"Two Modern Noh Plays" by Yukio Mishima presented by Midtwenties Theater Society & 2019 Vancouver Fringe Festival
“POET: Listen to me. . . . I am just what I seem, a threepenny poet, without even a woman who'll look at me. But there's something I respect-the world as reflected in the eyes of young people who love each other, a hundred times more beautiful than what they actually see—that I respect. Look, they're not the least aware we're talking about them. They've climbed up high as the stars. You can see the glint of starlight under their eyes, next to the cheeks. . . . And this bench, this bench is a kind of ladder mounting to heaven, the highest lookout tower in the world, a glorious observation point. When a man sits here with his sweetheart he can see the lights of the cities halfway across the globe. But if (climbs on the bench) I stand here all by myself, I can't see a thing. . . . Oh, I do see something—lots of benches, somebody waving a flashlight—must be a policeman. A bonfire. Beggars crouching around the fire. The headlights of a car. They've passed each other now and are heading toward the tennis courts. What was that? A car full of flowers. Performers returning from a concert? Or a funeral procession? (He gets down from the bench and sits.) That's all I can see.
OLD WOMAN: What rubbish. Why in the world do you respect such things? It's that same silly nature of yours which makes you write sentimental poems that nobody will buy.
POET: And that's exactly why I never invade this bench. As long as you and I are occupying it, the bench is just so many dreary slats of wood, but if they sit here it can become a memory. It can become softer than a sofa, and warm with the sparks thrown off by living people. . . . When you sit here it becomes cold as a grave, like a bench put together out of slabs of tombstones. I can't bear that.
OLD WOMAN: You're young and inexperienced, you still haven't the eyes to see things. You say the benches where they sit, those snotty-faced shop clerks with their whores, are alive? Don't be silly. They're petting on their graves. Look, how deathly pale their faces look in the greenish street light that comes through the leaves. Their eyes are shut, the men and women both. Don't they look like corpses? They're dying as they make love. (Sniffs around her.) There's a smell of flowers, all right. The flowers in the park are very fragrant at night, just like those inside a coffin. Those lovers are all buried in the smell of the flowers, like so many dead men. You and I are the only live ones.
POET: (Laughs.) What a joke! You think you're more alive than they are?
OLD WOMAN: Of course I do. I'm ninety-nine years old, and look how healthy I am.
POET: Ninety-nine?
OLD WOMAN: (turning her face into the light) Take a good look.”
“OLD WOMAN: I know what the face looks like of someone who's come back to life—I've seen it often enough. It wears an expression of horrible boredom, and that expression is what I like. . . . Long ago, when I was young, I never had the sensation of being alive unless my head was all awhirl. I only felt I was living when I forgot myself completely. Since then I have realized my mistake. When the world seems wonderful to live in, and the meanest little flower looks big as a dome, and flying doves sing as they go by with human voices . . . when, I mean, everyone in the whole world says "Good morning" joyously to everyone else, and things you've been searching for ten years turn up in the back of a cupboard, and every girl looks like an empress . . . when you feel as if roses are blooming on the dead rose trees, then—idiotic things like that happened to me once every ten days when I was young, but now when I think of it, I realize I was dying as it happened. . . . The worse the liquor, the quicker you get drunk. In the midst of my drunkenness, in the midst of those sentimental feelings and my tears, I was dying. . . . Since then, I've made it a rule not to drink. That's the secret of my long life.
РОЕТ: (teasing her) Oh! And tell me, old lady, what is your reason for living?
OLD WOMAN: My reason? Don't be ridiculous! Isn't the very fact of existing a reason in itself? I'm not a horse that runs because it wants a carrot. Horses, anyway, run because that's the way they're made.”
- Yukio Mishima, ‘Sotoba Komachi’ (1956)
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Wait a minute. The first fanbook said that Kyojuro liked watching Noh plays. Now the Mugen Train Drama CD says Ruka liked Noh Theatre too. Does this mean Kyojuro watches Noh plays to feel closer to his mother again?
I feel like it's probably a little bit of both. He watches them to feel closer to Ruka but that he also genuinely likes them and this is something else that he has in common with her/ is an interest that he shares with her. I do wonder if Ruka and Shinjuro ever took him to see them when he was younger, before Senjuro was born or if maybe when Ruka fell ill she would talk to him about the different plays she had seen.
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only friends the game
play as your favorite red flag and cause mayhem on purpose
if you wanna read whats written on the dialog wheel here you have it in all its glory
to explain this wheel to the non-gaymers on the right side you see the dialog option going from
good
funny
asshole
and on the left side you see the "special" dialog option i deepens how you answers questions overall (and no asking mew to be his boyfriends is not a good thing i just made it dark blue because it was in the colors of the logo..top is 100% a red play through
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Me: My Research, My Dear Research, I need you to tell me about Noh theater.
My Research: You know about Noh.
Me: No! I need to know more Noh. Give me all the Noh. Quickly.
My Research: None of your upcoming work projects have anything to do with Noh, though, and you really should be studying for those. You're about to be very, very busy. See, aren't these cool? I'm very proud of you keeping your mouth mostly shut about why you happen to know one of these topics absurdly well because of your silly blog.
Me: Yes, I know, not being able to mention that irony is killing me. But--
My Research: I hope this has taught you a lesson in producing content you can actually share in a professional sphere!
Me: No, I meant I can't blog about work stuff. But no, Noh!! Please!! At least give me a refresher!
My Research: Goodness, why? Are you going to watch a full performance at a Noh theater or something?
Me: Yes.
My Research: No...
Me: Yes.
My Research: It can't be. You failed to get tickets for that, like, seven times because it kept getting sold out. It can't be. No.
Me: Y E S.
My Research: It's the Kimetsu no Yaiba Noh production showing next week in Kyoto, isn't it?
Me:
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In his early 20s, Rengoku Tojuro stop midway his kendo training and stares blankly to the fireworks that accompany August’s humidity.
Then he hurry to his backpack, and picks up a notebook and a pen, then eagerly started writing and writing and writing till his father slapped him out of his train of thoughts and scolded him to not train to death and sleep for good!
Tojuro enthusiastically apologizes and hurries up to follow his father’s demands!
His father pick up the notebook wondering what his son was studying all night and find the first page wet and the bleed ink saying
Melting Ice
A Story of Broken Promises
from a Falling Man
Did his son hit his head while training?
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