as 'small talk', and everyone hates it beyond hatred of most things (except the first Charlie and the Chocolate Factory film. Always except that.) But we all use it anyway. Which makes us hate it even more. The problem is that in Britain, we don't like to state our opinion too forcefully when first meeting someone. Having an opinion could mean having a different opinion to the person you're talking to. Having a different opinion basically means you hate them. No one needs that. So instead, we have wonderful system I like to call Conversation Jenga, where each topic is nudged carefully out, examined thoughtfully for any potential topples or wobbles in the person opposite them, and only when we get an assured go ahead signal do we continue to push on with any real force. Its a good system, and its one that has worked well for us for years. In New York however, give a shit! Say what you think brotha, say it loud and say it proud!
I, of course, can say this today, with the conviction of someone who knows they were definitely fully dressed, and therefore knew there could be no potentialy agonising horror upon a startling naked realisation. Indeed, I dressed with rather a lot of care today after the rather scarring tube incident, and put on a tshirt, then a dress, then some tights (i wasn't even going to wear the tights, it was really sunny today.. but then I thought I just shouldn't risk it), and shoes, and then finally a jacket. There was basically no part of me that was not covered in material in some way. Except my face. But I couldn't be bothered to wear my contacts today so technically my face was dressed in my glasses. How coy. Indeed.
So off I went, to explore the East Side a little better. I didnt need to work today, i was informed, as I'm going to be working all weekend, so go, go and enjoy your funsies! So I did. I decided to just choose a random stop on the subway, get off and explore what I found. Sounds good? Well, it sounded cheap, so by default, yes, yes it sounded good.
I found I had stumbled across a very cool thrifty storey market wheeley deally part of town, filled with impromptu tattoo parlours, skinny jeans, sunglasses for 2 dollars and people looking a bit worriedly at their impromptu tattoos. Happy and busy, I spent the next two hours thoughtfully buying a headband.
Satisfied and glowy with my new purchase- it really it a very jazzy headband, I'll put up a picture for mainly Franki Burke- I turned a corner, and a man bumped into me, and I swear before even reacting to the bump exclaimed
'LOVE that combo! LOVING that colour combo!'
and without looking back, strode on.
I should explain. I was wearing purple tights and yellow shoes. If only I could say that its because I am fashionista, I am at one with the future trends, and I have an innate sense of style that makes...erm... oh God I cant even think of a suitable person to weep over me. How embarrassing. Unfortunately, I was actually wearing that 'combo' because when I was 13 my art teacher had told us about complimetary colours. And purple and yellow were one set. Sadly I get most of my style ideas from GSCE Art, you should see this headband, think 'collage: madness of the wistful penguin'.
But still. He didn't know that. I could be an excellent fashioner for all he knows, and I strode on, thinking that that would never ever ever happen in England. Partially because most of the people I know are so freakin fabulous of the clothes that everything I wear instantly becomes an ethel austin sale item by comparison, but mostly because we keep our opinions so forcefully to ourselves. So, lost in these muses, I turned another corner, and, believe it or not, ANOTHER person called out to me 'hey, I love your style, its so you!' Helpfully dismissing the fact that he could have no idea whether its 'me' or not, I burst out laughing and said 'thanks', and ran swiftly away in an semi bemused, embarrassed/flattered way. I felt like I wanted to shout 'thank Mrs Fisher, she taught me all I know'.
This was all very weird, and I felt a bit exposed, and like the tights and shoes combo had overpowered me to the point where I no longer had control over them. I decided to leave, and try my luck elsewhere. So, I pulled out a subway map, and began to have a little look around, and suddenly I heard 'Are you lost, dear?' This is really common in NY, everyone is so freakin helpful, and as he hadn't yet mentioned my shoes I felt that this was a situation I could control.
I turned, and laughed and said 'Well, no, just not really that sure where I want to go!'
The man standing before me was probably in his mid sixties, wearing shorts, a sportsy top, and for some reason, refused to look me in the eye. He always looked a little to the side of me, as if I was a horse and he was trying to whisper me. 'Well, what kind of place are you looking for?'
I shrugged. 'I don't mind really, just somewhere thats interesting.'
He nodded, looking at the road, 'Someplace interesting? Ok. I'm gonna take you to 9th avenue.'
And he strode off. I, it seemed, had no real choice but to follow.
As we walked, something a little weird happened. He started a long monologue about the fact that he had just run a marathon, memorial day, moved swiftly onto talking about ground zero and new buildings, and in the middle of a sentence added 'and give me your hand.'
I looked round, a little surprised, and before I knew what was happening, without looking at me, this man grabbed my hand and started to,-i can only describe it as- search it. It was if he was checking my hand for cancer. My first, irrational thought was 'he's going to steal my ring!' but then i realised rather swiftly that we weren't in a Dickens novel, he wasn't a wee little tinker and if it came down to it, I could take him. The second these thoughts had stopped processing, he dropped my hand, and continued talking as if nothing had happened, still refusing to look at me.
I wondered if I'd just imagined it. He was still talking 'Now on 9th avenue, I'm going to show you the shops! They've got dresses, they've got shoes, they've got blouses...' I agreed that shops often stocked these items. He stopped. Suddenly. And began pointing to the directions to the left and right of us, showing me where abouts we were. That would all have been fine, and I did appreciate the trouble he was taking, but he'd stopped in the middle of the road. And cars were honking at us.
'Now thats the East, up there you'll find Lafayette and-'
HONK
'I think we should maybe move to-
'Now South, you're gonna hit the brooklyn bridge'
HONK HONNNK
'haha yes, but I really think-'
HONK HONK HONK
Looking at my ear, he began to stride on again. Relieved, I followed hurridly, like a wife who had manage to avoid an embarassing social scene with an abusive husband. 'Now these shops-I'm not gonna come in with you,'
I agreed quite firmly that he wasn't.
'I hate shopping. But they've got everything. They've got shoes, they've got blouses, and I have to say-' he looked nervously at my shoulder, 'those shoes you've got on, they stand out a mile'.
The damn shoes. These shoes are too much for me. A better woman than I should wield them. I felt a bit like I was carrying the one ring to Mordor, but in the very beginning Gandalf had accidently called in on Pippin instead of Frodo.
'Where, where did you get those shoes?'
'well, I got them years ago and-'
he BURST out laughing 'aahahaha!!! HAHAHAHAA!! HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!'
now, either my delivery of that line was devastating, or the man who set up his brain chamber hadn't read the instructions properly.
'yes,' I said, completely thrown, 'and I suppose with the purple tights, they..er.. they do stand out, I-'
'HAHAHAHAHHAA'
He roared with laughter. He began gasping, and shouting 'I wasn't going to say it! I wasn't! But yes! ohhhh aahahahahaha!'
I literally just had no idea what was going on. The best I could do was think that he thought it looked ridiculous, and I hoped thats what it was. Otherwise I was completely stumped, and he was a mad.
Flailing for word thoughts, I faded to silence, and he continued to giggle to himself.
Finally, finally, I saw a sign for 9th Ave.
'Now these shops!' He said again, 'They;'ve got dresses, they'e got shoes, they've got... things for your fingers! Things for your wrists!'
'Suitability for any body part eh?' I said a little nervously
He agreed fervently.
He stopped again very suddenly. I turned back on myself and waited.
'Now,' he said, staring firmly at my elbow, 'I hate shopping, I'm really sorry, I just hate it. But you see that coffee shop over there?' He pointed to an alley.
'Yep.'
'I'll be sitting there. And I would very much like to have a cocktail with you.'
I thanked him, said I'd think about it, and went in for a handshake. He grabbed my hand again, and kissed it, gave my neck one final stare and walked away.
Jeepers. What power clothing holds eh? I reckon if I strapped these tights and shoes to a passing cat, it could rule the world by Friday. I better not add the headband. There's such a thing as too much power.
In Britain, we have evolved a brilliant strategy for saying nothing, most of the time. Its a system fondly known as 'small talk', and everyone hates it beyond hatred of most things (except the first Charlie and the Chocolate Factory film. Always except that.) But we all use it anyway. Which makes us hate it even more. The problem is that in Britain, we don't like to state our opinion too forcefully when first meeting someone. Having an opinion could mean having a different opinion to the person you're talking to. Having a different opinion basically means you hate them. No one needs that. So instead, we have wonderful system I like to call Conversation Jenga, where each topic is nudged carefully out, examined thoughtfully for any potential topples or wobbles in the person opposite them, and only when we get an assured go ahead signal do we continue to push on with any real force. Its a good system, and its one that has worked well for us for years. In New York however, give a shit! Say what you think brotha, say it loud and say it proud!
I, of course, can say this today, with the conviction of someone who knows they were definitely fully dressed, and therefore knew there could be no potentialy agonising horror upon a startling naked realisation. Indeed, I dressed with rather a lot of care today after the rather scarring tube incident, and put on a tshirt, then a dress, then some tights (i wasn't even going to wear the tights, it was really sunny today.. but then I thought I just shouldn't risk it), and shoes, and then finally a jacket. There was basically no part of me that was not covered in material in some way. Except my face. But I couldn't be bothered to wear my contacts today so technically my face was dressed in my glasses. How coy. Indeed.
So off I went, to explore the East Side a little better. I didnt need to work today, i was informed, as I'm going to be working all weekend, so go, go and enjoy your funsies! So I did. I decided to just choose a random stop on the subway, get off and explore what I found. Sounds good? Well, it sounded cheap, so by default, yes, yes it sounded good.
I found I had stumbled across a very cool thrifty storey market wheeley deally part of town, filled with impromptu tattoo parlours, skinny jeans, sunglasses for 2 dollars and people looking a bit worriedly at their impromptu tattoos. Happy and busy, I spent the next two hours thoughtfully buying a headband.
Satisfied and glowy with my new purchase- it really it a very jazzy headband, I'll put up a picture for mainly Franki Burke- I turned a corner, and a man bumped into me, and I swear before even reacting to the bump exclaimed
'LOVE that combo! LOVING that colour combo!'
and without looking back, strode on.
I should explain. I was wearing purple tights and yellow shoes. If only I could say that its because I am fashionista, I am at one with the future trends, and I have an innate sense of style that makes...erm... oh God I cant even think of a suitable person to weep over me. How embarrassing. Unfortunately, I was actually wearing that 'combo' because when I was 13 my art teacher had told us about complimetary colours. And purple and yellow were one set. Sadly I get most of my style ideas from GSCE Art, you should see this headband, think 'collage: madness of the wistful penguin'.
But still. He didn't know that. I could be an excellent fashioner for all he knows, and I strode on, thinking that that would never ever ever happen in England. Partially because most of the people I know are so freakin fabulous of the clothes that everything I wear instantly becomes an ethel austin sale item by comparison, but mostly because we keep our opinions so forcefully to ourselves. So, lost in these muses, I turned another corner, and, believe it or not, ANOTHER person called out to me 'hey, I love your style, its so you!' Helpfully dismissing the fact that he could have no idea whether its 'me' or not, I burst out laughing and said 'thanks', and ran swiftly away in an semi bemused, embarrassed/flattered way. I felt like I wanted to shout 'thank Mrs Fisher, she taught me all I know'.
This was all very weird, and I felt a bit exposed, and like the tights and shoes combo had overpowered me to the point where I no longer had control over them. I decided to leave, and try my luck elsewhere. So, I pulled out a subway map, and began to have a little look around, and suddenly I heard 'Are you lost, dear?' This is really common in NY, everyone is so freakin helpful, and as he hadn't yet mentioned my shoes I felt that this was a situation I could control.
I turned, and laughed and said 'Well, no, just not really that sure where I want to go!'
The man standing before me was probably in his mid sixties, wearing shorts, a sportsy top, and for some reason, refused to look me in the eye. He always looked a little to the side of me, as if I was a horse and he was trying to whisper me. 'Well, what kind of place are you looking for?'
I shrugged. 'I don't mind really, just somewhere thats interesting.'
He nodded, looking at the road, 'Someplace interesting? Ok. I'm gonna take you to 9th avenue.'
And he strode off. I, it seemed, had no real choice but to follow.
As we walked, something a little weird happened. He started a long monologue about the fact that he had just run a marathon, memorial day, moved swiftly onto talking about ground zero and new buildings, and in the middle of a sentence added 'and give me your hand.'
I looked round, a little surprised, and before I knew what was happening, without looking at me, this man grabbed my hand and started to,-i can only describe it as- search it. It was if he was checking my hand for cancer. My first, irrational thought was 'he's going to steal my ring!' but then i realised rather swiftly that we weren't in a Dickens novel, he wasn't a wee little tinker and if it came down to it, I could take him. The second these thoughts had stopped processing, he dropped my hand, and continued talking as if nothing had happened, still refusing to look at me.
I wondered if I'd just imagined it. He was still talking 'Now on 9th avenue, I'm going to show you the shops! They've got dresses, they've got shoes, they've got blouses...' I agreed that shops often stocked these items. He stopped. Suddenly. And began pointing to the directions to the left and right of us, showing me where abouts we were. That would all have been fine, and I did appreciate the trouble he was taking, but he'd stopped in the middle of the road. And cars were honking at us.
'Now thats the East, up there you'll find Lafayette and-'
HONK
'I think we should maybe move to-
'Now South, you're gonna hit the brooklyn bridge'
HONK HONNNK
'haha yes, but I really think-'
HONK HONK HONK
Looking at my ear, he began to stride on again. Relieved, I followed hurridly, like a wife who had manage to avoid an embarassing social scene with an abusive husband. 'Now these shops-I'm not gonna come in with you,'
I agreed quite firmly that he wasn't.
'I hate shopping. But they've got everything. They've got shoes, they've got blouses, and I have to say-' he looked nervously at my shoulder, 'those shoes you've got on, they stand out a mile'.
The damn shoes. These shoes are too much for me. A better woman than I should wield them. I felt a bit like I was carrying the one ring to Mordor, but in the very beginning Gandalf had accidently called in on Pippin instead of Frodo.
'Where, where did you get those shoes?'
'well, I got them years ago and-'
he BURST out laughing 'aahahaha!!! HAHAHAHAA!! HAHAHAHAHAHA!!!'
now, either my delivery of that line was devastating, or the man who set up his brain chamber hadn't read the instructions properly.
'yes,' I said, completely thrown, 'and I suppose with the purple tights, they..er.. they do stand out, I-'
'HAHAHAHAHHAA'
He roared with laughter. He began gasping, and shouting 'I wasn't going to say it! I wasn't! But yes! ohhhh aahahahahaha!'
I literally just had no idea what was going on. The best I could do was think that he thought it looked ridiculous, and I hoped thats what it was. Otherwise I was completely stumped, and he was a mad.
Flailing for word thoughts, I faded to silence, and he continued to giggle to himself.
Finally, finally, I saw a sign for 9th Ave.
'Now these shops!' He said again, 'They;'ve got dresses, they'e got shoes, they've got... things for your fingers! Things for your wrists!'
'Suitability for any body part eh?' I said a little nervously
He agreed fervently.
He stopped again very suddenly. I turned back on myself and waited.
'Now,' he said, staring firmly at my elbow, 'I hate shopping, I'm really sorry, I just hate it. But you see that coffee shop over there?' He pointed to an alley.
'Yep.'
'I'll be sitting there. And I would very much like to have a cocktail with you.'
I thanked him, said I'd think about it, and went in for a handshake. He grabbed my hand again, and kissed it, gave my neck one final stare and walked away.
Jeepers. What power clothing holds eh? I reckon if I strapped these tights and shoes to a passing cat, it could rule the world by Friday. I better not add the headband. There's such a thing as too much power.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Falling, Pride, and shodding changing room lights.
Ok so something ridiculous just happened to me, and I need to tell someone, and here we are as we always are. Me, the keyboard, Adrian and the unfulfilled dream of mayonnaise. Thanks for joining on my self ridiculousness once again.
I'm sorry my last post was so freakin massive, but it was a scientology special after all, and I really do feel those pioneers deserve the extra stretchy word room. Engrams. What an age we live in. I promise though, this one is just a little postlet, a wee crunchy snack in anecdotal foil wrap. So you can get back to revision for Gods sake.
So. Yesterday evening I got drunk with my friend Kate. We went to her apartment, had some wine, got pretty tispy, and well, one thing let to the other and.. (ha. Search elsewhere for your filth you sick minded dogs) we ended up dancing like tangled giraffes to SpiceWorld-still freakin AMAZING by the way and watching You've Got Mail- still.. well.. bless Tom Hanks and his expressive forehead. Meg Ryan's upper face had a LOT of catching up to do.
This morning I woke up, feeling non too spritely, put on quite a lot of makeup to cover up the scientologiriffic deadness of my face and strode out into the morning (afternoon).
Down and down into the subway I went, trying wherever possible not to do too many unneccessary movements such as standing or walking quickly. I began the long underground transfer from one subway to another, and I noticed that there was a man, of about 40, I would say, walking next to me, and looking at me slightly strangely. Turning my head would be a ridiculous and horribly complicated affair in my current state, so I simply continued on in my path and thought to myself, if he thinks I have the gait of a disabled crab, so be it.
Suddenly, he walked over to me, holding a card, and began to speak. and ahahahahaha ohh what this man had to say.
It turned out that this man was a photographer/film director(/barrel monkey, I added silently to myself), he was 'doing an exhibition' ('opening the door to his mum's shed') on nudes. Nudes. And would like me to take his card, in case I was interested in modelling for him. I laughed. A lot. And he got a bit offended saying 'Look, I'm not some joke, I had a lawyer come in just the other day...' he trailed off. I, through my own snorts, assured him that I wasn't laughing at him, this was a laugher of, erm, flattery. I'm just really flattered. And when I'm flattered I laugh. A lot. He calmed down a bit, and started to tell me about the architecture of New York (I don't know why, I was hungoever and the concept of conversation was really really difficult to wrestle with). We got on the same subway, with him talking at me a lot about Brooklyn etc, and me doing smallish nods. Oh Lord, I thought, well, thats nice at least. What an amusing experience. And a small, evil, mostly 14year old part of me couldn't help thinking, wow, someone actually wants to look at me naked, and as ridiculous as the actual situation was, a girl can't help feeling rather gratified about that. Oh dear. If I'd known what was to come.
Halfway through this conversation, a man sitting on the opposite side of the subway randomly started to join in our conversation, hey its new york, everyone's crazy and that, and when photgrapher got off the subway, he came and plonked himself next to me. Jesus, I thought, I'm on bloody form today, obviously the scientologists are actually onto something, perhaps engrams are a pile of dung but the dead in the eyes look is a bloody killer! Eventually, we both got off, we shook hands, and I went on my merry way, feeling rather good about the morning's encounter.
And then.
Sigh.
Well.
I don't have a mirror in my room. In my apartment. It just doesn't have one. I dont really care about that, as there's a small mirror in the bathroom so I can put my contacts in without destroying my own face, and to be honest, what more do you need a mirror for? Oh a lot of things, it turns out. A lot of vital things.
As I was walking back from the subway to my apartment, I caught a reflection of myself in a window in a shop mirror. And, it turns out, that the dress I was wearing, bought only but a week ago, was, quite simply, completely see through. Invisible to the naked (ha) eye when wearing it, but oh so glaringly evident from about 3 feet away. Oh. My. God.
Suddenly, all that gratification didn't seem quite so gratifiying anymore. As I reversed through my memory of the morning, a lot of events made a lot more sense.
You're looking for girls to get naked for a stranger? You choose to look in the Subway? Not a lot of girls want to do that. They think to themselves, we're in a subway. This is not a place of Naked. But hey, look at this girl! She LOVES being naked! She's nakeding right now! look at her, just walking like a nakeder, slowly and solidly. Brilliant! Card her! Card her right now! God only knows how naked she'll be in an actual naked situation.
There's a really chatty girl on the subway, talking to a man about his naked project. She's quite clearly a nakeder. Why not grab your chance when he leaves? She bloody loves it! Shaking hands at the end of the conversation? Pull the other one love, we can all see what kind of girl you are.
Oh God. I'm going to have to burn it. Maybe throw myself on afterwards. Back to the church I go I think. God knows how much money its going to cost me to get rid of this little engram.
I'm sorry my last post was so freakin massive, but it was a scientology special after all, and I really do feel those pioneers deserve the extra stretchy word room. Engrams. What an age we live in. I promise though, this one is just a little postlet, a wee crunchy snack in anecdotal foil wrap. So you can get back to revision for Gods sake.
So. Yesterday evening I got drunk with my friend Kate. We went to her apartment, had some wine, got pretty tispy, and well, one thing let to the other and.. (ha. Search elsewhere for your filth you sick minded dogs) we ended up dancing like tangled giraffes to SpiceWorld-still freakin AMAZING by the way and watching You've Got Mail- still.. well.. bless Tom Hanks and his expressive forehead. Meg Ryan's upper face had a LOT of catching up to do.
This morning I woke up, feeling non too spritely, put on quite a lot of makeup to cover up the scientologiriffic deadness of my face and strode out into the morning (afternoon).
Down and down into the subway I went, trying wherever possible not to do too many unneccessary movements such as standing or walking quickly. I began the long underground transfer from one subway to another, and I noticed that there was a man, of about 40, I would say, walking next to me, and looking at me slightly strangely. Turning my head would be a ridiculous and horribly complicated affair in my current state, so I simply continued on in my path and thought to myself, if he thinks I have the gait of a disabled crab, so be it.
Suddenly, he walked over to me, holding a card, and began to speak. and ahahahahaha ohh what this man had to say.
It turned out that this man was a photographer/film director(/barrel monkey, I added silently to myself), he was 'doing an exhibition' ('opening the door to his mum's shed') on nudes. Nudes. And would like me to take his card, in case I was interested in modelling for him. I laughed. A lot. And he got a bit offended saying 'Look, I'm not some joke, I had a lawyer come in just the other day...' he trailed off. I, through my own snorts, assured him that I wasn't laughing at him, this was a laugher of, erm, flattery. I'm just really flattered. And when I'm flattered I laugh. A lot. He calmed down a bit, and started to tell me about the architecture of New York (I don't know why, I was hungoever and the concept of conversation was really really difficult to wrestle with). We got on the same subway, with him talking at me a lot about Brooklyn etc, and me doing smallish nods. Oh Lord, I thought, well, thats nice at least. What an amusing experience. And a small, evil, mostly 14year old part of me couldn't help thinking, wow, someone actually wants to look at me naked, and as ridiculous as the actual situation was, a girl can't help feeling rather gratified about that. Oh dear. If I'd known what was to come.
Halfway through this conversation, a man sitting on the opposite side of the subway randomly started to join in our conversation, hey its new york, everyone's crazy and that, and when photgrapher got off the subway, he came and plonked himself next to me. Jesus, I thought, I'm on bloody form today, obviously the scientologists are actually onto something, perhaps engrams are a pile of dung but the dead in the eyes look is a bloody killer! Eventually, we both got off, we shook hands, and I went on my merry way, feeling rather good about the morning's encounter.
And then.
Sigh.
Well.
I don't have a mirror in my room. In my apartment. It just doesn't have one. I dont really care about that, as there's a small mirror in the bathroom so I can put my contacts in without destroying my own face, and to be honest, what more do you need a mirror for? Oh a lot of things, it turns out. A lot of vital things.
As I was walking back from the subway to my apartment, I caught a reflection of myself in a window in a shop mirror. And, it turns out, that the dress I was wearing, bought only but a week ago, was, quite simply, completely see through. Invisible to the naked (ha) eye when wearing it, but oh so glaringly evident from about 3 feet away. Oh. My. God.
Suddenly, all that gratification didn't seem quite so gratifiying anymore. As I reversed through my memory of the morning, a lot of events made a lot more sense.
You're looking for girls to get naked for a stranger? You choose to look in the Subway? Not a lot of girls want to do that. They think to themselves, we're in a subway. This is not a place of Naked. But hey, look at this girl! She LOVES being naked! She's nakeding right now! look at her, just walking like a nakeder, slowly and solidly. Brilliant! Card her! Card her right now! God only knows how naked she'll be in an actual naked situation.
There's a really chatty girl on the subway, talking to a man about his naked project. She's quite clearly a nakeder. Why not grab your chance when he leaves? She bloody loves it! Shaking hands at the end of the conversation? Pull the other one love, we can all see what kind of girl you are.
Oh God. I'm going to have to burn it. Maybe throw myself on afterwards. Back to the church I go I think. God knows how much money its going to cost me to get rid of this little engram.
Friday, May 22, 2009
How to kill time (square)... doesn't really work...
This probably isn't the best time for me to begin a blog post packed with anecdotal hilarity, as I am feeling impressively hacked off. Ok, this may not seem a big deal, but my mayonnaise has gone, gone away from the safety of the fridge, and dammit, I need Helmans to survive! its friendly and familiar label reminds me that not everything is different in this strange land! Secondly it is SO FREAKING HOT in this apartment I want to take all my clothes off forever, and if you can believe that is in any way attractive right now, you're obviously not getting just how hot it is in here. And finally, a mouse just ran out of the bathroom. the BATHROOM. the place where clean is supposed to happen. Where does one clean oneself of mice, sweat, and the tears of Helman's gone by, if the bathroom is currently occupied by mice, weeing an pooing and possibly showering all over the shop? (lydia, if you're reading this, can't wait for you to come stay!) So I'm hungry, I'm sweaty, I need a big poo and I'm scared that if I attempt one, a mouse will come and watch me. And i'm not sure what the procedure is if a mouse runs out at you mid.. situation. I'm sure I don't need to get graphic here. You can come up with your own amusing solutions to this problem in a 'oh god imagine if' kind of way, but this is my life now! my life has become a hypothetical question asked to patients when trying to determine just how mental they actually are. Sigh.
Which, actually, leads me onto rather nicely to what I was originally going to talk about. God this writing thing is getting easier every day. (just to annoy me, 'God', or whoever it is made me spell 'easier' wrong like seven times whilst writing that sentence. oh very funny.)
So yesterday, I went to see a show in Time Square. oooh exciting well done me etc. But thats not what I'm going to talk about, ohh noo no. Now, if you remember, those who have been dedicated Tash procrastinators (protashitnators? Doesn't work. Damn.) the last time i attempted to go and watch a show in this frightening, human packed arena, I ended up, lost, scared, alone, and next to a freckled wall of a man slowly destroying the soul of a violin. I had no intention of this happening again. So i made sure I arrived a little early. 2 hours early. Excellent planning indeed, I'm sure you'll agree. So, looking around Time Square, and realising that once again, i was back in the place that silence forgot, I needed something to do. Somewhere to go, for free, to kill some time. What did you do? I hear you rise up and cry as one, where? where did you go? Well to be honest, I was dumbstruck. Had no idea. And then. ohhh and then. A man came up to me, and with a slightly frightening smile, placed a leaflet in my hand. 'theres a free film starting every fifteen minutes!' He said, with really massive teeth, and grinning slightly oddly-couldn't quite put my finger on it at the time- he sort of floated away.
I looked down at the flyer. And it all became gloriously, wonderfully, epically clear to me. It was time for me to explore the world of Scientology.
Arriving at the 'church' (ohh we've only just begun), I found another smiley human, this time in female form, she looked up at my entry, 'Hi!' she said, looking genuinely pleased to see me, 'I'm Jodie!'
'Hi Jodie, I'm Tash. I'm er.. here for the free film?' I emphasised the word 'free', just so that I could later proclaim from the start that I never wanted more than I was promised.
'Its your first time here?'
'oh yes. Yes it is.'
'Great' (smile smile grinny grinny smile smile) 'Just come this way'
So, I was shown into a very very empty room, and Jodie pressed a few buttons and a film started to play. I had a sudden irrational but very genuine fear that I was actually going to end up in a situation similar to that of an episode of The Demon Headmaster, dribbling, wearing a clone suit, and failing to crack the 'octopus' code with a knock knock joke.
Now then. I learned some VERY valuable things from this 20 minute presentation. Things I'm going to tell you, because I bet you don't know them, and your life is probably being ruined, as my life had been ruined, because of it. Did you know that we all have 'engrams'? I didn't. An engram is something your brain stores when it has a negative experience. Some insane person might try and call it a 'memory', but its not, its an engram. And these negative engrams are the reasons for all of your problems. Do you get depressed sometimes? Its engrams. Have you ever sneezed? Probably an engram. Did you get your leg chopped off in a freak gammon slicing accident? DEFINATLY engram territory.
I watched this unravel with a mixture of wonder, slight horror, and a fair amount of disbelief. The great thing about this 'scientific' video, is that proof seems to be something that isn't cool enough to be considered. At any point. Instead, they BLOODY LOVE to use 'examples'. And by examples, i mean use actors, with a voice over the top. Graphs are BORING man, lets get a sexy voice to make up some stuff! There must have been 30 of them
'This man had a car accident' (video of slow motion car accident)
'The paramedics are able to save him' (yadda yadda you can imagine)
It cuts to inside the ambulance, where the two 'ambulance men' are having a wee chatsie about relationships, for some bizarre reason. 'Yo, whatever happened to you and Shaniqua?' (PROMISE this is true)
'awww we broke up man. I just couldnt be involved with something so long term.'
V/O kicks in.
'without knowing it, this whole conversation is inbedded in the victims mind, as part of his traumatic engram. See what happens when he later comes across a situation similar to the crash'
Cue conversation with his girlfriend in a car where for no reason, he randomly yells 'I CANT DO THIS ANYMORE. I JUST CANT BE INVOLVED WITH SOMETHING SO LONG TERM'.
And there you have it. Proof that engrams exist.
So the film ended. And INSTANTLY on cue Jodie walks in through the door like an grinny robot.
'Did you enjoy the film?'
'Oh.. yes. It was, umm very interesting.'
'You just need to fill this in.' She hands me a questionnaire, where I'm to put all my details, and answer questions about the film. I decided to use a cunning psudenym (psydenom? psudenim.. whatever. it was very cunning) and so Natasha Yak was born. I only answered one of the questions, and it was 'what do you think the film was trying to say?' I wrote 'That memories can sometimes affect you.' It was either that or 'That you are all as mad as snakes', and I felt that since they were all so grinny, that would be a little on the mean side
Shit though. It had only been 20 minutes. I still had HOURS. I bit my lip. How could I ride this out?
THEN, i noticed a little check box at the bottom. 'Would you like to complete a free personality test/IQ test?' Did I? Ohhh yes I did. Free air conditioning, comfortable chairs and lots of people being nice to me for no reason. Why not?
Jodie was VERY happy I was staying for the tests. She smiled. I smiled. Everyone else in the building silently reading to themselves from a variety of books with soothing covers smiled. I was shown to a little cubicle, and given the tests. Going into them would be highly boring, but I'll just give you an example of the type of question on the personality test
'Do you think your opinion is as important, or more important, that the opinions of others?
Y/N/maybe'
With so much aching room for interpretation on every question, i just ticked yes. Yes it is.
So. about 40 minuted later I waited nervously for my test results. Well, I say nervously, I actually mean quite breezily, comfortably and grinnily. Finally a young man came over, and said he'd be going over them with me. Now I was quite knocked back by this. I thought it would be the kind of result similar to that in a 'Shout' magazine flow chart test, 'Which summer style is 4 U?' where there are in reality only four possible outcomes, and each one is in fact a type of lip gloss, or perhaps a brain washing book. The idea of actually going into a room with a man and talking about my personality hadnt really occurred to me. But oh well, a few more minutes ticked off eh?
We walked into a room together, where I tried to be charming, witty, a bit overly enthusiastic, basically all the things that had gotten me into so much gosh darn adorable trouble so many times before. But something very very weird happened. No matter what I said, there was literally no reaction on his face. It wasn't like with a dear one, where a lovely smile might appear, or with clean shirt's friend, where a vague fear and slight disgust took over. It was just, well, nothing. I felt like i was trying to throw paint up at a ceiling, but it was so far away it not only didn't hit, it just sploshed right back into my face. Something very weird was going on. Eventually I gave up the pleasantries for lost, and we fell into silence. He then took a look at my personality, which was handly staring up at him from a graph. And oh dear. Oh dear Oh dear. It turned out there were A LOT of things wrong with my personality. It was only lucky that I'd come in at all.
'Oh right,' I said rather weakly, all my charm and smug and such like of knocked out of me, 'oh dear oh dear, so whats wrong then?'
'well.... You're cold. You're irresponsible, you don't listen to the thoughts and feelings of others. I think you have trouble accepting other people's opinions.'
At that point, i decided his opinion was ridiculous. Whew. Thank goodness for that. Still, still got an hour, better just wade in deeper I suppose.
'Right.' I said delicately, 'I can't listen to others? As in, I can't empathise?'
Now I watched a programme on Feral Children the other day. And it said the distinguishing features of human beings as opposed to other animals were two things. Speech, and ability to empathise. Was he saying.. was I... half feral?
'Well, you clearly have some issues with it. He pointed to the bit of graph that showed that i clearly had some issues with it. And indeed, there is was. A downward line. Can't really argue with that, can you?
'Oh... oh dear.'
'Yes. Now, is there anything in particaulr that you'd like to work on in your personality?'
I tried not to say 'become a human?' and instead, tried, TRIED, to give this boy one more chance.
'well, i suppose i could do with being more tactful. I have a habit of being horribly inappropriate at terrible times, and I dont want to go into the working world and on my first day end up naked on a coat stand, holding, you know, a raincoat and a dead swan.'
and SUDDENLY something amazing happened. He almost, ALMOST, giggled. I saw it, behind his eyes, something actually happened there and i thought OH MY GOD! There's someone in there! Right.
What commenced next was, I have some trepidation in telling you, a gruelling 15 minutes, where he tried to get me to talk about my failings, and I was absolutely determined to make him laugh. Determined. God it was tough. This was no amatuer game, I think I broke all my funny in the attempt. But,dammit, this boy had a sense of humour behind that dead. I had seen it. I had SEEN it and he was young! practically my age! He could be saved! And finally, deftly, with a ridiculously complicated joke that is too epic to go into now, but safe to say it involved Harry Potter, a fictional dictator called Egburt Margstar, and the phrase 'and oh how the children shall dance the jigs!' he finally, FINALLY, burst out laughing. I sat back, exhausted but gratified. and almost INSTANTLY there was a knock at the door. Honestly. An sort of surpised and quick knock. The door opened and a woman of about three hundred years peered through, with a half frown on her face.
'Are you finished with the analysis?'
A small flash of guilt appeared on the boy's face, and he rearranged my personality papers, 'erm, no, no not yet'.
there was a small silence. Then the woman turned to me and smiled 'OK, well, see you in a while.'
The door closed. Me and the boy, for just a split second, shared a guilty smile. 'Ok, well, I should probably take you through..' he stood up
'through? through where?
'through to Carol, she'll help you with the next part'
NO! i wanted to yell, no, no, lets go, lets go you and me right now and I shall show you the wonders of the true world! But he was gone, gone back to the engrams, and the world where laughter, apparently, is akin to stabbing a child.
Upon entering the next room, it was clear that there was no saving Carol. Carol was old. Carol was about seven hundred and twelce. Carol was gone.
'So I hear that you want to be more tactful?'
I laughed, and said 'oh yes, yes well I suppose my problem is I occasionally say wildly inappropriate things.'
'......WILDY inappropriate?' She looked at me with deadness.
'Well, yeah, I guess so.'
'Wildy???'
By this point, all of a sudden, I'd had enough. It was about half an hour till the show, this woman was reaching for a massive book and I had a feeling that it wasn't one to give me as a freebie. I was right. It turned out in order to begin fixing my personality, I'd have to buy this book ($17.99) and begin a course ($60) starting the following week. Of course, if she'd looked properly on the graph, she'd see that I don't respond to the opinions of others, and wouldn't have bothered. Probably just would have given me a chewy toy to play with in a garden somewhere. I shook her hand, told her firmly that I didn't need any of that, and thanked her for her time. She looked out at me and smiled, told me that was fine, but insisted I took a website address, and that she got my email (NatashaYak@gmail.com). Before I left this cool chamber of potential mad, I looked around one last time for the man who interviewed me. But he'd gone. Possibly to be punished for indulging in the human sin of humour. Perhaps the alien leader believes not in such a vice. Shame. I felt like I could have saved him. Perhaps I could start up my own church. This L.Ron Hubbard guy seems to be right on the money. Hey, I could write a series of books, get a few films out, brainwash a nation with the power of irrational funnies. Got a backpain? You've not said 8 ridiculous words today. Did your wife break up with you? Probably because you haven't been practicing your guffaw technique. Come one, come all, we can help you here. Turning your engrams into fungrams, and it'll only cost you everything you've got.
Which, actually, leads me onto rather nicely to what I was originally going to talk about. God this writing thing is getting easier every day. (just to annoy me, 'God', or whoever it is made me spell 'easier' wrong like seven times whilst writing that sentence. oh very funny.)
So yesterday, I went to see a show in Time Square. oooh exciting well done me etc. But thats not what I'm going to talk about, ohh noo no. Now, if you remember, those who have been dedicated Tash procrastinators (protashitnators? Doesn't work. Damn.) the last time i attempted to go and watch a show in this frightening, human packed arena, I ended up, lost, scared, alone, and next to a freckled wall of a man slowly destroying the soul of a violin. I had no intention of this happening again. So i made sure I arrived a little early. 2 hours early. Excellent planning indeed, I'm sure you'll agree. So, looking around Time Square, and realising that once again, i was back in the place that silence forgot, I needed something to do. Somewhere to go, for free, to kill some time. What did you do? I hear you rise up and cry as one, where? where did you go? Well to be honest, I was dumbstruck. Had no idea. And then. ohhh and then. A man came up to me, and with a slightly frightening smile, placed a leaflet in my hand. 'theres a free film starting every fifteen minutes!' He said, with really massive teeth, and grinning slightly oddly-couldn't quite put my finger on it at the time- he sort of floated away.
I looked down at the flyer. And it all became gloriously, wonderfully, epically clear to me. It was time for me to explore the world of Scientology.
Arriving at the 'church' (ohh we've only just begun), I found another smiley human, this time in female form, she looked up at my entry, 'Hi!' she said, looking genuinely pleased to see me, 'I'm Jodie!'
'Hi Jodie, I'm Tash. I'm er.. here for the free film?' I emphasised the word 'free', just so that I could later proclaim from the start that I never wanted more than I was promised.
'Its your first time here?'
'oh yes. Yes it is.'
'Great' (smile smile grinny grinny smile smile) 'Just come this way'
So, I was shown into a very very empty room, and Jodie pressed a few buttons and a film started to play. I had a sudden irrational but very genuine fear that I was actually going to end up in a situation similar to that of an episode of The Demon Headmaster, dribbling, wearing a clone suit, and failing to crack the 'octopus' code with a knock knock joke.
Now then. I learned some VERY valuable things from this 20 minute presentation. Things I'm going to tell you, because I bet you don't know them, and your life is probably being ruined, as my life had been ruined, because of it. Did you know that we all have 'engrams'? I didn't. An engram is something your brain stores when it has a negative experience. Some insane person might try and call it a 'memory', but its not, its an engram. And these negative engrams are the reasons for all of your problems. Do you get depressed sometimes? Its engrams. Have you ever sneezed? Probably an engram. Did you get your leg chopped off in a freak gammon slicing accident? DEFINATLY engram territory.
I watched this unravel with a mixture of wonder, slight horror, and a fair amount of disbelief. The great thing about this 'scientific' video, is that proof seems to be something that isn't cool enough to be considered. At any point. Instead, they BLOODY LOVE to use 'examples'. And by examples, i mean use actors, with a voice over the top. Graphs are BORING man, lets get a sexy voice to make up some stuff! There must have been 30 of them
'This man had a car accident' (video of slow motion car accident)
'The paramedics are able to save him' (yadda yadda you can imagine)
It cuts to inside the ambulance, where the two 'ambulance men' are having a wee chatsie about relationships, for some bizarre reason. 'Yo, whatever happened to you and Shaniqua?' (PROMISE this is true)
'awww we broke up man. I just couldnt be involved with something so long term.'
V/O kicks in.
'without knowing it, this whole conversation is inbedded in the victims mind, as part of his traumatic engram. See what happens when he later comes across a situation similar to the crash'
Cue conversation with his girlfriend in a car where for no reason, he randomly yells 'I CANT DO THIS ANYMORE. I JUST CANT BE INVOLVED WITH SOMETHING SO LONG TERM'.
And there you have it. Proof that engrams exist.
So the film ended. And INSTANTLY on cue Jodie walks in through the door like an grinny robot.
'Did you enjoy the film?'
'Oh.. yes. It was, umm very interesting.'
'You just need to fill this in.' She hands me a questionnaire, where I'm to put all my details, and answer questions about the film. I decided to use a cunning psudenym (psydenom? psudenim.. whatever. it was very cunning) and so Natasha Yak was born. I only answered one of the questions, and it was 'what do you think the film was trying to say?' I wrote 'That memories can sometimes affect you.' It was either that or 'That you are all as mad as snakes', and I felt that since they were all so grinny, that would be a little on the mean side
Shit though. It had only been 20 minutes. I still had HOURS. I bit my lip. How could I ride this out?
THEN, i noticed a little check box at the bottom. 'Would you like to complete a free personality test/IQ test?' Did I? Ohhh yes I did. Free air conditioning, comfortable chairs and lots of people being nice to me for no reason. Why not?
Jodie was VERY happy I was staying for the tests. She smiled. I smiled. Everyone else in the building silently reading to themselves from a variety of books with soothing covers smiled. I was shown to a little cubicle, and given the tests. Going into them would be highly boring, but I'll just give you an example of the type of question on the personality test
'Do you think your opinion is as important, or more important, that the opinions of others?
Y/N/maybe'
With so much aching room for interpretation on every question, i just ticked yes. Yes it is.
So. about 40 minuted later I waited nervously for my test results. Well, I say nervously, I actually mean quite breezily, comfortably and grinnily. Finally a young man came over, and said he'd be going over them with me. Now I was quite knocked back by this. I thought it would be the kind of result similar to that in a 'Shout' magazine flow chart test, 'Which summer style is 4 U?' where there are in reality only four possible outcomes, and each one is in fact a type of lip gloss, or perhaps a brain washing book. The idea of actually going into a room with a man and talking about my personality hadnt really occurred to me. But oh well, a few more minutes ticked off eh?
We walked into a room together, where I tried to be charming, witty, a bit overly enthusiastic, basically all the things that had gotten me into so much gosh darn adorable trouble so many times before. But something very very weird happened. No matter what I said, there was literally no reaction on his face. It wasn't like with a dear one, where a lovely smile might appear, or with clean shirt's friend, where a vague fear and slight disgust took over. It was just, well, nothing. I felt like i was trying to throw paint up at a ceiling, but it was so far away it not only didn't hit, it just sploshed right back into my face. Something very weird was going on. Eventually I gave up the pleasantries for lost, and we fell into silence. He then took a look at my personality, which was handly staring up at him from a graph. And oh dear. Oh dear Oh dear. It turned out there were A LOT of things wrong with my personality. It was only lucky that I'd come in at all.
'Oh right,' I said rather weakly, all my charm and smug and such like of knocked out of me, 'oh dear oh dear, so whats wrong then?'
'well.... You're cold. You're irresponsible, you don't listen to the thoughts and feelings of others. I think you have trouble accepting other people's opinions.'
At that point, i decided his opinion was ridiculous. Whew. Thank goodness for that. Still, still got an hour, better just wade in deeper I suppose.
'Right.' I said delicately, 'I can't listen to others? As in, I can't empathise?'
Now I watched a programme on Feral Children the other day. And it said the distinguishing features of human beings as opposed to other animals were two things. Speech, and ability to empathise. Was he saying.. was I... half feral?
'Well, you clearly have some issues with it. He pointed to the bit of graph that showed that i clearly had some issues with it. And indeed, there is was. A downward line. Can't really argue with that, can you?
'Oh... oh dear.'
'Yes. Now, is there anything in particaulr that you'd like to work on in your personality?'
I tried not to say 'become a human?' and instead, tried, TRIED, to give this boy one more chance.
'well, i suppose i could do with being more tactful. I have a habit of being horribly inappropriate at terrible times, and I dont want to go into the working world and on my first day end up naked on a coat stand, holding, you know, a raincoat and a dead swan.'
and SUDDENLY something amazing happened. He almost, ALMOST, giggled. I saw it, behind his eyes, something actually happened there and i thought OH MY GOD! There's someone in there! Right.
What commenced next was, I have some trepidation in telling you, a gruelling 15 minutes, where he tried to get me to talk about my failings, and I was absolutely determined to make him laugh. Determined. God it was tough. This was no amatuer game, I think I broke all my funny in the attempt. But,dammit, this boy had a sense of humour behind that dead. I had seen it. I had SEEN it and he was young! practically my age! He could be saved! And finally, deftly, with a ridiculously complicated joke that is too epic to go into now, but safe to say it involved Harry Potter, a fictional dictator called Egburt Margstar, and the phrase 'and oh how the children shall dance the jigs!' he finally, FINALLY, burst out laughing. I sat back, exhausted but gratified. and almost INSTANTLY there was a knock at the door. Honestly. An sort of surpised and quick knock. The door opened and a woman of about three hundred years peered through, with a half frown on her face.
'Are you finished with the analysis?'
A small flash of guilt appeared on the boy's face, and he rearranged my personality papers, 'erm, no, no not yet'.
there was a small silence. Then the woman turned to me and smiled 'OK, well, see you in a while.'
The door closed. Me and the boy, for just a split second, shared a guilty smile. 'Ok, well, I should probably take you through..' he stood up
'through? through where?
'through to Carol, she'll help you with the next part'
NO! i wanted to yell, no, no, lets go, lets go you and me right now and I shall show you the wonders of the true world! But he was gone, gone back to the engrams, and the world where laughter, apparently, is akin to stabbing a child.
Upon entering the next room, it was clear that there was no saving Carol. Carol was old. Carol was about seven hundred and twelce. Carol was gone.
'So I hear that you want to be more tactful?'
I laughed, and said 'oh yes, yes well I suppose my problem is I occasionally say wildly inappropriate things.'
'......WILDY inappropriate?' She looked at me with deadness.
'Well, yeah, I guess so.'
'Wildy???'
By this point, all of a sudden, I'd had enough. It was about half an hour till the show, this woman was reaching for a massive book and I had a feeling that it wasn't one to give me as a freebie. I was right. It turned out in order to begin fixing my personality, I'd have to buy this book ($17.99) and begin a course ($60) starting the following week. Of course, if she'd looked properly on the graph, she'd see that I don't respond to the opinions of others, and wouldn't have bothered. Probably just would have given me a chewy toy to play with in a garden somewhere. I shook her hand, told her firmly that I didn't need any of that, and thanked her for her time. She looked out at me and smiled, told me that was fine, but insisted I took a website address, and that she got my email (NatashaYak@gmail.com). Before I left this cool chamber of potential mad, I looked around one last time for the man who interviewed me. But he'd gone. Possibly to be punished for indulging in the human sin of humour. Perhaps the alien leader believes not in such a vice. Shame. I felt like I could have saved him. Perhaps I could start up my own church. This L.Ron Hubbard guy seems to be right on the money. Hey, I could write a series of books, get a few films out, brainwash a nation with the power of irrational funnies. Got a backpain? You've not said 8 ridiculous words today. Did your wife break up with you? Probably because you haven't been practicing your guffaw technique. Come one, come all, we can help you here. Turning your engrams into fungrams, and it'll only cost you everything you've got.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
things wrong with my life (mainly aural)
Ohhhh my lord I have been so tired today. My living situation, though relatively clean (Adrian more or less picks up after himself) is not exactly ideal. Its one of those things where the more I find out, the less I want to know. yawwwwwwnnn dammit outside world, WHY are you so gosh darn noisy??
There are several problems with the place that I am living presently. Almost all of them are to do with the outside world and all of them are to do with noise. These are the noises my skillful sleep talent (which, to be fair, is pretty finely honed) has to deal with on a daily and nightly basis
1) What I can only fathom to be an 'Owl and son's old fashioned nice n slow drilling company', as they only begin drilling in the late evening, and can carry on..ohhh i don't know... for hours and hours, with only a short break at about midnight where they go on the search for small voles allowing me to swiftly whack myself with a brick and render myself unconscious.
2) A 24 hour icecream van. Very helpful for stoners with the 4am munchies. Not so helpful to ALL OTHER HUMANS. and it only has one tune. oh god that tune. that tune that is seared into my very nerves. it goes like this- 'ner ner NER NEEER na na NEEER nEEER, na na NER NER NER NER NEEERRRR ner. NA na NER NER, NA NA ner ner, NER ner, NER NER ner, NER NERRRRR.' if you think its annoying now, try imagining it not silent. over and over again. Over and over and over again.
3) My apartment- and in particular, my bedroom window- looks out on, if you can believe it, a school playground. Oh yes, thats right. Round about 8am the little scamps romp about, screaming, wailing, stabbing (i assume) and re-stabbing. Luckily the teacher is on hand to shout at them all very loudly to be quiet a lot, so that keeps things nice and ordered.
4) The drilling. i know I've mentioned it already but it is particularly bad this evening so I thought I'd mention it again, because they certainly will.
5) Oh and car alarms and police cars and fire engines and people fighting and outside traffic- but in comparison to the above, this noise could be one of those setting on an alarm clock for a quiet and peaceful awakening, like 'ocean breezes', or 'frog song'.
6) So thats it for the outside pursuits. In terms of the inside, dammit, I feel guilty for saying it but Adrian, you are still a chatter, and you know it. He tries to keep it from about 8pm-11pm, but sometimes he forgets, the wee tyke, so I lovingly throw a shoe at the wall (as has become or custom) to let him know its time for bedsies.
7) Ok this one was a one off, but it was last night and didn't help me with my sleeping situation. The couple I live with, Sarah and Sam, i think have been having some rough times recently, and last night Sam (who I really really don't know at ALL) took to storming off into the bathroom and weeping very loudly and snottily. My bedroom is right next to the bathroom. Its not that I wasn't sympathetic, but, I thought, would you be any less miserable outside on the streets? Perhaps a bit of drilling might cheer you up? Get an icecream perhaps? Of course I didn't do any of that, what I actually did was so horribly British I'm almost ashamed to say it, but I knocked quietly on the door of the bathroom very awkwardly (no one likes to hear a girl cry all lonely like,) and said 'errm.. Sam?.. would you... would you like a cup of tea?' No really. really. I went there. I was Hugh Grant, and I'd just spilled orange juice all over Julia Roberts. She sniffed, surprised and embarrassed and said 'uh, no, thats alright.'
I hung very awkwardly around the door, and, before I scuttled away whispered 'ok, well, I always find it helps in any situation, I'm around for a bit if you change your mind,' and I Englished off to my room, with a strange mix of relief, embarrassment and sadness that I'd been tea rejected by a crying lesbian in a crisis. She seemed to be alright after that, no more weeping, probably went back to her room and told Sarah how 2 dimensional my personality actually is, they had a good laugh and all was forgiven. Still. Always nice to help.
Had ANOTHER terrible 'meeting with the other kind' i like to call the americans that just cannot and will never get me. I was out for a drink with my friend Justin- one who actually does, thank GOD otherwise I would just spew the crazy on the subway or something. which, actually, wouldnt look out of place at all. Anyway, he invited me for a drink, and introduced me to his 'work friends' (always a slightly dodgy sitation I have found.) One of them had a shirt on of SO MUCH PURE WHITE that I was compelled to day, straight off the bat 'Hi, I'm Tash, and I have to say, that shirt really amazingly white. well done you!' for some reason, he wasn't that up for a 'Daz challenge' conversation, and immediatly, after a quick look at Justin as if to say 'really?' turned away. Undeterred, hey there was still three of them left! I turned to the next one, said hello and shook hands. After witnessing the shirt analysis he seemed a little wary, but I carefully steered away from any physical commentary whilst looking at him, which seemed to work for the best. However, he then turned to Justin, and started to talk about the fact that he's just found out about a blockbuster 'Sherlock Holmes' Movie going into production, starring Jude Law and someone else, who he couldnt remember. My ears pricked up. The idea of Sherlock Holmes action flick is, for me rife, positively RIFE with comic potential, and grinning madly, I eagerly joined in the coversation
'An action flick Sherlock Holmes? As in 'Watson you asshole, shoot first, ask questions later bitch?' I then mimed, MIMED, picking up a machine gun and firing at a squad of oncoming pillow thieves or similar.
silence. Justin, bless him, laughed. Work man, looked at me as if i was ACTUALLY insane. I hoped he didnt think I was planning to turn my mime into a reality. Thats not really what i do.
He turned, if possible, even MORE to Justin, and said 'oh yeah, i remember now, they want Jonny Depp to play Sherlock Holmes.'
I could have kept quiet. But then, i never do, do i?
'Jonny Depp?' I squarked, 'The man with the world's most cavernous cheekbones? He's be great, he could store clues in his very face!'
oh the silence. oh the horrible silence.
This man, honestly, must have have realised at that moment what his own personal hell was. And it was having conversations about the comic potential of films. With me.Forever.
But to be honest, I've had the silence after I've asked someone if they've raped my nan. This, frankly, was nothing. I was going nowhere. 'ha, I can just imagine the trailer *puts on deep american voice* THIS SUMMER, the slippers are coming off and the kettle is on. cut to holmes 'sherlock you mad bastard, just put the pipe down man! PUT IT DOWN! *explosion noise fading to silence*'
Nothing. Maybe he was secretly fuming all along because I didn't tell him he had a clean shirt, and his rebuffing my attempts at humour were a way on punishing me. Bastard. Oh well. When that film comes out and he realises they all talk like me he's going to be REALLY upset. And I wont care. As long as he doesnt weep about it in our bathroom, I'll be sleeping like an angel.
There are several problems with the place that I am living presently. Almost all of them are to do with the outside world and all of them are to do with noise. These are the noises my skillful sleep talent (which, to be fair, is pretty finely honed) has to deal with on a daily and nightly basis
1) What I can only fathom to be an 'Owl and son's old fashioned nice n slow drilling company', as they only begin drilling in the late evening, and can carry on..ohhh i don't know... for hours and hours, with only a short break at about midnight where they go on the search for small voles allowing me to swiftly whack myself with a brick and render myself unconscious.
2) A 24 hour icecream van. Very helpful for stoners with the 4am munchies. Not so helpful to ALL OTHER HUMANS. and it only has one tune. oh god that tune. that tune that is seared into my very nerves. it goes like this- 'ner ner NER NEEER na na NEEER nEEER, na na NER NER NER NER NEEERRRR ner. NA na NER NER, NA NA ner ner, NER ner, NER NER ner, NER NERRRRR.' if you think its annoying now, try imagining it not silent. over and over again. Over and over and over again.
3) My apartment- and in particular, my bedroom window- looks out on, if you can believe it, a school playground. Oh yes, thats right. Round about 8am the little scamps romp about, screaming, wailing, stabbing (i assume) and re-stabbing. Luckily the teacher is on hand to shout at them all very loudly to be quiet a lot, so that keeps things nice and ordered.
4) The drilling. i know I've mentioned it already but it is particularly bad this evening so I thought I'd mention it again, because they certainly will.
5) Oh and car alarms and police cars and fire engines and people fighting and outside traffic- but in comparison to the above, this noise could be one of those setting on an alarm clock for a quiet and peaceful awakening, like 'ocean breezes', or 'frog song'.
6) So thats it for the outside pursuits. In terms of the inside, dammit, I feel guilty for saying it but Adrian, you are still a chatter, and you know it. He tries to keep it from about 8pm-11pm, but sometimes he forgets, the wee tyke, so I lovingly throw a shoe at the wall (as has become or custom) to let him know its time for bedsies.
7) Ok this one was a one off, but it was last night and didn't help me with my sleeping situation. The couple I live with, Sarah and Sam, i think have been having some rough times recently, and last night Sam (who I really really don't know at ALL) took to storming off into the bathroom and weeping very loudly and snottily. My bedroom is right next to the bathroom. Its not that I wasn't sympathetic, but, I thought, would you be any less miserable outside on the streets? Perhaps a bit of drilling might cheer you up? Get an icecream perhaps? Of course I didn't do any of that, what I actually did was so horribly British I'm almost ashamed to say it, but I knocked quietly on the door of the bathroom very awkwardly (no one likes to hear a girl cry all lonely like,) and said 'errm.. Sam?.. would you... would you like a cup of tea?' No really. really. I went there. I was Hugh Grant, and I'd just spilled orange juice all over Julia Roberts. She sniffed, surprised and embarrassed and said 'uh, no, thats alright.'
I hung very awkwardly around the door, and, before I scuttled away whispered 'ok, well, I always find it helps in any situation, I'm around for a bit if you change your mind,' and I Englished off to my room, with a strange mix of relief, embarrassment and sadness that I'd been tea rejected by a crying lesbian in a crisis. She seemed to be alright after that, no more weeping, probably went back to her room and told Sarah how 2 dimensional my personality actually is, they had a good laugh and all was forgiven. Still. Always nice to help.
Had ANOTHER terrible 'meeting with the other kind' i like to call the americans that just cannot and will never get me. I was out for a drink with my friend Justin- one who actually does, thank GOD otherwise I would just spew the crazy on the subway or something. which, actually, wouldnt look out of place at all. Anyway, he invited me for a drink, and introduced me to his 'work friends' (always a slightly dodgy sitation I have found.) One of them had a shirt on of SO MUCH PURE WHITE that I was compelled to day, straight off the bat 'Hi, I'm Tash, and I have to say, that shirt really amazingly white. well done you!' for some reason, he wasn't that up for a 'Daz challenge' conversation, and immediatly, after a quick look at Justin as if to say 'really?' turned away. Undeterred, hey there was still three of them left! I turned to the next one, said hello and shook hands. After witnessing the shirt analysis he seemed a little wary, but I carefully steered away from any physical commentary whilst looking at him, which seemed to work for the best. However, he then turned to Justin, and started to talk about the fact that he's just found out about a blockbuster 'Sherlock Holmes' Movie going into production, starring Jude Law and someone else, who he couldnt remember. My ears pricked up. The idea of Sherlock Holmes action flick is, for me rife, positively RIFE with comic potential, and grinning madly, I eagerly joined in the coversation
'An action flick Sherlock Holmes? As in 'Watson you asshole, shoot first, ask questions later bitch?' I then mimed, MIMED, picking up a machine gun and firing at a squad of oncoming pillow thieves or similar.
silence. Justin, bless him, laughed. Work man, looked at me as if i was ACTUALLY insane. I hoped he didnt think I was planning to turn my mime into a reality. Thats not really what i do.
He turned, if possible, even MORE to Justin, and said 'oh yeah, i remember now, they want Jonny Depp to play Sherlock Holmes.'
I could have kept quiet. But then, i never do, do i?
'Jonny Depp?' I squarked, 'The man with the world's most cavernous cheekbones? He's be great, he could store clues in his very face!'
oh the silence. oh the horrible silence.
This man, honestly, must have have realised at that moment what his own personal hell was. And it was having conversations about the comic potential of films. With me.Forever.
But to be honest, I've had the silence after I've asked someone if they've raped my nan. This, frankly, was nothing. I was going nowhere. 'ha, I can just imagine the trailer *puts on deep american voice* THIS SUMMER, the slippers are coming off and the kettle is on. cut to holmes 'sherlock you mad bastard, just put the pipe down man! PUT IT DOWN! *explosion noise fading to silence*'
Nothing. Maybe he was secretly fuming all along because I didn't tell him he had a clean shirt, and his rebuffing my attempts at humour were a way on punishing me. Bastard. Oh well. When that film comes out and he realises they all talk like me he's going to be REALLY upset. And I wont care. As long as he doesnt weep about it in our bathroom, I'll be sleeping like an angel.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Readings, writings, and pourings of wine.
I'm getting a bit painfully aware that my blogatrons of late have been rather thesp-centric, and for those who care not about the theatre, all I can say is, well gto back to watching porn then, and stop trying to distract yourself from life by listening to my ramblings. My internship (which, i've just realised, i have basically failed to mention at all.. wow.. what the hell have I been going on about for 20 bloody posts? Oh yes. Squirrels and that.) Anyway, my internship is theatre, at some point I was going to have to get round to talking about it, and anyway I'm not actually really going to talk about it so stop being so bloody mardy and put the kettle on.
Right. So theatre. Tonight I was working at my venue (its the chocolate factory in queens, if any of you are popping by later), sort of ish co-managing the evening's reading of a play called 'The Verge'., By co-managing, I obviously mean that me and another girl got wine ready for the intermission, I gave some bits of paper to the very serious girl behind the box office, and I sort of looked at all the actors in a superior and very British type way. Of course, when I talk about this to future employers, the story may be a little different. Possibly may involve me wearing a suit and putting out a fire, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it eh?
Now. 'The Verge'. I'd had a little look at the blurby blurb, and it said something about it being about a woman who makes genetically modified frighening plants in a greenhouse. Oh God. And it was a reading. There wasn't even going to be any shiny movement. As I took my seat, I was imagining the next two hours to consist of a very wordy version of The Little Shop Of Horrors, with all the songs and dancemoves edited out to get to the real crux of the tragic tale. I'd nicked a glass of intermission wine(/'I'd check all the fire exits and safety prosecures'-as this tale goes on record) and was prepared to drink away the proceeding time with the logic that, if they weren't going to move, my wine could at least make them wobble. I took a sip as the lights came up. A man stood, walked to a music stand, at procceeded to talk in the WORST fake British accent possibly I have ever heard. Why is it that Americans 'doing' British seem to think that by making their voices higher, gayer and clipped to the point where you can barely make out their words, they magically transform into someone from Surrey? I took another glug. Oh lord, two hours, I thought.
However. Then something very magical happened. He sat down (that wasn't the magical thing, but it was a bloody relief all the same), a new character arrived and suddenly, I was gone. The play was brilliant. In the simplest terms, it was a very wordy-my favourite type-play about a woman who wants so desperately and so deeply, to stretch for possibilities outside what exists, that the prospect of actually achieving what she wants the most ends up disgusting her. In becoming achievable, they lose any semblance of wonder, and trapped in this paradox she ultimately falls apart. This kind of thinking gets me going in a big way. It was horrible, it was beautiful, it was bizarre, and it was funny. The Verge. I've never heard of it, but then, I've heard of about 7 plays- 6 of which I've been in and the other is 'Hedda Gabbler'. Maybe you have. But I bloody bloody freakin loved it. I was utterly absorbed, and these actors were reading from scripts, dressed in jeans and stuttering occasionally over their words. It just didn't matter. I don't even know who wrote it. I could literally just google it now but dammit i'm in a flow and nothing short of a massive need for a wee could stop me now.
So anyway, the point is, it was lovely to be absorbed in something for a change. AND, it was even lovelier to watch something knowing that I didn't know anyone in it, that I hadn't paid, that there was no pressure for it to be good or for me to say interesting and intelligent things about it afterwards. I mean, who was I going to discuss it with? The man next to me on the subway home was a bit too fast asleep to begin a conversation. But it was nice. Refreshing, and kind of surprising.
OH though. There was a BRILLIANT old woman who came to see it, old and grouchy in a 'help me up the stairs for god sake' kind of way. She had never seen anything by the company before, a flyer had just come through her letterbox and on a whim she had decided to come. Which is amazing, and made all of us working there want to be very nice to her in a kind of 'oh look how justififed your decision was' kind of way. The director of the company even, the 'pay no attention to the man behind the curtain' gentleman behind it all even paid her special attention, which was no small achievement. I knew she was brilliant the moment she turned to David (the director) and said 'So. 'Target Margin'. Strange name for a company. Do you have any link with the 'Target' Stores.' Now the momentary disgust and panic on David's face, immediately washed away by a jovial and highly amused smile was a thing of beauty. You have to understand. For him, that question was basically the equivelant of someone asking Peter Brook whether the 'S' in RSC was the same one as in DFS. It was brilliant. I decided to usher her swiftly to her seat, where she muttered that the actors 'better speak up' as she could tell that 'the acoustics in this room are awful'. She stole a quick look at me as if i was going to have a small heart attack at her using the word 'acoustics', and then added 'my son, is an actor.'
'Oh,' I said politely, 'thats amazing!'
'A BRILLIANT actor', she said fiercely.
I wondered that I had accidently said 'yeah but he's shit', instead of 'that's amazing'.
'I often help him with his voicework.'
'mmmm' I said, 'yes well we're about to start I think so-'
'Its all about the WORDS you see. If you can't here the words-
the light started to go down
'yes, yes, but I think the reading is about to
'You don't mess with Shakespeare! Do you know what I'm telling you?'
I nodded in a very silent way, and smiled a smile that I hoped signified 'that is all fascinating, I do hope to continue this later, but now is the time for being quiet, yes?' it was quite a lot for a smile to achieve in ever approaching darkness, but still.
So the first act happened, and I got up to prepare the wine in a post first act-y glow. The woman shifted over to me, attracted obviously to my youthful optimism, and perhaps slightly more to the bottle of red wine in my hand. I poured her a glass and smiled, 'are you enjoying the play?'
She looked at me as if I'd asked a ridiculous question.
'Do you know how many of them I can hear?'
She was on the front row. The actors were maybe 2 and a half feet away from her.
'erm... well, i, i dont know-'
'Two. Two of them. The rest of them, they dont know how to speak.'
'oh. Oh dear.'
'Can you hear them?' She looked at me in a way that told me I could definately not.
'Well, I... I can hear most of it, I mean..' I paused, I wasn't sure how to say politely that the the only bits I couldn't hear were the silent bits.
'HA!' she motioned for some more wine, 'They don't know how to BREATHE. My son,' she looked up again, 'he's an actor,'
'yes you menti-'
he's an ACTOR, and do you know, he was Puck once. Puck. In Midsummer.'
I fought back the automatic catty Tash response of 'oh really? Summer is lovely to perform in! Which play was it?' and instead said 'oh yes?'
'yes. Puck. One of my favourite plays, you know. And there was one scene, in rehearsal, where he FLEW, Flew across the stage and when he landed, he couldn't say a single word, he was so out of breath'.
It occured to me to ask how she knew this, if it was in rehearsal, but she was way ahead of me,
'I like to go to his rehearsals, you know. To check he is breathing properly, to make sure everything can be heard.'
I felt a sudden deep pity for this poor boy, and wondered whether acting was what he always dreamt of, whether in fact he'd dreamt of being a train driver, but his mother had assured him that the breathing for it was just far too difficult for him to even attempt... realising I was in a bit of a self haze, I hastily asked,
'oh well, erm, what scene was it?'
'what?'
'whats scene was the scene where he had to fly?'
She waved away the question with disgust
'Oh I don't know what it was! But he couldn't say a word. But I helped him. And by the peformance, every word, EVERY word was perfect.' She beamed, and took some more wine. 'But THIS show, i mean, can't hear a thing. Terrible breathing, you know.'
'Oh, well, I'm so sorry, maybe I could have a word with the director-'
She gulped and shook her head, 'Oh i already found her. She knows. I've told her to tell her cast for the second act.'
Its nice to be a helpful audience member. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my co-manager girl give me the signal that the second act was starting. Determined not to be caught grinning and nodding into the darkness this time around, I began to usher this pillar of womanhood back to her seat. 'You know what the problem is today with people seeing theatre?' I assured her I didn't, as I pointed quite firmly at the seat in front of me. ''the problem is,' she plonked herself back down into the chair and stared up at me with finality, waving her empty glass into the space around her, 'audiences, are getting ignorent-er and ignorent-er'.
On this bombshell, and with the lights dimming, all i could do was nod and grin (dammit), the much louder second act began, and all thoughts beyond that of non musical little shop of horrors floated away from me. Until now of course. What a night. I also saw a very cool looking man with dredlocks walk into a pillar on the way back, but frankly I'm a little tired, my brain is full, and I need a wee. And nothing can tear me from that call, I'm afraid. Safe to say, it was amusing in the most basic and shameful way possible. And with that, I will leave you. goodnight, and try to keep breathing. Apparently its tricker than it looks.
Right. So theatre. Tonight I was working at my venue (its the chocolate factory in queens, if any of you are popping by later), sort of ish co-managing the evening's reading of a play called 'The Verge'., By co-managing, I obviously mean that me and another girl got wine ready for the intermission, I gave some bits of paper to the very serious girl behind the box office, and I sort of looked at all the actors in a superior and very British type way. Of course, when I talk about this to future employers, the story may be a little different. Possibly may involve me wearing a suit and putting out a fire, but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it eh?
Now. 'The Verge'. I'd had a little look at the blurby blurb, and it said something about it being about a woman who makes genetically modified frighening plants in a greenhouse. Oh God. And it was a reading. There wasn't even going to be any shiny movement. As I took my seat, I was imagining the next two hours to consist of a very wordy version of The Little Shop Of Horrors, with all the songs and dancemoves edited out to get to the real crux of the tragic tale. I'd nicked a glass of intermission wine(/'I'd check all the fire exits and safety prosecures'-as this tale goes on record) and was prepared to drink away the proceeding time with the logic that, if they weren't going to move, my wine could at least make them wobble. I took a sip as the lights came up. A man stood, walked to a music stand, at procceeded to talk in the WORST fake British accent possibly I have ever heard. Why is it that Americans 'doing' British seem to think that by making their voices higher, gayer and clipped to the point where you can barely make out their words, they magically transform into someone from Surrey? I took another glug. Oh lord, two hours, I thought.
However. Then something very magical happened. He sat down (that wasn't the magical thing, but it was a bloody relief all the same), a new character arrived and suddenly, I was gone. The play was brilliant. In the simplest terms, it was a very wordy-my favourite type-play about a woman who wants so desperately and so deeply, to stretch for possibilities outside what exists, that the prospect of actually achieving what she wants the most ends up disgusting her. In becoming achievable, they lose any semblance of wonder, and trapped in this paradox she ultimately falls apart. This kind of thinking gets me going in a big way. It was horrible, it was beautiful, it was bizarre, and it was funny. The Verge. I've never heard of it, but then, I've heard of about 7 plays- 6 of which I've been in and the other is 'Hedda Gabbler'. Maybe you have. But I bloody bloody freakin loved it. I was utterly absorbed, and these actors were reading from scripts, dressed in jeans and stuttering occasionally over their words. It just didn't matter. I don't even know who wrote it. I could literally just google it now but dammit i'm in a flow and nothing short of a massive need for a wee could stop me now.
So anyway, the point is, it was lovely to be absorbed in something for a change. AND, it was even lovelier to watch something knowing that I didn't know anyone in it, that I hadn't paid, that there was no pressure for it to be good or for me to say interesting and intelligent things about it afterwards. I mean, who was I going to discuss it with? The man next to me on the subway home was a bit too fast asleep to begin a conversation. But it was nice. Refreshing, and kind of surprising.
OH though. There was a BRILLIANT old woman who came to see it, old and grouchy in a 'help me up the stairs for god sake' kind of way. She had never seen anything by the company before, a flyer had just come through her letterbox and on a whim she had decided to come. Which is amazing, and made all of us working there want to be very nice to her in a kind of 'oh look how justififed your decision was' kind of way. The director of the company even, the 'pay no attention to the man behind the curtain' gentleman behind it all even paid her special attention, which was no small achievement. I knew she was brilliant the moment she turned to David (the director) and said 'So. 'Target Margin'. Strange name for a company. Do you have any link with the 'Target' Stores.' Now the momentary disgust and panic on David's face, immediately washed away by a jovial and highly amused smile was a thing of beauty. You have to understand. For him, that question was basically the equivelant of someone asking Peter Brook whether the 'S' in RSC was the same one as in DFS. It was brilliant. I decided to usher her swiftly to her seat, where she muttered that the actors 'better speak up' as she could tell that 'the acoustics in this room are awful'. She stole a quick look at me as if i was going to have a small heart attack at her using the word 'acoustics', and then added 'my son, is an actor.'
'Oh,' I said politely, 'thats amazing!'
'A BRILLIANT actor', she said fiercely.
I wondered that I had accidently said 'yeah but he's shit', instead of 'that's amazing'.
'I often help him with his voicework.'
'mmmm' I said, 'yes well we're about to start I think so-'
'Its all about the WORDS you see. If you can't here the words-
the light started to go down
'yes, yes, but I think the reading is about to
'You don't mess with Shakespeare! Do you know what I'm telling you?'
I nodded in a very silent way, and smiled a smile that I hoped signified 'that is all fascinating, I do hope to continue this later, but now is the time for being quiet, yes?' it was quite a lot for a smile to achieve in ever approaching darkness, but still.
So the first act happened, and I got up to prepare the wine in a post first act-y glow. The woman shifted over to me, attracted obviously to my youthful optimism, and perhaps slightly more to the bottle of red wine in my hand. I poured her a glass and smiled, 'are you enjoying the play?'
She looked at me as if I'd asked a ridiculous question.
'Do you know how many of them I can hear?'
She was on the front row. The actors were maybe 2 and a half feet away from her.
'erm... well, i, i dont know-'
'Two. Two of them. The rest of them, they dont know how to speak.'
'oh. Oh dear.'
'Can you hear them?' She looked at me in a way that told me I could definately not.
'Well, I... I can hear most of it, I mean..' I paused, I wasn't sure how to say politely that the the only bits I couldn't hear were the silent bits.
'HA!' she motioned for some more wine, 'They don't know how to BREATHE. My son,' she looked up again, 'he's an actor,'
'yes you menti-'
he's an ACTOR, and do you know, he was Puck once. Puck. In Midsummer.'
I fought back the automatic catty Tash response of 'oh really? Summer is lovely to perform in! Which play was it?' and instead said 'oh yes?'
'yes. Puck. One of my favourite plays, you know. And there was one scene, in rehearsal, where he FLEW, Flew across the stage and when he landed, he couldn't say a single word, he was so out of breath'.
It occured to me to ask how she knew this, if it was in rehearsal, but she was way ahead of me,
'I like to go to his rehearsals, you know. To check he is breathing properly, to make sure everything can be heard.'
I felt a sudden deep pity for this poor boy, and wondered whether acting was what he always dreamt of, whether in fact he'd dreamt of being a train driver, but his mother had assured him that the breathing for it was just far too difficult for him to even attempt... realising I was in a bit of a self haze, I hastily asked,
'oh well, erm, what scene was it?'
'what?'
'whats scene was the scene where he had to fly?'
She waved away the question with disgust
'Oh I don't know what it was! But he couldn't say a word. But I helped him. And by the peformance, every word, EVERY word was perfect.' She beamed, and took some more wine. 'But THIS show, i mean, can't hear a thing. Terrible breathing, you know.'
'Oh, well, I'm so sorry, maybe I could have a word with the director-'
She gulped and shook her head, 'Oh i already found her. She knows. I've told her to tell her cast for the second act.'
Its nice to be a helpful audience member. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my co-manager girl give me the signal that the second act was starting. Determined not to be caught grinning and nodding into the darkness this time around, I began to usher this pillar of womanhood back to her seat. 'You know what the problem is today with people seeing theatre?' I assured her I didn't, as I pointed quite firmly at the seat in front of me. ''the problem is,' she plonked herself back down into the chair and stared up at me with finality, waving her empty glass into the space around her, 'audiences, are getting ignorent-er and ignorent-er'.
On this bombshell, and with the lights dimming, all i could do was nod and grin (dammit), the much louder second act began, and all thoughts beyond that of non musical little shop of horrors floated away from me. Until now of course. What a night. I also saw a very cool looking man with dredlocks walk into a pillar on the way back, but frankly I'm a little tired, my brain is full, and I need a wee. And nothing can tear me from that call, I'm afraid. Safe to say, it was amusing in the most basic and shameful way possible. And with that, I will leave you. goodnight, and try to keep breathing. Apparently its tricker than it looks.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
The wonder of the theatre
Hello again, my little pyjamas, ohhh ho ho ho have I got a yarn to spin for you this evening. Climb up on daddy's knee and lets have some fun (you are all sick).
Tonight, I went to the theatre (actually I went to the 'theater', but in many ways they are very similar.) I, for 10 of my sweet American shiny-well, papery, at least- dollars, got to see two hours of literally the most bizarre, face scrunching, armpit moistening spectacles I have ever seen in my life. I know you all watched eurovision, so I may have somethingto compete with on the madness front, but really, I'm looking at my hand here, and I'm feelin so damn good I'm reaching for the gold chips. (If by the end of the metaphor you thought I was talking about food, i have, yet again, failed.)
So, to brief you on the venue, it was like quite a scummy- but not impressively scummy- C venue, for those who are noble of the Ed Fringe walk of life. For those who are not, tough. Its late, and I can't be bothered to come up with another comparison. Whatever the words 'C Venue' mean to you now, just picture that in your mind as we do this. If you have dolphins involved, take them out. There are none.
Bearing in mind, as we now all are, the physical limits of the humble lower class C venue, I was alarmed, but rather intriuged, to see a trapeze slowly lower itself down into the tiny black space. Ahh, I thought fondly, the trapeze. At its most impressive when freed of that horribly distracting swinging business.
I was interrupted in my smuggy smug smug train of thought by the sudden appearance of a girl dressed as a garden gnome, with full silvery beard. She climbed onto the trapeze. And then began 'Slowish Vertical Dance of the Incongruent Gnome' (ok fine it was actually called 'Eye of the Tiger', but that makes SO little sense it almost makes me angry, so I'm pretending that the title at least offered me a consoling hand of reason as I slid into a ever deepening pit of baffling.)
The gnome sort of stood on the ropes a bit, stroked her beard quite a lot, and then skipped away, leaving me wondering if she had ever actually been there. Maybe that was the point. (That wasn't the point). As I was trying to process that, a hopelessly eager stagehand (I BET she had a saftey gnome costume and all the moves practised ready to go should gnome 1 sprain her beard.) moved across a projector screen, and a short film, poignantly entitled "bricks" began. The programme had stated proudly that this film had been entirely filmed 'using the Sony Ericsson 810i cell phone'. I quickly realised that I had misread the intention, and what I thought was pride was actually apologetic. I'm pretty sure someone working in a building site had accidently left his phone on film mode, recorded about 8 minutes of mainly wall but with some flashes of sawdust being dropped onto the floor, and had then pressed the 'send to brooklyn theatre festival' button than characterises the 810i. Truly, that is the only logical explanation.
-You see, at this point I was very happy, as I could find perfectly good reasons for how any madness had occurred. But soon, there was no consolation to be found.
I could talk about this event all night, I could tell you tales of fruit basket guarding lizards, of kitchen sink lesbi-dramas that erupt alarmingly into french song, of significantly emotional 'Football' players and their slow motion smoking habits. But I'd feel like I'd be fighting a losing battle. It'd be that bit in tetris where you do the one massive fuck up with the long one, and after that, no matter how you try and keep up, you know in your heart its just not the same. You know when you try to explain to your loved one just WHY the dream with the single potato and the Dove shower gel was so damn frightening, but it just doesn't translate? Yeah. Like that.
So, I will only talk about one more 'piece', though I could go on, I won't, because you're all heartless bastards and don't care that much. But I just want to grant you a small peek into 'Submitted to Pfizer for approval: Dilation #26', a 20 minute exploration of the 'terrifying possibilities' that xray vision could bring for the subject granted it (by eyedrops, somehow. It's theatre! Science has no business here!). I can't really go into the details (no really, I just don't think I have the word skill for it), but safe to say, it turns out that xray vision exploration ends with a half naked woman wrestling a sinister giant eyeball on the floor, while a man in a coat slowly and carefully shreds line drawings of small girls riding horses. I think we all could have come to that conlusion ourselves. Oh God. The massive eyeball. You don't understand. the woman was WRESTLING A MASSIVE EYEBALL. To the soundtrack of Warwick University's production of Macbeth-which I will not go into now. My mind is disturbed enough. I need to go to sleep. Maybe when I wake up it will all have been a dream, and my not being able to explain it properly will seem correct and just.
On another note, I sat next to a chatty-ish man in the theatre, which is fine by me, but I am beginning to get bored. bored of my story. 'oh I'm here doing from england..6 weeks blah blah blah', if ONE more person utters the words 'oh really, what kind of internship?' I think I'm going to eat their hands. This boredom came to a head this evening, when this man asked the question that immediately puts anyone out of the conversation game with me. The question 'So, like, which part of London are you from?' ARGH. I think something went, some fuse, and before I knew what happened, I found myself saying 'Essex, actually. But I live in New York now, been living here for six months'. That's fine, thats ok, I can blag that. He nods. 'oh ok cool. So what do you do?'
Now come on brain, just say you're doing an internship, its ok, just get it over with
'I write for a magazine.'
Thats not really true is it Tash?
'Oh yeah? whats the magazine?'
Whats the magazine, tash?
'Its a theatre magazine..
ok... ok we can handle that-
'theatre.. and cheese'
WHY DID I ADD CHEESE? WHY COULDN'T I BE CONTENT? I am such a twat sometimes I swear to god, i'm so glad I don't know me. You people are idiots.
'Really? Theatre and cheese? Thats AWESOME!'
'Yeah, thanks.'
'So, whats it called?'
Ah. Now. Luckily for me I thrive under pressure, and I have to admit, I was pretty proud of what came out next,
'Its called Ham..let. And cheese- er Sandwich. Hamlet and Cheese Sandwich.'
'Thats AWESOME'
'yes. yes it is.'
Now the sad thing about having a conversation in a theater is that its not like having a conversation in a bar. You can't really subtley glide away in a theatre seat. You can't really go to the toilet and never come back. I've paid my ticket. I'm staying. And now, I'm stuck making small cheese talk to a man I don't know. I was VERY LUCKY in that he obviously knew nothing about either topics, as my theatre knowledge might just have kept me afloat, my cheese knowledge doesn't go beyond 'cheddar is good on crackers' and 'philapdelphia is dead soft'. Sigh. He promised to check out our online publication when he got back. http://www.hamletandcheesesandwich.org/ Maybe it does exist. If not, I hope someday it will.
Thankfully though, there was a conveniently placed eye-wrestling nakeder to attract his attention, and to focus all the possible questions of the universe upon.
And so at the end of the show I managed to slip away,back into my shameful and shadowy non-magaziney darkness, back to my tired old internship, leaving him in suspence, as suspended as a grome-ridden trapeze. Oh lord. I have insane enough dreams when I've been sat at a computer all day long. God only knows whats going to happen tonight.
Tonight, I went to the theatre (actually I went to the 'theater', but in many ways they are very similar.) I, for 10 of my sweet American shiny-well, papery, at least- dollars, got to see two hours of literally the most bizarre, face scrunching, armpit moistening spectacles I have ever seen in my life. I know you all watched eurovision, so I may have somethingto compete with on the madness front, but really, I'm looking at my hand here, and I'm feelin so damn good I'm reaching for the gold chips. (If by the end of the metaphor you thought I was talking about food, i have, yet again, failed.)
So, to brief you on the venue, it was like quite a scummy- but not impressively scummy- C venue, for those who are noble of the Ed Fringe walk of life. For those who are not, tough. Its late, and I can't be bothered to come up with another comparison. Whatever the words 'C Venue' mean to you now, just picture that in your mind as we do this. If you have dolphins involved, take them out. There are none.
Bearing in mind, as we now all are, the physical limits of the humble lower class C venue, I was alarmed, but rather intriuged, to see a trapeze slowly lower itself down into the tiny black space. Ahh, I thought fondly, the trapeze. At its most impressive when freed of that horribly distracting swinging business.
I was interrupted in my smuggy smug smug train of thought by the sudden appearance of a girl dressed as a garden gnome, with full silvery beard. She climbed onto the trapeze. And then began 'Slowish Vertical Dance of the Incongruent Gnome' (ok fine it was actually called 'Eye of the Tiger', but that makes SO little sense it almost makes me angry, so I'm pretending that the title at least offered me a consoling hand of reason as I slid into a ever deepening pit of baffling.)
The gnome sort of stood on the ropes a bit, stroked her beard quite a lot, and then skipped away, leaving me wondering if she had ever actually been there. Maybe that was the point. (That wasn't the point). As I was trying to process that, a hopelessly eager stagehand (I BET she had a saftey gnome costume and all the moves practised ready to go should gnome 1 sprain her beard.) moved across a projector screen, and a short film, poignantly entitled "bricks" began. The programme had stated proudly that this film had been entirely filmed 'using the Sony Ericsson 810i cell phone'. I quickly realised that I had misread the intention, and what I thought was pride was actually apologetic. I'm pretty sure someone working in a building site had accidently left his phone on film mode, recorded about 8 minutes of mainly wall but with some flashes of sawdust being dropped onto the floor, and had then pressed the 'send to brooklyn theatre festival' button than characterises the 810i. Truly, that is the only logical explanation.
-You see, at this point I was very happy, as I could find perfectly good reasons for how any madness had occurred. But soon, there was no consolation to be found.
I could talk about this event all night, I could tell you tales of fruit basket guarding lizards, of kitchen sink lesbi-dramas that erupt alarmingly into french song, of significantly emotional 'Football' players and their slow motion smoking habits. But I'd feel like I'd be fighting a losing battle. It'd be that bit in tetris where you do the one massive fuck up with the long one, and after that, no matter how you try and keep up, you know in your heart its just not the same. You know when you try to explain to your loved one just WHY the dream with the single potato and the Dove shower gel was so damn frightening, but it just doesn't translate? Yeah. Like that.
So, I will only talk about one more 'piece', though I could go on, I won't, because you're all heartless bastards and don't care that much. But I just want to grant you a small peek into 'Submitted to Pfizer for approval: Dilation #26', a 20 minute exploration of the 'terrifying possibilities' that xray vision could bring for the subject granted it (by eyedrops, somehow. It's theatre! Science has no business here!). I can't really go into the details (no really, I just don't think I have the word skill for it), but safe to say, it turns out that xray vision exploration ends with a half naked woman wrestling a sinister giant eyeball on the floor, while a man in a coat slowly and carefully shreds line drawings of small girls riding horses. I think we all could have come to that conlusion ourselves. Oh God. The massive eyeball. You don't understand. the woman was WRESTLING A MASSIVE EYEBALL. To the soundtrack of Warwick University's production of Macbeth-which I will not go into now. My mind is disturbed enough. I need to go to sleep. Maybe when I wake up it will all have been a dream, and my not being able to explain it properly will seem correct and just.
On another note, I sat next to a chatty-ish man in the theatre, which is fine by me, but I am beginning to get bored. bored of my story. 'oh I'm here doing from england..6 weeks blah blah blah', if ONE more person utters the words 'oh really, what kind of internship?' I think I'm going to eat their hands. This boredom came to a head this evening, when this man asked the question that immediately puts anyone out of the conversation game with me. The question 'So, like, which part of London are you from?' ARGH. I think something went, some fuse, and before I knew what happened, I found myself saying 'Essex, actually. But I live in New York now, been living here for six months'. That's fine, thats ok, I can blag that. He nods. 'oh ok cool. So what do you do?'
Now come on brain, just say you're doing an internship, its ok, just get it over with
'I write for a magazine.'
Thats not really true is it Tash?
'Oh yeah? whats the magazine?'
Whats the magazine, tash?
'Its a theatre magazine..
ok... ok we can handle that-
'theatre.. and cheese'
WHY DID I ADD CHEESE? WHY COULDN'T I BE CONTENT? I am such a twat sometimes I swear to god, i'm so glad I don't know me. You people are idiots.
'Really? Theatre and cheese? Thats AWESOME!'
'Yeah, thanks.'
'So, whats it called?'
Ah. Now. Luckily for me I thrive under pressure, and I have to admit, I was pretty proud of what came out next,
'Its called Ham..let. And cheese- er Sandwich. Hamlet and Cheese Sandwich.'
'Thats AWESOME'
'yes. yes it is.'
Now the sad thing about having a conversation in a theater is that its not like having a conversation in a bar. You can't really subtley glide away in a theatre seat. You can't really go to the toilet and never come back. I've paid my ticket. I'm staying. And now, I'm stuck making small cheese talk to a man I don't know. I was VERY LUCKY in that he obviously knew nothing about either topics, as my theatre knowledge might just have kept me afloat, my cheese knowledge doesn't go beyond 'cheddar is good on crackers' and 'philapdelphia is dead soft'. Sigh. He promised to check out our online publication when he got back. http://www.hamletandcheesesandwich.org/ Maybe it does exist. If not, I hope someday it will.
Thankfully though, there was a conveniently placed eye-wrestling nakeder to attract his attention, and to focus all the possible questions of the universe upon.
And so at the end of the show I managed to slip away,back into my shameful and shadowy non-magaziney darkness, back to my tired old internship, leaving him in suspence, as suspended as a grome-ridden trapeze. Oh lord. I have insane enough dreams when I've been sat at a computer all day long. God only knows whats going to happen tonight.
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