What follows is the result of an idea to connect the field of philosophy and thought with the world of drama. Let us choose sentences to ponder from the statements of the members of the philosophical group, which are archived in the “Chistiha Blog” (http://chistiha.blogfa.com); and after manipulating the concepts of those statements, and doing a brief exercise and editing, let us create a dramatic idea that will continue to form another dialogue, another concept, and another thought.
In the principles of drama writing, “ideation” and “drafting” have a specific method; but we tried to be one step before the idea and the plot. At the same stage of mental spark or, in our own words, the “study” stage, where the writer’s hand is open to writing down any image, concept, or point. Here, we have not limited ourselves to not mentioning the technical instructions, performance arrangements, dialogue, staging, and other matters, and left them for more detailed plans; on the contrary, we have completely written down whatever came to mind at the moment.
During our group meetings, we came to the conclusion that it was not necessary to obtain refined and precise plans from our conversations. It was only necessary to immediately edit and record everything that came to mind in an instant as a “study.”
And now we share the same with you. May these exercises and sketches be the beginning of a path to step on a bridge between philosophy and drama.
Ideas on the Bridge from Philosophy to Drama: Etude One Hundred and Seventeen
Note: These sketches have been registered with the Islamic Culture and Guidance Department. And the intellectual property belongs to the author.
These sketches are only allowed to be republished on the “Chistiha” site.
Idea number one hundred and eight
Etude 108
Short Film
Temporary Title: Logo
People:
Hamidreza (Abtin) Abedini, 27, formerly 25
Shokofe Sarlak, 40, formerly 38
Location: An oil change shop at the beginning of a road, next to a row of other shops.
Designs and logos, Abtin’s work, are scrolling on the laptop monitor. Abtin is busy drawing. More of a waste of time, of course, than drawing. He keeps looking at his previous designs. His gaze makes me miss him. Here is the table of an oil change shop. And his hands are also worn and rough. His right hand is on the mouse, several wooden bead bracelets, and several bead necklaces and an open round bangle. And his hair is long and tied in a ponytail and hanging down his back. He wears small black-framed pince-nez on his eyes; he lifts them up so that he can look closely at the monitor with his puffy eyes. He is tired and has a pain and anger that have been pent up for years on his face.
The sound of music. A high-end car has stopped; come for. an oil change. Abtin stands up and gestures for the driver to come straight to the pothole. The driver is a woman. Talking on her cell phone. She opens the door and, without looking at Abtin, says: “I can’t. Take it yourself.” This is the same sentence, and continues with the other side of her conversation: “I’m here to change the oil. I said I’d change the oil before I hit the road.” And she walks down the sidewalk and continues her conversation. And she doesn’t pay any attention to Abtin except for a small gesture. A relatively fat and well-built woman. With long, ingrown nails and multi-colored, jeweled nail polish. A jeweled mobile phone case. A jeweled watch. And a coat that looks more like a coat and is suitable for a night party.
Abtin throws a relatively clean cloth over the seat and brings the car to the pothole, and when she turns off the ignition, the music stops. Abtin’s gaze falls on a photo in a heart frame that hangs from the car mirror. A mental spark. Abtin’s look: “Where did you see this woman?” Maybe even the smell of her perfume is familiar. Abtin’s look: her stylish handbag, which is on the seat next to her, open and visible inside. Next to the handbag, on the chair, there is a receipt, a set of letterheads, and an empty envelope, all with a logo: “Chang Ma,” a logo that we don’t really notice. Abtin’s look: Logo. This logo. Question. Her hand is a little close to the bag; and we imagine that she is about to go to the handbag. The woman can be seen in the side mirror talking on her cell phone on the sidewalk and walking around, as if she is not paying attention.
Abtin is in the hole, unscrewing the oil tank. The woman’s voice is talking. Abtin’s mental sparks are parallel to the oil pouring into the container.
Memory of two years ago:
“Chang Ma” music school. Abtin, who had short hair at the time, is waiting in Mrs. Sarlak’s office in a white shirt and casual attire. Mrs. Sarlak is busy. All the students of the school are moving in the corridors and classes. Musical instruments are everywhere in this hall and with the students. Special and artistic types. With the utmost arrogance. Hamidreza, or Abtin, is a loudmouth. He doesn’t feel good. He feels a great distance between himself and them. Finally, Ms. Sarlak comes out of one of the classes, followed by the students. She was thinner then. We had also heard her slogans to the students about music. That is: What does it mean to elevate music!
Ms. Sarlak finally goes to her office and Hamidreza, who has been waiting, enters. And puts her folder on her desk. A folder containing various logos on parchment paper; and ordinary paper. Ms. Sarlak flips through the pages. Ignorantly. Her phone rings. She picks it up and starts talking. From the content of her words, it is clear that they are moving from this building to a better and bigger place. While she is talking, she also comments on the plans. Apparently he doesn’t like any of them. But he seems to have paid more attention to one of them. And we don’t know. He returns the designs to Hamidreza.
Without even glancing at his face. Just the end of his phone conversation, with a grand gesture; to Hamidreza: “Now write your name; with your phone number. Maybe we will call you. Your designs would not have been a good idea.” And Hamidreza has to pick up the folder and go back.
And in between the sentences, we have heard Ms. Sarlak say to her interlocutor: “…it all had curved lines. I want straight lines…” And we guess she is lying if she meant Hamidreza’s designs.
This memory (flashback) is completely parallel to the drops of burnt oil. And that’s it. And Abtin’s hand, hesitating how much to tighten the screw. And for a moment, the glasses seem to be about to fall off her hair, she moves her hand, which is also oily, towards her glasses. Her face gets stained. The sound of a car brake being pulled in her mind. She puts aside her hesitation. She tightens the screw tightly.
Abtin picks up the foreign oil and raises it as a question mark? The woman, who has gone further away, is now standing near a trash can, almost nodding her head in approval, and with this gesture of her face and hand that says: Your choice; I don’t care.
And the oil on the funnel. And Abtin’s blushing face. And her glasses steaming up. The oil is done. Her hands are wiped with a tissue.
Music. Now the car has pulled over, it’s almost on the sidewalk, and it’s Mrs. Sarlak’s hand that’s about to swipe her card in the card reader; at the same time, she’s holding the jeweled mobile phone in her other hand and using a tissue to enter the code into the card reader. And that’s it. She’s gone without bothering to nod her head in thanks. Her conversation is still with her mobile phone in her ear. Only at the last moment, a beep. And the music fades away and fades away.
Simultaneously; Abtin’s hand pressing the remote control and the shutters of the shop are lowered. The round metal staircase and her feet are climbing.
A small room above the shop. Abtin goes to the old-fashioned paper. He has a piece of paper in his hand. We recognize this paper. One of its pages is dated. Its logo is clear: “Chang Ma.” Now, parchment paper from a folder. Yes, the design is the same. The design is the same. Abtin adjusts it. He places the parchment paper on it. It is exactly the same design. His face. His glasses are steaming up. His hand, which goes over his nose and pushes the glasses away, spreads the stain that had fallen on his face. With the same stained hand, he crumples his parchment paper. He crumples it. And that’s it.
Author: B. Khosravani
It is recalled that any copying and extraction of these ideas, from an ethical and legal perspective, is only possible by mentioning the address, and use for performance will only be possible if the author’s written consent is obtained.