Specialities:
Rhapsode
Scenario-spinster
Contemporary fables
“Art is telling the truth - with lies”
Once upon a time, a long time ago, and even last spring, a young woman was bestowed with the task: finding the right monologue. The quest had her combing the dusty isles of all the libraries in the dramatic arts section, searching for the chosen one.
Even with her superpower, a Starwars like the sword of neon beaming persistence, options seized to amuse her. Time was running out. But then a voice inside her left ear called.
"If we find nothing on the shelf / you just gotta make one yourself."
The young Lady was not unfamiliar with voices in her head and replied casually, "You speak my mind, but there are rules; a proper writer from a published play says the schools."The Voice sighed heavily. "Oh well, that's a paradox because we read them all, and none speak to your heart, only through the fourth wall."
Cont→
Unable to argue with that point, and in lack of better advice, off she ran to the gates of her expected recital like the rabbit itself in Wonderland because she despised being late.
At the gates of the Castle of Wooden Floors, a tall person covered in squeaky armor passed her er number to place on her heart.
With fellow utterly nervous cattle of a young group, they were led into the great room, at the end of it, like the organ in a church, on a tall spiky pedestal, a long table waivered, its balance tipping back and forth like a scale. You felt the piercing eyes from the top and heard the pencils scratching on flickering paper through which only the cry: "NEXT!" echoed throughout the hallways.
"Oh, hello, number ...77, you have 180 seconds to persuade us with your words".
One by one did the contesters fall through the trapdoor, sometimes in mid-sentence, even."Number 77!" The young Lady walked into the middle of the room, and before she could introduce herself, a voice through slurpy coffee-sipping exclaimed;
Please, begin!
And so she did. It was not even the exact words written in secret, but the tale unfolded. A moment of silence followed.
Mumble. Then "Good, thanks! - Where's that from !?!"
An icy shock froze her body... then, the Left Ear Voice whispered, and she answered;
"Oh, from the play "The Trees in the Forrest" - you know, the European writer,
Isadora Rosebud"
"Whom, again?"
"Why, the Isadora Rosebud."
-"...Ah, of course. Alright..
….see you this afternoon, Miss."
Isadora Rosebud was, of course, nowhere to be found in the established database back then, but as everyone knows, miss-spellings of foreign names are quite common.
Isadora was the Voice in the left ear,
and one fine day, she crawled deeper into the ear, into the middle of the young woman's brain.
There was a spiral staircase leading to the heart entrance and on the contra rhythm of the great valve's pulse, the Voice slipped in all of the words. So they fled, some into the lungs, and left the body in a breath as a song. Some slipped through arteries, into the fingers, and dripped onto pages. From there, they crept into the eyes of the reader and leapt into their inner ears. And so, like blowball dandelions in rough winds,
became many more Voices.
Such as the one with you now.
The beginning
