November 16, 2008
Poppies
Our favourite part of the Wizard of Oz was the poppy scene. The poppies stand on the stage at attention, lined up in rows like soldiers.
The Wicked Witch comes out and casts a spell over the poppy field and we become evil poppies who would do anything to stop Dorothy, the Tin Man, the Lion and the Scarecrow from going any further down the Yellow Brick Road. When they encounter the poppies, we release our poison and drag them down into the field, smothering their bodies with our foliage.
The stage is bathed in an intense crimson light.
Just when things are at their darkest and most hopeless, the Good Witch comes out and lifts the Wicked Witch's spell. We release our prisoners and begin to dance, entwining our stems around one another and swaying in the cool breeze.
The crimson light is replaced by a soft white light as fluffy snow falls down from the sky, catching itself on our petals and long eyelashes.
And then we sing the Poppy Song, a song of renewal, life and hope for the future.
Marie and I met on the first day of rehearsals.
Walking into that first rehearsal was more than a bit intimidating. It was my first musical and I knew no one. Everyone else had obviously been in shows together before - they were stretching and chatting and laughing, absolutely comfortable with one another.
I felt like an outsider. Most of them were in high school, and I was pushing 30. But, as they say, it's never too late to follow your dream.
I kept to myself for the first while, until I was distracted by the back of a woman's head. There was something about it that was oddly familiar. She had this long, poker-straight pale blonde hair the colour and texture of a young child's.
I got really excited and inside my head, I willed her to turn around, turn around, turn around. As though she had heard my silent urgings, she turned. The moment I saw her large, pale blue eyes and huge smile, I knew...that's my friend.
We introduced ourselves and made small talk. I discovered Marie was 25 years old, which meant at least someone was close to my age.
By the time the rehearsal started, we were at opposite ends of the room. The choreographer asked us to choose dance partners and, as if on cue, we both spun and pointed at each other: "You."
We were like two little kids meeting each other on the first day of kindergarten and deciding, "We're best friends."
From that moment on, we were inseparable. We held hands, clung to each other, and giggled constantly, always making sure that we always got to be partners.
Except for that one time, when they separated us and made us dance with boys. Ewww.
The high school students in the musical thought we were weird and immature, but we didn't care. We were having fun.
In between scenes, we would talk about our lives. She would often mention her boyfriend, saying things like, "He's a really good man." Any time she talked about him, I would get this intense churning feeling in my gut.
I decided I hated him and she should kick his shit to the curb.
I couldn't figure out why I felt this way, since she only said nice things, and I had never met the guy. My strong feelings about him really bothered me. I wondered if I were jealous because she had a boyfriend and I didn't. Or maybe I was jealous because I wanted her all to myself, and I didn't want him that close to her?
I wondered if, perhaps, our obsessive elementary school-type friendship was getting a bit out of hand.
Rehearsals went on, and our chats between scenes got more serious and less giggly.
Right before the show opened, she told me that she was leaving her boyfriend. For six years, she had been hiding the emotional and verbal abuse, but now, he had started hitting her.
I think she told me to make sure that she never went back, and I vowed that I wouldn't let her. No matter what.
One night after the show, we walked outside and Marie's mother was waiting for her, wanting to talk. There was something off about this woman. She had the same big eyes and big smile as Marie, but there was something else behind them, something that made me very uncomfortable.
As I looked closer, I saw something I had never seen before. There were ropes of mustard yellow, the colour of the Yellow Brick Road, coiling out from around her head, like snakes. I could see them as plainly as I could see the blue of her eyes. And they scared me.
I didn't want to let Marie go with her, but I couldn't think of a reason I could say out loud. So I let her go.
The next day, she told me that her mother was there to try and convince her to go back to her abusive boyfriend. Her mother insisted that he had changed, and that Marie should give him another chance, because he was a really good man.
Marie didn't buy it, but I could tell that it was tearing her up inside that her own mother was not supporting her, but rather him.
A few nights later, I stepped out of the theatre late at night to see Marie in a conversation with a man I had never met. They were standing quite far apart and talking very quietly. But I felt this impending sense of danger in my gut. I knew it was him - her boyfriend, coming to try and get her back.
I could feel the hatred and anger pouring off of him from across the street. And then, I could see it. A wall of crimson red streaming from him to her, the texture of rope, bombarding her with his rage. Although they were about the same height, she looked so small and helpless underneath all of that red.
Without even thinking, I put myself in between them. I knew I had to block that heavy wall of red from reaching her and beating her down further. But I also knew he was violent and I didn't want him to feel threatened or know that I knew. So, I pretended to be a ditzy musical theatre gal, "Come on, Marie, a bunch of us are going out for drinks and it's going to be sooooo much fun. You totally have to come!!"
And I wrapped my body around hers to shield her from him and put her in my car.
The Poppy Song:
You're out of the woods, you're out of the dark, you're out of the night.
Step into the sun, step into the light.
Keep straight ahead for the most glorious place on the face of the earth or the sky.
Hold onto your breath, hold onto your heart, hold onto your hope.
March up to the gate and bid it open.
Open.Labels: fearlessness, musically speaking, performance
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November 9, 2008
With Sympathy...
Friday was my 33rd birthday, and the first birthday Superstar and I have spent together living in the same city.
Friday itself was low-key. I bottled my latest batch of homemade wine (a delicious Amarone, yum), then Superstar and I drank a bit of it and went to a movie (Zack and Miri Make a Porno - highly recommended if you want to laugh - a lot).
Saturday, we went out for supper with Schmutzie, Palinode, J-Roc and Crix, and then went back to Superstar's for cake and Guitar Hero (with a surprise appearance by typicalquirk!). It was there Superstar gave me a kiss on the cheek and handed me a birthday card.
I knew something was up, because when he handed the card to me, he had a little smirk on his face that told me he had been up to no good.
I was right.
I opened the envelope to discover it was not your typical birthday card. In fact, it wasn't a birthday card at all.
It was a sympathy card.
It reads:
With Sympathy...
"I believe that tears
can heal,
that memories
can comfort,
that love lives on forever."
Thinking of you
at this sad time...
wishing you peace
in the days to come.
Under which, Superstar had written:
I know the loss of one's youth can be traumatic. Please know I will be there to love and support you through these difficult times.
Much love,
Superstar
Yeah, dude so did not get laid that night.
What should I do to him for his birthday, three months from now? Ideas?
Labels: birthdays, superstar
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