Thursday, December 10, 2009

Crapistmas

Okay. I don't want anyone to panic but I woke up this morning to realise that it is only 15 days to Christmas.

Fine. Start panicking. I sure as hell am. I have not done a thing. I haven't thought of Christmas. Okay, well, slight lie. I have made a list of stuff that I want. But as for other people, no, no and a bit more no.

Oh God. The buying of presents. The wrapping of presents. The sending of presents to far flung lands such as Queensland for my family to toss to one side and never think of again. Oh God. The wasting of money. And only 15 days in which to do all of this. I think we will start calling it Crapistmas. Spread it around. I am 100% certain it is going to catch on.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

Balm for the busy

If you're feeling a little overwhelmed by it all, then suck on this for a couple of minutes.

You Want a Social Life, With Friends -- by Kenneth Koch

You want a social life, with friends,
A passionate love life and as well
To work hard every day. What's true
Is of these three you may have two
And two can pay you dividends
But never may have three.

There isn't time enough, my friends --
Though dawn begins, yet midnight ends --
To find the time to have love, work, and friends.
Michelangelo had feeling
For Vittoria and the ceiling
But did he go to parties at day's end?

Homer nightly went to banquets
Wrote all day but had no lockets
Bright with pictures of his girl.
I know one who loves and parties
And has done so since his thirties
But writes hardly anything at all.

Jesus, I hate poets. They always get it so right. Bastards.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

What I'm not talking about.

While I should be putting my two cents into the debate, war, general brouhaha that exploded over at Belvoir in Sydney regarding a certain playwright and his oh so feminist stance (I'm sorry, there's something about men burning their bras for me that sends me loopy) I'm not. Other people, such as this smart woman and this other smart woman are doing a much better job of it and raging against the unfairness of it all. Good for them. I hope something happens from it. It won't, but I won't stop hoping for you. Talk about it till the cows come home if you want … they are still going to have male directors that want to put on male playwrights and have a great big male time of it all. And so it will continue until someone actually gets some balls and does something so wildly unpopular as mandating that our theatres must include 50% of women in all artistic positions or else it's bye-bye to all your funding. Yes, every last cent. Positive discrimination, ring your bell now.

I know, I know. Wildly unpopular. Beat down that heretic little witch. Fine. Call me what you want and yell at me with phrases such as "compromising artistic integrity" as if this will be the first time an artist has had to do that in order to get her work produced, but think on this. You think that women would ever be in the workplace if a law hadn't forced old white men to make it so? Do you think anything changes just because a minority wants it? What world do you live in people? People don't like change. I personally despise it. God only knows what would happen. But the only way we are going to stop having excruciatingly condescending treatment such as "Look, I know we haven't got any women but would you like to have a forum about it one Sunday afternoon if there is absolutely nothing else I can program?" is if someone (yes, I'm talking to you Mr Rudd and Mr Garrett and your little state counterparts) goes BAM! Rips the thing apart. Women, or die. Women artists can't be squeezed into the current system because we have no place to sit ourselves in the current system. Rip it apart. Start again. I swear to god, the empire will stand. No. I lie. The empire is going down. And that's a good thing.

You start coming up with outrageous mandates such as 50% or start packing your boxes and see how quick the relevant theatres rush to ensure that young women artists are nurtured and developed before they let them anywhere near a stage. Go on. Try it. And while you are growing some balls Federal Government, why not grow some more money so that the theatres can actually do what you say. Because it's all well and good to tell people that it is good, it's another to get them to their seats. Perhaps everyone is right when they say (not that they say it out loud) that people don't pay good money for theatre made by women. No, I take that back. That's bullshit. But just in case, we might be needing some more money to fund your new balls.

I know that people will start throwing their arms up in the air and start screaming "Quotas, quotas" as if they were the devil herself, but I have no problems with quotas. None in the slightest. As a woman and an artist, I'll take any helping hand I can. Because trust me, there aren't that many of them. Say what you want about quotas but perhaps we'll finally get to see some real diversity in theatre instead of young angry men talking about young angry men and David Williamson talking about nothing much at all. And some of it will be so good you'll wet your pants at it and some will be horrific but that's theatre. The most important thing you could ever do for a woman artist is to give her the chance to fail. Mistakes are part of creativity and every woman artist has the right to do fuck it up as grandly as possible for as many times as she needs to get it right.

Well, would you look at that. Perhaps I did want to talk about it after all.

Oh wait, I'm not the first. Crikey beat me to it. Bastards.

Monday, December 7, 2009

musings

Things that have changed about me.

1.

Before

Whenever we went away as a family when I was young and I was FORCED to share a hotel room with my brother, I would always have to have the curtains closed fully. Not an millimetre of light was allowed in. If I got woken before midday because of that stupid thing called the sun, then I was not going to be a happy camper. Well, I was never a happy camper, my angst having taken firm root from an alarmingly young age, but this vampiric hatred of the sun was non-negotiable. Anyway, all good and fine, when I was in my own room in my own house, but when I was transported to some hotel room where I was FORCED to share with my brother, there he was throwing open the curtains, blinds, windows willy-nilly like a very happy camper, which he never was but somehow that was deemed "okay" by the people that mattered, aka my parents. I would close, he would open, repeat until you both look miscast in a very boring pantomime. Once that gets boring, start yelling at each other, move quickly to name-calling, amp it up to screaming and then wait for your father to burst through the door with the wails of your mother in the background chanting "You've ruined the holiday" (because someone always did).

Now

Open. Close. What the fuck do I care?