So, my sister and Robbie were never able to have the time together they both so longed for and deserved. Any of that could never have happened, because Robbie Turner died of septicemia at Bray Dunes on June 1st 1940, the last day of the evacuation and I was never able to put things right with my sister, Cecilia, because she was killed on the 15th of October, 1940, by the bomb that destroyed the gas and water mains of Balham tube station. So the scene in which I confess to them is imagined…invented. Because, in fact, I was too much of a coward to go and see my sister in June, 1940. I couldn’t any longer imagine what purpose would be served by it… By honesty or reality. But the effect of all this honesty was rather pitiless, you see. I got firsthand accounts of all the events I didn’t personally witness: the conditions in prison, the evacuation to Dunkirk, everything. And I think you’ve read the book, you’ll understand why. I had for a very long time decided to tell the absolute truth. Just couldn’t ever find the way to do it…Yes, entirely, I haven’t changed any names, including my own…No. I wrote several drafts as far back as my time at St. Strangely enough, it would be just as accurate to call it my first novel.
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So that’s why I could finally write the book, I think. You lose words, you lose your memory, which for a writer is pretty much the point.
Monologue blogger series#
My doctor tells me I have something called vascular dementia, which is essentially a series of tiny strokes. I’ve not tried to explain the experience before, but you asked -įemale Age range 40-70 (but anyone could pull it off!) But, of course, I thought about it differently, because it wasn’t mine. I just thinned out to mix with it all or to realize what I was, what I had come from, and gradually came back to my own design, my own body. We were all the same stuff, the same regenerating impulse. An old lady who thought in a language different from the one she spoke, dying in terrible pain in the geriatric ward of a very efficient hospital twins just being born in the Orient a boy my age, in India, whose job was to carry the censer with incense, swinging it, in a Catholic church: I didn’t know them, I was them. Because thinning out, or whatever it was, I became them. I didn’t see them, I wasn’t shown them, I Just knew them. I heard people speaking in languages that I understood but had never heard before, I heard bells – no, I didn’t actually hear anything, but I seemed to know about bells in church towns, in the farm country around small towns where they make wine, in France and people getting up where it was just beginning to be light, to go to work people walking on streets, shopping, and small things growing in the wet and shade in rain forests. Thinning out to take it all in, to absorb it. I felt I was spreading, thinning out, being led over the world or shown the world. For a moment it was like I had changed into a gas. And I started to get scared, but instead of that happening it was gradually like I wasn’t standing there anymore. Some vibrating sensation through my body that raised me or made me feel like I was physically growing, like a – perhaps a chemical change was occurring. As if all my cells were changing at the same time. Instead of just stopping for a while and then moving on, while I was stopped I became aware that my body was changing, or something was happening, physically happening, inside my body.
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![monologue blogger monologue blogger](https://strachan.blog/wp-content/uploads/2018/05/cropped-blurb-7.jpg)
There was a bush on my left and the corner of the house on my right. I was standing there, not thinking anything that I would remember. It’s abstract, isn’t it? But it’s the easiest way of explaining the feeling. And the hand of God reached out and touched me. I had come from around behind in the shade and was standing in the sun not doing anything, not going anywhere, just standing at the side of the house in the sun. I stood for a while and then I went inside. I don’t remember anything before, immediately before, or immediately after. I have gathered 4 lengthy monologues that are over 2 minutes. As tedious as it may be memorizing, this time roles around at least once in an acting career. There comes a time in an actor's life, there comes a time when we need a.