Another short scene from my ballet story for my graphic novel. Still need a name, probably something that is a play on Swan Lake. As you can observe from these pieces, I suck at titles.
Day #27 - "Gunning"
JOANNA: How did the audition go?
LISE: Great. Well, okay. Well, I have no idea.
JOANNA: You really have no idea how you did?
LISE: Oh, I don’t know. I might feel okay about it, but the way he looks at me, I don’t know if I can trust myself to judge.
JOANNA: Who, Jason? I seriously doubt he thinks as little of you as you seem to think he does. I mean, he’s given you roles before.
LISE: Yeah, but you don’t see how he is. Like… like no matter how hard I try, I am never going to do well enough for him. No matter how well I think I do, he always pushes for more.
JOANNA: No wonder you’re so stressed out. He sounds like a pain.
LISE: No! It’s not him. Joanna, he’s brilliant. He has so much talent and creativity, and all this passion for dance… if anything, it’s because I’m not good enough.
JOANNA: You’re an amazing dancer, Lise.
LISE: Not amazing enough. Not for him, anyway. But believe me, he’s not the problem.
JOANNA: Then what is it?
LISE: It’s… this other girl. This other dancer in the company.
JOANNA: Which one?
LISE: Her name’s Marina. Maybe it’s crazy, but I feel like… like she’s gunning for me.
JOANNA: Oh, come on.
LISE: Not like that! Like she sees me as competition, and she wants me out of the way.
JOANNA: Well, as far as I’m concerned, you are the dancer to beat.
LISE: She’s really good, Jo. And she’s good at all the things that were tough for me. She’s clean, she’s precise, she’s consistent… Jason’s got to see that.
JOANNA: Was she at the audition too?
LISE: Yeah.
JOANNA: How’d she do?
LISE: I wasn’t really able to watch her. But I’m sure she was great. She has so much focus, you know? I bet she wasn’t second-guessing herself, trying to gauge Jason’s reaction.
JOANNA: I hope you didn’t trip yourself up worrying about him rather than what you were doing.
LISE: Geez. That’s probably exactly what I did.
JOANNA: Don’t beat yourself up too much about it. That seems like exactly the way to psych yourself out.
LISE: I just… don’t know if I have it, you know?
JOANNA: I know. But that’s one way to never find out.
With the switching up of roommates that's currently happening at my house, moving in and moving out has been on my mind. Here's a little piece that involves that theme.
Day #26 - "Moving Out"
(BRAD is packing things in a box. SHANNON sits on the couch reading a magazine.)
BRAD: Almost done.
SHANNON: Glad to hear it.
BRAD: I’m completely out of the bedroom, but there’s still a good bit in the kitchen.
SHANNON: Better get on that.
BRAD: And, you know, some of the furniture is mine.
SHANNON: Oh, really.
BRAD: Not going to be able to move it by myself, though.
SHANNON: I guess you’re going to have to find somebody to help you.
BRAD: Well. You’re here now.
SHANNON: I’m busy right now.
BRAD: The longer it takes me to find someone, the longer you’re going to have to wait for me to be out.
SHANNON: No skin off my nose. If you can’t get it moved, you’re just going to have to leave it here. I’m fine keeping it.
BRAD: It’s my stuff, Shannon.
SHANNON: Then you can drag it out of here. I helped move it in, I’m not moving it out again.
BRAD: Fine. Well, if I can’t get it out today, I won’t be able to finish until next week.
SHANNON: Nope. By next week, you won’t live here anymore. I don’t have to let you back in.
BRAD: You weren’t so keen on getting me out of here last week.
SHANNON: Well, last week you were my boyfriend, and I was under the impression that you were happy to be with me. No, under those circumstances I wasn’t so keen.
BRAD: But now you’re kicking my ass to the curb.
SHANNON: It’s where you seem determined to go. And you said I wasn’t helping.
BRAD: What do you want, Shannon? Should I stick around even though it’s not right anymore?
SHANNON: Guess not.
BRAD: Then what am I supposed to do?
SHANNON: Exactly what you’re doing, I guess.
BRAD: Then why are you treating me like such a monster?
SHANNON: I suppose I’m supposed to be the only one who feels bad, then.
BRAD: I didn’t do anything wrong.
SHANNON: You didn’t do anything right, either. You already ripped yourself out of my life. You’re right, you had to do it and I have to deal with it. But I sure as hell don’t have to make it any easier on you.
This is based on a truly fabulous scene from The Golden Girls featuring some excellent acting by Betty White and some brilliant, spot-on-for-the-character writing. I love that show, and I love how it deals with issues so rarely seen on prime time television.
Day #24 - "The Old House"
(An older lady, ELLA OSSING, cooks in her kitchen. The table is laid with two places of fancy china and has tall candles on it. ELLA lays her meal in a pretty dish and brings it to the table. She lights the candles with a match and sits down. She addresses the place across from her.)
ELLA: Surprise, Bill. Montalcino chicken and figs! Well, I guess it’s not really a surprise. I make your favorite every anniversary. And, well… I always make your favorite when I have something tough to tell you. I hope you won’t be upset, Bill, but… I’m thinking of moving. Of selling the house. I know, I know. We’ve got so much time in this house. It’s not like I want to leave. Feels like I just got it all done up the way I like it. Goodness, I don’t like the idea of anyone greasing up my countertops or letting their dog mess up my Berber carpets. I don’t like the idea of leaving the place where we’ve got so many memories. God. I miss you, Bill, I miss you so much. That’s why I’ve stayed. Because I like looking around the house and remembering… everything we did here. The kids’ birthdays, and the block parties, and watching movies on the couch. When I’m here, it’s easier to pretend that things are just the way they always were. It’s less lonely with those memories. But, Bill… it’s still lonely. There’s not much here for me besides those memories. I like setting places for you and playing your favorite radio shows and keeping your shirts ironed, but… it just makes me see all the places where you should be where you aren’t anymore. I read in a book just now that stuff is all just ways of making the dead stay dead. I don’t want that, Bill. I want you along with me. So I can’t just… stay here where I used to be, doing things that keep you dead. That’s not good for either of us. That’s what’s keeping me from moving on with my life. I could have a long time left, you know. So I think I’m going to have to start somewhere new. Somewhere without… all of this to hold me back in old things. So… that’s why I’m selling the house. To get that new start. Not sure where yet. I’ll have to do a little research. But I’m looking forward to it, actually. It’ll be hard, letting go… but after that, I think it will be good for me. And that’s what you always wanted for me. So I knew you would understand.
(She serves herself some of the dinner and picks up a fork.)
This piece attaches to the very first one I wrote for my 31 Plays 31 Days challenge, which comes from an idea for a play about a model who must cope with rebuilding her life and identity after being horrendously disfigured in an assault. This section has a psychiatrist tell her she still has a life ahead of her and insist that she get busy living, or get busy dying.
Incidentally, I submitted piece #1, Pretty is Power, for a "one page play" call. You may be amused to know that the theme was "Heroine." That section alone is a bit horrific out of context, and perhaps even a bit disgusting when you think of it as relating to theme of "Heroine," but I kind of like the awful turnabout of it. I think deep down I am a creep.
Day #23 - "Lie Down and Die"
(Former supermodel CHRISTINA MORAY lies around on a chaise in a bathrobe. Her face is completely covered by bandages and a mask.)
(A professional middle-aged woman, DR. MAUREEN BELL, enters at a respectful distance.)
DR. BELL: Miss Moray?
(CHRISTINA sits up and spins to face away from her.)
CHRISTINA: Who’s there?
DR. BELL: Dr. Maureen Bell. Your assistant let me in.
CHRISTINA: Who the hell are you?
DR. BELL: I’m the psychiatrist your primary care providers referred you to. You were supposed to call me, but you never did.
(CHRISTINA stands and moves off.)
CHRISTINA: So you just barge in here?
DR. BELL: Dr. Gorman was concerned about your mental state, so when I didn’t hear from you I thought it might be prudent to check in in person.
CHRISTINA: Ah, because I’ve become a crazy shut-in.
DR. BELL: It is a fairly significant behavioral change.
CHRISTINA: Oh, yeah, huge red flag!
DR. BELL: Of course, it’s understandable. You have suffered an enormous trauma.
CHRISTINA: Ha!
DR. BELL: That’s the sort of thing a person needs help to deal with.
CHRISTINA: Help? You’re going to help me do what?
DR. BELL: Process what happened to you, and move forward from it.
CHRISTINA: Move forward? You’re going to help me move forward?
DR. BELL: That’s my hope.
(CHRISTINA turns around to stare her down.)
CHRISTINA: Didn’t anybody tell you what happened to me, doc?
DR. BELL: Yes. You were horrifically assaulted.
CHRISTINA: Assaulted? Nobody stole my goddamn purse! Nobody jumped out of the bushes and raped me! Let me make it perfectly clear to you— some freak threw hydrochloric acid at me and melted my entire face off! How the hell do you move forward from that?
DR. BELL: You have to do something to take care of yourself, or you’ll be destroyed.
CHRISTINA: Are you kidding me? I’m already destroyed! I was the most beautiful woman most people would ever see, and now I have to consider myself lucky that I can even still talk! Forget my fucking career! I don’t even look like a person anymore!
DR. BELL: But you are. You’re still a person.
CHRISTINA: No, I’m not!
DR. BELL: You can still have a life.
CHRISTINA: What life? My life is over! I’m not who I was! Everything over! There’s nothing left! I don’t want to move forward, I want to fucking kill myself!
DR. BELL: Then why haven’t you?
(CHRISTINA freezes, looks at her, then collapses on the chaise.)
DR. BELL: Yes, your old life is over. So you’ve got to make a new one. Unless you really do want to lie down and die.
(She turns and starts to exit.)
DR. BELL: I’ll see you tomorrow at two o’clock. We’ll get started then.
Another piece that came of thinking about my graphic novel project. Which still needs a name, now that I think of it. This'll need a lot of work, but I'm just struggling to get all my pieces done for the challenge.
The ballet they will be doing in the piece is Swan Lake. I didn't want to do that, as another prominent ballet-themed property The Black Swan used it recently, but its plot serves the rivalry I wanted so well.
Day #22 - "Complement"
(A rehearsal studio. JASON the director is flipping through a notebook. MARINA is carefully stretching her legs, the picture of focus. LISE enters, surprised.)
MARINA: What’s she doing here?
LISE: Where’s everybody else?
JASON: Nobody else today. Just the two of you.
MARINA: What for?
JASON: The two of you need to work on your performance in relation to each other.
LISE: What does that mean?
JASON: Odette and Odile need to be identical enough that you can be mistaken for each other, but different enough to create a contrast. Two sides of the same coin. So I want you to start working on matching each other.
LISE: Our styles are completely different.
JASON: I’ve observed that.
MARINA: Why would you pick us if you wanted two dancers that looked the same?
JASON: Are you even listening to me? I want the contrast too. But you’ve already got the contrast down. Now I need you to figure out how to complement each other.
(They look at each other warily.)
JASON: Show me the mirror dance. Tell me what you each notice about how the other executes it. Go on, already.
(They take their places facing each other and begin to perform a dance with movements that mirror one another.)
LISE: Slow down.
MARINA: Can’t you keep up?
JASON: It’s not a contest. What do you notice?
MARINA: Her arms are a technical mess.
JASON: Marina.
LISE: Yeah, well, you can’t pirouette on your left side.
JASON: Jesus, grow up, you two. Just do what I asked already.
(They continue dancing, watching one another.)
LISE: She’s… very precise.
JASON: Right. She finds marks and she hits them. You find something, Marina.
MARINA: She’s fluid. Seamless from one step to another.
JASON: Yeah, everything flows.
MARINA: I feel like I’m dragging my through so you can match me.
LISE: You’re too staccato, it’s all choppy.
MARINA: I’m not compromising just to make you look good!
JASON: Jesus Christ, get over yourselves. I don’t have time for this. If I wanted to do a show with just one dancer on the stage for two hours, I’d just do it myself and not bother with any of you. Go take a break, and when you come back, I expect you to be ready to work.
(MARINA storms off.)
LISE: I can’t work with her.
JASON: Oh, save it.
LISE: She hates me. She isn’t going to cooperate.
JASON: Then you make it work. You’re the lead, the show’s on you.
LISE: Oh, God.
JASON: But hey, you’ve got it all down, right? Just so you know, Cechetti couldn’t turn on his left side either, you know.
LISE: Really?
JASON: He choreographed all his pieces so that he never had to. And he has a whole method named after him.
I've had this on my phone for a while now. When Bernie and I went to help Michael move, I discovered this little fellow slithering alone. I was impressed by the size of him, bigger than my finger, and his leopard spots. I was a bit worried for him as he was booking it toward the street, but who am I to speculate on the motivations of the spotty and slimy. He knew his own business, I'm sure.
Also, I am twelve. "Look at this picture of a gross thing! Loooook!"
Working out more bits for use in my graphic novel. Right now the one particular thread of it is standing out in my mind, so I am writing out pieces involving that thread while I have the inspiration to do so.
Day #21 - "Don't Tell Anyone"
(MARINA is collapsed in a heap, her face contorted in pain. LISE rushes over.)
LISE: Marina, what's wrong!?
(MARINA struggles to pull up her tight. LISE comes over and helps her.)
LISE: Here, let me...
(MARINA's knee is bulgy and covered with a dark bruise.)
LISE: Oh, my God...
(She stands up to go.)
LISE: I'll— I'll go get someone. I'll get Jason—
(MARINA heaves herself up and clamps onto Leto's arm to stop her, pulling her close so that the two girls are facing each other.)
MARINA: No! Not Jason!
(MARINA drags herself up from the ground.)
LISE: You need help!
MARINA: What I need is for you to shut up!
(MARINA sits and extends her injured leg in front of her.)
MARINA: Shut up and grab onto me.
LISE: What?
(MARINA grabs LISE's arms and places her hands on her calf just below her swollen knee.)
MARINA: Grab on! Right here!
LISE: O-Okay...
MARINA: Now pull.
(LISE looks up at her in horror.)
MARINA: Just pull!
(LISE pulls tentatively.)
MARINA: Ahhhhhh!
(LISE releases her leg.)
LISE: Marina—!
MARINA: Just do it!
(Again LISE pulls, face screwed up and turned aside. MARINA grits her teeth in agony, but her knee back into place. She makes a small sound of mixed pain and relief.)
MARINA: Ahhh! Oh, thank God!
(MARINA grabs onto LISE.)
MARINA: Now help me up.
LISE: You need a doctor or something—
(MARINA reaches down to roll her tight back down, holding onto LISE for balance.)
MARINA: I have to go back on!
LISE: You can't go on like this!
MARINA: Watch me!
LISE: Marina—
MARINA: And don't you dare tell anyone about this! Don't you dare.
(MARINA dances back out as if nothing happened. LISE hangs back, looking after her in shock.)
Been picking away at my graphic novel idea. So today's piece is an important scene near the climax of that story that I want to adapt for the comic. I feel kind of bad spoiling what's supposed to be one of the most powerful moments before I even introduce the story, but I had to write something for today, and it was one of the most fully formed moments in my mind.
I am borrowing an element of my ten-minute play Fountain Thoughts, of the performer who is reluctant to go on and runs away to wade in the water while she's trying to make up her mind. I think this can be a powerful motif and tie into some thematic elements of the greater story I'm working out.
Day #20 - "Last Shot"
(LISE wades knee-deep in a pond. MARINA approaches in a cold fury.)
MARINA: So is it true? Are you going to bail on the performance?
LISE: I don’t know if I can do it.
MARINA: My God. You are gutless.
LISE: You don’t understand!
MARINA: What’s there to understand? You’re punking out!
LISE: They don’t need me.
MARINA: Jason picked you.
LISE: Well, you can dance both parts! That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?
MARINA: Jason didn’t want me. He wants you.
LISE: Well, Jason was wrong. I don’t have it.
(Pause.)
MARINA: You selfish little bitch.
LISE: What?
MARINA: You haven’t thought about anybody besides yourself since you came out here to wallow.
LISE: I just don’t want to screw this up for everyone.
MARINA: Unbelievable. You have no idea how to push, do you?
LISE: What? Of course I do! That’s all ballet is!
MARINA: You never had to push. You’re all talent, all perfect form. It was always easy for you, wasn’t it?
LISE: I worked hard too!
(MARINA splashes into the water with her.)
MARINA: Worked through what? You never had anyone ever tell you that your legs were too stocky, or that your hips were too tight. You never had to fight against a turnout that wasn’t wide enough, or too-short ligaments, or… or…
LISE: Your knees.
MARINA: Yeah. Or knees that never seem to loosen up, no matter how long or how carefully you work them. You’ve never had to do that, have you?
LISE: No. But I know what it’s like to work through the pain, Marina!
MARINA: Really? You know that it’s like to keep pushing and keep pushing no matter how much it hurts, until eventually you work them so hard they can’t take it anymore.
LISE: I saw. It’s bad, isn’t?
(Pause.)
LISE: Isn’t it?
MARINA: You have no idea.
LISE: You won’t be able to go on much longer like that.
MARINA: Exactly! Don’t you get it? This is my last chance! It’s going to blow, Lise. I know that, I’m not an idiot. It’s only a matter of time.
LISE: So why are you doing this to yourself? Do you want to ruin that leg forever?
MARINA: What’s the use if I can never dance again anyway?
LISE: Is that worth being in pain for the rest of your life?
MARINA: Ha! Too late for that now.
LISE: Oh, God.
MARINA: I’m on my way out, Lise. I’m going to go out on top. And I can’t do that if you bail out. You’re the one they want to see.
LISE: Marina, you are a beautiful dancer.
MARINA: Not beautiful enough. You’re the one that has the talent, the skill, the passion, the look… everything they want. Jason saw it, that’s why he picked you. And I could never stand you because… you’re everything I’ve always wanted to be. This was… supposed to be my whole life. Now I’m going to have to figure out something else. That’s going to be hard enough without… without getting my one last moment. People are going to see me one more time. They’re going to see what I can do. But the only way that’s going to happen is if they come to see you. So you can’t bail on this now. You can’t do that to me.
LISE: Marina—!
MARINA: Don’t you ruin this for me. Don’t you take my last shot from me!
(She storms away, leaving LISE alone in the water.)
This short piece is something I may use as part of my graphic novel project, which will be about rival ballet dancers. This may be the words and imagery that opens the piece. I thought getting some thoughts out about it might help me figure out what it should look and read like.
Day #19 - "Pushing for Perfection"
(LISE, a ballet dancer, is folded up in a traditional “sleeping” position. She sits up and faces the audience, hands folded in front of her.)
LISE: In ballet, there is a traditional motif of the dancer sleeping and waking.
(She rises fluidly to her feet and takes a few balletic steps forward.)
LISE: She rises, unfolding like a flower, light as air… and then she goes into focus. First.
(She snaps into full first.)
LISE: Second.
(She snaps into full second.)
LISE: Third, fourth, fifth.
(She goes through full third, fourth, and fifth in quick succession.)
LISE: Ballet is closely codified, sharply defined. Tendu.
(She rotates the leg in the arm so that it’s behind her. She lowers the leg, still extended, to the ground, and moves her arms to first and arabesque.)
LISE: An established repertoire of movements that form the building blocks with which all choreography is designed.
(She slowly, deliberately begins to dance.)
LISE: The practice in its entirety consists of learning and honing the performance of this limited repertoire.
So you may remember that few years ago I directed a little play called Hamlet. Because I was determined to not make it an heavy emotastic dramaslog, I wanted it to be funny in some places to contrast with the tragedy. This led to some decidedly weird bits making it into the final production. One of the weirdest being the idea of Mr. Alex d'Anjou, who played the gravedigger, who ended up being apparently a collector of his dead charges' skulls and the only truly happy character in the play. We began joking about how he must have had a field day with the throne room after the end of the final scene, with all those new pretties to harvest. I have no idea why it came to me today, but that wast the inspiration for today's weird-ass piece.
Day #18 - "Chapfallen"
(A row of skulls of various shapes and sizes sit on a brick wall in a mausoleum. A GRAVEDIGGER in shabby clothes, with another skull hanging on a rope from his belt, enters with a shovel over his shoulder.)
GRAVEDIGGER: Good sooth, my pretties, how fare ye?
(He goes over to inspect the skulls.)
GRAVEDIGGER: Ah, clean and cleaner, I espy. Soon ye shall be smooth and fair as eggs. The beetles well have nibbled off your shabby bits. Alas but there’s not more fine sun for ye, but you’ll blench full in time enough. And I shall tell thy tales.
(He lifts and displays the first one.)
GRAVEDIGGER: Here’s a fair noggin, fair enough to turn the living heads of brothers while she lived. She had two crowns once, flaxen soft with a golden circle nestled in. She won a third when she wed a second king. All those crowns be gone now, but this snowy smooth one quite becomes!
(He replaces that skull and bends to look the second in the eye sockets.)
GRAVEDIGGER: As for thee, thank me prettily, sweet, for I went to pains to dig you from your berth and join ye with your fellows. I though ye need not lie lonely evermore, not when thy company was gathered elsewhere. And no more hurts of thine for them to cast aside!
(He hefts the skull and examines it approvingly.)
GRAVEDIGGER: The lady’s death were doubtful, but her bones do bleach as white as any blameless maid.
(He turns the bulbous skull beside it.)
GRAVEDIGGER: You as well, rescued from the dirt! But I presume thy children are a comfort to thee.
(He picks it up and touches it.)
GRAVEDIGGER: Such a ponderous dome! Were ye as wise as your globe could hold? Or were ye hollow and filled with gusting like a rotted tree, with your blather rattling around within?
(He exchanges it for the next skull.)
GRAVEDIGGER: Through quite the sturdy neck I must needs hack, to harvest this thick head. With more ease I unearthed those others graves, and the blood did fly with my labors! But it matters not to the new strong-armed king, and it pleased him muchly to see thee carried away from his throne room. By any measure a worthy effort, for union of the family. Though from these bare bones alone none would see the likeness.
(He turns around to look a cluster of three nearly identical skulls.)
GRAVEDIGGER: Not so to regard the three of them! Any knave may see the borne resemblance. The brooding brow, the gentleman’s jaw, the lordly straight white teeth.
(He picks up the first two and weighs them in his hands.)
GRAVEDIGGER: Thou hast held up well since thy brother coveted all the things that had been thine! But now all’s well, is it not, for all you have you have alike. Peace between thee at last! But though fine in troth but I see not how princely. Prithee, are the worms in this mud more regal than those in the village churchyard for having et the flesh from the bones of kings?
(He shrugs, replaces the, and turns reverently to the last skull.)
GRAVEDIGGER: Alas, poor princeling! I knew thee. It does me good in my old heart at last to see your forehead smooth and without burden, with none of glinting madness in thine eye. Still, quite chapfallen? Now I spy you grinning! Fear me not, young prince. Perhaps I’ll hang thee on rope beside thy dear old jester, and he may make you laugh at that. The flights of angels have sung, and I remain to tell thy tale.
(He picks up the last skull, and, tossing it happily up and down in his hands, exits.)
Today's piece came from watching Project Runway, which my mom recently got me into. The teaser for next week's episode suggested they'd be designing for non-models-- people bigger than a size two and below five-ten --and perhaps even actual plus-sizes. Unfortunately there was the definite suggestion that the designers were struggling to make nice clothes for people who weren't built like the walking coat hangers, and I know they design those teasers to be as shocking and inflammatory as possible to draw people in, but I will be very displeased if they spend the whole episode making fat people feel bad about themselves. So I wrote this in response to that attitude-- if that is in fact a mindset on the next episode of the show, I hope they are similarly disabused.
For those who know the show, I picture Freddy being a lot like Christopher Palu (whose Jared-like combination of great talent and emotional delicacy I find endearing) and Heidi is named, of course, in tribute to the Aryan Uberfrau who hosts.
Day #17 - "Slimming"
(Enter FREDDY MOREAU, gangly in avant-garde dress, with HEIDI KLEIN, heavyset and well put-together. He leads her to sit in a chair beside a drawing table and a body form.)
FREDDY: Heidi, I’m so honored that you came to me.
HEIDI: Well, I really liked what you did on Design Star. That tuxedo-styled cocktail dress with the peplum was great.
FREDDY: Oh, thank you! I was really proud of that one. So you need an evening gown, right?
HEIDI: Mom’s up for an Oscar this year, and they say she has a decent chance of winning, so we all have to look good for the cameras.
FREDDY: Don’t worry, we’ll make sure you look amazing for the big night.
(He pulls some pages out of a portfolio and hands them to her for inspection.)
FREDDY: I was making some sketches…
HEIDI: Wow, Freddy. These are… flowier than you usually do.
FREDDY: Yeah, I thought it would work for you.
HEIDI: I was kind of hoping we could do something with a peplum. Like on the tuxedo dress.
FREDDY: Oh, trust me, this will be much more flattering. See, it’s got a long, A-line skirt and an empire waist—
HEIDI: How come?
FREDDY: A-lines always look good. And empire waists are very forgiving to the midsection.
HEIDI: Okay.
FREDDY: And we’ll do it all up in a sophisticated black taffeta.
HEIDI: I like brighter colors. I was thinking maybe orange, or coral.
FREDDY: But black is so sleek! Or navy, navy is easy to wear too! And with your skin— you’ll glow!
(He pulls out a length of black taffeta and drapes it over HEIDI.)
FREDDY: See? Very elegant.
HEIDI: Freddy.
FREDDY: Yeah?
HEIDI: No matter what, I’m still going to be fat.
FREDDY: What?
HEIDI: No matter how slimming all your little design tricks are, nobody’s actually going to think I’m slim.
FREDDY: Oh, Heidi, no! You’re not fat, you’re just… full-figured!
HEIDI: Seriously, Freddy.
FREDDY: But that’s okay! We just have to pick the right style for you!
HEIDI: The style to make me look most like… I’m not fat?
FREDDY: Everybody looks good in different things.
HEIDI: But if you’re fat, that’s big and drapey in boring colors.
FREDDY: Every figure is different!
HEIDI: Exactly. I know you got used to designing for runway models, but we’re not all walking coat hangers.
FREDDY: I was trying to consider that.
HEIDI: And not everybody wants to look like one. Consider that.
FREDDY: I just… I just wanted to help you look good.
HEIDI: Good, yeah. Not thin. And if you need a six-foot hundred-pound woman to make your clothes look good, well, maybe you’re not that good a designer after all.
(She gets up and goes to leave.)
FREDDY: Wait! Please, Heidi… why don’t you tell me what you want to look like? I… I’m sure I can make that happen for you.
(HEIDI considers him a moment, then returns to the chair.)
And we're back to The Stand as subject matter! This one is about frontier dwellers Zachariah Harper and Clarissa Dunn as they make their decision to go back to the town of Reston together, to confront their respective responsibilities. I don't believe there's anything spoilery about this one, so it's fair game to all.
Day #16 - "Confronting It"
(ZACHARIAH HARPER, a young man dressed in buckskins, sits beside a campfire reading a letter, a distressed expression on his face.)
(Enter CLARISSA DUNN, a teenaged girl similarly dressed, with her big rifle Matilda strapped to her back. She is nervous and distraught.)
CLARISSA: Zachariah? Is that you?
ZACHARIAH: Clarissa? Hey, Little Sister. I ain’t seen you in months.
CLARISSA: I been looking all over for you. Mind if I set here with you a while?
ZACHARIAH: Course not. Any time.
CLARISSA: Thank you kindly.
(She sits, taking the gun from off her back and cradling it like a baby.)
ZACHARIAH: You all right there? You look like you seen a ghost.
CLARISSA: No ghost, but… things… things been rough. But-but what about you, you got a mug as long as a horse.
ZACHARIAH: Yeah. Stepped into the trading post this morning. There was a letter waiting for me.
CLARISSA: Oh, no. Was it bad news?
ZACHARIAH: From my mother. She’s… she’s real sick, Clarissa. She thinks she might not have much longer.
CLARISSA: Aw, Zach. I’m so sorry.
ZACHARIAH: She wants me to come back home. Before it’s too late.
CLARISSA: Well, sure.
ZACHARIAH: I never wanted to go back.
CLARISSA: Zach! Your ma might be dying! You got to go see her one more time!
ZACHARIAH: That ain’t it! If it were just that, wild horses couldn’t keep me from going back. She’s my mother, for Christ’s sake.
CLARISSA: Then what’s the hold up?
ZACHARIAH: She… she wants me to come back for good.
CLARISSA: For good? Why’s that?
ZACHARIAH: If she’s not going to be around much longer, she says… she says I got to take over her work in town.
CLARISSA: Her work? What work does she do?
ZACHARIAH: I’m not sure, exactly. All my life, she and my pa and my grandfather, they sat behind that big desk, doing what they called “town business.” I never rightly knew.
CLARISSA: But she wants to pass it over to you.
ZACHARIAH: It’s my family’s job, taking care of that place. I told you about my Grandpap, right?
CLARISSA: Sure did. About how he was a real roaming frontiersman before he settled in the territory and founded his own town.
ZACHARIAH: Right. I heard how he talked about those early days. Adventures, travels. Could hear the love in his voice. And I knew right away that was the life I wanted. Not… not the other part. The part with the desk and the same old patch of ground forever and ever.
CLARISSA: Going back would mean leaving everything you love.
ZACHARIAH: Just like Grandpap. And my ma’s worked her whole life to take care of it.
CLARISSA: Means a lot to them, don’t it?
ZACHARIAH: I can’t just… throw that all away.
CLARISSA: I see. Maybe… maybe you don’t got to give up your life. Maybe you can find a way to set things in order… find the right person to take of things. Do right by all you.
ZACHARIAH: It’s supposed to be my responsibility.
CLARISSA: Might be the right person is the person what wants to do it. Not somebody what got to be dragged back by wild horses.
ZACHARIAH: I just don’t know.
CLARISSA: Well… only one way to find out.
ZACHARIAH: Yeah. Got to do the right thing. I got to go back.
CLARISSA: The right thing, huh?
ZACHARIAH: It’s all a man can do.
CLARISSA: What if… you thought you was, but you don’t know anymore?
ZACHARIAH: Sis? What’s eating you?
CLARISSA: I done the wrong thing, Zach.
ZACHARIAH: What wrong thing?
CLARISSA: Zachariah… I killed a man.
ZACHARIAH: You did? What man?
CLARISSA: That’s it, Zach, I-I don’t know.
ZACHARIAH: Then why’d you kill him?
CLARISSA: I thought— I thought it was him!
ZACHARIAH: Him?
CLARISSA: The one I been looking for!
ZACHARIAH: You mean, the varmint what killed your father?
CLARISSA: Yes!
ZACHARIAH: Well— what happened? Weren’t it him?
CLARISSA: You got to understand— he had everything I remembered! I told you, the black hat, the Spanish silver coin hanging off the chain of a watch! How many fellows got Spanish silver hanging off the chain of a watch!?
ZACHARIAH: I don’t know, Sis.
CLARISSA: But… he didn’t have no mole. I shot him, and then I turned him over, but there weren’t no mole.
ZACHARIAH: You’re sure?
CLARISSA: I remember that mole, clear as day! So it couldn’t have been him, Zach. He couldn’t have been. I killed an innocent man.
ZACHARIAH: Gentle Jesus.
CLARISSA: I didn’t mean to. I never meant to kill no innocent man!
ZACHARIAH: I know, Sis!
CLARISSA: I ain’t no murderer!
ZACHARIAH: I know!
(He hugs her tightly.)
CLARISSA: What do I do? How can I… how can I fix this?
ZACHARIAH: Ain’t no fixing now, hon.
(CLARISSA sobs a little.)
ZACHARIAH: All that’s left is owning up to it.
CLARISSA: Owning up. Yeah. I’ve got to own up. Or else… what makes me any better than the outlaw what shot my father? I just…/ don’t know how.
ZACHARIAH: Come with me.
CLARISSA: What do you mean?
ZACHARIAH: Come with me back to Reston. There’s folks there what knows things about what’s gone on around here. Might be they can help you.
CLARISSA: How?
ZACHARIAH: I don’t know. But both of us got to try something. With what we got ahead of us… don’t want to face that alone.
CLARISSA: All right. I guess… there ain’t no running for either of us. Might as well go on together.
(They clasp hands, and begin packing up their camp.)
I think now might be a good time to make it clear, in case it isn't already, that I am completely overrun with work right now. Between my day job, my rehearsal schedule, writing a piece of theater every day in August, ten thousand little errands and chores, and how the second year of my grad program is turning out to be a lot more intense than the first-- what I don't have is a lot of free time, and I what I do have is a lot of stress.
So please forgive me if I'm hard to get in contact with for the next few weeks, or if I'm not able to do anything. I still love you all... I'm just struggling to stay on top of my work and life responsibilities, and scheduling in social time, any non-work time at all, makes it harder to get everything done.
This scene is set within the universe and timeframe of The Tailor of Riddling Way, one that didn't really have a place in the actual script but probably happened behind the scenes. It's Rowan and Emma Loring right after Rowan learns a disturbing truth about their father and his business affairs-- it's a bit spoilery for the full story, just as a warning. It's not all that powerful a scene as it doesn't advance the plot much, nor get into the meat of the revelations, but I do like the idea that Emma and Rowan had different reactions to the revelation, and different instincts about how to handle it.
Day #15 - "No Trust Left" based on The Tailor of Riddling Way
(EMMA LORING, a prim young woman stern beyond her years, sits at a desk sorting through paperwork. Her handsome brother ROWAN LORING storms in.)
EMMA: Rowan?
ROWAN: It’s all been a lie. He holds himself up like… like a decent, enterprising man. But it’s all a lie.
EMMA: Whatever’s gotten into you?
ROWAN: It’s Father, Emma. He… he told me what he’s been up to. He finally told me.
EMMA: Told you what?
ROWAN: He’s a traitor. He’s made a deal, Emma, a deal with the Germans. He’s agreed supply the German army in time of war. He’s a collaborator with the enemy!
(He looks to EMMA for reaction, but she says nothing.)
ROWAN: Don’t you understand, Emma…? My God. You knew.
EMMA: I suspected.
ROWAN: You did?
EMMA: I see the books, Rowan, I see the contracts. After a while it became clear.
ROWAN: And… you said nothing? You did nothing?
EMMA: What could I have done? I have no power over Father.
ROWAN: You could have come to me!
EMMA: I didn’t know that!
ROWAN: You… didn’t know that? What do you take me for, Emma?
EMMA: Rowan, for all I knew you were with Father all along!
ROWAN: Did you really believe that of me? Did you really think I would do such a thing?
EMMA: Rowan—
ROWAN: I see no one in this family trusts anyone else!
EMMA: Rowan! I thought I knew Father, too.
(ROWAN deflates a little. He heaves a sigh.)
EMMA: Well, we’re both in this now. What are we to do?
ROWAN: We’ve got to put a stop to this.
EMMA: Stop it? How can we stop Father’s entire enterprise?
ROWAN: We can’t simply allow him to profit off of supporting an enemy nation!
EMMA: What can we do? Expose him?
ROWAN: It’s no more than he deserves!
EMMA: Rowan, we’ll ruin the whole family then. Is that what you want? To punish ourselves along with him?
ROWAN: I’m not afraid.
EMMA: Oh, no? And what about Constance and Bethany? Will you do that to them, too?
ROWAN: All right, all right. But we must do something. Not just for the principle of it, Emma. There’s… there’s something else to this, I’m sure of it.
EMMA: Whatever do you mean?
ROWAN: He’s kept the truth of this from me for ages. He told me now for a reason. He… he must need something. My help, my support, something. Why? What’s different now?
EMMA: I couldn’t say. But all the more reason why we must not be hasty!
ROWAN: What do you suggest, then?
EMMA: We must… we must find out more. Find out precisely what, if anything, that means. And… perhaps you and I can take action then.
ROWAN: Very well. I’ll wait for now. But just until we’re certain we’ve unraveled all of this.
EMMA: Just so no more damage is done.
ROWAN: Just for that. No longer.
EMMA: That’s all I ask. Please trust me.
ROWAN: It had better be, Emma. I’ve no more trust left.
(He turns on his heel and strides out. EMMA covers her face with her hands.)
Attention, larpers! This November from the 9th to the 11th, WPI will be hosting SFS Live Action Weekend, or SLAW, a three-day event of four-hour larps!
The schedule of games will be visible available August 27th. Signups open for current WPI students August 31st at 7PM. Signups open for everybody else on September 7th at 7PM. If you're not a current WPI student, please don't sign up before this time.
The lovely Sarah Judd was kind enough to chair this event, so to ease her mind that you're coming, please register now to attend. The website can be accessed here, so be sure to sing up to join me there!
I will be debuting my new short humorous larp Break a Leg, so if you'd like to be in the inaugural run, be sure to come in November!
This piece is about superheroes, including Wondra from piece number five. I think this one came out pretty cute and funny, more fully realized than its predecessor. Here Wondra confronts a fellow superhero, Bantam, on a rooftop while on patrol because he took care of a crime in the area of the city she's supposed to protect. Perhaps I should delve more into writing humorous commentary on what it's like to live the life of a superhero, as this piece is rather successful.
I give full credit for the joke about Bantam's name to , who said it to me on Twitter.
Day #14 - "Work-Life Balance"
(BANTAM, a superhero in costume, perches of on a ledge overlooking the city. Suddenly another costumed hero, WONDRA, leaps out to land behind him.)
WONDRA: Bantam!
(He spins around with a start and goes into ready mode, but checks himself when he sees that it’s her.)
BANTAM: Whoa! Wondra! What gives?
WONDRA: You poached my collar!
BANTAM: What are you talking about?
WONDRA: You did! You foiled a crime on my turf yesterday! The heist on 24th Street!
BANTAM: Oh, come on.
WONDRA: You know that the west side is my territory— everything from the Cloverleaf Mall over.
BANTAM: The mall is on the border, it’s fair game. Plus, you never showed up!
WONDRA: I was on my way!
BANTAM: Yeah, well, if I waited for you to get there, I might as well have just driven the getaway car for them.
WONDRA: I had… something else to do.
BANTAM: Well, somebody had to take care of things, and I was right there!
WONDRA: Oh, you weren’t busy, imagine that! The only other thing you have to do is correct people about your stupid name.
BANTAM: It’s not stupid!
WONDRA: “No, it’s Bantam, not Batman…”
BANTAM: It’s like bantamweight boxer!
WONDRA: “No, it’s not Phantom either, it’s with a B!” What even is that?
BANTAM: It’s a kind of fighting bird!
WONDRA: It’s still a chicken, dude.
BANTAM: Better than being that special flour for making gravy!
WONDRA: It’s supposed to sound like “wonder!” When did everybody become a sauce expert all of a sudden?
BANTAM: Whatever. I handled it, it’s done. Just remember, if you’re going to say you’ve got the west side covered, try penciling a patrol or two into your busy schedule.
WONDRA: Yeah, well, let’s see how prompt you are getting to crimes in progress when you’ve got a kid you have to take to ballet class.
BANTAM: You’ve got a kid, huh?
WONDRA: Yeah. An eight-year-old girl. So sometimes I’ve got other stuff I have to do instead of chilling on rooftops all day long.
BANTAM: Hey, I’ve got responsibilities too, you know. You’re not the only one with people in their life.
WONDRA: Yeah? You got any kids?
BANTAM: No… but my parents live in town. And they get on my case if I can’t make it to dinner every Sunday. So I get the passive-aggressive phone calls, even though it’s not like crime takes a regular night off.
WONDRA: Oh, that’s the worst.
BANTAM: If you’re in the middle of taking out some robbers or something, and your cell phone won’t stop ringing.
WONDRA: And Mom leaves you six hundred messages about how you don’t call enough.
BANTAM: Because even though you’re in the process of cleaning up the streets they walk every day, apparently you’re still the worst and most ungrateful offspring ever.
WONDRA: So you end up having to blow off a few patrols you should be making just to get them off your back.
BANTAM: That’s for sure. If I tell my girlfriend I have to work late one more time, she’s going to start thinking I’m having an affair.
WONDRA: You haven’t told her?
BANTAM: No. We’ve only been dating a couple months, and well… got to be careful with your secret identity.
WONDRA: I know what you mean.
BANTAM: One bad breakup, and you could have every supervillain in the tri-state area showing up on your doorstep. Also, I want to make sure she isn’t going to think I’m a freak.
WONDRA: No kidding! My husband thinks we’re all crazy. For running around in skintight leotards risking our lives.
BANTAM: Geez, how that does work? Is he on your case all the time?
WONDRA: He… still doesn’t know.
BANTAM: He doesn’t?
WONDRA: Well… I took it up after we got married. It’s a hell of a thing to spring on somebody.
BANTAM: It’s true. But it’s either that or lie to them forever and feel guilty.
WONDRA: Oh, wait till you have kids. You might have been up every night this week making the world a safer place for them to live, but if you miss even one school play, you’ve ruined their lives. Then you’ll know what it’s like to feel guilty.
BANTAM: Talk about ungrateful offspring.
WONDRA: When we’re just trying to do the right thing.
BANTAM: To keep people safe.
WONDRA: To keep them safe. That’s just… not all they need from us.
BANTAM: Yeah. So… sometimes you can’t be out there to foil every crime.
WONDRA: Even if it is in your territory.
BANTAM: I guess… we’ll just have to cover for each other when we can. Watch each other’s backs, like.
WONDRA: That sounds pretty good.
BANTAM: You know… I got this family thing coming up next Thursday, they’ll skin me alive if I can’t make it… and the First National Bank over on Treadwell Street’s been seeing some suspicions vans driving around the place. If you’re not busy, maybe you could keep an eye on things for me that night.
WONDRA: My kid’s going to be visiting her grandparents then. I think I can do that.
BANTAM: Thanks, Wondra. That’s really cool.
WONDRA: No problem. And… good job yesterday on 24th Street.
BANTAM: No big deal. I’m usually pretty free on Monday nights.
(They nod at each other. WONDRA bounds off, while BANTAM goes back to keeping vigil from the ledge.)
Today's piece is the first day so far I had to toss something out because I couldn't muster the focus or the subject matter sufficient to get invested in the piece. I'm surprised it took thirteen days to get to that point; I'm kind of impressed with myself, really. But I spent all weekend finishing the homework assignment due today, as well as getting off-book for the rehearsal period that began tonight. Unfortunately the end result is that the piece isn't very deep or good. When I'm not invested in what I'm writing, it's very rare that the product comes out well. (See my really failed one act play from two semesters ago, The Waiting Room, for an example of that phenomenon.) But at least I have yet to miss generating a piece for each day. This one's about a boy who's been arrested being visited in juvenile hall by his foster mother.
Day #13 - "Explain"
(A teenaged boy, GREG HART, sits at a table wearing a prisoner’s gray jumpsuit. After a moment ELIZABETH BARCLAY, a nicely-dressed middle-aged woman, enters.)
GREG: Elizabeth!
ELIZABETH: Hello, Gregory.
(She sits down at the table across from him.)
GREG: I was starting to think you weren’t coming.
ELIZABETH: I would have told you if that were the case.
GREG: I— I’ve been waiting for you to come.
ELIZABETH: Did you enjoy the pecan pie I sent you?
GREG: Oh— it was confiscated before I could eat any.
ELIZABETH: I see.
GREG: But it looked good.
ELIZABETH: Now, you’ll have to be careful while you’re in here. I want you to report it if anything happens to you. Your safety might depend on it.
GREG: Yeah, I will. I wanted to tell you—
ELIZABETH: Do you need anything? Books, underwear, a toothbrush?
GREG: I have to tell you what happened.
ELIZABETH: I think that would be a bad idea.
GREG: I want to explain.
ELIZABETH: Anything you tell me I could be obligated to disclose if I speak as a witness at your trial.
GREG: Don’t be my witness, then, I don’t need you to be.
ELIZABETH: I won’t have a choice if the prosecutor should call me to the stand.
GREG: It doesn’t matter. I didn’t— there’s nothing that could hurt me.
ELIZABETH: What you did hurt you, Greg.
GREG: Please, Elizabeth— why won’t you let me explain?
ELIZABETH: Explain? Explain what, dear? That despite the fact that I have spent the last year as your foster mother trying to teach you that decent people don’t resort to violence to solve their problems, you lost your temper so completely that you beat another boy unconscious? And now you’re in here, waiting to see if you’ve ruined your life forever?
GREG: I didn’t mean to— I’m sorry, Elizabeth.
ELIZABETH: You should be.
GREG: I want to explain so you understand.
ELIZABETH: I understand enough.
GREG: I don’t want you to hate me.
ELIZABETH: Gregory. If I hated you, you would have no power to hurt me like this.
(ELIZABETH rises from the table and leaves the room.)
Today's piece isn't an independent play, but rather a scene for Mrs. Hawking. I am counting scenes for larger plays as complete pieces for this challenge as long as they have an arc. This scene is where Mary first begins convincing Mrs. Hawking can't always go it alone-- and that perhaps she can be that help.
Day #12 - "One Can Hide Anything" - from Mrs. Hawking
(MRS. HAWKING winces and tenses her left side.)
MARY: Mrs. Hawking, your arm.
MRS HAWKING: I'd quite forgotten.
MRS. FAIRMONT: Oh, my goodness, you’re still hurt! We should send for someone.
MRS. HAWKING: No doctors, Celeste.
MRS. FAIRMONT: But Victoria—
MRS. HAWKING: Certainly not!
MARY: Please— allow me.
(She moves close to MRS. HAWKING, who instinctively withdraws.)
MARY: I have some knowledge of this, madam.
(MRS. HAWKING regards her a moment, and then undresses to her shift. MARY pushes it down off her shoulders and she pulls out her bare arm to reveal a bleeding rawness.)
MARY: Oh, my. This requires some attention. Madam, if you'll bring me the dipper.
(MRS. FAIRMONT brings over the basin of water. MARY draws a white cloth from her apron pocket.)
MARY: Mrs. Fairmont, have you any clean linen about? This will want wrapping.
MRS. FAIRMONT: Oh, yes, of course.
MARY: And some alcohol to clean it.
MRS. FAIRMONT: I'll go and fetch it.
(MRS. FAIRMONT exits. MARY wets her cloth and begins dabbing at MRS. HAWKING's wound.)
MARY: This is serious.
MRS. HAWKING: I have seen worse.
(MARY examines up her arm.)
MARY: You have... so many scars.
MRS. HAWKING: As I said.
MARY: Does this happen... often? In this work that you do?
MRS. HAWKING: On occasion. You may count how often.
(MARY works in silence a moment.)
MARY: And... what do you do?
MRS. HAWKING: Beg your pardon?
MARY: When this happens. If you will not see a doctor.
MRS. HAWKING: I manage well enough on my own.
MARY: I see. If I may ask… what if it were more serious than this? Something that you could not manage on your own?
MRS. HAWKING: Seeking medical attention is out of the question, Miss Stone. Any outside attention risks exposure of my… enterprise.
MARY: I understand. But… you’ve no other assistance? Is there no one trustworthy?
MRS. HAWKING: I cannot chance it. Discovery by the wrong person could mean the end of everything.
MARY: I think you make a great mistake in that.
MRS. HAWKING: I did not ask your opinion, Miss Stone.
MARY: Everyone has need of help sometime.
MRS. HAWKING: You are out of turn, Miss Stone.
MARY: Forgive me, madam… but if there is never anyone to help when you need it, it could mean the end of everything.
MRS. HAWKING: It is an easy thing to say when you need not live in fear of your well-meaning fool of a husband putting a stop to you for what he thinks is your own good.
MARY: He never knew?
MRS. HAWKING: I could not permit it.
MARY: In twenty years of marriage?
MRS. HAWKING: One can hide anything from anyone if one so chooses.
MARY: You couldn't hide it from me.
(MRS. HAWKING’s eyes widen in surprise, and she turns her head to regard MARY very seriously. MRS. FAIRMONT returns with the linen and alcohol. She hands it over to MARY.)
MARY: Thank you.
(She soaks the linen in the alcohol.)
MARY: There will be pain, madam.
MRS. HAWKING: I have no fear of that.
(Her face is stern as MARY wraps her wounds in it.)
And we're back to plays based on The Stand! Apologies again that this one also contains a spoiler from the game. This one is about the backstory of Carson Hill, the PC played thus far by , , and . There's not much I can say about it at the moment, except that I think the ending needs work, but I think this is a very dramatic scene. Again I kind of took it for granted that you knew what they were talking about, so I hope it still reads.
Day #11 - "The Triumph of Law"
(Three southern gentlemen in suits sit around a table. The two older men, brothers JACKSON and PRESTON HILL, celebrate with whiskey, while the younger man, CARSON HILL, sits staring moodily with his tumbler untouched before him.)
JACKSON: This is it, this is it! Carson, my boy, you’ve done it!
PRESTON: To states’ rights and Carson’s victory!
JACKSON: To the triumph of law!
(They cheer, raise their glasses, and drink. PRESTON then pours them another.)
JACKSON: Hill and Hill Associates… sweet Jesus, I always dreamed of this day. They’re going to be citing this case for decades to come. Any suit about returning runaway slaves, hell, any states’ rights case that comes along, they’re going to trot out Corbett versus the State of New York and that’ll be the end of it. This could be the making of your career already. Who knows what’ll come next? Judgeships, political office… hell, my boy could be a senator someday!
PRESTON: I always knew you’d take them Yankees by storm!
JACKSON: And you made quite an impression on your esteemed client as well.
PRESTON: I’m telling you, boy, it ain’t just anyone that Richard Corbett invites down to his plantation to meet his lovely daughter. Got a high estimation of you and no mistake.
CARSON: Must be.
PRESTON: And how about that Miss Lilah? Pretty little thing, wasn’t she?
CARSON: Sure was.
PRESTON: I hope you were a proper gentleman to her. If she takes a shine to you like her old man has, well, you might just get yourself in a position to inherit the whole place one day!
JACKSON: That’s quite a little kingdom to come into! Look at you, son, you’ll be a king in Georgia, and a conqueror in New York!
(They click glasses and laugh uproariously. CARSON forces a sickly smile.)
JACKSON: What’s the matter with you, now? You been frowning like a bullfrog ever since you got back. Things went well, didn’t they?
CARSON: Not certain I’d say that they did?
JACKSON: What? What happened?
CARSON: Been back east all this time, haven’t been on a plantation in so long. Wasn’t prepared.
PRESTON: For what?
CARSON: Seeing them. All the… all the slaves. Never saw so many before. Old ones, sick ones, covered with scars… pretty awful.
PRESTON: You’re from a plantation family, boy, you know we run on slaves.
CARSON: Yeah, but… I haven’t seen it, not with my own eyes…
JACKSON: Is that all that’s bothering you?
CARSON: No. I… I heard what happened to those boys.
JACKSON: What boys?
CARSON: Those boys we got sent back to Mr. Corbett.
JACKSON: You mean the runaways? What of them?
CARSON: I asked him what became of them when they got back. He told me he had them all killed.
(JACKSON is mildly surprised, but PRESTON shrugs.)
PRESTON: Did he, now? Well, sometimes it’s necessary. Make an example to the others.
CARSON: That’s exactly what Mr. Corbett said.
PRESTON: I’m sure he did. He knows how to run his own concern.
CARSON: We sent them back to their deaths.
JACKSON: Carson, be reasonable. Sometimes a man’s got to take drastic steps to take care of his own business. If he had to put a little discipline down—
(CARSON leaps out of his chair.)
CARSON: Pap! He beat them within an inch of their lives, and then he set a pack of dogs on them! They were ripped limb from limb!
PRESTON: Sure, that’s rough. But ain’t nobody going to run from that plantation anytime soon.
CARSON: Jesus Christ.
PRESTON: It’s the way of things.
CARSON: It’s sick.
JACKSON: What’s gotten into you, boy? Weak stomach all of a sudden? Well, you’d best get a handle on that if you’re going to move forward with your career.
CARSON: Can’t do it. Not anymore.
JACKSON: Can’t do what?
CARSON: I can’t… strut around Albany like I’m cock-o’-the-walk knowing that… this is what everybody respects me for. Fighting so hard to get five boys sent back to a whip and a pack of dogs.
JACKSON: Look here, now. I’m sorry you had to see the ugly side of things, but Carson, every case isn’t going be about slave law. You don’t got time to wrestle with a soft heart, you got a chance to make history here. You got to seize that chance while you can. This is just one case—
CARSON: No, Pap. You don’t understand. Everywhere I go, it’s all anybody can talk about. It’s the headline of every newspaper. How clever I was, how well I argued my case that the state was obligated to return Mr. Corbett’s property to him. “Congratulations, Carson.” “Job well done, Carson.” All I was thinking about was the law, and making it work for me, and the reward that would come once I did. But now… all I got is the blood of those boys on me. They wouldn’t have even been there if I hadn’t argued for it! And now they’re using my win as precedent for other cases against runaways. There are going to be others just like them. That’s my legacy, Pap. Sending boys back to Hell!
PRESTON: Jesus Christ, Carson!
JACKSON: Just what are you saying?
CARSON: I’m saying… I’m done. Done with the law, done with New York and Georgia, done with all of this. I’m moving out west. As far as out as I can go.
JACKSON: And why in God’s name would you do a thing like that?
CARSON: To get as far away as I can from all this. And from you.
PRESTON: You ungrateful wretch! What are you going to do out on some dusty godforsaken frontier? There ain’t no law out there!
CARSON: So much the better.
PRESTON: Have you lost your mind!? What about your career?
CARSON: I don’t want a career built out of dead boys’ bones.
JACKSON: You’d throw everything you ever worked for away… and everything we gave you so you could get there? You were such a smart boy, Carson, you was destined for something big. At sixteen you graduated Harvard Law at the top of your class. Your uncle sent this case your way to help you make your fortune. And you made it, Carson, you made it so that every jurist in the country is going to know your name. This could take you anywhere— the Supreme Court, to Washington, even to the White House someday. And you’d throw it all away for a pack of runaway niggers!?
As long as I can remember, I've had a little mark on my breast. It's about the size of the head of a pin, it's ever so slightly raised, has a very subtle sunburst shape, and is not particularly remarkable in any way except for the fact that it is lipstick red and been there, unchanged, forever.
What the heck is it? A birthmark? I've never seen one so completely red before. A wound, the scar of a broken vessel? It's not painful, it's always been there, and that color. I've never seen one on anybody else.
This is very clearly inspired by Noel Coward's Blithe Spirit. One thing I found to be a slight missed opportunity in that piece is that only Charles Condomine is able to see the ghost Elvira, I think there would have been lots of funny things to do with a slightly different scenario. I also wrote it imaging two of the very talented gentlemen I worked with in Sherlock Holmes, Chris who played Sherlock and John who played my husband Larabee, as Chadwick and Shrewsbury. It made things much funnier for me.
Another inspiration was one of the one-acts Jared and I saw at the festival of them thrown by the Hovey Players. The piece on its own was fairly whatever-- it was about a man who went into the hospital for an appendectomy and came out with a sex change and was trying to very politely bring it up with his doctor. The jokes were pretty obvious and not that remarkable on their own, but they made it work by giving the characters English accents, and making the joke out of how completely polite and stiff-upper-lippy they were. I thought I'd borrow that for my own piece here.
Also, for some perverse reason I really like writing dialogue for characters who hate Catholics. I love using the term "papists." Day #10 - "The Late Mrs. Chadwick"
(Two very stiffly-dressed English gentlemen, ARTHUR CHADWICK and EDWIN SHREWSBURY sit in a tastefully decorated parlor drinking tea and talking about cricket.)
SHREWSBURY: That is a bold statement, friend. That is a four-time championship team you’re talking about.
CHADWICK: I say the team is ageing out of their skills. Their lineup has not changed in far too long.
(There is the ghostly wail of a woman from offstage.)
SHREWSBURY: I say, Chadwick, did you hear something?
CHADWICK: Beg your pardon?
SHREWSBURY: Apologies, nothing, old boy. You were saying?
CHADWICK: Yes, well, they’ve got to get some new blood in there. Thirty-six isn’t absurd, but they’re no spring chickens when it comes to test cricket.
(Suddenly a woman ghost, MATILDA CHADWICK, her skin painted a pale gray wearing a diaphanous gray gown, sweeps through the parlor, wailing as she goes. After a moment she exits. CHADWICK appears not to notice, but SHREWSBURY is vaguely perturbed.)
CHADWICK: Shrewsbury, are you quite all right?
SHREWSBURY: Forgive me, old friend, but what was that?
CHADWICK: What was what?
(MATILDA reenters and sweeps through again, waving her arms and wailing, then exits.)
SHREWSBURY: Are you aware that there seems to be some sort of… spectral lady… thing… of some kind… floating around your parlor?
CHADWICK: Oh, yes, good of you to notice. That is my late wife.
SHREWSBURY: Your… late wife?
CHADWICK: Yes, Matilda. She’s recently taken up residence in the house again.
SHREWSBURY: I see. But, if I might ask, how can that be so, given that Matilda is… what’s the polite word… dead?
CHADWICK: Yes, in a freak croquet accident on the front lawn. Very tragic.
SHREWSBURY: I recall.
CHADWICK: But it seems that somehow in the Great Beyond word reached Matilda about my recent remarriage, and as far as anyone can deduce, she is so distraught over the news that she’s crossed back over to the material plane in order to seek eternal vengeance from beyond the grave.
(A piece of crockery flies onstage and explodes on the ground. MATILDA enters after it and swans around dramatically, making rhythmic keening sounds.)
CHADWICK: But please, don’t let it trouble you.
SHREWSBURY: Oh, I hardly notice.
(MATILDA knocks the teacup out of SHREWSBURY’s hand. He is just slightly nonplussed.)
CHADWICK: More tea, old friend?
SHREWSBURY: Please.
(SHREWSBURY picks up another cup from the tea set, which CHADWICK fills from the pot. MATILDA knocks that cup away too.)
SHREWSBURY: On second thought, that’s enough for me.
CHADWICK: Quite right.
SHREWSBURY: And what does the, shall we say, living Mrs. Chadwick think?
CHADWICK: Between you and me, old boy, I will confess that she is not entirely pleased with the whole arrangement.
SHREWSBURY: Oh, the poor dear.
CHADWICK: Apparently Matilda sees fit to take out the whole sad business on her by vowing to haunt and torment her through this world and beyond until the fires of Judgment Day.
SHREWSBURY: How unfortunate. You have my sympathies, Arthur.
CHADWICK: Thanks very much. These things are sent to try us.
(MATILDA begins picking up household items and hurling them to smash upon the ground.)
SHREWSBURY: Where is your wife at the moment?
CHADWICK: Well, Hermione’s found it a bit vexing to remain in the house for long periods, what with the flying crockery and Matilda’s propensity for setting fire to her hair.
SHREWSBURY: Quite understandable.
CHADWICK: I rather thought so. So my dear girl’s dedicated herself to having Matilda exorcised.
(MATILDA wails.)
SHREWSBURY: I say, exorcised?
CHADWICK: I believe that’s the term. You know, banished. Returned to the Great Beyond.
SHREWSBURY: For my edification, what is the process for such a banishment?
(MATILDA breaks something.)
SHREWSBURY: In case any of my departed relations also elect to make a return visit.
CHADWICK: I’m afraid we’re still in the process of figuring that out. Lord knows we’ve tried a few things.
SHREWSBURY: With no success, I take it?
(MATILDA pours a ewer of water over CHADWICK’s head.)
CHADWICK: Not as such, no. First we rung up one of those, what do you call them, mediums, who commune with the spirit world.
SHREWSBURY: Oh, yes, they’re very entertaining at parties.
CHADWICK: To be sure, but this one seemed to have difficult effectively communicating with Matilda.
SHREWSBURY: Ah.
CHADWICK: I suppose I can’t criticize. It was a feat I had yet to achieve myself in five years of marriage to her!
(They laugh politely. MATILDA knocks over a table and wails.)
SHREWSBURY: Perhaps you could find a more diplomatic one.
CHADWICK: Perhaps, but the whole affair left Matilda quite cross, and I’m not inclined to weather that again. With all the blood weeping down walls.
SHREWSBURY: Most troublesome.
(MATILDA hurls a pillow at SHREWSBURY. He dodges without skipping a beat.)
CHADWICK: And then there was the woods witch who made a terrible mess of the drawing room with all those goats she sacrificed.
(MATILDA hurls another pillow at CHADWICK, who dodges equally casually.)
SHREWSBURY: Oh, I can imagine.
(MATILDA screams with rage and storms out.)
CHADWICK: It’s all driven Hermione to become quite desperate. At the moment she’s gone down to St. Swithin’s to ask assistance from the pastor.
SHREWSBURY: St. Swithin’s? Your Hermione set foot among the papists?
CHADWICK: Unbelievable, I know, but the poor thing’s quite determined. I understand they’ve some protocols in matters of peasant superstition.
SHREWSBURY: One does hear all those terrible stories about priests with their heads all spun about on their necks, though.
CHADWICK: Indeed. Bad enough that the neighbors see them coming in the house without having to remove their bodies as well. Still, I’m afraid we’re rather out of options.
(There is screaming and crashing offstage, then the crackling of flames. Smoke drifts out into the sitting room.)
SHREWSBURY: I say, Chadwick. That sounds rather terrible.
CHADWICK: I’ve come to know that sound quite well, I believe it’s the screaming of the servants. Excuse me a moment.
(CHADWICK rises and goes to look offstage where the smoke is coming from.)
CHADWICK: Yes, indeed. She’s set the kitchen on fire.
(There is the terrified screaming of horses.)
CHADWICK: And released the horses from the stables. Oh, I do hope she hasn’t barricaded the door this time. Forgive me, friend, but I’ll have to run off for a tick and handle this.
SHREWSBURY: Can I be of any assistance?
CHADWICK: Oh, don’t trouble yourself. Please, stay at your ease.
SHREWSBURY: If you insist, sir.
CHADWICK: Won’t be a moment!
(CHADWICK exits. SHREWSBURY pours himself a new cup of tea and begins sipping. He occasionally tosses a vaguely curious glance in the direction of the commotion.)
(MATILDA reenters. She storms up to SHREWSBURY and stares him down in the chair. After a long moment, she slaps the cup out of his hand again and runs off.)
Another spoiler-packed piece based on The Stand, not for the eyes of those who hope to play someday. I like the idea behind this piece a lot, but I am very dissatisfied with the execution. It is forced and needs work, so I will have to seriously edit it when I have time.
This piece is about Bonnie Reston Harper, the mother of PC Zachariah Harper who has just passed away at the start of game. The other character was difficult for me to decide on, given the point in the timeline and the subject matter of the discussion. I wanted to use someone already established in the universe, but nobody seemed to work, so I made a new character. I think it works, but I may change her to someone else if I think of any already existing character.
I am working on implying things in my dramatic writing without making them explicit. I wrote this as if taking it for granted that the reader knew what these two women were talking about. I hope it reads even without that definite prior knowledge.
Day #9 - "One Drop"
(Enter two middle-aged women, fair-skinned BONNIE HARPER and black-skinned IDA BOW, who sit at two simple chairs with a table between them. There is a cloth-draped rectangle upstage. BONNIE is frail and wan from illness. She lights a small lamp on the table.)
BONNIE: Ida, you shouldn’t have come back all this way. What if somebody catches you?
IDA: Had to, Bonnie. I heard you was real sick, and you’s all alone in the world now. After everything you done for me, I couldn’t let… anything happen to you, not without seeing you one more time.
BONNIE: Aw, honey, God bless you.
IDA: Is it so?
BONNIE: It’s so.
IDA: How bad is it?
BONNIE: Real bad. Bad as can be.
IDA: Aw, sweetheart. You sure?
BONNIE: Had Doc Harris check me out. He said it were certain.
IDA: The drunken war doc? Not sure I’d bet the farm on what he says.
BONNIE: Wouldn’t matter if he was the surgeon general, I can feel it. There’s a… rattling, like, in my chest. Getting a little worse every day. Won’t be long now, I expect.
IDA: Honey, I am so sorry.
BONNIE: It ain’t the worst thing there could be. It’s just… all this. After I’m gone… who’s going to keep things going? Who’s going take care of everyone who comes through?
IDA: You learned from your papa, didn’t you? Couldn’t you pass it on to your own children?
BONNIE: Believe me, Ida, I been thinking about it. But it’s not so simple. Can’t be my girl Julia, she’s married to a carriage-maker all the way in Alabama. Doubt I could even reach her in time.
IDA: In time?
BONNIE: Before it’s too late.
IDA: Oh. Well…what about that boy of yours? Zach… Zachary?
BONNIE: Zachariah.
IDA: What’s become of him? He… he went off into the frontier, didn’t he?
BONNIE: He’s a good boy. Done well for himself, made a bit of money by finding the right spot at the right time. Sends most of it home to me, the dear, and I see a letter from him once a month.
IDA: A real good boy. So what’s the trouble?
BONNIE: Lots of trouble, love. First off… he don’t know. Him nor Julia know.
IDA: They don’t? Twenty years you been helping runaways through, and you never said nothing about it?
BONNIE: When they was growing up, we hid it from them. Maybe it were foolish, but we thought that way we might not bring anything down on our children’s heads if ever we was caught. I… I have an awful lot of explaining to do.
IDA: I see. But you ain’t afraid he won’t understand, are you?
BONNIE: Not that, Ida, never that. Sure, the Indians are the darkest folk he’s ever seen, but we raised him better than that. Still… it’s a lot to ask of a young man.
IDA: Sure it’s a hard thing to do alone. I remember when your Lucas passed.
BONNIE: That was rough and no mistake.
IDA: But a decent boy like your Zach would want help you. Wouldn’t he?
BONNIE: It’s ain’t that, Ida. It’s only… it’s ain’t what Zachariah wants. Being bound to some patch of ground for any reason. He used to listen to his granddad’s stories of living on the frontier, and… his eyes would go wide as dinner plates. He went off to live those stories for himself the minute he was old enough to go. He writes about how he has an adventure every day and sleeps under the stars every night. He ain’t never been happier in his life. Asking him to take it over would be asking him to give all that up. Every time I start writing him… I hate myself for trying to drag him back here.
IDA: The boy would want to see his sick mother before she goes.
BONNIE: But he wouldn’t want me to chain him here.
IDA: Ain’t just anyone who’d risk it all just to do right by some other people.
BONNIE: Oh, Ida. Did I ever tell you why I got to doing this?
IDA: No, honey, don’t think you ever did.
BONNIE: It were my ma and pa, you know.
IDA: Wish I could have met them. Walter Reston must have been quite a man. Ran his own town, and still worked to help folks what didn’t have anyone else.
BONNIE: More than that, dear. I never showed you their picture.
(She goes to the cloth-draped rectangle upstage.)
BONNIE: My father and mother… Walter and Daisy Reston.
(She unveils a huge portrait of a distinguished-looking couple, a white man and a black woman.)
IDA: That’s your ma and pa? But you look…
(BONNIE touches the image of her mother reverently.)
BONNIE: She had a white papa herself. Reckon I take after that part of her.
IDA: Was they married?
BONNIE: In secret. She belonged to a tobacco baron in Virginia. I was lucky. When I was born, because of how I looked they sent me to go live with my auntie. So I wouldn’t have to live that life. That’s why Papa went out west. To earn the money to buy her free, and bring us out here with him.
IDA: She never made it, did she?
BONNIE: Daddy worked his whole life so he could get her out. Get her somewhere where nobody could stop them living as man and wife. But she died a slave. He wasn’t going to wait for anybody to buy their out ever again.
IDA: Oh, honey… I never knew. And you done so much for us... when you could’ve lived your life forgetting all about it.
BONNIE: What’s that they say? One drop is enough. If they ever found us out, I would have been in the same place as you were. As my mother was. I couldn’t do nothing else.
IDA: The children… do they know?
BONNIE: No. They never had to think about it. And now my boy’s free. Freer now than any of us. But… I can’t let this thing die. Ida… what do I do?
IDA: Bonnie… your pa gave all his rambling up to help folks what needed it. That’s the mark of a good man. And I ain’t never met your boy, but… I think any man raised by you is going to be just as good. You write that letter, Bonnie. I’ll see that it goes out.
(BONNIE considers, then nods. She takes out a pen and paper and begins to write. IDA holds on to her hand.)
This play works better than it has any right to. It depicts a birth gone awry, a situation like the last piece's in that it is kind of tough to portray onstage. I think it gets away with it by coming into the story at the right moment, after the labor is done with, and by implying with lighting changes that they have moved from one room into another.
This is another bit of backstory from The Stand. This time it's non-spoilery, but it is sad, and dark, and creepy. It depicts the day that Amelia was to give birth to her and Sheriff Malcolm Royce's only child... only things do not go as planned. This was hard to write, and I ended up having to just force it out onto the page, so it's rough. But might be salvageable with editing, even given the difficult theatrical setup.
Day #8 - "Earned a Little Something"
(Lights up on the right side of the stage only. Sheriff MALCOLM ROYCE paces across the stage, casting worried glances stage left. There is an empty crib behind him.)
(SAMUEL HARRIS the town doctor comes out from the dark, disheveled and with the red face and shaky hands of a longtime alcoholic. He carries a swaddled bundle in his arms.)
MALCOLM: What’s happened?
SAMUEL: It’s bad, sir.
MALCOLM: I know that, that’s why I called you.
(MALCOLM notices the bundle.)
MALCOLM: Is that… is that the baby?
SAMUEL: Sheriff… she come out cold.
MALCOLM: You was supposed to fix this!
SAMUEL: She was already dead! Poor little thing…
MALCOLM: What about Amelia? Is she…
SAMUEL: Too much blood… can’t stop it coming.
MALCOLM: What did you do, you worthless gin-soaked fool!?
SAMUEL: Might be I am, but she was already too far gone.
MALCOLM: Couldn’t you pull yourself together just one night to do your damn job!?
SAMUEL: Weren’t nothing I could do!
MALCOLM: You bastard… get your hands off her.
(He snatches the bundled baby from SAMUEL’s hands.)
MALCOLM: Get out! Get going!
(SAMUEL stumbles out. When he is gone, MALCOLM peels back the blanket to look at her, and his face breaks.)
(Lights up stage left, revealing AMELIA in the bed. She stirs.)
AMELIA: Malcolm? Is that you?
(MALCOLM lays the little body in the crib.)
MALCOLM: Darling? Oh, Jesus.
(He goes over to her.)
AMELIA: Where is she?
MALCOLM: She’s… in the cradle.
AMELIA: I didn’t… I didn’t get to see her.
MALCOLM: You didn’t?
AMELIA: Doc Harris… carried her off. She… she’s not crying. Malcolm, why ain’t she crying?
(MALCOLM says nothing. AMELIA begins to cry.)
AMELIA: She’s dead, isn’t she?
MALCOLM: I’ll kill that drunken wreck of a sawbones. I’ll drag him down Main Street behind my horse.
AMELIA: Stop it. He done nothing that nature hadn’t already done worse. Nothing can bring her back now…
MALCOLM: We’ll… we’ll have another, dear. We’ll have a houseful. Remember what we said? God thought we’d earned a little something.
AMELIA: Malcolm… you know there ain’t going to be any more.
MALCOLM: We can’t say that! We never thought we could have this one.
AMELIA: No, love. That’s it… that’s it for me.
(She pushes off her blanket, revealing sheets that are soaked through with blood.)
MALCOLM: Jesus Christ. Oh, honey… oh, no, honey.
AMELIA: Should have known, eh? Too old for birthing babies. Poor little girl… she had no chance with me… never even got to hold her…
MALCOLM: Ain’t your fault, honey, these things… things happen.
AMELIA: No matter now. I’ll be with her soon.
MALCOLM: No! No, don’t talk like that.
AMELIA: It’s too late, Malcolm. It’s real bad.
(He starts stroking her hair and face.)
MALCOLM: It’ll be all right. We’ll find you a real doctor, even if I have to ride all night.
AMELIA: Malcolm.
MALCOLM: Was a miracle we even made that baby. Why not have another miracle? It’ll be all right.
AMELIA: It ain’t all right, love. I never wanted to go like this… not with something hanging between us.
MALCOLM: Hanging between us? There ain’t nothing, darling.
AMELIA: I never meant to keep nothing from you. You’re the best man I know. Can’t leave things like this with you.
MALCOLM: You’re right with me, honey. You’re right with me.
AMELIA: I wanted to tell you, I just made a promise…
MALCOLM: What are you saying, dear?
AMELIA: Malcolm, I should have told you. Before now. But… you must promise me you can forgive.
MALCOLM: Tell me what, honey? Tell me what?
(AMELIA’s head drops back and her eyes flutter closed.)
MALCOLM: Amelia? What is it? Amelia!
(Her hands slip out of his. MALCOLM’s face contorts in pain, and he lays his head down on her chest in grief. After a moment, he rises. He smooths her hair and takes the clean blanket and lays it over her, concealing the blood. He regards her a moment in sorrow.)
MALCOLM: Thought we earned a little something.
(He then goes to the crib. He gathers up the body of their baby girl, and steeling himself, carries the small bundle out.)
I have managed to get myself back into working out at least four days a week lately. For about the past month or so, I have made sure to have around four days of a workout that lasts at least thirty minutes, usually closer to an hour. In the afternoons, I walk from my house to the Brandeis gym, which takes about fifteen minutes. When I arrive I stretch my knees, hips, and Achilles tendons, and practice ballet in the dance studio, or in one of the racquetball rooms if it's taken, for about thirty minutes. Then I either run on the elliptical or do a circuit in the weight room for fifteen minutes. Then I walk home for another fifteen. That's a lot longer than any workouts I ever managed to get in the habit of doing in the past, so I think I'm finally really challenging myself.
One day a week I got to the little gym on the corner of High and Newton street in Waltham and get run through a real circuit workout by a trainer. For one hour they switch you between cardio and and an intense weight routine with one-minute breaks between intervals. That is very challenging, and I usually leave pretty ripped up and exhausted. It's a little more expensive than I would like, but I really think its helping, so I'm sticking with it even though it's kind of tough on my budget. (Also the only feasible per-session price for me required committing for a year.)
I think I must be progressing, as the trainer has been pushing me lately. I'm not sure I feel that different, but I've never had very good perspective on my physical state. I am lucky that my body is always in at least decent condition; I have no real chronic pain and few physical limitations. I don't remember any real difference in how my body felt at my physical peak compared to the lethargy of a few months ago, or when at a depression-induced all-time-low weight versus lately at the heaviest I've been since high school. Not sure I see anything, but Bernie says he thinks my arms and legs look stronger, and when I flex my thighs they feel firmer than I've ever noticed them being before.
I went to the gym in the morning before work today. Unfortunately as I drove, it cut out the two fifteen minute walks there and back, but I still got in dancing and elliptical. Through most of college I got up early to go exercise, and the most consistent workout habit I've ever been in was when I did workouts five days a week in the morning before 9AM class with an additional workout on Saturdays. Maybe it'll be good for me to make this a habit again, especially since it'd be nice to not lose that chunk of time in the afternoons when I usually do chores, errands, and homework, but I am a little sorry about the abbreviation necessitated by having to get to work on time.
I'm also determined to progress in ballet, even without having classes to attend again until September. I've been getting in at least a little practice three or four times a week. I'm worried of getting into bad habits without a teacher watching, but I'm doing my best to remember what I've learned. I'm not sure my technique has improved, but one thing that does actively seem to be better than before is my balance. I've elected to practice off the barre in the interest of challenging myself to not depend on it, and I find I have become considerably less wobbly as I go through the steps. Maybe it's just because I am in fact getting stronger rather than becoming a better dancer, as holding yourself in the correctly balanced positions demands a lot of muscle control, but it's encouraging. It makes me want to keep at it, and I kind of hope that somebody who saw me before will notice and confirm that I have in fact improved in that department.
I have become obsessed with this video of ballerina Polina Semionova. I love the way it's filmed so that the camera follows her and focuses on the positions of her body, it allows you to really appreciate her technical perfection and just how lovely her dancing is. I love how long her legs are, how toned and strong she is without having that creepy pulled-tight look. My favorite parts kind of surprised me, as they weren't any of the big impressive things, but I really liked where she's just doing developpe over and over with one leg as she perfectly balances on the other with not a ripple going through the rest of her, and when she marches backwards on point in time to the music with her hands at her sides. It's a really lovely dance, very joyful and athletic. Makes me wish I'd started doing this younger, so I could have progressed with it more.
