London Fun

A few photos: the Hockney exhibit provides an interesting story. There I was on the last day, joining the 90 minute queue in the rain, when a fellow came up to me and offered me a free ticket for immediate entry. Luck o' the Irish rubbing off on me.

Bonus: I'm featured in the latest Dogcast.

Publications: Bill is Dead & Chickens

Just a quick word on a couple of things. My sweary sweary story "Bill is Dead" appears in the latest issue of Pulp Metal Magazine. Yes, of course it's another Fall reference. Also my story "Chickens" will appear in Matt Hilton's ACTION anthology in May.

I seem to have turned to crime. May it serve me well.

In Leicester for Alt.Fiction; more anon. If you're on Facebook check out the pix which I can't seem to copy the link to at present.

London Bound

Tate Britain

I'm writing this on Sunday to post Monday as I'll likely be in transit about this time; if all goes according to plan I ought to be on the Piccadilly Line heading to Russell Square and my swanky hotel. Hurrah for internet deals! Plans include seeing as many friends as I can, visiting my namesake at the Butterfly World Project on Tuesday, seeing Kaurismäki's new film Le Havre and the new Moomin Shop in Covent Garden, maybe catching the Hirst exhibit at the Tate Mod and definitely seeing the Wednesday matinee of The Ladykillers -- very excited about that.

News as I have time and wifi to pass it along: check Twitter. Alt-Fiction this weekend!

If you need entertaining, go listen to Elaine Stritch sing a very appropriate Noel Coward song.

Six Sentence Sunday: The Big Splash

I had the best time writing this story. After reading too much P. G. Wodehouse (too much? is that possible?) and some Winifred Watson, I was full of madcap story ideas and thought it would be fun to try to set a story in Jazz Age London. I wrote The Big Splash in a kind of fever over the Christmas break between semesters. It ended up being a novella instead of a short as I intended, but I had such a grand time inventing my own Bertie and Jeeves. I have an idea for a new one, so Constance and Collier will get another outing soon. Here we meet the best friend, who makes our heroine look positively sensible in comparison. Yes, of course I found an excuse for someone to say that immortal line.

Both their heads turned at a sudden outburst of noise. As Constance suspected, the sound accompanied the arrival of her friend, the irrepressible Hardie. All of her entrances seemed to include dropping things, making loud excuses, and happily shrieking greetings, though at times they had also included gunshots, fire, and the occasional oran-utang. 

"Con-stance!" Hardie shouted across the room as she bashed into a small planter, then corrected her path by jostling an elderly judge who harrumphed most alarmingly. His equally ancient partner brought up her lorgnette to examine the madwoman who walloped her way across the room, leaving destruction in her wake. 

"Constance, darling! What a delight to see you!" Hardie grabbed her shoulders and kissed each cheek in turn as if they had been parted for years rather than the space of a mere day and a half. 

Be sure to check out all the Six Sentence Sunday posts and discover some new writers.

Know-vember: Barry Leary

I should be in Dublin with Elena and Rod today, which is just as well considering my current guest here: Barry is shy. He's also an artist. We may have been standing next to each other at the big Rothko exhibit at the Tate Modern a few years back, both gazing in rapt awe, but not noticing one another. No, we had to run into each other on Twitter. Fortunately, we did. He's even put in a tentative foot into the Facebook world, though he tends to post a few pictures and then run off again. He can be coaxed out again with sweets, I have discovered.

1. What's the first thing you do upon waking in the morning?

Turn the computer on.

2. What's a song you might be persuaded to dance to?

Dress - PJ Harvey.

3. Where in the world do you live?

Mainly but not exclusively in my head.

4. What's a great night out for you?

No such thing as a great night out at my age :-) (I might be lying)

5. What's a great night in?

A great night in of course means drawing and books and sweets and more books and more drawing and sweets and music. Did I mention sweets ? Hope so.

6. If you were offered an all expenses paid trip anywhere in the world, where would you go?

Rajasthan.
 
7. What book do you wish everyone would read so you could talk about it?

Proust.

8. What movie makes you cry?

Magnolia (but only once).

9. What makes you laugh?

I Heart Huckabees.

10. Are there fairies at the bottom of your garden?

Not under that much concrete I should think.

Or they're suffering if they are o_O! Thank you for letting me bully you into this :-) Here's a lovely photo Barry took: beautiful. And hey, it's Peter Cook's birthday.

More Moore but Not Ruthlessly So

Saturday kicked off another trip to the Big Smoke with the aim of seeing Mr Moore and his compatriots re-imagine a journey through the English. Apropos, non? We took the train into Liverpool Street station and then stopped at Hamilton Hall for a pint and lunch with Ruth. I love burgers with slabs of real bacon on top! Even better to enjoy them in the opulence of an old hotel ballroom. Mr Murphy headed off for the finer establishments of Whitechapel, while Ruth and I headed toward the Tate Mod.

We stopped at St. Paul's on the way, to see how the Occupy London folks were doing. Wonderful to see so many exhortations to social justice and reminders that this was a peaceful protest (regardless of what the Oakland police might think). Glad to see the scaffolding around the church gone, but somehow wonderful to see all the tents and the people speaking from the steps with power and conviction. St. Paul's was built upon a temple of Diana, so no surprise the hunter goddess inspires the urge to fight back.

We had fun watching the Tacita Dean film piece in the turbine hall at the Tate Modern, even more so watching the people watch it. One kid tried to leap over the waves, another tried to capture the falling bubbles. We headed up to the Rothkos -- my weakness! Fortunately, Ruth is also fond of them. We sat for quite a time in that quiet place chatting. Ruth is a fascinating woman who's lived in France for some years though now based in London for a time. She repairs vintage fans -- what a rare skill! She's also designing scarves and does botanical painting. I'm always in awe of people who can do tangible things (like the rest of my family). I'm all thumbs.

We headed up to the Barbican in a cool clear London eve. I was really lucky with weather, bringing the sunshine with me, of course! Disappointing to find that there was a pre-concert talk we missed and that Shirley Collins was ill and wouldn't be performing, but the show made up for those minor sighs. Front row seats! How to describe it all? JB Priestly's English Journey mashed up with "Northamptonshire Peasant Poet" John Clare's own journey from the asylum in Essex to his home, thinking he was going to meet his dead first love, and the paintings of Turner and Martin. Sinclair looking like a librarian (to me anyway :-) reading from his own works of travel and place, Alan -- in his peacock blue long coat with sparkly paisleys and those spotted shoes, looking elegant -- reading from Voice of the Fire as well as Clare's own works with his usual arresting delivery. The video pieces set the scene, from London to Newcastle, where poet Tom Pickard brought the audience in the second half. The music -- both live and recorded -- featured Susan Stenger on flute and samples, Steve Tyler on hurdy-gurdy, Andy May on border pipes (which looked like Uilleann pipes) and the amazing FM Einheit on percussion.

You know what a sucker I am for percussion (Evelyn Glennie rocks!) but Einheit was a madman! Tapping and pounding on a big sheet of steel, later hammering and drilling on it too as well as throwing buckets of pebbles (I got hit by one :-) and then breaking cement blocks on it, too, with the hammer and then with the bits of block. Wonderful! He also played upon a huge steel coil. I loved it.  He also had great hair and an amazing profile. Magnificent show. Very pleased.

Sunday was more leisurely: up early to watch the All Blacks win the Rugby World Cup. Love the Haka! Watched the Bukowski doco, Born into This, then I was allowed to visit Murphy's local where Americans were rare. They seemed to think I was all right for a Yank. Later we watched The Guard which many people have recommended to me which was fun. The Monday morning flight was a bit too early, but that's the jet-setter life, eh?

Hard to believe it's nearly Halloween...

London with Four Essex Lads, Alan Moore, and Ruth

Because no one would want to travel ruthlessly, surely: I zipped off to London this weekend because I could. Is there any better reason? Well, I suppose fun and a couple of Alan Moore performances were also a good reason. I got in rather late, so Friday also got a late start but my pal Murphy and I kicked things off with a good English breakfast in Essex before meeting up with his mates in the pub, three of whom came to London with us to see the performance at the Horse Hospital.

It's a fascinating venue with an interesting history and provided a great space for an unusual performance. After a visit to the pub next door, The Friend at Hand, the guys were just happy there was a bar (although the ringing sound of empty bottles on concrete punctuated a few moments awkwardly). The opening act was the Scots singer MacGillivray. I'm not sure I'd envy anyone who had to share a bill with Moore, but it was a challenge to get into the mannered performance of overly earnest aggressively retro sensibilities. She announced after the first song it was for a wee child who died in 1842; while the Essex men may have led the giggles, they were not alone. It's the kind of thing that Dame Darcy and Rasputina do quite successfully with humour as well as a sense of the macabre. It probably didn't help that there were a number of rolling beer bottles as she sang about stoning mermaids, "wolf waters" and "steaming the eyes of hope."

Alan came out with his usual aplomb and fancy black & white spotted shoes. He introduced the reading by saying we seemed too nice a group to hear it cold, so he spoke a little about Jerusalem and its unbridled growth, now "bigger than the bible and, I hope, better" before turning to the chapter he would be reading from which had to do with angels, or as they were known in the novel, "builders" (a more neutral term). In part his depiction of the archangel Michael came from the image of the archangel atop the Northampton church bearing his name, which Moore says carries a snooker cue. He introduced his ideas about the afterlife, dismissing the typical depiction of heaven. "All that marble," Moore said, cocking an eyebrow at the audience, "It's a bit middle class." Instead he posited the idea that our lives repeat without our knowledge, taking us back to our happinesses over and over, "So, hello again."

The reading held the audience spellbound, rushing from onomatopoeic whoomphs to the builders' ambivalence about their charges and the nature of the all-encompassing holy perspective. Good stuff: I can't wait to read the novel -- well, when he finally decides it's done. The audience responded with laughter and close attention and sent him off with enthusiastic applause. While coming out of the loo afterward, I heard my name and turned to find Ruth, a fellow member of the Kraken, the Russell Hoban gang. She had seen my post on Facebook about the event and decided it sounded fun. She recognised me from my picture :-) I asked her to join us, then peeked around the corner to see if I could chat with Alan. Fortunately he was still there, so we had a chat and I mentioned finally meeting Pádraig last weekend as well as the Marvelman-like curse on his Marvelman book: Alan joked that maybe he should write a book about Pádraig's book and create a kind of infinite repeating loop. I mentioned I'd be seeing him the next night at the Barbican. Yes, got a hug and a kiss, too.

Ruth joined us and we all headed out for a tasty Indian meal then dropped by the Bree Louise for a pint before they closed. Then we hopped the last train back to Harlow, another late night. I'll have to write up the second day a bit later as this has grown long: more Moore, Occupy London at St. Paul's (the photo above from the old UK phone so poor quality), Rothko and Ruth. Anon!

BitchBuzz: Björk's Biophilia

I suppose it comes as no surprise that I love the new Björk album, but wow! What a wonderful little package. The vision of it amazes me: the mash-up of science and myth that makes both magical. I will not rest until I've seen one of the shows. Currently she's playing in Iceland, but I will keep a weather eye out for news that she's heading my way.

Music Review: Björk's 'Biophilia'

By K.A. Laity

"Best way to start a-new is to fail miserably…" - Björk, "Moon"

A new Björk album (can we still use that word, album? Does it still convey the idea of a release even if it comes in digital form as well as tangible?) always offers a chance to see what the unpredictable Icelandic artist has in her brain pan lately. Her music delights and her ambitions grow.

Biophilia, however, isn't just an album. As her press releases explained, it's "a studio album, apps, a new website, custom-made musical instruments, live shows and educational workshops" as well as a documentary film about the whole process. The apps will give each song its own game, lyrics, animation and even academic essays on the science behind each of them, too.

She debuted Biophilia at the Manchester International Festival, stunning audiences with her wild costumes and fascinatingly complex instruments like the pendulum harps and a musical Tesla coil as well as a large Icelandic women's choir. Björk intends to spend three years touring with an elaborate stage show as well as an accompanying educational program, bringing music training to local schools. Doubtless this will be a welcome gift to schools who've made cuts in those essential programs...

Read the whole review over at BBHQ: I swoon quite shamelessly. Seems to be a thing with me lately. Bumping into things as well. Wonder what it could be. The lyrics for this  album are full of wonderfully quotable bon mots. I like the pull quote above because it reminds me of Beckett's "Fail again. Fail better," which is the sense of the song, too.

I'm off to London tonight. If I can manage it, I will try out the Android app for Blogger and sent a post or two while I'm on the road. Two Alan Moore performances! Don't curse me too much, Pádraig! Leaving behind picturesque Galway for the Big Smoke: it will be a change.

Talk About the Weather

Everywhere I've lived people have always said, "If you don't like the weather, wait a minute." Even in Houston, which flabbergasted me because nine or ten months of the year it is relentlessly hot and humid with only the regular 3pm brief thunderstorm to break the hellfire monotony. It was slightly more true in Michigan, but you could generally get a picture of how the weather would go in the morning and plan accordingly with reasonable accuracy (contingent on your knowledge of the seasons, I should add).

In Galway, however, it is literally true. I do consult the weather oracles (i.e. I check my phone) and look out the window, but I know that what I see outside may instantly change. I have walked out into rain and arrived at my  destination in sunshine. I have generally given up on carrying an umbrella, as the bins on most days look like this one. The gales of Galway are legendary. I risked an umbrella today because there seemed to be no wind and it was that kind of pervasive misty rain that quickly soaks everything. But by the time I was crossing the Corrib on my way to campus, the wind had begun to gust again.My umbrella made it here, but I suspect that it may be a challenge on the next leg of my perambulations.

In Galway it's important to wield your brolly like a rapier, twirling it to brace against the shifting winds, dodging other umbrellas on the narrow pavement -- so far it seems to be a very gendered norm, with men raising their umbrellas and women lowering theirs, but we shall see if that has just been coincidence so far. But most of the time I either just get wet or wear a hat (shock, I know). I was walking along the Claddagh the other day, enjoying the dramatic skies (thanks for the touch up on the photo, Ayub!) and watching a jackdaw eat mussels by flying up a few feet and dropping them on the rocks. There were a few rainy clouds out to sea, but while brisk, it was quite pleasant.

And then it started to hail! The wind blew so hard that it was difficult to walk as I hightailed it back toward the centre. Yet by the time I got up to the street again, the sun was out. Sure, it was still raining. But the sun was out. It's crazy, but it always gives people something to talk about, eh?

This weekend there's the Fiction Slam on Friday and then Octocon on Saturday, so I'll be heading up to Dublin to finally meet Pádraig Ó Méalóid face to face after all these years. Next week I'm off to London for some fun including not one but TWO Alan Moore events and some idling in East London with the mad Mr Murphy. Next it will be off to Scotland, but more about that anon. For the present, let's talk about the weather...

London Life

Snapshots of London

I got to play Sarah Angliss' theremin :-) I've hung out with the decadent aesthetes and enjoyed the summer in London and met up with friends and caught the Bard of Salford, too.

Review: Terry Gilliam's The Damnation of Faust

I had a lot of trepidation about the ENO production of Berlioz's The Damnation of Faust; not because Gilliam hadn't done opera before, which seemed to put some people off—after all what better to do with an over-sized imagination than put it to use in the heightened spectacle of opera?—but because of the trailer and the thought, "Oh, not Nazis again." The ultimate banality of evil is that it can be used without controversy or effect. Apart from bizarre extremists of various stripes, most people are are board with the whole Nazis=bad, so I imagined some ham-handed club about to be wielded over the audience.

But yeah, I got my ticket anyway. It was bound to be spectacle, right?

Gilliam did not disappoint. The production literally starts with a bang that clearly startled many in the audience. Enter Christopher Purves as Mephistopheles with a few of his lost souls, announcing himself as our infernal compere for the evening. His hellfires seem to always be ready to lick at the feet of the players, ever present. As our shock-headed Faust, Peter Hoare enters the pastoral opening his work literally on his back as he ignores the courting couples in the forest in search of solitude to return to his calculations and contemplation, but the spirit of the spring invades, including a Krampus and Holda as if it were almost a mythic spring. How can he resist?

Mephistopheles persuades Faust out of his cell at last; the cell looks not like a monkish scholar's room, but a holding cell in an asylum. Coupled with Faust's later appearance in a straight-jacket, it may be a way to cast doubt on the veracity of all that occurs, but it's not really important.

I have to admit, the Nazi motif worked perfectly; after all, Berlioz's opera unfolds against a backdrop of war. The slight relocation in time suits. We see the rise of the fascist movement gradually as Faust's own story unspools. In the tavern scene a few brown shirts stand out, but as the scene unfolds we see them gradually muscle through the crowd and gradually more chorus members remove their jackets to reveal brown shirts and uniforms underneath, until the majority of the tavern crowd has joined up. It works.

It works too that Marguerite is a Jew that Faust first sees singing the role of Brunhilde in the Ring wearing a blonde wig. Mephistopheles' careful maneuvering of Faust into her room occurs on a setting that I knew at once would turn into Kristallnacht, but Gilliam kept the audience waiting for it then in the midst of the scene, rolls back time restoring all the broken windows and returning people to their homes to replay the scenes slightly differently with more direct interference from the demon. You begin to suspect that all the mayhem in the land has been his doing.

I find Berlioz's opera a lugubrious affair and I much prefer Marlowe's Faust to Goethe's sappy romantic, but Gilliam had the story cracking along with the most amazing visuals that combined good old fashioned stage craft, projections, puppetry and a good bit of flash and explosion. The mad race to "save" Marguerite was a fantastic hell journey, the final damnation an incredible glorious release of the hellfire, and so many moments were simply cleverly apt and nimble. It was a great way to employ Gilliam's tendency to excess without the impression that anything was superfluous.

Of course the cast was superb: Purves' Mephisto had the right combination of oiliness and menacing bombast. Hoare's Faust managed to convey the emotional wrenching of his character without ever tipping over into bathos. Christine Rice's Marguerite offered up a silky heroine with a voice anyone might fall for. The role is so small yet so important; Marguerite really has to knock your socks off in her opening song and then break your heart soon after. Rice was amazing; when Marguerite sang her breaking heart on the way to the gas chambers, there were a lot of wet cheeks in the audience. The whole orchestra and chorus were superb of course; the practically filled the stage at the curtain.

The good news is that there was a crew from the BBC (and a huge group of folk attending as well) so perhaps there will be the opportunity to see some of this even if you couldn't be there for the final performance. Gilliam looked giddy as he joined the cast on stage for the final bows. And why not? Well done, indeed.

Running to Catch Up

That's a misleading title as I plan for this to be a very lazy Sunday. I may wander out to a museum this afternoon and get myself a Sunday roast dinner, but that's about as far as my ambitions run at present. I often have the thought of how little time I have in London this trip nipping at my thoughts, but that only makes it more grand to luxuriate in idleness. I have been busy nonetheless and it will take a while for me to get caught up on writing about all my adventures. Among  things done:

I got a poem published (yes, me!). Some print copies of Chronogram should have arrived by the time I return, but you can read "Lullaby" online (albeit in a rather unexpectedly awkward layout).

I played a theremin!

I visited the wax head of Jeremy Bentham!

I saw a giant fox!

I've been to plays, museums and galleries!

Pubs!

Hanging out with friends and laughing -- and a whole lot more. I love this city, and the truth about London is that you never know what might lie around any corner. Such as naked people on bikes...

Town & Country

I will get to the Fall concert, but anon. Earlier in the day I had a fabulous lunch with Hannah Priest who ran the Werewolf Women Conference last fall and will be part of the Gender and Punishment Medieval Conference in January (which I'll probably go to since I'll be near by). We had a great chat about academia—and how to survive it successfully—publishing and her new murder-mystery company. Always glad to get to know other dynamic women :-)

Saturday morning I caught the train to London, but once I got there, I hopped on the tube and headed out to Epping with the final destination Great Dunmow, land of bacon (at least since the Middle Ages). Jo and James took me for a ramble around the village. Last time I'd stayed with them it had been pouring so I only saw the view from a car. It's really a lovely place, although the drought has been so bad that there were huge cracks in ground at the cricket pitch and the river was just about down to a trickle.

It's an odd mix of quiet life and recent arrivals; the new local car dealership sells Rolls-Royces. It's Dick Turpin territory, too. Saturday night we went to a great old pub, The Three Horseshoes. The landlord was rumoured to have been an actor and you could certainly believe it. Small crowd, terrific atmosphere—the maypole was still up out in the back garden, too.

Some much-needed rain arrived overnight, so a relaxing morning reading the papers seemed in order. I had a nice chat with Jo's mum who had been evacuated to Ascot for six years during the war. She had been at a special school for kids at risk from tuberculosis because her father had died from it. We had a nice Sunday roast dinner and watched a couple of Ken Loach films, Looking for Eric and Route Irish: both great, both totally different.

Rain again as I headed back to the Big Smoke. Village life is lovely, but I miss the dirty old town.

BitchBuzz: Sarah Angliss/Spacedog

Looking forward to catching some of these performances in London: I find her work absolutely fascinating.

Sarah Angliss and "Spacedog"

By K.A. Laity

Musician, engineer, writer Sarah Angliss has embarked on a round of performances under the aegis of Spacedog. Her unique combination of nerdy science knowledge, inspired music and automata brings together technology, history and the spirits of the dead, including the titular dog, Laika the canine cosmonaut.

I think I first came across her work while researching puppetry. Her essay on the "Uncanny Valley" led me to exploring the fascinating compositions and videos she has created. Angliss characterises her work as a heady mix of unexpected elements:

Trained in electroacoustics, music and robotics, I specialise in creating original sound installations, exhibits and live performances that mix cutting-edge technology with curious or vintage sound equipment and little known stories from the history of science. I’m particularly interested in creating sonic art that enables people to generate or manipulate sound using novel physical elements (e.g. robots; motion sensors). Whenever possible, I try to avoid compositions that generate music entirely through software – I find algorithmic music is richer and more delightful when it’s coupled to the real world in some meaningful way...

Read the rest: http://culture.bitchbuzz.com/sarah-angliss-and-spacedog.html#ixzz1Mo7LSS3a

Today's film in the horror class: the original Night of the Living Dead, which means I need to explain the 60s -- mostly that it wasn't all hippies and the Grateful Dead which seems to be the association my students usually make with the time period.

The Little Video of Calm

In the midst of the mad swirl of our lives, we all need a little moment of calm. Lacking The Little Book of Calm, I try to conjure up soothing images of relaxing situations. Because I love mudlarking along the Thames, I took this video to remind me of those moments of calm.





Of course sometimes I try to relieve stress by simply doing very silly things. Recently YouTube introduced new programs where you can make animation of whatever you like. Yes, if this sounds rather like the video I made for the Women's League of Ale Drinkers, well, it is very much like that. In an idle moment, I decided to animate the lyrics to The Fall's "Dice Man" [based on the cult novel and NOT that crap 'comedian'] and it looks like this:





Silly: but sometimes that's just what you need, right? Well, sure -- some people write poetry -- but I seem to only be able to write asinine poetry. In the meanwhile, I find there is so little time, so much to do.

Purposeful

I started out the day purposefully: I got a needed oil change, ran to the store and then came to campus. There things began to bog down a bit, not only because there was a lot of email to get to and a call from the Dean but then there was the printer not working. I haven't bought new ink for my printer at home, so I've generally relied on the printer here on campus. When we got new printers and a whole new print admin system, I was the only one who never had a problem printing. Everyone else was screaming for blood because of course they decided to change the system at the beginning of the semester. So I've taken advantage of the one colleague in the building to have him print a couple of emergency things and will hope the Mac guy gets around to me soon.

Yes, we have one person in IT who's competent in Macs. We have (last I knew) over 200 Macs on campus. And you wonder why our last Mac person quit to go to Skidmore where she has fewer headaches and more pay... oh, that's right. No wonder at all.

You can catch up with the latest episode in La Ronde, the round robin story started by Patti Abbot. Today's installment (#10 already!) is "It's Raining Down in Texas" by Graham Powell. Amazing turns this narrative has taken: now in Texas.

Kit Marlowe's The Mangrove Legacy will be available from All Romance Ebooks on December 15th! You can get The Big Splash there now (as well as at Noble Romance and Amazon).

21st Century Gothic will be printed on my birthday :-) though it won't be available until 2011.

I just got word that my presentation "Bringing a Medieval Woman to Life" (about writing a play on the life of Christina of Markyate) got accepted for the Great Writing Conference in London next June. Looking forward to that. I'm also considering a conference in Akureyri, Iceland as well. We shall see. Yeah, don't remind me of that note which says "Just say no!" I am (on the whole) doing less. Well, less of some things. Combining things, too, seems helpful (work that does double duty). But yeah, it remains the case that there is so little time, and so much to do!

Kit Marlowe & The Big Splash

Today's the day! Kit Marlowe's debut novella is now available from Noble Romance. Here's the blurb:

It's London in the Jazz Age: the times are fast and the women faster. Constance Wynne Hare has men eager to throw themselves at her feet—so why does she pine for the one man who takes her for granted? 

I wrote this story in a rush last Christmas, inspired in equal parts by Winifred Watson (author of Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day) and P. G. Wodehouse, creator of Jeeves and Wooster. I tried to capture that same sense of madcap wildness, humor and adventure. It's such a sparkling era -- at least for the well-to-do. As I discovered in my research, the era produced its own Lady Gaga and a whole host of Bright Young Things. And yes, I hope to have more Constance and Collier stories.

All right, time to recover from Albacon and get work done. I'll write up my adventures when I get a chance. I got to hang out with a bunch of writer pals, sat on a couple of panels, sold some books and got some new ideas.

Theatre Round-Up

I've been lucky enough to have some great theatre outings in the last few weeks, but I've been short on time to talk about them. I slipped off to Massachusetts to visit Shakespeare & Co and catch both The Comedy of Errors and Richard III. The former was in the Bernstein Theatre with the troupe of interns. They had a circus theme which fit the wacky mix-ups well. I always find it fascinating to see the creative ways companies adjust to small spaces and small casts. They even employed a dressmaker's dummy for one of the characters because the actor had to play two parts in the climactic scene. Great fun.

Richard III was still in previews, so the director reminded us that things were still in flux. I had a seat up on the side hanging over the stage (yes, already a hot ticket in previews) and so I ended up having to move aside during the scene where Richard pretends to eschew the crown a few times before 'reluctantly' accepting it. He and his entourage leaned over the balcony to the crowd below.  They whipped up the audience response so we were all cheering for Richard, thus complicit in the events. A good technique.  John Douglas Thompson made for an energetic villain, but one of the things that really came out of this production was a clear image of the women who were ignored and pushed aside by these nakedly ambitious men. The first scene with Anne really makes or breaks the play -- we have to believe that this monster can charm -- and it came off beautifully. Terrific cast and much glorious mayhem.

One of the things that helps me miss London a little less is the wonderful NT Live broadcasts. This time around it was London Assurance, which I hadn't managed to see while I was there. The broadcasts give you the feeling of being in the theatre, but also the close interaction zooming cameras allow. I am soooo grateful The Spectrum is participating in the project. The play is a HOOT. I knew nothing about Dion Boucicault, the 19th century Irish playwright, but this was a terrifically funny farce. Stars Simon Russell Beale and Fiona Shaw were just loving every minute of their over-the-top roles; the entire cast was superb, even when the part wasn't enormous, like Nick Sampson as the gentleman's valet Cool. And what a delight to see Richard Briers! The performance was sold out, so they broadcast the play outside the NT on the "grass" (the astroturfed area where the giant furniture usually sits in the summer time) and the cast ran out to take a bow there at the end as well. Sheer delight.

Then the other day was a quick trip up to Saratoga Springs for Shakespeare in the Park. My theatre buddy Ron and I were looking forward to Hamlet, but I was also looking forward to some barbecue at PJ's as it had been ages since I'd had any -- yum! Oh, their ribs and all the sauces. Mmmmm. And the play was much fun, too. It took me a little while to warm up to the Hamlet (who sounded more like he was a lost Belushi brother than a Dane) but most of the rest of the cast was good and there were some interesting choices in staging, like having the ghost return at the end to help Claudius meet his end. Timing was good, too; the play finished just as the mosquitoes began to make themselves known. It was a slimmed down production, but the cuts didn't feel too drastic (unsurprisingly, no Fortinbras at the end).

I'm crazy busy with some expected and unexpected deadlines this week, but I'm already trying to figure out when I can make it back to Shakespeare & Co for The Winter's Tale. They're doing some Stoppard this fall, too, so hurrah.

Leaving London

I knew it wasn't going to be easy leaving London, but I wasn't quite prepared for the way it did happen. It was meant to be simple: tube to Bank, DLR to London City Airport. My cheap flight took me from London to Amsterdam to NYC and then Albany. Not a day I was looking forward to by any means, but prices this summer were horrendous and my hopes to get the trip paid for by leading students didn't happen.

I'd never been to City Airport; I've been to Heathrow many times, Gatwick a few and even Stansted, though I've never actually flown out of it. The light rail went direct to the airport terminal, so it ought to have been easy. After waking up at four, afraid I'd miss my alarm at five, I rolled out and got ready. There was plenty of time and hardly anyone about so early. Smooth sailing on the tube and fortunately, steps down to get to the DLR. The train waiting was for Lewiston, but the next one went to the airport.

However, the train that was sitting there suddenly shut down and everybody got out. What? No DLR today, some kind of problem, the man said. So how to get to the airport? Back to London Bridge, change to the Jubilee line, go to Canning Town... and then what?! Argh, time for a taxi. I was fortunate to have help or I never would have got my one bag, full of six weeks of clothes and presents, up the many stairs. Panic setting in, but actually it didn't take too long for a cab to come along.

The fare ended up being over £20 (ouch) but I suppose it might have been more to Heathrow. City Airport is quite small, so I should be forgiven for thinking it might be easy to get through security quickly. Ha! In the end I had to take everything out of my carry on and my 'suspicious' items had to be scanned again -- yes, that dangerous tea towel and my jewelry case. Reassembling everything at least killed the time waiting in the lounge. The small jet was packed to capacity, at least a third of which was a Chinese tour group of Chinese almost all women.

We had begun our descent into Amsterdam and of course, the seat belt sign was on, but a few of the tour group decided to get up to use the toilets. Suddenly the plane rolled swiftly to the left and just as swiftly to the right. I'd never felt anything quite like that. The little Chinese women went flying. Fortunately no one got hurt. The pilot explained, once we were on the ground, that we had hit the wake of another flight. We should have cleared it easily, but the wind carried it up. Bizarre.

The Amsterdam airport is huge! If you want tulips, you can get them. I nearly missed my connecting flight because my phone didn't pick up the local time and I was an hour behind, strolling along thinking I had all the time in the world, until I saw the listing which said it was boarding now. Oops! The flight on the whole was good: KLM treats you a lot better than the American airlines, including the food and drinks. The flight back always seems endless, but we got a little surprise a couple hours before landing. There was turbulence off and on, nothing much, but all of the sudden there was a huge thump that sounded like we had hit something.

Guess what? As the pilot told us right away, we had hit the wake of another plane ("if you look out the window behind us you should be able to see..."). What're the odds? From the relative luxury of KLM I headed next to purgatory: terminal 2 at JFK, the one that's so run down they don't have a recording of all the things you need to do at security (yes, I had to go through passport control and customs and back through security), they have a guy repeating over and over and over the requirements. Fun!

Well, it could be worse.

A lot to get caught up on, but it's hard to keep from wishing I were back in England. Sigh.