A Past Life

wp-1460985817562.jpgI feel as though I’ve lived two lives.

The first was in Scotland. I was born there in 1996 and lived there until 2008. It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, in a little town called Broxburn I went to school, lived with my parents and eventually a couple of brothers, had a set of grandparents around the corner and there was a council-sanctioned playground just up the road. Even better than the playground was the two forested areas just behind it surrounded by waist high wire fence.

These forested areas, affectionately called ‘The Woods’ were completely out of bounds according to the collective group of parents of my friends and I. One day some older kids convinced us to go in, and in a huge expeditionary group of big kids and little kids armed with toy guns, sticks and swords, we found that the woods were safe, and fucking awesome. We had trees to climb, the same trees armed with branches for swords, and scattered here and there was dumped furniture and open areas used for bases from which rival groups of kids would fight from. Allegiances would change every week. Every summer entire days would be spent fighting for control with short breaks when dad came to the edge of the woods to find me and remind me of a world outside of the tribal wars going down in the woods, and that I had to eat.

When not engaging in the woods’ gang warfare I’d be at school. In hindsight, through rose tinted glasses, Broxburn Primary School was a wonderful place. For each year level there was an A class and a B class. The classes didn’t change each year, and very rarely did anyone move out of or to our little school, so naturally we were all closely knit in our little B class. I think this might’ve caused issues – the few times we weren’t forced to work alongside the A class we were competing with them, and those are the times I remember most. I always had a sense of pride in my class, and an intense disgust and hatred at the savagery of the A class. Honestly, I remember thinking how rough and mean the A class seemed compared to our kind, posh, intelligent B class. Nowadays I’m sure they were just dumb kids like us.

When the rose tinted glasses come off I remember not being the cool kid. Socially awkward and sometimes terribly rude, I was only really close friends with one other boy in the class, Michael. Most of the kids I played with out of school were either at different schools or different ages. Michael, my school best friend, shared the same interests with me and the same imaginative streak that didn’t lend itself to the football all the other boys played. Whenever we had to work in pairs, we’d share a glance and know shit was about to go down. On my worst days, when I felt my worst about myself, seeing Michael at school always made me forget how dark things could be.

I’ve always struggled with memory. I can’t remember how I said goodbye to my best friend. But the last time I saw him was some time late December 2007 as school wrapped up for Christmas and I never went back. In January I moved to New Zealand, and my second life began.

My first memory arriving in New Zealand would be the blast of ungodly heat hitting me as the automatic doors at Auckland Airport opened. There was a drought that Summer, which only served to complicate our family’s adjustment in those first few months. My mum took it the worst. My mum, the strongest and most intelligent woman I know, was breaking down nightly as she couldn’t bring herself to just leave everything she’s ever known behind 12,000 miles away. Unfortunately for me, I didn’t have Michael waiting for me at school to talk to Pokemon about. What I did have was people who couldn’t understand what I said and spoke with an almost entirely different language.

It took a while for us all to adjust. To be honest, I only think my mum did in the last few years. I didn’t find it so bad, as a matter of fact I think the combination of my parents stress, being the older brother and not having a best friend to confer with, moving here aged me very quick. That, or arriving here coincided with a huge puberty shift. Either way, I quickly matured and even gained some confidence that got kicked into high gear when I discovered Drama in high school. I made new friends, made this beautiful country my home and nationality, and completely acclimatised to this ungodly heat.

It’s only been 6 years since I finished there, but I don’t look back at my first school in this country, Cambridge Middle School, as hugely and emotionally connected to me. I recognise the importance it had in breaking New Zealand culture over my head like a wooden plank but it doesn’t hold that nostalgia value for me that my first life does. I could get up now and drive to Cambridge Middle School if I wanted. It’s my first life that I yearn to re-live. The internet is pretty good for that.

Google Maps is always my first port of call when I feel like I did when I started writing this blog. I can drive down streets of my home town with no problem remembering where to go. However the forest and playground aren’t visible from any nearby roads, and so I’m kept from that memory.

A Google search follows, tonight I looked up Broxburn Primary School. I nearly shed some tears when I found a staff list dated September 2015 and on it were some of my old teachers. Still there nearly ten years on, reading those names brought me right back to the classroom, and even a preschool supervisor is still there, and I can still see her face as 4 year old Andrew saw it.

My least favourite nostalgia search is on Facebook. I easily find former class members, the glorious B class, but it really hurts to see their profile pictures. Sometimes they look like they used to, sometimes they’re unrecognisable. A few of the profiles say they go to university which really doesn’t make sense because they were all 11 years old last time I saw them. I’m not Facebook friends with any of them. I really wouldn’t know what to say. But it’s bittersweet to see their faces again and remember all the classes, trips, and years we spent together in that little school in a little town in Scotland, and I become acutely aware of exactly how much they all mean to me.

Michael doesn’t have a Facebook page.

I Bless The Rains

It rained a lot today.

It came in showers mostly, much to my disgust as I had to walk through it at university. I found myself quite annoyed at just how damp I was.

Only now, at 11.55pm, as the low, constant sloshing white noise picks up once more am I reminded of a childhood spent in another country, with different friends, more family members and no knowledge of New Zealand’s existence. Growing up in Scotland I experienced a lot of rain, and not by choice. I remember days when it would rain all day, the warm amber streetlights and the distant fluorescent brightness shining through windows constantly approaching, the only salvation amongst skies as dark as the night’s as I tramped through flooding paths and pond-like puddles on the way to school.

I grew to love the rain. The availability of fresh water in our society should never be taken for granted, but I lavished in the rain that felt more like watery clumps than the beads that rain down here. Much to my parents’ vexation I would stay out playing long after the rain started up (to be fair the lightsaber fights my friends and I engaged in were much cooler in the rain) and return home with my hair flattened to my skull, many streams running down my face like tears of joy wept by my forehead. I never caught a cold like that, as much as mum and dad tried to make me believe I would.

For whatever scientific reasoning the rain during the day here in New Zealand seems to wrap up pretty quickly, and then the blue sky returns until another shower later on. At night however, it’s much more consistent. Besides a slight lull in the quantity of the rain here and there, it just keeps going. I love this country, the culture, my friends and what I have, and I would never ask for anything more; but tonight, I’m sleeping 12,000 miles away.

Flatmate Review: Joshua Morris

Joshua Morris is one of my 3 flatmates. We share many mutual friends and they will all tell you that Joshua is an intelligent, extremely kind and caring individual, who would never cause anybody any pain.

They are wrong.

I moved in just over two months ago

I’m going to stop there and go over an event that literally just happened while it’s fresh in my mind. Joshua just entered the lounge where I’m currently typing and rubbed their hand over the wooden door, causing it to squeak. Locking eye contact with me, they asked, “What’s this guy’s problem?”. I felt obliged to let Joshua know that they had just personified and attacked a door. They looked away, the lack of eye contact instantly unsettling, and continued on their merry way.

As I was saying, I moved in just over two months ago and met the quiet, apparently mild mannered Joshua. We quickly found similar interests in movies, TV and tabletop role-playing. These interested being shared with the other two flatmates, I thought I’d have a very easy going time ahead of me. Then the laughter began.

If we’re talking about movies, let’s talk about The Dark Knight. The modern interpretation of Batman and The Joker, a classic of modern cinema, and famed for the performance of Heath Ledger as the Joker. The defining characteristic of The Joker, pulled off by Ledger, is his laugh. A maniacal shriek that strikes fear in the hearts of comic readers and film goers. Heath Ledger’s chuckle pales in comparison to the midnight giggles of Joshua Morris. The reason for these laughs? Memes.

Internet memes, in my opinion, have generally become accepted in the Western first-world. The time of embarrassment is over, and memes are popular culture as much as popular culture is a meme. I grew up with the internet and I’ve seen the active development over the past two decades, I am inherently aware of meme culture but I have no strong feelings about that way of life. If I mention something off-hand to Joshua, for instance, reminding them of how much of a fukboi they are, the psychopathic, murderous laughter returns. It’s at its worst when late at night a little Andrew tries to sleep, but the mating call of the wild Joshua echoes through the walls. It’s the laugh of the evil mastermind.

The greatest issue I have is that I often feel singularly targeted by Joshua. Often in the flat we’ll all be hanging out as you do in 2016; sitting in the lounge with laptops, phones and video games, not communicating. A giggle rises from Joshua, but the others pay no mind. They look up, directly to me, and a facial expression somewhere between disgust and humour at my expense is shot at me. Nobody notices, this death threat of the eyes is shared between Joshua and myself. The final straw was the marriage jokes. Joshua made some jokes early on in our shared living experience that they’d marry me. Flat banter, right? This was until sometime later that I learned Joshua has a list of people they’d like to marry. To my short lived relief, I was not on the list. Joshua locked eye contact as they so often do, and told me that I am the reason for the list.

I feel like Luke Skywalker, my hand has been severed and the dark villain who disfigured me turns out to be my dad. The tension is palpable, and like Luke, I have only one option: escape. Joshua suggested I start this blog and even complimented my first post and premade theme. Sometimes I think they’re watching me, as they watch my blog. Perhaps if I run I can make it to the police before they catch me. I only want to see my mother again. They must

 

 

Mayhem Live

So I thought it best to start my blog with my first ever review. After writing this up it was mentioned that I should keep writing reviews, so here’s a blog for that among other things that I’m yet to decide on. Stay tuned.


 

Mayhem Live. 8th March, 2016.

Mayhem Live was a theatrical presentation of various literary works found in The University of Waikato’s own Mayhem Literary Journal, and its recently released anthology. Each issue features poetry and prose by, in their own words, “…students, staff and Alumni of the University of Waikato”. While Mayhem and its writers brought the script, it was Small Dynamite Theatre Company that brought the selection to life on stage. Before I take you any further I think it’s worth noting that I am not a writer – certainly not of the class within the Mayhem Literary Journal – but I will do my best to present my opinions of the performances and sprinkle them with uneducated opinions about the writing presented.
Almost as soon as the doors are closed and a few more audience members than anticipated found a place for their hastily given loose seats, the show kicks off with a found poem, “This is Not a Love Poem”, by Renee Boyer-Willisson. An apt title, this was certainly not a love poem, and was performed by Stephen Henderson and Kelsie Morland, alternating line to line. I have only seen photos of past Mayhem events, but this certainly created the effect of those; both actors had their own place at either ends of the stage, and a solitary microphone into which they performed. The combination of the microphones not actually being used to amplify voice, and the dual presentation of the piece, it appeared that this opening was to introduce us to the new method of Mayhem writing presentation; this was an act more than a writer sharing their work. To the poem itself; again, I am not well versed in poetry, but this was what I have been lead to expect – metaphors for love and loss and spoken so eloquently, and presented by Morland and Henderson to affect an argument between lovers. An interesting poem, however I picked up on some lines that were so powerful that I knew this wasn’t their home, and we’d come to hear some of those lines later in the show. This was our introduction to Small Dynamite’s brand of poetry readings.
After this followed a brief introduction to Mayhem Live by Small Dynamite members Conor Maxwell and Stephen Henderson, further injecting the theatre company’s own brand of humour into this Mayhem experience. As we quickly transition into the second performance, it becomes quite clear that the comedy of bickering lovers has been long forgotten. Maxwell performs Mike Bilodeau’s “The Morning After” to both the audience and Liam Hinton, Carmen Penny, and Moraig Humphries, actors who have occupied the stage from the moment the audience began to enter the theatre. Maxwell takes on the narrator of this piece quite well, even if it’s a character I do not entirely connect with; vindictive of short term sexual partners, represented by the mute 3 he is joined by on stage, the narrator speaks of wanting to love them, and gets into some beautiful thoughts of the insignificance of space and time next to their potential love. He quickly concedes that every beautiful word is simply a ploy for the casual sex they’ve shared. I found this piece very interesting; in a world of Tinder and Grindr casual sex is, at the least, accepted amongst the student demographic, and for the gracefully insensitive narrator to be so upset with achieving his goal creates a sense of, initially, discord between the anger at his partners and them doing as he wanted, but it reveals a notion that maybe our narrator would rather a strong bond than a “splitting headache and flooding feeling of regret.”
Melody Wilkinson’s “I Wasn’t Worried” followed, performed by Moraig Humphries. An American voice is not one that is out of place but certainly not one I expected. After years of documentaries, internet conspiracies and a Nicolas Cage movie, this is the first time I’ve ever felt a personal connection to the 9/11 attacks. Humphries brings a stable American accent that helps to place us in the heart of a nation devastated by the attack. The narrator takes us through their day, training to be a nurse and dealing with a midterm worth 50% of their grade. The sweet juxtaposition of daily life and terrorist attack that the narrator isn’t quite aware of the severity of slowly crumbles with realisation. The narrator spoke of their fondness for first responders and their invincibility and dedication to life saving; and in the end the crushing devastation as hundreds of firefighters are unaccounted for in the rubble of the World Trade Centre’s Twin Towers. Humphries carried us through this journey over the course of a few days in one person’s life after the towers fell, and it was the first time I truly connected with and understood with an event that 5 year-old me couldn’t comprehend.
After “I Wasn’t Worried” left us with a reminder of the world the 9/11 attacks has given us, one of fear and increased security and armed response, I thought I couldn’t get any more depressed that evening. Boy, was I wrong. Nick Hall gives us a heart-wrenching rendition of Carl Unternahrer’s “Hollow Point”. Finding his place on stage in a cold, calculated manner, the speech follows in the same manner. Hall tells us the specifics of firing a rifle, and explains to us the nature of a jacketed hollow point round, how it is designed to ensure massive damage to the target by disintegrating upon impact. The point is repeated that firing a rifle is a simple thing; a simple mnemonic that is turned on its head as the narrator tells us that what isn’t so simple, is turning the rifle on oneself, and why somebody would do that. It’s at this moment that I notice the glassy look in Hall’s eyes, and I find something catching in the back of my throat. The narrator goes on to capture the effect of a suicide on every member of the family, a mother glued to photographs of her son, a father who has never shed a tear breaking down, a sister turned to God and, in his words, “Have you ever seen [your grandparents] struck down by a stroke as their teary-eyed children deliver the news to their doorstep one Tuesday afternoon?”. The final Bruce Lee punch to my gut comes as Liam Hinton returns to the stage, and as Hall narrates, leaves a suicide note and follows the action of placing the rifle barrel inside his mouth, in sync with Hall doing the same. However, there is a resolution; the narrator tells us that they have come to accept the frailty of existence in our universe, which wasn’t good enough for their brother. There is an element of blame here which has followed through the entire piece, yet another angle for me to try not to cry about. The narrator chooses to write to deal with their grief and stops asking why, “There’s no point – the question is hollow.”
The piece that follows is what I can only assume is well written for it has a place in Mayhem; and this may be where my ability in poetry leaves me. As I read over “Theoretical Fringe Benefits” by K-t Harrison I found an interesting layout and complex metaphors. I can only say that this is where a theatrical rendition of poetry shows its necessity, as I understood well enough the poet’s intention when watching Kate Booker perform this rhythmically engaging piece alongside a silent, suited, and hair slicked-and-parted Conor Maxwell lost in a newspaper. Booker is energised and conversational, drawing the audience in with the artful text and depicting a conflict between herself and Maxwell, the text noting a conflict between Maori and colonial white. The similes of black and white in text and historical conflict being some of the few I picked up on. While the performance from Booker was interesting and engaging, I found trouble in following the text in its entirety. Perhaps I don’t get poetry, perhaps I’m too foreign (read: white) to truly understand the author’s point of view.
Going into Conor Maxwell’s prose, “Carmen Sandiego” after the depth of the previous performance, I was worried we’d entered the part of the evening when the unpoetic scum class would be asked to leave the audience. What I got was the writing I connected with most of all. Performed by Carmen Penny, she presented Maxwell’s writing and it gave the piece a neutrality of gender that I also found very pleasing. Carmen’s youthful, bright performance of the piece reminded me of the child at heart that I am, and especially in this tale of love. Penny takes us through the stages of love in the modern era for a young adult, where appearances are everything, and a Bar 101 fling is more appreciated amongst their peers than a high school-esque crush; but this is where the narrator is, ‘well and truly wooed”. We’re taken to the movie date, to the first kiss, to the preferred method – making out wherever able, and when the time is right, sex. It’s all presented in a personal point of view that I find all too familiar to my own awkward thought processes, and it finishes with beautifully optimistic thoughts of love, the future and family. If I can personally recommend the Mayhem Anthology for one piece of writing, it is Maxwell’s “Carmen Sandiego”, and I don’t think I could appreciate it so well without Penny representing my own feelings so uncannily.
So, I entered into Adele McKelvie’s “Your Life, My Rules” in rather high spirits – and the first response I had to Kelsey Toombs’ performance was laughter. She quickly set up Rule 1 for her partner on stage, Liam Hinton, that if he ever eats his cake before his pie comes, she’ll walk out of the lunch bar they’re in and never return. As the 2nd and 3rd rules continue in the same vein, leaving the narrator’s partner unable to do anything without risking the narrator walking out, I quickly gather myself from the laughter and remember everything I was told in those special school assemblies: this is an abusive relationship. This isn’t OK. Why hasn’t the guy walked out? Why is it OK if he starts to doubt himself as you so want, crazy narrator? Rule 7 answers my question. Simply stating, “Rule 7: Don’t use me”. Toombs looks to the audience with a sense of melancholy longing that is so different from the vulgarity so far and it becomes blindingly obvious. The common cycle of the abused becoming the abuser is apparent. The final rule, rule 8 begins rather like the last: don’t play me. Both follow with similar threats of breakup and social status destruction written so well it’s hard not to take the piece as a humourous one, though the theatrical take does help present the sad implications of such a relationship.
If unease would be the word to describe the previous performance, then complete shock is where we find Faith Wilson’s “Wunderkind”. Kate Booker sits on stage with beer to her right and whiskey not far behind. If this isn’t an indication of where we’re going, her opening lines might be,
“I’ve been an alcoholic
since I was eleven:
a good year, eleven.”
The narrator’s voice, through Booker’s wonderful portrayal, is that of charm and wit, as the character details youthful drinking from age eleven through her high school years, but the last stanza breaks into a sudden heightened pace as she details her casting as Lear’s Fool in the school production of Shakespeare’s King Lear; but nobody laughed so she was recasted and recasted through every role that didn’t suit until she concedes that she was too crazy for Lear, a bold accusation for anyone familiar with the tragedy of King Lear. I think this piece of writing meets a beautiful purpose of presenting a charming narrator, blasé in regards to her childhood lost to drink, but slamming us with the crippling self-awareness of how lost she is because of it.
Unaware until it progressed in front of me, the following two performances were combined. With both Kelsie Morland and Carmen Penny on stage, Morland performs “Normal” by Loren Thomas to a childishly dressed Penny, colouring at a nearby desk. Normal, from Morland’s performance, is envious of the girl she’s taking to, Penny is either ignoring or unaware of Morland’s presence. Normal opens with “And she’s the girl who writes fires with her words”, and follows up with lines about how confident this girl is, how fearless she is. It closes with Morland admitting that she is the girl she wishes she could be. Penny then goes right into Kristy Lagarto’s “Coloured Dirty”, a horrifying piece of writing detailing a daughter’s sexual abuse at the hands of her father and the writer does not fail to mention the absent mother in this awful situation. Penny’s portrayal in a school uniform and pigtails while colouring, and speaking with a voice so accurately child-like only increases the severity of how suddenly the performance has taken a dark turn, Morland also visibly horrified by the turn of events. In retrospect I’ve inferred that Morland’s envy of this strong, independent girl who is revealed to be a victim of rape is uplifting and empowering, but in the moment of watching Penny’s harrowing performance of Lagarto’s heartbreaking writing I was left feeling ill and unable to draw any meaning.
If “Carmen Sandiego” held a place in my heart as the representation of my thought processes in regards to love, “Pill Time” by Stephen Henderson is the exact polar opposite. Performed by Liam Hinton with Kelsey Toombs also present on stage, “Pill Time” is the narrator’s stream of consciousness while in a rehabilitation facility of some description. Very quickly Hinton exposes the instability of the narrator, with the line “Would you like to hear a little bit about me? Or me? Or me? Or him? I could tell you all about him?”. It quickly builds to an argument with himself about the paragraph structure, and as we begin to lose track of what exactly the narrator is talking about, Toombs calls “pill time” and Hinton swallows some pills, and downs it with water. Following this Liam presents with a calm, almost charming demeanour and introduces himself as 16 year old Stephen. When discussion gets to his lack of living arrangements, control is almost lost again before another “pill time”. This return to calm and followed degradation into madness is repeated throughout, with every cycle there is less calm and more madness, the last call of pill time ignored as Hinton smashes the glass the pills are dispensed into. The scene plays like a child who has too many stories to tell, but the instability in Hinton’s performance increases with every segment, and we learn that the 16 year old gravely injured a stranger, putting him in prison, and he is unable to see his girlfriend, whom he has only been told is “gone”. The implications set up by the lack of awareness the narrator has of what they’ve done and what’s been done to them due to their severe mental issues had my skin crawling. The combination of the violence of Hinton’s performance and the writing has made this one of the most uncomfortable theatre experiences I’ve ever had to endure.
The penultimate performance that evening was “A Short History of my Vagina” written by Onyx Lily and performed by Conor Maxwell. The writing is a detailed memoir of the narrator and her vagina, from childhood to giving birth and the emotional rollercoaster between, the hardships of such experiences are something I have absolutely no understanding of. I believe that presenting this writing in a theatrical sense makes it accessible to young men like myself who probably should be aware of the often painful experiences that our female counterparts go through. It then strikes me that significant writing such as this being performed by a man in a dress could potentially cause distraction from the text, which deserves to be heard. The performance opens with Maxwell in a dressing gown, make up, a bald cap and carrying a wig, before eventually changing into the dress and donning the wig. I will make clear that his performance of the piece was entertaining and his commitment to the character was consistent, but laughs came throughout the piece as the narrator spoke of first experiences with pubic hair and period misinformation from a young friend. I’ll admit, I laughed. It’s an unfortunate side effect of a small theatre community; I know Conor, audience members beside me laughed and pointed out to others, “that’s Conor!”, and it’s easy to laugh at your cis-gendered friend in costume they wouldn’t usually wear. I then have to interpret that maybe Small Dynamite wanted us to know that transgender women had to deal with similar issues, but my opinion on transgender issues and how relevant they are to cisgender issues or non-issues is not the purpose of this review. I will leave it at this note – “A Short History of my Vagina” is writing that is relatable for the women in the audience and worth a listen from the men in the audience and Conor Maxwell deserves congratulating not only for his bravery in appearing in his underwear on stage but further to that, dressing as a woman and committing to the role truthfully and consistently.
Finally, the show ends with a return from Stephen Henderson performing Karl Guethert’s “…Good Book Down”. Henderson is joined by Carmen Penny and Moraig Humphries, wearing a lion mask and a pig mask respectively. They both find their way around the stage, paying little mind to Henderson’s performance, save for a few moments of dialogue between the narrator and the embodiments of two sides of his inner thoughts. The play opens with Henderson proclaiming “I am an extroverted introvert”. Some stifled laughter, mostly a few raised eyebrows, he goes on to explain that this is a mask he hides behind, a statement that really doesn’t mean anything and gets him the same response the audience gave him there on stage. The piece is a recollection of the narrator’s happy experiences until one day in high school the dreams of the future collapsed. It’s at this point the masked figures make themselves known. The pig is quick to tell the narrator that nobody loves a balding teen, and that the narrator should kill himself. The lion attempts, meekly to provide reasoning why not to go through with it, but the lion leaves the stage as the pig’s shouts overrule anything the lion attempts to console the narrator with. A melancholy piece, the narrator tells us of how he came to believe his subconscious and fell into a darker place. That is until the narrator mentions a friend who told him how dark a place she had fallen into, and the narrator realised it wasn’t quite so bad. It took some time, but he began to move past the paranoia and eventually, the lion returned as the pig was drowned out by, as the lion tells us, “the
sound of how awesome you are.” In this end it’s quite an uplifting piece, as the paranoia and worry that so many of us feel was overcome with time and self re-evaluation, which is what we all really need sometimes. Henderson did well in presenting both the writing’s rather self-aware humour but also caught the darker motions of self-loathing very well.
“…Good Book Down” came to a close with the full cast finding a place on stage, and bowing as Stephen Henderson’s performance closed. With final thanks from Henderson and a rather vulgar farewell from Conor Maxwell, I left the show rather pleased with what I had seen. Not being a writer in any sense of the word I came to see Mayhem Live to find out what local talent Hamilton had, and my ears were revelling with the beauty and sadness of so many voices and the penmanship that brought them out. While I had my concerns about how some pieces were portrayed I was never disappointed – the class of acting in Mayhem Live was more than I could’ve asked for, and for somebody who informed their year 9 English teacher that poetry is boring, I think the writing not only deserved the theatrical touch but perhaps benefitted from it. Perhaps the great poets and authors need not write a play, but give their most treasured work to a talented director and the harmony of writing and theatre will truly be realised.