I just finished my historical monologue for Audrey Hepburn and I'm very happy with it! I've decided not to post it on here just yet, since I'd like it to be a bit of a surprise for my fellow drama students. But I will eventually post it! :) :) It's 3am and I'm glad I stayed up to finish it. The creative juices were flowing tonight. A four minute monologue and it's only two pages. Ridiculous. So ridiculous.
Anyways, I am off to shower and get ready for bed!
Goodnight my little skittles.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
"I believe in pink..."
"I believe in pink. I believe that laughing is the best calorie burner. I believe in kissing, kissing a lot. I believe in being strong when everything seems to be going wrong. I believe that happy girls are the prettiest girls. I believe that tomorrow is another day and I believe in miracles." - Audrey Hepburn
Monday, October 10, 2011
Getting into Character: Audrey Hepburn
I'm slowly and slowly beginning to develop my character. It's just unfortunate that I don't have much time to do so. I wish I had until mid November. But I have until just after the wedding - and I'm a little stressed. There's so much to do. I suppose I'm just going to have to make sure that I dedicate a couple hours to her every night!
My dear friend Holly lent me a bunch of Audrey Hepburn movies - so I could get the elements down of what her acting is like. And I've been watching YouTube videos, interviews and such. The tough part, I think, is going to get the accent down. I can do it. Everyone in class makes fun of me because of my accents - but this is something that I'd like to practice and perfect, you know? Show em' I can do it. (I AM good at accents, I can just never stick to one ;P).
Besides watching the movies, I'm going to write letters to myself as Audrey. See how she talks. Invent how her speak patterns work. Her handwriting. I decided to go ahead and do the monologue as Audrey. So, I have to get everything down to a T. I think she'll be in her dressing room. Talking about life - her life, and what she wants her future to be like. If she'll have children. If she wants to get back, etc. The monologue is going to be boring - but wise. And that'll be quite different for me, I think, because I usually pick the outrageous characters, you know? The psychos. Or the murderers. Or the melodramatic. I've never chosen someone so put-together as Audrey. So I hope this works.
I'll update you when things come up. (:
- Bree
My dear friend Holly lent me a bunch of Audrey Hepburn movies - so I could get the elements down of what her acting is like. And I've been watching YouTube videos, interviews and such. The tough part, I think, is going to get the accent down. I can do it. Everyone in class makes fun of me because of my accents - but this is something that I'd like to practice and perfect, you know? Show em' I can do it. (I AM good at accents, I can just never stick to one ;P).
Besides watching the movies, I'm going to write letters to myself as Audrey. See how she talks. Invent how her speak patterns work. Her handwriting. I decided to go ahead and do the monologue as Audrey. So, I have to get everything down to a T. I think she'll be in her dressing room. Talking about life - her life, and what she wants her future to be like. If she'll have children. If she wants to get back, etc. The monologue is going to be boring - but wise. And that'll be quite different for me, I think, because I usually pick the outrageous characters, you know? The psychos. Or the murderers. Or the melodramatic. I've never chosen someone so put-together as Audrey. So I hope this works.
I'll update you when things come up. (:
- Bree
Wednesday, October 05, 2011
Historical Monologue: Audrey Hepburn
For my senior drama class we all have to chose a deceased person to write a monologue about. There's a bunch of things to factor into it, too. We can either choose a monologue from a play that was written within your person's life and perform it in that style and write a piece of "in role writing" basically - which could be a diary entry, an anecdote, etc. OR we can write a monologue as the historical figure, performed in the style of the day.
I think I've decided on Audrey Hepburn as my historical person, but I'm not one hundred percent on it. I don't know why. It seems like the character is a little more boring than others (but by no means do I mean that Audrey Hepburn was a boring character).
I don't think that I want to write the monologue. My reasoning: IT'S BORING. What she would talk about (in my mind - because I have an idea) would only be shared in say, a diary entry or a letter or something. It just doesn't seem right for her to sit on a chair, smoke and talk about how her life's been and how she wants to give back to the world. I really think that it'll lighten the load for me, because I love writing 750 word papers ;).
Yes. I think that that's what I'll do. I suppose blogging about it let me argue it with myself ;)
I think I've decided on Audrey Hepburn as my historical person, but I'm not one hundred percent on it. I don't know why. It seems like the character is a little more boring than others (but by no means do I mean that Audrey Hepburn was a boring character).
I don't think that I want to write the monologue. My reasoning: IT'S BORING. What she would talk about (in my mind - because I have an idea) would only be shared in say, a diary entry or a letter or something. It just doesn't seem right for her to sit on a chair, smoke and talk about how her life's been and how she wants to give back to the world. I really think that it'll lighten the load for me, because I love writing 750 word papers ;).
Yes. I think that that's what I'll do. I suppose blogging about it let me argue it with myself ;)
Saturday, October 01, 2011
The Crickets Have Arthritis By: Shane Koyczan
It doesn't matter why I was there, where the air is sterile and the sheets sting. It doesn't matter that I was hooked up to this thing that buzzed and beeped every time my heart leaped like a man who's faith tells him God's hands are big enough to catch an airplane, or a world. It doesn't matter that I was curled up like a fist protesting death, or that every breath was either hard labour or hard time, or that I'm either always too hot or too cold. Doesn't matter because my hospital roommate wears star wars pajamas, and he's 9 years old. His name is Louis, and I don't have to ask what he's got.The bald head with the skin and bones frame speaks volumes. The gameboy and the feather pillow booms like they're trying to make him feel at home because he's going to be here awhile.
I manage a smile the first time I see him and it feels like the biggest lie I have ever told, so I hold my breath cos I'm thinking any minute now he's going to call me on it. I hold my breath because I'm scared of a 57 pound boy hooked up to a machine because he's been watching me and maybe I've got him pegged all wrong, like maybe he's bionic or some shit. So I look away like just I made eye contact with a gang member who's got a rap sheet the length of a lecture on dumb mistakes politicians have made. I look away like he's going to give me my life back the moment I've got something to trade. I damn near pull out my pack and say, "Cigarette?"
But my fear subsides in the moment I realize Louis is all show and tell. He's got everything from a shotgun shell to a crows foot and he can put them all in context. Like, "See, this is from a shooting range", and "See, this is from a weird girl". I watch his hands curl around a cuff-link and a tie-tack and realize that every nick-nack is a treasure and every treasure has a story, and every time I think I can't handle more he hits me with another story. He says, "See, this is from my father" "See, this is from my brother" "See, this is from that weird girl" "See, this is from my mother". Took me about two days to figure out that weird girl is his sister, it took him about two hours today after she left for him to figure out he missed her. And they visit every day, and stay well past visiting hours because for them that term doesn't apply. But when they do leave, Louis and I are left alone. And he says, "The worst part about being sick is that you get all the free ice cream you ask for." And he says, "The worst part about that is realizing there is nothing more they can do for you." He says, "Ice cream can't make everything okay."
And there is no easy way of asking, and I know what he's going to say but maybe he just needs to say it, so I ask him anyway. "Are you scared?" Louis doesn't even lower his voice when he says, "Fuck yeah." I listen to a 9 year old boy say the word fuck like he was a 30 year old man with a nose-bleed being lowered into a shark tank, he's got a right to it. And if it takes this kid a curse word to help him get through it, then I want to teach him to swear like the devil's sitting there taking notes with a pen and a pad. But before I can forget that Louis is 9 years old he says, "Please don't tell my dad."
He asks me if I believe in angels. And before I realize I don't have the heart to tell him, I tell him, "Not lately." and I just lay there waiting for him to hate me. But he doesn't know how to, so he never does. Louis loves like a man who lived in a time before God gave religion to men and left it to them to figure out what hate was. He never greets me with silence, only smiles and a patience I've never seen in someone who knows they're dying. And I'm trying so hard not to remind him I'll be out of here in a couple days, smoking cigarettes and taking my life for granted. And he'll still be planted in this bed like a flower that refuses to grow. I've been with him for 5 days and all I really know is that Louis loves to pull feathers out of his pillow, and watch them float to the ground. Almost as if he's the philosopher inside of the scientist ready to say, "It's gravity that's been getting us down."
The truth is: there's not enough miracles to go around, kid. And there's too many people petitioning God for the winning lotto ticket. And for every answered prayer, there's a cricket with arthritis. And the only reason we can't find answers is because the search party didn't invite us, and Louis, right now the crickets have arthritis. So there is no music, no symphony of nature swelling to crescendos, as if ripping halos into melodies that can keep a rhythm with the way our hearts beat. So we must meet silence with the same level of noise that the parents of dying 9 year old boys make when they take liberties in talking with heaven. We must shout until we shatter in our own vibrations, then let our lives echo and grow, echo and grow, grow distant. Grow distant enough to know that as far as our efforts go, we don't always get a reply.
But I swear to whatever God I can find in the time I have left, I'm going to remember you kid. I'm going to tell your story as often as every story you told me. And every time I tell it I'll say, "See, there's bravery in this world. There's 6.5 billion people curled up like fists protesting death, but every breath we breathe has to be given back. A 9 year old boy taught me that." So hold your breath, the same way you'd hold a pen when writing Thank You letters on your skin to every tree that gave you that breath to hold. And then let it go, as if you understand something about getting old and having to give back. Let it go like a laugh attack in the middle of really good sex, the black eye will be worth it. Because what is your night worth without a story to tell? And why wield a word like worth if you've got nothing to sell?
People drop pennies down a wishing well, so the cost of a desire is equal to that of a thought. But if you've got expectations, expect others have bought your exact same dream for the price of a 'hard work, hang in, hold on' mentality. Like, I accept any challenge so challenge me. Like, I brought a knife to this gun fight, but the other night I mugged a mountain so bring that shit, I've had practice. Louis and I cracked this world wide open and found that the prize inside is we never lied to ourselves. Never told ourselves that we'd be easy or undemanding. So we sing in our own vibration, and dare angels to eavesdrop and stop mid flight to pluck feathers from their wings and write demands that God's hands take the time to catch you. So, even if God doesn't, it wasn't because we didn't try.
I don't often believe in angels, but on the day I left Louis pulled a feather from his pillow and said, "This is for you." I half expected him to say, "See, this is the first one I grew."
I manage a smile the first time I see him and it feels like the biggest lie I have ever told, so I hold my breath cos I'm thinking any minute now he's going to call me on it. I hold my breath because I'm scared of a 57 pound boy hooked up to a machine because he's been watching me and maybe I've got him pegged all wrong, like maybe he's bionic or some shit. So I look away like just I made eye contact with a gang member who's got a rap sheet the length of a lecture on dumb mistakes politicians have made. I look away like he's going to give me my life back the moment I've got something to trade. I damn near pull out my pack and say, "Cigarette?"
But my fear subsides in the moment I realize Louis is all show and tell. He's got everything from a shotgun shell to a crows foot and he can put them all in context. Like, "See, this is from a shooting range", and "See, this is from a weird girl". I watch his hands curl around a cuff-link and a tie-tack and realize that every nick-nack is a treasure and every treasure has a story, and every time I think I can't handle more he hits me with another story. He says, "See, this is from my father" "See, this is from my brother" "See, this is from that weird girl" "See, this is from my mother". Took me about two days to figure out that weird girl is his sister, it took him about two hours today after she left for him to figure out he missed her. And they visit every day, and stay well past visiting hours because for them that term doesn't apply. But when they do leave, Louis and I are left alone. And he says, "The worst part about being sick is that you get all the free ice cream you ask for." And he says, "The worst part about that is realizing there is nothing more they can do for you." He says, "Ice cream can't make everything okay."
And there is no easy way of asking, and I know what he's going to say but maybe he just needs to say it, so I ask him anyway. "Are you scared?" Louis doesn't even lower his voice when he says, "Fuck yeah." I listen to a 9 year old boy say the word fuck like he was a 30 year old man with a nose-bleed being lowered into a shark tank, he's got a right to it. And if it takes this kid a curse word to help him get through it, then I want to teach him to swear like the devil's sitting there taking notes with a pen and a pad. But before I can forget that Louis is 9 years old he says, "Please don't tell my dad."
He asks me if I believe in angels. And before I realize I don't have the heart to tell him, I tell him, "Not lately." and I just lay there waiting for him to hate me. But he doesn't know how to, so he never does. Louis loves like a man who lived in a time before God gave religion to men and left it to them to figure out what hate was. He never greets me with silence, only smiles and a patience I've never seen in someone who knows they're dying. And I'm trying so hard not to remind him I'll be out of here in a couple days, smoking cigarettes and taking my life for granted. And he'll still be planted in this bed like a flower that refuses to grow. I've been with him for 5 days and all I really know is that Louis loves to pull feathers out of his pillow, and watch them float to the ground. Almost as if he's the philosopher inside of the scientist ready to say, "It's gravity that's been getting us down."
The truth is: there's not enough miracles to go around, kid. And there's too many people petitioning God for the winning lotto ticket. And for every answered prayer, there's a cricket with arthritis. And the only reason we can't find answers is because the search party didn't invite us, and Louis, right now the crickets have arthritis. So there is no music, no symphony of nature swelling to crescendos, as if ripping halos into melodies that can keep a rhythm with the way our hearts beat. So we must meet silence with the same level of noise that the parents of dying 9 year old boys make when they take liberties in talking with heaven. We must shout until we shatter in our own vibrations, then let our lives echo and grow, echo and grow, grow distant. Grow distant enough to know that as far as our efforts go, we don't always get a reply.
But I swear to whatever God I can find in the time I have left, I'm going to remember you kid. I'm going to tell your story as often as every story you told me. And every time I tell it I'll say, "See, there's bravery in this world. There's 6.5 billion people curled up like fists protesting death, but every breath we breathe has to be given back. A 9 year old boy taught me that." So hold your breath, the same way you'd hold a pen when writing Thank You letters on your skin to every tree that gave you that breath to hold. And then let it go, as if you understand something about getting old and having to give back. Let it go like a laugh attack in the middle of really good sex, the black eye will be worth it. Because what is your night worth without a story to tell? And why wield a word like worth if you've got nothing to sell?
People drop pennies down a wishing well, so the cost of a desire is equal to that of a thought. But if you've got expectations, expect others have bought your exact same dream for the price of a 'hard work, hang in, hold on' mentality. Like, I accept any challenge so challenge me. Like, I brought a knife to this gun fight, but the other night I mugged a mountain so bring that shit, I've had practice. Louis and I cracked this world wide open and found that the prize inside is we never lied to ourselves. Never told ourselves that we'd be easy or undemanding. So we sing in our own vibration, and dare angels to eavesdrop and stop mid flight to pluck feathers from their wings and write demands that God's hands take the time to catch you. So, even if God doesn't, it wasn't because we didn't try.
I don't often believe in angels, but on the day I left Louis pulled a feather from his pillow and said, "This is for you." I half expected him to say, "See, this is the first one I grew."
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