“Each man reads his own meaning into New York”
--Meyer Berger
“When it's three o'clock in New York, it's still 1938 in London.”
--Bette Midler
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Images from New York...
Monday, October 19, 2009
Newlyweds
Grigory had tried. He really had.
Eva, being the premature bride she was, had been given the benefit of the doubt more times than her wonderfully patient husband cared to recognize; and patience came easily, for her overall manner was so utterly mild, agreeable, pleasant.
But all of this turned to mud when it came to the matter of her appalling cooking. It stands to reason that all Jewish women live and breathe to cook, yes? They never get tired of stirring and peeling and kneading and chopping. They go to sleep at night spooning the crock-pots, and awake each morning to find a skillet under their pillow and a rainbow arching serenely, magnanimously, over the stove. But the truth is, there were many days when Eva would have done anything to avoid the culinary perils of her kitchen. Anything. Hit-herself-over-the-head-with-the-aforementioned-skillet-from-under-the-pillow anything. Anything.
For the first few years of their marriage, Eva had many of those days. At first, she thought it was because of her recent run of bad secular recipes: she had trouble with preparations, non-kosher foods that seemed not only foreign but forbidden. She felt pornographic palpitations when handling dairy and meat on the same chopping board, and lost concentration removing the tails from shellfish, or chopping fine pieces of streaky bacon. Her palpitations notwithstanding, she jumped in with both feet, (for, as her mother had always said, if one is going to eat pork, one might as well eat a belly-full). Nonetheless, it was a challenge to feel enthusiastic about cooking after she had botched a number of meals in a row. And, by a number, one means to say, all.
Grigory, however, bless his sanguine heart, believed that she was still capable of redemption, and went about staging something resembling an intervention. He told Eva, quite simply, that she had to stop buying loaves of bread and pre-prepared vegetable dishes from the green-grocer and passing them off as her own. Eva nodded solemnly. Not long after, she successfully made her very own loaf of dark rye. The next day, she made soup[1]. Progress.
* * *
Eva’s challenges were not simply cultural and dietary; she had considered herself to be the passive victim of Sarah's natural ease in the kitchen, and, having identified her deficiency quite early, had somehow always skillfully managed to hand the majority of actual cooking duties over to her sisters. Eva claimed she was more of a food preparation sort of a creature: she cut the carrots, kneaded the dough, chopped the onions, slyly handing these things over to those who knew what in the world to do with them.
She thought her approach stealthy, and believed it would serve her a few more years, and indeed it might have. Had she remained in the shtetl, these shortcomings would have revealed themselves in due course, and their ever-insistent mother would have, with vigorous severity, whipped her flightiest daughter in to a cook one could at the very least describe as solid. Unfortunately for everyone’s sanity and general digestive health, Mother never got that chance. And perhaps regardless of missed opportunities, Mother’s efforts might have been in vain, because for Grigory, it was Eva’s knowledge of exclusively Jewish cuisine that proved the initial barrier during their first few months together.
First off there was cholent. This combination of noxious gases had been the secret weapon of Jews for centuries, and the unique combination of beans, barley, potatoes, and bones or meat was meant to stick to your ribs and anything else it came into contact with. His wife attempted something unusual for their first house guests: She made cholent “steaks” for Sunday night supper. The guests never came back.
Next there was kugel, which, although usually considered a dessert of some description, Eva chose to prepare as a savoury main dish. “The very first kugels were savoury, you know!” she informed him, proudly plopping the heavy dish down before him, expectancy in her eyes. The dish heaved a plethora of noodles, onions and salt and was, apparently, meant to be edible at room temperature, which, Grigory discovered to his grave disappointment, was not entirely the case. As the weeks progressed, Eva, inspired, skipped the noodles, and substituted everything from potatoes, to matzah, to cabbage, carrots, spinach and even to cheese for the base. Grigory soldiered on, with love.
Finally, there was kreplach, which sounded much worse than it tasted. Eva informed him with a certain frenzied air that it could be soft, hard, or soggy, and the amount of meat inside its sturdy folds depended upon whether your mother or your mother-in-law had cooked it! She laughed maniacally at her own joke, but Grigory was too frightened to laugh—both at his wife and the soggy mess before him. Yet, despite Griogry’s attempts at pretense, and despite Eva’s valiant efforts, he never succeeded in fooling her, and she never succeeded in feeding him. Every meal ended with an emotional meltdown.
The truth was, Eva longed to provide for Grigory, to be his perfect partner in life. So complete was this longing that she focused her overall value to Griogry exclusively on her command of the kitchen, forgetting her virtues entirely in favor of the crippling solitude of self-flagellation[2]. She would therefore burst in to a fit of childish temper if he attempted to assist, teach, or comfort her.
It was beyond them both.
He didn’t have a prayer.
[1] Eva made Ukha soup. Ukha is a warm, watery fish dish, though calling it a “fish soup” would not be completely correct. Beginning from the 15th century, fish was more frequently used to prepare ukha, ergo creating a dish that had a distinctive taste, but Ukha as a name for fish broth was established only in the late 17th to early 18th centuries, prior to which the name was given to thick meat broths, then later chicken. Today it is more often a fish soup (prepared with preferably freshwater fish), cooked with potatoes and other vegetables. Chava’s attempt at Ukha, for what it is worth, was tremendously noxious and tasted of feet. At least she had tried.
[2] Well, you can take the girl out of the shtetl…
Eva, being the premature bride she was, had been given the benefit of the doubt more times than her wonderfully patient husband cared to recognize; and patience came easily, for her overall manner was so utterly mild, agreeable, pleasant.
But all of this turned to mud when it came to the matter of her appalling cooking. It stands to reason that all Jewish women live and breathe to cook, yes? They never get tired of stirring and peeling and kneading and chopping. They go to sleep at night spooning the crock-pots, and awake each morning to find a skillet under their pillow and a rainbow arching serenely, magnanimously, over the stove. But the truth is, there were many days when Eva would have done anything to avoid the culinary perils of her kitchen. Anything. Hit-herself-over-the-head-with-the-aforementioned-skillet-from-under-the-pillow anything. Anything.
For the first few years of their marriage, Eva had many of those days. At first, she thought it was because of her recent run of bad secular recipes: she had trouble with preparations, non-kosher foods that seemed not only foreign but forbidden. She felt pornographic palpitations when handling dairy and meat on the same chopping board, and lost concentration removing the tails from shellfish, or chopping fine pieces of streaky bacon. Her palpitations notwithstanding, she jumped in with both feet, (for, as her mother had always said, if one is going to eat pork, one might as well eat a belly-full). Nonetheless, it was a challenge to feel enthusiastic about cooking after she had botched a number of meals in a row. And, by a number, one means to say, all.
Grigory, however, bless his sanguine heart, believed that she was still capable of redemption, and went about staging something resembling an intervention. He told Eva, quite simply, that she had to stop buying loaves of bread and pre-prepared vegetable dishes from the green-grocer and passing them off as her own. Eva nodded solemnly. Not long after, she successfully made her very own loaf of dark rye. The next day, she made soup[1]. Progress.
* * *
Eva’s challenges were not simply cultural and dietary; she had considered herself to be the passive victim of Sarah's natural ease in the kitchen, and, having identified her deficiency quite early, had somehow always skillfully managed to hand the majority of actual cooking duties over to her sisters. Eva claimed she was more of a food preparation sort of a creature: she cut the carrots, kneaded the dough, chopped the onions, slyly handing these things over to those who knew what in the world to do with them.
She thought her approach stealthy, and believed it would serve her a few more years, and indeed it might have. Had she remained in the shtetl, these shortcomings would have revealed themselves in due course, and their ever-insistent mother would have, with vigorous severity, whipped her flightiest daughter in to a cook one could at the very least describe as solid. Unfortunately for everyone’s sanity and general digestive health, Mother never got that chance. And perhaps regardless of missed opportunities, Mother’s efforts might have been in vain, because for Grigory, it was Eva’s knowledge of exclusively Jewish cuisine that proved the initial barrier during their first few months together.
First off there was cholent. This combination of noxious gases had been the secret weapon of Jews for centuries, and the unique combination of beans, barley, potatoes, and bones or meat was meant to stick to your ribs and anything else it came into contact with. His wife attempted something unusual for their first house guests: She made cholent “steaks” for Sunday night supper. The guests never came back.
Next there was kugel, which, although usually considered a dessert of some description, Eva chose to prepare as a savoury main dish. “The very first kugels were savoury, you know!” she informed him, proudly plopping the heavy dish down before him, expectancy in her eyes. The dish heaved a plethora of noodles, onions and salt and was, apparently, meant to be edible at room temperature, which, Grigory discovered to his grave disappointment, was not entirely the case. As the weeks progressed, Eva, inspired, skipped the noodles, and substituted everything from potatoes, to matzah, to cabbage, carrots, spinach and even to cheese for the base. Grigory soldiered on, with love.
Finally, there was kreplach, which sounded much worse than it tasted. Eva informed him with a certain frenzied air that it could be soft, hard, or soggy, and the amount of meat inside its sturdy folds depended upon whether your mother or your mother-in-law had cooked it! She laughed maniacally at her own joke, but Grigory was too frightened to laugh—both at his wife and the soggy mess before him. Yet, despite Griogry’s attempts at pretense, and despite Eva’s valiant efforts, he never succeeded in fooling her, and she never succeeded in feeding him. Every meal ended with an emotional meltdown.
The truth was, Eva longed to provide for Grigory, to be his perfect partner in life. So complete was this longing that she focused her overall value to Griogry exclusively on her command of the kitchen, forgetting her virtues entirely in favor of the crippling solitude of self-flagellation[2]. She would therefore burst in to a fit of childish temper if he attempted to assist, teach, or comfort her.
It was beyond them both.
He didn’t have a prayer.
[1] Eva made Ukha soup. Ukha is a warm, watery fish dish, though calling it a “fish soup” would not be completely correct. Beginning from the 15th century, fish was more frequently used to prepare ukha, ergo creating a dish that had a distinctive taste, but Ukha as a name for fish broth was established only in the late 17th to early 18th centuries, prior to which the name was given to thick meat broths, then later chicken. Today it is more often a fish soup (prepared with preferably freshwater fish), cooked with potatoes and other vegetables. Chava’s attempt at Ukha, for what it is worth, was tremendously noxious and tasted of feet. At least she had tried.
[2] Well, you can take the girl out of the shtetl…
Friday, October 16, 2009
Ask Al: Auditions, Drama School and Conservatory (Part One)
Dear Al,
I am considering auditioning for Drama Schools next year, and would love any information, insight, or general "tips" you might be able to offer? I am sure there are a lot of out in the big wide world who are interested in picking your brains on this topic!
So I guess the specific questions are these:
1. What should an applicant expect on audition day? and
2. What should an applicant do to prepare for it?
Thank you so much,
Andrew
* * *
Dear Andrew,
OKAY.
BIG STUFF HERE.
I've watched a few people succeed and many, many more fail and have long felt that a significant proportion of those who "failed" did so because of factors other than lack of talent. I didn't fully appreciate what those "factors" were, and I came to the conclusion that too many people fail not because they don't have talent but because they are not properly prepared. So you are already asking the right questions about preparation, what follows is my personal interpretation of said preparation.
As I have said before if in my general audition blog, auditioning is a talent of it's own. The competition is well known to be very tough. Here are the facts on how tough it actually is: in 2004 the drama schools with 'accredited' courses received between 1,000 and 3,000 applicants for intakes that range between about 25 and 150 students across all of their courses. The most famous schools will probably accept 1 applicant in 100; this proportion rises to between 3 and 5 per hundred at the less famous (but not necessarily less good) ones. What follows are some basic preparations you can make to enhance your chances by making sure that your talent is shown off at its best:
1. FIND OUT ABOUT AS MANY PROGRAMS AS YOU CAN
Most of them advertise and most of them have web sites. Then ask for prospectuses and application forms for those you like the look of. When you apply you will be sent details of what you will be required to do when you go for your audition - some schools now have these details on their websites.
* * *
2. READ THOSE AUDITION REQUIREMENTS CAREFULLY
Read very carefully what each drama school requires you to do. For instance, a few ask you to prepare three audition speeches - and could well ask you to do all three. I've seen a number of people come with only two prepared because most other schools only require two. (In fact I believe that it's better to prepare many more - say between six to ten - to open up your options for each circumstance.)
Make sure that you've got the right kinds of speeches. Many schools define "classical" as "Shakespeare or contemporary" or "Elizabethan or Jacobean" (which mean roughly the same period), but some specify verse"; others don't. Others are less restrictive in what the mean by "classical".... Be sure what each means by "modern"; to some that can mean over the last hundred years, to others just the last ten. The best tactic is to put together a portfolio of at least six speeches (and preferably more) so that you can choose to suit the varying circumstances.Some schools will ask you to prepare a song (even if you're not applying for a Musical Theatre Course) - you should prepare this with as much care as your audition speeches. Remember, that a song well acted can tip the balance if your auditioners are at all equivocal about your speeches. Think of the tune as an 'underscore' to the words - and, as with a speech, it should appear as though you're inventing the words on the spot and are saying (singing) them for the first time. NB Some schools ask you to sing unaccompanied; others with accompaniment. If the latter, make sure you've got easily readable sheet music.
It is essential to plan ahead. Check out deadlines for applications - they vary considerably! Bear in mind that once you've sent of your application you can be called to audition at any time - occasionally within in a few days. And some drama schools are resistant to changing audition dates. I suggest that it is best to start sending for prospectuses a year in advance of your hoped for entry.
* * *
3. DON'T JUST APPLY TO ONE SCHOOL!: Apply to as many of the 'good' schools as you can afford. How do you know which are 'good'? First, read the contents of their prospectuses. Don't be fooled by smart graphics - what do the words say and would their kind of training suit you? (Be very circumspect about a loose use of the word "method" and the name "Stanislavski" - what do they actually mean?) Second, try to find people who know something about the recent work of each particular school. A drama school is only as good as its current teachers. A list of famous graduates or a glossy prospectus doesn't tell you what it's really like now. It is essential to ask around and get several opinions - which may well be contradictory.
Especially if you are just starting out it is important to get to get used (a) to the actual act of auditioning, which is always different from what you might have anticipated and (b) to learn how the varying audition systems work. At a guess perhaps 50% of ultimately successful applicants don't get a place first time round (for all kinds of reasons) so think of your early assays into the field as exploratory exercises to learn from rather than the 'be all and end all'. You'll also make a lot of friends as you go round the drama school circuit. [I know one young actor who got her place at RADA within three weeks of her first audition (including two recalls) and another who took five years on the audition round before she got a place.]
* * *
4. YOUR SPEECHES
As is well known the audition speech is the traditional form of assessing an actor's potential (or otherwise). Unfortunately it means that you've got to be at your best for the 2 or 3 minutes that it takes. At least you've got 2 or 3 hours for a conventional exam. You could argue that at least the agony is over quickly but too many people fail because they seem to give a similarly brief amount of time to (a) the content and (b) how they do it. Your problem is that the competition is so fierce that there is a sense that your auditioners are looking for ways of eliminating people for whatever reasonable reason. Also (and crucially) their time to watch you is so brief (they will get some ideas from interview/singing/movement sessions etc., but the speech is almost invariably the most important) that you have to find ways of really impressing them in just that 120-180 seconds. "Not fair!", you cry; it isn't, but it's just like the profession so start getting used to it. Your only advantage is that you are being watched by people very experienced in assessing potential as opposed to the "complete actor"; but even so that "potential" is too often masked by silly mistakes (choosing a character who is totally unsuitable for you, for instance) and no drama school wants a "silly" student. You have to be together and organised to do both the training and the job.
SELECTING YOUR SPEECHES
At least one school issues a blacklist of speeches not to be used and every auditioner has a mental list of those he/she is fed up with sitting through AGAIN. The fact is that you've got to do one of these popular speeches extra well to stand a chance. How can you know if a particular speech is "popular" or not? This is difficult, but you can help yourself if you avoid anything from those books of audition speeches because a lot of other people are selecting material from them. It can be a good idea to do a speech from a play you've done or from one that you otherwise know well. It may well be that there were no speeches long enough contained in anything you know, but there will be scenes in which one character is 'running things' and it is reasonably easy to cut out other people's lines and perhaps with a little bit of rewriting make a complete speech that nobody else will be doing. AND, it is a fact that the "original" speech (provided that it's well-written) will put you at a distinct advantage. The other advantage of taking a speech from a play you've done, or know well, is that you will have a very good idea of what the whole play is about from the inside - essential to a good performance of that speech.
A few schools provide a list of speeches from which you have to choose. How can you be different from everyone else in this circumstance? Go for the more obscure! It'll mean that (a) you'll have to ask advice about what's obscure and what isn't and (b) they often require more preparation, but choosing one of these can be well worth it.
REHEARSAL OF YOUR SPEECHES
(See Auditioning [Part One])
OUTSIDE HELP
Several schools counsel against this and I have seen numerous circumstances when the outside help is downright misleading. There seems to be a cottage industry out there of people happy to take your money for their guidance. How do you know if you're being helped properly? In general, it is best to find someone who has close contact with the profession and not someone whose experience is concentrated in speech and drama exams. The latter have very little to do with modern acting. If you can't find anybody whom you feel is suitable, then at least try you speeches out in front of somebody first. They may not be able to give you detailed constructive criticism but at least you'll get a gut reaction and doing a speech in front of only one person is very different from doing it by yourself.
* * *
(to be continued...)
Friday, October 9, 2009
8 years on...
We must seek peace and sometimes it is difficult to find that inward place, thinking on spiritual things, quieting the wild and rushing feelings that surge around our hearts.
The trick is to find the center of light... a center of peace in the very place where ragged winds of struggle and loss blow in our eyes-- each and every day, we must find the place where we can move from tumult, crisis, anxiety....into hope.
We would all like so much to change what is, say what has happened isn’t really so. There is nothing else we could have done to make this death not happen. We simply did everything we could.
And now, knowing in our hearts that the only way out of sorrow is in, we think-- as Michael would have-- of the positive, the joyful, absorb the color and life, even from the grayest of days, the darkest of nights.
Michael would have reminded us that the sun is shining somewhere.
The next paragraph or two is from CS Lewis’ final book appropriately entitle THE LAST BATTLE from The Chronicles of Narnia. My father read every single installment to me as a young girl, with the exception of THE LAST BATTLE... because we loved the stories so much we didn’t want them to be over. Well, now it is my turn to read the passages, and it is dedicated to my father.
“The term is over: the holidays have begun. The dream is ended this is the morning.
And as Aslan spoke He no longer looked to them like a lion, but the things that began to happen after that were so great and beautiful that i cannot write them.
And for us this is the end of all the stories, and we can most truly say that they all lived happily ever after, but for them it was only the beginning of the Real story. All their life in this world, and all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and the title page: now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story, which no one on earth has read; which goes on forever: in which every chapter is better than the one before." "
Thursday, October 1, 2009
I've been:
...after a proper writer's freak out
...and sending all of this to poor louise (See: gratitude number 26)
exploring the sublime new york city
being taken to friends' favorite places
rekindling old friendships (leah, michael, dane, nick, kenn, flagg, alex, ari, ben, bergen, santino, jessica, adam, rachel... and so many more) I'm so so lucky!
and discovering new ones
...especially in the unlikeliest of places
kicking professional butt!!
auditioning like a crazy person
...thanks to Jeff, who is showing me such angelic care (and thanks to Ruthie, for introducing us)
seeing great theatre
...in fact opening weeping in the third row centre of bond and wolverine's foray
saying the word "Ninja" a LOT
eating amazing new york food
...and then delighting in walking it off as I fly around the city on foot!
reveling in this fact: peanut butter at my beck and call!
discovering my "inner north" (I DO have a sense of direction!!) as well as a total ease with this great and glorious city
sorting out the "zen" of santino's nederlander dressing room
very VERY cathartic "potato voodoo" with leah
fainting at joe's pub
totally honored by a TMA Award for best performance in a musical, what an utterly unexpected delight!
thinking a great deal about London and how there is, indeed, a life for me there in some way... and how it is so often that one must make a journey to discover these things...
savoring the Jewish high holidays and loving any opportunity for new beginnings
moving forward...
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
The Russia Diaries: 12 August Part 2
Whoa.
What a torment. An avalanche of paperwork and government bureaucracy required to visit a still archaic country. "Don't be fooled by our shopping malls," said Vadim as he filled out the forms for us, "We are still barbaric in many ways," and he checked off about 100 boxes. "Every day I spend hours filling our thousands of forms, hours I could be spending with my patients. But I must do it to prevent prosecution of course. I am not a dermatologist, I am operating on people's spines!"
We fill out the forms.
In Cyrillic.
We report to a window.
And eccentric elderly woman with gold teeth makes photocopies of a bazillion documents.
She points us to another window where we are to buy an envelope.
We buy the envelope.
We report to another window where we are to buy stamps
We buy them.
We report to a line where we are to send it off.
We stand in this line.
People cut in it.
We arrive at the window and after more kerfuffle send them off.
The process takes two hours.
The Post Office is damp and lightless and I cannot understand how we could possibly have survived it! "Russians must make everything hard..." Vadim sighs, "else, how would we suffer?" he twinkles.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
The Broken Spectacles
It was impossible at this point to ignore his eyes: deep set, large and a ghostly blue, the skin around them was dark and sallow, outlined perfectly by a brow at times delicate, at others severe. She could not help but stare.
And it was not until this moment when he gazed at so close a proximity that the constant barrier, the screen-like barricade across his gaze the glass provided became intolerably evident. He met her stare: and suddenly the screen fell, his eyes were unadorned, and the unexpected intimacy of his expression made her quiver. His eyes were exquisite. Piercing. Deeply pained.
And filled with love.
She looked quickly away, busying herself once again with the broken frames, clicking the heavy glass back into place with a definite clack. She could feel the unbridled intensity upon her, and despite the chill in the November night, she felt at once hot and nervous.
She was unsettled, but still greater than her disquiet was her astonishment. And greater than either of those was her despair. “There you are,” she announced with false self-possession, “all fixed.” She held the frames out sideways, arm fully extended, and subsequently, she caught the nakedness of his look, which she held for a lingering moment before his “thank you” abruptly broke the spell as cleanly as the break in his now repaired spectacles.
He reached for them now, and the momentary brush of his calloused fingers on hers made her swelter once again. And then, as if replacing a coat of steel armor, Dmitri placed the frames firmly back upon his face, and they were once again at ease.
And it was not until this moment when he gazed at so close a proximity that the constant barrier, the screen-like barricade across his gaze the glass provided became intolerably evident. He met her stare: and suddenly the screen fell, his eyes were unadorned, and the unexpected intimacy of his expression made her quiver. His eyes were exquisite. Piercing. Deeply pained.
And filled with love.
She looked quickly away, busying herself once again with the broken frames, clicking the heavy glass back into place with a definite clack. She could feel the unbridled intensity upon her, and despite the chill in the November night, she felt at once hot and nervous.
She was unsettled, but still greater than her disquiet was her astonishment. And greater than either of those was her despair. “There you are,” she announced with false self-possession, “all fixed.” She held the frames out sideways, arm fully extended, and subsequently, she caught the nakedness of his look, which she held for a lingering moment before his “thank you” abruptly broke the spell as cleanly as the break in his now repaired spectacles.
He reached for them now, and the momentary brush of his calloused fingers on hers made her swelter once again. And then, as if replacing a coat of steel armor, Dmitri placed the frames firmly back upon his face, and they were once again at ease.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
The Russia Diaries: 12 August
12 August 2009
Moscow
Tired. We walked nearly 12 kilometers yesterday and I slept like the dead. Vadim is an angel of hospitality, and we set off for a slightly slower-paced day filled with official business.
On the drive in to town I coerce Vadim to speak of his personal history. He is such a deep and curious man-- thoughts penetrative, mind broad and insatiable. Before we left this morning he gave us both a copy of his published novel! A story of an aging man in the Soviet Moscow who falls in love with a younger woman he cannot have...Hm.
It is evident soon that the story of his father is the starting point--a general in the Red Army who believed fervently in the Socialist ideal, "a great patriot," he added thoughtfully after a moments pause.
His father traveled to the U.S. during the Cold War, an absolutely shocking act of open-mindedness for the time, and found America to be "shockingly normal," returning with stories of human interest from Oregon to St. Louis, to Charlotte. Apparently motivated by the death of his own father (murdered by Germans only 500 meters or so from Vadim's house!), he joined the army young and never looked back.
"He adored his Motherland," says Vadim, interestingly referring to Russia as "his" Motherland and not "the" or "our." When I tentatively bring this up Vadim simply closes his eyes and shrugs, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening for a moment...
"And you?" I ask, changing the tone in typical British style, "How did you become the lifelong medical Muscovite?" He slaps the steering wheel and laughs, small teeth bared, head back in sudden joyous amusement-- so thrilled to be relieved of his dark thoughts for a moment.
"My mother's family has a medical background, and I think it was understood that my brother and I would follow this tradition. My father never pressured us to serve in the Army, and anyway as a medical doctor one is required to serve in the Army reserves as a Captain with training and everything. HA!" he explodes, slapping the wheel again, "Imagine me! Old man running about with teenagers in Georgia!" At this Irina laughs. She shifts cat-like in her seat, smirking at Vadim before glancing out the window again. He asks her is she understands him in English. She nods, and replies in Russian that she understands more than he knows. He looks at her and they both smile.
* * *
After arriving in town we change over some money and retire to Petrovka street at my request (it is going to feature...). Vadim takes u to a Turkmen restaurant and we embark ona glorious meal of "Asiatic" food served in a colourful tents illuminated by the blazing summer sun. There are men with pipes, students lounging on decadent jewel-toned sofas, and women in hats smoking skinny "European" cigarettes.. It was at this stage that I realize I am capable of reading Cyrillic letters and actually getting by in the Russian language! How did that happen?! Suddenly, the "code" cracked, I was at last able to read things and ask Vadim what things were, point, ask, etc. It was a real thrill.
I order a traditional stir-fry, Kit a sturgeon shish kebab and Irina noodles and pavlova. Vadim takes only coffee. I think of the photo albums from last night, of his relatively radical transformation from obese young man to fit and trim older man in what appeared in the photos to be just a few months. He not only lost weight, his hair turned grey, he grew a beard, he got glasses.... what prompted this shift? Dare I even ask? As if reading my mind he comments on it himself.
"When I was fat I would've eaten all day, but now just coffee," he apologizes/
"What brought about the change?" I ask, trying not to sound anything other than matter-of-fact.
"I was sick," he looks down into his coffee, "very sick. Yes." He glances away onto the green of the park where a few moments ago he had told us he has spent his childhood and youth behind the old hospital. "I am a medical doctor, I should have known something was not right," he explains this with a hint of what seems to be shame in his voice. "I was tired all the time, for 15 years. I thought I was just sick from Communism!" he laughs, but his face falls quickly, as does Irina's, the memory of that time devastating. "Anyway..." he continues quietly, "finally my colleague made me take a test, and I was able to identify the problem and move on from there..." he sips his coffee and thinks about this for another moment before speaking again, this time with more solemnity. "But the medication, the treatment, was the hardest thing in my life."
Ah Vadim. Such a complex man. A child of the Soviet Union, but an individual spirit aching to grow.
"The entire process, it takes ten years. I am in the middle of year eight," he says with humility. "Many, many people do not survive the process..." I cannot believe this. I press him gently to explain. "Well..." he searches, "all of the symptoms you had before are the same only in reverse and at 1000 percent. You are so irritable you are like a monster, lashing out at those you love for reasons you do not understand, it is as if the voice was not my own..." and then he grew very quiet in deed, moving the white cup between his surgeon's hands. "But worst of all what is inside your mind. The opposite of exhaustion is not alertness... it is MANIA... and it is this that drives mean to take their lives. It is the never-ending noise of the brain, releasing one thousand thoughts a second, every one of them menacing. And there is nothing to stop it. Nothing turns it off. No Sleep. No pill. Nothing but death itself..." he finishes the final sip of his coffee with finality, exhaling as he replaces the cup upon the saucer. "It took time, and a lot of tolerance from my family, but now I am more even and quite well. I do not know how they all managed. But it has made me a better Doctor," he said brightly, attempting to lighten things. "More sympathetic." I look at him and try to penetrate him. I feel so limited by our too brief acquaintance, by the language barrier and by Kit and Irina, who are in this, removed and far away. I try.
"I can understand how hard that must've been, I cannot feel the pain myself but I can see it with my mind, I sympathize. And how challenging it must've been for those around you, who loved you and did not wish to see you in pain, not to be punished themselves when they had done nothing wrong. And as far as your practicing of medicine-- yes, I see. You see people at the most desperate moments of their lives. Some of them will never walk again, some of them die and you must tend to loved ones. Now, YOU have been the desperate patient. You have felt the despair, felt the frustration of being 'just another face' to a doctor, watched as your own wife and children suffered as you suffered. Of course you are a better doctor. You have been a patient."
He looked at me a moment, trying to piece together exactly who I was. I could see I had puzzled him-- a young woman, the same age as his older son, who understood the greatest challenge of his life. "You are a very sensitive girl Alexandra. You understand. You feel how others feel."
Moscow
Tired. We walked nearly 12 kilometers yesterday and I slept like the dead. Vadim is an angel of hospitality, and we set off for a slightly slower-paced day filled with official business.
On the drive in to town I coerce Vadim to speak of his personal history. He is such a deep and curious man-- thoughts penetrative, mind broad and insatiable. Before we left this morning he gave us both a copy of his published novel! A story of an aging man in the Soviet Moscow who falls in love with a younger woman he cannot have...Hm.
It is evident soon that the story of his father is the starting point--a general in the Red Army who believed fervently in the Socialist ideal, "a great patriot," he added thoughtfully after a moments pause.
His father traveled to the U.S. during the Cold War, an absolutely shocking act of open-mindedness for the time, and found America to be "shockingly normal," returning with stories of human interest from Oregon to St. Louis, to Charlotte. Apparently motivated by the death of his own father (murdered by Germans only 500 meters or so from Vadim's house!), he joined the army young and never looked back.
"He adored his Motherland," says Vadim, interestingly referring to Russia as "his" Motherland and not "the" or "our." When I tentatively bring this up Vadim simply closes his eyes and shrugs, the wrinkles around his eyes deepening for a moment...
"And you?" I ask, changing the tone in typical British style, "How did you become the lifelong medical Muscovite?" He slaps the steering wheel and laughs, small teeth bared, head back in sudden joyous amusement-- so thrilled to be relieved of his dark thoughts for a moment.
"My mother's family has a medical background, and I think it was understood that my brother and I would follow this tradition. My father never pressured us to serve in the Army, and anyway as a medical doctor one is required to serve in the Army reserves as a Captain with training and everything. HA!" he explodes, slapping the wheel again, "Imagine me! Old man running about with teenagers in Georgia!" At this Irina laughs. She shifts cat-like in her seat, smirking at Vadim before glancing out the window again. He asks her is she understands him in English. She nods, and replies in Russian that she understands more than he knows. He looks at her and they both smile.
* * *
After arriving in town we change over some money and retire to Petrovka street at my request (it is going to feature...). Vadim takes u to a Turkmen restaurant and we embark ona glorious meal of "Asiatic" food served in a colourful tents illuminated by the blazing summer sun. There are men with pipes, students lounging on decadent jewel-toned sofas, and women in hats smoking skinny "European" cigarettes.. It was at this stage that I realize I am capable of reading Cyrillic letters and actually getting by in the Russian language! How did that happen?! Suddenly, the "code" cracked, I was at last able to read things and ask Vadim what things were, point, ask, etc. It was a real thrill.
I order a traditional stir-fry, Kit a sturgeon shish kebab and Irina noodles and pavlova. Vadim takes only coffee. I think of the photo albums from last night, of his relatively radical transformation from obese young man to fit and trim older man in what appeared in the photos to be just a few months. He not only lost weight, his hair turned grey, he grew a beard, he got glasses.... what prompted this shift? Dare I even ask? As if reading my mind he comments on it himself.
"When I was fat I would've eaten all day, but now just coffee," he apologizes/
"What brought about the change?" I ask, trying not to sound anything other than matter-of-fact.
"I was sick," he looks down into his coffee, "very sick. Yes." He glances away onto the green of the park where a few moments ago he had told us he has spent his childhood and youth behind the old hospital. "I am a medical doctor, I should have known something was not right," he explains this with a hint of what seems to be shame in his voice. "I was tired all the time, for 15 years. I thought I was just sick from Communism!" he laughs, but his face falls quickly, as does Irina's, the memory of that time devastating. "Anyway..." he continues quietly, "finally my colleague made me take a test, and I was able to identify the problem and move on from there..." he sips his coffee and thinks about this for another moment before speaking again, this time with more solemnity. "But the medication, the treatment, was the hardest thing in my life."
Ah Vadim. Such a complex man. A child of the Soviet Union, but an individual spirit aching to grow.
"The entire process, it takes ten years. I am in the middle of year eight," he says with humility. "Many, many people do not survive the process..." I cannot believe this. I press him gently to explain. "Well..." he searches, "all of the symptoms you had before are the same only in reverse and at 1000 percent. You are so irritable you are like a monster, lashing out at those you love for reasons you do not understand, it is as if the voice was not my own..." and then he grew very quiet in deed, moving the white cup between his surgeon's hands. "But worst of all what is inside your mind. The opposite of exhaustion is not alertness... it is MANIA... and it is this that drives mean to take their lives. It is the never-ending noise of the brain, releasing one thousand thoughts a second, every one of them menacing. And there is nothing to stop it. Nothing turns it off. No Sleep. No pill. Nothing but death itself..." he finishes the final sip of his coffee with finality, exhaling as he replaces the cup upon the saucer. "It took time, and a lot of tolerance from my family, but now I am more even and quite well. I do not know how they all managed. But it has made me a better Doctor," he said brightly, attempting to lighten things. "More sympathetic." I look at him and try to penetrate him. I feel so limited by our too brief acquaintance, by the language barrier and by Kit and Irina, who are in this, removed and far away. I try.
"I can understand how hard that must've been, I cannot feel the pain myself but I can see it with my mind, I sympathize. And how challenging it must've been for those around you, who loved you and did not wish to see you in pain, not to be punished themselves when they had done nothing wrong. And as far as your practicing of medicine-- yes, I see. You see people at the most desperate moments of their lives. Some of them will never walk again, some of them die and you must tend to loved ones. Now, YOU have been the desperate patient. You have felt the despair, felt the frustration of being 'just another face' to a doctor, watched as your own wife and children suffered as you suffered. Of course you are a better doctor. You have been a patient."
He looked at me a moment, trying to piece together exactly who I was. I could see I had puzzled him-- a young woman, the same age as his older son, who understood the greatest challenge of his life. "You are a very sensitive girl Alexandra. You understand. You feel how others feel."
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
The Russia Diaries: 10 August - That Evening
"His name is Emmanuelle..." he chews on the name like a sour taste. He wets and purses his mouth, scrunches his shoulders,
The family is meeting this Emmanuelle for the first time tonight, and it is endearing to see Vadim squirm, shift and mope about his daughter's Milanese boyfriend who is not-so-secretly living with his 21-ear-old daughter.
"Everyone is keeping it a secret from me," he mopes "but I know they are living together. I know and they know I know and... ugh, I don't know..." He shifts in the driver's seat, face contorted in a kind of scowl. "Also," he says, "his name... ugh. It is the name of a certain film that came to Russia in the 70's... a sort of..." he is uncertain as to how to proceed with me, I am, after all, a completely new female, in the back of his American vehicle. "a sort of," he searches, "soft, erotic film." There. He said it. Emmanuelle, famed French softcore erotic movie. Emmanuelle as in the word metonymic with erotic film. Yes. EMMANUELLE. The name of his daughter's boyfriend. Wonderful.
And in this vain, it is clear that in Vadim's mind, no one has ever had better sex than the sex his 21-year-old-daughter is having with Emmanuelle in his head. In Vadim's imagination, the pair of them are enacting the types of horrific things one only ever sees on the covers of books with titles like A Savage Hunger, or, Lady Jane and the Elusive Tome. Emmanuelle must be a tan, strapping Italian over 6-feet tall, with billowing, greasy hair and an oily chest. His long, elegant, tapered, masculine fingers with the well-trimmed perfectly clean nails continued on their journey down the buttons of his daughter's perfectly-tailored Milanese bodice... ARGH!
He shudders. The car has been very quiet. Feathers ruffled, Vadim's forehead is crumpled into terrible creases. He is a father suitably skeptical.
* * *
Emmanuelle, it turns out, is not in fact the greasy swaggering sex offender he has been feared to be, but was, in fact, a child. A cherubic puppy-eyed, golden curly haired child of about 20 with an eager face keen to please, and an irritatingly high level of innate personal Milanese style that draped on him awkwardly-- knight's armor too large upon the apprentice.
Nastia was clearly in charge, telling him (in what I would quickly learn was the extraordinarily direct Russian manner) where to stand, sit, what to eat, drink, when to speak and at what volume, and managing somehow to avoid any of these directions to come across as truly domineering. In this particular instance, it was evident that her high-handedness was actually considered helpful to what was clearly, (we could see it now!) a rather overwhelmed and frightened Emmanuelle! Yes, upon closer inspection it was actually very sweet. Nastia was being the classic Russian wife. And everyone was fine with that.
Everyone, that is, except Vadim.
Vadim was loathe to see his daughter so grown up and domesticated. His baby,his girl, his teenager who once "drank coca-cola and coca-cola only by the bucket" had now requested a juicer. She drank fresh juice. Everyday. "In Italy they drink juice..." Vadim explains with a glower. Something about the juice was specifically hurtful. Not the fashion school or fluent Italian or native boyfriend; no.
The juice had done Vadim in.
When exactly did she grow up?
The family is meeting this Emmanuelle for the first time tonight, and it is endearing to see Vadim squirm, shift and mope about his daughter's Milanese boyfriend who is not-so-secretly living with his 21-ear-old daughter.
"Everyone is keeping it a secret from me," he mopes "but I know they are living together. I know and they know I know and... ugh, I don't know..." He shifts in the driver's seat, face contorted in a kind of scowl. "Also," he says, "his name... ugh. It is the name of a certain film that came to Russia in the 70's... a sort of..." he is uncertain as to how to proceed with me, I am, after all, a completely new female, in the back of his American vehicle. "a sort of," he searches, "soft, erotic film." There. He said it. Emmanuelle, famed French softcore erotic movie. Emmanuelle as in the word metonymic with erotic film. Yes. EMMANUELLE. The name of his daughter's boyfriend. Wonderful.
And in this vain, it is clear that in Vadim's mind, no one has ever had better sex than the sex his 21-year-old-daughter is having with Emmanuelle in his head. In Vadim's imagination, the pair of them are enacting the types of horrific things one only ever sees on the covers of books with titles like A Savage Hunger, or, Lady Jane and the Elusive Tome. Emmanuelle must be a tan, strapping Italian over 6-feet tall, with billowing, greasy hair and an oily chest. His long, elegant, tapered, masculine fingers with the well-trimmed perfectly clean nails continued on their journey down the buttons of his daughter's perfectly-tailored Milanese bodice... ARGH!
He shudders. The car has been very quiet. Feathers ruffled, Vadim's forehead is crumpled into terrible creases. He is a father suitably skeptical.
* * *
Emmanuelle, it turns out, is not in fact the greasy swaggering sex offender he has been feared to be, but was, in fact, a child. A cherubic puppy-eyed, golden curly haired child of about 20 with an eager face keen to please, and an irritatingly high level of innate personal Milanese style that draped on him awkwardly-- knight's armor too large upon the apprentice.
Nastia was clearly in charge, telling him (in what I would quickly learn was the extraordinarily direct Russian manner) where to stand, sit, what to eat, drink, when to speak and at what volume, and managing somehow to avoid any of these directions to come across as truly domineering. In this particular instance, it was evident that her high-handedness was actually considered helpful to what was clearly, (we could see it now!) a rather overwhelmed and frightened Emmanuelle! Yes, upon closer inspection it was actually very sweet. Nastia was being the classic Russian wife. And everyone was fine with that.
Everyone, that is, except Vadim.
Vadim was loathe to see his daughter so grown up and domesticated. His baby,his girl, his teenager who once "drank coca-cola and coca-cola only by the bucket" had now requested a juicer. She drank fresh juice. Everyday. "In Italy they drink juice..." Vadim explains with a glower. Something about the juice was specifically hurtful. Not the fashion school or fluent Italian or native boyfriend; no.
The juice had done Vadim in.
When exactly did she grow up?
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Gratitudes 76-100
76. Men in suits
77. A fully functioning mind and body. What a wonderful thing it is.
78. Love. There is so much love in my life and I am so fortunate and thankful.
79. Great hair. (Mom, who has great-even-though-she-doesn't-think-it's-great curly hair is really jealous hehe!) Thanks dad!
80. The UK. The UK has been so good to me over the last 7 years. It has provided me with an education, an incredible career, a vast range of experiences including places, people and events, as well as a tremendous network of friends that have become like family.
81. April 28, 2001
82. Skype!
83. Roark & Galt
84. the iPhone and my gorgeous Macbook computer
85. East of Eden, for teaching me how to read...
86. Nick. For being real.
87. Judy Chu and our decade of letters
88. VADIM!
89. Russia... The Motherland... ohhhh how it transformed me...
90. Leah Edwards. Angel.
91. Lance Horne for changing my life and the coconut!
92. Jordan, Maggie, Hannah and Madison-- my wonderful brother and his family.
93. Snuggly duvet days (especially when it is a bit chilly and perhaps drizzly too. Yum.)
94. Victoria Hinde and Tasha Sheridan for literally saving my life.
95. The Betts Family - They have provided me with my first and last London home, and have been more than just hosts but friends over the last 4 and a half years. Their home in Finsbury Park has become a symbol of new beginnings to me, and their generosity never ceases to amaze.
96. Emma. Look what one friend-date can do!
97. America
98. Music
99. D...
100. The theatre
Saturday, September 12, 2009
New York New York...
I would give the greatest sunset in the world for one sight of New York's skyline. Particularly when one can't see the details. Just the shapes. The shapes and the thought that made them. The sky over New York and the will of man made visible. What other religion do we need? And then people tell me about pilgrimages to some dank pesthole in a jungle where they go to do homage to a crumbling temple, to a leering stone monster with a pot belly, created by some leprous savage. Is it beauty and genius they want to see? Do they seek a sense of the sublime? Let them come to New York, stand on the shore of the Hudson, look and kneel. When I see the city from my window - no, I don't feel how small I am - but I feel that if a war came to threaten this, I would throw myself into space, over the city, and protect these buildings with my body.
-- Ayn Rand
* * *
Dear Readers,
I am about to go on a journey. Not your average holiday, return to Michigan shores, or trip being the Iron Curtain.
No.
This journey is the first step towards a journey of RETURN. A journey home.
For the next four months, I will be based in what many call "the greatest city on earth," The City That Never Sleeps, The Big Apple, The Capital of the World, Gotham, Empire City, The Melting Pot, or sometimes, simply, The City. Yes, dear readers, it is none other than New York.
I am going for a change of scene. I will plant some professional seeds, spread my wings a bit, focus on my super secret writing project (!!!), and return to a few old and very dear friendships that will aid in the nurturing, healing, and flourishing of this slightly depleted soul. Nothing can stop me, I am on my way. Ascension is the only direction in a city like New York, and I intend to ascend in whichever way the universe intends me to.
So. Bring on the Peanut Butter. Bring on the 24 hour diners, the river, the park, a real autumn and winter. Bring on red coats and weekends in Boston. Bring on Thanksgiving. Obama. America. Home.
So much in life doesn't matter. I don't care necessarily what life shall be, nor what it may or may not inflict upon me. I care about what Life IS.
And Life can have it's way with me. It won't break me. Neither you nor me. That determined faith in our own resilience is our only weapon against the cynical, the weak, those who talk of honor but do not practice the word they so loudly and vigorously screech.
Yes. Faith in ourselves; that quiet, steely belief in our capacity to endure and perhaps even thrive in the face of pain. The pain that perfects us, teaches us, heals and sculpts and defines us. Pain is breakthrough, if we have the courage to break through.
In the last 6 months, I have experienced things I have never felt before. Pain I never dreamed I would endure, and yet, I have taken it on with a certain delight. Sometimes one must experience pain past the point of principle on behalf of others. Sometimes our suffering is a matter and ingredient of unassailable personal dignity. the sufferer does not resist/submit/speak/remain silent for others, but for the Self. It is done. Then the Self has earned it's ascension. This power of the Self is the only banner we can hold against all the derailing messages of around us. That's all I need to know about the future.
I am going to New York because I feel a bold step is necessary now. And fortune favors the brave. Here I go. I promise to write.
"I took the tube over to Camden
To wander around
I bought some funky records
With that old Motown sound
And I miss you like my left arm
That's been lost in a war
Today I dream of home and not of London anymore..."
-- The Waifs, from "London Still"
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