printemps

right after wren street ends, there is a great expanse of nothing. a big parking lot, a holiday inn, a post office. for over four months, i have pretended that london ended past that road, at least as far as walking went. very bad form street haunter, very bad form. naturally when i walked just a little bit further, overcoming my fear of grey parking lots, i found adorable streets, little cafes, lights strung up, and a nero that was about two minutes from my room (most upsetting/fantastic discovery, perhaps). exmouth market it is called, filled with smiling people chatting as they sip coffees and smoke cigarettes on sunny weekend afternoons. why is it that just when i am about to leave london transforms into the city pictured in so very many "four weddings and a funeral" type scenes? (think, when hugh grant is squinting and running in shorts and short sleeves and tells her that he loves her david cassidy style...worst part of the movie, but notice the warmth and the happiness that seems to abound in the city....it is now here.)

spring glory: last saturday i went to a concert in trafalgar square, entitled "love music, hate racism." very innovative/ridiculous title, somewhat difficult to argue with, especially the latter half. reason for attendance - belle and sebastian. should have known full well that any concert in trafalgar square would prove not so great for b&s, but it was free and why the hell not. the entire place was swarming with 14 year olds with braces, an odd fashion sense, and a hell of a lot of beer in their bellies. the message from the organization holding the concert was kept quite simple: "fuck the BNP!" over and over. that was basically the entire argument. needless to say the only way to deal with the british rappers and the shrill shrieking was to get some beer of our own and join the teeny boppers in their revelry. sadly, by the time belle played this meant we were all in desperate need of the toilet and were running around trafalgar square in acute pain and suffering. but the glory was afterwards, when we wandered to st. james park. this was one of the first places my dad brought me to when i came to london when i was 10. since that first introduction, i have only known london as a cold, grey place that was very pretty, but VERY COLD. to see the park in bloom, and people play frisbee, and one pound reclining chairs that when sat in are near heaven, ah lord. and after beer four i peed in the bushes, and i say that now i have gone their so often that i can call it "st. jim."

while i have been watching london blossom, and i have begun to appreciate the city more by urinating in its famed landmarks, my ipod has been playing johnny cash songs on basically constant repeat (especially, folsom prison blues, hurt, flesh and blood). i started my obsession with the country star in germany, when one of lucie's roommates had a friend over who went on and on about his love for johnny cash. sadly, he seemed to be more in love with joaquin phoenix and reese witherspoon singing in harmony than j.r. and june, but it was still amusing to see his enthusiam for the american idol. very enthusiastic -- every morning when i woke up he would be singing "walk the line" in a strange german accent that made the song that much better. he also kept on asking me questions about his malcom x and mlk jr. paper, since i stupidly said that i wrote a paper on them (in 11th grade, i was very proud...on the cover was a picture that i took of the street signs at the intersection of martin luther king boulevard and malcolm x boulevard. sadly, this may have been the highlight of the paper). all in all he was insane, although lucie told me he was quite normal when he spoke in german. BUT he got my love for johnny cash back in my head, as well as the desire to see "walk the line" despite the fact that i scorned it as an idiotic biopic. when i finally did see the film, it was indeed along the lines of an idiotic biopic, but that really didn't matter. the music scenes in the film were so fucking well done, that i didn't mind the fact that i was slightly disturbed (and very bored) by mr. cash's complete obsession with june carter. also, i think ms. witherspoon has a better voice than ms. carter, who in my opinion sounds like an old lady, especially when she attempts to hit the high notes. i understood just a bit why the german was in love with the film's soundtrack; the harmonies are almost too perfect - you just wan't to listen to "it ain't me babe" endlessly. sadly the entire suite and most of london has had to listen to me singing the harmony for the past week. but the film as a whole was irritating, i got sick of seeing mr. phoenix dismantle sinks, pine over someone who didn't want him, sweat as he inhaled white dust, and feel angry at his father (although i did remember that poor jaquoin also had a brother who died, he even called in the o.d.ing river. sucks). also, mr. phoenix was particularly dashing/gorgeous as mr. cash...i stopped thinking of him as the sniveling and terrifying man who sleeps with his sister and stabs russell crowe in a certain ridiculous hollywood film.

anyway. last week i also saw "the crucible," which is being put on by the RSC at the guilgud theater. absolutely stunning. i saw laura linney and liam neesen a few years ago on broadway, so i was inevitably comparing performances. i have a feeling they were much better than the mr. and mrs. proctor of this production, but the entirety of this production was probably far better. perhaps it was the impact of the set, which consisted of two dauntingly sparse white walls, with little openings that looked out on eerie new england woods. perhaps it was the aptly placed light that poured in through the small windows, illuminating or masking the action of the scene. perhaps it was the strength of the entire ensemble, especially in the second half of the play. this production highlighted the fascinating way in which each scene builds from quiet solemnity to incredible climaxes of action and passion. this was especially vibrant in the third scene when the children start going apeshit in the courtroom, turning against their own, finally accusing mr. proctor of wizardry. abigail is such a heinous BITCH, oh it is so good. and the last act, god almighty. proctor and his wife battling out what is right and what is wrong. my friend and i inevitably talked about elia kazan after the film was over. i know he was a coward for not going out to hang like the rest, but god his movies are good. arthur miller was right, and his representation of the 1950s witchhunt is searing, but no matter what i do i still unequivocally love elia kazan and his films. i would have cheered for him at the oscars, i would have stood up with all those people he influenced, dear martin and robert and al and marlon (don't think he was there). but still, when john proctor goes out to the gallows, unable to bear the shame of succumbing to the evil of the supposedly righteous puritans, i cannot help but hate the cowards who succumbed to the mccarthys. and so, at the end of this production, as it seems to be with every other play i see in london, i cried. new york theater, can you make me cry when i return? please do, please do.

starting tomorrow at 5pm, when i hand in my last paper, i plan to wander streets with extreme vigor until my return home in two weeks. i have to get the most out of this city - i plan to see as many plays as possible, go to hampstead heath and have a picnic, discover at least three new wonderful neighborhoods. then i can go back to the good ole usa feeling happy and fulfilled and maybe i will just go ahead and shoot a man in reno. i've just been itching to watch him die.