So, because we're starting the blues unit in music, we're going to have people bring in instruments and play. I'm curious how this will work; it was also mentioned we were going to write our own blues lyrics. I think I could do that. The dumb guy tried to make jokes ("Stairway to Heaven" is a spiritual! Hahaha) and got practically ignored. Overall, good day.
Acting is going to suck, because I can't memorize that monologue for shit. The monologue in question is from Neil Simon's "The Good Doctor" and is really the only monologue I feel like I could do. I mean, read this:
SPOILERS! (Click to view)
It's quite all right, you're not disturbing me... I would much rather talk than work. Yet here I am, day after day, haunted by one thought: I must write, I must write, I must write... This is my study, the room in which I write my stories. I built it myself, actually. Cutted the timber and fitted the logs. Made an awful mess of it. I do my writing here at the side of the room because the roof leaks directly over my desk. I'd move the desk, but it covers a hole I left in the floor. And the floor was built on the side of a hill, so, in heavy rains, the room tends to slide downhill. Many's the day I've stood in this cabin and passed my neighbors standing in the road.
Still, I'm happy here. Although I don't get enough visitors to suit me. People tend to shy away from writers. They assume we're always thinking - not true. Even my dear, sweet mother doesn't like to disturb me, so she always tiptoes up here and leaves my food outside the door. I haven't had a hot meal in years...
But I've done a good deal of writing in here... Perhaps too much. I look out the window and think, life is passing me at a furious rate. So I ask myself the question; What force is it that compels me to write so incessantly, day after day, page after page, story after story? And the answer is quite simple: I have no choice. I am a writer.
Sometimes I think I may be mad... Oh, I'm quite harmless. But I do admit to fits of wandering. I'm engaged in conversations where I hear nothing and see only the silent movement of lips, and answer a meaningless, "Yes, yes of course." And all the while I'm thinking, "He'll make a wonderful character for a story, this one."
Still, while I'm writing, I enjoy it. And I like reading the proofs but... as soon as it appears in print, I can't bear it. I see that it is all wrong, a mistake, that it ought never to have been written, and I am miserable. Then the public reads it: "Yes, charming, clever." "Charming, but a far cry from Tolstoy." Or "A fine thing, but Turgenev's Fathers and Sons was better." And so it will be to my dying day... Charming and clever, charming and clever, nothing more. And when I die my friends will walk by my grave and say, "Here lies so and so. A good writer, but Turgenev was better."
That's just missing a few obscenities and a reference to a cat with bad breath. I figured when I found it I had to do it. It'll be a trainwreck, but whatever. I really like that monologue. I got back early today because it was basically a lab time for the monologue, and instead of having him try to block the scene for me (I've done monologues, and haven't ever had someone try to block one before. I trust my judgement over his when it comes to my evaporating dignity).
It occured to me the other day that every relationship I've had is based on the first three songs off the first Violent Femmes album. Part of me thinks that's neat, the rest thinks that's a little sobering. And it sort of is a shame, because I could totally deal with not noticing things like that. It's true, though. I've been feeling quite good about such things, though. Oh, I may have a date for prom, as well. I want to go regardless, but this is actually a really neat unexpected thing.
Writing a story that I think only I will find at all amusing. Well, maybe not just me, but it wouldn't be appriciated by a few people. Which is the best kind, right?
Upstairs neighbor has been moving the last day or so. I assume; lots of crashing noises and things being taken downstairs. It's either the Gay Skipper or the girl my brother swore was gorgeous but is actually quite the opposite. Doesn't matter, I just hate being woken up by loud noises. Or rather I hate Audrey being woken up because then she'll wake me up and we'll spend the next couple hours cursing at one another. Love that cat.
What a totally decent day. Hope all's well with everyone.
Later.
