far too much writing, far too many photos

runswithscissors


Sunday, July 17, 2005

[continued from previous entry]

Major television fare during that Christmas season: indoors equestrian competitions, steeplechase-style courses set up in arenas -- me finding them unexpectedly fascinating, surprisingly enjoyable. Gentle, intricate events for a gentle, intricate season. Same with the pre- and post-show atmosphere at the National Theater, with music, people singing, others sitting at tables talking until well into the evening, Christmas lights giving it all a soft edge, the scene grabbing me in a way I hadn't expected. In fact, London as a whole seemed to show its heart during those two weeks. The cold, the damp, the sun coming up late and disappearing early barely registered -- the pros overshadowed the cons in decisive fashion.

A couple of years later, I found myself getting off a plane at Heathrow once more, in April. Easter season. Took the tube to Hampstead, where I had a room at a B&B reserved for the next 11 or 12 days. As I walked along the High Street in faint sunlight, bleary from an all-night flight, light snow began falling, a chilly breeze whipping it along. That trip I did solo, circulating through the city, watching, listening. The reality of the strange, distinct American-English cousinhood taking hold.

I went to a performance of The American Clock at the National, at that time Arthur Miller's latest play, and found myself in a packed theater, watching a lovely, autumnal show. At that time in the States, snide dismissals of Miller's stuff seemed to have become stylish for most critics, eliminating the work of one of our greatest writers from U.S. theaters, except for one or two of his most classic pieces. With that as the prevailing reference point, finding myself in an auditorium overseas, a capacity crowd completely caught up in the telling of a very emotional, very American story had an effect on me that's hard to describe, wrapped up as it was in the watching of the show. An emotional brew heavily tinged with gratitude and respect.

Just because I get sloppily emotional about stuff like that doesn't mean, by the way, that all my London experiences have been blissful. 'Cause they haven't. Though that doesn't seem to make any difference at all -- it somehow all comes together in a way that produces big affection and appreciation on my part for just about all of it. Call me Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm, but there it is. I love London, and when I'm there I spend huge amounts of time walking around, watching people, listening to voices, way content.

Last December: one chilly night after a show at the National, I ascended the stairway to the pedestrian bridge across the Thames to the Embankment tube station. A 30ish woman sitting by the top of the stairs -- wrapped in a blanket, a hat placed strategically before her to collect change -- asked me for money in intensely overdone fashion, voice breaking with what sounded like theatrical emotion. Given shere she was (sitting out in the cold, damp dark, panhandling), I figured she might have had good reasons for overdoing it, so dug out a one-pound coin, dropped it in the hat, continued on. Five seconds later, a compatriot of hers shouted a hey-how's-the-evening-going from a nearby location, she shouted back -- sounding like a different person, like a loud, brash professional, all overdone emotion gone -- "Not bad, how much have you gotten?"

During my first visit, somewhere in the city center, I choked down the single worst sandwich I've ever eaten. In a croissantwich shop. Made with Campbell's cream of mushroom soup, straight out of the can. The only truly godawful chow I've eaten in London, but so spectacularly bad that I couldn't hold it against the perpetrators. I had to admire the cheek it took to foist a creation that brazenly stinko on a paying customer. Apart from that, most of my meals in that part of the world have been excellent.

I've wandered the city with friends, with groups of weirdos, ridden the tube at all hours of the day, sat in double-decker buses watching the city slide by. I've wandered through the huge Camden markets, along the Portobello Road markets, bought great Christmas cards at small church fairs and museum shops. I've seen far too much good art and goofy avant garde stuff. I've tossed down many cups of pretty respectable cappucino, sipped a lotta good tea, emptied a few glasses of pretty tasty beer. And have had the pleasure of spending time with some of the local folk. All in that one immense, world-class city.

It's watched century after century slip by, survived good times and bad, seen one epoch after another develop, flower, decline, give way to others. May it thrive for many centuries more.

The South Bank, London -- December, 2003:




Madrid, te echo de menos.

rws 7:32 PM [+]
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BLATHERINGS

August 2001
September 2001
October 2001
November 2001
December 2001
January 2002
February 2002
March 2002
April 2002
May 2002
June 2002
July 2002
August 2002
September 2002
October 2002
November 2002
December 2002
January 2003
February 2003
March 2003
April 2003
May 2003
June 2003
July 2003
August 2003
September 2003
October 2003
November 2003
December 2003
January 2004
February 2004
March 2004
April 2004
May 2004
June 2004
July 2004
August 2004
September 2004
October 2004
November 2004
December 2004
January 2005
February 2005
March 2005
April 2005
May 2005
June 2005
July 2005
August 2005
September 2005
October 2005
November 2005
December 2005
January 2006
February 2006
March 2006
April 2006
May 2006
June 2006
July 2006
August 2006
September 2006
October 2006
November 2006
December 2006
January 2007
February 2007
March 2007
April 2007
May 2007
June 2007
July 2007
August 2007
September 2007
October 2007
November 2007
December 2007
January 2008
February 2008
March 2008
April 2008
May 2008
June 2008
July 2008
August 2008
September 2008
October 2008
November 2008
December 2008
January 2009
February 2009
March 2009
April 2009
June 2009
July 2009

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MORE FOCUSED BLATHERINGS


Travels:
London '01
Pamplona
Italy '03
U.K. '03
Sevilla
Casablanca
Stoke-on-Trent
Barcelona
Québec/Ottawa
Boston/Lisbon/Madrid
Italy '04
Montréal
La Sierra

Events:
Madrid -- arrival
9/11
Emergency Room I
Holidays 2001
Holidays 2002
Holidays 2003
Holidays 2004
Holidays 2005
A neighbor's passing
Madrid -- March 11 bombings
  and aftermath
Emergency Room II
Israeli friend/Madrid Marathon
Madrid -- Royal Wedding
The DELE exam

GONE, a novel:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10

THE BASTARD CHILDREN OF
JOE ROCCO, a novella:
-- Part 1
-- Part 2
-- Part 3

BURBANK SHRUGGED,
a screenplay:
-- Part 1
-- Part 2
-- Part 3
-- Part 4

Short stories:
Murphy's Wife
Another Autumn
La Queja de Una
  Hermanastra Muy Conocida

Autobiography
-- Personal History
-- Hormones On Parade
-- Accidents, Random Mishaps,
    Personal Problems

.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .


OTHER SOURCES OF WHOLESOME ENTERTAINMENT

People/Weblogs:
dooce
foxvox
fudge it
fear not
rebekka
bookslut
802online
idle words
madhaiku
wockerjabby
grow-a-brain
rebel market
letting me be
out and about
kung fu grippe
fanatical apathy
baghdad burning
wfuv's music blog
kexp's music blog
mimi smartypants
between the miles
just a hippie gypsy
the impossible cool
tomato can brushes
vermont homestead
sugar mountain farm

Good Clean Fun:
gizmodo
futurismic
postsecret
dave barry
human clock
mcsweeney's
spaceweather
book-a-minute
internet archive
self-portrait day
my cat hates you
out of context quotes
surrealist compliment
  generator
strindberg and helium

Makin' Musical Whoopee:
last fm
stereo8
pandora
soma fm

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ABOUT RWS/CONTACT





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runswithscissors would like to thank everyone who's ever lived for everything they've ever done.



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