tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-168867252024-03-07T20:18:25.426+11:00twobluefishThere is funny shit everywhere... sometimes you just have to squint a little to see it.Lee Bemrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06707770188310080355noreply@blogger.comBlogger1196125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16886725.post-39274603223508830492020-03-30T13:53:00.000+11:002020-03-30T13:53:02.256+11:00Dear The Humans<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Dear The
Humans,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">You gave
me things to write about, with the funny things you did and said.
Your quirky nuances that I sometimes felt I was the only one to
notice and record. Your kindness sometimes melted my heart. The
broken ones, I saw you and loved you. The few of you who really saw
me, I loved you for that. Thank you. I hope you're all doing okay. I
miss you. Let's catch up again soon and you do your thing and I'll
write about you again and make you laugh or cry or just appreciate
some tiny little beautiful almost unnoticed thing.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Much
love,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Black
Rainbow.</span></div>
<br /></div>
Lee Bemrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06707770188310080355noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16886725.post-41751856707026723032020-03-16T14:30:00.002+11:002020-03-16T14:30:33.205+11:00A Word Of Advice<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Little dude - a word of advice. Don't go into hospitality.<br />
<br />
I will go into hospitality, but only as a back-up.<br />
<br />
A back-up. A back-up for...<br />
<br />
I really want to be a poet.<br />
<br />
Oh. Oh dear. You are so fucked.</div>
Lee Bemrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06707770188310080355noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16886725.post-38478079992582926252019-08-09T20:46:00.000+10:002019-08-09T21:01:39.196+10:00done with that<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
done<br />
<br />
i'm done<br />
with the bitter aftertaste<br />
of love<br />
i'm done with the fake notion<br />
of love<br />
im done with people who are incapable<br />
of accepting their faults<br />
i'm done with sarcasm<br />
and condescension<br />
and that ugly patronising tone<br />
you think is an argument<br />
it isn't<br />
i'm done with being looked down upon<br />
i know my faults<br />
i don't need you to point them out<br />
in such a condescending way<br />
point them out<br />
attack me<br />
savage me<br />
challenge me<br />
but do it with intellect<br />
and integrity<br />
and with the respect<br />
that i show you.<br />
<br /></div>
Lee Bemrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06707770188310080355noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16886725.post-46276710021801752892019-04-17T22:21:00.000+10:002020-01-10T14:56:40.223+11:00Fake Alpha<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Fake
Alpha<br /><br />Fiction<br /><br />by Lee Bemrose<br /><br /><br />When the plane
finally crashes, after all that drama and hysteria, when it finally
hits the ground and bounces and skids and bounces and turns sideways
and crumbles and burns and all the death starts to happen ... when
all of that is done and he is flung from the whole catastrophe, he
thinks wow. Just me. No one else. Just me. No one has ever done this
before... I'm like Jesus or something, rising from the ashes of that
bird or whatever it is. This is the best thing ever. No one has ever
done this before. This is a good thing.<br /><br />He turns his back on
the wreckage even though there are lives to be saved, and walks
across the sand, amazed at his good fortune. How great am I, he
thinks, how magnificent am I? Hugely magnificent, that's how
magnificent.<br /><br />It's a jungle. He sheds the ashes of his suit
because it's the jungle. How good is this? How primal is this? Just
me and my nakedness. Better enjoy it while I can, before they come
and get me. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><br /><br />He
stumbles through the trees into a clearing and stops, taking in the
heavy fug in the air. Monkeys, he thinks, great big monkeys.<br /><br />They
turn and look at him. One. Then another. And another. A whole
peaceful, wary tribe look at this naked, orange intruder. They take
in his repugnant scent. They will let him pass through if that is his
intention. Such ugliness has no place in their lives.<br /><br />A baby
gorilla recognises a kindred spirit and runs towards his new
play-friend.<br /><br />The bloated orange one smacks this insolent
infant in the side of the head. How dare you touch me you disgusting
thing! The child falls and his skull cracks as it hits a half-buried
stone.<br /><br />Nostrils flare. Postures straighten. <br /><br />He thinks
about running away, but those heel spurs, my long-forgotten heel
spurs. Also, don't you know who I am?<br /><br />They run at him, and
it's not those fake heel spurs that prevent him from running, it's
just fear. It's the fear of reality. Not fake or alternative reality;
just real reality. <br /><br />An actual alpha male tears the throat out
of this fake alpha male and spits the flesh out in disgust.<br /><br />Some
chest-beating happens, and that's okay, because suddenly the world is
a better place.</span></div>
<br /></div>
Lee Bemrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06707770188310080355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16886725.post-67804987934646555622019-03-18T16:09:00.001+11:002019-03-18T16:09:31.966+11:00The More I know, The Less I Understand<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I don't
understand anything. I devour so much information, but I don't
understand anything. I just don't get anything at all.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I don't
get religion. I'm just not religious. When I'm thinking logically, I
just don't believe in a God, a creator. The stories in the books made
up by men thousands of years ago, the division those stories have
created... the fact that people let these stories rule their lives
sometimes with violent consequences, I just don't get any of it.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">And yet
from time to time, walking through a quiet cemetery, looking at the
names in Poets Corner in Westminster, thinking of Gaudi sleeping in
his Sagrada Familia, I feel something. I don't know what it is, this
feeling. It's emotion. I was holding back tears in Westminster and
each time I've wandered awestruck in Gaudi's church, and I just don't
understand what it is. What is this feeling<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">?</span></span></span></span></span>
</span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I get
the same feeling watching a documentary about life, the universe and
everything. Invariably I find myself shaking my head thinking, I just
don't get it – what is it<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">?</span></span></span></span></span>
The universe is so vast and life is so mysterious that, you know, is
it so strange to blame it all on a great creator<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">?</span></span></span></span></span>
What is it all<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">?</span></span></span></span></span>
What is existence and where did it come from<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">?</span></span></span></span></span>
</span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">In
Indonesia a few years ago a guide told us, if anyone asks you about
your faith, just say you are a Christian because they simply won't
like it if you say you are atheist. I agreed that this is what I
would do, in this largely Islamic country, but I wondered why I
should have to lie. Why does it matter to someone else that I have a
different way of thinking to them<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">?</span></span></span></span></span>
</span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">On the
island of Lombok, I remember the palm trees and the cowbells and the
call to prayer. I felt peace. I felt their peace. They were praying
and, I presume, also feeling peace. It was pure and beautiful and
although I don't get religion, what harm was it doing to me<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">?</span></span></span></span></span>
If anything, their faith was giving them peace and on a superficial
level, it was giving me peace. I didn't understand the words being
sung in the call to prayer, but I respected the sound and the
sentiment and I guess yeah, I was touched by it.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Our
fruit and veg suppliers were Muslim. They used to call me brother. We
got to know each other, told each other our stories, had many laughs
and treated each other with kindness. I thought of my guide in Lombok
and wondered if I would have to lie to these guys about my beliefs. I
didn't think so. They called me brother every time and I thought I
don't care about your beliefs and my beliefs, if you call me brother,
that's good enough for me, we are brothers.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">If
someone wants to pray, if they need their rituals, we don't have to
understand it to accept it. We're all the same, we just have
different ideas, and that's totally fine.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">What I
really don't understand is why an extremist, fanatic coward unleashes
on a peaceful group peacefully going about their own business. I
don't get it. I don't understand anything at all.</span></div>
<br /></div>
Lee Bemrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06707770188310080355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16886725.post-50488022382374073782019-02-14T17:16:00.003+11:002019-02-14T17:16:35.548+11:00Thespian<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Recently
at my Responsible Service Of Alcohol course... I hate these things. I
hate any form of structured learning. I'm just shit at it. Always
have been. I was shit at skool which is why I left at age 16. The
skool thing was a joke, by the way. I know how to spel.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">So
anyway. Came to a point where we were told we had to role play.
Confrontation situation where a drunk customer wanted another drink
and the bar person had to refuse in the right way. I turned around to
my team of two travelers, banged my palm down on the table and said,
Giz a farking drink ya bastard.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">The very
polite Indian guy who was, in my mind, playing the bar tender, looked
confused and asked my what I was doing.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Role
playing. Like we were told to do. You're the responsible bar tender,
I'm a drunk customer, and this French guy is the best man at my
buck's night, so you know, Give us some fucking drinks ya prick.
Another palm slapped down on the table. I was really getting into
this. The Indian guy and the French guy, not so much. They just
looked a bit confused.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I made
the Indian guy play his role. The French guy was just silent, but
that was okay because he was my best man and I was the belligerent
one who had to be dealt with. There was conversational noise going on
all around us. I looked around at the conclusion of our role playing
bit and realised that absolutely no one else had done the role
playing thing. They were just chatting. Even the instructor - who I
had been expecting to be wandering through the room and taking notes,
was just talking to a group about their travels.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">I turned
back to my Indian bartender and my French best man. Shit, I said
sheepishly, sorry about that.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<br /></div>
Lee Bemrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06707770188310080355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16886725.post-34231690253620792642018-12-03T15:49:00.000+11:002018-12-03T15:56:33.035+11:00The Colourful And Curly Ride Of A Loser's Life.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I never thought I'd be this old. I look back and from this viewpoint, I thought I'd be dead already. Yet, here I am. In spite of my destructive ways, in spite of my hardcore partying days, I'm still, disappointingly, resolutely, reluctantly, still here.<br />
<br />
So convinced was I that I would never make it to old age that I have never followed through with anything. One golden relationship, yes, but nothing else. No other life passions. Well yes, I am passionate about many things. My interests are infinite and ever increasing, fractals and kaleidoscopes of things and things and things of interest.<br />
<br />
But career-wise, work-wise, nothing has sustained me. Why study one thing and devote your life to it when there are so many things. I admire people who can do this. I understand that this is the secret to success, but I have been completely incapable of doing it.<br />
<br />
No formal qualifications and I've masqueraded as a chef, one time standing between Guilliame Brahini and Matt Moran at the Sydney Opera House, they having earned their chef outfits, mine merely a costume. I've been a magazine editor, freelance writer, interviewer of famous musicians and comedians, writers and actors. I've won a national award for my short fiction, been included in writing for academics and popular writers alike, have reviewed so much theatre as though I'm some kind of authority on all things drama. When in fact I'm just a bum on a seat who loves the magic of theatre.<br />
<br />
But for all that, I am unqualified. I have no pieces of paper, and for the longest time this seemed to me life's ultimate joke. How the hell did I do this... how the hell did I get myself into this... how is it that I am coaching and teaching newbies in the way of coffee and seeing them go off into the world and become respected baristas in foreign lands... how... squint... how did that happen... how...<br />
<br />
Now, however, it bites me in the arse, this lack of qualification. I am a journeyman. Knower of lots, expert at nothing.<br />
<br />
I am old, unemployed, and seemingly unemployable. Looking back, what a colourful and curly ride it was. I think I just needed to have jumped off before now.</div>
Lee Bemrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06707770188310080355noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16886725.post-55303251645038065242018-11-17T22:45:00.003+11:002018-11-17T22:45:42.643+11:00When You Are A Loser<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
When you accept that you have lost at life, it gets easier after that.</div>
Lee Bemrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06707770188310080355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16886725.post-85801954503889317452018-11-17T21:18:00.000+11:002018-11-17T22:42:47.649+11:00Once Upon A Time In A Banged Up Little Cafe<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_s3Zchl8r-SbSYquB3K6DOw2kY7sUgINYv4LNUsesUlDVaqKIJC2BSgr-6_xjmFMN-fg-ZO9DRmkR3spVeGgoa4MINjQ5P29bmivrWPGPgYoBxUHvDrGMdAC74_TKUfU1r6XD0g/s1600/lee+and+jodie+2018.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_s3Zchl8r-SbSYquB3K6DOw2kY7sUgINYv4LNUsesUlDVaqKIJC2BSgr-6_xjmFMN-fg-ZO9DRmkR3spVeGgoa4MINjQ5P29bmivrWPGPgYoBxUHvDrGMdAC74_TKUfU1r6XD0g/s320/lee+and+jodie+2018.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
I had so much love from so many random encounters this late in my life, largely because of the now-closed cafe. This is one of them. It's Jodie, Ann's helper who finally I had the chance to work with more closely front of house. Man, the laughs. Such a wonderful co-worker. Such a great friend. Such a beautiful encounter. I have been lucky enough to have had many such wonderful encounters, all unique, all kinda loving and amazing. I feel so much gratitude for these random encounters that have meant so much to me. Thank you, Universe, you have been kind to me.</div>
Lee Bemrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06707770188310080355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16886725.post-7449303210648190032018-11-17T12:57:00.002+11:002018-11-17T12:57:28.659+11:00Making Contact With An Angry Stranger<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Just had one of those public transport experiences you sometimes hear about, and I feel emotionally overwhelmed. Guy gets into a crowded tram in track pants and no shirt. Nuggety guy, clearly in trouble, anger oozing out all over the place. He's right next to me, muttering and clenching his fists. I just watch him, wondering what we're dealing with here. Suddenly he takes a wild swing and punches the perspex divider between the seats and the stairs. People jump up and scream. I more or less know what I'm dealing with now, and I put my hand on his shoulder and ask him, hey buddy - what's up. He tells me women, man, women will fuck you up. He smashes his head into the perspex divider, and I can hear the zen in my voice as I tell him, don't do that, don't hurt yourself. He looks at me, we have eye contact. Okay. Don't let them fuck you up, I tell him. He waits for me to elaborate. I'm so calm as I tell him, stay calm and strong in your mind and don't let anyone fuck you up. He softens and asks me what I do for work. I tell him that I make coffee for people and I make them happy and I like making people happy because making people happy is such a cool thing. He tells me I am a cool dude, bro, and we have the first of several handshakes, and we exchange names. We talk some more about our plans for the night. He lashes out again at the door. I tell him seriously mate, stop hurting yourself, it's not worth it. We talk some more and he gets off the tram, asking for my name again. He points at me and tells me, thanks bro. I sit down in the crowded silent tram, and then I just start to feel overwhelmed by what just happened. I just wanted the guy to stop hurting himself. I don't think he was going to hurt anyone else, but who knows. I'm alone on this crowded, now silent tram, processing what just happened. And then all this fucking beauty happened. As people left the tram, they came over to thank me. Thank you for doing that. Thank you. You handled that really well, thank you for keeping us all safe. So yeah, feeling a little emotionally overwhelmed right now.</span></div>
Lee Bemrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06707770188310080355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16886725.post-17859540137376003182018-11-10T17:41:00.000+11:002018-11-10T17:41:10.991+11:00St Julian And Hospitality.<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="e9tkh" data-offset-key="8bd06-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="8bd06-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="8bd06-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Not much humour going on in Lee's head at the moment, but I did think this was funny... I just sent a poem off to a mag and at the end of the bio I said that I'd like to thank St Hospo, patron saint of hospitality, for supporting my less than impressive writing career. Then I googled patron saint of hospitality and found out about St Julian. 'St. Julian the Hospitaller is also the patron saint of clowns and circus workers, innkeepers, fiddle players, jugglers, childless people, and murderers.'</span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="e9tkh" data-offset-key="791h5-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="791h5-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="791h5-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;"><br data-text="true" /></span></div>
</div>
<div class="" data-block="true" data-editor="e9tkh" data-offset-key="6vrs-0-0" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
<div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="6vrs-0-0" style="direction: ltr; font-family: inherit; position: relative;">
<span data-offset-key="6vrs-0-0" style="font-family: inherit;">Yairp, that's hospitality.</span></div>
</div>
</div>
Lee Bemrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06707770188310080355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16886725.post-61851392286489677392018-10-23T19:16:00.001+11:002018-10-23T19:16:28.586+11:00Angel Whisper<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The tassels at the back of my beanie <br />
touch my neck<br />
like an angel's fingertip's<br />
gentle caress<br />
and the angel tells me<br />
it's okay, it's okay</div>
Lee Bemrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06707770188310080355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16886725.post-2334052037852043762018-08-04T14:17:00.002+10:002018-08-04T14:17:41.347+10:00I Cried<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Today in the cafe... it was a good day. Busy, but more importantly, many laughs were had. I can't express how fortunate I feel to be working with the current Team Awesome. Ari and Jodie are amazing humans. It's really sad to think that our paths might never have crossed, given that I can't imagine them not being in my life.<br />
<br />
At the end of this beautiful day, an older guy comes into the cafe. He's on the phone organising coffee for other people. He says into the phone - yes, that's where I am now. Does Veronica want a chocolate brownie too? No? All good then. See you soon.<br />
<br />
He orders three coffees and the chocolate brownie. I think it's a bit odd that he's wearing sunglasses on this overcast day.<br />
<br />
As I make the coffees he tells me brightly, "Your coffee is highly rated by my daughter. She loves your coffee. She thinks you're the best barista in the area."<br />
<br />
Naturally I'm happy to hear this and ask who his daughter is, thinking she must be a regular, maybe one I know by name.<br />
<br />
"Oh, we've been in here a couple of times." His tone suggests I wouldn't remember them. Not regulars then. "My daughter is in hospital."<br />
<br />
I keep glancing at him in the mirror, trying to remember. There is something there, but those sunglasses make it difficult. Then it comes to me.<br />
<br />
"Have you both been in her exactly twice? And did you sit at that table by the door both times?"<br />
<br />
He smiles at me. "Yes, that's us."<br />
<br />
I remember them clearly now. They made an impression. They struck me as a loving father and daughter. I remember her plain beauty and something about her presence, her vibe. She seemed to me to be enthusiastic and appreciative. I remember her mentioning hospital and thinking she doesn't seem to have any injuries and seemed in good health. Maybe she was referring to someone else, I thought at the time.<br />
<br />
Back in the present, I asked the man if his daughter is okay.<br />
<br />
"Well... yes," he says through sunglasses clearly not worn as protection against the glare. "She has mental health issues that she has to be hospitalised for sometimes."<br />
<br />
"Ah. I'm sorry to hear that. I do remember you both. She seems like a lovely person."<br />
<br />
"Oh you got that right. Lovely person." In that tone, I can feel the love. "There's just this thing we have to deal with. We just have to get through it."<br />
<br />
The transaction done, I tell him that I hope his daughter is okay and that I hope he is okay. I tell him to take care. He thanks me with a smile and leaves the cafe.<br />
<br />
I close the door and... I don't know exactly what it is... the fact there is so much care and love about him or the fact that he is doing this mundane thing like buying coffee and sweets before returning to whatever it is that they have to get through, but watching this basically very decent, loving, gentle old man cross the road, it breaks me. Alone in my banged up little cafe, I just cry. I really fucking cry.<br />
<br /></div>
Lee Bemrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06707770188310080355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16886725.post-86055704314412939382018-07-31T20:14:00.000+10:002018-07-31T20:20:31.561+10:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
If you are passionate<br />
I will celebrate your passion.<br />
If you re compassionate,<br />
I will rejoice in your compassion.<br />
If you are simple and kind<br />
I will embrace your simple kindness.<br />
If you give,<br />
I will give.<br />
If you take,<br />
I will give.<br />
If you love me,<br />
I will love you.<br />
<br />
If you are obnoxious <br />
and hurt my friends<br />
One day<br />
I might forgive you.</div>
Lee Bemrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06707770188310080355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16886725.post-42643999963354419242018-07-12T21:45:00.000+10:002018-10-15T16:41:12.631+11:00Venom & Grace<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Public announcement<br />
of private thoughts<br />
accusations claiming <br />
grace over venomous voice.<br />
<br />
Venomous voice was mute<br />
until graceless actions<br />
awakened dark voice<br />
judging, judging<br />
accurately.<br />
<br />
But "Grace" is righteously claimed<br />
in this public place.<br />
but in another <br />
private place<br />
hey my boobs my boobs my fun boobs<br />
my boyfriends dick in your face.<br />
<br />
Grace.<br />
<br />
I give to you my venom.<br />
I take from you<br />
your utter lack <br />
of grace.<br />
<br /></div>
Lee Bemrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06707770188310080355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16886725.post-91382802644094578652018-05-25T23:10:00.000+10:002018-08-28T20:52:56.913+10:00Boo<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Out of the tangled ancient<br />
history of humanity,<br />
with my distant ancestors<br />
and your distant ancestors<br />
here we are,<br />
me and you, <br />
here in this modern place.<br />
<br />
We talk of the days<br />
and the days,<br />
and the days <br />
of mundane things,<br />
and eventually we talk<br />
of the meaningful things.<br />
<br />
The things that are really important to us<br />
right now.<br />
<br />
Did you read that poem?<br />
Did read that short story<br />
Who is your favourite writer?<br />
Did you see that movie?<br />
Did you write that story<br />
Did you write that poem?<br />
Did you do that thing?<br />
<br />
Did I mention,<br />
how much I like talking to you?<br />
And listening to you,<br />
you with your distant ancestors,<br />
and me with my distant ancestors,<br />
here and now,<br />
in this modern place.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Lee Bemrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06707770188310080355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16886725.post-68554790002191953782018-05-12T17:46:00.001+10:002018-05-14T19:47:29.305+10:00Today In The Cafe... You Never Regret Kindness<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px;">
Today in the cafe... An older couple came into the cafe just after the kitchen had technically closed. They wanted some hot food. They liked the look of the soup. Sometimes you get a feeling about people, they just need some soup and a warm and quiet place to sit. I said yeah, sure, of course we're still open. The husband thanked me and apologised, saying they would have been here three hours earlier, but they had been stuck in St Vincent's Hospital. They loved the soup. I do<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">n't know their story, but I do know they needed that soup and that time out in a quiet and warm place more than I needed to go home.</span></div>
<div class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">
<div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px;">
Short time later, a paramedic walks in, clearly ready to walk back out again because clearly, we are closed.</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Are you closed? she asks.</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Yes we are closed, I tell her, but what were you after?</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Just a couple of coffees...</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
An imploring look.</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Of course I can do you a couple of coffees.</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
She was so grateful because, she told me, she had had such a busy day and had been trying to get coffee for most of the day but just didn't get the chance.</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
A paramedic's busy day isn't quite the same as a barista's busy day.</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
I was happy to end the day on two acts of kindness, because as a friend just pointed out, you never regret kindness.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Lee Bemrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06707770188310080355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16886725.post-29547959222869034422018-05-10T19:38:00.001+10:002018-05-10T19:38:31.767+10:00Almost Face To Face, Stephen House At Butterfly Club, Review<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglNpPgZrIvhH_Qcw01kW1m3yEEXA1L1bb3z7lX2N_cGaQ2b-XqNOW_7bHJQI5Vaz4LRNVKqf_SzESXhgbtIoW7eMJE8tu4XKPoT7f13zv_dxixUeATGnhMJevn6fwFB7I-rYowjw/s1600/TBC-Stephen-House-Almost-Face-To-Face.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="310" data-original-width="630" height="157" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglNpPgZrIvhH_Qcw01kW1m3yEEXA1L1bb3z7lX2N_cGaQ2b-XqNOW_7bHJQI5Vaz4LRNVKqf_SzESXhgbtIoW7eMJE8tu4XKPoT7f13zv_dxixUeATGnhMJevn6fwFB7I-rYowjw/s320/TBC-Stephen-House-Almost-Face-To-Face.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif;">Almost
Face To Face<br /><br />Reviewed by Lee Bemrose<br /><br /><br /><br />It's
difficult to determine who the real star is in this piece; the
exquisite writing, or the equally perfect performance. That both are
the work of the same person... truly impressive stuff.<br /><br />Almost
Face To Face is a one hour dramatic monologue – just one raw man on
a bare stage - by master of the form Stephen House. It recounts his
stories of his time in Dublin, living with an overweight
prostitute/landlord. Don't be mistaken, these are stories of
fringe-dwellers, the truly down and out, the broken ones we see on
the periphery of our comfortable lives. Prostitution, drug addiction,
alcoholism, sex with strangers... it's all here, and it all feels so
very, unflinchingly real.<br /><br />Using the word exquisite when
dealing with such subject matter might seem odd, but the writing of
these gritty stories is absolutely exquisite. At times the monologues
actually morph into poetry, a form I suspect Stephen House enjoys
quite a lot. There is tenderness at times in the words, sometimes
sadness, often anger.<br /><br />And the delivery is equally
well-executed. As a performer, Mr House has an impressive range. He
can be a gentle soul, a weary soul, a broken soul and an angry soul
all in a very short time. Sometimes as he prowls the tiny stage at
The Butterfly club, so real is his passion that you may find yourself
in goosebumps.<br /><br />There is an authenticity to Stephen's work that
makes them important works we should pay attention to. In a review of
another of his pieces (Appalling Behaviour, which is referenced in
this piece), I think I said he gives a voice to those fringe dwellers
we never really interact with. The fact that he has lived much of his
material and is so eloquently able to share such gritty stories with
us – and indeed that he is so willing to do so – is theatrically
and personally impressive. If you're open to this kind of thing,
you'll find yourself in a gentle state of awe, and you'll probably
feel a sense of gratitude.<br /><br />Not all is gutter and grime. There
is actually much humour, in these stories of these broken humans.
There are a few chuckle-out-loud moments, but there are many other
moments where something is so tragically fucked up and kind of funny
that rather than laugh, your heart melts. It's so funny, you'll
think, but so fucking sad.<br /><br />If you get out of your comfortable
home for just one performance this week, make it this one. I promise,
you will feel enriched.<br /><br /><b><i>At The Butterfly Club until 12th May 2018. Touring to other capitals afterwards.</i></b></span><br />
</div>
<br /></div>
Lee Bemrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06707770188310080355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16886725.post-77835014481723679892018-04-28T11:13:00.000+10:002018-04-28T11:13:54.499+10:00Writing, Frustration & Solitude<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Why wanting/needing to write - or indulge in any other creative endeavour - is frustrating...<br /><br />You work a long week, 50 hours or more dealing with people and people and people, when you are a poster-boy introvert. But you cope and if you're good at it, no one really knows just how much you crave solitude. You enjoy the interaction, when you enjoy it, and you love some of the humans and want to look after the broken ones, but through it all you look forward to some solitude and reflection.<br /><br />But the weekend comes and someone has a thing, let's catch up for a thing, some drinks, a meal, a barbecue in the backyard or a party in the bush. And you like these things, but you don't get the chance to be solitary and reflective during the working week, and you certainly can't do it when you're socialising, so when? You're tired at the end of a 10 hour day, you're tired at the end of a fifty hour week, and you're accused of being antisocial if you don't want to catch up with friends on the weekend. Catching up with friends is what they do for their not-working time. At the end of a long working week filled with humans and their wonder and their weirdness, some of us want to be alone and just write a poem.<br /><br />But we have to catch up. Must catch up. We must socialise and socialise and socialise and talk about things.<br /><br />Leaving no time for reflection and imagination.</div>
Lee Bemrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06707770188310080355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16886725.post-28770262682795089162018-04-27T22:31:00.000+10:002018-10-15T16:45:28.303+11:00A Silly Poem That Is Actually Quite Sad<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
I Love Silly Poetry Because</div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
I love it when<br />
You write a poem late at night,<br />
And it's shit as pooh,<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;"><br />And so you go fuck it</span></div>
<div class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; display: inline; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">
<div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px;">
And you think you deleted it,<br />
But didn't,<br />
And in the morning<br />
You're all fuck me...<br />
Seriously?<br />
What?<br />
Wot?<br />
Wut?<br />
WTF?</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
And then you don't even know what poetry is because really what is it? But you notice this line is waaaaaaay longer than the other lines of the really short lines of this fucked up and fucked up and this fucked up poem.</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Yewp.<br />
And that friend you thought<br />
Knew you so well<br />
Who never existed,<br />
She tells you there there,</div>
<div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
I really love that.</div>
</div>
</div>
Lee Bemrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06707770188310080355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16886725.post-61185946422475672082018-04-27T22:29:00.002+10:002018-04-27T22:29:25.377+10:00Almost Alone<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
All the good ones leave, <br />They are travellers<br />And adventurers<br />And just the most<br />Beautiful souls,<br />Who by their nature,<br />Drift,<br />And drift<br /><br />They always leave,<br />They always leave,<br />
And he is left<br />
Almost alone.</div>
Lee Bemrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06707770188310080355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16886725.post-1594164490070492352018-03-31T19:37:00.000+11:002018-04-02T08:06:21.691+10:00Finnish, First Reading<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkxce2qiUSOLGBz_-2mmHLzYjPbVDVu6QyZaA2dMnC_JIJyDNGee8-rPz_VU1C5XFKnFTyFYE4PmlgMd5r2ifD6gcUqdevD4keIIJDUtpe1SCPu294Bf-1uo70pmZNmlhbfxlhoA/s1600/finnish+reading+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="480" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkxce2qiUSOLGBz_-2mmHLzYjPbVDVu6QyZaA2dMnC_JIJyDNGee8-rPz_VU1C5XFKnFTyFYE4PmlgMd5r2ifD6gcUqdevD4keIIJDUtpe1SCPu294Bf-1uo70pmZNmlhbfxlhoA/s320/finnish+reading+1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
So. I wrote a play, and here we are, me between two talented theatre people who apparently liked the script enough to want to help out, and in front of a few friends who were curious enough to come along to the cafe to hear the thing. I was only reading because the guy organised to read couldn't make it and I had no time to find someone else. Was I nervous? I've never read a damned thing of mine in public, so yes, I was a little bit nervous, especially as I've seen and reviewed the stage performances of the two people either side of me, and as performers, they are a little bit awesome. Pretty fucking awesome, actually.<br />
<br />
It was quite a strange experience. The two words I kept repeating as my mantra when writing were Personal, Universal.<br />
<br />
Meaning that I want it to feel so very personal, which it is. But I want it to have universal appeal, which I think it does. There is much truth and honesty in the subject matter, but also some fiction. It's three dialogues between three people, none of which ever happened. The essence though, the essence of the dialogues, is so very real.<br />
<br />
It was strange that I ended up doing the reading. I know I wasn't of the calibre of Dayna and Steph, but I think I did okay. There was a funny moment for me... my character reads a very short story to another character, and I was so focused on the lines I was reading at the moment that I forgot about this part. This short story, Love You, See You Soon, it always fucks with me emotionally. Oh no, I thought, this story is coming up...<br />
<br />
My character got to the story, and he let go. I let go. I read one of my most emotional short stories to a small audience with enough feeling to bring tears to the eyes of some of those listening, but without tearing up myself. I don't know what happened there, but I was relieved. A little bit of magic happened.<br />
<br />
What happens next with the play? I don't know. I've entered it into a thing and it would be nice if it won that thing, but I have to be realistic and think about what to do if it doesn't do well in the thing.<br />
<br />
Yesterday morning I woke up anxious and depressed and thought fuck it, we did the reading and that was fun, I'm done with this play. Then I watched the recording a friend had made of it, and I was back. In the recording, there was more laughter than I remembered, because I was focused on the reading. I think the drama works too. Watching Steph when she was not reading, her face and her giggles were like a barometer of what was going on in the play.<br />
<br />
I don't know what happens next. Other than I know I have to start writing the next play.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
Lee Bemrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06707770188310080355noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16886725.post-23189125827651578222018-03-15T20:11:00.000+11:002018-03-15T20:14:38.778+11:00Q & A With Tilly Legge, Lightning Jar's Venus In Fur<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw7-_EtZQ6I2aLY6PYcUFk8vuhF_IVwtvdfQRCdM5GIhXrZn-obxb7xp5wj34DenwsgB73YmxX2yOnLtyg4OjB5Hjkmwqx-Y0YY0ozEbzPOV_WOOowQtYmdXdWKOy3HULmK9kAig/s1600/david-ives-venus-in-fur-darcy-kent-kirsten-von-bib1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="662" data-original-width="440" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw7-_EtZQ6I2aLY6PYcUFk8vuhF_IVwtvdfQRCdM5GIhXrZn-obxb7xp5wj34DenwsgB73YmxX2yOnLtyg4OjB5Hjkmwqx-Y0YY0ozEbzPOV_WOOowQtYmdXdWKOy3HULmK9kAig/s320/david-ives-venus-in-fur-darcy-kent-kirsten-von-bib1.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN"><br /><br />TILLY
LEGGE<br />
<br />
By Lee Bemrose<br />
<br />
Lightning Jar Theatre is a newish independent theatre company based in
Melbourne.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their current production is
Venus In Fur by American playwright David Ives. It’s a play within a play,
based on an apparently fictional novella from the late 19<sup>th</sup> Century,
which as it turned out was more autobiographical than author Leopold von
Sacher-Masoch might have wanted readers to believe, as well as giving us the
word masochism. Australian Stage caught up with Lightning Jar’s Tilly Legge as
she takes on the commanding and demanding role of Vanda.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 112.5pt;">
<span lang="EN"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN">How
long has Lightning Jar Theatre been around and how did it come into being?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">Lightning Jar Theatre was formed in 2016 by
Hannah Greenwood, Dylan Watson and myself. We wanted to create more of the sort
of theatre that we want to see. It had kinda been on the cards for the three of
us for some time, it was just a matter of waiting for the right play to present
itself.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN">I
understand lightning jars are a vessel for preserving fruit... how did this
become the company name?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">It’s a subtle reference to a line in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Dreamer Examines His Pillow</i> by John
Patrick Shanley. The lead character Donna is trying to explain the emotions she
feels raging inside her; she says to her ex-boyfriend, “There’s lightning
screwed in a jar in here!”. We thought the image was great and represents what
we love seeing on stage! It’s also an homage to how Dylan and Hannah met; they
worked together on this play for an acting masterclass back in 2012.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN">What is
your role at Lightning Jar?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">We’re all the co-artistic directors. It’s a
very collaborative effort. All responsibilities are shared between the three of
us.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN">What's
Lightning Jar's mission statement or ethos?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">We want to create theatre that is exciting,
fresh, moving & entertaining. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">We want to celebrate writers, new & old. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">We want to make you feel, make you forget,
make you shift uncomfortably in your seat, make you laugh.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">We want to be the reason people see more
theatre. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN">How
many plays have you produced so far?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">This is our second show, following Aaron
Posner’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Stupid Fucking Bird</i> in 2017.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN">Stupid
Fucking Bird was a wonderfully engaging production. What aspects of that play
attracted you to it.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN">We loved its irreverence and at the same time
deep respect for the source material - The Seagull by Anton Chekhov. It was a
modern look at a classic, brimming with humour and pathos but also full of
heart. It also had quite a lot of direct address to the audience which really
brought the audience into the world of the characters. The metatheatrical
elements of the play meant we could get away with some things that we may not
have been able to with a more conventional script, especially from a budgeting
perspective! We were honestly so surprised no-one had done it in Australia yet.
It had so many successful runs in the US and we just felt we’d hit a gold mine
when we came across it. It’s really one of those plays where an audience will
have a good laugh and then WHAM! Hit right in the feels.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN">And the
new production Venus In... actually, before we get to that, Venus In Fur or
Venus In Furs? I'm confused. Please unconfuse me.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN">Venus in
Fur</span></i><span lang="EN"> (2010) by David Ives is about a
playwright/director who’s adapted the book <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Venus
in Fur </i>(1870) Leopold von Sacher-Masoch for the stage. There’s a bit of
translation debate about whether the title to the original book <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> plural or singular. Our version is
plural but the one they talk about is the play is singular. Go figure!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN">Right.
So Venus In Fur – what drew Lightning Jar to this particular play?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN">It’s pretty simple really; Venus in Fur is a
great script. There’s a reason it was the most performed play in America in
2012/2013 - It’s an absolute cracker! It’s funny, it’s clever, it’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">incredibly</i> topical. The three of us are
actors but we don’t want to choose plays just because there’s a role in it we
want to play. It’s got to be a great story that deserves an audience.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN">Is the
play simply fun or is it deep and making a statement?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN">It’s a bit of both really. Ives’ plays are
always so whip-smart and he writes great dialogue; we joke that he’s (Aaron)
Sorkin on Stage. It’s certainly entertaining but it does take the audience to a
place they didn’t expect. Not only have all our audiences so far stayed seated
for a few minutes after curtain to absorb what’s happened, they’re often then
rushing out together to have prolonged discussions about what takes place. It’s
great to make the audience think like that and want to discuss the play’s
themes long into the night. We were heading out after a show one night last
week and ran into a group of audience members at a bar that were doing just
that!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN">I can't
help thinking about the subject matter of the play and the current climate of
sex and power play in Hollywood and indeed politics and culture generally. Is
the play an observation or comment of what's going on now?</span></b><span lang="EN"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN">Well... it is, but it really is coincidental.
The play was written in 2010 so not as a direct response to recent developments
in the industry, although certainly it seems influenced by what many people knew
occurred in the business but didn’t want to discuss. There have been jokes
about the “casting couch” and what that implies that we’ve all heard, but as
they say, there’s truth to every joke. Clearly Ives had his finger on the
pulse! What’s occurred to us during rehearsals is how different a production of
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Venus</i> may have looked like back when
it was written compared to what we’re creating here. There has to be a certain
amount of attention paid to themes that may not have been 8 years ago.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN">Leading
up to opening night, what was the vibe like at rehearsals?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN">So nervous and excited! Previews were such a
great way for us to warm to having an audience. We feel we’re in a great place
to have some packed houses!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN">How do
Tilly and Vanda get along with each other? What does each of you think of the
other?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN">Vanda is an absolute firecracker - great fun
at a party. Just don’t make her mad! What does she think of me? Well hopefully
she thinks I’m doing her justice!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN">We
should come and see Venus In Fur because...<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN">You’ll be thoroughly entertained – by the end
of the play, once you get over the initial dumbstruck stupor that most people
seem to experience, you’ll be busting to grab a drink and discuss what you just
saw. “So does that mean that she-?” And “So was it really…?”<br /><br /><i><b>Season runs at 45 Downstairs, 45 Flinders Lane, Melbourne until March 24.</b></i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Lee Bemrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06707770188310080355noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16886725.post-64504738840876450042018-02-09T21:03:00.001+11:002018-02-09T22:24:13.978+11:00Marciano & Ananas<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfh41q2Ozmv3JAFlLtJKS163EJ-53GI3F_26VmuhOPOl3KnfGvw8G0Dd297fLX8i9Uub5sLnXd4f5LKSeyFQFDCr-GKr006JL5nD1CvygybDvwEfsmQhyvYj9SAXSZ22aaGJzcWw/s1600/marciano+%2526+Anana.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfh41q2Ozmv3JAFlLtJKS163EJ-53GI3F_26VmuhOPOl3KnfGvw8G0Dd297fLX8i9Uub5sLnXd4f5LKSeyFQFDCr-GKr006JL5nD1CvygybDvwEfsmQhyvYj9SAXSZ22aaGJzcWw/s320/marciano+%2526+Anana.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Yet again, another friend and kindred spirit leaves me. I love this human. I enjoyed our brief time together so much. Marciano is sunshine. Every minute spent with her, it was a pretty perfect minute. There just weren't enough of them.<br />
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Lee Bemrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06707770188310080355noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16886725.post-29878215888816124102018-01-25T22:12:00.000+11:002018-01-25T22:12:54.642+11:00One By One<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Today's happy thought: We are all going to die. But not all together. Our deaths will happen slowly and sadly, one by one.</div>
Lee Bemrosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06707770188310080355noreply@blogger.com0