Some theatre each day keeps the doctor away…

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead

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Where flies the existential when one is drunk?

Which is quite unusual, one may imagine, considering that the play I just saw is existential murmurings to an extreme.

But I am slightly tipsy at the moment.  Or drunk, perhaps, though it has been a while since I finished those three glasses of white wine – a couple of hours, now.  But my head still lolls pleasantly if I let it.  (And is there no better feeling, I ask you dear reader, than collapsing into bed when one is tipsy?  It is like an extra weariness that means the soothing nature of a comfortable mattress is amplified.)

I saw Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead tonight, and, much as might have tried to dampen my expectations, they were certainly sky high by the time I entered the theatre.  The production I saw lived up to them, thankfully.  And Toby Schmitz was in it, too – he who was in Travesties.  How circular life can be sometimes.

Stoppard wasn’t there tonight.  Not that I particularly expected him to be, mind you – I assumed a 0.5% chance that he might have been; anything is possible and all that.  Earlier in the day I decided to retrieve my script of the play from one of the somewhat inaccessible container of books in the household, and I did so, along with a bevy of other literature – The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet, Life and Fate, The Magus, Demons, The Broom of the System, and The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire (all three volumes).  And then I packed everything up.  I thought to myself afterwards, “you know, if Stoppard is there, I can get him to sign my copy of the script”.  Then I thought, “actually, it’d be better if he were to sign Travesties”, but, unfortunately, Travesties was in the same box that I’d just packed away.  So, in a move that will prove my mental state more conclusively than any other words I may say, or jests I may make about how trivial I think the situation is, I went through the whole process again to get my copy of Travesties out.

Or maybe he was there, and I didn’t know about it.  Wouldn’t that be a horrible thing to learn?

I would’ve gone up to him and said ‘hello’, etc, if he had been alone at one point, but I imagine that would not have happened, probably.  I don’t think I would’ve had the bravery to enter into a conversation already going, unless I was introduced into it by someone else.  So it was probably better for my sanity that he wasn’t there.

What food was there to eat at the afterparty?  Mini hamburgers, except it was a salmon cake on the hamburger instead of meat; some type of samosa/curry puff; a dish with wagyu beef and some other stuff in it.  There were at least two wagyu beef ‘food stations’ (so Andrew Upton said in his speech) in the foyer, with their tables with empty (and a few filled) bowls on them, along with huge pans with the wagyu beef cooking/being kept hot in them on top of burners.  More than half a metre in diameter, these pans, I think.  They did strike one, I must say, as being slightly akin to a huge bowl in which prison gruel might be served from, but thankfully it tasted much better than that.  (Although, to be honest, I couldn’t taste any difference between the wagyu beef and the normal beef mother lets sit in the slow cooker all day.)

Anyway, it was a night that meant much to me, but my mind is not in a position to articulate it quite just yet.  More tomorrow, I suppose.


Written by epistemysics

August 10, 2013 at 3:35 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

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