That Time I Talked About Feminism

Feminism.  It's an ugly word isn't it? Upon hearing or reading it, a plethora of images come to mind: angry women, men-haters, bra-burning, butch lesbians, machismo-rich men, women-haters, men beating up women, men sneering at women, men 'putting women in their place', 'make me a sandwich' jokes, 'get in the kitchen' jokes, most of the jobs at the top all over the world occupied by men, women at the top being viewed as power-hungry bitches whose careers are their pride and joy [tantamount to sacrificing an infant on an altar to Satan while laughing with glee], women who are anti-family, women who are anti-children, hippies, underarm hair, leg hair, protests, heated discussions in all forms of media, women with pretty nails and pretty hair saying 'oh no, I'm not a feminist' or 'I hate feminism', women with pretty nails and pretty hair saying 'I'm a feminist', men standing up for women, women's rights,

and the list goes on and on and on.  It's endless, and most of the images aren't positive - whether they're in favour of or against feminism.

So many people don't understand why feminism is important, why it is still needed today, why it will always be needed, and why the name should be done away with and the whole concept called something else.

The truth about feminism is this: it's not about women.  It's about men.  It's about everyone.  In fact, if a completely new gender showed up, it'd be about people of that gender too.  It's about straight people, gay people, bisexual people, transgender people, asexual people.  It's about mothers, fathers, daughters, sons, sisters, brothers, cousins, grandparents, aunts, uncles, friends, colleagues, enemies.  It's about everyone.

What do you mean it's about everyone Macs?! It's feminism, read the name - F E M I N I S M.  That's got to be about female, feminine, women, girls, and all that jazz, so why are you going on about all that stuff you just rattled off in the paragraph above this? Bitch you CRAZY.

Alright, I'll bite that bit of baiting.  Feminism is usually about sticking up for females, agreed.  But tell me, what will happen if all the females in the world were wiped out? Mass extinction, that's what, because we're half of all populations [I'm not just talking human, people], a hell-ton of grieving from all the males whose beloved females of all relations were gone, economic meltdown because hey women are part of the workforce, and the destruction of life on the planet.  So clearly, sticking up for females is a good thing.

Guess what though: the same thing would happen if all males magically disappeared at one go.  And no, the survival-due-to-pregnant-females clause won't work here, because all male unborn offspring would be gone too.

BALANCE, PEOPLE! That's what I'm talking about here! Without one gender or the other, no species can survive for long.  Why would anyone want either gender to be 'better' than the other? Clearly both are necessary, so why screw the species?  This means that all parts that make up a population need to be looked after, cared for, and appreciated.  [Note: this same argument explains why racism - and racialism, don't think I don't know that loophole - is stupid]

This of course explains why feminism needs to be, at the very least, rebranded.  And this is happening, don't think it isn't.  One of the things a feminist doesn't have to be is female.

What makes you a feminist? That's an easy one.  If you believe that people should be treated with respect, regardless of gender, you're a feminist.  If you believe domestic violence is wrong, you're a feminist - because most victims are female.  If you believe men and boys who wolf whistle, catcall, holler at, cajole, and leer at women and girls walking down a street are disrespectful, you're a feminist.  If you believe women are not just meant to be mothers, you're a feminist.  If you believe women and men have the same capacity for intelligence, you're a feminist.  If you believe that when a woman or girl says no, she means no and you should back off, you're a feminist.  If you believe you would want to beat 10 kinds of hell into anyone who physically hurts your sister/daughter/mother/cousin/aunt/grandmother/friend/colleague or any female, you're a feminist.  If you believe girls and women should have the same education as boys and men, and be given the same opportunities for education, you're a feminist - because, newsflash, this doesn't happen everywhere.  If you believe it's wrong to abort a pregnancy because the gender of the foetus is female, you're a feminist.

Why didn't I say anything specifically about men up there? Because the sad truth is that still, in this day and age, women are still holding the short straw, when there shouldn't be a short straw, and worst of all when we are all fooled into thinking that gender discrimination is a thing of the past.  Women can vote, women can own property, women can go to school and university, women can work, woman can work while having a family, woman can provide for themselves... women can, same as men.  What women can't, involves a bunch of things that unfortunately aren't as obviously wrong.  Women can't wear short skirts without being taken for sluts; women can't wear tight clothing without being taken for sluts; women can't wear low-cut tops and dresses without being taken for sluts; women can't wear nailpolish without being taken for bimbos [yes, I'm using that old word] or sluts; women can't wear make-up without being taken for bimbos or sluts; women can't go around without make-up and be taken for real women [and I cannot stress enough how MORONIC this is]; women can't have very short hair without being taken for lesbians or anti-men [again, MORONIC]; women can't have long hair without being taken for airheads [-_-]; women can't have a family and work without half the people around them thinking they're selfish; women can't talk to men in social situations without giving the wrong idea to many of them; women can't tell even their loved ones, let alone police, that they've been raped because they'll be accused of lying or of instigating it [as if that absolves the rapist]; women can't reject someone's advances and have that person subsequently not try harder;

and again, a hell-ton of other things that women can't do without being thought of as inferior, not taken seriously, brushed off, taken advantage of, given a hard time, and so on.

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So now I'll go on to some experiences of my own as a woman living in an anti-women world.

- I gained weight about 6 months ago, and haven't felt comfortable enough to wear strappy tops and short skirts.  Since I stopped wearing clothes that show more skin than arms, shoulders and legs, I no longer get reactions from men when I'm walking.  When I show less skin, I am not viewed and treated as a piece of steak they want to sink their teeth into.  I have thus found a way to become effectively invisible to men, both when walking and when out in clubs.  And let me be clear: I have a pretty face, very big boobs, a big ass, hips, I wiggle when I walk, and a friendly smile.  Tally that up, and even with the big thighs, occasional spots, and curly hair that seems to be a turn-off in my country, I'm attractive [remember this blog is about sincerity; if I were boasting I'd have said something like 'gorgeous'].  Even so, I'm ignored because I'm not showing skin.  While I enjoy the invisibility this gives me [sitting on my own in my favourite bar sipping a drink and enjoying the music without being annoyed is brilliant], I deplore the implications for the society I live in.

- Whenever I have worn anything showing even the slightest bit of cleavage, or short skirts, I have endured men's eyes following my until I was out of sight, calls of 'aw SABIHA' [equivalent to 'hey gorgeous'; female brain decipher: 'hey meat-I'd-like-to-ram-with-my-dick'; other male brain decipher: 'hey sexy, wow you're hot'], 'aw SEX', 'PSST', 'ejja ha nkellmek' ['come here let me talk to you'; female brain deciphering: 'come here let me stare, cop a feel, and proposition you for sex'; other male brain decipher: 'come here let me try to chat you up while I admire how attractive you are].

- In a group of men and women, all aged in their 20s, all supposed to be friends, one so-called friend still interpreted my talking to him as being interested in him - and I wasn't flirting in even the remotest way.

- Young women often deplore their singledom and say that 'at this rate, I'm going to end up a crazy cat lady'.  You will never hear a young man saying anything negative about ending his days single.  From this I conclude: a single woman is to be pitied for having a wasted life, a single man is to be toasted for having enjoyed life.  Many of the single women I know are happy, vivacious, busy, have several hobbies, travel, and are easily the people I know who most enjoy their lives.  The crazy cat ladies I know are not single, were crazy before they got the cats, and have cats not because of a lack of human loved ones but because humans aren't fuzzy, can't purr, and talk back when you don't want them to.

- About half the girls I went to school with are already married at 26, quite a few with children.  Half, folks, half.  Many of them were girls who wanted to be doctors, lawyers, successful psychologists, business women; yet very few of them are both married/married with kids/mothers and on the path to their dream career.

- 3 women I count among my closest friends were raped, and not by strangers; 1 woman was almost raped; 2 women I know had boyfriends who hit them, and 1 of these women has a scar on her leg where one boyfriend cut her with a knife while he threatened to kill her; almost all my straight female friends and acquaintances have had psychologically and/or verbally abusive boyfriends at some point in time; I had a psychologically abusive boyfriend; and the pathetic fact is that the number of women on this list will only grow as I get older.  Even more pathetic? This is the status quo.

- There are very few women in local politics, and most [if not all] of them are past 40, while younger and younger men are getting involved in local politics.

- In local media, when a rape case not involving relatives is reported, the comments section is full of victim-blaming. 'She must have done something', 'She was teasing them, what did she expect', 'She's lying', 'She didn't report it right away so it must have been consensual', 'What was she wearing?'.  I am ashamed to say my country is part of the European Union, and that my fellow Maltese think they are up-to-date, civilised, and come from a first world country.

- In local media, when a rape case is reported, the word 'raped' is replaced by the word 'defiled'.

- A local woman spoke at a domestic violence conference about one of her experiences with the police in Malta.  She had separated from her husband, who used to beat her horribly, and one night she was woken to shouts from said husband outside.  He was holding a shotgun, trying to break the door down, and shouted repeatedly that if he got inside he would kill her.  When she called the police, they told her she had to go down to the station to file a report, and then hung up.  And no, one of the mobile squads did not show up at any point during the night to at least check on the situation.

- I have given up on talking to my male friends about feminism, women's rights, and domestic violence.  The reaction is always a variation of 'Oh come off it, you have the right to vote don't you? You're making a fuss and hating on men'.  This leaves me speechless, flabbergasted, and disillusioned.


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And there you have it.  The post that I've been wanting to write all summer, but avoiding at the same time.  That's just the tip of the iceberg.

Sincerely,
Macs

Alternative Ambition: Dancing

I never wanted to be anything lucrative, like a doctor, or a lawyer, or an accountant.  In fact I never even wanted to have a desk job, office job, or anything remotely requiring me to sit still for long periods of time.  My friends always amaze me because most of them have an aim in mind, a career that they chase with all their being, even going so far as to move to countries that don't speak any of their languages.  I don't think I'll ever be able to say how much I admire these people for these things.

I myself never had that kind of ambition.  The truth is that the only things I've ever had a passion strong enough to follow are the sort of things that aren't viable in the long run.  I wanted to be a ballerina, a singer, an actress, a dancer, a writer, a performer known as an all-rounder because of being great in several different things.  These are all things that take a ridiculous amount of time and effort to do anything with, and that put me off for a long time.  That and the fact that, in all honesty, I was never particularly good at any of the above, except at writing.  

I was a terrible ballerina as a child, my body kept growing and growing and growing which made controlling it rather difficult.  When I hit 12 and had my grade 5 ballet exam, I had finally stopped growing and developed my technique so well that everyone expected me to get a Distinction [ie. an A].  Instead I fell flat on my ass during an adage exercise.  No, really, I'm not using an expression there - I lost my balance and fell smack on my bottom.  I was so mortified and my nerves were so badly shaken that I couldn't do anything right afterwards throughout the exam, and ended up failing.  Everyone was shocked.  My confidence while dancing ballet never recovered, and I always felt like shit in my ballet lessons afterwards.  Add to that the fact that I hit puberty and became boobed and wide-hipped quickly, which is a humongous no-no in a ballerina [or was back then], and you have the death of my ballet dreams.

I turned to jazz dance instead, and enjoyed it tremendously.  Unlike ballet, it was actually fun.   I could so see myself pulling out all the stops in amazing routines on world-famous stages in the future! Unfortunately, once again my size and shape came under fire.  This wasn't blatantly apparent until after 2 years at the same school, when the head and my then-teacher looked at me and congratulated me in front of the whole class on my weight loss.  The only reason I lost any weight that summer was that I had been sick with glandular fever/mononucleosis/Epstein-Barr virus for 2 months, 2 weeks of which I spent being unable to eat more than a fistful of food three times a day.  It also had to be liquidised.  The weight I lost wasn't even fat, because I was by no means chubby; I lost muscle mass, because fever day and night for a month turns you into a decrepit thing with jelly-legs and jelly-arms, unable to walk more than 5 metres without collapsing into a chair.  Fun times.

I stopped dancing that same year because I couldn't afford it, which was a terrible shame because I had finally become one of the best in class.  But it was a blessing: I escaped the pressure to lose weight, be skinny, be the best, and all the other crap that comes with the most serious of dance training.

Fast forward 4 or 5 years to when my friend Hannah became obsessed with bellydance and convinced me to try it out, and you have the beginning of my ongoing love affair.  I began American Tribal Style belly dance, and loved the movements but wished there was more room for creativity, along with moves carried out with the left side of the body [strange as it may sound, ATS, Tribal Improv, and Tribal Fusion almost always work with the right side of the body, and I have no idea why].  Then I started Tribal Improv, which had more combinations to sink my teeth into.  TI is great fun and a fantastic challenge to coordination and reflexes, because it's a follow-the-leader style of dance: one person leads, deciding on what moves to use on the spot and indicating by pre-arranged signals [yips, hands flicks, head turns, and more] what comes next so that the rest of the dance troupe knows what moves to perform.  The faster the music, the quicker you have to react so that the audience doesn't realise you're not actually doing a full choreography.  And nobody notices that we do this, which adds to the fun - we're totally winging it, and it's our secret! We learned and grew together, became perfectly synchronised, put on a couple of shows and took part in the first regular burlesque show on the island.  Dancing was good to us, and life became better.

There is a 'but'.  The problem with TI is that you need a troupe, and unfortunately life got in the way of ours: our director moved country [the lovely Hannah again!], the girl who took over fell in love and got pregnant [we all joked that she'd have twins if she ever got pregnant; 9 months later she fulfilled our prophecy], another girl moved country, and when I finally took over the classes I had to give it up or risk failing the second year of my BA.  So we went our separate dancing ways, which was awful: in any form of bellydance, the people dancing together become like family - that's how it started out after all, with women dancing together while doing chores, and men dancing together while doing their thing, and everybody dancing at weddings [albeit with a lot of self-censoring].  I cannot stress enough how different this is to ballet and jazz, which are dominated by one-upping and competition, creating a tense atmosphere that stops you enjoying yourself to the full when you're dancing, because somewhere inside you're thinking 'I have to be better than the others!'.  In bellydance we don't do that.  We each revel in what we can do well, applaud each other on the things done well [you should see and hear the reactions in our classes when a bellydancer does a perfect belly roll!], and we all encourage each other when facing a baffling move.  I am proud to say that I found the sisters I never had, and to this day even though we no longer dance together and in some cases haven't seen each other in years, we support each other in all we do.

This means that when bellydancing, I associate it with all my bellydancing friends and feel love, which makes me dance with love, which in turn adds an element to the dancing that I have yet to see in other types of dance.  This love isn't just about the bond between dancers though.  It's also about loving your body and yourself.  There is no pressure to be fatless, toned, muscular, as small as possible, and all that crap, in bellydance.  Whatever way, shape, or form you have, it's great, because it's your body, your instrument, and you are dancing.  Whether you're an apple, an hourglass, a pear, a banana, your shape is perfect.  Whether you're huge, or large, or medium, or small, or tiny, your size is perfect.  A piano is no better than a flute for being bigger, a violin is no better than a harp for being smaller; they are different instruments and together create complex and beautiful music.  Nowadays in fact, I can see that I dance well, because I'm no longer busy worrying about being the thinnest I can't possibly be, or being better than the rest. [There had to be a moral to the story, didn't there.]

And now I'm finally doing one of my favourite styles of bellydance, called Tribal Fusion, a style based on flamenco and bellydance, seasoned with hip-hop and a bunch of other dance forms.  This style doesn't use improvisation, so there's a lot more room for creativity than the others I've learned, and that sets me gleefully a-glow.

So I may not be performing at the West End, and I may even have stopped performing locally at all, but I'm dancing and I'm loving every second of it.  I've always felt the most alive while dancing, putting my heart and soul into even the tiniest of movements, letting the music take over and becoming part of it, using my head to make my body do beautiful things, and I couldn't ever give it up again.  That would be like cutting off a limb.

Sincerely,

Macs

PS. Here are some links for you to see the different bellydance styles I mentioned.

ATS improv, performed by FatChanceBellyDance

Tribal Improv, performed by Gypsy Caravan

Tribal Fusion:

Rachel Brice, the biggest name in TF

Kami Liddle, my favourite TF performance to date

UNMATA, my favourite bellydance troupe, practising their own special high-octane Improv Tribal Style

Things I Hate Thursday

Any of you who have blogs or online journals will 99.9% have heard of the custom 'Things I Love Thursday', a list of things that happen on the relevant Thursday of the week that the person writing the list loves.  Today's list, as I think you've guessed, is about things I hate on the Thursday I'm having today.

1. I was late for work.

2. While driving to work I saw a dog lying on a pavement looking dead, exhausted, injured, or asleep with her eyes open.  I wanted to stop and check on her but no, I was late for work.

3. Day 3 of period cramps making me uncomfortable throughout the morning whether sitting, standing, or moving in any way.

4. The eyelashes on my lower right eyelid have grown so long they're sticking together, pulling at my eyelid, and generally making me want to rip my eyelashes out.

5. Making a mistake at work and discovering it while on the phone to the business's HSBC representative.

6. Finding out emails I thought were meant to be insulting were actually from people who were being genuinely nice, so I've mistakenly felt insulted, and thought these 2 well-wishers were being snarky and mean, for 2 days.

7. Invoicing idiocy.

8. Feeling the urge for a hot cup of tea thanks to the beautiful storm we had today, and knowing that it would just make me sick because I've suddenly become intolerant to black tea.

9. Being pissed off and frustrated for no reason, and feeling angry at everything and everyone, thus affecting everything I do, despite being a reasonable, rational, logical, intelligent person.  

Anyone trying to sympathise with my bad mood will face evisceration in my imagination.

Did I mention I hate today?

Sincerely,

Macs

Of Dreams and Stories...

Every morning I wake up and desperately try to go back to sleep.  While sometimes it's because I'm tired and need more sleep, it's most often because I'll have had an intricate and intense dream that I want to go back and finish, because I must know how it ends.  This compulsion applies to all books, stories, movies, series and songs that capture my imagination.  There is nothing more annoying for the imaginative than a story ending prematurely and without an ending, as it were.

I've had this idea for years now, and the past week I've voiced it several times: if I could hook my brain up to a visual projector and recorder while I sleep, and then sell the results to film companies, I'd be a multi-billionaire.  Possibly the quality of cinema would improve drastically, and many film viewers would be left feeling like the ground they were standing on disappeared.  The universe would be filled with so much 'what the fuck?!' that it would seep into the collective human subconscious and, probably, make the world implode.

Alright, alright, so that last part was excessive hyperbole [haha, haha!], but you get the point: my dreams [and nightmares] are incredible and awe-inspiring.  It's such a shame that I frequently forget them within 10 seconds of waking.  Not so with this morning's dream, which so captivated me that I'm working it out as a story.

It's funny how writing hits me.  I call it the itch.  When it strikes, I feel compelled on all levels of existence to grab something, anything, to record my ideas and get the pictures in my head out.  It's kind of like an exorcism, expelling some presence from deep inside, or a purging, but what comes out is a positive thing and only gross if my creativity takes me that way.  It's spontaneous, overwhelming, and feels like it just won't - and can't - be denied.  Translated into words, my body tells me 'DAMMIT woman get writing now now now now NOW NOW NOW NOW!', varying from a whisper through to a bellow.

My psychiatrist [go on, get over it, I dare you ;) ] said there's a weird connection between mental illness and creativity, and speaking from experience this is true in several ways.  Some of the most intense things I've ever written are a result of the ghastly misery I suffered while in cycles of depression.  The more acute my feelings, the more poignant my writing becomes.  It seems obvious then when I say that antidepressants effectively cut my creativity and imagination from my being.  Happily, these old friends of mine only went on holiday, rather than relocating permanently.  When I finally reduced my dose of antidepressants significantly, within a week of my body getting used to the low dose my brain suffered a barrage of amazing ideas, beautiful sentences, and stories.  I wrote one poem in a frenzy at work one day, and composed another two while driving home on the same day - sadly the latter two are lost to whatever graveyard verse inhabits when it disappears from its author's brain.  HOWEVER.  The point is that I hadn't been able to write anything creative, anything at all, for 3 years.  3 years folks.  That's beyond tragic, especially considering I used to write at least one poem every few weeks from the age of 12 to 19.  And weirdly enough, mental illness doesn't just inspire and trigger creativity, it also kills it.  Thanks to depression sinking its hideous talons deeper and deeper after 19, I wrote less, and less, and less, until one day I realised I hadn't written anything in 2 years.  I can't describe the sadness that realisation caused.  It actually is beyond words.  And here I am now, cured of a horrible bout of the Evil Sad, able to write once again, and willing.

Guys, I'm ecstatic.  Join me in a hilariously dorky and gleeful happy dance.

Sincerely,

Macs

That time when things got personally awkward

There are times when writing with a certain level of maturity is beyond me and I run the risk of making a fool of myself in ways I just don't care for.  The past 2 weeks of silence happened because I just didn't feel like writing, I just didn't want to think, and I just could not be sincere without facing certain consequences.  I'm here now, I'm writing, and I guess it's time for me to face the reality that, whether I like it or not, I have to write about things that have been... bothering me.

On my mother's birthday I met my then-boyfriend of 2 years and a bit, in the knowledge that we were going to break up, that he was going to start off the process, and that I was fine with it because it was time to admit defeat: we no longer worked as a couple and could no longer keep trying.

I now realise there were a few things I wasn't prepared for.  I wasn't prepared to hear that he had long since given up trying to try to make things work between us, when I had done my best right to the end to try to make 'us' work.  I hadn't prepared myself for the fact that now he would be talking to other girls, friends or otherwise, when before he seemed fine with cutting himself off from all but his closest friends.  I hadn't prepared myself for the moment when I would realise that, despite how far into each other's heads we are, he no longer loved me.

This is where I say I no longer love him, and where you believe me, and where we move on to something else.  But.  But.  As a horribly caring person, I find it impossible to stop caring.  About anything, really.  It's a drawback.  I should have developed into a heartless bitch given what sensitivity and caring got me as a child, but that just didn't happen.  So instead, I care.  This is an infinitely bad thing when I'm going through the process of getting over a break up.  I care about that person's well-being, I care about their life, I care because I put time and effort into that person and it's actually very difficult to let that go.  You'll notice that I haven't used the word 'love'.  That's because what I feel is different to what I used to feel back when I was in love.  Now I just feel the same attachment I feel for my best friends, 'just' being an understatement, because I love my best friends dearly.

Part of the problem I feel bothered about all this is that I can't actually be a best friend to him, just as he can't be a best friend to me.  Forget the usual 'you've seen each other naked, you can't be friends after that' litany, because that's not the problem.  The problem is censorship.  I have to censor everything I say to him - indeed, to anyone I've ever had a break up with - and be careful what I ask and how I react.  How inappropriate is it for me to ask about his dating life? Extremely, which is the same answer to 'how inappropriate is it for him to talk about his dating life'.  If there were things we didn't do together for specific reasons, and now we both are doing them, it's a potential bone of contention that needs to be kept buried.  In every conversation we now have, it feels like there's a big fat elephant in a neon pink tutu and a neon orange headband sitting between us while humorously trying to play a trumpet.

And of course all of this is rather irritating, because we were both happy to end our relationship and happy to remain friends, but the reality and truth is that we can't be proper, honest to goodness friends.  The past gets in the way, doesn't it? And there's nothing to do about that but lump it, and get on with things.

So here I am getting on with things, and having got that off my chest, I can get on with bringing you my thoughts on any subject under the sun in other posts. :)

Sincerely,
Macs

Everyone gets a little crazy sometimes - 1

There are different ways you can tell that someone is kind of, maybe, just a little, teensy weensy bit gaga.  Cuckoo.  Plemplem, as we like to say in my family.  Batty.  There are many reasons people exhibit this, uh, hm... behaviour.  Some are born mad, some become mad, and some have madness thrust upon them [fellow literature freaks, can you spot the reference?].  Some of us exhibit madness on occasion, because sometimes certain circumstances just plain drive us up the wall.  We're going to take a look at some of these situations, along with a few things that seem to be typical symptoms of their corresponding craziness, over a number of posts.

Number 1 Crazy Behaviour: Road Rage

Someone overtakes recklessly, pulling into the opposite lane completely and putting the pedal to the metal to increase speed so as to effectively and quickly overtake the poor slow turtle that tickled their speed itch.  You're on that opposite lane, and they're heading straight for you if they don't manage to pull back into their lane as soon as friggeting possible.  Your heart rate accelerates drastically, your eyes fly open, you stomp on the brakes, blare your horn, become horrifyingly aware that you're going to die, and gabble 'Ohgodohgodohgod' or 'Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck'.

And the reckless driver pulls into his own lane, successfully overtaking the turtle while reducing your life span by 20 years, increasing your number of grey hairs significantly, and making you a candidate for a heart transplant in 30 years time.  Now that you're sure you're not tasting metal, the madness begins.  The bastard! THE BASTARD! HE ALMOST KILLED ME! I COULD HAVE DIED! SON OF A BITCH! ROT IN HELL YOU MOTHERCHUCKING MORON! WHO THE BLOODY BUGGERY GAVE YOU YOUR LICENSE?! MAY YOU DIE HORRIBLY WHEN YOUR CAR BARRELROLLS! AAAAARRRRRGH!!!!!!!

And more thought of that ilk rampage around in your brain and out of your mouth until you eventually catch sight of yourself in the rearview mirror.  Rabid animals the world over give you a round of applause at the froth bubbling on your lips and the insane look in your wild eyes.  As you thump the steering wheel while revelling in livid rage, you catch a glimpse of a passing pedestrian's face.  WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?! KEEP WALKING ASSHOLE! And the person breaks into a power walk.  You reach the end of your swearing vocabulary, so you make up new words and phrases as you carry on your tirade.


Eventually your ranting and raving bubbles down into mumbling and muttering.  You arrive at your destination and grumble about crazy, suicidal, homicidal drivers, for another 5 minutes.  The moment food or drink appears on your horizon, you forget all about your brush with death.


______

This one goes out to one of my best friends, whose passenger road rage is always an odd surprise.  You know who you are.  ;)


Sincerely,

Macs


Ps. Hey folks, feel free to add whatever sweet little word you use instead of 'crazy' to the list. :)

Much Ado About Nothing deserves much ado.

I should probably give you a couple of warnings before I get seriously underway: a) having listened to three hours of Shakespeare, I might use somewhat outdated language, because the Bard has that effect on me, b) I am about to gush copiously, so prepare the mops!

I've just returned from a wonderful three or so hours of watching and listening to Shakespeare's 'Much Ado About Nothing', put on by the MADC, and I am delighted.  The acting was perfecto, the casting was spot on, the wardrobe choices were numerous and exact, the stage was cleverly arranged, and the props and stage hands could not have worked better.  Seeing that I decided to attend tonight's performance alone, I desperately needed the show to cheer me up.  Add to that the fact that I got caught between two fuel-sucking traffic jams on the way to the performance and arrived ten minutes late in a vile mood, you can guess that the MADC had its work cut out for it tonight regarding this miss - and here I am in bed, a happy, satisfied bunny.  If I could purr my contentment, I would.

Allow me to explain.  Having been introduced to the world of performing at the tender age of three thanks to ballet, I've been on stage and in front of audiences many times over the years, and I've been backstage, and I've waited in the wings, and I know the horror of watching something go horribly wrong.  On top of that, I am now a stickler for quality, and nothing irks me more than a cast member who isn't up to the standard of the script or the other actors, a poorly thought out performance space, or indeed anything that just does not deliver as it should.

Much Ado had none of these problems.  Certainly, two or three actors stumbled on a word and had to repeat a line, but they pulled it off by keeping in character and not letting it phase them one bit, and quite frankly who doesn't end up tripping over their own tongue in real conversation? It's perfectly natural.  So to them I say: well done, you.  But other than these tiny moments of tongue-teasing, there were no slip-ups: when actors needed to interact with props, they did so without mistakes; cues were followed flawlessly; comedic timing was followed without a hitch; the actors were all very much equal to their roles, the script, and the constraints of the stage; and there were no dreaded wardrobe malfunctions - a miracle considering how many costumes there were and how many changes were made!

Let me go into what I loved about this production, bit by bit.

1. The location and stage: San Anton Gardens is in my opinion the ideal spot for an open-air performance, and with the background of the palace it truly is the perfect place for Shakespeare's work to be showcased.  The stage was long and narrow, making audience placement far more intimate than the norm with all spectators being rather close to the stage no matter where they were seated.  And a gate into the palace was used to wonderful effect as the main entrance and exit for the actors, which really added to the idea of the characters' moving from one place to another.

2. The wardrobe: my word, did the wardrobe mistress go all out! The clothing was 1940s style, and lovely.  All the costumes fit, and every scene had a change of clothing for the women, with the men sticking to the same formal dress during formal scenes such as the wedding and the funeral, but otherwise also having a change every scene.  What I thought was lovely was that every actor didn't just have clothes suiting their roles, but that also suited the actors.  I think the only thing that jarred - and this only happened when I really thought about it - was that the clothing and music was all set in the 1940s, but the men carried swords when they were in their army formal dress.  Even then, considering these were high officials [a count, a prince, a prince's bastard brother], so perhaps their uniform at that level would mandate swords at the time.  Regardless, the time period worked.

3. The actors: there were a few actors and actresses whom I haven't seen on stage before, and they played their parts wonderfully.  To be honest, I had first decided not to see this production because there were so many names I just didn't recognise, but having spoken to an actor friend who knew what was going on in the play, I decided to give it a shot.  And I'm so very glad that I did! Folks, I've said this before and I'll not stop saying it, we have so many talented people on this tiny island [to non-residents, non-Maltese, strangers to the island of Malta, we've a population between 400K and 500K] and we don't make enough of a fuss about them.

While the whole cast did a fabulous job, I must pinpoint some moments of excellence: the moment when Hero is asked to speak regarding the horrible claims laid against her was gold, with actress Nicola Abela Garrett putting raw emotion into her voice and still projecting perfectly; Imogen [Mrs Leonato]'s moment of chiding Count Claudio and the Prince for causing her daughter's death via public shaming, reducing them to nothing but boys [as the speech entails, in fact] was masterfully done with class and the pride only a mother can have; the love scenes between Benedick and Beatrice, played by Malcolm Galea and Fay Paris respectively, flowed so well that I could have been watching a real courtship; Colin Willis pulled off Hero's father Leonato grieving for his daughter's reputation with such desolate misery, I think the glass and bottle of JB were hardly needed as props for that scene.

4. The comedy duo:  Oh gods, did I laugh! Dogberry and Verges, played respectively by Erin Stuart Palmier and Joe Depasquale, had me bring out the silent laugh for the benefit of everyone around me, otherwise I can't guarantee their hearing would have survived my screeching cackles of laughter.  These two had the comedic timing down pat, and delivered their lines and actions with the right amount of gusto.  A match made in heaven.

5. The language and tone used: Now here comes the cherry on the cake.  Malta is a bilingual country, and we all code-switch like crazy, adding and substituting words in Maltese when speaking in English and vice versa, which adds to the colour of interaction thanks to the fascinating fact that both languages have phrases and expressions that just don't translate properly into the other language.  So it was with glee that I eventually realised the actors were using Maltesisms in between their Shakespearian dialogue for emphasis! Now hold your horses before you roll your eyes or tut tut in disapproval.  I'm talking about the typical things we say like 'eh' and 'mela'.  Well, except in the case of the clown sergeants Dogberry and Verges, whose dialogue was delivered with the thick accent of Maltese who aren't fluent enough in English to avoid carrying over their Maltese pronunciation - a great idea in my opinion, because the sergeants' scenes are used to counteract any seriousness that occurred in the previous scenes, and there really is nothing as amusing as that accent when coupled with the appropriate Maltese buffoon stereotype.  Oh, the hilarity! I'm not one to enjoy slapstick, but this was done so well I couldn't but end up gasping for breath at the end of each of their scenes.

That's enough gushing from me I think, you should find out how great it is for yourselves folks.  What's the worst that could happen? ;)

And thus, good gentles, reiterating my fervent wish that you all rush to the MADC website to book your tickets for the last three performances, I bid thee adieu!


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