"We Sweep Dreams"

The following is my entry for the English National Operas MiniOperas script competition. Unfortunately I wrote it in standard script format but as I had to copy and paste it into here that didn't translate particularly well. Hopefully it's all legible. I've put the stage directions in italics. The piece is based on Neil Gaiman's "The Sweeper Of Dreams". Here you are: "We Sweep Dreams" Under a sky of bright purple with two crescent moons, sits a row of identical semi-detached houses. Next to the cracked, old pavements and road is a white minibus with "We Sweep Dreams" painted on it. A tall figure exits the van. He emerges, his awkward frame shuffling through the shadows until reaching a more well-lit area. The Dreamsweeper is revealed to be a gaunt man wearing workers' overalls and a pair of thick bifocals. A hand-rolled cigarette rests on each of his ears. He holds a broom proud and up-right like a staff. His expression is one of utter disdain. Feint sounds of giggling can be heard along with stomping and music. He grumbles and shudders. The distant sounds grow louder. The Dreamsweeper looks around and shakes his head at the colourful scenery.
THE DREAMSWEEPER I like my work, That's just as certain. I draw the final curtain on the pictures That they see in their own heads when they're in bed. But the football's on the tele-box And I'm told that it might rain, So death to you dreamers! All of you cocks! Sweeping all idiot night-thoughts away It's just what I do, I don't need no pay. It's better to shatter your unreal ideals Than reckon I matter more than how you feel. The Dreamsweeper pauses to observe the more mundane aspects of his surroundings. The purple sky begins to slowly dim. Oh, cracks on the pavement; That's not too un-pleasant... And anonymous stretches of land! To me the mundane is almost a present. The rows of semi-detatchments Guarded by glum little trees. Identical roads mark the catchment... Almost puts me in mind of me; Grey and outdated, An unanswered scream. The dull and the dusted's what's Nicer than dreams. That purple sky?
He bangs his broom on the ground with authority. I'll soon see to that! This subconscious spy can't stand All this nonsense undoing the do Of what's boring and flat. Once again, he loudly bangs his broom on the ground. I 'ate 'em all! Get rid of 'em all! Why have a dream if you can't have it dashed!? And so I like my work. But... Well... Whoever's dreaming this one, I almost don't despise their style. I'ts boring and mild, I'm rightly beguiled... Cracks in the pavement On some dreamer's mind. Finally something that's fine... What a find. As the purple sky continues to dim the twin crescent moons glow brighter. Manically dancing their way into the scene come The Dreamer (a lady in her 70s wearing a night-gown) and The Dream Bull (a bright green bull with the elegant legs of a dancer wearing a large moustache). Together they dance in a close embrace. Running into scene after them is The Accountant (a squat little man with a wrinkled red face). The Dreamsweeper approaches them as they dance on the opposite side of the cracked, old road. THE DREAMSWEEPER What a find indeed... The Dreamsweeper slams his broom on the ground, creating a loud boom. The others immediately divert their attention to him. Into the van! A trip through existence! Don't cause a fuss, I'm can be quite persistent. The Dreamer walks up very close to The Dreamsweeper. This appears to make him uneasy. THE DREAMER Sir, I understand the situation: My life... it's all lived out in dreams. Holding onto an illusion just for happy scenes. In raw and empty life, to cling to I've nothing, But in a dreamy doze... I can dance, I can sing. THE DREAM BULL If I may be so bold to tell, Our madame's not quite well. You see, she's just a loafer Lying out on some sofa, Well, in a hospital bed... In the midst of a coma. THE DREAMSWEEPER And you reckon me knowing Will keep you from going? Get in the van! NOW! The Dreamsweeper slams his broom against the ground once more. You too! ... Oh, and just who are you? THE ACCOUNTANT Every dancing bull is required an accountant, And the more I mull it over, the less I will recount it... THE DREAMSWEEPER Who dreams of accounts? Of bulls with moustaches? What sort of - THE DREAMER (interrupting) It's my perfect dream... What a scene, Nothing foul or obscene, A ballroom bull done brightly green! THE DREAM BULL Well I'm proud of my colour, it's almost my quiddity! THE ACCOUNTANT I'm keeping a tab on the cost of our lucidity... THE DREAMSWEEPER Why you'd dream such a bull, It's just all more bull, This dream is all full Of empty, outmoded clichés. It's time for your dreams To be swept away... He bangs his broom against the ground once more. You! Bull! Get in the van! You! Accountant! Get in the van! All manner of man from pauper to king, Status and sob-stories never the thing. Everyone has their dreams, Everyone wakes and forgets. In sweeping up your thoughts, it seems That I'm meant to play favourites and pets. I'll tidy your tatty old bits of pretend Before the dream... or the dreamer ends. The Dreamsweeper slams his broom against the ground loudly. The Dreambull and The Accountant hurrty into the back seats of the minibus, slightly frightened, and await The Dreamsweeper. THE DREAMER Oh... The end of my coma? One way or another; I'm heading home. THE DREAMSWEEPER I only deal in dream, madame. I only deal in dream. A dustman for the dreamy, I'll take them 'till it's time. THE DREAMER But the cracks in the pavement... THE DREAMSWEEPER My ideal landscape... THE DREAMER Mundane meets ridiculous... THE DREAMSWEEPER It's not a bad thought... THE DREAMER Your sweeping's meticulous, My dream-friends were fraught! THE DREAMSWEEPER I like my work, It seems I do... To meet a level old lass like you; Feisty yes, but fast asleep. A life not in need of repair nor re-do. Into the eternal now you'll sink deep. The Dreamer quietly lies down on the old road. The purple sky continues to dim. Minus the bright pair of crescent moons and a spotlight on The Dreamer, it is now very dark. The Dreamsweeper looks at The Dreamer in her stillness and sighs. He turns his broom the right-way-round and sweeps his way to the minibus. He sits in the driver's seat, hanging his broom from a hook beside him. Adjusting his glasses, he takes a cigarette from behind his ear and puts it in his mouth. THE DREAMSWEEPER I'm taking you away now... THE ACCOUNTANT In some kind of bus? THE DREAMSWEEPER We call it the incinerator, Leaves you smoking like A boulder fallen in a crater. THE DREAM BULL I didn't sign up for this, It's simply not my style! THE ACCOUNTANT Actually, sir... you did, I have it here on file! THE DREAMSWEEPER It's just back to dreams, And back to reality... Reality needs What dreams have got; A surreal little seed Growing from somebody's Dull little pot... The van drives away, leaving The Dreamer peacefully lying alone in the dark. THE DREAMER Back to sleep... And back to reality. Her eyes are closed as she lies perfectly still. Light slowly fades until the stage is in all but total darkness. The two crescent moons remain shining for just a beat and then suddenly vanish. END

"The Dawn of a Generally Poor-Quality Era In Blogging"

Hello, welcome and make yourself at home in my comfy little wordlettes. 

I write, habitually. Betweeded in only the finest Harris, I puff red-in-the-face while typing at a feverish pace. Hunched over my tarnished manual typewriter, I create a symphony beneath my fingertips on the heavy, out-dated keys.... Then on breaks, I smoke a pipe and think about jazz music and cakes. I'm really the archetype of the type of arch in which we're dealing... 

As a writer - purely in meaning one who writes a lot, not one who identifies themselves solely as such while pontificating about Proust - I find myself often left over with small bits of writing that don't fit in anywhere else, so in a feat of ground-breaking ingenuity I made the decision to start a blog upon which to play host. 

I'll also be posting the serialised stories (or chapters, if you like) making up a pulp exploitation novella titled "Society, Rubbished" which I've written. 

I believe that's all that's relevant at this specific time... Whatever time at which you might be reading this, that is...

- Peter.