Des Femmes (de Sophocle): Les Trachiniennes, Antigone, Électre
Wajdi Mouawad
[Carrière de Boulbon]
Friday, July 22, 2011
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Interruption and Explanation
Because I am fast approaching annihilation by my own weird tendency to stall, procrastinate, freak-out and obsess over what I have yet to record and all I have as-of-yet been unable to finish, careening therefore with impossible speed and extravagant duress into my now-familiar terminus of confused self-loathing, I have decided to rather speed this thing up, working backwards and forwards to get up-to-date, which as there seems to be about three readers attending to my harried reportage, poses no real danger as I'm sure my devoted and admirable trinity will forgive me.
For instance, today: I did relatively little, but I enjoyed myself. I walked around, I observed other tourists, their children and their shopping bags, I bought some cheesy-bread and afterwards I composed this apology: it was nice. I promise to post pictures.
For instance, today: I did relatively little, but I enjoyed myself. I walked around, I observed other tourists, their children and their shopping bags, I bought some cheesy-bread and afterwards I composed this apology: it was nice. I promise to post pictures.
July 17
Courts-Circuits
by François Verret
Courts-Circuits, François Verret's music and dance-theater piece performing at this year's Avignon theater festival is a comprehensive look at hysteria, whose obsessive portraiture is not only compelling to watch, but dramaturgically masterful in its composition and performance. Deploying a careful aesthetic, Verret is able to render this serial spectacle of debasement, without the help of traditional narrative-dramaturgy, without character development and without the interstitial distraction a subplot or even a coherent text might have provided him. Rather, the director chooses to indulge his subject, which for simplicity's sake, I'm going to call hysteria, in an episodic manner: choreographing, music, dance, video and speech as motivation for the plot's progressive motion. It's mordant and contemporary, and often referential in its behavior, and it's very cool to watch, but more importantly, it busies itself so near to the skin with such variety and skill that its endurance, its imagination and its fluidity is often as affecting as anything else. The result, best as I can tell, is tonal: vague, dystopic and even, cruelly, a bit bored by its own manner, it is presented with such lapidary care as to render a portrait of humiliation that is faithful to the emotion without challenging the audience's privilege to inspect it. For in giving the performer the audience she desires, we are simultaneously granting her an audience for her own humiliation. And so, each performance is embarrassed by its own desire to be seen.
by François Verret
Courts-Circuits, François Verret's music and dance-theater piece performing at this year's Avignon theater festival is a comprehensive look at hysteria, whose obsessive portraiture is not only compelling to watch, but dramaturgically masterful in its composition and performance. Deploying a careful aesthetic, Verret is able to render this serial spectacle of debasement, without the help of traditional narrative-dramaturgy, without character development and without the interstitial distraction a subplot or even a coherent text might have provided him. Rather, the director chooses to indulge his subject, which for simplicity's sake, I'm going to call hysteria, in an episodic manner: choreographing, music, dance, video and speech as motivation for the plot's progressive motion. It's mordant and contemporary, and often referential in its behavior, and it's very cool to watch, but more importantly, it busies itself so near to the skin with such variety and skill that its endurance, its imagination and its fluidity is often as affecting as anything else. The result, best as I can tell, is tonal: vague, dystopic and even, cruelly, a bit bored by its own manner, it is presented with such lapidary care as to render a portrait of humiliation that is faithful to the emotion without challenging the audience's privilege to inspect it. For in giving the performer the audience she desires, we are simultaneously granting her an audience for her own humiliation. And so, each performance is embarrassed by its own desire to be seen.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
July 14
Today is difficult for me. I've been blogging, walking, observing, encountering, practicing and engaging seemingly non-stop and my exhaustion is further frustrated at being radically behind schedule, which is both absurd and absolutely in-keeping with my custom of failing discipline and ecstatic retrieval. I am trying desperately to do everything at once, catch up on what I've missed and practice what I haven't yet got, meaning: French, writing and spectation. I wouldn't say it's working all that well and the portrait of my failure writ-large on-line is reassuring only in the most perverse sense.
***
Oncle Gourdin - Gymnase du lycé Mistral (11-12:30am)
by Sophie Perez & Xavier Boussiron
Essentially a Satyr play and parody whose subject is the Avignon festival itself, I was less-than-impressed overall. And what's disappointing, is the idea is a good one.
The play's troupe is composed of six players who are initially disguised as des lutins or imps, which the authors conceive of as creatures akin to both children and gods - the old, Platonic, only gods and monsters can live outside the walls of the city thing, the point of interest being that we are not outside the city walls (extramuros, as the avignonnaise call it,) but intra- and en-dessous, in other words, these lutins live just below our cobble-stoned streets. The set whimsically illustrates this with the help of two trees, whose exposed roots extend from the stage floor to about the height of a man and whose further upward extension of trunk and foliage reach up to the ceiling. The base of the trunk, about six-feet of the ground is in line with the base of a walled facade which half-circles the playing area and is clearly meant to represent the walls of Avignon. Below these walls hang brown tendrils of what I'm guessing are dirt, and so the space is set to suggest that we are underground, in the roots and soil of the city-center.
The lights come up and there is a soft blonde playing music while slightly-occluded characters toss various pieces of junk over the platform of wall surrounding the stage and through its series of over-arching breaches into the playing space of the stage. The stuffed animals, broken chairs and other indiscriminate pieces of detritus, we come to learn,
The banter begins light and friendly and somewhat comprehensible to a 5th grade french-speaker
***
Oncle Gourdin - Gymnase du lycé Mistral (11-12:30am)
by Sophie Perez & Xavier Boussiron
Essentially a Satyr play and parody whose subject is the Avignon festival itself, I was less-than-impressed overall. And what's disappointing, is the idea is a good one.
The play's troupe is composed of six players who are initially disguised as des lutins or imps, which the authors conceive of as creatures akin to both children and gods - the old, Platonic, only gods and monsters can live outside the walls of the city thing, the point of interest being that we are not outside the city walls (extramuros, as the avignonnaise call it,) but intra- and en-dessous, in other words, these lutins live just below our cobble-stoned streets. The set whimsically illustrates this with the help of two trees, whose exposed roots extend from the stage floor to about the height of a man and whose further upward extension of trunk and foliage reach up to the ceiling. The base of the trunk, about six-feet of the ground is in line with the base of a walled facade which half-circles the playing area and is clearly meant to represent the walls of Avignon. Below these walls hang brown tendrils of what I'm guessing are dirt, and so the space is set to suggest that we are underground, in the roots and soil of the city-center.
The lights come up and there is a soft blonde playing music while slightly-occluded characters toss various pieces of junk over the platform of wall surrounding the stage and through its series of over-arching breaches into the playing space of the stage. The stuffed animals, broken chairs and other indiscriminate pieces of detritus, we come to learn,
The banter begins light and friendly and somewhat comprehensible to a 5th grade french-speaker
July 12
11:45
At the Metropole des Dames des Doms for the Sacred Music Cycle portion of Avignon's In-Festival - the first of which music-cycles I've remembered or otherwise been able to attend, and there aren't even ten people here to comfort me. I had expected a greater presence, as most of the shows are completely sold out and have been so pretty much since the first week of ticket sales, but I am otherwise happy to be here and ready for some good ol' sacred tunes. Besides, I'm sure we'll get at least fifteen by noon when the show is scheduled to begin. The cathedral is a narrow stone enclosure whose Gothic trappings feel cool and important and moody. I like it.
Au Moins J'aurai Laissé un beau Cadavre - Cloître des Carmes (9:30-1:30am)
At the Metropole des Dames des Doms for the Sacred Music Cycle portion of Avignon's In-Festival - the first of which music-cycles I've remembered or otherwise been able to attend, and there aren't even ten people here to comfort me. I had expected a greater presence, as most of the shows are completely sold out and have been so pretty much since the first week of ticket sales, but I am otherwise happy to be here and ready for some good ol' sacred tunes. Besides, I'm sure we'll get at least fifteen by noon when the show is scheduled to begin. The cathedral is a narrow stone enclosure whose Gothic trappings feel cool and important and moody. I like it.
Au Moins J'aurai Laissé un beau Cadavre - Cloître des Carmes (9:30-1:30am)
July 10
Je Suis le Vent (10-11:10pm)
by Jon Fosse
direction by Patrice Chéreau
Touted by my friend - a Parisian cultural-critic on assignment here at the Fest - as the best piece in this year's Festival and one of the best things she's seen in the past four years, I can only reply that I disagree. And as there is sure to be enough congratulatory cheer for the director, I humbly lodge the following tirade in an attempt to dissuade the scales from weighing exclusively in his favor, and perhaps to temper a few of his more ardent fans in their acclaim.
July 9
L'Entêtement - Salle de Spectacle de Vedène (2:30-4:45pm)
by Rafael Spregelburd
directors Élise Vigier, Marcial Di Fonzo Bo
MISSED SHOWS:
Life and Times of Kristen Worral, ep. 1 & 2l - Cloître des Célestins (7-10:30pm); ep 2, July 10, (12-2am)
***
Hello...
July 8
Concrelat - Chapelle des Pénitents blancs (3-5:15pm)
by Sam Holcroft
direction: Jean-Pierre Vincent
translation: Sophie Magnaud
dramaturgy: Bernard Chartreux
lighting: Alain Poisson
scenography: Carole Metzner
with: Suzanne Aubert, Daphné Biiga Nwanak, Sébastien Chassagne, Chloé Chaudoye, Julien Frégé, Sophie Magnaud, Julie Pilod
for more info:
http://www.festival-avignon.com/en/Spectacle/3285
There is so much about this show for me, which was ultimately not about the show, but about me. Petty competitive nonsense, probably not worth mentioning but for the fact that very few people mention just how often the sentiment can arise and with what nonsensical force.... It's all a sudden mentality, a shift, obsessive and delusional and amounting to very little aside from some unproductive philosophizing, a bullshit comparative analysis...but truthfully, I've never been able to get over the habit and in so far as this blog is a bit about what I'm thinking in the theater as well as what I'm seeing, then this should be part of it, (right?).
With barely enough energy to get myself to the theater, I sit down, mentally insensate, and wait for the show to begin. The house is packed and I keep thinking, she's your age.... I don't know why that more than much else is what I find so consistently compelling, but it's all I can think throughout much of the show and it becomes pretty obvious pretty quickly that I'm not getting the language, not even a little, and a fit of exhaustive jealousy cripples any desire I have to understand or to observe the piece. she's your age... What is that? A sort of metric to compare equivalences, a feint at objectivity? I unravel myself in preparation and leave almost nothing critical or competent with which to watch the show.
The church is a nice home for the performance - cool, reverential; I'd be happy to have a show performed here. There's a full lighting grid and nice sight lines. (For some reason this is true of all the plays I've attended: the French care about their audience and there's not a bad seat in the house.) The audience is entirely white, though age-diverse and I'm picking and scratching and sweating while I observe them. I feel a bit like a problem when the actors come on-stage and the show begins. There is one black person in the house and she's sitting politely on-stage. Avignon, tends to have a poor record of racial diversity and being that we're in the S. with a healthy dispersal of North African, mainly Algerian immigrants, the deficit is not incidental.
[racial identity in England, in Am?, in France?
[Discussion of war: 4 countries in the world that can fight in a military conflict (war): England, America, Australia and Israel (with India as an up-and-coming player... for this reason the French-language war story seems romantic and a bit far-fetched. These kids don't really have the violence in them of a British or American teen, rather these kids seem petulant and even quaint and though they are clearly talented actors, they don't really have the menace the story calls for.
The program which this show is a part of Théâtre Ouvert / 40 ans: Mises en Espace is, as the title suggests, a theatrical segment of the Avignon festival, which is, this year, celebrating it's 40th anniversary. It's 'formula' of "putting into a space" new works from little-known authors, whose texts are individually selected by the French directors who will cast and premier them, is a truly marvelous opportunity for young playwrights to gain European exposure in the world's leading theater festival; the programming for which, otherwise, can be dauntingly restrictive. The mini-fest of four stripped-down plays is held over 12 consecutive days, and includes a moderated discussion, The "mise en espace": a writing of staging, among the authors, directors, actors and those referred to as, "witnesses". The whole is well-produced, (and well attended,) and despite the actors remaining mostly on-book resembles anything you'd be familiar with off-off-Brdwy.
The idea, best as I can tell, is to premier new pieces of a non-exclusively francophone variety. This year we have: Sam Holcroft, the 28 year-old British author of Concrelat or "the Cockroach", (which is the ostensible subject of this article); the American, MacArthur-winning Fellow, Naomi Wallace, who is neither very young nor little known, though perhaps little-known in France: a German, Philipp Löhle; and finally a young frenchman Éric Pessan, rounding the festival out.
And now, to get to Concrelat:
MISSED SHOW:
Stabat Mater Dolorosa - Temple Saint Martial (6-7pm)
Le Suicidé - Carrière de Boulbon (11-12pm)
July 7
...unremarkably, I miss both the shows (two dance pieces) I have scheduled for today: the first at Villeneuve, (the town just next to Avignon and really pretty. I'll upload pictures;) and the second enfant by Boris Charmatz who is the featured artist at this year's festival and a very big deal indeed. I'd feel badly, but I'm tired and it's just unnecessary. I will miss too many shows to begin feeling badly about it now.
MISSED SHOWS:
Terra Nova - Chartreuse de Villeneuve lez Avignon: Tinel de la Chartreuse (3-4:30pm)
Enfant - Cour d'Honneur (11-12:15pm)
MISSED SHOWS:
Terra Nova - Chartreuse de Villeneuve lez Avignon: Tinel de la Chartreuse (3-4:30pm)
Enfant - Cour d'Honneur (11-12:15pm)
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Avignon, centre-ville
My train stops in Avignon at 11am on the dot and without further ado I am debarking with pink baggage in tow. The city is familiar and not as crowded as it'll get; two years ago, you could barely walk down the street it was so glutted and clogged with excursionist traffic. What's strange, and you can already see it: despite the danger of absent-minded encounters between tourists and mini-autos (the French are famously negligent drivers,) none of the roads are blocked off and cars and small children go hither and thither at will with seeming total freedom and summertime abandon. It's a bit shocking after witnessing not a few close calls between wobbly, stiletto-heeled Parisians, navigating narrow cobble-stoned pathways and little fast cars attempting to do the same, though few seem concerned for their likely and potentially hazardous interaction. Intrepid, I make my way towards the Porte de la République and enter through its breach into the walled Medieval city.
Rue de la République is the main drag for the city of Avignon, running from the train station to the Place de l'Horloge whose plaza is the terminus of the aforementioned rue. The plaza is large, vaguely rectangular and swollen with people, bordered as it is on all sides by cafés, serving as voyeuristic ports for the many tourists who like to stay near the Palais des Papes, just up the road. My flat is on Rue des Grottes very nearby, so I veer off at the S.W. corner of the Place de l'Horloge to take the side streets, which are relatively uncongested and easier to navigate, though they pose the opposite difficulty of being impossibly circuitous and narrow. Traffic is barely restricted in Avignon and many of the roads are so narrow as to pose a legitimate threat to pedestrians whose only refuge is a quarter foot of sidewalk or to press oneself against the niche of some medieval doorway. I am a bit lost and the right fore-wheel on my luggage has been so badly damaged en-route that it no longer spins. This means I have to drag it down the cobblestone street and hope it keeps its form well-enough to get me to my apartment. Luckily, a young man, Florian - I later learn - of exactly 18 years-old (tomorrow, the 6th, is his 19th birthday,) offers his help and together we make our way to the aforementioned Rue des Grottes and up the stone stairway, leading to the platform landing of my apartment complex. Less luckily, no one is here.
Neither Audrey, the real-estate agent, nor Mme. Nicolas, the owner of the apartment, are waiting to meet me and no one is answering my repeated buzzing of the apartment door. Florian offers me his phone, but I have neither Audrey nor Mme. Nicolas' phone number. I do, however, have the number of my friend Jean-François who had originally put me in contact with Audrey and a quick phone call and complaint to him should solve the problem. Only thing is, he's not answering. Florian is embarrassed for me, and my french is quickly losing speed. We wait. I try to speak with him, but it's difficult. Desperately, I ask anyone who comes by if they know Mme. Nicolas and after a few wayfarers apologize for my distress and one woman, outright ignores me as she enters the building, another woman opens the door for us to at least wait in the building's air-conditioned interior. And I decide to call Jeff again, this time from my own phone, figuring that he might have ignored my previous call, not recognizing Florian's number. This time he answered and after explaining my current circumstances gave me Audrey's number for me to quickly call her and resolve the issue. The number, however, was the wrong number and Florian and I returned to waiting. It is at that point that Philipe Montoya, the building's super, arrives, which is a good thing because Florian has to go; he works at the bank. Philipe is able to phone Audrey but she cannot be here till 3p and so Philipe stashes my bags in his office and another man, Dominique, offers to take me for a sandwich and a glass of rosé.
3pm rolls around and Audrey arrives, lets me in, shows me around and I, in a radical state of exhaustion, rather than meeting Jeff and our friend Amélie for drinks and a show, fall dead asleep.
[describe apartment: picture?]
Rue de la République is the main drag for the city of Avignon, running from the train station to the Place de l'Horloge whose plaza is the terminus of the aforementioned rue. The plaza is large, vaguely rectangular and swollen with people, bordered as it is on all sides by cafés, serving as voyeuristic ports for the many tourists who like to stay near the Palais des Papes, just up the road. My flat is on Rue des Grottes very nearby, so I veer off at the S.W. corner of the Place de l'Horloge to take the side streets, which are relatively uncongested and easier to navigate, though they pose the opposite difficulty of being impossibly circuitous and narrow. Traffic is barely restricted in Avignon and many of the roads are so narrow as to pose a legitimate threat to pedestrians whose only refuge is a quarter foot of sidewalk or to press oneself against the niche of some medieval doorway. I am a bit lost and the right fore-wheel on my luggage has been so badly damaged en-route that it no longer spins. This means I have to drag it down the cobblestone street and hope it keeps its form well-enough to get me to my apartment. Luckily, a young man, Florian - I later learn - of exactly 18 years-old (tomorrow, the 6th, is his 19th birthday,) offers his help and together we make our way to the aforementioned Rue des Grottes and up the stone stairway, leading to the platform landing of my apartment complex. Less luckily, no one is here.
Neither Audrey, the real-estate agent, nor Mme. Nicolas, the owner of the apartment, are waiting to meet me and no one is answering my repeated buzzing of the apartment door. Florian offers me his phone, but I have neither Audrey nor Mme. Nicolas' phone number. I do, however, have the number of my friend Jean-François who had originally put me in contact with Audrey and a quick phone call and complaint to him should solve the problem. Only thing is, he's not answering. Florian is embarrassed for me, and my french is quickly losing speed. We wait. I try to speak with him, but it's difficult. Desperately, I ask anyone who comes by if they know Mme. Nicolas and after a few wayfarers apologize for my distress and one woman, outright ignores me as she enters the building, another woman opens the door for us to at least wait in the building's air-conditioned interior. And I decide to call Jeff again, this time from my own phone, figuring that he might have ignored my previous call, not recognizing Florian's number. This time he answered and after explaining my current circumstances gave me Audrey's number for me to quickly call her and resolve the issue. The number, however, was the wrong number and Florian and I returned to waiting. It is at that point that Philipe Montoya, the building's super, arrives, which is a good thing because Florian has to go; he works at the bank. Philipe is able to phone Audrey but she cannot be here till 3p and so Philipe stashes my bags in his office and another man, Dominique, offers to take me for a sandwich and a glass of rosé.
3pm rolls around and Audrey arrives, lets me in, shows me around and I, in a radical state of exhaustion, rather than meeting Jeff and our friend Amélie for drinks and a show, fall dead asleep.
[describe apartment: picture?]
Monday, July 11, 2011
9am, Marseilles
au début:
I land in Marseilles at 9am and canter half-crazed to the handicapped WC, next to the luggage carousel where the rest of the passengers wait, patiently. I'm changing my face, my vocabulary and my scarf as quickly as possible without offending the necessary skill of mon maquillage, but it's difficult: the bathroom smells and I'm awful looking in the bright bright halogen light of the bathroom's small enclosure and I've need of tools interred six-inches into my carry-on. Trying to keep things clean and off the suspiciously mottled floor, I splash around in the sink, wash my face, brush my teeth, endure a quick acidic scrub and moisturize before rouging, plucking and lining my eyes for les français qui aiment à regarder meaning, mostly, the airport cabbies who like to look as much as anybody. It pleases me stupid to think that they might mistake me for une vraie Française and I try to act aloof in a way that might suggest it's so.
The airport's recognizable. Two years ago after spending a week with a girlfriend at her apartment in Nice, my flight out of Marseilles left too early to take a train and not wanting to pay the exorbitant price of an airport hotel, (and, indeed, unable to: all surrounding hotels were booked solid for the night,) I made the decision to spend an amphetamine-laden night, awake, en plein air, on an islet of airport lawn.
Marseilles is hot and the cabbies throw me the expected and desired glances that I've prepped my face for, and I commit thoroughly to an imitation-French demeanor, which is best be described as, haughty.
I need to take a bus to the train that will go to Avignon, centre-ville but my card isn't working in the machine (apparently American credit cards are lacking a particular chip that all European credit cards have) and before I have a chance to complain I'm waiting for the bus. The bus arrives, the trip to the train is quick and in the space of several conversations with some english-speaking passengers, I'm off the train and heading into Avignon, centre ville
I land in Marseilles at 9am and canter half-crazed to the handicapped WC, next to the luggage carousel where the rest of the passengers wait, patiently. I'm changing my face, my vocabulary and my scarf as quickly as possible without offending the necessary skill of mon maquillage, but it's difficult: the bathroom smells and I'm awful looking in the bright bright halogen light of the bathroom's small enclosure and I've need of tools interred six-inches into my carry-on. Trying to keep things clean and off the suspiciously mottled floor, I splash around in the sink, wash my face, brush my teeth, endure a quick acidic scrub and moisturize before rouging, plucking and lining my eyes for les français qui aiment à regarder meaning, mostly, the airport cabbies who like to look as much as anybody. It pleases me stupid to think that they might mistake me for une vraie Française and I try to act aloof in a way that might suggest it's so.
The airport's recognizable. Two years ago after spending a week with a girlfriend at her apartment in Nice, my flight out of Marseilles left too early to take a train and not wanting to pay the exorbitant price of an airport hotel, (and, indeed, unable to: all surrounding hotels were booked solid for the night,) I made the decision to spend an amphetamine-laden night, awake, en plein air, on an islet of airport lawn.
Marseilles is hot and the cabbies throw me the expected and desired glances that I've prepped my face for, and I commit thoroughly to an imitation-French demeanor, which is best be described as, haughty.
I need to take a bus to the train that will go to Avignon, centre-ville but my card isn't working in the machine (apparently American credit cards are lacking a particular chip that all European credit cards have) and before I have a chance to complain I'm waiting for the bus. The bus arrives, the trip to the train is quick and in the space of several conversations with some english-speaking passengers, I'm off the train and heading into Avignon, centre ville
Airtime
One preternaturally-oranged stewardess in front of me; a solemn lanky kid, not quite yet fitting into his hair, but sporting a Princeton t-shirt (so that's ok, right?) next to me; and an absolutely adorable baby across the aisle to my right, configures the seating arrangement for the next six hours. The flight is in fact congested with babies, siblings of babies and their correspondingly young and coupled parents, all of whom compose a rather enjoyable distraction for me. Chubby arms flail around chubby baby bodies; helpless mothers negotiate the relative terms of in-flight quiescence; while upright and aggressively mobile toddlers maneuver the aisles like so many armed forces in search of confrontation or unoccupied toilets. I actually like this sort of thing. Leaving all discussion of maternal urges and ticking uterine clocks aside, the kids are really the only thing happening here. Eager, vivacious, curious and temperamental, they're more like animals than people and the clarity of their emotion is a perfect study in honest and vulnerable communication. I can't say whether the parents appreciate the close attention I am giving their children, but the kids respond affably enough and I spend most of the flight making faces with the baby to my right.
Airplanes have a terrific chill that is as aggressive as it must be economical, otherwise there's no way to explain the preference for discomfort. Despite the plane being fairly empty towards the front, the majority of passengers are packed towards the back with the rest of the cargo and pre-heated meals. The stewardess passes me by with practiced efficiency and I trust in the appearance of her authority: telling me when it's alright to piss and when the turbulence might trouble me too much to attempt it.
Despite all of the many entertainments, distractions, food-service options and regulation-courtesy on-board, I'm engrossed by (and not a little afraid of,) my ambitions for Avignon. I have a tendency to over-schedule myself, (another form of my previously-mentioned proclivity for exaggeration?,) and in addition to learning and practicing my French, I've scheduled nearly two shows a day (sometimes three) and plan to review each of them for this blog, along with some errant philosophizing here and there, (really, I can't help myself.) All the shows, needless-to-say, are in French, as is the want of the people in the S. to speak the language fast and garbled. What I'm trying to say is, I think I'm overwhelmed just thinking about the activities I've scheduled for myself. All this pre-planned bustling and my often moronic optimism to excel has proven more often to effectuate a crisis than to prepare for one. I can already tell: at the first sign of tedium, I'll shut down from power-failure, pout and complain of comprehensive exhaustion. Sitting here, my apprehension of crisis redounds to psychic effect: my life, personal, professional, emotional, intellectual and ethical, swings into doubt, my distress at even getting up in the morning contributes to the argument, as if to say, See! See! You won't be able to. You haven't got what it takes! The problem of a certain dramatic fluency is made clear when I not only commit to my distress, but so enjoy my performance that I look to further develop it. Can I complexify the state? Can I render in both form and content absolute dejection and personal insecurity? It is both a study and an activity and it is entirely sincere. At this point, I generally begin scratching. Questions concerning propriety, progress, value and the constituent relevance of my descriptive detail assault not only what I am writing, what I will write, but what I have written and the urge is to scratch out the page. My palms are sweating and the "fasten seat-belt" safety sign is illumined and I am stuck in my seat with gritty fingernails and a dingy smell around my collar and upper jawline. I'm philosophizing now. This is my existential mode - it's dramaturgy is familiar and conclusively depressing. The baby across the way begins to flirt with my distress, waving frantically as if to capture my attention, retrieve it for something relevant, living and in need of affection.
[interim thinking here...?]
Reflection is often a dangerous activity for me. Now that I've concluded my MFA in theatre studies (playwriting, bitching, etc.) I'm aware only that something needs to be done: not what to do, or how to do it, or an appropriate timetable in which to get it done or whatever, only that priority number one is: get paid. This thinking and looking all the time...well, it smacks of aristocratic pretensions and, as has been mentioned, it doesn't pay so I need to either get paid or get married or stop (stop writing that is.)
Avignon...France...well, I suppose I'm trying to budge another year out of my rapidly dwindling schedule of adult-expectation. Perpetually fearful that I'm not quite ready yet, but will be, soon, I hope? From what I can tell, adult life is meant to be one long monotonous (and yet, an infinitely varied sort of monotony; whether humorous or irritating, it demands endurance) series of petite contrivances. Failure, if you will. Even excellence conquers by the sheer will to endure failure and like an idiot, try, try, try again.
Kyoung says: I have to stop talking and I'll write more; stop flirting and I'll make more.
My thoughts about theatre in France: state funding and the really marvelous locale should encourage me to write pretty expensive theatre: no doubt to be badgered by a lack of funding, a lack of space, and all for the emaciated audience of whatever friends and family I can either demand or guilt into attendance - (does anyone else hate preaching to the choir as much as I do?) Point of fact: my mother was the first person to respond to my blog. (Hi mom! I love you.)
But the theatre is good for humiliation: all that space can't help but humble a comparatively tiny body, and it's truly a beautiful frame for the human struggle. ...But the option of marrying a banker, delivering 2.5 children and a golden retriever to house on a hill in CT makes a certain kind of sense to me, plausible and reassuring, given my lifestyle of professional agnosticism. I think of the wardrobe I've packed and the rather novel possibility of marrying a French banker! I'll be damned if I can't find irreverence in it somewhere. As professional insecurities disperse and sexual possibilities proliferate, I find that I'm flirting with this baby again to the increased annoyance of her mother who is clearly trying to put the baby down in its cardboard trundle and accomplish some rest for the remainder of the flight. The lights have dimmed and heads crank awkwardly back, side or forward to watch a movie and I leave my writing to do the same.
***
After my in-flight film about how love doesn't last we touch down in rain-soaked Dublin and have a barley quick layover before boarding my second flight direct to Marseilles. I can barely contain my enthusiasm and pass out across the row's three-seat spread for the remaining two-hour flight.
France is magnificent and as we approach the coast I am hurried back two-years to when I was last here, and a swelling impatience to touch-down damn near makes me giggle and scream and I begin practicing French phrases to distract myself till landing.
Airplanes have a terrific chill that is as aggressive as it must be economical, otherwise there's no way to explain the preference for discomfort. Despite the plane being fairly empty towards the front, the majority of passengers are packed towards the back with the rest of the cargo and pre-heated meals. The stewardess passes me by with practiced efficiency and I trust in the appearance of her authority: telling me when it's alright to piss and when the turbulence might trouble me too much to attempt it.
Despite all of the many entertainments, distractions, food-service options and regulation-courtesy on-board, I'm engrossed by (and not a little afraid of,) my ambitions for Avignon. I have a tendency to over-schedule myself, (another form of my previously-mentioned proclivity for exaggeration?,) and in addition to learning and practicing my French, I've scheduled nearly two shows a day (sometimes three) and plan to review each of them for this blog, along with some errant philosophizing here and there, (really, I can't help myself.) All the shows, needless-to-say, are in French, as is the want of the people in the S. to speak the language fast and garbled. What I'm trying to say is, I think I'm overwhelmed just thinking about the activities I've scheduled for myself. All this pre-planned bustling and my often moronic optimism to excel has proven more often to effectuate a crisis than to prepare for one. I can already tell: at the first sign of tedium, I'll shut down from power-failure, pout and complain of comprehensive exhaustion. Sitting here, my apprehension of crisis redounds to psychic effect: my life, personal, professional, emotional, intellectual and ethical, swings into doubt, my distress at even getting up in the morning contributes to the argument, as if to say, See! See! You won't be able to. You haven't got what it takes! The problem of a certain dramatic fluency is made clear when I not only commit to my distress, but so enjoy my performance that I look to further develop it. Can I complexify the state? Can I render in both form and content absolute dejection and personal insecurity? It is both a study and an activity and it is entirely sincere. At this point, I generally begin scratching. Questions concerning propriety, progress, value and the constituent relevance of my descriptive detail assault not only what I am writing, what I will write, but what I have written and the urge is to scratch out the page. My palms are sweating and the "fasten seat-belt" safety sign is illumined and I am stuck in my seat with gritty fingernails and a dingy smell around my collar and upper jawline. I'm philosophizing now. This is my existential mode - it's dramaturgy is familiar and conclusively depressing. The baby across the way begins to flirt with my distress, waving frantically as if to capture my attention, retrieve it for something relevant, living and in need of affection.
[interim thinking here...?]
Reflection is often a dangerous activity for me. Now that I've concluded my MFA in theatre studies (playwriting, bitching, etc.) I'm aware only that something needs to be done: not what to do, or how to do it, or an appropriate timetable in which to get it done or whatever, only that priority number one is: get paid. This thinking and looking all the time...well, it smacks of aristocratic pretensions and, as has been mentioned, it doesn't pay so I need to either get paid or get married or stop (stop writing that is.)
Avignon...France...well, I suppose I'm trying to budge another year out of my rapidly dwindling schedule of adult-expectation. Perpetually fearful that I'm not quite ready yet, but will be, soon, I hope? From what I can tell, adult life is meant to be one long monotonous (and yet, an infinitely varied sort of monotony; whether humorous or irritating, it demands endurance) series of petite contrivances. Failure, if you will. Even excellence conquers by the sheer will to endure failure and like an idiot, try, try, try again.
Kyoung says: I have to stop talking and I'll write more; stop flirting and I'll make more.
My thoughts about theatre in France: state funding and the really marvelous locale should encourage me to write pretty expensive theatre: no doubt to be badgered by a lack of funding, a lack of space, and all for the emaciated audience of whatever friends and family I can either demand or guilt into attendance - (does anyone else hate preaching to the choir as much as I do?) Point of fact: my mother was the first person to respond to my blog. (Hi mom! I love you.)
But the theatre is good for humiliation: all that space can't help but humble a comparatively tiny body, and it's truly a beautiful frame for the human struggle. ...But the option of marrying a banker, delivering 2.5 children and a golden retriever to house on a hill in CT makes a certain kind of sense to me, plausible and reassuring, given my lifestyle of professional agnosticism. I think of the wardrobe I've packed and the rather novel possibility of marrying a French banker! I'll be damned if I can't find irreverence in it somewhere. As professional insecurities disperse and sexual possibilities proliferate, I find that I'm flirting with this baby again to the increased annoyance of her mother who is clearly trying to put the baby down in its cardboard trundle and accomplish some rest for the remainder of the flight. The lights have dimmed and heads crank awkwardly back, side or forward to watch a movie and I leave my writing to do the same.
***
After my in-flight film about how love doesn't last we touch down in rain-soaked Dublin and have a barley quick layover before boarding my second flight direct to Marseilles. I can barely contain my enthusiasm and pass out across the row's three-seat spread for the remaining two-hour flight.
France is magnificent and as we approach the coast I am hurried back two-years to when I was last here, and a swelling impatience to touch-down damn near makes me giggle and scream and I begin practicing French phrases to distract myself till landing.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
On the Plane:
On the plane, I've chosen for myself exit seat 32C for increased leg-room. The flight-attendant reminds me that I have to stow my carry-on before take-off so I grapple the 40lb. bag attempting to raise it over my head and into the already crowded compartment when the two passengers seated directly below offer their assistance rather than be brained by my pink plastic suitcase. With a bit of exaggerated effort and some pantomime exasperation on the part of the surrounding passengers, I take my seat to watch the airplane safety video, replete with Sims-like animation and a bonny Irish accent - a vast improvement, I might add, on the former emotionally handicapped representations of some vague blonde and her chubby child, (circa 1980? but still in-use well after,) which always seemed to me to resemble old Home-Ec videos discussing the dangers of sexually transmitted diseases or like how to make an omelette. The comparative appeal of this video is in fact its cartoon representative: large, lidless and dumb, the character sits and performs the requisite actions while a male Irish voice-over calmly explains the purpose and progression of each consecutive movement and the responsibility of all passengers to attend to him or herself before helping those around you. Safety in simple discreet and self-organized activity. These videos can't help but be pedantic. Like most public advertisements, required by law, there is a bored and mean redundancy to the message that makes attention almost impossible. Not only have you seen these instructions each time before take-off, but I challenge any of you to remember what exactly they are. Something about seat-belts and oxygen masks, but other than that they remain vague and tedious examples of an authority best enjoyed flagrantly ignored. Many passengers read books, adjust the volume on their earbuds, even the fearfully claustrophobic chatting with one's neighbor is preferable to following (and refreshing) what is certainly necessary information should the plane undergo some mechanical failure, lose altitude and careen towards the Atlantic. Perhaps there is even a superstitious aversion to watching these worst-case-scenario safety instructions: if I attend a debriefing on altitude insecurity, I will be fairly encouraging the plane to go down. My own tactic is to pick my nails, scratch a bit and adjust various things around my person, but truly the performance is geared towards petulance and meant more to insist on my own individual choice not to watch: even if it is important, you can't make me watch, and besides, I already know what to do, I've flown many times before. ...But the petulance is not mine alone. There is a veritable proliferation of distemper among the airplane's passengers, and this, not simply isolated to the children on-board. There are perhaps only a few locations where an adult's physical activity is as tightly regulated, her personal belongings and even her right to certain speech as restricted, and where comprehensive submission is legally required, as it is in contemporary airplane travel and maybe prison.
The flight attendants busy themselves with last minute details - checking the security of various overhead compartments; checking that each passenger has in fact locked and secured his and her lap belt - before a deeply tanned blonde with nearly iridescent lipstick straps herself in to the fold-down seat across from mine and demurely lowers her eyes for take-off. As the plane noses itself forward, the acceleration intensifies and the blonde stewardess crosses herself. (Is this the most dangerous part of plane travel?) Never mind. I settle in for what must be my absolutely favorite part of flying.
We're in the air.
3169 mi. to Dublin.
The flight attendants busy themselves with last minute details - checking the security of various overhead compartments; checking that each passenger has in fact locked and secured his and her lap belt - before a deeply tanned blonde with nearly iridescent lipstick straps herself in to the fold-down seat across from mine and demurely lowers her eyes for take-off. As the plane noses itself forward, the acceleration intensifies and the blonde stewardess crosses herself. (Is this the most dangerous part of plane travel?) Never mind. I settle in for what must be my absolutely favorite part of flying.
We're in the air.
3169 mi. to Dublin.
Monday, July 4, etc. (a reconstructive effort)
Avignon, France: Avignon Contemporary Theatre Fest, 2011
1. SEE: des spectacles, theatre
2. WRITE: des pensees, observation & reconnaissance of either poetic, theatrical, near manic nature or straight-up shot-from-the-hip reportage
3. ENGAGE: des français, french people, language, culture, customs, theatre(!)
*tip: try not to fall asleep; there really isn't any time....
***
Avignon begins a week earlier in preparation for the trip, meaning: I'm not sleeping; I'm packing, desperately enthousiastic for what I imagine will be necessary to wear. Avignon is hot, sexy and european: les avignonese will not broach casual wear without comment, age is your only excuse. I would bring what I own, but I'm experimenting with scarcity and have committed to one bag (though this obviously has no bearing on my 40 lb carry-on and two swollen purses I carry besides.) Bare necessities! Occasionally, I clean up after myself, preparing the house for my absence by retrieving what I've left littered around - marking territory upstairs, downstairs, in different rooms and the various spaces available to me; indeed, there's very little of the house I haven't thoroughly besmirched. I assure myself I'll get everything packed up and put away by morning, but I'm forgetting my habit of haphazaard progress and never really finish the job. My clothes are everywhere, most of the lights are on wherever I've been and I'm collecting electronics - phone, computer, stereo speakers, a camera and tape recorder, for which I've lately ordered a wind cover and of which will punctually arrive the day after my departure, c'est dommage. The fantasy (or objective, if you prefer,) is to dutifully report my experience on a blog, (this blog!) dedicated and really addressed to my friend and colleague Kyoung Park, my gadfly and inspiration. ...We figure: If the best (funded and attended) contemporary theatre is premiering in Avignon where many of America's most devout theatre professionals are prohibited by language, finances, conservative sentiment or law from attending then I can certainly endeavor to bring the mountain to my erstwhile mohammedans (in the form of this blog,) detailing what I've done, what I've seen and what I've done-thought while here.
Immediately, there are problems. First, I'm not very reliable: lazy, tired, flirtatious and I don't speak French all that well myself. Second, and those of you who are quick on the uptake will have undoubtedly observed by now, I am prone to certain exaggeration - typical of my writing as well as my behavior - for which I must assume and therefore admit, poses a certain problematic to the journalistic credo of fidelity to fact. For a dramatist, I don't think I'm as bad as I could be, let's say, if I wanted to and no one stopped me and I decided to go ahead and write musicals, but truthfully, I do go on presque toujours and what's worse, I like it, and so I take little if any precaution around sentiment, without instruction or editing that is. I can be delusional and egoistic - in writing and in person, both - and have been known to talk more than I listen, and perform more than I observe. Any modification of the prior statement would really be a lie. You'll see, it's a habit. However! I'm here and you're (presumably) not so I guess I'll just get on with it. [My confession brings on a fit of scratching and I've ink dobbing four of my fingertips, which is now getting on my face. I'll take a minute before returning. (...I'm washing my hands.)]
To continue:
Morning comes early today (July 5th) and it turns out I've somehow set off the smoke alarm; the fire department calls to ask why. I, however, remain entirely unaware of my transgression or any incident that would have encouraged the alarm, or indeed any evidence of the purported offense in the form of either smoke or electronic beeping. I continue packing unperturbed. My mother has now joined to help me and together we finish in record time. Without my mother there is in fact very little I can do or have done, it would seem, (whether or not this is a paid advertisement for my mother, I'll leave to the discretion of my reader.) 13:00 and we are out the door and on the road to JFK for my international flight, departing terminal 4 at 17:45. And yet again, I'm flying Air Lingus, which is fast becoming my international jet of choice on account of its consistently competitive prices to the South of France.
The ride to the airport is quiet: sans the expected fourth of July traffic and recursive chatter of those who know nothing new other than what's already been said at every departure hitherto, we are definitively quiet; mature; dignified; and, yes, on account, no doubt, of our trajectory, seemingly European in our collective composure. Despite my agitation at not bringing more stuff, I can't shake the suspicion that I've left something necessary behind. I'm tending a casual resentment now at not being more organized, preparing my suitcase sooner, owning less pretty things, (all of which veritably shout for inclusion on a trip like this one, demanding my reconsideration of their inclusion in my bag, which is impossible now, but remains frustrating and unsatisfactory nevertheless.) I should ditch it all and become religious, I tell myself; and the thought brings me comfort.
In line for my boarding pass now and I remember with all the force of sudden recollection what it is I've forgotten: Blankies! I've forgotten my blankies; among my most important possessions. They've been with me from the start and rarely leave my side. Even at adult sleepovers, I am conscious of their comfort and, in fact, clutched them not long ago during a mid-morning reprieve from packing, leaving them, I now realize, where I last slept. The loss is overwhelming and I begin to cry in front of a line of Irish tourists and airport personnel. My mother, distressed at my distress and no doubt distressed herself, in-sympathy with my loss, insists that my father will turn the car around right this minute and retrieve the forgotten blankets from my bed, but my father, (she tells me upon returning,) rejects the idea outright and so, she declares, she will ship them to me overseas instead. She is an irrepressible pragmatist. Having no further problems or concerns, I pass into the interior of the airport, kissing both of my parents goodbye.
I shop a bit. I wander. I buy a travel case for my computer. I proceed to undergo the requisite airport rigamarole that ensures our collective safety and security from one another to enjoy yet another day of international travel and commerce, jauntily making my way to gate 3C to settle-in for a little CNN before boarding. ...This particular segment concerns the patriation of various newly-minted citizens to the good ol' US of A and just how thrilled everyone finally is to now be officially considered such. The broadcast feels ironic, appropriate and sincere all at once and I think of politics and Dominique Strauss-Kahn and the various incidents that have once again made France relevant for Americans. ...All of this talk of France, thoughts of my impending travel and, if luck will have it, not too few sexual misadventures of my own, casually reminds me that I've forgotten to record the address of the apartment I'm letting, along with other associated facts and information, such as: the number to the flat, the number of the woman who owns the flat and even the number of the woman with whom I've been corresponding (Audrey,) who is brokering the arrangement for the flat. Re-powering my cellphone, (I am unwilling to pay the $7 to access the internet myself,) I call friends to do it for me. After a few miss-fires I get ahold of my good friend, Adam, the Brooklyn bookstore proprietor of Unnameable Books-renown. For those of you in Brooklyn: go. It's truly a brag-worthy establishment and Adam is among the best of the best of them. In accordance with his superlative nature, in no-time-flat Adam retrieves the gmail-cloistered information and we're back on-track, departing from Kennedy airport, traveling N.E. to 12 rue des grottes, 84000 Avignon, FRANCE.
1. SEE: des spectacles, theatre
2. WRITE: des pensees, observation & reconnaissance of either poetic, theatrical, near manic nature or straight-up shot-from-the-hip reportage
3. ENGAGE: des français, french people, language, culture, customs, theatre(!)
*tip: try not to fall asleep; there really isn't any time....
***
Avignon begins a week earlier in preparation for the trip, meaning: I'm not sleeping; I'm packing, desperately enthousiastic for what I imagine will be necessary to wear. Avignon is hot, sexy and european: les avignonese will not broach casual wear without comment, age is your only excuse. I would bring what I own, but I'm experimenting with scarcity and have committed to one bag (though this obviously has no bearing on my 40 lb carry-on and two swollen purses I carry besides.) Bare necessities! Occasionally, I clean up after myself, preparing the house for my absence by retrieving what I've left littered around - marking territory upstairs, downstairs, in different rooms and the various spaces available to me; indeed, there's very little of the house I haven't thoroughly besmirched. I assure myself I'll get everything packed up and put away by morning, but I'm forgetting my habit of haphazaard progress and never really finish the job. My clothes are everywhere, most of the lights are on wherever I've been and I'm collecting electronics - phone, computer, stereo speakers, a camera and tape recorder, for which I've lately ordered a wind cover and of which will punctually arrive the day after my departure, c'est dommage. The fantasy (or objective, if you prefer,) is to dutifully report my experience on a blog, (this blog!) dedicated and really addressed to my friend and colleague Kyoung Park, my gadfly and inspiration. ...We figure: If the best (funded and attended) contemporary theatre is premiering in Avignon where many of America's most devout theatre professionals are prohibited by language, finances, conservative sentiment or law from attending then I can certainly endeavor to bring the mountain to my erstwhile mohammedans (in the form of this blog,) detailing what I've done, what I've seen and what I've done-thought while here.
Immediately, there are problems. First, I'm not very reliable: lazy, tired, flirtatious and I don't speak French all that well myself. Second, and those of you who are quick on the uptake will have undoubtedly observed by now, I am prone to certain exaggeration - typical of my writing as well as my behavior - for which I must assume and therefore admit, poses a certain problematic to the journalistic credo of fidelity to fact. For a dramatist, I don't think I'm as bad as I could be, let's say, if I wanted to and no one stopped me and I decided to go ahead and write musicals, but truthfully, I do go on presque toujours and what's worse, I like it, and so I take little if any precaution around sentiment, without instruction or editing that is. I can be delusional and egoistic - in writing and in person, both - and have been known to talk more than I listen, and perform more than I observe. Any modification of the prior statement would really be a lie. You'll see, it's a habit. However! I'm here and you're (presumably) not so I guess I'll just get on with it. [My confession brings on a fit of scratching and I've ink dobbing four of my fingertips, which is now getting on my face. I'll take a minute before returning. (...I'm washing my hands.)]
To continue:
Morning comes early today (July 5th) and it turns out I've somehow set off the smoke alarm; the fire department calls to ask why. I, however, remain entirely unaware of my transgression or any incident that would have encouraged the alarm, or indeed any evidence of the purported offense in the form of either smoke or electronic beeping. I continue packing unperturbed. My mother has now joined to help me and together we finish in record time. Without my mother there is in fact very little I can do or have done, it would seem, (whether or not this is a paid advertisement for my mother, I'll leave to the discretion of my reader.) 13:00 and we are out the door and on the road to JFK for my international flight, departing terminal 4 at 17:45. And yet again, I'm flying Air Lingus, which is fast becoming my international jet of choice on account of its consistently competitive prices to the South of France.
The ride to the airport is quiet: sans the expected fourth of July traffic and recursive chatter of those who know nothing new other than what's already been said at every departure hitherto, we are definitively quiet; mature; dignified; and, yes, on account, no doubt, of our trajectory, seemingly European in our collective composure. Despite my agitation at not bringing more stuff, I can't shake the suspicion that I've left something necessary behind. I'm tending a casual resentment now at not being more organized, preparing my suitcase sooner, owning less pretty things, (all of which veritably shout for inclusion on a trip like this one, demanding my reconsideration of their inclusion in my bag, which is impossible now, but remains frustrating and unsatisfactory nevertheless.) I should ditch it all and become religious, I tell myself; and the thought brings me comfort.
In line for my boarding pass now and I remember with all the force of sudden recollection what it is I've forgotten: Blankies! I've forgotten my blankies; among my most important possessions. They've been with me from the start and rarely leave my side. Even at adult sleepovers, I am conscious of their comfort and, in fact, clutched them not long ago during a mid-morning reprieve from packing, leaving them, I now realize, where I last slept. The loss is overwhelming and I begin to cry in front of a line of Irish tourists and airport personnel. My mother, distressed at my distress and no doubt distressed herself, in-sympathy with my loss, insists that my father will turn the car around right this minute and retrieve the forgotten blankets from my bed, but my father, (she tells me upon returning,) rejects the idea outright and so, she declares, she will ship them to me overseas instead. She is an irrepressible pragmatist. Having no further problems or concerns, I pass into the interior of the airport, kissing both of my parents goodbye.
I shop a bit. I wander. I buy a travel case for my computer. I proceed to undergo the requisite airport rigamarole that ensures our collective safety and security from one another to enjoy yet another day of international travel and commerce, jauntily making my way to gate 3C to settle-in for a little CNN before boarding. ...This particular segment concerns the patriation of various newly-minted citizens to the good ol' US of A and just how thrilled everyone finally is to now be officially considered such. The broadcast feels ironic, appropriate and sincere all at once and I think of politics and Dominique Strauss-Kahn and the various incidents that have once again made France relevant for Americans. ...All of this talk of France, thoughts of my impending travel and, if luck will have it, not too few sexual misadventures of my own, casually reminds me that I've forgotten to record the address of the apartment I'm letting, along with other associated facts and information, such as: the number to the flat, the number of the woman who owns the flat and even the number of the woman with whom I've been corresponding (Audrey,) who is brokering the arrangement for the flat. Re-powering my cellphone, (I am unwilling to pay the $7 to access the internet myself,) I call friends to do it for me. After a few miss-fires I get ahold of my good friend, Adam, the Brooklyn bookstore proprietor of Unnameable Books-renown. For those of you in Brooklyn: go. It's truly a brag-worthy establishment and Adam is among the best of the best of them. In accordance with his superlative nature, in no-time-flat Adam retrieves the gmail-cloistered information and we're back on-track, departing from Kennedy airport, traveling N.E. to 12 rue des grottes, 84000 Avignon, FRANCE.
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