Dawn. Music suggesting an impending battle scene.
ROBBIE surveys the creative landscape and delivers a soliloquy to camera.
As I return to the soil of my birth after a long exile, I wish for strength. I wish for courage. I wish for the fortitude to withstand long periods of no work coming in before that six-hour job that pays two grand will see my rent through for the next little while. Or that out-of-town tour where I get paid and I keep most of my per diems.
I summon the gods to be on my side in this endeavour. To help me accept with equanimity the vicissitudes of the self-employed life. To guide me towards restraint in times of feast and parents’ free meals in times of famine. To ward off malevolent witchcraft from infecting my Subaru chariot’s motor so as not to summon an eye-wateringly expensive mechanical shaman. To give me the clear sight of Teiresias to know I don’t really need to buy that book for forty bucks because, let’s face it, I probably won’t get around to reading it.
As I approach the ramparts of Auckland atop this less than comfortable divan in the bowels of a noble Boeing ship, I call on all potential employers within the city gates to regard me with favour. To broadcast producers who will employ my oratory across vast distances. To directors of Dionysian festivals, those theatrical presentations that may use my talents. To the agents of merchants, those advertising creative directors, who wish my stentorian tones and facility with the barbarian argots of foreigners to help sell their wares in a pre-recorded fashion. To orchestra managers who see use in an arrangement of Macklemore’s Thrift Shop for solo cor anglais, strings and drum kit. To musical performers of any instrument who want to commission me to channel the muse of St Cecilia. To Creative New Zealand, and to anyone who can pay me to do improv theatre. (Probably mutually exclusive groups, to be honest.) Give me recompense for my toil, ye nobles of the arts!
I wish for strength in this endeavour because the prize is worth it. The spoils of my battle are to be a freeborn citizen of the City of Auckland. Not I, a common slave to a common master who will capriciously order me to be present at his place of trade from the ninth hour of the morning to the fifth hour of the sun’s descent, five days of every seven excepting civic and imperial feasts.
Nay, my life is henceforth mine own. My projects are worthy, if most likely underfunded. My credit card limit has just been increased by three grand. I am ready. I am capable. Come at me bro.
This is madness. Madness? THIS.. IS.. FREELANCE!!!!!!
ROBBIE strides purposefully towards the sun as the music swells to its conclusion: