Of all the streets that blur in to the sunset,
There must be one (which, I am not sure)
That I by now have walked for the last time
Without guessing it, the pawn of that Someone

Who fixes in advance omnipotent laws,
Sets up a secret and unwavering scale
For all the shadows, dreams, and forms
Woven into the texture of this life.

If there is a limit to all things and a measure
And a last time and nothing more and forgetfulness,
Who will tell us to whom in this house
We without knowing it have said farewell?

Through the dawning window night withdraws
And among the stacked books which throw
Irregular shadows on the dim table,
There must be one which I will never read.

There is in the South more than one worn gate,
With its cement urns and planted cactus,
Which is already forbidden to my entry,
Inaccessible, as in a lithograph.

There is a door you have closed forever
And some mirror is expecting you in vain;
To you the crossroads seem wide open,
Yet watching you, four-faced, is a Janus.

There is among all your memories one
Which has now been lost beyond recall.
You will not be seen going down to that fountain
Neither by white sun nor by yellow moon.

You will never recapture what the Persian
Said in his language woven with birds and roses,
When, in the sunset, before the light disperses,
You wish to give words to unforgettable things.

And the steadily flowing Rhone and the lake,
All that vast yesterday over which today I bend?
They will be as lost as Carthage,
Scourged by the Romans with fire and salt.

At dawn I seem to hear the turbulent
Murmur of crowds milling and fading away;
They are all I have been loved by, forgotten by;
Space, time, and Borges now are leaving me.

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Borges again, this poem seemed to sum up a lot of the anxiety I was feeling about being at a particular point in my life where I am reflecting on where I’ve been and with who, what it has meant and how much it has impacted upon and will influence wherever it is I shall be moving on to.

As a joint English student with a particular personal interest in poetry it is not surprising that the form heavily influenced my final script. This point will be discussed further when blogging about script creation.

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Jorge Luis Borges, Limites (1958), Online: http://genius.com/Jorge-luis-borges-limits-annotated , (accessed 12 March 2015).

Jorge Luis Borges – The Library of Babel

This is the key text that I wish to build my piece around; I chose it for a number of reasons.

Firstly, Borges’ imagery in this short story has stuck with me since I first came across the piece a year or so ago; that a ‘library’ doesn’t have to be just that, but can be eloquently translated into a haunting metaphor for the universe.

Secondly, I personally think that that metaphor is amazingly beautiful and powerful; are we, inhabitants of this universe, not all stories waiting to be read? Are we not all unique, full of meaning yet at times uninterpretable? Are we not all allocated a time and place and yet, are movable and transient? Do we not all try and read others in our search for understanding?

Thirdly, I like maths. I find a comfort in the structured organisation of solvable equations and projectable hypotheses. If I could therefore create Borges’ library, or at least a small part of it, I could perhaps create a space that is simultaneously abstract, irresolute and yet tangible and even reassuring. Creating the library seemed to me the perfect setting in which to order and represent my ideas.

Lastly, I wished to address the construct of storytelling, seeking knowledge through the written word and the reverence we assign such writing. Creating a library which was representative of the universe, centred on words, stories and books would, in my opinion, therefore highlight and amplify their status, and so be an ideal setting in which to question their purpose and power.

I’m going to put this in here as I’ve always loved this poem and have often thought about staging it performatively…

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My Last Duchess – Robert Browning

FERRARA

 

That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,

Looking as if she were alive. I call

That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf’s hands

Worked busily a day, and there she stands.

Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said

“Fra Pandolf” by design, for never read

Strangers like you that pictured countenance,

The depth and passion of its earnest glance,

But to myself they turned (since none puts by

The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)

And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,

How such a glance came there; so, not the first

Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas not

Her husband’s presence only, called that spot

Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek; perhaps

Fra Pandolf chanced to say, “Her mantle laps

Over my lady’s wrist too much,” or “Paint

Must never hope to reproduce the faint

Half-flush that dies along her throat.” Such stuff

Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough

For calling up that spot of joy. She had

A heart—how shall I say?— too soon made glad,

Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er

She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.

Sir, ’twas all one! My favour at her breast,

The dropping of the daylight in the West,

The bough of cherries some officious fool

Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule

She rode with round the terrace—all and each

Would draw from her alike the approving speech,

Or blush, at least. She thanked men—good! but thanked

Somehow—I know not how—as if she ranked

My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name

With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame

This sort of trifling? Even had you skill

In speech—which I have not—to make your will

Quite clear to such an one, and say, “Just this

Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,

Or there exceed the mark”—and if she let

Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set

Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse—

E’en then would be some stooping; and I choose

Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt,

Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without

Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;

Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands

As if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet

The company below, then. I repeat,

The Count your master’s known munificence

Is ample warrant that no just pretense

Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;

Though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowed

At starting, is my object. Nay, we’ll go

Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,

Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,

Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

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I have loved this poem since I first discovered it during my English GCSE, and the drama student in me has always thought how well it lends itself to a live performance. In terms of its relation to my solo, I think the idea of there being more than one side to a story; the Duchess’s, the Duke’s even the priest’s and the envoy’s, and there being more than one way of telling it; the painting itself, the Duke’s spoken confession, our re-reading of it, struck a chord with my ideas for the kind of piece I wanted to create. I did not want to write a neatly bound, beginning, middle and end, but rather question our deification of such ‘perfect’ stories and create a way of inviting the audience to do the same. Also, the Duke’s collection of trophies in this poem is not entirely dissimilar to my curator character’s collection of books.

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Browning, Robert (1842), ‘My Last Duchess’, Online: http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173024 (accessed 5 March 2015)

The greatest challenge I am facing in creating a solo performance is content. This is an amazing opportunity to tell a story in a dynamic and unique way, but which story do I tell, whose story is worth telling, what story do you want to hear, why do I need to tell it?

We’ve undergone a couple of exercises around diary / journal writing to explore creating personal content. I found these tasks both interesting and challenging, and more interesting because they were challenging.

What do I really have to say? Using a diary format incited writing as a release or for reportage as opposed to creating text to be performed. I learnt a number of things;

The English student in me has a pretty poetic writing style.

The Drama student in me has a performatively structured way of relaying information.

I write with vocal expression – underlining/capitalising for emphasis, using punctuation to create spoken tone, bracketing side thoughts etc.

I talk (an embarrassing amount) about boys.

I balance emotional turmoil with comedy and sarcasm, even when I’m writing to no one.

I have proven my anxiety about loss, losing things came up a lot.

 

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Quotes of note;

“NO LUCIE I DON’T KNOW, I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING, I DON’T KNOW WHY I’M HERE OR WHAT I’M DOING WITH MY LIFE.”

“What else can I say but the truth?”

“I can’t really put my finger on what it was, it just felt significant.”

“…tell him that I’d lost his gift from – when even was it? Last birthday? The Christmas before? He’d know. That he would remember even if he didn’t care to admit it and that realisation made me want to tell him even more. Why? To see his reaction I guess, how he’d react to me having lost another bit of him. But no, we’ve done enough of that. SO here I am, writing instead, with pen & paper holding on to yet another loss.”

“Not sure that’s exactly what I mean by an uncertainty/disillusionment with where we’re going vs. where we’ve been inc. all associated expectations…”

“Town was full of prepubescent couples and it made me feel sceptical. What’s become of me?”

“*Realisation* There’s a difference between attachment to material things & sentimental things…It’s an inexplicable feeling -loss- part physical, emotional, a little il/logical. The loss of the representation of my attachment to my parents doesn’t lessen that connection. But does representing it materially affirm/enhance it?…”

“Stupid old lady! NO MISSED OPPORTUNITIES! Gah…Can I call it a date? ‘Tbh, I’m open for anything’ WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?! Food, drinks, roller disco? I will not become a booty call, I will not, I will not become…Did I mention that this boy can Squat me? Why do I even life that…Oh help. Behave. I am a terrible person.”

“I don’t know what the deal is / what game we’re playing. If I don’t know the game how can I understand the rules!…I DON’T LIKE ALL THIS UNCERTAINTY – Who am I kidding. It’s 70% of the fun!”

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Twitter Extracts;

“Isn’t it fucking terrifying that no matter how many promises they’ve made, no matter how long you’ve been together, someone can get up and walk out of your life without a second thought and you have to carry on living because the world doesn’t stop for any of us”

“Why should I be sad? I have lost someone who didn’t love me. But they lost someone who loved them.”

“-‘I’ve grown up, I’ve got my own life now’

-‘I know that! I just wanted to be a part of it.’”

“I JUST REALLY WANNA BE FRIENDS WITH SOME PEOPLE BUT I JUST CAN’T START CONVERSATIONS IT’S NOT THAT I’M SHY I JUST REALLY SUCK AT BEING A HUMAN”

“I am not even sure that I miss you/ Or that I am in love with you/ I just miss the thought of you,/ And the thought of being in love with you.// The desire to feel your lips/ Softly against mine / Your hands running against my back/ Your fingers intertwined within my own// I miss the way you made me feel/ Safe.”

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Currently, I have no idea whether any / all of that will be pulled into my final performance. I think I like my tone / rhythm so perhaps I’ll try and write the ‘script’ as me / from me. I need to play with content and decide how autobiographical / personal experience based my chosen ‘story’ will be. I’m unsure as to whether content is really the bit I’m interested in. If I’m not going to do something like the phoenix idea, I think I’d rather explore form and storytelling itself.