To watch:
Michel Gondry's The Science of Sleep
Terry Gilliam's Tideland
Zhang Yuan's Little Red Flowers
My head hurts something terrible.
I reeeally don't know what's going on, but I'm no fun to play with, oh no.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Today's Muse: Wit, Or Lack Of It
My desktop luvvie died. For good. Last night, while I tried to finish up the outline for Wednesday's presentation. So, today during the bloody 4-hour break we have between Movement/Dance and Performing Analysis, I fried my ovaries with Laura's Mac. Of course I had it on my lap. It was Laura's.
I've set up me Da's old IBM ThinkPad; you know, the sort that still has the slow-scroll-load thingie that kills the eyes? It chugs along at a decent speed, and I've downloaded the bare essentials. Good enough for essaying. [I just realised my essay for Ac. Writ. wasn't backed up. Ppfft.]
Speaking of essaying: Two weeks into the new resolution and already I'm lagging. I'll get something up; been reading Steven Berkoff, and God the things he sends me brain into.
So, for now, random links:
Girls do fucking like geeks, you matyrs! - Alex A. reflects, complete with momentary burst of rage.
Doomsday: 21st December, 2012? - According to certain interpretations of the Mayan calender.
Banksy L.A. Exhibition - Stencils, Booze, Elephants (Why am I not there?)
And Lord Hair introduces his son and heir, Prince Hair - Because I NEVER get tired of the intergalatic dictator.
PS: Damnit, when is The Science of Sleep gonna open here?
My desktop luvvie died. For good. Last night, while I tried to finish up the outline for Wednesday's presentation. So, today during the bloody 4-hour break we have between Movement/Dance and Performing Analysis, I fried my ovaries with Laura's Mac. Of course I had it on my lap. It was Laura's.
I've set up me Da's old IBM ThinkPad; you know, the sort that still has the slow-scroll-load thingie that kills the eyes? It chugs along at a decent speed, and I've downloaded the bare essentials. Good enough for essaying. [I just realised my essay for Ac. Writ. wasn't backed up. Ppfft.]
Speaking of essaying: Two weeks into the new resolution and already I'm lagging. I'll get something up; been reading Steven Berkoff, and God the things he sends me brain into.
So, for now, random links:
Girls do fucking like geeks, you matyrs! - Alex A. reflects, complete with momentary burst of rage.
Doomsday: 21st December, 2012? - According to certain interpretations of the Mayan calender.
Banksy L.A. Exhibition - Stencils, Booze, Elephants (Why am I not there?)
And Lord Hair introduces his son and heir, Prince Hair - Because I NEVER get tired of the intergalatic dictator.
PS: Damnit, when is The Science of Sleep gonna open here?
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Today's Muse: Blessed hum and whir and trudge
After a scary couple of days the laptop appears to be working again. Nearly peed meself in terror at the prospect of all the documents and videos gone.
Bloody cat, knocking it into its end.
Yesterday, during Scene Prep we tried something very different from what we usually do in class. Just discussed what we thought goes into a good and riveting scene.
Irksome: argument for the sake of it. Nnngh.
Was divided into smaller groups. Had to come up with a scene, keeping in mind what happened before it and what was to happen after (motivation).
Whenever tasked with something like this, I tend to start gibbering. But that's good; spewing nonsensical phrases which the group might take and bounce off from there. Stuff like: Monkeys. Before the white flag. No gravity. Talking to superheroes in your head. Subway mob. Kittypillars. Ka-boosh.
Then, as a group, we just start improvising. We jump straight into the scene, and see what happens. And it's both great fun and incredibly liberating - usually we come up with loads of ideas and peel back to get the final product (Which, isn't really final until after we've performed it).
Once, when the group was stuck, I wandered around and pulled a school desk over, and jumped on it like a monkey. Almost at once another member threw himself in front of the desk, and mined death throes. And the others joined in, and we were off.
Improv. Sitting down and talking about it - no. I'm very fond of saying, "Lets just try it and see what happens.", as one lovely pointed out.
With Scene Prep, we started out with a girl simply talking to two imagined people, weirding a bystander out. And with each improv, the story evolved - the imagined people became the personifications of the girl's more extreme personality traits; the bystander became a writer looking for an interesting case; the girl had just come from a humiliating experience...
But even as we performed it, it was still evolving. The writer became an awkward fellow. I played him, and it seemed, at that point, so very natural to keep my hands in my pockets and fiddle with my collar. I didn't have to think about stumbling over my words; it came easily. The oversized shirt I used as a jacket suddenly became a way to hide myself - but as the conversation with the girl progressed, it was allowed to fall open.
I'm not quite sure what it was. As I think about it now, I'm not quite sure if I was simply showing the character or being him. Or just being myself.
Matt, the teach, asked us why we cross-gendered. We hadn't really thought about it, to tell the truth. The one guy in the group, played the frightened, child-like personification at first. As part of the improv process he switched roles and played the writer for a bit, before concluding that, hey, his reactions to the girl seemed more along the lines of the child. So, he went back. I'm being terribly vague.
I guess, we cross-gendered because it felt like it would work well like that.
Matt said it worked for him, and I think the class concurred. That was nice, feeling like you've really done good in that class, after the first couple of presentations you did being so... not good.
Today, Marium and I raided the SGST FLEE! Market. I found lovelies galore, going for so very little. Glee.
The highlight of that little escapade, I think, was finding the suede clutch going for just three dollars. Blood red, and superb lining.
I'm easy pleased, I am.
After a scary couple of days the laptop appears to be working again. Nearly peed meself in terror at the prospect of all the documents and videos gone.
Bloody cat, knocking it into its end.
Yesterday, during Scene Prep we tried something very different from what we usually do in class. Just discussed what we thought goes into a good and riveting scene.
Irksome: argument for the sake of it. Nnngh.
Was divided into smaller groups. Had to come up with a scene, keeping in mind what happened before it and what was to happen after (motivation).
Whenever tasked with something like this, I tend to start gibbering. But that's good; spewing nonsensical phrases which the group might take and bounce off from there. Stuff like: Monkeys. Before the white flag. No gravity. Talking to superheroes in your head. Subway mob. Kittypillars. Ka-boosh.
Then, as a group, we just start improvising. We jump straight into the scene, and see what happens. And it's both great fun and incredibly liberating - usually we come up with loads of ideas and peel back to get the final product (Which, isn't really final until after we've performed it).
Once, when the group was stuck, I wandered around and pulled a school desk over, and jumped on it like a monkey. Almost at once another member threw himself in front of the desk, and mined death throes. And the others joined in, and we were off.
Improv. Sitting down and talking about it - no. I'm very fond of saying, "Lets just try it and see what happens.", as one lovely pointed out.
With Scene Prep, we started out with a girl simply talking to two imagined people, weirding a bystander out. And with each improv, the story evolved - the imagined people became the personifications of the girl's more extreme personality traits; the bystander became a writer looking for an interesting case; the girl had just come from a humiliating experience...
But even as we performed it, it was still evolving. The writer became an awkward fellow. I played him, and it seemed, at that point, so very natural to keep my hands in my pockets and fiddle with my collar. I didn't have to think about stumbling over my words; it came easily. The oversized shirt I used as a jacket suddenly became a way to hide myself - but as the conversation with the girl progressed, it was allowed to fall open.
I'm not quite sure what it was. As I think about it now, I'm not quite sure if I was simply showing the character or being him. Or just being myself.
Matt, the teach, asked us why we cross-gendered. We hadn't really thought about it, to tell the truth. The one guy in the group, played the frightened, child-like personification at first. As part of the improv process he switched roles and played the writer for a bit, before concluding that, hey, his reactions to the girl seemed more along the lines of the child. So, he went back. I'm being terribly vague.
I guess, we cross-gendered because it felt like it would work well like that.
Matt said it worked for him, and I think the class concurred. That was nice, feeling like you've really done good in that class, after the first couple of presentations you did being so... not good.
Today, Marium and I raided the SGST FLEE! Market. I found lovelies galore, going for so very little. Glee.
The highlight of that little escapade, I think, was finding the suede clutch going for just three dollars. Blood red, and superb lining.
I'm easy pleased, I am.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Today's Muse: Cataglottis. Diaspora. Subaltern. Oh, I do like big words.
It's the game, the chase.
It's the fact that the ploy worked, and that, hey, never had that string o' numbers in the first place.
And we both know it, and we're both know that the other knows it, and we're both pretending that we don't know it because that's the whole point.
I missed this game.
It's the game, the chase.
It's the fact that the ploy worked, and that, hey, never had that string o' numbers in the first place.
And we both know it, and we're both know that the other knows it, and we're both pretending that we don't know it because that's the whole point.
I missed this game.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Glands
It is snowing.
I have a coat. This is important. A long, yellow coat, with smart cuffs, deep pockets. I reach into a pocket and finger something sticky - I don't know what it is, but it comforts me.
I am standing on the edge of a palm tree plantation, the one one sees when one takes that long, long drive to Peneng from Singapore. But the trees no longer look small and stumpy and sad; they tower over me, miles away. The way their leaves weave with each other to block out the sky is both menacing and comforting. I walk this way and that, leaving my prints in the snow.
My feet feel sticky in my shoes, and this comforts me.
The palms, despite being so tall, have trunks about as thick as street lamps. I walk along a row, six steps forward, tap a palm, another six steps forward, another palm. There is a light up ahead. I continue on in this manner, six steps, tap, six steps, tap.
As I draw closer, I see a girl sitting in the snow, her knees to her sides and feet behind her. She's long - not tall - her neck, her arms, her fingers. She's hunched over, looking like a poor stretched doll, as though someone had grabbed her head and feet and pulled her out of shape. She's balding.
The source of light is from a candle, hung upside-down, the cord tied to its base vanishing into the canopy. The flame still burns as it would if the candle was the right way up, though, and I want to throw up.
The girl tells me her story.
She was a child taken by the fair folk, to raise as their own. She was happy. One day she stumbled, and fell out of that world, and back into this one. And her body, previously content to remain as it was, began to swell and grow.
And one day, her insides felt like they'd been battered to mush, and it must have been so, because she began to bleed.
I tilt my chin forward, and I see the red snow she's sitting in. It smells foul.
Here I become confused.
On the first path, I help her stand, and I walk her away from the congealing blood, away from the horrible candle, and I walk her all the way home. I sit her on the toilet. I teach her that they call pads "feminine napkins", and that they should be put in a separate bag when we're out for groceries. She grows up, and the bin occasionally plays host to neat little bundles wrapped discreetly in plastic and bagged just to be sure.
And I marry her, and we live happily ever after ever.
On the other path, I stand there in the snow, with the palms glowering over me, and watch as the blood seeps through the snow and around my shoes. I watch her shivering in the cold, and I feel my shoulders swell to fill the yellow coat. I can't get it off, and I know she needs it, but it won't come off.
And I turn on my heel and I walk away. My feet are sticky, and it comforts me, just a little. I reach into my pocket and finger something sticky in my pocket, and I pull it out.
It's a red sweet wrapper, and this comforts me.
I'm starting last year's resolution now. Every week I'll write a short piece, and put it up here. So if I miss a week, would you lot please publicly shame me?
I'm a rubbish writer, no matter how you slice it. This is an attempt to get better at it. Here goes.
I would really appreciate any constructive criticism. Tell me I'm rubbish, tell me about the tenses mistake in para 3, talk to meee.
It is snowing.
I have a coat. This is important. A long, yellow coat, with smart cuffs, deep pockets. I reach into a pocket and finger something sticky - I don't know what it is, but it comforts me.
I am standing on the edge of a palm tree plantation, the one one sees when one takes that long, long drive to Peneng from Singapore. But the trees no longer look small and stumpy and sad; they tower over me, miles away. The way their leaves weave with each other to block out the sky is both menacing and comforting. I walk this way and that, leaving my prints in the snow.
My feet feel sticky in my shoes, and this comforts me.
The palms, despite being so tall, have trunks about as thick as street lamps. I walk along a row, six steps forward, tap a palm, another six steps forward, another palm. There is a light up ahead. I continue on in this manner, six steps, tap, six steps, tap.
As I draw closer, I see a girl sitting in the snow, her knees to her sides and feet behind her. She's long - not tall - her neck, her arms, her fingers. She's hunched over, looking like a poor stretched doll, as though someone had grabbed her head and feet and pulled her out of shape. She's balding.
The source of light is from a candle, hung upside-down, the cord tied to its base vanishing into the canopy. The flame still burns as it would if the candle was the right way up, though, and I want to throw up.
The girl tells me her story.
She was a child taken by the fair folk, to raise as their own. She was happy. One day she stumbled, and fell out of that world, and back into this one. And her body, previously content to remain as it was, began to swell and grow.
And one day, her insides felt like they'd been battered to mush, and it must have been so, because she began to bleed.
I tilt my chin forward, and I see the red snow she's sitting in. It smells foul.
Here I become confused.
On the first path, I help her stand, and I walk her away from the congealing blood, away from the horrible candle, and I walk her all the way home. I sit her on the toilet. I teach her that they call pads "feminine napkins", and that they should be put in a separate bag when we're out for groceries. She grows up, and the bin occasionally plays host to neat little bundles wrapped discreetly in plastic and bagged just to be sure.
And I marry her, and we live happily ever after ever.
On the other path, I stand there in the snow, with the palms glowering over me, and watch as the blood seeps through the snow and around my shoes. I watch her shivering in the cold, and I feel my shoulders swell to fill the yellow coat. I can't get it off, and I know she needs it, but it won't come off.
And I turn on my heel and I walk away. My feet are sticky, and it comforts me, just a little. I reach into my pocket and finger something sticky in my pocket, and I pull it out.
It's a red sweet wrapper, and this comforts me.
00
I'm starting last year's resolution now. Every week I'll write a short piece, and put it up here. So if I miss a week, would you lot please publicly shame me?
I'm a rubbish writer, no matter how you slice it. This is an attempt to get better at it. Here goes.
I would really appreciate any constructive criticism. Tell me I'm rubbish, tell me about the tenses mistake in para 3, talk to meee.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Today's Muse: Giblets
Oorgh. My insides are a right mess. Pain!
Oof. During the day I think of all sort of subjects I'd like to touch on here, but when I actually sit down here I can't recall anything interesting, other than the state of my giblets.
We celebrate the mundane:
I've been following DC's 52, an ongoing series that's supposed to fill in the missing year between Infinite Crises and One Year Later.
For you lazy knob hyper-linkin' haters, the recap:
In Infinite Crises, Superboy-Prime punched the timestream. Oh, he killed Superboy too. You know, the one with the bad haircut back in the nineties? Plus, Joker killed the Luthor with hair. Oooh yeah.
In One Year Later, it's wiggy.
But I like 52, or at I like what I can get off the internet. They killed Booster Gold, sure, but Skeets is still around! And of Week 19, what with the "It's all his fault!" and Skeets trapping Booster's great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather in a time loop AND Skeets talking in a HUMAN speech bubble and not the electronic one and saying "HE KNOWS"...
Cue RANDOM SPECULATION!
I am now eating cake. It is chocolate cake with pink icing. It is very good, but I know I will be in even more pain afterwards.
I desire more cake.
Oorgh. My insides are a right mess. Pain!
Oof. During the day I think of all sort of subjects I'd like to touch on here, but when I actually sit down here I can't recall anything interesting, other than the state of my giblets.
We celebrate the mundane:
I've been following DC's 52, an ongoing series that's supposed to fill in the missing year between Infinite Crises and One Year Later.
For you lazy knob hyper-linkin' haters, the recap:
In Infinite Crises, Superboy-Prime punched the timestream. Oh, he killed Superboy too. You know, the one with the bad haircut back in the nineties? Plus, Joker killed the Luthor with hair. Oooh yeah.
In One Year Later, it's wiggy.
But I like 52, or at I like what I can get off the internet. They killed Booster Gold, sure, but Skeets is still around! And of Week 19, what with the "It's all his fault!" and Skeets trapping Booster's great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather in a time loop AND Skeets talking in a HUMAN speech bubble and not the electronic one and saying "HE KNOWS"...
Cue RANDOM SPECULATION!
I am now eating cake. It is chocolate cake with pink icing. It is very good, but I know I will be in even more pain afterwards.
I desire more cake.
Monday, September 11, 2006
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Today's Muse: Golden The Pony Boy
I'm a handsome muthafuka, and y'all know it
BABY'S COMING HOME.
Oh yeah, Kim's moving back in, too.
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I'm a handsome muthafuka, and y'all know itBABY'S COMING HOME.
Oh yeah, Kim's moving back in, too.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Today's Muse: Soggy Tennis Balls
Thank you, Jo, for not drawing attention to me tearing. I'm sorry I imagined bashing your head in with the drumming stick-things. To be fair, I imagined throwing the various bits of the Bonang Barung at everyone else, because I am petty.
Thank you, Spenc, for the silly shit you were pulling during class.
Thank you, Aaron, for reminding me it's only Gamelan and getting yourself hit with a tennis ball.
You know, at this rate I might as well take up crack, what with the highs and the crashing.
Gah! DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS FRIDAY IS?
Thank you, Jo, for not drawing attention to me tearing. I'm sorry I imagined bashing your head in with the drumming stick-things. To be fair, I imagined throwing the various bits of the Bonang Barung at everyone else, because I am petty.
Thank you, Spenc, for the silly shit you were pulling during class.
Thank you, Aaron, for reminding me it's only Gamelan and getting yourself hit with a tennis ball.
You know, at this rate I might as well take up crack, what with the highs and the crashing.
Gah! DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS FRIDAY IS?
Monday, August 28, 2006
Today's Muse: My Ancient Creaky Joints, For I Am Ancient That Way.
Watched The Beckett Project on Sunday, which was brill. The sheer stamina and control the actors displayed was enough to get me all fired up again; most welcomed after the shit I did on Friday for Scene Prep.
The Beckett Projectwas comprised of four short plays by Samual Beckett. The first one, Mouth, immediately had me sitting up. A single, intense spot was focused on the actress' mouth - which was all you could see of her - as she spoke at bullet-train-derailed-and-out-of-control speed. Every single word was crisp and clear as day. The result was squinty-pain, but in a gooood way. I understood every word and every image that jabbering, rapid-quick mouth was enuciating, but before my brain fully processed the information and filed it away properly the mouth was spewing more, more, too fast, too fast!
Absurd Wheeeee!
Perhaps it was the simplicity of the set, or the intimacy of the Theatre Studio, but I was more interested in the lighting design then I usually am. The quickfire spot movements for Play; the whimsical window motif employed in the final play Rockaby...
I want to do it all.
Tech, Acting, Creation... But fees. And time. And specialisation.
Bah, I'll find a way.
Ran into an old DramaplusArts member. I used to beat him up. Hm. Perhaps I should apologise.
Today: Crazee Monday. For some strange reason I offered to treat anyone who wanted one to an ice lolly. The entire table put up their hands.
D'aww.
Need to find cash for Bouncers!
Watched The Beckett Project on Sunday, which was brill. The sheer stamina and control the actors displayed was enough to get me all fired up again; most welcomed after the shit I did on Friday for Scene Prep.
The Beckett Projectwas comprised of four short plays by Samual Beckett. The first one, Mouth, immediately had me sitting up. A single, intense spot was focused on the actress' mouth - which was all you could see of her - as she spoke at bullet-train-derailed-and-out-of-control speed. Every single word was crisp and clear as day. The result was squinty-pain, but in a gooood way. I understood every word and every image that jabbering, rapid-quick mouth was enuciating, but before my brain fully processed the information and filed it away properly the mouth was spewing more, more, too fast, too fast!
Absurd Wheeeee!
Perhaps it was the simplicity of the set, or the intimacy of the Theatre Studio, but I was more interested in the lighting design then I usually am. The quickfire spot movements for Play; the whimsical window motif employed in the final play Rockaby...
I want to do it all.
Tech, Acting, Creation... But fees. And time. And specialisation.
Bah, I'll find a way.
Ran into an old DramaplusArts member. I used to beat him up. Hm. Perhaps I should apologise.
Today: Crazee Monday. For some strange reason I offered to treat anyone who wanted one to an ice lolly. The entire table put up their hands.
D'aww.
Need to find cash for Bouncers!
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Today's Muse: Puff the Magic Dragon!
There's a foundation student the music boys call Jesus. I expected something satirical, a savant-esque joke of sorts.
But, nooo. They call him that because when he lets down his hair he's apparently the splitting image of the one true saviour.
There's another chap who deals with the "Luke Skywalker!" and "I am your faaather" jokes with blank looks.
Sometimes, between classes, if you hang out at the Performing building, you can watch the Fine Art and Design students appear in the small field armed with bubble-blowers.
We watched Royston Tan's 15 and a couple of funny commercials yesterday, as part of the semiotics lecture. Woo, test next week.
Today, Michael gave us a crayon each and told us to design a costume for the play we're studying on the spot.
I stepped over the Bonang Barung by accident during Gamelan. The instruments haven't been blessed, but you never know. Gah.
The PEOPLE.
Have I mentioned the pure AWESOME that is LASALLE?
There's a foundation student the music boys call Jesus. I expected something satirical, a savant-esque joke of sorts.
But, nooo. They call him that because when he lets down his hair he's apparently the splitting image of the one true saviour.
There's another chap who deals with the "Luke Skywalker!" and "I am your faaather" jokes with blank looks.
Sometimes, between classes, if you hang out at the Performing building, you can watch the Fine Art and Design students appear in the small field armed with bubble-blowers.
We watched Royston Tan's 15 and a couple of funny commercials yesterday, as part of the semiotics lecture. Woo, test next week.
Today, Michael gave us a crayon each and told us to design a costume for the play we're studying on the spot.
I stepped over the Bonang Barung by accident during Gamelan. The instruments haven't been blessed, but you never know. Gah.
The PEOPLE.
Have I mentioned the pure AWESOME that is LASALLE?
Monday, August 14, 2006
Today's Muse: Eau de Babeh
" Students will arrive with many techniques for avoiding the pain of failure. John Holt's How Children Fail gives examples of children learning to get around problems. If you screw your face up and bite on your pencil to show you're 'trying', the teacher may write out the answer for you. (In my school, if you sat relaxed and thought, you were likely to get swiped on the back of the head.)
[snip]
For example, many students will begin an improvisation, or a scene, in a rather feeble way. It's as if they're ill, and lacking in vitality. They've learned to play for sympathy. However easy the problem, they'll use the same old trick of looking inadequate... makes everyone fed up with them.
[snip]
No one has sympathy with an adult who takes such an attitude, but when they were children it probably worked. As adults they're still doing it. "
Impro, Keith Johnstone
It's a remarkably easy read, Impro. Johnstone writes like he's actually explaining his ideas and methods to you in person, as opposed to simply documenting them. And he's very charming.
To Do:
1. Notebook. [Tech, P. Analysis, Gamelan]
2. Voice Journal Comics. [L.1 layout done. L.2, L.3 - plan lay by Friday, L.4 tmr]
3. Gingerbreadman Set painting. [+ costuming]
4. Scrub locker.
5. Insult list.
6. Buy 10mm crochet hook. [Spotlight 50% thing going down]
7. Ask Jo about Gamelan prac room
8. Add status game overlay to Scene Prep presentation
9. Learn to tell time
Put it up so you lovely can nag me and thus get work done. Like, something smart-like, no.
Gah, it's 1am and I have Voice later. Bbluppt.
Friday, August 11, 2006
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
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Monday, August 07, 2006
Today's Muse: Awake
Holy guacamolee I am loving this. I've finished my essay for now, I'll probably be editing it until the last minute. Open-ended questions, feh.
Quick, someone give me more dodgy homework!
EDIT: Realised I do have more homework, for voice later this morning. Colouring in the spine and ribs. And me without a single colour pencil in the house.
I wonder if crayons will do?
Holy guacamolee I am loving this. I've finished my essay for now, I'll probably be editing it until the last minute. Open-ended questions, feh.
Quick, someone give me more dodgy homework!
EDIT: Realised I do have more homework, for voice later this morning. Colouring in the spine and ribs. And me without a single colour pencil in the house.
I wonder if crayons will do?
Friday, August 04, 2006
Today's Muse: Nnngh My Eyelid Won't Stop Twitching
We're already smack centre, chups.
Look at it this way: Although it's only been two weeks, assesment is in five weeks. That's five lectures or rehearsals for each component.
I have an essay due Monday. "What is Art?"
Fucksicle on a stick!
EDIT:
We're already smack centre, chups.
Look at it this way: Although it's only been two weeks, assesment is in five weeks. That's five lectures or rehearsals for each component.
I have an essay due Monday. "What is Art?"
Fucksicle on a stick!
EDIT:
"Everyone working in theatre has a streak of idealism, a yearning for perfection, and a tendency towards single-minded pursuit of their personal specialty.
Everyone, in the nicest possible way, is in it for grabs."
Francis Reid
The Staging Handbook
What he said.