L u n a t a l k

When I travel, I don’t do much souvenir shopping, but I like to collect patches from the places I go and sew them to a jacket. That jacket’s quite an ice-breaker when I wear it. There are three patches on it from places I haven’t been to myself, though: Nepal, Kathmandu and Antarctica. Those three patches are from my grandmother, as game a woman as ever lived.

She’s a remarkable person - optimistic, adventurous, independent and wholly devoted to her family. The jacket of her life is stitched with memories and buttoned up with love. Even when I neglect to call for weeks at a time, she never lays a guilt trip on me. There’s nothing but delight in her voice at the sound of mine. (Though of course, that’s even more effective at making me feel guilty.)

My father called last night to let me know she’s in hospice care and not eating. She’s getting ready to unbutton this jacket and lay it aside for one last journey. We talked on the phone. She’s still lucid - and able to crack a joke - but I can hear goodbye in her voice.

I’ve bought a plane ticket for next week. There won’t be a patch for my jacket this time. But her face will be stitched to my heart forever.

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There’s a scene in Monty Python and the Holy Grail where King Arthur and his knights must answer three questions to cross a bridge or be cast into the chasm. That scene did not make it into the Broadway musical Spamalot (which I saw today) nor did the mystical guardian show up at the 520 bridge to give me a fighting chance to get across. I know I could have answered the questions! My name is Eva Moon. My quest is to get to the theater before the show starts. My favorite color is green. No purple. Aaaaaaughhhhh!

We left in plenty of time. But as we approached the bridge, a sign breezily announced that the bridge would be up for boat traffic from 1:30 to 2:00 pm. Boat traffic! Of course curtain was 2:00. I blame the Huskies. The only reason they raised the bridge was to allow rich boat owners to get to the stadium. I hope they lose. Again.

We headed south on 405. The long way around. But the traffic gods smiled on us and we took our seats just as the lights went down.

Spamalot is a shamelessly silly musical. Not many surprises, but a few. Overall a fun and entertaining afternoon, but a little too calculated to be great. There are a couple of good numbers, the best being “The Song That Goes Like This”:

Once in every show
There comes a song like this
It starts off soft and low
And ends up with a kiss
Oh where is the song
That goes like this?
Where is it? Where? Where?

A sentimental song
That casts a magic spell
They all will hum along
We’ll overact like hell
For this is the song that goes like this
Yes it is! Yes it is!

Now we can go straight
Right down the middle eight
A bridge that is too far for me

I’ll sing it in your face
While we both embrace
And then
We change
The key

Now we’re into E!
*hem* That’s awfully high for me
But as everyone can see
We should have stayed in D
For this is our song that goes like this!

I’m feeling very proud
You’re singing far too loud
That’s the way that this song goes
You’re standing on my toes
Singing our song that goes like this!

I can’t believe there’s more
It’s far too long, I’m sure
That’s the trouble with this song
It goes on and on and on
For this is our song that is too long!

We’ll be singing this til dawn
You’ll wish that you weren’t born
Let’s stop this damn refrain
Before we go insane
For this is our song that ends like this!

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According to this article the urge to eat chocolate may be due to chocolate-loving bacteria living in our stomachs - rather than the innate, soul-melting fabulousness of that dark and sinful bean.

I have to admit, it makes me wonder if free will is an illusion. Is any thought, desire, repulsion the result of an intelligent brain or simply the random chemical regurgitation of some one-celled interloper? You may feel like an individual, but you are the borg.

However, it does provide a handy cop out. I now have an explanation for all my failings! Not guilty by reason of infestation.

But how about some bacteria that will be a little more helpful, hmm? Here are some suggestions:

1. Hairtearosi tenforticus. This newly bio-engineered organism lies dormant in your body until early spring when it becomes active and does your tax returns while you sleep.

2. Dishwashium vacuumiae. People who have colonies of this bacteria in their bloodstream feel an inexplicable obsession with cleaning products.

3. Gymnasia myachinbacillus. Only, theoretical at this point, this strain is hypothesized as the only possible explanation for people who enjoy working out.

4. Viagrio stiphtacoccus. Scientists are racing to isolate this powerful microorganism which could lead to a new cure for a flagging sex drive.

5. Blogella timewastium. Have you read this far in the post? It may be an indication that trillions of these bacteria have already infected your brain.

Do you know of any others?

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Which way is she turning?

The answer depends on whether you are right brained or left brained according to this article in the Daily Telegraph.

Can you change her direction? For me she was resolutely spinning clockwise (right-brained). But after several minutes of concentration I got her turning the other way, though she’ll revert to clockwise if I don’t work at it. It’s easier if you focus on just one part - her foot or chin. Freaky!

Traits of right-brained people: uses feeling, “big picture” oriented, imagination rules, symbols and images, present and future, philosophy & religion, can “get it” (i.e. meaning), believes, appreciates, spatial perception, knows object function, fantasy based, presents possibilities, impetuous, risk taking

Left-brainers: uses logic, detail oriented, facts rule, words and language, present and past, math and science, can comprehend, knowing, acknowledges, order/pattern perception, knows object name, reality based, forms strategies, practical, safe

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Here is a link to the photos from our trip.

There’s something wonderful and important about being in another place at least once in a while. You get a new perspective, a piece of the puzzle - the realization that there IS a puzzle and your corner of it is not only small, but doesn’t really make sense without all the other pieces.

If every person spent even a short time in another part of the world, draped him or herself in the fabric of another life, drank down the spicy brew of an unfamiliar culture, even once, think how many bridges might span gulfs.

Where to next?

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A key in a lock
a darkened hall
two wary cats
one scolding, one sulking
in the end forgiving

The film and grit of
trains and planes
transit hours silting my veins
spiral down the bathtub drain

The slide of skin at last between
the skin of cool familiar sheets
to let the body’s weight
sublimate
into a pillow that smells like
home

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Today is our last day in London before winging homeward. We’d saved the Tower for last. It was impressive - crown jewels, armor and all that - but I found myself wishing I’d seen it earlier in the trip. At this point, I’m a bit overloaded on antique architecture and I’m afraid it made it seem just a tad less special. Still, it was an absorbing three and a half hours of wandering through history. One of the highlights was the graffiti carved into the walls by prisoners held in the towers - dating back to the 1600s. They must have had a lot of time on their hands. Some of the graffiti is quite elaborate and skilled.

There was very little on display from the era we are researching (1200). I did get a chance to pull a longbow. I can pull it well enough two or three times, but the thought of doing it for the length of a battle is humbling. I also tried on a gauntlet (more flexible and comfortable than I expected, but heavy) and hefted a few swords (a well-balanced medieval sword was not as heavy as I expected - only about two pounds) Those big lances from the lists aren’t as heavy as you think either. They were hollow and weighed about 20 pounds (after all, the lists were games - better to shatter a hollow lance than a trained knight).

After the Tower we grabbed some absolutely dreadful fish and chips on the street (never again!) and headed for the Tate Britain for a final dollop of art. It’s a great museum with an impressive collection. I especially liked the portraiture. I’m convinced that history will not look back so kindly on 20th century art - at least on what I saw there (the Tate modern collection was excellent). I can’t imagine how future art historians could see them as anything other than charlatans or deeply disturbed.

Deeply weary now and ready for the slog home tomorrow morning. The trip was the perfect length. If it had been shorter we couldn’t have seen all we wanted to see, another day and we’d fail to enjoy ourselves. Today would have been close if the sights had been less special.

Ta ta!

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No way.

That was my first thought on seeing the title “Boeing Boeing” on the list of theatre offerings at TKTS. I’m a third of the way around the world from Seattle - the last thing I want is to be reminded of home. But nothing else was looking too appealing and the last round of theatre going had turned out disappointing. I looked it up.

It turns out that Boeing Boeing has nothing to do with a Seattle company. It is a French farce, translated to English and performed off and on in London since 1962. It’s the very silly story of a three-timing Lothario who lives right by Orly airport in Paris and has landed a supposedly perfect arrangement of three flight attendant fiances on three different flight schedules that keep one heading out the door as the next arrives. Of course, the perfect arrangement crashes spectacularly and hilariously after a bumbling old friend from the country shows up at the door. It’s a period piece for sure. It has that dated (Oh you know those girls - you can pull anything over on them and they’ll fall for it) feel that doesn’t really fly anymore, but it was so charmingly done with such amusingly dreadful French covers of 60’s pop songs that you can’t help but go along with it.

The play’s current home is an elaborately-iced four-tiered wedding cake of a little theatre. We were in the second row of the bottom tier and had a great view (those cute little 60s stewardess uniforms had short skirts). Jean Marsh (Upstairs Downstairs) plays the crotchety maid and stole every scene she was in. There was a movie version of the play made in 1965 starring Tony Curtis and Jerry Lewis that I have no desire to see.

It was a complete piece of fluff, but just the thing after all the heavy pomp of the day.

Picadilly Circus, near the Theatre District

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A day of wanderment.

Left the hotel with no particular plan, but ended up heading to Buckingham Palace. As luck would have it, we arrived just in time to get a nice spot to view the procession for the changing of the guard. Neatly executed. I think they’ve done it before.

After that, we wandered towards Parliament and again found our timing to be fortuitous. It was just five minutes to noon. I used the video on my camera to record Big Ben striking the hour, but foolishly turned the camera sideways (Big Ben is rather vertical) and have no way to rotate the video. It will still be nice to be able to listen to a little bit of London later on, even if the tower is recumbant.

Wandering through the government district we encountered a staged media event… oops, I meant to say spontaneous public protest: Free Burma. There was singing, chanting, marching, sign waving. I was given a red headband and numerous flyers.

Wandered to Leicester Square for theatre tickets (more about that later) and then to the British Library.

The Treasures of the British Library are unsurpassed and too numerous to mention, but I’ll list a few. The hours spent there were a treat. I saw the original manuscripts of work by Jane Austen (a short story, unknown to me), Jane Eyre (”Yes, reader… I married him”), Darwin, Florence Nightingale, Paul McCartney, The Lindesfarne Gospels, a Gutenberg Bible, Shakespeare’s first folio, musical notation of Mozart, Beethoven, Wagner. The international collection is just as amazing. Sacred texts from every corner of the world. Eventually we burrowed back up out of the dim recesses, blinking in the late afternoon sunshine like unearthed moles.

Wandering off to dinner and the theatah!

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I don’t know how coherent this post is going to be. All the blood is rushing to my happy stomach.

Up in Nottinghamshire, I threw myself into English cookery (not that there was much choice). I wanted to experience it, and experience it I did. Fish and chips, toad in a hole, yorkshire pudding, various eggy things… most of it tasty, all of it heavy. By this morning it was starting to feel less like food and more like ballast.

But now I’m back in London, land of many cuisines. Ended up at a crowded little place near Notting Hill called Kiasu (”fear of being second best”) - food from the Malacca Straits.

We’re staying at the Kensington Gardens, a slim volume of a hotel tucked in tight as a book on a library shelf. Third floor, no lift again, but that’s fine. The room is almost big enough to inhale in.

A walk around the neighborhood served up a tempting array of choices: Persian, Turkish, Greek, Chinese, Spanish Lebanese… even English. But Kiasu was the least familiar. The menu is a blend of Indonesian, Philippine, Thai, and other nearby lands. The best thing we ordered were the Vietnamese spring rolls. Crispy and light as air, wrapped in fresh lettuce and dipped in a fiery sweet sauce. I could have made a whole meal on those alone - washed down with an icy Singha.

Crowds gathering on the streets, getting a head start on a boozy Friday night. I’ve always lived on the outskirts of urban areas, but I think it would be an experience to live in the middle of all that energy.

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