Author Topic: ~~THE PERFORMANCE THREAD~~ **aside** ((action)) %%thought%%  (Read 1700573 times)

Offline Lumière

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((As the STARTLE-POINT HORSE starts dancing around, Jack holds on for dear life.))

Woah, little darlin'! This ain't no time for a rodeo show. We gotta get back to the sheep!

((He finally gets the HORSE under control and heads her back up to the grazing field. He looks back at Ennis with an unreadable expression.))

Offline Lumière

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(( Applauds extensively for Director Raymille's big, poofy red blouse ...
Our own dear Director on the Tonight show!     :D...Applauds ...  ))

« Last Edit: June 23, 2006, 11:01:38 pm by Lucise »

Offline Ellemeno

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The Assistant: **  Dear Friends, it has been 2 hours and 27 minutes between Lucise's last post and this one of mine.  That is enough time for BBM to play in a theater + previews.  Are you all standing around tying knots all day?  What?  It's 1:15 in the morning on the East Coast of the US?  Some of you are preparing for Pride events?  Posting is always lower on weekends?  Where's your dedication?  **  ((Shakes her head in dismay.)) 
« Last Edit: June 24, 2006, 01:29:37 am by Elle-Effen'-Meno »


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%% as our boys settle in once again for the night up on the Mountan down here in the production camp some of the wranglers and stunt men gather around the campfire singly softly of the very beautiful and dynamic Wyoming wind%%

Way out here they have a name for wind and rain and fire
The rain is Tess , the fire's Joe, and they call the wind Clarissa
Clarissa blows the stars around, sets the clouds a'flyin'
Clarissa makes the mountain sound like folks was up there dyin'
Clarissa, (Clarissa), Clarissa (Clarissa), they call the wind Clarisssssaaaa.....

Before I knew Clarissa's name and heard her wail and whinin'
I had a pal and he had me and the sun was always shinin'
Then one day I left my pal, I left him far behind me
And now I'm lost, so gol-durned lost not even-God-can find me
Clarissa, Clarissa, they call the wind Clarisssssaaaa....

Out here they have a name for rain wind and fire only
When you're lost and all alone there ain't no name for lonely
I'm a lost and lonely man without a star to guide me
Clarissa, blow my love to me, I need my pal beside me
Clar-is-sa, (Clar-i-ssaa), CLARISSA! (Clarissa), they call the wind Clarissa!

« Last Edit: June 24, 2006, 01:34:53 am by vkm91941 »

Offline Ellemeno

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Before I knew Clarissa's name and heard her wail and whinin'

You say, "Po-tay-to," I say "Commitment to the PRO-cess."   ;)

Offline Pipedream

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I knew it! I knew it! One should think they'd leave us in peace at least at night. But no, as soon as it looks like everybody's in bed, finally, some loony starts to sing again!!! Will this never stop?? I can't stand this any more Oscar!
Well, if you can't fix it, Darlin, you gotta stand it! We gotta stick this out, I guess...

« Last Edit: July 03, 2006, 04:25:44 pm by Pipedream »

Offline Ray

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THERE was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
    That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses — he was worth a thousand pound,
    So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
    Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
    And the stock-horse snuffs the battle with delight.
There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
    The old man with his hair as white as snow;
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up—
    He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
    No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle-girths would stand,
    He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.

And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,
    He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony—three parts thoroughbred at least—
    And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry—just the sort that won’t say die—
    There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
    And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.

But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
    And the old man said, “That horse will never do
For a long and tiring gallop—lad, you’d better stop away,
    Those hills are far too rough for such as you.”
So he waited sad and wistful—only Clancy stood his friend —
    “I think we ought to let him come,” he said;
“I warrant he’ll be with us when he’s wanted at the end,
    For both his horse and he are mountain bred.

“He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko’s side,
  Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse’s hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
    The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,
    Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,
    But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen.”

So he went — they found the horses by the big mimosa clump —
    They raced away towards the mountain’s brow,
And the old man gave his orders, ‘Boys, go at them from the jump,
    No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
    Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
    If once they gain the shelter of those hills.’

So Clancy rode to wheel them—he was racing on the wing
    Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stock-horse past them, and he made the ranges ring
    With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
    But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
    And off into the mountain scrub they flew.

Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black
    Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
    From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,
    Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, “We may bid the mob good day,
    No man can hold them down the other side.”

When they reached the mountain’s summit, even Clancy took a pull,
    It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
    Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
    And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
    While the others stood and watched in very fear.

He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
    He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat—
    It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringy barks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
    Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
    At the bottom of that terrible descent.

He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill,
    And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,
    As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
    In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,
    With the man from Snowy River at their heels.

And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.
    He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,
    And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
    He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
    For never yet was mountain horse a cur.

And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
    Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
    At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around the Overflow the reedbeds sweep and sway
    To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word to-day,
    And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.

"These quiet nights are just perfect for poetry!"

« Last Edit: June 24, 2006, 04:47:26 pm by Ray »
~A good general knows when to retreat~

Offline Pipedream

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I'll eat you for breakfast if you don't quiet down. I ain't jokin!!!    >:(


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** uhm excuse me, Olivia,  but I thought Owls were nocturnal creatures  ??? **

Offline Pipedream

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** uhm excuse me, Olivia,  but I thought Owls were nocturnal creatures  ??? **

** Exactly! You got it all figured out there! We are nocturnal creatures, and we want to hunt at night. But with everybody running around, singing, dancing and stomping (!) people run our prey off! Them mice are sensitive, ya know?? When I sleep during the day, I don't care what you do. Anyways. You go ahead. Just sing away everybody! The teacher director says I complain too much. So I'll just keep quiet now. Sigh. **

%%It ain't right! It ain't right!%%

« Last Edit: June 24, 2006, 08:03:17 am by Pipedream »