Summer Auditions| intentionally incomplete
some few meters away, a little group of Romeos huddled beneath a great oak, as if collectively under some sort of enchantment.
What dares the slave come hither, cover’d with an antic face to fleer and scorn at our solemnity?
Just a little higher on the ‘fleer’, and make sure to lower the chin at ‘scorn’. Faraway hollers were eminent as characters pranced about before the judges. Some few meters away, a little group of Romeos huddled beneath a great oak, as if collectively under some sort of enchantment; they reminded me of pigeons, with soft clucks and the occasional raise of the wing as an exclamation was made in their monologue. An occasional Tybalt or Mercutio mingled on the outside of that great flock: outliers, soloists, magpies and lorikeets. An aviary indeed, where silence was never a word to begin with, and where all but one thing was clear: that the air had been charged with the electricity of dramatic exposition, akin to the soil after a summer’s rain.
Yes, the gardens were prime grounds for the auditions. Old oaks, who had nothing better to do than to look down upon all the little actors with a keen eye, and rustle in laughter as words were jumbled up; or when young Paris tripped over a root in an attempt at bravado.
Now, by the stock and honour of my kin, to strike him dead, I hold it not a sin.
Too brutish, perhaps a little s trill at the ‘sin’ could make things better. And no no, that little head-bob certainly cannot work under the current directors — they’d think I was some kind of maniac. No, I needed character, more character.
A snake. Yes, how can I mimic a snake in that line. On my left peripheral, a Juliet hopped back to her flock, apparently ecstatic. The call was made, silence. I whipped around in a flash of dread: had I missed my session? No, it was Friar Lawrence, who gathered up his great caramel plumes and scurried across the grass, mindful of any roots. A breath, and the script was flashed before my eyes again.