Graduation felt incomplete. Partly because the work I started in fellowship continues. Many say this is something I should be grateful for, yet I wish there was still a sense of a chapter finished, which there isn't. Even after I cleaned my desk. Even after I got my certificate. It just felt like I was going through the motions.
I did go see the Flaming Lips at Liberty Hall in Lawrence, KS. I wish Lawrence was closer to actual KU Med Center. It's such a cool little pocket of enchanted liberalism. The concert was wonderful, a relatively small venue, literally suffocated with hipsters, confetti, large balloons, laser-lights, and Wayne Coyne inside that inflatable ball. Kris and I managed to find the perfect spot to see the entire show, and Wayne Coyne and I even had a moment where his hand and mine touched....though the plastic ball of course.
Also on a sidenote regarding Lawrence, KS: After looking at some dismal living options on the KS side near KU Med, I walked down downtown Lawrence, where there was this gorgeous loft lit up and across the street from a charming cafe called Henry's that made a great Italian Amaretto soda. It is open til 2 am and felt like a slice of the West Village without quite the NY buzz. It was perfect. I wished and hoped that perfect situation could've been walking distance to the hospital. Alas.
What, however, did give me a sense of completion was the ability to go to NYC for an unprecedented 10 days. I was exhausted. The morning of my departure, I woke up at 4 am, had to deal with some contentious issues, before finally leaving for the airport with no warning over the internet of the crazy encounter I was about to have in the airport. I went through security without a hitch or too long of a line. And suddenly, while patiently waiting for the flight to board, a frantic blonde woman announced there was a problem with the plane, likely hydraulics, which probably will amount to hours-long delay, if the flight is not entirely cancelled. The flight was then cancelled, half-boarded, emptied again, cancelled, and then another flight was coming in. By sheer luck, I got on a plane and arrived in NYC in the early evening.
Katherine baked me a chocolate cake when I came and I got to hug my baby who was laughing and touching my face. Such a gorgeous, happy child! Holding him was the salve I needed to deal with all the catastrophes of the day. I couldn't sleep in the night, but woke up early to see my baby rolling around in the crib, talking to himself. He is fascinated with the crazy mangled froth of my hair in the morning, touching it softly, his eyes full of curiosity.
On Sunday, I had brunch with Jeehee, Henry, Cara, and Lisa at this lovely place called Morandi. The gay pride parade was going on and it was fun to walk alongside floats with men in cut-off shorts and trannies, dancing to that Jay-Z New York song. At the restaurant, I was taking pictures with my 680 with the Silver Shade film but unfortunately, at some point the camera crapped on me.
Lisa and I then walked to Pippin as I was hoping to surprise Aditi with a brooch she was lusting after. Aditi apparently already put it on hold! We made some purchases and then decided to go see Annie Hall at the film forum. Man, if ever there was a film to watch in Film Forum, it is Annie Hall. While waiting in line, we ran into Lisa's bosses who seemed absolutely lovely and strangely familiar with KC for New Yorkers. I offered an open invitation, as I apt to do with anyone with a trace of enthusiasm for the spare, forgotten expanse of ghostly Americana that others derisively refer to as the Midwest. We went to a cafe lit in a pink neon glow after and ate some couscous, bread, tomatoes, and avocados. During that time, I relayed my story of a modern-day trilogy employing the lore of Hinduism which I now call the Blue Star Trilogy. Lisa, as she is apt to do, gave a whole-hearted endorsement as I relayed the entire story----it was on the whole a lovely evening.
Monday: I was so tired. I spent the day with Kiran, half-asleep. We skyped where he was so active, giggling, gurgling, even resurrecting guttural sounds which I've called "Baby Yiddish." He smells so sweet, of a fragrant, warm milk, flowers in a meadow. There is something spiritual of nuzzling into a little babe's belly and neck.
In the evening, I went with Lisa to see the recitation of the letters between Chekov and his heroine in real life ( and muse) Olga Knipper. I've recently resurrected an interest in Chekov, as I started to read some of his short stories, and also with this persistence of Chekov in the New York Theatre scene, it's hard to avoid him. My first exposure was seeing Ivanov years and years ago. Not so coincidentally, perhaps, the lead character was played by an extremely understated and dour Kevin Kline, and that performance stands out as the one that illustration how movie acting and theatre acting can be so different. Anyhow, I recall watching Ivanov and thinking oh geez, what IS his problem? And it is easy to feel that frustration with Chekov in general. But it's also his strength.
But Diane Wiest and Kevin Kline---both kids from Missouri---how could I say no to that? Also, recently, while looking up Chekov, I realized how little I knew of the man. Despite his own depressing take on mankind and relationships, in real life, it appears the man was affable and actually was successful in love, faithful to a woman, encouraged her to pursue her career even if it meant a distance that they both could barely stand, that when he died---he was not alone, he was loved. Both, it appears, were intelligent, generous, sweet, and it was this large spirit that they both shared which one could argue fed the feverish output of masterpieces that Chekov produced towards the end of his life.
I watched the letters recitation. It had some attractive, overly theatrical, somewhat sloppy pianist who played songs of the time while the two actors played Anton and Olga. Lisa told me that watching the love story play out gave her faith in love, but also reminded her of my own marriage, though....there are obvious differences. Ha. After the play, we went to eat burgers in the upper east side. It used to be my old haunt, but the diners were a bit of distance away. So we found a burger place which was delightful. I had elk sliders and blueberry soda. Delicious. I recall the place being called Elk Burger.
Teusday: When I came home the night before, I found the toilet to be in a state, so to speak. So I spent the morning dealing with the odious maneuverings that involves plumbing that goes beyond the help of the bread-and-butter plunger. I spent most of the day dealing with it and called for a cleaner to help refurbish the place from the dust and sloppiness that has accumulated from neglect. I was supposed to spend the day with Aditi and Lisa, and alas had to excuse myself from the event. I did, however, treat myself to a lovely keiseki dinner at Sugiyama, which is in the neighborhood. The meal was prepared in front of me by a rather quiet, stoic yet smiling chef and his sous chef was a Latina man. Seeing them orchestrate the delightful, surprising little dishes felt like a story told in small moments, the story of men from other countries, one learning the fine art of another's. There's a novel, movie, documentary, whatever you want in that. The most memorable dishes for me were a chilled tomato stewed in sweet sake and a grapefruit in cream dessert. After that, I decided to go see Grand Illusion at the Film Forum.
It's surprising for me to say this but Jean Renoir on the small screen cannot compare to him on the big screen. Yes, I most always prefer a film projection, but the difference is somewhat muted when it comes to film that deals with something as sweeping yet intimate as the human condition in small strokes---which Renoir is famous for orchestrating. You will run to see Star Wars or Lawrence of Arabia on the big screen but not necessarily Ingmar Bergman or Woody Allen, where the genius is in the dialogue or histrionics. But with Renoir, it's a little different. Seeing the same scenes I've seen a million times on my larger screen TV at home did not nearly resonate the same way as it does in an actual theatre hall, the black and white images flickering on an unassuming screen. Suddenly, the bits of dialogue, the quiet yet dramatic interplay of class during the war, the sacrifices made with little fanfare but deep appreciation----all play out in complete, heartbreaking sincerity. It's really hard to argue against any notion that the man, Renoir, the son of the painter, was a bonafide genius.
Wednesday: Finally, I did what I tend to do in New York. Shop. I bought film, camera batteries, and stopped by the new outpost of Pippin, where I snagged the loveliest necklace I have ever seen. It's from the 1800s with an unassuming pendant of three small minecut diamonds, mounted in succession on a lattice of white gold ( the charming showgirls educated me on the intricate and beauteous facets that make the 'minecut'). I also bought colorful baubles for the Vera sisters.
In the evening, I slipped into a Temperley blouse in a charming print called Japonica ( black blossoms and soft orange starbursts against a cream-colored backdrop) and headed off to some fancy-pants Law Firm function with Cara. Cara was all Farrah Fawcett locks and smart heels. Professionalism forces even the most stubborn of Peter Pans to grow up, but Cara has managed it in spades. She looked gorgeous. We discussed the inadequacies of our lives with amused resignation while eating the sub-par food in a beautiful window-ed penthouse that peddled faux-gambling, silent auctions, over-friendly and generous bartenders ( the ginger ale was delicious like crack...or so I imagine) and bad DJ music. At one point, we found ourselves talking to flamboyant, clever men who live in Brooklyn and discussing the rather old trend of fixies ( fixed-gear bikes. At one point, we did mention the inevitable resurrection of the Penny Farthing) and coffee among trust-fund hipsters in Williamsburgh. It made for a diverting 20 minutes.
Cara also introduced me to one of her colleagues who was fetching and fashionable girl from Puerto Rico, and this girl's equally fetching and fashionable non-lawyer friend from home joined us. While the former PR beauty had long, black locks, her friend had long, curly red hair and looked like a less gaunt, more conventionally pretty Florence ( of the Machine fame). Both girls, when left to themselves, spoke in Spanish and when we intruded in their conversations, apologized and returned to English. Also, oddly, both had French last names. Conversation inevitably turned to the idea of whether PR should ever be a state or its own country or continue to be the nebulous entity that it is. Apparently, the two friends disagree on this matter, one who is resolute that PR should remain as it has been and the other unsure of how she feels, seeing pros and cons to the other possibilities.
In the evening, we had a hilarious run-in with Cara's inebriated co-workers who could not guess the nationality of the red-head from PR. They heard an accent, a pretty face, and couldn't place it. And despite some obvious clues that she provided, they eventually guessed that she was from Goa and I--the Indian girl--was from Latin America. The whole conversation was incredibly hilarious.
Cara and I and another friend then abandoned the crew who were intent on luring us to the after party ( which we later heard inadvertently landed in a gaybar) and went to an Irish pub to hang. We talked briefly about life, love, being a single woman in our thirties ( though I am married.) Eventually, we parted. Cara and I walked partly towards Cheslea reminiscing of our days together traversing midtown and Chelsea, before eventually we said goodnight.
Thursday: The day before, while planning out how to secure Uncle Vanya tickets, I visited the website and managed to miraculously get tickets to the show. So I spent the day with my little kiddo before venturing downtown to see the show. Before I descend into my brief review of the show, I should mention a funny little incident.
I sat down in my seat, which was sort of a carpeted bleacher right in the living room set of the play. A rather charming, greying man arrives slightly late with his younger date, who appears less engaged. I immediately note the people in front of me ask him, "We were wondering which Horowitz would be sitting there, and it was you!" I immediately grasped this man was someone who was important. A director. A playwright. Someone with clout, obviously. I notice as the play unfolds, he laughs at the jokes the hardest, he watches the play with complete attention, that is refreshingly visceral, a true lover of the arts. During the intermission, a throng of more people approach him, and at one point, I was tempted to turn to him and say, "Sir, Who EXACTLY are you?!" I finally called Cara to ask and she didn't know who he was, but fortunately, the internet came to the rescue: The Director of the New Theatre. It was rather refreshing to meet a man who commands that level of respect but still relish a good production like a little child in a candy shop.
Anyhow, now my review. This production of Uncle Vanya was touted as immersive, where the audience members are limited and literally sitting in the living room, where the play unfolds. The performances were mixed, some great, some perplexing, but overall it's a brilliant bit of theater, I have to say. I'm not sure if this is age talking, but my previous inability to grasp what was so genius about Chekov is completely gone. Chekov never felt so contemporary, so perhaps the Chekov bug permeating NYC theatre has gotten to me, as well. First off, the certain disillusionment that accompanies patient care- existed in his time, over a century ago, as it does today, when more organized menaces demoralize the profession. Secondly, the implicit emptiness of good weather and life outside of the city fosters its own existential demons of wasted lives. Before American Suburban Malaise found its voice mid-century, Chekov nailed it. But you probably have to live life a little bit to get what he's driving at. In my case, a medical education worked. Finally, there's a profound pathos for suffering that is not overt, that is not simple, that struggles to find its own voice. Looking at his plays, Chekov must've been a brilliant clinician.
Friday:
The day was spent eating Japanese food at my favorite Totto Soba that serves this amazing dish of uni, roe, sprouts and warm rice. It is accompanied by cold soba and pickled vegetables and a double serving of Calpico. Seriously, my favorite meal ever. I took a picture of the meal that I look at fondly, time to time.
As for the evening: so this was D-day, when Lisa and I decided to watch the musical version of Dogfight, despite our better judgement, out of sincere love of that film. Dogfight the film belongs to a population of obscure gems that somehow don't quite get either the critical or popular recognition they deserve. I'm not being facetious when I blame it on the patriarchy. Other films that belong in this group are Me Without You ( the first film where Michelle Williams showed her dramatic acting chops---NOT Brokeback Mountain) and the New World ( far better than Tree Of Life). These films tend to have complex themes with female protagonists, and I think the system as it is does not know how to market these sort of films, unless the women of concern are prostitutes, nuns, or serial killers.
Anyhow, Dogfight is about a night between a kid about to be shipped to Vietnam and a girl who's trying to develop her voice, socially and musically. They belong to opposite camps, but for this one night, they realize they need each other. The ending of the film is nothing less than perfect: it's a quiet and ambiguous note by which to end a quasi-romantic drama ever. Anyhow, most of my friends and I are extremely fond of this film and may have seen it more than a dozen times, each. It stars a really fetching and subtle River Phoenix and not-as-chubby ( as the film would have you believe) Lili Taylor. The musical, however, is not a compelling work of its own. Rather, it's a sub-par recreation that just makes you want to watch the movie again. The male lead was great, but the music felt too Broadway with a score too stuffed with lackluster ballads. Lisa and I left, both agreeing on two thumbs down.
After Dogfight, I went to see Sleep No More again for old time's sake. Again, I ALMOST got to the 6th floor and missed it by one person. I wonder if it will ever happen ( this is literally the fourth time I have missed the sixth floor). Anyhow, I had magical moments where I was actually in Hecate's lair alone with her before she brought me into her secret chamber. And I saw the amazing door dance again. A nurse who looked like a lovely silent film star from the 1920s brought me into her examination room. Also, I was brought into a chamber, where a man in the dark pressed me against a wall and procured black feathers from his mouth; cracked eggs revealed nothing but dust ( could this be Lady M's infertility?). I of course loved the attention from the man who sounds like Noel Coward on the mike making eyes at me and calling me lovely over and over again. Puddles the Clown did some serious crooning after the show. Think a deep baritone in a smoky R and B melody.
I went home amazed how this show, now a mainstream success with plenty of douchebags lining up, can still be so compelling. At one point, I had a rare moment when I felt like the only person walking down the hall and thought, how could this be? Despite a throng of people at the door that grows larger with each visit. Who's to say? It happened.
All I know is this: Felix Barrett and the Punchdrunk crew, you are all my heroes.
Saturday: Leisurely day where I did nothing but sit on the couch. I went to have dinner with Rahul after checking out his supremely ethnic digs near Chinatown, that feel more authentically third-world than even Queens. The boy unpacks well. Despite boxes, he already had a bed and a bookshelf.
We ate burgers, drank wine, and then met up with his friend who was leaving the City for Portland. We sat on her terrace and talked into the wee hours.
Sunday: I had dinner at Fat Radish with the Wellesley crew. We talked for five hours. I cannot even recall what we were talking about for so long. That's how it usually is when you get us together. Later in the evening, I went to see Lisa's apartment ( beautiful, spare, with choice art on the walls) and we watched Dogfight. I took the cab home and savored more time on the red couch, relishing the sounds of the street in the distance.
Monday: My last day before going home. I spent time with my baby who gurgled and giggled and said words like "Uh-Duh" or "A-dah!" I left NYC still feeling his embrace and listening to his giggles.
That's how I began my trip, and that's how I ended it.
I did go see the Flaming Lips at Liberty Hall in Lawrence, KS. I wish Lawrence was closer to actual KU Med Center. It's such a cool little pocket of enchanted liberalism. The concert was wonderful, a relatively small venue, literally suffocated with hipsters, confetti, large balloons, laser-lights, and Wayne Coyne inside that inflatable ball. Kris and I managed to find the perfect spot to see the entire show, and Wayne Coyne and I even had a moment where his hand and mine touched....though the plastic ball of course.
Also on a sidenote regarding Lawrence, KS: After looking at some dismal living options on the KS side near KU Med, I walked down downtown Lawrence, where there was this gorgeous loft lit up and across the street from a charming cafe called Henry's that made a great Italian Amaretto soda. It is open til 2 am and felt like a slice of the West Village without quite the NY buzz. It was perfect. I wished and hoped that perfect situation could've been walking distance to the hospital. Alas.
What, however, did give me a sense of completion was the ability to go to NYC for an unprecedented 10 days. I was exhausted. The morning of my departure, I woke up at 4 am, had to deal with some contentious issues, before finally leaving for the airport with no warning over the internet of the crazy encounter I was about to have in the airport. I went through security without a hitch or too long of a line. And suddenly, while patiently waiting for the flight to board, a frantic blonde woman announced there was a problem with the plane, likely hydraulics, which probably will amount to hours-long delay, if the flight is not entirely cancelled. The flight was then cancelled, half-boarded, emptied again, cancelled, and then another flight was coming in. By sheer luck, I got on a plane and arrived in NYC in the early evening.
Katherine baked me a chocolate cake when I came and I got to hug my baby who was laughing and touching my face. Such a gorgeous, happy child! Holding him was the salve I needed to deal with all the catastrophes of the day. I couldn't sleep in the night, but woke up early to see my baby rolling around in the crib, talking to himself. He is fascinated with the crazy mangled froth of my hair in the morning, touching it softly, his eyes full of curiosity.
On Sunday, I had brunch with Jeehee, Henry, Cara, and Lisa at this lovely place called Morandi. The gay pride parade was going on and it was fun to walk alongside floats with men in cut-off shorts and trannies, dancing to that Jay-Z New York song. At the restaurant, I was taking pictures with my 680 with the Silver Shade film but unfortunately, at some point the camera crapped on me.
Lisa and I then walked to Pippin as I was hoping to surprise Aditi with a brooch she was lusting after. Aditi apparently already put it on hold! We made some purchases and then decided to go see Annie Hall at the film forum. Man, if ever there was a film to watch in Film Forum, it is Annie Hall. While waiting in line, we ran into Lisa's bosses who seemed absolutely lovely and strangely familiar with KC for New Yorkers. I offered an open invitation, as I apt to do with anyone with a trace of enthusiasm for the spare, forgotten expanse of ghostly Americana that others derisively refer to as the Midwest. We went to a cafe lit in a pink neon glow after and ate some couscous, bread, tomatoes, and avocados. During that time, I relayed my story of a modern-day trilogy employing the lore of Hinduism which I now call the Blue Star Trilogy. Lisa, as she is apt to do, gave a whole-hearted endorsement as I relayed the entire story----it was on the whole a lovely evening.
Monday: I was so tired. I spent the day with Kiran, half-asleep. We skyped where he was so active, giggling, gurgling, even resurrecting guttural sounds which I've called "Baby Yiddish." He smells so sweet, of a fragrant, warm milk, flowers in a meadow. There is something spiritual of nuzzling into a little babe's belly and neck.
In the evening, I went with Lisa to see the recitation of the letters between Chekov and his heroine in real life ( and muse) Olga Knipper. I've recently resurrected an interest in Chekov, as I started to read some of his short stories, and also with this persistence of Chekov in the New York Theatre scene, it's hard to avoid him. My first exposure was seeing Ivanov years and years ago. Not so coincidentally, perhaps, the lead character was played by an extremely understated and dour Kevin Kline, and that performance stands out as the one that illustration how movie acting and theatre acting can be so different. Anyhow, I recall watching Ivanov and thinking oh geez, what IS his problem? And it is easy to feel that frustration with Chekov in general. But it's also his strength.
But Diane Wiest and Kevin Kline---both kids from Missouri---how could I say no to that? Also, recently, while looking up Chekov, I realized how little I knew of the man. Despite his own depressing take on mankind and relationships, in real life, it appears the man was affable and actually was successful in love, faithful to a woman, encouraged her to pursue her career even if it meant a distance that they both could barely stand, that when he died---he was not alone, he was loved. Both, it appears, were intelligent, generous, sweet, and it was this large spirit that they both shared which one could argue fed the feverish output of masterpieces that Chekov produced towards the end of his life.
I watched the letters recitation. It had some attractive, overly theatrical, somewhat sloppy pianist who played songs of the time while the two actors played Anton and Olga. Lisa told me that watching the love story play out gave her faith in love, but also reminded her of my own marriage, though....there are obvious differences. Ha. After the play, we went to eat burgers in the upper east side. It used to be my old haunt, but the diners were a bit of distance away. So we found a burger place which was delightful. I had elk sliders and blueberry soda. Delicious. I recall the place being called Elk Burger.
Teusday: When I came home the night before, I found the toilet to be in a state, so to speak. So I spent the morning dealing with the odious maneuverings that involves plumbing that goes beyond the help of the bread-and-butter plunger. I spent most of the day dealing with it and called for a cleaner to help refurbish the place from the dust and sloppiness that has accumulated from neglect. I was supposed to spend the day with Aditi and Lisa, and alas had to excuse myself from the event. I did, however, treat myself to a lovely keiseki dinner at Sugiyama, which is in the neighborhood. The meal was prepared in front of me by a rather quiet, stoic yet smiling chef and his sous chef was a Latina man. Seeing them orchestrate the delightful, surprising little dishes felt like a story told in small moments, the story of men from other countries, one learning the fine art of another's. There's a novel, movie, documentary, whatever you want in that. The most memorable dishes for me were a chilled tomato stewed in sweet sake and a grapefruit in cream dessert. After that, I decided to go see Grand Illusion at the Film Forum.
It's surprising for me to say this but Jean Renoir on the small screen cannot compare to him on the big screen. Yes, I most always prefer a film projection, but the difference is somewhat muted when it comes to film that deals with something as sweeping yet intimate as the human condition in small strokes---which Renoir is famous for orchestrating. You will run to see Star Wars or Lawrence of Arabia on the big screen but not necessarily Ingmar Bergman or Woody Allen, where the genius is in the dialogue or histrionics. But with Renoir, it's a little different. Seeing the same scenes I've seen a million times on my larger screen TV at home did not nearly resonate the same way as it does in an actual theatre hall, the black and white images flickering on an unassuming screen. Suddenly, the bits of dialogue, the quiet yet dramatic interplay of class during the war, the sacrifices made with little fanfare but deep appreciation----all play out in complete, heartbreaking sincerity. It's really hard to argue against any notion that the man, Renoir, the son of the painter, was a bonafide genius.
Wednesday: Finally, I did what I tend to do in New York. Shop. I bought film, camera batteries, and stopped by the new outpost of Pippin, where I snagged the loveliest necklace I have ever seen. It's from the 1800s with an unassuming pendant of three small minecut diamonds, mounted in succession on a lattice of white gold ( the charming showgirls educated me on the intricate and beauteous facets that make the 'minecut'). I also bought colorful baubles for the Vera sisters.
In the evening, I slipped into a Temperley blouse in a charming print called Japonica ( black blossoms and soft orange starbursts against a cream-colored backdrop) and headed off to some fancy-pants Law Firm function with Cara. Cara was all Farrah Fawcett locks and smart heels. Professionalism forces even the most stubborn of Peter Pans to grow up, but Cara has managed it in spades. She looked gorgeous. We discussed the inadequacies of our lives with amused resignation while eating the sub-par food in a beautiful window-ed penthouse that peddled faux-gambling, silent auctions, over-friendly and generous bartenders ( the ginger ale was delicious like crack...or so I imagine) and bad DJ music. At one point, we found ourselves talking to flamboyant, clever men who live in Brooklyn and discussing the rather old trend of fixies ( fixed-gear bikes. At one point, we did mention the inevitable resurrection of the Penny Farthing) and coffee among trust-fund hipsters in Williamsburgh. It made for a diverting 20 minutes.
Cara also introduced me to one of her colleagues who was fetching and fashionable girl from Puerto Rico, and this girl's equally fetching and fashionable non-lawyer friend from home joined us. While the former PR beauty had long, black locks, her friend had long, curly red hair and looked like a less gaunt, more conventionally pretty Florence ( of the Machine fame). Both girls, when left to themselves, spoke in Spanish and when we intruded in their conversations, apologized and returned to English. Also, oddly, both had French last names. Conversation inevitably turned to the idea of whether PR should ever be a state or its own country or continue to be the nebulous entity that it is. Apparently, the two friends disagree on this matter, one who is resolute that PR should remain as it has been and the other unsure of how she feels, seeing pros and cons to the other possibilities.
In the evening, we had a hilarious run-in with Cara's inebriated co-workers who could not guess the nationality of the red-head from PR. They heard an accent, a pretty face, and couldn't place it. And despite some obvious clues that she provided, they eventually guessed that she was from Goa and I--the Indian girl--was from Latin America. The whole conversation was incredibly hilarious.
Cara and I and another friend then abandoned the crew who were intent on luring us to the after party ( which we later heard inadvertently landed in a gaybar) and went to an Irish pub to hang. We talked briefly about life, love, being a single woman in our thirties ( though I am married.) Eventually, we parted. Cara and I walked partly towards Cheslea reminiscing of our days together traversing midtown and Chelsea, before eventually we said goodnight.
Thursday: The day before, while planning out how to secure Uncle Vanya tickets, I visited the website and managed to miraculously get tickets to the show. So I spent the day with my little kiddo before venturing downtown to see the show. Before I descend into my brief review of the show, I should mention a funny little incident.
I sat down in my seat, which was sort of a carpeted bleacher right in the living room set of the play. A rather charming, greying man arrives slightly late with his younger date, who appears less engaged. I immediately note the people in front of me ask him, "We were wondering which Horowitz would be sitting there, and it was you!" I immediately grasped this man was someone who was important. A director. A playwright. Someone with clout, obviously. I notice as the play unfolds, he laughs at the jokes the hardest, he watches the play with complete attention, that is refreshingly visceral, a true lover of the arts. During the intermission, a throng of more people approach him, and at one point, I was tempted to turn to him and say, "Sir, Who EXACTLY are you?!" I finally called Cara to ask and she didn't know who he was, but fortunately, the internet came to the rescue: The Director of the New Theatre. It was rather refreshing to meet a man who commands that level of respect but still relish a good production like a little child in a candy shop.
Anyhow, now my review. This production of Uncle Vanya was touted as immersive, where the audience members are limited and literally sitting in the living room, where the play unfolds. The performances were mixed, some great, some perplexing, but overall it's a brilliant bit of theater, I have to say. I'm not sure if this is age talking, but my previous inability to grasp what was so genius about Chekov is completely gone. Chekov never felt so contemporary, so perhaps the Chekov bug permeating NYC theatre has gotten to me, as well. First off, the certain disillusionment that accompanies patient care- existed in his time, over a century ago, as it does today, when more organized menaces demoralize the profession. Secondly, the implicit emptiness of good weather and life outside of the city fosters its own existential demons of wasted lives. Before American Suburban Malaise found its voice mid-century, Chekov nailed it. But you probably have to live life a little bit to get what he's driving at. In my case, a medical education worked. Finally, there's a profound pathos for suffering that is not overt, that is not simple, that struggles to find its own voice. Looking at his plays, Chekov must've been a brilliant clinician.
Friday:
The day was spent eating Japanese food at my favorite Totto Soba that serves this amazing dish of uni, roe, sprouts and warm rice. It is accompanied by cold soba and pickled vegetables and a double serving of Calpico. Seriously, my favorite meal ever. I took a picture of the meal that I look at fondly, time to time.
As for the evening: so this was D-day, when Lisa and I decided to watch the musical version of Dogfight, despite our better judgement, out of sincere love of that film. Dogfight the film belongs to a population of obscure gems that somehow don't quite get either the critical or popular recognition they deserve. I'm not being facetious when I blame it on the patriarchy. Other films that belong in this group are Me Without You ( the first film where Michelle Williams showed her dramatic acting chops---NOT Brokeback Mountain) and the New World ( far better than Tree Of Life). These films tend to have complex themes with female protagonists, and I think the system as it is does not know how to market these sort of films, unless the women of concern are prostitutes, nuns, or serial killers.
Anyhow, Dogfight is about a night between a kid about to be shipped to Vietnam and a girl who's trying to develop her voice, socially and musically. They belong to opposite camps, but for this one night, they realize they need each other. The ending of the film is nothing less than perfect: it's a quiet and ambiguous note by which to end a quasi-romantic drama ever. Anyhow, most of my friends and I are extremely fond of this film and may have seen it more than a dozen times, each. It stars a really fetching and subtle River Phoenix and not-as-chubby ( as the film would have you believe) Lili Taylor. The musical, however, is not a compelling work of its own. Rather, it's a sub-par recreation that just makes you want to watch the movie again. The male lead was great, but the music felt too Broadway with a score too stuffed with lackluster ballads. Lisa and I left, both agreeing on two thumbs down.
After Dogfight, I went to see Sleep No More again for old time's sake. Again, I ALMOST got to the 6th floor and missed it by one person. I wonder if it will ever happen ( this is literally the fourth time I have missed the sixth floor). Anyhow, I had magical moments where I was actually in Hecate's lair alone with her before she brought me into her secret chamber. And I saw the amazing door dance again. A nurse who looked like a lovely silent film star from the 1920s brought me into her examination room. Also, I was brought into a chamber, where a man in the dark pressed me against a wall and procured black feathers from his mouth; cracked eggs revealed nothing but dust ( could this be Lady M's infertility?). I of course loved the attention from the man who sounds like Noel Coward on the mike making eyes at me and calling me lovely over and over again. Puddles the Clown did some serious crooning after the show. Think a deep baritone in a smoky R and B melody.
I went home amazed how this show, now a mainstream success with plenty of douchebags lining up, can still be so compelling. At one point, I had a rare moment when I felt like the only person walking down the hall and thought, how could this be? Despite a throng of people at the door that grows larger with each visit. Who's to say? It happened.
All I know is this: Felix Barrett and the Punchdrunk crew, you are all my heroes.
Saturday: Leisurely day where I did nothing but sit on the couch. I went to have dinner with Rahul after checking out his supremely ethnic digs near Chinatown, that feel more authentically third-world than even Queens. The boy unpacks well. Despite boxes, he already had a bed and a bookshelf.
We ate burgers, drank wine, and then met up with his friend who was leaving the City for Portland. We sat on her terrace and talked into the wee hours.
Sunday: I had dinner at Fat Radish with the Wellesley crew. We talked for five hours. I cannot even recall what we were talking about for so long. That's how it usually is when you get us together. Later in the evening, I went to see Lisa's apartment ( beautiful, spare, with choice art on the walls) and we watched Dogfight. I took the cab home and savored more time on the red couch, relishing the sounds of the street in the distance.
Monday: My last day before going home. I spent time with my baby who gurgled and giggled and said words like "Uh-Duh" or "A-dah!" I left NYC still feeling his embrace and listening to his giggles.
That's how I began my trip, and that's how I ended it.
