Reintroduction to the wild, and some book chat

Welp, it finally happened. Last Saturday, I had my first for-real, non-parental, non-work-or-dance-class-related social event in over a year.

It was…odd.

I mean, it was really, really nice, but still. Odd. I went to Sunnyvale to visit FSIWIMMT (you may remember her from Christmas) and her parents. She flew in from Austin on day fifteen after her second vaccination. Her parents are fully vaccinated. I’m fully vaccinated. We were all in the same place. Without masks. It took a hot minute to get used to that, let me tell you.

We had a lovely dinner and a wonderful conversation, and it really drove home what I’ve been saying this whole time--that there’s a difference between necessary social interaction and voluntary social interaction. That difference is the level of fulfillment. Spending in-person time with smart, funny people who have known me my entire life is far more fulfilling than seeing my co-workers every day. If you think about it, it’s obvious, but experiencing it makes it all the more real. I didn’t get home until after midnight, and then I was riding such a high I couldn’t sleep. Of course, part of that was over-stimulation. Having been deprived of most meaningful social interaction for over a year, the sudden influx was a shock. I’m guessing it’s going to be that way for a while, honestly.

On a related topic, FSIWIMMT’s mother has recently published her first novel, The Ballad of Billy Shay. You should buy it, and read it, and leave a review. I am under no obligation to mention this--I’m doing so because I love her.

Book talk gives me a lovely segue into a really cool thing that has happened not once, but twice this week!

Antony Sher—actor, writer, artist, and all-around cool dude—has always been a favorite of mine since I first read Year of the King in college, which is basically his diary from his time rehearsing and performing Richard III with the Royal Shakespeare Company in 1984. It includes a great number of his sketches and artworks from that time as well. Over the years I have read several of his novels, and recently picked up one of his newer releases, Year of the Mad King, a book in the same format as the aforementioned Year of the King, but this time surrounding his process of rehearsing King Lear with the RSC in 2016, directed by Sher’s husband and RSC Artistic Director Gregory Doran.

I caught a glimpse of the white rabbit--which, in this case, was a reminder of all the reasons I love Shakespeare and the creative process--and down the rabbit hole I went.

Since most of Sher's books are out of print, I hit up Alibris.com (For books you thought you’d never find! ™ Why do I remember their tagline?!) and ordered the remainder of his bibliography. Used copies, all of them. They’ve been showing up sporadically, which is fun, because it’s like Christmas. Kind of. My copy of his novel Cheap Lives showed up last Saturday. I opened the package, pulled the book out, gave it a flick-through, and then I noticed it.

IT’S A SIGNED COPY.

Signed! That wasn’t in the description from the seller! I was terribly excited. The only annoying thing about it is that it says “To Julie”, and obviously my name isn’t Julie, but still. SIGNED. COPY. Also, is it weird that I kind of hope that Julie passed peacefully away in her sleep? It seems like a dick move to offload a personalized signed book while you’re still kicking around. Maybe it’s just me.

On Monday, another couple of books arrived. They were opened. Flicked through. And, lo and behold, ANOTHER SIGNED COPY! Only this time, there were two signatures. Woza Shakespeare! Titus Andromicus in South Africa, detailing the process of a production of Shakespeare’s bloodiest tragedy led by Mr. Sher and Mr. Doran--both of whose signatures are on the title page.

I just about died.

Then I had to call my mother, because there was no one I knew who would be as excited as I was about this, and as my mother she’s contractually obligated to be enthusiastic about my enthusiasm, so I forced her to listen to me fangirl over RSC royalty like a ten year old girl does over…whatever it is that ten year old girls fangirl over these days. One Direction? Is it still One Direction? I don’t know. I’m old. Get off my lawn.

It’s been a good week on the literary front in the Fazzio household. There’s one more book to come, but it’s a play text, so I don’t expect it to be signed. Still, though. Two unexpected signed copies, one with bonus Greg Doran (!), makes for a very happy Elizabeth.

::internal (and maybe some external) screaming::

Nope. Sorry. I appear to be in near-meltdown territory this week.

If you need me, I’ll be in my pillow fort swaddled in my weighted blanket, watching cartoons and eating garbage.

See y’all next week, kids. Stay sane. <3

Your own worst critic

I'm back to four dance classes a week, split between two studios. Reduced-capacity, shortened classes, loads of cleaning in between, masks required, etc., so it's all very safe. It's nice to have the space to move again and not worry about banging into the kitchen table or tripping over the edge of the rug or breaking an arm because I've slipped out of an over-enthusiastic pirouette and gone arse-over-tea-kettle straight down onto the laminate.

Now I just fall over on a sprung floor instead.

Look, the falling over was always going to happen. It's just nicer to do it somewhere with less chance of simultaneously cracking your skull open on a chair.

There are, of course, drawbacks to being back in person. One is the mirrors. Oh, lord, the mirrors. They're everywhere. They're a fantastic tool, don't get me wrong, but...they're mirrors. They show you everything that's wrong with what you're doing. Everything that's wrong with you. They're relentless. Drawback number two is, of course, other people. Socializing? Nice. Other people watching you huff and puff your way through your petite allegro? Not so much. And in this instance, me being me, I'm always one of the people right at the front because I know what I'm doing, which means that I've got however many people behind me using me as an assist, which is fine, but also a little nerve-wracking. If I go wrong, they go wrong, and I've let them down. Of course, they really ought to be working their brains a little harder and challenging themselves to retain the combinations so that they don't have to rely on we front-line sacrificial lambs, but the adult division doesn't work like that.

Between the mirrors and the fact that I'm constantly being copy-catted, I spend a whole lot of time over-analyzing my technique, my artistry, and--of course, because dance wouldn't be dance without this particular method of self-flagellation--my body. It is not what it was when I was seventeen. There are plenty of very good explanations for this. None of them are brawny enough to push the images of my ballet heyday out of my mind's eye. I know what I'm capable of. The fact that I am now thirty-::COUGH::, X years out of practice, XX pounds heavier, and infinitely creakier are, of course, perfectly normal reasons for me to be doing exactly as well as I am, which is far better than most, but that obnoxious teenager at the back of my head likes to let me know that she thinks otherwise. Loudly.

Dancing is one of the unhealthiest forms of exercise in the brain department. This is a universal truth. It also will never stop me from doing it.

Any old way, the other evening after a class, I was sorting myself out to go home when a conversation started between a couple of my classmates.

"What did she call it? That beat thing in the jump? Antra-- Antra--"

"Entrechat quatre," I said.

"Yeah, that! That was cool. Say it again?"

"Entrechat quatre. Quatre, four. It counts the number of beats you're doing. Each leg counts as one, so even though you go back-front and you'd think it would be two, it's four."

"That's kind of weird."

"It is. You can do them in other numbers as well. Trois is three, where you beat in front and land coupe derriere. Or six, which..."

I went on with my mini-lecture, and then pulled out my Gail Grant and told them it would be the best seven dollars they ever spent. They took reference photos. A few went on their way after that, but one stayed behind.

"How long have you been dancing?"

"In my youth? A long time," I replied.

"You're just so beautiful when you dance, the way you move. I love watching you."

Not gonna lie, kids. It was good for my ego.

Degrees of separation

I know someone.

That is to say, I did know someone. Once upon a time. For a year, we shared quite a lot of the same space. I counted him as a friend. I like to think he felt the same at the time.

 

(This is going to be one of those 'when I lived in England' stories, so if you've had enough of those, feel free to check out now, and I'll see you next week.) 

Yes, when I lived in England the first time--2006-2007--I traveled in the same academic and social circles as a fellow called Tom Weston Jones. I won't be surprised if you don't recognize his name, but if you've been watching Shadow and Bone on Netflix, you'll have seen him. I haven't. I got rid of Netflix last year in a fit of economy, and I learned this tidbit secondhand from a mutual friend from our Royal Holloway drama department days. He seems to pop up every so often in the oddest of places, but it's always nice to see him. He's doing exactly what he set out to do, what he went to school for. Most of the rest of us drifted into other lines of work, but he stuck it out and made it work for himself, and it's nice to see.

In 2012, he had the leading role in a BBC America program called Copper. I remember at the time seeing the preview commercials and looking at this one bloke and going "I swear to God I know you", but his hair was just different enough and he wasn't wearing his glasses (okay, maybe I should lay off Lois Lane for being so clueless,) that it took a 'behind the scenes' type promo with his name plastered up next to his face for me to figure it out.

(I may have shrieked in a rather undignified manner, possibly followed by a great deal of something that was certainly not gleeful bouncing, thank you very much.)

 

Tom's had a reasonable run of recurring characters on several shows since then--and yes, I did check IMDB. And honestly? That was a giggle. Not the mean, sniggering kind. It was more the disparity between the serious, actorly head shots and production stills and my memory, because I remember a nineteen-year-old boy snuggling under a borrowed pink blanket dying of man-flu. I remember him playing the sadistic dentist in the musical theatre society's production of Little Shop of Horrors, and how I managed to go see his show, but he didn't make it to mine (I was doing Richard III with the drama society and our rehearsals and runs overlapped,) and I remember having a good pout about it. To be fair, he had other friends in RIII with me, so it wasn't just me who was stroppy about it...but I suspect I might have been the slightest bit stroppier than the others. I remember the time we all put into our performance research project and how he was self-conscious about having to perform with his shirt off and how his leading lady constantly made doe-eyes at him--onstage and off. I remember a game of Wizards, Pixies, and Giants played on the lawn outside the Noh Theatre to blow off some steam when we were all at the end of our tethers with that project. I remember a party at our local pub to which he wore a very silly costume indeed. I remember lunches at that same pub with the big group, or in smaller subsets. I remember one of the modules we were in together (there were three) called The Body as a Medium of Expression or something equally vomitrocious where we both opted for a more realistic and less rolling-on-the-floor-moaning-like-a-sheep-having-an-orgasm interpretation of our monologues. He did Benedick, Much Ado About Nothing, Act II, scene i, "O, she misused me past the endurance of a block" etc. I did Miranda, The Tempest, Act I, scene ii, "If by your art, my dearest father, you have put the wild waters in this roar" etc. The tutor absolutely roasted us, but popular opinion was against him, so that at least was a comfort.

I remember his incredible capacity for kindness. I remember his ready laughter and innate playfulness. I remember his enthusiasm when you got him going on a favorite subject.

We lost touch after that year, and I hold no illusions about him remembering me in more than a foggy sort of "Oh, here's a picture from uni, that was the American girl" way. I definitely don't expect him to remember the details of that year like I do--I have a knack for that kind of recall that is usually greeted by cries of "How in the hell do you remember these things?!" It's just nice to be able to say, "Yes, I knew him once. He was a good human then, and it looks like he's kept up that trend." 

It would be nice to have the chance to tell him that I'm proud of what he's accomplished, and I think of him fondly from time to time, and I'm grateful that our paths crossed, however briefly. As it is, this will have to do. I'll offer it up to the ether for what it's worth.

(And you can all say you have one point of separation from him, now, so...you're welcome? 😜)