ekleksographia

            Before I arrived, displaced and dislocated, I had heard about her.  I had heard from someone else who had heard from someone else that she was supposed to be “good.”  I wasn’t really sure what that meant, but when I met her, there was something that I could not definitively pin down about Dayana Stetco, especially into a word as seemingly uncomplicated as “good.” 
            I’m putting on a production in the spring, she said, would you be interested in being a part of it?
            I was flattered and of course I would. 
            I want to turn you into a book.  Can you dance?
            Sure.
            I’m working with this image I have in my head of these characters being suffocated in between the pages of a book.  Would you be willing to do it?
            Of course.
            Rehearsals began.  She asked me to dance.  I was intimidated, displaced and dislocated.  There were people watching who I did not know except by sight and the rehearsal room was a sterile classroom/lecture hall with bright lights and tiled ceilings.  So, I danced, reluctant.  I danced while people I did not know stared at me and I felt like a bug.  I danced some more, reluctant.  I wondered when I would suffocate the characters in between the pages of the book.  I felt like a bug, suffocating in between the pages of a brightly lit and shiny tiled book. 
            It was not as if I wasn’t used to being in front of people, it wasn’t as if I wasn’t familiar with the idea of the spectacle, or with performing.  I had performed all my life in various forms and guises.  It was just that I was the newcomer, displaced and dislocated, in an ongoing project that had been happening well before I arrived. 
            I heard about some of Dayana’s other events, particularly “Milena Stripping” and “The Dick Traces” through other students and faculty members.  When they discussed these performances, people did so with an enthusiasm and respect that more than confirmed the idea that Stetco was “good.”  My curiosity and interest grew, and as the rehearsals progressed, I was able to participate in, witness, and contribute to the development of “The Language of Mannequins.” 
            It is important to keep reiterating that I was a newcomer, displaced and dislocated, who was asked to participate (because I soon began to notice that what she was creating was not necessarily a performance that existed independent of her other works), and that it was also not a part of a series of ongoing and contextually intertwined pieces.  As a matter of fact, I had trouble describing exactly what it was that I was becoming a part of.  Was it a play, a reading, a performance art piece, an art exhibit, or a combination of all of these things?  Her work is definitely not structured as what one might think of when they think of a traditional play.  It is not exactly a play and it is also not exactly performance art.  Her work is more like a series of events that expand into an increasing exhibition that impresses itself on the minds and memories of the viewers.  It was through my enrollment in Dayana’s “Socio-Semiotic Theory of the Spectacle” course that I realized that they are socio-historical maps of sight and sound with interstices of people and landscape. Although I have not seen any of her previous works, I am well aware that these events establish connections between each other; they link and coalesce into something that is always immediate and always spectacular.  How do I know this?  I know because people keep talking about them.  Her work lasts well beyond its appearance on the stage.  Her performances continually develop and progress.
            What struck me the most about the rehearsal process for “The Language of Mannequins” was witnessing the development of this piece.  What began as some random dance moves in front of a few people I did not know (feeling like a bug about to be squashed in a book) developed into a brilliant spectacle that was combined with another one of her performance exhibitions entitled “Scar.”  What started out as rehearsals where I heard things like, “I have this image in my head,” or “I don’t know exactly what will happen next because I haven’t written it yet,” developed into something that can be described as (and I hate to use these words because they are as elusive as “good”) striking and beautiful. 
            She must have rewritten the script at least ten times.  Up until the very last rehearsal before the performance, things were still being manipulated, perfected, and created.  Do not let this fool you.  Do not let this leave you with the impression that the “final product” (and the performance still exists, even now, and is therefore not a “final product”) of “The Language of Mannequins” was haphazard and thrown together.  It was just that Dayana was open to ideas.  She listened to the sound of all of our voices, and paid attention to the movement of our bodies, in order to realize the total event.  We would do something during the rehearsal that would inevitably end up in the performance.  When Lindsay, the girl who played the Master of Ceremonies, would say something like “Freak” under her breath, the next thing I knew, it was written into the text.  Before I knew it, I was reading one of my poems during a scene.  I was amazed that a director could be so attuned to the sound of other people’s bodies and voices. 
            It was not just language and dialogue that was added to the event, movement and sound also were choreographed, directed, and initiated.  I remember during one rehearsal I had to practice walking for my entrance.  For some reason, I was not walking correctly, according to Dayana.  I thought, “Jesus Christ, I’ve been walking all my life, what the fuck is wrong with me that I can’t walk properly now?”  I don’t know how many times I was told not to walk on my toes, or slow down, or quit wobbling around like I was going to fall over.  I had never noticed a problem with the way I walk before.  I’ve been getting myself to and fro for years, and I thought I had the whole walking thing mastered.  I mean, all I had to do was walk, right?  Obviously not.  Dayana pays attention to minute details.  Even a walk, on tippy toes or not, matters and means.  Was this frustrating for me as an, and I hesitate to call myself this but, an actor?  Fuck yes it was.  Was it worth it?  Absolutely.  I’m not sure if I’ve perfected the art of walking as a book quite yet, but I do know that the end result was, again, striking and beautiful.
            Since I’ve already stated that I would hesitate to call myself an actor, because I am not and was not exactly, how is it that I could prepare for my character as the book?  I couldn’t. With Dayana’s works, it is impossible to get into character by using Stanislavsky’s methods.  This is what happened in order for me to become the book: I was measured for a costume.  The costume was not made, then made, then remade and re-imagined and I soon had “pages” in which to suffocate Valerin Blu and the mannequin.  I knew that in “acting” the book I was supposed to be the book of all books, a book that contained all other books, a book that would paradoxically contain itself.  I knew that therefore, I could not really exist.  I also knew that I was Valerin Blu’s book, and that I did exist because I was also a fleshly and seductive figure, desperately trying to get the attention of her writer.  That is why I danced.  Dayana told me once during rehearsals that when I didn’t have any lines or wasn’t directly participating in any scenes, I would have to think of gestures and things to do while the other action was taking place.  So what would a book do in certain circumstances?  I posed like a sphinx.  I filed my nails and painted my toenails.  I smoked a cigarette after I danced for Valerin Blu.  I looked through a fashion magazine.  I figured the book of all books would be pretty full of itself.  So I read myself.
            The only regret that I have as a result of participating in “The Language of Mannequins,” is that I was not able to view it in its entirety.  While being a part of the development and process was an amazing experience that will not soon leave me, I only wish I could have seen it from an audience member’s perspective.  I know by watching “Scar” from down stage right that it was absolutely striking and beautiful.  I know what certain scenes from “The Language of Mannequins” look like from a bookish angle down stage left.  I know what Valerin Blu and the mannequin looked like when they died.  I killed them.  I know what the writer looked like as she read her manuscript.  Sometimes I could see her.  I also know that the audience looked captivated and amused, possibly mystified but also utterly compelled.  I wish that I was a part of them, just so I could see the images that I heard were so transfixing.

Being a newcomer, displaced and dislocated to Dayana’s series of performance exhibitions, started out as feeling like a bug wobbling on one foot about to be smashed in between the pages of the book of all books.  And I realize that, in some sense, this is exactly what happened.  Except now I realize that it is not that I am a bug, or a book, or a poet, or an actor, or a dancer, or a performer.  I am all of these things.  From displaced and dislocated, I’ve located myself within a spectacular map of sight and sound intersected with people and landscape.  I am ongoing.  I’ve existed and I mean, evidenced by my location on a shifting series of maps.  If you look at them closely, you will see my image squished, wobbling, reading and dancing.  And, while looking, you might also be able to locate yourself.

WRITER

WRITER’S MOUTH

ELISHA

CHORUS of at least six people for multiple parts

 

Stage is empty except for two elevators.  A rope rises to the rafters from both.  One has an “out of order” sign draped across the open doors.  A screen hangs center stage and projects the scene titles and WRITER’S MOUTH.

 

SCENE I – Going Up?

 

WRITER’S MOUTH

An elevator, back stage center, can ascend and descend.  The writer and her desk are. . . Where?  Behind the elevator with silhouette and shadow?  Down stage right?  Down stage left? Up stage right, up stage left, on the southeastern corner of Main and Third, bottle of booze, packed with cigarette? Off stage, stage voice, prerecorded, missing person, controlling panels, pushing buttons?  Ding. . .Ding. . .dingdingdingdingding.

 

(Elevator: “ding,” doors open, people file out like clowns exiting volkswagons, excited mumbling, whispers.  They gather in front of the doors and stare.  Illumination from inside dim and rises until it is an unbearable blinding glow.  ELISHA descends from rope to roof of working elevator, overly dramatic entrance symphony music)

 

ELISHA 

Come ye all hear and rise without fear and dread for falling.  You can and will to heights with a newly inspired rising.  American purple mountain, rising, majesty magnificent, rising, without fear, rising, the fear in hearts-in all your hearts-the fear of devastation, falling.  Rise, rise! Have a picnic, have a nice ride, have a cup of tea with your biscuit, steady, slow, ambling through valleys of progress to parking.  This I promise you, people, you in a hurry, in a hustle, wanting up wanting, wanting, listen and rise, rise up through the gates of. . .going up?

 

(Elevator: “ding,” no one moves.  The light is blinding.  ELISHA grabs the rope.  Takes huge pair of scissors like mayor-cutting-ribbon shears from his coat or top hat.  People gasp, freeze. Projected on screen: “Long and somewhat uncomfortable silence”) 

 

ELISHA 

Trust me. No fear of falling. . .rising.  Come. . .trust. . .all glory in the sounds of faithful progress.

 

(Elevator:  “ding,” people slowly file in.  Doors close.  One girl is left standing outside.  She will not get in.  ELISHA cuts the rope.  Mellow cheesy elevator Muzak immediately following snip.  Girl watches.  Nothing happens.  Muzak plays.  She begins pacing.  She is the WRITER.  Muzak stops.)

 

WRITER 

Fuck.  How do I get him down?  I need him to get down. 

 

(She looks at ELISHA.  Projected on screen: “He doesn’t move, can’t.”)       

 

WRITER 

I need him to be in the elevator.  I need you to be in the elevator.  Get down!

 

                        (She looks at ELISHA.  Projected on screen: “He doesn’t move, can’t.”)       

 

WRITER 

Jesus.  What the fuck did I ask you for?  Elisha, get down!  I need you.

 

(She looks at ELISHA.  Projected on screen: “He doesn’t move, can’t.”   She goes to him.  Holds out her hand)

 

ELISHA 

All pain and glory to the upward rising.  This is the way to salvation.

 

WRITER 

Shut up and give me your hand.

 

ELISHA 

I thought you wanted me to stay up here.

 

WRITER 

Well, I did and now I don’t.  Get down.

 

ELISHA 

I’m kind of. . .stuck.  You didn’t ask for any ladders or step stools, and I’ve already cut the rope.

 

WRITER 

Fine then.  Stay up there.

 

(He freezes after reaching his hand out. Projected on screen: “Long and somewhat uncomfortable silence.”  She paces.)

 

WRITER’S MOUTH  

I want him to disappear. . . I wish I never saw him. . .He was a waiter at the Green Mug. . . A musician and an actor, just to get by. . . I wanted to help. . .all cappuccino and double nonfat calorie. . .I had this...this. . .and I said, “I have an idea. . .I have ideas with capital ‘I’s”. . .and now. . .I really shouldn’t have. . .because. . .nothing happens. . .I wish I could make him go away. . .Wait. . .I know. . .

 

(Projected on screen: “Elisha disappears”)

 

                                                WRITER

Done. 

 

(She looks.  Projected on screen: “He is still obviously there.”)

 

WRITER 

Please get down.

 

 

ELISHA 

Help me.

 

(She helps him get down.  Elevator: “ding,” and doors open.  No one inside.)

 

ELISHA 

So where is this all going?

 

WRITER 

Down. 

 

ELISHA 

And you want me to…?

 

WRITER 

Just give me a second to think. . .get in. . .

 

(He gets in and doors close. The following WRITER’S VOICE monologue is projected while the stage is set for the “Coy Mistress” scene.)

 

WRITER’S MOUTH 

To begin, there is no beginning.  To begin, there are elevators and movement.  In the beginning, elevators.  All looked up to upward existing.  Elevators, physical like oranges, tree trunks and lightning bolt physics.  Physical happenings like oranges, tree trunks and lightning bolt physics happened in around and about them (the dynamics of tree like movement).  With elevators, expansion.  Offices, parking garages, floors and floors of fabric.  Fearing and falling.  With offices and parking garages, men and women.  Then, the preachers, going up and going down and all down to upward rising.  There is one particularly preacherly preacher Elisha.  A particularly preacherly preacher who has nothing to do with elevators, offices, parking garages or religion.  He is Elisha Graves Otis, inventor of the first safe elevator.  He works at the Green Mug and wants to be an actor.  He works at the Green Mug and wants to be a musician.  We speak about plots and plotting and the absence of one that arrives in fragments.  He says, now listen: rising action (are you going up?), shout: climax (at the top, the top), denouement (down, down, down).  What there is is: he says this and she says back or she says this and he says back.  What happens is: things happen.  People talk to one another.  But, however and howdy, people do not fall in love.  People absolutely do not fall in love.  People are too often and too much always falling in love.  Rising, falling, rising, falling.  Over and over in love.

 

 

SCENE II: elevator “ding” – The Mistress is Coy

 

(Office with a desk up stage right where WRITER sits facing the audience blank and expressionless, working like, while the poem is articulated. Elevator doors keep opening and shutting, various actors enter and exit from elevator.   Tempo is rushed, movement of people constantly back and forth.  Bits of their conversations are heard, and this is how the poem emerges.  Characters include 3 workers, a woman carrying around a plant, two women at a water cooler and the boss with his assistant.  ELISHA  plays BOSS.  There is a general hum but all of the lines of the poem should be articulated loud enough and quick enough to run seamlessly together.)

 

 

 

BOSS

(Walking with ASSISTANT) 

Had we but world enough, and time

 

WATER COOLER WOMAN 1

(With disbelief.  She tells a story to WATER COOLER WOMAN 2 about a love affair gone awry) 

This coyness, lady!

 

ASSISTANT 

                        (An unbearable sycophant)

Were no crime

 

WORKER 1

(With WORKER 2) 

We would sit down, and think

 

WORKER 2 

which way to walk and pass our long

 

WATER COOLER WOMAN 2

love’s day thou by the Indian

 

(WORKER 3 with clipboard, to BOSS)

 

WORKER 3 

Ganges side

 

BOSS

(Signs clipboard)

Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide of

 

ASSISTANT

(Warning BOSS) 

Humber would complain.

 

WATER COOLER W1 

I would love you ten years before the flood

 

ASSISTANT 

And you should, if you please refuse

 

BOSS 

Till the conversion of the

 

(WORKER 3 walks with carton of juice, to WATER COOLER W2)

 

WORKER 3

(“Juice”) 

Jews

 

(PLANT W enters, trying to find a nice place for her plant)

 

PLANT W 

My vegetable

 

WATER COOLER W2

love

 

PLANT W 

should grow vaster than

 

BOSS 

empires

 

ASSISTANT

and more slow. . .an hundred years should go to praise thine

 

(WORKER 3 reenters with bag of ice, to WATER COOLER W2)

 

WORKER 3

(“Ice?”)

eyes

 

WORKER 2

(Wiping something off of WORKER 1’s face)

and on thine forehead

 

WATER COOLER W1

gaze; two hundred to adore each breast!

 

BOSS 

But thirty thousand to the rest

 

ASSISTANT

an age at least to every part, And the last age

                                 

WATER COOLER W2

                        (Comforting)

should show your heart. For

 

WATER COOLER W1

(Sarcastic)

lady

 

WATER COOLER W2 

                        (Holds up a map of the French Riviera and points to it)

you deserve this state

 

ASSISTANT 

Nor would I

 

WATER COOLER W2

love

 

BOSS

at a lower rate.

 

PLANT W

(Placing plant, “here”)

but at my back. . .I always. . .hear

 

WORKER 1

(Bored, checking watch)

 time’s winged

 

BOSS

(Giving ASSISTANT his car keys)

chariot

 

ASSISTANT

hurrying near

 

WORKER 2

(Yawning)

And yonder

 

WATER COOLER W1

all before us lie

 

WORKER 3

(Now with box of HoHos, offering them. “Desserts?”) 

deserts

 

BOSS

of vast eternity

 

WATER COOLER W1

(Sobbing at this point)

thy beauty shall no more be found

 

BOSS

(Commanding, to ASSISTANT)

 nor, in thy marble vault

 

WORKER 1

shall sound my echoing song

 

PLANT W

(Digging around in the plant pot)

 then worms shall try that

 

WATER COOLER W2

(Trying to comfort W1)

long preserved virginity

 

PLANT W

(Affectionately, to plant)

and your quaint

 

ASSISTANT

( Muttering an aside)

honor turn to dust and into ashes

 

WATER COOLER W1 

all my lust

 

BOSS

(Pointing to WATER COOLER W1, her job is on the line)

the grave’s a fine and private place

 

ASSISTANT

                        (Tries to defend the water cooler women)

but none, I think

 

WATER COOLER W1

do there embrace

 

BOSS

(Still to WATER COOLER W1) 

Now therefore

 

WORKER 2

(Talking about WATER COOLER W1 and 2, as if they were lazy)

while the youthful hue sits on

 

PLANT W

thy skin like morning

 

WORKER 2

(To Worker 1“glue?”)

glew

 

BOSS

(Now addressing ASSISTANT)

And while thy willing

 

PLANT W

(To sound like “soil”)

soul

 

 

 

WORKER 1

(Wipes his forehead)

transpires at every pore with instant

 

BOSS

(To WATER COOLER W1.  She’s now fired.)

fires!

 

WATER COOLER W2

(Comforts WATER COOLER W1, they begin to exit)

now let us sport while we may,

 

BOSS

and now, like

 

WORKER 1

(Sarcastic, he’s talking about BOSS)

amorous

 

WATER COOLER W2

(To BOSS and ASSISTANT)

birds of prey!

 

BOSS

 Rather at once

 

ASSISTANT

our time devour

 

WORKER 1

(To WORKER 2, whispering.  Afraid of fucking up, yet talking about the boss)

 than languish in his slow-chapped power

 

ASSISTANT 

                        (Holds up boss’ car keys)

let us roll

 

BOSS

all our strength and all our

 

PLANT W

(Affectionately, to plant, fluffing leaves)

sweetness up

 

WORKER 2

into one ball, and tear

 

WORKER 1

our pleasures with rough strife

 

 

BOSS

through the iron gates of life

 

ASSISTANT

                        (Points at watch. They are late for an appointment)

thus, though we cannot make our

 

PLANT W

sun stand still

 

BOSS

                        (Insanely power hungry)

yet we will make him

 

WORKER 1 & WORKER 2

run

 

(The scene begins to break apart, Muzak back on as the workers exit through the elevator. The only two actors remaining are ELISHA and WRITER.  They are motionless through the following WRITER’S MOUTH monologue)

 

WRITER’S MOUTH

what now. . . what next. . .she says. . .he says. . .apples and oranges. . .the physical tart smart sour of oranges. . . she says this and he says that. . . and so on. . . no falling only flailing. . . only failing. . .the rope (thank you Elisha) for the rope. . .no fear of falling. . .safe elevator. . .the elevator—a safe place for expeditions. . .I saw him at the Green Mug. . . I wanted to help. . .I wanted to be. . . with a capital. . .I took someone’s words and made them oranges and apples and the physical tart smart sour. . .I wonder if he. . . I never. . .I’ve got to keep. . .keep what’s going up ding?

 

WRITER

(To ELISHA)

So. . .what did you think?

 

(She looks at Elisha. Projected on screen: “He doesn’t move, can’t.”)       

 

WRITER 

I asked you, what

 

(She looks at Elisha.  Projected on Screen: “He doesn’t move, can’t.”)       

 

WRITER

…do you think?

 

ELISHA 

Rather at once, we will make, rubies and the Ganges.  But at my back I always hear time’s winged chariot hurrying near.  Why that poem?

 

WRITER 

I don’t know.  I thought it was office-like.

 

 

ELISHA 

You’re kidding.

 

WRITER 

No.

 

ELISHA 

                        (Projected on screen: “Long and somewhat uncomfortable silence.”)

Hey, do you want to get coffee sometime?  When I’m off?  I get a discount.  When this is over?

 

WRITER

No.

 

ELISHA 

Sorry I asked.

 

WRITER 

No it’s just that I. . .don’t like. . .I’m afraid of. . .heights. . . I just wanted you to, well to help you, you know. . .

 

ELISHA 

Fine.  Keep it professional.  Just tell me what I’m supposed to do. 

 

WRITER 

Help me move a table.

 

(They grab a table, move it up center stage)

 

ELISHA 

I’m not a bird of prey.

 

WRITER 

I know.  You’re Elisha Graves Otis.  Inventor of the first safe elevator.  You work at the Green Mug.  I asked you to play in my play. 

 

ELISHA 

My name isn’t Elisha.  It’s John.  But call me Elisha, whatever, if you want. 

(Projected on screen: “Long and somewhat uncomfortable silence.” She fidgets.  He looks at her. Or, she looks at him.  And fidgets.)

What’s going to happen next?

 

WRITER 

Some people sitting around a table. Not really saying anything.  Nothing happens and then nothing else.  Happens.

 

ELISHA 

That’s not what I meant.

 

(Projected on screen: “long and somewhat uncomfortable silence”)

 

 

WRITER 

Sit down.

 

ELISHA 

 What happens to the elevator?

 

WRITER 

It’s only a door.

 

 

SCENE III: elevator “ding” – where nothing happens hahaha

 

(When the elevator doors open, the actors enter and move toward the table.  They carry six packs, sit down, and drink and smoke and talk and drink and smoke and talk and no one says anything. Everyone’s mouth is constantly moving, with pantomime they speak or drink or smoke. ELISHA plays GUY 1, and WRITER does not speak)   

 

WRITER’S MOUTH 

a mistake. . .I was drunk, trying to pay attention. . . Attention all aboard, get on and get out. . .I couldn’t…I didn’t want to pay attention to people who sit around and drink and talk about anything people talk about when they have nothing to talk about. . . they talk about everything and nothing. . . and when they talk about nothing they think they talk about everything with a little bit of something shoveled in. . .I should have. . . said something. . . I didn’t. . . talking about something when people talk about nothing. . .no not for me talking nothing this and that. . .I didn’t have anything to say. . .Elisha wasn’t there. . . He was inventing the elevator. . . All of the people sitting are someone else. . .they negate themselves (you minus you plus physical attraction) to be here being someone else. . . give thanks bow your head they are not the people they are because those people too are fragmentary and figgish. . . themselves. . . the people sit. . . their mouths move. . .they might be puppets. . .give them strings. . .shove hands through the sides of polyester pockets.

 

ALL

(In sync, monotonous low tone) 

Hahahahahahaha

 

(Long somewhat uncomfortable silence.  Projected on screen: “sipping, silence, smoking, silence”)

 

ALL

(Same pace) 

Hahahahahahaha

 

(Long somewhat uncomfortable silence.  Projected on screen:  “sipping, silence, smoking, silence”)

 

ALL

(Same pace) 

Hahahahahahaha

 

(Long somewhat uncomfortable silence.  Projected on screen: “sipping, silence, smoking, silence”)

 

 

(Lines should interrupt and overlap with previous lines)

 

GIRL 1

Well I told you he was

 

GIRL 2

Yeah, but did you tell me he was

 

GIRL 3

His mother he was yeah but

 

GUY 1

Well if he wants to yeah but

 

GUY 2

And then the guy found I told you he was

 

GUY 3

I’ve got five bucks his mother was

 

GIRL 2

Yeah. But really I told you

 

GIRL 1

If he wanted to he could yeah

 

GIRL 3

Someone should pick him up but

 

GUY 3

Right but I’ve got ten bucks I told you

 

GUY 2

He’ll be all he was

 

GUY 3

Right. I told you yeah but

 

GIRL 1

Of course.  And that smoking but

 

GIRL 3

Like a sausage yeah

 

ALL

(Same pace) 

Hahahahahahaha

 

(Long somewhat uncomfortable silence.  Projected on screen: “sipping, silence, smoking, silence”)

 

GUY 2

Well if it has a hip

 

GIRL 1

It has a hip well if it

 

GUY 3

A group went hip didn’t it

 

GUY 1

You got a lot more than that didn’t

 

GIRL 2

You hip well if it didn’t

 

GUY 3

I got what your mom got when she asked for it

 

ALL

(Same pace) 

Hahahahahahaha

 

(Long somewhat uncomfortable silence.  Projected on screen: “sipping, silence, smoking, silence”)

 

GIRL 3

This guy once whose shoes

 

GIRL 2

So good those shoes whose

 

GUY 2

He didn’t even know that they were shoes

 

GIRL 1

Placing him but they did whose

 

GUY 3

If only someone whose shoes

 

GIRL 2

Could say something about whose

 

GIRL 1

So how far away do you think shoes

 

GIRL 3

He is whose

 

 

 

GUY 1

Make sure you pick him up

 

GUY 2

If you see him on pick him

 

GIRL 1

God the condensation up

 

GIRL 2

I know enough to pick up

 

GUY 2

Wait is that whose pick him up shoes

 

GUY 1

Of course it isn’t

 

ALL

(Same pace) 

Hahahahahahaha

 

(Long somewhat uncomfortable silence.  Projected on screen: “sipping, silence, smoking, silence”)

 

ALL

(Same pace) 

Hahahahahahaha

 

(Long somewhat uncomfortable silence.  Projected on screen: “sipping, silence, smoking, silence”)

 

ALL

(Same pace) 

Hahahahahahaha

 

(Long somewhat uncomfortable silence.  Projected on screen:  “sipping, silence, smoking, silence”)

 

(All freeze and Muzak.)

 

WRITER’S VOICE

I’m tired. . .this nothing. . .Nothing happens and nothing. . .People absolutely do not fall in love. . .they are scared of falling. . .They break with music. 

 

(ELISHA’s band sets up.  They play.  Projected on screen: “No cover songs.  Original material.  This band absolutely must not suck.”)

 

The Intermission:  “Elisha and the Prophets”

 

 

SCENE IV: elevator “ding” – Not Exactly a Climax

 

(Cast clears the stage of equipment and exits during the WRITER’S MOUTH monologue.  The desk is brought back.  On it is an older tape player with reels.  ELISHA sits on the desk.  WRITER does not. ELISHA and WRITER remain and are alone, again)

                       

                                    WRITER’S MOUTH

that was sunning through the light up magnetic. . .you must know why I asked him. . .to help to watch to listen. . .to be close to him sometimes to touch him. . .to all of the lightning physical magnetic. . .touching the ground the sky wanted badly so it got angry. . . made lightning. . .it had nothing to say so then loneliness. . .this happened and maybe nothing else or so said sky until without speaking and silence it crashed up some thunder. . .something to accompany. . .she needs something to accompany so up crashed Elisha. . .Elisha the prophet, a preacher of know nothing religion. . .but he made elevators safe. . .this matters. . .without fear of falling. . .he works at the Green Mug. . .they had coffee and talking.

 

                                                ELISHA

I’d like to take you out.

 

                                                WRITER

Out, in, whatever, no.

 

                                                ELISHA

This isn’t all I’m here for.

 

                                                WRITER

What isn’t?

 

                                                ELISHA

This.  You told me you’d help me.  I appreciate it.  Very nice.  I want to touch you.

 

                                                WRITER

No.  That wouldn’t be.  In it.  Help me.  The next scene is a rip-off.

 

                                                ELISHA

Whatever you want.  I want to touch you.  When’s the love scene?

 

                                                WRITER

Stop.  You’re getting ahead.  You’re full of shit.  That’s not in it either.

 

(ELISHA opens his mouth.  Projected on screen: “he doesn’t move, can’t.” He is motionless until his first line in the next scene)

 

SCENE V: elevator: “ding” – The Rip Off

 

(This scene is played with WRITER, WRITER’S MOUTH and ELISHA.  This is a complete Samuel Beckett rip off.  ELISHA is the man from Krapps Last Tape.  WRITER becomes the mouth-via spotlight-from Not I.  WRITER’S MOUTH becomes not only just a mouth, but a whole body pacing six paces left, six paces right throughout the whole scene.  This is an inversion; WRITER’S MOUTH – now body – directs the scene between ELISHA and WRITER from the screen. )

 

WRITER 

never told. . .and all over miles. . .telephone wires. . .where. . .never at all one bit from the lip of. . .

 

WRITER’S MOUTH/BODY 

six seconds. . .only six. . .one two three four five six. . .begin again. . .i stop the dialogue

 

WRITER 

never told. . .never at all one bit from the lip of. . .

 

ELISHA 

I told. . .I was alone. . .the way I bent my head. . .not like it used to. . .in my condition all I have is the often. . .sun coming up. . .coming up. . .going. . .I said everything. . .coming. . .going. . .the empty cups. . .scattered things. . .

 

WRITER’S MOUTH/BODY 

perhaps that is expected. . .light again. . . i start the dialogue

 

                                                WRITER

when I was field struck by the buzzing. . .sun coming up along park bench and lake

 

ELISHA

early june. . .what positions!  Back in better. . .better back in

 

WRITER’S MOUTH/BODY 

june. . .no. . .july. . .yes. . .july. . .no matter. . .begin

 

WRITER

summer park bench and bees regarding summer and

 

(ELISHA moves toward WRITER)

 

ELISHA 

we sat on rocks. . .bend of head. . .angled. . .reflection in water. . .is this right I mean is this supposed to. . .like this?  I don’t remember the things you’ve said. 

 

WRITER’S MOUTH/BODY 

move. . .to the left of. . .three feet. . .exactly. . .so that darkness. . .dialogue

 

ELISHA 

I don’t care for pleasantries.

 

WRITER 

but the field. . . struck and what’s that?. . .buzzing?

 

WRITER’S MOUTH/BODY 

stop. . this isn’t. . .what exactly. . .familiar. . .stop. . .now ten seconds

 

 

ELISHA 

I didn’t want to.  Sift through. . . I thought. . .and thought. . .a plan, yes, a plan.  Going. . .and then coming again. . .going. . .no not gone. . .coming. . .that, the plan. . .always arrive. . .leaving and coming. 

 

 

WRITER’S MOUTH/BODY 

are you listening?  Am I as much. . now. . fifteen seconds. . .peel the

 

WRITER 

gone. . .you never told

 

(WRITER can’t get close to ELISHA because of the spotlight, or maybe it isn’t the light, but her own reluctance.  She wants the containment because it is safe.)

 

WRITER’S MOUTH/BODY 

is anyone listening?  Are you listening. . .is anyone. . .

 

WRITER 

the park bench, the green mug, july, and after all I thought

 

ELISHA 

and thought yes I thought and planned and you were the one going and you

 

WRITER 

never told

 

WRITER’S MOUTH/BODY

three feet. . .six seconds. . .light. . .dark

 

(Spotlight now pins ELISHA.  WRITER is confused, but after ELISHA’s line, she is pinned again)

 

ELISHA

you started. . .you. . .back and forth and expected what out of coming, going, staying?  you to me coming and now going and you to me asking me to be. . .what. . .for me. . .for you. . .nothing anymore except. . .a park bench. . .apples and oranges. . .what is this anyway?

 

WRITER 

you never told.  You never said.  You would.  And the grass.  The bending back.  Blades.  The last time.  Without this nothing.  Only invented things.  The horrible rocks.  Horrible.

 

WRITER’S MOUTH/BODY 

no no no. . .this isn’t. . .three feet. . .where is. . .darkness. . .

 

(Lights dim, ELISHA and WRITER now both pinned, only mouths in a spotlight)

 

WRITER’S MOUTH/BODY 

. . .I make a note. . .

 

WRITER 

yes. . .horrible. . .the way you. . .came over for tea. . .preferring Liptons. . .yes. . .not she. . .

 

ELISHA 

no never not at all.  not so much a glance.  you and all you’ve made.  days where one could sit in.  and

 

(Laughs)

 

me.  of course going.  always.  when and where I once was.  now not.  you.

 

WRITER’S MOUTH/BODY

is anyone listening to me?  am I as much as. . .

 

(Lights no longer dimmed)

 

ELISHA 

see?  Yes.  That’s it.

 

WRITER 

seen. . .and I had to. . .at least I was told. . .i should. . .i had no choice. . .i saw you and then. . .

 

ELISHA 

you did not listen to me I listened

 

 

WRITER’S MOUTH/BODY 

wait. . .ten seconds. . .wait. . .recorded voice and then. . .

 

WRITER 

you never told. . .and we once bent the blades back and then. . that was when. . .i couldn’t live with it couldn’t live with

 

ELISHA 

going.  of course.  That’s it.  going.

 

WRITER 

what tiny little thing. . .this has become. . .

 

ELISHA 

                        (Motions to screen)

no. . .she!

 

WRITER’S MOUTH/BODY 

strike that.

 

ELISHA 

she. . .plans. . .to go away for awhile. . .and this way I wouldn’t have to

 

WRITER 

ha!

 

ELISHA

this way I wouldn’t have to. . .

 

WRITER’S MOUTH/BODY 

going. . .of course. . .a gesture. . .sudden

 

 

WRITER 

I knew in the grass. . .horrible horrible rocks.  Moss.  Everything and. . .I knew.

 

ELISHA 

what do you want?  me to

 

WRITER’S MOUTH/BODY 

unhinge

 

WRITER 

oh yes, tiny thing.

 

WRITER’S MOUTH/BODY 

dark. . .and then light. . .three. . .am I. . .no. . .strike that. . .i make a note

 

(WRITER moves out of spotlight again, tries to get closer to ELISHA, she can’t.  She is contained)

 

WRITER

never told. . .no never told. . .and all over miles. . .telephone wires. . .where. . .never at all one bit one lip of. . .

 

ELISHA 

I told. . .I said in the way I bent my head

 

WRITER’S MOUTH/BODY 

I make a note. . . perhaps this is. . . perhaps this is just. . .perhaps this is all

 

(WRITER’S MOUTH/BODY becomes again only WRITER’S MOUTH)

 

 

SCENE VI: elevator “ding” – so what then?

 

(During the WRITER’S MOUTH monologue, the other actors reenter and act as if they are no longer acting)

 

                                                WRITER’S MOUTH

she doesn’t feel safe anymore. . .the elevator, out of order. . .he may have invented it—all  while working at the Green Mug—but still it stopped. . .out of order. . .what happened? lightning hit sometime ago, forgot all about thunder. . .struck a thousand orange groves and crashed down upon the grass, bent the blades back. . .she walked among the felled oranges turning green, too sour rotten to eat. . .she climbed to the top of a particularly preacherly tree. . .to pick an orange for Elisha. . .she climbed up. . she fell down. . .she, only broken. . .she needed help holding. . . but help is. . .help is only. . .for the selfish.

 

                                                WRITER

I’m not sure now.  What about. . .What about. . .What about the elevators?

 

                        (She looks at ELISHA.  Projected on screen: “He doesn’t move, can’t.”)

 

                                               

 

WRITER

                        (To actors)

Okay, enough with that.  What do you all think?

 

                        (She looks at actors.  Projected on screen: “They don’t move, can’t.”)

 

                                                WRITER

No, seriously.  Enough.

 

                        (She looks at actors.  Projected on screen: “They don’t move, can’t.”)

 

                                                WRITER

I need help here.  Enough with the stillness!

 

                                                WRITER’S MOUTH

Sorry.

                                   

                                                WRITER

So what, then?

                                               

ACTOR 1

I’ve got an idea.  I remember once I got stuck in an elevator with a psychiatrist.  I was afraid we were going to fall and become terribly wounded and wondered if there was any sort of padding we could strap around our bodies to help prevent massive injuries. The psychiatrist said, “Could you please calm down?  If we fall, we’re dying.  Get over it.”  Then I asked her for her card.

 

                                                ACTOR 2

I always take the stairs.  I was once at a beach hotel and got stuck in an elevator with a large guy in a speedo.  It was about one hundred degrees and the man started hitting on me.  Worse five minutes of my life.  I smelled coppertone mixed with guy funk for weeks.

 

                                                ACTOR 3

I was in an elevator with this woman whose boyfriend broke up with her on her cell phone.  She cried and cried and wailed and wailed and I really didn’t know what to do so I just stood there uncomfortable and wanting off.

 

                                                ACTOR 4

I met my boyfriend in an elevator.

 

                                                ACTOR 5

I had sex in an elevator once.  Just like that aerosmith song, you know.

 

                        (Begins to sing it)

 

                                                ACTOR 2

Please don’t.  That song sucks.

                                               

ACTOR 3

I think that would be cool.  Hey John, where’s the strangest place you’ve ever had sex?

 

                                                WRITER

Okay, you’re getting way off topic.

 

                        (Projected on screen: “They don’t move, can’t.  Except for Elisha.”)

 

                                                WRITER

Thank you.

 

                                                WRITER’S MOUTH

You’re welcome.

 

                                                WRITER

 

Anyway.  What next?  Elisha?

 

                                                ELISHA

Let’s go get a drink.

 

                                                WRITER

I can’t.  Not until. . .

 

                                                ELISHA

Fine, whatever.  I won’t bother you anymore about it. . .Why don’t you do another scene?  Hide behind it?  Hide me inside it?

 

                                                WRITER

I guess.  I’m getting tired.

 

                                                ELISHA

Then let’s go get a drink.

                                                 

                        (WRITER’S MOUTH is projected but doesn’t say anything)

 

                                                WRITER

                        (To WRITER’S MOUTH)

What’s wrong with you?

 

                                                WRITER’S MOUTH

What’s wrong with you?

 

                                                WRITER

I asked you first.

 

                                                WRITER’S MOUTH

What’s wrong with him?

 

                                                WRITER

Nothing.  Everything.  Nothing.  This is progressively getting. . .I didn’t ask for your opinion.

 

                        (Projected on screen:  “fuck you”)

 

                                                WRITER

What’s wrong? 

 

                        (There is a long and uncomfortable silence, but this is not projected)

 

Come back. 

 

(Projected on screen:  “you’re ridiculous.”)

 

                        WRITER

I’m sorry.  Come back.  I need you.

 

                        (Projected on screen: “no.”)

 

                                                WRITER

At least to announce the final scene.

 

 

SCENE VII: elevator “ding” – you’re on your own.  I’m leaving.

 

                        ELISHA

What happened to your mouth?

 

                                                WRITER

She left.  I don’t know.  I guess I

 

(Interrupts her w/ a kiss.)

 

                                                ELISHA

Your mouth. 

 

                                                WRITER

Stop it.

                                                           

                                                ELISHA

                        (Said overdramatically to where it is almost obvious that it is not real)

I can’t.  I had to.  All this time that we’ve been working together.  I just. . .I think I love you.  No.  I know it.  I love you.

 

                                                WRITER

No, no you don’t. 

 

                                                ELISHA

I do.  I don’t care about them, sitting there, watching.  I love you.  I don’t care. 

 

                                                WRITER

No you don’t.  I wrote that.  I made you say it.  God.  Did I actually write that?  How lame.

 

                                                ELISHA

Oh get off it.  No, you didn’t.  I fucking love you.  Don’t you understand that?  What’s wrong with you?

 

                                                WRITER

He doesn’t move, can’t.

 

                                                ELISHA

It doesn’t work.  All of that is bullshit.  Why don’t you try:  “I’m afraid of falling.”

 

                                                WRITER

Leave me alone. 

 

                                                ELISHA

This is what you wanted.

 

                                                WRITER

No.  Yes.  It is.  I wrote that.  I wrote this.  All of it.  It isn’t, either.

 

                                                ELISHA

It is. I love you.  Understand that.

 

                                                WRITER        

Understand what?  I wrote that!  I wrote those lines.  You don’t love me.  I wrote that because I wanted to hear you say it.  I wanted to hear those words coming out of your mouth.  I wanted to be close to you.  Ever since I saw you at the Green Mug.  I had this thing for you, you know.  I wanted to help you out, with your acting, and your music, so that’s why I. . .

 

                                                ELISHA

That’s why I love you.

 

                                                WRITER

No, you don’t.  I fucking wrote those lines, these lines, all of them.

 

                                                ELISHA

No you didn’t.  This is real. 

 

                                                WRITER

It’s not.  I can’t.

 

                                                ELISHA

Can’t what?  Yes, you can.  Trust me.  I won’t hurt you.  It’s safe.  I invented the safe elevator. There is no fear of falling.

 

Elevator, “ding”

           

Elevator, “ding, ding”

                                   

Elevator, “dingdingdingdingding”

                       

(ELISHA and WRITER enter the elevator.  Doors close.  Elevator “ding” one final time and curtains close.)  

 

THE END                 

                                                                                                 

 

CHARACTERS:

 

MALE - in the audience

WAITRESS - chews gum and smokes

BEA - lost in her thoughts

JULIA - dressed as a preacher

WRITER

 

 

 

MALE 

Artaud writes: “Such preoccupation with personal problems disgusts me, and disgusts me all the more with nearly the whole contemporary theater which, as human as it is antipoetic, except for three or four plays, seems to me to stink of decadence and pus.” Oh, this is that play.  That one play.

Artaud writes: “Such preoccupation with personal problems disgusts me, and disgusts me all the more with nearly the whole contemporary theater which, as human as it is antipoetic, except for three or four plays, seems to me to stink of decadence and pus.” Oh, this is that play.  That one play.

 

(Enter WAITRESS.  She pours coffee for MALE.  He sticks a dollar in her shirt.)

 

WAITRESS 

I don’t know why people want to drip themselves over me all of the time because I steal their money.  Body is just a body but this body is rose risen bread out of a hot steam oven.  You know?  Remember harems?  Those women didn’t get paid - those beautiful cascades of hair for the. . .Look, I just want to listen to Stevie Wonder and think about Jesus, I really do, but I am a body and all of these Mercedes driving around like aluminum foil folding through the streets and I in my smoke eyed room can’t find the time to do it.  I gotta make a buck.  They want something from me not just my body coz Joe always brings me cookies, cookies with chips that he says are pieces of his heart. . .Where is my fucking spoon?  I said I’d eat your cookie with a spoon and then I’d eat your heart.  Yeah, I guess you could say. . .I’ve got problems.

 

(Enter BEA.  She skips like a child and twists her hair.  She twirls as she talks and carries a basket.  She tries to get WAITRESS’ attention)                    

 

BEA

I.. .have them. . .but. . . why don’t you come and collect bees with me today?

(Getting angry) 

Fuck your harem, fuck your men, fuck your problems. It’s the queen bee! 

 

 

 

WAITRESS

She’s stuck.  Everyone wants to fuck her.   She’s got problems. The men die in flight and she is so confident, with her horde and her hive and her honey-tongued beliefs. 

 

BEA

The bees cross and uncross their legs and it doesn’t mean anything, really, but it is sort of sweet, don’t you think?  They called my mother a whore but I believe she was a bee, powerful and beautiful and strong but sweet.  She is not a whore and we are not fucking fucking machines.   But my legs cross and uncross and it is kind of sweet and I think I am hearing other voices, yes, I hear them, I do, and they buzz.

 

MALE

Who cares?  What in the hell are you talking about? 

 

(Enter JULIA)

 

JULIA 

I’ll say it.  Right now.  Listen up. Look. 

 

BEA&WAITRESS

Look!

 

JULIA

The human being is of the masculine gender.  The human being is a boy as a child and grown up he is a man.  Everything on earth is for the human being, which is man.  Woman is not a human being.  She is one: a mystery. . .

 

WAITRESS

A mystery. . .

 

JULIA

Two: another species. . .

 

BEA

I am a bee, I am. . .

 

JULIA

Three: as yet undefined. . .

 

(Silence)

 

JULIA

Four: unpredictable; therefore wicked and gentle and evil and good which is evil.  If a man commits an evil act, he must be pitied. . .

 

BEA&WAITRESS

Pitied!

 

JULIA

Woman generates the evil herself. . .

 

BEA&WAITRESS

Herself. . .EVIL. . .

                       

JULIA

The mate for man is woman and that is the cross man must bear.  Man is not spiritually sexual.  He therefore can enjoy sexuality.  His sexuality is physical which means his spirit is pure.  Women’s spirit is sexual. 

 

ALL

Sexual!

 

JULIA

That is why it is difficult for them to return to the human world.  Their sexual feelings remain with them until they die.  And they take those feelings with them to the afterlife where they corrupt the heavens, and they are sent to hell where through suffering they may shed those feelings and return to earth as man. . .

 

MALE

Sing it sister!

 

(Enter WRITER)

 

WRITER

Do you really believe all that?  Girls.  Girls.  Girls.  Have you seen those signs?  Fancy legs and sexy walking?  I have.  Remember that Motley Crue song?  Girls, Girls, Girls - long legs and burgundy lips, dancin' down on Sunset Strip, red lips, fingertips?  I forgot the rest.  Was it really that important?  I mean, what is wrong with people?  

 

MALE

I love the Crue!

 

WRITER

I can’t stand them. 

 

MALE

Then how come you know the words? 

 

 

 

WRITER

I don’t know.  I can’t remember.  I’m a bad storyteller.  And a bad singer.  But you know what?  I don’t give a fuck.  Poor me, poor poor me.  I don’t make an audience very happy. Where’s the drama?  Where’s the curve? Under my shirt and on my nerves.

 

MALE

You Suck!

 

WRITER

I have one question for you.  What is it that you want?  What do you all want?

 

WRITER&MALE

I’m torn in two, my body.

 

MALE

How am I supposed to be a virgin and a whore at the same time? 

 

WRITER&MALE

What is it that you want?  Can somebody tell me what I want?

 

WRITER

I do know that there is a want within me so deep I cannot fill up like a hole and isn’t that funny? 

 

MALE

Hole-larious.

 

WRITER

There is a want that I want and sometimes the air is electric.  Is my fuse on?  Why am I always thinking of these things like my body but my body and my mind feel good, feel so air and right. Why? Because the sun beats down.  What would I feel if I were someone else?  Would I want so badly to be filled or feel so guilty because I feel?  Would I want to fill up and swallow to show what it’s like?  Can you get there with idle conversation?  Language cannot do its job. Let me show you what I mean.  Come here so I can touch you in the air electric.  

(Silence)

The problem is, I feel guilty for wanting.  What I want to know is if anyone feels this way with me?  I am not just talking about fucking because that is not it, that is not it at all. Personal problems.  I’m sick of this stupid fucking body.

 

WAITRESS

Body. 

 

BEA

Body love.  Bees.

JULIA

Love. 

 

WRITER

I have had glimpses and tall moments.  Clearly what I am is clearly what I am not.

 

MALE

This does not make any sense. What are you talking about?

 

WAITRESS

Let us put it in a way that you can understand. We aren’t talking about coffee or chocolate chips or dough.

 

BEA

Or honey or buzzin or oh sweet lovin.

 

JULIA

Or Jesu or Christe or Hallelujah Lord.

 

WAITRESS

We are talking about fucking.

 

BEA

Bees.

 

JULIA

Jesus.

 

WRITER

Love.

 

WAITRESS

And of course there is no ending.

 

                                                (THE END)