R.A. Dyer's Blog
June 30, 2016
Night Terrors
"Nothing's gonna harm you, not while I'm around..."
Last night, I spent four and a half hours walking around downtown, from around 10:30pm to 3:15am. I saw groups of guys walking around, riding skateboards, screaming, and at one point I even thought they were yelling at me. The cops picked some of them up, and I was afraid they would pick me up, too.
After all, I had been aimlessly walking
Last night, I spent four and a half hours walking around downtown, from around 10:30pm to 3:15am. I saw groups of guys walking around, riding skateboards, screaming, and at one point I even thought they were yelling at me. The cops picked some of them up, and I was afraid they would pick me up, too.
After all, I had been aimlessly walking
December 2, 2015
Scotland, Theatre, and Other News!
So, my lovelies, I have been absent for a while. But a lot has been happening.
First of all, The Fringe Festival in Edinburgh, Scotland: the biggest fine arts festival in the world. Hardin-Simmons University Theatre Department (my school) is taking a play to perform in August, entitled "The Shadow Box". Beautiful, beautiful show. And I am honored to say I have been cast.
So, Scotland. This
First of all, The Fringe Festival in Edinburgh, Scotland: the biggest fine arts festival in the world. Hardin-Simmons University Theatre Department (my school) is taking a play to perform in August, entitled "The Shadow Box". Beautiful, beautiful show. And I am honored to say I have been cast.
So, Scotland. This
October 21, 2015
broken
broken things, broken bones,
broken lies of hearts beating
the blues, a rhythm, a tattoo
of red ink-stained skin. a cry
of the tongue, the twisted tongue
that is molded by society
to speak things, anything, clean things,
brave things, beautiful things.
not broken
things. not macabre things.
no red ink pooling from
a rip in the medium. no salty,
bitter tears that squeeze
broken lies of hearts beating
the blues, a rhythm, a tattoo
of red ink-stained skin. a cry
of the tongue, the twisted tongue
that is molded by society
to speak things, anything, clean things,
brave things, beautiful things.
not broken
things. not macabre things.
no red ink pooling from
a rip in the medium. no salty,
bitter tears that squeeze
August 23, 2015
The Night Circus
The Circus left that night.
In the darkness—out of all the
countless tents that morning—only the Big Top remained, its red and white
stripes showing gray in the dim moonlight.
It was drained of color. Clouds
scudded across the sky, casting strangely shaped shadows along the ground—curving
and rippling, seeming to rise up from the grass to grope the surroundings.
Everything had been packed
In the darkness—out of all the
countless tents that morning—only the Big Top remained, its red and white
stripes showing gray in the dim moonlight.
It was drained of color. Clouds
scudded across the sky, casting strangely shaped shadows along the ground—curving
and rippling, seeming to rise up from the grass to grope the surroundings.
Everything had been packed
August 10, 2015
Longing: noun, "a yearning desire"
My heart longs to be free from this life.
To become a wild thing again.
My heart longs to shut out the hurt,
And learn to dance in the rain.
My lips ache to be kissed just once.
They ache to openly speak.
My lips ache reject the pain,
That is keeping my body weak.
My soul burns to climb the mountains,
To feel the eagle soar.
My soul burns to soak in the wildness
From now to
To become a wild thing again.
My heart longs to shut out the hurt,
And learn to dance in the rain.
My lips ache to be kissed just once.
They ache to openly speak.
My lips ache reject the pain,
That is keeping my body weak.
My soul burns to climb the mountains,
To feel the eagle soar.
My soul burns to soak in the wildness
From now to
August 6, 2015
The 777 Challenge: An excerpt from The Nameless Novel
So, I was tagged by the phenomenal Samantha Chaffin for the 777 challenge [check out her writing, now.] The 777 challenge works like this: you post 7 lines that are found on page 7 of your current novel-in-progress, and then you tag 7 bloggers.
Well. I break rules. So I'm posting seven lines found on page seven of chapter TWO in my novel, instead of chapter one. Because I do things like that
Well. I break rules. So I'm posting seven lines found on page seven of chapter TWO in my novel, instead of chapter one. Because I do things like that
July 20, 2015
Passion, Life, Loud Music
What drives you? What pursues you? What thoughts invade your sleep, your dreams, make you wake up in the morning, make you sleepless at night? What is the reason you cry, you laugh, you love, you breathe.
What is the reason you live?
Today in dance, we were talking about music and how it hits you, and the beat hits you, and you can feel it in your veins. Music, for me, is more than just pleasant listening material. I want to feel it. I want to become the song. I want to soak my body in its rhythm.
When I'm upset or angry or frustrated or so full of passion I think I'm going to scream if I don't let it out, I turn up my radio in the car and blare it so that I can barely focus on driving. All I feel is that moment, that anger, that pain. And at that moment, honestly, I'm not sure that I would care if a semi hit me head-on.
When you're so filled with feelings you can't describe; when your inner screaming is louder than your thoughts; when you want to bang your fist on the steering wheel just to feel the pain travel up your arm; when the music pounding in your speakers is the tattoo of your heart...
...when you're so alive that you can't die...
Those are the most dangerous and most beautiful and most awful moments of your life.
Passion is more than a feeling. It is a way of living, of hurting, of existing. It can be the most wonderful thing, and the worst thing, in a person's life. It can be the reason you smile and stare in wonder, the reason you work so hard, the reason you see all the work paying off, the reason you wake up early. It can also be the cause of tears, of frustration, of crying late at night because you're not sure what else to do, of swallowing your pride and saying, "I'll do better next time."
The reason you're frantically typing behind a blog post, trying to find the right words...but failing miserably and being eternally frustrated because you'll never be able to communicate exactly what you want to.
Writing and acting are my passions. They are things that I love. Things that I hate. And things that keeps my mind spinning in endless possibilities. There are times when I wish I had other passions––writing music, for example. I love writing music, but I don't have much talent for it. However, some emotions are better expressed through music than writing, and it upsets me that I'm not able to make that connection. Also dance. There are dances I have seen that have made me physically sob in front of everyone. And I'll hear a song and picture choreography in my mind, but I have no idea how to go about making it happen. I'm not a good dancer. I'll leave it at that.
When I say passion, I don't mean something that I like to do "that I'm passionate" about. No, passion is something living inside you that drives you to speak, to move, to think, to love, to hate. It is more than a feeling you get every once in a while; more than a feeling that decides which career path you take.
It is a way of communicating. It is a way of living. It is your breath, your being. And passion has to be bled out through your veins in one form or another.
For me, it's words. Words and the stage. And when words bottle up and I'm afraid to show the world what I write for fear of being judged; when I can't connect to a certain character and I feel like I'm letting my director and fellow cast down; when I can't think because I'm choking on my own insecurity; when all I want to do is scream so loud it drowns out everything else...
I turn to music. I turn to the loud rhythm that pulses in my wrists. I turn to the instruments that scream a beautiful pain inside my head.
And I drive.
What is the reason you live?
Today in dance, we were talking about music and how it hits you, and the beat hits you, and you can feel it in your veins. Music, for me, is more than just pleasant listening material. I want to feel it. I want to become the song. I want to soak my body in its rhythm.
When I'm upset or angry or frustrated or so full of passion I think I'm going to scream if I don't let it out, I turn up my radio in the car and blare it so that I can barely focus on driving. All I feel is that moment, that anger, that pain. And at that moment, honestly, I'm not sure that I would care if a semi hit me head-on.
When you're so filled with feelings you can't describe; when your inner screaming is louder than your thoughts; when you want to bang your fist on the steering wheel just to feel the pain travel up your arm; when the music pounding in your speakers is the tattoo of your heart...
...when you're so alive that you can't die...
Those are the most dangerous and most beautiful and most awful moments of your life.
Passion is more than a feeling. It is a way of living, of hurting, of existing. It can be the most wonderful thing, and the worst thing, in a person's life. It can be the reason you smile and stare in wonder, the reason you work so hard, the reason you see all the work paying off, the reason you wake up early. It can also be the cause of tears, of frustration, of crying late at night because you're not sure what else to do, of swallowing your pride and saying, "I'll do better next time."
The reason you're frantically typing behind a blog post, trying to find the right words...but failing miserably and being eternally frustrated because you'll never be able to communicate exactly what you want to.
Writing and acting are my passions. They are things that I love. Things that I hate. And things that keeps my mind spinning in endless possibilities. There are times when I wish I had other passions––writing music, for example. I love writing music, but I don't have much talent for it. However, some emotions are better expressed through music than writing, and it upsets me that I'm not able to make that connection. Also dance. There are dances I have seen that have made me physically sob in front of everyone. And I'll hear a song and picture choreography in my mind, but I have no idea how to go about making it happen. I'm not a good dancer. I'll leave it at that.
When I say passion, I don't mean something that I like to do "that I'm passionate" about. No, passion is something living inside you that drives you to speak, to move, to think, to love, to hate. It is more than a feeling you get every once in a while; more than a feeling that decides which career path you take.
It is a way of communicating. It is a way of living. It is your breath, your being. And passion has to be bled out through your veins in one form or another.
For me, it's words. Words and the stage. And when words bottle up and I'm afraid to show the world what I write for fear of being judged; when I can't connect to a certain character and I feel like I'm letting my director and fellow cast down; when I can't think because I'm choking on my own insecurity; when all I want to do is scream so loud it drowns out everything else...
I turn to music. I turn to the loud rhythm that pulses in my wrists. I turn to the instruments that scream a beautiful pain inside my head.
And I drive.
July 7, 2015
There Was a Princess
"She lived in a
castle with birds flying about, day and night, carrying their music in from the
surrounding mountains. She was not a
frail, milk-skinned princess as most were won't to think princesses should be. The mountain air had seeped into her bones
from the time she was a little child, feeding her with a love for wild things:
a wolf’s howl on the full moon, a Lark’s song on a summer
castle with birds flying about, day and night, carrying their music in from the
surrounding mountains. She was not a
frail, milk-skinned princess as most were won't to think princesses should be. The mountain air had seeped into her bones
from the time she was a little child, feeding her with a love for wild things:
a wolf’s howl on the full moon, a Lark’s song on a summer
June 30, 2015
Pain
I want to write a post on pain. Why? Because I've experienced it. Details are too many and too personal to write down in one blog post. I haven't had an awful life. I had a wonderful childhood [despite being brought up with serious body-image issues] and I'm happy. I'm in college, in love with my major, surrounded by supporting friends.
That being said, however, I have gone through pain. At this point in my life, the taste of pain is very familiar on my tongue. And I say that because it's true, not because I'm screaming for attention. Recently, an event in my life took my heart, chewed it up, and spit it back into the school semester. It was hard to deal with. It was painful to deal with. And I'm still trying to come to terms with it.
But I've learned a lot through it:
Pain isn’t poetic. It isn’t everything that writers and romantics have chalked it up to be. Pain hurts. When your body is numb and your head is pounding and your soul wants to breathe…those are the moments when you feel like you’re choking. Poetic? No. Fierce. Brave, perhaps. Savage. Crushing. Brutal. But poetic? Never.
Sometimes, you have to take the jump knowing that there is painful landing at the bottom. The air rushes out of your lungs with the brunt of it, and it will take time to recover. But you will heal. When you stagger to your feet, your heart beats painfully, but you will be stronger. You jumped. And you will live. Standing up for yourself hurts. It hurts like a bitch. But it’s better to be alive the way you want to be, than the way another expects you to be.
You live. You breathe. You hurt. You love. And sometimes, just sometimes, you forget to be careful and you dream. It is in those moments we are the most free, the most vulnerable, the most afraid. But always the most beautiful.
Is pain poetic? No. Pain is a bitch. But through it all––through all the agony and tears and frustration and guilt––you can gather up the pieces and emerge as the person you are. Scarred, yes. Terrified, yes. But brave.
That is the poetry.
That being said, however, I have gone through pain. At this point in my life, the taste of pain is very familiar on my tongue. And I say that because it's true, not because I'm screaming for attention. Recently, an event in my life took my heart, chewed it up, and spit it back into the school semester. It was hard to deal with. It was painful to deal with. And I'm still trying to come to terms with it.
But I've learned a lot through it:
Pain isn’t poetic. It isn’t everything that writers and romantics have chalked it up to be. Pain hurts. When your body is numb and your head is pounding and your soul wants to breathe…those are the moments when you feel like you’re choking. Poetic? No. Fierce. Brave, perhaps. Savage. Crushing. Brutal. But poetic? Never.
Sometimes, you have to take the jump knowing that there is painful landing at the bottom. The air rushes out of your lungs with the brunt of it, and it will take time to recover. But you will heal. When you stagger to your feet, your heart beats painfully, but you will be stronger. You jumped. And you will live. Standing up for yourself hurts. It hurts like a bitch. But it’s better to be alive the way you want to be, than the way another expects you to be.
You live. You breathe. You hurt. You love. And sometimes, just sometimes, you forget to be careful and you dream. It is in those moments we are the most free, the most vulnerable, the most afraid. But always the most beautiful.
Is pain poetic? No. Pain is a bitch. But through it all––through all the agony and tears and frustration and guilt––you can gather up the pieces and emerge as the person you are. Scarred, yes. Terrified, yes. But brave.
That is the poetry.
June 27, 2015
An Actor
"An Actor"
A rush of adrenaline, of pain, of fear,Words thick on your tongue,The desire to prove, to loseYourself within this moment.A raw force of emotion,Laid bare before the people,Those people who will takeIt from you, stripping youOf every feeling and wantUntil you have none left.Some will cherish this,Your performance, and that,For you, is worth the Pain. Others will mockIt, taking your dignityFrom you without a Second thought, leavingYour thoughts broken,Your words unheeded. TheseAre the people thatMake it hard,So bloody hard toBare your soul everyNight.But you take each nightAnew. Same words, sameScript, different show. AndYou lay yourself down on theStage, prone, outstretched, emotionallyNaked to the audience, Waiting for approval. WaitingFor something. Anything.The sound begins as a silentHush, rippling over the peopleLike a breathing wind. You forget everythingFor a moment.The applause fromThe people who tookYour performance, everyRaw and beautiful pieceWith an intense hunger,Makes your head spin.And you’re riding the high. You could get drunkOff of this.This feeling. This passion.This transcendence. ThisIs what makes it Worth it. All the Pain, late nights,Cramped feet, chokedCoffee, bleeding, sweating,Tears, frustration,Early mornings, ruined Relationships, blind memorization,Failure, knowing that you’llProbably never achieveThe dream you cling to,working so hard that You’re not sure why you even try anymore…All that is worth thisMoment: thisOne fucking moment.And afterward, you're Drained. You ride out The high till yourStomach clenches fromExhaustion and youHave no emotion leftFor yourself. An actor’sCurse, I guess. TheyLive life in extremes,A dream that others Want until they realize.An actor lives in a different world, a World of light and color andHarsh reality.And the high is whatMakes them alive.The high is what makes them
…breathe.
I wrote this while sitting in one of my Stagecraft classes [I tend to write things during class...] and it is a poor representation of what I was actually trying to say. Maybe I'll rewrite it someday. Maybe I'll write something else. Who knows?
-An Actor
A rush of adrenaline, of pain, of fear,Words thick on your tongue,The desire to prove, to loseYourself within this moment.A raw force of emotion,Laid bare before the people,Those people who will takeIt from you, stripping youOf every feeling and wantUntil you have none left.Some will cherish this,Your performance, and that,For you, is worth the Pain. Others will mockIt, taking your dignityFrom you without a Second thought, leavingYour thoughts broken,Your words unheeded. TheseAre the people thatMake it hard,So bloody hard toBare your soul everyNight.But you take each nightAnew. Same words, sameScript, different show. AndYou lay yourself down on theStage, prone, outstretched, emotionallyNaked to the audience, Waiting for approval. WaitingFor something. Anything.The sound begins as a silentHush, rippling over the peopleLike a breathing wind. You forget everythingFor a moment.The applause fromThe people who tookYour performance, everyRaw and beautiful pieceWith an intense hunger,Makes your head spin.And you’re riding the high. You could get drunkOff of this.This feeling. This passion.This transcendence. ThisIs what makes it Worth it. All the Pain, late nights,Cramped feet, chokedCoffee, bleeding, sweating,Tears, frustration,Early mornings, ruined Relationships, blind memorization,Failure, knowing that you’llProbably never achieveThe dream you cling to,working so hard that You’re not sure why you even try anymore…All that is worth thisMoment: thisOne fucking moment.And afterward, you're Drained. You ride out The high till yourStomach clenches fromExhaustion and youHave no emotion leftFor yourself. An actor’sCurse, I guess. TheyLive life in extremes,A dream that others Want until they realize.An actor lives in a different world, a World of light and color andHarsh reality.And the high is whatMakes them alive.The high is what makes them
…breathe.
I wrote this while sitting in one of my Stagecraft classes [I tend to write things during class...] and it is a poor representation of what I was actually trying to say. Maybe I'll rewrite it someday. Maybe I'll write something else. Who knows?
-An Actor
