The Playwright, In The First Week Of Rehearsal, Makes Herself Plain
“She has beautiful shoulders,” I said. “And the light pours off
of her skin.”
Because an actor can do anything she took a breath and shone.
all the female actors who had been listening in had beautiful
and light pouring off of their skin. I had to rein them in. There
much light bouncing around the rehearsal room. “No,” I said.
I know too much about this game but I don’t know everything.
the homeless squatted, in distressed costumes, smoking bumpers,
in a ragged line for the free lunch. Hunkered deep into their roles.
tableaux. “Perfect, perfect,” whispered the playwright. “Don’t
a thing.” We could smell the free lunch cooking as we clattered
bistros. The downcast eyes took in our feet, but one or two lifted
with a curious squint, a cool and tilted assessment of the portion
get. Then we were gone, one blink, we were no longer there, we
ringing from inside the old church hall, emphatic footsteps dancing
to my tune.
Jennifer Compton lives in Melbourne and is a poet and playwright who also writes prose.