Stuff happens

© TsukiMizu

It's been a funny time recently. And time has flown, which isn't exactly a surprise now that I realise time flies when you're doing the mundane and not adding new memories. I went in to something of a semi-hiatus, sometimes visible, sometimes very much under a rock. The visibility would come and go according to the sheer volume of issues that were being flung at me.

And goodness there was been some stuff.

Last Thursday I went to see my flatmate performing with her choir, one of the highlights of the year and, the moment when all her hard work and practice comes to fruition. Whilst I don't sing, except to scare cats, the choir is also a big part of my life as Wednesday evenings are worked around the sacrosanct practice. It's important. I was looking forward to it. And... I was in a state. It had been something of a crunch day, a number of things happened, I won't list them, but the big practical one was that it was confirmed that my contract would not be renewed post the 22^nd of July. This wasn't a surprise. The project was part of the large-sporting-event-in-East-London-that-shall-not-be-named and as I had completed everything some six weeks earlier than planned (including the extras), it was time to go.

Which is good, as I really don't like Notting Hill.

So there it was, another, more pressing issue. I lost myself in the music in the first half. The EC4 rendition of Zadok was quite epic, the sensations created by the opening words were as close as you can get to orgasm without the sweatiness. Not that I can really remember you understand. Anyway. Epic. But as the music drifted away and the interval started my heart rate went through the roof. I'd been sitting for 45 minutes and yet had a rate of 128. Ouch. I needed to focus. So I listed all the major issues. It came to twelve.

Hmm.

I went straight home after the concert. Which I felt very bad about, but was also for the best on a number of levels. Which I won't list. I was being stupid, emotional and deeply stressy. I really needed to sort myself out, not just for me, but because I didn't want anything to upset our relatively happy home. Contrary Towers really is my oasis of calm, one of the few places I feel incredibly, genuinely happy, nothing can be allowed to upset that. I didn't sleep much that night as I the issues circled in ever tighter spirals

In the morning, I got a hug. And we talked. My lovely flatmate confirmed in seconds what it had taken me all night to work out, I needed to focus on the things I could actually do something about. And then, even simpler, I needed to focus on what mattered the most. And this was work. Yes I know many of the other things mattered, but, actually, everything else can be dealt with once the income thing is solved.

I am incredibly lucky to have such a sensible, straight talking, friend.

With that in my head I could then think of the next problem. I've become a little, or lottle, reclusive. Introspection is a nasty thing, it can be all consuming and not at all productive. I'd already loosely agreed to doing things this week and decided that unless I was seriously stressing I'd do them. I needed to break the cycle of hiding.

Friday evening we went to see Evelyn Glennie performing at Wigmore Hall. Which was amazing. And to think I had decided the evening before that I would give up my ticket and head to Norfolk. I'd, needless to say, changed my mind after I thought about it and realised that this was about the most pointless and destructive thing I could do. I'm so glad I went.

It did mean that the trip to Norfolk was even shorter than usual, which, given the circumstances, was not a bad thing. During the weekend I got thinking about the words of Shakespeare in Henry V...

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;

How apt. And, in a weird way, how I felt. I wanted to face things head on. Not necessarily with rage, duh, but it was time to reclaim me from the mire.

Monday. I'd arranged to join my bezzie for the pub quiz. We used to go regularly, but this had fallen off as I was finding it increasingly difficult to socialise without fear of bringing my feelings meh to the fore. And I have missed her terribly, also there were two other dear friends. Which was a fabulous bonus! There were maudlin moments and, at times, a flashback to when a year earlier three of us had sat together in the same place on a far darker evening. I did slightly break the diet, but what the hell. It was a truly lovely evening and if I could hug all three of my friends again now to thank them, I would. Fact.

Tuesday. I was out again. This time to visit a dear friend in Surrey. I was a little more concerned about this as it was time to come clean and tell her about me. I'd held off telling her before for various reasons and, actually, I wanted to talk face-to-face. I needn't have worried. She was as lovely as she always is and I felt I could kick myself for my stupidity at being so nervous about explaining all. Plus she cooked a lovely meal! We talked for hours and it was all too soon before I had to head to the station and back to Contrary Towers. The next morning I received an email from my friend. I cried a little. On the underground. But it was for the right reasons because what she said was just lovely.

It was a fabulous way to start the day.

Wednesday. I was supposed to be going to the Royal Institute for a talk, but as we'd arranged to see Dr Dee at the ENO on Thursday (my flatmate had seen it on Monday), I felt I needed one night at home. Plus it meant I could cook as I had a feeling that after practicing Verdi's Requiem my flatmate would be somewhere past exhausted. It's a piece I know well, and just thinking about it exhausts me. I listened to the Sir Colin Davis/LSO/LSC version of Requiem I have as I cooked. I know that recorded music is no match for live, but still a good version. When she came in she looked utterly exhausted. So it was food, the briefest of chats and then I chased her off to bed.

Notting Hill. Pfft.

Thursday. By now I'm starting to get a little twitchy in the client's dungeon. I know they are paying me to be there just in case, but jeez it's dull. It has though given me time to think about what I want to do next. And I'm working on that. Fortunately I wasn't in total isolation as, in common with most days, I could be silly on messenger with my flatmate. So I spent much of the day sorting out an account creation system for a different client. At dead on 6pm I skipped out of the office in to... Blazing sunshine. WTAF? It reminded me of Fuerteventura, windy but really warm. Meanwhile in the rest of the country there was floods, hailstones and general meh. Britain really does have mental weather.

As we sat in the Dress Circle waiting area of the the ENO, drinking fizz, we talked. I said I'd decided I'd had enough of being in hiding, or words to that effect. I had not meant to take the hiatus, it was simply a result of too many things happening that were too difficult to resolve in my own head. It was time to begin living again. As Shakespeare wrote, once more unto the breach. My lovely flatmate was far more succinct, she simply said...

Good.

Losing the Plot: a review

Life is full of happy little examples of the butterfly effect. Not all involve Fuji-san and hurricanes. Some bring true, undiluted joy. It's happened before in a singularly life changing way, both recently and many, many years ago. Actually, now there's a subject for a blog post, thought it is rather part of my old life. Hmm, I'll think about that.

Anyway, as I was saying. Little happenings, big results. Now this is where I have to admit to one of my spoof accounts, I operate the @LimehouseCut account, the idea being to talk about life around Limehouse Cut from the canal's point of view. So the other week the canal was a little grubby, human detritus, something dead floating in the water, generally a bit meh. I wondered who was responsible for the Cut, more to the point, were they on Twitter?

They were! So a quick plaintive plea was put out to British Waterways, please send the little cleaning boat... Whether or not they ever did I have no idea, I did ask the Cut, but being the strong, silent and discreet type it refused to answer. But what I did find was that the Cut had a new follower, @mikrontheatre.

Oh. What's this?

It transpired it's a touring theatre company that uses the canal network as its modus operandi, how fabulous, a small band of wandering Thespians. In a boat. What could be better?! I read their blurb:

“Mikron is the little touring theatre company with the reputation for tackling large scale subjects and turning history into vivid and dramatic entertainment. 

We tour on our narrowboat, Tyseley, in the summer and by road in the autumn, to every conceivable type of venue, reaching audiences that other companies cannot.”

Oh! And they were coming to the LondonCanal Museum a few days later. Rather annoyingly they were putting on two different shows on two different nights, one of which I couldn't attend as I would be attending a concert featuring my flatmate. And she would never forgive me. I booked a pair of tickets for the Wednesday to see Losing the Plot. How could I not, the title at least matched my current state of mind.

Originally I'd hoped to be able to take my lovely bezzie along for the evening, but she was unsure whether she would still be working at that point. Hmm. So I put out a who wants to come message on Twitter...

Tumbleweed

Honestly. Free ticket. I know it would mean having to speak with me at some point, but I'm not that scary. Am I? Oh well. Later in the day though, my theatre buddy @These_Boots popped up, oooh. I could have kicked myself, why hadn't I thought of her before? Well, I had, briefly, but thought it might be impossible as she was no longer working in London. Duh. I'm not very bright at times. Funnily enough, my flatmate asked me exactly the same thing when I said there was a chance she would be able to attend.

Yes, I really am thick at times. And she knows it.

Anyway, I couldn't have asked for a better companion and, being the sort of lovely person she is, she insisted on paying for her ticket, though it wasn't required. So, fast forwarding a bit. The big night. The show, fortunately, had a latish start, handy as my friend was attending an event where she felt it was bad form to leave the High Sheriff in the lurch and pop off to see a band of wandering Thespians.

Tssk. Priorities darling.

The good news was that the Canal Museum is a seven minute full tilt walk from Kings Cross. And the train was on time. And we didn't get stuck in crowds of aimless tourists. Quite a win really.

The Canal Museum is a fabulous little place, I keep meaning to visit properly, one for a future weekend I think. I was very aware of it as it's sort of opposite Kings Place, a regular haunt of my flatmate and I. And canals are something I've become increasingly interested in, I imagine as a direct result of living by a canal. That and being a bit of a history junkie.

The audience was a reasonable size, though I didn't do a headcount, or even a chair count for that matter. There wasn't a stage as such, more a centrepiece prop that gave the impression of an aged shed door on an allotment. Oh yes, which reminds me, the synopsis...

Set in Thistledale, the allotmenteers were a happy bunch about to celebrate the diamond jubilee of their formation, along with their annual “Heaviest and Longest” competition, when their world was rocked by the mysterious Harvey from the council...

I won't go in to the detail of what happens in the play. Why? Well, I believe if you love theatre, or just want a really good laugh you should go and see it. It was one of the most entertaining pieces of theatre I've seen in a long time. It mixed elements of music hall, with comedy, a little sexual innuendo, kazoos and a serious, beautifully presented, point.

The final solution to their world being rocked was found, and the deliciousness of the idea presented was a loophole with sparkly diamonds wrapped in a twist of anti-bureaucratic irony. It was beautifully done, and perfectly presented.

There was a taste of humour, history, political indifference, David and the Goliath, jealousy, love. And marrows. Obvs.

The songs were superb, particularly the “Ballad of the Allotmenteers” a ripping ride of social history from the Saxons to present day. For emotions and an impression of the sadness of a lonely heart you couldn't better “Cabbages and Peas” sung by Maud. Oh, and Harvey Granelli's “The Italian Connection”. Oh gawd, I'm going to list them all at this rate.

The highlight though? The audience being encouraged to sing-a-long with the Marrow Song!

Now here's the thing, when I think of performances I rate them by whether or not I could suspend my disbelief. I did so recently during part of a recent performance of Salome, similarly seeing La Traviata at St Marks Church in Florence (must write about that). That moment when you find your mind is telling you you're not sitting in a museum near Kings Cross, but are actually in a small allotment. In t'north.

And I got this in spades (sorry). The transformation of Ruth to Brenda, or Maud to April the bee keeper were sublime, but Colin (ex drummer, maybe a bit too wild in his youth) to Harvey (swarthy, shiny suit and, mama mia, strutting) was astounding. The fact that as they changed characters they left the old character as a broomstick was ignored. They were all, totally, utterly, real.

It was fantastic.

I have to apologise to the rest of the audience that night, my friend and I laughed, a lot, I have not been so entertained in such a complete way in such a long time. I can't even begin to tell you how much you should see this play if you can, it has something for everyone and it's put in with such simple perfection that you will come away...

Spoiled.

Yes. It was one of those. In the same way that seeing La Traviata in Florence ruined opera for me as I had seen it in its purest, distilled, essence and big productions now feel false by comparison, this play had achieved the same. And then some. It might be a while before I can see a normal production without feeling slightly ripped off by the bloated extravagance.

I did have a similar experience last year when I saw Into Thy Hands at Wilton's Music Hall, but where that moved me with the sheer intensity of the emotions, Losing the Plot left me feeling nothing but elated.

You can't ask for more than that.

So, if you want to see theatre at its purest and best, get thee to the Mikron website and see if they are performing near you. You won't regret it.

Trust me, a canal told me.

It could be worse.

As I sat this morning on the Hammersmith & City line, feeling slightly disgruntled with the world, I had a wake up call. The man sitting next to me was blind.

I didn't realise at first, why would I? Just another miserable passenger hiding in the dark of their mind. As we approached Kings Cross he pulled out his Crackberry and listened to a message using text-to-speech. The penny didn't drop. It wasn't until he got out his foldaway white stick that I made the connection.

Oh.

It's a salient reminder. However awful things are, it really could be worse.

Try being grateful for what you have.

D-d-d-d-diet

I can't even bring myself to say the word.

We started last night. The formal. Official. Serious... Diet.

Meh. And we will be blogging about it. Or I will, I don't think my flatmate will live that long. She will pass out from malnutrition and exhaustion.

You will find the dedicated blog at the shiny new Contrary Towers blog :-)

Unrequited

So. I watched a film last night, The Proposal starring Sandra Bullock and Ryan Reynolds. Taking time to sit and watch anything is a rare luxury, which I then paid for by working until nearly 2am, but it was spontaneous, impromptu and a nice diversion.

Or would have been.

The trouble is, that whilst the film is very funny, it is, nevertheless, a romantic comedy. Bugger. That was smart. All was well until the point when they kissed and the whole game changed. Been there, done that and... Missing it insanely. I can't even begin to say how much I miss kissing. Or being curled up with someone talking, watching something, reading or just enjoying the feel of warmth and the gentle rhythm of another's heartbeat and breath.

Making it worse was that I was watching with the nearly-ex. We'd stumbled in to some kind of silent truce and it was holding, which is good. But I was in a dangerous place because if they'd made even the slightest hint that perhaps some affection was in the offing then I would have swallowed all my pride and accepted. But it wasn't. Which hurts all the more.

But it was inevitable, I suppose, I get the same sense of loss when I catch sight of someone in the throes of a joyful embrace. As Lily Allen sang in Littlest Things

Sometimes I find myself sittin' back and reminiscing
Especially when I have to watch other people kissin'

Yep. That.

Thinking about it though, it would have been beyond wrong. Seeking something for the sake of something is never going to turn out well, I learnt that only too well last year. It has to be real.

So I'm trying to fill my mind with other things, the feelings are flowing around in torrents now, which is tricky as there is nowhere for them to go, and incredibly frustrating feeling on so many levels. I think this is how I sat there until 2am writing some insanely complex code because, well, it was better than the alternative of thought and memories.

And nothingness of being lonely.

Yearning

Anticipation...
Wanting
Needing
Yearning

For the touch of breath
The scent of skin
The ripple of warmth
The drawing in

Hearing
The joy of a sigh
The mingling of lips
The rise of a moment
The rush
Of infinite din

Touching
Feeling soft warmth
A touch
A tension
That fluid pause

Yearning
Needing
Wanting
Anticipation...

How?

How do you do it?
How to move on?
With no one to sing to
No need for a song

How do you search
For the one that is true?
When the one that you want
Is still haunting you.

How can you find
A simple peace
A calm retreat
With sweet release

How to keep trying
In the face of a wall
As each ringing silence
Makes hope tightly furled

How do you know
When there is no more
To accept this reality
To close the last door

How do you know?