The End of the Road

February 9, 2009

I bought a new car today. I’ve wanted a Prius for years. After saving up for London last year, I figured I could do the same towards a new car and put into action all my ramblings about the vile dependency on oil. It is a nice car, I’m not going to lie. But I did this primarily because I wanted to contribute towards the message that we aren’t gonna take it any more. Alternative energy has to become a reality.

I’m picking up Kermit on Monday. Kermit because he’s green… and I think the Prius kind of has a muppet personality. But that’s just me and my odd way of seeing the universe.

That leaves me with the Corolla for two more days. I never named the Corolla. Someone else tried to name her… but it didn’t really stick. She has given me a good seven years… and a lot of memories that I find myself pondering before I hand over the keys.

I bought her in May 2002, four months after returning from London. When I decided that I was going to make a go of it this side of the Atlantic. The car has moved me four times, to Worcester, to Barre, back to Newton… then two miles down the road. I’ve driven it to four jobs, one that I hated with my entire soul, one I didn’t care all too much for, and two that I love very much. I drove to a class reunion, countless weddings, and to say goodbye in several cemeteries. It has carted costumes and set pieces and posters for numerous plays.

I’ve had all sorts of passengers in that car. My Little Sister sat many hours in the backseat divulging all the important details of her week, asking me unexpected questions about the grownup world, or begging me to turn on Radio Disney. I picked up George Herman from school when he filled me in on the week’s next great adventure. The front seat had many a guest star on trips to Trader Joe’s or Christmas tree shopping or road trips to no where in particular. A lot of laughs.

I spent many more hours in that car on my own. Numerous hours to and from Gloucester or Worcester. I would listen to my tapes (I have no place to play a cassette any longer), my CDs, and now my iPod to inspire my brain to try to sort things out or create something original for writing or the stage.

Obviously, it’s just a car. I don’t place a lot of stock in holding too much affection for an OBJECT that has no feelings. And yet… there are memories of places that the car has been to which I no longer go. Or the echoes of laughter from people who are no longer in my life. It is good to move away… and yet… worth it to pause and recollect before it goes to the scrap heap.

veritas et rumusculus

November 19, 2008

I remember studying Henry V my sophomore year of college. It was part of a class using literature to examine war in history. We talked quite a bit about the Battle of Agincourt and the downfall of the mighty French, in spite of their heroic shining armor. Armor that could not move… that was so heavy they needed to be hoisted onto horses with a crane. Or so the professor told us (influenced no doubt by Larry Olivier's cinematic interpretation of that history play). A little less than a year later I found myself working at Higgins Armory, where I learned almost immediately that there were no such things as cranes to hoist knights up on horses while wearing armor. Armor had to allow for agility – especially on the battlefield, especially atop a horse. The problem the French had in 1415 was really… just… mud.

This clarification of history came to mind the other day while reading an article sent to me by a museum colleague. It was an amusing collection of vignettes about the misinformation distributed by guides on historic house tours. Some of the stories had an element of truth from which their yarns stemmed, but most were just the polar opposite of truth. I was amused – not just because I've encountered and no doubt told some of my own hyperbolic tales of the past – but because it goes along with my theory that history is just a bunch of antiquated gossip.

When I traveled around New England with Lady Erica and Lady Catherine, we used gossip as exposition to our armor demonstration. We filled the gaps between mail and combat armor with jabs at the greasy, non-toothed graybeard, the six fingered Anne Boleyn, or the audacious young women who dared to expose their legs. It certainly wasn't the most reverent dispensation of historic facts… but I'm sure the idea of Sir Monkeyface made the concept of ceremonial armor stick a lot better than an explanation of metallurgy.

But none of those two shows were ever the same – whether altered by a cast change or an audience change. The nuance of the history certainly varied each time… especially when there was a determination to suppress giggles from unintentional innuendo or there was a question from a spunky eleven year old determined to prove we were in fact not from the 16th century. So while I like to think I know a thing or two about the era of knights and feasts that served up a cockatrice, I'm not going to deny I would play the story to the audience to make it a little more interesting.

I was – and am on Eastern Point every summer – a history gossip.

The ends to justify the means, I tell myself. Because on the page history can be so dusty and moldy and dull. A little embellishment makes it more appealing and intriguing. Because… isn't it better to walk away intrigued enough to learn more than to walk away bored out of one's mind and never wanting to revisit that corner of the past? Besides, those people are dead and can't be hurt by the distortions of conjecture. I imagine the servants would probably hear one of my tours and laugh with a disapproving shake of their heads. What the hell do I know about Beauport? Really, what do I know? I just imagine myself there… and try to take the tangible objects and put myself in the shoes of the people who were actually able to touch them.

But I can't touch the objects, or the people. I can only imagine. So I fill in the gaps with a clever description or romantic guess about what happened between the walls. I make a disclaimer that some of what I say is a guess… but I know that the disclaimer won't linger so well as the good story. And the good story makes me the center of attention and earns the praise of a satisfied audience. No matter the omission of truth.

But … really… will we ever KNOW the truth of the past? It's hard enough to get it straight with what happened yesterday… never mind nearly six hundred years ago on a rainy battlefield in Northern France. For all I know students in a few decades may be learning that the French were just actually really hungover… and that's the reason they lost England that day.

Who knows? Not even Shakespeare was true to the truth... not even about himself.

viva la vida

November 14, 2008

Two weeks ago I went to my second Coldplay concert this year. I'm not usually one for following the masses – but the energy of Chris Martin is awesome to see live. It's enough to make this old stick in the mud smile without thinking and sing at the top of her lungs along with other tens of thousands of fans. What lingers most about that night – even more than him collapsing on the stage extension in some yoga pose without losing a beat of song, or rolling over backwards to reconnect his body mike, or the streams of butterfly confetti to Lovers in Japan – was the contagion of his good energy. I left the Garden that night in a sardine procession to the Green Line. And… instead of the regular Boston crankiness, people were… happy. That happiness continued into the bowels of the train station, even as the tired masses had to wait for multiple trains to pass to get on. Because in the delirious afterglow of those happy two hours, those tired masses started singing the oh oh oh's from Viva la Vida to pass the time.

Then exactly a week later, I woke up to a second burst of good spirit in the city of Boston. The aftermath of Obama's success put spontaneous smiles on so many faces I encountered on the street, witnessed giving reports on the local news, and spoke with in my immediate circle. Strangers on the telephone had a perkiness in their voice I found startling and refreshing. It was a happy day for so many.

When something like that happens once, I try to mark it and register it for memory's sake. So that when life gets me down and the petty BS of day to day is depressing, I can remember that there are sparks of brilliance in human nature. But twice – two Wednesdays in a row, no less – I have to take a little more notice. There is a lesson to be gained in it.

Recently, I have let the other side of humanity get me down quite a bit. There has been so much pettiness and deliberate cruelty and absent-minded disregard directed at me that I've absorbed that negativity and started to let it leak out in my day to day interactions with people. It's a vicious circle because my hurt ends up irritating the people who hurt me so that they feel no obligation for sympathy or making amends… and thus it continues without improvement.

But now, I'm thinking the oh, oh, oh's in North Station are a better option.

I don't know that I'll ever perform in front of tens of thousands of people. And I definitely have no plan to run for president. But there are Wednesdays when that sense of contagious optimism comes on a smaller scale. I work for two women who host a motley crew to dinner on so many Wednesdays. They don't have big confetti guns that shoot out mulit-colored butterflies. They do give us a yummy meal, laughs, and the freedom to pursue subjects that polite conversation pooh poohs. Most importantly in that conversation, they really listen and really care. And there is always a hug goodbye before the evening ends. In that simple yet meaningful way, they give a smaller group of people a reason to hum on the way home.

But you know, the echoes of all those Wednesdays are smiles.

No Pain No Gain

October 7, 2008

I used to dance a lot in high school. Nearly every Saturday I would find myself stretching muscles and acquiring black and blues with such regularity it didn't phase me at all. In fact, if there wasn't some sort of minor pain, I figured I wasn't working hard enough. Some pains were, in truth, a little more to take than others. But at the end of the day, it was just something I learned to work through as I practiced for the next Saturday.

At the end of last week, I visited a trainer. In the attempt to evaluate my current physicality, I was tested on a number of routines to the point of exhaustion. I woke up sore on Saturday and in agony on Sunday. I moved as though five decades had been added to my years and lost sleep as I felt the muscles repairing themselves after a night of 'rest.' I dreaded the return to work on Monday and the stairs that take me to my office.

The soreness woke me too early today as well. But as I left my car a block or two from our building, I realized that while the walking still hurts, it helps at the same time. I was reminded of those dancing days and my determination to not let the little hurts be an excuse to stop trying, but the motivation to make myself stronger.

It isn't rocket science… and the science is simply that my muscles are repairing themselves after ripping from more exercise than they have been used to the past year and a half. The lesson is pretty obvious in terms of exercise… but I think there is a lesson to borrow a little attitude from my seventeen year old self. To just not let it cripple me and move on.

the quechee gorge

July 31, 2008

Ten or eleven years ago I discovered the Quechee Gorge with Lady Erica. We were on our first outreach to Lebanon, NH. We might have had a rental car and a check from the IHOT that allowed us to set up camp at the lodging of our choice. We found the Quechee Inn at the bottom of the gorge and undoubtedly coupled the northern excursion with a cheap bottle of wine from some local NH grocery store and a long evening of gossip and my recounting novel outlines.

I remember the school was really appreciative of our presentation and offered us lunch between our shows. We also had enough time to kill between presentations to go back to the gorge and take a walk along the lightly snow covered path in our costumes.

Well, we went back there a couple times… and the details of each visit blend together. One trip had us driving through the White Mountains during a blizzard. And there were margaritas at some TexMex place in Lebanon, as well as the Dr. Suess Hamlet t-shirt I did not buy and have not been able to find since…

But the Quechee Gorge has always stayed with me. It probably has been nine years since I've made the trip there, as awe-inspiring as that short trip to the Grand Canyon of New England can be. Nonetheless, it stayed with me after leaving Higgins and outreaches in my past.

It truly is awesome, as that word is meant to describe. The Connecticut River carving itself through rock and forest. Not quite so grand as Arizona… but still breathtaking in its beauty and frightening in its plunge from top to bottom.

For much of my early twenties, I saw myself standing at the edge of that gorge, trying to determine whether to take a step towards crossing it or staying safely on the side without daring to leap to the other side. I imagined the way across like that invisible bridge in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade – impossible to detect, but requiring faith to cross. That invisible bridge was London in my life's allegory … and then I fell off of it.

But the thing about the Quechee Gorge is that it is just as lovely when you walk down into it. There is the water and even the shores of the river are a magnificent piece of nature. The Inn that was subsidized by Higgins was in the gorge… so it isn't a bad place to be… for a while.

Ultimately one does look up and want to return to the top. I think I've had a nice visit below, a chance to mend the wounds of my fall and get my bearings… and lose them again. It is time to start climbing back… but the question is… to go back to the side where I started or the side I had hoped to reach by the invisible bridge.

A Glimpse

July 20, 2008

Read into this what you will.

The storm broke up the party last night. The rain came crashing down and cut short the post tour cocktails. We huddled in the gatehouse or a room of the house to shield ourselves from the heavens. When the air 'dried' out, we made a hasty assembly of things to be put away in cars, the fridge, or remain in the gatehouse til Tuesday.

I went back to the terrace for one last look and found the door into the house still open, so brought in a few things to protect from the sun and the rain of the coming days.

Nan had closed the doors to the butler's pantry and the kitchen was vacant, leaving me with a temporary panic that she had left, as had Pilar… with no keys and my security code at home and no use to me to lock up for the evening. Nan hollered eventually hearing my movements disturb the evening's stillness.

She came down from the servants' quarters and stopped in the doorway to the kitchen to ask if I had those non-existent keys. As she stopped to plot her determination to go back to the gatehouse to get hers, the doors to the mudroom moved. They opened. Draft? Maybe… but in the kitchen??? Then, as we looked at the doors, they closed themselves with a movement not like the wind – but like someone pulling them. The room chilled. Not icy like the movies… but noticeably cooler in that sultry air.

There was still lightening in the sky and the lights in the house flickered as century old wiring is wont to do. An added element to the moment… that was more curious than creepy.

Nan resolved it was Mary. And I like to think so… checking in on her kitchen after a party in that house.

Or maybe it was the wind that somehow rattled down the mouse hole or through the walls from the Golden Step room. In perfect momentum.

The House that Jack is Building

July 9, 2008

I've carved a nice 3 mile circle for myself to run/walk through West Newton. There is a nice mix of hills and seeming flatter stretches that inspire me to lengthen my intervals with each attempt – even when I'm jogging through a steam bath. There are lots of big leafy trees to shield the sun and even the random sprinkler to offer a slight reprieve. Not to mention, it is pretty to look at – if I can be bothered to look as I aim for that next emergency call box or street sign.

Right before I crest the hill that starts my run, there is a new house nearing completion. I used to run passed a large green fence that encompassed this property when I went in a different circle back to Newtonville. I couldn't ever see what was behind the fence, except that I knew it marked the end of my third interval.

Now, no matter what side of the fence I were to run along, there is no escaping the HUGE mansion that has been erected over the past year. It stands atop that hill looking over the intersection below it like a castle on a cliff.

I don't know why I try to come up with a poetic simile here. I actually find the thing horrific. Not for any snobbery of historic preservation or theme. Because the thing is so obscenely large and unnecessary.

On the second mile of my loop I pass three more monstrous constructions and one more that is already completed. All of these houses are built on lots once occupied by ranches. Not the kind with bulls and horses – the kind from the 1950's with swanky bars built in the basement.

I don't get it. Well, I do. It is Newton. The rich are still rich, recession or not. But it is Newton, where almost every other car is a Prius. What genius of conservation determines these houses to be a good thing for the environment? Again, they are huge, requiring more electricity, more heat, more water, and more square footage. Square footage that uses more lumber and takes down a few trees in the process. Then again, SUVs populate the roads in Newton as much as the Prius. For all those off road conditions along Com. Ave.

I can't deny the fact these new houses are providing jobs for skilled workers who have fewer opportunities today. But… it still seems such a waste.

I, for one, would much rather have a 1950's ranch with a swanky bar in the basement. And trees.

History Schmistory

June 10, 2008

In spite of a thought or two that I would revisit the books, I never actually thought much about my tour before stepping across the threshold for my 3pm group on Saturday. I kind of took it for granted that after sixty years of relative immobility, things were pretty much the same at Beauport as they had been last year. And they were… pretty much. My rhythm wasn't as snappy, but I managed to make it enjoyable and speed through my allotted hour, give or take five minutes.

There is one detail I didn't have to learn… that is really kind of obvious when talking about Henry. A detail that I have written here a few times. But it is a 'new' requirement on our tours. We have to tell our visitors that Harry was gay.

Well, first of all, duh. Second of all, huh?

This is my fifth summer up there. The first year I was told well… we can't say we know for sure, so if anyone asks just say he never married. Okay. I told them to read the Beauport Chronicle and showed my friends inscriptions in the dusty books. Then last summer, we were told it was okay to say he was a homosexual, but only if someone asked the question. So I filled my tours with whatever I could to prompt the question. This summer, it is a mandatory explanation.

Ex post facto for me…but, hey, cool. It's about freakin time this antique worshipping organization shows some gay pride. But I've worked too long amongst fundraisers to know that so swift a resolution is usually prompted by $$$$. Whatever the cause, I suppose the end is the important thing, right?

The ladies are uncomfortable with it. The lunchtime discussion made me realize how much younger I am… or how Boston I am by comparison. I think they are all pretty open minded, but most come from a generation before the free love of the 60's, when bedroom habits were not freely discussed, whatever they were. Or maybe it's because it isn't as fun when it isn't a secret one can give away.

It is kind of funny, though, that they also decided to open some of the closets and take out the clothes. But they are displayed on faceless mannequins at the far end of the room, behind a rope. Close enough to know they exist, but distant enough to not see completely.

An honest tale speeds best, being plainly told

June 6, 2008

I recently had the question posed to me if I took a 'traditional' approach to Shakespeare.

What does that mean? Well, the asker wanted to know about the setting – a reasonable enough inquiry. And yet, I have had several discussions since the idea first floated into my brain about revisiting Rom & Jules relative to setting. Some people get very excited about my inspiration for interpretation, to the point I found myself red-faced at a Wednesday night dinner with the urge to explain. I've also had a fair share of raised eyebrows and mutterings about Leonardo DiCaprio.

Whatever.

And yet… I have to admit… I find this debate fascinating.

I will likely always end up on the side of leaving the 16th century. I mean… really… why would you want to go back to it? People smelled bad, mostly because they were always stepping in horse poo and people poo on the streets. They bathed… but they wore the same clothes and probably had a nice hazy cloud of insects around them. But you were probably used to it… not that anyone could get really close to you. As a woman you were tied up in a corset that pointed between your legs, not giving you any option but to sit up straight. And then there was a circle of bone and wire encompassing your hips. Ah… women's fashion… white make-up made from mercury, rouge made from the blood of insects… and then you shaved your forehead. Not that it mattered because women couldn't act anyway, not even as themselves. Women were too busy being pregnant 15 times over (if they lived) or sewing endless hems on linens or being allowed to be beaten or killed by a father who suspected that she was compromising her chastity. Never mind the fact she fainted all the time from her freakin corset.

Don't get me wrong. It's a very romantic era. Those knights in shining armor… who would kill you if you went to the wrong church. You had to go to church and believed all that fire and brimstone stuff. Those roomy castles with bone chilling drafts and rats that scurried across you while you slept. The majestical feasts of meats loaded with cloves and spices to conceal the rotten flavor. And Sir Monkeyface Greybeard vying for your hand in marriage at age 14. Good times.

But… is that essential to telling the story of star crossed lovers? Does it matter if they wear farthingales and codpieces? Is the story not the same if they are wearing jeans and listen to their iPods? Isn't the beauty of Shake-speare the very fact that it doesn't matter the clothes they wear or what dance it is that Romeo bows out of… but we still get swept up in his teenage passion?

The feelings don't change, no matter our bathing habits or costumes or dietary preferences. Is not Romeo & Juliet as relevant today in a world of violence and sex and impulse as it was 400 years ago in Italy? Or 2000 plus years ago in Greece? Speaking of… how Grecian was Midsummer anyway? Old Willy himself did not feel any need to be 'true' to the time of Pyramus & Thisbe in his tale... so why on earth does it improve the storytelling these days?

This all isn't to say I detest the era of the writer. I spent how many years living, eating, and breathing the 15th and 16th centuries? I loved wearing my red dress and teasing unsuspecting cub scouts about their evil left-handedness. And from that I learned you have to use the present to make the past interesting. Not everyone gets excited about iambic pentameter or the fact that there are truly three separate purposes of armor… and gold is the absolute worst metal with which to protect oneself. Our student audiences would let their attentions wander with the details of metal-making and the specific rules of jousting. But they always came back to the stories about relating to other people, the details of marriage and parties and wearing the right clothes to impress someone. Those things may change shape over the years… but ultimately we relate to them because somewhere in ourselves, we have felt similarly.

Romeo & Juliet speaks to me not because of the amazing description of Elizabethan swordplay or its references to Verona. I go back and listen to the dialogue over and over because there are still romantic and hotheaded teenagers walking amongst us. There is still a society that uses violence to deal with anger. There are still parents who are oblivious to what their children want and push them into lives that fulfill their own ambitions. There is still a hope we can learn to mend from this two hours traffic on the stage.

Wouldn’t it be nice?

February 4, 2008

I know I can be a bit obnoxious in my opinions sometimes. I recognize I let my pride in my intellect override an appreciation of simple fun. But I'm going to ignore that sensitivity and bitch about the Patriots and Patriots fans for a few paragraphs.

I understand that it is something to rally behind a common goal, to see ordinary man work with other ordinary men towards an impressive goal. I understand there is an amount of fun in sharing that with friends and cheering on a hero projected on the television. I get that. I get - even though I personally find the game a huge bore - that it is suspenseful and a thrill.

All that said, I am slightly disgusted.

Wouldn't it be something if the population who got so into the superstition and support behind the New England football team could direct that energy and thought and MONEY towards something that really mattered? Why don't we as a mass care as much about feeding hungry children as we do about a 19-0 record? Why can't we as a collective soul rally behind veterans who have lost their legs and incomes the way we did about Tom Brady's ankle? Why do we care so much about how overpaid athletes spend an afternoon and not spend five minutes worrying about recycling or finding a renewable fuel source?

Yes, I know we think about those things. We talk about global warming, how unnecessary the war is, how it is too bad that little African children don't have clean drinking water or enough rice to combat the hunger that stunts their growth. Sure, we fuel our conversations and rants with these thoughts… but do we ever put that much devotion into making these wrongs right as we do in hoping that the Patriots will win the superbowl?

Watching all these fans group together, shout out their enthusiasm, buy the gear and wear it proudly, I observe that we are capable of banding together to care about something. That people are able to direct a whole bunch of thought and effort towards a hope. Yeah, the Patriots did not win this time… but the point is, people cared. Imagine… imagine if so many people cared about the ozone layer?

I'm not guiltless of this attitude. My fanaticism is directed towards Hamlet and BBC period dramas, on which I spend frivolous amounts of money and time. And I appreciate that all Patriots fans aren't living in a cloud of self-absorption and don't care about those things. I think they do. I just want to see the effort put behind the game put behind something that will make this world better. Because that is a team spirit that won't go away when the season ends and the media moves onto the next professional team.

Well, a girl can dream… or throw a party of her own and build a house.

That's me. Pats fans, what are you going to do? Prove me wrong and show me that I'm just a long-winded intellectual snob. But don't just say it.

Off the soap box now. Go Red Sox… or whatever. I'll still be watching Jane Austen.

The Brilliant Bits

January 23, 2008

I'm not a religious person. I choose very deliberately to avoid worshipping any person or place or thing to the point of blinding myself to its faults. But… I can't declare myself completely devoid of such adoration. London certainly feeds my soul in a way nothing else quite can. I suppose there is the good fortune that my dalliance there is always too brief to ever grow disharmonious – even with the little annoyances that might color it were it my day to day. But so much of it makes me want to remember every precious moment in the soot ridden, damp air. It releases from me spontaneous smiles, when so often in my life those are hidden away.

I do regret that I didn't get to visit and see all the places I had hoped to revisit – or see for the first time. BBC kind of lost its opportunity right away, as did Kew and the glorious Hampstead Heath. I also somewhat begrudge the tourist-like quality of rushing about from place to place, snapping photographs playing the cliché American visitor. But all in all, it was a week to be treasured.

Some highlights:

Walking. We had lots to see. The tube is an experience in and of itself, with its history and the creepy ominous air of the subway. Not to mention a day pass (no weekly passes) was ten bucks. And to get one's money's worth, making use of that pass would have been cost effective. But to spend the time underground is just… ridiculous. All the architecture, hearing the accents as you pass by the sidewalk – and the chance to stumble upon something random or forgotten along the journey. I thank Gabbie for her patience with me trying to remember my familiar paths through the West End and along the Thames. Most of the time I got it right – but there were some times (with luggage in hand) that I got it not so right. Although… I was able to give someone directions which made me oh so happy. The walks were hurried to get to a destination before closing – or in time for curtain. Feet and backs ached to prove their idleness in recent months… but it did provide a guilt free consumption of pints and banoffie pie. Yes indeed!

The Imperial War Museum. That was a revisit. I love it. I made it a determined location after Atonement. The exhibits make my soul ache. It doesn't celebrate war, but makes a point to celebrate those who fought and survived. The Blitz Experience wasn't what I remembered – a nearly terrifying comprehension of being bombed in the dark. Now it's a little more like Henri II crying out about his eye slot. But the trench was nauseating and haunting. The 1940's house took up memory on my camera to steal ideas for sets. And, of course, the gift shop was a glorious chance to get some booty for my Dad. It was also something to hear the skies open up and pelt down the rain on the high glass ceiling of the former Bethlehem Mental Hospital. Oh – and I found a new play for future possibilities, My Boy Jack.

The National Theater. The only theater we actually went to. We went twice though and saw two excellent plays, Happy Now with Olivia Williams and Much Ado About Nothing with Simon Russell Beale and a whole army of brilliant actors. Phenomenal. Can recite that play but it made me cry with the love confession scene and striking up of pipers. Oh – and we saw Voldemort himself in the bookshop. Shorter than I thought – but his eyes are… dreamy.

Tesco. Our last stop before returning to Heathrow. I actually wanted to cry when I went there – and then again today when I went to an American grocery. It wasn't until then that I regretted not living there, that I missed the little day to day things – the ability to buy scones for 59p. Or the weird sandwiches. The produce. Wheatabix and Mueslix. Marzipan in the baking section. Cheese… which brings me to…

Dairy. I don't drink as much any more. It has soured my stomach for it. But this whole week was full of mochas and lattes (yes, mostly at Starbucks, bad girl - but they are pretty hard to avoid!). The cream on the banoffie pie. The cheese. The milk in my tea. So much better. I don't know exactly what the hell we do to our dairy over here – but I was very sad that bringing any of that back was completely forbidden. Reason 1456 to go back.

And finally… perspective. I hated the fact I was being a cheesy American tourist. Mostly because it made the pictures look so dorky. But I really noticed it when this guy from Amnesty International stopped us in Covent Garden and immediately changed his manner when he heard the accents and our confession we were from Boston. It's been six years since I was there, six years during which we started a big mess in Iraq and helped Tony Blair sell his soul. It really is an interesting thing to see outside of the US – outside of New England – and get a grasp of the fact that we aren't really that… special. We have money… but… they think we're a bunch of Bible thumping idiots. A general stereotype… but it's not entirely without merit or truth.

There are lots more. Lots more. The Odeon in Leicester Square. Soho. The lights in Piccadilly. The fountain in Trafalgar. Jury's in Nottingham. British men. The clothes worn by British men. The parks we never got to see, really. Tea. Scones. Robin Hood action figures… British men.

So, yeah, it was a great trip. So great I've already begun plotting the return next January. Hampstead Heath, here I come!

lights will guide you home and ignite your bones

January 15, 2008

Christmas was a little more stress than joy this year… and so I missed it. Forgot it, even. That sense of spontaneous joy that ekes through one's being in spite of, well, stress and the logic that requires keeping one's feet on the ground.

Well, today is Christmas morning for me. Kind of apropos with the landscape outside my window. A brilliant winter wonderland that has whitewashed the world for a few brief hours. So breathtaking in its serene, pure beauty. I relished it when I stopped for an allowance of 'crack' a few hours ago. I felt that surge of bliss when I breathed in the clean, quiet cold air in Newton's Picadilly Square. It was so beautiful, with the pinkish, purple of the sunrise coloring the sky. Even more beautiful, of course, because I will be in the REAL Picadilly Square so soon.

No need to overstate the obvious. Anyone who knows me understands my Christmas morning mood today. But, like my favorite Byron says, all who win joy must share it. So, friends, have a little. Cheers.

The Year for God, for Harry, for England...

January 2, 2008

Resolutions oft seem like a good idea. A good idea without the practicality of the means to achieve them. And while I heaved a huge sigh of relief at the close 0f 2007 last night … lamenting the things that did not occur… or did occur to my chagrin… I have to say I enter this new year with lots of hope.

I resolved at the turn of last year to get myself back to London. The plan was to forsake my crack addiction (that would be Starbucks to the unknowing of my affectionate terminology) and pile away my pennies to hop the pond. I started off the year with good determination. Then I let my frantic planning of Mardi Gras and my first Banned in Boston excuse the lapse in attention to fiscal responsibility and soy latte restraint. I also, sadly, stopped running with the regularity I carved into habit in 2006. Then the whole frustrating end at my beloved home, the stress of a wedding, and other minor angst continued to tempt me away from that determined path. But sometime after my birthday I found the devotion yet again. I have regulated the crack habit, as well as the wraps from Purple Cactus.

Two weeks from now I will be over the Atlantic, hopefully snoozing to abate the jet lag.

I can't wait to revisit some of my old haunts, to rediscover them or find how six years has altered them. I look forward to sharing my appreciation of Golden Square and Cornish pasties with Mahthah. I'm excited to visit new places, like the BBC tour and Nottingham to salivate over cheesy black leather. It will be a grand time, a really wonderful way to begin 2008.

The best part though, is that it is indeed the pudding in which the proof lies. That if one actually directs a deliberate thought or two towards change, one can actually find those ominous means to complete a resolution. Maybe not as originally envisioned (though it would have been great to see Toby act in Pinter), there is oft a beauty in the unanticipated alteration to determination.

So…here's hoping the intention for the new year finds its reward in some manner, shape, or form. I'm optimistic.

Maybe I'll finally meet William - and of course his brother, Alistair.

Here’s my glove: give me another of thine.

December 18, 2007

We all of us have our moments of clarity – little opportunities to see the world that much more vividly. The choice then becomes to seize on that opportunity or to let ourselves slip back into the happy sleep of day to day.

I went to a memorial service on Saturday. It was for a 90 year old woman, who passed away quietly in her sleep. She wasn't ill and had a sharp mind right up until the end, writing for a newspaper column in her native Hanover, NH. An amazing individual, who by the proof of the standing room only at her service, had touched so many lives in her 90 years. It was a sad occasion to see the end of her amazing life, but heartwarming at the very same time to see the ripple effect of that existence.

She wrote a book that compiled her columns called Everyday Matters. The rector of the church punctuated that phrase in two ways, detailing the dual meanings of the words combined. She wrote about everyday matters, the seemingly banal, ordinary details of her world. And yet… the example of her life and her writing proved that every day matters. There is humor and goodness to be found in those ordinary, minute moments. There is something to be said for the celebration of those moments and not the lingering on their opposites.

I suppose it is a time of year conducive to reflection, the gasp of hope to improve as December rounds to a close. But, the two and a half hour drive back from NH did allow that reality to permeate a bit and make me resolve in 2008 to make some more of those everyday matters really matter.

What I Wish for Christmas

December 13, 2007

A couple mornings ago I saw a story on the news, a hyped up blurb about the Christmas spirit. Apparently at some Starbucks west of here (definitely wasn't New England), a customer felt inspired by holiday spirit and offered to pay for his order and the order of the person following in the drive-thru. That was kind – the random act that is rather sweet at this time of year. The story, however, was that the following 200 customers elected not to take the free drink, but pass it along to the person behind them. Really… those 199 weren't as generous as the first… and honestly, it didn't resonate as thoughtful as the reporters tried so very much to make it seem.

I don't want to knock the Christmas spirit – it is all around as Billy Mack might attest. But it is selective. Tonight there is a foreboding prediction of six to ten inches of snow – which in spite of the fact it may leave us with a white Christmas, fills me with apprehension. I don't dislike snow. I don't regret the choice to live in a part of the world where it is inevitable. I do begrudge, however, the thoughtlessness of individuals in this part of the world when the cold precipitation falls.

I used to hate shoveling. I still do. But I recognize it is a necessary task in the winter months. Plus it will justify some of those leftovers in my fridge later tonight whilst I finish the last depressing chapters of Atonement. And really, it is only an extra half hour of my day.

I don't regularly wish the world would see things through my interpretation. But, I do wish that people would take that extra half hour to shovel a sidewalk tonight. Not doing it will allow one to escape the cold and the aggravation of the activity. But to do it is to think of pedestrians who have to walk to the bus, to the train, to school, to the store… to wherever and not have to worry about falling on their asses, having to walk in the street and risk getting hit by a car, or getting wet feet one has to live with all day long. If this is really the time of year when we think of others, is not safety a pretty good example of that?

That would be a manifestation of holiday spirit I can respect – and won't need news anchors to make me feel good about it.

But I will be surprised, very surprised, if tomorrow morning all the sidewalks are clear. Then again, this is supposedly the season of miracles too.

Something more than poppies

November 8, 2007

As I drank my orange juice this morning and caught the tail end of the weather on Good Morning America, a phrase scrolled across the bottom of the screen to indicate other 'major' stories in the Boston area. This phrase announced that a quarter of the US homeless are veterans. Now, I did not see the story from which this statistic is extracted. Nor do I deny it is a statistic that has not so coincidentally made its way to the forefront of our brains just in time for November 11. And, sadly, that little piece of information that scurried across the screen as the weather shifted to some other top ten news story did not surprise me at all.

I wish that story would get more play in the coming days – when people might decide to raise the red, white, and blue or plaster a yellow ribbon somewhere to tip a nod to the fact we have a holiday observed on Monday. But it isn't as cool these days to do that. The edge has worn off and the numbers of casualties reported on the news just blend into the monotony as the story shifts back to Britney Spears' next custody tribulation.

But it won't. That statistic just proves that stories about veterans aren't captivating and compelling to our attention. Well, there may be the one or two hero stories, a nicely edited piece about someone coming home or overcoming adversity, or even another total casualty list of lives lost. I'm not going to deny the merit of those. But what about all the others? What about the ones who survive and have to come home and live?

There is no clear cut answer to homelessness. Everyone has a different story, a different path that led them to that point – and ultimately some level of personal responsibility to help themselves. Even so, don't we have some sort of responsibility to the men and women who made sacrifices and risks to go somewhere and protect this country? Whatever the war and the right or wrong of the government that sent them there, the fact is these people did something so that we did not have to. So that we could sit on our asses and watch stupid television, or send each other youtube clips about inane pop culture, or read up on politics and render our opinions to expostulate but never do anything to enact change.

Or type a bunch of paragraphs to post on a myspace blog…

Bonfire Night Excerpt

November 4, 2007

Nostalgia has often hit me on this weekend over the past six years. It is a favorite weekend, etched into my memory. So many things I remember vividly… although a reread of this writing prompted more memories. It is why I remember, remember the fifth of November in the most ridiculous way every year.

4 November, 2001

In my typical fashion, I got off and blindly headed down the road. My walk wasn't as brisk. I brought myself to a sports ground, which after consulting A to Z turned out to be on the opposite side of Richmond as the park. In fact, I was rather close to the Kew Gardens. I walked to the end of the field, which turned out to be the Thames River. There was a shady walkway, bustling with families and cyclists. The sun was bright - almost too bright to allow for good photos. It was a great walk, with the river on one side and estate like homes on the other. Some people were kayacking on the river, reminding me of Hans B. There was also a place where one could rent boats to … can't remember what it's called - the typical Edwardian British bit with the long poles. The walkway went through a park and down to a farm. At that point I went along with no entrance but more trees, until it was all woods. I was delighted with the clean, crisp air. I could see traces of my breath and felt a surge of joy in the realization of the perfect fall weather.

I found a leafy path in the woods and followed it in the hopes of being in the park. It turned out that it wasn't. It was a gorgeous abandoned piece of nature, with ivy winding round the trees. It was mystical and historic and a thrill for me. L… came into my head as I followed the path, which ended too soon at another road. I walked down the road, feeling a bit light-headed for want of food. The road led to a military home/hospital… and a gate to Richmond Park. But I needed food. So I went down another road in search of a store or bakery. I walked and walked, retracing my steps at one point. I finally came upon a shopping complex with a Home Depot type store and a massive Sainsbury's. I decided I would get some food and bring it back to the park. I was so impressed by the size I spent more time than necessary in the store. After changing my mind about a sandwich, I decided on hummus, a package of garlic pita, a Diet Coke, and crisps flavoured with Worcestershire sauce. I took my spoils back up the road and decided to cut through a back road that had a sign for Richmond Cemetery and Sheen Common, which was connected to the park - or so I told myself. The Sheen Common had more leaf covered paths with patches of squishy mud. There were bushes of holly from which I took a branch. It was cold under the trees, but I really enjoyed the setting. It ended up in a neighbourhood. I looked at A to Z and guessed my way until I found another gate, Sheen Gate. I followed a foot path along the edge of the park and settled on a fallen log where I had my feast. It was a good, calm meal ~ thoughts & inspirations running through my brain. As I walked, I worked out details for both L… and my WWII story - depending where I was. The wooded areas were more conducive to L…

When I stood up after my lunch, I realized my feet were already starting to ache. I was also running short on daylight & time. I pressed on, wanting to at least see some deer. Lots of people were about. I found some amazing, gnarly, old hollow trees. There were patches of dying ferns and open spaces of grass. The park was worth the effort of getting there. Just the same, I had to head back. I wanted to get a train and be home by six. I had plans to meet Rachel & Ali & Jessie at seven. I took a path parallel to a road, knowing it would lead me back to the gate. Then I came upon a field of deer. One stag was separated, grazing. I wanted to get close and take a photo. I heard a father cautioning his child and held myself back. I started walking again but decided to cut through the field when I saw others do it. I needed to go, but I paused to watch their movements. Some watched me. It was a sight. I even saw some stags butting heads. I realized another group (herd) was in the field on the other side of the road. Every once and a while one would cross. Some cars slowed down prepared. Other cars slammed on their brakes. One deer approached the side of the road, stopped traffic, then bowed its head to graze a few seconds before crossing.

But I had to leave them and headed to the gate. I walked through neighborhoods - lovely pieces of property that I admired. Haphazardly I made my way to a main strip with many shops. I was in search of the tube and an ATM. I finally came to the tube and got on the train, glad to be off my feet. I shamefully didn't offer up that seat to an older woman. My feet really hurt when I got off. I went to the ATM and came back here for a quick meal of spaghetti and tomato sauce. At seven I went up to meet Rachel. It was cold! We waited for Ali & Jessie to get home and then another ten minutes for them to grab a sandwich.

We walked straight down to the Thames and over to The Albert Bridge. I've never seen it at night. It was all lit up, like a giant Christmas tree. As we walked, we heard the booms and saw the glows of fireworks in various parts of the city. We followed the massive crowd over the Albert Bridge, closed to traffic. We paid the entrance fee to the park - after Rachel & Jessie got glow in the dark bands. The bonfire surged bright. We pushed our way to the front, feeling its heat. Not much later, the fireworks began against perfectly timed music. It was quite a show, against a clear sky and nearly full moon. Then it was over. The bonfire was a pile of embers. The crowd slowly moved out and back across the bridge. Ali & Jessie headed home. Rachel & I went in search of a pub, settling on the Anglesea Arms, which we had noticed on our way to the park. I had two pints of Grolsch and got quite drunk and silly. Rachel and I sat outside in the cold, kept warm by the alcohol in our blood. My exhaustion and small meals put me in quite a state so that I came home, drank a bottle of water, and went to bed - for nearly twelve hours...

Mahtha, I can't wait for January!!!!

Americana Run Amuk

September 29, 2007

Sometimes I am so not a girl.

Today I decided to head to the Natick Mall - I mean, Collection - to purchase some jeans and new running sneakers. I mentioned to a friend that I was that way headed and she leapt with such eager enthusiasm at the excuse to go there, I offered to make a morning of it.

I confess I was delighted upon entering the old mall at the discovery of an Irish import store. It had a collection of all the charming knick knacks, wool, and Guinness memorabilia that I admired in many a touristy gift store on my last visit. And it made me think responsibly of my mother's birthday next month… so that was settled. Then I got my jeans. Then we went to the 'new' mall, er, collection.

Okay. It's pretty. And I think… it may be a sort of green building. Lots of sunlight… but that might be the only thing to qualify it as green. Maybe I misread that somewhere. Because… everything else about that wing just… was too much. Yes, there is an Anthropologie. But… I am so not a girl. I don't get excited about handbags, shoes, clothes. Especially when the price tag comes in three and four digits. Especially for a shoe… that may be pretty… but all I can think is PAINFUL and useless for walking any great distance. I tried to restrain myself from acrimonious remarks as my friend took delight in every retail display. I couldn't linger though. It just didn't seem right.

The bathrooms were pretty. Not skeevy like most public restrooms. Not a cringe factor to touch anything. It was still too much. Leather furniture. A chandelier. In a restroom. In a mall. No wonder the world hates us. It's obscene.

I don't pretend I don't like a new, smart looking outfit. I don't deny I take pleasure in something that is well lit and artfully arranged. But… all the time I walked over the wooden floors and carpeted aisles, I kept thinking that six months from now it would suffer the saturation of salty water and sand embedded in winter boots. The comfortable furniture will have coffee stains and gum stuck underneath. I have little faith in the public.

I didn't get my sneakers because even with all the stores, turns out they didn't have the one for which I have a gift card. It didn't matter at the end, because, honestly, I couldn't leave quickly enough.

So wrong and so absurd. And so… not my thing.

Where you lead, I will follow anywhere that you tell me to

September 11, 2007

It's been a while since I've had a good cry over a movie. I was tempted by Harry Potter and Becoming Jane this summer… but nothing beyond pools in the rim of my eyes. Tonight, however, the pools were streams as I watched the final primetime broadcast of Gilmore Girls.

I almost cringe at the fact I am publicly announcing the fact I got weepy over television. Over CW no less. And it's not like I can't (or don't) watch the reruns on a daily basis on ABC Family, or on the thirty some DVDs I have of the first five seasons. But something tugged at my sense of sentiment tonight - something beyond the sips of Shiraz I had whilst I watched.

On the one hand, it is the end of a favorite show - a top favorite (tying only with I'll Fly Away). As many have heard me declare, I started watching because several people remarked that my sister was on television. At first, it was a bizarre mirror game to watch the Chilton Rory mimic my younger sibling not only in appearance but vocal inflection and subtle tics and gestures. The storylines changed and the long lost twin of my nuclear family faded. But the wit was always there, challenging even my collection of random knowledge to comprehend the allusions. A television show that didn't talk down to its audience nor apologize for its cleverness. And, no, they did not talk too quickly. I have realized from my Beauport tours that it is a perfectly tolerable dialogue speed. As long as there are periodic breaths… one feels she is getting an appropriate amount of information and entertainment to justify the hour in front of the television set.

But… really, it is the ending of that Tuesday night ritual of an hour spent in front of the television. It has been a regular habit for four of the seven seasons. Yes, this year I did not care so much - and rehearsal schedules did require that antiquated notion of a VCR. But, it was always an option - from Worcester to Barre to Newton. I will remember those Tuesdays in Worcester when I was often cooking a batch of broccoli and pasta for dinner and several lunches after a workout. Or in Barre when I got home from a rehearsal for It's a Wonderful Life. Or ragging my hair on the sofa at Washington Park. Or the fact it was one of the few times when Jen and I would actually sit in that room together and enjoy the same television. Or my conversion of a ten year old boy and his family to this show and our weekly conversations about what might happen on the next episode…

I may have a bizarre sense of sentiment, attaching it to Amy Sherman Palladino's writing. But, is not that a testament to good writing? That it does latch onto our hearts in some fashion? And how miraculous in the heyday of tacky reality television that makes me gag that there was an hour each week of intelligent dialogue to which I can associate memories that make me smile. I don't deny it did degenerate into a WB/CW cookie cutter more focused on hairstyles than the snappy wit that seduced me. For the most part though, it was a great show about women with brains and friendships and quirky small town life. Not to mention, this fanaticism did find me my much loved Sookie lasagna. It was not altogether an infatuation lacking in merit.

Sadly, the conclusion was supplanted by the announcement of a gag worthy reality show taking over the timeslot. Beauty and the Geek, no less. A celebration of clueless females. Ugh. There will be no more Tuesday television watching for me. Just as well. I've got to get back to that Harry Potter determination, among many others.

Bollocks

August 29, 2007

Prowling around the Internet to make this afternoon go faster, I stumbled on a story about Ken Burns' upcoming documentary, The War.

There has been no shortage of controversy surrounding this piece. I don't get it. There have been endless films made about WWII. Documentaries, docudrama, fiction, romance, action films that stretch all possibilities of real life… the list is endless. And none of them are perfect enough to satisfy all parties. But, for some reason, this high profile membership lure is plaguing PBS.

Today's story was about the fact that some affiliates are airing an edited version that blips out the profanities from the soldiers' recollections. WTF?

If ever there was a justification to say fuck or shit on public television, I think something relative to the horrors of WWII just might be the case. Who are these idiots who wish to whitewash history? No, who just want to make it sound a little less harsh? Because they aren't asking PBS to edit out the images of dead bodies or explosions. Just the swear words. Who wouldn't be vulgar describing the horrific images of Iwo Jima or Normandy or the Battle of Bulge? Good God. Are these people that stupid?

There has been other controversy surrounding this film, about omissions made. The thing is only fourteen hours long. How can every aspect of that war get fair telling in just fourteen hours? It isn't the definitive story of WWII. But isn't it just simply… important that the story is still being told sixty years later? That we are not letting ourselves forget? That we are trying to remember the horror so that the legitimate profanities of bloodshed and holocaust and devastation do not repeat themselves? Or is it because our society gets stuck on petty little words and not the story… that, in fact, these profanities are being allowed to happen again?

Bloody hell.

Because I need another reason to frequent Starbucks

July 17, 2007

I have an addiction. It's true. It isn't even the caffeine. It is a habit thing. Something about the pretentious language… or the red cups at Christmas… or just the lingering memories of my London routines. Whatever it is, I have Starbucks radar. I see that logo and feel good knowing I can get my liquid crack fix if need be.

As I walked into the big Victorian on Saturday, we were greeted by the host wearing a T-shirt with that logo. I was about to remark about my latte fascination when I realized it was, in fact, NOT a true Starbucks t-shirt. Indeed. They had removed the mermaid and replaced it with Jesus, holding out his palms while bleeding from his thorny crown. The Starbucks and Coffee words were interchanged with Sacrificed for Me.

Ew.

It took me a while to get over the fact they removed the Starbucks word… but an hour later, I realized they removed the female. A mystical female was supplanted by a gory Jesus.

I wore a necklace that day – that my sister had given me years ago. It's a silver treiskele – three spirals that are interconnected. I wore it because she gave it to me… but, okay, mostly because I thought there had to be some representation of metal that wasn't in the form of a cross. I always like that symbol because it has a number of meanings and is Irish in its roots. Yes, Irish… Celtic… when it was a representation of the sun, afterlife, and reincarnation. Another interpretation is for the elements – earth, water, and air. And… finally, the goddess in her three forms – maiden, mother, and crone. Until, of course, Christians determined it was actually the father, the son, and that holy spirit. Commenting on my necklace in connection with that last interpretation, my sister explained a friend of hers actually got the image tattooed on her body to celebrate her sixth year of being born again.

Yes, I am the girl who likes to re-interpret Shakespeare to fit today's world a little better. I'm not a purist when it comes to history, understanding that the many mouths of relaying information distorts the original. But, when that distortion is a deliberate attempt to propagate a belief system and erase another (especially the female)… well, that's just… it's silly.

So, on my way to hell, I will collect several more mermaid cups and wear my treisekele. If the originals are wrong… well, at least I'll be awake enough to appreciate it.

Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end

June 24, 2007

Two nights ago I was at my beloved Beauport. It is in the darkness of night when the ghosts seems real. When the house is still and shadowy corners can hide any possibility. I don't know what I believe about the supernatural that haunts that place… but what I feel in the air, in the walls, in the furniture… is the aging memory of when it was a house. When people lived, partied, loved, cried, spoke, sang, wrote… lived. There are many times when an echo of that past creeps into the room for a fleeting second, making it a house again and not the vacant shrine it is today.

Beauport is on my brain a bit more these days… but just now it seemed an appropriate corollary as I wandered through the empty rooms with boxes piled high and scattered remnants of what once occupied the space. There are a number of echoes on this final Saturday at Washington Park. The happy recollection of parties, conversations, movie nights, dinners, guests, solitary evenings, hurricane punch, music, tears, laughter, cooking, eating, drinking, comfortable silences, friendships… and so many more reverberations. So many moments not easily recognized in their passing as memorable… and yet… now… something worth a pause to treasure.

Tonight we took one last walk to Cabot's from the house and settled on the front stoop to enjoy the cool summer evening to eat our ice cream and observe the skulking animals on the park. Another deceptively simple moment that will implant itself in my memory with fond recollection.

I've had a good run here. In spite of the hellacious ending. And as I round out the last few days of plaster dust and takeout to make up for the lack of kitchen (so excited about the new kitchen), I will think more of the evenings here that will echo in my future days… and hopefully in those of the others who have visited here.

Friends, thanks for the memories… and looking forward to the new ones to come!

for love is not ours to command

June 1, 2007

To dislodge the details stored away in my brain, I started reading Harry's letters again. They break my heart. It's amazing the emotion he conveys in a few sentences. So boyish, so eager, so besotted.

And yet, we dance around the subject so clumsily in our presentation. As though it isn't obvious. As though… it isn't. I do get a maniacal amount of pleasure watching the light bulb flicker on in people's minds. He was an interior decorator? Uh huh. He lived with his mother? Yep. He never married? No, indeed. And his neighbor was hot. Lots of parties with young men. Liked Roman things. Hm… coincidence, surely. Those letters… some argue… don't prove a thing. People just simply wrote more expressively 100 years ago. Perhaps. But… really. Really.

I don't get it. Well, I suppose, I do. I understand there is much intolerance in this universe. I just don't understand why. Henry's unrequited love is what makes him real to me. I don't care that it was for Piatt… although my empathy is undoubtedly tripled because I would have been another hapless admirer for the Republican congressman. And my chances would have been much less than Henry's odds. His painstaking yearning drove Henry to build that amazing house, to impress his neighbor, to lure him back inside the house and to give him 20,000 reasons to come back again and again. It was the inspiration for genius, for some warped level of immortality… but in the end… it was what made him a man and made him real. Even to this 30-something history geek a century later.

He didn't hide it. Read the letters and… he has more expression and bravura than I have ever had in my life. So… why must we? Why must anyone? To love someone else and trust them with our hearts is the bravest thing anyone can do. And yet we make up such silly rules to dance around such an elementary truth…

Sadly, there is a movement in the state legislature afoot to make these silly rules a Constitutional amendment. How absurd. Really, really absurd. I would like to think that this attitude is as antiquated as the iron gas stove in the kitchen or the push button light switches at Beauport. Unfortunately, it is not.

So… if I don't convince you to come to Beauport to see the work inspired by Henry's heartache, I hope that you will at least be inspired to take action and not let this out of date attitude be legalized today. Call your legislator. Don't allow the vote to pass on June 14.

www.massequality.org.

spacious in the possession of dirt

May 23, 2007

The only regretful aftermath of Mardi Gras this year was someone spilled a cup full of their rum filled punch in my Japanese Evergreen. For two months, I watched it wilt on the bookcase by the window. I watered it and yet found myself pulling off yellow, sticky leaves on a frequent basis.

Three weeks ago I pried the poisoned soil out of the dense roots and refreshed it with new earth. The plant has perked up a bit. Some of the leaves are still sticky, but they no longer wilt. New leaves are pushing their way towards the light. A couple pieces have shown themselves beyond repair and recovery… but ultimately, the plant has come back to life.

Uprooting is a messy thing. In the end, new soil is necessary. It brings weary things back to life and allows them to grow and reach again.

Thank You Places

May 9, 2007

Mornings are particularly challenging during tech week. I forget… it's been too long. I've somehow managed to not be involved in one – as full-fledged crew - for long enough to lose momentum. Not since September… and then there was also a mountain of peripheral stresses. So I wake up in the mornings reluctantly. Wasn't it just a few short hours ago when I closed my eyes... because inevitably after moving like molasses through the rest of my day, I am always wide awake at that final hour of getting home.

And I ask myself why I do it. Running crew is one of the more thankless jobs in theater. You can't even watch the show. A number of tedious moments crammed into close quarters with piles of furniture and sweaty actors, who always manage to get in the way when we try to achieve a swap of said furniture in under thirty seconds. All to just wait for the next exchange and dodge the curtains flapping with the drafts of doors closing and actors sweeping across the stage.

Plus, we don't get to leave at night. The actors go home. We stay until midnight… later… to paint the floor, to fill in holes, to move more furniture to impossible hiding places in the little theater. Even as the feet ache, the eyes grow heavy, and the shoulders are knotted with so much stress. (Have I had time for a decent run in the past four days? Of course not.)

But there are special moments… minute as they are… that somehow justify the sleep depravation, the turning of one's skin to Hulk green, and the invisibility. Like painting said floor when in comes a Hovey local at some random hour of the night, offering to get us beer, as the director granted the request to crank up the Dropkick Murphy's to my favorite assonant song. Or abating the sore feet by choreographing our own dance moves to the fabuloulsy performed disco and rap numbers. The gratitude of the actors who actually get crew… because they've done it. And the... truly wonderful camaraderie and inside humor amongst the other amazing crew.

This one isn't the same without Mahthah… but… there will be enough fun to keep me going through the next two weekends, enough to not regret sacrificing my time or sleep yet again.