Friday 27 December 2013

At Home with the Kellys

I'm currently sitting with my sister and her boyfriend watching Coronation Street: they don't really want me in the room, but are happy to be watching their show- I don't really want to watch their show, but want to be in the room. Everybody gets something of what they want, but also something they really don't. What a perfect microcosm for the Kelly family Christmas!

In terms of presents, which has not really been what has exhilarated me about Christmas since I was about twelve, I did very well on both the receiving and the giving front: when I was younger, I never really understood that old maxim that it feels better to give than to receive, and I'm still not entirely sure it's true, because I really like getting presents, but I get it more now that I no longer want the entire day to be a marathon of me opening presents while my sisters watched on green-eyed and slack-jawed and presentless (see above re: when I was twelve).
Now-a-days, I've taken to simply asking exactly what people want and, if they fail to answer, a voucher to a non-descript store of my choosing. It amazes me that I used to get personalised presents, all thought up in my own head, for up to twelve people- I used to bother with friends, you see- with cards, all containing a personalised present, and properly wrapped. I don't know how I found the energy or came up with the ideas for the gifts. My mum probably actually did most of the work, looking back on it.
The downsizing of Christmas is a common theme of conversation among the Kellys this year: we're all waiting on someone to have a baby. Probably Orla. I've been relieved of duty on that front- apparently, they'd rather I got a job. I think I would, too. But, six wilful adults, three of whom really don't want to be up before ten and three of whom don't want up to be up after nine, none of whom really want to compromise and only half-want to spend time with each other, are rather hard to shepherd into performing any kind of productive, or even enjoyable, activity. So, our Christmas morning comprised mainly of not really doing anything, but doing so very busily and with everyone stressing. For some reason, we think adding a human infant into the mix will increase efficiency- it's hard to see how it could decrease.
We eventually got to go for a walk- one of our family traditions- and eat far too much and of an extremely rich and completely delicious dinner, and then we played Dixit and, for the first time that I can remember, literally in all my life, we all enjoyed a board game. So much so that I actually skipped Doctor Who (having set the Freeview Box to record it, natch).
That really is a Christmas miracle.

I met my old Drama teacher, Mr. Petty (whom I now allowed- nay, expected- to call 'Robert'; oh, I'm so oooooooooooooollllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllldddddddddddddddddd) at a party at my neighbours, where I was one of only two people under fifty, the other being my sister. Sam, my neighbour's six-year-old son, who normally rounds out the Ironbridge Youth Set, was at a much cooler party in Buildwas. It was fun to see Mr. Petty again, because I hadn't seen him in six years, and thus got to inform him of all my theatrical exploits since starting Uni (it was basically a less self-effacing version of the middle paragraph of this post). He was happy for me, but a bit bemused; after all, I don't think he ever pegged me as a particularly promising student- I only got a C at GCSE, after all. (Maybe if I'd described all the shows to him in the exact way I did in that post, he'd have found it easier to believe.)

Patrick and Ella came to visit on Sunday, and we lived it up, Ironbridge style. Meaning we went to the Tea Emporium and then the White Hart and then they went home. And the Tea Emporium weren't serving coffee. Woo! #IronbridgeLife!

Coronation Street is over now- in fact, it ended a while ago; this post took a lot longer to write than I'd anticipated. I enjoyed Corrie more than I'd expected, as well: Orla said it was funnier than one would imagine and I agree. Not that I'd ever watch it again. I have my pride.

...Somewhere.

Saturday 21 December 2013

Me Vs. My Brain

It always surprises me how uncompromising my brain is: I thought one of the only advantages of my sixty one hour journey from Melbourne to London would be that, surely, no other voyage of lesser length would ever seem long again.
Nope.
My trip home from Edinburgh will take approximately three hours forty minutes: and fuck if my brain isn't going to scream and whine 'I'm bored!' every single second of the way. I should explain that, at any given time, I have about three different 'voices' in my head: Melodrama, who's currently kicking against the proverbial back of the hypothetical driver's seat of my brain and muling 'are we there yet?!'; Logic, who's countering that we survived much worse not six months ago, but whose voice is, sadly, much quieter than Melodrama's; and, my favourite, The Journalist, who's using his energy more constructively to write this post.
It should also be noted that Melodrama, despite moaning about how bored he is, is also refusing to do the logical thing and go to sleep; annoyingly, so is Logic. I didn't get very much sleep last night, because my end of term christmas party lasted so late into the night. Ha, no. I was actually, surprisingly enough, cleaning- mainly so I'll be able to tell if someone breaks in while I'm away (this would not have been evident in my flat's pre-cleaning state): in the process I unearthed several nostalgic items- chief among them, the goodbye poem Charlotte and Simon wrote for me- which lead to a bout of, what else, narcissistic introspection which Melodrama really wants to write about, but, luckily for you, the thumbs are the domain of The Journalist.

Tuesday 17 December 2013

Postera Crescam Laude

So, this semester is over. I am seven eighths of the way through my uni career.
Holy Fuck.
This is the eleventh hour, people.

I just had my final exam of the semester, First Language Acquisition, and this means I am now finished with both FLA and Old English, topics I have been studying, on and off, since first semester of my first year. I may, emphasis on may, resume studying FLA later in life, but I see no reprisal for OE. I have never been wild about historical linguistics, which is a shame as they're something of an Edinburgh speciality, and this course just confirmed for me that I don't have the patience or dedication needed to really make a good job of comprehending ye olde languages, much like babysitting Sam confirmed that I should never have children. I'm just too selfish to be a parent or a philologist, which are pretty much the only things that humans are put on earth to be.

I jest, but my future is ever present in my mind at the moment. I really don't know where I'm going to be or what I'll be doing there in six months' time, let alone a year's and I think that that's what's really terrifying: until now, the stages of my life has been measured in spools: Australia took a year, pre-honours took two, secondary school took five, etc. But now? What I start doing when I finish in May could easily be what I do for the rest of my life. I highly doubt it will be, but then again my father has worked at the same company for forty years, ever since he left uni. My mother has been doing more or less the same job- teaching languages- for the same amount of time, although in different capacities and, I think quite impressively, an array of different languages.
I don't know what I want to do with my life, or, I do, but it seems very unlikely: I want to be a professional writer, for both stage or screen, with the occasional best-selling, Pulitzer winning novel thrown in just to establish my intelligentsia cred.
I want to win an Oscar.
And this will almost certainly never occur.
I've always been slightly ashamed of this dream, probably because it's unfeasible, but also because it has a faint odour of the Britain's-Got-Talent-X-Factor-Make-Me-Famous-Now desperation about it. But I'm not Salieri, or Mozart really if we're taking from the same historically dubious source, I don't want to "blaze like a comet", I just wanna do something I enjoy and get money for it. I don't feel that's an uncommon or particularly embarrassing ambition; surely that's normal. And, actually, being a screenwriter is in no way an efficient way to achieve fame, even if you're good. To prove my point: tell me who wrote Argo, this year's recipient of the Best Adapted Screenplay Academy Award. Hell, name an Oscar-winning screen writer who isn't Woody Allen. See what I mean? (By the bye, twenty demerits if you didn't even know Allen had an Oscar.)
I like to think I'm a good writer, but the first few scripts I produced were very poorly received. And I can see why, looking back. Sweet Gay Baby Jesus was juvenile, unfunny and had an absolutely awful ending; Man Up and Shoot Me in the Skull (on which Rob and Roberta is based) was uneven with horrendous pacing issues; A Million Ways was two incredibly unlikable characters discussing their self-confessedly boring lives with occasional outbursts of Rik Hart which, admittedly, do make everything better; Cheer Up Frowny Face (you may also notice that I had an issue with titles) was, as The Student quite rightly pointed out, 'boring and middleclass'. I should point out here that I am not fishing for compliments: I like to think I've improved a lot, but to believe that I have to admit I was pretty terrible.
I have no idea how Rob and Roberta will be received: as previously mentioned, the cast are all fantastic, but I don't know if the underlying skeleton- i.e. the dialogue and ideas contained within the play- are worthy of them. I think it went down well in Melbourne- certainly, only good comments were passed on to me, but then these were always coming from a secondary source- I wasn't there myself to verify.
Only time will tell. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz and Occupied were both very well received, but that's still two to one in favour of me being terrible (I'm not counting Aladdin or either of the two twenty four hour plays, because I simply have no info to go on re: their reception).
So, am I really any better than the really awful terrible contestants on aforementioned "talent" TV shows? You know, the ones who you really feel should know they're terrible. The ones who are so struck with the idea of celebrity that they ignore the very pressing reality that they're just singularly laughable.
I don't want to be like that. I don't want to be delusional and obnoxious and just generally pitiable, striving for a goal that is blatantly, patently unattainable and just pining for something that will never be. But I also want to give my dreams a chance, because the unseen counterside to this self-deprecating waffle, the only reason I'm even brave enough to admit that I have these dreams to people at all, is that there is a more confident side which tells me that I could make it. That I am good enough. And certainly, I don't wanna reach the end of my life and realise that I never even tried to do this thing that I really want more than anything, at least for now.
Part of the motivation behind this wall-o-text is that Laurie, star of Rob and Roberta, is applying for a scriptwriting course next year and I'm insanely jealous. Frances, my little fresher who I weaned and nurtured, has just been accepted onto a media production course for next year with an eye to screenwriting. Rosie Curtis, who I started out at uni with, is already working for a theatre in London. I so want to join them in their pursuit of this goal, but I promised, quite wisely, I feel, that I wouldn't rush into post-grad or anything like that. And I've already borrowed a large amount of money from my parents to do the TEFL course, and I should really deploy that in some capacity, at least for a while.
This is, of course, a very bourgeois dilemna that does not matter on a global, national or even local scale- it's entirely personal. It can also be left for a little while, as I should really focus on trying to get a halfway decent degree and, besides, almost no artist I respect started out doing the thing for which they later gained credit (the English translation of this post's title is 'Later I shall grow by praise' and is the motto of the University of Melbourne) started out their careers doing that thing. So maybe I can afford to take some time to do other things and see if this is still what I really want in a couple of years' time: just because my parents stuck to one thing all their lives, it doesn't mean I have to. I have to remind myself that uni ending is the blossoming of possibilities, not the death of opportunities for creativity.

Sunday 8 December 2013

Purgatory

Yesterday, Poppy and I sat on the mezzanine between the Ground and First floors of the library- a rather odd spot with Sofas, swing-desks, plugs and- perhaps most incongruously for the library- mobile reception. People often Skype there. I think it's intended as a spot for some quiet relaxation between revisions sessions for those to lazy to travel all the way to the vending machines on the ground floor.
Poppy and I were trying to think of a descriptor for this spot to explain to a friend where we were: I suggested 'The In-Between Space'; Poppy opted for 'Purgatory', which I admit is better.

This descriptor also nicely describes my frame of mind with regards to my exam tomorrow: I am in limbo. I've reached full capacity in terms of what my brain can store, but there's still five hours before I can justifiably call it a night and my score on the sample paper I just did wasn't perfect (it was still ok). So, now we enter into that awful stage of revision (aren't they all awful?!) where the student languidly stares at various websites, cheat sheets, notes and sample questions, the brain reticent to absorb any new information, but of the solid opinion that no fun should be had in honour of the approaching exam. So solid is this opinion that the student no longer can derive any pleasure from music, nor film, nor television, nor even the humble novel. The mind will release no serotonin until the end of the paper the following day.
"But, lo,"
cries the student,
"this toil is fruitless! I gain no new aptitude from this labour!"
 and the brain steadfastly replies
"Suck it."

Saturday 7 December 2013

Entropy

So, it's that time of year again, where we all question every single life decision we made up until now and regret any and all actions that we have ever undertaken. I speak, of course, of exams.
I was going to start this next paragraph with a barefaced lie, and say that I used to enjoy examinations, and while that has never been the case (I had to go to the doctors once due to stress induced headaches- I was ten), I never used to have such an antagonistic relationship with them. I certainly used to be much better at revising: my attention span was even above ten minutes at one point. I mean, I managed to fare quite well at GCSEs and even better at A2s, once I'd escaped the oppressive awfulness of William Brookes, but now I struggle to even make myself google useful resources. I leave the flat without my notebook, meaning I can't revise 'properly' and thus managing to convince myself that there's no point in even trying, and I'm convinced that I do it on purpose.
I used to think this was because I didn't enjoy my course (it's debatable whether or not this is still the case- I mean, no more syntax), but when I think back, I managed an A* in maths and I loathed that (I actually also managed, somehow, to get an A in PE). Plus, my friends who enjoy their course- Rachael Murray**, for example- expound a lot of energy listing the various revision-related woes in their lives. So, what's changed? Part of me thinks that it's that I no longer live with my parents, and, without patrimonial gravity, constantly looking over my shoulder and pressuring me, I simply float off into the outer-atmosphere of lolloping. This is worrying because it casts a serious shadow over plans for post-grad I may have, unless I want to undertake them at Wolverhampton Uni, the only institution within commuting distance. The other answer, which is even more worrying, is simply that I peaked at Sixth Form and now entropy has set in, and all my energy is slowly draining into the environs until I'm left cold and completely lacksadaisical (I also got an A* in GCSE physics, so you can be assured that this is how entropy works).
Of course, if I give up on myself entirely, then I am assured to never get any work done and to that end I have taken on someone to work with- a ""Study"" ""buddy"", if you will- to try and motivate myself. Poppy is quite a good influence, as it turns out- I've certainly done more than I would have without her companionship, including making a cheat sheet and writing out various grammatical miscellanies (my mother suggested writing these on my arm and then 'weakly washing them off' before the exam, and she has an MSc, so maybe it'd work). But, that being said, I've now spent an hour writing out this blog post, so obviously she's not all that.

And now, I really should get back to work.

**Editor's note: Academics often note this as the first appearance of Rachael Murray in the Kelly Canon; however, an earlier reference to 'Rachel Meyrick' is believed to be an incarnation of the same character.

Tuesday 3 December 2013

Direction

There is an anecdote about Orson Welles, and, like all stories that are fun to tell and illustrate a point in a concise and interesting manner, it's probably untrue. The story goes like this: Orson Welles, on his first day of directing Citizen Kane, his first feature film, walked onto the set to find hundreds of people, ostensibly under his command, waiting for him expectantly and, I like to imagine, staring up at him moonfaced and doe-eyed like little Oliver Twists. He turned to one of the more experienced set hands and asked quietly, 'so, what do we do?' to which the man replied 'you're the only one in this room who's not allowed to ask that'.
Orson went onto make one of the most seminal films of all time after that little incident, so I feel enspirited that I had much the same urge when I walked into the Bedlam CafĂ© for the first rehearsal of the 2014 production of Rob and Roberta. Yes, I have returned to directing after a two year absence which I hope future generations will refer to as my 'wilderness years', during which it's rumoured that I travelled to the other end of the earth to study under the twin-headed director-chimera, Shaw Keegan, who taught me about Opera and stubbos. It was kind of unnerving to return to a situation where everybody is looking to me for what to do, and I am not only allowed, but expected to tell other people how to improve what they're doing. Luckily, I cast the show extremely well: Izzy is grand and theatrical, Emma is awkward and neurotic, Daniel is shy and flighty, Adam is confident and affectionate, and Laurie is a...saint. What a saint, that Laurie.
I am also going to use this opportunity to apologise to Declan, who directed the Melbourne production of Rob and Roberta: I didn't understand how much of a bitch the final scene would be to realise when I wrote it. You may rest assured that Karma has now served me for my lack of foresight.

In December 2012, I attended the Bedlam Christmas party, got intoxicated in a bad way, had to be looked after by Rik and Colm, twisted my ankle and then walked home on it and then had to catch a train at seven the next morning. Not my fondest memory.
Still, it was with a very heavy heart that I went to my (probable) final Bedlam Christmas Party over the weekend, and got very drunk very quickly. This made the party a lot more fun and the next day a living hell. My brain felt like it was trying to worm its way out of my skull. And I had to sit in Bedlam for four hours and watch people read my words back at me: normally, I'm delighted to have that kind of validation, but this time it just made me feel slightly ill (this may also have been the questionable Korma I downed after returning from the party- not a weekend full of great decisions, I'll admit). This is not to put down those who auditioned at the weekend- it's just that Comrade Napoleon was dying and that makes me sad.
Of course, these auditions were for The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, and we now have a cast! Of the original production, only two people are returning- Jari and Leyla- and in completely different roles to the ones they had before. But the point of restaging TWWOO isn't to do it exactly the same as before- it's to try new things with the same basic idea, so I embrace this change. Bring on TWWOO two.

Scooby Panto is over, and I could not be more delighted with how it went: I had an absolute ball doing that show and I got to establish a reputation with the lower classes (read: the freshers), as a rather formidable force to be reckoned with and one who will not hesitate to castrate you.
Speaking of direction, I was really impressed with how Callum and Craig managed to strike a balance between cast creativity and control: at the end, as a present, we gave them hats which read 'Good Cop' and 'Bad Cop' ('Bad Cop' going to Craig, and 'Good Cop' to Callum), but it should be said that they both beautifully juggled the twin responsibilities of keeping us happy and getting what they wanted out of us. This is really not an easy act to pull off and they deserve so much credit for doing it.
I am so glad I did Panto, especially since it's looking likely to be my final acting performance on the Bedlam stage. I know that technically any show I do could be so, but as I near the end of my uni career, this obviously grows in probability with every show I do. I couldn't audition for any of the shows this time around because of the commitments of doing TWWOO (I gave a very half-hearted audition for Harvey, and got a callback for Aunt Chauverlet, I think just so they could see me in drag again). There are two more shows to be decided for the Bedlam season, as well as some miscellaneous pieces (an anachronistic Grecian theatre festival and Candlewasters, for example), but nothing's guaranteed and Daphne could well be my swan song in terms of Edinburgh acting. And what a brilliant motherfucking swan song she was.


Beautiful.