I do hear the morning lark
I had my tarot read on the weekend, by an old crone. The only thing missing from the image were her two sisters, a banging drum and the apparition of a head telling me to beware MacDuff.
I was in Stratford Upon Avon, mind, so it’s probably fair.
I went up to see the closing night of the Royal Shakespeare Company’s version of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Having only seen the play once before, performed in Sydney’s Botanic Gardens as part of the 2005 Sydney Festival, I had a vague idea of what to expect. There’d be lots of running, jumping and acrobatics; Puck and Bottom would feature somewhere in it and there was some link to Athens. Beyond that, it was all a bit of a mystery to me.
So, when the curtain rose and Theseus started speaking, I just naturally assumed it would all fall into place. I sat for about five minutes listening to Act I generally thinking “the acoustics in here are so bad… I can’t hear a thing they’re saying.”
That I was three rows from the front made this seem somewhat implausible, so I concentrated harder. I could hear what they were saying… but they were speaking another language. Possibly an Indian language. Hmmm. Probably should have read that in the program…
Sure enough, the production was bilingual, so some characters would speak English and others would speak various Indian languages. It certainly added a new dimension the surreal dream-like effect.
So, the next day feeling suitably smug and cultured I figured that the only way to restore the balance would be a visit to the Leaky Cauldron to have my tarot read.
I admit openly that I love all that stuff. I love reading my stars at the end of the day to establish if my day went as it should have, and I love reading the horoscopes from the pile of five year old Grazia magazines in doctors’ waiting rooms, trying to remember if there was familial conflict or professional jubilation in May 2003.
It is fair to say however, that while I love it, I don’t subscribe to it. As a junior journalist a couple of lifetimes ago, the paper for whom I was working bought their horoscopes from a syndicate and one evening the chief sub forgot to change Tuesday’s to Wednesday’s, which meant that the same horoscopes ran two days in a row.
I had images of Dice Man-like readers prostrate in their lounge rooms for fear that Ground Hog Day had indeed occurred. But no one complained, so the reality is no one even noticed!
I did get my tarot read in New Orleans several years ago, but that was because I was in the voodoo capital of the US. I was confidently told that I was on a journey (an Australian in southern USA, are you kidding?) and some other stuff about destiny which has yet to eventuate. I guess there’s long lead time on destiny.
My Elizabethan crone however wasted no time on vagaries and platitudes. She instead, upon cutting the cards, opened with the news that I may be pregnant.
This is one of those verifiable facts that can fairly easily be proved or disproved it so made me sit up. This wasn’t going to be a “destiny sees a red door” style reading - this woman knew stuff!
Pregnancy, however, it seems is a soothsaying euphemism. (exhale, parents, I’m not up the duff!) Pregnancy in fortune telling terms apparently refers to when one is gestating an idea or a plan, not necessarily resulting in one running a hot bath and opening a bottle of gin.
This blog in no way endorses such behaviour, unless you’re a woman living in Ireland or South America hampered by choice, in which case – where’s the tonic?
My crone went on to read my cards and say that the dream in which I am living requires more energy to become fulfilled. I dreamt Jack the Ripper was trying to break in the other night… but I’m not really sure I want that converted to reality.
She then ended with something suitably vague about journeys and fulfilment and happiness, and accepted Amex.
So, Stratford – lovely actually. Really sweet little village, although being interested in Shakespeare is kind of a necessity.
In the next few weeks I’m off to Brighton, York, Ireland and Wales if I can get my slack friends into gear. And Lollapalooza in August if I can get myself into gear to book flights.
How can you not go to a music festival that headlined Homer Simpson?!
I was in Stratford Upon Avon, mind, so it’s probably fair.
Stratford, Shakespeare's tomb
I went up to see the closing night of the Royal Shakespeare Company’s version of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Having only seen the play once before, performed in Sydney’s Botanic Gardens as part of the 2005 Sydney Festival, I had a vague idea of what to expect. There’d be lots of running, jumping and acrobatics; Puck and Bottom would feature somewhere in it and there was some link to Athens. Beyond that, it was all a bit of a mystery to me.
So, when the curtain rose and Theseus started speaking, I just naturally assumed it would all fall into place. I sat for about five minutes listening to Act I generally thinking “the acoustics in here are so bad… I can’t hear a thing they’re saying.”
That I was three rows from the front made this seem somewhat implausible, so I concentrated harder. I could hear what they were saying… but they were speaking another language. Possibly an Indian language. Hmmm. Probably should have read that in the program…
Sure enough, the production was bilingual, so some characters would speak English and others would speak various Indian languages. It certainly added a new dimension the surreal dream-like effect.
So, the next day feeling suitably smug and cultured I figured that the only way to restore the balance would be a visit to the Leaky Cauldron to have my tarot read.
I admit openly that I love all that stuff. I love reading my stars at the end of the day to establish if my day went as it should have, and I love reading the horoscopes from the pile of five year old Grazia magazines in doctors’ waiting rooms, trying to remember if there was familial conflict or professional jubilation in May 2003.
It is fair to say however, that while I love it, I don’t subscribe to it. As a junior journalist a couple of lifetimes ago, the paper for whom I was working bought their horoscopes from a syndicate and one evening the chief sub forgot to change Tuesday’s to Wednesday’s, which meant that the same horoscopes ran two days in a row.
I had images of Dice Man-like readers prostrate in their lounge rooms for fear that Ground Hog Day had indeed occurred. But no one complained, so the reality is no one even noticed!
I did get my tarot read in New Orleans several years ago, but that was because I was in the voodoo capital of the US. I was confidently told that I was on a journey (an Australian in southern USA, are you kidding?) and some other stuff about destiny which has yet to eventuate. I guess there’s long lead time on destiny.
My Elizabethan crone however wasted no time on vagaries and platitudes. She instead, upon cutting the cards, opened with the news that I may be pregnant.
This is one of those verifiable facts that can fairly easily be proved or disproved it so made me sit up. This wasn’t going to be a “destiny sees a red door” style reading - this woman knew stuff!
Pregnancy, however, it seems is a soothsaying euphemism. (exhale, parents, I’m not up the duff!) Pregnancy in fortune telling terms apparently refers to when one is gestating an idea or a plan, not necessarily resulting in one running a hot bath and opening a bottle of gin.
This blog in no way endorses such behaviour, unless you’re a woman living in Ireland or South America hampered by choice, in which case – where’s the tonic?
My crone went on to read my cards and say that the dream in which I am living requires more energy to become fulfilled. I dreamt Jack the Ripper was trying to break in the other night… but I’m not really sure I want that converted to reality.
She then ended with something suitably vague about journeys and fulfilment and happiness, and accepted Amex.
So, Stratford – lovely actually. Really sweet little village, although being interested in Shakespeare is kind of a necessity.
Stratford, Anne Hathaway's cottage
In the next few weeks I’m off to Brighton, York, Ireland and Wales if I can get my slack friends into gear. And Lollapalooza in August if I can get myself into gear to book flights.
How can you not go to a music festival that headlined Homer Simpson?!
Ars Poetica
Just wanted to leave you a note to let you know i'm reading and voting...
~Lily