Speaking of classes, my art teacher is a million crayons short of a crayola box. Yes, the woman is in attendance of about one crayon, and the color of that crayon is off her trolley. Apparently, being capable and intelligent adults who spent their hard earned money on art supplies for her class are not allowed to share it with those students less fiscally fortunate. She would not allow students to simply donate or give half their chamois to students lacking, oh no, she demanded full monetary compensation for the student with chamois to give.
Really? Because I think that, having paid for my chamois, I can snip the thing to ribbons and let whoever under the sun take a bit of it. She utterly disorganized, patronizing, condescending and insane. Literally. Were I able I would away to some other class by my Film as Literature teacher, alas, I feel I am too late in the second week of school to alter classes, let along obtain the books and hand-outs needed for the courses. I will try and take said English teachers advice and maintain a Zen approach to the god-forsaken class for as much as I can.
Though I doubt such a mentality can erase the pain of dragging all my art supplies around London, while on any given day the course will be utilizing a scant 5% thereof.
Alas I digress terribly.
In this journal I wish to expound on three things, which, though related, should be dealt with independently. British Social Life, Attire in London and Shakespeare at the Globe Theatre.
Let us approach them from behind and tackle the thing which is “As You Like It” at the Globe Theatre with all the love and ardor it deserves.
Shakespeare’s work has always delighted me, both the comedy and tragedy; his work has been honored for decades upon decades. Yet I have never felt the same throngs of invigoration and bliss as I have when seeing it live at The Globe.
The structure was gorgeous, dripping, pouring out its age from every grain in the wood, every stroke of golden paint, every scaffolding, every balcony- from the stone floors, to the rosy-orange hue of the London sky passing above, occasionally breathing down a cool, sigh to refresh observer hugged close about the wooden stage upon which the majestic and wry writings of Shakespeare did unfold through gesture and expression of marvelous actors layered in such rich and luxurious costumes as I had never seen before. I’m sure it helped that I had never seen any professional production of Shakespeare before in my life.
Regardless, the colors, the lights, the actors, the crowd, the music, the singing, the dancing- it was the most remarkable thing I’ve experienced in England so far. I quite enjoyed the jester; his performance was paramount and his audience interaction too divine. He was my favorite, but all the actors were just amazing. Being so close, seeing them from so different an angle, the closeness of the entire theatre, it was magical and something I shall treasure until the end of my life, without a doubt.
Walking back across the Thames, the sky-hue, city lights and ambient light reflected along the sliding, curling surface of that vast and wending river, I felt peace and contentment unrivaled, supported by an unyielding sense of possibility and ability to achieve.
I felt exhilarated and exalted, tranquil and balanced.
London is beautiful, and in the inky-orange of its night-veil I strode gladly home to sleep and dream of my coming days in this magnificent city.
Interesting side fact, there were a lot of Germans at the play. I found out later in the program that a theatrical arts school over there has some mass visit to The Globe.
Now then, on to more technical and sociological topics; British Social Life and Attire in London. These two are nearly interchangeable in that I have observed that the nature of the latter will dictate the nature of the first. I apologize here if this bores you, bit I find the sociological phenomenon attached to the abstract concepts of style and fashion to utterly entertaining and fascinating. How such drivel shapes out social interactions and interpersonal action is amazing, and often have I stewed on how different out world would be if we were rid of its constraints and implements. Let us take, for example, my exploits just last evening.
I was dressed thusly, and off to what I was told was a casual pub within the SOHO area of London, just a ways from Leicester Square. Interesting thing about Leicester Square, it always seems to be drizzling when I go there, though it is dry everywhere else in London. Anyhow, so there I was in my knee high black boots and so forth, walking around the heart of Leicester Square, which I have traversed several times prior- once my first night in London, the other for a classmates Birthday- wandering up a street to get directions from a door guard and then walking back down and around to find Greek Street.
I ambled blithely about the side-streets in search of the SOHO Bar, passing rock bars, and a curious pub I am sure to investigate later by the name of The Intrepid Fox. Cutting across streets I made my way, which is always such fun as jaywalking in the UK is absolutely acceptable- I do so delight in darting out during a break in traffick to shore off a few minutes of my commute. I mean that in earnest, I am dumbfounded as to why jaywalking is illegal in America if pedestrians have the right-of-way anyhow. I digress.
I nosed around a few streets, peering at bright-lit neon designs clinging seductively to the brick and stone out-croppings of looming buildings when by stroke of luck while idly following a quirky chap with an umbrella ( Much unbeknownst to him.) I caught sight of the sign of the SOHO Bar in the distance. Clean white light cut out of a neat silver sign. Clean and silver did not bode well with my leather bomber jacket and fishnet gloves. As I came in on my approach I noticed an imposing bouncer standing firmly in front of the entrance with calm demeanor and folded hands.
I walked past without a word.
As I sat on the tube sailing to my back-up location for intrigue and atmosphere that evening- Camden Town- I regretted not at least attempting to gain entry; sentiments which were echoed later by my roommate and an Old Irishman who I spoke to at The Devonshire Arms pub in Camden, which has now been bought out by the Hobgoblin Brewery.
The Dev. The Devonshire Arms is a fine example of a London rock bar/pub. It is as if Hot Topic underwent some odd metamorphosis and became an establishment dedicated to getting pissed. (Piss drunk, in the UK, you see.) All the bartenders had at least one piercing and a tattoo. Its patrons were varied, of the casual rocker, to the punkers which carry on the opulence of long dead England save that they adorn themselves not in as much fine silk and jewels as they can, but as much steel and chain as they can. Even those which swing between an every man and posh were seen hailing the bar-tender with jovial cries of familiarity.
Here we must pause to establish two things. One is that I was thoroughly chided by aforementioned Old Irishman for going out in London by myself, which was later denounced by the son of the household that I am residing in (Or house-brother, as we call him, his name is Andrew.). Not terribly pertinent to the discussion, but interesting none the less. I’ve been told by many that London is safe, and then a great many in The Dev told me such was not so. I could assume they simply herald from an unsavory part of town. Or I could assume they become louty drunks that get into fights.
I think I shall stick with not being stupid and still venture out alone on occasion. Such seems the best.
The other thing that must be established is the different looks I have garnered in various outfits, in various regions of London. My roommate dresses in a very posh manner, and it suits her beautifully. I run a gambit between punk, rock, beach-bum, hippie, posh and deformed mixtures of the former. A week ago I went out with my room mate for a night on the town with Andrew and his mates as it was his friends’ birthday. I was wearing my knee high black boots, a knee-length pin-striped skirt, my pinstripe vest over a large pinstriped shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The gents we were going out with were posh, of varying degrees. They were friendly, fun to talk to, interesting and constantly poked fun at my pedantic demeanor. They didn’t seem much to mind how I was dressed, most probably because I was already befriended by Andrew. The looks I received in that outfit were a mixture of intrigue and genuine interest, for though the articles of my attire were of a punk/goth nature they were assembled in a business/posh fashion. I was told that evening by one of the closer friends of Andrew who walked Natalie and I home (Andrew had left early in the evening to attend to his fiancé.) that I should check out Camden because of what I wore.
Similarly when I wore the outfit below, when out in Leicester Square last weekend for a classmates birthday, I received a mixture of intrigue and genuine interest, with little to no reproach, most likely on behalf of my leather biker jacket.
Now as to my knee high-boots and pink leopard print pants, surprisingly, the reactions to my attire were all over the map- some in business attire regarded me favorably, some in casual punk rocker clothes looked away nervously. When individuals found my clothes offensive they averted their eyes and made sure to not look back, I could feel their distaste pour off them in waves, it was amazing. The most interesting encounter was when I was on the tube back home to deposit my belongings before my outing in search of the SOHO Bar. Across the row of seats in the tube carriage I was on there stood four boys. As they chatted, me with my ear-buds in, they would occasionally glance at me and look away when our eyes met. Then at one point they looked at me in turn for longer intervals, with a mixture of offense, interest and mocking painted on their face. The last bloke to look at me held my gaze in his for so long, with so confused and intense a stare that I smartly jerked my eyebrows up while looking at him so that he finally looked away. They didn’t look back much after that.
So at The Dev various people in rock-punk attire spoke with me about London and travel and booze. I’m sure the only reason they though to approach me was due to the way I was dressed, they assumed I was like-minded because I was similarly clothed.
On the whole I’ve found London to be outwardly pigeon-holed by attire, though more open to whomever as being a multi-faceted individual once the two get to talking. Americans, on the other hand, attempt to be more outwardly open-minded while clinging more ferociously to stereotypes which follow along with attire.
It’s all stupid, really. I know that despite how I dress that I’m not deluded in the social clout which many assume attends punk-rock attire. I dress in a variety of ways, and my personality exists in many realms beyond what I may be wearing. I enjoy, simply, how those articles of clothing make me look. I like fishnets and boots. I enjoy wearing them. That doesn’t mean I enjoy being knocked in the head a mosh pit or am a Goth who is obsessed with the dour gloom of life.
Ach well.
I’ve been writing this for far too long and I’m sure by now it’s far too convoluted to be of any interest. I wish I had the quid to get a bite, alas at the moment my money is in a bind.
Au Revoir until next time. Hopefully I’ll have more clarity then. XD
