Thursday, 17 March 2005

Fake Blood

After perking up briefly it seems that Grandad is going to die in the next 24 hours, the morphine is being pumped into him, the medication being stopped, the family is gathering, he is drifting into an eternal sleep, the long battle is over, the war is over, he will at last find peace, Grandma will find peace, maybe our family will unite, he will live on in our memories and in the bomber jacket I own that he gave me and the name he gave me.

I could go on but for now I won't, I'd rather linger here, thinking about what he is doing now, what is occupying his thoughts as he knows he is dying. Into the nothingness then Grandad.

I was brooding on Grandad when at the Black Sheep pub near school I went on a rant about the empty, devoid nature of drama school and actor training; I suggested that it was a vague attempt to mystify and codify the skill of acting so as to make it some how unachievable and scientific and therefore exclusive so they can charge for the privilege of entry.

My rant went un-noticed apart from people liking the word codify so I stopped talking and made jokes and people laughed but really I wanted to attack without mercy and show them that for all the fake blood in a dead man's play performed with an earnestness you only get in the middle-classes you can't beat a bit of real life violence and pain...

Goodnight Grandad.

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