I'm still alive

Well alright this is one of the later installments of my New Year's resolution but I was quite busy at the time so didn't really get a chance to implement everything at once. Hello again, and hello (if you''ve not read before, I advise to skip to the earlier posts, occasionally they're funny).

I'd catch up if there were any thing interesting to report but essentially since then I have:

Shouted at tourists of varying ages, nationalities and weights during Halloween week

Performed Marieke with the DareDevil Divas (got to see Anna Fur Laxis do her axe throwing show from the wings, an extraordinary moment).

Toured the old peoples homes of the midlands bringing a brittle cheeriness to elderly types who looked up my (admittedly short) skirt. Main feature: snow.

Toured schools and gained much music knowledge, again in the midlands.

Had a mid-twenties crisis and cut my hair short. Still pretty sure it was the right thing to do but wasn't prepared for the curliness. Without straighteners I look like the main character from Enid Blyton's Mallory Towers.

Non-stop excitement I'm sure you'll agree. The burlesque bit rears its head again in a couple of weeks as I sing again for the opening of 'The Dare Devil Diva Gallery of Super Heroes & Alter Egos.' Bit of a mouthful? It's alright, you don't have to say it, just turn up of you're in the area (Tobacco Factory, march 8), I'm making cakes too. The rest you can get from Facebook; it's nice and obvious, I keep re-posting it. There's a photograph of me there, and of other fantastic, scary, marvellous women. I'm so sorry, I can't help but go a 'Vagina Monologues' whenever I talk about Drastic Productions, but they really are brilliant. I could go on and on but that would be gushing and that's not very appropriate or English, is it? No, reader, it most certainly is not. The professional upside is that I think I'm slowly getting to grips with the Brewery Theatre, and hopefully the Tobacco Factory theatre after the exhibition. To me the latter does everything a theatre should: it promotes new writing and classics, fringe tours and mainstage headliners, has a brilliant cafe/bar/restaurant which also has live music (usually as I'm rushing past to something else, regrettably) and a sunday morning market which sells Bath Soft Cheese. It interacts with its Southville community while continuing to make great art and entertain a packed house. I only hope I get to work there for real one day rather than simply eulogising about it endlessly while sneaking in cupcakes for burlesque artists. Although that's a pretty glamorous alternative.

Will update in a more coherent fashion soon, thank you for listening.

Ta-ra

If you'd like to, there's a video by the excellent Vivi Mimola charting the DDDs' journey too. Have a look, do.

Bang Bang!

Well.

Thursday was a very gentle introduction to the course and the nature of burlesque itself.
I'd better say a thing or two about the venue first- The Brewery Theatre, just down the road from its big sister The Tobacco Factory in Southville. It reminds me of my relationship with my sister Maggie: the Tobacco Factory is independant, quietly stylish and quirky but the Brewery is younger, slimmer and infinitely hipper. It's covered in graffiti for starters, graffiti that's supposed to be there. 'Cause it's cool. My sister isn't covered in graffiti though. And I never made tobacco. It's a simile.

The ladies running the classes turned up pretty much on time, spent about ten minutes wrestling with the side door of the theatre and eventually got us in. We were introduced to Liz (human cannonball, burlesque dancer and performance artist), Rosie (therapist and cautious burlesque fan) and our main teacher for the course, Michaela (aka Poppy Von Tart, burlesque artist, dances with her two pet boa contrictors Houdini and Doris). As much if this first class was about introductions I'll try to focus on the 'we' present. As part of the course's funding some free spots were given to ladies with a history of mental illness, this being a very active form of therapy or activity. This meant that as well as those of us who saw the ad online and thought 'ooh, burlesque, could be fun' there were one or two women present for whom a pretty major factor was making it to the theatre at all. We're not at the point of hearing everyone's stories and background but I was really impressed by these girls who were not just coming to a women's group or a class but were enrolling in a course that deliberately and defiantly explores female sexuality and physicality.

Indeed, 'defiant' is how at the moment I'd describe burlesque and its ilk. This was wonderfully demonstrated by Liz and Michaela: Liz is a tall, long-limbed woman in towering heels and Michaela is a short, indescribably curvy woman in a tight, scarlet halterneck dress. Two women not only embracing their extremities but putting them on billboards with the tag line 'Wot you lookin' at?' It didn't surprise me that Rosie got us started on the conversation topic 'What's empowering about taking your clothes off?' The word 'choice' got bandied about a fair bit by members of the group but having only tried a single burlesque stance I'm not sure we had the experience to really get involved in this debate. What I have noticed so far is the defiance of women in burlesque, often women who do not conform to the social norms of beauty and yet display their bodies for all to see. It is this that I find so impressive, and perversely beautiful, as well as the intelligence and humour of the art form.

Burlesque does come in for a fair bit of stick from both men and women, and for those who wish to add their twopence I would like to remind them that Germaine Greer applauded Jordan's cynical use of her body for money. For Jordan (a very different entity to Katie Price I find) had no manager, was in control of her bookings, finances and image. She knew what she wanted and got it. Add Dolly Parton and Bettie Page and quite an interesting tea party is coming together. Add all the comedy, theatre and intelligence of the burlesque movement and a wonderfully complex collage of female images forms in my mind, and this is what I like best. This is also what can happen when lots of women talk to each other and work together.

After a quick introduction from everybody we got on our feet and learned the Burlesque posture. It's scary. It flies in the face of everything you've ever been told is healthy. Stnad with your feet together. Roll your shoulders back and position your hands out in a feminine style. Pull your stomache in and push your chest out. Push your arse out the other way (does it ache yet?). Take a look. Have a giggle then do it again.

Step two: adopt the posture (can't catch me out yet). Now hook the toes of one foot under the arch of the other and bring the knee across, creating a twist. If you like, pop out a hip. Bring your arms up and or heaven's sakes, smile! Take a look at yourself. Do you look uncomfortable? Do it all more, especially the face. Now look. Do you look insane? You're getting there!

More next week, and I will philosophise less and describe more. I will also take pictures. There is also the lovely Vivi who is filming the course for publicity purposes, so I might see if I can get her to help me out with photography etc. In the mean time I have homework: an object that inspires me, and item of clothing I love, a photograph, a piece of music, a piece of writing, all of which I have some connection to. Quite a lot of navel-gazing to be going on with, though at least one of my cookbooks is coming with me. All suggestions welcome.

On the subject of all things sexy I watched the first episode of Nigella's Kitchen. It's marvelous. Her body is also defiant in the face of television good looks and that warms me. And yes there is more than a pinch of lifestyle envy in there but try not to let it annoy you and try her recipes. They ruddy work and they're not all bad for you.

TTFN

Coming Attractions

Good lord it has been a long time. In case any of you are wondering I'm still here, still alive and working full time at long last, making ends meet in BSB Whiteladies. It is reminiscent of the Forest of the Suicides as described in Dante's Inferno. But do not worry, I shan't do anything silly. I have Things To Do.

For this week I have been presented with a task, to make cakes for a tea party. It may sound frivolous but, like Algernon Moncrieff the frivolous things in life are those I take most seriously. Besides, I got to experiment with some new Nigella recipes, from her current book and series, Kitchen. Her writing is characteristically personable and helpful. Usefully, not all her recipes require expensive or specialist ingredients, so I've chosen two from the current batch: chocolate orange loaf cake and rasberry bakewell slices. So far the former is finished and I'm slightly reluctant to see it go tomorrow. Add some of my macaroons to the mix and it's not a bad bag from me. Frankly I could do this all day. This cooking and baking lark grows on me daily. I think if I absolutely had to give up the dizzying high of a stage I could just about manage it for smoked paprika and cinnamon. The smell of a kitchen is an intoxification all of its own, I find.

However my life does not yet teeter on the precipice of boredom, for at last thursday approaches. Ah, thursday the 30th, how I have waited for you. For then my first burlesque class for Daredevil Divas begins. Six classes of a variety of Burlesque, vaudeville and cabaret classes ending in a performance put together in less than 48 hours. I am excited beyond expression, I'm afraid, but I will make a point of updating this blog with my weekly adventures, as at last I shall have them. I have been looking for a way to get in to the world of burlesque and cabaret and I hope this will give me the inspiration I need, as without being a trained dancer I will need a hook. Much as I would love to bake indulgent cakes onstage that would take longer than the average striptease spot and would merely fill the venue with the pleasant smell of baking. Pleasant, but not necessarily titillating. Though now I think about it, I'm warming to combining Nigella's foody sexiness with Bobby Baker's performance genius. Something delicious or scary could come from that combination. That's going in the cerebral back burner.

Anyway this blog is to announce a future, more interesting blog that maybe springboards yet more interesting blogs for weeks to come. We could potentially all enjoy this. Or just me. We'll see.

Nigella's new show airs on BB2 at 8 on thursday the 30th. I shall have to iplayer it as I'm at class but I can already tell you her book is marvelous and full of good ideas, so do tune in.

TTFN

Summer Time, and the living is doable

I have been a little remiss lately with blog postings. This is mainly because I wanted to use this blog as a journal of my adventures here in Bristol and the number of adventures seems to have lessened slightly over the past couple of weeks. But fear not readers I am still alive, if not kicking and I am still functioning on the basic level of human ability.

My most recent adventure was bar work at WOMAD festival. I had no idea festivals had become such grown-up, middle class ventures. To be fair the festival is currently situated in the grounds of Charlton Park in Wiltshire (though sources tell me this will change next year- thoughts?) so I shouldn't have been surprised at the number of organic cafés run not by hopped but by farmer's wife matrons, purveyors of Gloucester Old Spot sausage sandwiches, pigs so thoughroughly pleased with their good breeding and care they happily signed their own death warrant in the foyer of the organic abattoir simultaneously agreeing to a press release fronted by Hugh Fearnley Whittingstall demonstrating their humane demise and subsequent deliciousness. I had one. It was alright.

As I was behind a bar for 30 of the 60 festival hours I didn't catch a great deal of music but there was a tremendous highlight on Thursday: The Bays and the Heritage Orchestra with Simon Hale and John Metcalfe. Yes it sounds nerdy but trust me on this. If the Bays come to your town/city/festival venue then you must see them and I will tell you why. These guys do not make recordings; they do not write songs. In a word where downloads are free and production levels often outweigh music quality The Bays are the embracing the live performance, making a niche of the you-had-to-be-there aspect of a real gig with real musicians. With a drummer, bassist, and two DJs they turn a gig into a full length set without any prior discussion. Add to that the Heritage Orchestra, a genius conductor and two composers (Hale and Metcalfe) writing music as they go, sending it straight to the ereader/music stands of the orchestra and throwing in film footage while they're at it and you've got a fontal lobe-meltingly wonderful 90 minutes. I have not seen this much talent showed off this skillfully in my short life. It's nearly two weeks since I saw them at the Big Red Tent out of curiosity, only now do I even know the name of the band but the music has stayed with me and image is indelible. The shining star of the set for me was conductor Jules Buckley at the core of this performance, taking newly written music, assigning parts and sending them to the orchestra members instantly and unthinkably conducting two DJs and a band.

This is young music talent at its best and, to my mind, exactly what contemporary music should be doing. The decline of interest in so-called classical music has nothing to do with the music or musicians: the listeners are at fault. They want their music safe, tame, believeing that somehow Beethoven would be horrified by Pink Floyd or that Mozart would loathe modern DJ equipment. This is simply not true, music has always embraced new technology and techniques. The Heritage Orchestra looked like they were having the time of their lives, relishing the chance to show an iTunes-hardened crowd just how clever classically trained musicians are. The crowd went through all manner of confusion, amusement, frustration and joy and even the most English among them (me) was jumping up and down like a maniac after 20 minutes of sheer musical excitement and did not stop till the end.

Don't look them up on YouTube, you won't get half the feel or experience of them live. Just go see them, and keep an eye out for Jules Buckely; if he's not a big name in music by 2020 I'll buy a straw hat and eat it. Live.

What is life, if full of care?

I think this may the the first time in my life when I've had ample time to 'stop and stare' for any more than a week or so. I can't quite decide whether this is having a good or bad effect on my brain, so accustomed to taking a back seat in favour of earning a living or learning about actions.
Now it is free to wander about as it chooses, making light of this and wildly overanalysing that, sending the rest of me in the kind of whirl I haven't experienced since school. Not for a long time has the right music track at the opportune moment tipped the balance of my entire day. My moods are, frankly, twitchy. Never mind, we are moving into the third month of an increasingly austere government who seem to believe that the proper place for young people is at home, on the sofa, a burden to no-one but their unhappy parents. No middle-aged sex for at least the next three years.

Still, unemployment is spurring me on to new activites, for which I must be begrudgingly grateful. I would not be writing this blog if I didn't have the time, and when I have less time guilt alone will make me keep it up. This is good as I haven't written anything more exciting than a shopping list since I went to BSA (don't get me wrong there, as a 'foodie' shopping lists can be very exciting indeed).
I have also written my first music review, a link to which I've posted below. I'm quite pleased with it, though a lot of the references came from a conversation with someone else and for my next one I have resolved to go it totally alone so as to prevent worrying about authorship.

The last week or so has been less interesting than those previous but I am resolved to find lots of things to do, the cheaper the better, so I can still keep up this blog without going all 'dear diary' on you (whoever 'you' may be). I waitressed at a wedding at SS Great Britain which was a bonus as I got to see the ship for free! It is huge ans quite imposing and reminded me of seeing Columbus' ship in Ohio. Back then I was about ten and, frankly if it wasn't a pony, a dog r a dinosaur it wasn't going to hold my
Attention long. This time I let my not-so-inner nerd out to look at engines and stuff whilst filling champagne flutes. This week it's Leigh Woods about which I know absolutely nothing so I look forward to checking it out, again for free.

Bristol Brouhaha is coming up and the Tobacco Factory will soon be filled with comedians, which I cannot wait to see! Hopefully will soon have more things to review, and will post all music reviews here as well.

Speak soon

Review of Secret Rivals

Unsolicited Opinions: Translations

—The language in which we are speaking is his before it is mine. How different are the words home,Christ,ale,master, on his lips and on mine! I cannot speak or write these words without unrest of spirit. His language, so familiar and so foreign, will always be for me an acquired speech. I have not made or accepted its words. My voice holds them at bay. My soul frets in the shadow of his language. Joyce, Portrait of the Artist as a Young man.

Strange to think that this was written somewhere in the region of a hundred years since Translations is set. Watching the twilight of an ancient language knowing full well its future was fascinating and sad, though I could not forget the irony of this play's being performed in the conquering English.

I'm not really in a mood to review tonight's performance, it was a great production of a great play. I only wish I had had this piece of work in my repertoire when trying to explain the differences between Irish and English people, and these people to demonstrate it for me! So many people would have been spared my mildly inebriated gesticulations and vaulting speech.

The cast grapple well with the tough Donegal accent, and perform the doubly impressive feat of declaming Lating and Greek like those whose first language is Irish. This should be praised, as I can't imagine how I'd go about that. They also capture for me the hard-edged eloquence and verbal deftness I recognise in my memories of my grandfather, who learned Irish as a foreign language but retained its capacity for imagery.

The drama of every day life is there too, the fights and songs and cheers and dancing withing which the English are alien and totally separate. I thought we were wondering into 'allo 'allo' territory at one point but mercifully the production steered clear of any awkardness with regard to the common use of English. The love story between Moira and George was truthful and touching, bringing to life the power of language in love.

The set I thought slightly too much, it seemed to have enough books to fill the schools of county Donegal for one hedge school with less than ten students. I would have liked more on the lighting and sound front, particularly at the end.

These are quibbles really. I left the theatre relishing the walk to the bus as I was brimming with thoughts and ideas. The lights reflected in the river were brighter than I'd seen before, and the smell of the water filled my head as I drew it in. This is how I feel after a really good piece of theatre, it's why I go again and again, show after show, because in all the poor and mediocre nights there is that one that stimulates the mind and makes me want to make things happen.

That's quite enough from me for one night. Here's a nice picture to end with.

Ramblings of a kind.

I lost my USB in the library. It has swallowed up that useful little thing and for that I resent it fiercely. Can't fault the library staff, though. I asked them if any red ones had been handed in this week, she rooted through a drawer and rather apologetically handed me the cap of my USB. So close and yet so far. This only confirms my suspicion that the computers here have eaten it.

Of course the librarians are not above suspicion. Perhaps they are aliens who, on receipt of my USB looked through its contents and discovered to their utter amazement that my John Donne essays, seemingly insignificant and frankly pedestrian according to earthly academic standards, to them form the missing final part of their ancient galactic constitution and supplying the final ammendments to their bill of rights, tricky to pin down on beings that are mainly gaseous and therefore straddle the divide between the physical and metaphisical existence.

Their writer, whose name is unpronounceable to all solid beings, was so unimaginably brilliant that on completion of his 100 volume political work he knew at once that he had created the solution to all life in the galaxy. Only peace and brotherly love could possibly exist between all beings in the galaxy under this great document, and possibly the universe itself. The laws of entropy would be reversed and the universe would hold itself together in perpetual motion fromtge good will of its blissful inhabitants.

It came as a shock only to him, that when he presented his life's work to the political leaders of the planet it went down like a balloon filled with Xenon. As political leaders from a long line of all patrician races, species and elements of the galaxy their fortunes all rested on arms dealing, and peace and brotherly love to them meant instant ruin. They imediately seized on the denser parts of the genius and threw him into a black hole, where, as a loose-particled element he was able to maintain a vague, coma like consciousness. They took his works, and to add insult to injury, used a heavily weighted interpretaion of its basic tennets, discarding the rest in fragments across the universe among only
the most primitive species known to them. Of these the most complex and politically fatal last
page was consigned to that most stupid and lumpish of creatures cursed with a pathetic consciousness: human beings. This was placed without thought into the unconscious of a budding poet, one Jack Donne. However his earthly intelligence was so far beneath their own that they could make out nothing that he wrote, less still realised his literary importance among the other ape-like creatures and that through his primitive writings the message of their genius gradually slipped into the unconscious of every bored English literature student in the world. They would be as surprised to discover that humans had processed this information than we would be on discovering existential longing in a mollusc.

Now our poor genius had disappeared, but he had not been forgotten. He had a few privileged disciples among the great academic institutions and they worried when he stopped collecting his awards, for he was meticulously polite in such instances. A few of the lesser known professors, fearing the worst, began a secret society to discover his fate, and they searched his home for evidence of his last and much rumoured work. The notes they found on post-its and shopping lists arranged in geometric patterns on the fridge were themselves so brilliant they guessed the danger of the work itself. They devoted their whole lives to its recovery and the lives of generations of other academics who would come to join them over the centuries.

In the subsequent military coup they all quietly faked their own deaths and escaped to the furthest and most primitive recesses if the galaxy, where to their astonishmbt they began to stumble upon traces of the very works they had sworn to find. As academics it is no surprise that the disguises adopted placed them where they could gain some small happiness- in libraries. They have gain a significant interest in the primitive works, for them it is like tracing the dawn of conscious thought.

Imagine their wonder on finding lodged within the rushed points and crude rhetoric the the key to decode the last and finest part of the work that became the work of their lives. This discovery will have brought about the last great battle of the galaxy, leading to either total annihilation or union of all life, which means the loss of my USB is part of a great destiny in the history of the galaxy and I'm not just some twonk who logged out of a library computer and forgot to take her USB containig her headshots, CVs and several essays.

The football was abysmal. Harriet and I got a little hysterical at 3-1 and opened the prosecco, the first toast at the wake of england's wildly overblown hopes. Now I'm heading home as quickly as possible to avoid the carnage.