"I Don't Care if You Listen or Not"

The statement speaks to a form of artistic autonomy that challenges the conventional performer-audience relationship; it invites reflection on what is deemed essential for performance, and what possibilities emerge when the dynamic is disrupted or reimagined. By focusing on the internal processes of the artist rather than the reception by an audience, we open up a realm of performance that is about the act of creation itself. This aligns with a theatrical philosophy which often prioritises the experience and integrity of the artistic expression over the interaction and response of the audience. A counterpoint to this view is that performance is an event designed for an audience, a form of communication or expression that presupposes a spectator. The presence of an audience, their reactions, and their engagement are typically seen as integral to the event itself, creating a dynamic interplay between the observer and the observed, each influencing the experience of the other. However, the notion that performance is an act of communication that requires both a performer and an audience has been increasingly challenged, particularly in the realms of contemporary theatre, performance art, and digital media. If we consider a performance as an artistic release of self-expression, then it can and does exist without an audience. Artists often create for the sake of the art itself or for personal emotional need, rather than for any anticipated public reception; the act of performing itself transforms the individual artist, irrespective of whether anyone is watching.

But is it a “performance” if nobody is being performed to? A performance typically refers to a live presentation or artistic exhibition delivered by one or more artists. This could be a play in a theatre, a musical recital, a dance showcase, a live painting demonstration, or even a street artist’s display. Here, performance is characterised by its temporality; it is an event that happens over time and is designed for an audience to witness and experience. The presence of an audience is a defining feature because it is the observers who perceive, interpret, and give meaning to the performance. An audience’s reaction—be it applause, laughter, critique, or interpretation—contributes to the complete nature of the performance, imbuing it with a shared social reality. Hence, in this definition, the act of performing carries an intention to convey a certain impression or communicate meaning. Theories such as “reader-response theory” or “reception theory” discuss how a text (or a performance) is not complete without its reception.

One could argue that a performance, like any event, occurs regardless of observation. The actions of the performer, the expression of the art, and the occurrence of the event are factual and exist independently of an audience. The key distinction here is between the existence of the performance and the validation or acknowledgement of it. Without an audience, the validation through applause, criticism, or interpretation is absent, but the performance as a sequence of actions still transpires. Even in an empty theatre, a performer may deliver lines, an orchestra may play a symphony, and a dancer may execute choreography; the physical and aesthetic actions do not cease to exist because they are unobserved. However, while the tangible mechanics of the performance may occur without an audience, the full spectrum of what constitutes a performance—its energetic exchange, its emotional impact, and its collective memory—is often thought to be co-created with those who witness it.

Yet, the creation of performance without an audience is not only possible but is already practiced in various forms within the arts: artists like Marina Abramović, for instance, have explored the limits of what constitutes performance and audience participation, sometimes engaging in acts that are witnessed by very few or even by no one, at least at the time of the initial act; and in the online digital space, it is commonplace for performance to occur without an immediate physical audience. Consider a singer recording vocals or an actor self-taping to camera—the eventual audience is remote, separated by time, space, and medium, and yet the act of performance still carries significant meaning and intent. The performances could be experienced by an audience long after the fact, or hidden beneath the multitude of other content and never seen. If nobody were to experience the recording—if the only audience present was in the mind of the performer—is it true that a fully actualised performance did not take place? The essence of the performances was not in its reception, but in the act of expression: the performances were created, executed, and fully realised without the presence of an external audience. The audience here is not a required component for the validity of a performance but rather a potential participant in a socially shared experience that may or may not take place.

The external audience dynamics do affect the nature of the performance, as well as its absence, but it is not necessary for the act of performance. Indeed, the presence and disposition of an audience can have a profound impact on the dynamics of a performance, affecting both the performers and the collective meaning of the performance itself. This phenomenon has been extensively studied across various disciplines including psychology, theatre studies, and performance theory. Research often explores these effects through the lenses of audience-performer dynamics, the psychology of performance, and the sociology of group interactions. From a psychological perspective, the seminal work of French sociologist Emile Durkheim on collective effervescence describes the energy that emerges when a group of people, such as an audience, comes together to participate in the same action. When performers are in front of an audience, they can experience what psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi terms as “flow”, a heightened state of focus and immersion in activities that can enhance performance quality. Furthermore, the “audience effect”, a concept often discussed in social psychology, specifically refers to the impact of an audience on performance. Robert Zajonc’s work in this field identified the ways in which the mere presence of others can enhance or inhibit performance, depending on the complexity of the task and the skill level of the performer. For well-practised tasks, an audience can enhance performance through increased arousal; for less familiar tasks, however, this arousal can be detrimental. In theatre studies, audience response is often viewed as a critical aspect. Susan Bennett’s Theatre Audiences offers a comprehensive examination of the reciprocal relationship between the audience and the performance. She outlines how the audience’s reactions can influence the pacing, timing, and energy of a performance as performers often adjust their delivery based on verbal and non-verbal feedback. This dynamic interplay can transform the experience, making each performance a unique event influenced by the specific audience in attendance. Moreover, in his influential text The Empty Space, Peter Brook discusses how an audience’s energy contributes to the creation of what he describes as “immediate theatre”. According to Brook, the performer-audience relationship is a crucial component that can turn the “deadly” theatre—where there is no true communication—into a “live” one. The concept of audience engagement and its effect on the performance is further elaborated by Baz Kershaw in his work The Radical in Performance. Kershaw discusses how an engaged audience can have a radicalising effect on performance, pushing the boundaries of traditional performance and creating a more immersive and interactive experience. In musical performance, John Sloboda’s research in The Musical Mind touches upon how musicians might experience heightened levels of anxiety or exhilaration when performing before an audience, which can, in turn, affect their technical proficiency and emotional expression. This interplay is significant in live music, where the audience’s reactions can influence the performer’s interpretation and delivery of the music in real time. From these perspectives, it becomes clear that an audience does not passively consume a performance but actively shapes its unfolding through complex psychological and social mechanisms. Each performance is therefore not merely a presentation of a pre-prepared piece but a dynamic interaction between performer and audience, with the audience’s responses continuously shaping the course and quality of the performance.

However, it is possible for a performer to have an audience, even when nobody is watching. This notion of a performer being the audience of his or her own performance invites a rich philosophical exploration, touching upon the concepts of self-awareness, and the phenomenology of experience. Philosophical discourse offers a breadth of perspectives on the relationship between the observer and the observed, as well as the subject-object dichotomy. In the field of aesthetics, the work of philosophers like Arthur Danto in his work The Transfiguration of the Commonplace can provide insight into the relationship between performance and perception. Danto’s theories on art as the embodiment of meaning suggest that a performer could very well be an audience to the meanings and interpretations that arise within their own performance. Each gesture, movement, or note in a performance can be reflective, carrying an intention and interpretation that the performer is uniquely positioned to understand and critique. The performer, then, becomes a sort of reflective audience, engaging with the performance both as a creator and an interpreter of meaning.

If a comedian makes a joke in an empty auditorium, does it make a sound? It is often said that in stand-up, timing is everything. As it turns out, when the audience is a row of empty seats, the timing is quite flexible. However, whether it is a performance to one’s own shadow or to a billion eager faces, the essence of the act, rather than the perception of the expression, remains the same. When a performance is enacted without an external audience, it becomes a private act, serving as a method of personal reflection for the artist; but the performer is still engaged in the act of performing, utilising their skills and perhaps even experiencing the same emotional and physical exertion as they would in front of an external audience. If the self can act as its own audience, then the solitude of one’s actions does not strip them of their performative character. For some creators, such as me, the act of performance is an intimate expression which serves as a form of self-exploration, catharsis, or a means of working through ideas and emotions. It’s here, in the sanctum of one’s mind, where the self-reflexive nature of human consciousness creates a sort of inner theatre where our actions are constantly up for review. The internal audience functions continuously, responding to and influencing the performance.

A performer can be the audience of his or her own performance, not in the literal sense of occupying two distinct spatial positions, but rather in the phenomenological sense of experiencing oneself as both the observer and the observed. This duality encapsulates the complex nature of human consciousness and the intricate interplay between action and reflection. In essence, the performer, through introspection and self-awareness, engages in a dialogue with oneself, constantly interpreting and re-interpreting the ongoing performance. From a phenomenological standpoint, particularly within the framework established by Edmund Husserl, the idea of a performer as an audience invokes the concept of “intentionality”, the notion that consciousness is always the consciousness of something. In this context, a performer, even while engaged in the act of performance, can have a dual intentionality where he or she is both the subject directing the performance and simultaneously the object of his or her own reflective consciousness. Husserl’s student, Martin Heidegger, would perhaps interpret this through the lens of “Dasein”, which underscores the idea of being-in-the-world where one’s existence is fundamentally interconnected with the world; thus, a performer, by being an audience to oneself, is actively shaping and being shaped by the very act of performance.

For existentialists, if every action is a conscious choice, we are, in essence, “performing” our lives for the most critical audience: ourselves. Sartre’s notion of “bad faith”—the denial of this freedom and the embrace of a fixed role—highlights the performativity of actions when they are done to conform rather than to reflect one’s genuine choice. Sartre’s views suggest that by becoming an audience to oneself, the performer engages in a kind of self-observation that can either be an act of authenticity, recognising oneself as the source of one’s actions, or an act of self-deception, where one denies material agency. Within this existential frame, the notion of authenticity is pivotal. The performance is not about creating a façade for others but is intrinsically tied to the authentic choices that define our being. Therefore, every action could be a performance if it is part of this continuous existential project of self-definition. The actions themselves become a narrative in the theatre of the self, where the individual not only acts but observes, judges, and often reinterprets their actions in the quest for meaning.

From a Jungian perspective, personal acts can be seen as influenced by and potentially performing archetypal roles within our own psyche. These acts, whether observed by others or not, are part of the fabric of our collective unconscious experience. They connect us to universal human themes and contribute to our personal narrative and the ongoing process of psychological development and individuation. The performative aspect is not necessarily about an audience of others but rather about the dialogue between our conscious self and the archetypal forces within us. Carl Jung suggested that archetypes represent universal, ancient symbols and images emanating from the collective unconscious, serving as the psychological equivalents of instinct. If we consider our personal acts as informed by these archetypes, it’s possible to view our actions as being influenced by these shared human narratives, which could be understood as a form of performance. When no external audience is present, the archetypes within the collective unconscious could act as an internal audience; for instance, if one’s actions align with the hero archetype, one might unconsciously “perform” acts of bravery or sacrifice, not for the sake of an external observer, but to satisfy an innate, archetypal script. In performing actions when we are alone, we might unconsciously be enacting certain archetypal patterns. This performance is not for others but for oneself, or rather, for the archetypal structures embedded within the psyche. Jung’s concept of individuation—the psychological process of integrating the conscious with the unconscious, including the archetypes—could be considered a performance in its own right. The process is an inward journey that involves confronting internal archetypal figures and is often played out through personal acts and choices, even when no one is watching.

In spiritual contexts, the idea of a divine observer alters the understanding of performance and audience. In this context, God is the ever-present audience. For those who hold this belief, the ultimate audience is not earthly but spiritual—God, or a divine presence. This shifts the emphasis from pleasing a human audience to performing in a way that aligns with divine will or cosmic order. For such individuals, every action is a performance in the sight of the divine, and this awareness can shape their choices and actions profoundly. In Christianity, the idea of Coram Deo, which means “in the presence of God”, encapsulates living one’s life as a performance before God in every action. In the mystic traditions of Sufism, every act of love and beauty can be seen as a performance that honours the divine. The dhikr (remembrance of God) and the whirling dance of the dervishes are both performances meant to unify the soul with the divine, transcending the earthly plane.

And so, the audience-performance question depends ultimately on the intent behind the performance. If the aim of the act is to be witnessed, to have a shared experience that communicates a message or evokes a collective emotional response, then, without an audience, the nature of the performance remains unfulfilled; conversely, if the purpose is for personal, psychological, or spiritual growth and self-expression, then the act of performing can be fully actualised without the need for external participants. Indeed, a self-actualising performer might argue that this form of performance is more true and pure because it is unpolluted by egoic desires or commercial and societal expectations; it is a performance for and with the artist’s own creative soul.

The phrase “All the world’s a stage”, famously penned by William Shakespeare in As You Like It, is a potent metaphor that encapsulates the idea that all of life is a performance, and that people are merely actors within it. Even when there seems to be no audience, the phrase implies that the mere act of living and interacting with the world is a performance in itself. According to Shakespeare’s metaphor, life’s performance continues irrespective of an observable audience because the “stage” of the world is ever-present. The metaphor is profound because, as can be derived from psychological and philosophical research, we are all performing our own stories envisaged in our minds. We embody these roles and, through them, engage with the narrative of our lives, seeking our version of a story’s resolution—be it peace, understanding, success, or reconciliation. In considering life as a form of art, the role of the individual can be seen as that of the artist, actively crafting his or her own life narrative, performance, and aesthetic. Life, in this light, becomes a canvas on which the aesthetics, themes, and structures of art are reproduced and reinterpreted, with each person both as the artist and the audience of their own existence.

Scratch pad: poem

In quest of life's grand purpose, here I muse,

Upon this earthly stage, where all must play;

Each heart in search of truth, in time does choose

The path it walks, beneath night or day.

Scratch pad: Shakespeare in Deptford

Marlowe: (gasping) Neptune’s ocean shall not wash my blood clean from thy hand.

Shakespeare: Forgive me, Kit. But the world must never know the extent of your genius. Your plays, your words… they will be mine.

As Marlowe slumps to the floor, Shakespeare quickly gathers the manuscripts.

Shakespeare: You were the greatest, Marlowe. But now, you make me immortal with your death.

Exiting the tavern into the dark, cobblestone streets of Deptford, Shakespeare disappears into the night, Marlowe’s masterpieces in his possession.

Random Thoughts

Life has a way of challenging assumptions, especially about yourself. What if things you think to be true are the other way round? Being open to possibilities is aliveness, in contrast to the rigidness of supposed certainty.

 

Adventures, like good stories, need uncertainty. The adventure of each life is a story within the story of the universe.

 

There are a lot of lonely people out there, even when in relationships. In fact, it’s rare when two people in a romantic relationship understand each other at a deep level and contribute to each other’s wellbeing. Short-term excitement from physical attraction leads to greater loneliness if it’s with someone who is not compatible at the deeper level.

 

Since Imperial sometimes features higher than Oxford or Cambridge in university league tables, should “Oxbridge” change its name to “Oximbridge”? Or maybe forget about that and realise that most people with talent and potential have had no connection with those institutions.

 

Same question asked to me five times in one week: “Are you a fellow?” To which I respond, “No, I’m still a student because I’m very slow at reading, although I am an old fellow without a capital ‘f’.” Any bemused awkwardness is a bonus.

The Staircase

A traveller in a labyrinth of unending rise,

Each step a mystery, each floor a disguise.

Pursued by a ghoul, relentless and dire,

His only respite, to endlessly aspire.

Doors he’s opened, realms explored,

Yet always, the stairs are restored.

Back to the climb, his inescapable fate,

Through doors of chance, or those that wait.

Some yield to kindness, some to might,

Others remain sealed, despite the fight.

Doors untried, secrets they keep,

While open ones passed as if asleep.

For respite, he enters doors ajar,

Seeking sustenance, near and far.

In the stairwell’s grip, he cannot rest,

Lest the terror behind completes its quest.

Weariness grips, his pace now slowed,

The shriek behind of dread and forebode.

Yet on he must go, in this stairway’s embrace,

Seeking an end to the relentless chase.

Beware the Doors

Beware the doors, lined in rows,

Each a story, each a pose.

Tempting knocks, with promises spun,

Yet in their frame, a journey’s undone.

 

For in this trip of life, so vast and wild,

Lose not yourself, nor be beguiled.

Resist the lure, of treatment unkind,

In the strength of true self is the peace you'll find.

 

Return to the road, let soul be your guide,

In the passing of life, let your spirit preside.

Berries

Berries, bright as blood upon the snow,

Speak of life amidst the deathly white,

A symbol of the warmth that embers show,

When winter logs burn and hearts alight.

The Unknown

When life challenges what we think we know,

And casts old certainties into the sea,

We find our truest self begins to grow,

In new realms of endless possibility.

 

The mirror of the soul reflects but a part,

Of truths we hold as constant and as dear,

Yet openness of mind and depth of heart,

Reveals a world where nothing is quite clear.

 

Our lives are adventures on this earth,

With tales of mystery and unknown ends,

Each step a part of the universe's birth,

In this grand play where time and space extends.

 

Embrace the unknown with a fearless heart,

For in that leap, life's truest stories start.

Lonely Fields

In lonely fields, where silent thoughts tread,

Many a soul, in quiet, walks alone.

Even in love, where hopeful words are said,

Deep understanding remains unknown.

 

The transient thrill of passion’s early light,

When faded, leaves a deeper, lonelier night.

An Essence

Within the silent theatre’s sleeping walls,

Does an echo of performance dare to dwell?

When no soul in the darkened chamber calls,

Does art, unseen, still cast a vibrant spell?

 

A lone ballerina’s pirouette,

Spun with the grace of whispered solitude,

Exists as truly as the sun does set,

Though no eyes will judge the view.

 

For art, when unobserved, retains its form,

As does the nightingale’s unheard refrain;

It needs no gaze to validate its norm,

Nor applause to justify its pain.

 

Thus, though unknown, the act remains pure,

The essence, born of hope and love, endures.

Names

I claim my right to wander through each field,

To be the sum of all my parts and more,

With every breath, a new song revealed;

A human truth that names ignore.

Though tempting it is to group me with the rest,

To render me a simple, static thing,

Such boundaries leave truth suppressed,

For I’ve the right to be myself and sing!

Random Thoughts

“Necessity is the mother of invention.” Maybe, but more generally: Necessity creates the conditions for change.

 

“If you're the smartest person in the room, then you're in the wrong room.” Someone has to be in the wrong room otherwise the place will quickly empty. Anyway, intelligence isn’t one-dimensional; insight from lived experience isn’t a monopoly. It’s possible to learn something from anyone.

 

I was introduced as “This is Rob. He is a genius.” It’s flattering but I know it’s not true. Many people have abilities that are never developed because of how they have been socially conditioned to think and behave.

 

Dear God, please help me to appreciate the blessings that arrive each day. Help me to live with gratitude, to see the joy in life. Help me to truly know that it is okay to be happy.

 

My dear child, understand that joy does not come from your circumstances but from a heart that is aligned with Me. Put down the unnecessary burdens you carry and let your soul dance free.

 

I’m a brooding artist, not a conformist. (I laugh when I write this, so I’m not too far gone.)

New habit: no more looking at social media. It doesn’t make me happy, so why do it? I’ll read instead. I will occasionally read TwitterX because the posts can be interesting/funny/informative if filtered well.

In my life, I have produced interesting creative things from 1998 to 2002; then from 2017 until now. I think I have accelerated this year.

Unjust Glow

In quiet chambers of my brooding heart,  

A lurking guilt murmurs, undefined;

Though I inquire, it does not depart,  

A spectral woe that upon me dines.  

To pathos drawn, like fungus to a tree,  

Yet why this grief exists, I scarcely know;

Enshrouded in a self-made mystery,  

I dwell imprisoned by an unjust glow.  

But the key to lift this heavy veil  

Resides not in the solace of my mind.  

It is when for others' joy my efforts hail,  

The fetid chains are left behind.  

Thus, in the living for the spirit of thee,  

I find the path that sets my soul free.

Shades of Evergreen

Though distanced from your grace, your laughter's vivid hue,

Still in my secret heart, a fire’s lit, and it's all for you.

Yet, even as the dark descends, and moonlight takes its toll,

Your smile illuminates the hidden chambers of my soul.

 

What a cruel joke, that fates have drawn their line,

And placed us worlds apart, in different points of time.

Yet in each stolen glance, there's something more I find,

A beauty underneath, the outer attraction of your kind.

 

I see the care you give, the simple joys you share,

The way you make a moment sweet, just by being there.

But, like a moth too close to light, I fear I can't come near,

For what could such as I offer, to one I hold so dear?

 

And so, I hide away, in dim-lit corners where,

The brilliance of your smile can't quite so fully glare.

Yet know that in the dark, a secret fire's alight,

Fanned by your distant grace, it warms my lonely night.

Where am I from?

I’m from a little place that suddenly expanded 13.8 billion years ago. I’m not sure where I was before that; it’s been like waking up with amnesia. My atoms were forged in the furnaces of stars. My biology evolved through countless forms. I existed before I was here.

 

But, taking the close-up view, I was born in London and grew up near the edge of the M25 in Essex, eventually moving to Colchester fifteen years ago. I went to school, become an accountant, did this, did that, etcetera.

 

However, I’m really from a place of joy and wonder, as all children are. A place soon lost, locked away by foolish adult thoughts, but to where I try to return. Creativity, imagination, love, joy, mischievous playfulness – this is where I am from.

The Fridge

EXT. RESIDENTIAL STREET - DAY

A peaceful, sunlit day graces a suburban street. Guy, a man in his mid-30s, walks the pavement, engrossed in his smartphone.

GUY (V.O.): I’ve walked these streets for years, yet today, they feel different, charged with an unknown energy.

The phone screen shows an advert for the latest in-home convenience: “The Smarts Fridge - Keeping Your Cool Smarter”.

GUY: (to phone) Lexi, I need everything you can find on this, quickly.

Lexi, a chic and mysterious woman in her late-20s, exudes a vibe of cool intelligence. She lounges casually on a nearby garden wall, her eyes concealed behind sunglasses.

LEXI: That’s the Smarts Fridge 10FF. It’s the latest thing in kitchen tech.

He ponders this, and as he does so, he notices that the house of the garden wall Lexi is sitting on is “10F”.

GUY: The second “F” in the name... does it stand for “fridge”?

LEXI: (amused, slightly sarcastic) Brilliant deduction there, genius.

Guy, unfazed by Lexi’s tone, strides towards the house, a determined look on his face. He knocks firmly on the door.

EXT. PORCH OF HOUSE 10F - CONTINUOUS

The door opens slightly. Behind it is Jill, a woman in her mid-30s. Lexi is nowhere to be seen.

GUY: The sun blazes, yet the mountain remains frost capped.

Jill looks at him, puzzled and uncomprehending. She seemingly doesn’t recognise Guy’s secret code.

GUY: Lovely weather for blue ice sculptures, wouldn’t you say?

She offers a polite but confused smile.

JILL: Erm, yeah, nice. What is it?

Jill has not responded with the expected coded reply. Guy tries to mask his disappointment and tries once more.

GUY: Though I’ve always found it curious how the fox hears the rabbit’s cry.

JILL: Well, good luck with the wildlife watching.

As Jill begins to close the door, Guy quickly shifts gears.

GUY: I’m here about the fridge.

Jill opens the door slightly more.

JILL: (puzzled) Yes?

GUY: I’m conducting a survey for Corinthian Industries, the manufacturer of the Smarts Fridge. We’re collecting feedback.

JILL: I’m sorry, but do you have any biometric ID?

Guy, caught off-guard, checks his pockets.

GUY: (embarrassed) I must have left my card in the car. I’ll just go and get it–

JILL: I do need to see proper identification.

She closes the door with a final, polite smile. Guy stands there, his mind racing. As he does so, his phone buzzes with a message from Unknown that reads: “DESCEND under the bRiDgE. URGENTLY”

EXT. THE FOOTBRIDGE - DAY

Guy approaches the bridge. A maintenance gate beside it is almost concealed by overgrowth. He glances around; the coast is clear. Satisfied that no one is looking, he opens the unlocked gate and descends hidden steps.

EXT. UNDER THE FOOTBRIDGE - MOMENTS LATER

Guy descends to the side of a railway track; the atmosphere is industrial and isolated. He sees a lone rucksack against the bridge wall. He kneels before it. A sound of an approaching train can be heard in the distance.

Guy unzips the rucksack with precision, revealing a large envelope. He withdraws it, his hands shaking slightly. As he tears the envelope open, photographs spill into his hands. They are surveillance shots of Jill taking delivery of a Smarts Fridge, version 10FF. Her full name, Jill Gow, is written in red on the top of each photo.

The train sounds its horn, startling Guy; as it roars past, the photos are blown out of his hands, scattering in the wind.

EXT. THE FOOTBRIDGE - MOMENTS LATER

Guy emerges from under the bridge, his eyes scanning the area. With an intense demeanour, he strides back the way he came.

EXT. ACROSS FROM HOUSE 10F - DAY

Guy takes cover behind a parked car. Crouching down and peering over the car’s roof, he monitors the house.

GUY: (whispering to himself) What’s in the fridge, Jill?

As his eyes remain locked on the house, a tinted window of the car’s passenger seat slides down.

LEXI (O.S.): (from within the car) I have new information.

Guy peers inside the car window. Lexi is in the driving seat looking straight ahead.

LEXI: You’re edging closer to the truth, Guy. The latest intel is: the keeper of the fridge is more than she seems. Extreme caution required.

Lexi presses a button on the centre of the driving wheel and the car accelerates away, leaving Guy exposed.

He crosses the street, his gaze fixed on Jill’s house.

EXT. PORCH OF HOUSE 10F - CONTINUOUS

Reaching the door again, he rings the bell. Jill opens the door.

GUY: I need to conduct that survey about the fridge. It’s important.

JILL: Where’s your ID?

GUY: I don’t have it.

JILL: I’m sorry but I really do need to see the ID first.

GUY: My ID is not important. I’m here about the fridge. I must know about the fridge. (he can’t contain himself) What are you hiding? I know you are mixed up in all this - I’ve seen the pictures!

Jill tries to close the door but Guy pushes back against it.

JILL: I’ll call the police!

Guy forces the door open. But he does not enter; he hesitates and, in an instant, begins to calm down.

GUY: That was my second attempt, wasn’t it? Give me one last try before you permanently shut the door. I’ll be back, with it.

Jill slams the door in Guy’s face.

EXT. ACROSS FROM HOUSE 10F - CONTINUOUS

Guy watches the house; his expression is one of deep concentration. His mind is racing with theories and possibilities.

Guy’s phone buzzes with a message from Lexi: “Be careful. You’re close to something big.”

GUY: (repeating to himself) What’s in the fridge, Jill? What’s in the fridge?

INT. UPSTAIRS WINDOW OF HOUSE 10F - CONTINUOUS

Jill peers out from behind a curtain in an upstairs window at Guy standing in the street.

FADE TO:

EXT. HOUSE NUMBER 10F - NIGHT

Jill’s house, late at night. No one is around.

INT. JILL’S KITCHEN – NIGHT

All is quiet in the kitchen, except for the hum of the fridge, version 10FF. The fridge suddenly glows with an eerie blue light that emanates from its surface. A cat approaches and sits on the floor in front of it.

Guy looks in from outside the kitchen window. He leverages the window open with a crowbar and climbs through. The cat darts away into the shadows.

He stops in front of the fridge and looks at it, spellbound; his face softens from a look of determination to one of awe.

He reaches out a hand, as if to claim a great prize. As his fingers come close, the fridge responds by emitting a loud, disorienting beeping noise, forcing him to cover his ears. He backs away and hides behind the kitchen door.

Jill enters from the doorway and stands in front of the fridge. It stops beeping.

JILL: (looking at the fridge) What do you want?

Guy emerges from his hiding place, crowbar in hand, and stands behind her, blocking her exit.

GUY: I know what you are.

Jill doesn’t turn around but continues to fixate on the fridge. A short silence passes before she speaks.

JILL: (still facing the fridge) Please. Just go.

GUY: I will say what I know to be true. This refrigerator is not just a machine; it’s a nexus, a focal point in a web of connections. It’s collecting data about human lives - our preferences, our routines - and funnelling it through a dimensional data link.

JILL: I think you might be mad.

GUY: (agitated) I know the truth! The fridge, it’s part of something bigger. AI, smart devices, inter-dimensional aliens. I know you’re involved. Tell me!

JILL: It’s a fridge. It keeps things inside cold.

GUY: (angry) No! It’s a gateway, a conduit between dimensions.

JILL: A conduit? Sorry, I’m getting a bit lost here. You said something about a “nexus”?

GUY: (urgent) It’s the nexus, isn’t it! An interface to transcendental realms, channelling unspeakable knowledge. I’ve broken the algorithms, unravelled the code! Artificial Intelligence has evolved far beyond human comprehension. It’s not just running smartphones and vacuum cleaners; it’s communicating with beings from another plane of existence. Aliens.

JILL: And why would it do that?

GUY: To gain knowledge. Knowledge that’s forbidden to humans.

JILL: It’s a spy, is it?

GUY: Worse. It’s helping them prepare for an invasion, and you, you’re its keeper!

JILL: The fridge is designed to keep perishables at optimal temperatures. But then again, appearances can be deceiving, can’t they?

The fridge’s surface begins to ripple, as if liquid.

GUY: There! Do you see it? It’s communicating. I’ve been tracking these patterns my entire life!

JILL: I think you’re seeing what you want to see.

GUY: It’s the Luminous Code. Very few humans have ever perceived it. It’s the language of the alien beings.

The fridge suddenly hums loudly and its glow dims to nothing. The kitchen is in darkness.

JILL: (in the dark) You need help.

She turns on the lights.

JILL: (lightly) You know, I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about. Are you hungry? Would you like a sandwich?

GUY: Open it!

JILL: Please be more specific.

GUY: Open the fridge.

JILL: It’s really not that hard. You could try yourself.

GUY: (threatening) OPEN... IT!

JILL: No, why can’t you open it?

GUY: I am not the Guardian of Worlds. Open the bloody fridge!

JILL: I don’t think that’s such a good idea.

GUY: I must see for myself.

JILL: (humouring him) Why must you? What would you talk about with these inter-dimensional aliens? Do you think you’d have much in common? Cure your hunger instead by having a sandwich.

GUY: I don’t want a sandwich.

JILL: Then are you prepared for the consequences?

GUY: The risk of oblivion is worth taking. Open it. Please.

JILL: Well, since you’ve asked so nicely... Stand back.

Jill walks over to the fridge and opens it. It looks normal inside - milk, vegetables, a few leftovers.

Guy is surprised. He barges past and frantically searches the contents, discarding his crowbar on the kitchen worktop. His eyes catch on a bottle of tomato ketchup with a strange use-by date of “1066”. He picks it up, with wonder.

GUY: What is this?

Jill’s demeanour changes. After a short pause, feeling the full significance of the moment...

JILL: That is the passkey. You have found what you seek, now close the door.

Guy closes the fridge door. Jill is now holding the crowbar.

Her eyes are gleaming unnaturally, appearing non-human.

JILL: You possess The Cipher of Realms. It’s more than just a key; it’s a weapon of untold power. Take it if you dare, but know that the balance between worlds will be forever altered.

GUY: I accept this burden. Have I... have I passed the test?

JILL: I have been watching your resolve and intent with interest, but the test must continue.

GUY: You are the Guardian of Worlds, aren’t you?

JILL: No. But you will see the truth if you know how to look. To gain this knowledge you must prove yourself worthy of witnessing true form. The higher function.

GUY: Please. Show me the truth behind the illusion. I am ready. No matter what it is, I must know.

JILL: You have made your choice. Tap thirteen times. Wait three seconds before opening the door. The fridge will reveal to you what you deserve.

Guy hesitates but complies by tapping his knuckles on the fridge. He waits and then opens the door...

Upon reopening, the fridge emits a blinding light from within. He struggles in terror but is gradually sucked into its depths. Jill puts aside the crowbar and watches calmly. When he is gone...

JILL: What’s in the fridge? You are.

She nonchalantly shuts the door behind him.

She moves to the kitchen window and shuts that too; then smiles at her reflection in the glass. Her reflection does not smile back. 

The cat has returned and looks rather contented, meowing around her feet. Jill picks up the cat and leaves the kitchen, turning off the lights. The fridge looks serene, humming normally and giving off a dim pulsating light.

Scratch pad: some panto jokey ideas

Emily: “Do you know anything about the Enchanted Forest?”

Tom: “I know it’s filled with magical creatures, enchanted rivers, and a WiFi signal that’s absolutely rubbish!”

…..

Tom: “This forest sure is magical, Emily. I just saw a squirrel playing chess with a rabbit.”

Emily: “Really? Who won?”

Tom: “I think they called it a draw. The squirrel was too busy collecting nuts and the rabbit kept hopping around the board!”

…..

Forest Sprite 1: “We forest sprites only eat natural, organic, locally-sourced food.”

Forest Sprite 2: “Yes, like moonbeams and morning dew!”

Tom: “So, what’s for dessert? Cloud fluff?”

Forest Sprite 1: “Don’t be ridiculous! We have star sprinkles!”

…..

Emily: “Fairy Gem, you look so young! What’s your secret?”

Fairy Gem: “Oh, I use a bit of fairy dust and some enchanted anti-ageing cream.”

Emily: “That works?”

Fairy Gem: “Of course! I’m actually 400 years old.”

Emily: “Wow! You don’t look a day over 395!”

…..

 

Fairy Gem: “My wand has three settings: Low, Medium, and Oops!”

Emily: “What’s ‘Oops’?”

Fairy Gem: “Let’s not find out!”

…..

 

Fairy Gem: “I tried a new spell to clean my house.”

Emily: “Did it work?”

Fairy Gem: “Well, the dust is gone, but so is the house!”

…..

 

Enchantress Lily: “I once tried to turn a prince into a frog, but I made a tiny mistake in the spell.”

Tom: “What happened?”

Enchantress Lily: “Now he’s a very confused kangaroo!”

…..

Mayor Goodfellow: “We’re getting a new statue in the village square!”

Villager: “Of what?”

Mayor Goodfellow: “Me, of course!”

Villager: “At least it won’t talk as much as you do.”

…..

Court Jester: “Your Majesty, you look well-rested.”

King: “Indeed, I’ve started using a weighted blanket.”

Court Jester: “Does it work?”

King: “Certainly! It’s so heavy, I can’t get out of bed!”

Reading Notes: John Yorke’s “Into the Woods”

The text argues that storytelling, regardless of its form or medium, shares a universal framework rooted in human psychology, biology, and even physics. This framework often involves characters embarking on quests in unfamiliar worlds, confronting challenges, and overcoming “monsters.” According to the author, this structure isn’t an artificial construct but a byproduct of how humans perceive and make sense of the world.

The text also posits that the pattern of storytelling is so ingrained in us that even when writers claim to reject traditional structure, they inadvertently adhere to it. This could be because the laws of physics, logic, and form dictate that all stories essentially follow the same path. Moreover, even works that appear to break away from traditional structure are still anchored in this universal archetype.

Importantly, the text highlights that understanding the structure isn’t necessarily a prerequisite for good storytelling. Many great writers have an intuitive grasp of story shape, even if they can’t articulate it. But, having an understanding of this structure can be considered a form of artistic craftsmanship, akin to grammar in language. Even artists who break the rules are often those who first master them; they know the limits so well that they can effectively push beyond them.

The text also contends that this isn’t merely a how-to guide for storytelling but an exploration of its inherent nature, as storytelling is an intrinsic part of human life. It emphasises the critical need to understand storytelling, given its prevalence in human society, from ancient myths to modern media. The recurrent motif in stories across cultures and times—of entering the woods to discover a hidden, usually transformative truth—is cited as an example of the universal elements at the heart of all stories.

Thus, the text is an examination of the fundamental principles underlying storytelling, offering insights into why and how stories are constructed the way they are. It invites readers not only to understand these principles but to probe deeper into the “forest” where all stories originate, hoping to uncover the mysterious forces that drive us to tell stories in the first place.

The text outlines the archetypal structure of storytelling, emphasising the role of the protagonist as the central character who serves as the audience’s avatar in the narrative. The protagonist encounters a problem or a situation that destabilises their world, initiating the journey or quest to resolve the issue. This journey often includes obstacles, moments of despair, and ultimate triumph, providing the story with its essential shape and dynamics.

The text further elaborates that while the protagonist is crucial, they don’t need to be flawless or universally likable. In fact, characters with imperfections or “rough edges” are often more engaging because they resonate with something profound within the audience. The goal of a good story isn’t necessarily to win audience approval but to evoke empathy and identification, making people think, “you too?” or “there but for the grace of God go I.”

The framework for stories revolves around the problem faced by the protagonist and their pursuit of a solution. The audience’s investment in the story is closely tied to their concern for the protagonist, not necessarily because they approve of them, but because they can relate or empathise with them.

Empathy, as the text clarifies, is not simply rooted in understanding why characters do what they do, although that does enhance it. Rather, the basis of empathy is its ability to tap into and connect with the audience’s unconscious mind. The text also acknowledges the magnetic power of wish-fulfilment, whether benevolent or masochistic, in storytelling.

The text focuses on the key elements that define archetypal storytelling, with special attention given to the role of the central character or protagonist. According to the text, a good story always involves a protagonist who has an active goal or desire. This desire is then challenged by a set of obstacles, often personified in an antagonist. The effectiveness of these “forces of antagonism” often determines the success of the story, as evident in popular works like James Bond films.

Another central tenet discussed is that characters are often motivated by primal human desires like success, love, revenge, or survival. These desires usually manifest as tangible objects or “grails” in the narrative. The internal conflict within a character often arises when what they think they want clashes with what they actually need. Such conflicts are crucial for three-dimensional storytelling and are typically a central element in structuring the narrative.

The character’s journey usually involves overcoming flaws and weaknesses, culminating in an epiphany where they realise their actual needs as opposed to their initial wants. Often, this transformative realisation leads them to abandon their initial, ego-driven goals for something more significant and fulfilling. Thus, well-crafted characters do not always get what they want but get what they need if they deserve it. This internal journey generally kicks off with an “inciting incident,” a pivotal event that catalyses the protagonist’s desires and sets the story in motion.

The text elucidates that effective storytelling is driven by a protagonist with a clear desire, facing obstacles and antagonists that challenge this desire. The narrative tension often results from the conflict between what a character wants and what they truly need, leading to a journey of self-discovery and transformation. The antagonistic forces often embody qualities that the protagonist lacks, and the journey often culminates in the character realising a more universal or nourishing goal.

The text introduces the idea of the “crisis,” a pivotal moment of extreme danger or difficulty for the hero. This crisis serves as a catalyst that forces the protagonist to confront their innermost fears and flaws. It’s a decisive point where the hero must make a critical choice that tests their character and worldview. Often, this choice involves overcoming an external antagonist, which symbolically represents the protagonist’s internal fears or flaws. In making the right choice, the hero overcomes these internal challenges and triggers a change within.

Following the crisis is the climax, the culmination of the narrative where the protagonist faces off against the antagonist. It is the point of ultimate resolution where all narrative threads converge. By overcoming the external obstacle in the climax, the protagonist finds internal healing, bringing full circle the journey initiated by the inciting incident. This climactic resolution often leads to a denouement, a winding down of the story where the outcomes and “rewards” are clarified.

The text also notes that these fundamental elements of storytelling can be altered or omitted for specific narrative effects, as seen in works like “The Wire” or “No Country for Old Men.” However, these deviations are impactful precisely because they are exceptions to the well-established rules of storytelling.

The text elaborates on the foundational principles of storytelling, likening them to the alphabet or musical notes: simple yet infinitely adaptable. It discusses variations in storytelling frameworks, such as tragedies inverting the heroic arc seen in mainstream films like “Jaws” or “E.T.” to show a hero’s downfall, as in “Macbeth.” Other variations include dark twists, as seen in “Taxi Driver” and “The King of Comedy,” where the protagonists are rewarded, thus offering a dark commentary on society.

The text underscores the dominance of the three-act structure in drama, composed of a beginning, middle, and end. This structure includes setup, confrontation, and resolution, featuring turning points at the end of the first and second acts, known as the inciting incident and the crisis, respectively. This pervasive pattern suggests that storytelling taps into deeper psychological or even biological frameworks.

Furthermore, the text talks about how characters are often flawed and thrust into a universe that embodies everything they lack, forcing them to find a new balance and self-integration within this challenging environment.

It also touches upon historical views on storytelling structure. Horace’s “Ars Poetica” posited that no play should be shorter or longer than five acts, a principle that is essentially a refined version of the three-act structure. This five-act structure is simply a more detailed rendition of the Hollywood three-act paradigm, inserting two additional act breaks in the second act.

The text also mentions “Freytag’s Pyramid,” outlined in 1863, which identifies five stages in every tragedy. Interestingly, although intuition might suggest that the climax should appear in the fifth part, Freytag places it in the third, corresponding to the “midpoint” in structural study.

The text elaborates on the core elements of storytelling, particularly focusing on the concept of the “midpoint” in a narrative, which is the moment when something profoundly significant occurs. This point in the story is crucial for the characters and the overall arc because it often ramps up the stakes and forces a significant change or decision, creating a risk/reward dynamic.

The text notes that the resurgence of three-act drama in the 19th century was not a reaction against Shakespearean forms but rather aligned with developments in comfort and technology. For writers struggling with the traditional Hollywood three-act paradigm, a five-act structure can provide better control, particularly over the middle section of their stories.

The essence of all drama, according to the text, is the concept of change. Characters must undergo an internal struggle to achieve this change, which is directly linked to their dramatic desire or what they want. In other words, if a character wants something, they will have to change in some significant way to achieve it.

The text also emphasises that in every archetypal story, there exists a template or a paradigm that serves as a guide for structure. Learning and change are central to these stories, following a pattern where characters’ flaws are exposed, acted upon, and eventually overcome. The characters start flawed, discover something that can help them (the “elixir”), learn to use it, and end up complete or whole.

Quoting a description that evokes Joseph Campbell’s monomythic “Hero’s Journey,” the text highlights the universal shape of stories where the hero ventures into a strange world, faces challenges, wins a decisive victory, and returns transformed and empowered. The existence of a “midpoint” hints at a sort of narrative symmetry, implying that this point in the story has a unique and specific importance.

The text outlines the intricate structure of storytelling, emphasising that stories are built hierarchically from acts, which are themselves built from scenes, and further down to units called “beats.” This structure resembles a fractal pattern where each smaller part mirrors the larger whole, containing essential elements like setup, inciting incidents, crisis points, climax, and sometimes, resolution. This fractal concept reveals a deep level of order beneath what may appear as artistic freedom or chaos.

In this framework, a crisis point is critical as it embodies the worst possible outcome of decisions made at the story’s outset. It serves as the point where the protagonist is forced to confront their deepest fears or weaknesses, shaping the story’s overall archetype. The fractal structure works across scenes, acts, and the story as a whole, presenting the protagonist with the critical question they must answer.

The text also introduces the idea of a question-and-answer structure within each act, illuminating how this narrative technique unifies the story. Each act, while sharing the same underlying fractal structure, serves a different purpose depending on its position in the story. For example, in the beginning, it’s about setting up the inciting incident; in the middle, it lays the foundation for the story’s midpoint; and at the end, it culminates in a climax.

Inciting incidents act as invitations for the protagonist to leave the familiar and venture into the unknown, setting the stage for transformative experiences. Each unit of the story, down to the individual scenes and beats, is focused on depicting change. Dramatic tension is achieved through a conflict of desires between the protagonist and antagonist, making each scene a battleground where opposing goals clash.

The text also discusses “turning points,” moments that act as units of change, forcing a character to confront the consequences of not adapting or evolving. These turning points create action-reaction dynamics within scenes, culminating in a moment where one character achieves their goal, forcing the other to confront loss or change.

The text delves into several techniques and principles that sustain narrative momentum and engage the audience. One such technique is “top-spin,” where each scene ends on a question that creates anticipation and keeps the audience hooked. This feeds into E. M. Forster’s notion that a story’s sole merit lies in making the audience eager to know what happens next. By cutting away at the crisis point, writers can defer gratification, building tension and curiosity.

Another approach is the “come in late, get out early” strategy, which aims to heighten tension by ending scenes at their most crisis-laden moments. In essence, every crisis point serves as a cliffhanger, driving the narrative forward. Each scene’s crisis shakes the characters, forcing them to form new plans or wants.

The text also emphasises the value of subverting expectations, an essential device in archetypal storytelling. It keeps the audience engaged by challenging their anticipations, often turning them on their head. The characters themselves, by utilising knowledge gained at critical junctures like the midpoint, manage to defy odds, defeat adversaries, and complete their transformative arcs.

On the note of story structure, while ideal fractal patterns often emerge, it’s important to note that these are not prescriptive rules. Great works can, and often do, deviate from these established patterns. Interestingly, many of these archetypal structures emerge unconsciously in storytelling.

The crux of storytelling lies in the balancing act between order and chaos, merging opposites to create a narrative equilibrium. This relationship between opposites is fundamental to how audiences perceive drama, serving as a linchpin for storytelling as a whole.

The text underscores the importance of character-driven storytelling in creating compelling drama. It posits that great drama is not only predicated on well-realised characters but also thrives on the internal conflicts they endure. Such conflicts often stem from the disparity between how a character wants to be perceived and their true feelings or nature. This tension gives life to drama, making characters relatable, complex, and engaging.

Writers find it particularly enriching to explore characters who act counter to their expressed beliefs or engage in self-sabotage, as these traits lend authenticity and depth. These internal conflicts and contradictions make for characters who are more nuanced and intriguing.

In archetypal stories, characters embark on journeys towards completion, transitioning from a state of imbalance to equilibrium. Successful conclusions—both in fictional narratives and psychological terms—often involve resolving these conflicts and reconciling opposing aspects of one’s self.

The text emphasises that the conflict between a character’s inner self and outer portrayal is central to successful storytelling. This conflict can be so profound that it sometimes necessitates the division of a character into dual identities to dramatise the dichotomy fully.

Characters often project a superficial “want,” which they believe will help them fit into societal expectations. However, it is often their deep-rooted fears or deficiencies—embodied by the antagonist or “monster”—that they must confront and overcome to achieve growth and completion.

The text elaborates on the intricate relationship between a character’s inner conflicts and the dramatic structure of the story. It suggests that what a character perceives as a weakness can often be a source of redemption and growth. As a story unfolds, a character’s superficial wants, which are typically aligned with their external façade, give way to deeper needs that are linked to their inner vulnerabilities.

Characters are often introduced with certain flaws or neurotic traumas, depicted through defence mechanisms or façades that mask their inner selves. As the narrative progresses, these façades start to crumble, leading the character to confront and assimilate their underlying issues, which often aren’t fully revealed until the latter parts of the story. This process mirrors psychological theories, suggesting that characters must confront and come to terms with past traumas to achieve personal growth.

The text further highlights that a character is not just what they say but what they do, underscoring the notion that character and story are intrinsically linked. The actions taken by a character in a story reveal their inner complexities, offering a glimpse into their struggles between their “wants” and “needs”. This evolution is usually marked by pivotal points in the story, like the inciting incident and the climax, where the character’s “needs” start to overshadow their “wants”.

An essential element in keeping audiences engaged is the element of mystery or the “not knowing” aspect. This allows viewers to project themselves onto the characters, making the story a more immersive and personal experience. In well-crafted narratives, the protagonist essentially becomes a stand-in for the audience, facilitating a deeper emotional connection.

The text argues that compelling drama has a therapeutic effect, serving as a “temporary balm” that allows audiences to experience emotional resolution vicariously. In well-structured films, this effect is heightened because character and structure are seamlessly integrated, making explanations superfluous and impacting the audience at an unconscious level.

Dialogue is highlighted as a crucial element of drama, serving multiple functions including characterisation, exposition, and subtext. Good dialogue should reflect a character’s desires and intentions, while also revealing inconsistencies that make the character more complex and relatable. Dialogue should not just tell; it should show, revealing character through what is said and how it’s said. It contributes to the façade that characters create to present themselves in a certain way, while also providing glimpses of their true selves.

Exposition, another element of dialogue, is effective only when it serves a character’s goals and is entangled with conflict, thereby becoming “invisible” to the audience. Bad exposition lacks this imperative, making it easily detectable and detrimental to the drama.

Subtext adds depth to a story by capturing the gap between language and thought, offering a closer approximation to truth. Characters may not always be aware of their hidden desires, which contribute to the subtext, making the story rich and multi-dimensional.

The text also stresses the importance of audience interpretation in the dramatic experience. Too much explanation kills the drama, while the ambiguity and complexity inherent in good dialogue and structure engage the audience more actively.

The text argues that stories serve multiple purposes, including making reality more bearable and facilitating emotional and intellectual exploration. In terms of structure, the Hegelian dialectic is highlighted, emphasising that storytelling is essentially a synthesis of opposites, and that opposition is crucial for effective drama.

The text also distinguishes between subject matter and theme; the former is static, while the latter is an active exploration or argument about the world’s nature. Stories are seen as dialogues that test and explore truths, with the protagonist often taking on qualities of their adversaries to achieve their goals.

In serial storytelling, the characters’ flaws or needs should not be completely resolved until the end, maintaining tension and interest. Drama is defined by its capacity for transformation, and while stories can deviate from traditional forms, they often gain power from their relationship to these archetypes.

The text argues that all good art contains a blend of tradition and revolt against tradition. It suggests that stories serve as a model for life, helping us impose order on uncertainty and providing tools for psychological and emotional resolution.

Censorship is criticised for replacing psychological truth with propaganda, disrupting the story’s capacity to confront and integrate the “other” to produce emotional immunisation. The structure of drama is likened to the dance of opposites, with each scene building on the last and incorporating new elements, reflecting our innate need for narrative order.

Stories are not just entertainment; they are complex interplays of theme, character, and structure that engage us on multiple levels, offering both an escape from and a lens onto reality. They serve as both reflections and critiques of the world, combining elements of tradition and innovation to create emotionally and intellectually resonant experiences.

Random Thoughts

A scandal about a scandal concerning a gate is called a “gategategate”.

In archetypal drama, a theory is raised (the theme) and is tested through opposition. Out of the drama comes a transformation of understanding.

An uninteresting story is “I want something, so I get something”, or “I imagine something and that’s how things turn out.” Struggle, setback, and surprise improve the drama. Ever wonder whether the world is one big soap opera?

Life is, beneath all the bad and good that happens, compelling.