I sometimes wonder if I’d make a good vlogger. I reckon I watch enough YouTube to make a decent fist of it if I wanted to try. But why would I try? I don’t really have a reason to vlog. My life isn’t interesting enough to entertain people at the moment. Plus I figure I’d probably just come up with a few excitable videos then let the whole thing go by the wayside. And that would be if I could ever bring myself to be satisfied with how ‘natural’ I come across on screen.
What would be sort of fun though, would be writing (and making) short video sketches. With my friends! Yay! Who doesn’t secretly think they might have an undiscovered talent when it comes to acting? Or wouldn’t at least humour me just once?
…You? You wouldn’t spoil my fun would you? Dash my creativity and slash my self-confidence?
So I’ll write a short sketch and I’ll share it around and approach some budding, unknowing actors. Then we’ll collaborate and come up with what we come up with and decide what we want to do with it!
Sounds fun to me!
Some poems from my 'Making It Strange' poetry class.Title
Bold in spirit
Entitled to your attention
A bad idea
I’m over here…
Distanced.
As the light slowly died, all of the sounds around me steadily grew in volume – the murmur of restaurant chatter, the clinking of glasses and crockery, the cracking of peanut shells – but it was the waves washing into shore and the buzzing of tropical insects that most cultivated the feel of the atmosphere. When I closed my eyes it was easy to believe I was lost in paradise, which wasn’t too far from the truth.
In reality I was sitting at a friendly open-air restaurant up the hill from a resort, my appetite recently sated by one of the less spicy traditional dishes on offer, trying to soak everything in. This would be the last time I’d ever experience these sights, sounds and feelings, so I attempted to imprint them all into my memory.
The small beach that the restaurant overlooked was like a virtual postcard – waves lapped gently against the shore, a light breeze fluttered the fronds of palm trees, and the sun left no shadow unstretched as it sank out at sea. It was a beautifully deceptive beach. When the tide withdrew during the day a swim became somewhat less appealing. To get to the water you’d have to navigate across fifty or so metres of slippery rocks, sharp rocks, and broken shells. Of course if you just wanted to bask in the sun, then there was no problem!
It seemed about thirty or forty steep metres down to the beach from the wooden table where I sat. I leant back on my chair and peered over the edge of the concrete foundation. The steps that snaked up the side of the hill led down to the thatch-work rooves of the beachside massage and hair braiding huts. A bit farther down I could just make out where the steps reached the sand of the private beach, and the narrow river that I’d jumped over to get here.
Raising my sightline I was once again struck by the wonderment of the mountains of tropical rainforest. The trees were impossibly tall and stood in an ocean of green; the rainforest was so dense and always looked so fresh, as if every leaf of every tree had a perpetual source of morning dew. I wondered about the wildlife that the forests protected from human touch.
A small lantern flickered on next to the table. The sun was still painting the clouds orange and pink, but was on its final legs. I took a deep breath and savoured the humidity I now knew well.
I finished the last of my unusual looking can of coke and stood, inspired by the beauty of the world and wanting to see so much more. It was then that I saw the Schwarzenegger of mosquitoes begin hovering laboriously in my direction, and I had to commit another sound to memory – the loud clopping of my thongs as they pounded down the stairs to safety.
