writing

When (If) I grow up

IMG_9672When I grow up, I would like to write scripts. Last year I began with a script for a ballet school’s production called, “Something about a girl who goes into a dream and she wakes up and discovers her true self”. Aka The Music Box by JaBaT Dance. It was utterly liberating, thanks to principal teacher Janine Felt.

You see, as a person attached to a pen for most of my life, I am still finding my love of words in myriad genres, yet still not through one in particular. Through this script, however, I discovered that I rather like the format of a script: Its simplicity in structure contains onomatopoeic, wild abandonment. Its formal sensibility is protective. The potential for chaos within abounds. All built around steadfast, sturdy symbolism, fugue-like, figurative and fanciful all at once. Or at best. brevity and the hint of transcendence. Making hard look easy. Like a Torvill and Dean Bolero. And I continue to dream.

So, having put it off for weeks, due to more than a smidge of confounding anxiety, I meshed together a simple musical today…this afternoon. It’s not rocket science, but it filled the nooks and abandoned crannies of my creative self. And now I believe I have the seed of a starting point of not-quite-exactly or anywhere near my hero Tim Minchin. but a…thing.

Melted.

So let’s see what happens when I take it to a school.

My school.

And see.

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Mug courtesy Roald Dahl…

 

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writing

My story

I buy diaries. Journals. Empty books. I buy paper with lines. If you have ever been, or are someone who does this, I’m with you. Stood in front of the stationery aisles of countless newsagents and smelt the…smelt the…smelt the ‘illusion of solidity’.

Australian writer, bitter-brained and brilliant, Patrick White coined this too true phrase.

For surely, if I write words, from the unbridled and elusive parts of my self, I will, in essence, ‘be’. Like some quantification, some permission given, that one’s stamp is authentic. Precious. And, somewhat like Schrödinger’s cat*, both alive and dead at once, the moment one shows one has written, one proves that one need not have written for an audience in the first place. That one is, in fact, the writing. As I always was. As we are.

And so here is my journal. Again. Again, again. Again, again, again. And that I have actually realised that, much again like quantum irony, in writing for an audience, I am released to write for myself.

So, read or not. I am here to leave a mark, if only for myself. My story.

* This is my cat; his name is Schrödinger.

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Schroedinger, cat

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