PONTARDAWE SCRIPT CAFE OPEN MIKE NIGHT

On Tuesday was the monthly meeting of Script Cafe. This month was open mike night. Seven writers put forward scripts. The task was to write a five minute dialogue between two people. The setting could be at a bus stop, in a supermarket, or anywhere the writer fancied. Each script was read, feedback was given, and actors improvised exercises to help the writer flesh out sub text, inner conflict and character in their piece.  We are becoming better at giving constructive and critical feedback, but this is an area we wish to develop.
       Below is my little piece, set in a small plane. The characters, Jen, a middle-aged English woman and Mickey, a young New Zealander are harnessed together, about to do a skydive.

In Tandem

Two people, Mickey and Jen are harnessed together, one behind the other, in a small aeroplane, about to do a sky dive over Lake Wanaka, New Zealand

Jen                        I feel sick

Mickey                       That’s normal

Jen                         I’m not sure why I’ve signed up for this

Mickey                       Chill out, it’ll be a breeze

Jen                         It seemed like a good idea at the time.  That Macmillan nurse was so persuasive

Mickey                      You doing this for charity?

Jen                         Yes

Mickey                      Good for you

Jen                        There’s no way you’d get me jumping out of a plane for pleasure.

Mickey                       Just wait

Jen                        It’s the waiting that’s been the problem

Mickey                        Once you you’re out there, fast falling

Jen                        I haven’t slept for the past week

Mickey                         You feel the G force

Jen                        It was all Lee’s idea at first

Mickey                         Lee’s the Macmillan nurse, yeah?

Jen                        No. Lee’s my daughter

Mickey                         Ah!

Jen                        She’s fourteen. We were supposed to be doing this together

Mickey                        Did she back out?

Jen                        She said it would take my mind off things

Mickey                        It’s often the brave ones who freak out at the last minute

Jen                        About the cancer

Mickey                        Does she have cancer?

Jen                        Lord, no!  Well, not that we know of

Mickey                        That’s good. (pause) Hey, look out the window, you can see

Jen                        I’d rather not

Mickey                        Look, the pavillion. It looks tiny, doesn’t it?

Jen                        I’d rather not

Mickey                        Well, you’re missing great views of the lake

Jen                        I’m afraid of water

Mickey                        But you can swim?

Jen                        Well, if you can call doggy-paddle swimming.

Mickey                        Cos if we come down in water

Jen                        You’re a great help, Mickey

Mickey (laughs)  Just pulling your leg. We’re not going to come down in water.

Jen                        I certainly hope not

Mickey                        Look at the mountains then –aren’t they beautiful with the light on them?

Jen                        We seem very close

Mickey                        No worries. The pilot’s had his licence for at least (pause) a week

Jen                        A week! Your literature said your pilots were all very experienced

Mickey(laughs)You are uptight, aren’t you?

Jen                        You Kiwis have a strange sense of humour. If I could see your face

Mickey                        Yeah, this talking to the back of your head malarkey, isn’t the politest

Jen                        We’re a ‘carcinogenic’ family, you see

Mickey                        Sorry?

Jen                        My Dad had lung cancer

Mickey                        You doing it for him, then?

Jen                        He died some years ago

Mickey            (looking out the window)            Mmm

Jen                        My Mum and her sister, my aunty Cath, had breast cancer

Mickey                        That’s rotten luck

Jen                        And her daughter, my cousin Rachel

Mickey                        Is your Mum, er?

Jen                        No, it was caught in time. She’s had the all clear for nearly five years.

Mickey                        That’s good news

Jen                        Well, yes, I suppose. What's that noise?


Mickey                       It's the engine


Jen                        It is ok, isn't it? (pause) It's so loud. I can hardly hear my own voice

Mickey                        Come on, cheer up!


Jen                       What did you say? I didn't catch it


Mickey                       I SAID CHEER UP!

Jen                        Ah Yes, you’re right.  I need to remain positive. This is a once in a lifetime experience

Mickey                        Nah. Once you’ve done it, you’ll want to do it again and again

Jen                        I don’t think so

Mickey                        Need to start getting ready

Jen                        Ooh! I’ve got butterflies

Mickey                        So have I!


Jen                        What's that smell?


Mickey                       Sorry, Jen. I've been trying to hold it in, but

Jen                        But you’ve done this loads of times before, right?


MIckey                       when I'm a bit nervous, I get


Jen                         I know, flatulent. (pause) I've been praying I wouldn't embarress myself

Mickey                        I have done a number of skydives, yeah

Jen                        That’s not what I asked

Mickey                        I wasn’t going to tell you           

Jen                        Speak up! I can't hear you


Mickey                        I said, I WASN'T GOING TO TELL YOU


Jen                        This is another idea of a joke, yes?

Mickey                        Well, no actually, Jen

Jen                        Great!

Mickey                        You’ll be fine, don’t worry

Jen                        What about you?

Mickey            (gulps)            It’s my first as an instructor

Jen                        And you’re feeling nervous?

Mickey                        So, who is it you’re doing this for, Jen?

Jen                        Don’t avoid the question, Mickey

Mickey                        Come on, the pilot is motioning us to get near the door.   Not so fast!

Jen (mutters)         The noise. It's even worse. I'm shaking (Speaks up) It’s all right, Mickey

Mickey                        It was Nath’s first time when

Jen                        Maybe now’s not the right time to be thinking about

Mickey                        I know I shouldn’t be telling you this

Jen                        No, Mickey. Come on. It helps to focus on your breathing  (pause) Nice and slow now

Mickey                        The parachute didn’t open and

Jen                        We don’t have to do it. We can stop. In fact

Mickey                        No, we’re doing it.  Come on

(They slide together towards the open door.)

                       

Jen                        Chin up, Mickey? Deep breath!

Mickey                        Just before they reached the ground he flipped himself over so he got the impact of the fall

Jen                        and saved his partner?

Mickey                        Yeah

Jen                        Look, Mickey, the sheep look like grains of rice

Mickey                        but he was my best mate and he died for

Jen                        You’re going to be fine.

Mickey                        But

Jen                        No buts. I saw how you checked and re-checked the equipment

Mickey                        Thanks, Jen

Jen                        Come on Mickey, that’s enough,  LET’S    DO     IT!

(Throws herself and Mickey out of the plane)

Mickey & Jen together     AAAAAAHHHH!

Janet Daniel

Jan 2011

                       

FESTEN THE CELEBRATION

Last night was a filthy night, rain and wind lashing. I was having second thoughts about going out to the theatre. But the tickets were booked, and the play, an adaptation by David Eldridge, who was my tutor on the Arvon course, lured me out.  How glad I was that I hadn't missed it!
     The play is a dramatisation of a Dogme film and original play by Thomas Vinterberg, Mogens Rukov and Bo hr.Hansen. A family meet for the father's 60th birthday celebration meal in their grand home. There had been four grown up children, including a set of twins. One of the twins had recently died. During the meal the family re-enact surreal and racist songs from their childhood, eat and retell stories from the past.  Christian, the other twin gets up to give a speech. He tells the family that his father had consistently raped and sexually assaulted him and his sister when they were children. There is no response from the family, who go on with their meal.  They sing, dance and tell jokes, but responses slowly emerge. Christian is vilified as a fantasist. Then, a letter from the dead sister is read out. She has taken her own life because of her sexual abuse. The atmosphere changes and the father is eventually forced out of the family home.
      I think what makes the play work so well is that we see in real time a process that happens in many families when one member is accused of sexual abuse- shock, disbelief, anger at the victim, distraction, the questioning of collusion, anger at the perpetrator, sadness, loss, and the life the family thought they had is exposed as a lie.
      The direction and use of space, by Jamie Garvin, one of the original founders of Spectacle Theatre, was excellent. The set design and original music produced a sumptuous and menacing atmosphere. This was a Royal Welsh College of Music and Drama production, acted by students. The quality of each performance was very high.  I highly recommend the play. Last night was sold out. Tonight is the final night. I hope you can catch it.

GET INTO YOUR OWN LIFE!

On Saturday, as part of my professional association's accreditation requirements, (I'm a counsellor/psychotherapist, when I'm not writing)) I attended a course on teaching clients to use mindfulness skills.
      Mindfulness means paying attention in a particular way, taking control of your thoughts rather than allowing them to be in control of you. It's the opposite of being on auto-pilot or absent-minded. It is about trying to live fully in the moment, not the past or the future, to get fully into your own life by savoring all the sensations of the here and now. It is about being rather than doing. Sound easy?
      I've been trying to practise and finding it's very hard.  This morning I've been trying to focus on writing a play adaptation of a short story I wrote a couple of years ago, called 'The Unmade Bed,' and my mind is all over the place. It's in Pontardawe and what I should be preparing for Script Cafe this evening, in a dream I had last night, where an image of a very old boyfriend appeared wearing a blue velvet jacket, with a friend who's in hospital with a suspected heart attack, another who's looking after a relative with cancer, what I'm going to eat for lunch, the rain outside, sending my cousin an email, a staffing issue with a charity I'm a trustee for, a friend's dog, going or not going out for a walk, my son's life plans, and in 1965, when my play is set.  I  think I may just have to do a bit more practice!

SOHO THEATRE & VERITY BARGATE AWARD

Today, I attended a playwriting workshop run by the Soho Theatre and the Sherman. The intention was to promote the Verity Bargate Playwriting Competition. I've found it difficult to find out much about her, other than she was an actress and a writer, a theatre producer and presumably a founder of the Soho Theatre, born in 1940 and died in 1981.
      The workshop was very much an introduction to creating plays, developing characters, language and a landscape for your piece. The facilitator did an interesting exercise to help us remember language from our past. We were asked to stand in an imagined map of the UK where Cardiff was at the centre of the universe ( a kind of Mappa Mundi)  and then go and place ourselves in the place where we were born-in my case South London-and to recall a word or phrase from that time and place. Mine was my mother's voice,
   "Get your head out of that biscuit tin, you're like a bleedin' gannet." I was probably 14.
      Then, we were asked to stand where our parents hailed from and then our grandparents, trying to recall language from that time. We handed our chosen phrase to our neighbour and prompted by lots of questions of our characters, such as "What smell calms you?"(old leather). "What's your secret?"(He's afraid of butterflies) "What small thing do you have in your pocket?"(a betting slip), we built up a character. I'd been given 'Raggy-bone' by my neighbour and it was difficult not to produce a piece about a Steptoe stereotype.
       My neighbour didn't share with me how she'd developed my catchphrase. She did ask me what a gannet was, though.

  
     We've still got our Christmas light up. I thought we'd wait for the Celtic feast of Imbolc, February 2nd, when the light returns. But, it's so gloomy I think the tree (a few branches of red Dogwood with lights and silver balls) may stay up for some time. The pot is already sprouting crocuses!

COMPULSION

I am in France in Le Grand Massif visiting our daughter who is a ski rep for the winter season. Unfortunately, she is ill with bronchitis so we haven't been able to do much together. Rhys and I have discovered snowshoeing. Things have certainly changed from the time of Nanook of the North. I was expecting raffia tennis rackets, instead we have what look like plastic speed boats on Rhys, and Turmot or Flounder on me. We crunch our way through a silent landscape 'cept for the light swishing sound of a descending skier or snowboarder. No chance of us creeping up on anyone.  The unexpected positive outcome of having time has been the opportunity to do a bit of writing. Below is a short story for your amusement.


                                                                 COMPULSION




    ‘Just turn to the light. I want to see your profile’

     ‘Why?’

     ‘You’re so beautiful.’

      ‘My mother never thought so. She thought my profile was horrible. She thought I looked like a monster.’

       ‘Well, she was wrong. I would like to paint you.’

       ‘I don’t believe you. You’re just saying that so you can get me into bed. I know your sort. You get your thrills from cripples.’

       ‘That’s unfair. You hardly know me. I’m being sincere.’

       ‘Mmm.’

     So it started. Every Thursday afternoon Yvette would leave the little room she rented on Rue Garreau and take the steps towards Montmartre and the artists’ quarter. There in a disused laundry beneath the Sacre Coeur, Michel had his studio. He wasn’t well known then of course, although it was said he moved in the same circles as Picasso and Dali. He was something of a loner and didn’t like to share his models. It was his sense of secretiveness that was later to be his downfall.

     On Thursdays he would take special care to prepare himself. First he attended to his studio. He employed an Algerian, called Hamas to clean the floors until they shone like sapphire. He would inspect the crevices in corners in case there was the merest suggestion of a hanging spider web or morsel of stale bread lurking. If he found something, anything suspicious he would berate Hamas until it was spotless and then he would flop down on his chaise longue with a sigh and royal gesture, resting until he felt well enough to attend the Turkish Baths down on Pigalle. He always asked the masseur to scrub his lower back until it tingled. He washed his own private parts scrupulously with anticipation and excitement.

     At 3pm on the dot Yvette would ring the doorbell and Hamas in a fresh white jalabiya would be there, standing to attention , ready to open the heavy oak door that led into the courtyard. In summer a bower of crimson bougainvillea welcomed visitors, its perfume pervading over the wall to where Yvette was standing, pert and alert to whatever the afternoon and Michel might offer and what she was about to offer them.

     The door opened and Yvette entered. She walked briskly across the courtyard and tapped the glass door of the studio.

     ‘Entrez!’ Michel would whisper so only Yvette or a mouse might hear and she entered, closing the door firmly behind her.

      Beside the door was a laundry basket and Yvette would peel off each item of her clothing and in a burlesque gesture would toss her skirt, her cardigan, her blouson and her stockings into the basket. All that remained was her little cloche hat and her brown and white brogues.

     Michel was sitting with his back to the door, supposedly oblivious to Yvette. He wore a white artist’s smock. His easel was in front of him with an African print thrown over a canvas. Yvette made her way around to face Michel, but first she took a Japanese robe hanging on a peg by the door and wrapped herself securely into its folds.

    ‘Voila!’ he said, and whipped off the material from his canvas, took up his paintbrush and with studious attention to detail, spent the next two hours painting and repainting.

   ‘May I see?’ Yvette would say after each session.

   ‘You may see when it is complete,’ he would answer.

    ‘And when will that be? She would ask

     ‘When it is time.’

     Time went and came, came round and around again and still the painting was not finished. Yvette was getting impatient. Nothing interesting was happening. Michel showed no interest in her as a woman. He wasn’t paying much for the sitting either and she was becoming bored by the Thursday routine. She decided it was time to liven things up.

    Late one icy December night, not long before Christmas, Yvette wrapped up warm in her clothes reserved for the opera and funerals and climbed the steps from Rue Garreau to Montmartre. The square was quiet and nobody was about. She climbed over the gate into the back yard of the laundry and hid in one of the rooms that had been used for drying. She could hear the faint sound of Michel’s snoring. He had told her on many occasions that he was a very sound sleeper. She also knew that Hamas had a lover down near Pigalle and he would be away until the small hours.

   She gathered her velvet cloak about her and entered the studio. There bathed in star light was Michel’s easel. Yvette crept up to it and with a dramatic gesture pulled off the African print. She gasped. There on the canvas was not a profile of herself but a painting of her huge nose staring at her from the toe of one of her brown and white brogues.

   ‘This is hardly original,’ she murmured to herself. She replaced the material over the canvas. ‘I’ll show him,’ she muttered, and left the studio as if she were her own shadow.

     She closed the door and made her way to the artist’s bedroom. She stood watching him for a few seconds from the doorway, then took a razor out of her cloak pocket, felt its blade.

    ‘Perfect,’ she thought, and walked slowly to the side of the bed. Michel continued to snuffle in his sleep, oblivious to what was about to happen. Yvette stood behind the bed and looked down on the whiskery nose from above. She took Michel’s head in an arm lock and with a decisive slicing action she cut into his face. Michel awoke screaming, his arms and legs flailing.
 
   ‘Who are you?’ he shouted. But Yvette’s face was covered by her hood and she continued quickly in her mission. Blood oozed everywhere, put she worked deftly until she had the fleshy appendage in her grasp. Michel lashed out, tried to grab her, one hand on his open bleeding face, but she was too quick for him. She made a dash for the door and was soon over the wall and back in her apartment in Rue Garreau before you could say, ‘nose job’.

     In the dark she washed Michel’s blood from her cloak .Then she washed and dried her hands meticulously. She lit a candle. She took out Michel’s nose, washed it carefully, fondling it as she examined the protuberance under the light. From under her bed, she brought out a small pine box. She turned the rusting key and opened the lid. Inside were small compartments like those used by a museum to separate precious stones or unusual specimens of beetle or butterfly. There she placed Michel’s hairy nose alongside the twenty other noses she had catalogued and arranged in alphabetical order of original owner. She locked the box and took a carpet bag from under the bed. She threw her velvet cloak around her shoulders, blew out the candle and smiling, slipped out into the night.

SORRY, I DON'T EAT FISH

Whether you believe it's man-made, God's will or just natural forces, climate change is happening and we will all have to adapt to survive. 

Rhys and I are having a joint exhibition of artwork and poetry at the Norwegian Church in October. It is our creative response to the challenge of climate change and celebrates the natural world.

Please make a note of the dates in your diary.

October  23-30 2011   10am-4.00pm

Preview & Reading  Sunday 23 October 2-4pm

Norwegian Church Art Gallery, Cardiff Bay.

Proceeds from any profits will go to The Taffs Well Community Garden and Awel Aman Tawe, a small environmental charity.

RE-ENTRY

It doesn't take long to get back into real life after a season of non-real life, does it?  This year time and I seemed to rest together in a deep catatonic state. We poodled around in a happy haze of not needing to consider each other or worry where the next meal was coming from. The Christmas meal just went on and on. And on this gloomy early January afternoon I don't want the season to stop. It's such a long time to Imbolc and the return of the light. The meteor showers predicted tonight will be hardly visible from here because of the cloud. So, I'm not taking down our tree just yet. The fairy lights and silver balls hung from the red branches of an old dogwood shrub will stay around to cheer us up.
         Yesterday was a very hopeful re- entry.  I attended a meeting to discuss Pontadawe Script Cafe's programme for the year. The format of meetings will be slightly different with a greater emphasis on writing and practical exercises. We want to help our members not only develop their theatre writing skills but also their skill in critique so that we can offer each other more helpful feedback.
         Following that meeting was a meeting at the Pontadawe Arts Centre with the director and members of 'Theatre versus Oppression'.(www.theatreversusoppression.com) to explore the potential for a project with Script Cafe.  Augustus Boal, a Brazilian developed the ideas behind TvO, giving a voice to the disenfranchised or oppressed people in society through the medium of interactive theatre. The audience is given the power to direct the action and outcome of the play. The ideas for a project will be discussed at the next Script Cafe meeting on January 18th.
         I have been accepted to attend a Soho Theatre/Sherman Theatre workshop on February 4th. I'm hoping to learn more about the Soho Theatre's criteria for considering new plays for production.
        Thanks to everyone who's given me feedback on 'Fathers & Sons' and 'The Reunion.' I'll be doing some rewrites so that I can improve the plays prior to sending them off to the Sherman before going away to france in mid January.
         Tonight, when I return to counselling clients, re-entry into real life will be complete.
                  

HAPPY & HEALTHY 2011!

Well, another year almost over.
        Last night I saw a DVD of  'The Curious Case of Benjamin Button'.  If you don't know the film, Benjamin, played by Brad Pitt, was born old and wrinkled and as the years go by he grows younger until he dies a newborn baby.  He falls in love with Daisy, played by Kate Blanchett and they work out that when she's about 40, he is too. But after that she gets gradually older while he gets younger. When she's 75 he's about 10 and suffering from dementia. She looks after him until as a baby he dies in her batwing arms.  Daisy tells Benjamin a thousand times,'God, you look good' and boy, doesn't he!
       As my years flash by, whizzing through space ever faster, I was thinking how wonderful it would be to be growing younger, more intelligent, having a sharper short term memory than a better long term one, be sexier, more beautiful, more naeve, less cynical, have just had my children, be fresh to marriage and relationships, just starting a career. Whoa! Then they'd be teenage hormones, moods, anxiety, depression, self hatred, lack of self confidence,  constant embarassment and humiliation, disastrous relationships. No! No! Fairy Godmother if you're listening, I didn't really wish for that.
       What I really wish for is that my world slows down so that I can savour and enjoy everything that's good, learn from the bad stuff and let it go. I may not be growing any younger but I do hope that I can  go on growing- and not just widthwise!
        What I have really appreciated this year more than ever is the constant love and support from my family and friends.  Thank you! Particular thank you to Rhys, Angharad, Steffan, Jo, Sue, Den, Di,Wendy, Lynette, Janice and Emily.
         A Massive Happy & Healthy New Year to everyone who's read my blog this year.
         THANK YOU!

FABLER THEATRE & WRITING FOR THEATRE

Last week I was delighted to be invited by Adam Timms, a co-participant on the Sherman's new writing course and co-founder of Fabler Theatre, to an evening showcase of his work, entitled,' A Mindless Distraction.'  Fabler is' a multi-faceted theatre company focussed on strong storytelling, public engagement with the arts, and the provision of experiential training.' Adam and his co-founder Hannah O'Leary set up Cardiff Shakespeare Readers and Healthcare Interact in 2007.  They have incorporated a performance element to their work and under the banner of Fabler offer opportunities for actors and the community to become involved. Four short plays were performed by professional actors. Each play was sharp, witty, challenging. Adam is a talent to watch. 
      Several people we knew long ago, when I worked for Spectacle Theatre and Arts for Disabled People in Wales (now Disability Wales), were involved in the productions as actors and directors. It was lovely to catch up with ex Hijinx and ex Theatre Powys folk and to see how their careers have developed.  And very sad to hear of the recent death of Dave Hardy, a talented graphic artist and well respected in his field. Most of us had some kind of health issue. Some more worrying than others. 
It was like time had stood still. Difficult to believe over twenty years have passed since I worked for Spectacle. Sadly, their funding is being withdrawn. As is funding for Theatre Powys and Theatre Gwent. 
      Most of my counselling clients have cancelled due to the bad weather but it has meant opportunities to stay put and get on with writing. I'm pleased to say I've finished the first draft of 'Fathers & Sons'-a play about a co-dependent relationship, blown apart by the arrival of an unexpected foreign guest. It also explores sexual tension between men at a time when homosexuality was illegal. I have also rewritten parts of 'The Reunion' with a different ending. It explores how three women, political activists in the 1960s, meet after 40 years to discover how their lives have changed and question the nature of friendship. 
       I'm on a bit of a roll, so if you don't hear from me, it's nothing personal, just the muse seems to be with me. HAPPY CHRISTMAS!

PARIS ON ICE

December and it must be Paris. Well, perhaps a little exaggeration. We spent a few days last year in Montmartre to celebrate our 30th wedding anniversary and decided to go again this year. This time our great friend Jo came too. It looked chaotic at St Pancras but despite the heavy snow in the south-east, Eurostar got us out with only a 15 minute delay. Speed restrictions meant we were an hour late. But on the return journey we caught an earlier train and got an upgrade to First Class. For 59 quid return, that can't be bad!
     We strolled around the city sightseeing, visited the Sacre Coeur, the Notre Dame, the Shakespeare Bookshop, where among the shelves of English books is a piano and visitors are invited to take a pew, read or play. One evening we did the Christmas market in the Champs Elysees. Didn't buy anything but drinking vin chaud and peeping at the stalls was fun. We also managed to see Elles@Pompidou. The art centre had been closed due to strikes last year. They have made this exhibition of women's art (since the 1960's) a permanent feature. Well worth a visit.
       In our apartment there was a visitor's book, where people wrote about the chic little restaurants they'd found.  Looking for an authentic place to eat, we found a cheap place to eat near the Pompidou called 'Flunch'- a kind of BHS restaurant but where you can go back and help yourself to seconds from a vast range of veggies. It clearly provides a social service as we shared our meal with all kinds of characters-lady boys, hustlers, immigrants. One poor man, who looked like he had mental health problems went up three times to refill his plate with a mountain of rice and tomato sauce interjected by frequent visits to the Men's. On the way out a man who called himself himself the Chef, asked Jo if she'd enjoyed her meal and they shared a moment on the stairs enthusing about the quality of the food.  I think the meal had cost about 6 pounds in total.  One for the book!
    By the third day it was sleeting and the pavements an ice rink. I began to get worried that I might fall and do damage to my hip but I held on tight to Rhys and all was well. Jo was braver and wandered round our area for hours inhaling the atmosphere.   It was fun to spend the time together. But, I'm not sure I want a third helping of Paris in December.   Now April, perhaps?