Makers Diary: Text 3

Here is the new text…yey...I am really happy with that!

HIM: She was a woman, you know, the kind of woman who wears suits, good suits with heels. And when she passes by you catch a soft heady waft of her oriental smelling perfume, sweet and exotic. The kind of woman who carries an extra pair of champagne coloured stockings in her leather purse, just in case.
Go on, close your eyes and picture her.
The kind of woman who chooses not to be a mother and has an Siamese cat, called Digby waiting for her when she gets home late, in the dark from the office.
The kind of woman who enjoys opera and always has a glass of good red wine during the interval.
The kind of woman with a pre-Raphaelite beauty hanging in her light and spacious entrance hall.
The kind of woman who eats Thai food and sushi with chop sticks. The kind of woman who sips her champagne from a crystal cup that sings when you tease the rim. The kind of woman who's snap action umbrella always matches her bag and shoes.
The kind of woman who similes without ever really opening her lips. The kind of woman who doesn't own a biro and has a pink grapefruit for breakfast. The kind of woman who always seem to know what she wants.

The kind of woman like you and you and you, yeah and you.
You know the kind of woman who is snooty and independent
(Pause)
The kind of bitch who thinks that she is above all men, above me, the kind of woman who/

HER: What he means to say is that she was beautiful and powerful but that was never enough, like you and me and all women, she wanted more. More beauty, more power, to be more feminine, to have more choice.
To have better shoes, a smaller arse, for her tits to be more full and pert, her skin more fresh. She wanted more glamour, fame, recognition, praise. She wanted a bigger heart, fuller heart, more hopeful heart, a cherished heart. Her stomach to be flatter, her thighs more slender, her feet smaller, her nails longer, her love deeper. She just wanted more; more love, more passion, more power, more sex, more chocolate.
She wanted to be special.
She wanted to be special.
She wanted to be woman.
So one night, when the moon was full and fat, she stretched her arms up out of the waves, she opened up her big red lips and swallowed the shimmering silver orb whole.
And so the sea stood still, the night turned black and in the darkness we were found wanting.

SHE: I am celestial.
I am a nymph.
I am a goddess.
I am the woman who swallowed the moon.
The one the sea didn't take. The limp lady dangling stretched from the rope. The woman with her wrists slashed and her arteries pumping, spilling out their crimson honey into the bathtub.
The woman with the stomach full of paracetemol, co-proximal and drain cleaner.
The girl they laid low.
The beauty queen fizzing in the heart hot tub, rickled fingers clutching her hair dryer.
The rock chic jacked full of junk, petrified and gaping.
The sleeping beauty in the front seat sucking on invisible death.
The pallid diva stiff and slouched, head lolling on the porcelain rim, life leaking from her perfect nose.
The desperate housewife, fixed pupils, empty starring through the misty, scratched plastic.
The fem fatale with a knife in her gut.
The ancient figure head with an asp grasping her teat.
The smudge in your diary, the stain in your heart.
The woman with stale spittle and vomit on her lips.
The tragic smart feminist with her head in the gas oven. The woman who left a dark stain on the pavement. The woman who blew her brains across the dashboard. The woman tangled in the mud amongst the duck weed and lily pad stems.
(Pause)
That is I, The celestial, goddess, nymph; the woman who swallowed the moon.
But tomorrow I will stop. Stop butchering, stop crying, stop shouting, stop dying, stop killing myself and listen to the silence song. I will shut the door and find that I have breasts, thighs, ankles and a womb. With my soft delicate fingers I will pleasure myself. Reclaim my lips, my cunt; from the men, from the lovers. Who have had me, used me, fucked me, screwed me, buggered me, raped me over and over and over. I will rip the moon her fat silver roundness from my belly and stagger into the street drenched in my own blood. Letting my sinew and song soak their sidewalks. Leaving a trail of where I once trod. I will hold up my face to the sky, fingers raised to the heavens, letting my insides paint me.
I am woman.
I am celestial.
I am a nymph.
I am a goddess.
I am the woman who swallowed the moon.

I am fascinated by the idea of the woman who swallowed the moon and so have carried some concepts through from one of previous productions.
I have not yet had any interest from my casting calls...getting a little worried, I know its only be a few days but still, I though the undergrads would jump at the chance...seems not!