After dropping Emma off at Pre-school, I practically ran to the subway station. Nothing was getting in the way of me and Porter Square Books. I was on a mission, and nothing would stop me.
Even being in the subway gave me a thrill. Just having somewhere to go, excited me. I was going to go to the bookstore and buy two copies of The Grapes of Wrath; one to replace the decrepit library copy which was past overdue and unfinished. The second unblemished copy was for me to finished at me leisure. I also intend to sit in the cafe and eat a triple-berry scone with my coffee. Hunger had settled over me, I needed that scone. I wanted to enjoy my breakfast before I needed it too much. To the subway!!
On the subway-platform, across the tracks, I noticed a placard telling of a local production of The Taming of the Shrew. From the blue-on-blue tangle of images and words, Katerina glowered alluring; half come-hither glance, half-dare-you-to-cross-this-line glare. It worked on me, I already yearned to go. Live theatre? Shakespeare?; yeah Baby! I wondered if my Mother-in-law could take the kids some night and let Jamie and I go.
In his theater-days, my father had played Pertrcchio in a Belfast production. As an actor, Daddy was made for Shakespeare's comedies; he had perfect comic timing and the look of a handsome character-actor. Daddy had crazy red-hair and was nowhere near tall. He played Petrichio in heeled boots and risers because he wasn’t taller enough than his leading-lady / foil.
The Belfast Shakespeare Company missed a chance they should have taken; that’s what I think. How would it have looked, I wonder if Katerina was well and truly taller than her suitor? What could the cast do with that? We’ll never know.
As I walked to the bookstore, I recalled a college classmate who had been much under-used by the Vassar Drama Department. Frankly short, Sheldon had Crayola-orange hair that fell, poker-straight down the middle of his back. He also looked very young, and wore roundy wire glasses. When the Drama Department mounted a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Sheldon finally got the attention he deserved. He played Puck, and he filled the whole stage looking like a man loving every minute of his star-turn. After the first performance, the audience all told their friends to go because everybody had to see Sheldon.
A few nights before the first show, Sheldon had to get a Drama Department haircut. His fabulous hair was loosely braided, and the braid cut off, There were sad women on the Vassar campus the next morning.
Once I’d gotten ordered my muffin, I saw a book on a table that I knew I had to buy. It was called Belfast’s Ghosts, and the cover declared it an impressive first novel and a taut thriller. Taught thriller; that suggested that it was about “The Troubles”, which is not exactly what I wanted it to be. I wanted a book to tell the reader about Belfast, the antique gem, the place my young father thought of as the cool, big city. I wanted people to read about a Belfast that didn’t blow up. I knew that such a place existed.
My friend, Marguerite, has family in Israel. She knows what it’s like to have family somewhere you see as dangerous and unpredictable. When I was a teenager, visiting my grandparents in Northern Ireland, a girl at some kind of protest, march or “disturbance” died after being hit by a rubber-tipped bullet. All other news stopped. It became the only thing, the worst thing happening anywhere. When I returned to Boston, I called my boyfriend and assured him my family and I were all okay. He had no idea what I was talking about. Northern Ireland rarely makes the American news. When it does, it’s never good. Always early in the morning, and never again that day, National Public Radio tells me that there have been shootings. I just lie in my bed cursing and crying; oh my people, stop it, stop it.
Before I even picked up the book, I heard about something else I desperately wanted to see. The Somerville Theatre would be screening A Hard Day’s Night on Sunday. I was already dying to go, but this time I wanted to bring the kids. I wanted them to see a Beatles made without Peter Max animation. Goofy, over-the-top and even then understated; I wanted to give the kids a treat. I wanted them to appreciate it. My kids have senses of humour, and I want to give them some credit.
I’m so glad I went to that bookstore. Three cultural shots, straight up, I’m dizzy but I want more. I’ll start the new book today, The Grapes of Wrath will keep. I want to go to the theatre, or even a movie, but I might have to settle for knowing others are seeing them. Wanting is a rush, but it’s not enough.
Even being in the subway gave me a thrill. Just having somewhere to go, excited me. I was going to go to the bookstore and buy two copies of The Grapes of Wrath; one to replace the decrepit library copy which was past overdue and unfinished. The second unblemished copy was for me to finished at me leisure. I also intend to sit in the cafe and eat a triple-berry scone with my coffee. Hunger had settled over me, I needed that scone. I wanted to enjoy my breakfast before I needed it too much. To the subway!!
On the subway-platform, across the tracks, I noticed a placard telling of a local production of The Taming of the Shrew. From the blue-on-blue tangle of images and words, Katerina glowered alluring; half come-hither glance, half-dare-you-to-cross-this-line glare. It worked on me, I already yearned to go. Live theatre? Shakespeare?; yeah Baby! I wondered if my Mother-in-law could take the kids some night and let Jamie and I go.
In his theater-days, my father had played Pertrcchio in a Belfast production. As an actor, Daddy was made for Shakespeare's comedies; he had perfect comic timing and the look of a handsome character-actor. Daddy had crazy red-hair and was nowhere near tall. He played Petrichio in heeled boots and risers because he wasn’t taller enough than his leading-lady / foil.
The Belfast Shakespeare Company missed a chance they should have taken; that’s what I think. How would it have looked, I wonder if Katerina was well and truly taller than her suitor? What could the cast do with that? We’ll never know.
As I walked to the bookstore, I recalled a college classmate who had been much under-used by the Vassar Drama Department. Frankly short, Sheldon had Crayola-orange hair that fell, poker-straight down the middle of his back. He also looked very young, and wore roundy wire glasses. When the Drama Department mounted a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Sheldon finally got the attention he deserved. He played Puck, and he filled the whole stage looking like a man loving every minute of his star-turn. After the first performance, the audience all told their friends to go because everybody had to see Sheldon.
A few nights before the first show, Sheldon had to get a Drama Department haircut. His fabulous hair was loosely braided, and the braid cut off, There were sad women on the Vassar campus the next morning.
Once I’d gotten ordered my muffin, I saw a book on a table that I knew I had to buy. It was called Belfast’s Ghosts, and the cover declared it an impressive first novel and a taut thriller. Taught thriller; that suggested that it was about “The Troubles”, which is not exactly what I wanted it to be. I wanted a book to tell the reader about Belfast, the antique gem, the place my young father thought of as the cool, big city. I wanted people to read about a Belfast that didn’t blow up. I knew that such a place existed.
My friend, Marguerite, has family in Israel. She knows what it’s like to have family somewhere you see as dangerous and unpredictable. When I was a teenager, visiting my grandparents in Northern Ireland, a girl at some kind of protest, march or “disturbance” died after being hit by a rubber-tipped bullet. All other news stopped. It became the only thing, the worst thing happening anywhere. When I returned to Boston, I called my boyfriend and assured him my family and I were all okay. He had no idea what I was talking about. Northern Ireland rarely makes the American news. When it does, it’s never good. Always early in the morning, and never again that day, National Public Radio tells me that there have been shootings. I just lie in my bed cursing and crying; oh my people, stop it, stop it.
Before I even picked up the book, I heard about something else I desperately wanted to see. The Somerville Theatre would be screening A Hard Day’s Night on Sunday. I was already dying to go, but this time I wanted to bring the kids. I wanted them to see a Beatles made without Peter Max animation. Goofy, over-the-top and even then understated; I wanted to give the kids a treat. I wanted them to appreciate it. My kids have senses of humour, and I want to give them some credit.
I’m so glad I went to that bookstore. Three cultural shots, straight up, I’m dizzy but I want more. I’ll start the new book today, The Grapes of Wrath will keep. I want to go to the theatre, or even a movie, but I might have to settle for knowing others are seeing them. Wanting is a rush, but it’s not enough.
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