Il Arrive

Ladies and gentlemen, clowns, bouffons and punks...the end is nigh. The clown show is finished, dead, buried. It passed by you barely mentioned, although there is an entry about it sitting in the box of 'maybe's...perhaps later...could be a re draft' otherwise known as unpublished posts. More of this later.

For now we speak of Commands. The final task. Each student has been given a title from which to create a seven minute piece of theatre. This piece is our own personal expression. We write, direct and can star in if we chose but no one helps.

And so, I spent Saturday catching up on the vital chores I had neglected and getting the flat beautiful so I could concentrate. Sunday was to be a day of writing. Except Sunday was a day of hanging over...quite what I was hanging over was never revealed but eventually I found my footing just in time to go to work. And today finds me sat in the sunshine spilling through my open window, a glass of red wine in hand, laptop on my lap and with the Counting Crows singing to me about Blue buildings. I am to be at school for a lesson at 4.30pm. But otherwise it is writing time. So inevitably I turn here as a distraction.

The title of my Command is 'Il Arrive' or 'He's Coming' depending on which language you prefer. Quite appropriate considering I have spent all of my teens and twenties living life based around this theme. The old romantic in me has spent a lot of energy imagining who 'he' is, shaping the current 'he' to fit that mould, crying over the loss of 'he' and generally wasting time where I could be doing something else. My late twenties finds me cynical, indifferent and almost completely without even a libido stirring at the thought of 'he'. I'm settling on a life with cats, except the cats will be dogs, wine, cheese, chocolate and maybe the odd flirtation.

Not so the protagonist of my story. You will find her sat in heavy make up, jewellery and her best dress every day waiting for 'he' to arrive. This lonely old lady has wasted her days waiting for the 'he' of her dreams. She's missed life and chances in the process and is involved in a waltz with the 'he' who is finally coming. Death. Death of chance, hope, opportunity and finally life.

But she's happy. She's alive only in her imagination and dreams.

Now for the hard bit where I take the idea and put it onto paper and then stage directions. Maybe one more glass of wine first though eh?

Oh a writers life...