monologues and poems
Dear muses,
As I'm writing the play and thinking towards your last class on Thursday, I find myself signing onto this blog to hear your voices again. I am immediately reminded of how lucky I am to be working with all of you and to share in your process of evolving both as people and as artists.
Almost every single one of you has either written or performed a monologue this semester (in your journals, improv-ing in class, or by composing ones specifically for the assignment). They were all remarkably honest, poetic, and touching. They all showed an inherent understanding of dramatic elements and were riveting to hear and read. They were all beautiful.
So that you may read eachother's work and so that we may have a collection of them on this journal, would you please post your 'monologues' here?
If you brought in poems for the class (either written by you or found) this would be a great place to post them as well, along with your thoughts on why you chose them.
Thank you all for what has been an incredibly inspiring year. I'm looking forward to seeing all of your work next Thursday and to hearing you read the current draft of the play.
This play would not exist without your open spirits and beautiful voices.
janis
As I'm writing the play and thinking towards your last class on Thursday, I find myself signing onto this blog to hear your voices again. I am immediately reminded of how lucky I am to be working with all of you and to share in your process of evolving both as people and as artists.
Almost every single one of you has either written or performed a monologue this semester (in your journals, improv-ing in class, or by composing ones specifically for the assignment). They were all remarkably honest, poetic, and touching. They all showed an inherent understanding of dramatic elements and were riveting to hear and read. They were all beautiful.
So that you may read eachother's work and so that we may have a collection of them on this journal, would you please post your 'monologues' here?
If you brought in poems for the class (either written by you or found) this would be a great place to post them as well, along with your thoughts on why you chose them.
Thank you all for what has been an incredibly inspiring year. I'm looking forward to seeing all of your work next Thursday and to hearing you read the current draft of the play.
This play would not exist without your open spirits and beautiful voices.
janis
posted by Joy at 7:58 PM
3 Comments:
The most intense rain. There’s thunder, but it’s very distant. It’s the kind of rain that leaves you with a new skin plastered to your body that looks like whatever t-shirt you were wearing before going out. It’s the kind of rain that’s chilly and refreshing, hard drops pelting down at you, cold drops, with warm wind blowing it everywhere. It blocks your vision and reduces it to a maximum of ten yards, and it’s night. Puddles that are enormous fill the street and you go for a walk with your best friend with dreadlocks and you savor how the rain feels as it makes its first contact with your skin, making you feel even more alive as you splash around, enjoying the company as you talk about everything that there is to talk about: personal troubles, family issues (how your mom’s always at you for this and that), and philosophy and its own unique feel-how-the-rain-feels-at-the-first-contact-of-your-skin. As each droplet rolls away and leaves you more and more saturated. This is the kind of rain that lets you truly feel alive and forget the things that make you feel less alive like school and personal conflicts and how your mom’s always at you for this and that. You discover a new appreciation for these cold, wet-clashing- with-warm-wind droplets that bounce around you. These puddles that are bigger than you or your best friend with dreadlocks. Even if the night was once filled with conflict you forget all that as the rain rains harder and harder as you walk through the streets lit by yellow and pure white streetlights. Your love for your best friend with dreadlocks only grows as you walk in circles around the blocks and you know that you’re truly alive.
Tap. Scratch. Create.
Tap tap. Tap. Tap tap tap. Tap.
Stop that tapping. Tap.
Stop that tapping. Tap.
Stop that tapping. Tap tap tap.
“Stop that tapping.” Click.
No tapping. Yawning- do not disrespect me. No scuffling, no shuffling. No fidgeting. Listening. No tapping. Do not disrespect me. The tapping, it’s a personal thing. It wasn’t, but it sure as hell is now, since self-centeredness took over. It sure as hell is now. Do not disrespect me.
Tap.
“Do we have a problem?”
“No.” Yes, yes we do. The problem is here. This place. This cold, hard wooden and metal chair. It’s uncomfortable.
But no, there is not a problem.
So let’s just get back to it.
Please? Now.
Tap.
Now we scratch our paper and ink appears where we scratch.
Copy this. Copy that.
Tell me, in your own words, how we copy this and that.
Cite any sources.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
Tap.
In my own words.
Tap.
Don’t write like that.
Write like this.
Scratch it out.
We study creativity.
Creativity is a theory.
Creativity as a theory.
Kerouac. Hemingway. Palahniuk.
Read them, but don’t use them.
The creativity is not for you.
They were great, but they’re failures.
Tap.
Tap.
Bravo, Ty.
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