Silent, stretched upwards, outwards, the sky opened up and let forth the floods,
Spilling forth, drowning the cold barren remembrance of things past, things that
Can not be forgotten. There is a rhythm to the cries this time, with each thundering
Lightning strike trying to imagine muffled moans packed in the pillow cases you
Forgot last Tuesday – I hate to interrupt, but they really don't belong – and you
Seem to not feel concern for their explainable disappearance, a slight hint of,
“Oh, I would like to rest my still body here again,” a slight hint of how this is
Already falling apart at the seams, falling apart at the jeans, falling apart, falling.
Do you think there is any safety in suicide?
Will they still give me my reward when I arrive?
/
I don't want to disappear, for it still brings to mind this notion of knowing.
I do not want to be remembered for anything, nostalgia brings a certain hurt.
I am calling for rain, a rain to wash away whatever semblance of myself holds
dear in that tired old heart of yrs
\
“My passion is fading light, like a cigarette left at its butt, burning down bright, a cataclysmic finale to something so beautiful – but, as always... jealousy gets the best of the best of the best of us.”
20.3.12
19.3.12
A Story of Worn Friends - A Play in One Act
Characters:
Theodore – Nondescript middle-aged man, thin.
Noise – Unseen character, offstage, triggering the sounds, the audience of Theodore's monologue.
Stage Directions:
The stage is to be obstructed by a matte-black wall, with all front-stage light bulbs removed, creating an unpierceable wall of darkness save for one 10x5 (width x depth) cut-out, which should contain: a claw-foot, curtainless, white bathtub with shower, preferably with seemingly antiquated features (head, faucet, etc.). 'Noise' should be positioned stage-left, behind the wall and eight feet from the cutout. All house lights must be killed and with the addition of no stage lights, should create a stifling darkness in the theater, all except one dimmed (a grease-covered dim) spotlight angled from the audience onto the bathtub.
-
Act I
(Bring up the light on the bathtub. Theodore is sitting on his bent legs, naked, in warm water. He is facing stage-left, should be smoking a cigarette, hair damp but not too wet. Directly in front of him comes a soft creaking sound, not unlike a person walking on old, hardwood floors)
Theodore – (visibly shaken) Ah, here we are again: a bleak, black, evening – on a Tuesday, I suppose – and I haven't got a thing to wear. I can hear you out there, I know you're growing impatient, but that isn't my problem, now is it? (to still silence) You think I don't understand what you're doing? What kind of game you think you're playing? This is a fucking joke, and you know it.
I've been drinking for the past six days; I've been home for seven. There have been 240 ounces
of malt liquor, three bottles and a box of wine, six grams of marijuana, and starvation. (to self)
Who knew that after a few days of not eating I would start to look this good. (to the silence)
You know, it really isn't that hard to maintain: a cigarette when you're hungry, a glass of wine
when the thirst begins to set in. You start to shake after a day, but it isn't too bad.
(Theodore accidentally drops his cigarette in the water. As he thrashes the water, frustrated,
another creaking can be heard from the same location)
Theodore – (louder and annoyed) Will you calm down? (to self) Sonofafuckingbitch... (to the silence)
Yes, yes, yes, trust me, I am coming. It's just that I've dropped my...
(at this, Theodore begins to cough, which begins as a mild clearing-of-the-throat, and quickly leads a massive coughing fit. This should transpire over the course of about twenty seconds
and, upon conclusion, should climax with drying-heaving)
Theodore – (shaking) It's going to take more than that, you know. Yesterday, for instance, I vomited
nothing but wine and bile, it's no wonder I haven't needed to suck in my abdomen any longer
today. Now, you know that I am not exactly certain where this all came from originally; why every glass in my room is an ashtray and how striking it is with its musk of smoke and evaporated alcohol. You know what's truly funny about all of this, though? I've decided to be open about these moments, this time around; however, I've been using a great deal of discretion when deciding what details I should be obfuscating. See, don't you understand that you have to do that some of the time? That you must deny your dearest darlings the truth of your experience? It really is rather awful.
(Another, subtly louder, creak can be heard from offstage. Theodore grabs, and lights, another cigarette, smoking quite consistently)
Theodore – (all of a sudden very sullen) I can see how it is all being wasted now; I can see where the
structure is cracking and failing, where it has been decomposing for years. It starts off in that
tiniest sort of way, kind of in the sense of a tear in a pair of jeans. (abruptly stops, grabs a
tumbler from behind the tub, and sips whiskey deeply from the glass) It really is getting exciting
now, isn't it? Slow progressions, slow degradation, slow comfort, and slow collapse. It's all part
of the same game if you want my honest opinion.
(Theodore brandishes a straight-razor, but not one of cartoonish aesthetic, and starts to lather his
his face with cream from the side of the tub. He begins shaving. Another creak, audibly
identical, is heard)
Theodore – I can really start to feel the hunger setting in. Perhaps it is almost time to eat again. Maybe
that's what will stop the shaking, maybe if I can just stop the shaking. I think then that I might
be able to brush my teeth, which have become stained from the barrage of wine and smoke. I
think I may call my father when I get out of here and grab this meal. I hope that the shaking
might stop at that point.
I am curious how much a body can take, all-in-all? I can feel myself swaying and growing weak
in a matter-of-fact sort of way that I'm not to sure if I am supportive of. I suppose, at first, that
this was an attempt at the same sort of emaciation that I was feeling, but I am beginning to not
be able to rationalize it. Hypothesis doesn't also lead to success. And that is tonight's barren fact.
(To silence) I can tell that you are still out there, sulking, stalking, ruining. What is it with you
and your sullen attempts at rumination? Just regurgitating your same, tired opinions, over-and- over. I can feel them just sitting there... Telling me these lies, impossible facts, I don't even care
to understand anymore. There is chicken rotting in the refrigerator, you should probably check
that. I am not too sure if I care to take this any longer. It's getting rather difficult to breath in
unison and I just want some honest sleep. I can hear you creaking, (rhythmically) day-in-and- day-out, waiting for some kind of grand gesture. I gave it to you three nights ago, don't you even remember?
(Theodore cuts himself shaving. There is a thin slice and dripping blood in the water coming
from the left of his face. Instead of reacting, he just sits in silence. There is another creaking, this time louder, and a lighter thud soon follows)
Theodore – Why is the effect that water has on thicker, colored liquids so much more interesting than,
say, a moment of anybody else's time? I think that it is safe to say, let alone abundantly clear,
that I am growing tired of falling into your company. I appreciate how you try to scrub the filth
from under my nails, but it still doesn't exorcise what has really grown, festered, and when you
always come back, just like you do, and you always do, it always just hurts, tighter and harder.
There are blisters on these lips from cigarettes. This is a new one. I think I might be dying right
now. It is still really all up in the air.
Theodore – Nondescript middle-aged man, thin.
Noise – Unseen character, offstage, triggering the sounds, the audience of Theodore's monologue.
Stage Directions:
The stage is to be obstructed by a matte-black wall, with all front-stage light bulbs removed, creating an unpierceable wall of darkness save for one 10x5 (width x depth) cut-out, which should contain: a claw-foot, curtainless, white bathtub with shower, preferably with seemingly antiquated features (head, faucet, etc.). 'Noise' should be positioned stage-left, behind the wall and eight feet from the cutout. All house lights must be killed and with the addition of no stage lights, should create a stifling darkness in the theater, all except one dimmed (a grease-covered dim) spotlight angled from the audience onto the bathtub.
-
Act I
(Bring up the light on the bathtub. Theodore is sitting on his bent legs, naked, in warm water. He is facing stage-left, should be smoking a cigarette, hair damp but not too wet. Directly in front of him comes a soft creaking sound, not unlike a person walking on old, hardwood floors)
Theodore – (visibly shaken) Ah, here we are again: a bleak, black, evening – on a Tuesday, I suppose – and I haven't got a thing to wear. I can hear you out there, I know you're growing impatient, but that isn't my problem, now is it? (to still silence) You think I don't understand what you're doing? What kind of game you think you're playing? This is a fucking joke, and you know it.
I've been drinking for the past six days; I've been home for seven. There have been 240 ounces
of malt liquor, three bottles and a box of wine, six grams of marijuana, and starvation. (to self)
Who knew that after a few days of not eating I would start to look this good. (to the silence)
You know, it really isn't that hard to maintain: a cigarette when you're hungry, a glass of wine
when the thirst begins to set in. You start to shake after a day, but it isn't too bad.
(Theodore accidentally drops his cigarette in the water. As he thrashes the water, frustrated,
another creaking can be heard from the same location)
Theodore – (louder and annoyed) Will you calm down? (to self) Sonofafuckingbitch... (to the silence)
Yes, yes, yes, trust me, I am coming. It's just that I've dropped my...
(at this, Theodore begins to cough, which begins as a mild clearing-of-the-throat, and quickly leads a massive coughing fit. This should transpire over the course of about twenty seconds
and, upon conclusion, should climax with drying-heaving)
Theodore – (shaking) It's going to take more than that, you know. Yesterday, for instance, I vomited
nothing but wine and bile, it's no wonder I haven't needed to suck in my abdomen any longer
today. Now, you know that I am not exactly certain where this all came from originally; why every glass in my room is an ashtray and how striking it is with its musk of smoke and evaporated alcohol. You know what's truly funny about all of this, though? I've decided to be open about these moments, this time around; however, I've been using a great deal of discretion when deciding what details I should be obfuscating. See, don't you understand that you have to do that some of the time? That you must deny your dearest darlings the truth of your experience? It really is rather awful.
(Another, subtly louder, creak can be heard from offstage. Theodore grabs, and lights, another cigarette, smoking quite consistently)
Theodore – (all of a sudden very sullen) I can see how it is all being wasted now; I can see where the
structure is cracking and failing, where it has been decomposing for years. It starts off in that
tiniest sort of way, kind of in the sense of a tear in a pair of jeans. (abruptly stops, grabs a
tumbler from behind the tub, and sips whiskey deeply from the glass) It really is getting exciting
now, isn't it? Slow progressions, slow degradation, slow comfort, and slow collapse. It's all part
of the same game if you want my honest opinion.
(Theodore brandishes a straight-razor, but not one of cartoonish aesthetic, and starts to lather his
his face with cream from the side of the tub. He begins shaving. Another creak, audibly
identical, is heard)
Theodore – I can really start to feel the hunger setting in. Perhaps it is almost time to eat again. Maybe
that's what will stop the shaking, maybe if I can just stop the shaking. I think then that I might
be able to brush my teeth, which have become stained from the barrage of wine and smoke. I
think I may call my father when I get out of here and grab this meal. I hope that the shaking
might stop at that point.
I am curious how much a body can take, all-in-all? I can feel myself swaying and growing weak
in a matter-of-fact sort of way that I'm not to sure if I am supportive of. I suppose, at first, that
this was an attempt at the same sort of emaciation that I was feeling, but I am beginning to not
be able to rationalize it. Hypothesis doesn't also lead to success. And that is tonight's barren fact.
(To silence) I can tell that you are still out there, sulking, stalking, ruining. What is it with you
and your sullen attempts at rumination? Just regurgitating your same, tired opinions, over-and- over. I can feel them just sitting there... Telling me these lies, impossible facts, I don't even care
to understand anymore. There is chicken rotting in the refrigerator, you should probably check
that. I am not too sure if I care to take this any longer. It's getting rather difficult to breath in
unison and I just want some honest sleep. I can hear you creaking, (rhythmically) day-in-and- day-out, waiting for some kind of grand gesture. I gave it to you three nights ago, don't you even remember?
(Theodore cuts himself shaving. There is a thin slice and dripping blood in the water coming
from the left of his face. Instead of reacting, he just sits in silence. There is another creaking, this time louder, and a lighter thud soon follows)
Theodore – Why is the effect that water has on thicker, colored liquids so much more interesting than,
say, a moment of anybody else's time? I think that it is safe to say, let alone abundantly clear,
that I am growing tired of falling into your company. I appreciate how you try to scrub the filth
from under my nails, but it still doesn't exorcise what has really grown, festered, and when you
always come back, just like you do, and you always do, it always just hurts, tighter and harder.
There are blisters on these lips from cigarettes. This is a new one. I think I might be dying right
now. It is still really all up in the air.
21.2.12
Putting My Chickens In Order
I was staring at a bush – it was a green bush – and the sun was beating down bright on it, with a thudthudthud in the background of a neighboring child and his mandatory thirty minutes of tornmuscleecstasy. Yes, I was staring at this bush trying to find a rhythm in the cold sounds, and I was staring at this bush, right? And I was staring and there was nothing. Everything was a shade of gray – all of it – and I knew then why wide-eyed deer tend to slice themselves open on the tiles of my floors, all pearls of red swirling somewhere deep and away with those fears of this plague that you lay with and those tears that can't be wiped away. This bush I was staring at, it didn't stare or speak back, mere stillness in the thudthudthud, but that stops and all is silent: every star in the sky has gone dull, the whimpering of the caged animals cease to exist, and it's back to staring at the bush. So, I am staring at this bush – it's green as I have mentioned before, and the sun really is beating down on it – but it is still appearing gray, as if my vision has regressed to that of my beagle, and my stomach is churning from mid morning burnings, but I have switched back to water, water exclusively, and unfortunately it doesn't burn when it goes down (no more mid afternoon burnings anymore), but (like everything, I suppose) I want it to; burn when it goes down, of course. And the beat picks back up and the sounds come rushing back, but the tinnitus kicks in, and C# is tearing through my left ear, shredding away at my cochlea, I really just need to sleep. The thing about it, really, this bush, it should have been green, it was green, I saw it, okay? But see, it didn't appear as such, still gray, and everything was gray, and so I went back inside – stopped staring at the bush – and decided to enter back into the dimly-lit papier-mâché of the skull, all sickeningly translucent and seductive. It's calling me back into my subconscious where you all leave, overandoverandover again, out this way, out that way, “Do not touch me,” here are your records that you left at my place, yes I will grab your shirt, I didn't see it in the bottom shelf where our pajamas went, and it's all running like silver-screen exploitation, an explosive cacophony of my existential ambiguity, and I still can't understand why I see gray while staring at a green bush with the sun's illumination burning out my retinas (which I would gladly take seeing as disease will steal them eventually and everything is already gray and not green, so yeah, there, what is the point?). I dread the sound of every passing vehicle, I just need sleep, please god, just let me sleep, and no, thank you kindly for the offer, but I still don't want to see her leaving anymore, I've played it out dozens of times already, with the face and the tears, and they taste like sweat so you know, like blood minus the burning sensation it causes later on. I can feel my body's shifts now, as I giggle and cry while Barbados slithers across a stage, I can feel it as the bottom of my stomach slips out from under me and my wrists begin to throb. Then I can feel as the current begins to carry me outoutandaway and the graynotgreen begins to overwhelm all ofhowithinkiloveyou and is replacing my memories with my nightmares, all leaving and still, “Don't fucking touch me,” and ireallyneedyoutositdownandlisten because really there is too much to ever explain and even if I could I dontknowifit would evermattermuchmore than a cheap symbolic card from the same places that sells me my suicidalliquidcourageinabottle and I'm beginning to run mad, and it is driving me to loose ends, and I really need to see that green bush, and I want to stop fixating on the cold gray, and I am really starting to have a hard time coping, and I am starting to realize that people no longer sleep, and I notice that there is moreandmore blood now that I am here, and I am taking note of thesenightwhereisnapinasinisterkindofwayandcantcalmthewatersbecausethetumultisbeginngtobetoomuchtotakeallinstrideandpleasepleaseknowthatitsnotaguiltthingijustreallyneedthissilencethatdoesntstopwhereiamnolongeraplagueandinolongertakemarathonjabsatyouandeveryonesleepsagainandwalletsstayfatandnobodyworriesthatohnothisisthatonethatweveallbeenwaitingforbutno
I think that will happen elsewhere.
I think that will happen elsewhere.
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