literature

Someplace Else, Honestly?

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Same-side
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Literature Text


Character List
A - Female, early 20s
A is the daughter who is creative, confused, unstable, loves music; switches sporadically in mood in order to avoid reality and stay in an idealized past; wants B to go along with her various whims; grapples with acknowledging unpleasant realities
B - Male, mid-40s
B is the mental ideation/memory of a father, level-headed, playful, loves music; shifts to acommodate A's mood, but still retains his own unique essence and spontaneity; wants to push A towards the truth, but is often drawn into A's fantasy and plays games of his own; does not want to leave, as it means both his dismantlement and permanent alienation

(Lights up on a field of prickly-looking, grayish-green grass and a thick-trunked tree in the center of the stage.  There is a yellow knotted rope swing hanging from a high bough, and the trunk of the tree splits low to the ground so that it can be easily climbed.  Surrounding the tree is a wide circumference of gravelly sand.  There is music heard from time to time (as marked in the script), and an occasional rhythmic beat with something of a musical quality also plays sporadically in the background.)
(A and B are squatting/kneeling on the ground.  Ais gleefully poking random holes in the gravel with a twig, while B is molding a mysteriously-shaped sculpture out of a pile of gravel. They are near enough to see each other, but not so close as to be on top of each other. This continues for some time, until all of a sudden, a piano chord thunders in. At the music's playing, A and B pop up from their work and simultaneously inhale.  Looking up as if into a spotlight, A grips her twig with both hands. B remains seated, but plays an invisible piano in the gravel..)

A
(singing Billy Joel's "Honesty") "If you search for tenderness, it isn't hard to find…"

B
(singing) "—You can have the love you need to live …"

A
"—But if you search for truthfulness…"

B
"—You might just as well be blind…"

A & B (together)
"—It always seems to be so hard to give…"

(The music stops, and both A and B freeze suddenly. Slight pause. Both inhale simultaneously through their noses. A returns to a squat and her poking. B returns to his sculpting, but before doing so rubs his knuckles and fingertips thoughtfully.)

B
It's not as easy with this sand, A.

A
But this stuff is closer than the beach, and besides, ain't you likin' the shade?

B
Shade is nice.  The tree is a nice touch.  Swing:  Very awesome. (beat) The sand's the issue.

A
You're thinking too hard, B.  Details, and all that?

B
Yeah, forget details.  Who needs 'em, you know?

A
We don't.  Not here.


B
It's certainly familiar, it is.  Tree and swing and sand.  But I think we're trying too hard.

A
I like it.

(B begins thruming the tune of "Lydia the Tattooed Lady." A beat plays behind.  A starts poking more ferociously into the gravel.  B pauses his sculpting to watch A.)
B
What are you trying to do there, A?  Acupuncture? Heh-heh.

A
Probably not.  Perhaps.  What does that mean, B?

B
It's not important. (continuing his humming) "…On her back is the battle of Waterloo, beside it the wreck of the Hesperus, too. And proudly above waves the Red, White, and Blue.  You can—

A
—But I heard people get acupuncture to get rid of pain.  How're a buncha poking,  stabbing needles s'posed to get rid of pain?

B
They don't.  It's…complicated.  Why do you bring it up?

A
I didn't; you did. (short pause, imitating B's deeper voice) "What're you trying to do there? Acupuncture?  "Huh-huh-huh!"

B
I don't sound like that!

A
(joking) Wanna bet?

B
(suddenly angry, childishly so) Shove off, A!... You wanna bet? You wanna make a bet with me? I'll tell you what to bet!

(B goes into a slight reverie, half-himself, half-General Patton-style drill sergeant. His voice is the only part of him that participates at first, body neutral, but toward the end, he is all but fully engaged. A is unaffected, apparently, and even smiles a little.)

You aughtta bet your life you're not gonna speak to me like that again in this man's locus flower.  Tweedle-dee Corporal S. Friar fried his hand in a Texan chainsaw accident, lost both earrings and his sidearm stickshift—not including his mother's aunt's friend's salamander's sideways-facing limp-gimp-skimp—and he didn't give me half as much squatter-sewage as this.  Drop down and… (recovering himself from the reverie) I'm sorry.  Weird.

A
OK.

B
Whoa.

A
It's OK, B.

(Pause.  A and B poke, hum, and sculpt to themselves.)
B
I'm sorry, A.  That wa—Why  are we here, doing this here?

A
Maybe  'cause it's cool, maybe 'cause it's not cool.
B
But, which one? Cool, or not cool?
(A drops her stick, rises, brushes off her knees, pulls out a pair of earbuds from her pocket, sticks one in, and leans up against the tree, crossing her arms.)
A
'Guess it doesn't matter when there's nobody watching.

B
Could've  had some other people around, but it's your w— Whenever… whatever. (sighs, intoning) Bing-bong, bumbidee-doo.  Phh. (short pause) This is useless.

(B assesses the sculpture's utter lack of resemblance to anything aesthetically viable, demolishes his handiwork, and stands up. B gives the gravel a kick for good measure.)
A
B, what are you doing?

(B approaches the swing and jumps on.)

I said, what are you doing, B?

B
Swinging.

A
I wouldn't have expected that.

B
I can't do something unexpected?

A
Why would you want to do that?  Isn't everything fine the way it is now? What're you trying to pull?

B
You seem to like asking me questions, am I right?

A
Could you please stay on the subj—I mean, let's stay on subject. (not asking) Shall we, B.

B
OK?

A
OK.  
B
What's the subject, A?

A
I dunno, B. We'll keep the subject—whatever it is...predictable.

B
Ay, but where's the fun in predictablity, though?  Creativity?  Art?  I thou—

A
That doesn't pertain.  It's impertinent.BImpertinent?

A
Yes, impertinent. To our conversation.

B
I don't think that's what that word means. Impertinent pertains—

A
I don't care what pertains. Just so you do what's predicted of you. What's expected of you.

B
You can have your predictable-ness, your expected-ness.  I'll be..."random," as they say.

(At this pronouncement, B starts swinging and twirling on the swing.)
A
No, that's stupid.  You can't.

(A pockets the earbuds and takes a seat in the tree's split trunk to avoid B's swinging.)

B
(swinging and twirling quickly) Hmm… "Can't"—Isn't that a tiny insect that lives with a bunch of other "can'ts"  in a colony and serves a queen?

A
No, that's an "ant."

B
"Ant"—Isn't that a green, chlorophyllic thing that grows in the dirt?  That's not mineral or animal?

A
No, that's a "plant."  Can we be serious?

B
(twirling more slowly) "Serious"—That's when you can't think straight, and your mind gets all blurry, and you imagine you're the queen of an "can't" hill.

A
"Serious?" No, that's… "delirious."

(B stops swinging.)


B
Are you certain of that? "Delirious?" Not serious?

(B stands, swings the rope up to A, and gets out of the way.)

A
(before swinging down) You shouldn't ask that.

(A swings a few backs-and-forth in silence.)

B
Because it's unexpected?

A
What do you think?

(A gets off the swing and gets in B's face.)

B
OK!

A
(not convinced) OK?

B
(suddenly in a juvenile tone) So you're saying that I'm being passive-aggressive, is that right?

(A backs off, almost stumbles back in the gravel.)

A
Where'd that come from?

B
You said that.

A
I said that?  I said that when?  Where?

B
The other day.

A
When?

B
When your roommate woke you up by turning on the light over the sink and you said that you were dying—"Oh, I die, Horatio!"—and she said that was silly and that she only needed to use the light for a second—"Chill out, will you? Just a sec, gosh!'"—and you said something ridiculous—"But I die from the light, I must needs my coffin!"—which made her say something ridiculous—"I'm going to go Van Helsing on you, if you don't relax!"—which made you say "So, you're saying that I'm being passive-aggressive, is that right?" And you had a good laugh at yourself after that. But I don't get the joke, even now. Do you?

A
I don't get it. But how do you know about that? Did I tell you? How did I tell you?

B
You know.

(B grabs the swing, but does not get on. A turns away and scratches her head for a few seconds.)

You don't know?

(A turns back quickly.)
A
(speaking quickly) What?—I…I know it, in a way.  My way.  Your way, not so much, you know? My way. The way I know it, is the way it is, the way it is, I think, it should be, or is, and I don't realize it, or the way it isn't but will be quite soon, or never, basically, in a nutshell…Essentially.

(A's fingers are picking at each other's nails. B notices.)

B
Essentially.

A
Essentially, that's what I said.  The essence.

B
The essence, you said.

A
Your repeating is annoying me.  Stop it.

B
Repeating?  Annoying?  Stop it?

(At this point, the repeating has started to become evidently silly.  B cracks a grin; A tries to be "serious," even as she is fighting her own smile, and turns away.)

A
Really?

B
Really?


A
Really?

B
Really?

A
Really?!

B
Really?!

(A gives into her smile, but manages to smirk it away before turning back to B, who is practically in stitches.)

A
This is getting dull.  In the extreme.  Why don't we go someplace else?  Honestly.

(B's stitches quickly vanish on "honestly." A piano riff (the lead-in to "Honesty") keys around in the background. A and B stare at each other and inhale.)

B
(singing) "Honesty is such a lonely word—"

A
(singing) "Everyone is so untrue—"

B
(singing) "Honesty is hardly ever heard—"

A
(singing) " And mostly what I need from you. …"
(Both breathe. Piano dies down and out.)

B
You want to go there?  You never wanna go.  I mean, I don't really want to go there, but—

A
I said what I said periphrastically. Why don't we go someplace else, honestly?

B
But you said—

A
Getting dull again.

B
So, now you're saying I should do something unexpected?  I giv— (short pause) The things
I do…

A
—You do not have to be unpredictable, unexpected, or "random," as you say, to be original.  You can avoid being dull just by avoiding repetition.

B
That's a pretty miniscule distinction, and I don't mind saying so. C'mon. You said—

A
Stop it. Your repetition sucks. Do something original.

B
Such as?


A
Anything.

(Long pause.)

B
Why are you so hung up on this?

A
Your repetition… (begins chewing the inside of her cheek, subtly using the pauses to take a bite) It's like you're chewing on a little cut in your mouth, trying to get it cleaned up, but only making it sting and bleed.

(As she speaks, A flips out her cheek with her fingers, picks and scratches at it with her nails, lets go of it, rolls her tongue over the spot, but finds no satisfaction.)

You bite at it, and you bite at it, trying to remove it—cut it out—even when you know it's no good and you'll only make it worse!

(A removes herself to the far side of the gravel circle, sitting down cross-legged, and putting in her earbuds. )

Especially stings when you try to eat something crunchy.  Stings.  Or is it stink?  Sting, stink, sting.

(Short pause. B squats down in the center of the circle, facing A.)

Either way, really uncomfortable, this repetition.

B
Getting uncomfortable? Why?


A
(turning to face B) You sound like a psychologist.  I strongly dislike psychologists.

(A turns away, picks up a nearby stick, and begins tracing something in the gravel, almost in the style of B's sculpture earlier.)

So calm, so probing, as they say "Tell me what's wrong," "Can you explore that a little bit more for me?" and "Why do you think you feel that way?" And the best of all: "I completely understand." Can't stand it.

(B gets down on his shins and starts jabbing holes in the gravel with his finger.)

B
I'm not a psychologist.

(A stops tracing. Pause. She takes out an earbud.)

A
Of course you're not. I said you sounded like one.

(B stops jabbing.)

B
So, what makes you think that?

A
Think what?!  Ay-ay-ay!  I'm sick of thinking!  Even sicker of feeling.!

(A rubs her neck, rolls her head from side to side, inhales, and briefly hunches up her shoulders.)

There, now I don't think.  Or feel.

(A smiles, as if high.  B sits up and smiles, too, but less grinningly.)

B
What's wrong with you?

A
(putting in loose earbud) Leave me be.  It's sweet in here.

B
So, what'm I supposed to do?  What'm I doing out here, if you're busy chillin' and feeling sweet in there?

A
Not my problem.

B
C'mon, kiddo.  I'm trying to hear you.  To listen.

A
Psychologist.

B
OK.  Then, let's just chill.  Let us chill...OK?

(A removes the earbuds, but still holds them in her hand. A low, slow beat is heard.)

A
No funny stuff, or I'm outta here.

(A pockets the earbuds, closes her eyes, and inhales.  B follows, and they exhale together. Music starts playing, piano.)

Ah, yes...
(A and B stand, facing out toward audience. Piano music ("Honesty") is heard playing while they sing.)
A & B (together)
"I can always find someone
to say they sympathize.
If I wear my heart out on my sleeve.
But I don't want some pretty face
to tell me pretty lies.
All I want is someone to believe."

(Pause. A and B breathe, then look at each other.  A drops her stick, looks down, shuffles her feet in the gravel, and takes a seat where she stands.  B approaches casually and sits close by her.)

B
Was that some sort of meta-cognitive event?

A
What's meta-whats-it got to do with anything?  I'm bored.  Let's watch something.

(A picks up the twig as a remote control and points it out at the audience. B gazes into the oblivion. Over the following exchange, A slowly shifts to 20, finishing on "Wait a second." This is A's last age shift until the end of the play.)

B
How about Plan 9?

A
From Outer Space?  That's too graphically violent.  How about Die Hard?

B
Too silly.  How about Duck Soup?
(A scratches her head.)

A
Eh, Holy Grail?

B
Beetlejuice?

A
Drop Dead Fred?

B
Sixth Sense good?

(A nods, drops the "remote,", but hesitates before settling down completely.)

A
OK.  Wait a second:  Shyamalan's The Sixth Sense?

B
What's wrong with a Shyamalan flick?

(Pause.)

A
(glaring) You—So far as I know, you've never watched a Shyamalan "flick" in your life!

B
And that means I can't watch one now?

A
Not that one.
B
You don't like it?

A
(nervous) It's not right for here.  (deflecting) Such a nice day.

B
OK then.

A
OK. (vocalizing) Bum-bah-dum-bum, bum-bah-dum….Ay, I'm bored. Heh, bored like a bull-runner.  Or is that "gored?"  Gored happens quickly, violently.  Bored is slower, I think.  Like an oil rig or a drill sergeant or something.

(A begins scratching her head.)

Um, either way, the image of bored gore is grody.  I've lost my appetite.

B
Bored versus gored—(almost haughtily) Now, how do you suppose one goes about confusing those two?

(B goes into a strange, half-delusional reverie, deeper than the previous one.  His immersion in the mind-body experience is almost immediate, as he takes on a Mad Hatter-type persona mixed with that of a dead-serious conspiracy theorist. His body language can be described as both frantic and balletic. A steps back a little, but does not show any signs of emotional distress.)

Gored and bored, sitting in a tree, C-O-N-F-S-N-G...No, no--it's C-O-N-F-U-S-N...C-O-S-N-F-N-G...C-O-G...C-O-N...S-F-G...  Ay, the confusion around these parts!  They're tearing at the bull-running traditions of society, let's all get that straight here.  If it is a matter of being slow or fast in the dismembership, I shall choose the better-dressed every other time, and those with longer attention-spans the rest.  Things are straight, lest they be crooked, or flap-jacked. Cauliflower or no bunny-glitter, clothing is silkily important. We must, after all, keep things straight, yes?  Like father...

(B recovers from the reverie. A is visibly shaken by this reverie. B scratches the back of his head.)

How did you manage to mangle "gored" and "bored" up? I can understand "bored" and "board," or "gored" and "gourd," but—

A
Leave it alone.  Please.

(Short pause)

B
Hungry?

A
Nooo…

B
Then your appetite for what?

A
My appetite?

B
Yes, you mentioned you'd lost your appetite due to the grodiness of the gore. Or was it the bore?

(A rubs her neck and stands up.)


A
Never mind that.

B
Your mind works in—

A
Ooh, something just came to my mind.  

(B stands at attention, hands on hips.)

B
What's that?

A
How I'm becoming more and more not like myself.

B
You're just noticing that now?

A
What?

B
(backtracking) I mean…You're…That's an odd way to phrase that.

A
Phrase what?

B
Phrase what you said, again.

A
The phrase I said, or the said I phrased?

B
Yes, what you said.

A
What I said?

B
I thought you said.  You didn't say? Did you phrase?

A
I did say, but what did I phrase?—How did, I mean, how did I phrase, what I said?

B
(gears slipping) I'm…not entirely certain what you said. Or what you phrased. (short pause) What did you phrase?  Where are you? Where are we?

A
Ay de mi!  (drifting, to self) What was the phrase? (steadying, half to self) Uh, becoming…no self… not self (solidly, to B) Becoming—I'm becoming not, like myself.

B
Ah, that's nice—I mean...that's troubling.

A
Yes, it is.

B
How so? When were you last like yourself?  Do you remember?

A
When I was a child—

(B reverts to anexaggerated version ofa 3-year-old, belly thrust forward, bobbing merrily on the balls of his feet.)

B
(in an excited, childlike tone) Yeah-huh?  Yeah-huh?  Yeah-huh?

(A gives B a curious look.)

A
Will you let me finish?

(B shifts to more mature posture.)

B
Ahem. (in a decidedly adult tone) When you were a child?  Yes?

(A gives B a skeptical head tilt, looks away, exhales and scratches her arms.)

A
I thought I was my own personality—had my own personality—and I wasn't going to become like anyone else.  I was me, and nobody else.  Nobody else was me.

(A rubs her neck.)

I didn't care if nobody else saw it but me.  I was proud to be me.  Of course, me being a child—

B
(interrupting, in a spoiled child's tone) Yes!  You were very, very, very, very selfish. (pause, in an adult tone) Such a narcissistic child.
A
Yes.  I was being a...child.

(B grabs rope swing and sits on it, feet crossed and hands grabbing elbows.)

B
Yes?

A
Being so chi…so young, I had no idea of what my personality meant, whether it was unique to me, or whether it derived itself from something else, whether it spontaneously generated from some hot-glue gun fumes, or fell from a waterfall onto some turbine, shocked it into existence like Frankenstein's monster, or got hocked out like a random loogie.  Someone not in my brain might not get it.  Might think I was crazy.  So, never said anything. Kept 'em to myself.

B
Aha!  So you're saying I'm in your brain, which…

(B starts swinging from side to side, pushing the ground with his toes.)

If you think about it, would explain a—

A
(loudly and emphatically) No!—I mean, uh, no.  You're not there.

(Pause. A stands up. B stops swinging.)

B
Do you think this has anything to do with becoming not like yourself?

A
Shut up. (beat) What do you kn—I'm...I'm, I'm becoming…you…know what I mean…
(As she speaks, A inhales quickly through her mouth, rubs her neck, rolls her head from side to side, exhales slowly through her nose, and eventually becomes very relaxed, as if high.)

No thinking.  No feeling. (smile) I drifting.

(Short pause. B shakes his head—almost in homage to A's routine—and starts swinging again.)

B
Well, if you care to know, I was just "drifting" about a poem I wrote.

A
(still hazy) You don't write poetry.

B
Technically, it wasn't me who put the words together—

A
(groggy, but sobering up) Words are all poems are!  What else do you think is left?

B
(effusively) The Essence! Essentially, basically, if you know what I'm getting at.

A
(unimpressed) I think you're stretching things.

B
I'd like to take at least partial credit for this one, if that's all right?

A
Sure. What's this "drifty" poem about, anyway? What do I need to know, before you recite it?
B
It's not so much a "drifty" poem, as it is derivative.  And, you'll see what it means.

(B climbs off the swing and bounds up into the tree.  A crosses her arms and rolls her shoulders.  B, retrieving and unfolding a sheet of paper from his pocket, begins to recite with a lively, Dr. Seuss-like cadence.)

Beauty has become a commodity. / And innocence like a puff of smoke. / We have sold ourselves, surely. / Not sold into bondage, but sold out all the same. / Deadly sweet monikers of convenience: / They spoke as one, and we hadn't a clue.

(B turns and places the paper on the bough behind him (obscuring it from the audience).  B raises and pounds his fist into it like a hammer on a nail and leans back on the other bough. As if by magic or static electricity, the paper stays. On it, there are scrawled in big, multi-colored letters the words "prette pome" and nothing else.)

Adieu!  Shalom!  Grazie.

(B takes a bow.)

A
Must you be so cheerful?

B
"Cheerful?"  That's what you say when you're tired of what the other person is saying; you say, "I've just about had a 'cheerful' outta you!"

A
That's "earful!"

(B jumps down.)

B
"Earful's" when you're crying, and your face gets warm and wet from all the salt-water dripping outta your eyes.

A
That's "tearful."  This game is insane.

(A backs away.)

B
"Insane"—Isn't that when you've got nothing but hate for the world and would do anything to destroy it and all the people therein?

A
Insane… Huh? What're you talking about?

B
Disdain...I was going for "disdain," but I think it works either way.  Insane, disdain, insane, disdain.
Perhaps not to you.  But it certainly was derivative, you must admit.

A
Hm?

B
The poem, the poem.  It was derivative.

A
Of?

(B crosses his arms.)


B
You know.

(There is a beat heard in the background, in the rhythm of B's poetry reading, slow at first, but picking up speed.)

A
It is familiar, but it's…it's not quite there, almost there.  Almost. (short pause) Like feeling the first hint of a wobbly memory just beneath my toes.  Beneath my…

B
You know, yes?

A
You, you… (realizing, looking straight at B, shocked) You thief!

B
Yes.

A
You—stole it, from me!  Plagiarist!

B
(unequivocally) I admitted as much.

A
Hardly.  Just barely.  Nominally. Marginally. Scarcely. (to self) Honestly…

B
What's that?


A
Nothing which you would care about, or know about.  It's such a lonely word, after all.

B
I'm only as honest as I'm expected to be.

A
Meaning?

(B smiles, almost mischievously, and picks up a stick. Going into a reverie, B whips it like a riding crop into his palm.   A jumps back, afraid.  B promenades away from A with his arms crossed behind his back and chest puffed out; he bears a faint resemblance to some eighteenth-century admiral or captain, complete with fake, and terribly derivative, British accent.)

B
Meaning… such a lovely day around these parts.  Smashing weather.  Yes, it is.  There is something about this smashing weather that makes one crave a tart strawberry scone or a coolish cucumber sandwich along with Cornish ham on toast...

(B goes into an even stranger level of the reverie, stick becoming a sword.  A slips out of his view, runs, and hides behind the tree, but B does not seem to notice, or care.)

Or, especially, a brisk charge up a hill to gray sleeve-grab against the enemy's fortification donut-bags. Stay strong, men!  We mustn't let their distractingly porpoise entrenchments assuage, divert or quench us against our thirsty course.  This moose-ish shoe-string mess of a hollandaise-saucy knave, we must overcome, and will overcome!  For free lunch, mandarin keys, and non-greased light fixtures! To each us all a new friend and newer girth! Ready, aim...

(B drops the stick and most of the façade, but not the accent. He turns to A, who has popped out of her hiding spot for a peek, and makes eye contact.)

Anyways, I was thinking the same thing.

A
What?

(Short pause. A removes herself from hiding.)

B
(without accent) That you're becoming me.

A
I did not say…that. (short pause) But make your case, if you think you can.

B
I don't think I want to.  That's part of it.

A
You're really weird.  I don't understand you.  At all.

B
We're…here.  Get it?

A
I guess so, in a way. (short pause) Hmm. You know what? That poem was crap,

B
I think you're lying about that.

A
So you're saying it's not crap?

(Pause.  The "prette pome" paper drops from its hanging place. B rushes to catch it and does.  He stands, clutching, almost cradling, the paper.)

B
No…no, I wouldn't say that it's not crap—not necessarily.  I'm saying you don't think it's crap.

A
If it's not crap, then why would I call it crap?

B
(holding the paper away from himself toward A) For sympathy.  For pity.  For something between sympathy and pity.

(B drops the paper intentionally. A snatches it, as if by instinct, and clutches it similarly to B. She then proceeds to fold it in a sort of manic ritual. For a while, she does this in silence but then is prompted by the silence to speak.)

A
That's crap.

(At this point, A has folded the paper into a very small shape. She stuffs the paper into her back pocket, casually, like B before.)

B
What's crap? What's that paper?

A
Are you kidding?

B
I'm not recalling any of this.

A
Are you an amnesiac?

B
Where am I? Who are we?

A
Are you hurt?

B
No, stunned.

A
I'm sorry.

B
Why are you sorry? I said I wasn't hurt.

A
And you can't lie about being hurt?

B
(exasperated) Fine, I'm lying to you.

A
How can I—?  What?  That statement—it—it…  What? It doesn't compute.

B
It's a paradox.

A
I don't like paradoxes…
B A (at same time, at same volume)
I thought it was psychologists you didn't like. Paradoxi?  Paradoxim?  Mm, paradoxes.

A
I can't dislike both psychologists and paradoxes?

B
Why are we still discussing this crap?

A
You are deflecting the issue and getting us utterly sidetracked how's the weather, nice?

B
I get my skills in deflection from the best of them.

A
Meaning? Oh, you mean me?

B
Of course, I mean you. You mean you. I mean, we mean yourself. That is, somewhere between you and yourself. The self we me three two one blast off on switch lights bright dark storm cloud fog cold chair bench press mass weight kilogram pound hammer shovel dig find truth lies fables Aesop Greek salad oil drill baby cry shout detergent tide flow liquid gas solid rock play game root carrot peas green vomit bile intestine digest think wonder…

(Rambling, B walks toward the swing, but trips on his foot. Barely managing to grab the knot in the swing, B falls unceremoniously into the gravel, his legs dragging behind. A seems not to notice.)

A
I mean me? We mean between me and myself?

(B struggles upright to his knees and rests back on his ankles.)

B
What?  Excuse me?  I just fell! A little help would be nice?

A
A low fall, to be sure.  You're fine.

B
What if I were to say we weren't?  Lost ourselves, surely...sold out crumbling monikers of convenience, and all that.

A
What are you talking about?

(There is no pause as B slams into another strange reverie, this time (badly) channeling an intense folk singer à la Bob Dylan's "Times They Are A-Changin'" (but not exactly), strumming an invisible guitar and squinting as if in deep pain.  A guitar plays the same chord over and over in the background while this happens. Around the middle of B's "song," A can no longer look past the bizarre nature of these reveries and starts flinging fistfuls of gravel at B to try to make him stop.)

B
Perestroika soul sister, chug a swig of free-market marmelade before the truth runs out, or else it's another six weeks before we see the light of honest-to-honesty goodness. Goodness gracious, me-oh-my, ships twirl and sink, into the drink; bad storm, we think, or did they stink the snow? After all, priorities are of the essence, or so we tell ourselves.  Twitch, twitch, or let the painful swells try to wrack our capitalistic casserole carrying the cargo collosus!  Grab and...

(B drops the invisible guitar and faces A, who drops her handfuls of gravel. B scratches his elbows self-consciously before returning them to his sides. The reverie is over, as is the guitar strumming. Pause.)
What if I said we weren't fine after that fall, that we really hurt ourselves?

A
You mean, if you hurt yourself.

B
I meant what I said.

A
Liar.

(Pause. B stands up.)

B
I tripped on myself, we practically died, and now you want to talk honestly? Liar?—Please, kiddo, my splinters are nothing to your two-by-fours. Man, alive… Man alive.  We are not OK.  Maybe we're not even alike. We are both of us, unwilling to face the…
(Pause..)
Liar, liar pants on fire, hang your clothes on a here we go 'round the mulberry Lucy in the sky with soul ride—This connection…is coming apart…I feel de…

A
No, we don't feel it.

(A collapses to the ground; sitting, she tries to achieve a high by rolling and rubbing her neck, but each time realizing its inefficacy, tries even harder the next.)

We.  Don't.  Feel.  Don't.  Think.  We don't, don't, don't.

B
It is coming apart.  It's too far gone.

(Pause. A lets go of her neck and wretches into a trembling fetal position in the gravel, covering her ears with her hands.)

A
(crying) Don't want you to go.  Need you. (short pause) Alone.  So very…

B
You know.

A
(recovering, slowly) I know.

(Pause. A rises to her knees and inserts an earbud. B descends to his knees. A offers B the other earbud.)

Don't go.

(B takes A's hand and closes it over the earbud.)

B
It's over.  I go.

A
I'd tell you it was fun seeing you…

B
I know.

A
I'd tell you to stay…


B
We've got to come out of it.

A
Do I?

B
For now.  More or less.

(A removes and pockets the earbuds. B embraces A, who at first resists, but he stays strong, and she eventually reciprocates.)

A
(with more confidence) For now.

(Piano music is heard in the background. B starts humming "Honesty," and A joins in. They gradually start singing the words, but growing more confident with each line.)

B & A (together)
When I'm deep inside of me
Don't be too concerned
I won't ask for nothin' while I'm gone."

B
"—When I want sincerity—"

A
"—Tell me where else can I turn—"

A & B (together)
"'Cause you're the one that I depend upon—"
(B begins to leave the stage.)
B
(quieter, but still strong) "—Honesty—"

A
"—is such a lonely word
Everyone is so untrue—
(B is nearly out of view.)
Honesty is hardly ever heard
But mostly what I need—"

A & B (together)
(B almost inaudibly) "—from you."

(B is gone.  A hangs her head down a few beats after the last lyric.  Music dies down.  Lights go down.  END OF PLAY)
IMPORTANT: READ DESCRIPTION FIRST, BEFORE DEVIATION

I'm not really sure what to say about this piece. I've been working on it for a long time now, and I'm trying to get some space from it, for perspective. It's written in an Absurdist style, and it bears some of Beckett's influence, but not exclusively (there's a lot of Eugene Ionesco in there, too). It's labelled as a drama, as opposed to a comedy, but (I hope) it still makes you laugh at points.

The mature content filter is mainly to prepare readers for the complex format and composition of the piece, and not for any potentially objectionable material (unless you object to the genius that is Billy Joel).

General impressions, points of confusion, and questions are welcome, but I'd like to know, specifically, where you think it works/doesn't work as a performance piece, keeping in mind that Absurdism does not always follow the rules of traditional theater. I am also unsure about the play's ending, whether I want to tweak it to make it more vague, or if it is inaccessible enough as it is.

House-of-Playwrights "Works In Progress" feedback given to [link]
© 2011 - 2024 Same-side
Comments17
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SierraAngel's avatar
SierraAngel
Awesome piece! I love absurd plays!
I got a little confused in the beginning as to the whole age thing. I see why it's written like that but I think it would not read to the audience. I don't think it really needs it to be honest but if you were to keep it I think bigger gestures have to be made on A's part to really sell the difference.
The setting you have right now, while interesting, isn't really needed in my mind. Neither person makes any real reference to where they are aside from the bit on the swing... so as you have it now I see it more as a film but not practical as a stage work. Having 'b' disappear or start to would also be hard to stage.
I do like the music involved but I would personally get rid of the background music and just have it as the two people singing, having it as you do again reads more like a film.
"Let's not watch something." would work better with 'anything' instead of 'something' (would read better)
Also 'a' and 'b' made it difficult for me to read sometimes. I don't think giving them names would do anything but it may be easier to read with 'man' and 'girl'
Continue writing... I enjoyed reading it.