2. Karma bit me on the arse. After my post this morning about how good everything was, stuff was bound to go pear-shaped. Work was crap, and I feel like I've had a bumming from a rhino with rabies.
1. Here is the finished Mannequin Monologue (finished in that all I am doing is done, the person I did it for has to do stage directions, I've only added a couple).
Mannequin Monologue
Blake Jolly, 2008 (c).
Are they gone? [Looking around quickly, afraid of being discovered]
I should probably introduce myself. My name is Emma. I don't have a last name, although I would like a foreign, romantic one if I did. Maybe something French like 'de Villespin' or Martinerre'. See, I have no last name, because I am a mannequin. We are not given the dignity of full names, hell, some of us they don't bother naming at all.
The funny thing about mannequins is that most people don't realise posing in shop windows is just a job. Something we were made for, sure, and something we're good at, but we have other interests and passions too, which we explore after hours. The trick is staying put while people are watching, then giving them the slip and being back before morning opening. I met this guy once, who modelled for the Trent Nathan suits, who was really into death metal, had this mad wig he used to mosh in and all. Mine passion is writing.
Each night, when the lights dim, and everyone has gone away, I take out my notebook and pen (which I 'liberated' from the stationery cupboard in the office) from their hiding place, and I sit down, staring hard at the paper, as if by my will alone words will appear and spring into life. I think about what I see over the course of a day – it is a voyeuristic picture of people who walked in front of me assuming I'm not watching. People do the most curious things when they think no-one is looking. I wait patiently for the words to come.
I began to take an interest in writing after I picked up a book, left behind by a rushed customer, that was all about the craft of writing. Intrigued, I picked it up and my curiosity was piqued. I had to give it a try. The main thrust of the book was that we all have something to say, a story to tell, or advice to inspire with, and that all we have to do is work out what we have to say, then say it.
Now I'm not going to claim that “we are people too" or anything stupid like that, but we sure have something to offer. After all, there are few people that put the effort into watching the ebb and flow of humanity like we do. Watching for hours on end, I often wish that I had the luxury of doing whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. But unfortunately, this is my lot in life and I'm going to make the most of it. And maybe I'll even leave a little something behind.
That is, of course, why I write. Or want to. Or try to. It's an odd process, see. Some authors claim that the words just appear to them and they type it out, or scribble in longhand, or whatever. Others say they imagine them. Still more claim that you type and type and eventually something good comes out and you work with that. Maybe the Muse strikes differently, somehow, for those who are made of plastic. For those like me. Or more precisely, maybe it doesn't strike at all.
Its been a few weeks now, sitting there at night. Waiting. After a few evenings of total unproductivity, I spent some time looking through news articles, or my previous scribbles, looking for something worth relating to the paper. But I had nothing to comment on - the news was pretty empty for the most part, and my memories of the people I see feel faint, as if they are being played on a fuzzy TV at the end of a hallway – distant and unemotive.
I've learned that writing is a fluid thing, and you have to adapt. For me, there are times when I look back and think "Oh, God, what is this garbage I've written, and how did I ever think it was any good?" Then there are times when you can look back and go "Wow, that's pretty swish."
But knowing that its fluid, knowing that some of the things I've scribbled in the past are OK, does not really help me now. I need something new, and fresh. And that is precisely where I come unstuck. When wanting to leave something behind, something tangible, life changing in the way that great books can be, it's hard to know where to start. I have so much experience with the world that no-one sees. I wish that I could open peoples' eyes to show them what we mannequins see every day - people in pain, hurting, wishing that they could be like us, and yet wanting all that their existence has to offer as well. We have learned to be content with our lot - we can strive to change and make things better, but we were made for a purpose, and the fulfilment of that is our greatest task. Chasing a higher calling is something that you can take for granted. Not us, for us, it is a battle the whole way.
A couple of weeks back, I began speaking with an older mannequin. She told me her story over a few drinks one night. On the verge of retirement, she is bitter, hates people for what they have done to her. "Years", she said, voice cracked with the whiskey she drank straight "For bloody years I have stood there and watched the bastards go by, wasting their lives wishing for something good to come out of it. They look at us, and they want our perfection, our proportions or ageless faces. People have everything we want, and they throw it away. If we could have their time, their lives, it would be different. The changes that come with age, the etching of our experiences on our faces, we would celebrate it, rejoice in it, but they stand oblivious, hating the decay of time. The world is a place of irony, my dear. And that is, without a doubt, the greatest truth of all."
She continued on with her tale of wanting to be a professional writer. She had written some amazing things, and no-one had cared. She had shown an agent once, who took her work and sold it to a down-on-her-luck author for a lot of money. Unfortunately, that's the way things go. But it makes me realise that I want to do this even more. I want to do it for her, and for me, and all my kind, and if nothing else, to show that it can be done, that we can leave something of value behind when we are through with this life, just the same as you can.
So this is why I find myself here, at this point, feeling frustrated. I want to explore the ways of expression, the techniques and crafts of language. I want to show everyone that literature is transcendent - it goes over and above everything else. I want to show that it is higher, and truer than all else, that it can change you and shape you, that it is capable of uplifting you or breaking your heart.
I have a story to tell, and I will tell it. I may take years before I get to the point of knowing what it is. Until then though, I will keep writing, anything, scribbling, making the most of the time I have. I once heard someone say “we're here for a good time, not a long time”, and he was right – making the most of things is all I can do, and maybe, just maybe, that will be enough to see my dreams realised some day.... [pauses attentively, listening]... someone's coming! [quickly resumes mannequin pose].
*I edited this due to spacing issues.* *Twice.* *Aargh!*
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