For the last couple of weeks (through my illness and beyond) i have been obsessed with my play on the Shadow of Bob Dylan through the '60s onwards. I have devoured Dylan's 1962 album - Folksinger's Choice and have been playing his 1963-1972 albums (Bob Dylan, The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan, The Times They Are-a Chanin', Another Side of Bob Dylan, Bringing It All Back Home, Highway 61 Revisited, Blonde on Blonde, John Wesley Harding, Nashville Skyline, Self Portrait, New Morning, Pat Garret & Billy the Kid and the Bootleg Tapes).
I have found myself begging to gods of word and speech to bestow on me the eloquence I feel my characters imbibe inside my imagination. After an unsatisfying first draft, I am nearly convinced I need to burn it and claw my eyes out for not creating what my mind's eye can see so clearly. Far too many and too insignificant details plague my conscience; the acting, the nuances of speech, the "existentialist" thread and the juggling of a passion with a passionate commitment to work and friends. Time is of the essence and its existence wanes a prelude to disaster of creation.
I still scribble away on my 4 year old rose hard bound notebook, long since discarded in favor of the PC/Lappy but once again a dynamic partner in the quest to create entire worlds out of ink and turbulence. Voice overs and stage directions seem ever so pertinent and the dialogues limited position a challenge that i must over come. But as much as I may try to convince myself or disclose to Ezra, this isn't really Dylan's story. I don't know his story. I don't think even he does. But I do know his impact on my friends and my life. His words, yodels and scratchings which reverberate memories deep inside our hearts and flare up nostalgia in the sound of a note, only to remind us of our many lessons.
I create a character only for the audience to feel themselves as Bob Dylan. His gravity and their orbit on a collision course with their ambitions and dreams. I'm sure I'm goin' to crash and burn. I just wanted to go out with a bang!
I have found myself begging to gods of word and speech to bestow on me the eloquence I feel my characters imbibe inside my imagination. After an unsatisfying first draft, I am nearly convinced I need to burn it and claw my eyes out for not creating what my mind's eye can see so clearly. Far too many and too insignificant details plague my conscience; the acting, the nuances of speech, the "existentialist" thread and the juggling of a passion with a passionate commitment to work and friends. Time is of the essence and its existence wanes a prelude to disaster of creation.
I still scribble away on my 4 year old rose hard bound notebook, long since discarded in favor of the PC/Lappy but once again a dynamic partner in the quest to create entire worlds out of ink and turbulence. Voice overs and stage directions seem ever so pertinent and the dialogues limited position a challenge that i must over come. But as much as I may try to convince myself or disclose to Ezra, this isn't really Dylan's story. I don't know his story. I don't think even he does. But I do know his impact on my friends and my life. His words, yodels and scratchings which reverberate memories deep inside our hearts and flare up nostalgia in the sound of a note, only to remind us of our many lessons.
I create a character only for the audience to feel themselves as Bob Dylan. His gravity and their orbit on a collision course with their ambitions and dreams. I'm sure I'm goin' to crash and burn. I just wanted to go out with a bang!
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