My recent favorite play is Sure Thing by David Ives. It would be my ideal play to write (if I were to write one) as it was inexpensive; having one table, one bell, and two actors provided to be profoundly effective. Initially, I thought it was a bit annoying because the bell kept ringing. However, I quickly started to realize what message the play was deciphering to its audience. Every one of us has said something we might have regretted at some point in our lives. Sometimes I wish I could have a handheld bell like that in my life to alert me of the stupid things I may say to people. If I could get plenty of chances to say the right thing all the time, the positive possibilities would be endless! Some of the things that that were scripted had me laughing out loud because of the different personalities the actors were playing.

I found a cool little video that someone uploaded to YouTube. Some of the scripting is different in order to keep up with recent times (like mentioning the DVD instead of a VCR, for example). I hope the link works and Blogger doesn't inform me that it cannot be listed here.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XliV9M7-If4



Playwrighters vs Bookwriters

Who has the easier job of writing? I wouldn't really know the answer to that if there was one as obviously; I am in no position to call myself a professional writer. All can only offer is my opinion.

As the American playwright Tina Howe once said, "I'd finally found a form where I could practice my imagination but not be bogged down by all those damn words." I could not disagree with her more. I wrote a play once for college. It was one of the most tedious and nerve-wracking experiences I've ever encountered. Writing a play is quite a challenge for me because I tend to use a lot of imagery when I write. Too much description is unnecessary since there are no readers. The public can see the creation rather than read it. It never fails that I have to go back and erase large pieces of a play (if ever I write one, which is rare). I tend to lean on the story side of things in a play, making it seem more like an essay or something out of a library. Though I don't ever mind a challenge, I would be slightly nervous about writing a play if it meant putting food on my family's table. In my opinion, it takes more exertion to write something that will eventually be seen. It is for this reason that I have always admired playwrights.

They simply rock.

Freedom Writers: Proof that the Pen is Mightier than the Sword

I watched this movie this morning due to earning some extra credit in class and I have been welling with tears ever since. I'd like to share some thoughts about the movie(contains a few spoilers).
Teachers have their own problems to deal with and can sometimes bring them to class. However, some of them choose to sacrifice their issues so they can listen attentively and act on the behalf of their pupils. They realize that it is not always about the academic subject at hand. To say that 23 year old Erin Gruwell, who taught at Woodrow Wilson High School, went above and beyond the call of duty in her profession is an understatement. She never gave up and is admired and inspired by many as a result of her perseverance. 

           Teacher compliments aside, Freedom Writers is a very frightening yet inspiring movie. Although the movie sometimes seems to be overly dramatic in contrast to real life, actual issues were scripted into the movie based on the student's journals. Her students maintained the ideology that they were living in a war zone and had to protect their rights through violent tactics. For example, one teenage boy told his teacher, "We ain't afraid to die, protecting our own. At least when you die for your own, you die with respect."

            There is a moment in the movie where fights break out all over the school so Gruwell runs out to see what is happening. The peace sign mural behind her symbolized that peace was much needed in the lives of those students. Again, she had to come up with a way to reach her students. English alone could not open their eyes, so she incorporated lessons that the teenagers might appreciate and understand within the English lessons. Unfortunately, she tried on several occasions only to be branded, "you don't know what you're doing". Still not giving up, she moved on to different methods until she eventually changed the lives of her students one by one.

            One of the most important ways she reached the students was when she recounted Hilter's regime. She compared his violence to that of the gangs in the very classroom she stood in and proved that violence is very real and nothing to be proud of. The pictures shown from that era was enough to drive the toughest of students to tears. And to think that that particular lesson was started from a racist drawing being passed around the classroom. It was the epitome of history repeating itself, which was something that needed to be stopped.

            Everyone knows that it's not recent news when one hears that teachers do not get paid enough for what they have to put up with. It is a wonder that this brave woman never left her career due to stress as others would be fleeing out the door with their last paycheck. It takes great dedication to the job and a world of patience to prevail as a successful instructor, something  Gruwell is blessed with. It is enlightening to know that teachers such as she are deservingly displayed in their profession. If most college graduates go into the realm of teaching and become just half the teacher she is, then America's children would be willing to learn more¾without violence.       

           

Before the Proposal

If I was impure, would you still love me?
If my life wasn't fulfilled with riches, would you still value me?
If I was moving at an invariable speed, would you still grace me?
If I told you that I am troubled, would you comfort me?

Sometimes beneath it all, I am stone.

With a heart that's been cracked too many times.
Sometimes when it rains, you'll know I'm crying.

I may not show it, but I'm crying for you.

If was in need of your strength, would you lift me up

Past the dark clouds that surround this empty soul?
If I was imperfect such as the way I live my life,

Would you look past my impurities?                                        

Sometimes beneath this old porcelain flesh,

Dark vines of hatred spawn for unwanted guests.

Could you chase out the demons that live beneath my chest?

Do all these things and I will love you forever.

All Things Must Cease

I've been working on a ghostly novella for quite some time now. It is based on a dream I had a few years ago. The title, of course, is subject to change. Below is a little summary of what I've been working on. Any comments and gentle critiques are needed! Thanks for reading.
                         

               Two grinning carved pumpkins rest peacefully beside the front door of our brick-red porch. Here I am, sitting Indian-legged on the cool steps of our family's brand new home, admiring the flickering orange glow the candles produce. A shiny black crow is frantically pecking at the stale French bread I tossed onto the grass as I take a seat on the cool, hard steps. I am amused by the bird’s expeditious nature of eating and I smile. He is indeed a funny little fellow.

               All is silent for a short while until I hear the popping of the neighbor's burning foliage in their front yard. I watch the flames from across the street make jumpy gestures such as dancing faeries at an elegant ball. The crickets, with their violin legs, are merging with the melody with the wind in the trees. Our neighbors are in a festive mood as their gleeful laughs are audibly traced just next door. Even the grimacing jack-o'-lantern that guards their half opened window does not seem to mind. In his own way, he is also laughing.

               Bewildered by the gradual elevation in volume, I stare at the warm sun setting in the Tennessee horizon, casting shadows across the Smoky Mountains. This is perfection. Soon, that deep orange star will be visiting other parts of the world, and then it will be time for tricks and treats in this city called Sevierville. I stare at the very last ray of light that manages to finally hide itself behind the tallest mountain, miles away from our house. It’s as if I am able to control the setting sun with my mind, making it go slowly down, down, down.

               Fondly smitten of the thought, I stand up and pad my way to the kitchen where my mother is preparing her most delicious confections: Mom's Mountaintop Toffee. That sweet, delectable treat has passed down from mother to mother in our family for decades. Upon arrival, a new scent enters my senses and I am pulled back down to the reality that I never survived that crash.

               I can faintly taste the coppery blood on my lips yet I do not have the strength to lick them clean. The shards of windshield glass is piercing the white of my eyes, forcing them open to look at my bottom jaw which has been nearly ripped apart from my face by a jagged, sharp rock. My chest is torn open, revealing cracked ribs; my emaciated stomach, exposing itself to the smallest amount of pale moonlight that is emitting through the cracks of this deep ravine. Though the coolness of autumn is bearing down on my scattered remains, I am partly warmed by my blood which drips down my throat. Ants and scorpions numb my wounds. With each nibble, they carry tiny pieces of me away to their underground world, never to be seen again.

               I want to scream for help but no one can hear my cries through the gurgling of my torn vocal chords. My once strong voice is as hushed as the dead of the night. It’s so cold down here. My strength to stay alive had already diminished as the light in my mind rotted away long before my horrid realization had set in—I am not at my parent's house on my beloved porch. I am dead.

The Antique Store

I am allergic to dust mites in the worst way possible. Yet, my ailment does not stop me from enjoying every sublime piece of vintage art that is covered in dust. Old things bring me back to a time before I even existed. It's as if I was there and reincarnated into the person I am today, only to remember the musty smell of a China cabinet from the fifties era. Hey man, I was there with a poodle skirt, okay? However that may be, here I am at the ripe age of 32 and climbing; climbing my nearsighted eyes up and down the rows of familiar Better Homes and Gardens magazines from the sixties. Even old glass bottles of Aspirin and Vicks VapoRub from the 1920's call for my attention. I am in complete aw over all the delectable and breakable things this stuffy store holds. With a sneeze and a congested nose, I turn toward the door to leave, and I wonder why in the world I didn't bring any money with me. All things considering, at least I have my pocket of travel sized tissues from the year 2011.