Friday, 26 April 2013

Show Stopper

I can see why the phantom of the opera turned into a great beast of doom and hate and vengeance and putrid firey balls of stomach acid (I haven’t seen the show) it wasn’t because he lost his face, oh no, it was because he lived in a theatre.

Damn those infernal pits of ego and lust. Well there’s always a bit of lust somewhere even if I’m too busy passing a stool to notice.

An actual chair type stool! As in passing it to someone. Blimey you really do dig around in the dregs of innuendo, don’t you?

So basically the point I’m trying to make is that if my life blood isn’t being sucked away by some invisible ether in the wind (or cheese) then I am giving it away. Slicing open my own arteries and pouring my sacred juices all over the general public.

I SHOULD stay inside. Not talk to another soul. Dedicate my life to my writing, my precious, precious writing (I’ll do some at some point). But oh no. What do I do?

I waltz along like a ditzy fairy lost in toy-town and think ‘oh I’ll do a bit of that play then shall I?’ In my inefficient imaginarium I see myself as laughing and frolicking around with actors and directors, having the time of my life, making jokes and having an audience jawlessly gawp at my face as it is wedged in front of them against their will or knowledge. 

But then what happens?

Well the inevitable, the obvious, the expected, foreseeable and predictable happens. Do I see it in advance? No. I’m too busy dancing around with a butter cream pony in my imaginarium.

I hate it. I hate the worry, and the nerves, and the stress, and the other people, and the changing room, and the having to leave my bed, and having to go out, and interact with other people that I don’t know and shouldn’t like, and the need to do things right, in fact the need to do things at all.

I only have a little bit of effort. I have the ability to put in effort equal to about a quarter of what other people can put in before I collapse in a bedraggled heap.

So everything I had was put into that. All of it. Every last bit of venom and crisps and jokes and laughter and rage was sucked into the sucky hole of the theatre and pressed into the faces of the audience, and the other actors come to think of it. 

Then it was over.

Was I relived? Was I happy to be free of the ties of the dreaded theatre? WAS I?

No. I am not happy. I somehow remember it being ‘fun’.

When? When was it fun? Was it fun when I hated it all? When I hated all the people everywhere and when I didn’t want to do it and wanted to hide in an oven or something? Was that when it was fun?

I have lost precious time. Precious, precious time. My scripts, my plays, my books, my blog, all forsaken for this putrid belly filling, nausea inducing state of ‘fun’ perpetuated by those who live in the eternal cycle of show after show after show after show. All held together by the praise of the audience and their comrades and the promise of yet another show.

I will not be sucked into it again. I will not listen to the songs of the pixies in my brain. I WILL NOT.

Unless they do an Agatha Christie.

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