In west philadelphia, born and raised, on the playground’s where I spent most of my days, chillin’ out, maxin’ relaxin’ all cool, and all shootin some b-ball outside of school, when a couple of guys, who were up to no good startin making trouble in my neighborhood. I got in one little fight and my mom got scared -she said ‘You’re movin’ with your auntie and uncle in Bel Air’
She plays with the remains of his soul. His heart was long gone, all that was left now was the pumping blood that seemed to burst out in spurts that told any observer that the life was being drained out of him as she smiled away while looking at a tree outside the window.
It plays every night. It is the all happening play in which we all, simple monkeys or puppets move along a straight line, all in order, all in file to do our task. Hence comes the question: “What is our task?”
He plays the banjo, sitting on the porch with the sunlight waning and the big bright light in the sky setting behind the near picture-perfect mountain range behind the porch. He play the banjo. It sings a melody no voice can sing. It is his voice. It is him. The banjo plays a song only he can hear inside himself.
I love to attend plays, especially those on Broadway. Are the plays really this good or is it just because they are on Broadway? Sometimes we convince ourselves they are good just so we can go home and tell everyone we went to New York and we saw a famous Broadway show. The last time I went with my husband, he stated that it was the sorriest show he had ever seen in all his life. This is one that has been running in New York for as long as I can remember. It was “Phan
Amazing to be in, but slightly boring from the outside. The amount of effort put into the production of one is outstanding, and the people you meet in the process are fabulous. Acting in a play is one of the most enriching experiences you can have, and I know I am a better person for it. I wouldn’t give up the time I’ve spent performing for the world.
Plays are a brilliant escape. I like other people’s feelings and I love other people’s stories. I love seeing an entire life,maybe multiple lives,unfold in front of me. What a beautiful art form.
What is wrong with America that we have living here that want to change Americam in every way possible to get God of of Ameria’s vocabulary. What is wrong with we, Americans that we don’t have the nerve to stand up to these people.
His fingers skim across the keys like a flat pebble over a still lake. You can’t help but stare as he plays the large instrument. You close your eyes and feel the faint trickling notes flowing around you, the large theater only amplifying the sound.
He had lost himself a long time ago inside of the muggy, old cafes in the poor district, where the steam of coffee soared upwards, swirling and playing with the airs of the cold mornings, reaching the ceiling at the end of it’s adventure to join it’s ancestors, spouting dew on the old wood and all the while mystifying the deliciously scented shop by making it visually impenetrable – and giving him a sense of unbearable nostalgia and joy.
she plays in the sand, her fingers making trenches and her toes making moats. The birds float above her on waves of wind, and sam sees his old life in her, sees what he wants her to be. not him. not like him at all. but she is his daughter, happy, uncaring, not knowing that they may never see each other again. She just wants to build sandcastles and laugh at crabs and scream as the water hits her.
Actors rush about, preparing for a play. How much has changed, in the theatre, between now and Shakespeare’s time. Did he watch as his actors joked and laughed as they prepared? Did they get stage fright? Was he himself worried about the audiences approval? The thought of such an influential man, pacing back and forth, hoping for a good reception from the people… It’s calming, in an odd way, and strangely hopeful.
I love when he plays with my hair.
Curling the tips, the edges around his fingers.
Lingering in one spot because he sees the goosebumps rising on my skin.
How sensual.
How pure.
Why can’t this last forever?
Who knew that going to the theatre would have the same effect that it did as a child those plays were some of the most influential moments of my life and god did I know it now. It was June I think, the last time I saw it.
I have to stop. Fooling around with my younger sister? Gross- that’s not what I meant. It’s just that we have to stop playing together. The dictator- I mean, President- outlawed laughing years ago, and playing always leads to laughing.
The plays at this particular theater had a propensity to be lavish but poorly acted. It was as if they had spent the entire time in the Home section of Macy’s and had never bothered to rehearse at all. Why would anyone waste such lace?
She hates how hard it is to write down the notes, the scars on her hands making the pencil feel like chafing voices against her skin – but she has to she has to she has to, because if not her then who else? No one can see the way the music pulls itself into being the same way she does. No one else can taste it in their dreams, or feel it fall across their skin, or watch it dance – not the way she does.
She has to play, she has to – but it has to be this.
It was a masterpiece, he was a perfect Juliano. He leaned back and stepped quickly into the next dance step in tune with the piano. The masks of the other nobles were delicately crafted while his own was pale and drab, true to his character. He offered champaign to the chaperon, he took a dance with Princess Marionette, he ate hors d’oeuvres with some of the older or rigid aristocracy and then he swung from dancer to danger in a brilliant display of synchronized twirls. His façade in and out of the play was exact and then over the course of several moments, all the other actors dropped to the floor, poisoned on two stages and alone he took a sip and initiated the finale.
I haven’t seen a play in a while or not at all at least. I remember auditioning for a play but i didn’t make it. In retrospect Im glad i didn’t Im not much of an actor and cannot deal with memorizing all those lines
Jimmy plays in the dirt behind the old aboandond mill down the road from his house. his mother doesn’t know hes down ther shes to drunk to care and his father? hes long gone maybe in californina. Jimmy has played in the same dirt since he was old enough to walk down the road by himself. he has no friends, only the insedcts and occational animal the may happen to scamper by.
It plays out such as a movie in my head. The mass of video coverage in every day life has bogged things down to mean absolutely nothing. The individualism that I as well as everyone else craves is cackling at me now. All I want in life is to be a poet and it lands me with the greatest depression that it is not possible to do so. I love words. I love the way the flow out from my soul and relieve all goings on.
Sports, the great proving ground. Lately, I’ve come to see it as the great teacher also. The amount I have learned about leadership, friendship, defeat, success, and cooperation cannot come from watching television. It’s something you have to live and experience, not something you can be taught.
Plays are usually lame. Unless it’s some crazy interpretive dance, I’m probably not interested. Sorry, watching the reenactment of Anne Frank’s family in hiding doesn’t sound like a fantastic evening to me. The book was sad enough, dude. And don’t even mention some Broadway shit. I’d rather stay at home and pound my skull in with a hammer because it’s free.
she plays with him as he rides down that one street they all remembered as being much larger. back in those days it was, i suppose. maybe a better place for a kid to be a kid. he knew he loved her then, back then, as they played. it was pretty. i want it to stay that way. it probably wont.
The world and life are a series of plays. Sometimes we’re the headliner other times we’re the supporting cast, but we’re always a part of the the story
Everybody plays a part, or two or three,
Or four or more, depending on the day,
And what we may accomplish on our way
Up to that goal of happiness that we
Envision there to be; but we don’t see
That such a goal is vain, and makes us stray
From happiness unnoticed, and assay
Our petty discontents. How poor we are
Indeed, who look on luxury despised,
Deprived in mind, of heart, and searching blind
For things not lost, but falsities thought prized.
But Truth, at times unseen, is never far
From us; if we look past what we’ve defined
We’ll see: our lock already bears the key.
I have seen so many plays in the past few years that I have loved! I have been in theater for the past year with a teacher name Mr. Harriman. He is so awesome, but is really questionable on what his sexuality
games, drama, i love to play, especially in snowfall at night, playing a musical instrument is a dream od mine, friends play, kids play, happy people play,
Life is a game to them, every move made to someday win, and they are told the path to follow, what rewards they will receive, and some vague reason for doing such. Glory, they say, honor, making the history books. Is life a game to me?
plays, slightly veiled. the bedroom, an unconscious. spies behind the doors closed, never fully closed in such an old house, such an old, creaky house that warps with the seasons disallowing any airtight enclosure, as though the house itself, so necessarily full of secrets, requires places that allow the secrets to seep in and out, in and out.
The inner child jumps with joy when playing, creating, coloring–embracing all that is innocent and creative in the world. How can we live without play. Our souls cry for it, especially when all we do as adults is work, stress, work some more.
No matter the years that pass in silver lining, I miss the days of plays. The stage. The theatre of loving arts of speech. I miss you, my role, my other not mine. I miss the life I never had.
In west philadelphia, born and raised, on the playground’s where I spent most of my days, chillin’ out, maxin’ relaxin’ all cool, and all shootin some b-ball outside of school, when a couple of guys, who were up to no good startin making trouble in my neighborhood. I got in one little fight and my mom got scared -she said ‘You’re movin’ with your auntie and uncle in Bel Air’
She plays with the remains of his soul. His heart was long gone, all that was left now was the pumping blood that seemed to burst out in spurts that told any observer that the life was being drained out of him as she smiled away while looking at a tree outside the window.
He plays, I play, you play, let’s all just play today
It plays every night. It is the all happening play in which we all, simple monkeys or puppets move along a straight line, all in order, all in file to do our task. Hence comes the question: “What is our task?”
“I love Stoppard, don’t you?”
“I really didn’t understand what was happening–did he rip off Dr. Who?”
I cackled as we waited for the cab, our theater best fluttering in the cold wind. You frowned, folding your arms.
“You laugh, but the Doctor is real.”
He plays the banjo, sitting on the porch with the sunlight waning and the big bright light in the sky setting behind the near picture-perfect mountain range behind the porch. He play the banjo. It sings a melody no voice can sing. It is his voice. It is him. The banjo plays a song only he can hear inside himself.
I like cats. Meow. I already wrote about this before I signed in so I’m not doing it again. So how much longer do I have to waste?
I love to attend plays, especially those on Broadway. Are the plays really this good or is it just because they are on Broadway? Sometimes we convince ourselves they are good just so we can go home and tell everyone we went to New York and we saw a famous Broadway show. The last time I went with my husband, he stated that it was the sorriest show he had ever seen in all his life. This is one that has been running in New York for as long as I can remember. It was “Phan
Amazing to be in, but slightly boring from the outside. The amount of effort put into the production of one is outstanding, and the people you meet in the process are fabulous. Acting in a play is one of the most enriching experiences you can have, and I know I am a better person for it. I wouldn’t give up the time I’ve spent performing for the world.
wonderful, beautiful act uspon our eyes. takes us vision away and fills us with delight.
Plays are a brilliant escape. I like other people’s feelings and I love other people’s stories. I love seeing an entire life,maybe multiple lives,unfold in front of me. What a beautiful art form.
What is wrong with America that we have living here that want to change Americam in every way possible to get God of of Ameria’s vocabulary. What is wrong with we, Americans that we don’t have the nerve to stand up to these people.
His fingers skim across the keys like a flat pebble over a still lake. You can’t help but stare as he plays the large instrument. You close your eyes and feel the faint trickling notes flowing around you, the large theater only amplifying the sound.
He had lost himself a long time ago inside of the muggy, old cafes in the poor district, where the steam of coffee soared upwards, swirling and playing with the airs of the cold mornings, reaching the ceiling at the end of it’s adventure to join it’s ancestors, spouting dew on the old wood and all the while mystifying the deliciously scented shop by making it visually impenetrable – and giving him a sense of unbearable nostalgia and joy.
everybody plays. we’re all playing at life. But nobody can win, everyone can lose. And if there is no winner, is there even a game?
she plays in the sand, her fingers making trenches and her toes making moats. The birds float above her on waves of wind, and sam sees his old life in her, sees what he wants her to be. not him. not like him at all. but she is his daughter, happy, uncaring, not knowing that they may never see each other again. She just wants to build sandcastles and laugh at crabs and scream as the water hits her.
Actors rush about, preparing for a play. How much has changed, in the theatre, between now and Shakespeare’s time. Did he watch as his actors joked and laughed as they prepared? Did they get stage fright? Was he himself worried about the audiences approval? The thought of such an influential man, pacing back and forth, hoping for a good reception from the people… It’s calming, in an odd way, and strangely hopeful.
I love when he plays with my hair.
Curling the tips, the edges around his fingers.
Lingering in one spot because he sees the goosebumps rising on my skin.
How sensual.
How pure.
Why can’t this last forever?
Who knew that going to the theatre would have the same effect that it did as a child those plays were some of the most influential moments of my life and god did I know it now. It was June I think, the last time I saw it.
I have to stop. Fooling around with my younger sister? Gross- that’s not what I meant. It’s just that we have to stop playing together. The dictator- I mean, President- outlawed laughing years ago, and playing always leads to laughing.
He plays the piano, he plays the songs, he plays the room, he plays the crowd. His fingers tickling the keys as his eyes tickle their emotions.
The plays at this particular theater had a propensity to be lavish but poorly acted. It was as if they had spent the entire time in the Home section of Macy’s and had never bothered to rehearse at all. Why would anyone waste such lace?
She hates how hard it is to write down the notes, the scars on her hands making the pencil feel like chafing voices against her skin – but she has to she has to she has to, because if not her then who else? No one can see the way the music pulls itself into being the same way she does. No one else can taste it in their dreams, or feel it fall across their skin, or watch it dance – not the way she does.
She has to play, she has to – but it has to be this.
It was a masterpiece, he was a perfect Juliano. He leaned back and stepped quickly into the next dance step in tune with the piano. The masks of the other nobles were delicately crafted while his own was pale and drab, true to his character. He offered champaign to the chaperon, he took a dance with Princess Marionette, he ate hors d’oeuvres with some of the older or rigid aristocracy and then he swung from dancer to danger in a brilliant display of synchronized twirls. His façade in and out of the play was exact and then over the course of several moments, all the other actors dropped to the floor, poisoned on two stages and alone he took a sip and initiated the finale.
I haven’t seen a play in a while or not at all at least. I remember auditioning for a play but i didn’t make it. In retrospect Im glad i didn’t Im not much of an actor and cannot deal with memorizing all those lines
Jimmy plays in the dirt behind the old aboandond mill down the road from his house. his mother doesn’t know hes down ther shes to drunk to care and his father? hes long gone maybe in californina. Jimmy has played in the same dirt since he was old enough to walk down the road by himself. he has no friends, only the insedcts and occational animal the may happen to scamper by.
It plays out such as a movie in my head. The mass of video coverage in every day life has bogged things down to mean absolutely nothing. The individualism that I as well as everyone else craves is cackling at me now. All I want in life is to be a poet and it lands me with the greatest depression that it is not possible to do so. I love words. I love the way the flow out from my soul and relieve all goings on.
Sports, the great proving ground. Lately, I’ve come to see it as the great teacher also. The amount I have learned about leadership, friendship, defeat, success, and cooperation cannot come from watching television. It’s something you have to live and experience, not something you can be taught.
Plays are usually lame. Unless it’s some crazy interpretive dance, I’m probably not interested. Sorry, watching the reenactment of Anne Frank’s family in hiding doesn’t sound like a fantastic evening to me. The book was sad enough, dude. And don’t even mention some Broadway shit. I’d rather stay at home and pound my skull in with a hammer because it’s free.
she plays with him as he rides down that one street they all remembered as being much larger. back in those days it was, i suppose. maybe a better place for a kid to be a kid. he knew he loved her then, back then, as they played. it was pretty. i want it to stay that way. it probably wont.
The world and life are a series of plays. Sometimes we’re the headliner other times we’re the supporting cast, but we’re always a part of the the story
an instrument
a show
in the park
tation
with me
sports
checkers
production
manager
with your mind
with your heart
with your soul
Irony
Everybody plays a part, or two or three,
Or four or more, depending on the day,
And what we may accomplish on our way
Up to that goal of happiness that we
Envision there to be; but we don’t see
That such a goal is vain, and makes us stray
From happiness unnoticed, and assay
Our petty discontents. How poor we are
Indeed, who look on luxury despised,
Deprived in mind, of heart, and searching blind
For things not lost, but falsities thought prized.
But Truth, at times unseen, is never far
From us; if we look past what we’ve defined
We’ll see: our lock already bears the key.
I have seen so many plays in the past few years that I have loved! I have been in theater for the past year with a teacher name Mr. Harriman. He is so awesome, but is really questionable on what his sexuality
i a
games, drama, i love to play, especially in snowfall at night, playing a musical instrument is a dream od mine, friends play, kids play, happy people play,
Life is a game to them, every move made to someday win, and they are told the path to follow, what rewards they will receive, and some vague reason for doing such. Glory, they say, honor, making the history books. Is life a game to me?
plays, slightly veiled. the bedroom, an unconscious. spies behind the doors closed, never fully closed in such an old house, such an old, creaky house that warps with the seasons disallowing any airtight enclosure, as though the house itself, so necessarily full of secrets, requires places that allow the secrets to seep in and out, in and out.
The inner child jumps with joy when playing, creating, coloring–embracing all that is innocent and creative in the world. How can we live without play. Our souls cry for it, especially when all we do as adults is work, stress, work some more.
No matter the years that pass in silver lining, I miss the days of plays. The stage. The theatre of loving arts of speech. I miss you, my role, my other not mine. I miss the life I never had.