I used to destroy the writing when things got to the low point. Now, I’ve discovered low isn’t low enough. Since I belong to the world of the unpublished (and I’m more than likely to stay there), this time, I’ll let the characters be the perfect fools they are.
In the film I saw the other night, titled Marguerite, the terrible truth no one wants to tell her is that she’s an absolute disaster as a singer. When somebody finally dares to tell her (by forcing her to listen to her own voice), it kills her. The script was inspired by a real-life would-be diva whose name I forget. I doubt anyone ever told her she was a disaster. The woman was rich. Had plenty of money to spread around. I guess people stuck wax into their ears, smiled, applauded and yelled ‘bravo!’.
Bore holes through a pencil. Gopher and rabbits holes. A squirrel on a tree stump, diving into one of the burrows. Plus a complicated safety latch on a security fence – except anyone could reach the release mechanism and walk right in.
Those are a few of the images the night left lying around for the awake one.
Mary Mary quite contrary
how does your garden grow?
With silver bells and cockle shells
and pretty maids all in a row.