Dogs
I have been heavy armed into 'upgrading to the new blogger account'. No you can do this if you want or you can just stick to what you're used to. Oh no. YOU ARE BEING UPGRADED TO THE NEW BLOGGER ACCOUNT, WANNA MAKE SOMETHING OF IT?
I think my overly strong irritation to this is probably due to tiredness. It's a long way into term, but a long way until the end. It's lovely what we're doing, but we're all knackered. I started thinking about going to bed at about seven o'clock tonight. In fact I started thinking about going to bed during Susannah's lesson, not that it was a bad lesson. It was rather good actually and will be very helpful in trying to improve our disastrously bad attempt at presenting a piece of Greek Tragedy chorus.
When we finished our autocours on Friday Susannah said, 'well that was very bad. You've made Theatre with a capital T and a director, I mean, a bad director.' We all agreed. It had been quite a spicy week. Too many chefs. Everyone with their very important idea that they have to say. I would love to say that over the weekend we had all seen the error of our ways and decided to shut up a bit more. I'd love to say that but what actually happened was that we didn't get onto our feet until 5.35 leaving us exactly 25 minutes out of 1h30. Impressive.
'But what do dogs have to do with tragedy?' I hear you asking yourself. 'Is this a weird Lecoq version of the chorus on all fours? I know they pretended to be animals in first year. Perhaps it was all leading to a version of Medea presented by ducks? Or cocks?'
All very possible and perhaps the natural progression from bouffon (a word I feel should never be translated from French into English) and mystere. But no. I have been dog-sitting for a little... black dog. When I took her for walks people would ask me how old she was and what breed and I would mumble 'oh well I think she's about... 18months or a year, or perhaps 10 months' leaving them very confused. Why did I not know my dog's age?
It's kind of the same as having a baby in a pushchair. You stop and chat to other dog owners while your dogs sniff each others bottoms and start running round each other and tangling up the leashes as they get more excited. (Allez! Allez Voltaire!)
For dogs the whole pavement is like a wonderful degoustation of lovely smells; leaves, bits of old baguette and chewing gum and tastiest of all - other dogs poo. I strongly suspect that I was the only person in Paris picking up poo, certainly the only person in the 16eme.
When I was about 10 or perhaps a little older my brother and I ran a campaign to be allowed a pet. We decided on subtle, subliminal tactics. We drew pictures of cats and dogs with CAT or DOG written in large, friendly letters underneath them and stuck them up around the house. Though most of them got taken down quite quickly somehow my brother's 'CAT' managed to stay on the bottom of the kitchen door until well after we had both left for university.
All our attempts were greeted with amused and total rebuts. My father does not like animals. They, on the other hand, seem to find him rather fascinating and are very keen to wag at and climb on him. For years he has been squirting washing up liquid at cats of all colour who come and poo in his garden.
I felt more than usually like an ill-done by Victorian heroine and wondered if it were possible to get consumption from lack of canine affection. I also felt worried for my father's sensibilities. Everyone knows that deep down people who don't like animals are cold and probably evil.
After a week with a puppy who is not house-trained I am in complete agreement with him. This is a very sweet tempered little dog - friendly, affectionate, etc. However. Its not just the picking up the foul smelling poo after they've been outside. Or the cleaning up when they've gone inside, (just after you've got back in from a long walk, or just as you've put your shoes on to take them outside for a walk). It's the constant need for attention. It would follow me around constantly. I'd open the toilet door and trip over a little black dog. If I am sitting with my computer on my lap trying to write that means that there is no room for a cat as well. Surely that's clear? If I have shut my bedroom door that means I am trying to read or go to sleep and do not want to be disturbed and no amount of wailing or scratching is going to change my mind. When I have been on a walk and got a little wet do I roll on the sofa? Do I come and stand very near to you and shake myself hard? No. I do not.
It's taken a few years and I feel mean saying it, but Daddy, I understand exactly where you're coming from.
None of that has anything at all to do with Lecoq, I just had to get it out of my system.
I think my overly strong irritation to this is probably due to tiredness. It's a long way into term, but a long way until the end. It's lovely what we're doing, but we're all knackered. I started thinking about going to bed at about seven o'clock tonight. In fact I started thinking about going to bed during Susannah's lesson, not that it was a bad lesson. It was rather good actually and will be very helpful in trying to improve our disastrously bad attempt at presenting a piece of Greek Tragedy chorus.
When we finished our autocours on Friday Susannah said, 'well that was very bad. You've made Theatre with a capital T and a director, I mean, a bad director.' We all agreed. It had been quite a spicy week. Too many chefs. Everyone with their very important idea that they have to say. I would love to say that over the weekend we had all seen the error of our ways and decided to shut up a bit more. I'd love to say that but what actually happened was that we didn't get onto our feet until 5.35 leaving us exactly 25 minutes out of 1h30. Impressive.
'But what do dogs have to do with tragedy?' I hear you asking yourself. 'Is this a weird Lecoq version of the chorus on all fours? I know they pretended to be animals in first year. Perhaps it was all leading to a version of Medea presented by ducks? Or cocks?'
All very possible and perhaps the natural progression from bouffon (a word I feel should never be translated from French into English) and mystere. But no. I have been dog-sitting for a little... black dog. When I took her for walks people would ask me how old she was and what breed and I would mumble 'oh well I think she's about... 18months or a year, or perhaps 10 months' leaving them very confused. Why did I not know my dog's age?
It's kind of the same as having a baby in a pushchair. You stop and chat to other dog owners while your dogs sniff each others bottoms and start running round each other and tangling up the leashes as they get more excited. (Allez! Allez Voltaire!)
For dogs the whole pavement is like a wonderful degoustation of lovely smells; leaves, bits of old baguette and chewing gum and tastiest of all - other dogs poo. I strongly suspect that I was the only person in Paris picking up poo, certainly the only person in the 16eme.
When I was about 10 or perhaps a little older my brother and I ran a campaign to be allowed a pet. We decided on subtle, subliminal tactics. We drew pictures of cats and dogs with CAT or DOG written in large, friendly letters underneath them and stuck them up around the house. Though most of them got taken down quite quickly somehow my brother's 'CAT' managed to stay on the bottom of the kitchen door until well after we had both left for university.
All our attempts were greeted with amused and total rebuts. My father does not like animals. They, on the other hand, seem to find him rather fascinating and are very keen to wag at and climb on him. For years he has been squirting washing up liquid at cats of all colour who come and poo in his garden.
I felt more than usually like an ill-done by Victorian heroine and wondered if it were possible to get consumption from lack of canine affection. I also felt worried for my father's sensibilities. Everyone knows that deep down people who don't like animals are cold and probably evil.
After a week with a puppy who is not house-trained I am in complete agreement with him. This is a very sweet tempered little dog - friendly, affectionate, etc. However. Its not just the picking up the foul smelling poo after they've been outside. Or the cleaning up when they've gone inside, (just after you've got back in from a long walk, or just as you've put your shoes on to take them outside for a walk). It's the constant need for attention. It would follow me around constantly. I'd open the toilet door and trip over a little black dog. If I am sitting with my computer on my lap trying to write that means that there is no room for a cat as well. Surely that's clear? If I have shut my bedroom door that means I am trying to read or go to sleep and do not want to be disturbed and no amount of wailing or scratching is going to change my mind. When I have been on a walk and got a little wet do I roll on the sofa? Do I come and stand very near to you and shake myself hard? No. I do not.
It's taken a few years and I feel mean saying it, but Daddy, I understand exactly where you're coming from.
None of that has anything at all to do with Lecoq, I just had to get it out of my system.
posted by lecoqblogger at 8:01 pm
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