Sick and wrong, people. Sick and wrong!
I'm currently doing a CAE fiction writing short course, to help me get back in the writing vibe and hopefully help me get over the story structure hurdle which I always fall flat on my face at whenever I take a shot at Nanowrimo, the Vogels, and similar. It's a six week thing, two and a half hour classes once a week with a little bit of homework (thousand words or so) each week which gets discussed and workshopped in class.
Might post it here, just for people's amusement. First assignment was to describe a the same situation twice, once in third person and once in first person. Well, I kinda succeeded, except that the concept ran away with me and left the whole 'same situation' bit of the assignment outline behind a bit...
He never gets tired of this.
Yes, the dance is demanding. The choreography is taxing and intricate enough on its own, but the emotional effort of projecting his character to the enraptured audience is what really leaves him shaking and weak after the curtain falls.
Still, he wouldn’t want to do anything else.
The music swells, glorious, soaring to the high ceiling, washing over the audience and sweeping them along with him as he strides, powerful and perfectly balanced, into the hot spotlights. The audience are connoisseurs, experienced and knowledgable about the art, and they know what’s coming next. Their approval fills his heart with pride and his feet with light, and he silently vows to himself that with the coming dance he will offer a performance worthy of them.
Pacing back and forth in the lights, he delivers his monologue. Some of the company disdain the plot and pay only lipservice to fleshing out their characters, arguing that the audience are really only here for the dance. Not him, never him. The dance is about passion first and foremost, passion grounded in the timeless stories of human conflict and experience. Desire. Betrayal. Deceit. Despair. Vengeance. The fallen king, the unfaithful wife, the ungrateful heir, the star-crossed lovers, stories that echo and resonate through history, from banquet hall to bedroom, battlefield to boardroom. He pours himself into his character, voice crackling with anguish, .face twisting with emotion. The story is primal – heavy with ancient themes that are culturally ingrained into every single audience member since they were old enough to listen to fairy tales. This is what he loves – making the audience feel as he feels, finding the emotional kindling nestling in their hindbrains and coaxing it into a flame.
And then, on cue, James is there, his impassioned sweat gleaming in the glare of the lights. James understands, perhaps like nobody else. And right here, right now, there’s nobody in the world he’d rather be with.
James glows. There is a beautiful anger in his eyes - he is no longer acting, his character inhabits and transcends him now. Looking at him is like staring into the sun.
The dance begins. The first sequence is a whipping, spinning pass that makes the audience gasp. Slowly, he and James circle each other, on the balls of their feet, stepping in perfect synchronicity, hearts pounding, gazes locked moltenly. Another blur of movement. A spin, a flip, a cartwheel. The pace increases. Flesh slides past perfected flesh, muscles shift and move smoothly, perspiration mists like summer rain. But even this transcendent moment must come to an end, and when the dance is done and the climax arrives he steps forward to take James into his arms.
You get funny looks when you say you’re a fan, to be honest. It’s not something I advertise, though most of my friends and workmates know. None of them actually understand, but that’s ok. To each his own and all that. You just feel a bit embarrassed talking about it. If someone’s not interested, they’re REALLY not interested, and they’ll give you a funny look. If you’d ever tried to explain it to a prospective boss at a job interview who asks about your interests outside work, or even worse, to a girl who you’re trying to get to know, you’d understand what I mean. There’s a stereotype – a stigma even.
There’s nothing like it though, for getting the blood pumping. But so few people appreciate it. It’s something I’ve never really understood. I mean, if I go to the footy on a Saturday arvo, get sucked up by the passion of the theme song, then spend a few hours watching sweaty men jump all over each other, then I’m a regular bloke and can talk about it with the all the guys from work during the lunchbreak on Monday. Instead, I have to keep giving these bland and non-committal answers about what I did on the weekend, because after a thousand times I’m just getting so sick of explaining myself to a bunch of two-thirds-skeptical faces who I’ve probably known for years but who now look at me like I just grew a second head. What’s the difference, when you really come down to it? It's no like i'm a poofter or something
Friday’s show was awesome. You can really tell when they’re getting into it. Some of them just mail it in, some are brilliant technicians but don’t show any soul. Some think that looks can cover for a lack of talent, others only get to perform because of who their parent are or who they’re sleeping with. But the true stars you can only just sit back and admire. I mean, people are going to be talking about the Black Maneater’s takedown of Crusher James at Wrestlefest 27 for a long, long time.