What you can find in her wastebasket

There she is. Her boss fixes his attention on her every Thursday morning when she enters to her white roomy office with that unusual short black hair that makes her look like a man from the sixties. She’s got the whitest skin, a thin body, two thin lips, a genuine smile, two daily complains, the first one is my toes ache, the second is I’m so exhausted I cannot feel my legs, a small nose, two big dark eyes.

Every single move she makes is so rigid that female softness doesn’t seem to fit on her; every single garment she wears is perfectly ironed. She passes her old fingers through her hair every time something stresses her out, every time Julian pours coffee on the floor. She is absolutely sincere she is unquestionably prudent. All her physical aspect and her soap smell make her look meticulously clean. Her name is Odilia. Today is her birthday fifty-five. Nobody knows it. She has told everyone at work that her birthday is in December 29^th, the exact month of her vacations. She is secretly celebrating in her office with some of her favourite whisky. Today it’s the day where she remembers her tenth birthday, that birthday that nobody remembered, that birthday where her mom and dad left her with her uncle, that birthday when the days became a constant fight to get money, to live. This proud elegant counter celebrates in privet all her accomplishments, her life itself.

Life has become easier and today she wonders why she hasn’t quit this job. She’s got quite a lot of money. Her independence makes her feel alone but that is nothing new. She is actually always telling every one: “…just remember, we are all in this alone”

Her reasons to wake up were her children and her job but now she can realise her mission has come to an end. She has finished. What to do now with all this freedom? Now that she doesn’t have to work. She doesn’t have to be responsible with anybody. All she’s got to do is to do what she wants to. All she knows about herself is that she likes chicken, she likes to read and she has never gone to the sea but maybe that’s because she doesn’t like the hot weather and the black people. She likes to feel drunk and she likes to talk to her neighbour Alberto. What to do with all these possibilities? She keeps wondering...

What you can find In the wastebasket of my character

What you can find in the wastebasket on my character

You can find loneliness and sadness inside my main character. He is actually an old man who served in the army for almost his entirely life. After retired and when he returned home, he decided to spend most of her life in front of the windows remembering the old good times that he lived and are far away from the present. We can find bad tempered too: This old man now spend most of the time in his rocking chair outside his house arguing and complaining to all those kids who play joyfully in the street. We can find loneliness and sadness due to the woman he lost when we was young. Some people say she quite him as soon as he enrolled, other say she couldn’t live with the idea of having a death husband three millions kilometers away; anyway the days of this old man are now insufferable and long periods of time. His wrinkled face confirms years of solitude and misery and his fragile and bended posture make him a doddery old man. Finally we can find impatience. This old man waits desperately the end of his suffering, the end of the day.

Happy Days, Samuel Beckett

http://www.sparknotes.com/drama/happydays/context.html

In the wastebasket of my character...

In the wastebasket of my character you can find the other side of a the coin. A positive and confident woman who wants to scape from darkness and to be just who she wants to be, elle.




This is Elle



Winnie is in the bathroom in front of a mirror contemplating her old face.



Winnie: “[…] In the bag, outside the bag. Ah yes, things have their life, that is what I always say, things have a life. Take my looking-glass, it doesn't need me.”


Next to her appears Elle.


Elle: why do you say that?

Winnie: are you looking for more reasons. Don't you think it's enough to wake up day by day an notice you are not the same person anymore? (keeping and taking things from her bag).

Elle: you know what?... you are killing me. What the hell are you doing by keeping and taking those stuffs from that bag. (next to Winnie, the view on the mirror).

Winnie: I definitively understand what you mean (smiling line on her lips and ), the sun raises to shine every morning but you stand from bed... just to stay at home... just you and...

Elle: let me guess (combing her hair) loneliness.

Winnie: no, worst than that.

Elle: is there something worst on earth? (putting on her make-up).

Winnie: (with a smiling line on her lips) yes, there is...there is a big one... (moving her head aside, her hands in the bag, her eyes fixed on the ceiling).


A long silence

Elle: (putting her make-up on, and looking at Winnie out of the corner of one's eye). Hey... hey you... (touching Winnie with the hand). Are you okay?

Winnie: hmm... (turning back to Elle) excuse me?

Elle: I am asking you if you are okay, you were going to tell me something about... loneliness, but you get... just, lost.

Winnie: uh yes! I am married, did you know? (raising her shoulders, a smile line in her lips).

Elle: hmm...no?

Winnie: yes, I am married. I wake up every morning...he's there (her eyes fixed down)...and me, I'm there (her look back to the mirror) I'M THERE, I'm always there. But he...

Elle: and...have you ever thought just not to be there?

Winnie: yes (her look fixed to the mirror) I have thought many times...many times. But...

Elle: but have you tried...at least have you tried.

Winnie: no...no, I haven't...I haven't tried. (moving her head side to side).

Elle: remember what you said when I just arrived here...

Winnie: I always say, things have a life.

Elle: yes you said that (shouting. her eyes fixed to Winnie in the mirror), and I want to tell you something, you are what you want to be whenever you want. You are not a thing, or not anymore. Things do not have a life, things need a life to be what they are supposed to be. YOUR THINGS have life because you decided to give them A LIFE, because you decided to give them your life.

Tears are falling from Winnie's face, her hands fell down leaving the bag on the bathroom table.

Elle: now your looking-glass is with me...can you see it...can you feel it...things' life depends now on me... and it depends on you to have one. To have your own life, and time is not an excuse.

Johanna Angulo Hurtado

Code: 0535624

TAXI

By H. Villamizar

The boy held his breath and led the silver spike towards the woman's bruised leg. His erratic pulse strived for a clean spot to be penetrated.
- It's my turn. He whispered scratching his left arm and held the small syringe up and flicked it twice.
Right after, his shaky hands unrolled the tight rubber hose off the lady's meager limb, her body all spread on the filthy floor. His teeth and right hand worked to make a tourniquet around his arm. Purple veins timidly emerged from his flesh.
Out of the messy household belligerent sunlight drove clouds away. Within the ruined facility not a light blub remained on. Through the window, the boy remarked on a fancy lady on a taxi, she gave a quick sniff to her palm, wiped her nose and checked her funny pink hat on the back seat. He raised his sight to the sky: “what a sunny day”.

Trees rocked under stubborn rainfall on either edge of the road. Windshield wipers unsuccessfully swept water away. The taxi driver inquired the man on the back seat about his destination. A black cell phone matching the passenger's suit hideously rang non stop.

-South-land Hospital. He murmured. Sunlight enclosed within coagulated clouds.

- How's that? The chubby man on the driver's seat replied. His heavy fist furiously stabbed the Steering wheel horn until an alien motorbike moved aside.

- Hospital of South-land. The passenger echoed, his cell phone's screen on: CALLING. The windshield, distorted by ferocious rain, reflected glittering signs flashing along the streets below premature nightfall. Ralph Mc Wright recalled the wire coming that same morning: “Today your mother expired. We accompany you in mourning. South-land Hospital.”
The man instinctively drew a lighter and cigarette out of his left pocket. Countless ditches and rainfall awaited ahead. He exhaled and had a second drag trying to avoid sleep. The driver pushed a compact into the stereo slot: “Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen” melody spread in the vehicle.

The cold cup of coffee sat on the desk with piles of unsolved folders. An electronic clock announced ten a.m. from the small bookshelf. He freed a sighed and dragged a palm along his hair. The mercury sphere reached 86°F while the office inmate pressed buttons on the telephone gadget and laptop keyboard alternatively. The doorbell rang and the office worker automatically gave the typing and dialing.
- Telegram for Mr. Mc Wright. Friendly announced the mailman as soon as the door was open.
-Thanks. The office worker signed and said good bye to the happy-looking worker.

He noticed it was a fine summer day outside and closed the door thinking of pulling the blind up. Back at the desk, he tore up the express-mail-stamped envelop, removed the content and finally sat back at the busy desk facing the fold page.

The passenger had a glance out of the car window trying to evade monotony as smoke rose up in a sinuous white string. A lady on another taxi passed by, a pink-dotted hat on. Her right finger gingerly slapped twice on her nose tip as the vehicle disappeared from the man’s sight. His head displayed a related photo as he took a last drag on his cigarette and choked it in the full car door ashtray. While L. A. sang a tribute to some wonderful world rain started to cease. A half hour later the taxi pulled over at the Hospital sidewalk. Halted rain let moonbeams clear up Mc Wright tired face.

The “South-land hospital” sign blinked indistinctively next to the entrance. The man paid for the service, slammed the car door and walked in.

-Where is she?

-Good evening, Mr. Mc Wright. We are so sorry.

-Where is she?

- D Wing, section M. Miss Shelley, take Mr. Mc Wright to the D Wing, please.

- Yes, doctor Smith.

Man and nurse left the reception area as doctor Smith walked into his office.

The woman ran along the sidewalk, a blue dressing gown on, people and vehicles moved around as the barefoot woman ripped gauze pieces off her arms. She rushed among trees and long sharp grass trying to escape from public eye. A high antenna tower could be seen some meters away. Its acute summit scratched bare sky. She knew where to go. The middle aged woman was half-way the tower top when some distant witnesses had already reported the presence of someone in what was probably an electricity tower.

Shaky hands and legs strived to reach the highest spot. Wind steered her gown and hair. She stood still for a second. Eyes closed, she tried to retrieve her breath. A nice 360º degree view made her have a quick glance in every which way and climbed on. She pictured her song and herself on a Sunday pick nick. Then, the dark house filled her mind. Some times it is better to turn your back on all pains and go. Finally stood on top , she let her back fall to the ground, outstretched arms. Eyes wide open, she experienced the strongest sensation of her life.

Back from the cemetery, Ralph Mc Wright decided to pass by his former home, more humid and ruined than ever. Sun still shone above it, though. He scratched his arm and thanked the taxi driver for his service. For the first time in many years he so himself standing in front of the crooked door.

Happy Days Quotes

Act 1:

Winnie:

That is what I find so wonderful, that not a day goes by -- (smile) -- to speak in the old style -- (smile off) -- hardly a day, without some addition to one's knowledge however trifling, the addition I mean, provided one takes the pains.

. . . Something of this is being heard, I am not merely talking to myself, that is in the wilderness, a thing I could never bear to do -- for any length of time.  (Pause.)  That is what enables me to go on, go on talking that is.  (Pause.)  Whereas if you were to die -- (smile) -- to speak in the old style -- (smile off) -- or go away and leave me, then what would I do, what could I do, all day long, I mean between the bell for waking and the bell for sleep?  (Pause.)  Simply gaze before me with compressed lips.

Words fail, there are times when even they fail.

The earth is very tight today, can it have put on flesh, I trust not.

Oh I say, what have we here?  (Bending head to ground, incredulous.)  Looks like life of some kind!

I suppose some people might think us a trifle irreverent, but I doubt it.

And yet it is perhaps a little too soon for my song.  (Pause.)  To sing too soon is a great mistake, I find.

Yes, there is the bag.  But something tells me, Do not overdo the bag, Winnie, make use of it of course, let it help you . . . along, when stuck, by all means, but cast your mind forward, something tells me, cast your mind forward, Winnie, to the time when words must fail -- and do not overdo the bag.

And that perhaps some day the earth will yield and let me go, the pull is so great, yes, crack all round me and let me out.  (Pause.)  Don't you ever have that feeling, Willie, of being sucked up?  (Pause.)  Don't you have to cling on sometimes, Willie?

Forgive me, Willie, sorrow keeps breaking in.

Ah yes, so little to say, so little to do, and the fear so great, certain days, of finding oneself . . . left, with hours still to run, before the bell for sleep, and nothing more to say, nothing more to do, that the days go by, certain days go by, quite by, the bell goes, and little or nothing said, little or nothing done.

I cannot move.  No, something must happen, in the world, take place, some change, I cannot, if I am to move again.

. . . What's she doing? he says -- What's the idea? he says -- stuck up to her diddies in the bleeding ground . . .

I suppose this -- might seem strange -- this what I have said -- yes -- strange -- were it not -- that all seems strange.  Most strange.  Never any change.  And more and more strange.

What a curse, mobility!

Act 2:

Ergo you are there.  (Pause.)  Oh no doubt you are dead, like the others, no doubt you have died, or gone away and left me, like the others, it doesn't matter, you are there.  (Pause.  Eyes left.)  The bag too is there, the same as ever, I can see it.

Then . . . now . . . what difficulties here, for the mind.  To have been always what I am -- and so changed from what I was.  I am the one, I say the one, then the other.  Now the one, then the other.  There is so little one can say, one says it all.  All one can.  And no truth in it anywhere.  My arms.  My breasts.  What arms?  What breasts?  Willie.  What Willie?

I have not lost my reason.  Not yet.  Not all.  Some remains.  Sounds.  Like little . . . sunderings, little falls . . . apart.  It's things, Willie.  In the bag, outside the bag.  Ah yes, things have their life, that is what I always say, things have a life.  Take my looking-glass, it doesn't need me.

There is my story of course, when all else fails.

“How can one better magnify the Almighty than by sniggering with him at his little jokes, particularly the poorer ones?”

e-trailer National Theatre/ Happy Days / Samuel Beckett

 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w0e-ulwCL5U

Interview with Fiona Shaw: Samuel Beckett's "Happy Days"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Px0QLQwL8Oc&feature=related

Happy Days, a review

http://theater.nytimes.com/2008/01/11/theater/reviews/11happ.html

IMPORTANT INFO

Dear students,
As part of our next task: “creating a character”,
we will attend the play: “Días felices” by Samuel Beckett.
Directed by: Professor Douglas Salomón
Actress: Marlyn Montoya
Thursday, May 12th
CENTRO CULTURAL COMFENALCO VALLE
AUDITORIO 5to PISO
7:00 P.M
ENTRADA LIBRE
Please acknowledge receipt of this message.

Professor Sol Colmenares

P.S. Although the performance will be in Spanish, it will represent important input for our task.
See you there.

You say weird like it's a bad thing

Don't forget to visit the blog: www.yousayweird.blogspot.com
and explore the links:
Stuff you like- On writing
Writing Samples - Ragnar and Juliet

the flesh made word

the flesh made word
Characterization, Part II
Chapter 5
Writing Fiction
By Janet Burroway 
Already available for you to get a copy of it!
Remember to think of your character's wastebasket!

Watch out!

Dear students,

Check this out:
Book people. Characterization, Part I.
Chapter 4. "Writing fiction"
By Janet Burroway.

Please, make sure you get a copy of it for our next class.
Best regards,
Prof. Sol Colmenares

Trip to my mind By Johnny Escobar Salazar

A performance in a carnival manages to capture his attention while he holds a beer in his right hand and contemplates a hole in his left pocket; he regards a confrontation between clowns and mimes who fight to the rhythm of a fickle and rather mesmerizing music. His look becomes more and more distant while he looks at it; he’s getting partially deaf and his mind is being barraged with some flashes… “There she is… her smiling and dancing reggae, at a San Andres’ beach, under an intermittent lamppost while my drunken eyes make the city-lights dance around us as multicolor fireflies. Then, a palm-tree covers us… so the night.”

It was July, 2005; the time of my graduation in high school and the trip to San Andres with some peers. By that time, I had an affair with a lovely girl whose rogue guise, dark-long hair and red lips used to have the power of viciously stretching my diaphragm just with kindness and sudden caresses. Going to that parallelepiped we euphemistically call “high school” was actually interesting because of her, her smile and random kisses we had far-off the regards.

Though we’ve made some plans for our stay in the Caribbean, just a week before the trip her boyfriend decided to go with us. He was an outstanding drinker; a good guy who was unfortunately seen in a contemptuously way by most of my fellows after he accidentally crashed an old lady in 2004… the lady died.

She sat next to me in the plane -the audience applauds euphorically- trying to avoid the pictures our fellows were taking because her mother didn’t know she was going with her boyfriend.

- “So… we’re gonna stay for a whole week! We could… sporadically… run into”, she said with a rogue smile.

- “I bet we could… that would be great, honey”, I finally answered pretty reluctant.

- “Don’t answer that way, sweetie… come on, I wanna take a pic of us.”

- “I thought you were avoiding evidences.”

- “That’s not evidence! I just wanna keep a pic of my lovely friend and me.” She took the picture.

My mate -the Michelle to whom the Beatles used to sing- is next to me enjoying the performance, though she argues she suffers coulrophobia. I interrupt my memories by looking at her and ask:

- “Is your invitation to Armenia still available?”

- “Of course! I’ll call my cousin to inform that you finally decided to go.”

- “Ok.”

- “What did change your mind?”

- “I just… want to share some time with you… and your fellows.” I look at the unusual contention and the flashes keep on coming to my mind.

We arrived to San Andres around eleven, at night. We all drank some Vodka from the free bar at the hotel and went to the beach, two blocks away. On the way, I was thinking about what Jess told me right after she took the picture: “he’s having a dreadful headache. We arrive to the hotel and he keeps there; we can go to the beach together and have some fun, thus.”

Darkness was covering the whole beach except some meters in the edge which were illuminated with a green light of a wooden lamppost. Some guys from Tolima were there, dancing reggae and drinking some beers. Among them, there was a girl with short dark hair wearing scarlet fishnets, so much kind of a punk look.

She heard me talking about my desire of parachuting and she interrupted me by saying she was from Flandes, “the capital of parachuting in Colombia” as she argued. Then she introduced herself; her name was Andrea Franco. We started talking, drinking and dancing, and time flied as fast as though it was a frozen white stork going to the south. Jess was there, occasionally looking at me inexpressively, I just ignored her. Jess stayed just an hour, she left by saying she was going to the hotel because her boyfriend was rather ill. The green light of the lamppost became intermittent thirty minutes after she was gone.

Around three in the morning, my and Andrea’s fellows went to the hotels. They were really drank. We stayed alone, drank and hornies…

The contention comes to its end; mimes are the winners and his mate applauds as though it was her own fight. They continue walking on through the streets enjoying that particular mad carnival.