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?
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.)
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.
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.
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.
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. 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.
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.
And it looks as if the wombat, the puppy, and the guinea pig are taking over the guest room!
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 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.
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.
As usual, the Dollhouses are a bit slow taking down their Christmas decorations.
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.
The Attic is a mess.
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
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
Maybe I’ll do some more later. Twenty two seems like enough!
#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.)
#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.)
#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.)
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.
#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?
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!
#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.
#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.
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. )
#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.
#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.
#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.)
#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.
#47—Birthday poem for someone whose birthday is that day
Characters:
Bev, whose birthday it is
Everett, a poet
They are drinking coffee in a cafe.
BEV
Okay, Ev. It’s my birthday. I have graced this earth for seventy years and I want a poem.
EV
I’ve tried. I’ve really tried, but I just can’t find the words.
BEV
Come on, you’ve had a whole year to work on it.
EV
Well come on yourself. Occasional poems are not my forte.
BEV
What do you consider your forte? Those obscure things you get published in the little weird magazines that nobody reads but other obscure poets?
EV
Well, yes. I guess so.
BEV
What’s the point in being a poet if you can’t write a little birthday poem for your old friend, huh? What’s the point?
EV
Okay, okay. Here. (Takes a notebook and pen out of his pocket.) Give me a minute. Drink your coffee or something.
(He writes in silence while she drinks her coffee and looks around.)
BEV
Done yet?
EV
No! Just shut up and let me work!
BEV
Okay, okay. You don’t have to be hostile about it.
EV
Urf.
(More silence.)
EV
Okay. Here it is. Ready?
BEV
I’ve been ready since early this morning. Go for it.
EV
(Stands.)
For Beverly.
Seventy years you’ve graced the Earth.
I’m glad your mother gave you birth.
I hope you’re here for many more,
but who knows what life has in store?
Happy Birthday then, dear Bev,
from your buddy, the poet Ev.
(Sits.)
BEV
(Stands and applauds, sits again.)
There. That wasn’t so bad, was it? What would I do without you?
EV
Bah.
CURTAIN
Prompt #21 A fork that changed your life
What kind of weird poems did we write with these prompts? Good grief.
CHARACTERS
MARLENE
GEORGE
Setting: Lunch at a Senior Center. Marlene and George are seated next to one another, eating. George drops his fork which lands under Marlene’s chair, and she picks it up.
GEORGE
Thank you.
MARLENE
You’re welcome. I haven’t seen you here before. Are you new in town?
GEORGE
Not new in town so much as new to the Center. My wife passed away last year, and my daughter made me come here today because she says I’m eating funny. I tried for awhile, you know, but I got tired of cooking for one.
MARLENE
I know what you mean. My son got me coming here, too. Mine was popcorn and cocoa for dinner. What was yours?
GEORGE
Cheerios.
MARLENE
Yeah, you can’t get very far on popcorn and cheerios. I resented it for awhile, but my son was right. The food’s not too bad here, and I like that they give you a sandwich for supper, too.
GEORGE
Do they really?
MARLENE
They do. They’ll come by with a box when they bring the desert. Pretty good deal. Not as good as my cooking used to be, but—I don’t have to cook it.
GEORGE
It’s better than my cooking, but I guess it doesn’t take much.
MARLENE
So what do you do to pass the time?
GEORGE
Photography. I used to be a pro, so I’ve got some good equipment. I still try to take a photo or two every day.
MARLENE
What kind of photos? People? Buildings?
GEORGE
Macro. Little stuff. Leaves and frost crystals and things like that. Insects.
MARLENE
So there’s always something, right? Wherever you look?
GEORGE
There is. Right here, for instance. I could take a photo of this lettuce, up close. It has fascinating texture. All those little ribs and the variations in color. I should have brought my camera. Maybe
MARLENE
You’ll have to do that next time. You could do a whole series “Senior Lunch.” Maybe they’d even hang it up here. They do hang paintings. I bet they would.
GEORGE
Interesting thought. I’ll bring the camera. What about you? I mean, how do you pass the time?
MARLENE
The time. Sometimes it seems there’s so much of it to pass.
GEORGE
And despite that, it goes by so quickly.
MARLENE
I heard someone say that when you’re old, the years go quickly and the days go slowly.
GEORGE
I think that’s true.
MARLENE
But I pass the time in front of my computer screen. I’m a writer.
GEORGE
Novels? Poems?
MARLENE
Plays. In fact, I’ve got one coming out next week.
GEORGE
Where?
MARLENE
Right across the street here. The Community Players. It’s not Broadway, but they’re pretty good and it’s fun. You should come. I’ll get you a ticket if you like.
GEORGE
Thanks. That would be great. Maybe we could catch some dinner first. Real dinner, in a restaurant.
MARLENE
Now that would be a change. I hate eating alone, in a restaurant.
GEORGE
So do I. What’s the play called?
MARLENE
You’re not going to believe this.
GEORGE
Try me.
MARLENE
It’s called “A Fork that Changed My Life.”
(They both laugh.)
Prompt #74—what do you most fear?
CHARACTERS
DOG
MOUSE
DEER
OWL
Setting—the edge of a forest.
MOUSE
(Enters, creeping, searching the ground and looking up.)
Food. Something here. Seeds. Over there. Gotta find. Dry grass. Little holes. Winter coming. Need snow. Cover, cover, cover. Owls. Foxes. Hungry. Melting. Freezing. Sky. Oh, sky. Nothing. Shelter, need shelter. But food. Seeds. Over here. Owls at night. Hawks. Foxes. Need food. Winter coming.
(Exits, scurrying.)
DEER
(Enters wary, sniffing, listening.)
Not time yet, but they’re coming. Every tree on the edge of every clearing, every clump of grass and brush can hold a death. Listen, listen, move with care. Alert, stay alert. Not time yet, but soon. The leaves have fallen, my breath blows a mist. It will be soon.
DOG
(Enters, looking around.)
Where are they? Where did they go? I went too far, maybe. There was a rabbit and a squirrel and some deer and something I don’t know, and I followed and I followed and they were still behind me and now I don’t know. I could hear them calling but now I can’t hear them and maybe they’re lost. I don’t want to lose them. What would they do, lost in the woods. How would they find their way home. The wind is wrong. I can’t hear them, I can’t smell them. What shall I do? Go this way? Turn back? I don’t know, I don’t know. Where are they? Where are they?
(Exits.)
OWL
(Enters silently, calmly. Stands still and looks around for a long time, then moves on.)
Prompt #49 In flat country, “if your dog runs away, you can watch him for 3 days.” What’s the Vt equivalent?
CHARACTERS
FLATLANDER
VERMONTER
SETTING
A bar.
FLATLANDER
Where I come from, if your dog runs away, you can watch him for three days. What’s your claim to fame?
VERMONTER
Why would your dog run away?
FLATLANDER
I don’t know. Maybe he’s chasing something.
VERMONTER
If my dog ran away, I’d just call her, and she’d come. ‘Course if she was after a squirrel, it might take her awhile. But sooner or later, she’d get stopped by a river or something.
FLATLANDER
But the point is, what would be your equivalent, here in these hills? What can you boast about to a flatlander like me?
VERMONTER
Well, first off, I wouldn’t call you a flatlander. Pretty sure that’s what you folks call yourselves when you move up here.
FLATLANDER
What do you call us?
VERMONTER
Perhaps you don’t want to know. (Thoughtful silence.) But generally, we call you people from away. That’s all.
FLATLANDER
You don’t like us, do you?
VERMONTER
Well, I don’t know. It all depends. We don’t like some of ourselves either.
FLATLANDER
That’s reassuring. But back to the original question.
VERMONT
All right then. Let’s see here. But first off, if your dog ran away, why would you watch him for three days? Why wouldn’t you just get in your truck and go get him?
FLATLANDER
My dog wouldn’t run away. I don’t even have a dog. This is theoretical. I’m just curious about what’s the equivalent in the mountains.
VERMONT
There isn’t one, I guess. We keep our dogs pretty close to home.
# 116 Loving the Weather as it is
CHARACTERS:
HUMMINGBIRD—Vivace, staccato.
BEAR—Largo, legato.
CROW—Rubato.
SETTING
A Hillside, late summer.
HUMMINGBIRD
Good summer. Good nectar. Flowers. Feeders. Going. Going. Gone. Winter. Going. North wind. Going. Today. Going.
CROW
Hey, take it easy, little brother, take it easy. If you didn’t move so quick you’d be able to stay. Winter’s good here. Plenty of road kill, compost. Take it easy.
HUMMINGBIRD
Don’t. Don’t eat. Can’t. Meat. No. Nectar. No flowers. Feeders. Freeze. Going. Going.
BEAR
Well I don’t know about summer nectar or flowers or winter roadkillbut I know that tomorrow I’m going to the berry bushes around the old orchard in the abandoned pasture where the people put beehives so the bees could make some wildflower honey and I’ll eat and eat and eat and eat and the next day if the going’s good I’ll do that again and I’ll do it every day until the berries are gone and the apples are gone and it’s too cold for my nose and I’ll curl in my den and sleep and sleep and sleep and sleep.
HUMMINGBIRD
How can. You stay. I hate. Cold. Winter. Hate winter. Going. Going. Going. Good bye. Good bye. Good bye.
(Exits.)
BEAR
Don’t hate winter because I know how to do it all fat and warm and sleepy in my den dreaming deep about the spring coming the spring and coming out with my new cubs yes in the spring coming I’ll have some because they’re ready to grow now and sleepy feeding my little cubs in the den until spring so I don’t mind winter don’t mind spring.
CROW
Ah, but big sister, you don’t know the goodness of it, the light on the snow, the blue sky. You don’t know the glory of the storms. You’ve never huddled in a hemlock listening to the wind, or gathered with your gang to chase the owls—what a hoot on a winter afternoon!
BEAR
(Stands and stretches.)
Going to the orchard now to the berry patch to see if the hives are still there with the honey and the grubs and the apples ripe and the berries ripe on the bushes all around and I’ll see you tomorrow Crow if you’re in the neighborhood and if you’re not I’ll see you around.
(Exits.)
CROW
Ah, a beautiful morning. And all weathers are alike to me. All weathers are fine with me.
(Exits.)
#59 If you could obliterate something, what would it be?
Setting: A panel discussion program.
Characters:
The Moderator
The Reverend
The Doctor
The Teacher
The Scientist
MODERATOR
Welcome to “Expert Opinion.” Today’s experts are a Reverend, a Doctor, a Teacher and a Scientist. And today’s question: If you could obliterate something, what would it be? Who wants to answer first?
REVEREND
That’s easy. I’d eliminate evil. It’s said that love of money is the root of all evil, but I’d go right for evil.
DOCTOR
Sickness, for sure.
TEACHER
Ignorance.
SCIENTIST
I’ll pass for now.
MODERATOR
Evil, sickness, ignorance, and a pass. All right then. Now if you’re joining us for the first time, you know that each panelist is allowed to ask a question of another panelist. They may ask only one question, and any or all questions may be asked of each panelist. So question away. Yes, Teacher?
DOCTOR
I’d like to ask the Reverend who decides what is evil?
REVEREND
The holy scriptures are very clear about what is evil. I know that there are misinterpretations of scripture going on all the time, but those of us who study it carefully are more than qualified to determine what is evil and what is good.
MODERATOR
Thank you. Next?
REVEREND
Well, I’d like the Doctor to tell me who decides what sickness is.
DOCTOR
The basic diseases, of course: cancers, heart disease, diabetes. And infections of all kinds. And mental illnesses, and disabilities.
SCIENTIST
We’ve been down that road before. Besides, artists. . .
MODERATOR
No comments, please until the next round. Next question.
SCIENTIST
Ignorance, Teacher. Why ignorance?
TEACHER
Well, you’re a scientist, so you should know. Ignorance is the root of all evil, in my experience. It’s where prejudice and resistance to progress come from. And I have a question for the Reverend. Would you alone decide what is evil?
REVEREND
Oh no. I’m certain that if I were allowed to obliterate evil, the Lord Himself would decide.
MODERATOR
Now for the comment round. Each panelist may make one comment, either directed at another panelist, or in support of their own viewpoint. Who would like to begin?
DOCTOR
A minute ago, the Scientist implied that the elimination of disease would lead to eugenics and the demise of the arts. A small price to pay, I think, for the well-being of the whole population.
REVEREND
I partially agree with the Doctor, though I certainly believe that illness is given to man as a test, as a punishment, or as a vehicle to reveal the glory of God.
TEACHER
And the Reverend’s comment confirms my opinion exactly. Appalling ignorance that leads to witch hunts and wars and all manner of suffering.
SCIENTIST
However. There is ignorance of that kind, and there is another kind of ignorance as well. The kind of ignorance that causes people to say “I wonder why. . .” All great discoveries arise because of that kind of ignorance, the kind of ignorance that may be overcome with curiosity and experiement. We are here today, sitting in comfortable chairs, using microphones, wearing useful clothing, because of that kind of ignorance. And so I will answer today’s question by saying that if I could obliterate something, it would not be ignorance, but certainty. Certainty is the problem with the Reverend’s response, and the problem with the Doctor’s. Certainty is the root of all evil. I am certain that. . .
MODERATOR
Thank you all. I see our time is up. Join me again next week for “Expert Opinion.”
Prompt # 111: SNUFKIN
CHARACTERS
Snufkin: a free-spirited character in the Moomintroll world
Interviewer
SETTING
Two chairs in a TV talk show set
At Rise:
The Interviewer is seated and the other chair is empty.
INTERVIEWER
Good evening. Tonight our special guest is Snufkin, known to Moomintroll fans as the enigmatic, free-spirited wanderer. Snufkin spends summers with the Moomins, and when they get ready to hibernate, he goes south. What does he do in the winter, and where does he go? These are questions that—perhaps—we’ll hear the answers to. Please welcome our guest, Snufkin.
(Snufkin enters. Interviewer rises, they shake hands, sit.)
INTERVIEWER
Welcome, Snufkin. I must say it’s a delight to meet you in person. I’ve read so much about you.
SNUFKIN
I imagine.
INTERVIEWER
Well, the question tonight on everyone’s mind is: Where do you go in the winter, when the Moomins are hibernating?
SNUFKIN
Here and there.
INTERVIEWER
We all know that the coast of Finland is cold in the winter, which is why the Moomins hibernate. I assume that, not being a Moomin, you prefer a warmer climate in winter?
SNUFKIN
Yes.
INTERVIEWER
I can see that you’re not eager to reveal your secret. I expect you’d be overwhelmed with your fans if they knew where you were.
SNUFKIN
Maybe. Maybe not. It depends.
INTERVIEWER
On what?
SNUFKIN
On the fan. On where I decide to be.
INTERVIEWER
I see. Well, can you tell us what you do?
SNUFKIN
Maybe.
INTERVIEWER
Do you live in your tent? Do you fish? Do you play your mouth organ?
SNUFKIN
Yes.
INTERVIEWER
I understand that you compose new tunes on your mouth organ. Do you compose while you are in the south?
SNUFKIN
It depends.
INTERVIEWER
On what?
SNUFKIN
On the tune.
INTERVIEWER
Do you have your mouth organ with you?
SNUFKIN
Yes.
INTERVIEWER
Could you delight our audience with a tune?
SNUFKIN
Maybe. It depends.
INTERVIEWER
(Exasperated.)
On what?
SNUFKIN
Do they know how to listen?
INTERVIEWER
(To audience.)
Do you know how to listen?
AUDIENCE
Yes.
SNUFKIN
All right then.
(Takes mouth organ from his pocket and plays a tune. As he plays, the interviewer stands and begins to dance, eventually dancing down into the audience. They form a chain and dance out of the theater. Snufkin keeps playing until they are all gone, then puts his mouth organ in his pocket and exits.)
Number Six: An Ultimatum
Characters:
Carol, a Good Witch
Betsy, a Bad Witch
Hansel and Gretel, non-speaking
Setting: The inside of a small cottage. The witches sit at a table, drinking tea.
CAROL
All I’m saying, Betsy, is that you’d best be careful. One thing leads to another, if you don’t watch out.
BETSY
But frightening children is so much fun, Carol. You know that.
CAROL
There’s a big difference between lurking in the forest and cackling at the kids and luring them into a cottage and threatening to eat them, is all I’m saying.
BETSY
Oh come on. I’d never eat them. Children are so. . stringy. If I were to eat anybody, it would be an alderman.
CAROL
What do you mean, if you were to eat anybody? Have you seriously considered it?
BETSY
Well yes. Haven’t you? It’s part of the lore, after all. Baba Yaga and so forth.
CAROL
I think you’ll find, my dear, that the Baba Yaga did not eat people. It was rumored that she did. It was part of the reputation that she maintained. But she was a good witch. She helped people.
BETSY
Helped people. Bah. What kind of witching is that?
CAROL
The right kind. Scare the bejeezus out of them and help them. That’s what we do.
BETSY
I don’t know about that.
CAROL
I’m worried about you, Betsy. I truly am. That gingerbread cottage is one thing, but the cage outside, and the big oven. . .
BETSY
All right, Carol. I’ll level with you. I’m tired of being a good witch. I’m tired of playing a role. I want to know what it’s like to be bad. My whole life I’ve been a goody two-shoes. Haven’t you ever wanterd to be bad? Really bad?
CAROL
No. No I haven’t. Scary, sure. That’s fun. But bad? Hurting people? No.
BETSY
So you are a goody two-shoes.
CAROL
Of course not. But I would never act on my worst imaginings.
BETSY
Have you ever imagined eating children?
CAROL
No. I have not.
BETSY
What are your worst imaginings then?
CAROL
Using the full force of my wrath on people who hurt children.
BETSY
But you wouldn’t eat them?
CAROL
No. And I’m not going to tell you what I’ve imagined doing to them. But Betsy—if you go through with this plan of yours and actually hurt some children, you will find out.
BETSY
I will, eh? And what will you do to me? If you’re a sissy “good witch” you don’t know what wrath is like.
CAROL
Oh, that’s what you think. Beware, Betsy, beware. It’s been building up inside me for a hundred years, this wrath, this raging at all the injustice on the earth and in the world. If it is unleashed it won’t be pretty. And believe me, it will be unleashed on you, if need be.
BETSY
Well, I don’t believe it. My power against yours? No contest. I’m off.
(Stands.)
I have to finish the gingerbread house. I won’t invite you to the feast.
CAROL
(Stands.)
One more chance, Betsy. If you don’t stop it, now, you will be consumed by the very fire you prepare.
(Betsy exits, cackling.)
CAROL
(Calling.)
Gretel, Hansel.
(The children enter.)
Go to the cottage. Remember all that I have taught you. Go with my protection. All will be well.
(The children bow, and exit.)
(Carol picks up her broomstick and follows.)
Since I’m mostly writing plays these days, I’m giving myself the assignment of writing a short one every day during November, using one of my old poetry prompts, chosen at random. This is the first one. We’ll see how it goes. Sorry about the format, but I’m too lazy to do all the indentations and stuff.
Prompt 36: The Ten Rules of Poetry
Characters:
The Poet: Any gender, thin, chain-smoking, dressed in black
The Cat: Plump tiger with a slow voice
Setting: Small room, a desk covered in papers center. Crumpled papers all over the floor. An overstuffed chair, right, where the cat sprawls throughout.
Time: The present. Late afternoon.
At Rise: The poet is seated at the desk, writing furiously by hand while the cat sits, watching its face. The poet crumples the paper and throws it on the floor.
POET
Damn, damn, damn and blast. There’s nothing here. Nothing at all. Nothing in my head, nothing in the world, nothing anywhere. I’m finished. I’m empty. I can’t write another damned thing. I’ve had it with poetry. I’m going to go get a real job as a, a, a counter person in a fast-food place. Or a shelf-stocker. Or something real. Anything but this.
CAT
(Yawns.)
Huh. That might be a good idea. It’s the third rule of poetry, you know.
POET
What? You’re a cat! You can talk?
CAT
Sure.
POET
Why have you never spoken before?
CAT
Nothing to say.
POET
And now you have something?
CAT
Yeah.
POET
Why now?
CAT
Mostly because I’m tired of navigating over all those bits of paper you heave all over the place. And you keep forgetting to fill my water bowl
POET
Oh. Sorry.
CAT
And, I know the rules of poetry, and it’s clear that you don’t.
POET
Well, what are they?
CAT
Come here and I’ll tell you. You can’t hear me if you’re sitting at that desk.
POET
Well, okay.
(Stands and goes to chair, looks down at Cat.)
CAT
Sit!
POET
But you’re in the chair.
CAT
Then hold me on your lap. Duh.
(Poet sits and arranges Cat on lap.)
POET
There. Happy?
CAT
Yes. Much better. You may stroke me while I talk.
POET
Whatever.
CAT
Hisss.
POET
Okay, okay.
(Starts stroking Cat.)
Tell me the rules.
CAT
Don’t be in such a hurry.
POET
What?
CAT
That’s the first rule.
POET
What is?
CAT
Don’t be in such a hurry. I mean, what’s the rush? If the words are there, they’re there. If they aren’t, well. You can’t make them come by scurrying around. It’s like watching for a mouse, right? You got to wait.
POET
Okay. So what’s the second one?
CAT
Find your feet.
POET
My feet?
CAT
Yeah. Where are they?
POET
Well, on the ends of my legs, as usual.
CAT
Right. But where are they really? On the floor or just hanging there? In socks and shoes? Where are they?
POET
Huh.
(Shifts and puts feet solidly on the floor.)
There.
CAT
Better.
POET
And what’s three?
CAT
I already told you.
POET
I forgot.
CAT
Of course you did.
POET
Sorry.
CAT
It’s okay. You didn’t know where your feet were.
POET
So what is it?
CAT
Hey, remember number one!
POET
Oh yeah. Well, in your good time.
(Short pause.)
CAT
Rule number three: Do something real.
POET
Writing is real, isn’t it?
CAT
Well, it can be. But you gotta have stuff to write about. Just the stuff in your tortured head isn’t enough. Much to your surprise, it’s pretty boring to everybody but you.
POET
Oh.
CAT
Yeah.
POET
So, what should I do?
CAT
Oh, anything. Go for a walk. Bake some muffins. Water the plants. Feed the cat, empty the litter box. . .
POET
Oh. Sorry about that, too. (Shifts in the chair.) Shall I. . .?
CAT
Nah, it can wait for a few minutes. Remember rule number one.
POET
And what’s four?
CAT
Drink enough water. You don’t, you know. Coffee doesn’t count. Wine counts against you. Water. Good stuff, water. Cool and clear and pretty amazing, when you think about it.
POET
And I bet your bowl is empty.
CAT
Not entirely. But. . .
POET
Rule number one.
CAT
You got it.
POET
Okay. Water.
CAT
You ready for five?
POET
Sure.
CAT
Okay. Stand up and stretch. Like this.
(Jumps off lap and stretches)
Now you.
POET
(Stands and stretches.)
CAT
Good. Now you can sit again.
(Poet sits, Cat sits on lap.)
Now do that every twenty minutes or so.
POET
Okay.
CAT
Stroke.
POET
Okay.
(Resumes stroking.)
CAT
Now this is a hard one. Maybe the hardest.
POET
I’m ready.
CAT
Quit caring.
POET
What??
CAT
Keep stroking.
POET
Sorry. But life is all about caring. Caring about what happens, about how people feel, about the Earth and the state of the world, and .
CAT
Yeah, yeah. All that stuff that you can’t fix. You brood and brood and it’s wrecking your brain.
POET
But I can’t. .
CAT
Okay. Modification. Care about what you can fix. Feed the cat, for instance. Call your mother.
POET
Oh shit.
CAT
Well, that’s something you can do, right? You can’t fix the oil companies. You can’t fix the economy. And thinking about all that makes you crazy and if you’re crazy you’re hard and mean and besides you can’t write. So call your mother.
POET
But. .
CAT
I told you this is probably the hardest. So if you can’t, don’t sweat it. Stroke, please.
POET
Okay. Sorry.
CAT
Now an easier one.
POET
Good.
CAT
Learn to stare.
POET
What?
CAT
You know that old poem: “What is this life if full of care/We have no time to stand and stare?”
POET
Never heard of it.
CAT
Of course not. It’s an old-fashioned rhyming one. But it’s true.
POET
Stare?
CAT
Yeah. Have you ever watched me do it?
POET
You hardly ever do anything but eat and sleep.
CAT
Hissss.
POET
Sorry.
CAT
That’s the next one.
POET
What?
CAT
We’ll get to that. Now it’s rule seven. When I’m awake, I stare. A lot. Like this.
(Stares at audience for a long minute, while Poet adjusts position in order to see.)
There. Your turn.
POET
What, now?
CAT
No time like the present.
POET
Okay. Here goes.
(Stares at audience.)
CAT
Good, good. Told you it was easier. Now for rule eight. Ready?
POET
Ready.
CAT
If you’re bored, go to sleep.
POET
Sleep?
CAT
Yup. When you’re bored you try to get busy. You fiddle around and find dumb stuff to do. Play with your phone or something. Go to sleep instead.
POET
Sometimes I go for a walk.
CAT
That’s good, that’s good. At least as good as sleeping. But you get the point, I think.
POET
I guess so.
CAT
Good. Now for nine, which is related.
POET
Okay.
CAT
Read less, sing more.
POET
Sing more?
CAT
Yeah. It makes good vibrations. Like this.
(Purring hum.)
Put your hand on my back. Feel that?
POET
Yeah.
CAT
Now you do it.
POET hums, breaks into a little song.
Wow. That does feel good.
CAT
Of course. And Rule Ten is absolutely related.
POET
And it is?
CAT
Don’t forget to breathe.
POET
Ah!
CAT
You do, you know..
POET
I know.
CAT
So. What next?
POET
Well, I think I’ll get up and stretch and get a drink and fill your water bowl and clean your litter box and go for a walk. And later on, we’ll see.
CAT
That’s a start. Do you have any of those good cat treats?
POET
No. But I’ll get some.
CAT
Good. Meow.
Report: September 29
It was the Feast of St. Michael which means
that twelve years ago, my mother died.
The ivory billed woodpecker is extinct again
and the long dream of progress is over.
A friend called while I was making salad
to report a monarch
on a goldenrod stalk.
What did I think she should do?
We talked, and pondered
what we know. Orange,
thus inedible. Late emergent
or tired migrant does it matter?
She left it under a hosta
with a nectar bouquet.
In the morning, it was gone,
we told ourselves, on its way
DEMETER
(Stands. To audience.)
She’s right. I don’t know what to do because nothing I do matters. I thought it was us, all these centuries. I thought Zeus made the storms and Apollo drove the sun. I thought the corn grew because of me, those yellow waves in the sunlight. The harvest was mine, and the storerooms full of grain. I thought my daughter made the spring come, and then when she left, I thought I made the autumn—my grief colored the leaves and made them fall, my tears watered the ground. And now—the times are wrong and I see. It happens anyway. It happened anyway, and always did. And we immortals, what are we? Stories. We’re only stories, half-recalled. And we will fade. We are fading, and we will fade. . . we’re only stories. . .
(Turns her back, muttering, as lights go out.)
I seem to be writing more plays than poems these days. Here’s a bit of one I’m working on about an elderly Demeter and a middle-aged Persephone.
LIMINAL
Between the yin and yang, the line.
Between the dark and light, the dusk.
Between birth and death, the life.
Around the hazelnut, the husk.
ON MY HONOR
I will try.
Stand on the moon
and show me a country.
Falling rain is real.
Down by the rivers
it is killing people.
Fire is real.
Show me a country.
Death is real.
All over the landscapes
no borders
and the loneliness is real.
Duty has an unpleasant sound,
not something I would choose.
And God?
Stand on the moon.
PARABOLAS
What if you’re the shepherd,
not the lost sheep. What if
you’ve lost one thing,
the one thing that matters.
What if it’s your coin
so you sweep and sweep.
What if you’re the sower
casting the seed carelessly,
assuming that somewhere
some of it will grow.
tunnel
make
gasp
pound
wave
turkey
blow
haze
A STORY
Our grandchildren found a baby bird
in the driveway.
What is it?
Where is its Mommy?
In this hazy time
when every little sorrow strikes a blow,
when the news pummels and pounds,
what is Daddy to do with this scrap of life
gasping in his hand?
The mouth of the dark tunnel
has narrowed again.
So many mommies, daddies,
so many lost, so much is lost,
and what sense can we make?
I used to tell myself I was a poet.
It’s a little turkey.
Let’s put it in the long grass by the brook
where sometimes we see them pass.
We’ll put some corn around for them to find.
Now wave bye-bye.
One way or another, this will resolve.
We saw them the next day
he told me. A parade.
Two hens with six poults
and a tom and a hen with one poult
scurrying between them.
The kids agreed that it all worked out fine.
We can tell ourselves stories, can’t we?
They all lived happily. . .
Can’t we tell ourselves stories like that?
arch
sinew
fiddle
shadow
tremble
dance
one
art
peach
vain
indoors
hurry
Oh, art!
Art is one—Oh yes.
We do not dream in vain.
Do not hurry. There is no need.
Tune your fiddle to the canvas,
chisel a marble dance.
Dress your singers in peaches,
and tremble in the shadow of a word.
The arch is wide; the road is wide.
Out doors is all, there is no in.
We who make art bind bone to bone
by sinew after sinew.
We do not dream in vain.
—rye
—eclipse
—identity
—fumble
—gravel
—sunlight
—cake
—please
—eddies
—release
IDENTITY
A child crouches
in a sunlit field.
A fighter pilot’s wife can’t sleep.
A new mother cannot walk.
I am a whirlpool—
an eddy of identity
where a complexity
of currents meet.
I am a layer-cake of scars:
Wry neck and fumbly fingers.
Knees marked with gravel.
Nose repelled by the scent of booze.
Nevertheless.
As the pummeled moon
still glows in our shadow,
I am eclipsed but whole.
I am pleasing to topsoil and stones,
to bears and birds and trees.
I have been released
by every disappointed god.
GladErrand 