O Again: 8. Virgo

O Again


8.
O Virgo (the other one)

O Virgo.
O Dike, warning us 
and fleeing to the hills.
O Atargatis, Erigone.
(Look it up.)

O Spica,
Alpha Virginis,
Virgo’s grain, 
not eclipsing,
mutually interacting.

O Virgo:
Silver Earth sign.
Could you anyhow
be the Mother we hail,
still full of grace?

O Again: 7. Emmanuel

O Again

--£…≥÷¢* 


7.
O Emmanuel (already)

O God-with-us
in NICU bassinets
and nursing homes
and truck cabs
and warehouses.

God-with-us-now
on battlefields
and bombshelters
in churches
and congress (even there).

God-already-with-us
dashing through the snow
on city sidewalks
in the bleak mid-winter.
O. That’s all. Just O.



*(cat typing. Why not here, too?)

O Again: 6. O Not

O Again


6. O Rex* (O dear)

No. Just no.
No king. 
It never works.
Even so-called good ones.
Not even a god because

nobody has ever agreed
about which, or how.
What we need 
is the desire bit.
O Desideratus.

O Desire for kindness,
O Desire for compassion,
O Desire for joy,
O Desire for peace.
O Desire. Amen.


*"King of nations and their desire."

O Again: 5. O Oriensast

O Again

5.
O Oriens (my favorite)

Oriens. O Oriens.* 
Our Star in the East
today rises as far South
as she goes. Tomorrow
she’ll cross the line
to lengthen our days.

O Oriens, O Morning Star—
Come and enlighten.
Sun of Fiery Dawnings—
Sun of Rooting Bulbs—
Sun of Joyful openings—
O Oriens, come.


*(Just say it. It does nice things in the mouth.)

O Again: 3. O Clavis

O Again

4.
O Clavis

O Key, O keys.
I lost my Irish grandfather’s keys 
on a sidewalk in the snow.
O necklace of skeleton keys.
But I have his broken clock,
and photos of his children
glued in a celluloid box.

O keys, lost keys.
I was afraid of Opa who spoke
Russian and German and Polish
but whose English was remote. 
I have his silver and porcelain
wine tray painted with plums. 
O lost Clavis, O Radix lost.

O Again: 3. O Radix

O AGAIN

3.
O Radix (misread)

O Root.
Before coffee, I read:
Root of Jesse standing as a sign 
among the peonies. 
Huh.

People, not peonies.
Had peonies once.
Tried to do them in
because botrytis blight.
They kept sprouting.

Radix, root, radish, etc.
If you plant a grafted apple tree
and bury the graft by mistake, 
the original takes over. 
Radical thought.

O AGAIN: 2. Adonai Reversed

O AGAIN  


2.
O Adonai (reversed)

Lord of Might.
O my, how we crave one.
Somebody to fix it all up.
Do It Yourself
is awful hard work.

Giver of Law.
So much simpler 
to follow along.
Obey the rules. 
Do what we’re told.

Lord of Might? Jesus.
Consider  
the trees around here:
every year they burn 
and are not consumed.

THE ANTIPHONS RETURN: 1. O Sapienta

O Again


1.
O Sapienta (Fifty Years later)

Holy Wisdom sets things
in order. If there is an order
to set. If there are indeed
things. Moreover, what
does it mean to be wise?

Premise: Holy Wisdom might
show us the path of knowledge.
Why would that be a path and how,
precisely, might it be revealed?
Furthermore, what can be known?

O Sapienta: Holy Wisdom. 
A good night to conceive
a philosopher on an unheated 
waterbed in a cold bedroom.
We didn’t have a clue.

DECEMBER ZUIHITSU

DECEMBER ZUIHITSU


It is easier to awaken in the dark of winter. The body opens slowly, warms slowly with Qi Gong practice, with hot coffee. The summer body is restless, quick, easily exhausted.

Why must my study be the coldest room in the house? From the windows I watch bare ash trees and brushy hemlock trees moving slightly in the North wind, dark against a silver sky. Sometimes a feeling of desperation. The weather, the news. The way my hips still hurt.

Driving into town we pass a herd of young horses racing across a frosty pasture. We agree that it must be a wonderful thing to be a young horse on a cold morning.

On weekends, the woman who calls herself The Lady From the Gravel Company sells Christmas trees for her son who is out West hunting deer. She hopes he doesn’t get one, she told me, because already she has two deer and a bear in her freezer.

The dog wants to eat her scraps on the living room carpet. The old cat wants the young cat’s food. The young cat wants the old cat’s food. My husband wants cooked chicken thighs. I want Rasta Pasta. At supper, I find the jalapeño pepper that had disappeared into the stew. Water does not put out that kind of fire.

Strange bedside fellows:  Neil Gaiman and Barbara Pym. I expect she could write about him: a mysterious man with tousled hair, much admired by excellent women. I cannot imagine what he could write about her.

The dog must go out in the dark again to see if the fiend who hides under the steps is still hiding under the steps and to see if every deer track down the driveway was made by the same deer. I must go out with her to see the moon and to listen for the owl who sits in the oak tree behind the house.

JUST ASKING

JUST ASKING

Why do you keep feeding us?
We don’t give you much:
a few bones, some onion skins,
now and then something like
a token of pinecones and twigs
or a lanyard we made at camp.

You’re tired, I know.
You look tired. And old.
All those wrinkles and cracks.
And you don’t smell so good,
not any more, 
not even after the rain.

What happened to your jewels—
those little birds and buggy things?
Are you letting yourself go?
I wouldn’t blame you
since we don’t seem to care much
about how you look, or what you do.

And where would you go?
And when we’re hungry,
where will we?


Thanksgiving, 2022

October Field Journal: Salisbury Kame Terraces

OCTOBER FIELD JOURNAL
Kame Terraces, Salisbury


Once rivers limined the stone mountains
with gravel and sand.
Below, the ice-blocked valley;
across, the wild flow of melt.

Three kinds of oak.
Witch hazel and teaberry
undergrow the logged-over
never-plowed land.

So much time, 
yet not enough time.

I want to be like a river
on the edge of the ice—
letting go as I can,
holding whatever I must hold.




I know "limined" wasn't a word. It is now.

OCTOBER 13

OCTOBER 13

The leaves are scattering
and so too the people
who came to see them,
their glorious impermanence.

For a little while, until the snow,
I don’t have to wait in lines
at shops or cafés. I don’t have to
remember to stop and gaze myself:

those red maples, sugar maples,
popples gold against the evergreens.
Oaks will come later, but no one
comes here to see the somber oaks.

For a little while there is no demanding, 
just the ease of amber and gray,
the silence of these late days,
the beauty of this coming dark.

SEPTEMBER FIELD JOURNAL: KINGSLAND BAY

SEPTEMBER FIELD JOURNAL
KINGSLAND BAY


What is your name and what
do you know and what
together can we do?

Folded, weighted, shifting,
broken and remade,
the layers hidden underneath.

And where on this map
of shifting stone
do we belong?

Come walk and name
this place, this very place,
this weather and these trees:

limestone bluff,
the edge edged with white cedar
—and the rain.

And when the blowdown comes
may we trust 
our own entangled roots?

BUTTERFLY EFFECT

BUTTERFLY EFFECT

This one from the milkweed growing against

all odds on the edge of my driveway or

one of those rescued from a predator

in Polly’s patch. Remember the story

that one might change the weather of the world?

Maybe not the movement of its wings.

Maybe just the vision: that brave orange

and black animal, fragile against a leaf,

blown across the sky, what it’s like to change

that way, and who knows who, seeing it, will change?

Alexandria: a hopeless play

Alexandria: a hopeless play

Cast of Characters



NARRATOR:  	     Gender doesn’t matter. Modern clothing.	           

THE LIBRARIANS:     All in vaguely Greek-style garb, may be 				          bearded. Untidy, barefooted, somewhat 							ravaged looking. 

ZENODOTUS	A bit pedantic.	

CALLIMACHUS   Very close to insane.

APOLLONIUS    Arch.

ERASTOSTHENES	 More expansive than the others, even 		  				 cheerful

ARISTOPHANES	 Brisk.	

ARISTARCHUS	 Somewhat vague. Even untidier than the 						 others.

HYPATIA:	           Supernaturally calm, reserved. Her garment       				 is blood-stained.  


Scene
  
No curtain. No flats or backdrops, just the rawness backstage.  The floor is covered with torn, broken books and/or scrolls--so many that the characters must kick them aside as they enter, one by one.

Notes
Each Librarian enters from stage Left as his name is called by the Narrator, steps to the very edge of the stage, and addresses the audience. When he has finished, he wanders back among the mess of papers and fiddles around among them, ineffectually.







NARRATOR
(Enters slowly, shuffling through the books, 
stopping occasionally to pick up a fragment and read it, sometimes aloud, ad lib.  
To center stage:  
looks at the audience in silence 
for an uncomfortably long time.)

Things happen. Despite what historians unearth, it’s not possible to know exactly what happened.Despite what the prophets and pundits say, it is not possible to know what will happen, or what would have happened. May I present to you, for example,  the librarians of Alexandria? We will never know what was lost when that great library was destroyed. Would it have saved us? It is foolish to hypothesize. And yet—-perhaps—-can we regard its loss as a warning? What are we losing now? In any case, I shall introduce you to the librarians. They have their opinions. First:  Zenodotus of Ephesus, grammarian. 


ZENODOTUS  
You, librarians! Hear me! Are you listening? I was the first to alphabetize, label, and weed—-no doubt occupations with which you all are familiar. Like myself, you must constantly decide: What is important now? What must be saved and catalogued? What will you discard? You never know what they might want someday. You never know what some scholar will require,if not now, a hundred years from now, a thousand years from now. But, my fellow librarians, you never know what they will burn. No matter what you do, no matter how careful you are, you do not know if it will last. Oh, my work, my work. . . and all of it lost! May your great work never be lost!

NARRATOR  
And here is Callimachus, father of bibliography.  

CALLIMACHUS  
Half a million books! One hundred and twenty volumes of catalogue alone. Catalogue! Catalogue! Lost. All, all lost.  
(He is overcome by emotion, throws himself on the floor, and continues to weep—mostly quietly—through to the end.)

NARRATOR
  (Regarding Callimachus with resignation.)  
Ah, well. It can’t be helped, I suppose. There’s a kind of obsession here. Next, Apollonius who wrote Argonautica in the old and epic style and was mocked from the city in shame. It is highly unlikely that this sort of thing would happen today.

APOLLONIUS
(To the Narrator.)
Do not be so sure, my friend. 
(To the audience.)
Like you, we were not strangers to scandal and gossip, to exaggeration, the power of untruth. Perhaps among you now, a poet would not be physically driven from a city for rhyming poetry. And yet, and yet. . among you, even now, I hear that “this sort of thing” still happens all the time. Mocking and shame are still rampant. Reputations rise and fall with the gossip of the day, with the opinions of the learned critics and, I hear, the opinions of the ignorant masses. Human nature, always, always, is the stuff of epic. The library might be gone, but some things are, shall we say, indestructible.

NARRATOR
(Pause. Opens mouth to speak, but decides not to.)  
Now Eratosthenes, whom Strabo called “a mathematician among geographers and a geographer among mathematicians.” Who measured Earth and its tilt from where he stood, who invented leapday, who mapped the whole known world, invented the armillary sphere, who wrote poetry and chronologies, who criticized Aristotle. . . 

ERATOSTHENES
(Enters during the narration and interrupts with a gesture.)  
Aristotle and the foolishness of racial purity! There’s good and bad in everyone, and the world—-Ah! The great globe! It gets smaller all the time. How I wish I’d lived into your century! And time itself gets smaller, no matter the number of days. Maybe you find my accomplishments impressive, but
They called me “Beta”, nonetheless, since I was always second best.
So much to discover, so much to learn, so much—-So many doors were opening then, in Alexandria. So many doors still opening. Ah!

NARRATOR  
Well then. Now here’s Aristophanes, who invented punctuation.   

ARISTOPHANES  
And still the comma bears the name I gave. I like that. “Comma. Comma. Comma.” Cut-off piece. To show you where to breathe. Don’t forget to breathe, my friends.

NARRATOR  
I’ll make a note. Now I present Aristarchus, original critic, editor of Homeric poetry, 
(Sotto voce.)
fusspot. . .

ARISTARCHUS  
Ah yes, that would be I. So much of Homer as handed down, well, let me say that it was doubtful. Not up to the standard. It took a careful eye and a discerning ear to sort things out and arrange them properly. Everything correct, everything in its place, you see. And so I am the original aristarch. And thus, my name lives on.  

NARRATOR
(Gestures toward the Librarians who are picking through the papers.)
So. Behold the Librarians.

LIBRARIANS
(Look up and organize into a circle, somewhat clumsily and randomly, and join hands—all except Callimachus who is still on the floor—and begin to circle around the Narrator. Individual librarians break out of the chanting rhythm to say their lines.) 

In ten great halls with marble walls 
amid gardens and fountains we walked.  
The Muses were our mistresses.  
We ached to open, burned to know.   
Our eager hands unrolled the scrolls.

ZENODOTUS
The Book of Manetho written by Seshat in the Hall of Heliopolis on the sacred tree.  

ERATOSTHENES
The History of Babylon in Berossos’s own hand.  

ARISTARCHU:  
Acts of the Greeks and Barbarians under the Tyrian Kings.

APOLLONIUS  
Inscriptions from the Phoenician pillars of the sun. 

HYPATIA
(Enters, menacing.) 
Nothing, of course, by Hypatia. Let’s not forget her.

(The Librarians stop and break the circle. The Narrator and the Librarians—except Callimachus— cluster together and watch her, wary and awkward.)

NARRATOR
(Uneasy.)
You weren’t exactly a Librarian. . . .

HYPATIA  
Oh, that’s what you think. What does that mean, “librarian”? I kept things, sorted things, discovered things, lost things. I lost my life, but that did not matter. In the long history of all things, that did not matter. Loss does not matter.

LIBRARIANS 
(Murmuring ad lib to one another.) 
Lost things, kept things, sorted, what matters? barbarians. . )

HYPATIA
(Her quiet voice over them, silencing them.
Addressing audience from the very edge of the stage.)  
For a little while, here, the world was full of light. Then it was dark. Not the soft dark of night, nor the comforting dark of the tomb, but a darkness of mind—-a flat, cold dark. A darkness of absolute, a darkness of certainty. Nothing reflecting, nothing penetrating, nothing to breathe but dust. Instead of questioning, silencing. Instead of learning, burning. Instead of conversing, murdering. Instead of wonder, fear. And on it goes, and on it goes. Light to dark and back again. But always, always, there is somewhere a glimmer. Always a root that will sprout up green. I think your world is dark now. And you are losing things. Always, always losing things. But is there still light? I think so. Looking down into your times, I see lamplight here and there. Even a little light keeps the darkness from being complete. A question, an exploration, a new word, a new work of art, a laugh, an act of kindness. So yes, here in Alexandria, we lost more than you know. But that is not your concern. What was lost is not your concern at all. Look to what is. Keep what you can and keep going. Keep your lamps alight.
(She turns and exits.) 

(As the Narrator begins the next speech, 
the Librarians join hands—
all except Callimachus who is still on the floor crying—
and begin a stately circle dance around the Narrator.)

NARRATOR
(A pause, watches Hypatia exit.)  
Well, maybe. Maybe what we lost doesn’t matter after all. Maybe it’s all about what we do now. But we don’t know. We’ll never know. That’s the problem. That’s the point. We’ll never know what was lost. . .The past. . . the way things were. . .We don’t know what’s going to matter. We don’t know what matters now. . .
(Repeats, ad lib, while the Librarians dance and chant, 
words rising above and around the chanting.)

LIBRARIANS 
(Chanting. Breaking into ad.lib.)
The barbarians are still at your gates.
Still, your libraries burn.
Still, the wisdoms are lost.
Beware, beware, beware, beware. . . 
 
(After awhile,the Librarians break the circle and advance on the audience, stopping at the edge of the stage. Sudden silence.)

HYPATiA 
(Off.)
Keep your lamps alight.

(Librarians turn, exuent, still chanting. Callimachus remains, sobbing on the floor. The Narrator stands still for a moment, then runs off. The curtain falls.)

BREAKING THE NEWS

BREAKING THE NEWS

by

Mary F. C. Pratt




This play was part of a 24 hour play festival from "The Garden of Voices," a producer of podcasts like "old fashioned radio dramas." We started at 7 p.m. The playwrights had till 9 a.m. to send the scripts to the producer, and the directors and actors had till 7 that evening to rehearse. The plays were then presented live on Zoom, and will be available later as a podcast.
 The participants decided on a charity--Planned Parenthood--and came up with  some themes that fit in with the charity's mission. I chose these: 
 
Generational differences in mentality of what families should be.
Young couple deciding if it's the right time to start a family


CHARACTERS

SUSAN	        A retired teacher, in her 70s. 
JENNIFER	Susan’s stepdaughter, a businesswoman in her fifties.
JASON	        Jennifer’s son, working the gig economy. In his twenties.

SETTING 	A coffee shop. The present.






















At “Rise”:	Coffee shop sounds. SUSAN is seated.


JASON
Hi Gram. Thanks so much for coming. 

SUSAN
Not a problem. What are grandmothers for?

JASON
Cookies? Birthday presents? Moral support? 

SUSAN
All of the above. Where’s your mother, speaking of moral support?

JASON
She texted awhile ago to say she’s running late. Some meeting she can’t get out of.

SUSAN
Well, okay then. This will give us a chance to get caught up. I’ve hardly seen you since you’ve been driving that delivery truck.

JASON
I know, right? Weird hours. But it’s the best job I’ve had for awhile. Anyhow. It’s good to see you, Gram. 

SUSAN
Likewise. I’ve missed you. So what’s up? All you said was you didn’t want to talk to your mother alone. It sounds serious, kid. What’s going on?

JASON
Well, it is kind of serious. Oh, I don’t know. Maybe we should wait till Mom gets here.

SUSAN
Why? So you won’t have to repeat yourself, or because you don’t want her knowing that you talk to me sometimes when she’s not around?

JASON
Ha. All of the above. Can you read my mind?

SUSAN
Of course not. It’s just that it’s a lot like mine.

JASON
Yeah, it is, isn’t it? And that’s weird because I’m not even related to you.

SUSAN
Be that as it may. Your grandfather is related to you, and I’ve been married to him long enough to know how his mind works.

JASON
Um. Not like mine for sure.

SUSAN
Exactly. Now what’s going on?

JASON
Well, you know Darcy?

SUSAN
Of course I know Darcy. You’ve been together two years.

JASON
Three.

SUSAN
Wow, already. But yes, I know Darcy. 

JASON
Well—we’ve been thinking about having a baby.

SUSAN
You and Darcy?

JASON
Yeah, Gram. Me and Darcy.

SUSAN
Of course. You just caught me by surprise there. Your mother will have a shit fit. But I guess you know that or you wouldn’t have asked me to be here.



JASON
Yeah, she will. And it’s weird because you won’t. Have a fit. I mean, you aren’t, right? And I knew you wouldn’t. And she’s younger than you, no offense. I mean, obviously because you’re her stepmother and all, but. . . 

SUSAN
Well, technically I could be her stepmother and younger than she, you know. If your grandfather had married somebody very young after your real grandmother died.

JASON
Hey, you are my real grandmother. Cut it out.

SUSAN
I know, I know. And you are definitely my real grandson. So, real grandson, your mother will have a fit. That’s a given. How about your father?

JASON
Wbo knows? I don’t care. I haven’t seen him forever. He’s never even met Darcy. All the family that matters is you and Grandpa and Mom. Would it bother Grandpa?

SUSAN
Of course not. He’s all about live and let live. You know that.

JASON
Yeah. He didn’t bat an eye about Darcy.

SUSAN
We’re old hippies you know, sweetie. We invented sex and drugs and rock and roll and shacking up. “Living together without benefit of clergy” they used to call it. How quaint is that?

JASON
So what happened to Mom? How come she’s so—straight?

SUSAN
She got religion. And—she rebelled, right? Goes both ways. Our parenting style was pretty casual, to say the least.

JASON
Yeah, but you married Grandpa. I mean, you weren’t like in a commune or something.

SUSAN
Okay. All right then. So, Jason, you and Darcy want to have a baby?

JASON
Ooops. Here comes Mom.

			(Door opens, JENNIFER enters.)

SUSAN
Jennifer, over here!

JENNIFER
(From the counter.)
I’m going to grab a coffee and I’ll be right there. Though God only knows I don’t need more.

SUSAN
Take your time. (To JASON) Okay. You’re on. And no matter what, I’ve got your back.

JASON
I’m really nervous about this.

SUSAN
Of course you are. It will be fine. Really.

JENNIFER
(Comes to the table.)
So what are you two plotting? Jason, you look so guilty. And so do you, Sue. What are you plotting?

SUSAN
The revolution, what else?

JENNIFER
It wouldn’t surprise me. God only knows we need one. We need something. The traffic on Main Street, even before rush hour, is as bad as rush hour. And the price of gas! And now they want to raise our property taxes again, and for what? And clearly the government’s gone to hell.

SUSAN
Jennifer dear, we know all about the world. It is a mess. We agree. So let’s not talk about that. We all agree it’s a mess. We’re here because Jason has something to say that’s even more important than property taxes. Jason?

JASON
Yeah. Well. Um. Mom. Darcy and me are thinking about having a baby. We’ve pretty much decided to. I mean, it isn’t completely definite yet, but we’re pretty serious.

JENNIFER
What? A baby?

SUSAN
No need to inform the whole café, Jennifer. It is exciting, but still. This is a family matter.

JENNIFER
Exciting? Exciting? It’s appalling. Jason! I thought you’d outgrown this business. I mean, living with Darcy without being married, but now this. . . 

JASON
Mom, you’re the one who didn’t want us to get married, remember? You thought it would blow over. Well it didn’t. We really love each other. And now we want to have a baby.

JENNIFER
But why? Whatever for? With the world going to pieces, and you don’t have a real job—

SUSAN
When your father and mother had you, Jennifer, the world was going to pieces, too. The war in Viet Nam was going on and on, we all figured the Soviets would nuke us, we were just beginning to understand about how bad air and water pollution were. And, well, my dear,  we had no real jobs. Your dad was doing seasonal apple picking when your mom got pregnant.

JENNIFER
But he went to college. He became a professor. He wasn’t just a—a barrista, or a van driveror whatever.

SUSAN
When your mother got pregnant, your father was a dope-smoking wanna-be artist, Jennifer, and your mother thought she was the next Edna St. Vincent Millay. I was a budding herbalist, pardon the pun. Your father didn’t go to college until after you were born, after we were married. I was there. I know.

JENNIFER
But he always told me. . . 

SUSAN
I know what he always told you, and I never corrected him. You were conceived on a commune, presumably by your father. You survived your birth, but your mother, who was my dearest friend, didn’t. And your father never wanted you to know because it was so awful and so hard and because, yes, he managed to make something of his life after all.


JASON
Wow, Gram.


JENNIFER
Sue, I didn’t. . . .

SUSAN
I know. And it’s all right. Those were the best of times and the worst of times. It was crazy, but we thought we’d change the world. We really thought we would. And we really loved one another out there on the farm, and it all sort of worked for awhile. You were the second baby born there, and we were all so happy till your mom started bleeding and we didn’t get her to the hospital in time, and she died and it all just fell apart after that. It all just fell apart.

JENNIFER
But I thought she. . . 

SUSAN
I know, Jennifer. I know. Your dad and I will sit down with you later and tell you the whole story. 

JENNIFER
Sue. . . 

SUSAN
But this conversation is about Jason and Darcy. And by the way, Jason is not what you call “just a”van driver or “just a” anything. He’s a responsible person, trying to make a living in a hard world.  And Darcy is a law clerk, for goodness’ sake. So even though the world is going to hell, they’re as equipped as anybody to be parents. Better equipped than we were, believe me.

JENNIFER
I don’t know what to say.

SUSAN
Try saying nothing.

JASON
Uh, Mom? You okay?

JENNIFER
I don’t know. I’m not sure. I don’t know what to think. I didn’t know any of that. I thought Dad and Mom lived in a house with a bunch of people when they were in college. I didn’t know it was a—commune. I’m going to—I’m going to the restroom. I have to go put some water on my face. I’ll be right back.

JASON
You sure you’re okay, Mom?
JENNIFER
I will be. I will be okay. This is just a lot. I’ll be okay.
			(Exits.)

JASON
Grandma!

SUSAN
Yeah?

JASON
Is that for real? I mean, all that weird stuff about grandpa and drugs and communes?

SUSAN
Of course it’s real. You’ve seen the photos of us on the farm.

JASON
Yeah, but I didn’t know it was—I mean, I didn’t know it was something like that. Mom said it was when you were in college, like she said.

SUSAN
Sweetie, I told you we invented sex, drugs and rock and roll. Flower power. All you need is love, right? And your grandpa and I don’t talk about it much because—well, we just don’t. It’s our past and it’s hard to get younger people to understand what it was like. Like we didn’t understand our parents growing up in the depression and World War Two. And your kids won’t understand you growing up in the trump and covid and climate change years. 

JASON
Thanks, Gram.

SUSAN
For what? It isn’t over yet. Your mom will have more to say.

JASON
I know But thanks just for saying that about my kids not understanding. My kids. Mine and Darcy’s. Or kid. I think we might only try for one.

SUSAN
Here she comes.

JENNIFER
(Entering.) There. I feel a little better. I can handle this. Okay. So Jason,  maybe you can handle parenthood. It will be harder for you than it was for your father and me, but maybe not as hard as it was for your grandparents. I get that. I think. But Jason—-

JASON
Yeah?
JENNIFER
You’re going to adopt, right? I  mean, Darcy’s a—man.

JASON
Yeah, but no, Mom. We’re planning to—I mean we’re thinking about—trying for a biological one.

JENNIFER
But Darcy’s. . . 

JASON
He has a uterus, Mom.

JENNIFER
But Jason. That’s—-what will people think? What will—

SUSAN
What will the neighbors say? Is that what you mean, Jennifer? Is that what you’re worried about? 

JENNIFER
Well, it’s just—unnatural. It’s too strange, Jason. It’s just too strange and unnatural and you just shouldn’t do it. If God wanted men to have babies—

SUSAN
. . . he would have given them uteruses? Or is it uteri? In this case, Jennifer, that’s exactly what God, or whatever,  has done.

			(Brief silence, and an increase in coffee shop sounds.)

JENNIFER
Oh. Oh. I didn’t think of that. There’s so much I don’t understand. The world is so complicated. I just don’t understand anything any more.


SUSAN
Has anybody ever understood anything? Really understood anything?

JENNIFER
Well, I always thought I would someday. When I got to be your age, maybe. Sue, don’t you understand at least some things?

SUSAN
Nope. Hardly anything. And you know what? It doesn’t matter. Life goes on. And now you get to look forward to being a grandmnother yourself. That is, if Jason and Darcy decide to go through with it. Are you going to, sweetie?

JASON
Well, yeah. We’ve pretty much decided to. We were just hoping Mom wouldn’t mind too much. And, well, we’d kinda like to get married first. Do you mind that now, Mom?

JENNIFER
It will take—well. It will take some getting used to. Seeing Darcy pregnant? Okay. I think I can do that. I always liked Darcy. And sure. Clearly you two love each other, so get married. I think 

JENNIFER (Cont.)
it’s time. My son-in-law, the mother of my grandchild. It sounds strange, but—yes. I can say it. Can’t I, Sue? My son-in-law, the mother of my grandchild! I like it!

JASON
Thanks, Mom. Love you.

JENNIFER
I love you, too. And oh! Look at the time! I’ve got to run. I’ve got to get dinner on the table before  choir practice. ‘Bye!

SUSAN
‘Bye, Jennifer. I am proud of you.

JENNIFER
Thanks, Sue. ‘Bye.

JASON
Weird. I all worked way better than I thought it would. What happened? 

SUSAN
Stories work. Perspective works. And love, Jason. Love works. We’re among the lucky ones, you know? Love’s not all you need, but—it’s most of it. 
JASON
Thanks, Gram.

SUSAN
Any time. 


End of Play







 

TWO WAYS OF LOOKING AT DISASTER

TWO WAYS OF LOOKING AT DISASTER

1.
It’s a recipe they’ve been cooking up
for ever so long.
Leaf through a shiny magazine,
pore over today’s headlines
and tell me I’m wrong.

They whipped up 
like a glop of imitation cream
the illusion that rich means good, 
then spoonfeed up the iffy dream
that anyone can have it all.

Lesser creatures never matter
birds and forests, air and water.
They keep stirring fast and faster—
cooking up yet more disaster.

2.
Caterpillars ate every leaf
on every oak and moved on
to the popples and pines. 
They poured over one another,
creatures of bristle and hunger,
objects of an inner recipe
that transforms leaves into frass 
and shed skins and cocoons 
of iffy goo and moths and
more caterpillars.
	                Today
the oaks are showing
what can be done.
Every twig, sports a tiny leaf or bud.
Every twig. Every single one.

WALPURGISNACHT–a play

Here is a link to the podcast of “Walpurgisnacht,” a play produced by a lovely company that’s all about old fashioned radio drama.

https://anchor.fm/gardenofvoices/episodes/Walpurgisnacht-e1j23mr

BEARS

BEARS

1. 
Now come the bears.
They’re everywhere.
They’re fed up with our cars,
our hayfields, our guns and dogs.
They’ve studied our weaknesses.
They remember when we worshiped them,
when they ruled our deepest dreams.
They are hungry again.
They have demands.

2.
"Should you be worried?" 
the media query, their hysteria 
palpable through the screen.
Monkey pox, Autumn surge, 
flood and fire, Putin’s bombs. 
And I answer, No.
Since they are back,
I have a single holy fear—
Will I be eaten by a bear?

Start Talking: Conclusion

And here's the conclusion:



PLAYWRIGHT
I don’t know, Pat. I really don’t remember. Why don’t you tell me? What are you doing in my head?

PAT
Jesus. Search me. You’re in charge, right? Supposed to be anyhow.


ALEX
(To Playwright.)
 Maybe you need her. I mean, maybe you need somebody like Pat in your head. Like Demeter and Hecate, right? When Demeter was all like “I don’t know what to do” Hecate helped her, right? So maybe that’s what you need and your brain’s just telling you that.

JOAN
Alex, love, you have been paying attention to all those myths I’ve read to you.

ALEX
Well, yeah. How could I not? They’re pretty great.

PLAYWRIGHT
So you think I made Pat up because I need her?

ALEX
Yeah. Maybe. Whatever.

PAT
I sorta like that.

PATRICIA
So, Playwright, my question is, Why do you think you need Hecate in your head? What is the witch at the crossroads saying to you?

PLAYWRIGHT
Oh crap. All I need is for my characters to start psychoanalyzing me. Come on, you people. I MADE YOU ALL UP. Sure there’s bits of me in all of you, but I made you up. You’re not real. You aren’t. I made you up. 

GRANDMOTHER
Then what are we doing here?

LAURA
Yeah, Playwright. Why did you invite us here and tell us to talk if you don’t want to hear what we have to say?

PLAYWRIGHT
Once again, Laura, for the record, Laura, I did not invite you. Your being here, however, shows me really clearly why you and your mother did not work out in the novel, or in the play. I had an agenda for you. I was being preachy. Subtly, or so I thought, but it really wasn’t, and at some level, I knew it. It turns out, now that I hear you out of your context, that you’re both stock characters and vehicles for my preachiness. So thank you, and good-bye. You, too, Annie. Good-bye.

LAURA
But. . . 

PLAWRIGHT
Go. I said go. Do not darken my computer screen again.

LAURA
This is worse than being shot by that clown.

ANNIE
(Stands.)
Come on, Laura. She’s done with us.

LAURA
(Breaks down in a childish temper tantrum.)
No! I don’t want to!

(Annie takes Laura firmly by the hand and bodily drags her offstage.)

PAT
(Calling after them.)
Well done, Annie!

PATRICIA
(To Pat.)
Wait a minute. Why are you still here? The Playwright said she’s done with your play or novel or whatever.

PAT
Yeah but. She didn’t say she was done with me.

PLAYWRIGHT
No. I didn’t, come to think of it. Because I’m not. You’re the only one in that play who isn’t a stock character. I think. Let’s see.
(Looks around the table.)
Okay. What have I got? Two grandmothers who do their own thing—

PAT
Three. I do my own thing too, right? 

PLAYWRIGHT
(Revelation.)
Oh. Yes. Of course. Sorry, Pat. You do. Your divorce and the kid you disowned and the greenhouse and speaking your mind. . . 

PAT
Yeah, yeah. I am a tough old bitch. Huh. Maybe I am a what you say is a stock character?

PLAYWRIGHT
No, no. I don’t think so. I’ll think about that later. So now I’ve got three grandmothers, two colluding grandchildren and one difficult daughter.

GRANDMOTHER
Two. Mine’s just not on stage.

PLAYWRIGHT
(Typing while she talks.)
Yeah, yeah. Good. So now the question is: Do I want to keep going with Red Riding Hood and/or the whole tree business, or do I want to do something else with you?

JOAN
I like the tree business, but that’s not surprising, is is?

ALEX
Hey, I’ve got an idea. Why not write about a bunch of old women sitting around talking about things? Like their grandchildren, or their daughters, or whatever.

PLAYWRIGHT
Hm. I guess that’s a possibility.

PAT
What the hell do you call this? Here we are.

PLAYWRIGHT
Oh. Oh, you’re right, Pat. Here we are.

PAT
You could stretch it out some, I guess, if Joan and Grandmother. . . hey, do you have a name? I mean, “Grandmother” isn’t exactly a name, you know, and I really don’t want to call another old lady “Grandmother.”

GRANDMOTHER
I don’t have one, do I? Why not?

PLAYWRIGHT
Well, you see, in the play, you’re basically just Grandmother. It’s what Red calls you. You don’t actually need a name because. . . 

GRANDMOTHER
Defined by my role. Despite your idea that I would be a so-called “good example” for a grandchild?  That makes me a stock character, doesn’t it? Well, I’m out of here. If you can’t even be bothered to name me, forget it. I’m not going to be in any of your plays.
(Stands to go.)

(Playwright is speechless.)

JOAN
(Stands.)
I’m with you. That’s appalling. (To Grandmother.) You and I do have to talk. What do you want me to call you, since you aren’t Grandmother?

GRANDMOTHER
How about Amelia? I like the sound of that.

JOAN
Amelia. Excellent. 

RED
Wait! Grandmother! Can I still call you Grandmother?

GRANDMOTHER
Huh. I don’t know. It depends on where you end up. Joan, where shall we go?

PAT
(Stands.)
Mind if I come, too?

JOAN and GRANDMOTHER
(Assenting sounds.)

PAT
‘Cause I know a nice greenhouse. At a crossroads. Coffee’s on.

JOAN
That sounds perfect.

(The three women link arms and exit.)

PLAYWRIGHT
(Stands.)
Hey! Hey!

RED
(Stands, looking after the grandmothers.)
Grandmother?

ALEX
(Stands and puts an arm around Red.)
Let ‘em go, kid. They were pretty good grannies, but we’ve got stuff to do. How about we head back to your gram’s studio and make our own coffee and do some art?

RED
Sounds good to me.

(They exit.)

PLAYWRIGHT
Well, damn it all. Now what?

PATRICIA
(Stands.)
I suppose I should go, too. That is, unless you need me.

PLAYWRIGHT
Yeah, you might as well go. Go ahead. Go ahead. 

(Patricia starts for the exit.)
Oh, but wait!

PATRICIA
(Turning.)
Yes?

PLAYWRIGHT
Maybe you should stay. I might need help getting things re-organized. There is some stuff in here I might be able to use, I think.
(Sits at the computer again.)

PATRICIA
Oh. Well. I guess I could. All right. Let me see. . .
(Stands behind playwright and looks over her shoulder at the screen.)

PLAYWRIGHT
(Looks up at Patricia.)
Well? Any thoughts?

(Curtain.)

the world, the flesh

An unexpected poem.

        the world, the flesh

They did it to me when I was too young
to resist: in my name they renounced 
my skin, my heart, my lungs,
my sex, my brain, my little fingers. 
They renounced my senses, 
my fears, my hungers, my animal urgency.

They renounced the world. 
The deserts and trees, mountains and seas,
everyone who crawls and swims and flies:
denizens of the dirt, tigers and dogs and whales.
They don’t have souls the story goes,
and all that matters is what isn’t.

When the trout lily leaves emerged, 
when the bears came out of their winter dens,
when the buds swelled on the maples,
every spring we remembered our renunciation. 
How strange when the empty tomb
recalls the garden and the flesh. 

I repent. I reclaim all I was taught, 
along with the devil, to renounce. 
Beginning with this patch of ground 
where rotting trunks flower out their fruits,
where robins overturn the unraked leaves
and acorns sprout along the edges of the unmown grass.

Start Talking, continued. . .

PLAYWRIGHT
(Typing furiously.)
Good, good, good. Hang on. I need to get this down. “A job, not a passion . . .”  

PATRICIA
Give me a break.

ALEX
Wait a minute, Mom, I didn’t know that. I just think Gram is cool and you aren’t. What did you want to be when you were my age?

PATRICIA
Oh, a singer, if you must know. Singer-songwriter. I had a nice voice and I wrote some pieces that were very well received at open mics, and a local company wanted to make a tape.

JOAN
I didn’t know that.

PATRICIA
I never told you. You were always working on a book and you always had that Do Not Disturb Under Pain of Death sign on your study door.

ALEX
Gram? Really?

JOAN
Yes, Alex. It’s true. Trisha, I’m sorry. I am so sorry. It’s just that after your father left I was determined to make something of myself. I had to get the academic world to take me seriously, —to show him that folklore was every bit as important as organic chemistry. 

PLAYWRIGHT
Wait, wait, wait. . . . I can’t keep up. What did you say after the “Do not disturb” sign business?

PATRICIA
Wow. I never thought about that. You were in competition with Dad?

JOAN
Did I ever tell you why he left?

PLAYWRIGHT
No, no. Stop. Stop right there. That’s all I need to know about you right now.

PATRICIA
But. . . 

PLAYWRIGHT
No. I mean it. So. Joan came out of my undones, and I guess Patricia is, in a way, a kind of offspring of that. I am super organized and controlling, too, but for other reasons.

ALEX
What reasons?

PLAYWRIGHT
None of your business. But okay. You, Alex. I wanted a relationship with a grandmother, so I invented one. One of my grandmothers died before I was born, and the other died when I was seven and she lived in Cleveland and I only saw her three times. So I always wanted a grandmother.

RED
Wow. Did you invent Grandmother for the same reason?

PLAYWRIGHT
Probably sort of, but I think she’s a little more complicated than that. When I became a grandmother, I got to thinking that maybe the best thing a grandmother can do for the kids is be an example of someone who can do what she wants, in her own way. So, Red, your grandmother came about for that reason. She loves you dearly, and. . .

RED
Yeah, when I come over, she’s always busy at her easel and I have to wait till she’s at a good place to stop before she talks to me. 

GRANDMOTHER
(To Red.)
And you had an easel in my studio, remember? At least, in one of the drafts. Or maybe that was in the story version. Whatever happened to that, Playwright?

PLAYWRIGHT
Oh, you’re right. I’d forgotten. I think it was in the story. Better put it back in. Hang on a minute.(She types.)

JOAN
Grandmother, I’m curious. Would you rather be eaten by a wolf or the sun? Fenris, of course, eats the sun, so if you are in the sun, he’d eat both.

GRANDMOTHER
The sun itself works better for me. You see, in the first couple of pages of our play, I told Red that I was trying to find out the exact color of the sun, and one day—at least in one version— I vanished.  So Red came over as usual with that horrible bag of granola bars and yogurt from my daughter, and I wasn’t there. I think nobody, even the Playwright, knew what had happened to me. But since you ask, I’d prefer the sun. It’s simpler, and stays with the grandmother-as-artist idea better, don’t you think? The search for color?

JOAN
Maybe. But I am intrigued by the idea of introducing the Nordic myth, and, of course, the wolf who is in the original Red Riding Hood tale, but it does complicate things.

PLAYWRIGHT
Okay, okay. Enough already. Who’s next?

PATRICIA
I think that’s all of us.

PAT
Ahem.

PATRICIA
Oh, right. Playwright, what about Pat? And why, pray tell, do we have the same name? We’re hardly the same character.

PLAYWRIGHT
(Looking up, long thinking.)
Same name. Hm. Okay. As I recall, ages ago I did “The Artist’s Way” and I had to come up with five imaginary selves. And I called one of them Patricia. She was an office manager, or something like that. Very efficient. Basically you. Huh. I’d forgotten that. The subconscious is rather fascinating isn’t it? And Pat. Well, who knows? I do know a really sensible woman named Pat, but I didn’t meet her till after I started this whole story. It just suited her.

PAT
But hey. I mean, you said back there I was Hecate or whoever. I don’t know who she is.

JOAN
She’s a goddess. Witches summoned her. She was the goddess of crossroads, and magic. In the Demeter myth, she . . 

PAT
Hold your horses there. Crossroads? That’s the name of the greenhouse I own. In the novel and play both. So that’s why. But still. How come a greenhouse for, whatever, a witch’s goddess?

PLAYWRIGHT
I don’t know, Pat. I really don’t remember. Why don’t you tell me? What are you doing in my head?

PAT
Jesus. Search me. You’re in charge, right? Supposed to be anyhow.

START TALKING part 3

This is being revised now because some of my playwright colleagues think it’s worth working on. But I’ll keep posting the original draft.

PLAYWRIGHT
Great. Make-believe people asking me questions. Okay. Go ahead



JOAN
Where did I come from?

PATRICIA
Yeah, that’s a really good question. I suggest you go around the table and tell each one of us where we came from.

PLAYWRIGHT
In what way will that help me with these—TWO—plays I’m trying to write?

GRANDMOTHER
Who knows? That’s the fun of art, isn’t it?

LAURA
And why didn’t you invite me?

PATRICIA
All right, all right. Playwright, where did we come from? And there’s three plays, whether you like it or not.

PLAYWRIGHT
Okay, okay. You win. But I’m not going to go around the table. I’m going to start with Laura because she’s the oldest.

LAURA
You’re kidding, right? I’m only twenty-four.

PLAYWRIGHT
No. I’m not kidding. You’re the oldest in literary time. So. I don’t have a daughter, right? I have a son, who never gave us any kind of serious trouble. So one day I got to thinking, if we’d had a daughter, what would she be like. The opposite, is what I thought. 

LAURA
So I’m your anti-son?

PLAYWRIGHT
Yup. 

LAURA
Really.

PLAYWRIGHT
Yup. Conceived on a journal page early one morning about twenty years ago.

LAURA
So I dropped out of school, did drugs, ran away, got pregnant by a street person, had an abortion. . 

PLAYWRIGHT
. . . you had the baby, remember, but he died. . . 

LAURA
Oh yeah. I forgot. Anyhow then you made me run away and join a circus and get shot by a clown. 

PLAYWRIGHT
Except in the play you weren’t going to get shot.

LAURA
I thought I would.

PLAYWRIGHT
I never got that far in the play. You only just ran away before I gave it up.

LAURA
I hope I get shot. It’s more dramatic.

PLAYWRIGHT
Well, if that’s what you want to believe, believe it. Because I’m not going to write it. You’re history.

PATRICIA
Could we please stick to the subject? What about Annie?

ANNIE
If Laura’s your anti-son, am I your anti-self? 

PLAYWRIGHT
Crap. I don’t know. I made you up. I just don’t know. 

ANNIE
I let Laura get away with everything. I thought everything she did was wonderful. I never disciplined her at all. After her father died. . .

PLAYWRIGHT
Well, yeah. The point, I mean, the point I was trying to make, was something about the unlived lives of parents. If you’d been a Latin scholar after all, if you’d had a life outside motherhood, things with Laura might have been different, don’t you see?

PAT
There it is. What-ifs. You can’t do what-ifs all the time. It’s what I kept trying to tell you. It’s why the damn novel didn’t work.

PLAYWRIGHT
Thanks, Pat. At least I got you right.

PATRICIA
What do you mean by that? You got me right, I think.

PLAYWRIGHT
Yeah, yeah, I guess so. You are a controlling bitch.

PATRICIA
Thank you. I do my best.

JOAN
Wait a minute, here. Are you saying that the rest of us aren’t what you call “right”?  I beg your pardon. We are absolutely doing what you created us to do, in the very limited space you’ve given us. Alex and I have had only four pages so far.

PLAYWRIGHT
I know, I know. Which is why I called this meeting. I need to know you better. I guess what I mean by Pat and Patricia being right is that their voices are really clear to me, and have been from the beginning. It’s the rest of you I’m not sure about. You, for instance, Joan. Are you ironic, or straight-forward? Stern? I was thinking you were rather stern, but now I’m not sure.

PATRICIA
Speaking of my being a controlling bitch, how about your going back to telling us where we came from. You could keep going with Joan.

PLAYWRIGHT
I could, couldn’t I? Okay. Let’s see. I think Joan may be the scholar I wasn’t. The anthropologist, folklorist, classicist. 

ANNIE
Oh. Maybe that explains me, too!

PLAYWRIGHT
Please be quiet, Annie. Yeah, I’ve always been interested in those things but never really did anything but dabble. And I’ve been interested lately in the connections between people, especially women, and trees, and looking for those myths. What intrigues me so far, is that in most of the cases, the woman became a tree to escape something. You all know about Daphne, of course, but then there was a woman in a San tale. . .

PATRICIA
All right, all right. We don’t need to know all this, do we? Just that Joan is a could-have-been of yours. Next?

JOAN
No, wait a minute. This is good for me to know. Now I’m wondering if you, Patricia, have a “could-have-been” in your past that makes you so bitchy. Did I hold you back from something? Did I fail to encourage you?

PATRICIA
Did you fail to encourage me? Mother! Are you kidding? You hardly even noticed me, you were so busy with all your research. Early on, I decided I wouldn’t do that stuff. I’d find a job that was just that, a job. Not a passion. And I’d be involved in my daughter’s life, and I have been.

ALEX
I’ll say.

Meanwhile, back at the Dollhouse

The attic is a mess.

The guest room is serene, with even a lovely little tea cup and saucer. (Chris, take note!)

But Puppy should NOT be in the bed!

BAD kitty!

Grandpa enterains Girl with a story.

Start Talking, Part 3

The first speech is overlapped from part 2.

PLAYWRIGHT
Shit. Okay. (Calling to stage hand.) Another chair!
(Stage hand appears with a chair, opens it. Annie sits next to Patricia.)
As I was saying. Annie is Laura’s mother. Laura was a character in a novel, a long time ago, in which she ran away to the circus and was shot by a clown. I should have left her there, bleeding in the sawdust, but no, I resurrected her in a play that did not work. At all. And now for some reason known only unto Laura, Annie, her poor mother, has to deal with her again. Annie, I’m sorry.

ANNIE
I still don’t know what’s going on, but then, I guess I never did. Who are these people?

PLAYWRIGHT
Characters from plays I’m working on. I’m not working on yours, so I didn’t invite you. Or Laura.

ANNIE
Oh. Or Pat? Is Pat coming? Pat?

(Pat enters, carrying a chair, which she sets up next to the grandmothers.)

PLAYWRIGHT
Geezum. Is there no such thing as creative control?

PAT
Yup, and we’ve got it. Introduce us, please.

PLAYWRIGHT 
Okay. Pat, Annie, Laura, meet Grandmother and Red from one play I’ve started, and Joan and her daughter Patricia and her grandchild Alex from another. This is Pat, everyone. She ran the greenhouse that Annie worked in. She kept tryng to talk sense into her. Huh. Come to think of it, that stupid play was an attempt at mythology, too. It was so long ago, I’d forgotten.

PAT
Mythology? You mean like some fairy tale? I thought all our stuff was pretty real.

PLAYWRIGHT
Not exactly a fairy tale. It was about Demeter and Persephone. You were Hecate.

PAT
Who?

LAURA
Oh wow! I’m Persephone!
(Stands and starts dancing.)

PLAYWRIGHT
Sit down and shut up, Laura.

ANNIE
Persephone didn’t die in the myth. She just went underground for half the year. I mean, back when I was a Classics major, I. . . 

PLAYWRIGHT
All right, all right. Let’s start again. You all now have a basic idea of where everybody comes from, right? Laura, sit.

LAURA
(Sits.)
Wow, you are so demanding.

PLAYWRIGHT
Right. I am. So, everybody keep talking. Except Laura and Annie. You know all you need to about them.

PAT
Three grannies, three kids, two daughters. Looks good to me.

PATRICIA
I really want to hear what Laura and Annie have to say. And Pat, of course.

ALEX
Me too.

(The sound of general agreement,)

PLAYWRIGHT
From the land of the dead. Oh, whatever. I give up.

LAURA
Well, if it’s all grannies and daughters, this is about you and your daughter, isn’t it?

PLAYWRIGHT
I don’t have a daughter. I said that already. Before you got here.

LAURA
Oh. But you are a daughter, right? So it’s about you and your mother.

PLAYWRIGHT
No. No it isn’t. My mother was nothing like yours. She was strict. Nothing at all like Annie. 

LAURA
But I still think. . .

PLAYWRIGHT
You know what, Laura? I don’t care what you think. You’re wrong. Whatever you say is just plain wrong.

ANNIE
I don’t think that’s fair to poor Laura. I mean, you created her.

PAT
She has a point.

PLAYWRIGHT
But I want to listen to the other characters here, the ones I actually invited. Patricia, help me out.

PATRICIA
I agree with Pat. Look, you’re making three plays. . 

PLAYWRIGHT
Two, damn it. The one Laura’s in is trashed. A failure. It’s in the wastebasket. 

PATRICIA
Well, however many, they’re all about mothers and daughters.

PLAYWRIGHT
No. They’re about grandmothers and grandchildren. The mothers are incidental.

RED
That’s what you think.

PLAYWRIGHT
What? Really? 

RED
Yeah. I mean, if it weren’t for the mothers, we wouldn’t be, like, so attached to our grandmothers, right?

PLAYWRIGHT
But your mother isn’t in the play at all. 

RED
Yeah, but. Grandmother’s an artist, right, and she does whatever she wants. And my mother isn’t an artist. She’s like, very sensible, or something, in an organic kind of way. And she doesn’t get how it is with me and Grandmother. And that’s why me and Grandmother get along so good.

ALEX
Yeah, yeah. Like me and Gram. Mom doesn’t get it at all. I mean, look at her. 

PATRICIA
You have no idea, Alex, what it’s like to deal with a mother like mine.

ALEX
Nope. Just what it’s like to deal with a mother like mine.

PAT
Jesus. And I thought our play was complicated. But at least ours doesn’t have a grandmother in it.

ALEX
But you’re a Gram, right? I mean, you’re old enough, no offence. Were you kinda like a grandmother to Laura?

PLAYWRIGHT
I really, really don’t want to talk about Laura.

LAURA
Why not? Do you find me threatening?

PLAYWRIGHT
This isn’t about me.

GRANDMOTHER
Of course it is. All art is about the artist.

JOAN
You wanted us to talk, so we’re talking. How about we ask you some questions?

PLAYWRIGHT
Great. Make-believe people asking me questions. Okay. Go ahead.

REPORT: March 8, 2022, 6:30 a.m.

REPORT:  MARCH 8, 2022, 6:30 A.M.

I don’t yet know the news from afar. Here,
the backyard is a sheet of ice. In the low spot
in the drive, the gravel has washed away, leaving
a narrow ditch. Before sunrise, the sky is gray
and yellow. All the undones of autumn poke through
the grubby snow. A rabbit scrounges for seed
under the bird feeder. The dog looks out
the window and begins to scream at a squirrel.
Coffee’s good. The north wind is rising. 

Start Talking, part 2

This is the second part of the exercise I wrote, using vague characters from plays I was stuck on. Or with.

JOAN
Ha. Well then. Yes, Patricia, we do laugh at you behind your back. And like Grandmother and Red, Alex and I “eat funny” just as you suspect. And she/he/they is indeed in cahoots with me. 

PATRICIA
You haven’t said your name yet. Or what you think you’re supposed to be doing.

JOAN
Oh, well. I beg your humble pardon. You said my name, I believe.

PATRICIA
Did I?

JOAN
And you think I’m dotty. I am Joan. I am a retired academic folklorist and I would like very much to learn how to turn into a tree.

GRANDMOTHER
A tree? That sounds exciting.

JOAN
Yes. A tree. The alternative to being put into some dreadful kind of place by my charming daughter here, who is all efficient in her little suit.

PATRICIA
A tree? Well, that just goes to show that it’s not safe for you to be living alone anymore. I’m going to see an attorney, and. . . 

ALEX
Mom! Gram’s fine. She’s just fine. I should know because I see her a lot more than you do. At least, I’ve seen her for what, Gram? Three pages?

JOAN
Four.

ALEX
See? We didn’t even know what you looked like.

PATRICIA
Well I must say, I certainly did not expect any child of mine to appear in public looking like, like. . .

ALEX
What? A typical  teenager? What did you expect? An Instagram poser? A Tik-Tok celebrity?

PATRICIA
Oh for heaven’s sake. Stop running your mouth and introduce yourself.

ALEX
I’m Alex. I don’t really know my mother, yet, but I do know Joan, my Gram. I like her a lot. I didn’t think I disliked my mother anymore than any kid does, but now that I’ve met her and see what a jerk she is, well, I don’t think I like her. If I were Gram, I’d want to turn into a tree, too.

(Laura enters, graceful, dramatic. She stand by the table, smiling. 
There’s a silence while they all look at her.)

LAURA
Wow, you started without me.  (Reacting to the silence.)         What?

PLAYWRIGHT
I didn’t invite you.

LAURA
Really? Well, I’d have thought that my relationship with my mother was the point of this whole thing.

PLAYWRIGHT
It isn’t. These are plays about folklore, about mythology. Not at all about you.

LAURA
Come on, everything’s about me, and you know it. I want a chair. Where’s a chair? (Turns toward entrance.) Hey you back there! I want a chair!

(Stagehand enters with a folding chair, opens it and sets it up.)

LAURA
Not this kind. It’s not good for my back. I’m a dancer, you know? I have to be careful of my back.

PLAYWRIGHT
Fuck your back. I don’t want you here, but since you are, you can sit down and shut up.

LAURA
(Sits.)
I thought you wanted us to talk.

PLAYWRIGHT
Not. You. Just be quiet.

ANNIE
 (Enters, harried, looks around until she sees Laura.)
There you are, Laura. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I thought you were in Florida, with the circus.

PLAYWRIGHT
Oh, terrific.


LAURA
I was, but then this happened. (Gesturing toward the group.)

ANNIE
And what is this? Would someone please tell me what’s going on?

PLAYWRIGHT
Okay. Everyone, this is Annie. As I’m sure you’ve gathered, she’s Laura’s mother. Laura is,  or she was. ..

LAURA
I think I should speak for myself.

PLAYWRIGHT
No. You shouldn’t. Shut up. I’ve thrown you away so many times. I don’t want to hear your smug, self-indulged voice ever again. 

LAURA
Whoa. Bad energy there.

PLAYWRIGHT
(Rising and threatening.)
I’ll give you bad energy. . . 

ANNIE
What’s going on? Laura, what are we doing here? Who are these people?

PLAYWRIGHT
Shit. Okay. (Calling to stage hand.) Another chair!
(Stage hand appears with a chair, opens it. Annie sits next to Patricia.)
As I was saying. Annie is Laura’s mother. Laura was a character in a novel, a long time ago, in which she ran away to the circus and was shot by a clown. I should have left her there, bleeding in the sawdust, but no, I resurrected her in a play that did not work. At all. And now for some reason known only unto Laura, Annie, her poor mother, has to deal with her again. Annie, I’m sorry.

Dollhouses: Trouble

The dogs are concerned about the cat on the table.

And it looks as if the wombat, the puppy, and the guinea pig are taking over the guest room!

Start Talking: a scrap of it

I've been looking for a new play and started a couple that didn't work. So I invited the characters to sit down and talk. This is the beginning of what happened next.


START TALKING
A Play in One Act

Mary F. C. Pratt






CHARACTERS

PLAYWRIGHT  Older woman.
JOAN      Older woman, a folklorist
PATRICIA   Joan’s daughter, a businesswoman in a “little suit.”
ALEX     Joan’s grandchild, Patricia’s child, a teenager. Garbed rebelliously.
GRANDMOTHER   Older Woman, an artist.
RED  Grandmother’s grandchild, ten or twelve years old, wearing a red hoodie.
LAURA     Annie’s daughter, a circus performer, in her late twenties, arty and self-centered.
ANNIE      Laura’s Mother, middle-aged. Vague and worried.
PAT    Annie’s boss, an Older Woman who owns a greenhouse. Outspoken, tough. Work clothes.
STAGEHAND  Unspeaking.


SETTING
Bare stage, a table, six chairs. Folding chairs available backstage.



















At Rise:  Playwright is sitting at the table working at a computer. Joan, Patricia and Alex, and Grandmother and Red enter in their family groups, silently. After some jockeying around, the grandmothers sit together, the grandchildren sit together. There is space around Patricia.


PLAYWRIGHT
(Looking around the table.)
Okay. Everybody’s here. Good. So start talking.

GRANDMOTHER
So what do you want us to talk about? What do you want to know? I’ve got work to do. I don’t have all day.

PLAYWRIGHT
Talk about whatever. Who are you? You say you’ve got work to do? So tell me about it. I don’t have all day, either. I want to kick-start at least one of these plays. So talk.

(All start babbling at once.)

PATRICIA
Wait, wait. Everybody stop. This is ridiculous. Somebody needs to organize it. 

PLAYWRIGHT
Fine, fine. Go for it.

PATRICIA
All right. We’ll go around the table and introduce ourselves. Say your name and something about what you think you’re supposed to be doing, at least so far. 

PLAYWRIGHT
(A snort, a guffaw—some kind of dismissive noise.)

PATRICIA
So I’ll start. I’m Patricia. You can probably tell by my clothes that I am a successful business woman.

PLAYWRIGHT
What business are you in?

PATRICIA
I have absolutely no idea. Now do you want me to talk or not?

PLAYWRIGHT
Yes, yes, yes.

PATRICIA
Then if you’ll be quiet, I’ll get on with it. May I?

PLAYWRIGHT
Yeah. Go ahead.

PATRICIA
All right then. As I said, I’m Patricia. Joan is my mother and Alex is my child. I think my mother is getting dotty and should be in some kind of assisted living. So far, I live offstage, on the telephone. I haven’t even had any lines yet.

GRANDMOTHER
And you’re already a character with distinctive clothes. That’s impressive.

PLAYWRIGHT
Huh. It is, actually.

PATRICIA
If you’ve finished interrupting? All right. I am suspicious that Alex is in cahoots with Joan. Perhaps they even laugh at me behind my back. Next?

GRANDMOTHER
I bet they do.

PATRICIA
What? They do what?

GRANDMOTHER
Laugh at you. Behind your back. I know I do.

PATRICIA
What are you talking about? You don’t even know me. You’re not in my play.

GRANDMOTHER
Thank God. But in my play my grandchild and I laugh at his/her/their mother, who is my daughter, all the time.

PATRICIA
What’s up with that, Playwright? Do you laugh at your daughter?

PLAYWRIGHT
I don’t have a daughter. But this isn’t about me. Talk.

PATRICIA
We are talking. Next? You. . .(Points at Red.)

RED
That would be me. I’m Red. You can tell, maybe by the shirt. Anyhow, I’m a kid and I live in a play that’s supposed to be, like, a rewrite of Red Riding Hood, or something. Maybe I’m trying to rescue Grandmother from the sun? Not like she’s sunbathing, I mean, but maybe she got eaten by the sun? Or maybe some wolf eats the sun? Grandmother talked about that a little bit. Or something. It’s all pretty, like, vague or something. I knock on the door a lot.

GRANDMOTHER
Right. (To Playwright.) And that vagueness is getting tiresome, if you want to know the truth, which, as an artist I assume you do?

PLAYWRIGHT
I certainly aspire to the truth, yes. And it is getting tiresome for me, too, which is why you’re all here. So keep going.

GRANDMOTHER
Well then. I am Grandmother. And as she/he/they said, I think it’s a Red Riding Hood riff, but I don’t think it’s very successful so far, though I do like being an artist instead of a pathetic old bedridden lady, and I like throwing out the natural foods crap my daughter makes Red bring to me, and I like feeding her/him/them coffee and chocolate bars instead. I do hope you can make something out of that bit, at least.

JOAN
You do that, too? Throw out the stuff your daughter sends you?

PATRICIA
Mother, it isn’t your turn yet.

JOAN
Oh for goodness’ sake, Patricia. I’m next at the table. 

GRANDMOTHER
Yes, Patricia. For goodness’ sake. (Turns to Joan.) And I’ve done my bit, so go ahead. 

JOAN
(To Grandmother.) Thank you. When this is over, we need to talk. (To all.) In the meantime, I’m in an embryonic play with my grandchild Alex, and with, or possibly despite, my daughter Patricia, who, until now, has, mercifully, been offstage and silent. (Examines Patricia.) So that’s what you look like. Nice suit. 

PATRICIA
No need for personal comments, Mother.

JOAN
I beg to differ. Playwright, personal comments allowed?

PLAYWRIGHT
Oh, please!

Years ago now, the first Dollhouse family thought about moving. They looked at a couple of houses, but the first was a bit crooked. The second one was nice and had a deck, but after seeing the guys on the stairs, they decided it was too creepy.

A PHOTO OF BORIS

A PHOTO OF BORIS


They posed him against a background of drapery,
stood him on the seat of a chair with curved arms.
His hair was parted and neatly combed.
He wore a dark jacket with two rows of buttons,
dark button-trimmed trousers, and sturdy shoes.
They put a hoop—-larger than himself—-around his neck. 
The fingers of one hand curled around it. 
In the other, he held a short stick of the sort
used by bigger boys to turn a hoop along a road.
His expression was serious, puzzled, maybe alarmed:
Why do they want me standing here, with a hoop around my neck?  
On the back, a line of my Grandmother’s illegible scrawl
—I think in German—-and one word, set apart: “Boris.”

There is no Boris in the family tree.

The photo was attached with dots of glue
to a page in a cheap photo album
discovered in a box in a closet 
among my mother’s things.
It was Grandma’s.
Perhaps Mother never looked at it.
She never showed it to us.
The cover was broken, the pages crumbling.
I know how paper can decay.
I pried all the photos out. 

Most were not labeled.
Grandma knew who they were:
People in the Old Country around a table, 
people haying on the farm in East Germany 
where Johann ended up after the war, 
a uniformed man who might be the German cousin 
who went down with his ship in 1945. 

Only a few were labeled— Onkel Herman,
Onkel Hans’s wife, Pa and Frieda.
And Boris. 
I thought to toss it with the unlabeled photos—
the sort of nameless photos that pile up, 
that we pass on endlessly. 

But I cannot discard Boris.
What was he doing there, in Grandma’s album,
with Johann and August and Wanda,
Great-grandfather Joseph, Tante Helen,
and Grandma herself, stout in her printed dress,
standing with the nameless Sunday School teachers
in front of the Cleveland Lutheran Church.

Dollhouses: History

When I was three, my father made a dollhouse for me. It was furnished with plastic furniture that was lost or broken long ago. The dollhouse ended up stored in various basements and attics until I was in my thirties, and thought it would be fun to restore and refurnish it. I have no skills, so I asked Dad if he would help me. “No,” he said. “It’s not a very good dollhouse. I’ve learned a lot since I made it.” So I tried fixing it up myself, and Dad made me a new one, beautifully shingled, and furnished with little furniture that he made. My mother made bedding and curtains. The Dollhouse family–Father, Mother, Boy and Baby, moved into the New Dollhouse, which lived on top of a cupboard in the dining room. I also started getting Fancy furniture for the Old Dollhouse, and Grandpa and Grandma Dollhouse moved in. The Old Dollhouse lived in my study, on the floor. There were originally some problems with that, at you can see, below.

Then the grandchildren came along–the human ones, that is– and when they were the right age, the Old Dollhouse was moved to their house, and of course Father, Mother and Boy moved, too. I built an addition to the New Dollhouse, and now Grandpa and Grandma live there, with a combination of Dad’s furniture and Fancy furniture. They have an attic and a Guest Room where the Other Dollhouse Family–presumably Grandpa and Grandma’s daughter and her husband and children (Pa, Ma, Brother and Sister)– stay when they come to visit. This is why there are occasional photos of the original Dollhouses, who are happily settled in New York State.

The Old Dollhouse, being moved into my study.

The Problem.

Dollhouses: Taking the Tree Out

As usual, the Dollhouses are a bit slow taking down their Christmas decorations.

.

DOLLHOUSES

Since I don’t seem to be writing poetry these days, and since my forthcoming play seems to be on hold, due to the conditions in NYC, I thought I’d post some photos of the Dollhouses.

Grandpa and Grandma Dollhouse, with the Dogs.

And here is the Cat looking into the icebox.

The Attic is a mess.

Mom and Dad Dollhouse are here for a visit. . .

. . with Girl (and her pet Wombat) and Boy (with his pet Turtle.)

Sea Eagle

Sea Eagle

What will I see today
doing the Christmas baking
and walking on the icy road
with the dog and my friend
who is lonely for her children?

The sea eagle
has been seen in Massachusetts,
5000 miles from home.
What is he lonely for?
And what will he see?

An old poem: Witch Hunt

An Old Poem: Witch Hunt

This was originally done as a performance piece.

Such was the darkness of that day, 
the tortures and lamentations of the afflicted, 
and the power of former precedence, 
that we walked in the clouds, and could not see our way.
The Rev. John Hale


Sarah Good, hanged			Susannah Martin, hanged
Elizabeth Proctor, reprieved	Rebecca Jacobs, acquitted
Martha Corey, hanged		Mary Bradbury, reprieved
Rebecca Nurse, hanged		Alice Parker, hanged
John Proctor, hanged		Ann Pudeator, hanged
Giles Corey, pressed under stones       Martha Carrier, hanged
Bridget Bishop, hanged		        Elizabeth Howe, hanged
Abigail Hobbs, reprieved		Wilmot Reed, hanged
Sarah Wilds, hanged			Ann Foster, reprieved,
Mary Easty, hanged			Mary Lacey Sr., reprieved
George Burroughs, hanged		Margaret Scott, hanged
George Jacobs, Sr., hanged		Abigail Faulkner Sr., reprieved
John Willard, hanged			Rebecca Eames, reprieved
Sarah Buckley, acquitted		Samuel Wardwell, hanged
Mary Witheridge, acquitted		Mary Parker, hanged
Dorcas Hoar, reprieved

Is three hundred years so long ago?

Can you see the village?
Saltworks, warehouse, wharf and fish flakes
cod ketches in from the Newfoundland banks   
trading ships in from Barbados or Surinam
The gabled clapboard houses, steep-roofed
I saw her on the beam suckling her yellow bird betwixt her fingers

small windows to keep out the cold
there is a black man whispering in her ear
board fences to keep the cattle out
meeting house to keep the devil out 
O  yonder is Goodman Proctor & his wife 
& Goody Nurse & Goody  Corey  & Goody Cloise & Goody Child.  
Goodman Proctor is  going to choke me.
church yard to keep the dead inside
gallows built sturdy on Gallows Hill
they both did torture me a great many times 
because I would not yield to their Hellish temptations

Can you hear the village?
Sea wind and tide rumble
Barking dog, brown wren scolding in the eaves
gossip in the gardens, on the streets,
children about their business to and fro	
the learned preacher enlightening his flock
I would advise you to repentance, 
for the devil is bringing you out
Kettles hiss and bubble, spinning wheels tick and whir
I have seen sights & been scared.  I have been very wicked. 
I hope I shall  be better:  if God will keep me.
And in the night dark calls of whippoorwill and owl, cat wail, fox yap
What a dreadful Sight are You!  
An Old Woman, an Old Servant of the Devil!  ‘
Tis an horrible Thing!
moanings of birth and love and death
scream of a rabbit caught.	
What sin hath god found out in me unrepented of 
that he should Lay such an Affliction upon me In my old Age?

Can you smell the village?
stew of rabbit and winter roots
herbs in the dooryards, hanging from the beams
sea scent--salt and drying cod
I never had to do with witchcraft since I was born. 
 I am a Gospell Woman.
Ye are all against me and I cannot help it.
sweat and urine, blood and shit
The LORD doth terrible things amongst us, 
by lengthening the Chain of the Roaring Lion,
in an Extraordinary manner;  
so that the Devil is come down in great wrath.  

Human nature has not changed.
They might lie for ought I know
We are wary creatures crouched in caves.
Outside our civilized circles wild eyes glitter in the night
Were you to serve the Devil ten years?   Tell how many.
voices of the dispossessed murmur under every window
they drum and dance in the dense black desert
praying to their devil, plotting our demise.
There is evil, evil all outside, all around.


Do not you see these children & women are rational 
& sober as their  neighbours when your hands are fastened?

Human nature has not changed.
Being Conscious of My own Innocency 
I Humbly Beg that I may have Liberty to Manifest it to the world
Watch your children fight for space,
watch the traffic, grocery check-out line,
listen to the evening news,
hear your own voice grow shrill.
How comes the Devil so loathe 
to have any Testimony born against you?
They said we were guilty of afflicting them.  
We knowing ourselves altogether innocent of this crime, 
we were all exceedingly astonished and amazed, 
and consternated and affrighted even out of our reason.
With all gone wrong, with demons all round,
the fault can not be mine.
I will have, must have
someone else to blame.
God would not suffer so many good men 
to be in such an error about this, 
and you will be hanged if you do not confess.
It is false! the Devil is a liar.  
It is a shameful thing
that you should mind these folks that are out of their wits.

	
Where do you place your fear?
I take God in heaven to be my witness, 
that I know nothing of it, no more than the child unborn
In your heart, your bowels?
Or do you wrap it tight
and bury it like a corpse far away, outside yourself, 
That you were fled from Authority 
is an acknowledgment of guilt 
but yet notwithstanding we require you 
to confess the truth in this matter.
in your neighbor’s yard, your neighbor’s soul?
I am going upon the Ladder to be hanged for a Witch, 
but I am innocent.


Can you see the village still?
Boundaries broad, buildings tall,
I am no more a Witch than you are a Wizard, 
and if you take away my Life, God will give you Blood to drink
all the traffic sound and stench
and still--
Is three hundred years so long ago?

If it was the last time I was to speak I am innocent


Note:
The names of the accused are read throughout, in a monotone.
words spoken by the accusers
words spoken by the accused
words spoken by the judges

Playaday: a break

Maybe I’ll do some more later. Twenty two seems like enough!

Playaday: Colors

#17—color poem

CHARACTERS

RED

ORANGE

YELLOW
GREEN

BLUE 

PURPLE

Each wears a costume in its color.

WHITE LIGHT Wears a voluminous translucent white robe, big enough to hold the others.

SETTING: Inside a rainbow. (What the heck? The purpose of writing these little bits is to open up the imagination.)

GREEN

It’s mostly mine, you know. All of that. Grass, trees. Mostly mine.

BLUE

You’re kidding, right? It’s mine all the way. All that water and those clouds.

GREEN

Clouds are white.

YELLOW

No they aren’t. They’re yellow a lot of the time, and blue. 

ORANGE

And orange. At sunset anyhow, and some sunrises.

RED

Yeah, but. You guys might be common, but it’s being uncommon that’s cool. I mean, how often do I appear? Cardinals, a few red flowers, some of the stuff the people make. Special. I’m not common, I’m special. The one per cent.

PURPLE

However. I am, and have always been, royal. The majesty of my mountains, yes? The expense of the dye stuffs to color the garments of kinds and queens. Everybody knows that my title is “Royal.”

GREEN

Well, I don’t care what you say. It’s mostly mine. Besides, if any of you gets mixed up with white, you turn into an icky pastel. Pink, peach. . . . 

YELLOW

Ahem.

GREEN

Okay, okay. Generalization. But Purple is lavender, which is hardly royal.

PURPLE

Of course it isn’t. But it isn’t me.

RED

Any more than pink is me. I’m RED, right? Fire engines and sports cars and mittens and.  .

GREEN

And fires, right?

RED

Hey, that’s mosly orange and yellow.

ORANGE

And fires are not our fault. Come on.

BLUE

(Sings) “I’d rather be blue/ Thinking of you,/ I’d rather be blue/ Than be happy/ As somebody/ Else.”

WHITE LIGHT

(Enters with a flourish.)

Okay, everybody in! Come on, come on! Rain’s over, party’s over. In you go, in you go.

(The colors quickly scurry under White’s robes, which are closed. The curtain falls as White stands there, motionless, the others visible through the cloth.)

Playaday: About Coffee

#61—Write about coffee

CHARACTERS

A playwright 

SETTING

A study. The playwright sits at the desk, drinking coffee. There is an electric drip-pot in easy reach.

PLAYWRIGHT

(Staring at screen.)

Okay. A play about coffee. Sounds stupid to me, but at least it will pay. Who’d have thought that a coffee roaster would pay me to write a whole play about coffee? Huh. Featuring him. And his wife and his brother-in-law and his obnoxious teen-aged daughter. Well, okay. I can do this. Ten thousand bucks is ten thousand bucks, even though it feels like selling out. Let’s see now

(Types while talking.)

Characters:

A Coffee Roaster. Forty-ish, tall, handsome. Jeans and a buffalo-check shirt.

Wife.  Slim, blonde ponytail. Fleece and spandex and expensive running shoes.

Brother-in-law:   (Sits back and stares at the screen.)

Okay. That’s all type cast, right? They’re just playing themselves here. And if I were to do the slacker brother-in-law, he’d be an asshole, because he is. Okay. Redo. Let’s see.  

(Types again.) 

Characters:

An asshole. No. Come on. Think ten thousand bucks.  Characters. Miranda: Teenager. Blue mohawk, tattoos, torn jeans. Coffee addict. Paula: her mother. Plump, tired, mom jeans and sweatshirt with sequins. Jeff: her father. A coffee roaster. Shabby, unshaven but not in a cool way. Brad: her uncle—mother’s brother. A Guy in a Suit who wants to take over the coffee business.

(Sits back.) Nope. That would work, wouldn’t it? As a play? But not as a ten thousand dollar production about the company. Okay. Third time’s the charm.

(Types.)

Characters:

A King. Forty-ish, tall, handsome. Fairy-tale style robes and crown. A Queen:  Fairy tale style. A Princess: Dressed like a princess but with bare feet. A Knight: Heavy armor, with a mask. 

(Sits back.)

Ha! That way I get to see him clunking around. Good. And, let’s see. The barefoot princess will discover coffee bushes and the King will wonder what to do with them and the Queen will figure out how to roast the beans and the Knight will clank around. Or maybe he could be a jester instead? Okay. Work, work. Ten thousand dollars, here we come.

(Starts typing.)

Playaday: Forget Matilda

#100—Forget Matilda

CHARACTERS

RYAN—middle-aged male, conventional clothing, red sneakers
SYLVIA—old female, conventional clothing, red sneakers

Setting: A bare stage, two chairs.

(Ryan enters, sits, looks at the audience in despair.)

RYAN
It’s over. Three months of my life, in vain. I tried and tried and it didn’t work and she left. I don’t know what to do. I simply don’t know what to do. How can I go on?

(Sylvia enters, stands looking at him for a minute, pulls up the other chair and sits down, facing him.)

RYAN

Who are you?

SYLVIA
I’m Sylvia. Who are you, oh miserable man?

RYAN
Why should I tell you?

SYLVIA
Because I saw you sitting here and I’m going to help you. 

RYAN

Why should you help me?

SYLVIA
Because it’s what I do. I’m a general helper. I wander around looking for people to help and I help them.

RYAN
I don’t know you at all. I’ve never seen you before. Why should I tell you my troubles?

SYLVIA
Because you don’t know me and you’ve never seen me before, that’s why. Nothing like a stranger. I have no stake in what happens to you because I’m not your family and I’m not your friend, and I didn’t cause your troubles. Right? So tell me.

RYAN

Okay. I guess that makes some kind of sense.

SYLVIA
Of course it does. Tell me.

RYAN

It’s Matilda. 

SYLVIA
And she is?

RYAN

My girlfriend. My ex-girlfriend. I thought she was the one, you know? Everything was going so well. And then she, welll, she just up and told me that she was moving to California, of all places, because she got a good job offer there. So I said I’d find a job there, too, and go with her, and she said not to bother. And she just got up and walked away. That was it. What can I do?

SYLVIA
Seems pretty clear to me.

RYAN

What?

SYLVIA
Well, she spared you all kinds of agony. She made it really, really clear that whatever you had going with her is over. 

RYAN

So what do I do?

SYLVIA
Forget her.

RYAN

Forget her? That’s your advice?

SYLVIA
Yup. Forget Matilda and get on with your life. ‘Bye now. No need to thank me.

(Exits.)

RYAN

Forget her? I guess that never occured to me. Well, okay. I guess I can do that. Forget Matilda. Good. 

(He closes his eyes for a minute, breathes deeply.)

There. That’s done.

(Stands, shakes himself, and exits.)

Playaday: What you’ve forgotten

CHARACTERS

Linda—a retired nurse

Nancy—a disaffected priest

Vicky—a retired lawyer

Sharon—a massage therapist

Sally—a matriarch

Setting:  A coffee shop. They are all seated around the table.

VICKY

I hate it that I can’t remember things. Yesterday it was my glasses. I took them off when I came home from running errands because they were fogged up from the mask and the cold, and I put them somewhere. And when I sat down to read the paper, I realized I didn’t have them on my face. So I looked on the table in the front all. Not there. KItchen counter. Not there. Then I asked Sharon if she’d seen them.

SHARON

I asked her if she left them in the car. Well, no.

VICKY

I went out to check. Retraced my steps. And realized I had checked email on my computer and I always take my glasses off to look at the screen. But they weren’t on my desk. Then Binky came in and walked across the keyboard. Damned cat is determined to leave his mark on everything I do.

SHARON

Hey! He’s old. He just wants attention.

LINDA

Sorta like me.

NANCY

Ha! Like all of us.

SALLY

It’s been a long time since I”ve walked across a keyboard. Maybe I should try that.

NANCY

So you obviously found them, since they’re on your face now.

VICKY

Yeah. Turns out Binky had somehow knocked them on the floor, and I couldn’t see them on the carpet. Geez. I’m getting pathetic.

SALLY

Bob and I got an idea awhile ago. We could get a big, big basket and put everything in it. That way we could always find things. Keys, glasses, mail, coffee cups, water bottles, gloves, hats, library books. . .

NANCY

I love it. But how big would the basket have to be?

LINDA

Mine would have to be the size of my house. And I live alone.

NANCY

Huh. I might try that, actually. A basket by the door. 

SHARON

Let us know if it works. Vicky can’t find her calendar now that it’s not on her phone.

VICKY

But that’s probably okay. it’s not like I do anything but have coffee with you people.

SHARON

Speaking of which—gotta go. Same time next week?

NANCY

Yup. See you then.

Playaday: How People Drive

#8—How people drive

CHARACTERS

DEER

RABBIT

SQUIRREL

SETTING:  A forest clearing, late afternoon.

DEER

They drive at twilight. That’s really so stupid. They can’t see anything then. They don’t know where the trails are, and they get in the way. We’re going about our business, right? Moving from the woods to the pasture or back again? And we go in a narrow line on the trails so as not to disturb everything the way they do. When we bump into them, it hurts us and sometimes we even die. I hate it. And even though sometimes they die too, or their cars get smashed up, they don’t seem to learn.

RABBIT

Yeah, well. I know what you mean. Same here, trying to cross those hard paths they make in the half-dark. And when we run from them the way we’ve learned, the way that so often works when coyotes or foxes chase us, they catch us anyway. They squash us and leave us for the crows and vultures. And they think “only a rabbit.” Doesn’t seem to bother them at all.

SQUIRREL

Hey, hey. We have to be out in the daytime. Even worse, even worse. Acorns, right? Seeds. Gotta get ‘em while it’s light. Dodge and spin. Decide quick. Back and forth. Tuck in the tail. Get between those wheel things. Fast as you can. Bad animals, them. Only squirrels. Yeah. Only squirrels.

DEER

Gotta get going. I’m meeting the kids up on the ridge. Wish me luck.

RABBIT

Yeah, me too. Wish me luck.

SQUIRREL

Good luck, guys. Heading for the nest. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.

DEER

Who knows?

RABBIT

Yeah, whoever knows?

Playaday: Affecting Adult

13—Adult who affected you strongly as a child

CHARACTERS

MARY—an overly imaginative second grader

MARY’S MOM

MRS. ROGERS—a colorless, depressed second grade teacher who hates teaching

MARY’S DAD

SCENE ONE

The family kitchen. Mary is talking with her mother.

MARY
And we’re going to do a play! A Christmas play.

MOM

Tell me about it.

MARY

There will be Mary and Joseph and Wise Men and Shepherds. And guess what?

MOM

What?

MARY
I get to be the Angel Gabriel!

MOM
Oh my. And what will you do?

MARY
I’ll tell Mary about Baby Jesus and then I’ll tell the Shepherds. And guess what?

MOM

What?

MARY
I have a beautiful costume.

MOM

You do? What does it look like?

MARY

It’s a long white dress with sparkles in it. And I have silver wings. Great big silver wings. And a halo. That’s golden.

MOM
That sounds very fancy. When is the play?

MARY
Right before Christmas.

MOM
I’m looking forward to it.

MARY
Oh. No. You can’t come.

MOM

Why not?

MARY

You just can’t. Mothers can’t come. It’s only for the school.

MOM

That doesn’t make any sense.

MARY
But you can’t! It’s only for the school!

MOM

I’m going to talk with Mrs. Rogers and find out,

MARY

No! No! You can’t! You can’t come! Don’t talk to Mrs. Rogers! You just can’t come!

SCENE TWO

A Classroom, after school. Mrs. Rogers is sitting at her desk, correcting papers. Mom enters.

MRS. ROGERS

(Looking up.)  Hello. Who are you?

MOM

I’m Mary’s mother.

MRS. ROGERS

Oh. Well, what do you want? Mary’s doing very well in school.

MOM

I know she is. But she tells me that she is in a Christmas play, and that parents can’t come to it.

MRS. ROGERS

Where in the world did she get that idea? There is no Christmas play.

MOM

Oh. I see. Well, thank you. 

SCENE THREE

The kitchen. Mary’s Mom and Dad are seated at the table.

MOM

We have to move. She can’t go to that school. There’s nothing for her there. She spends all her time making up stories.

DAD

Is that a bad thing? I used to make up stories in my head all the time. She has a good imagination,

MOM
I know, I know. Making up stories isn’t bad. Using her imagination isn’t bad. But if she’s doing that in school, it means she isn’t learning anything there. We have to move. At least out of the town school district.

DAD

All right. We can start looking for a house in city. It’s about time we stopped renting anyway.

MOM

Good. I’ll get the paper and see if there’s anything for sale now.

I don’t know about the conversation in Scene Three, but the rest is true, and we did move so I got to go to a better school. But now I credit Mrs. Rogers for sparking my interest in making up plays! 

Playaday: View from the Top

#83—View from the Top

CHARACTERS

Two people sitting on a park bench:

ONE and

TWO

ONE

So. I’m supposed to write an article about “The view from the top,” and I don’t have the faintest idea how to begin. The top of what? A tree? What’s the highest thing you’ve ever been on? 

TWO

Easy. An airplane?

ONE

Nah. Airplanes don’t count. That’s a view from above, not the top. 

TWO

Okay. Definitely not a tree. I’ve never been in the top of a tree, and I don’t ever want to be, either. A mountain, I guess. Maybe a sky scraper?

ONE

Oh yeah, a skyscraper. I hadn’t thought of that. I once had a piece of German chocolate cake in that restaurant on the top of the old World Trade Center. And then I went out and looked at the view, and got really nauseous. I don’t think I barfed, but I might have.

TWO

Wow. The World Trade Center. I never made it to that one. Why did you get nauseous?

ONE

I don’t know. Vertigo, maybe. Maybe because it was windy and they say those tall buildings sway? Maybe it was just the cake. It was a huge piece and really rich. But this isn’t getting me anywhere. 

TWO

Sure it is. You saw a view up there.

ONE

Yeah, I must have. But I don’t remember it. Have you ever been in a tall building?

TWO

Yeah. Empire State when I was a kid, but I don’t remember that. But I do remember the Palace of Culture and Science in Warsaw.

ONE

Never heard of it. What were you doing there?

TWO

Visiting my aunt. 

ONE

I didn’t know you had an aunt in Warsaw.

TWO

Yeah. Well, neither did I till a few years ago. Anyhow, that’s a long story. The point is, the Palace is this gigantic building that the Soviets built back in the 50’s. It’s really tall, I think one of the tallest buildings in Europe. And like I say, gigantic. Anyhow, My aunt took me there, and we went to the top. 

ONE

Good view?

TWO

Well, that was the funny thing. I only know things like “please” and “thank you” and “good morning” in Polish. My aunt speaks English, but, you know, with a heavy accent. And she gets stuff wrong. So she said, “Good view but not today because of frog,” And of course she meant fog. When I told her, she laughed, and then she said that instead of saying “please,” I’d been saying “little pig.”

ONE

That’s a good story, but it doesn’t help much.

TWO

Well, maybe the point could be that there isn’t a view. No matter how high you get. There just isn’t one. Because you’ve had too much cake, or because of the frog.

ONE

Yeah, I suppose. I guess I just have to keep thinking.

Playaday: The gods at home

#40–A poem in the voice of a god or goddess

CHARACTERS

HESTIA—goddess of the hearth

ATHENA—goddess of war, among other things

LOKI—the Trickster

SETTING

The Media Room on Olympus, comfortably furnished. Coffee table with bags of junk food. A TV that’s on, no sound.

At Rise:

Hestia sprawled on the sofa, eating something crunchy out of a bag. Athena in a chair, watching the screen, intently. 

ATHENA

Look at that. Will you just look at it? It’s my thing, and even I’m appalled. Oh, for the days of single combat!

HESTIA
Ah, who gives a shit? I gave up on that lot a long time ago. We were here before they were, we’ll be here after they’re gone. Why bother yourself with them?

ATHENA

I think you’re wrong. I think that when they’re gone, we will be, too. I mean, think about it. Since that Greek lot faded away, we’ve been pretty much confined here. Nobody calls us, nobody burns cattle for us, nobody challenges us. Nobody down there believes in us. We’re just, just, characters in stories. That’s the only thing that keeps us going. So when they’re gone, the stories will be gone, too. We’re just doomed.

HESTIA
Maybe you are, but who every told a story about me? I’m fire, right? Have you ever seen a statue of me?

ATHENA

Um. I guess not. But there’ve got to be some. I mean, those Greeks made statues of everything.

HESTIA

Well, yeah. A few. But nothing like the ones of you, and Hera and Aphrodite. Everybody knows what Aphrodite looks like.

ATHENA

Or what they think she looked like. Or used to look like. I mean, now, she’s just another old woman trying to keep her girlish figure.

HESTIA

Anyhow, my point is. I’m the personification of fire, so even without them, I’ll be here. Maybe even more so, depending

ATHENA

But isn’t it about the hearth? I mean, there won’t be any actual hearths when they’re gone. 

HESTIA
Who knows? I’m not losing any sleep over it. Want some chips?

ATHENA

No thanks.

HESTIA
Party mix? Demeter made some fresh. It’s pretty good.

ATHENA

Oh, maybe. She does make good party mix. Lots of garlic.

(She gets some food and sits comfortably.)

(Loki enters.)

HESTIA
Son of a gun. Loki. What are you doing on this mountain? I thought you were still bound. Has your Ragnarok happened already?

LOKI

Nope. It turns out it might not. Who knows? Wotan and that lot are all sitting around trying to figure out if they need to arm up. Nobody’s been paying much attention to me lately and my chains kinda wore out, so I left. And I heard that there were good snacks here. Might was well hang out with you all, if you don’t mind. 

HESTIA
Sure. Help yourself.

ATHENA
Make yourself at home.

LOKI

(Grabbing a handful of food and sitting.)

Thanks.

Playaday: Ripping Paper

What a terrible prompt.

#107—Ripping Paper

CHARACTERS
Writer at a Typewriter
Artist with a sketch pad
Toddler 
Dog


SETTING
The humans are seated around a table, on which is a stack of paper. The dog is under the table.


WRITER
I like to rip paper. Whenever I write something that’s terrible, I enjoy tearing it up into thin strips, and then crumpling the strips into a ball which I then toss on the floor.
(Removes a piece of paper from the typewriter, tears it, crumples it, and throws it on the floor.)


ARTIST
I like to rip paper. Every day I draw a little sketch, just for practice, and then I tear it in half and wad it up and throw it over my shoulder.
(Does that.)


TODDLER
I like to rip paper. 
(Grabs a fistful of paper from the table and starts tearing it and throwing the pieces around.) 

DOG
Woof.
(Picks up papers on the floor and tears them into tiny pieces. )

Playaday: Savoring Senses

#115—What can I love and savor through my senses?


CHARACTERS

HUMAN
HAWK 
BEAR
BAT
MOLE

Setting: The edge of a forest. A semi-circle with Human in the center

HUMAN
All right, you guys. I’ve brought you here because I want to know what your worlds are like. So tell me.

HAWK
Oh, I can see. I can see miles and miles. My world is clear and far and full. And silent, but for the wind.

BEAR
And my world is dark and snuffly, full of musk and meat, grubs, berries, apples, acorns, the edible treasures you throw into cans and hang in feeders. And you, always you, and your dogs, all around.

BAT
Nothing but sound. Sharp and hard. Buzzings and screamings and the dullnesses of clotheslines and grass. The hollowness of openings in boxes and towers and holes in walls.

MOLE
Thick, wet, dry, crumbly, slick, live and soft, dark and hard. Edible, poison. Spring, sharp. Air near the tops.

ALL BUT HUMAN
And you, Human? Tell us your world.

HUMAN
Not as clear or far, but enough for me. Flowers an dfood, just enough. Wind and music and th evoices of my friends. Not every rustle and click and snap. The smooth sheets and stones, the rough of pavement and sand. And, too, the sweet of peach and bitter of coffee. The salt of cheese, the comfort of bread. The taste of coming snow. The sense of who I am.

Also written among the thrum and bustle of our son’s family. I did not write one on the 14th, in the car on the way home.

Playaday: Eglise de Stains, Utrillo

#56—Animate a favorite painting with words.

I love this painting. I’ve had a print of it since high school and it now hangs in the kitchen. I wrote this sitting on the couch in our son’s house on the 12th, surrounded by the clamor of grandchildren.

CHARACTERS

Jean

Marie

SETTING

 Rue Jean Durand, Paris, looking toward Eglise de Stains as painted by Utrillo.

JEAN

The street is strangely empty today. Where is everyone?

MARIE
Perhaps they’re in church?

JEAN

Why would they be there? It is not Sunday. It is not a holy day.

MARIE
True. Perhaps a funeral?

JEAN

We’d know about a death, surely.

MARIE
Oh I don’t know. We don’t know everyone in the neighborhood now. Why lives in the house with the green shutters?

JEAN

Somebody new, I think. I don’t remember.

MARIE

Well then. Perhaps there was a death in the house.

JEAN
I don’t think the neighbors are all in church, Marie. No one rang the bell. And there is not a cat, hnot a pigeon, not a dog in sight. No one opening a window. No one calling hello. It is silent as well as empty Strange.

MARIE
Wait, Jean! I have a thought. Remember Maurice?

JEAN
The painter.

MARIE

Yes. He stood yesterday, right where we stand, with his easel and palette and brush, looking the way we are looking now, down the street, toward the church, all down the street to where it bends away.

JEAN

Yes, yes, what of it?

MARIE
Let us walk down the street, this silent street, to the house at the very end, the one with the red roof.

JEAN

Why?

MARIE

Let us just do it, Jean. Step. One foot out. Step.

JEAN
Marie! I cannot lift my feet. They are stuck in this, this. . . 

MARIE
Paint, Jean. This grey paint. The street is painted now. It is empty of everything but paint.

Playaday: Schubert of the Pampas

#60—“The Schubert of the Pampas” describes composer Carlos Guastavino. Describe yourself as “The…. of the . . . “

(I’m going to be offline over the weekend, but I’ll still try to write my playlets, which I shall post on Monday. This one wrote itself. The characters inhabit a Play for Voices that I wrote which will be a podcast sometime in February.)

CHARACTERS

VICKY—a retired lawyer—queen of the courtroom

SHARON—a massage therapist—supreme organizer

NANCY—a former priest—queen of the sacristy

LINDA—a retired nurse

SALLY—a matriarch—NOT an angel

They are old women who have been friends for years.

Setting:  A coffee shop, the middle of a conversation.

VICKY

No, I didn’t always want to be a lawyer. When I was a kid, I wanted to be Queen.

LINDA

What? Queen? Vicky! Where did you get that idea?

VICKY

The coronation movie. I saw it when I was, what? Three? Did you see it? Elizabeth, like a fairy tale princess with that gown and cape and crown and the scepter and the orb and the sword. . .

LINDA

(Ironic.)

Well, I must say it affected your taste in clothes. Those little suits of yours.

NANCY

You do wear nice jewelry.

VICKY

That’s due to Sharon. If you like nice jewelry, have a spouse with good taste, I always say.

SHARON

That’s my girl. Queen of the Courtroom.

NANCY

Well, what about you, Sharon? Was massage therapy even a thing when we were kids?

SHARON

I vaguely remember a large Swedish masseuse  in some movie or other. But no. I wanted to be a secretary.

NANCY

That was basically the choice, wasn’t it? Teacher, nurse, secretary, housewife.

SALLY

And I picked housewife. And I don’t regret it at all.

SHARON

Why should you, Sally? You’ve raised a batch of great kids. And grandkids, too. Without being the “angel in the home,” too.

SALLY

Right. Anyone who calls me an “angel” would be in serious trouble. But back to you, Sharon. A secretary. Why?

SHARON

I like order. I like office supplies. Folders and stickers and file boxes and rolodexes and pens and pencils and. . .

VICKY

Oh no! You got her going! Everything in our house is labeled and filed! Sharon, Supreme Organizer!

SHARON

(Primly.)

However. You can find things in our house, can’t you? And it really helps me with the business.

VICKY

All true, all true. Nancy. Were you one of those girls who dreamed of being a priest or an astronaut or something girls couldn’t be?

NANCY

As a matter of fact, I was. I wanted to be a priest. But when the dust had settled, when I began to realize that dealing with a parish and trying to talk about a god I only half believed in, I saw that it was at least partly about the stuff. 

LINDA

The stuff?

NANCY

Yeah. The music and the stained glass and the incense. And—the clothes. You know? The robes. They were pretty nice.

VICKY

I get it, Nance. If I was Queen of the Courtroom, you were. . . 

NANCY

Queen of the Sacristy.

LINDA

What’s a sacristy?

NANCY

The dressing room. Backstage. Yeah. That works. But not queen, when I think about it. More like, oh, I don’t know, clown. 

SALLY

Clown?

NANCY

That’s not right either. Impressionist, maybe. But that doesn’t matter any more. What about you, Linda?

LINDA

Nurse. Nurse LInda all the way. The Florence Nightingale of Milwaukee. I still miss it.

VICKY

Craziness. I can not imagine wanting to take care of sick people.

SHARON

But you used to take care of deranged people, love. Some of those clients of yours. . . 

VICKY

Different, different. They didn’t barf and need bedpans.

SHARON

I hate to break this up, but I have a client in half an hour so I’ve got to run. See you all next week?

(Stands.)

SALLY

God willing and the creek don’t rise. Yeah, I’d better get going, too.

(They all stand, and exit, talking quietly, as the curtain falls.)

Playaday: Cover an Indiscretion

#32—Cover up an indiscretion

CHARACTERS

Person One—co-host of the dinner party

Person Two—co-host of the dinner party.

Persons Three through Six

Setting: A dinner party.

For the first ten minutes, the people make polite dinner party conversation, ad lib.

Suddenly, there is a raspberry noise and all is briefly silent. Person One wrinkles their nose and looks pointedly at Person Two.

PERSON TWO

It was the dog.

PERSON ONE

We don’t have a dog.

Curtain.