I remember as a child being extremely confused by my utter and consistent inability to remotely move objects around my room by faith. I would read passages from the gospels like “I tell you the truth; if you had faith the size of a mustard seed you could tell this mountain to go jump in the lake, and it would” (or something like that), and later I would come back from some church camp or big youth rally with my heart “totally on fire” (that was our metaphorical expression of choice in the charismatic church during the nineties. It’s a bit odd when you think about it) and so absolutely convinced that I knew everything I needed to take the city for Jesus. I would focus all my will on my collection of lego men and boldly command them in Jesus’ name to fly up out of the corner and onto my desk. It didn’t matter how resolutely I believed that I could do it, it didn’t work. Not even a little bit. There was one time my sister walked in in the middle of it and kicked them all over. I counted it as half a point.
As I’ve gotten older, I’ve realised that I was getting Christianity confused with Star Wars. Proper faith has very little to do with telekinesis, and much more to do with finding the strength to keep going and keep believing when things around you continue to suck the big one.
I got another job application rejection letter this week. Normally I would just add it to the pile, but this one was just a little more disheartening than usual. I made it all the way through to the interview stage, and felt like I had successfully put my best foot forward. Not only that, but the timing for this job would have been perfect. I could have walked out of a job which is, inch by inch, killing me and taken off to Perth for Daniel’s wedding and come back to job that I actually might have some basic interest in. I was so determined to get through this time that I got prayer chains in two cities backing me up. I prayed up, suited up and rocked up, and it didn’t work. Not even a little bit.
I think somewhere along the line I’ve gotten Christianity confused with The Never Ending Story, where if you can believe something hard enough it comes true. Yeah I know… find the strength to blah blah blah suck the big one.
For my next trick, I’m going to try confusing Christianity with Back to the Future 2. I don’t know what that will look like, but if I’m going to keep on living my life in a series of complete delusions, I might as well make it a good one.
Let's see if you bastards can do ninety.
Garry with 2 Rs
27 October 2011
18 October 2011
The Importance of Being Algernon
I think there may be something seriously wrong with me.
The reasons for this are manifold, but most prominent among them at the moment is that, despite having spent the last three weeks complaining bitterly about how being in a show has been taking over my life, and how desperately I need a rest, I’ve gone and auditioned for another one, rehearsals for which start this Wednesday.
Mind you, you could hardly blame me for grabbing this one by the throat when it came along; Darwin Theatre Company are putting on Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest. I’ve wanted the chance to act in this play since the first time I saw it, which admittedly was the recent movie version starring Colin Firth and Rupert Everrett, which varies noticeably from the original text in a few minor ways.
Interestingly, everyone I’ve spoken to about this has told me I should audition for it. In the words of a few members of the Princess Ida cast, I’d be Jack Worthing down to the ground. A group of well meaning yet fierce-faced sopranos made a great show of telling me how much they were looking forward to me trying out for Jack. And, as is ever my wont in the face of so many well intentioned women telling me what to do, I knew there was only one course of action available to me.
I tried out for Algernon.
For one thing, Algernon Moncrieff has been on my bucket list of characters to play since I drew up said bucket list, which was really only quite recently after a discussion on Facebook with Kirribilli Kim about what characters we would put on a bucket list if we had a bucket list. The point is... there is a bucket list, and Algernon is on it.
For another thing, I don’t really know why people would associate me with Jack more than Algy. I suppose the confusingly reality-based idea that I’m a mild mannered bank manager by trade might lead to romantic speculation about what I get up to when I visit my estate in the country. To tell the truth, the idea of a double life does intrigue me sometimes. But this has more to do with imagining what it be like to be superhero than it does with impersonating my recalcitrant and entirely fictional younger brother.
But surely if I’m any character from Earnest, it’s got to be the cynical, mischievous cheeky not-a-gentleman who spends most of his time producing lines that don’t really makes sense and getting away with it because no-one really knows what he’s on about anyway. Hell, I’ve got five years worth of blog entries to support the claim that Oscar Wilde based the character of Alernon on my life. Or at least my blog. He really was a man well ahead of his time, old Oscar. And since in my last three shows I've played a sexually confused construction worker, a turn of the last century French aristocrat and a war mongering medieval king, I think the chance to play a cheeky single know-it-all is something to be celebrated, not avoided.
Finally, the best reason to suggest that Algernon’s place on my bucket list is well justified is that he’s no longer on it. He’s just been crossed off because I’ve got a message from the director to say I’ve got the part. HELL YEAH! Rehearsals start this week on Wednesday and run for the next six weeks. Oh good grief.
So suck on that, soprano face! That’s right! See if that doesn’t make you look even more like you’ve swallowed something extremely sour than usual.
Make of that what you will… and please don’t hurt me.
Garry with 2 Rs
The reasons for this are manifold, but most prominent among them at the moment is that, despite having spent the last three weeks complaining bitterly about how being in a show has been taking over my life, and how desperately I need a rest, I’ve gone and auditioned for another one, rehearsals for which start this Wednesday.
Mind you, you could hardly blame me for grabbing this one by the throat when it came along; Darwin Theatre Company are putting on Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest. I’ve wanted the chance to act in this play since the first time I saw it, which admittedly was the recent movie version starring Colin Firth and Rupert Everrett, which varies noticeably from the original text in a few minor ways.
Interestingly, everyone I’ve spoken to about this has told me I should audition for it. In the words of a few members of the Princess Ida cast, I’d be Jack Worthing down to the ground. A group of well meaning yet fierce-faced sopranos made a great show of telling me how much they were looking forward to me trying out for Jack. And, as is ever my wont in the face of so many well intentioned women telling me what to do, I knew there was only one course of action available to me.
I tried out for Algernon.
For one thing, Algernon Moncrieff has been on my bucket list of characters to play since I drew up said bucket list, which was really only quite recently after a discussion on Facebook with Kirribilli Kim about what characters we would put on a bucket list if we had a bucket list. The point is... there is a bucket list, and Algernon is on it.
For another thing, I don’t really know why people would associate me with Jack more than Algy. I suppose the confusingly reality-based idea that I’m a mild mannered bank manager by trade might lead to romantic speculation about what I get up to when I visit my estate in the country. To tell the truth, the idea of a double life does intrigue me sometimes. But this has more to do with imagining what it be like to be superhero than it does with impersonating my recalcitrant and entirely fictional younger brother.
But surely if I’m any character from Earnest, it’s got to be the cynical, mischievous cheeky not-a-gentleman who spends most of his time producing lines that don’t really makes sense and getting away with it because no-one really knows what he’s on about anyway. Hell, I’ve got five years worth of blog entries to support the claim that Oscar Wilde based the character of Alernon on my life. Or at least my blog. He really was a man well ahead of his time, old Oscar. And since in my last three shows I've played a sexually confused construction worker, a turn of the last century French aristocrat and a war mongering medieval king, I think the chance to play a cheeky single know-it-all is something to be celebrated, not avoided.
Finally, the best reason to suggest that Algernon’s place on my bucket list is well justified is that he’s no longer on it. He’s just been crossed off because I’ve got a message from the director to say I’ve got the part. HELL YEAH! Rehearsals start this week on Wednesday and run for the next six weeks. Oh good grief.
So suck on that, soprano face! That’s right! See if that doesn’t make you look even more like you’ve swallowed something extremely sour than usual.
Make of that what you will… and please don’t hurt me.
Garry with 2 Rs
17 October 2011
Things You Don't Expect To Be Woken Up By
So waking up the morning after the first night of a show is always interesting. In my case, I’ve almost always stayed up into the early hours of the morning after the show, waiting for the opening night euphoria to settle down enough for me to be able to sleep. Consequently, the next day I usually wake up some time mid morning with an applause hangover and some vague confusion over the idea of turning around and doing it all again tonight.
Usually, I get woken up by my phone vibrating on my bedside table to alert me that I have sixteen text messages and five missed calls from eligible young ladies’ mothers who have been to the show and wanted to say how much they enjoyed it and that they would definitely be bringing the rest of their families along for the show the following night because they’d all, on hearing their respective matriarchs’ glowing revues of the show, been dying to come, live the experience for themselves, meet the cast and get lost for an hour and half or so in a little bit of theatrical magic of their own.
I say “usually,” but the fact is it hasn’t happened like that the last three times. Or ever, actually. But it strikes me as the sort of thing that should be happening more often.
No. what happened this time around was I woke up to discover a sagely looking mandrill had snuck into my room overnight and was nibbling on the edges of my Back to the Future poster. I threw my pillow at him to make him stop, but he simply dodged to the left, turned and blew me a raspberry, before boldly exclaiming “you follow old Rafiki! He knows the way!” I had to admit, the crazy old primate had a point, so I followed him out the window onto the front lawn where I found Oxfam Girl and Biscuit Lady having a light sabre duel, accompanied by the theme from The West Wing. It was at that moment that I realised I was a seahorse.
Okay, that one didn’t really happen either.
I was woken up by my phone ringing. It actually was a young lady on the other end, but the young lady in question happened to be my sister, which took some of the excitement out of it. That is, until she said this:
“I’m just ringing to tell you… I’ve been cast in the lead role in an Italian version of the Sound of Music, and I’m moving to Florence to follow my…”
Stop it!
…
That is, until she said this:
“I’m just ringing to tell you… I’m engaged”
My typically eloquent response was the product of severe shock, recent awakening and applause hangover and basically came something like:
“WHAT?”
After some incoherent babbling I think I managed a ‘congratulations’ in there somewhere. But honestly, if you’d put all the previous scenarios in front of me two weeks ago and asked me to bet on the outcome, I would probably have picked the monkey one. It’s strange, and possibly a little disrespectful to my sister, not to mention her fiancé, but that’s where I would have put my money.
I’m not really a gambling man. Make of that what you will.
Garry with 2 Rs
Usually, I get woken up by my phone vibrating on my bedside table to alert me that I have sixteen text messages and five missed calls from eligible young ladies’ mothers who have been to the show and wanted to say how much they enjoyed it and that they would definitely be bringing the rest of their families along for the show the following night because they’d all, on hearing their respective matriarchs’ glowing revues of the show, been dying to come, live the experience for themselves, meet the cast and get lost for an hour and half or so in a little bit of theatrical magic of their own.
I say “usually,” but the fact is it hasn’t happened like that the last three times. Or ever, actually. But it strikes me as the sort of thing that should be happening more often.
No. what happened this time around was I woke up to discover a sagely looking mandrill had snuck into my room overnight and was nibbling on the edges of my Back to the Future poster. I threw my pillow at him to make him stop, but he simply dodged to the left, turned and blew me a raspberry, before boldly exclaiming “you follow old Rafiki! He knows the way!” I had to admit, the crazy old primate had a point, so I followed him out the window onto the front lawn where I found Oxfam Girl and Biscuit Lady having a light sabre duel, accompanied by the theme from The West Wing. It was at that moment that I realised I was a seahorse.
Okay, that one didn’t really happen either.
I was woken up by my phone ringing. It actually was a young lady on the other end, but the young lady in question happened to be my sister, which took some of the excitement out of it. That is, until she said this:
“I’m just ringing to tell you… I’ve been cast in the lead role in an Italian version of the Sound of Music, and I’m moving to Florence to follow my…”
Stop it!
…
That is, until she said this:
“I’m just ringing to tell you… I’m engaged”
My typically eloquent response was the product of severe shock, recent awakening and applause hangover and basically came something like:
“WHAT?”
After some incoherent babbling I think I managed a ‘congratulations’ in there somewhere. But honestly, if you’d put all the previous scenarios in front of me two weeks ago and asked me to bet on the outcome, I would probably have picked the monkey one. It’s strange, and possibly a little disrespectful to my sister, not to mention her fiancé, but that’s where I would have put my money.
I’m not really a gambling man. Make of that what you will.
Garry with 2 Rs
16 October 2011
Or Castle Adamant
Wow. What a weekend. No, really. I don’t think I can get all this in one post. So here we go. Part one. I know you’ve also been waiting ever so patiently (or less patiently in your case K.Kim. Geez woman) for the Princess Ida post. Well, here we go then.
After last year’s effort I decided to give Operatunity another go, partially to beef up my portfolio of in involvement in local productions and partly to check off resolution nine from my 2011 checklist. Mainly however, it was an attempt to finally deal with my acute irrational fear of sopranos.
It didn’t work. Nor is it, I maintain, all that irrational when you look at.
I must confess, as recently as a couple of weeks ago I was quite convinced that the show was headed for a monumental collapse. The cast, which is constructed from a motley assortment of chronologically disparate performers in the first place, suffered a huge setback when the lead tenor had to pull out with three weeks to go until opening night. Combine that with an ever dwindling chorus and an orchestra that was still figuring out how the music was supposed to go on the night of the final dress rehearsal and I wasn’t exactly brimming with confidence going into opening night.
It's been rather a strange experience, trying to turn myself into a king each night. I'm the least monarchistic (a recent poll of about the only three people I could find whose opinions I trusted has concluded that monarchistic is a word. Deal with it) person I know. For one thing, everyone knows kings have beards. So now I have a beard. Sort of. It puts one more in mind of an unemployed theologian than of an imperial monarch, but as my character is supposed to be at least fifty years old, I think it's best to say the effect is... impressionistic? Thankfully I've been able to draw a lot of extra regality from the deferential endowment of the rest of the cast. And when you think about it, that's really what being a royal is all about.
My autocratic crisis of identity notwithstanding, on the whole, the show has been a great success so far. We’ve done three shows, with two shows to come next weekend. Crowds have been growing steadily, and although we’ll have to sell out the last two shows to break even, general morale among the cast and crew has been great. I’ve been run absolutely ragged taking a small cadre of baritones under my wing, who show great promise in their aspirations to take on the mantle of chief cheek-giver and applecart discombobulator. They’ve some real natural talent, but they do grow up so fast, and unfortunately there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
But the show, as they say, must go on. Twice. And then we’ll pack the sets away for another year and start all over again in a few months time. And just for now that suits me fine, as I have more than enough other things to think about for the next few weeks.
But that’s another post entirely.
Garry with 2 Rs
After last year’s effort I decided to give Operatunity another go, partially to beef up my portfolio of in involvement in local productions and partly to check off resolution nine from my 2011 checklist. Mainly however, it was an attempt to finally deal with my acute irrational fear of sopranos.
It didn’t work. Nor is it, I maintain, all that irrational when you look at.
I must confess, as recently as a couple of weeks ago I was quite convinced that the show was headed for a monumental collapse. The cast, which is constructed from a motley assortment of chronologically disparate performers in the first place, suffered a huge setback when the lead tenor had to pull out with three weeks to go until opening night. Combine that with an ever dwindling chorus and an orchestra that was still figuring out how the music was supposed to go on the night of the final dress rehearsal and I wasn’t exactly brimming with confidence going into opening night.
It's been rather a strange experience, trying to turn myself into a king each night. I'm the least monarchistic (a recent poll of about the only three people I could find whose opinions I trusted has concluded that monarchistic is a word. Deal with it) person I know. For one thing, everyone knows kings have beards. So now I have a beard. Sort of. It puts one more in mind of an unemployed theologian than of an imperial monarch, but as my character is supposed to be at least fifty years old, I think it's best to say the effect is... impressionistic? Thankfully I've been able to draw a lot of extra regality from the deferential endowment of the rest of the cast. And when you think about it, that's really what being a royal is all about.
My autocratic crisis of identity notwithstanding, on the whole, the show has been a great success so far. We’ve done three shows, with two shows to come next weekend. Crowds have been growing steadily, and although we’ll have to sell out the last two shows to break even, general morale among the cast and crew has been great. I’ve been run absolutely ragged taking a small cadre of baritones under my wing, who show great promise in their aspirations to take on the mantle of chief cheek-giver and applecart discombobulator. They’ve some real natural talent, but they do grow up so fast, and unfortunately there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
But the show, as they say, must go on. Twice. And then we’ll pack the sets away for another year and start all over again in a few months time. And just for now that suits me fine, as I have more than enough other things to think about for the next few weeks.
But that’s another post entirely.
Garry with 2 Rs
01 October 2011
Winners Are Grinners
It’s amazing what taking a month off blogging will do for your life. September has been a month full of… other stuff. Not having the nagging feeling of “I should be blogging about now” hanging over me has been great. And although I’ve missed Cum Tacent Clament (Is that weird? It feels like it might be weird), it’s also true that in the absence of blogging, September was month full of victory.
Victory number one came for our Wednesday night C-grade mixed social volley-ball team. I’m now the proud owner of a trophy, upon which is inscribed “Wet season mixed C-grade division winner”. This in spite of the fact that we played in the dry season and we only made it to the playoff for fifth and sixth. And we lost. But a trophy’s a trophy, right? They must have had some left over from last year. So everyone’s a winner. Yay!
Victory number two came in the corporate environment. The company I work for was nominated for an award for excellence in staff training and development. Sure, we nominated ourselves, but that’s beside the point. It’s just nice to be recognised. What’s more, we won the award for employer of the year. What an honour! So in the finest tradition of nominating yourself for an award and then winning it, I’m nominating Cum Tacent Clament for the Booker Prize, my keyboard Samantha for Most Outstanding Contribution to the Field of Metaphorical Anthropomorphisation and myself for Female Eskimo Entrepreneur of the Century.
And last but not least, my cricket team took out the D-grade premiership. There isn’t anything to mock about this one, it was a proper win in a proper competition. I could mention the marked increase in success the team experienced when they finally got around to relegating me to twelfth man, but since this blog is about me and how awesome I am, I won’t. I'll just point out that I am now an award winning cricketer, volleyballer and staff member and a second place getting Inuit woman.
Make of that what you will.
Garry with 2 Rs
P.S. The next couple of weeks are going to get pretty insane as Princess Ida rehearsals go into top gear. Watch this space for the opening night wrap up!
Victory number one came for our Wednesday night C-grade mixed social volley-ball team. I’m now the proud owner of a trophy, upon which is inscribed “Wet season mixed C-grade division winner”. This in spite of the fact that we played in the dry season and we only made it to the playoff for fifth and sixth. And we lost. But a trophy’s a trophy, right? They must have had some left over from last year. So everyone’s a winner. Yay!
Victory number two came in the corporate environment. The company I work for was nominated for an award for excellence in staff training and development. Sure, we nominated ourselves, but that’s beside the point. It’s just nice to be recognised. What’s more, we won the award for employer of the year. What an honour! So in the finest tradition of nominating yourself for an award and then winning it, I’m nominating Cum Tacent Clament for the Booker Prize, my keyboard Samantha for Most Outstanding Contribution to the Field of Metaphorical Anthropomorphisation and myself for Female Eskimo Entrepreneur of the Century.
And last but not least, my cricket team took out the D-grade premiership. There isn’t anything to mock about this one, it was a proper win in a proper competition. I could mention the marked increase in success the team experienced when they finally got around to relegating me to twelfth man, but since this blog is about me and how awesome I am, I won’t. I'll just point out that I am now an award winning cricketer, volleyballer and staff member and a second place getting Inuit woman.
Make of that what you will.
Garry with 2 Rs
P.S. The next couple of weeks are going to get pretty insane as Princess Ida rehearsals go into top gear. Watch this space for the opening night wrap up!
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