Friday, January 13, 2012

Evita

Dreams are odd. I have had a couple recently where I have been cast in an amateur production of Evita, and I am playing, guess who? Evita herself. I say this with my hair in a bun and......pause.... arms raised out to...pause..... you, with a dramatic expression, yet slightly humble frown, all at the same...pause.... time.

Its one of the final rehearsals when I finally decide to show up. I haven't studied any of the songs and I can't even find a script. I'm trying to read the lyrics from a Best of Show Tunes CD! 
In dreams and reality, I cant sing very well. I live with a love/fear of singing solo. Occasionally
I do my Phantom of the Bathroom bit, yet my Susan Boyle ambitions quickly get flushed, as I realize I sound like a teenage male choir going through a change of life while Julie Andrews practices a New Zealand rugby chant.

Singing and dancing are two of those things that I think I will be good at, until I'm in the middle of doing them.
For example, once at a party I was doing the Will Smith dance to Men in Black - when I saw a group of  eight year old boys pointing and laughing at me. (I hate kids. Jealous buggers.) Though, I admit my dancing moves may never have recovered from a bad spin out during "You Spin Me Round" by the group Dead or Alive, at the Hippodrome, London. It was even more embarrassing than the horrid flowered dress I was wearing. I wonder if they kept that security camera video?

Anyway in the dream, I'm going to start rehearsing the not easy song "Buenos Aires." I am practically sick with hope, nerves, illusions and delusions. Then I wake up. I've had this dream three times.

Well, last night my dream had me and someone who will not be mentioned, going to see the West End production of Evita. This person, who shall not be mentioned, in the dream is actually a compromise of two people, who will not be mentioned. I have a two lists of previous male hobbies. One is titled "How Unfortunate" and the other is "What the fuck was I thinking".They blur into one these days.

Back to the dream;
Madonna is the star in this West End production. The show was dreadful, the narrator Che wasn't even it and Madonna only appeared at the very end in a long silver frock and a lot of fog, singing "Don't Cry for me Argentina" to a really bad disco beat. I think she also shook a tambourine. At one point, all the power went out and then she walked off.
That was the end of the show. Half of the audience stayed for a wrestling match that was going to follow, (I know a wrestling match!!!) while, the person who shall not be mentioned and I left quietly admitting that Madonna looked rather fat and our seats were uncomfortable.

Hows that for a dream? Note question mark rather than exclamation mark!

Tuesday, January 10, 2012

Giving Up

I have heard this said before and never truly tried it, so here goes.

With arms raised high I declare that I can not solve this and I give up! Not in a sad or a victim manner. I give up with grace and simplicity.

Solutions to Alzheimer's dramas and stress are not easy. Blessed with creativity and a careless regard for telling lies, you would have thought that I of all people would know what to do, how and when. That four years into this lifestyle that I would have written a book by now and Lifetime would be begging for a copy of the script.


Sadly not. Each day presents a new twist. Each day a realization that things are seen through gray colored glasses, everything a foreign language with the wrong subtitles. My stories regarding phone calls that frighten him, then become grand tales which then themselves become issues to worry about. Trips to the grocery store or mail box are like a pilgrimages to a shrine. Fear, dread, a little joy, expansive energy, tenderness, pain, anger, sorrow, boredom and laughter spin out of control every hour.

Some days I wonder if the main problem is in trying to continue life as it was before. Perhaps it would be easier if we both left for Hawaii and lived in the woods somewhere. Locally known as The Crazy Couple.
Or perhaps we could become like the women from Grey Gardens and I could wear a scarf as a skirt, declaring it to be the best fashion of the day.

I don't know. Its obviously not for me to work out. All I know is there has to be a better way. I want a better way. I need a better way. So dear Universe, I give up and trust in you to offer guidance in order to follow our yellow brick road. Please let there be a yellow brick road.