The Colourful And Curly Ride Of A Loser's Life.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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...

Now, however, it bites me in the arse, this lack of qualification. I am a journeyman. Knower of lots, expert at nothing.

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.

When You Are A Loser

When you accept that you have lost at life, it gets easier after that.

Once Upon A Time In A Banged Up Little Cafe

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.

Making Contact With An Angry Stranger

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.

St Julian And Hospitality.

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.'

Yairp, that's hospitality.

Angel Whisper

The tassels at the back of my beanie
touch my neck
like an angel's fingertip's
gentle caress
and the angel tells me
it's okay, it's okay

I Cried

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.

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.

He orders three coffees and the chocolate brownie. I think it's a bit odd that he's wearing sunglasses on this overcast day.

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."

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.

"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."

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.

"Have you both been in her exactly twice? And did you sit at that table by the door both times?"

He smiles at me. "Yes, that's us."

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.

Back in the present, I asked the man if his daughter is okay.

"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."

"Ah. I'm sorry to hear that. I do remember you both. She seems like a lovely person."

"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."

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.

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.

If you are passionate
I will celebrate your passion.
If you re compassionate,
I will rejoice in your compassion.
If you are simple and kind
I will embrace your simple kindness.
If you give,
I will give.
If you take,
I will give.
If you love me,
I will love you.

If you are obnoxious
and hurt my friends
One day
I might forgive you.

Venom & Grace

Public announcement
of private thoughts
accusations claiming
grace over venomous voice.

Venomous voice was mute
until graceless actions
awakened dark voice
judging, judging
accurately.

But "Grace" is righteously claimed
in this public place.
but in another
private place
hey my boobs my boobs my fun boobs
my boyfriends dick in your face.

Grace.

I give to you my venom.
I take from you
your utter lack
of grace.

Boo

Out of the tangled ancient
history of humanity,
with my distant ancestors
and your distant ancestors
here we are,
me and you,
here in this modern place.

We talk of the days
and the days,
and the days
of mundane things,
and eventually we talk
of the meaningful things.

The things that are really important to us
right now.

Did you read that poem?
Did read that short story
Who is your favourite writer?
Did you see that movie?
Did you write that story
Did you write that poem?
Did you do that thing?

Did I mention,
how much I like talking to you?
And listening to you,
you with your distant ancestors,
and me with my distant ancestors,
here and now,
in this modern place.

Today In The Cafe... You Never Regret Kindness

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 don'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.

Short time later, a paramedic walks in, clearly ready to walk back out again because clearly, we are closed.

Are you closed? she asks.

Yes we are closed, I tell her, but what were you after?

Just a couple of coffees...

An imploring look.

Of course I can do you a couple of coffees.

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.

A paramedic's busy day isn't quite the same as a barista's busy day.

I was happy to end the day on two acts of kindness, because as a friend just pointed out, you never regret kindness.

Almost Face To Face, Stephen House At Butterfly Club, Review

Almost Face To Face

Reviewed by Lee Bemrose



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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

If you get out of your comfortable home for just one performance this week, make it this one. I promise, you will feel enriched.

At The Butterfly Club until 12th May 2018. Touring to other capitals afterwards.

Writing, Frustration & Solitude

Why wanting/needing to write - or indulge in any other creative endeavour - is frustrating...

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.

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.

But we have to catch up. Must catch up. We must socialise and socialise and socialise and talk about things.

Leaving no time for reflection and imagination.

A Silly Poem That Is Actually Quite Sad

I Love Silly Poetry Because

I love it when
You write a poem late at night,
And it's shit as pooh,
And so you go fuck it

And you think you deleted it,
But didn't,
And in the morning
You're all fuck me...
Seriously?
What?
Wot?
Wut?
WTF?

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.

Yewp.
And that friend you thought
Knew you so well
Who never existed,
She tells you there there,

I really love that.

Almost Alone

All the good ones leave,
They are travellers
And adventurers
And just the most
Beautiful souls,
Who by their nature,
Drift,
And drift

They always leave,
They always leave,
And he is left
Almost alone.

Finnish, First Reading

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.

It was quite a strange experience. The two words I kept repeating as my mantra when writing were Personal, Universal.

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.

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...

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.

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.

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.

I don't know what happens next. Other than I know I have to start writing the next play.

Q & A With Tilly Legge, Lightning Jar's Venus In Fur

TILLY LEGGE

By Lee Bemrose

Lightning Jar Theatre is a newish independent theatre company based in Melbourne.  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^th 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.

                                     

How long has Lightning Jar Theatre been around and how did it come into being?

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.

I understand lightning jars are a vessel for preserving fruit... how did this become the company name?

It’s a subtle reference to a line in The Dreamer Examines His Pillow 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.

What is your role at Lightning Jar?

We’re all the co-artistic directors. It’s a very collaborative effort. All responsibilities are shared between the three of us.

What's Lightning Jar's mission statement or ethos?

We want to create theatre that is exciting, fresh, moving & entertaining.

We want to celebrate writers, new & old.

We want to make you feel, make you forget, make you shift uncomfortably in your seat, make you laugh.

We want to be the reason people see more theatre.

How many plays have you produced so far?

This is our second show, following Aaron Posner’s Stupid Fucking Bird in 2017.

Stupid Fucking Bird was a wonderfully engaging production. What aspects of that play attracted you to it.

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.

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.

Venus in Fur (2010) by David Ives is about a playwright/director who’s adapted the book Venus in Fur (1870) Leopold von Sacher-Masoch for the stage. There’s a bit of translation debate about whether the title to the original book is plural or singular. Our version is plural but the one they talk about is the play is singular. Go figure!

Right. So Venus In Fur – what drew Lightning Jar to this particular play?

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 incredibly 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.

Is the play simply fun or is it deep and making a statement?

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!

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?

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 Venus 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.

Leading up to opening night, what was the vibe like at rehearsals?

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!

How do Tilly and Vanda get along with each other? What does each of you think of the other?

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!

We should come and see Venus In Fur because...

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…?”

Season runs at 45 Downstairs, 45 Flinders Lane, Melbourne until March 24.

Marciano & Ananas

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.

One By One

Today's happy thought: We are all going to die. But not all together. Our deaths will happen slowly and sadly, one by one.

Outside Visiting Hours

Those late night demons,
Those 4am demons
Those 4am demon voices
That wake you,
And keep you awake
With their all-knowing Truth,
With their relentless
Telling you
And telling you
And telling you
And judging you...

Those late night, 4am demons,
They are manageable
During visiting hours.
But when you start to notice them,
And hear them,
And listen to them
During your wide-awake hours,
After your visiting hours.

And they keep telling you
And telling you
And telling you things
And judging you
In a voice louder than
The voices in the visiting hours...

When this happens,
There is no escape.

Specks In This Cosmic Storm Of Chance

This is us, New Year's Day 2018. The Dreaded One and me, we made it through a struggle of a year. I don't really know how I made it. The urge for non-existence was strong early in the year. That urge never really leaves. It has always been part of me. It gets close, and it fades away.

But the survivor in me has never given into that urge. Partly because I know moments like this are possible in the future. Grumpy and The Dreaded One, they seem to be making each other happy again. When we're good, we totally fucking rock. After all this time, we still make each other laugh, and we still hold hands.  Humans and that freakish chance encounter thing... The Dreaded One was born three days after me in San Francisco. I was born three days before her in Sydney. What are the chances of us bumping into each other years later? What are the chances of us liking each other enough to eventually love each other for all these years? We're all just specks in a cosmic storm of chance.

And Marciano on my right in this picture is a perfect demonstration. She wrote the perfect job application for the position of working with me in the cafe. Perfect because it spoke to me. As with a previous co-worker, April, I kind of knew from those words on the page that something was there. Some beautiful connection. I was right both times. Both have become treasured friends.

Today was Marciano's last day. I have enjoyed every minute of her company.  We share a gentle, quirky sense of humour. We have made each other happy. We have hugged a couple of times a day, but today's last hug was a long and tight one, and I don't mind telling you that when she said into my shoulder, "Lee... my big brother"... well I might have teared up a bit.

What are the chances? What are the chances that a person born in Uruguay 25 years before a person born in Sydney will bump into each other in Melbourne one day and share such a silly sense of humour and become such close friends? What are the chances, in this cosmic storm of chance?