Post by Oren on Apr 6, 2021 12:37:07 GMT -8
He stands in front of a mirror, clothes scattered to the four corners of the room.
He imagines the Sun. He conjures a ghost light warming the void of an empty stage.
He pictures his throat slit, blood reflected through the eyes of the man he will shape.
He bleeds.
“Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia, the gods themselves throw incense.”
He imagines the Sun. He conjures a ghost light warming the void of an empty stage.
He pictures his throat slit, blood reflected through the eyes of the man he will shape.
"Most of the troupe thinks you’re an addict or schizophrenic."
He pulls at his wild hair. He sticks out his wild tongue. He stretches his wild arms and his clicks his wild teeth. He stares at himself in the OREN and lets his face shatter into a million pieces. The cracks splinter like spider webs, but the shards do not fall to the floor. A practiced thumb and forefinger pull at each individual piece; a jigsaw puzzle unsolved and destroyed.
"It’s usually better to focus on dance or chorus…"
Each piece became a weapon. A blade for every pore. Caesar would look upon him and weep. "A coward dies a thousand times before his death, but the valiant taste of death but once. It seems to me most strange that men should fear, seeing that death, a necessary end, will come when it will come."
He imagines that it is the same shade, same texture, same taste as Apollo’s. Did it hurt? Oren hoped that it was peaceful and knew deep in his heart that had not been.
"You are…the element of drama."
His curls become straight as the jagged spikes that make up his face twist deeper into him. A globe of ice picks and acupuncture. He picks up a comb and a handful of pomade. He would grace this mirror with a face it will never see again. From memory, he sculpts. Quicksilver lines waver and placate, like liquid iron suddenly agitated.
He would become Longsuffering. Ideally, an arc explored over several acts. This was compressed mortification. His Arcadian debut was the ESTEEMED GAVROCHE OF CHALCEDONY, a gravedigger, a singer of songs, and a psychopomp who would enter into town and have high tea with the dearly departed, speaking with them as if nothing was wrong, that death had not passed over their heads and left them in the Deep Dark. That this day was like any other.
This day was not like any other. And as his face contorts in a mass of glass teeth and tears, Oren shuns the kiss of Sorrow and twists it into an ugly cascade of rage. The ivory becomes roughhewn and scored and chipped with daggers and stilettos. Rejection is all he remembers and he hates that that is all there is. If only Apollo could see him. If only he still breathed.
Maybe he would love him. Oren assures himself that he would have. He could be whatever he wanted him to be. He could do no wrong.
He scours his Mask and violently paints. He will bring him back, if only for a moment.
This day was not like any other. And as his face contorts in a mass of glass teeth and tears, Oren shuns the kiss of Sorrow and twists it into an ugly cascade of rage. The ivory becomes roughhewn and scored and chipped with daggers and stilettos. Rejection is all he remembers and he hates that that is all there is. If only Apollo could see him. If only he still breathed.
Maybe he would love him. Oren assures himself that he would have. He could be whatever he wanted him to be. He could do no wrong.
He scours his Mask and violently paints. He will bring him back, if only for a moment.
"Now, I know you can't share a lot of the details about the film, but we have some asides, and we were wondering if you could do them...in the voice of Prospero?"
"Oh, sure, sure. Yeah, there's no way my agent will have my head for this..."
Apollo looks at himself in the mirror and imagines studio lights painting his face. One more show couldn't hurt. "This rough magic, I here abjure...And, when I have required...some heavenly music, which even now I do...To work mine end upon their senses that...This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff...Bury it certain fathoms in the earth...And deeper than did ever plummet sound..."
"I'll drown my book."
"Oh, sure, sure. Yeah, there's no way my agent will have my head for this..."
Apollo looks at himself in the mirror and imagines studio lights painting his face. One more show couldn't hurt. "This rough magic, I here abjure...And, when I have required...some heavenly music, which even now I do...To work mine end upon their senses that...This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff...Bury it certain fathoms in the earth...And deeper than did ever plummet sound..."
"I'll drown my book."