Just a very quick note, on something that deserves a very long, rapturous ramble, and will probably get one:
I saw Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead starring Jamie Parker and Samuel Barnett at the Theatre Royal Haymarket tonight. (It has been - and will continue to be - a week of excellence, and of treating myself. I am giddy with excitement over the concert tomorrow! And then I think I will go to the Canada Day celebrations on Friday.) I am probably going to see it again. It was incredible.
My favourite History Boys (Pos & Scripps for those who don’t recognise the actors’ names) in my favourite play by my favourite playwright. The culmination of so much that meant everything to me in my high school days, the development of my literary loves and tastes. And, just, not only was it so good - I have seen Parker on stage before, at the Globe as Prince Hal, so I knew going into it that he’d be amazing, but his Guildenstern is perfect, radiating helpless confusion compounded by his startling intellect. And Barnett’s Rosencrantz is oblivious but also perfectly arch and occasionally withering with scorn, in a way people who know the film probably wouldn’t be expecting, but which works very well indeed. And that’s just the two leads - the Player & his men, Hamlet, the costume designs, the direction, the stage design (oh god, the stage design) - all of it is so good.
And this is rambly and gushy and emotional and uncritical and probably pretty mushy because I just got home and haven’t had time to think it through and I came into this production with an already strong love of the play and its leads, and I will take the time and effort to write a proper review later. But for now I just wanted a record of the glowy feeling I came out of the theatre into the warm London night with, because I have been very very sad these past few weeks, and I’ve spent this week using art as a healing balm, and I laughed a lot tonight, but I was also touched, and challenged. Because this play (and it has since I was 13), and now this production, means a lot to me.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
So, as you can see below, I am slowly but surely getting myself back into the habit of blogging around here. It’s been a bit of a push to do so. I have been so tired. When I am sad, I react like a turtle; I retreat into myself and let the thick shell that has had years of growth keep me safe. I can go for days without engaging or interacting. And that’s okay as a primary defence mechanism - though I know there are people who’d disagree with me - but it’s definitely not okay as a way of life. And so I’ve been focussing most of the energy that I’ve not been using on just getting through the days on doing my best not to succumb to the instinct to be a zombie.
Saying that I haven’t been writing is not completely true, either. I have been writing quite a bit, but it has all been for myself. It’s the sharing that has felt like effort. I’ve a thick black notebook I bought myself in Oxford that’s been slowly but surely filling with diary entries and notes to myself and quotes I like and lists and all sorts of assorted other jottings, even the odd drawing. There’s a daisy from the field next to Christ Church College pressed between the pages, and an odd greeny-grey mark from where I dipped my finger in my absinthe and drew it down the page in Auvers-sur-Oise. It smells of the leather of my satchel and a faint hint of my perfume - though I may be imagining the latter. It’s the first time I’ve kept a proper diary - not a notebook, not an online journal - in a good long while.
I’ve written before about how I lost my voice for a while, and how I got it back, and how important honesty and writing are to me. The practice of keeping a diary varies for everyone, both in approach to and want of doing so. I think it works for me, not just because it means I keep a far more detailed record of my life than I had before. I am, in essence, having an extended conversation with myself in those pages. I was so so scared that I was going to stop writing completely after my father died, because I was pretty sure that if I lost it again I wouldn't have the energy to fight to get it back. Instead, words have become more of a necessity for me than ever before; they are my solace and my distraction (I have read more and faster this year than any since I was still in elementary school), but they are also my filter and the way through which I approach the world. That is, I think, a good part of the reason I have been copying so many quotes down alongside my own writings:
Why does tragedy exist? Because you are full of rage. Why are you full of rage? Because you are full of grief. — Anne Carson
I don’t want to have the terrible limitation of the person who lives only by what can be made to make sense. — Clarice Lispector
She wanted a story, a narrative; she wanted to be whole, not broken. She believed it would keep her “from flying into black bits.” — Carole Maso
Here is our problem, Sylvia: how to feel enough anger to survive and yet not to soil one’s ability to love, how to love, open oneself up, be free, and not be destroyed. Is love always a body climbing over a forbidden wall with a spotlight & machine gun on it? Is honesty always suicide? Would we all die like you, if we were honest? — Diane Wakoski
Bravery and submission are far closer than one realizes. Each is risk, each receives its own reward. — Anne Quinn
(What I most need is to record experiences, not in the order in which they took place – for that is just history – but in the order in which they first became significant for me.) — Laurence Durrell
I always planned on coming back to this blog. Sometimes you just have to let things happen organically, and it feels like time. I have such things to tell you about, too! The rest of my time in Paris, my Van Gogh pilgrimage, adventures with friends from Canada, stores for monsters, my exploits in jobhunting and what I do in between...
I'll do my best not to disappear for so often or so long any more.
oh god. oh god, this feels just like a boot to the gut. my dad raised me on springsteen and the e street band. they’ve always been a part of my life, and always will be. and, i mean, i knew - everybody knew - that it was coming. the last time i saw the e street band live was a few years ago, but even then it was obvious that clarence was getting old, getting weaker. he sat through a lot of the concert. and of course the stroke earlier this week. but that doesn’t make it hurt any less.
and the worst part of it all is that all i can think of is my dad, how he would have felt, how he would have reacted. he would have cried just like i am now, i know that - he was never ‘too manly’ to cry. and… god, i wish i had something coherent to say, but it just hurts too much, so soon after becoming so familiarly acquainted with death to have it shoved back in my face again, and like this. this is a selfish reaction, i know. it’s grief.
rip ‘big man’. you are unreplicatable, a giant among men. to his family and friends, my love and best wishes.
Friday, June 17, 2011
i think that i’ve finally reached the point in my grief where i am ready to crack open the protective shell i’ve built around myself and start working on expansion and expression again. i needed to just hold on tight to my soul for a while, and that’s okay, but i also can’t stay like this forever. i need to start moving forward and working through the pain, no matter how scary a thought that is, because otherwise the healing becomes just paralysis. and that’s not okay. he wouldn’t have wanted that for me; he would have wanted better. i deserve better.
so, i’m not really sure how to go about it, but i know i’m going to start with really focussing on me, instead of letting myself be numb, or keeping myself distracted. and i know that i’m probably going to hit rock bottom in doing so, but once i’ve done that the only way to go is back up, and dammit i’m going to do that too. and i’m going to work on nourishing myself - body, mind, heart, and soul - as much as possible. life is short; i understand that now. i’m going to learn how to say yes to everything instead of a fear-based no, i’m going back to working on making my dreams reality, i’m going to dig deep into myself, i’m going to try hard, i’m going to go back to being that mad and passionate mess that i am at my very best. i’m going to make him so fucking proud of me.
Everything is holy! everybody’s holy! everywhere is holy! everyday is in eternity! Everyman’s an angel!
For some reason, whenever I get homesick, I always get all masochistic and make it even worse by trolling through facebook or watching videos like this, or a hundred other things.
When I tell people here where I’m from, I always just say Vancouver - as opposed to Victoria, or Vancouver Island - because they’re way more likely to know where that is. And even then, so many (especially continental Europeans, it seems, but some Brits too) ask me “why? Why would you leave there to move here?” and I always say “For a change, to try something new; I can always go back.” And I can, and I know this, but on days like this I can’t help but wonder why myself. (Weirdly, whenever I’m homesick for Victoria these days, I find myself homesick for Vancouver, too. The two are far from interchangeable, but for some reason I end up wanting both. Maybe because Vancouver is big and dirty enough to satisfy, on some levels, both my love for London and for Victoria?)
And I know it’ll pass, especially once I’ve found work and meet some more people again, and probably a proper night’s sleep wouldn’t hurt. But all the same, even when it’s not a I-want-to-go-back-right-now desperation, and especially I think now that summer’s in swing, I really miss my home sometimes. I’m from one of the most beautiful, wonderful places in the world as far as I’m concerned. Which is not to say that I don’t love London, too: most of the time, I really, really do. I love my little bedroom in this haunted house, I love Camden and Brick Lane and Portobello, I love dubstep nights and intimate folk gigs, I love the parks and the streets and how huge and all-encompassing the city is, how it feels important, and how you’re only ever bored here when you let yourself be. Which is funny because what I love about Victoria is the exact opposite: the nature, the beaches, the west coast hippy vibe, the friendliness, how intimate a city it - small, but important in that it holds everyone I love. The thing is, I’ve never met Vince Vaccaro (only seen him play), but I recognise everywhere that is in this video. I that, and the beauty of it all, almost as much as I miss my friends and family.
I am so excited. I literally cannot stop grinning. My cheeks hurt. Like, actually, a year ago I was in Victoria, panicking about moving to London. I spent most of my time hiding in my room. Opted out of even local gigs with friends at least half the time. And now I`m going to see five of my absolute favourite musical acts, by myself, in Hyde Park. I need festival-appropriate footwear, stat. I also need a job, to finance my music habit. And some friends actually in this city would be nice (stop leaving me, you fuckers!). But, you know, so much happens in a year. And a lot of it has been amazing, and a lot of it has been shit, but aside from the obvious one thing, I wouldn't change a bit of it.
