awesomesprout (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
awesomesprout) wrote2004-01-23 12:36 pm
awesomesprout) wrote2004-01-23 12:36 pm
Homework.
Welp. Here's the dealey :)
For my theater homework I have to write in a weekly journal and to find a monologue to start preparing to perform.
So. I found one.
I've done this one before. I did it my uhm... senior year in high school. I got it from an ex who was in theater at CAL berkeley and he too did the monologue. I absolutely adore this piece. When I did it I only had a short amount of time so I cut it off after the " And I can't even type " line. But still got awesome reviews.
So. I'm going to do:
A Singular Kind of Guy by David Ives.
A one act play.
(Ignore the other characters and voices. I will be doing this as one person)
The WAITER sits and eats and he converses silently with MARCY across from him. The HOST enters, escorting a café patron to the DS table. As the HOST exits, he notices the WAITER and silently reprimands him for his laziness. As the HOST exits to kitchen, the WAITER speaks…
WAITER: I know what you’re thinking. You’re looking at me and you’re saying to yourself, Average guy. Normal human being. Nothing out of the ordinary. Well, that’s what I thought too for lots of years, and boy, was I wrong. Now I look back, I think I always knew the truth about myself, underneath. It’s like, sometimes I’d look in the mirror in the morning and I’d get this weird feeling like what I was looking at was really not what I was looking at. Or else I’d be standing in a crowd of people at a party, and suddenly I’d get this feeling like I was standing in a huge empty space and there wasn’t anybody around me for miles. Episodes of “vastation,” if you know that beautiful word. And then one day I had a…I don’t know what you’d call it. A mystical experience?
HOST: I was walking down Sixteenth Street down by Blake when I go by this office supply shop. Just a crummy little place. But I turn and I look and I see…an Olivetti Model portable electric typewriter. Are you familiar with that particular model? Have you ever seen the old Olivetti 250? Well let me tell you-it is sublime. The lines, the shape, the slant of the keyboard, it’s all there! It’s a thing of beauty. Anyway, I’m standing there looking at this thing, and it’s like I recognize it from
someplace. It’s like I’m looking at family somehow, like I'm seeing some long-lost older brother for the first time, and suddenly I realize-That’s me, right there. That thing in the window is exactly what I feel like, on the inside. Same lines, same shape, same aesthetic. And what I realized was-I am a typewriter. No, really! A typewriter! All those years I thought I was a human being, on the inside I was really a portable Olivetti 250 with automatic correctability. And you know what? I can’t even type!
MALE VOICE #1: Needless to say this revelation came as a shock. But all of a sudden it’s clear to me how come I always got off on big words-like “vastation.” Or “phenomenological.” Or “subcutaneous.” Words are what a typewriter’s all about, right? Problem is, it can be a lonely thing, being a typewriter in a world of human beings. And now here I am being replaced everyday by word processors. Who needs a typewriter anymore? Here I finally figure out what I really am, I’m an antique already.
MALE VOICE #2: Plus, there’s my love life, which is problematical to say the least. The difficulties involved in a typewriter finding a suitable partner in this town are fairly prodigious, as you can imagine. At least now I know how come I always loved-not just sex, sex is everywhere anymore-but…touch. Being touched, and touching. Being touched is part of the nature and purpose of typewriters, that’s how we express ourselves and the human person along with us. Hands on the keyboard and the right touch-fire away. Yeah, women’s hands. They’re practically the first thing I notice. Nice set of shapely fingers. Good manicure. No hangnails. Soft skin. I’m not a finger fetishist or anything, you understand, it’s just……You’ve got a pretty nice pair of hands yourself, there.
M.V. #1: That’s what I noticed, that’s how come I stepped over here to talk to you. I know this
all sounds pretty loony, but you know I’ve never told anybody this before? Somehow I
just…
MV #2: What? I beg your pardon? I don’t understand.
MV #1: You’re not really a girl? Sure, you’re a girl, you’re a beautiful girl, so…
MV #2: You’re what? You’re actually a sheet of paper? Ten-pound bound? Ivory tinted? Pure cotton fiber?
MV #1 AND MV #2: Glad to meet you!
For my theater homework I have to write in a weekly journal and to find a monologue to start preparing to perform.
So. I found one.
I've done this one before. I did it my uhm... senior year in high school. I got it from an ex who was in theater at CAL berkeley and he too did the monologue. I absolutely adore this piece. When I did it I only had a short amount of time so I cut it off after the " And I can't even type " line. But still got awesome reviews.
So. I'm going to do:
A Singular Kind of Guy by David Ives.
A one act play.
(Ignore the other characters and voices. I will be doing this as one person)
The WAITER sits and eats and he converses silently with MARCY across from him. The HOST enters, escorting a café patron to the DS table. As the HOST exits, he notices the WAITER and silently reprimands him for his laziness. As the HOST exits to kitchen, the WAITER speaks…
WAITER: I know what you’re thinking. You’re looking at me and you’re saying to yourself, Average guy. Normal human being. Nothing out of the ordinary. Well, that’s what I thought too for lots of years, and boy, was I wrong. Now I look back, I think I always knew the truth about myself, underneath. It’s like, sometimes I’d look in the mirror in the morning and I’d get this weird feeling like what I was looking at was really not what I was looking at. Or else I’d be standing in a crowd of people at a party, and suddenly I’d get this feeling like I was standing in a huge empty space and there wasn’t anybody around me for miles. Episodes of “vastation,” if you know that beautiful word. And then one day I had a…I don’t know what you’d call it. A mystical experience?
HOST: I was walking down Sixteenth Street down by Blake when I go by this office supply shop. Just a crummy little place. But I turn and I look and I see…an Olivetti Model portable electric typewriter. Are you familiar with that particular model? Have you ever seen the old Olivetti 250? Well let me tell you-it is sublime. The lines, the shape, the slant of the keyboard, it’s all there! It’s a thing of beauty. Anyway, I’m standing there looking at this thing, and it’s like I recognize it from
someplace. It’s like I’m looking at family somehow, like I'm seeing some long-lost older brother for the first time, and suddenly I realize-That’s me, right there. That thing in the window is exactly what I feel like, on the inside. Same lines, same shape, same aesthetic. And what I realized was-I am a typewriter. No, really! A typewriter! All those years I thought I was a human being, on the inside I was really a portable Olivetti 250 with automatic correctability. And you know what? I can’t even type!
MALE VOICE #1: Needless to say this revelation came as a shock. But all of a sudden it’s clear to me how come I always got off on big words-like “vastation.” Or “phenomenological.” Or “subcutaneous.” Words are what a typewriter’s all about, right? Problem is, it can be a lonely thing, being a typewriter in a world of human beings. And now here I am being replaced everyday by word processors. Who needs a typewriter anymore? Here I finally figure out what I really am, I’m an antique already.
MALE VOICE #2: Plus, there’s my love life, which is problematical to say the least. The difficulties involved in a typewriter finding a suitable partner in this town are fairly prodigious, as you can imagine. At least now I know how come I always loved-not just sex, sex is everywhere anymore-but…touch. Being touched, and touching. Being touched is part of the nature and purpose of typewriters, that’s how we express ourselves and the human person along with us. Hands on the keyboard and the right touch-fire away. Yeah, women’s hands. They’re practically the first thing I notice. Nice set of shapely fingers. Good manicure. No hangnails. Soft skin. I’m not a finger fetishist or anything, you understand, it’s just……You’ve got a pretty nice pair of hands yourself, there.
M.V. #1: That’s what I noticed, that’s how come I stepped over here to talk to you. I know this
all sounds pretty loony, but you know I’ve never told anybody this before? Somehow I
just…
MV #2: What? I beg your pardon? I don’t understand.
MV #1: You’re not really a girl? Sure, you’re a girl, you’re a beautiful girl, so…
MV #2: You’re what? You’re actually a sheet of paper? Ten-pound bound? Ivory tinted? Pure cotton fiber?
MV #1 AND MV #2: Glad to meet you!
no subject
where are you taking classes?
no subject