#gender none

[astral-catastrophe]

random question for people do you genuinely feel like a specific gender or am I just nonbinary and autistic

[maeves-monologue-archive]

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead: “We’re actors! Not people!”

Show: Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead Playwright: Tom Stoppard Style: Contemporary Genre: Tragic Comedy Length: 1-2 minutes

Character: The Player Gender: Male (or any) Age: Adult

Scene: Act II Setting: A street in Brighton, England

Context: Rosencrantz and Guildenstern have arrived at Elsinore to meet their friend Hamlet. Hamlet has invited a group of travelling actors (the Tragedians) to perform at the castle - they are to perform for him the following evening.

In the first act, Ros and Guil abandoned the Player and the rest of the Tragedians. This monologue comes during their reunion - the Player is angry about being left behind.

Note: This monologue could be cut into two - either the first part (before Rosencrantz speaks) or the second (after he speaks) could be done on their own.

There we are - demented children mincing about in clothes that no one ever wore, speaking as no man ever spoke, swearing love in wigs and rhymed couplets, killing each other with wooden swords, hollow protestations of faith hurled after empty promises of vengeance - and every gesture, every pose, vanishing into the thin unpopulated air. We ransomed our dignity to the clouds, and the uncomprehending birds listened.

(He rounds on them.)

Don’t you see?! We’re actors - we’re the opposite of people!

(They recoil nonplussed, his voice calms.)

Think, in your head, now, think of the most... private... secret... intimate... thing you have ever done secure in the knowledge of its privacy...

(He gives them - and the audience - a good pause.)

Are you thinking of it?

(He strikes with his voice and his head.)

Well, I saw you do it!

ROSENCRANTZ: You never! It’s a lie!

We’re actors... We pledged our identities, secure in the conventions of our trade; that someone would be watching. And then, gradually, no one was. We were caught, high and dry. It was not until the murder’s long soliloquy that we were able to look around; frozen we were in the profile, our eyes searched you out, first confidently, then hesitantly, then desperately as each patch of turf, each log, each exposed corned in every direction proved uninhabited, and all the while the murderous King addressed the horizon with his dreary interminable guilt... Our heads began to move, wary as lizards, the corpse of unsullied Rosalinda peeped through his fingers, and the King faltered. Even then, habit and a stubborn trust that our audience spied upon us from behind the nearest bush, forced our bodies to blinder on long after they had emptied of meaning, until like runaway carts they dragged to a halt. No one came forward. No one shouted at us. The silence was unbreakable, it imposed itself upon us; it was obscene.

We took off our crowns and swords and cloth of gold and moved silent on the road to Elsinore.

[anaesthesised]

.

[uglybagofmostlywater]

my pronouns are none, don't talk about me don't talk to me, my gender is I don't exist