This month in London has come and gone in a heartbeat or two, and now everything has stopped. There's nothing in me of the desperate post-New York melancholy. I hardly feel anything at all. The count, as we know, is "neither sad, nor sick, nor merry, nor well", and so am I. Not jealous, just numb.
Those four weeks were a typhoon of life. So much that I hardly believe it happened at all. There was coming over to RADA with a cup of triple-shot latte, Shakespeare, and more Shakespeare; important lessons, fun lessons. Period dancing. Clowning. Stage Fighting (best. thing. ever. I want to find a rapier fencing club, or something). Rehearsals. Even more Shakespeare. Oh, and then the evening began, with hanging out in or on the steps of someone else's campus, with wine or coffee, with Shakespeare folios or reciting monologues, with period dancing or shouting popular songs. There was theatre, both good and bad, alone and in company. There was real life drama, although never of an upsetting kind, never in form of an argument, never badmouthing behind others' backs. There was sitting on the steps of my dorm with a friend who lived across the road, every night, taking about boys and life, and, yeah, boys. There were shots and dancing and pubs and late late nights with heavy heavy mornings. We did, however, never go beyond what would be considered sensible partying. Or rather, all of us have, at some point or other, that was also a moment when we would go easier. After all, with all the partying and fun times, we were there to learn. And, boy, did we learn! Seeing all those wonderful people progress and perform, or holding them as an anchor in a long scene, both giving and receiving as much in a studio, as in life. I never felt more in tune, or more in love with the very same Bard.
I use "we" a lot. I cannot think of that month in a singular term. I don't think I existed in one, either. Prior to coming, I decided to stay in another campus, to have my alone time. I ended up not wanting it. Of course, one needs to do what one has to do, but every time after only few hours of lonely activities I ended up missing the faces I've been seeing for at least eight hours every day, and a group dinner or beer or studying was in order then. Funny.
Actually, I think my only real alone time had everything to do with Punchdrunk. You know, the company that made Sleep No More? They've got a new show in London, The Drowned Man, and, obviously, me being myself, I ended up seeing it many more times then I had planned. Even with everything going on I would bid my friends goodbye once a week and sneak out on them in order to run around that beautiful set, stalk characters and completely lose myself in the show. It's not the same as New Yorj, of course, but once again it played perfect part in my life. I had a chance to do Punchdrunk performance masterclass as well, which was fantastic.
I don't know if I feel like I feel now because of the tiredness, since there was not a day of rest, - relaxing kind of rest, - in the last 30 days. Or maybe my fountain of life has just dried out and I need to refill it.
Do I miss London? Yes, I do. Still, I don't want to be back. Or, rather, I do, but only because Moscow is gloomy and frightening and evokes no warm feelings in me whatsoever, and also a few people stayed behind to do a week-long intensive. However, London now wouldn't and won't be the same. The magic that was people and our very own student-y Bloomsbury is gone, dare I say it, forever. There will be Autumn, of course, when I shall be living in the same area, and go (take a long long bloody tube ride rather) to a drama school, and there might be more Shakespeare, and hanging out at somebody else's campus, and shots, and being a family/ensemble. I sure as hell hope that that'll be the case.
But it's not only another chapter, it's a whole new novel.
Oh God, sorry, friends, I go on and on and on.
The point is: life was good, but now I'm in Moscow. I'm sorting out my visas and preparing myself to move on.