Categories
Life

Romeo and Juliet

The kids and I have just had lunch and I’m lazing about on the couch, enjoying the most beautiful warm Sun.

I thought I might write a blog post. So here I am, telling you about how I was thinking I might write a blog post…whilst actually writing one. Small things amuse the creative mind. ☺️

Speaking of creative minds, another thought that came to mind as I lounged on the couch: Shakespeare.

It was a quote from Romeo and Juliet that I was thinking of.

The line is from the famous balcony scene, where Juliet is blissfully day dreaming whilst standing out on her bedroom balcony. Enter Romeo, admiring her lovelieness from somewhere below. (Oh my goodness. Sigh. ❤️)

Here’s the line that woke the beautiful, warm wind in me:

ROMEO: ‘But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?’ It is the east, and Juliet is the Sun!’

Guys. ☺️ It gets better. 🥰

After a bit more internal waffling from Romeo, Juliet speaks. Quietly, to herself, but Romeo hears. This is how that little bit plays out:

JULIET: ‘Ay me’ (Juliet says dreamily thinking about you know who.)

ROMEO: ‘She speaks! O, speak again, bright angel! For thou art as glorious to this night being o’er my head as a winged messenger from heaven…’

I’ll leave it there, my beautiful bloggy friends.

Oh. You’re so very welcome.

😉 xx Brooke

(the HOPELESSLY hopeless romantic.)

Categories
Acting

Performance Energy

Let’s talk about magic. The type that swirls around us human folk without us even knowing, without us even trying. The kind of magic I’m talking about is the kind that arises from our natural human energies and the way those energies interact with those around us.

Many years ago— before I became someone’s wife and someone’s Mummy—my thing was acting. There were so many aspects to treading the boards that I loved. Embodying a character essentially gave me permission to do a whole bunch of fun things the real me would never get away with in real life. I mean. How’s that for awesome?

Those years were some of the most wonderful of my life, where I got to unleash my creative essence on the world and have a whole lot of fun along the way. Every show was different. Every character I played: different, each with their own unique personality trying to make its way into the world, through me.

One thing was always the same, though. The backstage buzz. The energy. Every night before the curtains parted, the cast and crew would stand in the wings with wide eyes and vibrating hair—visible signs of the excited, nervous energy that lived within and around us.

This energy was always there, and it was unmistakable. And though none of us could put our finger on how it was made, or where it came from within our bodies, there would not be an actor out there who could deny its magic. To this day I’m in awe of its power, and the potential it always poured into the performance to come.

But even though the energy of stage actors themselves is otherworldly and brilliant, perhaps the most baffling and awe-inspiring energy transfer is that between the audience and the actors. More specifically, how the energy of the audience, as a collective, influences the energy of the performance.

A ‘good’ or ‘bad’ audience can change a show entirely. A ‘good’ audience has the ability to lift a performance. A ‘bad’ audience has the ability to kill it. Human energy, cause and effect. Life transferred from one group to another, each affecting the other in ways the rational mind can’t even come close to understanding.

So. For those actors, musicians, live performers out there who might be wondering…you’re not alone if you’ve felt it. I’ve felt it, and many performers I know have felt it, too.

As for those of us who are, at one time or another, members of an audience—look around. Are people smiling as the show goes on? Or are they just a bit ho-hum about the whole shebang? Because If they’re a bit ho-hum…chances are the actors are backstage, wondering where all the laughs have gone and disappointed not to have the chance to feed off the positive energy of a ‘good’ audience.

My advice to any theatre, dance, or live music lovers out there would be this: if you’re unlucky enough to see a show on a ‘bad’ audience night…go see it again. I can guarantee you, it will be a different show next time around. A better one. And all thanks to that mysterious universal thing: human energy. Magic. Don’t you think?

woman with white shirt raising her right hand
Photo by Josh Sorenson on Pexels.com

Categories
Arts

This Creative Life

Isn’t the world of creativity fascinating? For so many reasons, really. But I’ve always been fascinated by the unconscious aspects of the way we create, particularly how the unconscious feeds the creative mind, almost as if it is a direct channel from the soul.

What makes the whole thing even more fascinating to me is this: no matter how many times I am dragged away from my creative world—by the hustle and bustle of life, by lack of time, lack of resources—it seems that I always come back to it. Always. Like something bigger than me is in charge of this whole crazy shindig.

Over the years I’ve struggled with finding focus within my creative world, and I suspect that many creative artists might feel the same way. Because the thing is this: creative energy doesn’t seem to care how it gets out. All it seems to care about is that it gets out.

I feel an affinity to many of the disciplines within the arts—music, acting, writing, painting, the list goes on. And the choice as to which discipline to use in order to create (to tell that story of my soul, you might say) really doesn’t feel like a conscious choice at all. To me, the urge to create is exactly that. An urge. A push. A tug. It’s the magnetic pull to the piano, or the computer, or the scrapbook—and I get the impression that my only job is just to go with the flow and get swept along in the breeze of it all.

In my experience, this is such a hard concept for the rational mind to reconcile. Because the rational mind, the one I use to bring sense to everything, seems to crave control. It seems to be at odds with all the wonder that explodes so organically within my creative universe. It seems to want to make sense of something that simply cannot be explained. The imagination. I mean. How can such a wondrous, wondrous world ever be explained?

There are not too many things I am totally sure of in this world. But what I am sure of is this: every single person in this whole wide world has a unique imagination. And every single creative artist sets their imagination free like nobody else in this world. We all see the world differently. We all live in the world differently.

What a lovely creative mess that’s all bound to make.

umbrellas art flying
Photo by Adrianna Calvo on Pexels.com

Categories
Life

The Dreamer in Me

It’s a world for thinkers, isn’t it, this one we live in?

A world where everything has a name. A world where everything and everyone has a reason to be. In this thinking dominated world, it’s all about the boxes, isn’t it? You know the ones—you’re hovering over one right this very minute, trying to decide if and how these words will fit into your life. By the end of reading this, you should know which box this little blog post of mine belongs in. And for the real dreamers among you…you knew from the very first sentence. Didn’t you?

I should probably explain this idea of ‘boxes’ from my place in the world as a creative person—a musician, an actor, a writer, a dreamer—because I’m betting there are flocks of my kind out there, who glide along on the surface of life, happy enough to go with the flow, but feeling, somehow, that they are a bit of an imposter in this big old world of thinking and doing.

When I was in my late teens, I looked at the world and I just knew my wide-eyed dreams didn’t quite belong. Every face I passed on the street seemed to live under a blanket of grey, dead eyes going about life like it was just something that must be done, without question, without…colour.  Was this what I had to look forward to? Dreams all wrapped up, locked away behind the curtain of responsibility? Right then and there, in my sparkling seventeen-year old wonderland, I closed my eyes tight and I swore to myself. This will never happen to me.

I’ve thought about that moment so many times over the past fifteen years or so. Because guess what? That promise I made to myself, the one that gifted me a life of floating in the breeze, of spreading my wings wide and flying into the setting sun—I smashed it to pieces. This thinking world smashed it to pieces. Sucked up the dreams. Spat me out on the other side all shiny and nice and ready to please everyone other than the person that mattered most in my life. Me. I know when it happened, too. It was around about the time I joined the work-life crowd when I bundled everything I was into neatly labeled boxes and became a responsible adult. And right before my very eyes—without me even knowing it was happening— my lovely little dream world was trampled flat.

For those of you who’ve come to know me via this blog, or my old one, you might be surprised to hear that my dream world ever went anywhere—since I very definitely have been plonking bits and pieces of it into these little bloggy worlds of mine, for a few years now. But yes. It did go somewhere for a time.

Well! Quite happily, and for no particular reason, it seems like I just might be back. All of me. Because after all these years of thinking that my ‘boxes’ needed to be packed in the same way as everyone else’s boxes…I’ve finally given myself permission to say this:

‘Dear world, I am a dreamer. I always have been, and I always will be. So, you can take your serious thoughts and angry eyes away from me, because giggling and sunshine is just what I do. And I will do my very best never to forget that again.’

creativity magic paper text

Categories
The Darling Blog Of May

Darling Day 1. Mister Darling Brown Eyes

Mister darling brown eyes is not the darling of this post.

He is not my husband. He is not my Son. He is not even someone I love or have ever loved.

But.

He is where all this started—this Darling Blog of May, and so must his story be told.

Now. Where was I? Ah, yes. Mister darling brown eyes.

And that fateful night, so many years ago…

***

It was the end of a very fruitful twelve weeks of acting class and a bunch of us—serious actors in the making— spilled out of the classroom for the final time. We were huddled against the Melbourne cold, stomping along the grey of it all, searching for a place to warm our fingers, a place to hold us while goodbye sank into our aching bones.

So. To the pub it was, then.

We were a mixed bunch. Some of us bright-eyed and fresh-faced (me, nineteen then), others weathered and creased—courtesy, no doubt, of years of face pulling under hot, stage lighting.

Then there was him. Mister darling brown eyes. And mister darling brown eyes…well. He was all the lollypops and rainbows. He was leather jacket and jeans. He was hair like ribbons of dark chocolate fudge.

And he-was-eyes.

Eyes so deep they saw right into the guts of whoever they chose. And right now, thanks to the two of us being shoulder to shoulder, those brown eyes chose me.

YES.

Anyway.

Mister darling brown eyes. The cosy little corner. The euphoric moment mister darling brown eyes took my quivering hands and declared his undying love for me.

(Cough. No. That’s not what happened.)

In actual fact, mister darling brown eyes gushed about his girlfriend— who was adorable, apparently—and I nodded, smiled and talked about my family, the weather, ice-cream, fluffy ducks. It was, of course, only a matter of time before the topic of conversation turned to something…serious.

How serious?

Shakespeare serious.

Are you fan?’ he said.

‘Not so much,’ I said.

And all the crickets sang. And all the angels wept.

‘Never mind,’ said mister darling brown eyes. ‘I can fix that. I’ll recite you a sonnet.’

He went on to explain that Shakespeare is best heard, not read. Shakespeare is rhythm; Shakespeare is dreamy, lilting, song. Mister darling brown eyes lowered his face and smiled, dared me not to be moved by this sonnet of his, dared me not to be changed.

I nodded. (Okay. I may have tilted my head and sighed a little, I can’t be certain.)

‘Go on,I whispered. And I leaned back in my seat and proceeded to fall in love with love.

Not with mister darling brown eyes, no.

With love.

With Shakespeare, sonnet number 18, to be exact.

So, no. Mister darling brown eyes never did become my husband (which is lucky because I needed that title to give to my gorgeous hubby, Dave.)

 Still.

Mister darling brown eyes was a gift to me because, without him, I may never have heard about those rough winds that shook Shakespeare’s darling buds of May.

And this, my Darling Blog of May, would be nothing but thirty-one days of blank pages.

Now, where would the darling be in that?

pexels-photo-207962.jpeg

The darling blog of May