2009-01-07
street haunting
"...when the desire comes upon us to go street rambling the pencil does for a pretext, and getting up we say: �Really I must buy a pencil,� as if under cover of this excuse we could indulge safely in the greatest pleasure of town life in winter�rambling the streets of London.
"The hour should be the evening and the season winter, for in winter the champagne brightness of the air and the sociability of the streets are grateful. We are not then taunted as in the summer by the longing for shade and solitude and sweet airs from the hayfields. The evening hour, too, gives us the irresponsibility which darkness and lamplight bestow. We are no longer quite ourselves."The pavement was dry and hard; the road was of hammered silver. Walking home through the desolation one could tell oneself the story of the dwarf, of the blind men, of the party in the Mayfair mansion, of the quarrel in the stationer�s shop. Into each of these lives one could penetrate a little way, far enough to give oneself the illusion that one is not tethered to a single mind, but can put on briefly for a few minutes the bodies and minds of others.
One could become a washerwoman, a publican, a street singer. And what greater delight and wonder can there be than to leave the straight lines of personality and deviate into those footpaths that lead beneath brambles and thick tree trunks into the heart of the forest where live those wild beasts, our fellow men?"That is true: to escape is the greatest of pleasures; street haunting in winter the greatest of adventures."
Virginia Woolf, with great vitality, haunted the streets of London. I am here in the district where she lived, with the same yearning, of course, to render a portrait of the atmosphere. This place is drenched in history-- multitudes of stories and different times-- so wet that it looks dry. I'm getting lost (not in the city blocks; I'm actually adept at those) in stuff like this, entertaining pensive cycles of considering the work and how it makes me feel. There's an incredible largeness to this place- the immensity of St. Paul's cathedral, and the grandeur of the city skyline on the river (which is pronounced 'Tems'). I doubt I'll be able to say anything highly original or captivating about this city, but it'll be me. Me, in this city.
The plays overtake me-- just thinking about that much concentrated passion, energy, and effort- all that LIFE, all within one performance-- I'm struck with awe and gratitude.
Let's watch the days unravel, let's tramp through the fog. Even as an inevitably banal (yet necessary) routine seeps in over these three months, onward and upward we go, to new and different heights, glimmering with appreciation and, as always, hope. Hope for what? I'm not sure. But I always get this sense in me that I've got some hope, like some promise I'm waiting on, expectantly, like a kid waiting in earnest on their tippy toes. I'm not sure what I'm yearning for, but I feel the tug and press of it. Maybe it is a purpose I am chasing, like my best self. It could undoubtedly be something else, though. And it doesn't quite matter, not right now, because right now I am Lisa in London, and the chase is half the fun. And so I go to haunt!
leesah-likes at 10:30 p.m.