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[15 Oct 2004|09:17am] |
What? Yes....is that the morning I can hear? No, because the concept of morning makes no sound. The morning has elements of noise, but does not indepently provide them.
Twenty two people. A walk in the kitchen.....some Al green on the stereo, some dancing, and some washing up. But not too much.
Tried to get some work done, spent most of the time talking to Stuart and Bolb. Woke up at five fucking thirty, after a dream in which mother decleared spiders had infested the house, so I set to work sucking them up with a vacuum cleaner powered by a cat. No shit.
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[15 Oct 2004|09:20am] |
I wrote a script not long ago, and it was good. It gained me an A in GCSE English, and the people in the Beligan Bar liked it. I was thinking of presenting it at the Playhouse review, but have neither the time nor patience for this circus of fools.
If anyone out there in acting circles wants to perform it, then give us a shout. I want somebody, somewhere to act it out. I quite like the comedy of it. Sort of Blackadder, mixed with a detective spoof, and Shakespeare.
May even do another one. A longer one. Maybe.
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[15 Oct 2004|09:23am] |
Ian and Aleks are back. Aleks wandered in last night, utterly browned and flashing her stomach for laughs, eyes standing out like luminous ping pong balls in a haunted house. She tans a lot.
Ian does too, and I saw him later dragging a scotch bottle to his familiar "night off" seat. He merely replied "Hello" monotonely upon my gretting.
Yeah, nice to see you too.
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[15 Oct 2004|09:40am] |
My mother talks 50% of her time about food. About what's in the fridge...that we've got some more ham, and the cake is nice.
This disturbs me, also as the other 50% is spent talking about back door keys, newlsetters for the Mario Lanza society, and the small monkeys Stuart got me making marks on the wall where we've been hurling them.
Imagine if the food side truly took hold. Condense this down to it's logical conclusion and all differentiation disappears; she'll be walking around, repeatedly screaming "FOOD!" through a megaphone, banging cymbals, steak hanging from an eyelid, tomatoes falling out of pockets, on a cart made from lettuce and corned beef, rotting underneath her.
Least that's how I see it.
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[15 Oct 2004|09:50am] |
Was thinking about the true greatness of LOTR earlier. It's not just an epic classic fantasy, it's almost now a living breathing world in my mind, is Middle Earth. It exists. The circular city of Gondor, the dank chlaustrophobia of Mordor, it's all in the head now. I feel I could go there, that these places are as familiar as my own home town. Apart from those fucking dead marshes. I'm not going there again, better than Ramsgate though it is.
I want to achieve this reality. That you feel those events could have really happened.
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[15 Oct 2004|10:17am] |
I have been looking at some Giger stuff. I like it very much, although as Bolb once said, it has been raped by a million college students beyond it's meaning.
I like the pure beautiful ugliness of it. It's mesmerising, disgusting, but aesthetic at the same time, and almost entirely monochrome.
Imagine a Giger fun park.......
"Come and see the biomechanical Disney tent"
Oh yes. Mickey mouse with phallus shaped tubes coming out of his eyes and ears. THINK ABOUT IT.
I've also made curious inroads into my essay. Having written NOTHING of note, save for a few lines of wittering "what the tutor wants to hear" crap, which would not impress mine...I decided this morning to seriously THINK about what I see in the fucking book. And I came up with a paragraph in about thirty seconds. I will write more later. It's all about the way fear creates madness in the text, or something.
Hey, i'm good. I'll do this.
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[15 Oct 2004|05:07pm] |
Friday work was fine, really. Not a lot to report about that. I got home, and set about tying a blanket to Des and guffawing with laughter, then making some onion fucking gravy. I feel as bloated as a balloon full of beer and sherbert.
Groan. Now i'm trying to smash out an essay, which is proving impossible, due to not only my inherent laziness and lack of real knowledge of the book I should have read by now, and the intrusive background noise. I just had to stop my mother carrying off my bloody college stuff too.
Happy days.
Jamie Fucking Theakston is on Richard and Judy, assuming an obviously self appointed role of expert music critic on the eighties scene. This is as acceptable as the Fonz from Happy Days teaching a class in modesty.
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 anive Quote of the day |
[15 Oct 2004|05:18pm] |
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"Yeah, Des is "D", it's "D" "B", and "P""
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[15 Oct 2004|05:34pm] |
Hmm...it's not going too well. I'm trying to think about this essay, and gaining inspiration for writing about eighteenth century literature, by playing Snakeman Steve on Playaholics:
http://www.playaholics.com/games/game/?q=43
Truly, the game is an allegory for the book...mad snake...perhaps Heathcliff, in er....rodent form...chasing the mice away...ghosts of Hindley, Catherine...perhaps the high score is his twisted pursuit of her...
Or it may be utterly unrelated.
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| What i've got so far. |
[15 Oct 2004|06:31pm] |
For fuck's sake, I should be able to do this fucking essay with my mind closed. However, this is as far as i've got:
"Vocabulary is used to exacerbate images of horror, incendiary signposts to the mind, such as “maddening me with fear”, not only touching upon the reality of fear, but also the paralysis of it, in one’s mind, causing psychological defeat in this case. Bronte not only uses clarity of apparent fear, but also branches into other aspects and effects of horrifying circumstance. "
A SINGLE paragraph. I can't read into from...and style is escaping me. What I have got may not even be near the mark. I may have to scribble down eight hundered words of utter guesswork again. Hey, it's worked in the past.
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[15 Oct 2004|06:33pm] |
Too many commas. I think i'll simply brainstorm here for a while, if you see anything of thesis worthy quiality, then let me know.
Okay, to kick off, WH is written with hostile opening, hostile weather as well as the recieving of Lockwood, not essentially prose telling of horror or even particularly attributing to any feel, but as a backing, as a tool of the writer it's as good as any. Terrible winds, barking dogs, Heathcliff, fucking Jospeh, almost as if a sinister footman to a dastardly owner, some horror parallels there. It's no surprise that Lockwood experiences some discomfort on his second stay.
The third chapter is pivotal when looking at the answer to the question. It is heavily steeped in themes of the supernatural, hazy dream like quality, and as these are also intertwined with distressing moments, painted by dark vocabulary, Bronte's style here reaches a peak of horror, at least by this point, as Lockwood is almost "maddened with fear", at the aparrent apparition. Ghostly themes are described here, blood hits bedclothes, creating a classic image of horror. "
Well, there are a few words to kick off.
Whilst I cannot with authority currently write about the conveyance of horror the rest of the book offers as yet, I will focus more on this particular chapter. It is not only the vocaublary of horror here, it is the setting, which is by turns slightly fantastical and manipulated by dream of course, and physical imagery is also used, as well as unsettling sparking of the senses.
The reader is left with a view of a droswy, comatose scene, punctuated with moments of alarm, visceral images of horrific happenings, underpinned by talk of the weather, the surrounding backdrop and the terrible dreams."
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| Writing a play. |
[15 Oct 2004|07:15pm] |
Let's have a go at writing a play, then. Simply as i've now got the desire to do so....I merely need a setting and a situation. And jokes. And a plot. And a mind.
I suppose for this we should look at the next stage of my AS Level, as being the starting point. A particular element is the restructuring of a piece for a modern audience. This is actually something I did for the Macbeth script, albiet slightly more flippant.
I'd like to see a truly funny play here, the ones recently were possibly of some amusement, but invested with ability little short of desultory, especially on the part of certain people. These were wooden performances....some on a par with the most anodyne Holby City character. Watching Ollie playing a sleazy photographer...was less like glimpsing a hedge hopping, misanthropic film guzzling slime bucket paparazzi, and more like watching a timid child on holiday with a toy camera.
Rubbish. We need something to bludgeon expression from these people, and if they don't have it, we do it ourselves. I'm thinking I should think of something, but I can't. I have ideas too disparate.
Oddly enough, upon being given the situation (A play, about a detective, investigating a murder), and characters, I came up with a three page script. Not bad, but now I don't have that.
My bus stop play has me thinking. It was a stationary set, composed of a simple stop, and seven people who cross each other's paths at various junctures when waiting for, and travelling on a bus. Some, one, or even all or none of the main characters are there, and the relationships between all are different and in some cases, changed depending on the interactions between them.
I liked the idea. I sketched out descriptions of several, before getting bored one night. I want it to be maybe a piece of human study, simple naked thought and two way conversation, free of intrusion by anything, bar an arriving bus. Or a fucking wandering cat, or an old lady with a tartan groceries carrier.
And some humour too, of course.
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| The Job Centre |
[15 Oct 2004|07:41pm] |
"Ah...mr.....?"
".....er......yes."
"What?"
"That's my name...."
"What? "?"?"
"Yep"
"It's not phonetic, is it?"
"Er...no"
"Okay, you cheeky fuck. There's no question mark over this fact, you're signing on for the fiftieth time, and we want you out, mainly because we're bored of printing off more and more forms from a freezer sized printer that we only have one of in the whole job centre. It's like a fucking communal campfire or something. Anyway, here's your new job..."
"Oh great! Er....*Reads* "You get to be torn around an enclosure be ferocious monkeys, in front of laughing children, stunned parents, and your entire family, who will be duped into going there by a "friend"...my god! What the hell are you people like nowadays?"
"It's not that bad, we give you a zookeeper's uniform...now fuck off!"
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[15 Oct 2004|07:53pm] |
Okay, i'm going to go and get ready to go out, and then i'm at the Bell, to annotate this document i've been writing. In other words, i'm going to stare at it, squint through the smoke of a poorly made roll up, swig a Guiness, sigh, and then start writing swearing limericks whilst laughing and drinking and smoking like a FOOL.
Again.
Still, there's a good four hundered words here written purely from nothing. I'm sure I can batter it into some form of shape come Monday night. The bugger is that I have to handwrite the poxy thing, and I am neither good at, or endeared towards that.
My hand aches like a man's dreams held up for ridicule.
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