Week THIRTEEN! Harbinger of the grand old adios to Trimester the First. Full of promise for bigger bellies and Fewer naptimes. The trainer roars in cranky cavils, but on goes the fanfare and adventure. Newer news of housing holy moleys surface and adaze our little proto-family. Fuzzy peachy Fonz kicks it up another notch and suckles the womb window, while the mommening breaks frontiers into prayer itself.
Tyrranotrainer-Rex and the House-Stalker Stunner
Yesterday was trainer night. Well... possibly Trainer Night: Part One of this lovely week. I was perhaps non-plussed when I was informed that there might be a Thursday encore. As far as I recalled, "our discussion" about this trainer thing was revolving around a single weeknight with possibilities for a weekend afternoon.
In my feminine way - despite my general dislike for the trainer evenings on several ground which I've previously enumerated - I didn't mind so much that there may be a second night as much as I minded that we didn't discuss it first! Because that's how we ladies roll, a secret fairly blaringly advertised and yet perpetually recondite to the masculine sect: Men can get all kinds of things that they don't even realize so long as they give their spouses the mere illusion of inclusion on decisions that impact them mutually. And hey, talking about something that will inconvenience me to the benefit of my beloved makes me feel all self-smug and gracious when I inevitably give the green light to do so. Which in turn has kind of a Ben Franklin impact whereby my having done something for another person makes me like them even more. Because humans are weird and women are no exception.
But I digress. Last night's trainer session was expected and pre-approved, so I was in fact abundantly gracious. Indeed, I daresay I made provisions in my little bedroom cave and pillow fortress. Hiding upstairs with music, a couple of books, some bananas smothered in peanut butter and cocoa nibs, and fifty thousand of my favorite pillows. A pregnant lady's superlative oneiric indulgence!
If pre-discussed, I do tend to find that Andrew's co-opting of our living room frees up and forces an evening of relaxation and reading. At the cost, sure, of much of any interaction with my husband beyond the periphrastic flood of endorphin-afflated babelism that flows freely from my trainer-warrior's mouth when he's finally done and sitting down to dinner. And at the expense of niceties such as the slightest interest or curiosity about my day. And possibly at the expense of a good night's sleep, although I've been so wonked recently, my ability to pass out through the twitching and tossing has been significantly fortified. But given we have those opportunities other evenings, an evening of retreat is quite nice.
At any rate.
We have some news! Some serious potential news. Andrew's uncle recently passed away.
That's not the news. We knew that already. On Christmas Eve, actually.
Yesterday Andrew's mom wrote to him that for complex reasons she was considering disclaiming said uncle's brokerage accounts and passing them directly to Andrew and his brother Zach. It would be enough to cut the student loan albatross from his neck, and this would free us up to actually consider buying a house! I have had money ready for a portion of a down payment for sometime, but we were not really considering it until Andrew paid down his debt. Suddenly, it may be an option sooner than years down the road. Our heads are a bit awhirl with just the possibility.
Granted, not really enough time to buy a house before our lease is up even if we both had all our monies in order. But it means our next place might be our next place. Andrew's immediate thought was "we can afford a little nicer apartment." Mine was "we can get a short term apartment without all those worries about amenability for a child, since we can move shortly after." Yin and Yang but it works.
There's still plenty to iron out, but it's kind of a cool thing to imagine on the horizon. Having a baby. Owning a house. Being married. Oh my lord am I stumbling into adulthood again? Yikes!
Tippee Toed Through Thorsday on a Grunt and a Prayer
As I observed to my semi-conscious loris this morning, it doesn't feel thoroughly much like Thursday. Though the the week has been long. Yesterday didn't feel much like Wednesday either. We went out as we usually do, but even that didn't do it. Maybe because we were both tired, Andrew more than me (he's taking advantage of the twelve week rally to rack up "more tired and dazed than pregger-lady" points).
Anyways, this apparently is not the observation to spark conversation in the morning. Unless we're referring to the sound of crickets chirping and proverbial pens clattering to the floor at a deafening din. Oh I guess I did get a belated "yeah... I don't know..." after some symphonic slurps of the coffee cup.
Other conversational non-starters: (1) reading a thank you card from my aunts (chirp chirp), (2) mentioning my upcoming day (... chirp... chirp... slurp), (3) beginning the often fraught and loaded question "how are you?"
What did work (to be stowed away for future reference): So I'm thinking about having a sex change, which might be complicated with the pregnancy thing. I'm thinking maybe an artificial womb so we can see the fetus develop.
We agreed I should definitely ask about that at the next visit. Alternately, I'm thinking of requesting some way of installing a little window through my lower abdomen, so I can start showing my little Fonzie lots of educational images and get that crucial pre-natal learning and development kickstarted. Some moms are content with headphones on the belly. Me, I want a direct line in on all sensory fronts.
I don't really want a sex change, by the way.
And although it's interesting to speculate about the artificial womb, and I do like how it would simplify our birth plan, I'm kind of happy to be carrying a living thrashing piece of produce in my belly. Maybe it reminds me to be more mindful, knowing this little thing is part of me right now and can feel my moods and movements.
It's helping me slow down, breath more, even drive the speed limit most of the time. And encouraging me to embrace mindful moments between the constant cavils and gripes of a taken-for-granted blessed life.
In addition to cutting back screen time (totidem verbis "hiding in the bathroom to check my phone"), I've been thinking about mindfulness. Cultivating the peaceful and grateful parts of my life. And in tandem, I've been thinking about the art of orison.
The word "prayer" can come with bundles of baggage, so sometimes I avoid the usage while supporting the underlying ideas that prayer represents to me. I don't see prayer as a straight attempt to bargain with deities or demigods. To impose a sense of order on the world by embracing the belief that uncontrollable events may be controlled by the number of good thoughts in the world and the persuasive silver-tongue timbres of the intervening saints and supplicants: an appealing idea to a lawyer, but blind to the complexities of an ultimately unpredictable existence.
Such belief introduces the suggestion that those subject to cruelties of fate are somehow responsible, or that their own defects created their own paucity of fortune. That's just kind of an extension of the human "just-world" bias that causes so much intolerance and cruelty towards those most in need of succorance.
Which is not to say that I don't think there is an energy created by prayer. And I am not proud enough to imagine I understand the infinitely nuanced interoscillated universe well enough to say our energies don't influence the world. I know they do, even if only by how they impact our mindset and the face we provide to the world.
I see pray as a beneficial practice in several areas: (1) Gratitude. Giving thanks is a large part of prayer. Gratitude has been repeatedly shown to boost happiness. It also leaves us more open to the world and more likely to invite positive energy into our lives. Gratitude kills fear and fear pushes life away. (2) The meditative hypnotic quality of silent contemplation and the internal orientation of the mantra. When we give ourselves to a higher power, or ask the universe somehow to be better people, we pray to our own higher selves before we even breach the ether of heaven. And these supplications directly impact what we become. (3) Love. Praying for other people cultivates compassion, reorients our sense of self as interconnected to those around us, and draws us away from those nitpicky day-to-day for-granted annoyances we often cultivate for our nearest and dearest.
I already have a bit of a focus on gratitude by writing a journal of "three things that went right" each day for Andrew to read. I practice sitting and meditation a bit, although I could stand to do more. When I walk in the woods, I play little games to focus me on the moment (choosing to listen for all the sounds around or focusing on all the smells). And when I listen to music, I find that infinite moment inside of me. I do so wish the Taize service I attend with my father were more frequent.
But to add in that third element, I am taking some time each day to "pray" for people. To think about them and wish them well. Specifically. It focuses me on what their struggles are, changes my mindset to an outer focus and makes me feel more connected even in my deepest solitude. And it reminds me in a visceral way that the reason the nearest and dearest sometimes drive me nuts is because I care for them so deeply and trust them so much that I never question their presence in my life.
It's something I do for myself, but I do think I'd like to pass that on to a child as well.
And with that note, I wish you all happy energies. Know you're in my thoughts and I like it that way. Right next to my fantasies of the patented pre-baby window learning tool inserts! Which will make me a fortune in certain areas of the country.
Threeteen and Wonderful Totally Not Unlucky Week of the Ovular Peachy Pea-Pod Fonzazest!
Last week of first trimester!! I am so over you tri-one. Thanks, much, I believe I'll try-two instead! Give me that fabled increase in the libidinous interest in reality, the weakening of which should recently have come to a close. Name that butchered quote citation and win a Meyer lemon... one of several options proffered for my envisioning of little Fonzarelli.
Apparently we're at the threshold at which fetuses start differentiating in growth rate and pace of development. I may have to start making up my own individualized produce and food metaphors. But at least this week, I've got my pick of some templates: Pea pod, peach, Meyer lemon, medium goldfish, egg, and/or "3 inchish fetus with a head that is only 1/3 of its full measurement"...
Ok, egg seems kind of peculiar, since in fact the Fonz already was an egg. Partially. Egg is in Fonzie's heritage, at any rate. I admit when I bring eggs home from the grocery store, I sometimes apologize to them that they will never have the opportunity to become little chicks because I was hungry. Which makes thinking of my Fonzie-fig as an egg, a wee bit more macabre.
Meyer lemon is a good progressive evolution from "various sizes of lime," and keeps in a theme. Plus I rely on lemon juice in hot water in the mornings, so lemons are close to my heart (and occasionally heartburn). Similarly, peach is a nice progression from plum. And appropriately fuzzy, considering "my baby" is now "covered in fine hair." Freakish little yeti!
The goldfish is actually fairly evocative. They are similar creatures: googly eyed, submerged in water and thrashing from time to time. A pea pod... well I just don't know that I have enough of an eidolon of pea pod to connect with that one beyond the typical "pea in the pod" maternity type cliches. Seems kind of gaunt for the little thing.
In other news, Fonzie's got fingerprints now with which to thoroughly smudge up my womb window. And sucking muscles that will cause it to "root" (start sucking) if I poke my abdominal wall. Smudging and sucking on everything in sight!. Already so much like a real kid!!
And as for me, I have an excuse finally! An official excuse for my rampant looby clumsiness. Egad, relaxin! Thou hast smote me mightily!! Apparently in addition to brain fog, I now have the officially sanctioned gawky gravidas syndrome. Which explains a lot of flying objects and spill-stains strewn about my personage and curtilage. I don't have a baby yet, but I'm clearly in training!
No new ultrarific ultrasounds of the Fonz. Our little super-star gets a break from the medical paparazzi until mid-February when we have our next mad BOGA boogey and house-hunt happi-haps. But my stomach is starting to fascinating me beyond reason. A minor protrusion that no ordinary person would associate with pregnancy, but far too firm and erumpent to be considered a little stomach flab. Could leave me wearing crop tops and staring at myself, poking my belly (triggering that suckling response in wee Fonzie-peach-fish) all day long!
But first I'll sit through an IRB meeting for which I'm perennially ill-prepared and do a little boogie dance for me and golden-peach-pod!
Thoroughly Tilted Tarantellas and the Declaration of Victory!
Monday begins with victory: after mom-boss actually called the cleaning service and left specific instructions (complete with urgent explanations on the intolerable boiler that haunts our halls), the cleaning lady actually left my window unmolested and ajar!! Sure she mucked up the arrangement on mom-boss' desk as always, but the rest of my office was so thoroughly hidden in pre-cleaner lock-down that she didn't have much to do in here except move my keyboard out of line. And that is an easy fix.
This portends well for the rest of my week, I do declare.
Yesterday, we wound our way down to Don Quixote and Sancho Panzo's scurrilous semi-heroics, courtesy of the PNB. I've really embraced the PNW culture and my current pregnancy to shamelessly attend cultural events in my yoga pants and a camisole. Well the cami had more to do with the poor ventilation within McCaw hall itself. I did wear a shirt for most of the rest of the day. But I am a paying customer (not really, but the recipient of the aegis of one at any rate) and I will not develop an incalescent migraine for the sake of modesty in a darkened theater, by golly! I'll do that the next day in response to the long drive, eye strain from all the reading in a hot car, and usual pregnant lady stuff. But not in the hall itself, thank you much.
So... there was a bit of the Don. Less of him than of the company endued in an olio of costumes and dancing endless rounds. Fun enough, but a little less focused than I think either Andrew or I really prefer. We're just more Rep people than Story Ballet people. At least "Classical Russian or French story ballet with the touches of several different choreographers"
I should say that there are some story ballets that are wonderful. It's not really the presence of a story, per se, that I like or dislike. Midsummer Night's Dream and Romeo and Juliet (the Prokofiev version anyways) are both tantalizingly taut, and powerfully tell the story they set upon to tell. Midsummer Night's dream is quite short, doesn't waste time with too much superfluity, and the impish activity permeates the music. Romeo and Juliet has a cast, but they aren't just dancing for the heckuvit. There's tension and fighting and hostilities that are central to the atmosphere of the story. And it is gripping. The music oozes emotion and this is mirrored in the extremes of elation and despair embodied onstage.
It's more the "there's kind of a story here, sorta, but here watch a bunch of the company and some of our school dance around in various costumes for the majority of the next three of four acts while our principals take a rest" sort of style. The endless "dancing peasants," as Andrew calls it. Which I accept in the Nutcracker, because it's the Nutcracker. And because they aren't peasants. They're cute kids acting just as bratty as real kids and then a bunch of soloists showing off in a trippy dream sequence or ten. It's sentimental. It's cute. It's pretty short for a story ballet.
Don Quixote had some genuinely fantastic chorographical flourishes. And it was enjoyable. But by the time you butt your head against two intermissions, you kind of wish they'd been a little handier with the editing tools.
Andrew actually couldn't stick it out through the first act (he'd previously been dehydrated and made up for it by drinking copious liquids at lunch) through all the "dancing peasants." He eventually excused himself and watched the rest on the screens outside. Funnily enough, the girls next to me had the same challenge. About ten minutes after Andrew crawled out, the girl next to me actually climbed over her seat and the seats behind her to escape to a bathroom.
That said, the dancing was superlative. The story actually is more about a village girl, Kitri, and her love Basilio. They want to marry, her dad wants her to marry some ridiculous rich dude (I know, never heard of before plot for opera or ballet... EVER!). They do a series of things that marginally include Don Quixote accidentally helping them, and everyone lives happily ever after. Except the rich dude, but he was ridiculous so nobody cares. Don Quixote also has a major psychedelic trip-out in Act II, where he sees a bunch of dryads and winged angelic creatures after being attacked by cacti and windmills.
The poignancy of an elderly man driven mad by his own literary fantasy striving for derring-do while miring in ridiculous and often hurting the innocents he seeks to protect - and that final denouement when he comes to painful sanity on his deathbed - doesn't exactly take center stage. No death. Minor subversiveness in his delusions. A little concern with the fainting and tripping out in Act 2, but really it's more a happy ballet about young lovers. And since the novel was originally mostly comic, that's cool. Although the ballet has less bite and more ... happy peasants. The choreography is pretty awesome though.
On our way back, Andrew took me by EI to show me the gigantic machine that's been eating his brain slowly. Ok, not exactly, but there was a lot of work stress related to that gentle giant last week. Quite the imposing creature, even if the concerns were more theoretical mathematical concerns.
And we are back to today. In which I score one vicariously over the havoc of our little cleaner lady. Tarantara!
Bring on the Monday. Gently. I'm still a little tired from all the tilting and windmills yesterday.
Granted, not really enough time to buy a house before our lease is up even if we both had all our monies in order. But it means our next place might be our next place. Andrew's immediate thought was "we can afford a little nicer apartment." Mine was "we can get a short term apartment without all those worries about amenability for a child, since we can move shortly after." Yin and Yang but it works.
There's still plenty to iron out, but it's kind of a cool thing to imagine on the horizon. Having a baby. Owning a house. Being married. Oh my lord am I stumbling into adulthood again? Yikes!
Tippee Toed Through Thorsday on a Grunt and a Prayer
As I observed to my semi-conscious loris this morning, it doesn't feel thoroughly much like Thursday. Though the the week has been long. Yesterday didn't feel much like Wednesday either. We went out as we usually do, but even that didn't do it. Maybe because we were both tired, Andrew more than me (he's taking advantage of the twelve week rally to rack up "more tired and dazed than pregger-lady" points).
Anyways, this apparently is not the observation to spark conversation in the morning. Unless we're referring to the sound of crickets chirping and proverbial pens clattering to the floor at a deafening din. Oh I guess I did get a belated "yeah... I don't know..." after some symphonic slurps of the coffee cup.
Other conversational non-starters: (1) reading a thank you card from my aunts (chirp chirp), (2) mentioning my upcoming day (... chirp... chirp... slurp), (3) beginning the often fraught and loaded question "how are you?"
What did work (to be stowed away for future reference): So I'm thinking about having a sex change, which might be complicated with the pregnancy thing. I'm thinking maybe an artificial womb so we can see the fetus develop.
We agreed I should definitely ask about that at the next visit. Alternately, I'm thinking of requesting some way of installing a little window through my lower abdomen, so I can start showing my little Fonzie lots of educational images and get that crucial pre-natal learning and development kickstarted. Some moms are content with headphones on the belly. Me, I want a direct line in on all sensory fronts.
I don't really want a sex change, by the way.
And although it's interesting to speculate about the artificial womb, and I do like how it would simplify our birth plan, I'm kind of happy to be carrying a living thrashing piece of produce in my belly. Maybe it reminds me to be more mindful, knowing this little thing is part of me right now and can feel my moods and movements.
It's helping me slow down, breath more, even drive the speed limit most of the time. And encouraging me to embrace mindful moments between the constant cavils and gripes of a taken-for-granted blessed life.
In addition to cutting back screen time (totidem verbis "hiding in the bathroom to check my phone"), I've been thinking about mindfulness. Cultivating the peaceful and grateful parts of my life. And in tandem, I've been thinking about the art of orison.
The word "prayer" can come with bundles of baggage, so sometimes I avoid the usage while supporting the underlying ideas that prayer represents to me. I don't see prayer as a straight attempt to bargain with deities or demigods. To impose a sense of order on the world by embracing the belief that uncontrollable events may be controlled by the number of good thoughts in the world and the persuasive silver-tongue timbres of the intervening saints and supplicants: an appealing idea to a lawyer, but blind to the complexities of an ultimately unpredictable existence.
Such belief introduces the suggestion that those subject to cruelties of fate are somehow responsible, or that their own defects created their own paucity of fortune. That's just kind of an extension of the human "just-world" bias that causes so much intolerance and cruelty towards those most in need of succorance.
Which is not to say that I don't think there is an energy created by prayer. And I am not proud enough to imagine I understand the infinitely nuanced interoscillated universe well enough to say our energies don't influence the world. I know they do, even if only by how they impact our mindset and the face we provide to the world.
I see pray as a beneficial practice in several areas: (1) Gratitude. Giving thanks is a large part of prayer. Gratitude has been repeatedly shown to boost happiness. It also leaves us more open to the world and more likely to invite positive energy into our lives. Gratitude kills fear and fear pushes life away. (2) The meditative hypnotic quality of silent contemplation and the internal orientation of the mantra. When we give ourselves to a higher power, or ask the universe somehow to be better people, we pray to our own higher selves before we even breach the ether of heaven. And these supplications directly impact what we become. (3) Love. Praying for other people cultivates compassion, reorients our sense of self as interconnected to those around us, and draws us away from those nitpicky day-to-day for-granted annoyances we often cultivate for our nearest and dearest.
I already have a bit of a focus on gratitude by writing a journal of "three things that went right" each day for Andrew to read. I practice sitting and meditation a bit, although I could stand to do more. When I walk in the woods, I play little games to focus me on the moment (choosing to listen for all the sounds around or focusing on all the smells). And when I listen to music, I find that infinite moment inside of me. I do so wish the Taize service I attend with my father were more frequent.
But to add in that third element, I am taking some time each day to "pray" for people. To think about them and wish them well. Specifically. It focuses me on what their struggles are, changes my mindset to an outer focus and makes me feel more connected even in my deepest solitude. And it reminds me in a visceral way that the reason the nearest and dearest sometimes drive me nuts is because I care for them so deeply and trust them so much that I never question their presence in my life.
It's something I do for myself, but I do think I'd like to pass that on to a child as well.
And with that note, I wish you all happy energies. Know you're in my thoughts and I like it that way. Right next to my fantasies of the patented pre-baby window learning tool inserts! Which will make me a fortune in certain areas of the country.
Threeteen and Wonderful Totally Not Unlucky Week of the Ovular Peachy Pea-Pod Fonzazest!
Last week of first trimester!! I am so over you tri-one. Thanks, much, I believe I'll try-two instead! Give me that fabled increase in the libidinous interest in reality, the weakening of which should recently have come to a close. Name that butchered quote citation and win a Meyer lemon... one of several options proffered for my envisioning of little Fonzarelli.
Apparently we're at the threshold at which fetuses start differentiating in growth rate and pace of development. I may have to start making up my own individualized produce and food metaphors. But at least this week, I've got my pick of some templates: Pea pod, peach, Meyer lemon, medium goldfish, egg, and/or "3 inchish fetus with a head that is only 1/3 of its full measurement"...
Ok, egg seems kind of peculiar, since in fact the Fonz already was an egg. Partially. Egg is in Fonzie's heritage, at any rate. I admit when I bring eggs home from the grocery store, I sometimes apologize to them that they will never have the opportunity to become little chicks because I was hungry. Which makes thinking of my Fonzie-fig as an egg, a wee bit more macabre.
Meyer lemon is a good progressive evolution from "various sizes of lime," and keeps in a theme. Plus I rely on lemon juice in hot water in the mornings, so lemons are close to my heart (and occasionally heartburn). Similarly, peach is a nice progression from plum. And appropriately fuzzy, considering "my baby" is now "covered in fine hair." Freakish little yeti!
The goldfish is actually fairly evocative. They are similar creatures: googly eyed, submerged in water and thrashing from time to time. A pea pod... well I just don't know that I have enough of an eidolon of pea pod to connect with that one beyond the typical "pea in the pod" maternity type cliches. Seems kind of gaunt for the little thing.
In other news, Fonzie's got fingerprints now with which to thoroughly smudge up my womb window. And sucking muscles that will cause it to "root" (start sucking) if I poke my abdominal wall. Smudging and sucking on everything in sight!. Already so much like a real kid!!
And as for me, I have an excuse finally! An official excuse for my rampant looby clumsiness. Egad, relaxin! Thou hast smote me mightily!! Apparently in addition to brain fog, I now have the officially sanctioned gawky gravidas syndrome. Which explains a lot of flying objects and spill-stains strewn about my personage and curtilage. I don't have a baby yet, but I'm clearly in training!
No new ultrarific ultrasounds of the Fonz. Our little super-star gets a break from the medical paparazzi until mid-February when we have our next mad BOGA boogey and house-hunt happi-haps. But my stomach is starting to fascinating me beyond reason. A minor protrusion that no ordinary person would associate with pregnancy, but far too firm and erumpent to be considered a little stomach flab. Could leave me wearing crop tops and staring at myself, poking my belly (triggering that suckling response in wee Fonzie-peach-fish) all day long!
But first I'll sit through an IRB meeting for which I'm perennially ill-prepared and do a little boogie dance for me and golden-peach-pod!
Thoroughly Tilted Tarantellas and the Declaration of Victory!
Monday begins with victory: after mom-boss actually called the cleaning service and left specific instructions (complete with urgent explanations on the intolerable boiler that haunts our halls), the cleaning lady actually left my window unmolested and ajar!! Sure she mucked up the arrangement on mom-boss' desk as always, but the rest of my office was so thoroughly hidden in pre-cleaner lock-down that she didn't have much to do in here except move my keyboard out of line. And that is an easy fix.
This portends well for the rest of my week, I do declare.
Yesterday, we wound our way down to Don Quixote and Sancho Panzo's scurrilous semi-heroics, courtesy of the PNB. I've really embraced the PNW culture and my current pregnancy to shamelessly attend cultural events in my yoga pants and a camisole. Well the cami had more to do with the poor ventilation within McCaw hall itself. I did wear a shirt for most of the rest of the day. But I am a paying customer (not really, but the recipient of the aegis of one at any rate) and I will not develop an incalescent migraine for the sake of modesty in a darkened theater, by golly! I'll do that the next day in response to the long drive, eye strain from all the reading in a hot car, and usual pregnant lady stuff. But not in the hall itself, thank you much.
So... there was a bit of the Don. Less of him than of the company endued in an olio of costumes and dancing endless rounds. Fun enough, but a little less focused than I think either Andrew or I really prefer. We're just more Rep people than Story Ballet people. At least "Classical Russian or French story ballet with the touches of several different choreographers"
I should say that there are some story ballets that are wonderful. It's not really the presence of a story, per se, that I like or dislike. Midsummer Night's Dream and Romeo and Juliet (the Prokofiev version anyways) are both tantalizingly taut, and powerfully tell the story they set upon to tell. Midsummer Night's dream is quite short, doesn't waste time with too much superfluity, and the impish activity permeates the music. Romeo and Juliet has a cast, but they aren't just dancing for the heckuvit. There's tension and fighting and hostilities that are central to the atmosphere of the story. And it is gripping. The music oozes emotion and this is mirrored in the extremes of elation and despair embodied onstage.
It's more the "there's kind of a story here, sorta, but here watch a bunch of the company and some of our school dance around in various costumes for the majority of the next three of four acts while our principals take a rest" sort of style. The endless "dancing peasants," as Andrew calls it. Which I accept in the Nutcracker, because it's the Nutcracker. And because they aren't peasants. They're cute kids acting just as bratty as real kids and then a bunch of soloists showing off in a trippy dream sequence or ten. It's sentimental. It's cute. It's pretty short for a story ballet.
Don Quixote had some genuinely fantastic chorographical flourishes. And it was enjoyable. But by the time you butt your head against two intermissions, you kind of wish they'd been a little handier with the editing tools.
Andrew actually couldn't stick it out through the first act (he'd previously been dehydrated and made up for it by drinking copious liquids at lunch) through all the "dancing peasants." He eventually excused himself and watched the rest on the screens outside. Funnily enough, the girls next to me had the same challenge. About ten minutes after Andrew crawled out, the girl next to me actually climbed over her seat and the seats behind her to escape to a bathroom.
That said, the dancing was superlative. The story actually is more about a village girl, Kitri, and her love Basilio. They want to marry, her dad wants her to marry some ridiculous rich dude (I know, never heard of before plot for opera or ballet... EVER!). They do a series of things that marginally include Don Quixote accidentally helping them, and everyone lives happily ever after. Except the rich dude, but he was ridiculous so nobody cares. Don Quixote also has a major psychedelic trip-out in Act II, where he sees a bunch of dryads and winged angelic creatures after being attacked by cacti and windmills.
The poignancy of an elderly man driven mad by his own literary fantasy striving for derring-do while miring in ridiculous and often hurting the innocents he seeks to protect - and that final denouement when he comes to painful sanity on his deathbed - doesn't exactly take center stage. No death. Minor subversiveness in his delusions. A little concern with the fainting and tripping out in Act 2, but really it's more a happy ballet about young lovers. And since the novel was originally mostly comic, that's cool. Although the ballet has less bite and more ... happy peasants. The choreography is pretty awesome though.
On our way back, Andrew took me by EI to show me the gigantic machine that's been eating his brain slowly. Ok, not exactly, but there was a lot of work stress related to that gentle giant last week. Quite the imposing creature, even if the concerns were more theoretical mathematical concerns.
And we are back to today. In which I score one vicariously over the havoc of our little cleaner lady. Tarantara!
Bring on the Monday. Gently. I'm still a little tired from all the tilting and windmills yesterday.
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