Writings...

So M's trying to edit down some monologues in her script, which the young actors will need in a couple of weeks. It's so much easier to do when you didn't write it. "Ah, just get rid of that, that, that, that...you can get rid of all of that," I advised. "And that. Oh, and this, it doesn't do anything, get shut of the lot. And this. And that." But if I was trying to shed some of my script. "No, nothing can go. It can't possibly work without all of it." Then the actors get it and, unaware of the trauma and the long hours of darkness, they say, "I don't think my character would say that. Can we get rid of it? Can I come up with something myself?" By all accounts even members of the youth theatre use this approach.

Adults only...

I'm reading far more Bukowski than is strictly healthy. So, I down part of the fifth of whisky, get a job hauling meat carcasses into the back of a lorry. I quit after an hour. The boss is a cocksucker. I meet a broad. Linda, her name. She asks me to fuck her up the ass. I wipe myself off on the curtain. Then undraw the curtains and expose myself to the jack ass over the road. "Put the fucking thing in your own ass, Windaski," shouts the neighbour. I sleep. Then head to the racetrack and lose everything. But at least there's some of that fifth left.