Posts
The play was generally cack handed and overdone, at nearly three hours. I felt more than ever the truth of the line from the song - work hard and say it's easy - this play looked like the writer had worked very hard and we in the audience felt every jagged link, every weak attempt at a light-hearted mood change, every overstated emotional build-up. Just awful and depressing.
Never mind. I walked around a bit afterwards, initially sort of excited to be out, then realising the truth of London now - it gets unpredictable in a scary way, as the drinks add up and the partying, clubbing folk start to feel their pain. Uncomfortable. Dirty. Ugly girls in super short skirts and super high heels picking their way over the trash and by the kabab joints that smell like grease and gristle.
Was going to take the bus back, but the driver glared at me when I looked at him through the glass of the door. He had passed the stop already, and the lights were changing. I could have hopped on in a minute, and it's been done before, but if looks could kill... I wound up taking the train. I stood for a while, then sat in the seat vacated by the pretty boy in the leather jacket, with the dark hair and the friend with a guitar wrapped in plastic carrier bags. They got off at Euston, not Camden, so maybe their busking for the day was over, and they were headed back to the suburbs. Still, I sat where he had just been, feeling some odd comfort from that. The train emptied out as we headed north, and although I wished the very tall guy with the menacing stare and counterfeit Yves Saint Laurent jumper that didn't match the religious headgear would get off, he remained, stop after stop. The anxious Asian guy in jeans playing my favourite poker game on his Blackberry got out the stop before me, though. He nearly fell on me as he stood up, the train lurching to a halt, his hands occupied placing bets instead of grabbing the handrail to steady himself. My reaction to thrust my hands out to stop him made me jump nervously, but he fell against the rail, and not me.
Walking home. Dark, chilly, some of the small, decorative street lights out. Hampstead, closing down. Everything still seemed depressing after the play - the actors were smoking on stage, and the overall effect, between the awkward lines, homosexuality not as bad as being Jewish, only European musicians feel passion, piano teacher in love with 15 year old boy against backdrop of English middle class sexual and social stultification and betrayal, was like the aftertaste of licking an ashtray.
Suddenly all the neat little houses in the half shadows seemed one giant lie; looming over one, a giant wave from which there was no escape. Hypocrisy and the terror of small dreams.
My dreams were all filled with hope and treachery, navigating imaginary problems on half remembered parklands and streets.
Still coughing.
Never mind. I walked around a bit afterwards, initially sort of excited to be out, then realising the truth of London now - it gets unpredictable in a scary way, as the drinks add up and the partying, clubbing folk start to feel their pain. Uncomfortable. Dirty. Ugly girls in super short skirts and super high heels picking their way over the trash and by the kabab joints that smell like grease and gristle.
Was going to take the bus back, but the driver glared at me when I looked at him through the glass of the door. He had passed the stop already, and the lights were changing. I could have hopped on in a minute, and it's been done before, but if looks could kill... I wound up taking the train. I stood for a while, then sat in the seat vacated by the pretty boy in the leather jacket, with the dark hair and the friend with a guitar wrapped in plastic carrier bags. They got off at Euston, not Camden, so maybe their busking for the day was over, and they were headed back to the suburbs. Still, I sat where he had just been, feeling some odd comfort from that. The train emptied out as we headed north, and although I wished the very tall guy with the menacing stare and counterfeit Yves Saint Laurent jumper that didn't match the religious headgear would get off, he remained, stop after stop. The anxious Asian guy in jeans playing my favourite poker game on his Blackberry got out the stop before me, though. He nearly fell on me as he stood up, the train lurching to a halt, his hands occupied placing bets instead of grabbing the handrail to steady himself. My reaction to thrust my hands out to stop him made me jump nervously, but he fell against the rail, and not me.
Walking home. Dark, chilly, some of the small, decorative street lights out. Hampstead, closing down. Everything still seemed depressing after the play - the actors were smoking on stage, and the overall effect, between the awkward lines, homosexuality not as bad as being Jewish, only European musicians feel passion, piano teacher in love with 15 year old boy against backdrop of English middle class sexual and social stultification and betrayal, was like the aftertaste of licking an ashtray.
Suddenly all the neat little houses in the half shadows seemed one giant lie; looming over one, a giant wave from which there was no escape. Hypocrisy and the terror of small dreams.
My dreams were all filled with hope and treachery, navigating imaginary problems on half remembered parklands and streets.
Still coughing.
No comments:
Post a Comment