For our script, we decided on a concept where Zain wrote a block of writing, diary entry like writing- circulating a range of different topics that don’t really connect, however all written in first person and linking small factors together. This writing was then given to me as this ‘raw’ material which I printed out and began to cut out phrases/words and collage them together to create an entirely new script. This cut up script is even more discombobulated and disorientating, however is a cyclical script, where the end of it connects to beginning- almost as if it’s a never ending story.
Below is the original material written by Zain.
“BASE” SOURCE MATERIAL-
I’m smoking foreign cigarettes on a beach. The heat beats me into a haze. If i could stay here, i’d want to live forever. The past weeks have been a blur. Bars, nightclubs, work, taxi’s, night buses. I can’t sleep but I’m tired and my body aches. Two black dogs followed me on my way home tonight. Straight down beck road and left on mare street, they watched as I waited for the bus.
I’m on the a12, 23:10. The driver plays Marvin Gaye while his app gives him instructions on the route home. “In a quarter mile turn left on the high road”. The trees are wrapped in fairy lights and the whole road has a warm orange hue. I can’t believe I have to work tomorrow.
I wonder if the sun will ever come back – I’ve been sleeping through the day and I can’t face leaving the house.
I told her I’d been thinking about my own mortality recently, how visceral it feels. How my skin tightens my body becomes static, almost paralysed. I wonder if I’ll be scared, If it will hurt, if I’ll be alone. She goes to speak, then pauses. We stayed silent.
I’m often thinking of starting over, or if I could go back and do things differently, I wonder if I’m stuck in the past or just scared of the future.
We’re sitting in a cafe and he’s talking about himself, but I can’t quite make out what he’s saying. He’s sitting right next to me but I feel so far away from him – he keeps talking. “So what about yourself?” I don’t know where to begin.
I feel like a psychic, we’re sitting here in a dark room, eyes locked and It’s almost like we’re talking. I’ve never felt so connected. I spent the next three days doomscrolling.
Me and Frankie leave the house, I can’t remember what for. But it’s the same as any day. Keys, phone, wallet, check. There’s two ambulances on our doorstep and, just down the road, the paramedics are fast at work. Our pace slows and the intrigue takes over. I glance. It’s clear he’s gone but they can’t stop yet, they have a job to do. They’ve covered him. The female paramedics movements are clinical, death is no stranger to her. She retrieves the stretcher and the two of them take him away. I’m thinking about his cat, the white one with patches of black and amber.
The fireworks shops have had steady business this week. Tonight’s the night. 23:55. Some start early. Small shrills and bangs echo and build into a cacophony of sound. It reaches its climax as the windows shake & rattle, dancing to their rhythm. The sky is painted in swathes of pink, orange, red and green. It feels like the clouds are breathing. Weaving in and out of the choreography. I’m here, on the ground, but I want to be dancing with them.
I worry my brain rot will give me dementia. Although I think the asteroid will probably take me out long before I cause any serious damage.
A reoccurring dream of a deer in the forest. The midnight sky is a deep indigo, almost black. But the stars are keeping everything clear, breaking through. Its antlers are touching the tree branches, Almost melting into them. It’s staring at me. It runs and I follow. I’m Inching closer and I can see it through the tree line. I push through leaves and foliage and enter an opening. A fairy ring, untouched by the woods surrounding it. Still. The deers centre and I’m on the edge. The ring is made from rocks and cairns inscribed in a language I can’t understand. Which I can only assume is either an attempt at my brain filling in the gaps or is language long since forgotten. I step into the ring and look down. my hands are vanishing before me and I can feel myself fading. On the down beats of my exhale I watch myself becoming increasingly transparent. I am a ghost and I can’t leave. I watch the deer dance as it begins to catch alight. Whipping itself into a frenzy. I watch the deer dance in the fire. Dancing until its tissue is gone and it begins to fall. The white heat is burning me up. As soon as it hits the ground I awake, drenched in sweat. I’ve fallen asleep with the space heater on.
It’s 11:33 and I’m walking barefoot down the high street. The ground is hot to the touch and I’m hoping for respite in the park down the road. Further down the street, he’s leaning against a wall outside the cafe. Denim tuxedo, brown boots and a wide brimmed cowboy hat. He looks so out of place, from another time. I approach him and we exchange pleasantries. He tells me he’s waiting for the showdown at noon. I told him he’s got a long ways to go. We share a smoke and part ways. I never saw him again.
I’m spending the day ripping the logos and tags of my clothes. Wearing my t-shirts and sweatshirts inside out. I’ve either sold or given away any prices of clothing with colour. I’m feverish, jittery and agitated. Jumping from task to task. I manage to organise the laundry. A black wash. I take a break to rest and wake up a couple hours later. The suns gone.The dogs are back. This time they’re doing loops around the block. I’m on the top floor, watching them from the balcony. His neighbours have the front door open and are arguing. I can’t tell what about. The dogs are on their third lap. Round the corner, out of sight, then back again. They stop, jaws agape and tails wagging. They’re trying to call me down. Dark clouds above.
Blonde, Brunette, Bleached, Crushed, Compressed, Composed, Distorted, Void. Black walls, Leather interior, Cowhide rug, Crawling, Like a baby on all fours, Screaming, Crying, Knife. Eclipsed, Engulfed, swallowed, Spit, Cuffed to the radiator, Waiting, Damaged, Mother, Child, Holding, Cell, Prison.
I can feel the kinks in my spine as I’m pressed against the doors of the train. It’s rush hour and we’re all fighting for air. I can feel the nylon of his suit against my face, there’s no respite against the biting cologne he’s covered himself in. Her bag is stabbing my thigh and I’m flinching every time the carriage bumps. The people here are tense. You can feel it, building and building through murmurs and mutters under their breath. It comes to a head, In the middle section, someone started screaming – he’s reached his crescendo.
SCRIPT COLLAGE-
This script is comprised of multiple different sections, each involving different story lines but being told by the same man. The script itself doesn’t have a linear order, it is surreal and doesn’t quite make sense. Going into making this I had no idea what was going to come out of it, I didn’t go in with an idea of the story I wanted to tell and so making it was this very free, loose experience. This complete lack of planning was intentional as I wanted to expand on our theme of perception and show that my perception of this base material is completely different to what somebody else’s would be.
Whilst creating this script, a clear concept shone through; there is this man who is telling quite unhinged and unrelated stories that are essentially dribble which he is either thinking or saying, its unclear at times which one it is. He took on this quite psychotic personality as he’s created these other personas in his head, whom he thinks are real people he is interacting with. This portrayed throughout the script a whole becomes a very surreal story, yet is something that does affect people in everyday life. Therefore making this connection between surreal and real, which will be used through the radio piece to give the listeners snippets of context.
MARKED SCRIPT-
Once everyone had read the script, as a group we went in and marked the script, we first sectioned off each scene in the script to understand timings for the sections. Then went in highlighting each scene, annotating whether the sound effects should be foley or more abstract ambient sound effects. The reason we chose to do this was so we were able to distinguish what sounds we would need to record in studio and out of studio (field recordings). We want our radio piece to feel very abstract and surreal, however still have these very recognisable sounds from everyday life. The reason for this is so that the listener gets lost within the world we create, unable to identify quite what is going on, however still have these aspects of sounds familiar to them so they don’t get too lost in the piece, as I feel, sometimes when people aren’t able to connect or relate to a work, they often shut off and disengage.
Annotating the script meant that we could plan studio bookings and other aspects of the project like the music, it showed us what sounds we need to collect, which we can then use and manipulate to make other sounds. We have since began accumulating our field recordings and have booked out the foley room for a day this week to record the studio sounds and record the speech.
Leave a Reply