Willoh Weiland Drafts

Jen Hval's research on Diamanda Galas and prison as invented space.
Great.

Grey Echo

Echo. Remember them? Hot afternoons, sun on our backs, naked rocks. We would yell, helloooo into caverns. And hear helloo, replayed but hollow. I am that now. Echo. A dim reminder of something actual. Even a carcass on a butcher’s table has more dignity. Big and bloody at least it represents what it was. You might say ‘poor pig’. But you respect the fact that it has lived. But this? This echo I am, for lack of any other word, is bare, meek. Neither alive nor dead. There is something pathetic about it. I was not meek. No. At training, they called me ‘The Grey’. My hair was the colour of Gun Metal, but I could out run the captain. Strong legs. I was vain about them. I’d sit with them angled straight out from my body. Watch the muscle under the skin like a snake under water. It’s not just limbs you miss. There is a nauseas ache for the whole body. A part of the mind that does not stop mourning. For touch. For all the things it can’t express. I can think of something, a memory say, of us on the rocks, my legs around you. And in it I am happy. But I have no face to make the smile. [Beat]. So there is no point.
Pause.
Poor me don’t you think? Poor me. How eloquent my little diatribe about my fate has become. Don’t be smug thinking you’re the first, I’ve poured my morbid little story out to every floater that comes past me. That’s what I call us, floaters. No one knows where we are. How we got here. Or who else is around. No eyes to see. No fingers. Oh poor me. Poor me. And of course, without the subtleties of body language to express ourselves. A fluttering hand to make our shyness known or a strong gaze to indicate confidence. We have become a filthy mass of stuttering fools. Running into each other blindly and going through all the awkward polite conversation that was so infuriating when we had bodies.
(Changing voice as if having a conversation with someone else).
Oh excuse me.
Yes pardon me.
No my fault.
Have you been here long?
Yes. You?
It’s hard to tell isn’t it?
Yes.
Or rather you forget.
Yes.
What did you do before?
And so on and so on and so on. Dithering geriatrics trying to conjure lost joys.
Oh yes I remember the parties too.
Sickening.
What did you do before?
Well dear it was my job to lace Africa with explosives, blow up mountains.
To find what?
Anything really.
Oh that’s nice, and what did you do in your spare time?
Oh in my spare time I ran a covert team of scientists who utilised invisibility technology to infiltrate the geological teams of opposing states and steal information about natural resource discovery and occasionally I would play squash to unwind.
Oh I loved squash. Where did you play?
SHUT UP SHUT UP YOU STUPID WOMAN DO YOU KNOW WHAT I HAVE LOST.
Long pause.
We knew of course, years ago even, about the disappearances. It wasn’t exactly a secret when you work for the state. They quietly paraded their lobotomising of people they considered dangerous. Published the occasional paper about their findings on the criminal mind such as (changing voice) ‘the minds of hackers had been found to exhibit brain defects synonymous with over exposure to low level radiation.’ This is fucking B Grade Neurology we laughed, hardy har har har har. Of course it didn’t dawn on me until I myself was floating around like a piece of mucus in an ocean that the reason the reports where so half hearted is they didn’t really give two shits. See the only thing we never really worked out is how to stop people fucking. When you have a population that is growing at the rate we are, everyone is replaceable. So if people were so much as hinting at a little fetish for opening up state files. Bam. If they are even slightly enamoured with group meetings to discuss...Bam. Which is why I ended up in purgatory not with revolutionary intellectuals but with a bunch of fucking morons who want to talk about squash.
Beat.
What have you lost?
Apart from my body?
Yes.
I thought it would have been obvious. Hope. I’ve lost hope.
Long pause.
Oh for what?
Moron. [Beat]. Its incredible isn’t it that our sick voyeurism didn’t disappear with the rest of us. We’re like blind folded strangers groping each other. You can never tell how long your going to be in orbit with another floater, I’ve been ripped away mid conversation. It’s the only sensation of movement you get here. There’s a sucking sensation and you end up somewhere else. Alone for another eternity. Not knowing when it’s going to happen creates a kind of anxiety. Not that I care who else is in this hell. I haven’t lost hope of course. I lost him. I’m just waiting until we meet. There wont be any time for small talk. (Beat.) I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’ll say. I got you involved and I’m sorry. I wanted to save something see, I got obsessed with the idea. It was selfish; but I guess I wanted a legacy. I had no choice but to tell them what we were doing, I couldn’t survive it, rape with electric wires. They told me that they knew all along. I guess they were waiting until they had enough, footage or photographs. They showed me them, while the blood ran down my legs. Us visiting the mines. Travelling up river. Fucking on rocks. Listening to echoes.

I thought it would be easy. Sell secrets about deposits in the North to the highest bidder and then gain protection for the small area in the South and the people there.
I couldn’t bear it any more see, going in there afterwards, the shattered heads, limbs in tangles, blood soaked ground. They don’t evacuate people anymore, it costs too much. They just blow up whole mountains and go in after and suction up the bodies. (Beat). But you know all this. What I wanted to say is I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. (Beat). And then I’ll try and kiss you here, with words. As best as I can. My legs I’ll say, remember them around you. (Pause). Snakes made of skin.

I love the idea of missing touch and sensation, highlighs a very tangible result of becoming 'Censored', I also love the fact that the protagonist views their floating sensation as a purgatory, this is a really interesting idea, what if you were trapped in a heaven or hell of your own creation! I enjoyed the frustaations felt of the inane chat that we can all relate to and the way you effortlessly weave sory into the text so that we get an idea of the past and the situation of the worlkd we are in.

Hey,

I have no problem with your script at all. In fact, I love how others (it seems) have started taking themes from it, related to population control and/or the control of sexual escapades. It all comes together to add a very full layer of humanity to Senseless, great work.

Just a few little things to think about though, so that we can successfully integrate the scripts.

1) When Echo is talking about ‘floaters’ he says they don’t know how they got here (became part of the censored). But Joseph has written an elaborate monologue about the process of censorship, and how this is done in a semi-state of consciousness...You should read it and possibly change or elaborate on that line. Maybe you want to say; you tried to block this process out or something instead…?

2) When talking about squash, one of the floaters asks, ‘Where did you play?’ I think this line ignores the fact that people aren’t allowed outside somewhat. Maybe it could be that the floater asks, “Which program did you play?” or something quirky to imply that they played simulated squash or squash with an A.I or something along those lines…?

3) When talking about becoming a ‘floater’, “Of coarse it didn’t dawn on me until I myself was floating around….” I think it would be a good idea to add the work ‘censored’ in. I know it’s pedantic. Sorry. But maybe, “Of coarse it didn’t dawn on me until I myself was censored, floating around…” or something…? Just to make that concept as clear as possible to the audience. And to incorporate some of the glossary lingo into your piece.

Finally, I think it would be good if you could explain to me, as the performer, a bit more about Echo’s work for the TNA. I don’t quite understand the finer points relating to the mountians, explosions, the South and North, who they are bombing etc. and have tried to elaborate, but keep finding dead ends. Maybe you could post something small for me about ‘Echo’s Work’ or we could just meet up and talk about it?

Thanks heaps.

Liv

Grey Echo

Echo. Remember them? Hot afternoons, sun on our backs, naked rocks. We would yell, helloooo into caverns. And hear helloo, replayed but hollow. I am that now. Echo. A dim reminder of something actual. Even a carcass on a butcher’s table has more dignity. Big and bloody at least it represents what it was. You might say ‘poor pig’. But you respect the fact that it has lived. But this? This echo I am, for lack of any other word, is bare, meek. Neither alive nor dead. There is something pathetic about it. I was not meek. No. At training, they called me ‘The Grey’. My hair was the colour of Gun Metal, but I could out run the captain. Strong legs. I was vain about them. I’d sit with them angled straight out from my body. Watch the muscle under the skin like a snake under water. It’s not just limbs you miss. There is a nauseas ache for the whole body. A part of the mind that does not stop mourning. For touch. For all the things it can’t express. I can think of something, a memory say, of us on the rocks, my legs around you. And in it I am happy. But I have no face to make the smile. [Beat]. So there is no point.
Pause.
Poor me don’t you think? Poor me. How eloquent my little diatribe about my fate has become. Don’t be smug thinking you’re the first, I’ve poured my morbid little story out to every floater that comes past me. That’s what I call us, floaters. No one knows where we are. How we got here. Or who else is around.
Or….
Though everyone remembers the filthy process of getting here. Tubes and mountains of broken bodies. No one knows where we are. Or who else is around.
(perhaps some direct extracts from Jospeh Coelhos monologue could be put in here? Interspersed? )

No eyes to see. No fingers. Oh poor me. Poor me. And of course, without the subtleties of body language to express ourselves. A fluttering hand to make our shyness known or a strong gaze to indicate confidence. We have become a filthy mass of stuttering fools. Running into each other blindly and going through all the awkward polite conversation that was so infuriating when we had bodies.
(Changing voice as if having a conversation with someone else).
Oh excuse me.
Yes pardon me.
No my fault.
Have you been here long?
Yes. You?
It’s hard to tell isn’t it?
Yes.
Or rather you forget.
Yes.
What did you do before?
And so on and so on and so on. Dithering geriatrics trying to conjure lost joys.
Oh yes I remember the parties too.
Sickening.
What did you do before?
Well dear it was my job to lace Africa with explosives, blow up mountains.
To find what?
Anything really.
Oh that’s nice, and what did you do in your spare time?
Oh in my spare time I ran a covert team of scientists who utilised invisibility technology to infiltrate the geological teams of opposing states and steal information about natural resource discovery and occasionally I would play cyber? squash to unwind.
Oh I loved cyber squash.
SHUT UP SHUT UP YOU STUPID WOMAN DO YOU KNOW WHAT I HAVE LOST.
Long pause.
We knew of course, years ago even, about the disappearances. It wasn’t exactly a secret when you work for the state. They quietly paraded their lobotomising of people they considered dangerous. Published the occasional paper about their findings on the criminal mind such as (changing voice) ‘the minds of hackers had been found to exhibit brain defects synonymous with over exposure to low level radiation.’ This is fucking B Grade Neurology we laughed, hardy har har har har. Of course it didn’t dawn on me until I was censored and ended floating around like a piece of mucus in an ocean. The reason the reports where so half hearted is they didn’t really give two shits. See the only thing we never really worked out is how to stop people fucking. When you have a population that is growing at the rate we are, everyone is replaceable. So if people were so much as hinting at a little fetish for opening up state files. Bam. If they are even slightly enamoured with group meetings to discuss...Bam. Which is why I ended up in purgatory not with revolutionary intellectuals but with a bunch of fucking morons who want to talk about squash.
Beat.
What have you lost?
Apart from my body?
Yes.
I thought it would have been obvious. Hope. I’ve lost hope.
Long pause.
Oh for what?
Moron. [Beat]. Its incredible isn’t it that our sick voyeurism didn’t disappear with the rest of us. We’re like blind folded strangers who cant help groping each other. You can never tell how long your going to be in orbit with another floater, I’ve been ripped away mid conversation. It’s the only sensation of movement you get here. There’s a sucking sensation and you end up somewhere else. Alone for another eternity. Not knowing when it’s going to happen creates a kind of anxiety. Not that I care who else is in this hell. I haven’t lost hope of course. I lost him. I’m just waiting until we meet. There wont be any time for small talk. (Beat.) I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’ll say. I got you involved and I’m sorry. I wanted to save something, not something people, the people we met in the South, I got obsessed with the idea. Once they stopped me, I had no choice but to tell them what we were doing, I couldn’t survive it, rape with electric wires. They told me that they knew all along. I guess they were waiting until they had enough, footage or photographs. They showed me them, while the blood ran down my legs. Us visiting the mines. Travelling up river. Fucking on rocks. Listening to echoes.
I thought it would be easy. Sell secrets about deposits in the North to the highest bidder and then gain protection for the small area in the South and the people there.
I couldn’t bear it any more see, going in there afterwards, the shattered heads, limbs in tangles, blood soaked ground. They don’t evacuate people anymore, it costs too much. They just blow up whole mountains and go in after and suction up the bodies. (Beat). But you know all this. What I wanted to say is I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. (Beat). And then I’ll try and kiss you here, with words. As best as I can. My legs I’ll say, remember them around you. (Pause). Snakes made of skin.

An ocean liner is usually a ship designed to transport people from one seaport to another along regular long-distance maritime routes according to a schedule. Liners may also carry cargo, and may sometimes be used for other purposes (e.g. for pleasure cruises or as troopships).

Echoes are the refraction of sound waves onto walls. If it can not dissipate into a large space, the sound will come back to us after a short while.

These languages interact with the same graphic windows, menus, buttons, and so on that a system generates. <a rel="follow" href="http://offshoresolutions.nl/">outsourcing contract</a>

The complex interaction of antibodies and antigens provides
opportunity to create new drugs, for example, Herceptin is an antibody
that acts as a drug to kill cancer cells. Another idea is the use of 
klonopin 
shark antibodies; mutations from the shark antibodies can improve
stickiness to malaria proteins – perhaps we can find ways to save lives
and also to make money? This was presented by Dr Andy Coley of  to a group of year 9’s at Ivanhoe Grammar. Part ortho  of the year 9 science program involves at La Trobe University. The program starts with lectures which erupts
in so many questions!! The students then decide on a research question
and the days are their own to do what tricyclen they like and what they need to
do to answer this question. They have choice in topic and choice of how
the outcomes of the research are produced – eg movies, animations,
websites, blogs, and even MySpace.

The aboriginal Australian understands neither the cultivation of the land nor the rearing of solar lights sheep and cattle. The dog is their only "domestic" animal. They take shelter in caves and in primitive huts. They have no food but the natural products of the earth. They know a very primitive form of fire-making and their cooking is very crude. They have no bathroom lighting knowledge of metal work. Their weapons are the flint-headed spear, the axe and the wooden boomerang. They wear no clothing at all. Living like this on the point of starvation may have gone on for thousands of years. It could be said that isolation is the only single factor in the piano lamp aboriginal Australian state of stagnation.

That can take very long time to improve a writing skillfulness. But oftentimes, people are pressured for time. If you are willing to save your time and get the supreme quality papers for sale, you should search for the progressive essay writing service and buy custom essay right there. Then, your academic success is guaranteed.

Owning a coach handbag is an investment, however coach outlet does not mean having to invest in full retail prices. These are just a few ways to own a designer coach bags without having to pay the designer price

Absolutely. Thanks brother!
coupons

Great webpage! I dont imagine Ive seen every one of the angles of this
theme the way in which youve pointed them out. Youre a accurate star, a
rock star guy. Youve got a great deal to say and know so much about the
subject that i think you ought to just teach a class about it.

Let me say that again, they found staph bacteria in beach sand! And this is just any old Staphylococcus bacteria. whelen

These kind of articles are always attractive and I am happy to find so many good point here in the post, writing is simply great, thanks for sharing.training weapon