Some Plays I Am Doing

Well, really just the one, in this blog.

So since like the begining of March, Ellen and I have been directing a show called Gone Missing with the year 12s at Newtown High School of the Performing Arts. This has been a ridiculously nostalgia filled venture, us being year 12s at Newtown High School of the Performing Arts only two years ago ourselves.

So we found this script randomly while browsing the fairly limited drama section at Kinokuiya and I personally really like it. It's a verbatim piece constructed from interviews the actors did with random people in the street about stuff they had lost. For someone who has managed to lose her script, her diary, her keys and probably at least ten pens in the last four days, this seemed fitting and very moving. Also it was just nice to be kind of back in the saddle again and taking creative control of something after a year of sitting around on my fat behind doing sweet fuck all.

I like to think we have made some kind of dint in the creative development of these kids, that we've taught them something they didn't know before, that we gave them an opportunity the teachers might not have, that they'll look back on this experience and think, wow, I totally expanded as an actor during that process. I'm not sure it's worked out like that. There have been...blockages. And unexpected obstacles. And moments where I have been so on the brink of going completely beserk and throwing drama blocks across the room because people don't seem capable of following the simple directive TO BE QUIET.

Having said that though, I would probably do it again in a snap. I'm a sucker for punishment. I mean don't get me wrong, I will be Having Words to Appropriate Authorities about the Issues We Have Experienced. But there's something about being behind the steering wheel of actually creating a piece of theatre that makes you appreciate the final product so much more. Also I am probably a control freak by nature so any outlet for me to get to tell people what to do is always going to go down well.

Seriously though, I think that even without doing any acting for this show I have made myself a better actor.

Explaining this pithily in writing isn't going very well. I think I am better at rambling obsessively over miniscule and meaningless moments (check out that alliteration) than I am at expressing the things in life that are more important to me. Well, I suppose that's to be expected in the public arena, isn't it?

This has moved quite far away from its intended subject matter.

OK so basically, the show is on tomorrow and Wednesday night. It does seem like an awful lot of effort for just two nights but I guess I'm a believer in the product being the process. Hopefully what they will walk away with is a lasting memory of the effort it takes to put together a decent show. Which it will be. No, this blog is not at all a way of releasing my nervous energy pertaining to the fact that in 24 hours time we will be 11 minutes into the show and in our final run today I had to stop them three times because they couldn't seem to stand on their spike marks. Shut up.

Some Plays I Have Seen (And Possibly A Movie)

Right, so a conversation last night totally reminded me that this even existed and that one of its primary functions was to serve as a recorder for the multiplicity of theatrical entertainment I was meant to be engaging with this year. Haven't really been keeping up with that. Whoops. Now I am afraid I have forgotten everything.

I saw The Year of Magical Thinking with Robin Nevin, directed by Cate Blanchett (salivate) at the STC. This was beautiful. I think my favourite thing about it was its simplicity. The sheer beauty of just having a single actor on stage engaging with a very powerful and moving story is nothing to be sniffed at and I thought Nevin's performance was top notch. I sort of want to be her, in fifty years time. My least favourite thing about this performance was all the stupid people coughing the entire way through. For God's sake, get a menthol and shut the fuck up.

I saw The Hitchcock Blonde at the Star of the Sea Theatre in Manly, starring the one and only very fantastic Eleni Schumacher. This is a totally biased review because I have known Leni since she was like, 15. But with that disclaimer I would like to say I was totally blown away by the depth and maturity of her performance and thought she was head and shoulders above the other actress, whose name I don't remember and am also afraid of putting up should she be the sort of person who googles herself, which, let's face it, most actors are. Eleni's performance was infused with the sort of truth and strength that most actors spend their entire lives waiting to attain and if she doesn't go further in this field it will be an abomination.

I saw The Black Balloon which restored a little bit of my faith in the concept of an Australian film industry. Here finally was an excellent story, well written, deftly executed, perfectly paced and beautifully acted, and without an excessive amount of time spent dwelling on questions of "Australian identity." Hallelujah. Kudos to Rhys Wakefield for making the leap from Summer Bay babe to actual actor, and to Toni Collette for continuing to be a ray of light in every film-goer's life. And double thumbs up to the entire movie for making me cry, which never happens.

I'll just take this opportunity to point out that I have a little first hand experience of having a sibling with autism, albeit nowhere near as severe a case as the one depicted in the film. Nonetheless, the experiences of the film rang almost painfully true for me as I sat there watching it. I'd just like everyone to think about that before they think about criticising the film. That it was able to depict such a story in a way that was not preachy, or schmaltzy, or excessively flippant, or patronising, is no common thing and I think should be deeply admired.

All for now. Time to read SEVENTY PAGE SCRIPT just emailed to me. (Thanks Oli, have no ink left now.)

Speaking in tongues

Today's theme is codes. And speaking.
You know when people are talking to you, and they're talking about something, and you're talking about something back, but you know that what they're saying is really about something else and they know you know that, and they know that everything you're saying is not really about the first thing but about the second, hidden thing, and you're basically just having this entire conversation which is apparently about one thing but really you both know it's about this other thing, but because you can't acknowledge that, you'll never actually be able to talk about that second, probably much more important thing?
Yeah.
Story of my fucking life.

FUCKING STUPID PEOPLE EVERYWHERE WHY DON'T YOU ALL JUST FUCK OFF

SO, I thought I'd change the tone around from the last few entries which have been distinctly melancholic if not downright angst ridden, and switch myself over into angry hellbitch ranting raving mode.

Basically I hate stupid people. Everyone who knows me knows I hate stupid people, it's a core tenet of my personality. And quite frankly I don't care if you think that makes me sound elitist and rude, the fact of the matter is that you have a brain with just as many cells as mine or anyone else's and if you can't be bothered to use those cells to some effective purpose then essentially you are just taking up valuable oxygen and I see no use in your existence.

Now let me just qualify all this by saying that the opposite of stupid is not smart, it's aware. I don't really care if your IQ isn't at genius level or if you just plain hated school; as long as you take an active interest in something in life other than excessive drinking and can express an opinion on it using at least one word of more than two syllables, odds on we'll get along fine. But if you insist on being one of these unfortunately all too abundant people whose only discernible aim in life is to consume your body weight in alcohol/narcotics and then talk loudly about it afterwards in a manner that implies all those who choose not to indulge as though we are substandard beings, THEN YOU ARE A FUCKWIT and I probably think you are a waste of space.

We're in a WORLD here, people. Shit is going on ALL THE TIME, near us and far away from us, good stuff and bad stuff, trivial stuff and serious stuff, fun stuff and boring stuff, important stuff and filling-in-the-gaps stuff, but it's STUFF. Some of it is really, really interesting. Your little world, on balance, is probably not. Grow a personality, honestly. This may come as a shock to those who consider me occaisionally shallow, and I'll be the first to admit that I skipped over the newspaper articles on government corruption to read the reports from Paris fashion week, but at least I went back and read the articles on government corruption - and I also have strong opinions about this seasons skirt lengths.

So that's one kind of stupidity.

The next kind of stupidity can best be exemplified by the variety of charming excuses for human beings I work with and for. I cannot pithily describe the many levels on which these people are pissing me off. Lack of communication probably best sums it up. I am regularly sent into situations on which I have no background information and am expected to work miracles. I am apparently also meant to attend in a supervisory fashion to men more than ten years my senior and have them do my bidding. I am being asked to be in charge, and being treated like a child. I am being shown the deep end and told to swim - and then getting told off when I don't. Along the way, I've been forced to listen to some personal stories that far overstep the boundaries of what people who have spent less than 14 hours in each other's presence should feel comfortable in sharing. Which is SO emotionally manipulative because it makes it virtually impossible for me to conscionably resent or dislike this man, which I am totally entitled to do because he is making my life difficult. Stupid co-worker #2, on the other hand, has not even been intelligent enough to tell me emotionally manipulative stories, but has instead simply waltzed into MY shop and raised his eyebrows in a snooty fashion, and implicitly questioned the way I do things, and demanded I close early so he can catch his bus, and taken too long on his breaks, and not hung up any of the multitude of clothing items thrown on the floor by YET MORE FUCKING STUPID PEOPLE, and then, only after giving me the impression that he might have some sort of right to do these things, do I discover that this is a man who cannot even cash up a till at the end of the night.

FUCK.

Let's please not forget my charming boss, who is the one for getting poor misguided me into these situations, getting me flustered and upset about the fact that I spend my Saturdays in a tiny room filling up with bags of junk faster than I can empty them, with a middle aged man who seems to have all the motivation and foresight of a 13 year old McDonald's employee (quote: "You don't want to do too much today, or they'll expect you to keep doing that in the futute.") I'm NINETEEN! I'm a SALES GIRL! I AM NOT TRAINED FOR THIS! OF COURSE I AM GOING TO FAIL MISERABLY!!! This is NOT my main priority in life! I don't want to be worrying about this during the week! During the week I am an intelligent, capable, interesting, friendly and successful person with friends and interests and books and things to do and places to go! THIS IS WHERE I COME TO EARN THE MONEY TO GO TO THOSE PLACES! YOU ARE NOTHING TO ME EXCEPT A CASH MACHINE! I will do my job to the best of my ability. I will be polite and corteous to my customers and provide the service I am here to provide, because my job itself is actually reasonably enjoyable. BUT TREAT ME WITH SOME SORT OF DIGNITY OR I SWEAR TO GOD, ONE DAY YOU WILL ARRIVE AT ST VINCENT DE PAUL GLEBE AND FIND NOTHING BUT AN INCINERATED BUILDING AND A DERANGED TEENAGER SCREAMING "I DON'T WANT ANY MORE FUCKING DONATIONS!!!!!"


So that's another kind of stupidity.

And it's just...UGH. It makes me feel small and frustrated and wound up in knots that so much idiocy exists in this world. No wonder the human race is doomed. Obviously this kind of behaviour is going on everywhere, all the time, in all sectors of industry, from street cleaners to government. How utterly depressing.

Sigh. I think all is not lost, however. Because there are some non stupid people in this world. Me, for one. I mean, obviously if I were running the world everything would be better. People who are even less stupid than me are my friends, who are the best, and my family, who are pretty good, if only because they passed on their non stupid genes to me. And I know instinctively that there are a whole host of non stupid, very interesting people out there in the world, who I would love to meet. It's just a shame that all the stupid are preventing this from happening.

Fat

I feel fat today. Notice I said feel, not look, because I believe fatness is, or at least can be, an emotional state. I mean I don't think I look much fatter than usual - I just did an hour and a half's dance class so logically I should not look fatter than usual.
No, fat is definitely a state of mind. I have excess mental activity and deficient physical output. I am a thinker, for certain, but this detracts from my ability to be a doer. I am not by nature a doer. I don't do half the things I say I will, leaving me with a persistent sensation that I really could be the greatest thing in the world...if only I could be bothered.
What is it that prevents us from enacting all the amazing plans in our head? Why do nine out of ten of my friends rate "procrastination" as one of their primary talents? Why do we constantly sabotage ourselves from being better, doing better, feeling better?

My "to do list" runs from here to eternity, including items such as "Call IKEA" [see previous entry], "Change uni enrolments" and "Clean desk" right through to "Go for run!!" "Call Jenna!!!" [incredibly close friend who have not spoken to since New Year's] and "Book tickets for STC show!!!!!!" Why do I never do these things? Why are my days instead spent watching Friends reruns when there are things to be done, problems to be solved, lives to be lived?
What the fuck are we so afraid of?

The vagaries of IKEA

Anyone who knows me should probably know that one of my favourite places in the world is IKEA. I love the boxes. I love the way that everything goes cleverly with everything else. I love the fact that everything is labelled and indexed, leaving no room for confusion. I love the idea that with enough purchases, my life could stop being one endless search for keys/bobby pins/bank statements/meaning and instead be a luxurious and enjoyable wander through various stages of the day - cooking, studying, dressing, entertaining, travelling, etc.
Going to IKEA tends to make me feel pretty relaxed. I just like looking at all the pretty things. I find it soothing. And reassauring. I like telling myself that, one day, in the imaginary future, sometime around the time I become a respected actor and find myself in a loving and stable relationship and capable of paying bills on time, my house too will be a series of clean lines and well ordered magazines; extensive bookshelves and interesting art; comfortable couches and a wellstocked kitchen; clothes on hangers instead of my floor, and all the associated glory that comes with said.
However, after spending four hours in the place yesterday, surrounded by boxes of all shapes and colours, I think my passion has temporarily faded. For one thing, the whole reason I went to IKEA was to buy a desk. I knew which desk I wanted. (My next favourite thing to visiting IKEA is reading the catologue.) I went to the desk section. Damn desk is sold out. I mean, when does IKEA sell out of anything? Most discouraging. Then I bought a bedside table, and a lot of boxes, the uses of which are contingent on me building this bookshelf that I bought from IKEA sometime just after I came home - September probably. The bookshelf IN ITSELF is a WHOLE SEPERATE ISSUE (why did I get it in dark brown when everything else in my room is a pale beech colour???). And currently my room is just knee deep in boxes, packed and unpacked, of clothes that need to be altered, bookshelves that need to be created, photos that need to be stored and such a dazzling array of miscellaneous paperwork I hardly know what to do with myself.
The chasm (I think this is my new favourite word) between my dream home (compartmentalised) and the reality (shit spewing out of drawers and cupboards as though it were genetically mutated and trying to take over the world) is so depressing as to actually make me simply want to crawl into bed (IKEA sheets, naturally) surrounded by a pile of junk, and just...disappear.

Just hypothetically

What do you do when you think you know exactly how you want your life to go but you know that, essentially, it's not really up to you?
What if you can see all these amazing, perfect things in your hypothetical future?
What if none of them come true? What are you left with then? Were the dreams foolish? Or was it in fact you who was foolish for not chasing the damn dreams to begin with? For waiting for them to chase you?
This may seem like a solid contender to win the Statement of the Bleeding Obvious 2008 gold medal, but it is only really dawning on me - in a real, meaningful, fist in my gut sort of way - that I can't imagine my life into perfection. That creating conversations in my head does not lead to their eventuality. And that all I do by doing so is create an even greater and more dangerous chasm between reality and...whatever it is I think I'm headed towards.
It might not happen. It probably won't happen. But what will happen? And why does it scare me so much?