in which shocking feats are performed
Dec. 17th, 2007 10:25 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ontologyI did something mad and impulsive Saturday and it did not go horribly wrong. I am still reeling from this a bit.
Hark you, Things You Should Know About Banui, Item #178 states quite clearly that I am not impulsive: I am paranoid. My impulsive gestures run no stronger or more daring than running outside and dancing round when it rains, taking impromptu walks, or baking or taking a bath at one in the morning. I am constantly afraid of What Could And Probably Will Go Wrong; therefore I avoid it altogether by not doing the impulsive thing that might lead to it. (This is, incidentally, a likely reason I am terrible with people.)
Hopefully this will mark the beginning of a new pattern. I really don't want to die alone, you know.
(And! A happy birthday many times over to the thoroughly magnificentlady_moriel! ♥ ♥ ♥ )
Hark you, Things You Should Know About Banui, Item #178 states quite clearly that I am not impulsive: I am paranoid. My impulsive gestures run no stronger or more daring than running outside and dancing round when it rains, taking impromptu walks, or baking or taking a bath at one in the morning. I am constantly afraid of What Could And Probably Will Go Wrong; therefore I avoid it altogether by not doing the impulsive thing that might lead to it. (This is, incidentally, a likely reason I am terrible with people.)
So. Saturday. Very nice day. Hobnobbed with Sarah and Hannah and Alessandra and Victoria for a bit in the morning on account of the church bake sale going on next door; this experience was marred by the fact that there were chocolate pretzels CRUELLY MOCKING ME FROM THE TABLE and I'd left my money at home. Went shopping; found at the Goodwill a lovely little vintage off-white dress and a double-breasted black and grey affair that will look magnificently 1930s with black stockings and appropriate shoes, and also a purple beret -- I've got rather a collection of berets going, it seems); also purchased (or Mum did) my very first pair of properly fitting, mint-new jeans, which is good because it is not advisable to ride a bicycle in a skirt when there is snow on the ground even if your stockings are warm, but neither is it advisable to ride a bicycle in jeans that have holes in awkward places or that require safety-pinning. Was also complimented in Ross' coming back victorious with my new trousers by a girl about my age with a very nice haircut and florescent duct tape on her Converses: "Oh my goodness. You have a purple beret. And -- and blue gloves. And -- pink Converses*. Where can I get a purple beret? That is so awesome." -- Which sort of made my day. I also met Victoria quite by accident in Rue 21, where I discovered vivid solid-coloured stockings of the sort I have been looking everywhere for (Mum, out of the kindness of her heart, bought me purple ones, but the turquoise and the green and the yellow are still calling to me). We tried on hats and were generally ridiculous.
* My Converses are black with trim and laces so horrifically pink that it isn't half bad, sort of like an Ed Wood film. What I'm saying is, they're not all pink, really.
Hardly the point, however. It was snowing heavily by the time we were getting out of the mall, around four -- it was lovely, really, great soft fluffy flakes and the whole world was white and silver except for black black fingers of trees against the sky, but as you can imagine rather wretched conditions for driving. We had carolling scheduled with Dad's church later in the evening, so at this point I was beginning to wonder if it would happen at all. I began to hope just a little that we wouldn't. You see, Oliver! started around the beginning of the month. I was of several minds as to whether I wanted to go at all, because in all likelihood it would make me feel lonely and disappointed again, but hang it all, my friends were in it, and it was awfully selfish of me not go to to support them at all. And then the last couple of weeks turned out so badly that I forgot about it altogether, until suddenly it was the last performance day, and I had carolling in which to take part. I felt a little rotten about this.
And then -- lo! We arrived home safely, and by five thirty or so, carolling was off the books. (Which was actually rather silly, because it had stopped snowing mostly by then, and the roads were being ploughed and suchlike. But nobody was particularly keen on coming. Sigh. But good for me, as you will see.) I says to myself, "Banui," I says, like a comic rural character in an awkward nineteenth century British novel, "you are going to go to that play. You are not going to be paranoid. You are not going to still moan about not getting a part in it two months later. You are not going to be selfish and anyway if you don't do it you will be ashamed of yourself later just as you always are when you don't take any chances. And yes, this means TALKING TO PEOPLE. You will do that too, or so help me -- um, you -- um. ATTEND THE GORRAM PLAY ALREADY."
"But there won't be tickets," pleaded the other half of my consciousness. (Yes, I argue with myself. And I reckon you do too, only you either don't notice or you simply refuse to admit it.) "It's the last performance, and the play starts at seven. That's in an hour. The tickets will be all sold."
"Shut up and stop making excuses or you will die alone," roared the impulsive side, which tends to be extremely aggressive as it doesn't get to come out very often.
I did. (Shut up, that is. Not die alone.)
Then followed a lot of awkward haranguing of the parents (another thing about me hating to be impulsive and daring is that it involves nagging, which I don't like to do, because it could annoy people, and that falls under the category of Going Wrong; -- what this means is that I'm not usually very straightforward or forceful about things and as a result occasionally get upset because my parents are not reading my mind), and calling cellphones, and finally getting Dad to agree to drive me to the theatre, because he was going out anyway, so that I could just see if they'd a ticket or two left, and if they didn't I would go with Dad to the office or walk home, I promise. So I fixed my hat and jammed on a coat and snatched up some spare chocolates and climbed into the van, chanting encouraging mantras to keep myself from hyperventilating. (As I said, I don't do this sort of thing with much ease, grace, or confidence. Actually, there are very few things I do with ease or grace or confidence, but that is beside the point.)
We arrived at the theatre. I threw open the door, leapt out, ran through the snow and up the ramp (clutching my hat so as to keep it from flying off), and came to an abrupt halt at the ticket booth, hands clutching the counter, panting. "Have you got any tickets left? Please tell me you've got a ticket left," I said, or rather gasped.
They had.
Well. I could breathe at least now.
Except I still had to run out and tell Dad not to worry and I'd be home by ten, and then run back, crying gleefully, "I did something mad and impulsive and it hasn't gone completely wrong!", to the probable consternation of the group of people just then entering the theatre.
I even got a seat in the third row, because the Husses were there and invited me to sit with them. And I did rather bawl through the first fifteen minutes or so and was thoroughly disgusted with myself while being rather painfully wistful at the same time. It did hurt a bit, and if my girls hadn't been in it I doubt I would have made up my mind to go at all, but the play was delightful, and I cheered up almost thoroughly by the time Oliver (played by Eli M.) started on "Where Is Love", whereupon I fairly well shamed myself by going into spasms of laughter. You see, there is this film in which the Meholicks' Lord of the Rings action figures audition for Oliver!, and Faramir sings the song and breaks down rather dramatically in the middle, and then later Bilbo sings it and is wretched and also a diva. I'd practically forgotten the song, and it caught me so much by surprise that I started laughing. I did manage to contain myself in short order, but I'm afraid the emotional impact of that song was utterly lost on me. And likely will be forever. Oh dear.
lady_moriel, you ought to have been there; I had a lot of thoughts about Thieves' Honor, but it is your story and so you really ought to be the one having thoughts about it. Your Trin may not have to be as saintly as you have been vexed with him for, however...
When it was over I managed to get through the crush of people to congratulate Sarah and Hannah and Victoria, and also Elizabeth and Emma, and it was all very nice if extremely brief and noisy. (The Eastern European grandmother in me thinks I ought to have given out baked goods, but I didn't have any at the time.) I'm terribly proud of them, even if they did ruin "Where Is Love" for me. Forever. (And I'd forgotten how absolutely beautiful "Who Will Buy" was; it was the only song I remembered very clearly from the film, and -- mmm. I could listen to that for ages.)
The Husses drove me home afterwards, as they live two houses down, and I soothed my panicking paranoid side ("WHAT IS THIS NEW DEVILRY? SOMETHING IS GOING TO GO WRONG IN A MINUTE, JUST YOU WAIT. THE CEILING WILL FALL. IT WILL.") with chocolate and Harry Potter.
* My Converses are black with trim and laces so horrifically pink that it isn't half bad, sort of like an Ed Wood film. What I'm saying is, they're not all pink, really.
Hardly the point, however. It was snowing heavily by the time we were getting out of the mall, around four -- it was lovely, really, great soft fluffy flakes and the whole world was white and silver except for black black fingers of trees against the sky, but as you can imagine rather wretched conditions for driving. We had carolling scheduled with Dad's church later in the evening, so at this point I was beginning to wonder if it would happen at all. I began to hope just a little that we wouldn't. You see, Oliver! started around the beginning of the month. I was of several minds as to whether I wanted to go at all, because in all likelihood it would make me feel lonely and disappointed again, but hang it all, my friends were in it, and it was awfully selfish of me not go to to support them at all. And then the last couple of weeks turned out so badly that I forgot about it altogether, until suddenly it was the last performance day, and I had carolling in which to take part. I felt a little rotten about this.
And then -- lo! We arrived home safely, and by five thirty or so, carolling was off the books. (Which was actually rather silly, because it had stopped snowing mostly by then, and the roads were being ploughed and suchlike. But nobody was particularly keen on coming. Sigh. But good for me, as you will see.) I says to myself, "Banui," I says, like a comic rural character in an awkward nineteenth century British novel, "you are going to go to that play. You are not going to be paranoid. You are not going to still moan about not getting a part in it two months later. You are not going to be selfish and anyway if you don't do it you will be ashamed of yourself later just as you always are when you don't take any chances. And yes, this means TALKING TO PEOPLE. You will do that too, or so help me -- um, you -- um. ATTEND THE GORRAM PLAY ALREADY."
"But there won't be tickets," pleaded the other half of my consciousness. (Yes, I argue with myself. And I reckon you do too, only you either don't notice or you simply refuse to admit it.) "It's the last performance, and the play starts at seven. That's in an hour. The tickets will be all sold."
"Shut up and stop making excuses or you will die alone," roared the impulsive side, which tends to be extremely aggressive as it doesn't get to come out very often.
I did. (Shut up, that is. Not die alone.)
Then followed a lot of awkward haranguing of the parents (another thing about me hating to be impulsive and daring is that it involves nagging, which I don't like to do, because it could annoy people, and that falls under the category of Going Wrong; -- what this means is that I'm not usually very straightforward or forceful about things and as a result occasionally get upset because my parents are not reading my mind), and calling cellphones, and finally getting Dad to agree to drive me to the theatre, because he was going out anyway, so that I could just see if they'd a ticket or two left, and if they didn't I would go with Dad to the office or walk home, I promise. So I fixed my hat and jammed on a coat and snatched up some spare chocolates and climbed into the van, chanting encouraging mantras to keep myself from hyperventilating. (As I said, I don't do this sort of thing with much ease, grace, or confidence. Actually, there are very few things I do with ease or grace or confidence, but that is beside the point.)
We arrived at the theatre. I threw open the door, leapt out, ran through the snow and up the ramp (clutching my hat so as to keep it from flying off), and came to an abrupt halt at the ticket booth, hands clutching the counter, panting. "Have you got any tickets left? Please tell me you've got a ticket left," I said, or rather gasped.
They had.
Well. I could breathe at least now.
Except I still had to run out and tell Dad not to worry and I'd be home by ten, and then run back, crying gleefully, "I did something mad and impulsive and it hasn't gone completely wrong!", to the probable consternation of the group of people just then entering the theatre.
I even got a seat in the third row, because the Husses were there and invited me to sit with them. And I did rather bawl through the first fifteen minutes or so and was thoroughly disgusted with myself while being rather painfully wistful at the same time. It did hurt a bit, and if my girls hadn't been in it I doubt I would have made up my mind to go at all, but the play was delightful, and I cheered up almost thoroughly by the time Oliver (played by Eli M.) started on "Where Is Love", whereupon I fairly well shamed myself by going into spasms of laughter. You see, there is this film in which the Meholicks' Lord of the Rings action figures audition for Oliver!, and Faramir sings the song and breaks down rather dramatically in the middle, and then later Bilbo sings it and is wretched and also a diva. I'd practically forgotten the song, and it caught me so much by surprise that I started laughing. I did manage to contain myself in short order, but I'm afraid the emotional impact of that song was utterly lost on me. And likely will be forever. Oh dear.
lady_moriel, you ought to have been there; I had a lot of thoughts about Thieves' Honor, but it is your story and so you really ought to be the one having thoughts about it. Your Trin may not have to be as saintly as you have been vexed with him for, however... When it was over I managed to get through the crush of people to congratulate Sarah and Hannah and Victoria, and also Elizabeth and Emma, and it was all very nice if extremely brief and noisy. (The Eastern European grandmother in me thinks I ought to have given out baked goods, but I didn't have any at the time.) I'm terribly proud of them, even if they did ruin "Where Is Love" for me. Forever. (And I'd forgotten how absolutely beautiful "Who Will Buy" was; it was the only song I remembered very clearly from the film, and -- mmm. I could listen to that for ages.)
The Husses drove me home afterwards, as they live two houses down, and I soothed my panicking paranoid side ("WHAT IS THIS NEW DEVILRY? SOMETHING IS GOING TO GO WRONG IN A MINUTE, JUST YOU WAIT. THE CEILING WILL FALL. IT WILL.") with chocolate and Harry Potter.
Hopefully this will mark the beginning of a new pattern. I really don't want to die alone, you know.
(And! A happy birthday many times over to the thoroughly magnificent
lady_moriel! ♥ ♥ ♥ ) 
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no subject
Date: 2007-12-18 05:35 am (UTC)Also, you need to come live with me, as I miss my Eastern European grandmothers (well, they are not actually my grandmothers, but rather my grandfather's first cousins; still), and since you need to come live with me anyway, your inner Eastern European Grandmother will just be an added bonus.
no subject
Date: 2007-12-21 01:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-21 02:22 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-21 02:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-21 10:22 pm (UTC)Oh, and I thought you'd love this: a vocal-only (http://www.sendspace.com/file/cf0bp8) version of "Eurydice". It is stunning, really proves that Sleepthief knows how to handle choral arragnements.
no subject
Date: 2007-12-22 04:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-18 07:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-18 09:49 am (UTC)Here (http://www.mediafire.com/?7x4vwdnxcgm)
Now I'm really annoyed I didn't find it before I put together my VT B-sides CD. :)
no subject
Date: 2007-12-18 04:25 pm (UTC)I wish I had your Goodwill skills, too. I can never find anything decent at ours--just old lady Christmas sweaters and shirts with felt cats on them and the like. Not at all appealing in any way.
I'm glad you had such a lovely day!!
no subject
Date: 2007-12-22 04:36 am (UTC)YOU DON'T LIKE FELT CATS? BECCA, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU??! :DDD
no subject
Date: 2007-12-18 07:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-18 10:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-19 04:11 am (UTC)That quote leads me neatly into a call for help:
I have to read "The Journey of the Magi" at my father-in-law's church's Lessons and Carols service on Saturday: any advice on reading Eliot aloud would be wonderful!
no subject
Date: 2007-12-22 05:24 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2007-12-23 10:06 am (UTC)In the end, I went for the following-thoughts-not-sentences method (if that makes sense), and tried to put some emotion into the telling in the right places. I think it worked well enough - I was told I'd read well, at any rate.
I really liked finding the pointers to the Easter story in the poem ("six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver", "three trees on a low sky", etc.), and Andrew and his dad and I had a fun little discussion on them, which led to Andrew's dad looking up Biblical references to white horses - we thought "And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow" had to refer to something, and it turns out it's in Revelation (of course): a rider on a white horse = the King of Righteousness.
So that was nice.
I really must read more Eliot: is there a particular collection you can recommend?
no subject
Date: 2007-12-20 04:18 pm (UTC)