Posts Tagged ‘play’
Four Lines
This is the sum of all my efforts at writing my play today:
Pause.
JAMES: You can come out now.
HENRY comes out from behind the screen.
HENRY: That was rather too close for comfort.
I did only spend about a minute writing it, then stopped. Tomorrow will be better. This isn’t writer’s block, it’s just writer’s laziness.
Anyways, in celebration of this monumental achievement on my part, I thought I’d give an analysis of these pivotal four lines in my play. (When I say pivotal I mean probably not very important at all.)
Line 1: Pause.
Here we have a stage direction. Pause. I’m suggesting, nay, demanding, that the actors say nothing for a certain period of time. What is the length of that period? Shorter than a TV ad break, longer than a hiccough. This pause also allows time to infuse meaning and depth into the play, each pause like the dunk of a herbal teabag into boiling water. Or I’m just chewing up the minutes. A very famous and wise playwright once said: “One man’s time wasting is another man’s art.”
Actually I just made that up. But I think it sounded deep, which counts for something.
Line 2: JAMES: You can come out now.
Here we introduce a character, namely James. Is he old? Is he young? Is he a tutu-wearing, anal-probing martian? Who knows? (I do, but I’m not telling you. I’m open to bribes, though.) What is he saying, though? Who is he talking to? What does he want the person to come out from? This has more mystery than an Agatha Christie novel through a shredder! I’m spurred to read the next line, just as soon as I get this jockey off my back.
Line 3: HENRY comes out from behind the screen.
Another character! This just keeps getting better and better (and gambler). Is Henry old? Is he young? Is he a Rwandan chain-smoking deep-sea diver? Maybe. But what is this mysterious screen? A TV screen? A fly-screen? A vanity screen? It’s one of those three, but you’ll have to guess which one. No prizes, though. Unless you think a chance to put this play on is a prize – then by all means, try and guess.
Line 4: HENRY: That was rather too close for comfort.
So much for being a Rwandan chain-smoking deep-sea diver. Henry sounds English to me. A tad up himself, and not in a self-examinatory-checking-for-prostate-cancer way. I’m thinking more bash-the-peasants-with-his-umbrella. Typical snob. What with him adding an extra “rather” in their that he clearly doesn’t need. I have to say, that’s rather pretentious, isn’t it? Quite. Tally-ho! But what was too close for comfort? My guess is that he’s talking about a lounge – if it’s lying on top of you then it would be classified as being too close for comfort, yes?
And those were my four lines that I added today. I also finally received my copy of The Man From Mukinupin by Dorothy Hewett in the mail today. Yet another playwright whose soul I will suck from the pages, devouring all their secrets and increasing my power, until I have enough to take over the world! What’s that? Hang on, my doctor’s telling me I have to take my pills again…
Irony
Irony is buying The Communist Manifesto at a bookshop, and the cashier having trouble because the capitalist barcode machine won’t scan it in. This actually happened. And I don’t even believe in communism either. Which makes me wonder why I bought it – impulse buy, perhaps. Damn all that capitalistic advertising.
Also in my biodegradable shopping bag was Plays by Anton Chekhov – I have read none of his plays, nor have I seen any of them. Yes, I know, a budding playwright who hasn’t even read Chekhov? Don’t worry, I’ll just go lynch myself now to save you all the trouble (I can use my specially made Chekhov’s gun to help with the process.)
Making up the third book is An Inspector Calls and Other Plays by J. B. Priestly. I saw An Inspector Calls when it was at the Lyric Theatre in Star City (if ever there was a theatre made for the small and intimate play it is the Lyric Theatre, yes? No.) Still, it was enjoyable, as was the “whole house being tilted up on hydraulics” effect, and the constant rain/fog as well. All very spooky/moody/misty/wet. Like Singin’ in the Rain except with suicide and secrets. And no music. Or joy.
Exams are over, so writing can begin once more. Bring it on, Act Two. Bring. It. On.
End of Act One
Another 3,875 words added today, and I’ve finished Act One of my play. Huzzah!
The first draft of my play, that is. And it’s only Act One – although I know how Act Two will start and finish (the middle is the bit I’ve yet to discover). All in all, though, a good day’s unpaid work – I don’t know what all these slaves are complaining about, to be honest. Unpaid work is fun!
What else has been happening? I’m so glad you asked!
I’ve been thinking for the past week or so whether I should go to the Dali: Liquid Desire exhibition at the National Gallery of Victoria. Here is the linkage. Two problems come to mind.
Dinner?
The first, obviously, is swine flu. From what I’ve heard in the news, Melbourne is infested with it. Infested! It makes me glad to be living in Sydney. So the question is whether I want to risk making the trip there and back and possibly catching some of the dreaded swine flu. I’m still undecided on that bit (although it seems a tad ridiculous).
I can’t help, however, but feel that swine flu is just nature’s way of fighting back against the Big Bad Wolf. Make your own conclusions from that.
The second is transport. I’m merely a poor university student, and to fly there and back is quite expensive, as is the train ride, as is driving myself down there.
The solution to these two problems is obvious, of course. I would like someone in the blogosphere to go to the National Gallery of Victoria, steal all the Dali paintings (they can keep everything else), and bring them back to me so I can ponder their meaning at my leisure. So get to work!
And no, I’m not morally corrupt – I’m perfectly willing to pay the $18 entry fee. I’m not asking to see them for free – what kind of person do you take me for?
Down, down, down…
After apparently reaching the summit of Mt. Offensive in my last post (aided by my trusty Sherpa Satire), and also thinking that if I’m “shocking” in every single post then I’ll cease to be shocking anymore – this post will be a tad more subdued. That’s right – subdued. Let’s let that sink in for a moment. (But I will go off on a tangent first in which I describe how much I enjoy using the same word twice in a row. Such as “that that”, or like the above “let’s let”. And yes I know it’s horrible grammar (probably), but I get a weird satisfaction from it, like I’m sure some sesquipedalians out there do from employing their particular vice. Sometimes I feel like peregrinating up to their accommodations and defenestrating them.)
But back to being subdued.
Aww, doesn't it just make you want to take a de-worming tablet?
Serenity and calm. Serenity and calm. Interesting development with my play, namely that the Australian body set up to help support playwrights (at least I think that was the purpose, although given I know virtually nothing, that may be a very naive assumption to make), has currently suspended submissions for scripts. Fan-*censored*-tastic. Here’s a lovely quote for everyone:
NOTE: PostScript is currently not accepting new submissions. We are currently processing a backlog of submissions and will not be accepting new submissions until further notice. Please check this website for updates. Submissions received to date will be processesd as normal.
Wonderful. Here’s a link for people who are interested. And yet this shouldn’t be particularly bad news – PostScript is just one program, there are surely more out there? This would be true, except that half of the theatres that used to take submissions have redirected them to PostScript. Three cheers for centralised submissions!
But I haven’t even finished writing my play yet, so I’m not allowed to whinge. Let me get my needle and thread and sew my lips shut. Has anyone got a straw I could borrow? It needs to be a small one.
When the Rain Stops Falling, Carpentry Scene
I’m going to see When the Rain Stops Falling at the Opera House on Tuesday night, so that’s something to look forward to. It’s not all doom and gloom here and Chez Epistemysics! Nosiree, you’ll find each serving of doom and gloom comes with a generous dollop of a combination of euphoria, spontaneous orgasm, and freshly-baked-cookie-smell. Speaking of euphoria – one wonders if there is an opposite to manic depression, such as manic optimism?
Anyways, if I’m lucky the rain will stop falling for a few moments so that I don’t have to make the ten metre dash to the Opera House through pouring rain – if anyone knows a way to get to the Playhouse without having to venture out from under cover, I’d be delighted to know. Unlike when I saw Gatz. That was an interesting exercise in hypothermia and gale-force winds. I say “interesting”. I mean “torturous”. Imagine being ripped from under the warm covers of your bed in the morning, stripped of all your pyjamas, dumped unceremoniously (but let’s be honest, I don’t think there’s much of a chance of anyone ever being “dumped” ceremoniously) into an ice bath filled with honey instead of water, pulled out after 30 seconds, rolled around on the floor in gravel (such that it sticks to your body), then whacked by complete strangers with large paddles that push the gravel so that it makes indents in your skin, then taken outside, blasted with a hose, and then, to top it off, blasted with hot air that hurts because your body is so cold and can’t handle the heat. Well, that’s not what it felt like that night at Gatz, but I just thought I’d get you to imagine the above scenario anyways. Sweet dreams! (Make sure you lock your bedroom door tonight…)
Oh, and contrary to what you may believe about the last post, I’m not racist. In fact I’m so not racist that I plan on marrying an Asian girl and adopting children of various ethnicities (Indian, Ethiopian, Danish (the Danish are the silent victims of racism), and a Brazilian). So there, take that Madonna!
Introductions
The Paedo-Mobile
And no, I’m not a paedophile…only because I haven’t had the chance… *ominous music* Joking! I would think that most males are paedophiles if you count the years of pre-age-of-consent masturbation. If you count that, around 50% of the population have engaged in paedophiliac activities! Of course, let us not be sexist – many that fall on the female side of the gender coin may have done similar things as well, although I’m not very au fait with female masturbation habits. This sounds like a study in the making.
I recall seeing on A Current Affair or Today Tonight (two Australian “news” shows – you know the type, 3 or 4 news stories in half an hour, half of them about petrol prices, half of them about celebrity interviews, half of them about bad neighbours, half of them about scams, half of them about grocery prices, etc) (and yes I know those halves don’t add up) a story about a paedophile who had been released. It wasn’t about the story of release, more that he had been placed near a school, if I recall correctly. Or placed somewhere in society. You could give a paedophile shelter in a uranium mine and people would still complain that they were “too near the power source for our nation” (not that we use nuclear power yet). And so the media chased this poor man down the street, herding him into some random building and following him inside. He had nothing much to say. Eventually a prisoner-rights lawyer had to come along and tell the media to stick their cameras where the sun doesn’t shine (and I’m not talking about the dark side of the moon). I thought this was a disgrace.
Not that I condone what this man did – I could never condone such a thing – but he had served his time in prison, paid his debt to society and all that. And yet here he is being chased down the street by the media. What is it about paedophilia that the media loves so much? You don’t often see manslaughter-commiters being chased, or murderers even.
Today's Lingerie Model, Tomorrow's Rape Victim (and the Present's Gratituitous Pornography)
In fact, it would seem, at least from the impression that I get from the media, that activities such as paedophilia and rape are the most heinous crimes possible. Why is this? Last time I checked, rape and paedophilia victims usually lived to tell the tale. Although this would seem fatuously true, now that I think about it. The ones who didn’t live to tell the tale weren’t just rape victims, but murder victims one would assume. But the media seems to insinuate that rape is worse than murder. But is it? A rape victim can go on to lead a relatively normal life (and I’m not trying to diminish their pain or suffering in any way). A murder victim doesn’t have much chance of that. Is torturing someone for a month worse than murdering them? Torturing them for a year?
I have to admit that I’m completely ignorant of the sentences that Australian courts hand down in relation to such crimes, and whether a rapist is given more years in prison than a murderer. I should probably get off my soapbox and check that out some day. But at least where the media is concerned, rape and paedophilia seem more heinous than murder. My suspicion is that this is the case for mainly one reason: dead people can’t talk. Dead people can’t give emotional interviews that bring in the ratings. Victims of rape can. So can victims of paedophilia – Catholic church, anyone? They do say that any publicity is good publicity, yes?
And this post has virtually done nothing to introduce me at all – so here’s a tidbit of personal info. I’m currently writing a play – how about that? Pretty nifty, right? The guy’s an artist. In fact, the guy’s not just an artist, he’s also a young man. Here’s a portrait:
This is what is known in the business as a "punchline"
And that’s it for the moment. Come back soon to read more posts whose titles have nothing to do with their content!
Epistemysics 