a subtle change

The trees were bare and cold,
shiviering in the gruelling wind.
The soil drowning in endless rain,
gasping for a fresh start on life.
It seemed ongoing,
relentless even.

Overnight, something strange occurred.
The leaves appeared on the trees,
cocoon like in shape.
The bumblebees were seen going mad,
flying in erratic directions.
It went unnoticed,
too small for the busy london local.

I stopped and stared,
questioning the last time I noticed what the trees were dressed in.
Had I to been too busy?
Had I turned into a local,
someone that took the park for granted?

Again, overnight, something magical occurred.
The same tree, that ws once naked and lonely,
was now covered in white petal blossoms.
Not an inch was left unturned,
no longer bare but a tree in full flower ready for spring.

I stopped and stared,
in awe at such a subtle change.
This time it was noticed,
it was appreciated and applauded.
The tree, no doubt proud of it's new attire,
dazzled in the now regular sun.

What is?

One of the perks of living in London, other then the huge convenience of travelling wherever I want within 2 short hours,

is the surplus of museums that I have available to me.

Up until this point, however, I have not visited any.

Today was the day.

I wandered down from London bridge along the River Thames to the TATE Modern,

a reputable one to start off this museum marathon.

Floors upon floors,

hidden exhibits behind closed doors - it really was a maze of wonder.

Artsits including Dali, Picasso, Pollock & Warhol... just to name drop a few,

I considered myself blessed to take my leisurely time looking at them all.

I turned the corner of one nook and found something quite unusual.

There was a video of one young lady, who covered herself in blood and then rolled in feathers.

She did this along the bank of a river, and ended the short film with her arms outspread like an Eagle - her connection with the feathered friend.

Apparently, it was a statement about animal rights, native rituals and women sacrifice.

Ah huh.... I found myself thinking.

When one finds themselves amongst credited artists in one space;

people who have spent years as bitter, twisted melancholies...

essentially starving just so they could produce something,

alongside someone who made a film about rolling in blood and feathers -

one begins to wonder what is art?

I applaud anybody who is putting something creative out there -

but does that mean that I too can have a tantrum,

spill milk all over me and say that it is a connection & statement about dairy cow milking conditions?

Is that art?

Therefore worthy to be rolling a non-stop film in the TATE modern?

Needless to say, this topical question will never really be answered.

It is a matter of opinion, taste and genre.

But I left there feeling more inspired about what I am doing over here.

It does not matter if the teaching is unfulfilling,

if the writing is dribble

or if the acting is non-existent.

So long as I am putting it out there and being truthful to myself,

what does it really matter.

After all,

What is... a success?

always waiting

When one enters into the acting world, there are the compulsory genres and forms that one learns about; Shakespeare, Method Acting, Brecht, Realism, the list is endless.

Then there are the plays and well known productions that will be around forever and themselves will aim to be in one day; 'Romeo & Juliet', 'Phantom of the Opera', 'Wicked' and 'Away'... just to name a few.

By this stage, the actor is already feeling overwhelmed and doubtful in themselves, insecure within their own skin. To complicate matters further, they then come across something called 'Absurdism' - and the infamous text of 'Waiting for Godot'. The play's title is misleading (as the man never actually arrives), so when it comes to the content... don't even get me started. It is acclaimed to be a play that is moving and quite emotional - exploring the monotony of life, or simply confusing with language that doesn't make any sense. Regardless, if you don't know it, you clearly aren't serious about 'The Theatre'.

Needless to say, when I first saw the poster for 'Waiting for Godot' here in London, I thought it was a rite of passage to go as a fellow actor. Trouble was, I saw the poster in January, and here we were, April with no show. SO - the end of the season was near approaching, and with no real plans over Easter, I indulged and bought a ticket. Too excited for words (yes me!)

From the moment the lights came up on the abstract stage, I was mesmerised. The well known 'bow not break' tree in the centre of the stage only emphasised the bleakness of the rest of the set. Ian McKellen's entrance immediately got me giggling and the quick pace of the dialogue ensured my cheeks did not stop grinning. The actors delivered the muddled dialogue in a seemingly effortless way, almost as if it was natural. Despite the laughter, the deeper meaning still rang true - the confusion and helplessness we feel when getting trapped in a boring loop of life.

Two hours later and I was utterly content. The play made sense, I enjoyed it more then ever and I admired the actors who were in it. What I loved the most was the well known actor, Ian McKellen's performance. Some may know him for his role in 'Harry Potter' as the replacement Dumbledore, or his grimacing role in 'X-Men' & 'Lord of the Rings' so clearly his talent and passion for acting is evident. But there he was, getting back to the groundings of acting. Up there on the stage, one chance to get it right, to make the audience understand, to make the audience emotionally connected and moved. Failure to do so - there is no second chance with the stage - they walk out the door and make their judgement. Despite his experience with film, he was still challenging himself and determined on leaving such a lasting impression on the audience. Such brilliance, such talent. What a blessing it was to see him perform in such a moving way.

Thank goodness ... for Godot!

excitement next door

On an exhausting Wednesday evening, I slumped into my soothing bed - well and truly passed by bed time. Already I dreaded the sound of my alarm the following morning, ordering me to go and 'dominate the brats'.

Sleep quickly came and my mind was consumed by crazy snippets; dreams with a meaning or a creative collection of thoughts? I was somewhere between Neverland and Wonderland when an obtrusive noise hammered into my mind.

Disgruntled, yet intrigued, I rolled over to the window.

Flashing lights, florescent suits, officers and one bloody huge hammer were at the soup kitchen next door. The 3am glow of the time made me wonder what all the damn fuss was about?!

The dark, agitated figure inside the soup kitchen, peering out like a frightened animal was clearly the answer.

I watched resistantly, my recently moulded pillow screaming out to my heavy head, yet my quest for drama made me linger on the window sill.

Almost comically, the team continued to smash the heavy black door, trying to defuse the break in situation. They were locked out, unable to destruct the tamper proof lock, and the hungry intruder was helping himself to all the treats that he could find inside.

Ladders and crow bars were bought into the situation to no real avail -

and so the deafening banging continued.

Annoyed, I lay back down in bed.

Leave the poor bugger alone, he's only hungry... OR... HURRY UP! So I can go back to sleep!

What seemed like hours later, I heard the triumph from the team as the door smashed.

Giving into the excitement in my heart, I sat up again to watch the next segment unfold.

The officer and negotiator crept into the kitchen, made easier by the key produced from the local priest next door.

I watched as the looming figure darted about the space,

like a frantic animal he was unsure which way to go.

Cornered and arrested, or a getaway out the back with potential injuries pending his large physical condition. He chose to give in and was handcuffed.

The discussion inside was quite laborious, and so I lay back down to sleep.

The murmuring of assertive voices and the concerned priest did not stir me from my warm blankets.

The car drove away and the lights faded - the street was left quiet once again.

Minutes after, still lying there, my thoughts began to cloud.

That feeling of sleep dragging you under came again, less with ease this time.

And instead of creative thoughts and hopeful dreams, I thought of a man.

A man who was so hungry that he broke into a soup kitchen.

A man who was so lonely, he wanted to get arrested by police for company?

A man that was so odd, that he threw potatoes all over the backyard?

A man that was alone on the streets with no-one to care for him.

My sleep and bed was appreciated more then ever that night...

so much so, that I didn't even mind my alarm.