A Recipe for Literary Analysis. Period.

 

Possible Plays to Complicate in an Essay
(A comprehensive list):

 

 

 

-Nocturnal Animals by Juan Mayorga

-The Golden Dragon by Roland Schimmelpfennig

-Crave by Sarah Kane

-Something Shakespearean (why not)

-Anything by me (say whaaaat?)

 

An Essay to Make Any Play Complex
(A recipe step by step (or something))

 

 

 

Ingredients:

-2 grams of a play chosen at random.

 

-2 medium eggs

 

 

-3 spoons of topographic disclosure and morphological interpretation.

 

 

-A can of apprehensive behavior (In water)

 

 

-3 cups of Extra Meaning signifying nothing.
(Make sure they are found in places nobody would have thought of,
and/or borderline between the dramatic and the subtle.)

 

 

-Una taza de Form and Structure (go figure...)

 

 

-A slice of pie.

 

 

 

For the Topping:

 

 

-1 liter of Point of View
(peel and cut in thin slices)
(yes we know it is in liquid form, but use   some imagination - hombre!)

 

-Some Imagination (finely chopped)
 

-Seventy Five seconds of character psychoanalysis

 

-A can of fish

 

 

 

 

Preparation method:
 

Mix the hard ingredients hasta formar una pasta, or until it is brown- depending on the 'Point

of View'. This can be done creatively or merely as an attempt at academic thinking.

 

 

Puuuurr the wet ingredients into the mix (A punto de nieve) (Or not)

If by now you need a dictionary, start again from the beginning but in the opposite direction.

Have a slice of pie and breathe in.

Surely there is some hidden meaning or interpretation there. Look closely and add the fish. 

No, the author didn’t JUST have a stroke of creative flow, there MUST be a political motive,

psychological incoherence or formulaic mishap there somewhere. Milk it!

Add Form and Structure and whisk.

Whisk. Whisk. Whisk. Keep it up. Some more whisking.

 

Add some animals, if there are any in the play.

(Say... Parrots, for example)
 

Now mix this foamy batter with your apprehensive behavior et voila!

Place on a baking tray and bake for 45 minutes or until bored at 51 degrees,

32 minutes North Latitude. (If you’re in London)
 

Enjoy warm with a pot of ice cream- and digest (if you can).

Look at the piece from a distance and think for a moment if this is really what the author had

in mind. 

(We're sorry we couldn't include pictures of the finished mess due to publishing rights.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And the eggs???

If you decide to go ahead with this recipe, trust us, you will need them.

 

Girls Who Read

Of things unseen...

 

I went to a Travel Writing class. It was good.
But too much like journalism.
You need to vividly describe what you see.

But who- then, will describe what you can’t see?

Illegal trade of snakes?

 

 

 

 

Ellos

Se les observa melancólicos afuera – en grupo,
Escurridizos. Bajo la lluvia, incluso-
Apretando un tubito blanco que saca humo.
Exprimiendo.
Sujetando.
Jalando con la boca.
Tanto humo les cabe en los pulmones.
En la cabeza.

La mayoría triste.
Por quién sabe qué cosa.
Confundidos.
Añorando algo que todavía no se saben.
Algo, cualquier cosa.

Viven solos – acompañados, pero solos.
Incapacitados por ellos mismos.
Distraídos.
Divagantes.
Aturdidos.
Como caminantes somnolientos.
Enlaberintados.
Por sí mismos.

Se saben de memoria tonterías.
¿Quiénes son?
De veras no lo saben ellos mismos.
Se emparejan porque pueden.
Se implementan situaciones, rutinas, impertinencias, boberías, aburriciones, miedos.
Se callan sus verdades, sueños.
Los descartan con miedo- como a arenas movedizas.
Se encarcelan, se castigan, se enloquecen- viejos.

La vida es para ellos apretada –
Bien de prisa.
Se la pasan dando vueltas, como niños –
A la ronda – porque sí – no por nada.

Memento Mori

 

It’s like I can’t see.
Not like that- anymore.

 

It’s like when one grows up, one of the senses dies out.

 

I remember shadows having substance- shape.
Hours had meaning- sense.
Sounds.

Like another dimension.

All seems so… superficial now.
There’s that other world – of things unseen.
Where reason has little voice, but is always – awake.

Perhaps as a question.

 

Memento Mori.

 

Always.

Because everything spoke of death – somehow.
Of lives afterwards, of spirits, of memories of those who’d lived.
The walls kept echoes – voices – sighs.

You can still feel it inside the house – a sense of mystery – of memory not lost – of things once felt.
But everything is quiet now – subtle – almost not real – almost imagined.
Fear.

Spirits have gone to sleep – and the clock tic tacs meaningless hours, pointlessly reminding me that even though invisible – that world IS.
Somewhere.
Somehow.

And sometimes the memory of us will also be, even if we’re not.

Plans

Dear everyone,

Forever exists not.
Tomorrow we die.

Sad, I know.
Difficult, I know.
True, though.

Live.
Live today-
With the urgency of a fly.
Love, learn, feed your eyes, your brain, your body.
Feed yourselves life.
Feed others it too.

In case we run out-
In case we are soon to reach our expiry date.