Jarkko Lehmus Diary

The Pain And Beauty Of Living A Dream

The event of achieving and experiencing amazing things is achingly beautiful. I would love to share this feeling with someone special, but if I'd have someone special I would split my attention between her and my dream, thus achieving and experiencing far less in terms of my dream, my dancing career. Oh, the choices we make.

Bubbles Of The Night

What can I say? It's another Monday turning it's coat into a Tuesday and I'm sitting here trying to turn my too fast moving life into words. It's sometimes nice to try to make it understandable for other people, for to be able to explain the weird and wonderful events of my life for you, my reader, I would have to understand it myself first... That's mainly the reason why I write so much rubbish all the time: I don't have a clue what actually goes on in my life. I do things or things happen to me, but nobody tells me about it, and by the time I realise what's happened it's gone already. You know what I mean? Neither do I.

So life's generally been hectic. Free Saturdays are lethal, because all the bats break loose from hell on the Friday. Two free days is too good to be true so it has to be destroyed by partying so hard on Friday that you can't actually do anything on Saturday. Since you're on the roll, why not carry on on Sunday as well, just so to take the pain away from Monday? It's ok if you can't function on a Monday since Mondays are rubbish anyway.

I met the other day, Saturday, these two clinical psychiatrists who work for a maximum security hospital. We had a conversation about werewolves and teabagging while enjoying the pleasures of a log fire, cuban cigars and single malt whiskies. It was 6 am and Teletubbies were up already. I really liked their company, the psychiatrists, but I fear they might lock me up. I'll stick to Teletubbies from now on. The best thing to do on a Sunday after two days of bending the reality is to go and have a dinner with a member of the board of directors and his wife, especially if your ex-fiance is invited too. Fragility and a mouth full of frogs is best hidden with a tuxedo.

Last Friday was the company's Summer Send-Off Party in Tramway. I bet the local guys had some serious thoughts about what they'd let themselves in to when we descended on them from our double decker bus. All food and alcohol that we could forage was consumed, the sun had a deal with Poseidon to convert us into lobsters, the microphone was abused along the lines of Kylie and Grease, the potatos were present but never used and the whole thing was just a huge stress releasing piss-up. Perfect. I was sober enough to stagger to heckle Scottish Dance Theatre's magnificent performance of Monkey. I used to really like Monkey Magic: back in the day in London coming home from an almighty session, usually working, in the clubs and turning on the telly at 4 am I was rewarded with either Air Wolf, snooker or Monkey Magic. The live version was great! I was thoroughly entertained and gave a standing ovation to the brilliant cast. Second row, slap-bang in the middle, I jump up and start clapping... I guess the rest of the audience were a bit more shy about their appreciation then... Anyway. What ever Janet Smith is doing with the company, it seems to work. What a great bunch of performers and people, and a great first collaboration between Dundee Rep and SDT. They live in the same building, but have never worked together before this. If you have a chance, go and catch the show. I promise you won't regret!

Surprisingly good singing and some great Marilyn impressions! ©

It could have been Thailand or Cuba, all I knew... ©

What happened then? Oh, yes. It was Vasilissa's birthday on Saturday. Another great opportunity to make a fool out of myself in front of younger dancers. Contemplating life over champagne and cigars while listening to Chris Isaak seemed like a good idea. i came to a conclusion that I should act like a real man and do manly things with other men, so I strapped a ten pack of Miller's on the back off the bike, headed off to my mate Andy's place, took the wheels off bike to get the tyres changed, drank the beer in the back garden while soaking up the rays and winding up Andy's missus. Top class action once more. We had to be awarded with a curry for the effort.

I have to say that old age doesn't come alone: it's taken me the past two days to recover and I'm certainly not helping the situation by still sitting here rambling on. I'd better get to bed pretty sharpish. Sod it... I might as well have another couple of glasses of champers, a cigar, let Mr Isaak sing about lost love while I watch the sun rise again so I can talk even more rubbish to pretty young things tomorrow, for I am a newly minted soloist! I can not possibly do anything wrong now... And when I do, I'm safe in the knowledge that I will be doing a runner on Thursday. I'll smudge my trail an vanish into the wilderness of mainland Europe for a month. I'll send a postcard. I promise.

The Bells! The Bells!

It must have been a great party when the last cd played was Guns 'n Roses' Appetite For Destruction, on repeat. I think I passed out about 6am after an intensive face slapping contest with an equally inebriated Robert. A Robert is an indigenous Glaswegian species that feeds on beer and Buckfast, doesn't like mornings and has small hands.

On the shadow of my fifth time of turning 25 I shaved off my facial hair to appear more youthfull and invited a bunch of people over to my place (purely for the reason that I find it more comfortable to pass out on my couch rather than the pavement) and soaked the lot in champagne. Unfortunately I didn't get to lick it off anybody. The downside of the episode is that my neighbours love me (not), Axl Rose is welcoming me to the jungle for the umpteenth time, I'm wearing Paul Liburd's cardigan, the champagne is finished, nobody passed out in my bed, I will be pointed and laughed at at work on Monday and my hair is hurting. The upside is that I don't need to buy any other type of alcohol for the next hundred years and that I will live as long because my body is so thoroughly pickled.

This bloody floor is sooooooo steep... ©

My social life has been totally neglicible due to a serious bout of workaholism. Krzysztof Pastor piled on the pressure and the rehearsals for the national tour after the Festival are well on the way. Me and Diana have been helping Ashley out with getting the new casts of Acrid Avid Jam (Sophie and Tama) and Refurbished Behaviour (Patti and Paul) up to speed. On top of all that we're doing Room Of Cooks, a trio Ashley made for Royal Ballet in the mid-nineties. I'm dancing Adam Cooper's part. Weird. While learning all this new work we're still keeping the rest of the stuff, like Agon, on the boil and squeezing in, just for a good measure, a few rehearsals of the Nutcracker diverts to be performed on the national tour. The whole company is mentally and physically wiped out and severly in need of a break. For me the critical mass was reached a week ago and something had to give: luckily on that faithful weekend was the birthday of lovely Martina and the combined stag do of Andy and Joce, a couple of our ex-dancers. I preached the dangers of alcohol and the joys of love to all and sundry for two days and nights. Monday was a good day to strip the flaky paint off a couple of doors in the hallway: just a breath in the general direction and it came off a doddle...

Words like 'legs' and 'Africa' come to mind. ©

After resetting the counter the week rolled along in a slight upward trend and before I knew it it was midnight on Thursday night: the bells tolled, Friday arrived, the cork popped, the phone rang. It was Stevie Wonder calling from New York... Four hours of sleep makes ballet so beautiful again. On the wings of Red Bull and slave labour the party was whipped together yesterday evening, the rest is history and I'm having to intensely concentrate on surviving the loud noises the circular saw wielding little birds are making. Since I'm so well warmed up, I'm taking Jack's word that it's a good idea to go out tonight to feed alcohol to a rubber-clad cigarette girl.

I'm only going as a spectator... Honest!

The future looks just as rosy-cheeked as the past has been: next Friday is the official Summer Send-Off Party of the company in Tramway. Spoons and potatos will be used and alcohol served. There's no end to the punishment!

Upright, slightly leaning, but not holding on. Pink, but not bloodshot. Must try harder next time. ©