(no subject)
It's something of a tragedy that Daisy has suddenly found herself Waiting for Godot, so to speak. At least, that's where she's got to in her pile of plays, stacked high around her, making a veritable play-fort as she sits cross-legged on the floor and stacks plays into several piles around her including 'don't think so' and 'never' to 'maybe with a decent female lead' and so on.
The plays have begun to peak over eye-level and Daisy has made enough trips back and forth to the bookshelf that she's lost sight of anyone else in the rec room. She's also operating under that strange old adage that if she can't see anyone, they just cannot see you.
"Well, no Chekhov," she murmurs. "Not unless I get my hands on a real gun and just what would Geoffrey do to me then." She wiggles slightly and readjusts until she's sprawled out, flicking through the pages of another play and envisioning who she can get to play certain roles, seeing as she wants to be busy in that pretty little director's seat.
There is only the one no-no and that is Shakespeare. Too many bad memories, too much not her territory and there's so very much out there besides. "Pirates of Penzance," she reads, only to make the universal face that accompanies such thoughts of Modern Major Generals. There is always the Crucible. Quite a little classic and the costuming could be very interesting.
She shelves that thought and that play atop a teetering stack, watching them warily for a moment. "Timber!" she announces, carefree and possibly a little tipsy on some wine she's been sneaking through this process. Her warning is just fair enough that she manages to call it before the stack of plays 'possibilities if I can get a horse' which is oddly bigger than she'd expected, goes crashing down.
[All tags open through Friday!]
The plays have begun to peak over eye-level and Daisy has made enough trips back and forth to the bookshelf that she's lost sight of anyone else in the rec room. She's also operating under that strange old adage that if she can't see anyone, they just cannot see you.
"Well, no Chekhov," she murmurs. "Not unless I get my hands on a real gun and just what would Geoffrey do to me then." She wiggles slightly and readjusts until she's sprawled out, flicking through the pages of another play and envisioning who she can get to play certain roles, seeing as she wants to be busy in that pretty little director's seat.
There is only the one no-no and that is Shakespeare. Too many bad memories, too much not her territory and there's so very much out there besides. "Pirates of Penzance," she reads, only to make the universal face that accompanies such thoughts of Modern Major Generals. There is always the Crucible. Quite a little classic and the costuming could be very interesting.
She shelves that thought and that play atop a teetering stack, watching them warily for a moment. "Timber!" she announces, carefree and possibly a little tipsy on some wine she's been sneaking through this process. Her warning is just fair enough that she manages to call it before the stack of plays 'possibilities if I can get a horse' which is oddly bigger than she'd expected, goes crashing down.
[All tags open through Friday!]