Theatre is a place bringing truckload of emotional disasters
to play with a silly rhythm. What do they wrap in those ghost boxes and behind
the curtains? Burning skin of an actor and old books perhaps. Polished glory in
the studio of killing lights- they kill you absolutely, in bright and dim
shades. This is a blushing irony though. Always a woman sipping her bareness
through them and in precise devotion. It gives life to her.
Why do I find it elusive then?
Anything less than what comes straight from mouth unprepared
is to be dumped. It’s like vows which are delivered when you are overflowing in
an intoxicating spirit. Not the godly spirits but the drug which is cancerous.
That’s where theatre is untrue. It’s prepared and that’s why people appreciate
it. Appreciate every untrue thing. But these admirals are only passing numbers.
They will rest as soon as there comes another monkey with a different studio
style.
1 comment:
The theatre. Burning spotlight. Trapdoor Ennui. Ghostly pallor. Brave, brave moments of assertion. Mousetrap. Mime. The girl with half-moon brows. Les Enfants du Paradis. Nymph, in thy orisons, be all my sins remember'd.
To Be, or not be? :-)
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