Sunday, April 20, 2008

A stageplay that is not a stageplay, that makes no sense but that's ok. -OR- A straight line.


(A room. A man enters, with hands that shake like they’ve been living through fear. He stares at No-One. He’s looking at us.)

… : Verily, verily, hither and yon. I knew a guy who broke his leg once, doing little more than just walking down the street. When he was on the ground, I took his hand; I held it as he wailed. If I’d seen it actually happen, I’d have laughed.

(A man enters. Another man. Not the same man. How different do you want them to be? That’s how different. Distinct. Separate. They’re similar.)

--- : I’d never have believed it. Not a dash of a snowball of a foundation of a beautiful chance. Where?

… : I stay awake at night, thinking about that. Do you know what that says about me?

--- : Where’d you go?

… : It says that I’m human. A person that lives and breathes in the world we were given. We gave in. We’ve taken. We took it, ourselves.

--- : Where’ve you been?

… : It makes me fear what that means.

(The man turns, looking at the other. The another. The another man. The another man doesn’t flinch.)

… : I think I’m in a desperate place.

--- : Is that where you’ve been?

… : Still there, I am. Verily.

--- : Glad to hear that there is a somewhere. If it were here that I was hearing, I’d be cross. Where did you take yourself, that’s a here to there? Where?

… : Down a ways.

(The man turns back towards us. Addresses. He looks hungry.)

… : S’ further than you’d think. And nearer.

(The one looks back at the another. He looks full. Which one? Pick one.)

… : I’ve missed it here.

--- : Here is where we’ve felt missed. Being missed was not never ever to be our mission. Where we are feels left behind.

… : Verily, verily, hither and yon.

--- : You never made any sense to me.

… : Was I supposed to?

--- : I haven’t a compatriot’s inkling of a semblance of a resolute clue. What’s the sense in something not-sensical? Things have to make sense, Mr. Man. If they do-ent, what’s to prevent the truant-truancy of mindliness? Where we are is where we are to be.

… : The world makes sense. Verily.

--- : Of does it course. Of course it does.

… : So it does.

(The man wrings his hands, as if he were trying to scrape them clean with little else than the particles that betray the visual spectrum. He cannot see them, they cannot be seen, but they have been seen, they have been categorized, they have been documented in tiny notebooks in handwriting as small and neat as that dust in the wind. The man sighs, but it is not a sad sigh.

Listen to yourself. To yourself sighing. Go ahead. I, and he, and you again, and the another, you and I and he will wait. Did you hear it? Was it special? Of course.)

--- : If all we have is the physically material, then all makes sense in the interlocking building blocks aside from the positively ephemeral, which is just a silly serious of stupid scenarios. Silly so silly.

… : He’s not wrong.

--- : He being me who is I. WHO IS yet another.

… : Yes, you are. And no, you’re not. You’ve wanted to know where I’ve been.

--- : I have notes of you, Mr. Sir Man. To leave them incomplete would be practically preposterous to a degree which I cannot found on confounded logic. It’s irksome, to be sure to say the least.

… : You’ve wanted to know.

--- : Yes.

… : Where I’ve been.

--- : Yes.

(The another nods, clears his throat, and bows his head as if he were in silent prayer. The man takes a step backwards, then turns, moves forwards, looking out over the sea of non-committal faces, including you, and yes, including this me that is sitting here. And there. He crosses his arms. He pulls a small bottle of mouthwash from his pocket, takes a small swig, and then swishes it around his mouth, loudly as he possibly can.

[He has a microphone to aid him in the purpose. An old-timey radio mic, lowered from the ceiling like at a boxing bout. It’s his, and his alone]

He looks ready for something. Whether he is or not? You know. It remains to be seen. You know.)

… : I like to speak. I like to make guttural vowel sounds in the depths of my throats. I like it when my thoughts are known, when and where they’ve gestated enough to be worthy of regarding. I like it when I’m worth something.

I could tell you a story. The story that I’m not telling him, this other another. I could tell you of that day before, when I was walking down on the path from whence I had came, singing quietly to myself about days that had never really happened. My ears were plugged with the sounds of my words, and I can tell you that I was nothing if not happy. I can tell you that. As I was walking, my footsteps began to slow, as the path that I was on suddenly seemed different beneath the beating heart of my bare, exposed, pasty white feet. The ground felt as if it were covered in darkness. It FELT like it.

I could tell you that. And you, just as likely could tell me that it doesn’t make sense. Because you’re right -- it doesn’t. It doesn’t make sense, and in the words of the world, it didn’t happen. Undoubtedly, you’d be right. It didn’t.

Even though it did. To me, it did.
How do I explain it? There’s no way to explain it, because it’s not real. That doesn’t matter, but I still know that it means nothing. I felt it, so it matters to me. There’s value to an enigma, even if there’s no true joy to a mystery.

(He bows his head, as the another did, as if he were lost in prayer.)

… : Pointless, but beautiful. Not quite meaningless. If you feel something -- if it makes you feel something, it’s not quite meaningless. As long as you still know. Know the world, I mean. As long as there are still no lies. Verily. Verily. Hither and yon. Amen.

(He takes a step backwards, out of the light. [The microphone rises] Together, he and the another are barely visible in the edges of the glare. The man is breathing harder now, and somehow he can still be heard. The man looks at another. At one-another. Together)

--- : Where are you going, where have you been?

… : Haven’t the foggiest.

--- : Who do you think you are?

… : No one of consequence.

--- : Consequently, you consign yourself towards a conundrum. I hate you for it. I Hate You For It. Make sense, please. Make sense, you git. Make sense, you trollop. Make sense, you anarchist. Make sense, you antichrist. Make sense, you dingo who ate a baby. Make sense, you fool. Make something, something of worth. DO IT.

… : I’ll make what I please.

--- : What pleases you is meaningless.

… : Not quite meaningless. Fall down go boom.

--- : Meaningless.

… : A shapeless man cries out through a rainstorm of tears. No one answers.

--- : Devoid of meaning.

… : He imagines himself in a monochromatic hallway.

--- : Without meaning.

… : He reaches into your face, pulls, tugs, jerks upon it, finding something, anything, everything that can be tugged free. Your eyes are weak, your skin sallow and pale. You fall, because you can. Fall down go boom. Verily, verily, hither and yon.


… : You think so?

--- : I do, you devilish do-not.

… : You know so?

--- : How can I?

… : Precisely. It’s pointless, but it might not be meaning-less.

--- : Meaning?

… : You fall down. Go boom.

--- : Verily.

(Another falls down. Goes boom. Fall down go boom. You get a headache. It thunders across the stage, cracking the walls, causing lights to shake from the tight hold of their casings, raining down shatterings of glass that fill the air with sparks and shrieks and puffs of smoke. There is darkness, here. Nothing left but. But you and I, and whoever might be up there, doing and being and meaning nothing. Whatever. We’re quiet, now.)

... : Verily.

Annnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnd -SCENE-

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