I Spent the Afternoon Killing My Parents, What Did You Do?
Okay, not literally and barely figuratively. Would you like me to explain? Because I will, whether you like it or not.
A friend of mine in high school used to go into major funks for days at a time if a character in a story she was writing had to die. I thought it was sweet and kind of overly dramatic that she used to get so attached to these fictional characters that their deaths seemed to affect her so deeply. Me, on the other hand, I used to kill off everybody. Blood, death, misery, it was all part and parcel of my adolescent fascinations at the time. It was kind of funny, now that I think about it. After all, she was much darker than I ever was and definitely took to a much more sour disposition than I, but in the end she was much more sensitive about things. Me? Well, I think I've pretty much covered that self-absorbed territory already. Sweet on the outside, ridiculously bitter and twisted on the inside.
Why do I bring this up now? As I age I am finding it harder and harder to let characters die, even though I know that sometimes they must. It took several years before I was able to kill off the young man in my first play. The day I knew I could no longer avoid killing him, I had to call the actress whose job it would be to walk away from this boy and let him die to tell her what I was about to do. I could tell she was trying to be brave for me, but she took the news almost as hard as I did. In the first version, no one died. It sort of fell flat and had little resonance due to the lack of conclusion. For a while I had thought the boy was going to succeed in killing her and then kill himself. Then it became clear to me that the whole story was about her character's dilemma- do I stay and pretend that I can help this boy knowing that chances are he is going to kill me, or do I escape with my life knowing that he is going to kill himself no matter what I do? I chose to have her walk away. He died. He shot himself in the mouth. Right after the play technically ended- it was the "Blackout- Gunshot" that we used to laugh about in Arts High School and that was probably another good reason why I avoided killing him for so long. People shooting themselves on stage is so lame. But I ended up killing him anyway. He died and I mourned him for days and each time I think about him now, I feel sick to my stomach. I guess I feel a little guilt for creating the circumstances that lead to his fictional death. The truth is, I love that kid. He was so smart, beautiful, charming, witty and shy. It hurt to kill him. It hurt to have him in enough pain to kill himself. It hurt to have her live knowing that she will spend the rest of her fictional life knowing that she had a hand in his death. And she loved him desperately- almost as much as I did.
I am finally getting around to the re-writes I've been trying to avoid in my new play. I've spent all this time building up the circumstances in the first and second acts, creating a disconnected family ravaged by dashed marital and parental expectations. Then I had to kill the matriarch. It wasn't so much that she was in the way as much as it was about the lesson of her passing. So today I killed her and left her grown children to pick up the pieces. I feel terrible because I loved her strong back bone, her rather cool affections toward her own children and her incredible devotion to an abusive husband. At least I didn't have to shoot her or beat her to death. It was just a gentle heart attack in the middle of a family crisis. Off stage, thank you very much. People collapsing on stage is so fucking passe. What is going to be really hard is that tomorrow I have to tell her husband that she's dead. I'm not sure how he's going to take it, but he depends on her for everything. He needs her. As big an asshole as he is (was- that's one of the points of the play) it is going to be heartbreaking to take her away from him. I'll let him keep her for tonight. I've shed enough tears for them today.
It is amazing how fiction can invade your life so completely. In school I was playing Lady MacBeth and I made a choice to break my imaginary 2 year old's neck. It was during the sleep walking scene. I beckoned the little boy to come to me and gathered his little pudgy body into my arms. I wrapped him in a warm embrace then curled my right arm around his imaginary back and cupped his little chin in my right hand. Then I snapped his little neck. The scream left my lips before I even knew what hit me. One thing I am good at is my sensory work. I could feel every fat roll on his plump body. I felt his chubby fingers grasp my biceps. I felt the force in my arms that I needed to crack his neck. I felt the body strain and go limp. I had convinced myself that there was a lifeless little boy in my arms and guilt, grief and nausea swept my body in such a complete way that there was nothing left in me but this long, heavy sob. Once the sob had left me, the complete emptiness that envelops the rest of Lady M's night wanderings was all mine. I have no idea if my interpretation was any good as the only feedback I received from my nemesis teacher was that I should have killed the kid earlier and, by the way, where did you get that lovely robe? But to me the choice was so real that I could not eat for the rest of the day. Just thinking about it now makes me feel sick.
And yet, I feel compelled to have these experiences, to create them and live them as safely as I can. I shudder to think what would happen to me if I had never discovered these outlets for my murderous side! Not that murder, death and misery are the only things I create. Hardly.
Sometimes I'm funny.
A friend of mine in high school used to go into major funks for days at a time if a character in a story she was writing had to die. I thought it was sweet and kind of overly dramatic that she used to get so attached to these fictional characters that their deaths seemed to affect her so deeply. Me, on the other hand, I used to kill off everybody. Blood, death, misery, it was all part and parcel of my adolescent fascinations at the time. It was kind of funny, now that I think about it. After all, she was much darker than I ever was and definitely took to a much more sour disposition than I, but in the end she was much more sensitive about things. Me? Well, I think I've pretty much covered that self-absorbed territory already. Sweet on the outside, ridiculously bitter and twisted on the inside.
Why do I bring this up now? As I age I am finding it harder and harder to let characters die, even though I know that sometimes they must. It took several years before I was able to kill off the young man in my first play. The day I knew I could no longer avoid killing him, I had to call the actress whose job it would be to walk away from this boy and let him die to tell her what I was about to do. I could tell she was trying to be brave for me, but she took the news almost as hard as I did. In the first version, no one died. It sort of fell flat and had little resonance due to the lack of conclusion. For a while I had thought the boy was going to succeed in killing her and then kill himself. Then it became clear to me that the whole story was about her character's dilemma- do I stay and pretend that I can help this boy knowing that chances are he is going to kill me, or do I escape with my life knowing that he is going to kill himself no matter what I do? I chose to have her walk away. He died. He shot himself in the mouth. Right after the play technically ended- it was the "Blackout- Gunshot" that we used to laugh about in Arts High School and that was probably another good reason why I avoided killing him for so long. People shooting themselves on stage is so lame. But I ended up killing him anyway. He died and I mourned him for days and each time I think about him now, I feel sick to my stomach. I guess I feel a little guilt for creating the circumstances that lead to his fictional death. The truth is, I love that kid. He was so smart, beautiful, charming, witty and shy. It hurt to kill him. It hurt to have him in enough pain to kill himself. It hurt to have her live knowing that she will spend the rest of her fictional life knowing that she had a hand in his death. And she loved him desperately- almost as much as I did.
I am finally getting around to the re-writes I've been trying to avoid in my new play. I've spent all this time building up the circumstances in the first and second acts, creating a disconnected family ravaged by dashed marital and parental expectations. Then I had to kill the matriarch. It wasn't so much that she was in the way as much as it was about the lesson of her passing. So today I killed her and left her grown children to pick up the pieces. I feel terrible because I loved her strong back bone, her rather cool affections toward her own children and her incredible devotion to an abusive husband. At least I didn't have to shoot her or beat her to death. It was just a gentle heart attack in the middle of a family crisis. Off stage, thank you very much. People collapsing on stage is so fucking passe. What is going to be really hard is that tomorrow I have to tell her husband that she's dead. I'm not sure how he's going to take it, but he depends on her for everything. He needs her. As big an asshole as he is (was- that's one of the points of the play) it is going to be heartbreaking to take her away from him. I'll let him keep her for tonight. I've shed enough tears for them today.
It is amazing how fiction can invade your life so completely. In school I was playing Lady MacBeth and I made a choice to break my imaginary 2 year old's neck. It was during the sleep walking scene. I beckoned the little boy to come to me and gathered his little pudgy body into my arms. I wrapped him in a warm embrace then curled my right arm around his imaginary back and cupped his little chin in my right hand. Then I snapped his little neck. The scream left my lips before I even knew what hit me. One thing I am good at is my sensory work. I could feel every fat roll on his plump body. I felt his chubby fingers grasp my biceps. I felt the force in my arms that I needed to crack his neck. I felt the body strain and go limp. I had convinced myself that there was a lifeless little boy in my arms and guilt, grief and nausea swept my body in such a complete way that there was nothing left in me but this long, heavy sob. Once the sob had left me, the complete emptiness that envelops the rest of Lady M's night wanderings was all mine. I have no idea if my interpretation was any good as the only feedback I received from my nemesis teacher was that I should have killed the kid earlier and, by the way, where did you get that lovely robe? But to me the choice was so real that I could not eat for the rest of the day. Just thinking about it now makes me feel sick.
And yet, I feel compelled to have these experiences, to create them and live them as safely as I can. I shudder to think what would happen to me if I had never discovered these outlets for my murderous side! Not that murder, death and misery are the only things I create. Hardly.
Sometimes I'm funny.
posted by Bree O'Connor at 9:10 PM
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