Go little book . . .

I was browsing other blogs and came upon the one written by author John Connolly where he suggested that this quote from Chaucer's Troilus and Criseyde would make an excellent prayer for authors:


"Go, litel bok . . .
And red whereso thow be, or elles songe,
That thow be understood, God I biseche!"

(which he roughly translates as: Go, little book, and wherever you are read, I ask God only that you be understood.)




Though I don't know the original context of this quote, I think the way Mr. Connolly has interpreted it is very apt.

Because there is nothing quite so exciting as when someone understands what an author's written. When they are on the same page, and explain back to her her own reasoning. When someone else, someone she doesn't know well, who doesn't know her well, gets it. Just, you know, gets it.

My Friends

Does anyone have such friends?

I cannot imagine that anyone has friends like I do. I can't think how it is possible, because if everyone had friends like mine then this world would be populated by none but the smartest, funniest, bravest, most talented, most giving, and most beautiful of people. And I can't sufficiently describe to you how wonderful they are because you would think I was generalizing, that I was trotting out all those general compliments one uses to make someone feel better.

* But by smart I mean studying PhD's smart (whether or not they are actually pursuing said degree).
* And by funny, I mean unique, roll on the floor laughing till your sides hurt, funny.

* By brave I mean not only smiling through great adversity, but singing and dancing and drumming.
* By talented I mean able to create and perform works of art to the most professional and inspirational of standards.
* By giving, I mean choosing to help others as your vocation.
* And by most beautiful - aside from souls, I mean superficially hot, sexy, ladies and gents who just seem to be blessed with all the correct proportions.

I do not exaggerate. Not one tiny bit. And what is the most shocking, the thing that would drive you running into the mountains babbling nonsensical rubbish with a drooble of spittle running out of the side of your mouth, is that my friends, all of my friends, possess each of these qualities in various measures.

A little poem in honour of their magnificence:

I would love to share with you all
how much my friends totally rock
but it just isn't possible as
I'm afraid you'd die of the shock.

Pretty Picture

You may have noticed a slight change in my posts. Yes I am talking about the sudden inclusion of pictures. The reason is a simple one. I have just discovered how to do it. And I like colourful things. I am a woman obsessed, and I vow never shall I post again without an illustration! Ha ha!

A nice thing to read . . .

"The meeting of strangers is funny,
it's odd how it so often ends,
after less than an hour together,
the Nipkin and Zlog were good friends."



I don't know if this is a completely accurate quote from the fabulous picture book Norbert Nipkin (the last line doesn't scan quite right), however I've had it running through my head today like a song and I thought I'd share it with you.

There's just something really nice about it.

And now we dance!

I'm seeing people dance tonight. I don't quite know what sort of show it is really, a friend invited me along. I know it is something oh so contemporary, which can be quite interesting and awe inspiring at times. And I have surprisingly studied quite a bit of dance for someone who never was interested in studying dance. So I can appreciate what I am looking at.

Doesn't mean I'll like it.

Here's the thing. I find things like dance theatre, especially ballet, and its cousin, opera . . . silly. You may think, fair enough, that's your opinion, but let me add this: I love musical theatre and, what's more, don't find it remotely ridiculous to watch.

Now why is that? Musical theatre of the three is most definitely the most absurd:

"Okay so let's pretend this is just a normal play set in a normal time and place, and then, oh hey, let's then suddenly sing a bit. Maybe dance a little?"
"Sure!"
"Hey how about instead of a fight we pirouette?"
"Dude I am so down with that."
"And then once we finish, let's pretend it never happened, k?"
"With you man."

Musical theatre is inately silly.

And I don't know why I therefore like it more than the other two. I was going to argue that musicals are very self aware, that they know they are silly and play up to that, as opposed to opera and ballet that tend to (not all the time, but tend to) take themselves incredibly seriously. But that only works for the big happy musicals like Guys and Dolls, Little Shop of Horrors and, more recently, The Producers. What about Sondheim, I ask you!? WHAT ABOUT SONHEIM!!!??

I have no answer. All I can conclude is that I am a hypocritical, arrogant, close minded, musical theatre fundamentalist.

You know what? I think I'm okay with that.

My Wonderful Temp Job

Today I write to you from an actual temp job (hence fulfilling the initial mandate of this blog), one which I visit frequently and enjoy highly.

The reason I like it is not only are the people very nice (would you believe on my walk to work I lost the heel of my shoe and, upon telling my fellow receptionists of the tragedy, one offered to take it and have it fixed when she went to pick up her shoes at the cobblers?!), and the atmosphere is relaxed, and I know what I'm doing having worked here several times before, but best of all I get to pretend I am a secretary from the 1950's.

I sit with three other receptionists at a large curved desk in the lobby of a large curved business that employs several hundred large curved employees (actually I lie about the latter two as the business is a massive square building surrounded by other massive square buildings, and not a single person employed here looks anything other than a model - very frustrating to be sure). We answer phones and politely put them through to various extensions. And we sign in visitors and book board rooms.

And that's it.

Other than that we gossip and laugh, and wave to employees as they walk through the lobby, and it all feels just so retro.

And you wouldn't have thought it could get any better. But it did. You see, the best thing happened yesterday. As per my request, one of my colleagues leant me ... wait for it ... an emery board! Yes dear readers, believe it or not, your lovely blogger actually sat there, in true receptionist style, one leg crossed over the other, and filed her nails.

And what, my dear invisible readers, could be more fantabulous than that?

The Not-East Flying Thingy

There is nothing I like more than explaining to a friend what has just happened on the West Wing (remember I am in the UK and we are a season behind):


"Russell just asked Santos to join him on the ticket as VP,
and he turned him down!"

"Vinnick has just given the best speech ever,
Bartlett has to get his party in order!"


I like it cause it sounds like it's real. I find that funny. Because it isn't.

(But it should be)

A Revelation

I have been pondering why I write this thing. I used to assume it was because I was bored at work and needed something to fill the time. But I think that, after consistently checking to see if my readership has gone up and discovering that it hasn't, I have realised that I actually wish people would read my blog. And enjoy it. And their lives would change. And somehow I would become famous.

I don't exactly know why I would become famous. But I think when one writes a blog one is hoping other people will read it. And the more people the better. And if I become known internationally and get to guest star on The Daily Show, well I could put up with that. I mean it could be Oprah too I guess, but I just think Jon Stewart is really cute.

Actually maybe that's why I'm writing this blog. It isn't the boredom, or the fame, or the chance to write something that would really make a difference in someone's life.

No.

It's because Jon Stewart is cute.

I Heart You

When I was young, Valentine's day was a lovely thing. We got to make mail boxes and hand out and receive cards. In fact often you got the afternoon off from lessons as the giving and receiving took many hours. I was in French immersion as a child, which meant that the cards were also in French. How cool is that? In the mornings my parents would have prepared a card (with a lovely funny poem by my dad on the inside) and some amazingly large chocolate something, like a heart! I looked forward to Valentine's day as eagerly as any commercial holiday.

Even when going through puberty I enjoyed giving cards to my friends. And of course there was the chocolate involved. But then something happened. Something changed.

What happened was this: the dreaded flower/chocolate O' gram. The candy or flowers that you could send in the school anonymously to someone you fancied. I hate to confess it, but secretly every year I would hope that this time round someone would send me one. One year in fact my friends and I were so fed up with not getting flowers, that we each drew a name from a hat to buy one for that person in our little group. My person forgot.

Yes that is where Valentine's day suddenly went wrong. You see, despite my cynicism,I have always secretly wanted an admirer. In the long run I know it is not practical. Someone who lacks the courage to face me in person is probably not going to fair too well with me. But it always seemed like a very fun thing to get those flowers. And also, I mean, really, how darn predictable was it that the popular girls would walk down the halls with bushels of them in their arms? It seemed to lack creativity. "What's that you say? You've bought the prettiest girl in school a flower? My god, why has no one thought of doing that before?!"

Don't get me wrong, as the years progressed and I came into myself in high school, eventually my friends and I would send each other tokens (and remembered this time). And really any day that celebrates chocolate is just fine with me. Still the day remains bitter sweet for me.

And yes it's partly due to the fact that one is bombarded with articles saying how miserable I should be being single, and how to cope in my misery. And yes I longingly look at happy couples walking together, really any day of the week, but I do notice more today as one is wont to do. But I think this O'gram thing has scarred me above any of those.

I think, like Pavlov's dog, when Valentine's day rolls around, without even trying, I automatically hope to receive something from someone oh so anonymously. To feel that wonderful ego boost. To know that someone out there without you knowing it, is thinking about you. To, for the briefest second, have that surge of adrenaline, that can only be achieved by either a cheap carnation or a nicely wrapped trio of Hershey's Kisses.

Freaky Freddy

I forgot to mention Freddy. He's a furry grey squirrell and he lives in the walls and roof of our house. And sometimes in the daytime he lands with a thud on the glass roof of our kitchen and has a panic attack.

He's annoying as hell.

Today

Today as a temp.

I am doing data entry.

The man next to me likes to sing things like "Don't Cha" by the Pussycat Dolls.

Keira Knightly was on the cover of several newspapers picking up an award for something or other.

Today is a not so good day.

Men and Women

Hey all! I know it's been a long time but since nobody actually reads this and my invisible following is so very loyal, I didn't think anyone would really mind.

I would like to write a bit about men. No not the boring Sex and the City type deal, but I've just been having these many conversations about gender issues for some bizarre reason lately and I thought I would say a very brief something on the topic. This is sparked by the fact that I am currently (as in this very minute) working in an office where there is one other female employee. I found that weird.

In my sweet innocent feminist way I still have issues with lack of equality etc etc and so forth and can rant about it for hours. But I don't want to talk about that today. Today I just wanted to say that I know a lot of nice guys.

I know a lot of nice guys who are quite sensitive, and moreover like a good gossip, who at the same time are straight and watch Match of the Day and all that. What's my point? Well this is my point. I think yes, there are differences, biological, between the sexes, but that they vary in their severity. And that in the end people, to me, are just people. I would love it if instead of ganging up on each other, "Men are such ..." "Women always . . ." that we could just gang up on individuals, "John is such ..." "Alison always ..." because then we wouldn't force naive innocent magazine readers like myself to adopt some sort of fake personality that is fashionable but not my opinion. My father watches musicals, my mother baseball. It's all good man, it's all good. I like guys. I like girls. But not all guys and not all girls. I like people. But there are certain individuals who drive me nuts. Let's judge people individually. And get on with it.

That's all I want to say for now.

Don't tell me you've never heard of Peer Gynt, no really, don't tell me

Know what gets my knickers in a twist? Other people.

Okay I am being mean. It isn't really other people. It's meeting new people. People who I probably will never meet again, not because they are not nice, but simply because of the law of averages. These people are lovely, kind people who give to charities and raise puppies and frolic in fields of golden sunshine. But I'm sorry, if one more of these people asks me in that supremely innocuous, let's get to know each other way, "What is it you do then?" I am going to blow a gasket.

Yes, yes I know! I know what you're going to say, they are only making conversation, they don't even really care - but it is so damn hard to explain to people that I am an actor. How can someone be something when they aren't actually doing it, and especially, with acting, if you haven't done television or film?

You see, when I meet a doctor (which granted aside from my new housemate isn't all that often), I confess I make an assumption. I assume he's a good doctor. When I meet an architect (which granted I never have), I confess there too I make an assumption. I assume he is a good architect. But when one meets an actor, the assumption is the complete opposite. This of course is reasonable. I am a very reasonable person. When people over here ask me if I am American, I am one of the few Canadians who does not get offended. After all there are more Americans out there than Canadians and the accent is almost indistinguishable (no, it really is).

Anyway the reason it is reasonable is because of the nature of celebrity these days. The desire for instant fame. "What do you want to be when you grow up?" "I want to be a doctor, or famous." And for many people the way to this fame and life of perfectness is through becoming an actor. What is even more depressing is how almost anyone would give up their job, the one they worked years to be promoted to, the one they spent years studying for, the one they spent thousands of dollars to pay for, if some Hollywood director offered them a lead in their major blockbuster (and by the way, props to those of you who wouldn't).

And so, when they meet an actor they assume they are just one of those thousands of wannabees out there. There is little to no way to convince someone who has never seen you perform that you are a good actor short of telling them, "Hey, I'm a good actor" (and that doesn't work either). Especially if after they ask what the actor has done the actor replies, "Well I just finished drama school and have done a few things, profit-share on the fringe." The person will invariably think, "Poor thing must not be that good then. I mean Orlando Bloom got Lord of the Rings right out of his drama school." (okay they probably don't think that last bit, I'm just bitter - but not as bitter as my male colleagues, you should see how they respond to his name).

And then . . . and then!! What makes the answering of the question even more difficult is when you actually are doing a show, but the show is something like, I don't know, a production of Peer Gynt at the Rosemary Branch Theatre in Islington for the month of October.

Because then. . .

"You're doing what?"

"Peer Gynt. It's by Ibsen. Who wrote Hedda Gabler? A Doll's House?"

"I've heard of those ones. What is it about?"

"Well it's the story of one man's life, about him not being himself. He travels . . . there are trolls . . . "

"I see. Where is it?"

"In . . .Islington."

"Ah it's fringe."

"Yes, but it's really professional. All the actors and the director are profess. . .ion. . . al . . ."

"So it's paid."

" . . . not exactly . . ."

Then I go home and cry.

Okay, so maybe there is something to be said in that I shouldn't care what other people think, and I am working on all that and everything, but maybe, while I deal with my psychological issues, in the meantime we could all make a little pact now that when we meet someone new (and even though this is actor specific I can tell you most twenty somethings resent that question equally as much) we could ask something else. Like . . . "Have you ever studied Latin?" I, for one, have not. But I do think it might be cool actually to study Latin. But it would have to be taught in a fun way, I could see it being sort of dry. I think they've translated Harry Potter into Latin, or was it ancient Greek, well I think that could be a fun way of learning it.

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For those of you who are interested in finding out what Peer Gynt IS about, do check out the show. You can get information by visiting www.daletk.co.uk and clicking on current productions.

Baby's First Post

Well yes maybe this means I've jumped on the blogging bandwagon, or perhaps it means that I am temping as a receptionist and it is a rather slow day. Or maybe it could be a brilliant combination of both. I dare not assume it has to do with me having anything remotely insightful to say.

Nonetheless.

Hello and welcome to I Didn't Choose This, the blog where I get to update you on my life as a struggling actress. The name of my blog comes from a very popular saying, at least within the community of struggling artists that I am fortunate enough to call my friends which is "I didn't choose acting, acting chose me". If you think for one instant I want this life, then think again. I come from a very stable upbringing - both my parents were highschool English teachers so proficient in their art that after retirement have gone on to teach the craft of . . .teaching . . . at Queen's University (Ontario, Canada). In fact my entire family is made up of teachers (for more information on teaching in my life and indeed me, please visit my website www.adriennekress.com).

Then why are you an actor you may ask? You seek stability and comfort. Well I don't know. Let's leave it at that. Let's maybe say something profound like I need to act the way I need water, that when I go months without, my soul is parched. But that's flaky - though really a pretty cool analogy written on the spot at my current temping placement.

Ah the art of temping. Yet more instability. But I have to say it is possibly the funniest sort of job I've ever had.

I once had this job ... okay you know those new sort of voice mail services where you talk into the phone? You know, they ask you to say yes or no instead of push a button? Well I worked for this company who programmed such systems and they were trying to make it more efficient. So it was my job to 'teach' the computer how to be smarter. Someone in the company compiled a whole bunch of yes/no audio responses to their service (actual people using the service - never think you're not being listened to, cause I've heard you all!)and they were played back through a computer. If the computer understood what the person was saying, ie if the person said 'Yes' and it wrote 'Yes' then I didn't have to do anything, but if the computer got it wrong, wrote 'no' instead, I would have to correct it. Worked there a week. Got so good I could listen to 1000 yes/no's in 45 minutes. I mean, that's talent. The best thing was when the person would get mad at the system from repeating yes over and over and it not understanding and finally I would hear 'Oh for f*** sake give me a real person!' I understand the pain.

But I digress.

This is long enough.

I'll tell you some more tomorrow.