tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89257353882905770472024-02-18T21:02:43.950-08:00WOMEN SCORNEDRJWardlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01179135644995065472noreply@blogger.comBlogger21125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8925735388290577047.post-37368140450614173352022-11-02T05:59:00.005-07:002022-11-02T05:59:58.682-07:00MARY POPPINS Musical<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“I’ll stay
until the chain breaks…”(Poppins M)</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOiVlcZXAYUzwy4wlkMzQuwv3wYqRMPCaaLmb6CdwG01r4BqkSbfs6kCWasZUz2Pk7sK6nRs_HV6Zv2abFRyJs0dT2jf4gsYsEjI_fNS7timQ5PRzjeH8Lkqu0f-yZR9GJjF-hDatTGsdVixM6SV2XumzJtMM7N_KurLwHfXAvpf-TBQNsAQaAaQpY/s474/MP%20Balcony.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="355" data-original-width="474" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOiVlcZXAYUzwy4wlkMzQuwv3wYqRMPCaaLmb6CdwG01r4BqkSbfs6kCWasZUz2Pk7sK6nRs_HV6Zv2abFRyJs0dT2jf4gsYsEjI_fNS7timQ5PRzjeH8Lkqu0f-yZR9GJjF-hDatTGsdVixM6SV2XumzJtMM7N_KurLwHfXAvpf-TBQNsAQaAaQpY/s320/MP%20Balcony.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Well, for
us in London and for theatre <i>avante gardes, officionados</i> and
appreciators across the lands and oceons of our globe, the date for chains breaking
has been set at Sunday 08<sup>th</sup> January, in the year of our Lord, under
the <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>new reign of King Charles III, two
thousand and twenty three. The day my heart will break. Irreconcilably.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Whilst the
villains and their henchmen of our globe rob, plunder and invade <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- cause famines and wars of human sacrifice resulting
in huge swathes of death and destruction, and here in blighty we attend to three
new Prime Ministers in one year, a finaincial statement that sent the banks and global investment houses hurtling towards the exit gate and see
house prices plumet, whilst the cost of a pint of milk and a cheese roll soar. One show has remained stead-fast in it’s unadulterated
loud and proud jollity - and luckily was able to keep this show open through almost all of the tentative days of post-lock-down: <i>MARY POPPINS</i> has been back in London town and
playing to packed out stalls for well over a year now; with at least two extensions
to the run (am personally hoping to see a third and lasting extension for all
eternity) – and an unashamedly bright and breezy disposition. Since October
2021 – fresh off the bounce from <i>ANYTHING GOES</i> over at the Barbican and
in search of a new feel-good theatre experience -<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>who wouldn’t given the past two years of
global health pandemic over-kill - <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I found
myself wandering along to the Prince Edwards theatre one Saturday matinee, and
never wanted to leave. Am always at my most soulfully in-line
when in a house of stories and storytellers. Home from<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>home. So far been on a walk through the
pearly gates of personal heaven to sit amongst the angels, the storytellers,
the artists and artistes, the dancers and the singers, the all-in-ones, the
inspirers, the entertainers, the dedicated lovers of entertainment for all of
us for all of you, twenty three times. Hoping for many more and have already
booked a seat in the gods for that fateful Sunday, the 08<sup>th</sup> January.
There will be, as there has been already, many tears and many a broken heart to
have to say a final and fond farewell to this all-inspiring ensemble cast,
crew, orchestra front and back of house heros! Every day come rain or shine
they turn-up, for you, for us. All they ever want to do is to give us the audience
the very best theatre experience of <i>MARY POPPINS</i>. It’s what all those
unsociable hours of study, line learning, dance routine movements memorizing and
playing with a cold, when it’s a partners birthday or a childs first parents
evening, all to be missed and all because the dedication of such awe-inspiring
tellers of stories is to give us, you, me, the audience, to sing us a song,
tell us a story and make us feel good, the very best experience. The show will
go on! <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixlo1jkFrvELa-A7VroiMfjcpnpqnAnVeSQgWFUS5K7ywvd5FdoPGBU5jV1PWhqzUVjwOj8Tgv54boJQpxktBPy8gTjdrvgtaasDwXqAPS7g9T-7X76l11et1Ovqxd0LWrriwHC60NdXTzeuA0x5XKbPAnYzXSX9Wty7NLMZk0DSuByPZkEVxyCq5e/s474/Jolly%20Holiday.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="266" data-original-width="474" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixlo1jkFrvELa-A7VroiMfjcpnpqnAnVeSQgWFUS5K7ywvd5FdoPGBU5jV1PWhqzUVjwOj8Tgv54boJQpxktBPy8gTjdrvgtaasDwXqAPS7g9T-7X76l11et1Ovqxd0LWrriwHC60NdXTzeuA0x5XKbPAnYzXSX9Wty7NLMZk0DSuByPZkEVxyCq5e/s320/Jolly%20Holiday.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Not only
does the absolute seamless synchronisity of movement astonish and amaze, but
the freshness of each and every performance is like it is their opening night. Every
day! Packed-full of classic theatre noir nods to and moments in time of the Yessss
of a stage – sounds from a stage – thankfully not now in darkness after
lockdown ended – <i>MARY POPPINS </i>is line after line of positive
encouragement. “Anything can happen if you let it. If you need to move a mountain
use a larger spade. If only we could get out of our own way . . “<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">With this in-mind
2022 started off on a wonderfully up-beat tempo for me. I was, at thirty eight
years of life, re-born and refocused onto YOLO and to putting my personal love
of stories full-stop, of all colors and shapes, into front and centre of life; rather than a secondary passion. So, by February I - middle aged balding man
trying to reclaim some of his lost life in London from the early naughties when
I too had danced the clubs of London town - was two musical theatre jazz dance
classes in with the insanely taut, skilled and dedicated, warm and generous Christopher Tendai @chris_tendai at
Pineapple dance studios –- and had luckily secured an interview to join a drama
school as a Creative Producer student<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- later
on in life, but better late than not at all – I’m really giving life some
wellie and it’s ALL, ALL, ALL, thanks to <i>MARY POPPINS</i> musical. Life is good. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Well, by March 2022 I’d been injured in an accident whilst commuting to work, sufficiently enough to temporarily halt attending dance classes, and had a WiFi
outage at the most crucial interview process of life to-date; mid-way through my presentation on a proposed staging of an Aesop’s
fable; the Fox and the Hare - to the drama school. And could not, for the
life of me, get, back, in”! Of course it would . . .I was doomed. My world ended, yet <i>MARY POPPINS</i>
remains playing and joyfully so. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I sit in the Gods, a lone man in a family
production - which hasn’t escaped my notice – but all I see before me is the
lost years of family life and simultaneously the thing in life I most want to
do and am trying so hard to find a way to get involved with doing!</span>.... as the
tears fall. Am studying with a keen eye and ear every nuance, every movement and every characterisation playfully played as though observing a masterclass on physical theatre musical theatre storytelling - from up in the Gods ( have tried to attend tutoring classes at what was, once, known as the Actors Center - and have actually rehearsed their on one occasion - but until Spotlight credits were accrued i could not attend the majority of classes) . . </p><p class="MsoNormal">Chatting with a front of house member at the theatre one Sunday
afternoon who is absolutely gratefully supportive and reminds me not to give
up. Am currently reapplying to the same drama school and very much hoping – I’ll
be forty in just over a year, can see the future playing out in front of my eyes
as I sit, in the gods, so, I haven’t got all day I must do it now! Whilst also hunting
for a dance class to attend given the early shift work of wake-ups at 02:30 -04:00am each morning<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- thus cancelling out interacting with
nightlife London much and definitely halting re-joining an amateur dramatics rep company; as have done previously during life’s chapters. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Am trying to find a way, as have been doing
for some years now in London to just get involved and play, learn, hone and build - to entertain , to tell, as all we just strive to do; a
story and offer an audience the very best experience! </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-c4c_2jkpp0i1jNtw_e0pV_QQjD9Q-572e3NwbjVR3caMAX6w19uJtGmQPcFlcOfIo9vAeXFBo4Yww2dFRdUzANx3YTb1P69cPudOYBEd8QRR8Vgg3WfoYS4QGK1XpFla5BsLvOMng1CYYXCa7iCASLfLIxRZGHxNWYsVJhBYxRDiOUGu9rVCkqiV/s474/SK.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="296" data-original-width="474" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-c4c_2jkpp0i1jNtw_e0pV_QQjD9Q-572e3NwbjVR3caMAX6w19uJtGmQPcFlcOfIo9vAeXFBo4Yww2dFRdUzANx3YTb1P69cPudOYBEd8QRR8Vgg3WfoYS4QGK1XpFla5BsLvOMng1CYYXCa7iCASLfLIxRZGHxNWYsVJhBYxRDiOUGu9rVCkqiV/s320/SK.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The mind recalls the press release for a different show having to put -up its notices during those heady days of will they or won't they - call another lockdown - which read roughly:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal">It is with deep regret that ###@@@ has to cancel all further shows. We are are aware that the costs involved are big as audiences pay for their travel and accomodation, theatre dinner and ticket and therefore to protect the integrity of the show and to deliver you the very best possible experience we have regrettably had to cancel forthcoming shows at this time. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The heart breaks doesn't it...and where was the suport from government? - that's right, we were forgotten. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Luckily, the show WILL GO ON! the lights WILL GO UP! And for theatre (story) lovers, <i>officionados</i> and <i>avante guards</i>, appreciators and practicioners alike, we now live in BRIGHT TIMES. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal">Robertson Ay hastily re-stitches Berts tunic whilst Mary and Mrs Brill gently test that the flower pots do, actually, bloom on-cue..</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">MARY to the stage - calls the SM</span></p><p class="MsoNormal">Quiet on stage - calls the SM</p><p class="MsoNormal">AUTO-SPEAK over soundsystem begins</p><p class="MsoNormal"> Orchestra plays</p><p class="MsoNormal">Curtains Raise</p><p class="MsoNormal">THE SHOW GOES ON! And <i>MARY POPPINS</i> is an
absolute Gods send to life! </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Mcw8N-o-qhHWBbVHg0g5IHjmGmSnH4tIEHk_JTwkB29pIe1dfIcqjtLGzOJHPTL7m716vDCMru_qj-o2d6mgVupQT9EgyAQXRSl1AbmeLBtL48L7ZENp4-pBya5t_MnDXd9CVQWYIRnjkzWkp-JlZVuWIhFHtlmNt2Z2ToMxmzs4nNE5u2eHm1uQ/s474/SuperKali.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="355" data-original-width="474" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3Mcw8N-o-qhHWBbVHg0g5IHjmGmSnH4tIEHk_JTwkB29pIe1dfIcqjtLGzOJHPTL7m716vDCMru_qj-o2d6mgVupQT9EgyAQXRSl1AbmeLBtL48L7ZENp4-pBya5t_MnDXd9CVQWYIRnjkzWkp-JlZVuWIhFHtlmNt2Z2ToMxmzs4nNE5u2eHm1uQ/s320/SuperKali.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>RJWardlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01179135644995065472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8925735388290577047.post-85197310603561730002015-02-20T06:01:00.001-08:002015-02-20T06:01:30.264-08:00Captured In TimeGood morning, good afternoon, good evening and good night dear readers,<br />
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<br />
<br />
To be <i>Captured In Time</i> is to be forever young. Or so I am told. I don't believe them but hey, perhaps?!<br />
<br />
Until we meet again through the page, I hope this finds you in sterling health and a happiness,<br />
<br />
Warmly Yours<br />
<br />
@RJWardleRJWardlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01179135644995065472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8925735388290577047.post-77181784552270880272015-02-06T01:50:00.001-08:002015-02-06T02:44:54.227-08:00Out Of The Cage - An explosive NEW play by Alex McSweeneyGood morning, good afternoon, good evening and goodnight dear readers,<br />
<br />
<i>Out Of The Cage</i> is an explosive NEW play about the female munitions workers of Silvertown, London during World War One.<br />
<br />
Sitting warm as a sun-soaked piece of wet toast, feet soggy from underground perspiration on my commute across 'town' to Finsbury Park, I got the best view of the upstairs bar area whilst lubricating myself with a coca cola at the Park Theatre.<br />
<br />
I cast my eyes to the Gods to view the ceilings drooping bookshelf. No, seriously. Probably fifty-shades of rope suspended books are literally drooping down from the Gods. <i>Introducing The Theatre</i> by Ernest Short was the first and most prominently apt book for this occasion to capture my attentions as my eyes wandered fleetingly across the wooden countryside grotto meets Shoreditch Box Park bar area. In Finsbury Park. (Lest there be any confusions) My heart was already beginning to skip beats. My second in as many weeks (and at the time of writing this post-second affair with <i>Out Of The Cage</i>, approaching my thrice weekly) extra-curricular excursion to embrace our Twenty First Century Globes' Bard of the English written word, Mr Alex McSweeney's NEW play - <i>Out Of The Cage.</i><br />
<br />
Did I already mention the name? <i>Out Of The Cage</i>?<br />
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<i>Out Of The Cage</i>, If seen please view with a heart pump and fresh box of Kleenex.<br />
<br />
Ps. Suspended emotions<br />
<br />
Alex's wanton wit and deeply psychologically inept play leaves an audience jaw dropped and flabbergasted. Dialogue driven one cannot help but become enthralled and in-tune with the characters and by progression start to look inwardly to ones self and soul for comfort and fortitude. All in one gob-stopper of a hullabaloo and what not.<br />
<br />
Hullabaloo not of confused dialogue or plot I hasten to amend. A hullabaloo of emotions. You understand.<br />
<br />
Alex's exquisite cast manage to straddle both dark and gritty drama and musical theatre - with varying degrees of musicality (not to be confused with this being a musical. It is not!), with physical theatre to an almost dance club like bassline representative of the machines these women work day after day, night after night, week after week, year after god forsaking year on. The entire all female cast (of eight) - and quite right too - capture the gut-wrenching inequalities and hardships faced by the women of the munitions factories during World War One in an ongoing fight for Equal rights. Equal pay.<br />
<br />
A Master Crafts-persons of their trade. The art of story telling and creation.<br />
<br />
Now come on Annie Casteldine, we'll av none of that Hullabaloo from you dear.<br />
<br />
The cast capture some moments of light relief with, for one notable example, Lil' Ginny -played beautifully by Jill McAusland - as the endearing young girl of the factory who bless her kind heart spends the entire play being told to be quiet and move on, oh and scrub floors. And things. Business. Which she dutifully does " But...but . . . mum . . ." <br />
<br />
One further episode of joviality comes in the form of Annie Casteldine and good old Carrie Sefton played by the mesmerizingly skilled Emily Houghton and Lindsay Frazer respectively - as they become the cheeky girls of the group conducting a mini-play within a play as Carrie portrays a favourite silent movie star of hers under direction from her friend Annie Casteldine. A sisterhood is quickly established with each character assuming her position within the united arms of sisters for Equal rights and Equal pay. A whistle is harnessed as a tool to mirror the men's call to go over the top as for the women to strike and stop running the machines. Psychologically implanting the shared fight for freedoms both men and women fought.<br />
<br />
Interestingly Alex's in-tune mind to the era he writes in affords an audience many many moments of literary realism. Full names used, Annie Casteldine, how dare you . . . Hullaballo . . . what not . . . and oh so many more moments of literary magic when woven into the fabric of the play in its entirety and the consummate skill and deftly deployed art of storytelling by ALL cast members.<br />
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<br />
<br />
See, multi-skilled, multi-engaged piece of theatre. Not too dissimilar to Shakespeare himself one may posit. So I shall.<br />
<br />
The construction of this play has to my mind many hallmarks of a great Shakespeare script. A play by an actor for actors. Quick mood and character changes, complex characters and relationships, running scene changes, musical interludes, inopportune and wholly un-expected dollops of light relief bordering on comedy, in-fact comedy on occasion, and a chance to hark back to the silent days of cinema with physicality being the mode of storytelling in part (cinema reference plainly not applicable to Willy). . . etcetera . . .<br />
<br />
So, back in the bar . . .<br />
<br />
I sit post-performance utterly and suitably stunned. Shell-shocked one may say by the gravity of experience delivered to us by the company of <i>Out Of The Cage</i>. Have I mentioned the title yet? prey do tell. Have I?<br />
<br />
A lump in my throat and yes, a dampness to an eye forced me to silently slip away to the solitude for a cup of Yorkshire tea. In mug! To yet again be warm as a sun-soaked piece of wet toast, feet soggy from underground perspiration on my commute back across 'town'! But I would do it again everyday if I could. I felt a genuine sadness to leave these characters from a bygone era behind, on the stage, relinquished to the recess of a dark theatre until the light shines again and the show goes on in the morrow.<br />
<br />
Well anyway's and what not, <i>Out Of The Cage </i>is one of the rare moments in life when a pin drop can be heard amongst a sea of silent souls. Captivated!<br />
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<br />
Until we meet again through the page, I hope this finds you in sterling health and a happiness<br />
<br />
I'm going out for a cup of tea<br />
Just thee and me, and me and thee<br />
With not wanton wit repatree<br />
Just thee and me, and me and thee<br />
At a quarter to three<br />
Tootling along, no hullabaloo, along the streets of London Zoo<br />
Just thee and me and me and thee<br />
<br />
Warmly Yours<br />
<br />
@RJ Wardle<br />
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<br />RJWardlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01179135644995065472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8925735388290577047.post-40546917888271294892015-01-20T03:35:00.001-08:002015-01-23T09:28:31.422-08:00The Merchant of Venice - Almeida Theatre Production <br />
Good morning, good afternoon, good evening and goodnight dear readers,<br />
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Welcome to 2015! Here's to a fruitful and pleasurable journey.<br />
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Mhh . . .<br />
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Yes. Let's write!<br />
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As I entered the street aptly named Almeida Street, just off the Islington - Angel connection road, clutching a steaming spiced Apple and Cinnamon tea my heart skipped a beat. So, this is what it feels like to see Shakespeare out of The Globe. The theatre itself is a sort of mixture of art deco 1920's esq reception, box office and bar area neatly situated alongside a more traditional red brick building which is the theatre proper. Seat A 22 is in my view by far the best seat in the house. My seat for the evening. Front row of the dress circle up in the gods I was centre line of focus to the array of colours and energy some ten foot below me on stage.<br />
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Opening in a Las Vegas Casino Esq stage setting I wondered what have they done to one of our bards finest comedies. Or is that comi-traj? We open to a scene initially quite disconcerting I'm sure to the Shakespeare faithful. Dressed in 1920's/30's esq attire the scene before us conjured up some mis placed inertia for an anything other than cosily furnished period traji-com. Or comi-traj. Or just plain comedy. It was to my mind though wholly enjoyable and psychologically appropriate to set-up the forthcoming gamble, turmoil and game of love about to unravel. So, a win in my book.<br />
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Shylock was exceptional in his depictions of a Jewish money lender. Capturing the Yiddish accent, the stoop of a man weighed down by society yet still able to conduct a hilarity to his role.<br />
Was he a convincing Shylock? Not in my view.<br />
Was he a convincing character in its own right? Yes indeed. And hugely watchable.<br />
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As the play unfolded we were treated to a rising settee where Portia and Nerrisa sat as if gazing to a camera, taking on an 'Old wives Tale' meets an evening in front of Cilla. Match maker Cilla Black from the 1990's <i>Blind Date</i> of course. You understand.<br />
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Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas attired as 'the boys' sat in a would-be car ready to journey to Belmont in search of love. And the humorously exuberant Vincenzo Nicoli as The Duke strutted about the stage in a dazzling array of energies and humour,matched only by his severity in the trial scene.<br />
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At the climax we saw Scott Handy as Antonio attired in a USA Orange onesie. Sorry, prisoner uniform, strung up like a sack of soggy spuds to a chain awaiting his pound of flesh to be ripped from his heart by Shylock.<br />
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Sadly not. Insurance. Oh no, apologies, its not actually in the story is it. That shylock actually gets his pound of flesh, so Insurance can settle back down behind there clipboards.<br />
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For me, Vincenzo Nicoli(The Duke), Emily Plumtree (Nerissa) and Susanna Fielding (Portia) rip-roared my attentions into an array of exasperated exuberance. A constant desire and longing to jump down from A 22 and join in at playtime. Scott Handy as Antonio acted as a central focus point for me. When Scott was on stage my eyes followed his silent but deadly expression. Loud voice too. He is one who can most definitely be heard at the back of the room dear! Annunciate!<br />
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It is "Among the most exciting productions of the last decade." Michael Billington, <i>The Guardian</i><br />
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Until we meet again through the page, I hope this finds you in sterling health and a happiness<br />
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Warmly yours<br />
<br />
RJ Wardle<br />
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RJWardlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01179135644995065472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8925735388290577047.post-12939381321006888392014-11-20T10:10:00.001-08:002014-11-20T10:10:07.147-08:00IS THIS THE WORLDS SHORTEST STORY?Good morning, good afternoon, good evening and goodnight friends,<br />
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Dear diary (blog),<br />
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'I awoke'.<br />
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On this note I bid you farewell dear friends. For now.</div>
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Until we meet again through the page, I hope this finds you in good health and a happiness</div>
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Warmly yours</div>
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RJ Wardle</div>
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<br />RJWardlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01179135644995065472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8925735388290577047.post-88671868589210080962014-10-20T11:04:00.004-07:002014-10-20T12:16:10.459-07:00WHY? WHAT? HOW?<br />
Good morning, good afternoon, good evening and goodnight friends,<br />
<br />
Dear diary (blog),<br />
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When in the study of science, 'the art of no definitive answers', it appears something of a repetitive strain injury to continuously ask the question why? What does this mean/tell us? How does this enhance our understanding(s) - of the given discipline within the wider spectrum of sciences - of which there are many.<br />
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When in the study of poetry, individual poets from our seemingly embedded cannon of English Literary magnets, novelists, playwrights and others, it again appears something of a repetitive strain injury amongst both scholars and keenly interested parties (myself included) to ask the very same questions as scientists and other interested parties (myself included) as noted above:<br />
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<ul>
<li>why? </li>
<li>What does this mean/tells us? </li>
<li>How does this enhance our understanding(s)</li>
</ul>
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I turn these questions over to your good selves dear readers, to ponder on for a little moment.</div>
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..............passing of time representative of your moment.................................................</div>
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So, any thoughts?</div>
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Good, well I shall continue in the fashion to which I hope you have by now become accustomed to from this pen, (laptop strokes on its keyboard). This is to write, in blindly oblivious to the outside worlds views thanks to not as yet having been able to gage your views - I only hope in my most passionate of humble wishes it inspires, challenges and is of some small interest and use to you - in this bold and forthright transplant operation of my thoughts to this screen.</div>
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Fear not the blank page!</div>
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It will be filled!</div>
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William Shakespeare of Stratford-Upon-Avon circa. 1564. Is by all far and wide reaching postal, sorry, colossal, analysis by people such as myself, PHD students, Doctors of literature - Dr. Funny applicable term I know. Maybe they can assist my current transplantation? - as a transcending and 'universally applicable genius.</div>
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Theatre goers and even those as yet disaffected, unaffected, by this great bards genius are aware if not also in love, with his words if not the dead man himself. (Myself included) </div>
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<i>'...this great bards genius.'</i> REACTIONARY STATEMENT. Last seen being the sole view of the author and not representative of anyone other than this pen (laptop strokes on its keyboard).</div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<ul>
<li>why? </li>
<li>What does this mean/tells us? </li>
<li>How does this enhance our understanding(s)</li>
</ul>
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In order to answer each of these three questions with the depth and breadth of research required may indeed consume this already consumed customer of Shakespeare's works, an inevitable lifetimes time. </div>
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I turn these questions over to your good selves dear readers, to ponder on for a little moment<br />
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...........passing of time representative of your moment........................................</div>
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Are we all on track? No. Ok we can wait.</div>
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.......... passing of time representative of your moment (Part 2) ......................</div>
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Ok, So perhaps Shakespeare is considered as afore mentioned - you do not of course have to agree - because his subject choices are so generic they are applicable across the ages.</div>
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Relationships. </div>
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Would be just one key subject choice of note. </div>
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What do I mean?</div>
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Well, in my view (I can of course only write what I think and feel. All words unless otherwise cited are that of this pens and not representative of anyone other than this pen unless cited) whether we be viewing - as his plays are written to be played not read - a tragedy such as <i>Macbeth</i>, a history play such as <i>Richard III</i> or a comedy such as <i>As You Like It, </i>one key denominator is Shakespeare's complex and psychologically engaging multi-layered characters. As a result of these we are treated to an all consuming multitude of relationships, breakdowns, loves, losses, doting, rebuking, indeed all if not more of the very same relationship trials and tribulations we can all resonate with. </div>
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<i>All.</i> If overused please pass by without affection.</div>
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So if this be the case, why do we consider something so engendered and ritualistic as relationships and there applicability to us all as a starting point in the exploration in search of 'the truth' of the meaning behind the bards plays, sonnets, literary works?</div>
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What is he trying to tell us? </div>
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I laugh out loud at this. In my minds eye Shakespeare is tutting and chortling over a manuscript as he ponders over what, in 2014, people would try to define as his art of no definitive answers. His words. Purely and deliciously inter-interpretable. </div>
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And so he continues to chortle and laugh in my mind. </div>
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Thanks for that!</div>
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Whilst this is to me quite funny, in a childish sort of way, let it not detract from the sincerity of his achievements and my devoted enjoyment of this great man of words, words. </div>
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Could it be, that because we all have relationships, in all forms, we can, across the borders of time, geographical location in our great globe and access to Shakespeare's works, all be affected by the complexities of relationships for the better or for the worse? And by progression as a result of this resonance, we can all find an affinity with Shakespeare?</div>
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On this note I bid you farewell dear friends. For now.</div>
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Until we meet again through the page, I hope this finds you in good health and a happiness</div>
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Warmly yours</div>
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RJ Wardle</div>
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RJWardlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01179135644995065472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8925735388290577047.post-75597000414458928232014-09-24T00:13:00.004-07:002014-09-24T00:15:14.223-07:00UNIVERSALITY OF TIME<span style="background-color: white; color: #757575; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">Good morning, good afternoon, good evening and goodnight friends,</span><br />
<br style="background-color: white; color: #757575; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #757575; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">Dear diary (blog),</span><br />
<br />
The universality of time is indeed cyclical and continuous. It affects us all no matter where inthis beautifully lushes globe we currently reside.This update, whilst brief will, I believe, and I hope you can see this too, encapsulate both the fragility, the beauty and the power of life.<br />
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Said in 'the bards' - William Shakespeare - own words:<br />
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<b>Prospero:</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,<br />
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and<br />
Are melted into air, into thin air:<br />
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,<br />
The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,<br />
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,<br />
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,<br />
And, like this insubstancial pageant faded,<br />
Leave not a rack behind. We are sich stuff<br />
As dreams are made on; and our little life<br />
Is rounded with a sleep.<br />
<br />
Shakespeare, W. <i>The Tempest</i> <i>Act 4, scene 1, 148-158</i><br />
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<span style="color: #757575; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">On this note I bid you farewell dear friends. For now.</span><br />
<br style="color: #757575; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;" />
<span style="color: #757575; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">Until we meet again through the page, I hope this finds you in good health and a happiness,</span><br />
<br style="color: #757575; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;" />
<span style="color: #757575; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">Warmly yours</span><br />
<br style="color: #757575; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;" />
<span style="color: #757575; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">Peace Friends X</span><br />
<br style="color: #757575; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;" />
<span style="color: #757575; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 20.7900009155273px;">RJ Wardle</span></div>
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<br />RJWardlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01179135644995065472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8925735388290577047.post-39621936046893884272014-08-20T07:47:00.002-07:002014-08-20T08:05:43.940-07:00AILEEN MAY WARDLE - 1922-2014Good morning, good afternoon, good evening and goodnight friends,<br />
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Dear diary (blog),<br />
<br />
Time.<br />
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What is time? I mean, what is time really all about?<br />
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It cannot truly be quantified, at least not in my jaded view. By this I mean we cannot get time back. Each moment passes us by and is lost to us. So what is time?<br />
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Time to get ready for work. Time to see friends, time to visit places of interest, time to meet a partner and grow a family, and then we look back and we think. My, where did all that time go? Didn't that go quickly.<br />
<br />
You may sense some underlying sense of frustration in this months update. You would, dear reader, not be mistaken.<br />
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It was this last month that we lost our dearly loved Grandma, mother to my father, wife to granddad Sidney (deceased in the latter part of the 1990's), sister to Phyllis (deceased some ten years previous) and Pam, aunty to several cousins, and life-long friend to a one Win Windybanks of Dorset. England. So, yes, I am not ashamed to write it is with some sense of frustration and longing for a time lost to us that my quil falls upon this tea-stained parchment paper. Otherwise known - in this day and age - as tapping away on this laptop. My how the times change.<br />
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As a young boy I remember with clear twenty-twenty vision the sights, smells, ambience and adventures we all shared. Grandma's famed roast dinners, with proper, thick gravy. Her chuckle and warm smile as I would enter her living room having dressed-up and done my hair like a one Elvis Presley - she did not know, or rather, I thought she did not know, that I had also used her hair-spray - Granddad singing old war tunes to us and regaling me with tales of adventure as we all strolled out together for miles through local woods. <br />
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Sleep overs at my grandparents were a magical mystery tour all of its own. Possibly of no real interest to anyone other than myself, but still, hey, each to their own.<br />
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So, time. As much as all of my heart and mind yearns to get this time back, to revisit that age - the 1980's & 1990's specifically - their home, the home where my dad grew-up, the home where my grandparents lived most of their married life together, the home I first new as Grandma and Granddad's home, this time is lost. Gone. Vamoosh. Sad but true. So, as I sit here, deep in thought, I have two choices as I see it. I can live for a time that is lost, and believe me readers I have spent far too much time doing this and I can wholeheartedly dissuade you from trying it. It is a lost cause. Or, I can do as I am doing, that which my Grandma would wish for me to do. And I can live. Relish each special moment of time, cherish the opportunities that present themselves and go out and create my own luck, my own opportunities and rejoice in the luxury of life. Not to be confused with the luxuries of life. I mean the luxury simply of living and breathing. A whole world is out there and as a sprightly young thirty something I can wholeheartedly write to you in my grandma and granddad's memory I shall go forth in to this world carrying the warmth of that time with me, no one can take this away, and attempt to live a life that is stimulating, helpful to the many not the few and brings me some mild sense of contentment and happiness.<br />
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In-keeping with a previous update 'It's All A Bit of a Knot' I am not sent to depress literature, I am merely using this months update as a tool to convey to you some small semblance of what life has thrown at us these past moments of time since the last update.<br />
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Please do not confuse the seriousness of the content in this for anything other than what it is. A literary note to oneself as a public record of the emotions associated with the loss of Aileen May Wardle at 11:30 pm GMT on Tuesday 29th July 2014 aged 92. <br />
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What will be will be.<br />
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On this note I bid you farewell dear friends. For now.<br />
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Until we meet again through the page, I hope this finds you in good health and a happiness,<br />
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Warmly yours<br />
<br />
Peace Friends X<br />
<br />
RJ Wardle<br />
<br />RJWardlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01179135644995065472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8925735388290577047.post-7862799770192086162014-07-20T09:59:00.000-07:002014-07-20T11:15:59.335-07:00A UNITY IN TIME, A HEARTACHE AND A PLEASURE ALL-IN-ONEGood morning, good afternoon, good evening and goodnight friends,<br />
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Dear diary (blog)<br />
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Where or where do I begin?<br />
<br />
So much has happened over these last weeks. <br />
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I have attended a large family wedding somewhere not too dissimilar to Downton Abbey, passed through to a final year of study and read some amazingly insightful books, including one which has truly taken me. A unity in time, a heartache and a pleasure all-in-one. Caitlin Davies' <i>The Ghost of Lily Painter</i>.<br />
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A story centred around the lives lived during the course of a little over a hundred years in one house in London just off the Holloway Road. During this gripping page turner of a story we the reader are treated to a lesson in local and national history. One resident during the first part of the twentieth century kept a journal allowing the reader to feel like they are a part of this moment in time. The journal starts on January 28th 1901, right at the time our dear old Vic - Queen Victoria - died. Dear old Vic died on the 22nd January 1901 sending the country into a state in mourning. The keeper of this journal, a Police Inspector, notes :<br />
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"It is a way to record day-to-day events, in what I trust will be a manner much interesting for posterity."<br />
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Davies utilises the literary technique of this journal and the surrounding characters related to it, namely the inspector, his wife and their lodgers, as a truly fascinating tool providing a harmony between their time and the time of 2009 when the modern-day protagonist, Annie Sweet, moves in to this house and finds herself unravelling the history within the place she has bought.<br />
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Using a history centre Annie finds information to strengthen her knowledge of her house and to ascertain who Lily Painter was. This is achieved by her use of a microfiche machine. In realising that perhaps the past is not so far removed from her present it was with a real sense of pleasure and also, I might add, a personal attachment to this particular thread of plot, I followed Annie's, Lily's and Molly's lives in search of a shared goal.<br />
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What particularly took me with Davies' work is the way she interlinks with, as far as I know, a factually accurate retelling of life in this part of London at this time whilst showing and telling the reader of the developments that have come to this street and area of London in the intervening years. Told through the eyes of several rounded and engagingly presented characters relevantly characterised in each time.<br />
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Davies introduces 'modern-day' life in this area thus:<br />
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"Holloway Road, a London Street if ever there was one, a litter blown artery into the City, a road clogged with trucks and buses where every tenth vehicle is a police car or an ambulance..."<br />
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For me at least as the reader of this story this description coupled with that which I have shown from the journal, encapsulate the overarching unity of time this story so brilliantly captures. To be of interest to the many not the few.<br />
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The Holloway Empire, where once a one Lily Painter, a young aspiring music hall star who used to live at this house performed at, which then becomes the Odeon Cinema, the place our protagonists of the early Twenty First Century, Annie Sweet and daughter Molly go to watch movies. Molly, like Lily, has aspirations to be on the stage, and so, in Davis' consummate adept and technically in-tune use of plot-lines and language, weaves a narrative that is not only historically accurate and revelatory, but teaches the reader, or is that guides the reader? to an understanding of the harmony between the past with the present and no doubt, the future.<br />
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Once I had finished this book, I did in all honesty have a lump in my throat. It is something of a rarity that I can write a book has captured me to the point I feel a deep and raw sadness. To close the characters and lives they lead back into themselves within the closed pages of a book makes me truly sad!<br />
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I can think instantly of just two in the last six months that make me feel like this.<br />
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Caitlin Davies, <i>The Ghost of Lily Painter</i> - of course - and Sebastian Faulks <i>Birdsong </i><br />
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This written it is also with a slightly self-congratulatory nod of appreciation, I as can you, have the luxury of re-reading.<br />
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On this note I bid you farewell dear friends. For now.<br />
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Until we meet again through the page, I hope this finds you in good health and a happiness,<br />
<br />
Warmly yours<br />
<br />
Peace Friends X<br />
<br />
RJ Wardle<br />
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<br />RJWardlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01179135644995065472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8925735388290577047.post-70631099403185759722014-06-20T08:39:00.001-07:002014-06-22T06:07:00.088-07:00IT IS ALL A BIT OF A KNOT. Good morning, good afternoon, good evening and goodnight friends,<br />
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Whilst it never fails to humble me, this time of year, this particular year, 2014,utterly combusts me.<br />
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Having recently commemorated the 70th anniversary of the D-Day Landings, on Normandy beaches, in France during World War Two, we are in the month of June, which marks the centenary of Archduke Franz Ferdinand's assassination. June 28th 1914, marking the beginning of World War One. Although Britain did not declare war until the 4th August of 1914.<br />
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A book I recently fell into is Robert Harris' <i>An Officer and a Spy. </i>Composed as a fictional retelling of 'the most infamous miscarriage of Justice in History,' that of the conviction of Jewish officer, Alfred Dreyfus, for treason in France 1895. This acted as the precursor to the disharmony, subsequently catapulting Europe in to a World War by afore mentioned assassination of 'The Duke.'<br />
Now, I hesitate to linger on this as it sounds far too much like politics and religion, nothing wrong with this but there are other vehicles for it. This written it is an almighty clanger of miscarriage if ever there was a clanger. Clanger, not to be confused with hanger, you know, for coats et cetera. Or maybe shirts, skirts and jackets? I write this currently diving out of the way of yet another author sent from afar to depress literature, so said he of Blake. Written in the margins of a tattered old - 'traditional' - book. Suffice as to write <i>An Officer and a Spy </i>is in my view, well worth a read. Or re-read. Or re-read the read you have read. It is up to you.<br />
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So, where do we find ourselves in this sort of vacuum between commemorations? Rejoicing and cherishing life. That's where.<br />
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As if by some unjust rod plucked from my bleeding heart (depressing literature again are we?) I find myself feeling something other than sad. I find myself equal. In spirit and in action. I do hesitate to go further along the lines of the word spirit, so we shall simply call it a spirit-level. You know, like a builder would use to level a wall. Or a floor. Again I pause for thought over deploying the word plethora. Plethora is apparently a word used most widely by students to show their understanding of the English language. With all it's multitudes of plethoras' of possibilities. I am indeed also a student, as such I respectfully decline from using the word plethora. If seen please feel free to report the word Plethora to trading standards. Or some other such body of precision. For more visual imagery of the word plethora read ART FOR ARTS SAKE?... please click here: <a href="http://robertjameswardle.blogspot.co.uk/2014/05/art-for-arts-sake-surely-not-thats-no.html">http://robertjameswardle.blogspot.co.uk/2014/05/art-for-arts-sake-surely-not-thats-no.html</a><br />
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Another word I fell upon, many many summers ago, is ramifications. The complex consequences of actions. Or there about.<br />
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This word, is a continuously useful word and as such I shall deploy it now.<br />
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I hope very much the ramifications of a novel I am continuing with, and a script I am co-writing, both come to fruition bringing pleasure and stimulation of emotion to the many not the few.<br />
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On this note I bid you farewell dear friends. For now.<br />
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Until we meet again through the page, I hope this finds you in good health and a happiness,<br />
<br />
Warmly yours<br />
<br />
Peace Friends X<br />
<br />
RJ Wardle<br />
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<br />RJWardlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01179135644995065472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8925735388290577047.post-26569001447587459372014-05-20T07:31:00.000-07:002014-05-20T08:19:01.848-07:00ART FOR ARTS SAKE? SURELY NOT! THAT'S A NO VOTE FROM ME.Good morning, good afternoon, good evening and goodnight friends,<br />
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Art for art's sake is not an expression I find any resonance with. For me art is, or at least can be, found pretty much anywhere I look. It is for me at least a source of constant expression and comfort. My art is my words. Quality always subjective.<br />
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ART: The angle of a chair, displayed/hung in traditional 'art galleries,' watching a squirrel skip playfully down from a tree in nearby St James' Park -London Uk - art is then interpretation. Surely?<br />
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Often I hear people saying beauty is in the eyes of the beholder, beauty is only skin deep, art is purely subjective. Well, I can take the points these statements make without having to agree can't I?<br />
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We live in a very culturally diverse city, us London folk, although dear friends, please do not forget, I am a proud Yorkshire man, raised and schooled in a field near York. So traditionally I am indeed, a countryman. Although currently skipping about in London.<br />
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Subjectivity is also applicable to most things, not just art. My reality is different to your's and your's is no doubt even slightly different to your neighbours. Does this make art?<br />
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Does reality constitute the label of art?<br />
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What's with all the questions this month dear man? I hear you sighing, whilst instantly raising your blood pressure as you have no doubt just noted I initiated this sentence with yet another question.<br />
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Damn fool.<br />
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That was you thinking not me writing by the way.<br />
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Subjective, personal opinion and perspective only, here is the raw emotion afore mentioned with reference to art being purely subjective.<br />
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Are you feeling the same as me, your neighbour, or even the same as you felt a second ago?<br />
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Quite possibly not.<br />
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Adding to these emotions comes the plethora of 'outside influences' upon our lives. How, or maybe this is just me, life seems circular. That is to write, history repeats itself, trends resurface, what was widely accepted as a 'shocking' piece of art or an inappropriate 'art-form,' can, by afore mentioned outside influences, resurface hundreds of years later to become widely acknowledged as 'amazing - ground-breaking - revolutionary.'<br />
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The way in which I view the world here in London changes minute by minute, borough by borough, more often than not, from street to street, I find myself skipping through multiple arts and multiple realities.Does this mean that reality constitutes art? Well, if anyone who has taken a brief moment to read this, for which you are eternally thanked, has ever been to Shoreditch -LondonUk - you will have cause to resonate with my question. At least I hope you will.<br />
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An eclectic haberdashery, haberdashery, is this a word? Ok enough questions, of art, multiple realities and multiple persona's. In my as yet somewhat limited experiences of life in London, Shoreditch is for me a place of relaxation, breeding creative stimulations. And no dear friends, creative stimulations are not found in a pub. Well, not always. Merely being on the east side streets of Shoreditch one encounters all walks of life, in all styles of expression, wearing all manner of era's clothing with mismatching shoes and haircuts to boot.<br />
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Art then. In my subjective perspective opinion, is everywhere, in everything, we just have to open our minds to embrace it.<br />
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This IS NOT me. Ashamedly afraid to write.<br />
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Until we meet again through the page, I hope this finds you in good health and a happiness,<br />
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Warmly Yours<br />
<br />
Peace Friends X<br />
<br />
RJ Wardle<br />
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<br />RJWardlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01179135644995065472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8925735388290577047.post-9074599655293330112014-04-20T08:40:00.002-07:002014-04-20T08:41:42.723-07:00ONE BIG ADVENTUREGood morning, good afternoon, good evening and goodnight friends,<br />
<br />
Well, wow, Easter is here again.<br />
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Is it just me or does anyone else feel this year to be flying past their eyes and ears with no pause for refuelling?<br />
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Having embraced both a plethora of books, written words and thank the lord, some concerted efforts to continuously embrace theatre land here in London Uk, at last, my life - for what interest it is to you dear friends I do no know - has become something of an unusually pleasurable variety these last months since Christmas.<br />
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As I write this to you now, I sit at mum's new breakfast bar, in her newly refitted country kitchen, <i>see COUNTRY KITCHEN LIVING </i>blog post Tuesday 10th Sept, 2013. Thea, my parents new puppy, has grown immeasurably to the size of a small ship in stature. She always was due to become a full sized lady of the house. My dad, in true country gentleman style that he radiates, has just brewed a lovely pot of steaming tea, from a red tea pot to a mug, and mum, bless her gentle soul, is playing chase the puppy with Thea around the coffee table in the living room.<br />
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Are you riveted by this? No, I thought not.<br />
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Am I at peace in the loving arms of my family amongst the rolling hills, babbling brooks and bails of somewhat damp hay this rainy Easter Sunday? Yes you bet I am.<br />
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As far as I can tell life is one big adventure with a dollop of what I loosely term, admin. Admin seems to grow the older I get. You know, the finding a home, paying bills, settling down, raising a family side of life.<br />
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Am I being purposefully reactionary writing that? Yes.<br />
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Why? Well, I yearn to be a quiet family man. To share my life with another and hopefully raise children to appreciate the beauty of beautifully peaceful English countryside.<br />
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So why write such a hard-line, admin comment then I hear your wonder? Well, I use the word admin loosely. As mentioned above.<br />
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Why? Well, as already written, as far as I can tell life is one big adventure. So, the admin growing as the years pass me by only serve to enhance what I can see is the adventure known as life.<br />
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Recently it has been with a warm smile and a positive beat in my heart that London is ever striking me as a beautiful playground of opportunities.<br />
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So, back to the admin. Perhaps I should call admin, essentials?!<br />
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Time and tide waits for no man. Except in my small world where a fear is that this staple essential desire to be a loving family man may prove never to realise itself upon me.<br />
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Whatever happens I have to write to you dear friends, life is at last becoming one big adventure. The essentials I feel will only come if I embrace the adventure.<br />
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So embrace life I shall.<br />
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Until we meet again through the page, I hope this finds you in good health and a happiness,<br />
<br />
Warmly Yours<br />
<br />
Peace Friends X<br />
<br />
RJ Wardle<br />
<br />
<br />RJWardlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01179135644995065472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8925735388290577047.post-78338159679348447252014-03-20T11:02:00.000-07:002014-03-21T01:24:04.049-07:00TWELVE ANGRY MEN & IGood morning, good afternoon, good evening and goodnight friends,<br />
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Where oh where do I begin? So much has stimulated me since last I wrote to you.<br />
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Fully-embraced three plays. One of which twice, <i>Pole Factor - BLOW-IT-UP YOUR POLE FACTOR</i>. One of which was my very first Shakespeare in London,<i> King Lear - SHAKING-UP THE GLOBE</i>. And one of which was a birthday treat, my father, <i>Twelve Angry Men</i> and I at The Garrick Theatre in London UK's West End -Theatre land!<br />
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Somehow I managed to find myself with several beautifully passionate, dedicated, inspirational and loving new friends. I say friends, we are still in preliminary stages of 'getting to know you.' I like to believe the genuine shared passion for words, stories, will unite us for many years to come. Crumbs have I jinxed it? Probably!<br />
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Since first I wrote I hope you by now understand if only through this page, how intrinsically important family, the countryside and good old Yorkshire down to earth, a spade is a spade'ness is to me.<br />
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Spade'ness, is this a word? . . . spade'ness, first used by RJ Wardle Copyright 2014.<br />
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Keep it real. Really does resonate.<br />
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I really do hope.<br />
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Entering into a life spent with words is after all, more than just a cosy dream. It is with every inch of my mind, heart and soul an all encompassing mind-mapped goal I strive continuously to build. Go out and create my own opportunities. Don't wait for them to come to me, find them!<br />
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As I believe I wittered on about three updates ago in <i>WAKING - UP IN LONDON.</i><br />
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Some weeks ago my much loved father and I skipped along to embrace possibly one of the greatest dialogue driven plays we have seen together in years.<br />
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With a cast of, funnily enough, twelve men, all playing jury service members in a murder trial in an American Court during the early 1950's. We the audience were collectively gripped by the gritty, at times sporadically sparse, at times elongated monologues delivered in a noticeably calm and fluid fashion. As was the movement more akin to a flock of geese floating through a pond than twelve angry men stomping about a stage. I blinked and the centre-stage long desk had silently, unnoticeably turned from lengthways to sideways. Robert Vaugh, a face I know well from his day's as Napolean Solo (Great name) in <i>The Man From U.N.C.L.E</i> (a 1960's american television series) shuffled, and yes I do literally mean shuffled about the stage remaining largely silent. But my, how his presence radiated throughout the theatre. All eyes were on him. Where on the stage is he? What is he doing? Not a lot largely. Took a loo break, washed his hands - I believe this is known as 'business.' On this point: most the cast frequented the sink, toilet and water cooler quite a lot. Quite a lot of business. Business? Vaugh doesn't need business. Nor does he require a ream of monologues, he is within his very fibres, a solid time-served man of words. Remaining seated at the table, after his loo break of course, silently scribbling notes before coming out with mostly one line nuggets of gold, like, 'Maybe he wanted to be noticed?'<br />
<br />
As the play climaxed, perhaps rather unsurprisingly, most the men originally . . . no wait, that would be a spoiler. <i>And</i> like Agatha Christie's <i>The MouseTrap</i>, I personally feel I should respect the privacy of the conclusion so as it remains a luxury of those that are seated in the audience to know.<br />
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Until we meet again through the page, I hope this finds you in good health and a happiness,<br />
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Warmly Yours<br />
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Peace Friends X<br />
<br />
RJ Wardle<br />
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<br />RJWardlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01179135644995065472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8925735388290577047.post-55393736075061762782014-03-04T04:24:00.000-08:002014-03-04T05:33:00.652-08:00SHAKING-UP THE GLOBEGood morning. good afternoon, good evening and goodnight friends,<br />
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This specific blog is something of an elongated, at times arguably self-indulgent review of a fantastically forward-thinking engagement of Shakespeare's <i>King Lear</i>. Just in-case you are in any doubt.<br />
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As a lover of stories it was with a somewhat childlike Christmas day feeling I skipped out to embrace my first Shakespeare play last Thursday evening, man-flu in-tow. Storytelling by any and all means engaging the many not the few, starting with our children, as I was once engaged by my primary school teacher, Mrs Sarah Carlisle in 1989 to the enchanting world of words. A passion deeply routed, further back in my subconscious to the bedtime stories of the mid nineteen eighties. <i>The Famous Five</i>, <i>Rupert The Bear,</i> <i>The Far Away Tree</i> and many other such inspirational texts up to and including my own pleasures of writing short stories at this time, <i>Inspector Kipper</i>. Rather, the wonderful worlds created with words. Stimulating the imagination, the almost dream like quality of theatres, It's that dressing-up-box again, why do I instantly think of Helen Mirren's acceptance speech at the BAFTA's this year (2014)? Not only did Mirren engage her audience to think of their individual inspirational teacher, that did, as Mrs Carlisle did for me, engage them to their passion for literature, for stories, worlds created with words to be enjoyed, created, read, listened to and played. Mirren also quoted with pin-drop emotion, a section from Prospero's monologue in Shakespeare's <i>The Tempest</i>:<br />
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<strong style="border: 0px; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, 'Liberation Sans', FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Prospero:</strong><br />
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Our revels now are ended. These our actors,<br />
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and<br />
Are melted into air, into thin air:<br />
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,<br />
The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,<br />
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,<br />
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,<br />
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,<br />
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff<br />
As dreams are made on; and our little life<br />
Is rounded with a sleep.</div>
<a href="http://www.enotes.com/tempest-text/act-iv-scene-i#tem-4-1-166" style="border: 0px; color: #2393bd; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, 'Liberation Sans', FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The Tempest Act 4, scene 1, 148–158</a><br />
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A new yet dear friend of mine recounted recently how he felt Shakespeare's works that have lasted five hundred or so years, will, in his view [and mine], last another five hundred. Continuing to bring pleasures and educational values as we current human infiltrators of our globe have long since been 'rounded with a sleep.' As I believe you shall see from the quote above, Shakespeare was well aware of life's false realities and time-limits.<br />
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This same friend also informed me a play review should be concise and not name any individuals. Well, I respect your views dear friend, I truly do. I am simply a passionate man behind a page (usually safest) but in my little world, a Yorkshire man skipping about in London finally engaging oneself for I hope a long life with words, I should like to thank publicly, for any who care to read, some of the talents on offer, for any who care to embrace, in The Network Theatre's - <i>King Lear</i>.<br />
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'The bards' timeless qualities transcending boundaries, he wrote to be played, it was with a shaky skip in my step I ventured out from behind a page last Thursday evening. Not, I hasten to write,to The Globe. At the initial time of conception, Shakespeare's Globe Theatre was aptly and not by chance named as such due to discoveries by adventurous explorers within our globe, it is not flat for example. All encompassing, as are his works.<br />
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It is worth noting as we mark the 450th anniversary of the bards birth this year (2014) and the 400th anniversary of his death in 2016, London has been shaking-up with Shakespeare with no-less than three <i>King Lear</i>'s (I know of) playing in the first months of this new year. In conjunction with a plethora of Shakespeare plays, events on and off stage in celebration of in my view, a genius of words.<br />
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Located at a hidden 'secret gem' theatre aptly named The Network Theatre, again, like The Vaults, underneath Waterloo, a London Uk train station, it is a soul-enchantingly characterful venue. And yes, indeed, with some delightfully impassioned characters within. The curtain will go-up, the show must go on.This <i>King Lear</i> was an intimately cut version by the talent with words that is dear Bernie as she is affectionately known. Bernie's right-hand women in the scrupulously meticulous production we all embraced last Thursday (27th, February, 2014) informed me as something of a newcomer to theatre visits here in London, Bernie is one of those people you meet and would instantly trust and do anything [within reason] for. Well, having been captivated twice now by the genuine down-to-earth, no airs or graces, the words are the important part of this not me character she radiates, I am sure she must be from Yorkshire, I can humbly agree with you. To meet with any like-minded soul, in this case Bernie and the company/ audience of/ at <i>King Lear</i>, who share an unstinting commitment to and love of creating worlds with words, storytelling, it is indeed in my view, <i>all</i> about the worlds with words.<br />
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Let the words speak for the man - as I say to any who care to listen. Not all that many I hasten to write in jovial whimsicality. Mum and dad perhaps.On occasion.<br />
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This written, Bernie's almost as intimate as two naked lovers relationship with Shakespeare's words, afforded an engaging cut from the three/four hours full-length to a more modest two hour inc. interval production. Seamless, would be one word I would use. Engaging, easily accessible plot line, a running commentary more-akin to a BBC news feed commentary box running behind the actors, the comedic nuances played anything other than discreetly by Mark Johnson as Edmund served to lighten an otherwise densely pact text for this particular newcomer to Shaky. A multitude of characters all in synchronisation with each other physically, emotionally and spatially<br />
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As the story un-folded, cast engagingly mocking Lear, played to precise engagement of the absurdities of his characters actions by Michael Mayne. Lear himself at times mocked his own demise, with that dressing-up box reappearing again and again. We enjoyed an army of soldiers, a luminous pink nightgown, many different suits and a denim jacket wearing, woolly-jumpered crutch in this story.To the untrained eye acting as tools, in conjunction with the precisely woven parchment of cut script, the running-commentary box, and two pictures of London's skyline adorning the wings stage left and stage right, to bring this particularly complex play to the many not the few. Including this one, me. Now surely this is what we strive to achieve. To maintain and grow as widely as possible the magic of worlds within words in this case, that Shakespeare has left us.<br />
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In Shakespeare's own words - via Lear,<br />
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'Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say'<br />
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Until we meet again through the page, I trust this finds you in good health and a happiness,<br />
<br />
<br />
Peace Friends X<br />
<br />
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<br />RJWardlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01179135644995065472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8925735388290577047.post-79188603136084438462014-02-20T10:34:00.000-08:002014-02-20T12:22:06.913-08:00BLOW-IT-UP YOUR POLE FACTOR Good morning. good afternoon, good evening and goodnight friends,<br />
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In search of creative stimulation I skipped along not once but twice the other week to what can only be described as a magical underground labyrinth of caves. Otherwise known as The Vaults, under Waterloo, a central London (Uk) train station, to embrace my first play of the year.<br />
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Walking off the main thoroughfare of a cold, dark February evenings busy London high street with all the sirens, tooting car horns, shouts and general busyness of the main arena, I submerged myself down a flight of damp stone steps. Confronted with a Batman esq style, legally graffiti adorned walled, characterful creative heaven, home to several 'moody' caves, each one playing a different play as part of the Vault Festival 2014. It did not escape me this underground world was indeed a beating heart of the arts. Friendly, enticing, stimulating, frankly, a home from home full of like-minded souls with a passion for creating worlds with words.<br />
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I entered the cave my ticket told me to go into almost as if I had stepped back in time to a modern day Dickensian London. Anyone seen old Bill Sykes?<br />
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Reviewing the situation:<br />
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Originally composed several years ago, amidst a tumultuous social climate here in the Uk, Nazish Kahn's <i>Pole Factor</i>, the play I was here to see, is located in a fittingly 'alternative' ambience deep within these caves. Adorned with a tapestry of green, brown and yellow cloths draped nonchalantly across the back of the stage creating a mood one may assume is that found within a Bedouin tent out in a desert. Reenha Lalbihari as the alluringly feline-like Coco, would indeed look perfectly at home in such a tent as her physical skill and deftly timed alluring romance with the pole suggested. Or a circus trapeze artist. A low rumble of trains overhead added to the everyday struggling Londoner atmosphere. Set in a living room with minimal props save of course for a battered old sofa and a towering silver pole, <i>Pole Factor</i> is a shattering social commentary on the struggles facing people of Islamic faith here in the Uk. Juxtaposed with our 'celebrity' 'Talent show' driven, some may say obsessed culture. I write nothing of the plethora of 'reality' television shows.I write nothing of the plethora of 'reality' television shows. In jovial humour.These two themes transposed against each other allowed the audience to resonate with this play. At least I did. We have all I imagine, at least heard of the X-Factor if indeed we have not seen it. And we have all at least caught a fleeting glimpse of the news, or a newspaper, over the last eight years or so, enough to realise racial tensions have been a recurring news piece.<br />
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Played from the perspectives of Hanif, a young Islamic faith Londoner constantly berated and misunderstood over his desire to set up a mosque football team. The football team, to my understanding is a beautifully empowering metaphor for unity. Coco with her desire to become famous through the talent show. And Max, the archetypical stereotyped controlling boyfriend constantly struggling to be taken seriously. All tempered by fellow contestant on <i>Pole Factor</i>, Gina. Balancing the dramatic tensions Gina herself is engaged with whilst adding a welcomed whimsical yet always engagingly played comic aside. Actress Fiona McGee creates a heart-warming multi-faceted character . It was a stimulating educational experience for me, telling the otherwise largely untold plight of people with Islamic faith here in the Uk, so often side-lined by mainstream commentaries.<br />
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The physicality of the characters played with consummate timing by Fiona McGee and Farhan Kahn specifically, drew me in to the at times subtle comedic undertones of what is otherwise a hard hitting, tense piece of social narrative drama mixed with doses of physical theatre. Its that circus again. There was, I noticed on my second visit to embrace <i>Pole Factor,</i> one audience member who spent the entire second half with his jaw dropped to the floor. The peripeteia moment comes as Coco is pushed savagely to the sofa of this would-be living room. Complemented with real life rumbles from a passing train her boyfriend Max, a lapsed Islam faith young man played eerily accurately by Ian Baksh, violently spreads her legs adopting a position we are all familiar with. Tense moments such as this, coupled with Coco's entrapment within the would-be living room served to justifiably shock this audience as we caught a glimpse of terrors facing some women in our society. The moodily atmospheric location of this cave did wonders for juxtaposing the false-realities of 'Celebrity culture,' whilst simultaneously becoming a power house of accurate dramatic social commentary. The have-nots' striving to become the have's via the talent show <i>Pole Factor</i>.<br />
<br />
Nazish Kahn writes with an intimately engaged ear to our multi-faceted society. She composes a multi- layered commentary on THE KEY ISSUES of today we can all resonate with, whilst imparting the intensive pin-drop moments a subject matter such as this deserves. Allowing the audience to be pulled along with the characters individual and joint onwards struggles as the story unfolds with moments, within this rumbling engine, of subtle humour. Kahn plainly has the wider social picture firmly in mind. <br />
<br />
Edinburgh Fringe Festival 2014, fasten your seat-belts. Again!<br />
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Until we meet again through the page, I trust this finds you in good health and a happiness<br />
<br />
Peace Friends X<br />
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<br />RJWardlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01179135644995065472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8925735388290577047.post-72098564491592212452014-01-20T02:25:00.000-08:002014-01-20T02:25:07.631-08:00WAKING-UP IN LONDONGood morning. good afternoon, good evening and goodnight friends,<br />
<br />
'Wake-Me-Up Before You Go-Go,' opening lines from the much sung song of the 1980's here in the Uk, 'Wake- Me-Up Before You Go-Go' London serves to encapsulate a metaphorical literary call to arms for me. London is after all, such a large dollop of creativity and opportunity all in one large dollop. Did I write dollop? Did anyone read the word dollop?<br />
<br />
With ears ever open to the world around me, constantly embracing/recognising little snippets of a conversation, replaying mini-scenes over and over in my mind up to and including set design with enter/exit moments upstage left or downstage right, creating from these snippets lines of dialogue, plot-lines one two three four and sometimes five. Themes, more often than not mind-mapping an entire detailed synopsis complete with back-story, locations and character descriptions complete with back-story, embracing visually any and all sights I happen across all subconsciously and indeed more-often-than-not, consciously mind-mapping them into words in my mind then at the first available opportunity, to a page.<br />
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Then of course we have networking. Who needs to read these words to stand the best possible chance of someone reading something they enjoy, have a use for, and ultimately feel passionately enough to allow me the honour of writing for them. In itself I then start to compose my own accurate back-story, a much hoped for and soul and heart dedicated to, period of longevity thus breeding more faith in my work, in the life I strive to live within. A life spent with words.On and off script shall we say.<br />
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As January bumbles along, most the country here in England eagerly awaiting pay day at the end of this month, personally I await the turn of a new decade of adventures. The big 3 0 looms ever closer (six more sleeps away). Introspective thought processes, a perpetual source of emotion for me, some good, some not, It is fair to write 30 looks to be the making of the man year for me. No longer 'an old boy' it will be with an unflinching nod of self-approval, self-verification in the world, I now belong somewhere, again, at last, 'crumbs you took your time didn't you.' Passing what limited experiences I have down through the generations whilst still sprightly and youthful, embracing such nuggets of wisdom from a wide-ranging network of peers. Namely mum and dad, I write jovially.<br />
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For whatever it may or may not be worth, this seems to a technology frustrated Yorkshire man currently skipping about in London (UK) at least, a right of passage year. Having eventually mind-mapped myself to the pathway the Robert of some decades ago would have, should have, could have stepped on, that of spending life with words, it fills me with untold pleasures. For richer or poorer (richer would be nice - not to be confused with affluent, just comfortably off), in sickness and in health (In Stirling health for as long as is possible would be a god send - best give up smoking then hadn't I), for better or worse (plainly better is my desired and much longed for option) I shall recline into the third chapter of this book of a life of mine, with words.<br />
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Oh and Ps.<br />
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<i>Single thirty something man of words seeking to become a family man</i><br />
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Is this socially acceptable? I don't know. I write in humble whimsicality, making the final piece of my life jigsaw. To become a loving family man. Again. For good. In sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, for better or worse. Will my thirties afford this? Who knows. Best dust off my confidence in this sphere of life and face the world with my head held high. Oh and neatly polished shoes to boot.<br />
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Pps. <i>I am proud not to fit in any particular box (currently carrying my winter weight boxes prove something of a mis-fit for me), under any particular label. Conformity, what's this?</i><br />
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Until we meet again through this page, I trust this finds you in good health and a happiness<br />
<br />
Peace Friends X<br />
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<br />RJWardlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01179135644995065472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8925735388290577047.post-78615040947986042032013-12-19T04:50:00.000-08:002013-12-22T00:17:15.818-08:00JOLLIES, BEWILDERMENT & SADNESS. BAH HUMBUG. NOT LIKELY.Good morning, good afternoon, good evening and goodnight,<br />
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Tis the season to be jolly . . . Or so they tell me.<br />
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Jolly? Christmas can be something of a mixed bag of jollies, even bewilderment, dare I write even sadness?<br />
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For many of us who reside on our own (as I do) the continuous 'cheer' serves only to remind us of what we missed this last year.<br />
<br />
Hold it right there!<br />
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Aside from the obvious lack of a loving partner to wake up and share Christmas day with, hold-fast those thoughts!<br />
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Plainly I can only speak for myself, pardon the pun, this written, oh my goodness rather OMG as is now widely used in common everyday global language within certain circles, although first used back in 1917, or so I read.<br />
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So, back to ME.<br />
<br />
"OMG here he goes again"<br />
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I faintly hear you sigh with an increasing level of foreboding. What will this man witter on about this time?<br />
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Well dear friends across the ponds, alleyways, vast expansive oceans of the page, sorry globe, it comes to me as if like an un-repentant tidal-wave of good fortune, a cheeky yet jovial flush of well, look, you have your red jumper on whilst penning this, so "all is not lost"<br />
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"Yep"<br />
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I hear you sigh,<br />
<br />
"init again"<br />
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Hold-fast those thoughts!<br />
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So maybe the year at this time is a mixed bag of jollies, even bewilderment dare I write sadness?<br />
<br />
Take bewilderment. I personally live in a constant bewilderment as to the markedly improved opportunities and quality of life 2013 has afforded. In self-imposed isolation for the large part of the last few years, to step out from behind the page in to life again has and continues to take me a little by surprise. I rejoice!<br />
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From writing to you as I do now, and within the pages of the beautifully empowering Women Scorned website, to playing twice this year in central London with fellow like-minded souls off the page to the stage. From which I have had the utter delight in meeting some of the worlds truly kind-hearted souls. Jointly and separately. Penning and celebrating with a globally acknowledged revolutionary full-service events management company within which I have found equally kind-hearted, dedicated and loving souls. To watching through a page, two of my closet friends embark on becoming a Mrs something or other and a mum whilst simultaneously combusting, sorry, moving with her soon to be husband to a leafy coastal village here in blighty, sorry England. Family life commences for them. Rejoice? Absolutely!<br />
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For you will indeed have your own unique to you moments of rejoice, I am certain of this if nothing else.<br />
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Writing is always my solace, my friend and yes on occasion, my severest critic (one is ones own worst enemy) some wise young thing once wrote. And how right they are in my case at least.<br />
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My parents have and continue to rejoice in their new-look downstairs rooms including fully-refitted kitchen complete with the utterly adorable cheeky young thing ' Lady Thea' - the new puppy, although by the sounds of things soon to be the fully grown women of the house, next to mum of course. <br />
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Jollies, under any other name. Surely?<br />
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Sadness, yes, but in all accurate appraisal of the previous two emotions, joy (jollies) and bewilderment, sadness is along way off being at the forefront of this bag. Unless I let it. I have choice. So do YOU!<br />
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Now, far be it for me to pertain to be any authority whatsoever on your good self, on your emotions, on frankly anything other than me. Even on my self I battle.<br />
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Well, you by natural progression are the sole authority on YOU!<br />
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So there!<br />
<br />
He writes whimsically whilst ducking out the way of a swift and stern glance as you recline yet further into your 'OMG what is he wittering on about chair'.<br />
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"I mean really. What is he . . .?"<br />
<br />
If 2013 has taught me anything, the biggest and most far reaching lesson to be drawn is that lesser known term 'balance'.<br />
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To someone like me, a creative soul through and through,(quality always a judgement of any who care to read my words) for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, in good times and in bad, balance and I have a somewhat fragile relationship.<br />
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Therein lies the biggest lesson to be drawn from 2013 for me. As the big 30 looms in January - age is only a number - I am in full support of this statement. This written, after soul searching for the most part of each day since what, September 2009, I can conclude to myself that it is balance that shall be embraced with somewhat more vigour in 2014.<br />
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Me , myself and I . . . and you of course, live 24/7 together, and I am happy with the me leaving 2013. What will come will come, what will be will be, me, myself and I are at one! Almost!<br />
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For now though my red jumper and I stroll out on a crisp, blue-skies, December afternoon in search of that coffee shop which engaged me in Westminster,with my book, with a mind full of stories, in search of any and all ways to breath through the page for another year.<br />
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All around I see that mixed bag of jollies, bewilderment and dare I write sadness? And yet within my red jumper I am in control of what opportunities I choose to embrace, and so dear friends are YOU!<br />
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As you now groan, "is he finished yet?'<br />
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In your 'OMG what is her wittering on about this time chair'<br />
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My answer is YES.<br />
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Until we meet again through the page, I trust this finds you in good health and a happiness<br />
<br />
Peace Friends X<br />
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<br />RJWardlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01179135644995065472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8925735388290577047.post-86991605076534424042013-11-18T07:24:00.000-08:002013-11-18T12:04:43.866-08:00A NEW ARRIVAL MARKS A NEW CHAPTER OF OPPORTUNITIESGood morning, good afternoon, good evening, goodnight,<br />
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Talk about soul-enhancing fun.<br />
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Remember mum, you know the lady from chapter two in this by any other name, diary? Country Kitchen Living mum. Well, crumbs . . . what a stunning new-look kitchen, come dining room, come space and place conducive to clean countryside living it has become. One may be forgiven for hearing the theme tune to the <i>The Archers</i> skipping along past one's ears. For those of you who are now scratching your heads, <i>The Archers</i> was originally described as 'an everyday story of country-folk' although more recently described as ' contemporary drama in a rural setting' here in blighty. Sorry, Merry England. As of May 29th 2013 it celebrated sixty three years on our and indeed the globes airwaves, making it the globes longest running radio soap opera, bringing a moments retreat from our otherwise busy city lives. (For those that are now saying: "Well we don't live in the city", I offer a passionate nod of respect). Mind you, know I have written this I also offer an equally passionate nod of respect to those that live shall we say, elsewhere.<br />
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You know, am minded to state, in my humble yet passionate view, someone-somewhere, probably tucked underneath a pile of research papers, is purposefully constructing a heart-felt opportunity for transportation away from 'the hum' of city life so as to bring if only for fifteen minutes five times each week, every week,dreams of countryside living. In amongst the rolling hills, babbling brooks and bails of hay, at the corner of a glen there is a little village, filled with people very much like those depicted in this radio soap opera, all just waiting, patiently, to welcome with warm hearts those city folk who seek to recline into a more peaceful place. Good old blighties countryside.<br />
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Well, back to mum, from chapter two.<br />
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Having embraced her new-look kitchen in all its deliciousness, my peaceful countryside dwelling parents were greeted Monday last, by the adorable, cuddly, playful and head-strong little lady, Thea. It may well be an appropriate moment to divulge Thea is a puppy, as in a dog that is a baby. To those reading this that are now saying; "well it's obvious what a puppy is", I offer an equally passionate nod of respect as I have already offered to those I said lived in city's, that don't. And to those I said lived elsewhere, that don't.<br />
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Welcome to your new home Thea. Beautiful, loving and did I say head-strong? Little lady that you are, at least for now. Rumour has it the Thea's of this world do grow to be a somewhat noticeable size and stature.<br />
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"A proper dog" chirped-up my dad as he stood sawing wood for their open fire Saturday morning last.<br />
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I'll leave that comment where it is. Floating along the slip-stream of time, out in the wilderness of the rolling hills.<br />
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As she skips through her new home, her ears are merrily flopping about in a jovial sort-of fashion as her little legs pat softly along the new-look kitchen flooring. Beaming at us as if she hasn't seen us in years. I haven't the heart to remind her she is only eight weeks old and we have only known each other five days. Bless her.<br />
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Oh, yes, it may also be worth noting I skipped along myself this weekend last, to pay a visit to the countryside nest that is mum, dad and indeed Thea's home.<br />
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Despite all the trials and tribulations, adventures many wide-ranging and fun this city of London Uk has in abundance, indeed the globe in its entirety has on offer, one truly cannot beat the arrival of a new puppy into the bosom of a loving home to rejuvenate and rekindle ones passion for life.<br />
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Someone always pleased to see you, be with you and love you, someone always on your side even if we ourselves are aware we might, on this obviously very rare occasion, have got something slightly wrong.<br />
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In a loving nod of deeply heartfelt appreciation to Thea's all over the globe, I thank you, for being by our sides. <br />
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Until we meet again through the page,I trust this finds you in good health and a happiness,<br />
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Warmly yours<br />
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RJ Wardle XRJWardlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01179135644995065472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8925735388290577047.post-37800866349492739132013-10-16T11:41:00.000-07:002013-10-16T11:41:24.965-07:00SKIPPING ABOUT LONDONGood morning, good afternoon, good evening, goodnight,<br />
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My oh my, how the two worlds I find myself straddling fuse together in as always, (at least in my globe) the most whimsical fashion. . . No pun intended!<br />
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Having returned to Central London UK life a little over a month ago, it has been with a somewhat noticeably obvious nod to my beloved countryside self.<br />
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Casually skipping along through 'The City' some weeks ago, in other-words the financial district of Central London UK, sporting my Green country jacket, hiking boots and somewhat less than 'on-trend' jeans, it was with some mild-amusement I appeared to catch the gazes of 'the suits' (financial district workers). Almost saying through their fixed gazes;<br />
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'who are you?'<br />
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'What are you doing in our area dressed for a countryside expedition?'<br />
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'Don't you know there is a dress code?'<br />
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'We all dress the same here!'<br />
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To which my response would as always have been a polite, if in this instance tinged with a mild sense of jovial humility;<br />
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'Oh I do beg your pardon, I gave-up wearing the same suits every day some years ago.'<br />
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Now now dear man I note to self.<br />
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You see, in the mind of a man such as me, rightly or wrongly, I seem naturally to air towards the 'adding a pinch of salt' to situations. (Easier said than done I know).<br />
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Crumbs, heaven only knows why, upon reflection, this is just me.<br />
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Skipping, or more accurately as Autumn throws its' cold-crisp air, occasional down-pours of rain and shorter day's at us here in the UK, trudging about town in my hiking boots, in awe at the size and diversity of London, a city which never fails to bring a warm smile, I absorbed the 'bright lights' of life here.<br />
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As the sights and sounds of London charged past, always dashing somewhere, never I am sure, entirely sure precisely why, it just does, because that's what London is isn't it? . . Dashing about the place.<br />
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Far be it for me to pertain to be any authority, on anything, other than myself I guess. That written, as my legs seem to take charge on my regular jaunts about this city, my eyes and mind I let drift, casually to absorb whichever and all adventures come there way.<br />
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Note to legs:<br />
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'Now the weather is turning, please don't insist on trawling me through EVERY puddle in your way. My feet get soaked!'<br />
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City life here carries with it a delicious mixture of 'the suits', Silver & Gold painted mime-artists who appear to be sitting on absolutely nothing but thin air, for hours upon hours in Covent Garden as a chattering, excitable group of school children (nearly always accompanied by a slightly less than excitable looking teacher) skip past. A steady drove of Lycra vested cyclist will be fiercely 'charging' somewhere, although I fear even they know not why (nearly always accompanied by a delightfully traditional 1950's esq bicycle complete with wicker basket attached trundling merrily along ringing a bell behind them).<br />
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All this and oh so much more, all in the same place.<br />
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I now find myself by Big Ben. Having taken all of fourteen months to realise, the frequent jaunts I enjoy have made this beautiful city shrink. Looking at the London Underground Tube maps for seemingly endless hours over the years, this past fourteen months have thrown wide my eyes to the enhancing qualities of London living, all within about a half hour, forty minute skip about the place from one another.<br />
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An engagingly friendly chap serving coffee at a globally known brand of coffee houses smiles as I wander in to quench my thirst and replenish my energy.<br />
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'Medium Latte?'<br />
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He enquires, grinning knowingly.<br />
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'Oh yes please . . . make it a large one'<br />
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I add quickly.<br />
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'You use the tube?'<br />
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He enquires seeing the slightly bedraggled state of my hiking boots.<br />
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'Not any-more.'<br />
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I reply, whilst busying myself with the vanilla and cinnamon shakers.<br />
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'Ciao.'<br />
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Ciao.'<br />
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Out in to the metropolis of city life I march. Soggy feet and all.<br />
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To take the tube is for me, in the most part, something of a rare necessity. Call me a country-boy or call me a country-boy, but to truly embrace this city, legs must be exercised.<br />
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As with the hurdles in life we face, to skip along letting our minds and eyes casually absorb whichever and all adventures come our way, it seems to me to lighten the load of trying times.<br />
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City life, as in life, to the casual observer, is always brimming with 'a pinch of salt' moments.<br />
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As countryside gardener Alan Titchmarsh recounts:<br />
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'I like to think of it as something people can dip in and out of.'<br />
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Until we meet again through the page, I trust this finds you in good health and a happiness,<br />
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Warmly yours<br />
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R J Wardle<br />
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<br />RJWardlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01179135644995065472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8925735388290577047.post-85073246133677373922013-09-10T02:17:00.000-07:002013-09-10T02:18:11.969-07:00COUNTRY KITCHEN LIVINGGood morning, good afternoon, good evening, goodnight,<br />
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Since last I wrote to you, mum's country-kitchen has become bare of all amenities. No cooker, sink, cupboards, even the wallpaper (of which we found no-less than four layers) are all in a skip, residing on my recently retired parents front drive. Much to the amusement of there kind neighbours who have all literally baked her a cake to ease her pain. (I write in honest joviality).<br />
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For my parents neighbours, who are all jolly good eggs', egg ess', also insisted mum use a washing machine (not personally dive in to it I hasten to write), donated a slow-cooker for use to cook 'proper' food, over the two to three weeks of cooker-less, washing machine less conviviality.<br />
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For eleven and a half years my devoted and selfless mother has waited, dreaming in the wings for her time to shine. By this I mean to have her new kitchen. Peeling back the wallpaper mentioned, was for mum and I, peeling back the history of her home. Different styles, tastes, different people living within the walls of the kitchen . . I wonder what adventures this wallpaper has borne witness too?<br />
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In waiting for her new kitchen, having now retired, the kitchen plans have widened to become an intricately plotted pathway to re-shuffling pretty much her whole downstairs.<br />
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The kitchen is to become an open-plan kitchen/dining room, separated by a breakfast bar. Her downstairs bedroom will become a proud new home to a en-suite shower room, oh and the utility room shall become the loving home of a traditional Belfast sink.<br />
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You see, in my humble yet ardent view, mum has planned this to such a uniquely personal level of satisfaction. Taking huge delight in the entire process, although in truth we have had the odd moment . . .I think specifically of the time last Monday when dad's old boss called by with his wife for a 'spot-of-lunch'.<br />
An ex-boss I respectfully note,who is a man every bit of eighty years old, still skipping off to sail around the Scottish UK's shores, bobbing about in a boat, getting 'stuck-in' to splicing the main braise on his knees pulling and steering the sails.<br />
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Did I mention the fact mum's kitchen is bare of all amenities?<br />
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Her living room is tripling up as living room, kitchen and dining room for the foreseeable.<br />
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As is typical of a women such as mum, caring, strong-minded, passionate and self-less, the travelling duo from Harrogate UK (dad's old boss and lovely wife Rose) were greeted with warmth and generosity.<br />
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Oh and the moment mum and I spent three hours on one small section of wallpaper and plaster only to be informed the builder was knocking that part of the wall down too.<br />
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Metaphors a plenty here. You see if I think of the up-upheaval caused to mum's domestic life, one could mirror this to the emotional upheaval suffered as a result of relationship turmoil.<br />
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Mum's bare of all amenities kitchen is a beautiful slice of visual imagery reflecting with some small accuracy I hope, how one's heart and soul feel post relationship breakdown.<br />
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Dad's ex-boss and wife Rose turning up for a 'spot of lunch', is a cherry on the already soggy cake.<br />
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All this written, my point here really is this:<br />
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From out of turmoil, whether this be relationship, work, life or my poor mum's kitchen,( I write light heartedly), strength and self seems to return by taking ownership of a situation, admitting to yourself how you are feeling and being OK with this. 'I am feeling natural.'<br />
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Now far be it for me to profess to be any sort of councillor, therapist or indeed any authority on your emotions in any way whatsoever . . .<br />
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That written, having watched mum's emotions constantly change over the many months in planning her new kitchen//downstairs bedrooms has taken. To now the physical process of stripping back the room to it's shell, then be re-fitted to mum's tastes and design. My what a beautifully meaningful example that you can breath again, once more smile and rejoice in the beauty of you. Resume a strength of self,mind and soul, take delight in what brings you that warm tickley feeling in your tummy and a little shiver of pleasure in your veins. . .<br />
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Or in mum's case, a new kitchen! . . . At last!<br />
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I do hope this has served in at least some small way, to bring a smile.<br />
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Back to city living for me now, who know's what adventures lay in waiting under the watchful eye of the 'Big Ben'.<br />
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Until we meet again through the page, I trust this finds you in good health and a happiness.<br />
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Warmly yours,<br />
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R J Wardle<br />
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<br />RJWardlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01179135644995065472noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8925735388290577047.post-34898777127183818012013-08-16T07:15:00.000-07:002013-08-16T08:26:05.219-07:00CLICK YOUR HEELS TOGETHER THREE TIMESGood morning, good afternoon, good evening, goodnight,<br />
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As you read this from whichever far-flung shore of our globe you reside, may I warmly welcome you, taking a brief moment in this first entry to introduce myself.</div>
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A fast approaching thirty-something countryman by birth busily bouncing around in London UK. Most of the worlds adventures good, bad or excruciating, can to me at least be put-to-rights via expeditions back to a lush, leafy, natural ol' blighty. . . English countryside.</div>
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For you, I am sure have your own unique place to call home.</div>
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It is my primary intention with this and all forthcoming entries to engage your minds, warm your souls (he writes hopefully), offering you a moments interlude in an ever-increasingly hectic lifestyle for many of us citizens of the world.</div>
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Escape to the Country, a popular weekly hour of escapist televisual delight, forever manicuring an idyllic countryside setting for by-enlarge three types of clientèle: retired, young couples and young families, to 'escape' to. Itself sets a beautiful precedent and lifestyle option to a much larger audience, an achievable retreat for the many not the few.To escape a daily hum-drum of the 'rat-race' commonly known as working-life in our 21st Century globe. </div>
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Writing as I have already mentioned, as a countryman living busily in London UK, I appear to have straddled the two worlds. Now you may think and perhaps rightly so, that my comfort in the countryside is biased by a childhood and youth running wildly through hay strewn fields. For this you may well be correct.</div>
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That written surely the buzz of city life which is even to me intoxicating, pleasurable, fulfilling, enhancing and just down right FUN, casts an almost factory conveyor-belt approach to the world, to life? </div>
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I have to write dear friends in my ardent yet humble view, we do appear to have lost sight of the whimsicality of life. Of inner-sensual pleasures one derives simply from swimming in a lake in the middle of rolling fields and wooded hills out in the wilderness keenly watched over by horses, sheep and an occasional squirrel .</div>
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'The wilderness' a term many a globe-trotting adventurer spouts, <i>see David Attenborough perched on a Ice-Cavern in outer Iceland observing penguins, polar bears and endless pools of water. </i>Conjures also a much deeper meaning. Whilst racing through life, crammed in to one of London's rush-hour tombs, sorry underground tube trains, in other words, out in the wilderness of ourselves amongst a sea of faces, it often escapes ones mind there are indeed alternatives, options.</div>
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I guess this brings me to my wider point (it has and is often recounted jovially to me 'Ooh you do witter on dear man') which is this:</div>
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What with life in our post naughties age hurtling along towards what a hundred years since was termed 'The Roaring Twenties' (and shall be again I suggest) forever coping with all our personal hurdles, juggling on a tightrope our commitments, emotions, family-ties, adventures and oh yes, the rat-race. It is in my humble yet jovial view, a rare almost lost luxury to recline in the beauty and splendour of ourselves, our dreams, our passions. </div>
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For me if you hadn't guessed, a moments brief escapism, rejuvenation, me-time, is found roaming in the countryside, in words, in art, in the deliciously soul-enhancing inner-strength giving joy of dreaming, striving calmly I hasten add, towards that dream. </div>
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For you I am sure this will be uniquely tailored to your own personal inner joy's.</div>
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So I passionately write here, in order to regain ourselves from whatever toils we face, it is always, even from a very deep Ice Cavern as David Attenborough delights in telling us, where new life can begin, intrinsically valuable to dream our dreams. Take comfort from whichever pleasures our minds, bodies and souls desire, never for a moment allowing ourselves to return to that rush-hour underground tube train.</div>
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I leave you for now, in hope this initial commentary has served at least in some small way to give some pleasure. To amuse, enlighten, engage, provoke thoughts of hopefulness, courage and optimism. </div>
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Or maybe you simply think, what a witterer . . . </div>
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"It is that range of biodiversity that we must care for -</div>
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the whole thing -</div>
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rather than just one or two stars" </div>
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Until we meet again through the page, I trust this finds you in good health and a happiness<br />
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Warmly yours,<br />
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R J Wardle</div>
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RJWardlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01179135644995065472noreply@blogger.com0