Winter Warmers

Winter. What a season. For one, it begins with the word “win”. A season of emotional contradictions - protection, hibernation and stocking up, combined with generous good-will. A time for us all to savour the rhyming of the “there’s no need to be affray-aid” with “we let in light and we banish shay-aid”.

In early winter, planning is the new black. Cooking, parties, presents. But as the season settles in, it is time to enjoy some of it's subtler pleasures; food, snuggling down, duvet days, meaningful conversation, wool blankets, contemplation, and food.

Whilst conversing and contemplating (or snuggling for that matter), why not enjoy the heart- and soul-warming foods of winter: hot roasted vegetables like kale, brussel sprouts, parsnip and potato, as well as soup soup soup. Now before you go on a second longer thinking "BRUSSEL SPROUTS?!!" let me just say this: some vegetables are easy to love. Tomatoes and carrots? They're no-brainers. Summer vegetables are like those popular girls who wear skimpy tops with nothing left to the imagination. But winter vegetables, my, my. They’re like the smart girl in school, the one with her own sense of style: you think she’s too weird for you, you'll never understand or accept her. But when she starts talking, and you find out she’s amazing, and she doesn’t even give a damn if you like her? Suddenly, she’s leagues more attractive than skimpy t-shirt girl. ( ...I don’t where this came from. I’m just going to leave it... ) Anyway, it's all about celebrating the best of the season. (And for those times when you’re cold to the core, or not interested in my vegetable metaphors, I’ve got a staggering hot chocolate recipe to bring you back to life!)

Also, to help you “win” I’ve included my list of Winter Victories & Virtues, and some ideas and resources for making your Winter a WINner.

1. First, a health tip: Skin brushing. Do it every morning on awaking to feel re-invigorated. Skin brushing improves blood circulation and lymphatic circulation. Not only does it increase body temperature but it also improves your general immunity.

2. Make soup! (Although February is probably the soupiest month in my book, it is never too early I say!)

3. Homemade Hot Chocolate (with optional marshmallows...mmm...) I get pretty excited about it, but enough words, I’ll let the drinks do the talking. (Or is that expecting a miracle?)

4. Make sure your neck, ankles and wrists are always well covered. (Hodel does!) If these sensitive areas of the body are exposed to the cold, your hands and feet will naturally become colder too, and your whole body is soon affected. Cover them well, (like Hodel. She will send upon you a frozen, gritty, Siberian smile). Check out my fuzzy new hat (thank you D, thank you Christmas). It comes with matching mittens... I know...

5. 'Tis the season to use glitter. Am I alone in my feeling that winter is the time to utilise our crafty skills, and glitter embodies all things wintery? If I am alone, ignore me, that's fine. But I say Craft Out Winter Winner! Get out that glue stick and Go. To. Town.

6. If you are lucky enough to be in a place that has SNOW (ohhh), try this amazing wintery activity. Loosely fill a large glass with FRESH snow (no two week old snow, yuck). Pour a carbonated drink of your choice (i highly recommend Coke or Sprite) carefully over the snow in the glass, and then eat with a spoon, or drink with a straw LIKE A SLURPEE. AMAZING.

7. Brave the cold weather (bundle up!) and check out Time Out's Cozy Winter Places in London.

8. Curl up with hot chocolate, cozy blanket or duvet, and read a Wintery book (additional suggestions welcome):
- If on a Winter's Night a Traveller by Italo Calvino
- A Winter Book: Selected Stories by Tove Jansson
- Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier
- A City in Winter by Mark Helprin and Chris Van Allsburg
- Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë
- The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis
- The Master and Margarita (Penguin Modern Classics) by Mikhail Bulgakov

Hooray for Winter. Win win win. Stay cozy.



PS) A picture of my Michigan street on New Year's Day...

Domestic Happenings. Episode 3: Star Wars

[At rise: Damian and Al welcome Lilly into their home as a guest. After the show one night they decide to watch a film. But which film? The choice is difficult. In fact, it takes over half an hour to decide. Until finally: ]

A: Well what about Star Wars?
L: We've all seen it like a zillion times.
A: I've never seen Star Wars, actually.
D & L: WHAT???! AL! OH MY GOD!

[...and then... the madness begins...Damian and Lilly's excitement grows exponentially in both enthusiasm and pitch. I invite you to use your imagination here, creating in your mind an exchange that might be between two teenage girls speaking of some sort of excitable teenage happening...]

L: Wait! (deep inhalation) Is that the limited edition TIN?!
D: Um, YEAH! It has both versions! And this is the one they saw in the theatres!!! NO new digital shit! 
L: Good! 'Cause ohmigod Jabba the HUT!
D: YEAH! And at the end of Jedi when they added all those new civilizations, that was such shit!
L: I KNOW.
D: [sitting up, enraptured] And! and! and at the end? when they digitally added Hayden Christiansen's FACE?!!
L: [Exhalation] UHHHHHH. [Reflective moment] It's like the best sci-fi movie possibly ever.
D: TOTALLY. It started a whole new wave of... you know, The Matrix and the whole concept of "the ONE."
L: Yeah it's all the same thing.
D: Yeah... [Contentment passes over both of them. Confusion passes over me...]

A: ... Do you guys have any idea what you sound like...?

[PAUSE]

D: Cool..?

[Jury still out...]

Ahhhh London: The Poo

So. Tonight I am leaving work, and as I go to exit I am told I have a parcel. Hurrah! The parcel is of adequate size and shape, about the size of two loaves of bread, and fairly heavy. I hesitate a moment, then decide to take it home right away, "what am I waiting for?!" It will be just as heavy tomorrow.

So I happily stumble across The Strand, up Southampton Row and onto the cobbles of Covent Garden Piazza. Lovely.

At this point I think to myself:
"Hey there Self, gee I sure wish I had a large bag to carry this parcel in. With my already large, filled-to-the-brim shoulder bag, the strain is juuuuuust over the comfortable mark.

And suddenly! Like magic! A large, paper MONSOON* bag appears out of the corner of my eye. AHA!! It is the perfect size and shape to house my parcel. I pick up the bag, I shake it open, I prepare to house my parcel when SUDDENLY I sniff...

[sniff. ... sniff ...]
OH DEAR ...YEP. There it is. Clear as day.

It's human feces.

No no, it couldn't be a dog's; it is too large, too MASSIVE a turd to be anything but human and this gets me thinking: how desperate does a person have to BE to shit in a bag in the middle of Covent Garden and NOT EVEN HAVE THE DECENCY TO THROW IT AWAY?

A bag.
Full of kaka.
What next?
Ahhhhh London.

The orchid lives!

In July, I was given an orchid as a birthday gift.
By October it looked decidedly dead.

Now... I admit to having a bit of a black thumb when it comes to plants (I can't even keep my virtual chia pet alive), but I was pretty peeved because I had been doing do well with my indoor rose bush, lilly plant, and had put such a great amount of effort into NOT killing this lovely flower as well. At first I was quite happy to blame D's mother who had come to visit in late September, but I could not pin the orchicide on her with full confidence.

My last attempt at orchid keeping was back in 2004, in Glasgow. I named the it Lady Olivia. I made LO a sign, put her in a perfect window, watered her every day... and.... drowned her... with my love. Sigh. She met Ophelia's fate. (I am loathe to admit this, but 2004 was sort of a "dark time" for me, if you will, and I must confess YES, I wrote a haiku elegy for Lady Olivia, which I recited as I threw her away in a dingy Glaswegian tip...
Lady Olivia's petals
have fallen down
dry, fragile, orchid death
... I did mention it was sort of a dark time...)

SO. Upon Orchid Attempt #2's demise, instead of chucking the remains, I decided to place the still green leaves in a less conspicuous living room windowsill (vs. the kitchen; it's previous home). And there, throughout the following weeks, I forgot about it. I left it there unwatered, unloved, unnoticed.

... UNTIL TODAY. Today, I was doing a bit of deep cleaning, and whilst wiping down the windowsill in the living room I was accosted by a borage of orchid foliage!! Hurrah! A few seconds of celebratory dancing later, and I had tidied it up and placed it back on display in the kitchen where I intend to ignore watering it again for weeks on end. Thank you lovely orchid for returning to me.

But this presents itself at such an interesting time. Allow me to elaborate.

On Saturday I had what can only be described as a Meltdown. I won't go in to the details as it is not entirely relevant, but the point is I was incapacitated to the point where I could not do the evening performance. The subject matter of Fiddler, and the many nerves it hits with me, just hit a little too close to the issues at hand on that particular day, and I (as well as several other people) felt it best to leave rather than risk another, highly public, meltdown.

It all began with a dream. (Dreams are terrific and terrible, no?) We often think we've moved past something and then when we least expect it we're forced to face the dark feelings anew-and they unfailingly seem much worse after they've laid dormant... Anyway, in short, exhaustion, plus circumstances, created a well of emotions I was not anticipating, and I was caught terribly off guard by my outburst. (Note: Henry thought I was experiencing "feminine troubles." Love that.)

I came home and practically boiled myself in a bath, and fell asleep still in a towel, wrapped up in a duvet like a sausage roll. The next day I had what I like to call The Post Meltdown Migraine. Fine now. Just shaken.

I don't know WHY saturday. (exhaustion? illness? the last straw?)
I don't know why it hasn't hit me sooner.
I just know it hit me like a ton of bricks.
(Allow me to illustrate with this little vignette:)

Delivery Man: Hello, ton of bricks for an AL SIB-LER?
Al: Um, it's SIL-ber, yeah. That's me
Delivery Man: Uh huh. Sign here please...[i do] ...thanks. Right, Here you go!
Al: AHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

But oh, little orchid. You have renewed my sense of possibility.
Life after seeming death, a new lease.
A fresh beginning after months of lying dormant.
Survival with such few resources.
Reward after strife.

... Thank you.

Project "C"

Question: So, what's coming up for you this year, Al?
Answer: ...Well you never know with this business do you? (twinkly smile)

Pssst! Hey you!
... Yes, you!
Want a little inside hinteroo...?
a little tidbit? a slice? a nubbin?
Here's a little something to satiate that hungry, gossipy palate of yours:
Look out...
...It's coming.
On this side of the Atlantic.
A revival of one of the best.
AND IT'S GONNA BE BIG...
(...and oh yeah! I'm gonna be in it.)

The Fog

"But you see, I have, let's say, sixty years to live. Most of that time will be spent working. I've chosen the work I want to do. If I find no joy in it, then I'm only condemning myself to sixty years of torture. And I can find the joy only if I do my work in the best way possible to me. But the best is a matter of standards--and I set my own standards. I inherit nothing. I stand at the end of no tradition. I may, perhaps, stand at the beginning of one."
--Ayn Rand, from The Fountainhead

I just have to say it. A life in the theatre is a arduous, repetitive existence. It consumes you, it drains you like a vampire. Your life is backwards: constant measuring and metre reading of how much energy you must conserve and utilise at the end of every day. You miss the daylight. You miss office hours. You miss your friends, your family.

The rehearsals are always a positive act of creation, my favourite part really. Six weeks of bone crushing mental and physical labor. Art. Delving, thinking, creating, problem solving, risk taking. Feeling inspired and motivated and alive. Falling into the kind of deep sleep only full living can achieve. But the 8 shows a week into infinity thing... is more than numbing. At times it feels soul destroying.

And nothing prepares you for it. No amount of training could ever communicate how much focus and stamina and mental health it requires. Truly, the last thing I really remember, it was July. Where did it go? It is all a grey mush of headscarves and dancing Jews...blah.

Yet, I swear, I commit to every second of the work, at times I am moved, at times I still feel a love for it. But I've done it over 300 times. Today I sang Far From the Home I Love and I thought to myself "Self, you sang this one year ago today. You stared into Henry's eyes and wrestled with him for control and won. You did it all as you are doing it today. Well. With love. For the 300th time. And in the same costume. Save the gloves. You asked for longer gloves." (Because no one gets on a train to Siberia with gloves that don't even cover your wrists...)

The thing is this: I have worked my entire life, all twenty four and a half years, to be exactly where I am at this moment-- at the top of the profession working on Broadway (or as is the current case, the West End). And after all of the sweat and struggle and tears, I have arrived. I am here. And it is a little disappointing. Some days it's just a job like any other. And it's heartbreaking. And I can't help but admit I want more.

But perhaps this is the true gift of Fiddler has bestowed upon me. It has given me the vision and the courage to have new goals, higher standards, more specific desires. To be a creator. To voice and articulate in every way possible, my own vision of this world, of human nature.

Yes, I have awakened inside this fog. I have struggled through the mist, fought and stabbed into the invisible sky, and won. Won what, you ask? A jewel of knowledge, I shall answer you. The fog has narrowed the focus on the work I want to do. The work I do not want to do. The things I will never do again. If an artist reveals his naked soul in his work, I must strive to do nothing less. Ever. What have we but our integrity? And I will run dry, I will run out of fuel if I continue to give cheaply to others that which I do not have; that which has not yet been created by me. Creation comes before distribution- or there will be nothing to distribute. The need of the creator comes before the need of any possible beneficiary.

And so to The Fog. Again.
For another day.
Fight the Fog Silber!
Fight it Reader!
Fight.

"In the name of the best within you, do not sacrifice this world to those who are its worst. In the name of the values that keep you alive, do not let your vision of man be distorted by the ugly, the cowardly, the mindless in those who have never achieved his title. Do not lose your knowledge that man's proper estate is an upright posture, an intransigent mind and a step that travels unlimited roads. Do not let your fire go out, spark by irreplaceable spark, in the hopeless swamps of the approximate, the not-quite, the not-yet, the not-at-all. Do not let the hero in your soul perish, in lonely frustration for the life you deserved, but have never been able to reach. Check your road and the nature of your battle. The world you desired can be won, it exists, it is real, it is possible, it's yours."

January Appreciation

Welcome New Year.

Jean-Paul Sartre said, "To read a poem in January is as lovely as to go for a walk in June." I like January. I like the garnet birthstone, the flowers (carnations, snowdrops, and in China, the plum blossom). I even like that January is National Soup Month in the United States.

But mostly, I appreciate January's symbolism. Named after Janus, the Roman god of doorways, and of beginnings and endings, Janus was considered the spirit of 'opening'. He is represented with a two sided head, one looking ahead and the other always looking behind. He also symbolically represented the city of Rome: looking back at the primitive cultures before them, and forward as the first real civilization, (some Roman coins show him with, and some without, beards...which I find amusing...)

Sure, it leaves something to be desired in the holiday area (without any offense intended to Martin Luther King Jr. Day on the the third Monday, [Robert] Burns Night on the 25th, or Australia Day on the 26th-- I mean, I love the 'I have a dream speech,' haggis and Anzak biccies as much as the next guy!), but I see a beauty in an official time to start fresh, to move forward with courage, dignity and clear knowledge (having hopefully learned from our past errors). All of this, cultivated in the dead of winter (again with no offense intended to my Southern Hemisphere readers), is poetry to me. One of those thoughts that makes you breathe deeply.

So.
Enjoy January. Breathe it in!

"O Winter! frozen pulse and heart of fire,
What loss is theirs who from thy kingdom turn
Dismayed, and think thy snow a sculptured urn
Of death! Far sooner in midsummer tire
The streams than under ice. June could not hire
Her roses to forego the strength they learn
In sleeping on thy breast."
-- Helen Hunt Jackson, A Calendar of Sonnets: January

Auld Lang Syne

May 2008 bring you every possible happiness. Contentment, refreshing walks, warmth, comfort, laughter, meaningful conversation, and lots of fresh fruit.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and never brought to mind ?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
and auld lang syne ?

For auld lang syne, my dear,
for auld lang syne,
we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
for auld lang syne.

Happy 2008.

Pride & Prejudice

All 6 episodes.
With Tash. (i.e, Chava)
And a table full of gorgeous organic food.
Shamelessly indulgent!
What a way to bid farewell to 2007.

We had to rewind a few times so we could watch Colin sit. (He has a very special way of flaring his his coattails elegantly and gliding into a chair...mmm...) And Tash was very patient and appreciative with the audio-commentary (I love to add little "somethings" to every televisual viewing: subtext, inner monologue, witty quips, etc. I'm sure it's an acquired taste in viewing, but we had a grand ol' time). I highly recommend the marathon.

Mr. Darcy: Do you talk by rule, then, when you're dancing?

Elizabeth Bennet: Yes, sometimes it is best. Then we may enjoy the advantage of saying as little as possible.

Mr. Darcy: Do you consult your own feelings in this case, or seek to gratify mine?

Elizabeth Bennet: Both, I imagine. We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room.

Mr. Darcy: [drily] This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I'm sure.

PS) In case you were wondering, yes, D's similarity to Darcy has already been noted...

Linus Says it Best.

"That's what Christmas is all about Charlie Brown..."

Domestic Happenings, Episode 2: Christmas Tree Debacle

[At rise: Al and Damian at Wilkinson, a local home goods shop, to purchase this year's Christmas tree.]



A: What?! 3 feet or 6 feet. Those are the only options?
D: Looks like it.
A: 3 feet is dinky and stupid. 6 feet is ridiculous.
D: Yes.
A: What do we do?
D: I don't know.
A: Let's get a real one!
D: I've never had a real tree before!
A: That settles it then.
A & D: Excellent!

[They march out of the store with newfound Christmas Purpose]

***

[A street market on Wood Green High Road. Make no mistake, Wood Green is dodgy. Questionable in too many ways to articulate. But it's Christmas and this corner is selling pine trees. They smell beautiful. Like Michigan.]

Dodgy Wood Green Tree Seller: Right. You 'ave the 3 foot ones in the pots for £14, or the 6 foot ones 'ere for £18. The needles won't fall off either [pronounced "ee-vuh"].

[??!! Fantastic.]

A: Right. That's helpful. [Square One. My favourite place.]
D: Well... I mean, at least it will be real. And we can replant it afterwards.
A: [to Tree Seller] Can we LOOK at the small trees without the net?
TS: No.
A: Really?
TS: 'fraid not.
A: Uh huh...
D: Real trees love the earth...?
A: ... and we're supporting our local community by buying from this woman on the street...?
D: and we can replant it in January...?
A: ...but we can't LOOK at it.
D: Right.
A: Right.
D: Let's just get this one. [indicated to dinky potted tree.]
A: Okay.

[Money exchanged. Awkward journey home with ethical potted mystery tree.]

* * *

[At home. The Spot selected. Arrangements made. Mystery Tree is placed on a small side table, the one it will majestically stand on for the next few weeks. String net is removed, branches flattened. A pause.]

A & D: [Silence]

[They stand there side by side. Arms crossed. Examining the tree. It looks like a mangled stray dog. It looks worse than a Charlie Brown tree. It looks like they bought it from a dodgy street market. It looks awful. But can they say it? What is the other thinking? Do we love it anyway or tell the truth? If we tell the truth will we crush the others' hopes?!]

A: Wow.
D: Mmmm.
A: It will be great.
D: Mmmm.



* * *

[Lying in bed later that night. The darkness brings out the truth...]

A: Damian...?
D: Yes Al.
A: Damian, I-- I--
D: --hate the tree?
A: I HATE THE TREE!!!
D: I ALSO HATE THE TREE!!!

* * *

Today we bought the socially unethical, environmentally unfriendly, highly dependable, fake tree.

The real one it outside, waiting to be planted. Our mitzvah.

Sometimes I say stupid things...

This is one of those unfortunate situations where I cannot name names really. The names would MAKE the stories in many ways, but suffice it to say that these people I have made myself an idiot in front of, are important. At least in my particular line of work. So a few names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Scene 1:

At rise: Swanky London Theatre Do. Very loud. Very crowded. Very posh. Cameras, canapes and drinks.

Exchange between myself and an eccentric, but very swanky member of a Theatrical Royal Family. I have made an idiot of myself in front of this man on many occasions, including one where I was singing 'Matchmaker' with a very free spirit indeed, and wearing an outfit that did very little to salvage my dignity. Another time I accidentally caught him out misquoting Shakespeare. Needless to say, many of my interactions with this person, ever go over well. Anyway.

Him: Hello there Alexaaaaaandra.
Al: Hello.

[Al notices this man is dressed head to toe in velvet, including his shoes. Takes a moment to process this...]

Him: Did you phone me a few weeks ago? I erased it by accident, I am utter crap.
Al: I did, about my UK Visa. It's fine. I didn't really expect--
Him: How are you dahling?
Al: Fine. Things are fine. [Insert Snow Day story here] Looking forward to the holidays.

Him: You look gooooorgeous my love, really fierce. It's always lovely to see you at these "DOs"
Al: Ah, thank you, uh, likewise. How are you doing?
Him: [Hands to forehead] Oh... well you know how it is. Busy busy busy as usual. Never any time for frivolities.
Al: Uh, indeed.

[Al doesn't know what to say at this point, not much has been said thus far. Do you engage in more small talk or launch in to an artistic dialogue that could lead to dangerous paths of Bard misquotation and possible humiliation? Or does one just gracefully leave? In a panic, Al decides on none of these, and instead, blunders. A messy and gruesome few seconds ensue. She places her hand awkwardly on the jacket lapel of Royalty Man, and says the following:]

Well here we are! And look at you! Well, well. Huh. YOU... Just.... well somebody sure loves velvet!
Him: ... Well... Yes ...I do in fact...

[HORRIFIC. SICKENING. PATHETIC. FAILURE. ]

Scene 2:

TV Interviewer: Mind if we interview you for XYZ TV?
Al: Not at all.

[Al is thinking 'Oh God.']

TV Interviewer: Just look straight at me, and relax.
Al: Alright.

[Now Al is thinking 'WHATEVER YOU DO, DON'T USE THE PHRASE "AMAZING JOURNEY." Only idiotic, lame scrambling artsy types say that. Only people that have nothing to say. DON'T SAY "AMAZING JOURNEY!" DON'T SAY IT... SAY ANYTHING, EVEN "F*%k" BUT NOT "AMAZING JOURNEY"...']

Al: ...Well it's just been such an amazing journey...

[Whist continuing to speak utter rubbish, Al is thinking: 'Fantastic.']