Buck Rainier

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Experimental Breakfast Theatre
2/8/2015 11:21am

So a rehearsal for @Cheery Olson and Casey's play went awry during the proposal scene. Casey's Anna-Marie character said 'da' to Cheery's Michael, put on the prop ring, and started yelling things like 'WHERE IS THE NEAREST THRONE ATOP A MESA'.

Things got out of hand and Casey escaped the school grounds (despite the efforts of a sizable response from the Dean's honor roll students). I have been spending a lot of time staring into the distance atop that one hill. I tried chewing one of those grass stalks they have in the old west, but it didn't work (weird texture).

I have written three Wimberly plays in the past two weeks. That's good, right?

Experimental Breakfast Theatre
1/18/2015 11:07am

I refuse to eat in the cafeteria.

Have you seen some of the stuff that happens there? Too weird for my tastes and all wrong for capturing the serene melancholy of the Old West. Plus, uh, don't tell anyone, but I'm not...big on the things they serve.

I'm not a picky eater - I like ketchup! - I just never acquired a taste for eggs. Or ham. It's too pink.

Casey has reminded me that Wimberly would eat ham. And eggs, probably. Thanks Casey.

Anyway, I'm able to eat like a king (a wealthy landowner?) thanks to Bisbo Mills and their line of off-brand, bottom shelf cereal. I get a stack every time I go to town. I think the Sugar Barrels are better than their Name Brand� equivalent, and let's be honest: Fruity Nutty-Os have no equal in the breakfast cereal aisle.

@Cheery Olson is convinced I'm out to get him. Something about hacking his journal. I'm not, but Casey is. The Psychic Girls Theatrics Squad is determined to have him play O'reilly the mountaineer in an original production (not written by me) this coming spring. I think he's too short, but platform shoes aren't very visible on stage.

When did Bisbo start putting toys in their cereal? I swear, there's like seven in each box.

1/10/2015 12:08pm

I rewrote a scene from Wimberly Bluffs.



Patrons drink juice at the bar. Four cowboys play poker at a round table. Playing at the piano is CAREY, a woman of about twenty-six, the tavern's brassy owner.

WIMBERLY enters, Six-gun holstered on his hip. The other patrons stare, as if they've seen a ghost. CAREY notices but goes back to playing.

WIMBERLY mosey-s up to the bar. The peg-legged barkeep, DUGGS, hobbles up.

DUGGS: Wimberly! Good heavens! I thought you went up with the mine!

WIMBERLY: I wouldn't know anything about that. I've been out at Dodge arranging an extension to my farm.

CAREY stops playing at this. She stomps to the bar as DUGGS sets a juice down for WIMBERLY. The poker table falls silent and watches, slack-jawed.

CAREY: That woman is trouble, Wimberly. You should'a stayed back East.

WIMBERLY: You don't mean that, d'ya?

CAREY and WIMBERLY embrace, both fighting the urge to make out.

CAREY: Let me go, you brute.

One of the poker players stands up.

PLAYER: Hey now, take your hands off her, Wimberly.

WIMBERLY: Sit down, Evan.

The PLAYER turns red and sits.


Anyway, it's not done.

Yesterday was a half-day, to celebrate some solar flare or something. Lots of chant circles. After rugby practice in town, I got a Psy-text from Casey. She wanted me to go on a hike with her before it got too dark.

I met her at the edge of the woods and we took the left-hand trail, out by the old vacant treehouses. She talked endlessly about a scene she was rehearsing with Layla, and how Layla would hog the stage moves, and how it was okay but a little annoying. I thought about what Wimberly would do if he went on a hike through the woods with Maya (in the first act).

We came up on one of those low hills and the sun was just touching the tip-tops of the trees on the hill opposite the campus. The far side of all the buildings were bright orange, like they were mirrored. The sky all around the trees was neon pink.

"Wait for it," Casey whispered.

The sun crawled down and I could hear the distant sound of chanting from the yards near the hedge maze. The little circles had merged into a much larger circle and all the students there were singing in unison.

And the sky changed. The pink bled out to bright orange that seeped out and turned the clouds around it purple. It was like watching someone drop food coloring into the sky, and watching the ribbons of color drift around and collide with each other.

Casey and I stood there for a long while. Eventually, the sky had settled to a sea green color, and the chanting stopped, and the fire pits came out and the dancing started, and we walked back to campus.

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1/9/2015 5:21pm

The scene went fine, I guess. Mabel read Wimberly and Layla read Maya and Casey read Landholder. Then the Waingro twins read the other parts. That was who I wanted for each. I mean, except the Waingro twins read all the other parts in unison, instead of splitting them up, so it turned into this Greek chorus thing. And except...it happened again.

I laughed off the laughter, but I'm getting a little tired of the Psychic Girls' Theatrics Squad's theatrics.

So what if I'm not psychic? Or anything supra-normal? So what if I'm just a normal, tall, handsome woodsman? That's what I say when this subject comes up. I'm not actually a woodsman. Yes, I always explain, my mom IS a psychic, and yes, she did graduate from Psyhigh in the 90's. And yes, through a plan to promote 'generational legacy', I was able to enroll in the school as a completely normal kid, who doesn't even turn into a wolf.

And then invariably someone will do something a normal person cannot do and the laughter will start. It doesn't happen much any more. Not like when I was a freshman. I even used to get in fights sometimes.

I've got notes to implement into the back half of the play. I think I'm going to call it 'Sunset Bluffs.' Or maybe 'Wimberly Bluffs?' Casey keeps bugging me with those little psychic pings, like a cell phone buzzing at the base of my skull. Not now, Casey! I don't want food! I want to write this thing.

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1/8/2015 5:24pm

My mom always said that when I 'stopped writing those silly cowboy stories' and started 'writing stories about real people', that's when my plays would really break out. But I think about tall Texas sunsets and how rad it would be to ride a horse or whatever, and I just can't help but write. Write and write.

Here's the scene I just finished up.



MAYA sits on the steps to the second floor landing, hands shaking as she reads a letter.

WIMBERLY enters stage right, mosey-ing in weathered chaps. He sees her and stops mosey-ing.

WIMBERLY: (long pause) ...well, I guess that's it then.

MAYA: Yes...

WIMBERLY: I'll go tonight.

MAYA: Did you ever think that maybe...


MAYA: Neither did I.

MAYA stands and throws the letter into the FIREPLACE. WIMBERLY hoists his saddle from the bannister.

WIMBERLY: I'll never forget you.

He walks through the front doors. Purple sunset lights him in silhouette...and he is gone.



OH MAN so good. I can't wait to do the reading with the Psyhigh Girls' Theatrics Squad tomorrow afternoon.

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