Moelwyn Mawr

Moelwyn Mawr

PETER HARRIS - Early Twenties HUGH LOYD – Forties

MATILDA BRAOSE – Fifties

Setting

Northern Wales, on the mountain Moelwyn Mawr, near the town of Tanygrisiau, in 1924

Set

An empty stage, with a giant door against the back, and two tall widows on either side; Scene III, the stage was a two large wing backed chairs, and a pile of artifacts around one of them; Scene IV, the stage has a table with two chairs.

SCENE I

Meditation X

 Can't Joan just get a break? There she is, walking down the street to grab breakfast, because her house is a mess. She doesn't have the time to cook, and even if she did, all the dishes are piled up! Joan's got it hard, and it's no wonder people feel bad for her. Once she gets to her job, it's all she can do to get some work done. She has a picture of her dog, and brown coffee mug full of pens, and a computer screen thinner than a piece of paper, all at her desk. The light from the screen, oh! it's so distracting.

Meditation IX

I was always out of character. Not to say I really had character, but whoever it was, whether a friend, a partner or a colleague, they always mentioned how I acted weird around them. That they saw me with others, and I was always gone. But it didn't really matter what I told them, whether it was a one time thing, or I managed to stave it off on multiple occasions. It eventually eroded through, and I was left without them, again.

Meditation VIII

Really, the smokey noise the trumpet, poured over the rest of night's soft chill would be enough to make anyone forget. But when I showed up late one night unable to get pas the first flight of stares, and my cry up the tower brought down my roommate, it's me who was irresponsible. Who cares if I was gone for two hours, if that cocktail mixed of grief and horror of one self, a creature of itself, had been taken by anyone else, they wouldn't be found for three nights, and then they'd be beyond anyone else.

Meditation VII

Maybe it was a prank the kids played on me. Maybe it was something they thought about when they woke up, and waited for the sounds of me. Something they giggled about once they crawled back into their beds. Or maybe my wife did.

However it happened, whatever reasoning, I've woken up, and I can't open my eyelids. I touch them and feel them moving as I look back and forth in the dark room, the slight bump of whatever is keeping them down. Whatever it is, it's stronger than my muscles, and I rise our of bed without really noticing. I sleep like a nocturnal beast, and so no light enters my room until I open the blinds or turn on light. I only knew once I did this, and everything turned red.

Meditation VI

“That's Mr Simmons. He owns the whole town.”

“If he owns the town, why haven't I seen him before?”

Meditation IV

Neil the well dressed man was sitting on the bus one day when he didn't realize he was taking up two seats. There was a man whose tie wasn't quite done up right, and whose jacket was covered in cat fur standing in front of him, and so Neil lifted his bag onto his lap, and the man sat beside him. A puff of cat hair came up, and Neil wiped it off his bag. He then pulled out his phone, and began to shop for more fashionable clothes.

Meditation III

“I saw someone I went to school with today.” I was visiting my mother from the city when she said it. Of course, it isn't that much of a surprise to hear this from her, especially considering that she never left the town where she grew up. It's always how my mom opens these visits. I could finish the rest of two hours myself, any hope of it being different disappeared. Next she'll say how glad she is that she didn't turn out like them. Than, a great thirty minute talk about how unfortunate that person must be.

It's not that my mother is a recluse or antisocial. /she just thinks she's better than everyone else. Of course, inheriting the land the town is built on, as well as living off the rent from it, would have that effect on anyone. When everyone you see essentially works for you, even my noble nosed mother is going to start finding faults in other people.

Meditation II

When it gets too cold outside I count myself lucky that I have the luxury of a scarf. Nevermind that I wouldn't be able to buy a new one if I lost it, and I wouldn't even think of purchasing a similar one, in my current situation. But that isn't a problem I have to deal with now. Instead, when I want to go out, I'll take my brown jacket with its worn elbows, put on layers of thin socks, and step out the door, but not before carefully taking my scarf down from the hook it hangs from. I'll wrap it around my neck, and ready to set out, I'll leave my apartment.

Awaiting in a Parked Car

           So what is it like? When I'm enjoying my ride and watching the trees go by with their flowing greenery and the buildings spiking up past whatever sight I see. Then all at a chance we pull in somewhere, and someone dashes off for just a moment they say, faster than the changing scenery. But of course I stay in the car, and enjoy whatever else is on the other side, whether it be the black of the ground or my own reflection. I stare into it and ask myself why I don't go in, or what happens if you never return. The clock keeps going on and I wonder about the difference between a moment held by you and one watched by me, and the sun goes down and comes up and goes down again while I'm entrapped in my own eyes. But then I notice a worm coming out of my head, and see if crawling slowly over the ground pulling itself along.       

Can Creativity Be Taught?

Creativity is one of those non-spatial things that no one can define or grasp. It isn't something specific, like pottery, and it isn't something general, like sports. It's a category inside a category, where different acts are all defined creative, but those acts are not always creative. A painting could be good, but it could also be a good painting that doesn't do anything creative, either mimicking a style or copying a subject. This brings to question, can creativity be taught?