july, two days in

I can feel the fog descending, curling round the outer edges of consciousness and fuzzing up my throat and nose.  I will shortly be a pariah in the office, my germs warded off with sideways glances and furious rinsing of mugs. 

Ha, I just opened the last post to discover it was all about being sick.  Well, lest this blog devolve into an extended examination of my inner workings, let me report on all the other news in A-town:

My sister K: took her to a play last night (Once on Chunuk Bair, Auckland Theatre Company at the Maidment, v. good) and enjoyed her company over dinner first.  She had a skirt in a gorgeous stiff black + white floral fabric that I coveted.  That's not really news, per se, but there it is. 

Mum: allegedly announced to sister K that she's now ready to be a grandmother.  Has also been considering surrogacy options for me, in case I'm too busy to procreate for myself.  Mum surely told K this in the knowledge it would be communicated to me (K being presently single meaning that she's not the prime child-bearing target).  Dear old Mum, she doesn't want to ask me directly what my plans are because she rightly knows I'll be prickly about it.  She's been giving me plenty of opportunities to raise children in conversation; I'm SUCH a disappointment.

Dad: not much to report.  I'm loving phone conversations with him at the moment.  He works so actively at holding a conversation about the news and what's going on and asking the right questions -- who doesn't love that? About the time I left home, Dad became very intentional in telling us he loves and is proud of us.  Maybe I didn't notice it before I left, maybe it was triggered by our departures, I'm not sure.  We've never been an emotionally transparent family and I just adore that Dad is intentional now about that stuff - it takes effort and I really appreciate it.  Though, of course, I should be more reciprocal. 

P: lovely, as usual.  Except for the other morning when everything he uttered annoyed me so deeply I contemplated telling him to just shut up and not bother talking to me again until we left for work.  Good thing I didn't, as on reflection the problem may (MAY!) have been me and waking up on the wrong side of the bed. 

Work: have been promoted.  Am fairly sure that they will soon discover all apparent abilities are a sham -- but have managed to wriggle up another step on the ladder for better or worse.  Am bizarrely ambivalent about it for a girl who has tended to measure her worth in external achievement standards. 

Cats: puss-ish. 

Friends: neglected.  Must do something about that.  J is in NZ this week and I'm taking my birthday leave on Friday to see her.  I think we'll go to a wild and wintry beach for a walk to feel properly Kiwi.  I'll feel envious of her return to London on Sunday as I've been having pangs recently.  It's been a while since we escaped Auckland last, so perhaps I'm feeling a little cabin-feverish?

Ha, on re-reading the above, it struck me -- have you read the Ed Champion rant about Middling Millenials?  I'm not going to link to it because ELEVEN THOUSAND WORDS and much of his point re Emily Gould is subsumed in vitriol and a smattering of misogyny, valid as it might otherwise be.  ALSO, good grief, I could certainly be accused of some Middling Millenial behaviour. Of course, any literary pretensions I may have reside firmly inside my own head and only occasionally spill into this badly-edited and irretrievably awful personal blog, so if Middling Millenial refers only to those who are seeking fame off the creation of subpar art, I certainly don't count.  But, if the occasional reference to the Pink Power Ranger by a 32 year old woman in an online journal strikes you as vapid, lazy and disengaged, well bully for you but I care not.  Well, I care a little bit, I'm human aren't I?

Time to cut it off, given I'm making no sense whatsoever.  I bet you I read this in less than a month's time and cringe, but isn't that what a blog's for?

ramble

I contemplated tights this morning, for the first time in at least six months.  I wore pajama pants and an old jersey of P's around the house last night and felt lovely and cosy.  The shoulder seasons are just lovely, really, when they're not particularly wet. 

Ma and Pa are off on an overseas jaunt and I'm super jealous, feeling stuck here in the +64.  They're visiting the studio we rented in Cairanne, Provence.  Not only are they spending spring in the south of France, but I can imagine exactly where and what they'll be doing.  Swanning around the ampitheatre in Orange, swilling wine in Chateauneuf du Pape, visiting the boulangerie in the village etc.  It's been nearly two years since we were there last; FRANCE I MISS YOU please can I come back soon?

At the moment, they're in the Napa Valley somewhere.  Gosh, they deserve it but man alive I am being eaten alive by envy.

Instead, I suspect it will rain through Easter.  We're catching up with friends, will probably mooch around the house a bit, stuff our faces with marshmallow eggs.  There are worse things we could be doing, I suppose.  P was gifted a voucher by his employer for working hard through a particularly stressful time of the year for them, so on Saturday we're trying a new to us restaurant (Sunday Painters, if you're interested.)

I'm starting to go for walks with sister K this weekend, who has signed us up to a 10k run later this year.  K's recovering from knee surgery, so we're planning a leisurely training programme to get her back in action.  We'll tackle One Tree Hill on Saturday, and I'll try to convince her of the merits of homeownership in the greater Onehunga area.  I'd like her to be closer to us.  It feels odd living in the same city but being at least a half hour drive apart.  That's probably laziness on my part - in London, I'd have thought nothing of catching public transport for 45 minutes or so to see her, but in Auckland I resent it.  Partly because I'm not a fan of the part of town she lives in, perhaps?  She's looking to buy even further away, but I am the big sister and what are big sisters for but being a bit bossy?

Last weekend we went to Silo's production of Angels in America, as forecast.  Wow.  I'm still chewing that one over, but general verdict is I really enjoyed it.  As an aside, and lest you think this is a cat-free blog post, let me just say that I nearly lost my shit when in the last 30 minutes of 6 hours, the play featured a dead cat, enumerating its nine lives.  Well fuck me, I can tell you for real that cats have one life only.  I had to laugh - I'd just been thinking how the play was so obviously of it's time (written in the early 90s, set mid 80s) but maintained resonance. 

theatrical

Last night P took me to the theatre - Speaking in Tongues, produced by the Silo Theatre Company.  Verdict: the first half really made me think and I wanted more of the same - Andrew Bovell's second half felt a little disjointed as a result; it had the same strong themes but I wanted to know more through the eyes of Jane, Pete and Sonja who vanished for the benefit of Sarah, Neil/John and Valerie.  Oliver Driver was excellent - as John, in particular.

However.  The takeaway from last night's performance is that I can never eat at a yakitori bar again if I don't want to end up the size of a house.  Edamame, completely justifiable.  However, chicken skins, pork belly, octopus balls and chicken livers all on their own wee sticks are entirely too much fatty deliciousness and I cannot resist.  Starving myself of yakitori is the only way - but Tanuki's Cave is on my walk home...I am doomed. 

Also, I drank far too much sake with dinner (just before the final skewer arrived I annouced to P: "I am officially impaired") and that's a recipe for feeling alternatively extremely hot and then shivery the day following.  I am having real trouble regulating my body temp today. 

pictureless void no more

I can't stand looking at my pictureless blog just now, so Fuck Yeah, Books! has come through once again:  this time, it's introduced me to Awesome People Reading.  I can't even.  LOVE.

CHRISTOPHER PLUMMER READS
VIA AWESOME PEOPLE READING, PHOTOGRAPH BY ANDREW ECCLES

SIR IAN MCKELLEN READS (AND STARES INTO THE UNKNOWABLE)
VIA AWESOME PEOPLE READING, SOURCE NICK DRAKE

That's better. 

b f pinkerton is a shifty beggar

In the spirit of my previous “I did a thing” posts, I shall review my visit to the NZ Opera on Friday night now that the season has come to an end.  Consider this entirely useless and feel free not to bother. 

So.  Yes.  Friday night, Puccini’s Madame Butterfly, thanks to NZ Opera.  Good. 

P and I started the evening with an abortive attempt to get a quick meal at Depot.  This place is excellent but you need the patience of a saint or the willingness to eat at ridiculously early hour to get in.  We had neither; so we ducked into Elliot Stables for some treats at Besos Latinos first.  The food was a bit meh, but the caipirinhas and pisco sours?  Tasty (not that I can really provide a judgment on authenticity not having made it to South America yet, P: SORT THAT OUT PLZ K THX). 

We floated outside on a wave of cachaca (sp?) into the loveliest, warmest autumn evening.  You would not have known it was the end of April, and it’s been like that ever since – highs of 21 or more every day, overnight lows of 17, crisp mornings, lingering (if dark) evenings.  The balcony at the Aotea centre was fabulous, full of people wearing sequins waving bare arms and glasses of wine around like it was February.

It got even better – beautiful singing, gorgeous set design.  I personally loved the NZSO’s accompaniment, but a lady I chatted with in the loo queue was a bit more ambivalent.  Madame Butterfly herself was a consummate actress and her voice was lovely.  Antoinette Halloran, in case you’re interested.  A colleague of mine thought Suzuki a little pantomime-y, but I loved her voice so could forgive the acting.  Gosh, I’ve never been much of an opera fan before (tried it previously and was ambivalent), but this really was lovely. 

A shame that as the first strains of the melody wafted into the refurbed Aotea centre, the phone of the woman behind us rang, and rang, and rang, and then she leant over to ask us to ensure our phones were off…and then realised it was her own fault as the usher came over with a stern face.  It wasn’t a generic ring tone – it was pretty bloody individual, so how she didn’t recognise it is beyond me.  Cell phone etiquette: muttering about other people’s rudeness never gets old, does it?  I still feel outraged nearly a week later.  That’s also possibly because I’m the crotchedy sort.

The evening was also slightly marred by arriving home to discover people had been let in to fix the ceiling holes (long-ish story, demonstrably NOT MY FAULT this time, a nice change) without our permission.  They left a layer of gib dust over our entire home and belongings and added further scuff marks/paint chips on the walls.  Really took the shine off, I can tell you, as we squabbled over the merits of sending an email to the property manager while slightly squiffy (result: drafted it, decided to sleep on it, GOOD DECISION). 

 

I still dreamt of cherry blossom that night, though. 

suppression, repression, whatever

Ha.  You know we swept that shit under the carpet, right?  What, deal with issues?  No, bottle 'em 'til they explode again.

THIS LITERAL EXPRESSION OF 'BOTTLED EMOTIONS' BY photog-road.deviantart.com VIA.  WHAT I SRSLY <3  IS 'LONLEY'

OFF TO A PLAY TONIGHT.  This means I could potentially have something to discuss on this here blog that is not:

(a) A real estate whinge; or
(b) A whinge whinge!

Must make the most of the Auckland Arts Festival - oh, and the list of writers attending this year's Auckland Readers and Writers Festival 2013 has been released! Go, look, do, etc.  I think tickets are on sale in a day or two.  An hour of Bill Manhire's poetry set to music sounds pretty rad to me. 

things of the weekend

After the faux-drama of the fiery prawns, I've not had much to say, have I?

In the spirit of useless theatre reviews, I went to see Death of a Salesman on Friday night.  It closed on Saturday, sorry!  So this really is a useless review, unless you count maundering on the themes valuable entertainment.*

P took me and poor old P, he hadn't realised that it was a dark sort of a play.  We found it massively relevant, hence incredibly depressing.  For me it was the theme of self-delusion that echoed as we walked home afterwards; in a pinterest/bloggy type world where many of us work hard at giving the impression of a life of value and substance, do we really achieve it?  Or are we merely full of hot air, deluding ourselves that we've built something fabulous and worthwhile, missing the real value of what's before us?  Actually that's pretty awful.  I'd rather not think on it too hard.

George Henare was beyond.  Actually, the entire ensemble were pretty amazing and I thought the whole production wonderful.  Now, isn't that insightful commentary? 

_____________________________________________

In other news, I ate brunch here.  Do it, if you're in Auckland.  Dutch pancakes are the business (I've written about them before...)


*This constant need to excuse and justify my writing is getting old.  So WHY can't I stop it?  I can't work out exactly what I'm trying to achieve by it (probably comes across as false criticism).  Eugh.

monologue about a monologue

CILLIAN MURPHY AS THOMAS MAGILL IN ENDA WALSH'S MISTERMAN AT THE NATIONAL THEATRE

Last night we saw Misterman at the National Theatre and I came away still thinking about it.  It's a one man play but by no means is it a classic monologue - Thomas Magill is caught in an endless recycling of his relationships in Innisfree using tapes, recording devices and his own reproductions of conversations with Innisfree locals.  An unbelievably intense, piercing and thoroughly devoted performance by Cillian Murphy.  Enda Walsh's script and direction I enjoyed (though that seems the wrong word - perhaps appreciated?).  Some of Thomas' pieces in which he was caught up in his/the town's spiritual development were perhaps a bit drawn out, but that was of a piece with the character. 

However, I'm still not sure I've properly processed it all.  Ever have that feeling that you've just scratched the surface? 

caution, theatre spoilers ahead. mind you, the play is 400 years old

Violence in movies is one thing, but last night at the Old Vic I watched no less than seven characters be murdered, variously by strangulation, neck snapping, poison and old fashioned knifing.  Oh, and there were two hangings.  All in the second half of the Duchess of Malfi.

P and I sat, shellshocked, at the Anchor & Hope afterwards, drinking a calming carafe of wine.  Honestly, the realism of death, a few rows back, was shocking.  Themes of incest, feminism, romance across class lines, corruption,cruelty and betrayal seemed thrown into ridiculously sharp relief.  A lot for three hours. 

EVE BEST AS THE DUCHESS.

However, the script acknowledged it's own tropes and there were a few factors that made the play superb.   The set design was phenomenal and the scenes were beautifully lit.  Eve Best was outstanding as the Duchess of Malfi.  The players made death seem real from six rows back; the shocked silence was palpable.  A girl sitting next to me visibly recoiled as Ferdinand crawled up the bed towards the Duchess then swung his head to the audience.  There were hisses as, in the dark, we realised Ferdinand was handing her Antonio's severed hand; when the Cardinal violated Julia.  I thought the language a chilling delight; "mine eyes dazzle" caused a physical shudder.  Bosola's recognition of what we expected him to do was, for me, crisp clarity, tying many themes together.

I love the Old Vic; it has a kind of aged glamour and I think it feels intimate without losing any sense of big production.  We were spoilt enought to obtain very good tickets for a decent price through a connection, but the ticket prices at the Old Vic are fairly reasonable.  You can often find Last Minute ticket deals (that link has them starting at £15). 

Also, I must add to the chorus chanting that the Anchor & Hope on The Cut is wonderful.  Lots of tasty English treats in very nice surroundings.  It's true, I think; once you go South of the River you never go back!

So yeah, the work on the London bucket list is going quite well, thanks for asking.