'THIS IS TRUE- TRUER THAN ANYTHING ELSE I WILL EVER WRITE, FEEL, OR KNOW. WHAT I AM NOW IS ME. WHAT I WILL BE IS A LIE"

I've recently been re-reading 'Moab is my Washpot', the first installment of the autobiography of Mr. Steven Fry (whom I greatly admire!), because it is a good read, and an amazing autobiography (having only read a handful of autobiographies ('Never have your dog stuffed' Alan Alda; 'And it's Goodnight from Him' The Two Ronnies; 'Dear Fatty' Dawn French; 'Look Back in Hunger' Jo Brand; and obviously 'Moab is my Washpot' Stephen Fry)) will happily place it at the top of the list.

But an analysis of the book itself can wait, what I wish to ramble about is that it's got me thinking, predominantly of two separate themes. Firstly: writing; Secondly: Riding for a fall.
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1)

I hate it, genuinely hate it, cringe, pull funny faces, joke about the topic, want to die hate it, when people ask me what I want to do as a career. Partially because most of the jobs within the theatre/performing arts industry sound ridiculously pretentious. "Oh, I wish to be an actor/director/blah blah self-sanctifying blah"; and partially because I never really know. I have a great passion for Shakespeare (and quite a lot of Elizabethan/Jacobean literature). I thoroughly enjoy directing plays, I also thoroughly enjoy acting (though I am well aware of my lack of talent). I had a brief period of considering a comedy career but, apparently, in order to be a comic one must be funny. Not likely then.
But the one thing, the one horrible, pretentious thing that has always been there in my life. The one thing that, had I the balls I would openly admit I wanted to do 'when I grow up', is write.

I want to be a writer.

Even typing it fills me with dread. I'm not sure that sentence will actually make the final post.
I want to write 'Doctor Who', I want to write plays, and poetry (don't judge me). I do, in a nobody-will-ever-ever-read-this way. My vague comedy dreams circulated around me writing sketches. I have all these stories and ideas zooming around my mind that I really want to write and have people see them, read them, experience them. I don't want it to be a secret, I want to be good enough that I needn't fear it. That I won't think up a damn good line and then think "What a pity nobody will ever see it".
But.... I'm not that good. I'm not a master of the English language. I can barely manage the complexities of a normal conversation with a cabbie, let alone scribe lines that could pass the scrutiny of a publisher/producer/director/(God forbid)audience.

"You'll never know unless you try!"

I don't want to try. I don't want to try because I don't want to fail. This is something that I love and by keeping it purely to myself my delusions of grandeur shall never be shattered by somebody saying "Well... that's shit."

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2)

That was merely the first train of thought Mr. Fry set about my mind. The second becomes even more narcissistic in nature. This is the one thing that I have been told by every teacher I have encountered that knew my name. This is something I have been told by family and friends alike. For as long as mankind has been a master of the disapproving look I have been looked at disapprovingly whilst informed of the following.

I am riding for a fall.

A few simple facts:

-I have never revised for an exam. I am yet to fail an A-Level/GCSE/whatever (though I have intentionally sabotaged a couple of papers because of boredom).

-I have never written an essay/started an assignment more than a day ahead of time. Again, am yet to fail one.

-I have never sat down and actively learnt lines. I have never dried onstage.

-I have often left scenes undirected until the last minute waiting for inspiration to strike. (Rather unfairly meaning that anybody working with me needs to be damn on the ball and able to work well and work quick.)

-I have gone to run workshops with nothing prepared and just improvised.

-I leave most of my life until the last possible minute and somehow seem to get away with it. It rarely crosses my mind that it wouldn't get done. Starting my A-Level English Language coursework at 02:00am on the day it was due it never crossed my mind that it wouldn't happen, because it does. It always does.

This isn't arrogance. I never really flaunt these facts and this attitude, it isn't very becoming. This really, honestly, sincerely isn't me saying 'Look how clever I am' because I'm really not. I often fear my IQ dips below double digits, so grand is my incompetence at life. Just the everyday aspects of life like conversation, being normal, paying attention, maintaining the social norms etc. These are just the facts. These are the reasons why I have been told, for as long as I can remember, that I am going to fail one day and that I shall deserve it.
One day I shall get a shock when I am fail at something for which I have not tried. (I would also like to impress upon you that I do try at things. I have occasionally been known to work very hard, for all the good it's done.)

What I have been riding on throughout my educational career thus far is not intelligence (L, O, and L), as opposed to luck. I rather imagine, taking the example of my English coursework, that I only did rather well because my teacher had never seen an episode of 'Doctor Who' in his life, not because of my skillful linguistic analysis. I like the imagine the staffroom conversation was something like:

"A: What's a Rutan?

B: I dunno, but they're at war with the Sontarans.

A: The what?

B: *shrugs shoulders* Apparently they were invented by Robert Holmes.

A: Is he an alien?

B: He's the writer!

A: *Confused face* Sod it, we'll give her an A"


But, rarely does effort (in my education) pay off. Looking now at the first term of my time at university. The things in which I did well were those for which I could have hardly put in less effort. In some cases the only way that I could have put less effort in would have been not to write the damn things. However, the module in which I put in the effort, I remained conscious and actually paid attention, took stuff in and did the reading; at that I failed miserably. I showed exactly zero improvement throughout the course of the term.
This is only the most recent of a lifetime of examples. If I try at something, rather if I have to try at something, I'm shit at it. And I'm rather fed up at being shit at the stuff that I like as opposed to the stuff I couldn't give a damn about.

This also appears to have gone off on something of a tangent. And has no real conclusion. One day I will crash and burn, the people in my life have happily and continually informed me of this. Statistics inform me of this, my luck has to run out. I can't live a life on chance.

There appears to be, somewhere within me, lord knows how it got there but it is deeply embedded, a sort of blasé faire mentality that I cannot seem to shake. It's probably immaturity, a sort of 'Fuck you!' way of seeing the world. You insult me, you fail me, I shall just become more introvert, less co-operative, less organised. If you must keep telling me that I am 'riding for a fall' then the childish part of my brain shall merely climb onto my metaphorical horse, place a blindfold over my eyes and thunder onward; because I can. It is yet to let me down.
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So, there you go. Those are two pools of thought taking up precious brain space that I thought I would share with... well, nobody.


There's an odd safety in posting all this here, because I know nobody reads it. Nobody gives a shit. It's rather liberating.

SOMEWHERE OVER THE RAINBOW.....

Let's have a show where a bunch of people who are dreaming of a stage career have to keep singing a song about dreaming. There's a producer somewhere who must be very pleased with himself I'm sure.

Every time I watch something like 'Over the Rainbow' or 'I'll Do Anything' I spend the entire time going "I could do that!"

I couldn't, but I can dream!

I think I have a very strange relationship with singing, in that I love it, I really genuinely do. More so than I'm capable of expressing with my stunted vocabulary. There's such a feeling of freedom, something intangible happens, which is a bugger because I like things to be both obvious and simple. Anything more will destroy my analysis-reliant way of seeing the world. And if I'm alone, with absolutely NO CHANCE OF BEING HEARD AT ALL WHATSOEVER! I can belt out a tune with the best of them (this is a lie, but that's how it feels). Of course, the second someone is within earshot I can't do it. This is pretty much because I'm very aware that in reality I'm not very good, however in my daydreams I am every major west end role. (And in my imagination, I am very, very good!)

But, I've sort of persevered with singing despite people telling me not to. I still rock up to sing out of tune at the odd choir. My nieces, who must be nice to me because I buy them stuff, have heard me sing almost every song I know, and getting them to sing, to see them genuinely loving it makes me really happy. Few folks have said 'Stop it Evans, you're hurting my ears' in so curt a sentence, (apart from one) but I'm well aware I'm clinging onto a... well, it can't even be described as a dying dream, it was never really alive. And it sucks! To want to be good at something and to suck so badly at something you love doing is a right pain up the arse.

[Just as an aside, I'm listening to an 'Awesome Show tunes'-esque album whilst writing this. Who is this Barbara Streisand.... like, whatever!]

I realise this is a really whiny post after months of nothing (I have no excuse, I am just lazy) but I suppose what really annoys me is that I'm not going to do anything to change the way things are. I'm the only person in the world that gives a damn whether or not I can sing, and I'm neither talented nor charismatic enough for anyone else to bother (I'm doubting anybody would have made it this far through this blog post). I'm not going to get singing lessons because I'm too self conscious, (and probably couldn't afford them), and, as the saying goes, you can't polish a turd. (I hate that phrase! But cannot think of a better way to word it!)

So, back to singing in the shower and quietly hating all the people I meet who actually have talent. I don't care how nice they are, if you can sing and I can't, you are on my hit list.

¬_¬

NORTHERN SNOW > SOUTHERN SNOW

THE MISSION: BUILD NEW AGENT, CONSISTING ENTIRELY OF FROZEN H2O

AGENTS: SECRET AGENTS KATFLAP AND JAMMY DODGER

TIME: EIGHTEEN HUNDRED HOURS

VISUAL AID: CAMERA BROKEN, OLD VISUALS USED TO PROVIDE EXAMPLES OF PREVIOUS WORK

ACTIONS: Sadly it must be reported that much snow was lost before the mission could take place due to a snowball fight. However, the agents struggled on despite the cold, cold snow. It has been observed that Agent Jammy Dodger has very much gained her father's tendency to complain about every little thing ("Auntie Kat... this snow doesn't work!" Come on now child. How hard is it to roll a snowball?). Agent Katflap was also observed muttering obscenities at the snow (thankfully out of the hearing of Agent Jammy Dodger) that the snow was particularly hard to roll.
At this point again the two agents descended into an altercation involving much throwing of snow. I would not recommend these agents for serious action.

Eventually the snow had been collated into three spheres, which were then stacked one atop of the other. After this there was a manic hunt for a necessary implement in their new agent, however, once found the carrot was place within the head to form the nasal passage of new agent. Adequate twigs were discovered and delicately placed to form limbs, and stones for visual and vocal purposes.
Also, the stones were rather superfluously placed to form buttons on none existent clothes. It is recommended that before the next snowfall these agents undergo basic accessorising training.
A hat and a scarf later the new agent is complete. Upon what appeared to be a fairly strenuous thought process, Agent Jammy Dodger named him 'Snow'. A hot chocolate later, with 'The Muppet Christmas Carol' playing on the new HD piece of televisual equipment within Agent Katflap's home, both agents fell into a slumber.

MISSION EVALUATION: Lots and lots of fun! =D

THIS IS NOT A PIPE

Last day of work today! Handed in all my essays, all my performances for this year have been performed, and my very last lecture is long gone. Woo!
In our last lecture we had to discuss the piece of theatre we had made and things that we had learnt and discovered about creating theatre that we had not previously known. The play we made was, well, not brilliant (though, admittedly, it's allowed to be a bit rubbish, only a first year!) and Dan was trying to describe how we wanted the piece to not be in your face, but rather to resonate, and this got me thinking.
I've been doing far too much thinking recently, for Christmas I shall allow my brain a day off, it never comes up with any good stuff anyway.

In my opinion (I'm aware that I'm not really educated enough to have an opinion to hold any weight, and that none of this will be original, but bear with me) there are basically three different types of theatre. There's theatre for escapism and entertainment, that's purely there to make you happy and therefore the happiness will last for as long as the show plus however long you can remember it/until someone spills coffee on you on the tube. There's theatre that is very much in your face and yelling at you 'THIS IS AN ISSUE! DO SOMETHING!' that again only lasts as long as you are in the experience. And then there's the theatre (which we were aiming for) that relies upon a sort of aftershock effect. This idea that, when watching the play, there's perhaps not as big a response as one would expect, but something about it just sticks. There's something about it that makes you think, perhaps something would be said or seen in life that relates to an image or a line in the play, and that sets you thinking, and only once that process has been set in motion do you fully appreciate the play and what was done and said. I think that that type of theatre often sticks with you for longer. Not that I'm saying any type is better or worse than the other, it's just what I think.

The best example I can think of to try and explain my aftershock theory is a painting by Rene Magritte of a pipe (a smoker's pipe, not a lead one in the study with Professor Plum) and underneath it written 'Ceci n'est pas une pipe', 'This is not a pipe'. I love this painting partially because it's not a painting you have to study, it's a little pocket painting that you can look at, not making much of an impact it must be said, remember and take away. It's not like a Dali piece which you spend ages peering at and studying and finding all the glorious intricacies of it, you just have to remember how it looks.
The first time I saw this painting I was only about fourteen and my first reaction was very much 'Of course it's a pipe, weirdo' and I never thought much of it afterwards. Until it was brought up in an episode of 'Boston Legal' where a girl who couldn't smile painted herself looking glum and captioned it 'The Smiling Girl' saying how Magritte had inspired it. I then thought of the painting, I saw it as something very different, now it was something hypocritical, it made hypocrites of the viewers as it tricked you into objecting when you didn't know the story.
The next time I had call to recollect this painting was during our a-level devised piece which was based on the stimulus of 'dreams'. This time when I thought of this pipe that is not a pipe I saw it as something of an hallucination, an 'is this a dagger I see before me' type image. And during this blog post thinking about the painting that I love I've realised that I now see it as a painting that keeps secrets. It knows something that we do not and we will never know (I ought point out that I've never seen or read anything by the artist talking about the painting, I don't want to).

I like to think I can keep track of my mental maturity with how I see this painting. But it does sort of link with the point that I was trying to make, if not in a very rambly and long winded way, sorry. I'm not sure who will still be reading this far (I'm not sure who will actually be reading this at all). I also realise how incredibly geeky I sound discussing my opinion on art... sorry.
I tried to defend my non-geekiness and somehow managed to share the fact that I am in possession of a chess board where all the pieces are shots glasses, so that when you capture a piece you down the shot. It's great! Possibly some of the finest chess I have ever played.

ALSO...

Sorry, two posts in such a short time is quite ridiculous, but I feel the need to say
I really miss Shakespeare!! None of the work we've done thus far is Shakespeare, and I'm really sad. It's just because when I went walking yesterday (I have a tendency to stage plays in my head as I walk) I started directing a version of 'Macbeth' and got really enthusiastic about it, and realised just how much I missed working with that William bloke. (I realise loads of people hate Shakespeare, but I read (and SAW them! SAW!!! They're plays! You're supposed to watch them! They make so much more sense when read aloud, honest!) it before I was old enough to be cynical, and genuinely love the good plays (not the shit ones he wrote, and he wrote some) and read them of my own volition instead of having a bored teacher talk at a bored class.)

..... I should get to work now. Essays to write.

£400! ='( [OK WELL, £385, BUT WHATEVER....]

So, just got back from auditioning for '4.48 Psychosis' (which I love! Genuinely! It's awesome! However she only wants two people (preferably men) so yeah... not gonna be in that play am I? )= Shucks). Anyhow, Keith Johnstone! Keith Johnstone is a theatre bloke, who wrote a theatre book (these past two posts are very studenty aren't they? Ooh, Howard would be proud!) called 'Impro', which I read, and is AWESOME!.

Essentially there are four points Johnstone makes (at least, there are four main things that I got from the book. I'm assuming someone cleverer would spot more interesting stuff than myself, but hey ho). They are: 1) School and education are a destructive process. 2) Status games are everywhere. 3) Everyone is scared that they are a little bit insane. 4) Everyone is a little bit insane.

It's a really, really good book, (Can't emphasise this enough!) and Johnstone is now my new favourite theatre practitioner bloke. Basically, I was hooked the moment he started talking about how much he hated school and how the school system was generally bad. He writes about how once he was reading a poem and started crying. He wrote that "If I had cried at school the teacher would have been horrified. I realised my school had been teaching me not to respond". He writes how a young girl was in the garden with her nurse, the nurse pointed out a flower and said how beautiful it was. The girl says that all the flowers were equally beautiful but the nurse insisted that hers was more so. "Actually, it is insane to insist that one flower is more beautiful in a whole garden of flowers, but adults are expected to warp the perceptions of children in this way.
I hated school, and was therefore a horrible student. I didn't do essays, I skived off lessons, I hated quite a few of my teachers and quite a few of my teachers hated me. If I didn't see the point in doing something I didn't do it. I don't blame my teachers, of course I don't. It was my fault I didn't do the work. It was my fault I didn't try harder. I have never revised for an exam in my life, because I never felt the need to. One of the reasons I chose the university that I'm at (as much as I do love it, and it's a very good course, and nearly two hundred miles away from home (always a boon)) is that it had the lowest grade boundaries to get in. "then you should have revised!!" I can imagine many a thought process going. If only I'd've worked harder I'd be cleverer. But I didn't want to. It was all so dull, and I am so average that nobody ever bothered. I was a horrible student, but because my grades were neither good enough or bad enough to warrant special attention I got away with all kinds of hell. And that was my mentality toward education. And here's a bloke who's written a book saying 'I hated it to. And it wasn't my fault, in my opinion, the school is the one that got it wrong'. Right on!!
(I have never used that phrase before, I never intend to use it again.)
Uni is weird because I spent so much of my time in school kicking against convention, that to get here where everything I hated about school doesn't exist, was bizarre. I don't quite know what to do with myself if I'm not rebelling against something, I spent so much of school doing things begrudgingly that it is very much out of my comfort zone to be allowed to be enthusiastic without danger of earning a 'nerd' status. The fact that this book then goes on to say "Let go!", "Have fun!", "Everybody's mental, enjoy it! Use it!" means that I love it. (And am very much of the opinion that this should be compulsory reading for any future teacher! (Not that I am a future teacher! Don't panic! Good god could you imagine? I'd be worse than Mr.Doctor.Robot))

Linking back to the title, I googled Keith Johnstone, as I am a part on the DotCom generation, and discovered that he has a website. He's still wandering the globe giving workshops, 'Great!' thought I. He's in London once in 2010, 'Wow' the voice in my head exclaimed, 'I'm in London in 2010'. He will take all variety of people in his workshops, not just professional actors or really old or really young, in fact, the more variety the better! 'This means' said the voice, 'that I could potentially be in a workshop run by Keith Johnstone! This is awesome'. And it only [Pause! Mock the use of the word 'only'] costs £385. The voice in my head said sad, sad things.

Hence this sad, sad smiley = :'[

...GOOD...WEIRD...WEIRDER!

Saw some plays today (not uncommon for a drama student one would hope (Actually! I'm going to have to stop saying 'one' because everybody takes the piss!!! I'm sorry if my idiolect involves the correct use of personal pronouns! Bullies!)). We saw the level 3 folk move about a lot. That's quite a fair summary methinks. The plays were 'Numbers' (Good), 'We do it to ourselves' (Weird), and 'Cache' (Weirder!!). I'll be honest, this post is mostly going to be about 'Numbers' because I liked it most.

Also, slight interruption, I realise nobody reads this, but I'm posting more often!! Dude!! Be impressed!

'Numbers' essentially focused on the question 'How many people have you slept with'? It went over how some experiences (They replaced words like 'hold' and 'chest' with numbers, and I was so thinking of worse things than 'hold' when she was saying it!) were routine, the casual fuck that means nothing. They also had recordings of people discussing sexual encounters (real people, one of the voices was recognised. A girl talking about a time 'when [she] was still straight' and spent the night with a girl. There were a handful of sidewards glances and mouthing of 'Now way!' (Also, another digression, I'm right in thinking that 'Dyke' is no longer considered a PC term, because a surprising amount of people are using it! Including a lecturer!! The conversation went: "She could be a lesbian?" / "That's a question, is she a dyke?")). And then, the big thing, was your list. Your numbers.

It's that conversation. And the judgements that come with it. It's how many are you comparing me to? How special is this? It genuinely got me thinking (an evening of sex related plays and this was my thought process! My mind is so not a dirty as many would make it out to be!) because many people start this conversation with their drainpipes with a sentence similar to the following "It doesn't make any difference, I just want to know".
Bollocks! Of course it makes a difference. Perhaps not a massive difference, I would hope not a massive difference, but it does, no matter how much you mayn't want it to. Or is this just me? It's either more than you expect, or less than you expect. There's time before any relationship when you don't know them. They have an existence and creation and memories and heartaches and, as much as we care to imagine otherwise, love that we can never know. We can never be a part of it and there is a whole era of happiness that you know you did not cause. And the second you have that conversation, all of that time that you knew of, but didn't care to acknowledge, all becomes real. It becomes fact and unavoidable and true. It changes things.

Another point the play brought up was this question of how much numbers really matter. Does a high number make you a slut, or a low number frigid? There's an episode of 'Will and Grace' (Love 'Will and Grace'!!!!!) where they make lists of how many people they've slept with and Grace's number is higher than that of her boyfriend's. However, they then make another list of how many times they've had sex, rather than with how many people (I admire their memory skillage) and the boyfriend's number was substantially higher than Grace's, even though she'd slept with more. I think at one point Karen has a line "Well, it means that people enjoy sex with him more and you less" because they stick around longer with him. This may seem like a slight digression, but it's a valid point well made. Of how much importance are the numbers. "Too fucking important" we are informed within the performance.

I liked this play, unlike a lot of physical theatre shizz (especially student physical theatre shizz) it made sense. The concept and story (I use the term 'story' very loosely) were not only clear, but very clever. Also, the people in it were very good! I could never imagine being that healthy! The thought alone fills me with dread.... maybe I shall consume some Doritos to stave off the nightmares of exercise.

So yeah..... sex.


EDIT: One of my all time favourite quotes, a genuine question of a friend of mine:

"So, lesbian sex, fill me in!"