Many years ago I wanted to write to Jim’ll Fix It to discover how Star Wars figures were made and perhaps visit a factory where they were put together. So I had this plan to write to ‘he-who-shall-not-be-named’ in the hope that I might get a trip to the headquarters of Kenner or Palitoy. The letter was sent to BBC HQ in Television Centre, Wood Lane, London W12 8QT and a response was eagerly awaited.
Twenty years later I worked at said Television Centre as a floor assistant and had to meet ‘he-who-shall-not-be-named’ as he was a guest for a late night chat show I was working on. It was for BBC Choice, a now defunct channel that became BBC Three, also now off the digital terrain.
I was rather glad that he did not respond to my request.
25/01/2019
THE CAFE AT THE END OF THE WORLD
A HISTORY OF WRITING AND PERFORMING IN THE 21ST CENTURY
This is a blog about imagination. It is about the trials and successes of being an author, a performer and an actor. It is about the struggle for attention, it is about the magic of theatre. It is about me and my daily life. It is an insight into my head.
Years ago I began a blog about things that interested me. I love movies; stories; books; pictures; posters; music; walking and watching. This blog is undergoing its own Metamorphosis. I want to delve into my life and my head as I attempt to break down the barriers ahead of me and succeed in my quest to live the life I want. That is to be happy, to be financially sound and to be successful in my writing and performing.
I write and perform to make my audience feel, primarily to take them on a journey that will make them happy by the end. I like to hear laughter, but I also enjoy the pathos and understand that the most successful of our storytellers have used both in order to get their message across.
Heroes for me: Chaplin; Spielberg; Prince. Movies for me: E.T. Empire; City Lights
Lightness and darkness combined to form a rich and beautiful canvas.
Spectrum.
But that is all by the by, for while the beetle struggles with identity the clock continues to tick.
Ada's Will inspired by a picture of a black orb in a wood
Their lips are beaten black; filled currants shrivelled in the heat. Egg boils in the raw sun.
Reflections are cast; clouds single them out for attention. Two 80's children play in the leaves.
Their Vader costumes sway, twinned by the lure of the dark, they dance with the trees.
Reminds father of an old blob, sci-fi B's somewhere still play. The large egg boils black.
The sun reflects a black hole into existence; it denies movement, while all moved around.
She asks how it arrived; there is no answer, instead she whips his face with her plastic sword.
Father finishes his Special. Children cry for more, as the egg cracks revealing green goo.
Frozen, his face is ice in a glass of brandy; their wish is granted. Play for tomorrow, live.
It's hum calls; birds fuelled to oil paint; all sing the tune of close encounter.
No comments:
Post a Comment