The show must go on:Mummies and Daddies- Medea Revisitied.

Firstly , congratulation to all the company of Mummies and Daddies, opening night last night was apparently very well received!

Grit in throat and pauses in my heart, my health slides down a cliff and floats at the edge, diluted and dettached, but it is our second night of three tonight and what a night I hope it will be! Potential in laws and many more guests and plus 1's 2's and 3's are on their way to see our reinvention of the Greek Classic, Euripides' Medea.

Like the child I inhabit and the child that once roamed within my body and shared my toes, my 'play' must not stop: So rip out my health throw it to the ground. Pull off my immune system and make me stand.
The Show Will Go On.
And I hope you get to see it and share with our children, our story.

Mummies and Daddies @ Bath Spa University: Tonight annd tomorrow (Thursday 17th December, 09) at 8PM.

My angel: I think you know what I've been trying to say.

I promised I would never leave you. Stop and Start: Goes my Heart.

I have this sickening over powering thirst for more than anything I have, and it fucks me up and I want to fuck you over, I love (forking)fucking you.. over. Trying to break you, hoping you break, in my arms and that I can come out on top, fucking you...again.. over and over. I want to feel the bitter sweet stab in my gut, and the blood drain and gush so I know I can thank each morning light that pierces open my eyes. I hate rocking to sleep with you breathing bastardised shards of lie ridden love against my back. Shivering inside I tremble that I may be love made to in the morning. Made to make love, love made to, an inanimate powerless object. I enjoy that lack of power, that riding wave of shit heap heavy flesh rushing through me, in me. Fucking me ... over. Don’t stop, push, deeper, fuck me, sounds creep out as I push you further in. Pain and more stabbing until the whole unity subsides and the slick thick shit slides and slips out again, cup and run. Dirtying my flesh clean little life as the holy child, that doesn’t believe, anymore. Daddy took my belief away and then you confirmed his greed and that of men. Or man. It is exactly as I hoped, a little bit weird, little bit too far gone and strangely fucking perfect. As duty has it and fate determines my peasant ridden path I’ll suck you dry a little longer, but rest not in my breast, nestle not in my palm, hold not my neck as you kiss it. Rip my private parts apart. Tear my bursting vessels from the arms in which they so sickly sit, and wrench my throat into the wall without remorse the very way I hide your breath from your lungs so I can enjoy the air, more. Leave me to rot, I need to feel, to lose it all so I can build a new me, one I am proud of. Because I am already too arrogant for my own skin, skin which rightly boils up and over the bones to reveal the true evil beneath. I was bore this way. Evil. And yet the truly kind, real, loveliest one you’ll ever meet. I(some) would go so far as to say: perfect. I heard it once before: And she is perfect. Yes. Thank you that’s right. I do love you mummy, even if you did abuse me. I can’t remember any of that now. All gone, shhhh, there we go, all gone.

Mummies and Daddies: Medea Revisited.
Euripdes' Medea: Bath Spa University Theatre: Dec 15-17th 2009

How critical is it, that a critic is a critic?

I thought I'd join the debate started months back and picked up by The Guardian's Karen Fricker; and thus me: How critical is it, that a critic, is a critic? Hello Band Wagon!

It's been rumbling in my stomach for a while now, this endless restlessness that began life in the beating entity in my chest, torn between entertainment and evaluation, or to put it more literally, to be an actor or a critic? Of course, I know the answer: an actor, always... but, why? If I want to have a massively informed, intellectual, creditable view on the world and I want to have an impact on others’ views, then surely I should want to share the final view, A.K.A.: that of the reviewer- so I can influence, the already influenced viewer. Non?

And so I delved into my head and went traipsing through the files marked 'Unnecessary worry' and 'What about my lifestyle?' which as a training artist, I have conveniently shoved under the endless copies of The Stage, Timeout and The Evening Standard, presumably in hope that I may fool myself or consciously subconsciously somehow(?)divert myself away from the practicalities of being '90% out of work' or better still working... but in a coffee shop! So as I delved deeper into what I'd planned to casually breeze past in my life planning, I actually managed to interrogate, only to realise: 'Money is not everything' and 'I can make it!'.

Decision made then: I picked out the scary files and actually used them to propel me into sheer motivation and fuel, if you will, to succeed as an actor!! Whoopie! All good so far... until the daily (treble) inbox spring clean (the old school MSN Messenger fit__lady02 account; the University mail account; and the I'm all grown-up and pro-fesssh-un-al don't cha know 'lauren_gauge' account) occurred; and in this daily/spring clean I stumbled across an opportunity.

Now, a gal like moi and an opportunity like c'elle-ci, equals a jolly excited lass pining for something she shouldn't really focus her attention to: A Grad Scheme Journalist Job at.. wait for it... The Telegraph(admittedly it could have been The Guardian! But at this point I. Am. Chuffed. Thrilled. Eager. and Excited.)

Needless to say I drop everything, my hopes and dreams of acting forever and ever (what a horrid flimsy phrase-that still fills me with warmth and hope as it did aged 'nearly six') and CTRL+C, CTRL+V the link to loved ones in search of their 'review' and valued opinions: luckily my chap's father is a crackingly great and over qualified journalist and encouraged me from the word GO! 'Lollie- You go for it!' ...

Time passes.

The deadline for the application is Monday November 30th, 3 days away and true to form I have not started it.
What does this say to me? (I interrogate myself objectively)
I cannot hit deadlines all that well, SO...
a) NEVER BE A JOURNALIST LAUREN!
or
b) GO CRAZY! DO IT! APPLY! STAY UP ALL NIGHT JUGGLING YOUR DEGREE, THESIS PITCH, REHEARSAL IDEAS, ESSAY PLANNING AND WRITING- THERE's STILL TIME!

Answer? b) -EVERYTIME. So I am choosing not to be a critic and not to be an actor: I am choosing to attempt both! Brilliant!

I figure, if you can't beat them, try your best to join them- I have no idea if I would make a fabulous critic or a groundbreaking actor- and in answer to the debate of who is the best critic? The Critic or The Joe Public... I think The Critic started out as Joe Public- Conclusion being: Ultimately everyone's opinon is valid. Therefore, you can be whatever you try really, really, hard to be! So whether I feel qualified to be a Telegraph journalist or not- I am going to TRY. Similarly whether I feel qualified to be an actor or not- I am going to TRY...

...Because frankly I love both and I feel strongly that if you are passionate about something (anything!)and you truly invest your every ounce of time and effort, sweat and tears into researching your passion and finding out everything about the world in which you live and the industry in which you so avidly want to work, you will at least then be equipped to form an opinion. It is then that informed opinion that justifies you having 'something to say, worth saying' as a living breathing human being (be it an artist, critic or otherwise) in this world!

Familiar Face: Finally Found.

The man who shapes our learning, intrigued my ambling feet in the very first episode here in The Safari Park. All this time I wondered what the familiarity was. Finally I realised as his body crumples to the side of our rehearsal room. Static and solid, really quite carved and coarse, the man reminiscent of my childhood, he is our captain...Captain ?

Rhythm In My Bones: Splitting my sides with smiles

It takes a lot to make me fly: but fly I did when I split my ears in two to listen to these beats bump and grind: openning up my fragile mind. Nothing overtly special but just two melodies with great memories infused like the perfect cup of tea.

Rather a lot of silliness: The Brain (Mum's).

Sometimes silly things happen, when tablets get reduced.
Eyes can invent things like lions climbing out of juice
Messages are carried in bottles through the sea, but can end up confused in our fickle memory.
We pick on spits and spats and boil them up out of the brick‘a’brak to become that which they are not.

The chemicals imbalance can pollute the sea, which growls and turns choppy; it whips and whirls and sings and twirls, gusting to you a shivery breeze and together with mother nature life becomes a difficult weave: through a maze of what I imagine to be noises and pop out images like the old fairy tales and old book nails, the messages make sense in the ‘maizey’ world at first, but what with this new chemical thirst the imagination begins the burst, the brain gets cursed. Not with magic, but illusion, madness it could seem, though I know it’s only temporary: this weird, not wonderful dream.

We’ll do everything we can now as we did before: your smile and your energy we promise to restore.
Always in our hearts and upon my thoughts: take comfort in the knowledge we will rock you to sleep when you dream nasty ideas and scary gremlins true,
we will knock up the dose and kill the haunting ghosts all to rescue you.

Silly little mind. I wonder why it sways some days, if only for a while.
So powerful such a tool can be, to carve our lives and set us free. Pop a smile upon your face and smile again with grace. For you, as always, will win this race; and hopefully never have to face the upheaval again: when the light begins to bend and the mind reverses it's mend.

Silly, silly, naughty chemicals in the brain for putting on you such a heavy strain. We’re here to take away your pain, and bore the strange messages away, on the night train; heartbeats will settle, as the chemicals balance up again.
Truce is called and equilibrium restored. The bottles in the sea is floating now;
Away! Away! Off of the edge, never to return and gurn in your gums or fester in your focus.

A final wish I give to you:
Look to the horizon that stands proud and tall;
the tallest trees that tickle the skies above and then please squint a little up above, you’ll see in the not too distant distance- a bird- a flying dove.

It carries a better message now: One of peace and love.

The Little Theatre: An Education, and what an education it was!

I did not get the chance to post this on 'the day' as Gmail, Hotmail and Webmail all managed to fight over me so much so that no one won and and my best efforts to 'sign in' became an epic fail. But now I succeed, and I've realised Hotmail is my favourite, the old school, if you will; Gmail is a sheer irritation and the drain on my life; and as for Webmail, it is unestablished, so much so it ought not be classified as 'mail' at all.
Goody!

That night last week was a wonder:

I think perhaps today (Wednesday 11th Nov,09) was a very good after all. If not for my career, then for myself.
My throat hurts when I swallow, I have an occasionally lingering pressure in the right hemisphere in my brain which concerns my hypochondriac self a little, and a cold nose due to awful electric heating, but all things considered I am quite joyfully happy. Or, at least warm inside, with contentment. I was very glad to have shared my evening with a dear friend and housemate Florence who was of course entertaining and a great spring board to bounce off with her wonderful anecdote and so on. We took our minds of the blah blahs of the world and into the land of the la laas, by means of recorded theatre. La ciné!
An excellently written beautiful shots and remarkably sweetly acted piece by a man of I think (from the name and its spelling) of German decent, called ‘An Education’. We watched and laughed and watched some more and I couldn’t help but think – Lauren this was a good choice, referring to actually stepping out of the house and grabbing a hold of my own evening’s destiny- salvaging a pretty awful day. And a good choice of course by Flo- who chose today/night to watch An Education rather than Bright Star. Which incidentally instead came up for more entertainment and discussion later on in our evenings adventures!
We met a man/boy/fellow student hovering inevitably between the two evils, Ruary (or Rory- I never asked, nor did Florence.) He worked at the Little theatre: the delightful Bath born cinema, which recently starred in the fantastical Fantastic Mister Fox film! He was great! Genuine and kind and fine art fellow he fit the bill- definitely fit the bill of more good art! And more great entertainment and company! After walking us home I pondered, aloud and in the form of a question, posed to my friend- Do you think he was G-A-Y or just (Shit I forget the exact terminology), or just (there’s the badger-) ‘softly spoken’? Terrible really isn’t it? As if all the good ones just fell off the planet when the Earth was flat... whoopsiedaisys!
I trust now there are good and bad and life is as Keating says a rollercoaster, you’ve just got to ride it. Today surely has been an emotional rollercoaster. But I do love a good ride (so to speak). I do love a good pump of adrenaline to kick start my heart if it falls a little faint!

So... To friends and theatre- in all their forms!
I raise my glass up high in my joyus friendly fist and lower my minds encapsulator down gently to the cold side of my pillow.

Nan Night.

The Journey Back: "Home"

I sit and you drive. I drink one of two cups of coffee, which by the way isn’t strong enough. You leave, always leaving; you leave me again. I wish you fare well, though fair you are not, and well I am not.
Now it’s domino Dad- games, thoughts, domino tears, everything.
I leave it all and ring mum, safety, shining armour worn by a woman- I have never had a male knight. Mum, mum? Mum. My mum. That all I need the word, voice, volume low or high- I’m better. My mum is my medicine, my Calpol. And I do still need it, yes, I do.
The one document, literally I need, the one document I transferred to keep with me, and hold close, was hers, “And she is perfect”. Stupid thing is I’m not, but sometimes my mum, like no other, can make me feel it. When I need her: she’s there. Full stop.

Evil or addicted? 15 abortions in 17 years.

Always reading, always learning, always responding,
whether it be internally or externally.

I was shocked to be fed such a horrific article by my own hands, all be it via a tabloid, it hit, hard.
http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/woman/health/health/2682798/Woman-has-15-abortions-in-17-years.html
find out your response by clicking above.

mine, from my gut:

ip dip dog shit hanging from a mothers tit,
if it squeals, let it go,
or
pop a pill and let it flow;
out of your body into a pile of dripping, deceased, dense, drooling blood.
Liam, age 6.

Round and round the garden like a teddy bear, one step, two step, abort it out of there.
Rosie, age 12.

This little piggy went to black market,
this little piggy stayed at home,
this little piggy got coat hangered,
this little piggy got stoned,
and this little piggy went wee wee wee wee,
more wee? no.
period? no.
baby in a bath of your abortion addiction? yes.
Lauren, age 7. Daniel, her twin brother, also age 7. Dominic, age 14. Peter, age 13. Saffron-May, age 12.

Ring-a-ring of roses,
a pocket full of babies,
in a tissue, a kleenex tissue,
they all fall down.
Toby, age 4. Terri, age 3 and a bit. Alex, age 8. Emma, age 16.

Jack and Jill went up the fallopian.
What's so good about that?
Jack fell down and broke his crown,
the careless, clumsy brat.
Jack, age 15. Jill, age 15 months.

Baa Baa black kid, have you any pulse?
Yes Sir, No Sir, but I've got three bags full of brothers and sisters also pulse-less?
Robert-Ray, age 18 and his dead sister Joy, age 6 months.

Itsy bitsy baby climbed up the umbilical spout,
the medicine came down,
to throw her to the ground,
and flushed the baby out.
Mellani, age 2.

Old Mother Hubbard went into the cupboard and when she came out she was a mother no more.
Louise, age 10.

Mary had a little lamb, little lamb, little lamb.
Mary had a little lass,
her fleece was white as snow,
but she was an accident,
so she too,
had to go.
Florence, age 5.

By L.G., age 20.
October 20th, 2009.

Virginities are always fun!

Band wagon's.
You either love them or you hate them. Generally speaking, I despise them. However, I am a self proclaimed (oxy)moron, and have jumped on the wagon labelled 'Blogging'.

Hello, I'm L.G. I am a first time blogger.

I fell into the same darn delightful trap as my mother, blogging- does my mother really have to be on facebook and twitter too?

Having said that, I bet my dearest mamma bear shall be my only follower, so I should be grateful. Though I intend to keep these thoughts anono/nymous (spellings could prove a tiresome part of this new blog thang I feel. Shoot.)

Wow, it's crazy and real and surreal all at once. I feel like the UK's very own Sarah Jessica Parker embarking on a new column that could just be the making or breaking of my life.

I'm in a small but inspiring top floor flat/apartment in Edinburgh. Is the term an 'apartment' just the pretentious terminology for a 'flat'? If it is I am temporarily living my good life in a fluffing fabulous apartment, 20 minutes walk out of town, whilst performing Shakespeare's hilarious comedy Taming Of The Shrew at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. It's wondrous, hilarious and a real experience for me what with being an Edinburgh Fringe Festival Virgin too! Why not pop as many cherries as I can at once? Weirdly enough there are cherries staring up at me from the kitchen table, moodily lit, but glistening all the same, screaming 'eat me, pop me, eat me!'... I caved. Yum. I wonder whose they were? hmmph.

Night is here, and the show tomorrow shall require some godly amount of energy and wit so hitting the hay is quickly becoming a reality.

'Mimpi Manis'

Thank you for reading my blog spot cherry pop!

L.G.