Playwright's Prose

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A Streetcar Named Desire
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Playwright's Prose

Post by A Streetcar Named Desire » Tue Jul 11, 2017 7:19 pm

Entry One:


I am a liar when I wield my mask.

I finally finished penning the "Injustice of Kellarn Stonekegg". It was strangely easy to create. Neither side of the injustice was larger than life, told almost as a simple day in the life entry, a Regent fallen from grace, letting power have him lose his grasp of restraint. My enjoyment of it came from this. Too many use their power to do as they please at the cost of others.

Still, I've never done a play commissioned to glorify a person's part of a conflict. But if this get's my skill out there, it will be worth it. I do not want to be tied to one patron.

The books at the Arcane Tower have been unhelpful in providing inspiration for plays, or even context or learning about song spells. Nor are they the most humorful. My Mask of Mischief wears on them, and it is only a matter of time before where their patience ends. I may have to adopt a chameleon approach to cause less ire. Maybe I should interview other bards, and create a book about our approach to magic to add to the shelves.

I've finally been made a Hawk'in of Bendir, thanks to the annoying Mask of Cuteness. With a New Mask of Authority comes new mischief, but also legitimate ways to learn and acquaint myself on how to be an asset for my people and others in need. A Hawk is quieter than an actress, at least until it swoops in for the catch. There is a lot happening outside of these walls of Bendir, slavery, strife, turmoil, and I can't resist the chance to meddle and make things better. I find my people are too sheltered for their own good. How can we hin survive rapidly changing times if we do not mingle and misadventure? An elf's tale of unity has inspired me, but no unity can easily come without a bit of influencing direction.

At least I hope I don't get carried away with having a little fun at the same time in working on that.

But that's what the mask is for.
Last edited by A Streetcar Named Desire on Fri Mar 02, 2018 12:19 pm, edited 3 times in total.
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Re: Playwright's Prose

Post by A Streetcar Named Desire » Mon Jul 24, 2017 6:48 pm

Entry Two:


Fools are so certain of themselves, sages so doubtful.

I’ve nearly finished penning a story of Amadeo against his arch-nemesis, Haston Reyne. It was different than my former play, what flaw could the protagonist have? Was his own morality a weakness, when he found its strength? Thus, I inserted a fictional character, a pupil that some might think is right, that is perhaps the general people, who once infected with hate, begin to see the loss of value in life. My writing is not perfect, it would require three actors that could take the lines somewhere new, propel what was a duet into an unbalanced trio, culminating in the finale in the rather short play.
I look back at the Injustice of Kellarn Stonekegg and realize that it is a work commissioned from a source of hate, born from this feud that won’t die. I wonder, if I altered the ending, to suggest hopefulness, an end to a feud, and hate. At the Trial of Buppi, I saw this, this undying feud, this hatred between people that sparked it to this point. Then one hin, Dazza, speaking from the heart, so genuinely, sincerely. His mask was gone, and he was but a brother, asking for his sibling to come home. The hearing entered its core, to really what it was all about, the rest flairs and dramatics, an audience watching a brother begging to be reunited. Yet it was real, no masks or decorated stage, something you could feel and see without suspension of disbelief. I wanted this energy in my play. Hope. Love. Not Hate. But instead the trial ended in an Act of poor precedent, a verdict of continued exile because the diction did not satisfy the King of the Trial. And so the King declared the cycle of hate to worsen and continue.
The “King and Queen of the Earthkin Kingdom” hold great power. There is a sort of complacency with kin, that age equates wisdom, the wise should not be crossed, nor the powerful. My new friend I hope, Lissa the mayor, feels overwhelmed and uncertain of the hin-folk, unsupported, kept in a tight grip by the “royalty”, whether by her own fear, or their own power. Her actions will shape and meld history. I slipped with my mask, in sympathy and showed her too much. But in this foolishness I gained a friend, a wisehin’s anchor. Perhaps together, the power from up high can slither down and balance, and courage will come to the gentle lamb.


A fool that impersonates a king risks execution. I realize in my sister’s game of playing archmage that I have a great responsibility to play as sister, for our surname is shared. Powerful men and women do not like to see their power mocked and mimicked. Sooner would they push you out without question, for their egos are fragile things, and patience slim. An apology will have to delicate and sincere, a new mask, or none at all, and risk a show of competency. I was innocent of the accused crime, but even that may not be enough.
Because there are enemies out there, who in hate, jealousy, or fear, would wish me struck down physically or in status. The mask I put on, or lack of one, will be the determining factor of if I awaken and live to go to bed.
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Re: Playwright's Prose

Post by A Streetcar Named Desire » Fri Mar 02, 2018 2:49 pm

Entry 3:


We all become what we pretend to be.

Our cores seldom change. Only the face we put on. It is an exhausting activity, pretending to be what you know you are not. But it is our weapon of expression, the makeup, the gloss, the posh glitter, the haughty personality or the fool’s bells.

In my last entry, I wrote of the danger of mocking the powerful, for the one who impersonates a king risks execution. Of course, a fool such as I does not heed her own advice. A second exile from the lands of the Dale followed not long after the prank of dressing up as the village Elder, but it lead to a useful opportunity to try on new masks. The mask Susan the Grey was born, a humble convict, donned in robes of shame. Who would suspect such cunning from a fool?

But the exact incident in question that triggered my throwing-out was curious. My great-great grandmother was held in notoriety by the speaker, the Hawk’in Commander, as she was doing her work. Her words about her created a bristle, a sting. And I retorted in kind. The offer to tell the truth of her life lead to a request of “departure or else”, the words of Tyrants and the impatiently arrogant. I was on my way out too slow, alas! But it is difficult to resist to cut a word in edge-wise.

Quickly it turned into a classic family tradition. Exile. A kin hitting me with his hand, a slap to the face for a prior joke (In poor taste, I admit). Life threats. This was all allowed to happen to the jester. It is frightening how quickly mischief removes the masks of people, showing you their insecurities.

My choice of Susan the Grey is a reflection of this. For I am deeply ashamed. Ashamed that the choices of humor and mischief bring out a destruction of our hin spirit, and have encouraged hatred and violence. There must be a place for mischief, after all.

But the show goes on, and the stage beckons. For sweet revenge lies in immortality of the arts. The Conjured Elder l, it is almost a mirroring to my situation. An unfortunate situation, by a foolish wizard, leads to his demise. The Elder utilizes great power in lack of compassion against the fool. At least, in its revised ending, in the original, he was scared off. But the change is fitting, a reflection of the truth. Those of great power are prone to over-use it like a crutch, with godly pride.

This time when I searched for players, I have met many like-minded artists who are keen on assisting with the performance. Maya Nutcracker, the daughter of the exiler, ironically, is one of them. I don’t know why. Perhaps she understands people have depths, or my mask of mischief is only for Bendir. No where else do I play the pranks I do. Augustin Dish, a talented half-orc, which is also ironic when it comes to the stage arts. A woman named Piper, gloriously talented and with like-minded passion. And a gnome named Namfoodle. His sermon style of performance is outstanding. A perfect Terto Tarquin, for when the Injustice of Kellarn Stonekegg is staged.

Funds are staggering low to fund materials and advertisements are still sorely needed. I should seek the beauteous privateer, Alice once more for a commission. Penning her requested story so far has been difficult. I have been searching for historical texts on piracy on the island to use as a base, but texts are lacking.

I am however, as I write, penning in my head another play that recent events have inspired. For I do not trust my kin to tell the tale right, as they have not. For the story of Blue, my great-great-grandmother, is not a story of a warlock that was wicked and cruel. The story of Blue is about love and compassion, about tragedy and life mistakes that come to haunt you, and sacrifice for the greater good. Her life, actions, and death, still permeate through the family, a pang of pain. A pain only worse than leaving a text too close to a burning fire (Rest in peace, the play of Haston Reyne and Amadeo).

But it’s staging shall ease that pain and make it something celebratory, and I will add it in a hopeful long line of works that brings back the stage to an isle that is sorely lacking of art.
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Re: Playwright's Prose

Post by A Streetcar Named Desire » Thu Mar 15, 2018 4:53 pm

Entry 4:


Theatre is life magnified.

When you enter into your seat, and the light dims, you exit the concerns and conflicts of your own life and enter as the observer to someone else’s. Be it fictionally or dramatically retold mockup of the real world, you laugh at the absurdities, and shed a tear at the tragedies. And when the curtains close and you depart, your life issues you had brought with you are lessened, or dead, the theatre lifting the weight and absorbing it away with the hours of entertainment that had flashed by. What meaning do they have anymore, when you now have the answers seemingly by the dramatic examples of the hero enacted on the stage, or their problems being so much greater, yours suddenly seeming like pittance never to be concerned over. This is the gift and achievement of good theatre, the relief of worries.

We artists are our own kind of hero. Unlike others, who weave their way into grand conflicts and advisors to the ruling powers, I use art and parody as my weapon and shield. What use is persuasion if the people’s morale sinks from the constant plot of life? And what better way to direct decision-making through the veil and power of art? So much wealth is shoveled towards war and defense, and so little to the relief of entertainment and the people, sometimes none at all. Happy people are good people. Grim people are bad people. Most enter crime because they have no other easy choice of survival, or because they are bored. Art gives them hope, and entertains them.

Not all art is favored by every side, often coming at the expense of those with high lot in life. The Injustice of Kellarn Stonekegg does, admittedly, poke a bit of humor at Queen Finibelle of Brogendenstein in regards to her relationship with Terto to suggest an affair, which the elite class of Brogendenstein may despise. But is it because the humor covers the truth that there was an affair they wish to deny, or discolors an otherwise honored character? But Injustice of Kellarn Stonekegg is full of them, in Terto and Kellarn, and perhaps the rigidity of the Thane himself, though he is written with the least detail. Had Kellarn and Terto been handled better by the Brogendenstein elite, blood may never have been shed between the two. The top of the crop is always thus the target of art. Those leading often forgot the people they lead.

And so it serves those in power to silence entertaining criticism. For years, I have struggled against censorship, just over a year ago even forbidden to put on anything in the Dale for a time, and once thrown out of Brogendenstein for attempted casting for parts. Only once was I close in success, boldly casting Terto and Kellarn to play themselves, before Kellarn died heroically a month later. The environment gone for the play, it was put on hold, depriving the isle of any play art for a long time.

Now with the success of the Conjured Elder, and Terto’s fallen reputation, the environment for the play has returned. There is no perfect time to produce it, and the actors I have, Maya Nutcracker, Augustin Dish, and Piper Pike, are phenomenal players, and I now have the funding to both pay to keep them (Art should be valued after all) and to purchase needed sets and props for production. Any fear of the alliance moving to censor out of irrational fear is removed with Bendir’s new mayor, who is more tolerable and less narrow-minded, and more reckless. This assisted with my suggestion that elections were called in the Dale lands. Grim rulers do people little justice. The altruistic, self-sacrifice is a more hopeful picture in these times of the isle’s battles with the Cyrcist Ezra and his dark allies.

The Sultan of Andunor. A fitting name for a play. It would be sung on stage of course. My gift as an agent to the others who continue to work against them. A bit of public rallying at the Sultan’s expense with entertainment does far more than your everyday speech. Admittedly, I would hope the man never learned of it. Entry two speaks volumes of the dangers of mocking powerful men. But that is the advantage of a Jester’s Mask. Only they can step beyond the line and safely live the next day with their head. But there are limits. I am lucky I have managed to talk my way out of all of the trouble gone my way so far.

Or I'm that talented.

But that is a play for another day. For now, who makes fake beards around here?
Last edited by A Streetcar Named Desire on Wed Mar 21, 2018 6:03 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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Re: Playwright's Prose

Post by A Streetcar Named Desire » Wed Mar 21, 2018 6:01 pm

Entry 5:


A censored world has no bad words, no bad deeds. The same censored world has no choice, and a false reality. That is the most dangerous world we can live in.

We naturally censor. We say what makes us look good, not what is the truth. We get defensive at critical remarks, and for those with the most extreme need to protect themselves or others outlook, resort to force to retain our image.

For all its faults, its dark alley ways and struggling workers, Cordor, at the least, does not overtly censor its struggles. It is not afraid of its faulted reputation. In this way, Cordor always works to improve itself, because it acknowledges its imperfection.

I cannot say the same for the North.

Twelve years ago, I joked that the Thane’s wife Finibelle and Terto were having an affair. I did not know they were really having one at first. But now after beginning to hear the beginning of the pieces from Terto, I know why their two hearts connected, in the touching, tragic way they did.

Yet I am now in a situation where I must make decisions of survival because the Earthkin lands of Northern Arelith fear this story, or it bristles them. I am not concerned of my personal life, for I have already resolved to not submit to the forceful plea of censoring. What is urgent is the survival of the information I carry, which is far more valuable. I seek to live so I may decide what to do with it.

Some of it is new, gained by surprising means. A tragic story from a monstrous kobold worn with age, gifted with wisdom and intelligence beset on a terrible face. The value of having the other point of view from the clan who descended from those who set Benwick into ruins cannot be stated enough. I am thankful the kobold did not take my life, only wishing for me to hear his story. I do not know why he chose me. But something must become of the tale.

Just as something must be done in response to the attempted censorship of my play. I am learning the story from Terto, but I can already piece the narrative just with the roots and setting he has described to me. It is not an uncommon tale, an arranged marriage turned cold, the wife turning to find comfort and love in another.

I had thought of gathering the tale and sharing it should I ever be forced to justify myself, but that is not enough. It is one speaker, and one dead speaker does nothing. We are mortal, we die when it is our time and that is it. But stories, songs, art? They live on. Especially when printed.

When I am done gathering the tale in full, I will place copies of the story on shelves, to be read and seen by any curious commoner or collecting noble if I am forced further into the corner. It does not matter then who regards what as truth. For THE truth will be accessible, and at the least, some will know it, pure, and unfiltered bar the gentleness I gift it to respect the characters of the tale, as I always have.

I had appealed for advice from a fellow agent on other actions to take, but did not find the heartfelt answers I sought. He was busy in his own work, like many of the others. Their methods are different, slow, gentle ripples moving across the pond, while mine are thunder coated by jest, causing immediate waves. But they do not give me away any more than theirs, perhaps even making the very idea absurd if the thought was ever to cross their minds. Subtlety is as easily achieved with loud gregariousness as it is soft and careful words.

Even so, it is a lonely crusade, this campaign for hin-spirit and art. It takes heroism and courage to stand where others would submit or keep neutral, even as doubt crosses me when I am called a terrible person, or worse. “Is this the right way to do this?” is a common thought that crosses my mind. For it is so easy to put on a different mask, and assume a persona that is reasonable and agreeable with society. Sometimes, the thought of the building consequences makes me consider how much easier it would be to pretend to be something I am not. Blue, Sariah Popkins tried that. Society manipulated her love like a docile dog, and sacrificed her as a lamb. Better to have lived by principles, than to give them up in the face of adversity.

I believe, no matter what happens to me, that the work I do will make things better for those I do it for in the future. And so the show goes on, and I will endure the insults, the chasing, the hurting, the intolerance, the threat of death, the secret keeping, and hide the growing heavy burden masterfully, until the curtain closes.
"Every performance is like a ghost -- it's there and then it's gone."

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Re: Playwright's Prose

Post by A Streetcar Named Desire » Thu Mar 29, 2018 1:09 pm

Entry 6
Storytellers are honest liars.

When I am jesting I am weaving a purposefully hard to believe story to entertain. For those with no humor, the stories are just lies, perhaps insults, and they seem to forget that this is a tale where the details are not to be taken seriously, but the story’s point is.

When I am playwriting, I am dramatizing honest illustrations of events. I am taking details researched through the speaker, removing the dry and enhancing the interesting. For example, Kellarn did not strike down Terto with a blade, and the script correctly has his method down on the stage for future directors to use at their discretion. But the resources at hand, and the blade, allow greater dramatization. And the play tones down the Queen’s affair to only be implied, for tastefulness.

But of course the play was banned anyway once the advertisement with the Queen described as Terto's lover went out.

I challenged them to prove my play to be slanderous. What did they have to assert it was not true beyond the Thane saying so, with no evidence behind his words? I have a witness. I have my own observations, for I was around during the affair. I have Terto’s word. Like all lovers, Finibelle did not cease to love their spouses when carrying on with their second relationship. They were secretive, careful. Honor has meaning to them.

The Thane's word thus amounts to nothing. Understand, aspiring playwright, or curious reader who has gotten a hold of my prose, that it is only taken in its creed because of his honor and position. That is the power of reputation, and the play is a threat to it. Understand that the Thane is a good Thane, but he is also a flawed one, and thus is afraid of art as it will not paint his legacy without coloring both the good, the policies and love for his people and the ill, the overt oppression and control. Do not be blind to what the powerful say, and learn to investigate. Take care when your subject is Kings and the wealthy. Know your audience, and know the enemies to your craft.

Thus, it must be understood that the play was not banned for slander or libel, for there was nothing honest about the Conjured Elder, a fictional tale. And there is no way to disprove my story, which is Terto's story, as the only available account who could confirm it, Terto, asserts its truth. He could be lying, but I asserted it well before he gave me confirmation. No, it was banned as a matter of a King's pride, and Cordorian weakness into the idea that satisfying them would repair relations that were damaged for other reasons. They were, of course, lied to. A good Thane, a cunning Thane, but also a selfish Thane. Know your audience, know the enemies of the art. That is the advice I give any playwright that wishes to challenge the confines of creative limitation.

Despite the obstacle in place, the ban did not discourage me. I am only more enthusiastic for what is to come. Officially, we are hopeful the ban is reversed in time for the performance so we can carry as we were, else we are performing the young playwright Feign’s play “Ordor”. That is the honest lie, as the play's opening line will shift over to the intended play. The plain truth is it will happen anyway, no matter the consequences, no matter the danger, for the Thane’s power and influence has limits he must learn if the isle is going to be a better place. Even possibly without my finest actress (A rather humorous, less talented actor will cross-dress the part should she not show), in three ten days will be art’s finest triumph or final act in the city. No prediction can be made on the consequences to come.

But Brandobaris would be proud, and if this is the last entry, to be found on some theater’s backstage under a stack of scripts, I hope my example inspires the artists who come after me.
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Re: Playwright's Prose

Post by A Streetcar Named Desire » Tue Apr 24, 2018 5:26 pm

Entry 7:
Monotony.

There lies contentment and the end of desire, which extinguishes creativity. Such are those lives who brag about their perfect husband, perfect children, perfect community, same work, and same things day to day. Mayors, for example.

Worse for art is order corrupted into oppression and tyranny. The squandering of all freedom into true tight-rigidness with fear is where art rots.

I am married now, and Sappo is a great husband, best of all because he supports my little rebellion against the status quo. He took a risk along with my step-grandfather, Ahab, and the other players, and put on the banned play "The Injustice of Kellarn Stonekegg". There was some growling from the dwarves, and Augustin nearly was charged with treason with their pushing, but in the end, no harm came to anyone. Art triumphed against its foes. Love too. There is a certain relief to knowing someone is behind you to keep you supported.

Recently, we have been working on other plays, “The Red Privateer”, and “The Runaway Cart”. They are both longer works than the first two productions, and with their own public concerns. Some are amusing, such as if the Red Privateer pokes a negative image of the Privateer Alice, or understandable, such as casting Vance’s slave, Pea, into a major role for “The Runaway Cart.” Gus, who has distanced himself from Feign’s play due to the last play’s consequences, warned us about including Pea, and suggested an understudy take his place.

But Feign shares my heart for boldness and hope for Pea, that maybe the performance is a stepping stone, of giving him a bit of taste of freedom. The villains are not rewarded, but ridiculed and satired. Augustin is concerned about the King of Cordor’s reaction if he were to sit in on a play that was, admittedly, a satire of what some falsely theorized might be going on in his palace. But such perspective is impossible to know for sure, as it is super unlikely he grace our humble theatre. Katie’s Players has never played safe, but always smart. Why change now?

We will have to find some way to get Pea for practice and performance, with this Azrael and the rules Cordor has laid out, or a bit of trickery, or Piper to take his place. Whatever is decided, maintaining a delicate balanced persona is critical.

Some institutions, (Such as the tower and Winter’s Rest) won’t even accept me as a student because of it, making it difficult to make good on a personal goal to learn more about medicine. The latter has gone so far to deny me entry into their temple except for medicinal purposes. People are much more interesting when they drop their carefully crafted masked identities and show you who they really are and snap at you. “Don’t make me out to be the bad guy” the Owner had complained, but isn’t that all a matter of perspective? The narrative obstacle is the “bad guy” to overcome. Such denial is the obstacle to leap over, be it self-learning, or persuasion. Her refusal makes me hungrier.

I end with this note, and will let my artistic achievements speak to themselves to young playwrights, speaking as both experienced playwright and an Elder hin: Do not let someone tell you that you can’t do something. To defy authority wisely is to set a balance against their power, to abide authority wrongly is to abide its greedy hand. Know when to respect the line, and know when to cross the line. When you do cross it, step with boldness, not hesitation. The world will change with you. Because all good changes depends on the rebel, the trailblazer that sets forth in front of all others.

Self Note: Still must write that kobold's play.
Second Self Note: And that play about Amadeo.
Third Self Note: And that play about Ezra.
Fourth Self Note: Too many plays to write still.
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Re: Playwright's Prose

Post by A Streetcar Named Desire » Mon May 21, 2018 3:20 pm

Entry 8:


Power Corrupts.

It is because of this absolute truth that the importance of moral authority and character increases with the position of power. When you are in charge, you start doing things you think are right, but they are not.

The pattern is almost familiar by now. You see a slip of moral character and ask it to be corrected, and the person fears the worst. They think you seek them gone, perhaps, or wish to take their power for your own. Fear of losing power gained is the corrupting force of power. Like a priceless ring, the idea of sharing terrifies.

The Dale is Strong again, thanks to the hard work of Meriam, but at what cost? I see Hawk’in parading themselves like thugs, mocking hin who have had run into trouble in Cordor. Traditions are circumvented as inconvenient. Another was nearly arrested merely for speaking her mind, while another believes poisoning people for fun is okay. The sheep are sinking in their morals, and the shepherd is complacent, for as long as the sheep remain loyal. Dissent at your own risk. While an exaggerated painting, it is more accurate in picture than I would like.

At first I was amused in the misunderstandings. The need to separate the other elders from myself with the title of venerated (Ironically, Sappo and I are still not married, only handfasted) seemed almost a good idea in practice. But it was just the start of this corruptive slope. When I spoke up about the moral character of the venerated elder to the shepherd, I realized the slope was deeper. Shortcuts were taken for the sake of satisfying familial happiness. Somehow, the divine importance of the affair in the eye of the goddess was forgotten.

The system began to turn from the gods, then. To prove it, I pulled the trigger, and revealed the unfaithfulness to the community to decide. The Shepherd cried for blood, the sheep followed suit.

Now, I spend my time in Cordor, where it is safe, preparing for the “Red Privateer”, while studying our religious doctrine. All that has happened has propelled me to become a priestess as part of my self-taught healing learning, but a holy woman and actress are not easily married. Taking inspiration from the priestess Amy Silverscales, I have taken her first name for my new mask. While I know I utter Yondalla’s name, my nature and controversy will likely place me more so in her Shadow’s sect. It is fitting almost, as I bond with the other black sheep. Together, we have agreed to bide, to wait. Someone pure will step forward, who will rally and bring the change that is needed.

That is not me. For much time have I shrouded myself in controversy in regards with my contempt for authority. To take authority would only push me on the same path I despise. There is something empowering about your only tools being art and speaking the holy word of Yondalla. The world would be better if using your blade was not considered a tool of resolution.

I must conclude that the sheep are not evil, nor the shepherds. They are not bad people, indeed, they are capable of great feats of kindness, and in this way are fine role models, who mean to do their best. But when power is questioned, when they are tested, they can become cruel, selfish, and blind. It will be a pattern that repeats for as long as there exists order and emotion.

Yondalla forgive my home, for it does not know what it does.
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Re: Playwright's Prose

Post by A Streetcar Named Desire » Fri May 25, 2018 1:04 pm

Entry 9


Perspective: Who is really telling the truth?

A play often tells the story in one perspective, often the Protagonists or narrators. It is THEIR truth, their view of things that holds out. The protagonist more often than not prevails, and the Antagonist’s view is forgotten, discarded, cast in a shade of wrong and left there. Often it is. But on the grand stage of life the sources of the antagonist’s complaints are important, and should be heard, even if their methods is what casts them to fall.

When you oppose a government you cast yourself in the minority against a foe of vast resources and power. All you have guiding you is the cause. Your foe will blast on to its people about your disloyalty, dissent, and danger of uprising. The idea of elections challenging stable forces will be twisted to a bad thing called overthrowing. How corrupt things quickly become when one forgets the lessons of humility of the church.

In The Red Privateer, the Privateer dissents against the reason of her husband to face an obstacle that he views above her abilities and leave it for the government to handle. Anne De’Bonne, the one she seeks to strike down, represents fear of the greater power. The Red Privateer is not initially a match for her. She must find the strength to be strong within against the odds. This is the sign of a truly good heart, those who are willing to take on things far more powerful. She rebels against the reason of the common citizen (The Lover), and the assurance of the Government, and dissents despite the risk. Her power is love, both love of self and others. Both are very important, for the strength to dissent requires self-love, the strength to fight for something greater than yourself requires love of others.

In my last Entry, I said my home was strong. I was wrong. A strong state would not fear elections, would not punish its own people for wanting a chance to see someone more supportive rule. They would not call rallying others to your cause manipulation, even as they do the same themselves. A good government would find a place for differing opinions on what is best, and be able to create balance between them. Perhaps it would alternate every few years who had the greater influence. Perhaps the other side would see reason. Perhaps the minority would be able to push for a few changes as compromise.

Instead, the government has tired of trying to convert the minority into their view, and risked violence. Now it is a matter of fight or flight. Every corner could hold danger, fear now an awakened emotion. Every plan is second-guessed, twice evaluated, created with back doors. The play could be dangerous, the events after could be dangerous, the events before. Even extreme measures have been brought forward, though they never include violence, and never include taking power for myself. Both methods would corrupt, and the only thing that would change is I would become the very problem I have tasked myself to fix.

I commonly write entries before my play, as there is a heightened degree of risk when they approach to my well-being. To the reader who picks this up, for whatever cause you pursue, do not be discouraged by the elements of opposition. They will do all they can to discourage you from making the change you desire in your community. The world does not have enough trailblazers, and all change and progress depends on them.
"Every performance is like a ghost -- it's there and then it's gone."

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A Streetcar Named Desire
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Re: Playwright's Prose

Post by A Streetcar Named Desire » Fri Jun 29, 2018 12:35 pm

Entry 10


How much would you risk over right?

Not the “easy” right, giving the beggar a small bag of coins where you have a fortune. The person who gives a thousand coins as a tithe to their god when they have a thousand times that is giving only a piece, while the woman who gives her entire wealth of five hundred gives all of herself, at great risk. The veteran warrior in his prime defending a downtrodden against bandit is brave, but the man who is still green at warfare doing the same is truly courageous.

Speaking out, what I did a year ago, against what I saw was wrong, was brave. If I was /right/ however, is arguable, up to perspective. The truth is that the perspective doesn’t matter if you and your adversary have a mutual goal. Learning to work together does, and I feel guilty I gave up on working with Bendir and went my own way. My actions were given the view of a traitor, and now I am solitude.

There is little courage in hiding away, in a self-imposed exile that keeps me safe, but it has allowed time to write and plan. I pen and ink my scripts in between cooking meals for my ever hungry husband. First, Choices, an incomplete play about Amadeo and Haston Reyn sets sprawled on the desk, short, and about half-complete, while Perspectives, a play about myself and Meriam in another, lies bundled and surprisingly complete, heavily inspired by the final days before my departure. And still, the Divine Treason sits with only a few sentences on its page. Ever frustrating, though the grounds of Candlekeep do much to ease the time.

But I cannot stay away forever from the grand stage. Life has costs and an artist is still expected to pay them, no one wants to starve. I have enough to stay another year, some additional income made by publishing The Injustice of Kellarn Stonekegg to be used by other playwrights. But then I must return, whether I have been forgotten or my name is still fondly or bitterly recalled in the minds of those I have interacted with. My time here has allowed me to spend more time focused on my arts, and studying the theology of our people. I hope on my return to try new things with the arts, and to be a better priestess to my people who will believe the truth, or my perspective of it. But I hope to spend more time with art than causing fire. Flames die quicker when not given more fuel. And yet to act seems almost wrong.

Dissent is a breath from treason, speaking up a heartbeat from disorder. The lines so blurred, how can you ever be so sure you are on the right side?
"Every performance is like a ghost -- it's there and then it's gone."

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