a rainy day production

Theater has always been an art which attempts to recreate life and reflect it back to an audience with a bended mirror. It examines the triumphs and failures, strengths and frailties of the human condition, occasionally adding music or comedy into the mix. But why do people actually go to see plays if all they do is reflect life, something which we can experience firsthand for free? In my opinion, I think people go to plays consciously to be entertained, but subconsciously to find something of themselves in the characters. The plays we like best are often the ones we can most identify with, whether we realize it or not. Although the position is in much contention, my most favorite play is probably “My Fair Lady,” originally George Bernard Shaw’s “Pygmalion”. I first saw it when I was 5, adapted to the screen starring Rex Harrison and Audrey Hepburn. As soon as my mom would feed the plastic block to the VHS I would sprint up stairs to put on my dress-up skirt so I could dance along to all the songs, escorted by Teddy who sashayed me around the room. Although most of the intellectual, social, and mature adult material flew straight over my head, I still felt like I understood the play, even if I didn’t quite work out the plot line. It was about a poor girl who worked very hard so she could dance and wear pretty things, and she eventually falls in love with her teacher. As I got older, and the VHS got more and more play time, the subtleties and social implications began to emerge, resulting in a new found admiration and deeper understanding of the play. Every time I see it, or read it, I discover more and more, and my love and respect for “My Fair Lady” multiply exponentially. The sensations I felt when I was 5 have not diminished or changed, and they return, intact, each time I listen to “Wouldn't It Be Loverly” or “Just You Wait.” It is interesting to think that tribal Shaman were simultaneously healers and storytellers, that stories acted as remedies. When I was sick, I would lay on the couch and watch My Fair Lady and, “with a little bit of luck”, I would feel a lot better. In this way I like to think of theaters as giant pharmacies, delivering remedies to the masses. But a remedy for what? Perhaps a remedy for everyday life, a remedy to the parts of ourselves that are missing or submerged, a part of ourselves we’d rather not admit to. Eliza Doolittle represents both parts of myself, one I’d rather not admit to, and one I’d like to be. She is naïve and abrasive, but she becomes refined and educated. But in the play Eliza prescribes my favorite remedy of all: a room somewhere, a big chair, lots of chocolate, and a man who loves her. What more could anyone ask for in life?

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YEcX9gNVg1U 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pwNKyTktDIE&feature=related

rainy day routine (or lack thereof)

Living in London is the antithesis to having a routine, and so I have come to dread routine. Come April 30^th I will be a wreck. My palms will sweat, my eyes will feel dry and puffy from crying, and I may even break out in a rash. To live every day the same way? How dreadful. But this is what my life was like before London. Routine. Synonymous with boring. Antonymous with fun. I woke up, probably put on a white men’s Hane’s v-neck, a pair of jeans, converse, and a jacket, if not a winter parka and boots. I walked the same way to class and the same way home every day. I spoke to no one in person until 4pm when I got to work.

I went to school. 

 

I worked. 

 

I did homework. 

Dull, drudgery, dull. The only times I felt life was actually worth living was when Jacob would come visit, but his absence would soon be filled minutes after he left with an unshakeable melancholy and a bout of procrastination. In the solitude of my apartment, I cleaned the stove, the tiny countertop, the floor, the entire bathroom and reorganized my possessions time and time again to distract me from my loneliness and desolation. As a result, the apartment was always spotless, but empty. Sometimes I entertained the thought of leaving crumbs out in hopes it would attract a mouse. At least I would have some company. 

I lived alone. I ate alone. I slept alone. And then something wonderful happened: I came to London. Suddenly I was surrounded by people all the time. I had no privacy, no space, no alone time, and most importantly, no routine. I woke up at sporadic intervals; I ate 5 meals and 6 snacks a day; I spoke to at least 10 people before noon. I couldn’t have a job: work visas are impossible to obtain. I couldn’t clean: it was pointless because we have cleaning ladies. I was forced to just have fun. 

My eduvacation, as my parents like to call it, started off with a bang, and a lot of booze at the good old Gloucester Arms. I would find myself going out on a Monday, and a Tuesday, and a Wednesday, and even a Sunday night, events which were unheard of in my previous life. I was pregaming study sessions, jet-setting on the weekends, shopping when I shouldn’t and buying clothes I never thought I would ever wear. I went to clubs and pubs and danced away to the beat of subs, and I finally, truly, began to enjoy my life. I miss my family, my dogs Ollie and Murphy, and of course, my boyfriend, but I do not miss my old, routine, blasé daily existence. I finally understood why people always said “your 20’s are the best years of your life.” It’s the time when time isn’t scheduled down to the millisecond, before the real world of work and mortgages and taxes takes over, before “the rest of your life” begins.  

However, there are constants here: dirty dishes in the kitchen, clouds in the sky, skype sessions with Jacob; but there is still no schedule, no habitual daily activities, no repetitive actions. I love the chaotic and free-flowing nature of life, of walking through the park when I want to, not getting up until I feel like it, and having every night free for adventures. All good things must come to an end, and so I know my time in London is running out quicker than sand through an hour glass. I’ll always remember my time here as one in which I lived life in all directions. I embraced my 20’s and I lived as selfishly and leisurely as possible. I truly experienced London.  

     

a rainy day romance

“Music takes us out of the actual and whispers to us dim secrets that startle our wonder as to who we are, and for what, whence, and whereto.” The words of Ralph Waldo Emerson sill resonate with truth today. But instead of igniting these sentiments in me, music answers them. As Victor Hugo once said “Music expresses that which cannot be put into words and cannot remain silent.” Words make you think a thought, music makes you feel a feeling, and so a song makes you feel a thought. The answers to the questions I have never seem to come in words, only in feelings, and so music sometimes is the only answer.

“You’re from mars; you think like a freak.” In a heated argument, when I was 14 years old, my mother shouted these words at me. This was the first time I truly felt like a martian: the woman who gave birth to me was staring at me like I was a sideshow exhibition at a circus. I was an alien abomination, a creature from another planet. Like any dramatic teenager, I stomped off to my room to hide away for the day, but those angry words burned and stung in my head. Once in my room, I typed the words into Google search, hoping the vast expanses and infinite wisdom of the internet could help console me in my time of shock. If you type these words in today, you’ll get a whole host of links, usually for Bruno Mars, Veronica Mars, Life on Mars, and 30 Seconds to Mars, but when I was 14, Ballrooms of Mars by T. Rex revealed itself and I clicked on it. Although the name T. Rex usually connotes a large, carnivorous dinosaur with stubby arms and sharp teeth, this T. Rex was not of the same species. Instead of guttural sounds from a giant beast, I heard the ephemeral and effeminate voice of Marc Bolan. 

“I'll call you thing, Just when the moon sings, And place your face in Stone, Upon the hill of stars, And gripped in the arms, Of the changeless madman, We'll dance our lives away, In the Ballrooms of Mars” Marc didn’t see my extraterrestrial origins as freakish or absurd; he saw it as beautiful and ethereal. T.Rex, unlike the long departed king of the prehistoric world, was non-threatening, strong without being rough, gentle without being weak. An article hailing Marc and the band once said that "for the first time in pop history, we have a superstar not projecting sex but romance. Sex is a part of it, but it's sex by courtesy of the magic prince, who is going to defile the young virgin in an atmosphere of blissful romance." And in a whirl-wind romance I fell in love with T. Rex. I jammed out in my car on the way to school while listening to “20^th Century Boy,” pranced around my room to “Cosmic Dancer” and pondered the transient nature of peace, lying next to Jacob, listening to “Life’s a Gas.”  T.Rex serenaded me with "Jeepster" moved me with "One Inch Rock," and helped me "blossom" with "Baby Boomerang."

“When people hear good music, it makes them homesick for something they never had, and never will have.” (Edgar Watson Howe) Before coming to London, the homeland of T-rextasy, I felt homesick for something I was never a part of, a place and time and feeling I'll never be able to experience first hand. Upon arrival, I had an uncanny feeling of coming home, of being closer to the place where a fellow martian landed. Although the streets of London are filled with their own kind of music, and the people walk to so many different "beats of a different drum" it's anxiety provoking to walk here, I still listen to T.Rex and feel homesick.  I’ll never hear them play a live show, or watch them strut the stage in women’s boots, all glammed up with haloes of curls rhythmically radiating around their heads. I'll never get the chance to be seduced by the mystical Marc Bolan, or "twist and shout" or " let it all hang out". No, you won’t fool the children of the revolution, but you’ll never be one of them either. 

  

 “Without music, life would be an error” (Nietzsche) Without music, I would never have a way of answering all my impossible questions. “Music and rhythm find their way into the secret places of the soul” (Plato). They reverberate there, striking perfect harmony with the feelings that words cannot contain. T. Rex is the answer to my question: How does it feel to think like a martian? It feels like T. Rex.

the rain in spain stays mainly in the plain

As I swung the door wide open, balancing on my right foot and extending my left toe to act as a door stopper, I was smacked in the face by the cold, dark, and damp London morning air. The smell of the park juxtaposed with the stench of diesel exhaust from the buses caused my nose to crinkle in disgust. A light hint of garbage wafted from the dumpster as I rolled my obese luggage over the gum stained sidewalk towards the Gloucester underground station. There were a few people out on the street, but not many. I felt like a grunge-muffin as I passed a slender women clad in a designer suit, balancing on 3 inch spike-heeled black leather boots. Lugging my baggage behind me, I mentally reviewed the route to London City Airport: Circle/District line to Westminster, change over to the Jubilee line, get off at Canning Town and change over to the DLR towards Woolwich Arsenal, and eventually, after 1 hour and 15 minutes of travel, get off at London City Airport, sweaty, exhausted, and still puffy around the eyes. Making sure to smile abundantly, I try to radiate friendly, happy vibes at the airport staff, hoping they'll be so overwhelmed they don't realize that my "carry-on plus laptop bag" are seriously over-sized and overweight. I finally make it onto the plane, take enough items off out of my bag to squeeze it into the overhead storage locker, and fall asleep, a pile of shoes and the Brita on my lap....

From my slumber, a soft and bright light beckoned me awake. Drawing back my eyelids, I peeked through the shutters of my lashes and a breathtaking scene came into focus beneath me. I was soaring over majestic blue mountains which gave way to lush valleys, cradling small villages with terracotta roofs between them. This was my first sight of Spain, amor a primera vista. After frantically re-stuffing my bag with my "necessities" I waited anxiously in the aisle to disembark the plane. Emerging into the Barcelona morning, I was overwhelmed by Spanish sunlight, it's warmth caressing my skin, filling my pores with it's golden liquid. I had the sensation of being reborn, infantile in my experience, with a childish sense of wonder; I felt the fullness of youth and embraced it. I watched as Barcelona laid herself before me, at each turn raising her skirt a little higher, practicing the ancient secrets of daring coquettes. I blushed, and was dumbfound that no one else on the bus from the airport to Placa Catalunya was as bashful as I was, watching as Barcelona revealed herself bit by bit to us all. 
But her strip-tease was never ending, and like a true professional, she always kept me wanting more. Her beautiful gothic buildings were just enough to satiate the eye, but her coy alleys which wound away from view like a "come hither" finger were enough temptation to never fully satisfy my appetite. 

"Proxima estacion, Placa Catalunya" where the pigeons outnumber people tres a uno, and at a single snap of a castanet, a thousand white wings flutter into the air like the swishing skirt of a flamenco dancer.

       
 Sin mapa, I was desperate for some directions to my hotel. Seven years of study culminated in a single phrase "Que direccion a la Aveinda Republica?" The r's rolled and thudded off my tongue, the "a" flowed into the "la", and the "v" sounded like a soft "b." "Necesitas caminar a la calle alla, y a la izquirda es Avenida Laietana. Camina en Laietana hasta Avenida Republica" Success, I had effectively communicated. Senor Stark, Senora Aslakson, Senora Dubil, Senor Cruz, and Senor Raguso would be so proud! With the gait of a triumphant and fulfilled woman I strutted down Laietana, trying ever so hard to haul my luggage down the cobblestone sidewalk with grace and strength. Following Barcelona's example, I plumped my lips with a flirtatious smile as I passed a group of loitering Spanish men, receiving a hailstorm of whistles and "oy, bella"s. Even after I tripped on a protruding stone and nearly ate-shit on the sidewalk, I still held my head high, invigorated by Barcelona's potent air. As I turned the corner on Avenida Republica, a beautiful gothic cathedral came into view.

"Senorita, no tengo una reservacion por el 25 de febrero, solamente por el 25 de marzo" Expedia, the internet, or the universe, had messed up my booking, but I didn't let that minor setback bring me down from my euphoric high. I asked where the nearest hostel was, saved myself 80 euro, and slept in a 12 person room for 17.50. My first day there, Barcelona led me through her streets, into her shops and cafes, and surrounded me with her sounds. She lured me to Las Ramblas, the bustling calle where street vendors peddle everything from birds and paintings to shot glasses and flowers, all while locals dance suavely around ambling tourists. Tucked away between two antique buildings, La Boqueria (Mercado de St. Josep)  buzzed with the intricate orgy of a bee hive. Flanked by two disturbing meat stands, I entered el mercado not fully knowing what to expect. Luscious fruits and vegetables overwhelmed tiny grocery stands, and in the center, all of the "fruits of the sea" were piled atop one another, staring blankly at their would-be predators with flat glassy eyes. The stench of the fish drove me into the back corner of the market, where the most precious of all stands were harbored: vibrant smoothies, heaps of ice cream, and alluring chocolates filled my eyes with awe and my mouth with water.            

 

And so I kissed Barcelona; I tasted the coacoa powder on her lips, and the sweetness of guava on her breath, and in a seemingly endless ecstasy I let her ambrosial flavor flood my mouth. I floated, dreamily, out of La Boqueria, down Las Ramblas, and sat by the marina to muse about my hedonistic pleasure, watching the seagulls flit about the board walk, squawking a wake-up call which I reverently ignored. Barcelona soon but on her cloak of dark colors, and I strolled back to the plaza and sat in front of the fountain, waiting for my rendezvous with Gabriel, a Barcelonian acquaintance I had made while drunk on a pub crawl in Edinburgh. After several minutes of losing ourselves in translation, Gabriel and I found one another and set off on our nocturnal adventure. Gabi introduced me to parts Barcelona I had not yet seen or noticed, lending me the knowledge and tricks which only a longtime lover of Barcelona would know. Winding through her bosom, we climbed to the heights of Mount Tibidabo to view Barcelona in her evening gown, sparkling with a thousand jewels.

As any wise Barcelones knows, the fiesta does not begin until at least midnight, and no one goes home until the sun begins to peak its head over the mountains around 6:00. By 4 am, the perpetual beauty and novelty of Barcelona had made me sleepy, my energies expended from a long day of love making. Lulled by the noises of the night, with two kisses, one on the left cheek, one on the right, Gabi sent me off to bed and I slept, breathing in the sweet air of my new love, coloring my dreams with vivid scenes of la naturaleza y pasion. And in this state of superb intoxication, I awoke again, infinitely grateful to spend another day with the gorgeous and alluring Barcelona.