A twitching figure on stage, grey dusty hair, checkered light yellow suit, bushy beard, wrinkled face, tossing and turning, as though demonised... The lights went out, the play commenced.
I was so impressed with The Green Stick, Liam really has produced a gem of quality. Andy also was fabulous. Almost unrecognisable, I thought, when he appeared on stage, his movements and voice so natural and so unlike him.
I do hope they get asked to perform it again.
(Since Liam has created a link to this post calling it a review, I will elaborate.)
Two characters, a tree, a fridge full of books, a bench and two holes dug in the ground.
The mixture of the absurd and profound supposedly "reminiscent of Beckett and Ionesco" was there, no doubt, but I would say, from what I have seen of the two quoted (which is, not much, to be honest) that it went much more in depth in its exposition of the point that is trying to be put across. I would class it also with Pirandello, though not as extreme, as it presents the readiness to accept an illusion as a substitute for truth, as long as it is good enough to fit... The thing linking these three playwrights and estranging The Green Stick from their plays is the fact that Liam has created a play with a purpose that is more than to confuse, shock and proclaim the desperate situation of the human nature, in that there is a solution to the existential problem posed. (Liam is going to slate this post when he has reread this! "It's nothing like that, you wannabe critic!")
The attack to post-modern, pluralist worldviews is quite obvious throughout the play, which I love, because I can't stand that thinking which denies the possibility of truth and absolutes, arrogant thinking that says we are more intelligent than the wisdom of the ages.
The character who claims to be seeking truth but denies the existence of such a thing, trying to elevate himself above all is wretched like a dog, while the one who with simplicity gives his understanding of the world, knowing it is flawed, but open to receiving truth, rises like a bird...
The idea of the stick is based on this quote of Lev Tolstoj (as we write it in French) that you have surely seen on the leaflet, or on imanartichoke.blogspot.com: "I used to believe that there was a green stick, buried on the edge of a ravine in the old Zazak forest at Yasanya Polyana on which words were carved that would destroy all evil in the hearts of men and bring them everything good." Throughout the play, quotes from other authors are cunningly inserted, as pensées en passant, and Liam fitted little references to other writers here and there, irreverently ;) .
The second half of the play was particularly poignant, as we get closer to the dénouement, which you will have to see for yourself! So yeah, I do hope they get to perform it again, because it is a gem of quality as I said, and unlike anything around!
I got home that night feeling so inspired, and in such a philosophical mood, it was particularly refreshing. Which brings me to my... dilemma.
I have not been spending much time at all with my "Inkling buddies" of late, the guys who would, by their very nature, spur me on to create something coming from the depths of my mind, my heart. Fellows who would also be encouraged by what I write, as poor in quality as it would be, into brandishing anew a calligraphic instrument above a slice of paper, and let rip in a blurry but determined release of thoughts.
Was it Kant who said that no thought was finite or concrete until it was delivered in an explicit form, for example spoken or written? (Do correct me if I am wrong, I am just trying to appear to be smart, when really, I'm a fool.)
I must say I agree with this understanding of thoughts, broadly, mainly when it comes down to creative thinking: those thoughts are like a bomb that is released from a plane, falling, waiting to explode. If undelivered, it will fall into the sea, and just create a lot of turmoil (like an ulcer in people who fail to express themselves). But if pen darkens the paper with shapes and symbols, letters and punctuation, that bomb has exploded and creates an appreciable disaster. (Please note I am not a fan of war, guns or explosives, it is simply a image.)
But sometimes it may be a question of timing. Now is a time to read, to learn, to grow. I certainly don't have the time, at the moment, to sit down and produce worlds. Soon, I may be able to be released in it again. I wish I had a person to spur me on into it. Maybe I am not a particularly good writer, I do enjoy the whole process though, I want to learn and get better at it.
Last night I found and read in my messy room a few pages of my fellow Inkling Andrew's second Canterbury Tale. I wanted to write into the night. I had been particularly blessed yesterday, in being given the opportunity to speak at the youth group the same day, because of my poor friend's flu not allowing him to do it. It was great and just filled me with passion for the rest of the evening. Instead of staying up, I shoved myself in bed. I would not say this very often, but it was a mistake.
What has meaning? Nothing but what is eternal...
I say: "Come and give me that Wildfire."
