The unknownness of my needs frightens me. I do not know how huge they are, or how high they are, I only know that they are not being met. If you want to find out the circumfrence of an oil drop, you can use lycopodium powder. That’s what I’ll find. A tub of lycopodium powder, and I’ll sprinkle it on my needs and find out how large they are. Then when I meet someone I can write up the experiment and show them what they have to take on. Except they might have a growth rate I can’t measure, or they might mutate, or even disappear. One thing I am certain of, I do not want to be betrayed, but that’s quite hard to say, casually, at the beginning of a relationship. It’s not a word people use very often, which confuses me because there are different kinds of infidelity, but betrayal is betrayal, wherever you find it. By betrayal, I mean promising to be on your side, then being on somebody else’s.

Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit, Jeanette Winterson


Before deciding what is wrong and what is right

first we must find out what we are


do not know myself

No sooner have I discovered something

than I begin to doubt it

and I have to destroy it again

What we do is just a shadow of what we want

to do

and the only truths we can point to

are the ever-changing truths of our own


I do not know if I am hangman or victim

for I imagine the most horrible tortures

and as I describe them I suffer them myself

There is nothing that I could not do and every-

thing fills me with horror

And I see that other people also

suddenly change themselves into strangers

and are driven to unpredictable acts

A little while ago I saw my tailor

a gentle cultured man who liked to talk philo-


I saw him foam at the mouth

and raging and screaming attack with a cudgel

a man from Switzerland

a large man heavily armed

and destroy him utterly

and then I saw him

tear open the breast of the defeated man

saw him take out the still beating heart

and swallow it

Marat, Peter Weiss

After the interval

Two men shift a pile of rocks from one side of the stage to the other, over and over, again and again. An act so illogical, so tedious, so boring that you almost forget who made these men shift the rocks, and why they are made to do it; to break their humanity, to lose our attention. It’s a theatrical dare to see who will get bored first: the men, the actors, or the audience. It reminds us that dying in a concentration camp could be tedious, as well as horrific. A process of quotidian tasks that becomes more difficult, until, mentally or physically, you can’t do them can’t do them anymore. And however many ways the two men keep themselves strong, their captors try to weaken them, pit their own humanity against each other. What is remarkable is that each man chooses his own death, and until that moment there is still humour and pathos and lust and the suspense that comes from hope. And afterwards – still hope.

Focus Theatre & B Sharp
by Martin Sherman
Directed by Pete Nettell
Venue: Belvoir St Downstairs Theatre, 25 Belvoir St, Surry Hills
Dates: Thursday 18 February – Sunday 14 March, 2010

In this mirror of a diary, Christopher reveals a few frank glimpses of himself. The rest is posing.

Christopher Isherwood, Christopher Isherwood

Finally he realized that he wanted to describe his life as he had lived it. What inspired him was the commentary he could make on it, not the melodrama he could make out of it. Certainly, he would fictionalize many episodes in order to simplify them and thus reveal their essence; a changeover from fact to fiction often begins with the weeding-out of superfluous details. But he could tell his own lies; he didn’t need a Paul to tell them for him. That would merely put his fiction at a double remove from fact.

Christopher Isherwood, Christopher and his Kind

That Face is a collision of influences. Salinger. Albee. Greek myth. Tennessee Williams. As playwright Polly Stenham said: It’s, like, just practically ripped off, you know? But has Stenham borrowed and made it all her own?  Found a synergy in the modern day setting of middle-class family dysfunction? Or is That Face an awkward pilfering of other texts?


Waking up begins with saying am and now. That which has awoken then lies for a while staring up at the ceiling and down into itself until it has recognized I, and there from deduced I am, I am now. Here comes next, and is at least negatively reassuring: because here, this morning, is where it has expected to find itself: what’s called at home.

But now isn’t simply now. Now is also a cold reminder: one whole day later than yesterday, one year later than last year. Every now is labelled with its date, rendering all past nows obsolete, until – later or sooner – perhaps – no, not perhaps – quite certainly: it will come.

Fear tweaks the vagus nerve. A sickish shrinking from what waits, somewhere out there, dead ahead.

But meanwhile the cortex, that grim disciplinarian, has taken its place at the central controls and has been testing them, one after another: the legs stretch, the lower back is arched, the fingers clench and relax. And now, over the entire intercommunication system, is issued the first general order of the day: UP.

A Single Man, Christopher Isherwoood