Some theatre each day keeps the doctor away…


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Reading Underground last night in bed was probably not a good idea.  But I had no nightmares.  Still, I’m entirely convinced that there’s a play in what I’m reading.  I was of the same opinion before I read it, too, as I thought that a gas attack is probably one of the only terroristic type attacks that can be shown with true realism on the stage (smoke machine and whatnot).  Though reading it now, it seems that there’s no visible gas when sarin is used, but rather it’s a liquid that seeps invisible into the air.

“Seeps invisible”.  That’s a good phrase.  Must remember to use that at some point.

But I doubt I could bring myself to write a play about it.  At least not until everyone involved is dead.  I’ve no interest in writing verbatim theatre.  (Or editing verbatim theatre, I suppose.)  I wouldn’t want to be constrained by facts.  (Shakespeare seems to have taken much the same opinion of things too.)  I suppose I could write something “inspired” by it, but there’s many other things I’d want to write about before.

The one observation I’ve made during my reading so far is that I’ve only been surprised by one fact – that the people suffering from the effects of the sarin gas didn’t know what was going on.  That the station attendants were happy to just mop up the liquid.  Of course, logically it makes sense, but for some reason – and presumably because I hadn’t thought about it – I was expecting the gas to be released and there to be a general and immediate panic.

For those of you playing at home – no, I don’t remember it happening.  I would’ve been seven, I think?  So presumably my parents would’ve shielded me from it, or I simply wouldn’t have cared/understood.

From the book, a comment by Murakami on at 41 year old: “After all, 40 is a turning point, an age when people begin to ponder the meaning of it all”.  I think I’ve been doing that since I was 22 or 23.  Hmm.

In the shower yesterday morning, I was overtaken with a scenario about my having to give someone CPR in a theatre foyer.  I don’t know why.  Perhaps a combination of ego-hero-daydreaming and a fascination with whether I could remember what I was meant to do.  (I took a first aid course ten years ago.)  I discovered that I couldn’t remember all that much, so I got my first aid book out after the shower and read about CPR/etc for ten minutes.  Perhaps knowing that I would finish The Elephant Vanishes that day, and would then move on to Underground, my subconscious regurgitated such thoughts.

Saw Giselle tonight at the Capitol Theatre.  The Paris Opera Ballet.  Well, it was certainly the best ballet dancing I’ve ever seen.  Not entirely convinced by the actual story/plot, though – I think she saved the wrong man, to be perfectly honest.  But then the plot is hardly the point of ballet, I’m guessing.

I still don’t think dance is as good an art form as others, but I think it’s growing on me more – certainly more than the last few things I’ve seen have done.

Most interestingly, I was given to “Opening Night Function” tickets.  It said on them, “The Paris Opera Ballet/Opening Night Function/Sofitel Sydney Wentworth/61-101 Phillip Street, Sydney”

I assumed this meant that the afterparty was at the Sofitel.  On the complete other side of town.  I was right.  As mother and I left, there were buses – buses – waiting to pick audience members up and ferry them down the blocks.  Unfortunately, mother is not the most mobile of women these days, so getting on the bus wasn’t an option, and driving to the hotel and paying to park a second time seemed rather excessive, so I didn’t go.  (I wonder, with great gusto, whether there were buses to bring people back from the Sofitel, or whether they’d leave them to fend for themselves.)  I can’t imagine that the party would be anything much greater than stuff I’ve already been to – perhaps a nicer room, maybe a bit nicer food.  So I’m not too disappointed.  Indeed, it’s not the not going that I mind, it’s the not knowing what I’m missing out on that gets to me the most.  It could’ve been the best afterparty by a light year, and I still wouldn’t mind having not gone, only if I knew what actually happened at it.  But I’m already over it.  Clearly.  And I didn’t see any critics there that I could ask about it later, either.

Moving on, Adam, moving on.

Richie Benaud and Ian Chappell were there tonight, which surprised me.  I doubt you’d get many cricketers at the ballet.

And I’m still not entirely sure why they couldn’t have had the function in the Capitol foyer like the rest of the industry.  Oh well.

139/309 in Underground.  Not halfway through yet, so I can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel.  Har-di-har.


Written by epistemysics

January 29, 2013 at 1:25 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

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