Polly and I went to see some monolgues last night - put on by 'established and emerging playwrights' at a little room at the back of Hamer Hall, the Melbourne concert hall. The best one was a terrific, tight monologue, delivered beautifully. It told the story of a nurse who believes she's being stalked and was funny, a little sad and very believable.
The others were - I think this might be a technical term - crap. They were either terribly predictable, melodramatic, overwrought or just plain boring. I must be fair and explain that I'm only talking about the ones before interval. Polly and I left at interval - there's only so much you can take without your knitting, after all.
Today I went down to St. Kilda where various people, including Matt Hertherington and Myron Lysenko read haiku and senryu and Andrew MacGregor played a japanese bamboo flute with enormous feeling and skill.
Afterwards Keith and I drove home via Beaconsfield Parade and the flat water of the bay and I thought again how much I love this city, with its contrasts and how much I love the pockets of poetry and history in Melbourne.