January column: Revels and Resolutions

“Where joy most revels, grief doth most lament.”                       – Hamlet, III. Ii.

My niece, Liz, is a fantastic hostess. At one happy juncture, we found ourselves living on either side of the Brooklyn Bridge, and we regularly enjoyed each other’s hospitality. Liz’s New Year’s Eve soirees were legend amongst her 20-something set of yuppie Manhattanites.

She would select a themed cocktail for the evening, and request that each guest bring an ingredient. One year, the theme was ‘Marvelous Martinis’. A week before the party, I received a cryptic missive from her: “You’re a peach! - Please bring a bottle of Peach Schnapps.”

I arrived, dressed to the nines, with schnapps bottle in hand, into a hive of activity. Little stations for each martini were arranged throughout the room. I milled about until I found my tribe - a small group of strangers gathered around a handwritten sign: “Peachy Keeny Martini”.

We introduced ourselves and huddled over our recipe. A wonderfully creative ice breaker, literally. We then saw the old year out by winding our way around Liz’s loft, sampling the delightful concoctions.

Not so delightful, however, was the resulting hang over. New Year’s Day was spent in a dim diner, in dark glasses, vowing to pursue better habits in the new year. Such post-holiday remorse propels my Manhattan chums, Kate and Abby, into a strict, annual detox. From the 2nd of January they forswear all food and drink, surviving for six weeks on a ghastly potion of purified water, lemon juice, olive oil, cayenne pepper and honey. I commend their effort, but have to laugh when I see them back on the booze and chocolates by Valentine’s Day.

That’s the funny thing about resolutions. The best of intentions can fall swiftly by the way side as old habits resurface ever so reliably. For this reason, I have always kept my resolutions hopefully vague: to be better (at nothing in particular); to do more (in a general sort of way) and to be happier (immeasurably). But this year, I have challenged myself to be less vague.

Fitness has been a regular part of my life. Running along the Hudson, walking Lucy around Washington Square Park, these were key features of my daily routine. I have lost both of these facets of my life, the latter most recently and painfully.

Grief can be overwhelming. Recently, I found myself faced with a decision: I could lie on the couch and cry, or I could go along to the new Aquafit class at The Glebe Hotel. I pushed myself, and went to the class. And, I am so glad I did. Afterward, I felt brighter, stronger and better able to cope.

The instructor, Trisha Quinn, was as bubbly and vibrant as a glass of champagne. In vivid colours, her business card offered me a daring proposition: “A Healthier, Happier Me!” I was intrigued by this bold assertion. How can she promise such a thing? Can she actually do it? I am resolved to find out.  

Et tu, Brute?

Marlon Brando as Marc Antony in the film Julius Caesar (1953)

Procrastination and panic reigns supreme as I sit in my garden on this sweltering Thursday. I have been invited to give a lecture on Julius Caesar at the Royal Shakespeare Company on Monday afternoon. I am honoured beyond belief, and have had about three weeks to prepare, but due to one thing and another, I have left it until now to start panicking, I mean, prepping.

My head is still very firmly in the clouds since the wedding, and I've been attempting to catch up on all the things that fell by the wayside in the past few months. Our lovely friend Sally has requested my help on developing a one-woman performance piece based on the life and loves of Daisy, The Countess of Warwick, which she is performing near Warwick Castle next weekend. (I've even roped the D.E.B. into providing music for the piece, so it has become a family effort...) So, I have spent the day as scriptwriter-director for her when I should probably be pulling something together for my Caesar talk. Oy vey!

This weekend, our 'one month anniversary' festivities continue, as the D.E.B. and I have tickets to see Jude Law playing Hamlet at the Donmar Warehouse in  London. (Be still my heart!) Jude Law could walk out on stage and read from the telephone directory and I'd give him a standing ovation! All I can say, is finally, this Shakespeare thing is starting to pay off.

Oh, well, back to Caesar...which at least offers me a chance to gander at some fab photos of Marlon Brando as Mark Antony... 

Facing the Fear

“What, frightened with false fire?” - Hamlet

A wave of panic washed over me as we rounded the corner.

The D.E.B. and I were heading to Birmingham to collect our wedding rings from a little shop in the old Jewelry Quarter. En route, we had to stop by his former father-in-law’s to drop off a bit of shopping the D.E.B. had done for him. (He is such a darling, Darling English Boy.)

As we approached the house, we noticed another car in the drive. “Thommie’s here,” the D.E.B said flatly. We both fell silent, and the D.E.B. drove on.

Her.

The she-devil of my nightmares, the physical embodiment of all my insecurities, my phantom nemisis: Thomasina. The D.E.B.’s Ex.

I was petrified.  The D.E.B. sensed my anxiety and drove around the block -- twice. “We’ll just come back later,” he said.

It’s such a funny thing isn’t it, the way we women can sometimes respond and react in these situations. I don’t know why I am so unnerved by the very thought of her. Thomasina and I harbour no strife or conflict between us, directly.

I hate the pain she has caused the D.E.B., though I don’t hate her, per se. I have no idea what she thinks of me. To be clear and frank, I was not ‘the Other Woman’. Her relationship with the D.E.B. had ended long before I entered the frame.

In fact, there was never an “Other Woman” in their story. Thomasina’s own folly and dalliance brought their marriage to an end.  Why then did I find myself quaking in my boots at the thought of encountering her?

I recalled a phone conversation I’d had about Thomasina, with a friend when I first moved to England: “You don’t understand,” I tried to explain to my trusted, psychic friend, whom I call ‘The Soothsayer,’ “The D.E.B. loved her. He didn’t want it to end, even though she’d hurt him repeatedly. How can I face that? How can I live up to that?”

The Soothsayer paused, trying to measure the best way of imparting advice she knew I did not want to hear: “You need to face this woman,” she said in a firm voice, adding, “There is something you need to learn from her.” I resisted my natural inclination for sarcasm, and said nothing.

“There is a lesson you need to learn, and you have to learn it from her. I’m not saying you have to become big pals with this gal, but meet her you must.” The Soothsayer said definitively.

And now, the moment had arrived. I felt unkempt and unprepared, not ready for this testy encounter. “We’ll just come back later,” the D.E.B. said again, rounding the corner, again.

“No,” I heard myself say aloud. "Let’s do this.”

I’m not sure what came over me, but I knew unequivocally that scurrying away like a rabbit was not the answer. Beyond the shadow of a doubt, I knew that if I ran from Thomasina today, I would be running from her for the rest of my life.

Besides, I knew that if I didn’t find the courage to face her, and subsequently admitted as much, several friends of mine would have flown here from wherever they were, and totally kicked my butt for chickening out!

I recalled another conversation with my dear friend, Mikala, who now lives in Dubai, another wise woman in my life: “Thomasina has no power over you. The power she holds, the space she occupies in your life and in your mind is power that you have given her.”

I shared with Mikala the advice The Soothsayer had given, to which she responded: “I think she’s right. You need to burst this bubble. You have made Thomasina this gigantic, phantom nemesis in your mind. You actively compete with her, though there is no competition. You fret and worry about her, when there is no need. She lost. You won. If anybody in this situation should be anxious of facing someone else, it should be her being nervous about meeting you!”

Mikala’s words rung round my head as the D.E.B. and I parked ‘the Tank’ near the drive. Thomasina and I knew each other vaguely in the ‘90s, when I was a student in Stratford-upon-Avon. We’d encountered one another occasionally in the same Stratford theatre/pub scene. So I had an idea of what I would be facing.

I’m not sure whether this bit of foreknowledge made the situation better, or worse. Probably worse. Back in those days, our differences were very pronounced: she was more ‘Stevie Nicks,’ while I was more ‘Siouxie Sioux.’

Our paths would sometimes cross at RSC post-production theatre parties where my uber-intellectual friends and I—dressed in black, huddled in corners, sipping red wine, convinced we were the Shakespeare illuminati—would spy her flitting, flirting and flouncing about the room with ease.

There she was, sitting on this ones lap, pinching that ones cheek, or belting out a quick tune as a ready party trick. “She’s got a nice pair of lungs,” an RSC extra snickered, and nudged his chum, on one occasion, as they watched Thommie perform a short ditty for the crowd.

I wondered how pronounced our differences would seem to me now. And, I will confess, after entering her father’s house, my own feminine shallowness rose to the surface: she’s still got bigger boobs (“lungs”) than me, but I’m thinner.

And, I will confess that I was relieved. (Sad, sad, but true.)

However, the greatest sense of relief for me was in the fact that now this meeting had taken place, Thomasina was no longer a bugbear with which my friend (?) Corrina could taunt, frighten or flog me.

A brief, awkward silence passed between us after we said, “Hello.” But it was less like the nasty pause that occurs between two competitors sizing each other up, and more like one that would occur between two people reaching for the same magazine or book off a shelf.

Under normal circumstances, in a situation such as this, a third party would have intervened to facilitate an introduction, to move the conversation on. But, in this case an introduction was wholly unnecessary.

Feeling a psychic nudge, I swiftly and unwittingly seized the power in the dead-lock: “Thommie, it’s a been a while, hasn’t it?” I said with a smile. And then, I hugged her. (I know.) And I don’t really know quite why I did.

A gesture of peace? A gesture of victory? A need to re-assure myself that she was in fact a corporeal entity and not just a figment of my feverish imaginings? Or a moment of grace?

I would like to think it was that latter, a moment of grace, or maybe even a moment of Grace, i.e., ‘What would Grace Kelly Do?’  Whatever it was, it was above all a moment for me.

The moment I released Thomasina from our embrace, I released myself from fear of her. What a valuable lesson to learn.

The other lesson I learned from this encounter was, for lack of a better word, ‘ownership.’ I don’t mean that in the sense of ‘owning the D.E.B.’ or anything like that, I mean it more metaphorically, in the sense of owning ones place, or ones voice.

When Thomasina made polite conversation by quizzing me on wedding details: e.g., “Are you wearing a dress?” I curbed/kerbed my sarcasm, and kept me answers brief. In other words, instead of giving in to the urge to say: “No, I’m wearing a clown suit. Of course, I’m wearing a dress!”

I said simply: “Yes.” “And is it nice?” she inquired. “Oh, yes, very nice.” I replied. What I appreciated most from my new found sense of strength was that I was unapologetic in my discourse with her.

That is what I mean by ownership. I’m in love and I’m happy, I’m over the moon in fact, and I am not going to apologise to Thomasina or anyone else for it. 

It may seem I am over-labo(u)ring a point here, but I think not so. Being apologetic and/or self-deprecating seems to me to be a prime feature of British social discourse. This is this sort of exchange one often hears: “Didn’t you do well? Bravo!” “Oh, well, I could have done better…”  

If I’m honest, this sort of thing drives me more than a little crazy. When I was growing up, there was a cute little song we used to sing in Sunday School that goes like this:

“If you’re happy and you know it, clap you’re hands!/If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands!/If you’re happy and you know it, then your face should surely show it, if you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands!”

A wacky example, granted, but an apt one, with a very simple message: Own your happiness. 

Even before my English influences, I was routinely self-deprecating. I didn’t want to seem too happy, to somehow take more than my fair share of the ‘happiness pie,’ or potentially hurt someone else’s feelings by relishing my possession of something they lacked or didn’t have, whether that be a higher score on a test, an awesome new outfit, fab job offer, or boyfriend.

But, no more! Instead of being mealy-mouthed around Thomasina when she asked me if I was excited about the forthcoming nuptials, I did not rattled off a laundry list of patheticisms like: “Oh, well, it’ll probably rain, and the dress probably won’t fit right, and my mum’ll be late getting to the church…” and all the other nonsense things we say, and hide behind, I told her the truth plainly: “Yes, I'm thrilled. It’s going to be a super day.”

And I walked away from that encounter feeling stronger, and maybe even a bit taller, than ever before.

Thrift, Thrift, Horatio

"Thrift, thrift, Horatio, the funeral bak'd meats,
did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables." - Hamlet (I.ii. 176–181)

In this famous line from Hamlet, the Danish Prince is, of course, being fiendishly sarcastic about the haste with which his mother has married his uncle, following the death of his father. However, the frugal economy Hamlet implies seems a  suggestion most apt for today, in these financially uncertain times.

India Knight is a woman of many talents, and she has inspired me yet again. Just when I thought knew what to expect from her as a writer, she comes storming out of left field. This past weekend, as the D.E.B. and I curled up with our copy of the Sunday Times, I was stunned to see her name emblazoned across the cover of the Times’ Style magazine. India is now a Style guru with a new book coming out this Thursday, extolling the virtues of being “thrifty”- The Thrift Book: Live Well and Spend Less.

Her article–based on the book—is itself a great read. India shares openly her own financial demons, such as being hounded by bailiffs, and being flat broke even at a time when she had two books on the top bestseller lists. Knight does an excellent job of assessing our “must have” culture, and outlines some very simple ways we can “kick the habit,” do better, and be better.

I was surprised to find that without even trying, by just giving into my own current, personal circumstances, I have been (largely unknowingly) “doing my bit,” becoming a better consumer, and in India’s words, “become more green.”

For example, in the section entitled “Sensible Supermarket Shopping,” Knight suggests making the following adjustments to one’s food shopping regime:

a.) Shop locally, daily, buying only precisely what you need.

b.) Shop online from a properly compiled list.

c.) “If you find yourself naturally resistant to the idea of buying discounted food because you’re middle class, get over it.”

d.) Stop shopping at “posh” supermarkets.

Living how and where I do – more or less vehicle-less in rural Warwickshire, with the world’s tiniest refrigerator – I have very few options other than to shop locally, almost daily and online.  (see previous posts: “Patience and Fortitude” and “Is this an appliance, I see before me?”)

Thankfully, the Barford community has pulled together in true English village fashion, and re-opened its Village Shop. In just under two years, the Barford community dug deep, and raised the £300,000.00 needed to build and open the new shop. The shop is gorgeous, and cost effective. It has one paid staff member. Apart from the Manager, the rest of the staff is composed entirely of community volunteers. It seems that the frugal and communal lessons of WWII continue to inspire generations of Britons, and change the face of British communities.

Ribbon-cutting ceremony at the new Village Shop

The Vicar, blessing the Shop and all who shop within her

Barford's answer to Starbucks

The D.E.B. during the Opening Day shopping spree

While basking in the glow of my newly found sense of  “how green am I,” India Knight presented me with a fresh challenge. Clothes. Now, I have to say, I have never considered myself, nor ever really aspired to be a “full-on fashionista.” That is not to suggest that I am a slouch. I like to look good, I care about my appearance, I enjoy beautiful things, and would like to think of myself as a “woman of style.” Although I have never paid $700.00 for pair of shoes, I have been known to get more than a little crazy in Anthropologie on Fifth Avenue; I weep to think of how far away I am from J. Crew, and I have never met a cashmere sweater (jumper) that I didn’t like. In her article, and I assume in her book as well, India Knight challenges her readers to re-discover thrifts shops, eBay, and to consider making their own clothing.

I have always, always loved, loved, loved thrifts shops in England, i.e., Oxfam, and the countless Hospice and Cancer Society shops that dot every large English village, hamlet or town. To me, these shops are unique in that they are actually thrift shops, whereas “thrift” or second-hand shops in NYC are really just expensive shops in disguise – dressed down, with dim lighting, dull furnishings, and microscopic dressing rooms to fool the wannabe spend-conscious shopper. (It will come as no surprise that my favorite second-hand shop in NYC is St. Luke’s Thrift Shop. It doesn’t get any better than last season Episcoplian.)

I have decided to take India at her word, and have created a “Thrift Shop Challenge” for myself. I just found out a few hours ago that I have been invited for an interview for a short-term vacancy at The Shakespeare Institute! (No one is more surprised than me.) Of course, after receiving the news, my first thought was: What will I wear? Normally, my second thought would be: www.jcrew.com. 

Here is was what I found today (weepingly) on jcrew.com. Gorgeous... 

                              The "Kate Flannel Dress" ($198.00 USD) from J.Crew.com                           (They don't deliver internationally...sniff, sniff!)

Can I be thrifty, and find a comparably fetching interview ensemble here in England without succumbing to high street offerings at the likes of Next, Laura Ashley, Monsoon or Hobbs? We shall see. My interview is in exactly 7 days from today, so the challenge is on!

     

Kindred Spirits

Suddenly, I seem to be surrounded by amazing American women photographers who have followed their hearts and dreams to England. To be sure, there is something powerfully creative in the British landscape, in the very air here.  It is here that I feel most connected to my creative self. I can’t describe what it is about this place, I have tried (unsuccessfully) on more than one occasion to capture it in writing on the page. But I can see it in their photography. For me, "word-herder" that I am, it is language/syntax/sound (obviously manifested in the works of Shakespeare) that drew and continues to me to this place creatively. I like to walk where he walked. Some days, I look up at the sky, or walk by the River Avon, and wonder to myself: “Perhaps, on a day like today, Shakespeare went for a walk along this path, and was been inspired to write: ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?'”

The very landscape of England breathes poetry. I always have that sensation when I am traveling by train through Warwickshire, the trees are poetry on the landscape.  My new-found friend (though I feel like I’ve known her forever!) Chele Willow shares this sensibility, and has an incredible eye for visual poetry. Through her lens, I see what I fail to express through words  on the page. Here’s one of my favo(u)rite photographs of hers:

 The D.E.B. and are planning a short “holiday” in November to visit “the rellies” (relatives) up North in Yorkshire. I am soooo thrilled to have a chance to finally make it up to “Brontë Country” in the Lake District. And, I really love the D.E.B.’s rellies, so the Brontës are a bonus. Looking forward to experiencing the landscape that inspired Emily, Charlotte and Anne; and of course having a tour of Castle Howard – which I am claiming as my ancestral home!

Elizabeth Harper is another American photographer transplanted to the UK, in Cornwall. To me, Harper seems to possess a warm and sensitive eye that capture’s the very heartbeat of the moment she is shooting. This one of hers struck me to my core. 

Guess I need to acknowledge that day-by-day I am growing increasingly more and more “broody”.  And, as I am often  reminded by one or two of my friends (?) here, the clock is ticking, and I will soon be running out of time. (Comforting.) I look at this picture, and wondered what I’m doing with my life...

The D.E.B. wants to be a Dad, and I really want to make him a dad. He would be a wonderful, wonderful, wonderful father -- I don’t think I have ever met a man more pre-disposed to fatherhood than the D.E.B. As for me, I think I would make a good, if somewhat zany, mother.

As Shakespeare wrote: “the readiness is all.” Are we ready? Am I ready? Will I ever be “ready”? Like Hamlet (big leap here, but go with me), I choose to think and over think, to hesitate, debate with myself, consider all the options &etc., where a more brash and ‘Fortinbras-like’ person would just act and do. And think later. Maybe, I should try harder to channel my inner “Angelina Jolie.” 

Post script –

The tempter washing line has had the ultimate last laugh. Bright, gorgeous, sunny, WARM, late October day.  Spent all morning laundering every item of washable clothing we owe. Got everything on the line before the peak of noon. Feeling triumphant, only to sit here now, some two and half hours later to watch as buckets of hailstones and rain descend upon the nearly dried laundry. Curses! Fooled and foiled again!

Beauty’s where you find it

If, as Madonna (or ‘Madge’ as she’s called here) so wisely instructed us in the 1990s, "Beauty's where you find it," I’m in trouble. I’m struggling to find it here in the wilds of South Warwickshire.

Recently, I came across a rather interesting piece by Tad Safran (“American Beauty?” 11 December 2007) in The Times--my new favo(u)rite newspaper--that really made me think.

Okay, yes, there is no doubt that he was more than a wee bit harsh on the general female populace of Great Britain by labeling them (all) as: “unkempt and lazy about grooming.” Indeed, the words “sweeping” and “generalization” come readily to mind, as do the words “gross” and “exaggeration.” 

However--stay with me--however, Tad’s provocative essay did make me think about US-UK cultural differences in relation to beauty.

First, I hasten to add, I am not referring to the manic, extreme, irrational approaches to beauty that we Americans are (in)famous for. I’m just talking about the standard, runoff the mill, girlie-girl, “nothing-else-to-do-on-a-Saturday-so-let’s-grab-some-sushi-and-get-our-nails-done” approach to beauty, or, as I like to call it “maintenance.”

In his critique, Safran acknowledges, that one source of the US-UK beauty divide is the high cost of beauty treatments in the UK. I say, “Amen, brother!” 

And I would add to that the lack of choice or selection of salons and/or places to have beauty stuff done is another deterring factor. Pull up a chair, sister, I have a laundry list of examples, and I’ve only been here two months!

First off, outside of London and other major cities, as the Italian New Yorkers say, “Forget about it!” 

In the past two months I have been fleeced, ripped off and any other word you can think of to describe being stripped of copious amounts of cash and getting very little in return. 

In New York, in my former little enclave on Bleecker Street, there were 4 nail salons in a 5-minute radius. At my favourite, Gigi Nail (oh girls, how I miss you!), you can get a wonderful manicure and pedicure, what really amounts to a two hour royal treatment, including a short back massage, for $25.00 USD. (That’s a mere £14.96 GBP)

I’d walk away from Gigi Nail feeling like a queen AND a Good Samaritan for leaving a $10.00 tip! So, all in, $35.00 (£20 GBP and change!) 

For the love of Isis, you are lucky – at least in this part of Britain – to find a “nail salon” that will only charge you £35.00 GBP ($57.00 USD) for a slap-shod pedicure, and a haphazard manicure that looks like it has been completed by a 3 year-old! An angry, colo(u)r-blind, 3 year-old.

I'm not exaggerating. A few weeks ago, the D.E.B. and I were going to see David Tennant and Patrick Stewart in Hamlet at the RSC, and I decided to treat myself to a “salon day” (nails and waxing) in lieu of the big evening. 

First, it was a Monday, so most of the salons in the area were closed. Closed? Closed?! What’s that? I’m sure that somewhere in New York City there is at least one nail salon that is even open on Christmas Day! Or at least Christmas afternoon.

I trudged desperately about the town, like a homeless person looking for a place to sleep, and I found one salon that was open. The staff were all very friendly and nice. I really liked them. They made me a cup of tea. 

The only problem was the lack of what in the US would be standard beauty equipment. For my “pedicure” I was placed in an ordinary armchair, and instructed to soak my feet into a Rubbermaid plastic sink bowl. I thought they were joking. 

No electric massage chair, no heated Jacuzzi/whirlpool tub in which to soak my feet and cares away. This was not a “salon pedicure.” This was letting your best friend give you a pedicure in her kitchen, because she’s in her sixth week of Beauty School and needs the practice. That is all well and good, and as a good friend I would do that, if I had a friend who were a Cosmetology student, but I would do it as a favo(u)r, with lowered expectations, and certainly not expect to pay that friend $127.00 USD (£78.00 GBP) for the privilege of being her guinea pig!

I cannot even describe the shambles that was the manicure I received on this occasion. No electronic drying devices were available to dry my nails? Suffice it to say, when the manicurist started blowing on my wet nails herself, I asked for a hair dryer. They, in turn, looked at me in disbelief, and thought I was insane. Of course, my nails were smudged and ruined before I even left the building. What a complete and utter waste of time and money.

I can’t even begin to decry the saga of trying to find someone to do a decent wax job! And I don’t just mean waxing of the "Brazilian" or "Hollywood" variety, I mean I can’t even find someone to do my eyebrows decently! 

Back in NYC, I would go to Gigi Nail for a wax treatment (eyebrows, bikini, & etc.) once every four weeks. For some reason, here, I go, get waxed and then need to go back in less than two weeks. So, either, my hair has suddenly and miraculously started growing at a rapidly increased and alarming rate, or the waxers I’m going to are just not up to snuff.

So, two months in and I am well and truly ready to throw in the towel. I am tired of throwing away money, and walking away disappointed. But, I refuse to become in Safran’s words a “lazy, unkempt frump.” Oh no, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I went to Boots, and spent £12.00 GBP on self-waxing product by Veet.

I was giddy at the prospect of liberating myself of my UK beauty salon nightmare, and trying something new. In this, my new Veet “home waxing and individual crucifixion kit” did not disappoint. It was a new experience, to say the least.

I coached myself somewhat unconfidently through the strange directions: “Heat waxing strips with hands.” Ponderous. I have always had notoriously cold hands, so how does this work then? Should I go and use someone else’s hands? After successfully heating my hands, then heating the strips, I proceeded to smooth the strips into place. Always one to go for a leap into the deep end, I started with the most sensitive area first. 

Nothing could have prepared me for the sheer, blinding pain of trying to rip off the Veet, duct tape-like, waxing strip that was now permanently affixed to my bikini area by what could only have been cement glue. Shedding a single tear, I rolled over in silent, utter agony, with the hope that I would not lose consciousness.  The only thing worse than the pain I was experiencing was the complete humiliation of having to call out for help after finding I had subsequently laminated myself to the bathroom floor.

Beauty is indeed where you find it. And the pursuit of beauty is anything but trivial, for it comes at great price and sacrifice. 

Autumn rain

1st of October. Autumn pitching down on my nearly-dried laundry. The day started so sunnily. What happened? And so, too, I feel my confidence waver and wane. 

I am scheduled to give a lecture at The Shakespeare Institute in 3 weeks time. This is not just any lecture for me. This is a "Thursday Seminar" at The Shakespeare Institute. "Thursday Seminars" were a huge part of my life not so long ago, when I was graduate student there. I can't believe I received my Ph.D. 10 years ago this year. Has it really been 10 years? And here I am, back again. Here is the thing, you know those old sayings, like the one Janis Joplin is said to have coined: "You can never go home." And, another in the same vein: "Never return to the scene of the crime."  That's how I feel about giving this lecture. I'm not ready. I don't feel "old" enough or "grown up" enough to do it.

I still feel like that hopeful student I once was, longing for acceptance and approval. Wanting to prove my worth, my smarts. When I was a student, Thursday Seminars were a pleasure and a pain. If we were lucky, our director, Stanley Wells,  had roped some Shakespeare hot-shot to come and talk to us. I will never forget how on one occasion he'd invited Harriet Hawkins to speak. Harriet Hawkins was--and probably still is--this sassy, American scholar-diva. She was tall, blonde, and gutsy, with what I think was a broad Texan accent.  The title of her lecture was "Classics & Trash." Awesome. So American. The kind of woman that makes an Englishmen swoon.

I admired her. And wish I could find that kind of courage now. I mean, I've had it before, I used to teach at NYU, for goodness sake! If that doesn't take balls, I don't know what does! But this is different. Like presenting a lecture before your family--and I have a highly critical family.

I want most of all to make a good showing. To confirm my status and place as a Shakespeare scholar and performance historian. I am torn between talking about my experience seeing an amazing production of Othello in Alaska last April, or pulling together some thoughts that I've had about the final moments of Hamlet, inspired by two recent productions I have seen both here in Stratford (with David Tennant and Patrick Stewart) and at Shakespeare in the Park in  NYC. Either would be fine, but I want to be better than fine. I want to be excellent. 

So, instead of knuckling down and pinning down exactly what I am going to talk about, I am focussing my energy on worrying about what to wear (Oh, how I miss J. Crew); unpacking the countless boxes that have just arrived from New York; and watching the rain...