Leaving the party, I was dizzy and numb. A laugh lingered on my lips, smoke without fire, fulfilling social expectation, parading what wasn't as if it were. As a favor, you took me for a ride down Lake Shore, pressing highway speeds. The semi-lit buildings loomed and passed in waxing and waning focus.
You asked for my hand, rejected the hypothermic limb dancing in the mid-autumn chill. Your dominant fingers soon laced my passive. I waited for some sense of connection to match yours.
You spoke of traffic, work, the role of art in the life of a working class stiff. I responded in sharp laughs, silences filled with the rush of wind. With what passes for fervency in an emotional flat-line, my inner mantra begged you to kill me with your car.
In this manner, we flew past the marina, other motorists, my exit. We neared your apartment and the inevitable invitation; I knew your expectation like a physical presence. I wondered if you knew my emptiness from your own echoes, or if you thought them an identical intent reaching out across the void.
Sunday, September 22, 2013
Monday, August 26, 2013
One Long Swim
If you haven't seen any comics from asofterworld.com, I highly recommend you take a quick peek- and then begin revisiting the site, regularly. They're often funny, sad, and a little fed up, all at once- which is probably why I enjoy them, so much.
I've been meaning to take a long swim, for a while, now- but I often find myself frozen in an indecisive purgatory of confusion and uncertainty. However, I have recently hatched a plan to begin a controlled drift to various cities, over the next decade. Currently living in Chicago (the biggest move of my life, to date), I am counting this as my first city. At the end of next summer, I will be moving to St. Louis, MO. It's still fairly safe: not terribly far from family, with a small group of good friends in the area and many more who pass through for family who still live there. But it will move me out of Illinois, for the first time in my life. This is exciting, for me, if in a muted fashion.
Beyond St. Louis, the plan is rather vague. A friend living overseas has expressed interest in having me join him in South America, two summers from now... which is tempting. Almost two years to work on language skills, figure out what avenue to pursue for employment, figure out passports and visas (wholly foreign to someone who's never stepped a foot onto land claimed by another government). A foreign world, peopled by many multitudes of strangers speaking another language and one amazing friend... potential adventures abound.
Other cities I'm considering include: Los Angeles (college friends), Seattle (maybe college friends?), Boston (no one!), somewhere in Hawaii (no one!), and Orlando (a high school friend). Discussing this with a few loved ones, aside from a quick note that a career would no longer be an option (was it ever?), there was a common response that this will serve me well when I finally get around to writing a book. The possibility of such an undertaking is far more overwhelming than the thought of living in ten cities in ten years... but I have often fantasized about being an actual writer (if only for one, brief, publication)... and I find myself considering it a real potential. Who knows what could happen in so many zip codes? How many stories might be hiding behind the door of a new apartment? How many plays lurking? Perhaps a few poems impatiently awaiting the chance to pounce?
That is all just fancy, at this point... but I am moving to St. Louis, next summer. And from there, who knows? It feels good. Not knowing, doubting, being uncertain- these are often unpleasant experiences, wrapped around so many aspects of existence that they become a series of waves crashing around me, slowly ebbing into a background roar, contemplating it's next rush for shore. This uncertainty feels good. This not knowing feels like an infinite potential for action. This doubting, maybe one day knowing for sure.
As I toss around ideas for new cities, I welcome any opinions and explanations the world may have to share. Let me know your thoughts on the matter, if you have any. Happy Monday. :)
Monday, August 5, 2013
Simple (working title)
(K can be either Keith or Kathryn- gender is insignificant.)
FIRST SEQUENCE:
D- I tried not to, Kathy... I tried... (she mutters softly, slower and slower, without acknowledging Kathy at all)
K-(into a cell phone) I need an ambulance- Please. My wife, she's, uh, she's had an accident, she's bleeding- oh my god (pressing against the wound) Please- please- (the phone slips from her ear) I love you, I'm right here, Dawn. Right here. Dawn? (her eyes close, she goes limp) Dawn, Dawn, look at me. (grabs for the phone) I need an ambulance! (looks at the audience) One of you, get a fucking doctor. (turns to her, pauses, looks back around) Fuck. (turns her attention to Dawn- she grows quieter, eventually freezes. Both actors should remain motionless for a few moments, and then as lights begin to slowly fade...)
D- (sighs) Damn. I did it, again, didn't I? I tried so hard.
K- It can't be helped. We're only so many words.
(Lights out)
I RESET:
Both actors (not characters) rise a few moments later, and replace the gun, phone, clothing, and program where they were originally found [reference 2nd sequence for set-up]. They then exit, and prepare for the second sequence.
SECOND SEQUENCE:
USC Dawn enters, freezing when she sees the audience. She steadies herself, and completes her entrance.
D- (strides to the dresser, and begins removing clothing) Packing. I hate packing. Too much preparation. If I'm going, I'd rather just go and be gone. There's too much time to think. I guess it's a good sign that I can take my own clothes, this time, right? Last time it was just the scrubs, through the whole visit. Pale green against off-white walls, floors, and ceilings for months on end. If you aren't crazy to begin with, you will be shortly. The only things of color are the pills. Yellow, pink, blue... and they are endless. Depending on who's prescribing them, of course. We'll see how this one goes. Doctor Herr. She seemed okay. What did you think? (hesitant) She said that she can make me better. She seemed so sure, too. She looked me in the eye, handed me a bottle, and said that she could make you go away. She said that I should tell you that. That it might help. Does this scare you as much as it does me? To be honest, I don't know what I'd feel if someone could take a pill and make me go away. I've always thought that it would scare me, to be in your situation... at the whim of someone's frightful delusions, never knowing when you'll have a chance to exist again... Does it hurt to pop in and out of existence, like you do? (brief pause) When I don't see you, do you even know you don't exist? (waits, then shrugs off her disappointment at the silence) Well, you never answered before, I guess there's no reason why you should answer me, now. (pauses- looks up sharply) No, there is a reason. You owe it to me. Yes, yes, that's right. You owe it to me. You know you do. After all that you've stolen from my life, it's only right... I should be able to steal some from yours. An image of your childhoods... your parents... your weddings... your children- (chokes to a stop on 'children') There must be some tiny bit you can give- that would make us even... make this fair before you're gone. That would be fair. (singles out audience member) Don't you think so? (singles out another, as Kathryn enters behind her) Don't you think that's fair?
K- Think what's fair?
D- (startled, but responding quickly) That they should share their lives with me. As I've been forced to share with them.
K- (looking around the room, seeing only the walls of their bedroom) Yes, that seems perfectly fair. (pause) Have they answered you?
D- No, they never want to interact with me. No gestures, no words... not a goddamn thing. They're content to stare me down until I'm too mad to-
K- You're not mad.
D- Do you see them, too?
K- (suppressing a cringe) No, I-
D- No, no, no... (affectionately mocking, quietly desperate) I only see masses of silent people watching me as if I were some character upon a stage. No crazy here. None at all. (on the verge of a silent emotion that quickly subsides)
K- But it's not you. You remember... the doctor said-
D- (reciting) ... seeing what isn't there is a flaw in my gray matter, not a reflection of my person and reason... Of course, of course.
K- You are not crazy. (a game between them) You're the sanest, gentlest, most loving person I've ever known.
D- (playing, for her sake) And you are the craziest, meanest, most selfish creature I've ever found.
K- Beside me, you must be perfect.
D- And when you're gone?
K- And where would I be going?
D- (nods) I'll just finish packing. (pause) Could I have some time alone, before we go?
K- Of course. If you're sure-
D- (curt) Yes. (pause) Thank you. (Kathryn exits, while Dawn continues packing. She eventually takes an interest in the audience, again.) I remember the first time I saw you... so long ago. I remember sitting alone in the front room... and then you were there with me, where the front window was supposed to be... Well, I don't know if it was YOU, you... but another group like you. What is that? Am I too weak-minded to hold a steady delusion? Or is there more to you than silent expectation? Do you have make-believe families and lives that you go to, when I'm not looking? Could I be so creative, that I'd create an entire community in the back of my mind? A whole world? Huh. Funny thought. Well, I don't think it was you, last time, either. How long has it been? Almost two years, I think... well, until last week, anyway. Why do you come? Does my suffering provide you with some pleasure? Does it fulfill some need in your lives? (reasoning) When I was seven, you were there right before mom and dad's last fight- and when I was thirteen, you watched what happened to me without lifting a finger, to help. At nineteen, you saw what I did myself, and were every bit as silent. I remember crying. Do you remember that? Do you remember me begging you for help? I do. Not that you cared. Or did you? Was it you that called for help? Or was it really mere 'luck' that Kathryn came along when she did? How cliche. (long pause) Do you care about me? Did I give you souls, after all? Souls that could give some comfort in addition to cold stares? Is you interest something tantamount to affection... concern... or love, maybe? It isn't, is it? No, of course not. Love me? ... You were at my wedding. That was awkward... instead of loved ones, silent strangers with blank stares... (chilled) I'm still not sure why you were there. There was no misery on that day, except you. (Kathryn enters, without interrupting) But you showed up when I found her with her ex-husband. Was that why? Was it a prelude? Some buildup, a warning of sorrows to come? Do you get some sort of kick out of watching me break? And then last week- She was- She is- She isn't... Nonsense. What would Kathy say, if she could see me now? Kathy... without Kathryn I sometimes wonder if I wouldn't disappear right along with you. Like some lost thought that leaves you wondering if an answer had been right there, within your grasp... if you'd only been able to take hold of it- (long pause... then begins moving toward the audience) Can I touch you? (asking permission- pause- seizing the perceived right) If I really want to, shouldn't I be able to? If you are in my head- if I can make my eyes see what isn't there, why can't my hands be made to feel it? (stretches out her hand- a mixture of dread and reverence)
K- Dawn, please-
D- I just want to touch them. Just once. I deserve to touch them.
K- Don't.
D- Why not? Where's my return, here? I give them life and they do nothing but watch me hurt.
K- They're not real.
D- Of course they are. (pause) No. No? No, no they're not. I made them, they're in my head. I know. I really do. (continues moving toward the audience- desperate and terrified- she touches someone) Aahu- (noise of surprise and delight) Did you see?! I touched him/her! Hahaha.... I did it! I did it, I did, right there- the one with the (describes audience member). I touched him/her... hahahaha... Kathy, Kathy I did it, I made it happen, they let it happen, we, we touched- (to the audience member) Did you feel it? You must've, if I did- hehehe... hahahah.... Oh, oh my, it's, it's like, umm... like having a third arm you didn't know about turn out to have been asleep all this time- Oh, Kathy- this is so much more-
K- Dawn, Dawn- (moves to her) You touched the wall. See? (slides her hand through the air, as if along a solid wall)
D- But I- (terrified, elated, and now thoroughly confused) No, no- I did touch him/her. I did. I did, just a ;moment ago. Right there- (to the audience member) You remember, don't you? Of course, how could you- I mean, it was just-... (back to Kathy) How could think that- a wall? No, no, I did, my fingers remember... (reaches out, again, but Kathy catches her hand)
K- Dawn, Dawn... look at me. (gently guides Dawn's face toward hers) I'm going to get your medicine.
D- Might as well. I obviously can't fix me.
K- It's okay. (pause) It will be okay.
D- Will it? That's good to know. Did you hear her? She said it's going to be okay. Good, good. I wonder when. (inspects her hand, distractedly)
K- (guides Dawn to the bed, brushes the side of her face) I'll be right back.
D- (touches her hand to her cheek, experimentally- turns to the audience member) I did touch you, didn't I? Please give me some response, one way or the other... I can take it, it's okay. Or (gestures after K) it will be. Did I touch you, or didn't I? (whispering) Please answer me, this once. Just a word. That's all I want. I- I know that I touched you, right there. You cannot take that away from me, not now. I've seen you, smelled you for years... and now I've felt you, I've finally, finally touched you. What I would give to- (notices a program- picks it up) to... to... what a strange... Kathryn? (reading) Simple... by Sarah Scott. Why- (looks up at the audience member, from whom she's taken the program, then back to the program) Characters... Dawn... (actor's name). Who's (actor's name)? Kathryn- that's my wife, she's just left... who's (actor's name)? (whispered) No. No. That's not, that's not possible. You're in MY head. Mine. Yes? Yes. Right? I'm real, I made you up in my chemically imbalanced head. I couldn't- I mean, now could I be... NO. You're in my head. I'm not in yours. (loaded pause) Am I? (her eyes glaze a bit, and she turns from the audience, feeling her body out, sorting sense information supporting both possibilities... growing angrily confused, she moves quickly toward the audience member)
K- (enters, finding Dawn about to throw herself into the wall, rushes to catch her) Dawn. Please Dawn. (near panic- it's never been this bad) Please... oh, please, Dawn... Dawn... look at me. Focus. Focus on me. I'm here. Look at me, I'm right here... (holds her cheeks, forcing their eyes to meet)
D- (matter-of-fact, slightly amused) No. You aren't.
K- Shh... (rocking her) I love you. I AM here, Dawn. I will not leave you. Not ever. You and me. It's just you and me. (K's eyes search the walls, vainly seeking the people D insists are there)
D- (babbling) Whoah, I just- I, uh... hahaha... I don't know how- I, found a, um, a program, and it, it had us in it, me and you, I mean- and I don't- I mean, is that possible? No, no, it isn't, we aren't, they aren't... I- I... I'm lost, Kathy. So long, so long I could see them... smell them... and now, now I've touched them, they let me touch them, just in time for this, for this, this charade, this game. It's over, I can't, I can't- I'm lost...
K- No, no you're not I've got you right here. As long as we're together-
D- (sick, gently maniacal giggle) But you're lost, too.
K- What?
D- Lost, complete limbo, without a place, devoid of origin, empty- you're lost, lost... just like me. Everybody... we all are, the doctors, you, me, our daughter- (nearly choking) She's lost, lost... but if we are, then maybe, maybe it's for the best, maybe it's better, better for her... not some name on a page.. but- (turning to audience) What about you? Are you lost? Are you watched? Do you think as much, feel as much, do you HURT as much? How could you, I, I don't, how, why, do you even know? DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU DO? (violently pushes away from K) I HATE YOU. Damn you, and your twisted, broken creations. (deep breath) Is this it? IS THIS ALL YOU HAVE IN YOU?
K- Dawn... (runs from the room)
D- (turns toward his exit) Kathy, wait- no. Don't leave me alone. Not with them. Not with them. You. You have made me. To suffer- Why? Is there a reason? Some purpose I don't understand, some meaning behind what I, what we go through? Why are your tongues still? Is there some book that holds your answers? Some prayer to earn your words? Is all I am nothing more than your words? No, no- I am more. I am MORE. I AM MORE. (whispers, to herself) I am only painful words. Your. Painful. Words. Can you hurt so much? And still have so much left to share? Or do you feel so little that you must hurt through me to live at all? I am not here for your pain, or, or, your pleasure. But if your words create me, dictate my every action... what is left to me?... death? (half-hearted giggle, pauses, moves to the gun safe in the bottom dresser drawer)... but even that's yours, isn't it? And you know, of course you do. You know it all too well. "To be or not to be..." Is that the question you want me to answer for you? Or is it Kathy who's to die? (holding the gun before her, delicately inspecting) Would you rather I "Put out the light, and then put out the light?" hahaha... pretty good, huh? Nothing like a good, old-fashioned homicide to titillate the fucked up masses. (a thought) How many times has this dance been performed? Is my breakdown popular, well-received? Or no, no- let me guess- will Kathy run in and save me from myself? Are you such fans of the last-minute melodrama? Perhaps I'm tragic, with this self-awareness that carries me to my inevitable, self-inflicted doom?... Or does this dark comedy move you to self-satisfied smirks Do I comment on your own theatrical scene, as you recline and slumber? Which role do I play for you? Which one?! Which fucking role do you want from me? (begins rambling toward incoherency) What role, what role, to play, a stupid play, a stupid play on a stupid, fucking stage. (giggle) Whose stage? Whose head? Mine? Yours? (actor's name)'s? So many, too many stages... too many heads... I can't... I don't... I... (cradles the gun toward her left breast, like a child- looks up) How many times must I die for you? (crying, pulls the trigger- falls)
K- (offstage) Dawn?! Dawn!! (reenters holding a mobile phone) Oh, no baby. (into the phone) Doctor, send help- there's been an accident. (ends call, dials 911)
D- I tried not to, Kathy... I tried... (she mutters softly, slower and slower, without acknowledging K at all)
K- I need an ambulance- please. My wife, she's, uh, she's had an accident, she's bleeding, oh my god- (pressing against the wound) Please- please- (the phone slips from his ear) I love you. I'm right here, Dawn. Right here. Dawn? (Dawn's eyes close, she goes limp) Dawn, Dawn, look at me. (grabs for the phone) I need an ambulance! (looks directly at the audience) One of you, get a fucking doctor. (turns to Dawn, pauses- looks back around) Fuck. (turns her attention to Dawn- grows quieter, and eventually freezes. Both actors should remain motionless for a few moments, and then as lights begin to slowly fade...)
D- (sighs) Damn. I did it again, didn't I? I tried so hard.
K- (running a hand through her hair) It can't be helped. We're only so many words.
II RESET:
Actors replace items, as before.
THIRD SEQUENCE:
(USC Dawn enters, freezing when she sees the audience. She steadies herself, and completes her entrance.)
D- (strides to the dresser, begins removing clothing) Packing. I hate packing. Too much preparation. If I'm going, I'd rather just go and be gone. (pause, as she considers her words, the audience, the space- she then heads immediately for the gun- removes it, considers it, glances at the audience) There's too much time to think. (puts the gun to her head and pulls the trigger- no shot- begins inspecting the weapon for damage- keeps gun and incorporates it from now on- every action knows the blind path of her words) I guess it's a good sign that I can take my own clothes this time, right? Last time it was just the scrubs, through the whole visit. Pale green against off-white walls, floors, and ceilings for months on end. If you aren't crazy to begin with, you will be shortly. The only things of color are the pills. Yellow, pink, blue... and they are endless. Depending on who's prescribing them, of course. We'll see how this one goes. Doctor Herr. She seemed okay. What do you think? She said that she can make me better. She seemed so sure, too. She looked me in the eye, handed me a bottle, and said that she could make you go away. She said that I should tell you that. That it might help. Does this scare you as much as it does me? To be honest, I don't know what I'd feel if someone could take a pill and make me go away. I've always thought that it would scare me, to be in your situation... at the whim of someone's frightful delusions, never knowing when you'll have a chance to exist again... Does it hurt to pop in and out of existence, like you do? When I don't see you, do you even know you don't exist? Well, you never answered before. I guess there's no reason why you should answer now. (pauses, looks up sharply- aims the gun at the nearest audience member) No, there is a reason. You owe it to me. Yes, yes, that's right. You owe it to me. You know you do. After all that you've stolen from my life, it's only right... I should be able to steal some from yours. An image of your childhoods... your parents... your weddings... your children- (still chokes to a stop on children) There must be some tiny bit you can give- that would make us even.. make this fair before you're gone. That would be fair. (singles out audience member with gun) Don't you think so? (singles out another, turning the gun on them, as K enters) Don't you think that's fair?
K- Think what's fair?
D- (startled, turns the gun on him- then goes back and forth from audience to K) That they should share their lives with me. As I've been forced to share with them.
K- (looking around the room, seeing only the bare walls of their bedroom- taking in and considering the gun) Yes, that seems perfectly fair. (pausing) Have they answered you?
D- No, (turns to the audience) they never want to interact with me. No gestures, no words... not a goddamn thing. They're content to stare me down until I'm too mad to-
K- (slowly approaching) You're not mad.
D- (glancing over her shoulder) Do you see them, too?
K- (cringing) No, I-
D- No, no, no... (bitter, angry, gesticulating with the gun) I only see masses of silent people watching me as if I were some character upon a stage. No crazy here. (puts the gun to her head- K puts out her arms- D pulls the trigger- no shot) None at all. (resignedly points the gun at the audience)
K- But it's not you. You remember... the doctor said that-
D- (reciting)... seeing what isn't there is a flaw in my gray matter, not a reflection of my person and reason... Of course, of course.
K- You are not crazy. (a now nervous game between them, as she attempts to get close enough to disarm her) You're one of the sanest, gentlest, most loving people I've ever known-
D- (returning, without playfulness) And you are the craziest, meanest, most selfish person I've ever found.
K- Beside me, you must be perfect.
D- (grins, half-heartedly, turns and sees how close K's come- puts the gun between them- warning) And when you're gone?
K- (raises hands, freezing in place) And where would I be going?
D- (nods to herself) I'll just finish packing. (indicates exit with the gun) Could I have some time alone before we go?
K- Of course. (backing quickly, then pausing- takes a small step in her direction, arm outstretched) If you're sure-
D- (curt) Yes. (pauses- now irritated by his presence) Thank you. (K exits. She briefly resumes packing, before returning her attention to the audience.) I remember the first time I saw you... so long ago. I remember sitting alone in the front room... and then you were there with me, where the front window was supposed to be... Well, I don't know if it was YOU, you... but another group like you. What is that? Am I too weak-minded to hold onto a steady delusion? Or is there more to you than silent expectation? Do you have make-believe families and lives that you go to when I'm not looking? Could I be so creative, that I'd create an entire community in the back of my mind? A whole world? Huh. Funny thought. Well, I don't think it was you last time, either. How long has it been? A couple of years, I think... well, until last week, anyway. Why do you come? Does my suffering provide you with some pleasure? Does it fulfill some need in your lives? (reasoning) When I was seven, you were there right before mom and dad's last fight- and when I was thirteen, you watched what happened to me without lifting a finger to help. And at nineteen, you saw what I did myself and were every it as silent. I remember crying. Do you remember that? Do you remember me begging your for help? I do. Not that you cared. Or did you? Was it you that called for help? Or was it really mere "luck" that Kathryn came along when she did? How cliche. (long pause) Do you care about me? Did I give you souls after all, souls that could give some comfort in addition to cold stares? Is your interest something tantamount to affection... concern... or love, maybe? It's not, is it. No, of course not. Love me?... You were at my wedding. That was awkward... instead of loved ones, silent strangers with blank stares... (chilled)... I'm still not sure why you were there- there was no misery on that day, except you. (K enters without interrupting) But you showed up when I found her with her ex-husband. Was that why? Was it a prelude? Some buildup, a warning of sorrows to come? Do you get some sort of kick out of watching me break? And then last week- She was- She is- She isn't... Nonsense. What would Kathy say if she could see me now? Kathy... without Kathy I sometimes wonder if I wouldn't disappear right along with you. Like some lost thought that leaves you wondering if an answer had been right there, within your grasp... if you'd only been able to take hold of it- (long pause... then begins moving toward the audience) Can I touch you? (asking permission, pause, then seizing the perceived right) If I really want to, shouldn't I be able to? If you are in my head- if I can make my eyes see what isn't there, why can't my hands be made to feel it? (she stretches out her hand with some difficult mixture of reverence and hatred)
K- Dawn, please-
D- (points gun in K's direction without altering her attention or path) I just want to touch them, just once. I deserve to touch them.
K- Don't.
D- Why not? Where's my return, here? I give them life and they do nothing but watch me hurt.
K- They're not real.
D- (screams) Of course they are. (pause, fighting words as they come out) No. No? No, no they're not. I made them, they're in my head. I know. I really do. (continues moving toward the audience- desperate, terrified- she successfully touches someone) Aahu- (noises of surprise, dismay) Did you see?! I touched him/her! Hahaha... I did it! I did it, I did, right there- the one with the (describes audience member). I touched him/her... hahahaha... Kathy, Kathy I did it, I made it happen, they let it happen, we, we touched- (to the audience member) Did you feel it? You must've, if I did- hehehe... hahaha... Oh, oh my, it's, it's like, umm... like having a third arm you didn't know about turn out to have been asleep all this time- Oh Kathy- this is so much more-
K- Dawn, Dawn- (moves near her, quickly) You touched the wall. See? (slides her hand through the air as if along a solid wall)
D- But I- (terrified, elated, ever more confused) No, no- I did touch him/her. I did. I did, just a moment ago. Right there- (to the audience member) You remember, don't you? Of course, how could you- I mean, it was just-... (back to K) How could you think that- a wall? No, no, I did, my fingers remember... (aims the gun at an audience member and fires- no shot- aims at herself again, fires- no shot)
K- Dawn, Dawn... look at me. (moves her hand to catch D's attention, without getting too close) I'm going to get your medicine.
D- Might as well. I obviously can't fix me.
K- It's okay. (realizing it's anything but) It will be okay.
D- Will it? That's good to know. Did you hear her? She said it's going to be okay. Good, good. I wonder when.
K- I'll be right back. (exits)
D- (inspects her hand, smells it... touches her cheek to see if it registers... to the audience member she touched) I did touch you, didn't I? Please give me some response, one way or the other... I can take it, it's okay. Or (gestures after K with the gun) it will be. (demanding) Did I touch you, or didn't I? (increasingly short-tempered) Please answer me, this once. Just a word, that's all I want. I- I know that I touched you, right there. You cannot take that away from me, not now. I've seen you, smelled you for years... and now I've felt you, I've finally, finally touched you. What I would give to- (notices a program and picks it up) to... to... what a strange... (giddy, a bit nauseous) Simple... by Sarah Scott. Why- (looks up at the audience member from whom she's taken the program, then back to the program itself) Characters... Dawn... (actor's name). Who's (actor's name)? Kathryn- that's my wife, she's just left... who's (actor's name)? (whispered) No. No. That's not- that's not possible. You're in MY head. Mine. Yes? Yes. Right? I'm real, I made you up in my chemically imbalanced head. I couldn't, I mean, how could I be... No. You're in my head. I'm not in yours. (loaded pause) Am I? (her eyes glaze a bit, and she turns from the audience, feeling her body out, sorting sense information supporting both possibilities... after a few moments, she turns to look at the audience, growing angrily confused until she begins to rush an audience member- K enters, seeing her wife about to throw herself into a wall, rushes to catch her- K throws her off-balance, they briefly fight for the gun, which D keeps. Dawn holds it between them, again, with both hands- now completely distrustful.)
K- Please, Dawn. (near panic) Please... oh, please, Dawn... Dawn, Dawn- look at me. Focus. Focus on me, I'm here. Look at me. I'm right here... (tries to catch Dawn's eyes, hold her focus)
D- (how many times has she said this?) No. You aren't.
K- Shh... (trying to cozy up to her, again) Shh.. I love you. I AM here, Dawn. I will not leave you. Not ever. (D points the gun at K, fires- no shot)
D- (babbling this whole time) Whoah, I just- I, uh... hahaha... I don't know how- I, found a, um, a program, and it, it had us in it, me, and you, I mean- and I don't- I mean, is that possible? No, no, it's not, we're not- they're not... I- I... I'm lost, Kathy. So long, so long I could see them... smell them... and now, now I've touched them, they let me touch them, just in time for this, for this, this charade, this game. It's over, I can't, I can't- I'm lost... (points gun at herself, fires- no shot)
K- No, no you're not- I've got you right here. As long as we're together-
D- (sick, maniacal giggle) But you're lost, too.
K- What?
D- Lost, complete limbo, without a place, devoid of origin, empty- You're lost, lost... just like me. Everybody... we all are, the doctors, you, me, our daughter- (nearly choking) She's lost, lost... but if we are, then maybe, maybe it's for the best, maybe it's better, better for her... not some name on a page... but- (turning on audience) What about you? Are you lost? Are you watched? Do you think as much, feel as much, do you HURT as much? How could you, I, I don't, how, why, do you even know? DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU DO? I HATE YOU! Damn you and your twisted, broken creations. (deep breath) Is this it? IS THIS ALL YOU HAVE IN YOU?
K- Dawn! (runs from the room)
D- (turning toward K's exit) Kathy, wait!... No... Don't leave me alone. Not with them. Not with them. You. You have made me, to suffer- Why? Is there a reason? Some purpose I don't understand, some meaning behind what I, what we go through? Why are your tongues still? Is there some book that holds your answers? Some prayer to earn your words? Is all I am nothing more than our words? No, no- I am more. I am MORE. I AM MORE. (whispers) I am only painful words. Your. Painful. Words. Can you hurt so much? And still have so much left to share? Or do you feel so little that you must hurt through me to live at all? I am not here for your pain, or, or your pleasure. But if your words create me, dictate my every action... what is left to me?... death? (waves the gun about, fires it at herself a couple times- no shots- bitter and rhetorical)... but even that's yours, isn't it? And you know, of course you do. You know all too well. "To be or not to be..." Is that the question you want me to answer for you? Or is it Kathy who's to die? (turns to attempt to exit- invisible barriers prevent her leaving- she turns violently) Would you rather I "Put out the light, and then put out the light"? hahahah... Pretty good, huh? Nothing like a good, old-fashioned homicide to titillate the fucked up masses. (a thought) How many times has this dance been performed? Is my breakdown popular? Or no, no- let me guess- (hopelessly hopeful) will Kathy run in and save me from myself? Are you such fans of the last-minute melodrama? (she knows this) Perhaps I'm tragic, with this self-awareness that carries me to my inevitable, self-inflicted doom?... Or does this dark comedy move you o self-satisfied smirks? Do I comment on your own theatrical scene, as you recline and slumber? Which role do I play for you? Which one?! Which fucking role do you want from me? What role, what role, to play, a stupid play, a stupid goddamn play on a stupid, fucking stage. (giggle) Whose stage? Whose head? Mine? Yours? (Actor's name)'s? So many, too many stages... too many heads... (begins trying to point the gun at herself for the actual shot, trying to fight it) I can't... I don't... I... (places the gun to her chest, asking softly, without any hysteria) How many times must I die for you? (throws the gun to the ground- shot fires- she falls)
K- Dawn?! Dawn? (enters holding a mobile phone) Oh, no baby. (into the phone) Doctor, send help- there's been an accident. (ends call, dials 911)
D- I tried not to, Kathy... I tried... (she mutters softly, slower and slower, without acknowledging K at all)
K- I need an ambulance- please. My wife, she's, uh, she's had an accident, she's bleeding- oh my god. (trying to find the wound) Please- please- (the phone slips to the floor) I love you. I'm right here, Dawn. Right here. Dawn? (D's eyes close, she goes limp) Dawn, Dawn, look at me. (grabs for the phone) I need an ambulance! (looks to the audience) One of you, get a fucking doctor! (turns to D, pauses- looks back around. Now K remembers.) Fuck. (turns her attention to Dawn- K grows quieter, and eventually freezes. Both actors remain motionless for a few moments, and then as the lights begin to fade...)
D- (sobs) Damn. I did it again, didn't I? I tried so hard
K- (holding Dawn's face in her hands, trying to hold her together) It can't be helped. We're only so many words.
III RESET
Actors reset, as before.
FOURTH SEQUENCE
Dawn enters, appearing stricken. After entrance, she immediately attempts to exit again, but invisible barriers prevent her leaving.)
D- Packing. I hate packing. (covers her mouth with her hands, but words continue coming as she looks about desperately. She becomes aware of the booth. She finds a piece of clothing to gag herself, the lines still pouring out of her, and goes to get the gun, threatening the stage manager and board ops, firing repeatedly into the booth from the stage- no shots. When this fails, she then sets out to stack furniture to climb into the booth. During this, K enters on cue, responding to lines even through her gag.)
K- (taken aback) Think what's fair?
D- (she shoots at K from her perch- no shots- she throws the gun at K. Coming down from her perch, she removes her gag, and then rushes K as she speaks) That they should share their lives with me. As I've been forced to share with them.
K- (attempts to exit when D rushes her, but invisible barriers prevent K's exit, as well) Yes, that seems perfectly fair. Have they answered you?
D- No, (she wrestles K to the ground, hard) they never want to interact with me. No gestures, no words... not a goddamn thing. They're content to stare me down until I'm too mad to-
K- (obviously fighting her own lines, at this point) You're not mad.
D- (pauses for a moment) You see them, too?
K- (nodding her head, yes) No, I-
D- No, no, no... (bitter, angry, sad- she fights her way atop K) I only see masses of silent people watching me as if I were some character upon a stage. No crazy here. None at all.
K- But it's not you. (torn between understanding the situation, and terror at D's actions) You remember... the doctor said that-
D- (reciting, monotone) ... seeing what isn't there is a flaw in my gray matter, not a reflection of my person and reason... of course, of course.
K- You are not crazy. (a now desperate struggle as they've both spotted the gun beside a pillow on the floor- they go for it, D reaches it first, beats K over the head with it until she's nearly limp, fighting to remain conscious even more than she's fighting D at this point) You're one of the sanest, gentlest, most loving people I've ever known.
D- (without any playfulness, placing the pillow over K face, pushing hard and desperately, even as she begins crying) And you are the craziest, meanest, most selfish person I've ever found.
K- (struggling weakly for a few moments [take the time], using the last of her breath to cry through the pillow) Beside me, you must be perfect.
D- (openly weeping, as K's struggles stop) And when you're gone? (she pauses, then prompts again, even as she pushes down on the pillow to be sure) And when you're gone? (pause- she removes the pillow, uncovering K's lifeless face, eyes open and unseeing- she falls to kissing K, as she cries. She then dries her face on the same pillow. She considers the pillow, holds it briefly against her face until she realizes that she can't hold it hard enough or long enough to complete the act herself. She stands, attempts to exit, but she isn't allowed. She kneels beside K, caresses her face.) And when you're gone? (stares hard at the booth) And when you're gone? (takes a long moment looking about the audience, then lies down beside K, allowing her eyes to glaze over. She should be beside K, in reverse, with her feet beside K's head- equally unresponsive- both sets of eyes open and unblinking.)
Stage Manager: (from booth, attempting to prompt them) And where would I be going? (pause) And where would I be going? (pause) And where would I be going? (this continues, as lights slowly fade- the final line of "And where would I be going?" spoken in complete darkness)
Houselights up.
Run crew should begin tear down after audience begins exit, including removal of the catatonic actors. If house fails to begin exit within two minutes, clear set anyway.
FIRST SEQUENCE:
D- I tried not to, Kathy... I tried... (she mutters softly, slower and slower, without acknowledging Kathy at all)
K-(into a cell phone) I need an ambulance- Please. My wife, she's, uh, she's had an accident, she's bleeding- oh my god (pressing against the wound) Please- please- (the phone slips from her ear) I love you, I'm right here, Dawn. Right here. Dawn? (her eyes close, she goes limp) Dawn, Dawn, look at me. (grabs for the phone) I need an ambulance! (looks at the audience) One of you, get a fucking doctor. (turns to her, pauses, looks back around) Fuck. (turns her attention to Dawn- she grows quieter, eventually freezes. Both actors should remain motionless for a few moments, and then as lights begin to slowly fade...)
D- (sighs) Damn. I did it, again, didn't I? I tried so hard.
K- It can't be helped. We're only so many words.
(Lights out)
I RESET:
Both actors (not characters) rise a few moments later, and replace the gun, phone, clothing, and program where they were originally found [reference 2nd sequence for set-up]. They then exit, and prepare for the second sequence.
SECOND SEQUENCE:
USC Dawn enters, freezing when she sees the audience. She steadies herself, and completes her entrance.
D- (strides to the dresser, and begins removing clothing) Packing. I hate packing. Too much preparation. If I'm going, I'd rather just go and be gone. There's too much time to think. I guess it's a good sign that I can take my own clothes, this time, right? Last time it was just the scrubs, through the whole visit. Pale green against off-white walls, floors, and ceilings for months on end. If you aren't crazy to begin with, you will be shortly. The only things of color are the pills. Yellow, pink, blue... and they are endless. Depending on who's prescribing them, of course. We'll see how this one goes. Doctor Herr. She seemed okay. What did you think? (hesitant) She said that she can make me better. She seemed so sure, too. She looked me in the eye, handed me a bottle, and said that she could make you go away. She said that I should tell you that. That it might help. Does this scare you as much as it does me? To be honest, I don't know what I'd feel if someone could take a pill and make me go away. I've always thought that it would scare me, to be in your situation... at the whim of someone's frightful delusions, never knowing when you'll have a chance to exist again... Does it hurt to pop in and out of existence, like you do? (brief pause) When I don't see you, do you even know you don't exist? (waits, then shrugs off her disappointment at the silence) Well, you never answered before, I guess there's no reason why you should answer me, now. (pauses- looks up sharply) No, there is a reason. You owe it to me. Yes, yes, that's right. You owe it to me. You know you do. After all that you've stolen from my life, it's only right... I should be able to steal some from yours. An image of your childhoods... your parents... your weddings... your children- (chokes to a stop on 'children') There must be some tiny bit you can give- that would make us even... make this fair before you're gone. That would be fair. (singles out audience member) Don't you think so? (singles out another, as Kathryn enters behind her) Don't you think that's fair?
K- Think what's fair?
D- (startled, but responding quickly) That they should share their lives with me. As I've been forced to share with them.
K- (looking around the room, seeing only the walls of their bedroom) Yes, that seems perfectly fair. (pause) Have they answered you?
D- No, they never want to interact with me. No gestures, no words... not a goddamn thing. They're content to stare me down until I'm too mad to-
K- You're not mad.
D- Do you see them, too?
K- (suppressing a cringe) No, I-
D- No, no, no... (affectionately mocking, quietly desperate) I only see masses of silent people watching me as if I were some character upon a stage. No crazy here. None at all. (on the verge of a silent emotion that quickly subsides)
K- But it's not you. You remember... the doctor said-
D- (reciting) ... seeing what isn't there is a flaw in my gray matter, not a reflection of my person and reason... Of course, of course.
K- You are not crazy. (a game between them) You're the sanest, gentlest, most loving person I've ever known.
D- (playing, for her sake) And you are the craziest, meanest, most selfish creature I've ever found.
K- Beside me, you must be perfect.
D- And when you're gone?
K- And where would I be going?
D- (nods) I'll just finish packing. (pause) Could I have some time alone, before we go?
K- Of course. If you're sure-
D- (curt) Yes. (pause) Thank you. (Kathryn exits, while Dawn continues packing. She eventually takes an interest in the audience, again.) I remember the first time I saw you... so long ago. I remember sitting alone in the front room... and then you were there with me, where the front window was supposed to be... Well, I don't know if it was YOU, you... but another group like you. What is that? Am I too weak-minded to hold a steady delusion? Or is there more to you than silent expectation? Do you have make-believe families and lives that you go to, when I'm not looking? Could I be so creative, that I'd create an entire community in the back of my mind? A whole world? Huh. Funny thought. Well, I don't think it was you, last time, either. How long has it been? Almost two years, I think... well, until last week, anyway. Why do you come? Does my suffering provide you with some pleasure? Does it fulfill some need in your lives? (reasoning) When I was seven, you were there right before mom and dad's last fight- and when I was thirteen, you watched what happened to me without lifting a finger, to help. At nineteen, you saw what I did myself, and were every bit as silent. I remember crying. Do you remember that? Do you remember me begging you for help? I do. Not that you cared. Or did you? Was it you that called for help? Or was it really mere 'luck' that Kathryn came along when she did? How cliche. (long pause) Do you care about me? Did I give you souls, after all? Souls that could give some comfort in addition to cold stares? Is you interest something tantamount to affection... concern... or love, maybe? It isn't, is it? No, of course not. Love me? ... You were at my wedding. That was awkward... instead of loved ones, silent strangers with blank stares... (chilled) I'm still not sure why you were there. There was no misery on that day, except you. (Kathryn enters, without interrupting) But you showed up when I found her with her ex-husband. Was that why? Was it a prelude? Some buildup, a warning of sorrows to come? Do you get some sort of kick out of watching me break? And then last week- She was- She is- She isn't... Nonsense. What would Kathy say, if she could see me now? Kathy... without Kathryn I sometimes wonder if I wouldn't disappear right along with you. Like some lost thought that leaves you wondering if an answer had been right there, within your grasp... if you'd only been able to take hold of it- (long pause... then begins moving toward the audience) Can I touch you? (asking permission- pause- seizing the perceived right) If I really want to, shouldn't I be able to? If you are in my head- if I can make my eyes see what isn't there, why can't my hands be made to feel it? (stretches out her hand- a mixture of dread and reverence)
K- Dawn, please-
D- I just want to touch them. Just once. I deserve to touch them.
K- Don't.
D- Why not? Where's my return, here? I give them life and they do nothing but watch me hurt.
K- They're not real.
D- Of course they are. (pause) No. No? No, no they're not. I made them, they're in my head. I know. I really do. (continues moving toward the audience- desperate and terrified- she touches someone) Aahu- (noise of surprise and delight) Did you see?! I touched him/her! Hahaha.... I did it! I did it, I did, right there- the one with the (describes audience member). I touched him/her... hahahaha... Kathy, Kathy I did it, I made it happen, they let it happen, we, we touched- (to the audience member) Did you feel it? You must've, if I did- hehehe... hahahah.... Oh, oh my, it's, it's like, umm... like having a third arm you didn't know about turn out to have been asleep all this time- Oh, Kathy- this is so much more-
K- Dawn, Dawn- (moves to her) You touched the wall. See? (slides her hand through the air, as if along a solid wall)
D- But I- (terrified, elated, and now thoroughly confused) No, no- I did touch him/her. I did. I did, just a ;moment ago. Right there- (to the audience member) You remember, don't you? Of course, how could you- I mean, it was just-... (back to Kathy) How could think that- a wall? No, no, I did, my fingers remember... (reaches out, again, but Kathy catches her hand)
K- Dawn, Dawn... look at me. (gently guides Dawn's face toward hers) I'm going to get your medicine.
D- Might as well. I obviously can't fix me.
K- It's okay. (pause) It will be okay.
D- Will it? That's good to know. Did you hear her? She said it's going to be okay. Good, good. I wonder when. (inspects her hand, distractedly)
K- (guides Dawn to the bed, brushes the side of her face) I'll be right back.
D- (touches her hand to her cheek, experimentally- turns to the audience member) I did touch you, didn't I? Please give me some response, one way or the other... I can take it, it's okay. Or (gestures after K) it will be. Did I touch you, or didn't I? (whispering) Please answer me, this once. Just a word. That's all I want. I- I know that I touched you, right there. You cannot take that away from me, not now. I've seen you, smelled you for years... and now I've felt you, I've finally, finally touched you. What I would give to- (notices a program- picks it up) to... to... what a strange... Kathryn? (reading) Simple... by Sarah Scott. Why- (looks up at the audience member, from whom she's taken the program, then back to the program) Characters... Dawn... (actor's name). Who's (actor's name)? Kathryn- that's my wife, she's just left... who's (actor's name)? (whispered) No. No. That's not, that's not possible. You're in MY head. Mine. Yes? Yes. Right? I'm real, I made you up in my chemically imbalanced head. I couldn't- I mean, now could I be... NO. You're in my head. I'm not in yours. (loaded pause) Am I? (her eyes glaze a bit, and she turns from the audience, feeling her body out, sorting sense information supporting both possibilities... growing angrily confused, she moves quickly toward the audience member)
K- (enters, finding Dawn about to throw herself into the wall, rushes to catch her) Dawn. Please Dawn. (near panic- it's never been this bad) Please... oh, please, Dawn... Dawn... look at me. Focus. Focus on me. I'm here. Look at me, I'm right here... (holds her cheeks, forcing their eyes to meet)
D- (matter-of-fact, slightly amused) No. You aren't.
K- Shh... (rocking her) I love you. I AM here, Dawn. I will not leave you. Not ever. You and me. It's just you and me. (K's eyes search the walls, vainly seeking the people D insists are there)
D- (babbling) Whoah, I just- I, uh... hahaha... I don't know how- I, found a, um, a program, and it, it had us in it, me and you, I mean- and I don't- I mean, is that possible? No, no, it isn't, we aren't, they aren't... I- I... I'm lost, Kathy. So long, so long I could see them... smell them... and now, now I've touched them, they let me touch them, just in time for this, for this, this charade, this game. It's over, I can't, I can't- I'm lost...
K- No, no you're not I've got you right here. As long as we're together-
D- (sick, gently maniacal giggle) But you're lost, too.
K- What?
D- Lost, complete limbo, without a place, devoid of origin, empty- you're lost, lost... just like me. Everybody... we all are, the doctors, you, me, our daughter- (nearly choking) She's lost, lost... but if we are, then maybe, maybe it's for the best, maybe it's better, better for her... not some name on a page.. but- (turning to audience) What about you? Are you lost? Are you watched? Do you think as much, feel as much, do you HURT as much? How could you, I, I don't, how, why, do you even know? DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU DO? (violently pushes away from K) I HATE YOU. Damn you, and your twisted, broken creations. (deep breath) Is this it? IS THIS ALL YOU HAVE IN YOU?
K- Dawn... (runs from the room)
D- (turns toward his exit) Kathy, wait- no. Don't leave me alone. Not with them. Not with them. You. You have made me. To suffer- Why? Is there a reason? Some purpose I don't understand, some meaning behind what I, what we go through? Why are your tongues still? Is there some book that holds your answers? Some prayer to earn your words? Is all I am nothing more than your words? No, no- I am more. I am MORE. I AM MORE. (whispers, to herself) I am only painful words. Your. Painful. Words. Can you hurt so much? And still have so much left to share? Or do you feel so little that you must hurt through me to live at all? I am not here for your pain, or, or, your pleasure. But if your words create me, dictate my every action... what is left to me?... death? (half-hearted giggle, pauses, moves to the gun safe in the bottom dresser drawer)... but even that's yours, isn't it? And you know, of course you do. You know it all too well. "To be or not to be..." Is that the question you want me to answer for you? Or is it Kathy who's to die? (holding the gun before her, delicately inspecting) Would you rather I "Put out the light, and then put out the light?" hahaha... pretty good, huh? Nothing like a good, old-fashioned homicide to titillate the fucked up masses. (a thought) How many times has this dance been performed? Is my breakdown popular, well-received? Or no, no- let me guess- will Kathy run in and save me from myself? Are you such fans of the last-minute melodrama? Perhaps I'm tragic, with this self-awareness that carries me to my inevitable, self-inflicted doom?... Or does this dark comedy move you to self-satisfied smirks Do I comment on your own theatrical scene, as you recline and slumber? Which role do I play for you? Which one?! Which fucking role do you want from me? (begins rambling toward incoherency) What role, what role, to play, a stupid play, a stupid play on a stupid, fucking stage. (giggle) Whose stage? Whose head? Mine? Yours? (actor's name)'s? So many, too many stages... too many heads... I can't... I don't... I... (cradles the gun toward her left breast, like a child- looks up) How many times must I die for you? (crying, pulls the trigger- falls)
K- (offstage) Dawn?! Dawn!! (reenters holding a mobile phone) Oh, no baby. (into the phone) Doctor, send help- there's been an accident. (ends call, dials 911)
D- I tried not to, Kathy... I tried... (she mutters softly, slower and slower, without acknowledging K at all)
K- I need an ambulance- please. My wife, she's, uh, she's had an accident, she's bleeding, oh my god- (pressing against the wound) Please- please- (the phone slips from his ear) I love you. I'm right here, Dawn. Right here. Dawn? (Dawn's eyes close, she goes limp) Dawn, Dawn, look at me. (grabs for the phone) I need an ambulance! (looks directly at the audience) One of you, get a fucking doctor. (turns to Dawn, pauses- looks back around) Fuck. (turns her attention to Dawn- grows quieter, and eventually freezes. Both actors should remain motionless for a few moments, and then as lights begin to slowly fade...)
D- (sighs) Damn. I did it again, didn't I? I tried so hard.
K- (running a hand through her hair) It can't be helped. We're only so many words.
II RESET:
Actors replace items, as before.
THIRD SEQUENCE:
(USC Dawn enters, freezing when she sees the audience. She steadies herself, and completes her entrance.)
D- (strides to the dresser, begins removing clothing) Packing. I hate packing. Too much preparation. If I'm going, I'd rather just go and be gone. (pause, as she considers her words, the audience, the space- she then heads immediately for the gun- removes it, considers it, glances at the audience) There's too much time to think. (puts the gun to her head and pulls the trigger- no shot- begins inspecting the weapon for damage- keeps gun and incorporates it from now on- every action knows the blind path of her words) I guess it's a good sign that I can take my own clothes this time, right? Last time it was just the scrubs, through the whole visit. Pale green against off-white walls, floors, and ceilings for months on end. If you aren't crazy to begin with, you will be shortly. The only things of color are the pills. Yellow, pink, blue... and they are endless. Depending on who's prescribing them, of course. We'll see how this one goes. Doctor Herr. She seemed okay. What do you think? She said that she can make me better. She seemed so sure, too. She looked me in the eye, handed me a bottle, and said that she could make you go away. She said that I should tell you that. That it might help. Does this scare you as much as it does me? To be honest, I don't know what I'd feel if someone could take a pill and make me go away. I've always thought that it would scare me, to be in your situation... at the whim of someone's frightful delusions, never knowing when you'll have a chance to exist again... Does it hurt to pop in and out of existence, like you do? When I don't see you, do you even know you don't exist? Well, you never answered before. I guess there's no reason why you should answer now. (pauses, looks up sharply- aims the gun at the nearest audience member) No, there is a reason. You owe it to me. Yes, yes, that's right. You owe it to me. You know you do. After all that you've stolen from my life, it's only right... I should be able to steal some from yours. An image of your childhoods... your parents... your weddings... your children- (still chokes to a stop on children) There must be some tiny bit you can give- that would make us even.. make this fair before you're gone. That would be fair. (singles out audience member with gun) Don't you think so? (singles out another, turning the gun on them, as K enters) Don't you think that's fair?
K- Think what's fair?
D- (startled, turns the gun on him- then goes back and forth from audience to K) That they should share their lives with me. As I've been forced to share with them.
K- (looking around the room, seeing only the bare walls of their bedroom- taking in and considering the gun) Yes, that seems perfectly fair. (pausing) Have they answered you?
D- No, (turns to the audience) they never want to interact with me. No gestures, no words... not a goddamn thing. They're content to stare me down until I'm too mad to-
K- (slowly approaching) You're not mad.
D- (glancing over her shoulder) Do you see them, too?
K- (cringing) No, I-
D- No, no, no... (bitter, angry, gesticulating with the gun) I only see masses of silent people watching me as if I were some character upon a stage. No crazy here. (puts the gun to her head- K puts out her arms- D pulls the trigger- no shot) None at all. (resignedly points the gun at the audience)
K- But it's not you. You remember... the doctor said that-
D- (reciting)... seeing what isn't there is a flaw in my gray matter, not a reflection of my person and reason... Of course, of course.
K- You are not crazy. (a now nervous game between them, as she attempts to get close enough to disarm her) You're one of the sanest, gentlest, most loving people I've ever known-
D- (returning, without playfulness) And you are the craziest, meanest, most selfish person I've ever found.
K- Beside me, you must be perfect.
D- (grins, half-heartedly, turns and sees how close K's come- puts the gun between them- warning) And when you're gone?
K- (raises hands, freezing in place) And where would I be going?
D- (nods to herself) I'll just finish packing. (indicates exit with the gun) Could I have some time alone before we go?
K- Of course. (backing quickly, then pausing- takes a small step in her direction, arm outstretched) If you're sure-
D- (curt) Yes. (pauses- now irritated by his presence) Thank you. (K exits. She briefly resumes packing, before returning her attention to the audience.) I remember the first time I saw you... so long ago. I remember sitting alone in the front room... and then you were there with me, where the front window was supposed to be... Well, I don't know if it was YOU, you... but another group like you. What is that? Am I too weak-minded to hold onto a steady delusion? Or is there more to you than silent expectation? Do you have make-believe families and lives that you go to when I'm not looking? Could I be so creative, that I'd create an entire community in the back of my mind? A whole world? Huh. Funny thought. Well, I don't think it was you last time, either. How long has it been? A couple of years, I think... well, until last week, anyway. Why do you come? Does my suffering provide you with some pleasure? Does it fulfill some need in your lives? (reasoning) When I was seven, you were there right before mom and dad's last fight- and when I was thirteen, you watched what happened to me without lifting a finger to help. And at nineteen, you saw what I did myself and were every it as silent. I remember crying. Do you remember that? Do you remember me begging your for help? I do. Not that you cared. Or did you? Was it you that called for help? Or was it really mere "luck" that Kathryn came along when she did? How cliche. (long pause) Do you care about me? Did I give you souls after all, souls that could give some comfort in addition to cold stares? Is your interest something tantamount to affection... concern... or love, maybe? It's not, is it. No, of course not. Love me?... You were at my wedding. That was awkward... instead of loved ones, silent strangers with blank stares... (chilled)... I'm still not sure why you were there- there was no misery on that day, except you. (K enters without interrupting) But you showed up when I found her with her ex-husband. Was that why? Was it a prelude? Some buildup, a warning of sorrows to come? Do you get some sort of kick out of watching me break? And then last week- She was- She is- She isn't... Nonsense. What would Kathy say if she could see me now? Kathy... without Kathy I sometimes wonder if I wouldn't disappear right along with you. Like some lost thought that leaves you wondering if an answer had been right there, within your grasp... if you'd only been able to take hold of it- (long pause... then begins moving toward the audience) Can I touch you? (asking permission, pause, then seizing the perceived right) If I really want to, shouldn't I be able to? If you are in my head- if I can make my eyes see what isn't there, why can't my hands be made to feel it? (she stretches out her hand with some difficult mixture of reverence and hatred)
K- Dawn, please-
D- (points gun in K's direction without altering her attention or path) I just want to touch them, just once. I deserve to touch them.
K- Don't.
D- Why not? Where's my return, here? I give them life and they do nothing but watch me hurt.
K- They're not real.
D- (screams) Of course they are. (pause, fighting words as they come out) No. No? No, no they're not. I made them, they're in my head. I know. I really do. (continues moving toward the audience- desperate, terrified- she successfully touches someone) Aahu- (noises of surprise, dismay) Did you see?! I touched him/her! Hahaha... I did it! I did it, I did, right there- the one with the (describes audience member). I touched him/her... hahahaha... Kathy, Kathy I did it, I made it happen, they let it happen, we, we touched- (to the audience member) Did you feel it? You must've, if I did- hehehe... hahaha... Oh, oh my, it's, it's like, umm... like having a third arm you didn't know about turn out to have been asleep all this time- Oh Kathy- this is so much more-
K- Dawn, Dawn- (moves near her, quickly) You touched the wall. See? (slides her hand through the air as if along a solid wall)
D- But I- (terrified, elated, ever more confused) No, no- I did touch him/her. I did. I did, just a moment ago. Right there- (to the audience member) You remember, don't you? Of course, how could you- I mean, it was just-... (back to K) How could you think that- a wall? No, no, I did, my fingers remember... (aims the gun at an audience member and fires- no shot- aims at herself again, fires- no shot)
K- Dawn, Dawn... look at me. (moves her hand to catch D's attention, without getting too close) I'm going to get your medicine.
D- Might as well. I obviously can't fix me.
K- It's okay. (realizing it's anything but) It will be okay.
D- Will it? That's good to know. Did you hear her? She said it's going to be okay. Good, good. I wonder when.
K- I'll be right back. (exits)
D- (inspects her hand, smells it... touches her cheek to see if it registers... to the audience member she touched) I did touch you, didn't I? Please give me some response, one way or the other... I can take it, it's okay. Or (gestures after K with the gun) it will be. (demanding) Did I touch you, or didn't I? (increasingly short-tempered) Please answer me, this once. Just a word, that's all I want. I- I know that I touched you, right there. You cannot take that away from me, not now. I've seen you, smelled you for years... and now I've felt you, I've finally, finally touched you. What I would give to- (notices a program and picks it up) to... to... what a strange... (giddy, a bit nauseous) Simple... by Sarah Scott. Why- (looks up at the audience member from whom she's taken the program, then back to the program itself) Characters... Dawn... (actor's name). Who's (actor's name)? Kathryn- that's my wife, she's just left... who's (actor's name)? (whispered) No. No. That's not- that's not possible. You're in MY head. Mine. Yes? Yes. Right? I'm real, I made you up in my chemically imbalanced head. I couldn't, I mean, how could I be... No. You're in my head. I'm not in yours. (loaded pause) Am I? (her eyes glaze a bit, and she turns from the audience, feeling her body out, sorting sense information supporting both possibilities... after a few moments, she turns to look at the audience, growing angrily confused until she begins to rush an audience member- K enters, seeing her wife about to throw herself into a wall, rushes to catch her- K throws her off-balance, they briefly fight for the gun, which D keeps. Dawn holds it between them, again, with both hands- now completely distrustful.)
K- Please, Dawn. (near panic) Please... oh, please, Dawn... Dawn, Dawn- look at me. Focus. Focus on me, I'm here. Look at me. I'm right here... (tries to catch Dawn's eyes, hold her focus)
D- (how many times has she said this?) No. You aren't.
K- Shh... (trying to cozy up to her, again) Shh.. I love you. I AM here, Dawn. I will not leave you. Not ever. (D points the gun at K, fires- no shot)
D- (babbling this whole time) Whoah, I just- I, uh... hahaha... I don't know how- I, found a, um, a program, and it, it had us in it, me, and you, I mean- and I don't- I mean, is that possible? No, no, it's not, we're not- they're not... I- I... I'm lost, Kathy. So long, so long I could see them... smell them... and now, now I've touched them, they let me touch them, just in time for this, for this, this charade, this game. It's over, I can't, I can't- I'm lost... (points gun at herself, fires- no shot)
K- No, no you're not- I've got you right here. As long as we're together-
D- (sick, maniacal giggle) But you're lost, too.
K- What?
D- Lost, complete limbo, without a place, devoid of origin, empty- You're lost, lost... just like me. Everybody... we all are, the doctors, you, me, our daughter- (nearly choking) She's lost, lost... but if we are, then maybe, maybe it's for the best, maybe it's better, better for her... not some name on a page... but- (turning on audience) What about you? Are you lost? Are you watched? Do you think as much, feel as much, do you HURT as much? How could you, I, I don't, how, why, do you even know? DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU DO? I HATE YOU! Damn you and your twisted, broken creations. (deep breath) Is this it? IS THIS ALL YOU HAVE IN YOU?
K- Dawn! (runs from the room)
D- (turning toward K's exit) Kathy, wait!... No... Don't leave me alone. Not with them. Not with them. You. You have made me, to suffer- Why? Is there a reason? Some purpose I don't understand, some meaning behind what I, what we go through? Why are your tongues still? Is there some book that holds your answers? Some prayer to earn your words? Is all I am nothing more than our words? No, no- I am more. I am MORE. I AM MORE. (whispers) I am only painful words. Your. Painful. Words. Can you hurt so much? And still have so much left to share? Or do you feel so little that you must hurt through me to live at all? I am not here for your pain, or, or your pleasure. But if your words create me, dictate my every action... what is left to me?... death? (waves the gun about, fires it at herself a couple times- no shots- bitter and rhetorical)... but even that's yours, isn't it? And you know, of course you do. You know all too well. "To be or not to be..." Is that the question you want me to answer for you? Or is it Kathy who's to die? (turns to attempt to exit- invisible barriers prevent her leaving- she turns violently) Would you rather I "Put out the light, and then put out the light"? hahahah... Pretty good, huh? Nothing like a good, old-fashioned homicide to titillate the fucked up masses. (a thought) How many times has this dance been performed? Is my breakdown popular? Or no, no- let me guess- (hopelessly hopeful) will Kathy run in and save me from myself? Are you such fans of the last-minute melodrama? (she knows this) Perhaps I'm tragic, with this self-awareness that carries me to my inevitable, self-inflicted doom?... Or does this dark comedy move you o self-satisfied smirks? Do I comment on your own theatrical scene, as you recline and slumber? Which role do I play for you? Which one?! Which fucking role do you want from me? What role, what role, to play, a stupid play, a stupid goddamn play on a stupid, fucking stage. (giggle) Whose stage? Whose head? Mine? Yours? (Actor's name)'s? So many, too many stages... too many heads... (begins trying to point the gun at herself for the actual shot, trying to fight it) I can't... I don't... I... (places the gun to her chest, asking softly, without any hysteria) How many times must I die for you? (throws the gun to the ground- shot fires- she falls)
K- Dawn?! Dawn? (enters holding a mobile phone) Oh, no baby. (into the phone) Doctor, send help- there's been an accident. (ends call, dials 911)
D- I tried not to, Kathy... I tried... (she mutters softly, slower and slower, without acknowledging K at all)
K- I need an ambulance- please. My wife, she's, uh, she's had an accident, she's bleeding- oh my god. (trying to find the wound) Please- please- (the phone slips to the floor) I love you. I'm right here, Dawn. Right here. Dawn? (D's eyes close, she goes limp) Dawn, Dawn, look at me. (grabs for the phone) I need an ambulance! (looks to the audience) One of you, get a fucking doctor! (turns to D, pauses- looks back around. Now K remembers.) Fuck. (turns her attention to Dawn- K grows quieter, and eventually freezes. Both actors remain motionless for a few moments, and then as the lights begin to fade...)
D- (sobs) Damn. I did it again, didn't I? I tried so hard
K- (holding Dawn's face in her hands, trying to hold her together) It can't be helped. We're only so many words.
III RESET
Actors reset, as before.
FOURTH SEQUENCE
Dawn enters, appearing stricken. After entrance, she immediately attempts to exit again, but invisible barriers prevent her leaving.)
D- Packing. I hate packing. (covers her mouth with her hands, but words continue coming as she looks about desperately. She becomes aware of the booth. She finds a piece of clothing to gag herself, the lines still pouring out of her, and goes to get the gun, threatening the stage manager and board ops, firing repeatedly into the booth from the stage- no shots. When this fails, she then sets out to stack furniture to climb into the booth. During this, K enters on cue, responding to lines even through her gag.)
K- (taken aback) Think what's fair?
D- (she shoots at K from her perch- no shots- she throws the gun at K. Coming down from her perch, she removes her gag, and then rushes K as she speaks) That they should share their lives with me. As I've been forced to share with them.
K- (attempts to exit when D rushes her, but invisible barriers prevent K's exit, as well) Yes, that seems perfectly fair. Have they answered you?
D- No, (she wrestles K to the ground, hard) they never want to interact with me. No gestures, no words... not a goddamn thing. They're content to stare me down until I'm too mad to-
K- (obviously fighting her own lines, at this point) You're not mad.
D- (pauses for a moment) You see them, too?
K- (nodding her head, yes) No, I-
D- No, no, no... (bitter, angry, sad- she fights her way atop K) I only see masses of silent people watching me as if I were some character upon a stage. No crazy here. None at all.
K- But it's not you. (torn between understanding the situation, and terror at D's actions) You remember... the doctor said that-
D- (reciting, monotone) ... seeing what isn't there is a flaw in my gray matter, not a reflection of my person and reason... of course, of course.
K- You are not crazy. (a now desperate struggle as they've both spotted the gun beside a pillow on the floor- they go for it, D reaches it first, beats K over the head with it until she's nearly limp, fighting to remain conscious even more than she's fighting D at this point) You're one of the sanest, gentlest, most loving people I've ever known.
D- (without any playfulness, placing the pillow over K face, pushing hard and desperately, even as she begins crying) And you are the craziest, meanest, most selfish person I've ever found.
K- (struggling weakly for a few moments [take the time], using the last of her breath to cry through the pillow) Beside me, you must be perfect.
D- (openly weeping, as K's struggles stop) And when you're gone? (she pauses, then prompts again, even as she pushes down on the pillow to be sure) And when you're gone? (pause- she removes the pillow, uncovering K's lifeless face, eyes open and unseeing- she falls to kissing K, as she cries. She then dries her face on the same pillow. She considers the pillow, holds it briefly against her face until she realizes that she can't hold it hard enough or long enough to complete the act herself. She stands, attempts to exit, but she isn't allowed. She kneels beside K, caresses her face.) And when you're gone? (stares hard at the booth) And when you're gone? (takes a long moment looking about the audience, then lies down beside K, allowing her eyes to glaze over. She should be beside K, in reverse, with her feet beside K's head- equally unresponsive- both sets of eyes open and unblinking.)
Stage Manager: (from booth, attempting to prompt them) And where would I be going? (pause) And where would I be going? (pause) And where would I be going? (this continues, as lights slowly fade- the final line of "And where would I be going?" spoken in complete darkness)
Houselights up.
Run crew should begin tear down after audience begins exit, including removal of the catatonic actors. If house fails to begin exit within two minutes, clear set anyway.
Sunday, August 4, 2013
Suicides R Us
(This is another skit written for the improv group I was involve with, in school. The performers were male, so the dialogue is written in the masculine- however, the gender of the characters was originally imagined as being female, and ultimately unimportant. Alter he/sir to she/ma'am. Only the gender of the author was intended to remain fixed.)
1: Hello?
2: Greetings and welcome to Suicides R Us. My name is Two, UpRight. How may I kill you, today?
1: Well, I-
2: We're running a special on copycat celebrity suicides this week, with an additional ten percent off the mystery favorite of the day.
1: What if I-
2: We're also running a couples' discount for-
1: I'm not sure I want to do this, quite yet.
2: Three! We need a full work-up on this one!
3: Full work up, yes sir. If you'll just step over here, sir. Now, my name is Three, DownLeft. Can I please get your full name, for our records.
1: One, OnStage.
3: OnStage, can you spell that for me, please?
1: O-N-S-T-A-G-E, OnStage.
3: 's not a spelling bee, but thank you for repeating it.
1: I'm sorry, I-
3: Now, Mr. OnStage, would you be so kind as to tell me your date of birth?
1: October 2nd, 2004.
3: Funny. That's my birthday.
1: Well, that is when she finished the skit, so I'd imagine that all our birthdays are on the second of October.
3: Really? Mr. UpRight!
2: Yes, Three?
3: When's your birthday?
2: October 2nd, of course. Really man, do you think that we existed before she wrote us down?
3: Well, there's no reason to get uptight about it.
2: UpRight, you fool. Anyone can see that I am UpRight, and you DownLeft.
3: So what's his deal?
1: I'm OnStage.
3: Oh.
2: Quite right-
3: So the new kid, Four, BackStage-
2: If you don't mind, I'm sure this gentleman would like to decide whether to live or die, sometime today.
3: Of course, sir. Sorry, sir.
1: 's quite alright.
3: Now then, what recent events brought you to us, today?
1: Funny you should ask because, to be honest, I'm not sure there were recent events.
3: How's that?
1; Well, before I walk on in the beginning, I don't even exist as a person-
3: Then why are you here?
1: She wrote me entering.
3: Yes, but if you have no recent events that would bring you here, then why come at all?
1: Well, I only exist within the confines of her text. If I was to refuse to enter, I would never exist.
3: But we deal in death, here-
2: Suicides, DownLeft.
3: My apologies, Mr. UpRight. Suicides, specifically. Why bother to walk onstage at all, if you've been written to die?
1: Well, I don't know how the script ends. I'm rather hoping she decided to give me a happy ending.
(2 and 3 laugh)
3: A happy ending? Have you met our author?
1: Well-
2: The best ending you can hope for is a painless one, Mr. OnStage.
1: Now wait a minute- do you two know something more about the script than I do?
3: Well, Two? Do you have any answers?
2: Sorry- she didn't write answers into any of us.
1: Maybe there'll be more characters, shortly.
2: A "deus ex machina" set up, you mean? She doesn't deal in foreshadowed salvations, I'm afraid.
1: But I just foreshadowed!
3: No, actually, you "wished for," making a direct reference to a later arrival you would like to see. Foreshadowing, on the other hand, is a very subtle, crafty technique employed by authors, not characters, to hint at a later development through indirect character statements and onstage settings.
1: Oh.
2: Well done, Three.
3: Thank you, sir.
1: So I'm doomed?
3: 'fraid so, sir.
1: But when?
3: Whenever you wish.
1: How?
2: In whatever manner you choose.
1: Why would she write me this way?
3: These are all very good questions, sir- healthy, natural questions that anyone would ask in such a situation.
1: What's the point of any of this if she's only written me to die? Why even bother?
3: That's where we come in, sir.
2: Quite right.
1: You both seem awfully chipper about all of this.
3: We've found that maintaining a positive attitude at work sets a strong contrast for our clients.
2: Especially those who aren't sure, yet.
1: Oh.
3: So which method do you prefer, sir?
1: Method?
3: Of suicide. We have a rather impressive variety ranging from quiet slumbers to bloody, ghastly horrors-
1: Do people really opt for the horrors?
3: Some feel that if they can't make a mark living, they can at least leave a mess dying.
1: 's a certain logic to that, isn't there?
3: Of a sort. Shall I list the horrors we,re offering at the moment, then? Keep in mind that if you don't like anything we have on-hand, we also take special orders to be fulfilled upon arrival of the material, provided you leave a deposit and arrange for a payment plan. However, if you were to find a reason to live before the set date, we would have to keep your deposit.
1: How often does that happen?
3: What would you say, Two? Two or three time a year?
2: Hasn't happened at all, this year. We've had a few incompletes, but no one's backed out entirely.
1: I see.
3: So is there anything you'd like to see, sir?
1: What are the quieter methods? If you don't mind.
3: Of course, sir. Our number one request, especially among the ladies, is prescription sleeping pills- pop forty to sixty of these puppies and you'll be free in no time.
1: Free from what, exactly?
3: Your wasted life, of course.
1: Was it wasted?
3: Well, you are here, sir.
1: Ah.
3: Our second category is gases, sir.
1: Gases, you say?
3: Yes, sir. We offer an interesting assortment of gases from the natural gases in old-style ovens to the carbon monoxide produced in defective heating units, to basic helium used for balloons. Between you and me, the gases are generally more reliable than the pills.
1: Really?
3: Oh, certainly. Tried the pills myself, once. After you've decided to die, there's no sense of failure more complete than waking up.
1: You woke up?!?! They're sleeping pills, how-
3: They aggravated my ulcer.
1: Ah. Of course.
3: Would you like to try the gases, then?
1: I'm still not sure I want to-
3: Sir, your life is obviously no longer worth living. In fact, given the shallow brevity of your existence, I would daresay it was never worth living, and that our author did in fact waste her own precious time bringing you into this world.
1: You'd better watch yourself, sir. My life may not be much, as it is, but as a supporting character, your entire existence is based on my desire to end this life you so flippantly denigrate.
2: He's got you on that one, Three.
3: When did we establish that he was the main character?
1: I am the only character allowed to roam the stage. And it's my line that breaks the stasis, thus initiating the entirety of our existence.
2: Ruffles the feathers, doesn't it, Three?
3: A bit, sir.
1: Come now, it's nothing to be upset about. Apparently being the main character requires an indecisive death wish, which is not the most becoming characteristic a person like myself cares to sport.
2: True. Very well, then, Mr. OnStage, you are indeed the main character.
3: Congratulations. Are you ready to die, now?
1: Yes, I believe that I am.
3: And have you decided upon a method, or would you-
1: I'd like a gun, please.
3: We have another minor horror, Mr. UpRight. Do you have a preference as to which type of gun you'd like, sir?
1: I'm afraid I'm not familiar with the different types. Could you-
3: Would you like an open casket funeral?
1: Oh. I hadn't really thought of that.
3: And now that you have?
1: I'd rather be cremated.
3: Very good, sir. For those concerned with the appearance of their corpse, we often recommend a smaller weapon, despite the increased possibility of failure. But in your case, we have several rather large guns that cannot help but succeed.
1: Does the size of the weapon increase the pain?
3: Honestly, we aren't quite sure. The down side to such an effective weapon is that we never get client feedback.
1: Of course. Well, I suppose the largest will do nicely, then.
3: Very good, sir. Shall we set the rental for an hour, or do you believe you'll need some time for contemplation?
1: Just a few minutes should be quite enough, I think.
3: We only rent in hourly increments, sir. That often ensures that everyone has the time to get home and settled, before they go.
1: Home? Aren't there rooms in the back for this sort of thing?
3: You want to do it here, you say?
1: Of course. I live alone- I'd rather not die so, if it can be helped.
3: I'm afraid we do not offer companionship, sir.
1: Can't I pay extra?
3: Mr. UpRight, Mr. OnStage wants to add a hand-holder at extra charge- can we do that?
2: I'm sorry, Mr. OnStage, but that's against our policy.
3: Sorry, sir. Do you have a friend you can call?
1: If I had one of those, I wouldn't be standing here discussing the details of my death with a complete stranger now, would I?
3: I suppose not, sir.
2: She really did write you in a rather sickly way, didn't she?
1: It would seem so.
2: Worse comes to worst, Three and I have each other, at least. Some poorly developed, previously existing, if un-experienced relationship to anchor us in the world-
1: She did write several good friends into my background, I think. But she must've forgotten to endow me with the strength and will necessary for either trust or intimacy.
3: She forgot. I'm sure that's it, isn't it, Two?
2: Oh, of course. She forgets a lot, that one.
1: Maybe she'll forget to have me kill myself.
3: Wouldn't be very therapeutic for her, now, would it? Or profitable for us? Or even entertaining for those watching? You know, you might try thinking a little beyond yourself, on occasion.
2: Three's got a point, you know.
1: Are these my why's? One, OnStage is written to kill himself for the benefit of an author who brought him into such a miserable existence in the first place, a couple of two-dimensional characters who would never have existed if not to aid this pointless exercise, and a group of people he cannot even directly acknowledge, and yet for whom his death is to provide a few laughs before they return to their own skits?
3: Yeah. Seems that way.
1: Fine. I'll bet she doesn't even have that many meanings.
3: (hands weapon over) Here you go, sir: one sawed-off shotgun for the next hour. Have a pleasant death, sir. And do come back, if anything should go wrong.
1: Most kind.
2: Best of luck, sir.
1: Good night, gentlemen.
(1 exits with the weapon- not to be fired in performance)
3: Hey, Two.
2: Yes, Three?
3: How long do you think we'll have to sit here before she gets sick of us, now that she's destroyed her main character?
2: Nervous?
3: No. Well, maybe a little. Does disappearing hurt, do you think?
2: No more than this, I'd imagine.
3: Do you think we'll know?
2: Not exactly. I imagine we'll just dissolve into our actors without even realizing it.
3: Why won't they keep us?
2: Would you want two immobilized catalysts running your life?
3: No, I suppose not.
2: Then, there you go.
(pause)
3: So, do you think Four's bitter about being BackStage?
4: (from backstage) I thank my lucky stars, and She-That-Wrote-Me, every second of my nonexistent existence for being spared a trip through your hall of horrors, you two-dimensional hacks.
2: There you have it.
3: Lucky bastard. Well, it's been an existence, Two.
2: So it has. Better luck, next time, Three.
3: And to you.
1: Hello?
2: Greetings and welcome to Suicides R Us. My name is Two, UpRight. How may I kill you, today?
1: Well, I-
2: We're running a special on copycat celebrity suicides this week, with an additional ten percent off the mystery favorite of the day.
1: What if I-
2: We're also running a couples' discount for-
1: I'm not sure I want to do this, quite yet.
2: Three! We need a full work-up on this one!
3: Full work up, yes sir. If you'll just step over here, sir. Now, my name is Three, DownLeft. Can I please get your full name, for our records.
1: One, OnStage.
3: OnStage, can you spell that for me, please?
1: O-N-S-T-A-G-E, OnStage.
3: 's not a spelling bee, but thank you for repeating it.
1: I'm sorry, I-
3: Now, Mr. OnStage, would you be so kind as to tell me your date of birth?
1: October 2nd, 2004.
3: Funny. That's my birthday.
1: Well, that is when she finished the skit, so I'd imagine that all our birthdays are on the second of October.
3: Really? Mr. UpRight!
2: Yes, Three?
3: When's your birthday?
2: October 2nd, of course. Really man, do you think that we existed before she wrote us down?
3: Well, there's no reason to get uptight about it.
2: UpRight, you fool. Anyone can see that I am UpRight, and you DownLeft.
3: So what's his deal?
1: I'm OnStage.
3: Oh.
2: Quite right-
3: So the new kid, Four, BackStage-
2: If you don't mind, I'm sure this gentleman would like to decide whether to live or die, sometime today.
3: Of course, sir. Sorry, sir.
1: 's quite alright.
3: Now then, what recent events brought you to us, today?
1: Funny you should ask because, to be honest, I'm not sure there were recent events.
3: How's that?
1; Well, before I walk on in the beginning, I don't even exist as a person-
3: Then why are you here?
1: She wrote me entering.
3: Yes, but if you have no recent events that would bring you here, then why come at all?
1: Well, I only exist within the confines of her text. If I was to refuse to enter, I would never exist.
3: But we deal in death, here-
2: Suicides, DownLeft.
3: My apologies, Mr. UpRight. Suicides, specifically. Why bother to walk onstage at all, if you've been written to die?
1: Well, I don't know how the script ends. I'm rather hoping she decided to give me a happy ending.
(2 and 3 laugh)
3: A happy ending? Have you met our author?
1: Well-
2: The best ending you can hope for is a painless one, Mr. OnStage.
1: Now wait a minute- do you two know something more about the script than I do?
3: Well, Two? Do you have any answers?
2: Sorry- she didn't write answers into any of us.
1: Maybe there'll be more characters, shortly.
2: A "deus ex machina" set up, you mean? She doesn't deal in foreshadowed salvations, I'm afraid.
1: But I just foreshadowed!
3: No, actually, you "wished for," making a direct reference to a later arrival you would like to see. Foreshadowing, on the other hand, is a very subtle, crafty technique employed by authors, not characters, to hint at a later development through indirect character statements and onstage settings.
1: Oh.
2: Well done, Three.
3: Thank you, sir.
1: So I'm doomed?
3: 'fraid so, sir.
1: But when?
3: Whenever you wish.
1: How?
2: In whatever manner you choose.
1: Why would she write me this way?
3: These are all very good questions, sir- healthy, natural questions that anyone would ask in such a situation.
1: What's the point of any of this if she's only written me to die? Why even bother?
3: That's where we come in, sir.
2: Quite right.
1: You both seem awfully chipper about all of this.
3: We've found that maintaining a positive attitude at work sets a strong contrast for our clients.
2: Especially those who aren't sure, yet.
1: Oh.
3: So which method do you prefer, sir?
1: Method?
3: Of suicide. We have a rather impressive variety ranging from quiet slumbers to bloody, ghastly horrors-
1: Do people really opt for the horrors?
3: Some feel that if they can't make a mark living, they can at least leave a mess dying.
1: 's a certain logic to that, isn't there?
3: Of a sort. Shall I list the horrors we,re offering at the moment, then? Keep in mind that if you don't like anything we have on-hand, we also take special orders to be fulfilled upon arrival of the material, provided you leave a deposit and arrange for a payment plan. However, if you were to find a reason to live before the set date, we would have to keep your deposit.
1: How often does that happen?
3: What would you say, Two? Two or three time a year?
2: Hasn't happened at all, this year. We've had a few incompletes, but no one's backed out entirely.
1: I see.
3: So is there anything you'd like to see, sir?
1: What are the quieter methods? If you don't mind.
3: Of course, sir. Our number one request, especially among the ladies, is prescription sleeping pills- pop forty to sixty of these puppies and you'll be free in no time.
1: Free from what, exactly?
3: Your wasted life, of course.
1: Was it wasted?
3: Well, you are here, sir.
1: Ah.
3: Our second category is gases, sir.
1: Gases, you say?
3: Yes, sir. We offer an interesting assortment of gases from the natural gases in old-style ovens to the carbon monoxide produced in defective heating units, to basic helium used for balloons. Between you and me, the gases are generally more reliable than the pills.
1: Really?
3: Oh, certainly. Tried the pills myself, once. After you've decided to die, there's no sense of failure more complete than waking up.
1: You woke up?!?! They're sleeping pills, how-
3: They aggravated my ulcer.
1: Ah. Of course.
3: Would you like to try the gases, then?
1: I'm still not sure I want to-
3: Sir, your life is obviously no longer worth living. In fact, given the shallow brevity of your existence, I would daresay it was never worth living, and that our author did in fact waste her own precious time bringing you into this world.
1: You'd better watch yourself, sir. My life may not be much, as it is, but as a supporting character, your entire existence is based on my desire to end this life you so flippantly denigrate.
2: He's got you on that one, Three.
3: When did we establish that he was the main character?
1: I am the only character allowed to roam the stage. And it's my line that breaks the stasis, thus initiating the entirety of our existence.
2: Ruffles the feathers, doesn't it, Three?
3: A bit, sir.
1: Come now, it's nothing to be upset about. Apparently being the main character requires an indecisive death wish, which is not the most becoming characteristic a person like myself cares to sport.
2: True. Very well, then, Mr. OnStage, you are indeed the main character.
3: Congratulations. Are you ready to die, now?
1: Yes, I believe that I am.
3: And have you decided upon a method, or would you-
1: I'd like a gun, please.
3: We have another minor horror, Mr. UpRight. Do you have a preference as to which type of gun you'd like, sir?
1: I'm afraid I'm not familiar with the different types. Could you-
3: Would you like an open casket funeral?
1: Oh. I hadn't really thought of that.
3: And now that you have?
1: I'd rather be cremated.
3: Very good, sir. For those concerned with the appearance of their corpse, we often recommend a smaller weapon, despite the increased possibility of failure. But in your case, we have several rather large guns that cannot help but succeed.
1: Does the size of the weapon increase the pain?
3: Honestly, we aren't quite sure. The down side to such an effective weapon is that we never get client feedback.
1: Of course. Well, I suppose the largest will do nicely, then.
3: Very good, sir. Shall we set the rental for an hour, or do you believe you'll need some time for contemplation?
1: Just a few minutes should be quite enough, I think.
3: We only rent in hourly increments, sir. That often ensures that everyone has the time to get home and settled, before they go.
1: Home? Aren't there rooms in the back for this sort of thing?
3: You want to do it here, you say?
1: Of course. I live alone- I'd rather not die so, if it can be helped.
3: I'm afraid we do not offer companionship, sir.
1: Can't I pay extra?
3: Mr. UpRight, Mr. OnStage wants to add a hand-holder at extra charge- can we do that?
2: I'm sorry, Mr. OnStage, but that's against our policy.
3: Sorry, sir. Do you have a friend you can call?
1: If I had one of those, I wouldn't be standing here discussing the details of my death with a complete stranger now, would I?
3: I suppose not, sir.
2: She really did write you in a rather sickly way, didn't she?
1: It would seem so.
2: Worse comes to worst, Three and I have each other, at least. Some poorly developed, previously existing, if un-experienced relationship to anchor us in the world-
1: She did write several good friends into my background, I think. But she must've forgotten to endow me with the strength and will necessary for either trust or intimacy.
3: She forgot. I'm sure that's it, isn't it, Two?
2: Oh, of course. She forgets a lot, that one.
1: Maybe she'll forget to have me kill myself.
3: Wouldn't be very therapeutic for her, now, would it? Or profitable for us? Or even entertaining for those watching? You know, you might try thinking a little beyond yourself, on occasion.
2: Three's got a point, you know.
1: Are these my why's? One, OnStage is written to kill himself for the benefit of an author who brought him into such a miserable existence in the first place, a couple of two-dimensional characters who would never have existed if not to aid this pointless exercise, and a group of people he cannot even directly acknowledge, and yet for whom his death is to provide a few laughs before they return to their own skits?
3: Yeah. Seems that way.
1: Fine. I'll bet she doesn't even have that many meanings.
3: (hands weapon over) Here you go, sir: one sawed-off shotgun for the next hour. Have a pleasant death, sir. And do come back, if anything should go wrong.
1: Most kind.
2: Best of luck, sir.
1: Good night, gentlemen.
(1 exits with the weapon- not to be fired in performance)
3: Hey, Two.
2: Yes, Three?
3: How long do you think we'll have to sit here before she gets sick of us, now that she's destroyed her main character?
2: Nervous?
3: No. Well, maybe a little. Does disappearing hurt, do you think?
2: No more than this, I'd imagine.
3: Do you think we'll know?
2: Not exactly. I imagine we'll just dissolve into our actors without even realizing it.
3: Why won't they keep us?
2: Would you want two immobilized catalysts running your life?
3: No, I suppose not.
2: Then, there you go.
(pause)
3: So, do you think Four's bitter about being BackStage?
4: (from backstage) I thank my lucky stars, and She-That-Wrote-Me, every second of my nonexistent existence for being spared a trip through your hall of horrors, you two-dimensional hacks.
2: There you have it.
3: Lucky bastard. Well, it's been an existence, Two.
2: So it has. Better luck, next time, Three.
3: And to you.
Friday, August 2, 2013
Childhood Dreams, Take Two (in progress)
he drinks, therefore
he is. or so
his mottled gray tee
would have us
believe. sprawled
between our parents'
vanilla lined, sandstorm
love seat and the ring-
stained table supporting
his laborer's feet, right hand
mildly contorted, perpendicular
to the strings
of a poorly tuned guitar
bedecked with garish roses
of lemon drop and baby-girl pink,
he picks a simple
arpeggio, 6-3-2-1, 6-1-2-3,
6-3-2-1, unconsciously dangling
an unlit cigarette
from his chicken-thin
lips. with a grimace
ridden to the brink
of casting the unfortunate
instrument into the face
of his do-it-yourself
tv instructor, he pauses,
stilling the dissonant
notes with his palm.
rolling his eyes with a tight
smile in my direction, he sighs,
sets the mass-produced
resonator aside and runs
his cramped picking,
concrete-pouring hand
through his short, sun-bleached
hair, and shrugs, "maybe
this isn't for me."
he is. or so
his mottled gray tee
would have us
believe. sprawled
between our parents'
vanilla lined, sandstorm
love seat and the ring-
stained table supporting
his laborer's feet, right hand
mildly contorted, perpendicular
to the strings
of a poorly tuned guitar
bedecked with garish roses
of lemon drop and baby-girl pink,
he picks a simple
arpeggio, 6-3-2-1, 6-1-2-3,
6-3-2-1, unconsciously dangling
an unlit cigarette
from his chicken-thin
lips. with a grimace
ridden to the brink
of casting the unfortunate
instrument into the face
of his do-it-yourself
tv instructor, he pauses,
stilling the dissonant
notes with his palm.
rolling his eyes with a tight
smile in my direction, he sighs,
sets the mass-produced
resonator aside and runs
his cramped picking,
concrete-pouring hand
through his short, sun-bleached
hair, and shrugs, "maybe
this isn't for me."
Monday, July 22, 2013
the sun also sets
love is the flag we follow-
though the bearer impales our flesh,
fighting fear we continue the effort
'til the crowd loses interest-
and our aficionado offers mercy
at the tip of a spear.
though the bearer impales our flesh,
fighting fear we continue the effort
'til the crowd loses interest-
and our aficionado offers mercy
at the tip of a spear.
misc. 1
voice voice voice
it's all about the voice
"you've got to find your voice."
well, i don't have a voice.
i have a sob
and a cry
and a pen that doesn't know
what to do.
it's all about the voice
"you've got to find your voice."
well, i don't have a voice.
i have a sob
and a cry
and a pen that doesn't know
what to do.
hesitation
is this the cusp of understanding or madness?
a tottering breakthrough, or a massive breakdown?
when the supernova of change takes place,
will you be the unstoppable energy hurting through space?
or the collapsed mass at ground zero
from which not even light can escape?
a tottering breakthrough, or a massive breakdown?
when the supernova of change takes place,
will you be the unstoppable energy hurting through space?
or the collapsed mass at ground zero
from which not even light can escape?
daddy's little girl (work in progress)
on an archeological dig
in the southeast corner
of my basement
i found an emptiness
in the exact size
and shape
of my childhood
the boundaries were
vaguely marked by small walls:
a few remaining animals,
dolls (only the sad ones),
laminated hand prints,
and 110% A++ spelling tests
folded carefully in a trunk
was a small, soft gown
near certainly the symbolic shroud
for my age of femininity
(generic stock definitions applied)-
beneath a tiny purse, a miniature vial
of scent capped by an opaque dove-
a fragile sliver of gold laying claim,
equally fragile, that i belonged
to a large man who helped
make me-
what i am today
marvels at these ancient trinkets,
building stories around
their placement, wondering
at their significance
taking samples of the earth
built up around them
for later testing, questioning
the validity of carbon dating
as applied
to myths.
in the southeast corner
of my basement
i found an emptiness
in the exact size
and shape
of my childhood
the boundaries were
vaguely marked by small walls:
a few remaining animals,
dolls (only the sad ones),
laminated hand prints,
and 110% A++ spelling tests
folded carefully in a trunk
was a small, soft gown
near certainly the symbolic shroud
for my age of femininity
(generic stock definitions applied)-
beneath a tiny purse, a miniature vial
of scent capped by an opaque dove-
a fragile sliver of gold laying claim,
equally fragile, that i belonged
to a large man who helped
make me-
what i am today
marvels at these ancient trinkets,
building stories around
their placement, wondering
at their significance
taking samples of the earth
built up around them
for later testing, questioning
the validity of carbon dating
as applied
to myths.
something familiar (work in progress)
now, as often
she entertains a pair
of lovers, naively
playing one
against the other
clueless
like lois lane
intentionally unaware
that thrilling life
(remove the cape)
dependable death
(subtract the glasses)
are still one
and the same.
she entertains a pair
of lovers, naively
playing one
against the other
clueless
like lois lane
intentionally unaware
that thrilling life
(remove the cape)
dependable death
(subtract the glasses)
are still one
and the same.
when dizzy
i find myself
a child beneath
the stars, catching
breath, uncertain
if the gravity
of the situation
will hold
in the face
of such momentum
hoping some things
stay just
because
they have
so
far.
a child beneath
the stars, catching
breath, uncertain
if the gravity
of the situation
will hold
in the face
of such momentum
hoping some things
stay just
because
they have
so
far.
unintended lessons: gethsemane to golgotha, and back again
when jesus begged a deaf father
for another option-
father, everything is possible for you...
prayed to an unforgiving god
for a brief reprieve-
take this cup from me- not what i will,
but what you will...
and still died alone, surrounded
by un-crucified criminals-
he saved others, let him save himself...
my education in despair,
and the inevitability of suicide,
was complete-
friend, do what you came for.
for another option-
father, everything is possible for you...
prayed to an unforgiving god
for a brief reprieve-
take this cup from me- not what i will,
but what you will...
and still died alone, surrounded
by un-crucified criminals-
he saved others, let him save himself...
my education in despair,
and the inevitability of suicide,
was complete-
friend, do what you came for.
Stepping to the Side
I used to have this roommate, this little beaten chick that winced if you looked at her too hard. Little personality, not person. She was one of those plus-sized girls, big through the hips but not bad looking. She was a great roommate as far as housekeeping was concerned. Kept the place spotless, doing dishes, vacuuming, scrubbin' the toilet, the little things that fall the wayside, otherwise. As far as that goes, I couldn't've asked for more in a roommate, unless I could've gotten someone to prepare my meals and do my laundry.
Anyway, this chick was okay to live with- quiet, withdrawn, respectful, clean- but kinda mopey, in this downtrodden, don't-hit-me-again kinda way. Got on my nerves, you know? So we didn't interact much Passed in the hallway, shared the kitchen waiting for the microwave, sometimes she'd read in the living room while I watched TV. Period. No real interaction of any kind, for almost the entire year we lived together. Until about a couple months before our lease was up. I don't know, it must've been early November. Anyway, I was sitting in my room, watching some TV show or another that I was crazy about, at the time- and I hear this hesitant voice from the hallway.
"Are you home?"
"Yeah. In here."
She peeked her head in through my door with this hopeful smile on her face, cradling some bundle she'd wrapped in one of her ratty flannel shirts.
"Sorry to bother you, but do you think you could give me a ride to an animal shelter if I find one open?"
"Uhh... sure, I guess."
"Thanks. I- I found this bird by the road. I think its wing is broken."
She unfolded the flannel to show me this bird she'd picked up off the ground. It was decent-sized, fully grown, with these deep blue feathers and ink brown eyes- I think it was a pigeon. I don't really know, but I think it was. Its head was kinda lolling to the side, leaning against her right breast. Until it saw me. As soon as she leaned int let me get a look at it, this bird threw a fit, floppin' around with its left wing, kickin' with its left foot, scrabblin' against her like I was waiting' with a knife and fork, or something'. She covered it with the flannel again, caressed its back through the cloth until it relaxed into her arm. She shrugged as she tucked her dishwater hair behind her left ear, apologizing, explaining.
"I think it must've glanced off of somebody's windshield. I didn't see any blood when I picked it up, but it's definitely hurt. It hasn't moved its right wing or leg since I found it."
"Ok.
Apparently she'd been walkin' home from the house of this kid she hung out with, starin' at the ground, no doubt, and she saw this thing floppin' around. She'd thought it was garbage, at first, some plastic bag somebody'd tossed, or maybe a newspaper. I don't know. So she was steppin' around it when she looked closer and it realized it was this bird. It was on its right side with its left wing strainin' up, like it was tryin' to fly with just the one, stretchin' it to its full length and kickin' with its left leg. And I remember thinkin' that that'd be somethin' she'd be drawn to, that stupid bird. So, bein' the chick that she was, she took off her over shirt and wrapped it up like some baby. I can see her doin' it in my head, even now- pushin' her hair back from her face, tuckin' it behind her ear while she's walkin' down the sidewalk with this precious cargo of hers. I don't know. She was a weird one, like that- sweet, but weird, tryin' to fix everything, make it alright.
Anyway, a few minutes later I wandered into the living room, and she was on the phone with some lady from a nearby museum, who did work with local wildlife. And that damned bird was still cradled in her left arm. She'd hugged the phone between her ear and her shoulder, while writing down the address with her right hand. When she hung up the phone, she gave me this look of desperate hope, like you'd imagine some starving kid giving you if you'd promised them a loaf of bread. Slightly glazed, maybe a little unsure, but unable to keep from hoping.
"Sorry it's taking so long. You still okay to take me?"
"Uh huh."
"Cool. Thank you so much. The lady said I shouldn't touch it any more than necessary so I just need a minute to track down a box and some clean cloth."
She eased the bird out of her elbow niche and settled it on the coffee table in front of the couch, before diving into the hallway closet. When she left the room, this bird just stared at me. It didn't make any noise, and so long as I kept my distance, it didn't move- just followed me with those dead brown eyes, its head still lolling to the side.
When she returned triumphantly with her box and cloth, she apologized again, and kept thanking me while she re-wrapped the bird and settled it into the box. As soon as the bird was inside, she looked a little beaten, again, like she'd taken some unapproved break and had to make up for it. I could tell it was killin' her not to hold it, too.
"Ready?"
"Sure. Let me grab my keys."
When we got down to my car, she eased herself into the passenger's seat, tryin' not to jostle the box, upset the bird, I guess. Once we set off, she was quiet again, like when we passed in the halls, just- sharin' the space. Every minute or so she'd peek in, dip her hand in to smooth its feathers, whisper to it. It took me a few minutes to notice, but she even held the box up from her lap, used her arms like shocks to keep the bouncing to a minimum. It was strange, like she needed this bird to be okay- not just okay, but comfortable and safe and I don't know- she was clinging to this bird.
It wasn't a long drive, couldn't've been more than ten or fifteen minutes to the museum. She eased herself out even more gently, left the box on the seat when she ran in to hunt down the woman who was going to take care of it. And it was just me and that bird, again. She'd left the lid off, a bit, and it was watchin' me. Animals don't usually make me feel guilty but that broken bird made me feel like shit sittin' in that car, like I should've been the one runnin' around tryin' to find help.
"Let's not forget who drove you here, okay?"
It just kept starin' out of those blank brown eyes, with a hint of blue lining. I don't know. I don't know. Anyway, she came out with the woman, this old lady from the museum, and handed the bird over to her. When the lady pulled the bird out, my roommate just barely failed to cover a flinch, like she wanted to take it back, drive it home and keep it, coddle it.
"Got herself banged up pretty good, didn't she? I'm not sure if I'll be able to help her, but I'll try. You did a good thing, you know, bringin' her here."
All my roommate did was nod.
When the museum lady walked off with the bird, she got back into the car and just watched after the lady until she was out of sight. And then she sank back into the seat, folded her hands and stared out the window. The ride home was silent. Not the quiet on the way there, this was a full-blown silence, the kind that makes your ears ring a little, ya know? I turned on the radio at some point, just so there'd be something in the car with me, since she'd obviously checked out. Without that bird to take care of, every bit of her seemed somehow resigned, meaningless.
By the time we got back to the apartment, I'd practically forgotten she was even there. But as soon as I turned off the engine, and the radio died, I could hear her crying. I don't know when she'd started, I'd quit payin' attention a while back. But she was crying in my car, these gentle, delicate sobs of someone who wants to stop but can't, so they try to keep them out of the way, minimize them. I just froze when I realized. What was I supposed to do? I didn't know this chick. We shared a bathroom, granted, but I'll be damned if I knew a single thing about her. And she was crying less than eight inches away from me.
"Are you okay?"
She gave this little shake of her head, no. It was a small motion, but it shattered her control. Her hands shot to her face, tryin' to hide her tear-streaked cheeks as she doubled over, shaking and crying, nearly silent.
"What's wrong?"
"The bird... I'm sorry, this is ridiculous... that bird, I couldn't... I'm so sorry, this isn't your problem, but the bird, I wanted to, to, to help, I wanted to help..."
"You took it to someone who could help. I just drove and I feel like I did a good deed, so why are you-"
"It's not enough!"
I'd never really heard her raise her voice before. She still wasn't yelling, but there was something harder in her voice that made me feel dirty for not understanding.
"It's not enough to just, just, just hand her over, to someone who doesn't know, doesn't know what it's like... I should've, should've held her, I should've held her longer, I should've helped, or soothed, or, or done something, anything... what if I, what if she dies alone? What if that's all I've given her- what if that's it for her, for, for no reason, because I was stupid, or lazy, or, or... it doesn't make a difference, not a bit of difference, to anyone, no matter what, no matter, it doesn't matter... I just don't understand why I can't, why I don't, I don't matter..."
She choked on her sobs then, just leaning forward, resting her head against the dashboard while I sat there watching. I hadn't signed on for this. This wasn't my problem, this chick breaking down in my car. That's what I thought then, anyway, when I patted her shoulder and got out. Maybe I didn't think anything of it when I left because she didn't look to me, didn't look after me hoping for me to return. I guess I thought we both understood our boundaries, and that she could expect this. I mean, I wouldn't've broken down like that to her. I had friends for that, a boyfriend on occasion. She was just a roommate.
So I let myself back into our apartment, and curled back up on my bed with that same TV show still running. And I sat there, watching TV, while this girl was downstairs crying in my car. Well over an hour must've passed before I heard her come in. She didn't say anything, didn't do anything other than walk to her room and close her door. I remember being irritated because I was so sure that she hadn't locked the doors when she got out. Not irritated enough to check right away, of course. It wasn't until later, when I was getting ready to go to bed, that I decided to check the car. It as locked, after all, looking neat and orderly, and not at all like some place where someone had fallen apart.
Before I went back to my room, some little bit of guilt made me stop at her door. I think it might have dawned on me that the fact that she had cried in my car, to me, might've meant she needed something, from me. Some little shred of humanity demanded expression loudly enough to make me knock on her door. It hadn't latched, apparently, so it swung open, giving me a narrow view of her bed. It was a plain bed, shoved into the far corner, un-decorated in any fashion. I'd never seen it before, and I haven't seen it since, but I remember exactly how her black comforter was bunched at the foot of the bed, the way her off-white sheet draped gently over her motionless torso, and that black garbage bag fitted over her head. It was some cheap kind I'd bought the week before when she'd forgotten to pick some up- a generic Hefty, or something.
I never actually saw her. Just the comforter, the sheet, the bag. When I walked back to my room to get my cell phone, I did so like I did to call information. 411. 911. Silently, indifferently. The next few hours flew by- paramedics, police, the coroner, eventually my boyfriend of the time. I spent the night with him, called the landlord the next day and cancelled the lease. I sent moving people to get my things, left her stuff for her family, friends, anybody else who wanted to claim it. The only thing of hers I checked on was the bird. After calling around for a while, I found the museum lady.
"Oh, right, right- the pigeon? Yeah, she'll be fine. Somebody must've glanced her with their windshield, broke her wing, shocked her real good. It'll be a month, or so, but she'll be heading back out, eventually. Are you the one that brought her in?"
"Yes."
"Well, that was real good of you, just so you know that. It wasn't a bad blow, but if she'd been left on the side of the road she'd be dead by now."
"Thanks."
"Alright, now, you have a good day, and thanks again, for bringin' her by."
I don't think that I hit her, or that it was a specific someone, at all. I think it might have been some collective windshield we were all behind. I don't know any of that, though. The only thing I do know is that I didn't pick her up. When I passed her straining to get up, with one broken wing, I did not take off my shirt or wrap her up like the precious cargo she thought that bird to be. I stepped to the side, told myself we should drive more carefully, and continued on.
I don't know how that makes me feel. Some part of me wants to sobbingly confess that I tear myself to pieces over it. But that's not true. There's no sobbing, no tearing to pieces. There's just this knowledge that I stepped to the side. And this image of her, holding that damn bird, when she peeked into my room that afternoon. She was so hopeful, so peaceful at the prospect of saving something. Maybe because she couldn't save herself. Or even help herself. Or anyone. I don't know. She was weird, you know, always trying to fix things, make it alright. I don't know.
Anyway, this chick was okay to live with- quiet, withdrawn, respectful, clean- but kinda mopey, in this downtrodden, don't-hit-me-again kinda way. Got on my nerves, you know? So we didn't interact much Passed in the hallway, shared the kitchen waiting for the microwave, sometimes she'd read in the living room while I watched TV. Period. No real interaction of any kind, for almost the entire year we lived together. Until about a couple months before our lease was up. I don't know, it must've been early November. Anyway, I was sitting in my room, watching some TV show or another that I was crazy about, at the time- and I hear this hesitant voice from the hallway.
"Are you home?"
"Yeah. In here."
She peeked her head in through my door with this hopeful smile on her face, cradling some bundle she'd wrapped in one of her ratty flannel shirts.
"Sorry to bother you, but do you think you could give me a ride to an animal shelter if I find one open?"
"Uhh... sure, I guess."
"Thanks. I- I found this bird by the road. I think its wing is broken."
She unfolded the flannel to show me this bird she'd picked up off the ground. It was decent-sized, fully grown, with these deep blue feathers and ink brown eyes- I think it was a pigeon. I don't really know, but I think it was. Its head was kinda lolling to the side, leaning against her right breast. Until it saw me. As soon as she leaned int let me get a look at it, this bird threw a fit, floppin' around with its left wing, kickin' with its left foot, scrabblin' against her like I was waiting' with a knife and fork, or something'. She covered it with the flannel again, caressed its back through the cloth until it relaxed into her arm. She shrugged as she tucked her dishwater hair behind her left ear, apologizing, explaining.
"I think it must've glanced off of somebody's windshield. I didn't see any blood when I picked it up, but it's definitely hurt. It hasn't moved its right wing or leg since I found it."
"Ok.
Apparently she'd been walkin' home from the house of this kid she hung out with, starin' at the ground, no doubt, and she saw this thing floppin' around. She'd thought it was garbage, at first, some plastic bag somebody'd tossed, or maybe a newspaper. I don't know. So she was steppin' around it when she looked closer and it realized it was this bird. It was on its right side with its left wing strainin' up, like it was tryin' to fly with just the one, stretchin' it to its full length and kickin' with its left leg. And I remember thinkin' that that'd be somethin' she'd be drawn to, that stupid bird. So, bein' the chick that she was, she took off her over shirt and wrapped it up like some baby. I can see her doin' it in my head, even now- pushin' her hair back from her face, tuckin' it behind her ear while she's walkin' down the sidewalk with this precious cargo of hers. I don't know. She was a weird one, like that- sweet, but weird, tryin' to fix everything, make it alright.
Anyway, a few minutes later I wandered into the living room, and she was on the phone with some lady from a nearby museum, who did work with local wildlife. And that damned bird was still cradled in her left arm. She'd hugged the phone between her ear and her shoulder, while writing down the address with her right hand. When she hung up the phone, she gave me this look of desperate hope, like you'd imagine some starving kid giving you if you'd promised them a loaf of bread. Slightly glazed, maybe a little unsure, but unable to keep from hoping.
"Sorry it's taking so long. You still okay to take me?"
"Uh huh."
"Cool. Thank you so much. The lady said I shouldn't touch it any more than necessary so I just need a minute to track down a box and some clean cloth."
She eased the bird out of her elbow niche and settled it on the coffee table in front of the couch, before diving into the hallway closet. When she left the room, this bird just stared at me. It didn't make any noise, and so long as I kept my distance, it didn't move- just followed me with those dead brown eyes, its head still lolling to the side.
When she returned triumphantly with her box and cloth, she apologized again, and kept thanking me while she re-wrapped the bird and settled it into the box. As soon as the bird was inside, she looked a little beaten, again, like she'd taken some unapproved break and had to make up for it. I could tell it was killin' her not to hold it, too.
"Ready?"
"Sure. Let me grab my keys."
When we got down to my car, she eased herself into the passenger's seat, tryin' not to jostle the box, upset the bird, I guess. Once we set off, she was quiet again, like when we passed in the halls, just- sharin' the space. Every minute or so she'd peek in, dip her hand in to smooth its feathers, whisper to it. It took me a few minutes to notice, but she even held the box up from her lap, used her arms like shocks to keep the bouncing to a minimum. It was strange, like she needed this bird to be okay- not just okay, but comfortable and safe and I don't know- she was clinging to this bird.
It wasn't a long drive, couldn't've been more than ten or fifteen minutes to the museum. She eased herself out even more gently, left the box on the seat when she ran in to hunt down the woman who was going to take care of it. And it was just me and that bird, again. She'd left the lid off, a bit, and it was watchin' me. Animals don't usually make me feel guilty but that broken bird made me feel like shit sittin' in that car, like I should've been the one runnin' around tryin' to find help.
"Let's not forget who drove you here, okay?"
It just kept starin' out of those blank brown eyes, with a hint of blue lining. I don't know. I don't know. Anyway, she came out with the woman, this old lady from the museum, and handed the bird over to her. When the lady pulled the bird out, my roommate just barely failed to cover a flinch, like she wanted to take it back, drive it home and keep it, coddle it.
"Got herself banged up pretty good, didn't she? I'm not sure if I'll be able to help her, but I'll try. You did a good thing, you know, bringin' her here."
All my roommate did was nod.
When the museum lady walked off with the bird, she got back into the car and just watched after the lady until she was out of sight. And then she sank back into the seat, folded her hands and stared out the window. The ride home was silent. Not the quiet on the way there, this was a full-blown silence, the kind that makes your ears ring a little, ya know? I turned on the radio at some point, just so there'd be something in the car with me, since she'd obviously checked out. Without that bird to take care of, every bit of her seemed somehow resigned, meaningless.
By the time we got back to the apartment, I'd practically forgotten she was even there. But as soon as I turned off the engine, and the radio died, I could hear her crying. I don't know when she'd started, I'd quit payin' attention a while back. But she was crying in my car, these gentle, delicate sobs of someone who wants to stop but can't, so they try to keep them out of the way, minimize them. I just froze when I realized. What was I supposed to do? I didn't know this chick. We shared a bathroom, granted, but I'll be damned if I knew a single thing about her. And she was crying less than eight inches away from me.
"Are you okay?"
She gave this little shake of her head, no. It was a small motion, but it shattered her control. Her hands shot to her face, tryin' to hide her tear-streaked cheeks as she doubled over, shaking and crying, nearly silent.
"What's wrong?"
"The bird... I'm sorry, this is ridiculous... that bird, I couldn't... I'm so sorry, this isn't your problem, but the bird, I wanted to, to, to help, I wanted to help..."
"You took it to someone who could help. I just drove and I feel like I did a good deed, so why are you-"
"It's not enough!"
I'd never really heard her raise her voice before. She still wasn't yelling, but there was something harder in her voice that made me feel dirty for not understanding.
"It's not enough to just, just, just hand her over, to someone who doesn't know, doesn't know what it's like... I should've, should've held her, I should've held her longer, I should've helped, or soothed, or, or done something, anything... what if I, what if she dies alone? What if that's all I've given her- what if that's it for her, for, for no reason, because I was stupid, or lazy, or, or... it doesn't make a difference, not a bit of difference, to anyone, no matter what, no matter, it doesn't matter... I just don't understand why I can't, why I don't, I don't matter..."
She choked on her sobs then, just leaning forward, resting her head against the dashboard while I sat there watching. I hadn't signed on for this. This wasn't my problem, this chick breaking down in my car. That's what I thought then, anyway, when I patted her shoulder and got out. Maybe I didn't think anything of it when I left because she didn't look to me, didn't look after me hoping for me to return. I guess I thought we both understood our boundaries, and that she could expect this. I mean, I wouldn't've broken down like that to her. I had friends for that, a boyfriend on occasion. She was just a roommate.
So I let myself back into our apartment, and curled back up on my bed with that same TV show still running. And I sat there, watching TV, while this girl was downstairs crying in my car. Well over an hour must've passed before I heard her come in. She didn't say anything, didn't do anything other than walk to her room and close her door. I remember being irritated because I was so sure that she hadn't locked the doors when she got out. Not irritated enough to check right away, of course. It wasn't until later, when I was getting ready to go to bed, that I decided to check the car. It as locked, after all, looking neat and orderly, and not at all like some place where someone had fallen apart.
Before I went back to my room, some little bit of guilt made me stop at her door. I think it might have dawned on me that the fact that she had cried in my car, to me, might've meant she needed something, from me. Some little shred of humanity demanded expression loudly enough to make me knock on her door. It hadn't latched, apparently, so it swung open, giving me a narrow view of her bed. It was a plain bed, shoved into the far corner, un-decorated in any fashion. I'd never seen it before, and I haven't seen it since, but I remember exactly how her black comforter was bunched at the foot of the bed, the way her off-white sheet draped gently over her motionless torso, and that black garbage bag fitted over her head. It was some cheap kind I'd bought the week before when she'd forgotten to pick some up- a generic Hefty, or something.
I never actually saw her. Just the comforter, the sheet, the bag. When I walked back to my room to get my cell phone, I did so like I did to call information. 411. 911. Silently, indifferently. The next few hours flew by- paramedics, police, the coroner, eventually my boyfriend of the time. I spent the night with him, called the landlord the next day and cancelled the lease. I sent moving people to get my things, left her stuff for her family, friends, anybody else who wanted to claim it. The only thing of hers I checked on was the bird. After calling around for a while, I found the museum lady.
"Oh, right, right- the pigeon? Yeah, she'll be fine. Somebody must've glanced her with their windshield, broke her wing, shocked her real good. It'll be a month, or so, but she'll be heading back out, eventually. Are you the one that brought her in?"
"Yes."
"Well, that was real good of you, just so you know that. It wasn't a bad blow, but if she'd been left on the side of the road she'd be dead by now."
"Thanks."
"Alright, now, you have a good day, and thanks again, for bringin' her by."
I don't think that I hit her, or that it was a specific someone, at all. I think it might have been some collective windshield we were all behind. I don't know any of that, though. The only thing I do know is that I didn't pick her up. When I passed her straining to get up, with one broken wing, I did not take off my shirt or wrap her up like the precious cargo she thought that bird to be. I stepped to the side, told myself we should drive more carefully, and continued on.
I don't know how that makes me feel. Some part of me wants to sobbingly confess that I tear myself to pieces over it. But that's not true. There's no sobbing, no tearing to pieces. There's just this knowledge that I stepped to the side. And this image of her, holding that damn bird, when she peeked into my room that afternoon. She was so hopeful, so peaceful at the prospect of saving something. Maybe because she couldn't save herself. Or even help herself. Or anyone. I don't know. She was weird, you know, always trying to fix things, make it alright. I don't know.
One Way
The stripes from the blinds
climb the wall with indifference,
caring little what hour they signify,
how for a single person
alone in a sterile room
they measure all that there is
of time.
Daily they work their way
up, up, up
from mid-floor to trim
before surrendering
to the limits of the earth,
neither wave nor particle muscling through
the mass of world.
As she rocks herself
below their dwindling path,
faded green scrub-covered knees
pulled up to chin, desiccated arms
wrapped around, distant eyes staring
up, up, up
to where the light ends,
she waits to follow,
even as she fades.
climb the wall with indifference,
caring little what hour they signify,
how for a single person
alone in a sterile room
they measure all that there is
of time.
Daily they work their way
up, up, up
from mid-floor to trim
before surrendering
to the limits of the earth,
neither wave nor particle muscling through
the mass of world.
As she rocks herself
below their dwindling path,
faded green scrub-covered knees
pulled up to chin, desiccated arms
wrapped around, distant eyes staring
up, up, up
to where the light ends,
she waits to follow,
even as she fades.
Understanding the Audience
(This was originally written as an original monologue added to "Offending the Audience)
"I'm angry because I understand, not because I don't." -Sarah Kane
You. You terrorists. You murderers. You survivors. You screamers. You prozac-addicts. You aborted suicides. You sellouts. You phonies. You thieves. You reapers of the benefits wrought by broken hands. You historic moments. You unsung heroes. You chauvinists. You feminazis. You frozen embryos. You almost heroes. You everyday heroes. You mindless masses. You commercial kids. You envious bodies. You struggling bodies. You abusive parents. You spoiled brats. You rotten middle class. You media whores. You consumer slaves. You designer paper dolls. You sex fiends. You lonely losers. You battered wives. You wasted lives. You bleeding hearts. You people of our time. You cookie-cutter anorexics. You wretches. You slit wrists. You wounded psyches. You supplemental lovers. You dying stars. You vacant stares. You sleep-walkers. You meaningless actions. You carriers of contagion. You button-pushers. You soon-to-be-bombed civilians. You theocrats in democratic skin. You wards of the state. Eden's outcast. You.
"I'm angry because I understand, not because I don't." -Sarah Kane
You. You terrorists. You murderers. You survivors. You screamers. You prozac-addicts. You aborted suicides. You sellouts. You phonies. You thieves. You reapers of the benefits wrought by broken hands. You historic moments. You unsung heroes. You chauvinists. You feminazis. You frozen embryos. You almost heroes. You everyday heroes. You mindless masses. You commercial kids. You envious bodies. You struggling bodies. You abusive parents. You spoiled brats. You rotten middle class. You media whores. You consumer slaves. You designer paper dolls. You sex fiends. You lonely losers. You battered wives. You wasted lives. You bleeding hearts. You people of our time. You cookie-cutter anorexics. You wretches. You slit wrists. You wounded psyches. You supplemental lovers. You dying stars. You vacant stares. You sleep-walkers. You meaningless actions. You carriers of contagion. You button-pushers. You soon-to-be-bombed civilians. You theocrats in democratic skin. You wards of the state. Eden's outcast. You.
Too Much Too Soon? / Too Little Too Late?
Our Mother who art in Heaven,
Hallowed be Thy Memory.
Thy Queendom gone,
Thy Will beat down,
In Heaven as it is on Earth.
Give us this day
Our daily breath.
And remember our trespasses,
As we remember those
Who trespass against us.
And lead us not into temptation,
But deliver us from empty beds.
For Thine is the Queendom.
And the Pain.
And the Shame.
For Now.
Awomen.
Hallowed be Thy Memory.
Thy Queendom gone,
Thy Will beat down,
In Heaven as it is on Earth.
Give us this day
Our daily breath.
And remember our trespasses,
As we remember those
Who trespass against us.
And lead us not into temptation,
But deliver us from empty beds.
For Thine is the Queendom.
And the Pain.
And the Shame.
For Now.
Awomen.
To My Maker:
(This poem was written for a creative writing class,
based on the painting "Weeping Woman" by a friend of mine.)
So many shades, thank you, yes, every shade.
But only blue.
Where is the brown of earth?
The green of leaf?
The blood's living rush of red?
You think me
Other
in my sorrow
Woman
in my weeping.
Other is always
limited in definition
by definition
by unknowing.
So is Woman.
My grief has overcome me.
It does not consume me.
You have created me.
You do not know me.
based on the painting "Weeping Woman" by a friend of mine.)
So many shades, thank you, yes, every shade.
But only blue.
Where is the brown of earth?
The green of leaf?
The blood's living rush of red?
You think me
Other
in my sorrow
Woman
in my weeping.
Other is always
limited in definition
by definition
by unknowing.
So is Woman.
My grief has overcome me.
It does not consume me.
You have created me.
You do not know me.
House
(This is a sket I wrote for my improv troupe, in college.)
S: Hey, Evan. Wanna play House?
E: That's a girl's game. Why don't we play tag, or cops and robbers, or-
S: It is not just a girl's game. Daddy used to play with Mommy every day, so it's just as much a boy's game as a girl's.
E: Okay, I guess. How do we play?
S: Well, if we're going to play it right, we have to play Dating, first. I'm going to sit over here and read a play magazine, and I want you to ask me out on a date.
E: Okay... Hey, Sarah, let's go out on a date.
S: (in character) I'm sorry, are you talking to me?
E: Umm... yes? Didn't you tell me to-?
S: (under breath, giving directions) No, no, no- this is where you grovel and chase me when I play hard to get.
E: Oh, okay... (lowers himself to the ground, slightly in front of her) Like this?
S: A little lower. That's good. (places her feet on his back)
E: Do you want to go on a date, now, Sarah?
S: Well, I suppose that if you take me to the most expensive restaurant and promise me gaudy and pricey jewelry, I'll consider it.
E: Umm... okay.
S: Very well. (setting up for the next stage) Okay, now you sit on this chair, and we'll pretend we're in a restaurant.
E: (sitting hesitantly) Okay. You want a hot dog?
S: Hardly. I want the filet mignon, with the most expensive alcoholic drink on the menu. And the alcohol doesn't mean I'm going to sleep with you, pig.
E: Uh- does that mean that are mom's aren't going to have us nap together-
S: (short tempered) When boys and girls are grown up and dating, the boys want to take naps more often, and the girls are supposed to say no.
E: Okay.
S: No, no- you're supposed to keep trying.
E: Please, Sarah, can't we nap together?
S: (freaking out) Don't push me, I'm not ready!
E: I'm sorry. Don't be mad, Sarah, I was only doing what you told me-
S: At least you've caught on to something. In fact, from now on in the game, whenever you're not sure what's going on, just apologize. That's the best way.
E: Okay.
S: Alright. Now that we've been dating for so long, you need to buy me a shiny rock and ask me to grace you with my hand in marriage.
E: (digs around in pocket) Will this do?
S: (examines carefully, shakes head) No, it needs to be bigger, shinier and cleaner.
E: (lowers to all fours to search the ground) Okay.
S: Have you proposed before? That's the perfect position.
E: Um-
S: Never mind. Just grab that big one, right there. Perfect. Now we can get married.
E: But I didn't ask-
S: It's okay, I know you need me.
E: Ok.
S: Say you do.
E: I do?
S: Okay- me, too. Now we're married. Carry me across the threshold!
E: What's a thresh hold?
S: The door to the huge house you've offered me as a gift for marriage.
E: Oh.
S: Well?
E: Oh, right. (struggles to lift her) Um, Sarah, I don't think I'm strong enough-
S: Are you saying I'm fat? I hate you. Why did I agree to marry you, you stupid, stupid man? (sobs melodramatically) You're cheating on me, aren't you- with Trisha, in Mrs. Nelson's class. I know it, just admit it!
E: I'm sorry?
S: I knew it! I want a divorce!
E: But Sarah, I'm sorry..
S: I don't want the kids. I just want all of your toys and the money from your piggy bank.
E: When did we get kids?
S: (feigning shock) Don't you dare act like they're not yours. They'll hear you, and then you'll have to pay for their therapy sessions.
E: I-
S: Well, (holds out hand) where's my alimony?
E: Ali-money? Is that like monopoly money? 'Cause I have some of that in my pocket-
S: That'll do. (he hands it over)
E: (growing antsy) Sarah, are we done playing House, yet?
S: Almost, almost. Before you leave, you have to tell me I'm the best thing that's ever happened to you, and ask me for one last nap.
E: Umm... you're the best thing that's ever happened to me... and can we still have our naps together?
S: (smacks him)
E: Sarah! You can't hit me!
S: Well, that's how House ends. You did want to end the game, didn't you?
E: Well, yeah- I guess.
S: Then I had to hit you, after you propositioned me.
E: What's a proposition?
S: What you got smacked for. After a divorce, boys always want to keep napping, but the girls have to say no. And then the whole game starts over.
E: Oh. Well, if we're going to play again, we should play House the way my Mom and Dad play it.
S: They're playing it wrong.
E: Shut up, Woman! When I lay down the law, you had better lay down dinner, and then lay down yourself for nap time!
S: Evan!
E: Don't raise your voice to me, Woman! (smacks her)
S: Evan, I don't want to-
E: (grabs her roughly) You like it- you know you do-
S: Evan, stop! Mom! Mom!
E: No, no, Sarah- don't call the authorities. I love you. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it... I- I- I must've had too much root beer... I just got carried away.
S: Well, alright. (brief awkward pause) You know- maybe we should make up our own way to play House. I don't think out parents have been playing it right.
E: Yeah, I was wondering. They never seem to have too much fun, the way they play. So how should we start?
S: Well, we could play in the sand box, for a while, and then go get some peanut butter and jelly before we start our homework.
E: Cool. I have a new bucket we could use-
S: I'll get my shovel!
END
S: Hey, Evan. Wanna play House?
E: That's a girl's game. Why don't we play tag, or cops and robbers, or-
S: It is not just a girl's game. Daddy used to play with Mommy every day, so it's just as much a boy's game as a girl's.
E: Okay, I guess. How do we play?
S: Well, if we're going to play it right, we have to play Dating, first. I'm going to sit over here and read a play magazine, and I want you to ask me out on a date.
E: Okay... Hey, Sarah, let's go out on a date.
S: (in character) I'm sorry, are you talking to me?
E: Umm... yes? Didn't you tell me to-?
S: (under breath, giving directions) No, no, no- this is where you grovel and chase me when I play hard to get.
E: Oh, okay... (lowers himself to the ground, slightly in front of her) Like this?
S: A little lower. That's good. (places her feet on his back)
E: Do you want to go on a date, now, Sarah?
S: Well, I suppose that if you take me to the most expensive restaurant and promise me gaudy and pricey jewelry, I'll consider it.
E: Umm... okay.
S: Very well. (setting up for the next stage) Okay, now you sit on this chair, and we'll pretend we're in a restaurant.
E: (sitting hesitantly) Okay. You want a hot dog?
S: Hardly. I want the filet mignon, with the most expensive alcoholic drink on the menu. And the alcohol doesn't mean I'm going to sleep with you, pig.
E: Uh- does that mean that are mom's aren't going to have us nap together-
S: (short tempered) When boys and girls are grown up and dating, the boys want to take naps more often, and the girls are supposed to say no.
E: Okay.
S: No, no- you're supposed to keep trying.
E: Please, Sarah, can't we nap together?
S: (freaking out) Don't push me, I'm not ready!
E: I'm sorry. Don't be mad, Sarah, I was only doing what you told me-
S: At least you've caught on to something. In fact, from now on in the game, whenever you're not sure what's going on, just apologize. That's the best way.
E: Okay.
S: Alright. Now that we've been dating for so long, you need to buy me a shiny rock and ask me to grace you with my hand in marriage.
E: (digs around in pocket) Will this do?
S: (examines carefully, shakes head) No, it needs to be bigger, shinier and cleaner.
E: (lowers to all fours to search the ground) Okay.
S: Have you proposed before? That's the perfect position.
E: Um-
S: Never mind. Just grab that big one, right there. Perfect. Now we can get married.
E: But I didn't ask-
S: It's okay, I know you need me.
E: Ok.
S: Say you do.
E: I do?
S: Okay- me, too. Now we're married. Carry me across the threshold!
E: What's a thresh hold?
S: The door to the huge house you've offered me as a gift for marriage.
E: Oh.
S: Well?
E: Oh, right. (struggles to lift her) Um, Sarah, I don't think I'm strong enough-
S: Are you saying I'm fat? I hate you. Why did I agree to marry you, you stupid, stupid man? (sobs melodramatically) You're cheating on me, aren't you- with Trisha, in Mrs. Nelson's class. I know it, just admit it!
E: I'm sorry?
S: I knew it! I want a divorce!
E: But Sarah, I'm sorry..
S: I don't want the kids. I just want all of your toys and the money from your piggy bank.
E: When did we get kids?
S: (feigning shock) Don't you dare act like they're not yours. They'll hear you, and then you'll have to pay for their therapy sessions.
E: I-
S: Well, (holds out hand) where's my alimony?
E: Ali-money? Is that like monopoly money? 'Cause I have some of that in my pocket-
S: That'll do. (he hands it over)
E: (growing antsy) Sarah, are we done playing House, yet?
S: Almost, almost. Before you leave, you have to tell me I'm the best thing that's ever happened to you, and ask me for one last nap.
E: Umm... you're the best thing that's ever happened to me... and can we still have our naps together?
S: (smacks him)
E: Sarah! You can't hit me!
S: Well, that's how House ends. You did want to end the game, didn't you?
E: Well, yeah- I guess.
S: Then I had to hit you, after you propositioned me.
E: What's a proposition?
S: What you got smacked for. After a divorce, boys always want to keep napping, but the girls have to say no. And then the whole game starts over.
E: Oh. Well, if we're going to play again, we should play House the way my Mom and Dad play it.
S: They're playing it wrong.
E: Shut up, Woman! When I lay down the law, you had better lay down dinner, and then lay down yourself for nap time!
S: Evan!
E: Don't raise your voice to me, Woman! (smacks her)
S: Evan, I don't want to-
E: (grabs her roughly) You like it- you know you do-
S: Evan, stop! Mom! Mom!
E: No, no, Sarah- don't call the authorities. I love you. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it... I- I- I must've had too much root beer... I just got carried away.
S: Well, alright. (brief awkward pause) You know- maybe we should make up our own way to play House. I don't think out parents have been playing it right.
E: Yeah, I was wondering. They never seem to have too much fun, the way they play. So how should we start?
S: Well, we could play in the sand box, for a while, and then go get some peanut butter and jelly before we start our homework.
E: Cool. I have a new bucket we could use-
S: I'll get my shovel!
END
Words, Words, Words...
My city is no longer so overwhelming- though the noise and myriad people do occasionally send me back into my room, with the door locked and the fan on high. At this point, I'm not ready to try an improv class, yet- nor am I prepared to audition for anything. So, not knowing what else to do with myself, just yet, I'm going to start posting some bits and pieces that I am proud to have written.
This first one is one of my absolute favorites. I wrote this after performing as Fraulein Schneider in Cabaret, in school, for one of my creative writing assignments.
a whispered fiction
for tommy
love is a fiction
we whisper in the dark
unquiet of ourselves,
writing in characters
with hardly a breath
wasted on cuing them in;
and likewise writing them out
of ourselves when they fail
to read what we know
was never penned.
assigned and assigning
exit after entrance after exit
there was no surprise
in my mind when I tripped
into love on a sparse stage,
via scripted doom
of separation. what better
than a lover knowing
his lines, his limits,
his place in the scheme
of pre-determined things? what worse
than a slip of paper
tucked into a costumed pocket,
demurely confiding, however in-character,
a tender whisper of fiction
unscripted, unsolicited,
undeniably more than ever I
would be scripted to read?
This first one is one of my absolute favorites. I wrote this after performing as Fraulein Schneider in Cabaret, in school, for one of my creative writing assignments.
a whispered fiction
for tommy
love is a fiction
we whisper in the dark
unquiet of ourselves,
writing in characters
with hardly a breath
wasted on cuing them in;
and likewise writing them out
of ourselves when they fail
to read what we know
was never penned.
assigned and assigning
exit after entrance after exit
there was no surprise
in my mind when I tripped
into love on a sparse stage,
via scripted doom
of separation. what better
than a lover knowing
his lines, his limits,
his place in the scheme
of pre-determined things? what worse
than a slip of paper
tucked into a costumed pocket,
demurely confiding, however in-character,
a tender whisper of fiction
unscripted, unsolicited,
undeniably more than ever I
would be scripted to read?
Saturday, June 8, 2013
Get Up and Get Down and Get Outside
So- after the hazy, hopeful opening, I find myself unsure about what to share here.
Growth is a tricky thing for me. It is often nonexistent, with mind-numbing spurts of change and insight... which makes it a strange thing to properly acknowledge, or pursue. For all of the glorious failures that I hope to make, in pursuit of one or two successes- the most basic one is getting out into my new city.
I moved to Chicago a few months ago, and promptly set up shop in the living room. A combination of depression-rooted agoraphobia and touch-&-go social anxiety left me nearly incapable of getting out of the apartment for a while. Fortunately, there was company. And Netflix. When all else fails, sitting with a friend and watching reruns of Supernatural or [insert appropriate TV show here] is an excellent way to bypass uncertain days. Granted, the goal is to wrestle those uncertain days into submission... but sometimes, you look a day in the eye, and know that it will have you pinned before you even roll out of bed. That was pretty much March and April, for me.
Currently, getting out is happening every day- if only to clean other peoples' homes. The weather has been amazing- cool, refreshing, bright. My car is running well for a beater with 217,000 miles. Chicago traffic is gradually making sense to me- and I'm slowly beginning to know where I am (geographically). For all that cleaning other peoples' things can be odd, sometimes, I can't really think of a better way for me to familiarize myself with my new world, on my own. There's also an added bonus (?) of being forced to interact with others. Curling up into myself is extremely easy and natural- particularly in stressful or uncertain circumstances. In this unique series of situations, I get the alone time while driving around looking for new addresses (learning my way around!) and also some forced socialization when discussing jobs and payment options with clients (interaction!).
After two months of hoping to atomize and drift away on the current from the living room vents, I am now driving around Chicago with few-to-no issues. There haven't even been any tickets on my windshield, the last few weeks! The small victories feel bigger than they are, of course- hitting a street that I know, and remembering which way is home, still feels like a superpower... which I'm okay with, since I'm the only person in my car to judge me, and we are willing to overlook the indulgence so long as we don't stall there.
Also, I went to a social engagement, this week, that wasn't in Central Illinois. Please, please- no parades- I'll just get awkward and hide in my room.
So this is my second small success, in my new city. On a daily basis, I roll out of bed and wrestle the day into submission. I think the day is letting me win, sometimes- but I'm not too proud to accept it...
Growth is a tricky thing for me. It is often nonexistent, with mind-numbing spurts of change and insight... which makes it a strange thing to properly acknowledge, or pursue. For all of the glorious failures that I hope to make, in pursuit of one or two successes- the most basic one is getting out into my new city.
I moved to Chicago a few months ago, and promptly set up shop in the living room. A combination of depression-rooted agoraphobia and touch-&-go social anxiety left me nearly incapable of getting out of the apartment for a while. Fortunately, there was company. And Netflix. When all else fails, sitting with a friend and watching reruns of Supernatural or [insert appropriate TV show here] is an excellent way to bypass uncertain days. Granted, the goal is to wrestle those uncertain days into submission... but sometimes, you look a day in the eye, and know that it will have you pinned before you even roll out of bed. That was pretty much March and April, for me.
Currently, getting out is happening every day- if only to clean other peoples' homes. The weather has been amazing- cool, refreshing, bright. My car is running well for a beater with 217,000 miles. Chicago traffic is gradually making sense to me- and I'm slowly beginning to know where I am (geographically). For all that cleaning other peoples' things can be odd, sometimes, I can't really think of a better way for me to familiarize myself with my new world, on my own. There's also an added bonus (?) of being forced to interact with others. Curling up into myself is extremely easy and natural- particularly in stressful or uncertain circumstances. In this unique series of situations, I get the alone time while driving around looking for new addresses (learning my way around!) and also some forced socialization when discussing jobs and payment options with clients (interaction!).
After two months of hoping to atomize and drift away on the current from the living room vents, I am now driving around Chicago with few-to-no issues. There haven't even been any tickets on my windshield, the last few weeks! The small victories feel bigger than they are, of course- hitting a street that I know, and remembering which way is home, still feels like a superpower... which I'm okay with, since I'm the only person in my car to judge me, and we are willing to overlook the indulgence so long as we don't stall there.
Also, I went to a social engagement, this week, that wasn't in Central Illinois. Please, please- no parades- I'll just get awkward and hide in my room.
So this is my second small success, in my new city. On a daily basis, I roll out of bed and wrestle the day into submission. I think the day is letting me win, sometimes- but I'm not too proud to accept it...
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
Not Everyone Grows Up to Be an Astronaut
I am not an astronaut. Nor am I a doctor, a lawyer, a maker of useful things. At this point in my life, I am cleaning other people's things. They call, we schedule, and I arrive on their doorstep, vacuum and mop in hand- with an intense desire to make their world shinier, so that they will have me back.
When I was five, I wanted to be a parent. At eight, married. By middle school, I wanted to be a teacher. In high school, an author (with closet daydreams of space travel). Come college, I threw caution to the wind, and decided to study performance theatre and philosophy, with some extensive dabbling in writing and improvisation. After a late graduation (yeah, depressive episodes!), I meandered until I found myself working at a pharmaceutical company- eventually becoming a supervisor. I was good at my job, they paid me well, it was something my family was proud of, and there was a good chance I was going to buy a home in the next year or two... but I couldn't make it stick. In the world of job-dating, we'd gone as far as we could- we'd discussed the future, ignoring the big question for as long as we could- and while we'd made that little 401k together, I wasn't going to be able to stick around and watch it grow up.
There are defining moments in all of our lives- I'm sure you've noticed a few of them,. They aren't always big moments, nor particularly loud. If we aren't paying attention, some of the more significant ones can slip right by us, their importance lost in the haze of day-to-day life. In my time in pharmaceuticals, I had several big moments that I ignored, for the sake of steadiness. Moments that I'm not sure about- odd mixtures of pride, shame, and regret- which I understand are a few of the hallmark signs of making choices. In those moments that I ignored, I was making choices away from the ephemeral maybes in my life, toward the tangible world of home-ownership and increasing debt (okay, that one not-so-tangible). But choices they were... whether I consciously acknowledged them, or not.
At this point in my life, I am not a single one of the things I desired to be when I was younger. Unlike Frank Turner, the artist behind the title of this blog, I am not a bad ass singer/songwriter, either. But there is a misfit in here, craving acknowledgement and a few chances to fail gloriously. I'm hoping to use this blog to document such attempts... and maybe a glorious success.
When I was five, I wanted to be a parent. At eight, married. By middle school, I wanted to be a teacher. In high school, an author (with closet daydreams of space travel). Come college, I threw caution to the wind, and decided to study performance theatre and philosophy, with some extensive dabbling in writing and improvisation. After a late graduation (yeah, depressive episodes!), I meandered until I found myself working at a pharmaceutical company- eventually becoming a supervisor. I was good at my job, they paid me well, it was something my family was proud of, and there was a good chance I was going to buy a home in the next year or two... but I couldn't make it stick. In the world of job-dating, we'd gone as far as we could- we'd discussed the future, ignoring the big question for as long as we could- and while we'd made that little 401k together, I wasn't going to be able to stick around and watch it grow up.
There are defining moments in all of our lives- I'm sure you've noticed a few of them,. They aren't always big moments, nor particularly loud. If we aren't paying attention, some of the more significant ones can slip right by us, their importance lost in the haze of day-to-day life. In my time in pharmaceuticals, I had several big moments that I ignored, for the sake of steadiness. Moments that I'm not sure about- odd mixtures of pride, shame, and regret- which I understand are a few of the hallmark signs of making choices. In those moments that I ignored, I was making choices away from the ephemeral maybes in my life, toward the tangible world of home-ownership and increasing debt (okay, that one not-so-tangible). But choices they were... whether I consciously acknowledged them, or not.
At this point in my life, I am not a single one of the things I desired to be when I was younger. Unlike Frank Turner, the artist behind the title of this blog, I am not a bad ass singer/songwriter, either. But there is a misfit in here, craving acknowledgement and a few chances to fail gloriously. I'm hoping to use this blog to document such attempts... and maybe a glorious success.
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