Rules of (dis) Engagement

I don’t care what anyone says; breaking up is hard to do, there’s no good way to do it. Think of the repercussions if it was easy; Tammy Wynette would never have had a career, no chick flicks and Lady Oprah would still be colouring things purple.

Having said that there are a few simple rules that if followed should make it easier for all involved.

Don’t break up with your partner by sending a quick Twitter text, do it face to face. Tweet’ing is the modern equivalent of Carrie Bradshaw’s ‘post-it note’ break up. (When you do split, resist the urge to set up a Facebook group called “I Hate (insert appropriate name), he’s a Fat Skank”, it’s just wrong on so many levels). Consider other options especially if they live overseas or inter-state; a video call, phone call or a good old fashioned hand written letter. There are few things worse than finding out you have been dumped by reading it on a Facebook status line.

Don’t break up when you’re out with a group at dinner or clubbing; remember this should be a private moment between two people who once cared deeply for each other not a cabaret performed in the front Bar of your local watering hole. Think of the consequences and most importantly the availability of retaliatory weapons: the ever popular throwing of the drink to the old fashioned public biatch slap.
‘It’s not you it’s me’. Everyone knows this really means ‘it’s you not me’. Don’t say it ... you can think it, hell you can even write it in your Blog next week but under no circumstances say it.

Try not to stick the ‘knife in’ when you’re breaking up. Take the high road. Telling your ex that the only reason you were with him was to “get through winter” while you waited for someone better to come along next summer, is just plain mean - even if it is true.

Expect to lose friends, this is called collateral damage. Make no mistake battle lines will be drawn, “we never liked him, he was a thief, he was cheating”, and some of them may even be talking about ‘him’.

Picking the right time is essential. Don’t break up on ‘Meth’ Monday or ‘Eckkie’ Tuesday, or his birthday; while it might seem like a good idea to get it over with, do you really want to be the ‘one who ruined birthdays for ever for me’, for the rest of your life?

Honesty tempered with compassion, in the end, is the key. Treat your (ex) partner the way you would wish to be treated. There’s no need to read out a list of all the things that have driven you crazy over the last (insert number of months here) months; the fact that he never stacks the dishwasher, empties the washing machine, takes out the trash or that you caught him in the sling at the Sauna on Buddy night. This isn’t Nuremberg.

Be prepared to move out. I don’t mean have your bags, or his, packed and sitting at the front door, but realistically one of you is going to have to go. You can’t both share a two bedroom flat and survive, while it may seem like a good, economical idea at the time, trust me the first time either of you bring home the next Mr. Right expect to find shredded Armani in the trash and crushed crystal in your porridge.

The splitting up of the assets will actually cause you more pain than the ending of the physical relationship. If you take a few simple, precautionary steps at the start of your journey, some later heartache can be avoided: buy a magic marker and take the time to label your DVD’s, Ipod’s, Laptop’s and most importantly your pets and/or foster children, ownership will be easier to prove. At the very least buy two of everything.

So you’ve done the deed, you’re both ‘okay’ with it and seem to be getting on really well. You’ve become friends, better than you ever were when you were lovers. Now is the most dangerous time - don’t have ‘break up sex’. If you do (and lets face it, you probably will), you will plant a seed at the back of your, or worse his, mind; suddenly memories will blur, and before you know it you will begin to contemplate the possibility of getting back together. All of the good work that you’ve done, the tears, the arguments, the rationalisations and the eventual mutually agreed tolerance will come crumbling down. The past will begin to seem like Camelot and before you know it you’re changing your status on Facebook and the cycle begins again.

So, yes, breaking up is hard to do but it’s the chance you take when you love someone and let’s face it all we want is to be loved.

Metamorphosis

The thing about the theatre is that it never leaves you ambivalent – good or bad it extracts an emotive response, ‘I loved it’ – ‘I hated it’ – ‘I couldn’t have cared less about it’. After seeing the brilliant ‘Kafka’s Monkey’ I was ready and eager to dive back into the wonderful but disturbed world of Franz Kafka.

Kafka wrote the short story ‘The Metamorphosis’ in 1915. In 2005 - 06 Mr. David Farr, with Mr. Gisli Orn Gardarsson, adapted the short story into this intellectually and physically gymnastic production.

The premise is simple, set in Prague, early twentieth century, the Samsa’s, a lower middle class family with pretensions, wake up one morning to find their son Gregor, the breadwinner and provider for the family, hasn’t been to work, hasn’t been down for breakfast in fact hasn’t left his room. Indeed he isn’t quite himself anymore; he has in fact been transformed into a giant bug. What happens next is the guts of the play.

How do we cope, as a family or a society, with someone who stands out as different? How thin is the veneer that binds us all together in an unspoken contract of tolerance and civility? Mr. Farr says that he uses the play, “as an allegory for the Jewish experience in Europe during the twentieth century”, but it could just as easily relate to a family dealing with a son’s homosexuality, or family dealing with an elderly parent’s Alzheimer's Disease, or any number of events that challenge our belief in what is right, wrong or acceptable behaviour.

What should this family do when faced with their son turning into a bug? The simple answer is of course - to understand, love and support him through this trial and nurture him back to health after all that is what is expected of us. The truth is that after a short period of time the family becomes angry, repulsed and resentful of their son, he soils himself, he scares them and he makes demands on their time. The only real solution is to lock him up, throw away the key and hope that he quietly dies so the family can return to a ‘normal’ life. This is pretty much how the Samsa’s cope.

The cast are clearly strong and they know the work intimately but no retelling of this play would be complete without special mention of the incredibly athletic and gymnastic performance by Mr. Bjorn Thors, as Gregor, who clambers and crawls over the set at alarming angles.

With music, composed by Mr. Nick Cave, The Bad Seeds and Mr. Warren Ellis, that sets the tone brilliantly and a set, built over two levels, designed by Mr. Borkur Jonsson, we are transported into another reality that is both horrifying and at times funny. It’s horrifying because of its callousness, yet funny at times, because of the pretence of ‘normality’ that the family struggle to maintain. Did I say funny, well actually it’s not that funny it’s really rather bleak and you certainly don’t walk out ‘humming a show tune’, but it is a piece that speaks as eloquently today as it first did way back in 1915.

Metamorphosis is not for the faint of heart but it is well worth the effort.

Metamorphosis is on at The Sydney Theatre, Hickson Rd. 22 April – 2 May 2009.

Two Plays One Week

Two plays, one week, both by the Sydney Theatre Company - ‘Kafka’s Monkey’ and ‘The Wonderful World of Dissocia’.

One I saw, the other I struggled to catch glimpses of.

‘Kafka’s Monkey’

A brilliant one woman show based on a short story written by Czech writer Franz Kafka. ‘Red Peter’ played by Kathryn Hunter is a bravura performance by an actress who takes you through the ridiculousness of humanity.

‘A woman, playing a monkey, playing a man’.

A monkey is captured in the wild and transported to a zoo. During the journey the monkey begins to learn what it is to be human from a group of drunken sailors. He learns how to drink and finally how to speak a single word, “hello”. Red is given the option of the zoo or vaudeville, he chooses vaudeville. He engages tutors to teach him what it is to be a man. Finally achieving his goal he is called on by the great minds of the day to present a report to the Academy. During his report Red holds a mirror up to society and generally finds that humans are short on humanity.

Red’s main objective in becoming human is to find a ‘way out’ from the cage that he is in but when he does he realises that freedom is an illusion and all he has done is swapped one cage for another.

From the moment Kathryn Hunter takes the stage and makes her opening bows she gently takes us, the audience, in and carries us through the transformation of monkey to man. Dressed in a Charlie Chaplin style tail coat and bowler Ms. Hunter uses her beautiful voice and pliable body to convince us that you can take the monkey out of the jungle but you can never take the beast out of man.

This is a tight, well paced, beautifully acted piece of theatre that deserves a successful run.

‘The Wonderful World of Dissocia’

Written by Anthony Neilson for the Edinburgh International Festival, 'Dissocia' provides another view into the mind of man or in this case woman; Lisa has stopped taking her tablets, Lisa is in Dissocia, a world in search of a Queen. Lisa has lost an hour of her life.

Lisa has fallen through the looking glass.

This may very well be a good play. I couldn’t tell.

This entire production, directed, by Marion Potts, seems to have been directed with the intention of cutting out almost one third of the audience. The first Act in particular was played almost entirely to stage left.

The first Act is spent in Dissocia a world at war with the ‘Black Dog King’, a world where ‘scape’ goats are literally goats, a world where mad Hot Dog vendors and ‘in’ security guards live, a world where the Lost Property Office has in fact been lost.

To add insult to injury the second Act has the floor raised to create a lowered roof, (I know it’s confusing), however it brilliantly achieves the result that what little I could see of the actor’s was now even further diminished until finally I gave up and just sat shivering under the air conditioning vent.

The second Act is spent in the real world where days pass by in a blur of pills and sleep. Lights come on, lights go off to signify the passing of time; at least eight times the lights came on and the lights went off.

The costumes are colourful and garish, they looked great, well at least the back of the costumes looked great (Tess Schofield), the sound great, the lighting in the first Act great and the set great but gee it would have been good to see the Actor’s.

Lisa has lost an hour of her life – I have lost two hours of mine.

That's Mr. Cross to You

Dear Darius or Selena,

I realise you have a job to do and that you’re just trying to create a safe and warm environment for me but the reason I’ve called you is because I have a problem with my Internet connection, mobile phone, cable, bank account or, more likely, all of the above. I haven’t called you to ask you over for dinner or out to a movie. I’m not enquiring as to the health or well being of your family, I have a problem that needs fixing, nothing more, nothing less.

I know this may seem harsh but I really don’t want to be your ‘bestest friend forever’, or even for the next fifteen minutes, what I want is for you to attend to and fix my problem.

Yes I am upset, because I had to press button two, three times, the 'hash' button four times and finally button one, twice, then listen to ten minutes of Andre Rieu, just to get this far and I did get upset that my call did not seem to progress in the line as quickly as I was led to believe. Yes of course I did mind holding but no, in the spirit of fair play, I don’t mind this phone call being recorded for coaching purposes.

However, there’s one thing that really does irritate me and that’s being asked by you, someone I’ve never met and in all probability never will, if you can call me by my first name. My name, until we have been formally introduced by a close mutual friend, (no Facebook friends do not count), and known each other for a much longer period of time, is Mr. Cross. I realise I’m older than you, grumpier than you and probably not as computer literate as you, however I have reached a stage in my life where I would like to be called ‘Mr. Cross”, and not ‘Peter’, by a twenty something who lives in Melbourne, Manilla or Macau; call me old fashioned. No, I didn’t mean that literally.

Please do not take this personally; it’s not meant as an insult. I know the chances of us ever speaking again are very limited so let’s not pretend there is any real connection between us. Oh I’m sure I will have to phone this number again and again and again and each time I will speak to a new and possibly chirpier Darius/Damian or Selena/ Serena but just for now, for the next few minutes that we’re together let’s pretend we’re not equals, let’s pretend you’re here to serve me, not in any inappropriate ‘master/slave’ kind of way either but rather as a customer and ‘retail facilitator’.

No I’m not meaning to be rude, truly I’m not.

Hello, hello … hello Darius ... Selena ... are you still there … don’t you dare hang up on me …?

Give Me Chaos Give Me Joy

A while ago I wrote a tongue in cheek piece for The Sydney Morning Herald called “I Hate Theatre”, which of course I clearly don’t. I love theatre; theatre at its very best can be the catalyst for great changes within our society. It can open up our minds, it can expand our consciousness and it can allow us to be transported away from our safe cosy world and explore other possibilities. Think of ‘Angels in America’ or ‘The Crucible’ or ‘Oh, What a Lovely War’. Even at its worst it will create discussion and provoke critical thought. All theatre will provoke some kind of emotive response.

Not all theatre needs to be a gut wrenching emotional roller coaster that leaves you an exhausted emotional basket case at the end of it. Some theatre can achieve it’s purpose in a much more gentle and surprising way. Theatre, today, is everywhere from proscenium arches to pubs, from stage to street and from arenas to alleyways. Theatre seems to be popping up in the most unusual places and when you least expect it.

As our lives become busier and more hectic we risk becoming more distant and isolated from each other, any sense of the ridiculousness of life and the things that once upon a time tickled our fancy until we cried tears of pure joy is removed and we become grim faced frowners who rush, head down, from home to office to gym to home. Every now and then we need to be taken out of the dull reality we surround ourselves with on a day to day basis. This is where this new version of spontaneous theatre has found a welcome niche and made us stop and smile, groups of actors, artists and everyday citizens are coming together to perform seemingly impromptu pieces in everyday situations.

In New York a group called ‘Improv Everywhere’ organise mini productions and places them in unusual and unexpected venues. They bring colour, light, comedy and spontaneity to alleviate the very humdrum day to day existence that so many of us fight through. Their reason for being is simple, they “cause chaos and joy in public places”. They have organised large groups of people to meet complete strangers at JFK Airport, performed musicals in a food court and in Grand Central Station, froze time for five minutes to the confusion of commuters.


In Antwerp, Belgium, another group decided that they should perform a number from 'The Sound of Music' in the main railway terminal of the city. Can you imagine the Austrians after a long hard day at the bank trying to catch their evening train home being confronted by a hundred citizens dancing to ‘Lets Start at the Very Beginning’ as Julie Andrews serenades them in English.




The internet has spread these performance pieces across the globe and more groups have been formed in some of the strangest of places. In 2008, in Russia, ‘Improv Everywhere’ were invited to collaborate with a local group and organise a ‘Sleep In’ at a furniture shop. Their mission was to enter the shop, pick various pieces of furniture, a couch or a chair and sleep. This caused no end of consternation of the sales woman until finally she called the Police and the performers were moved on ... after the organiser’s names and addresses were taken down. The Police didn’t charge them with any thing because they couldn’t clearly define what crime, if any, had taken place, which is just as well because I am sure that the Russian Police are not known for their sense of humour. It must have taken great courage for these people to do what they did.

Funnily enough when some of these events were tried in Sydney good old fashioned narrow mindedness raised its ugly head. A mass drawing of ‘Valentines Day Hearts’ at Taylor Square, Darlinghurst, where hundreds of people young and old, gay and straight, gathered on Valentines Day 2008 and with coloured chalk drew hearts and left messages of love on the pavement. In Sydney a city that prides itself on being progressive, enlightened and open to new things our city council responded promptly with street cleaners and hoses, within 12 hours they had erased all the evidence.

Don’t we all need a little chaos and joy in our life at some time ... especially when we least expect it?

Cafes, Toilets and Self Preservation

I was chatting to a friend the other day a fellow writer and we were trying to organise a time to meet up to go through a project she is working on, for some reason she values my flawed advice ... mad woman. We decided that we would meet at Forbes and Burton on Monday at 9.45. Handy for me, I live just around the corner - walking distance really - so naturally I drive, I like to do my bit for Global Warming. Her timing is perfect, I've an appointment at the Doctors at midday and luckily enough my Doctors is right next door to the Cafe. My Dentist, who I am seeing on Thursday, has rooms just up from my Doctors very near to Forbes and Burton, walking distance to my house. I realised that I don't travel very far these days.

There is a VERY good reason for it as well - read on if you dare.

My Facebook friend Jeffery Self, who I have never met but follow like a love struck Emo, says in one of his latest Blogs that he has a terror of wearing his 'grey skinny jeans' and what accidents may happen in and with them. He's always worried that any stray drop of water may leave a 'wet spot' and people will consider him tardy in his ablutions.

Well suck it up sister I say.

If you want terror try walking a metre in my Abercrombie and Fitches Bitches. I have a pathological terror of being caught short and needing to... well you know... do it ... no not that ... that. Yes, "that". So I plan every outing like a military invasion or more accurately 'evacuation'. I have been known to scour Google maps searching for restrooms, Cafes with conveniences and Gas Stations with facilities. I've taken to wearing the Bridget Jones underwear, tight and secure around the legs, just in case, (also they give me a bum). There's an image to take to bed with you tonight.

While we are on Cafes and Toilets - the other Cafe` I really like is at Perry Lane, it's a little space not much bigger than a lounge room. It's also used as an Art Gallery , for emerging local artists. It's run by the very beautiful and gentle Christopher and his Mother - it attracts a VERY groovy crowd ... and me. But here's the rub, their Toilet Facilities are located near the kitchen and very public ... not as public as the picture posted but public enough that I know that any sound made in that inner sanctum can and will be heard by not only the Chef but every fabulous fashionista sitting at the outdoor tables. I know that if I ever went to the aforementioned Loo I would be mocked, scorned and pointed at by all the bright young things of Paddington who sit with their Macs and smoke cigarettes while sipping a Fair Trade latte as they write their next Booker Prize winning novel. My friend, Hugo, says I should go in and try it ... make a noise and he will tell me honestly if he can hear any thing ... yeah right. As if I am going to place the last shreds of my dignity into the hands of one of my best friends. It's much easier to just write about it on here and not worry about the roll of the eyes as they sigh and say things like "get over yourself queen as if anyone is interested in what you do in a toilet any more".

Continuing the theme of my life lived through the pursuit of the perfect placement of public pissoirs - every year I do some little amount of Exam supervision for one of the 'better' schools in Sydney to supplement the HUGE amount of money I make writing *cough*, in the week leading up to it I always test drive the area and make sure that all the Restrooms I remember are still open and in working order. I check out where is best to park and how long it will take me to walk from my car to the school, I allow 5 minutes of leeway just in case I have to stop when crossing a road. Once or twice it has been touch and go. My (two) bosses there are very understanding.

Well that's probably enough about me and my bowels strolling down the avenue, oh wait that's not how the song goes.

Anyway it's Sunday and it's Sunday Brunch group meeting - I have to get there early to secure the table and make sure the toilets are working. If you made it this far thanks for reading if you haven't then boy did you miss a ride.