Dream or my interpretation of it : internship/antibiotics/end of a romance and some more

black & white in a dark alley : Jon whispers he works for the National Defense, says they're running tests on brand new revolutionarian weapons. He tells me then they take patients from the psychiatric ward and test the bullets on them. He then comes closer and in my ears and utters : you would be eligible too, if only you had candida albicans. In color : M.K. and I are in the rich garden plucking muguet when the owner surprises us. I feel intimidated by this imposing woman. She's got long blond hair –could be Manon des Sources in her 40's-. There's this childish quality in her although despite her young looks and hip style her gaze tells she's lived a few lifes. Guilty and mesmerized, M.K. and I justify ourselves the best we can and explain the muguet is to heal someone. black & white : The woman brings us to her house. I am now this woman. I bring a young man in… Everything's strangely peaceful… too peaceful, David Lynch peaceful. I open the door to a cavernous house. A vast messy room with antiques, wooden furnitures, ashtrays and rugs upstaged by coffee and cigarettes smell. A man's playing chess. He could have been part of the trainspotting cast, that is if he was 20 years younger. He stops playing, stars at us with this blasé but fragile airs… Always loved the Jacques Dutronc look of his. He mambles a sound that resembles a welcome. The boy looks at my tatooed man and seems intimidated by his bad ass looks... The triangle dynamic's is viceral and turns us upside down. It's all too late, we're sucked into the unhealthy, foggy spiral. Everybody's already hooked... testosterone and death smell melted with fear, life, danger and excitiment. I observe... My man's calm and emotionneless. Will he kill or be a gentleman… I love him cause impredictible. The only thing I know is he has no middle ground. I love him for that too… Time takes time. He finally makes a choice, look straight into the young man's eyes and introduce himself in a cold, civile manner. I wake up…

It’s all interrelated or Chekhov wanna Be

Went to the theatre the other day… Striked me I'd never really been entertained by comedies, vaudevilles; dramatic plays ? unless written by Masters- they can take a cliche/stereotypical tangent. I then wondered what it is I like… what it is I'd like to write… The plays that made the strongest impression all had these recurrant themes : men escaping from their misery, despair, powerless, fearful conditions… men battling the war for/against their own psyche… Heroes showing their worse through excess of power / bloody ambition. Anti-Heroes losing everything and fighting adversity like enranged tigers (Medea). Tiny moments of hope/victory that makes us hang on and believe. Ibsen's got that right. heros 'gainst hypocritical and corrupt nature of the mainstream masses(an enemy of the people). All of it wrappped with the Supernatuel aspect men crave for : salvation and if not redemption… vice versa actually : if you're redeemed you're saved/if you're saved you must have redeemed somewhere along the line. Plays that have inspired me and that I want to aim for in my writting would be EQUUS like… or MARAT/SADE like… Could be written in my second language just the way Beckett did so that you go for the essence without too many fancy words… A play's not about being pretty. All being done the Chekhov way : docteur/playwright a.k.a. "Medicine is my lawful wife and literature is my mistress." Speaking of which, the nurse life helps me define my writting style. I am über cerebral. Nursing grounds me. You cannot philosophy while your patient's convulsing, you act. You'll think about it later on on your bath tube… Nursing connects me to the real world so that I can then plunge into my psyche and draw, design whatever my perception dictates and make sense out of what I see, create a world based upon what I witness. Anton's plays are so real, so palpable, I think his plays and amazing short stories derive directly from his live stories therefore the texture is far richer. Stankslavski said « Chekhov mood is that cave in which are kept all the unseen and hardly palpable treasures of Chekhov's soul, so often beyond the reach of mere consciousness. » The dude wasn't only in front of his sheets and pen thinking what a drunk should be like… what a dying person should feel… that's key. My obstacle to write… My mind doesn't remind faithful to the same story for very long. The longest play I wrote was 20 minutes long. That's probably why I love short stories… How brilliant The Pit and the Pendulum is… Cannot wait to start my internship in psychiatry to prove my point since -biased me- I already figured insanity resides in them, you and I. Did I just called you insane ? Indeed.