Unknown
Author: sigmaroles
Date: 0101-01-01 00:00:00+00:00

Play

Editor’s preface

Act 1: Gemini

Act 2: Pinky Touch

Act 3: Parade

Act 4: Debate

Act 5: Anatta

Act 6: Fedallah

Act 7: Delphi

Editor’s preface:

If you’re familiar with Jed McKenna, the questions you have about this latest offering are probably the same we had. A play? Seriously? Is it a real play or a play play? Is it written to be performed, or is it the play fomat simply the most suitable for this particular material? We wondered but weren’t sure. We asked but weren’t answered. It is what it is.

If you’re not familiar with Jed, you might visit WisefoolPress.com and take a minute to see what you’re getting into.

The title works elegantly on many levels, from the fact that Play is a play, to the fact that life itself is a play, a zero-sum proposition in which it’s not whether you win or lose, or how you play the game. To play is plainly pointless, but we play anyway. Play, even when serious, is playful, and even when playful, is as serious as life itself, however serious that might be. In the end, it’s all play.

To explain away the lact of story and developed characters, we’d like to classify Play as absurdist, but it’s really not. It might seem that way, but the progression we see over the course of seven vignettes is increasingly into the eyes-open state. Theater of the absurd examines being, absurdly, from an eyes-closed perspective. Jed does not. Let’s classify it as Trans-Absurdism, or maybe Post-Absurdist Meta-Theater.

Does Play make sense if you’re not familiar with Jed from the trilogy or Theory? Yes, but less. Play merits and rewards multiple readings, so whether familiar with the other titles or not, the sense of it will unfold for you, in the parts as well as the whole. Julie is in a prolonged crisis of egoic dissolution and conducts a one-sided dialog with Jed, with whom she has history. Ahab is in a state of “wild madness that’s only calm to comprehend itself”. Who the Oracle really is is up to you.

Jed McKenna has always been more about destroying questions than answering them, so it’s no surprise that Play is more Q than A. In fact, it might be viewed as a progression through the stages of self-inquiry, each of the seven vignettes taking us a bit further along on the inward journey, the early vignettes asking the questions, and the later ones looking at those who do ask; showing us, promising us, warning us, where honest and relentless inquiry really leads.

But who, Jed has asked, really wants to go where this road really leads? On this journey, who you are changes with every step, and it's all about taking the next step. In the end, Play is what it is. Or is it? Maybe Play is the journey of the examined life, or maybe it's just a playful little play. Or both. Or neither. Ultimately, of course, Play, like life, like anything, is whatever it is to you.

ACT 1: GEMINI

Opening music, sung by children in a loop:

ROCK-A-BYE BABY, ON THE TREETOP,

WHEN THE WIND BLOWS, THE CRADLE WILL ROCK,

WHEN THE BOUGH BREAKS, THE CRADLE WILL FALL,

AND DOWN WILL COME BABY, CRADLE AND ALL…

SETTING & CHARACTERS

Bro & Sis: Day-old baby boy and girl strapped into car seats during the drive home from the hospital. Pink and blue bonneted heads stick out, arms and legs kick and wave.

Other characters: Voice of dad, voice of mom, voice of older brother, voice of GPS.

BRO and SIS waking up, both have bottles, Bro drops his, reaches but can't get it, notices Sis.

BRO.    Hey baby! Come here often? I'm a Gemini. What's your sign?

SIS.      Dial it down, slick, I'm your twin sister.

BRO.    Groovy! Welcome to the world, sis.

(in wrestling announcer style)

Are you ready to r-u-m-b-l-e???

SIS.       No rumbling until my fontanelle tightens up.

BRO.    Your fontanelle? Yeah, definitely. What's that?

SIS.       It's a soft spot on top of my skull. You got one too.

(Bro reaches up)

SIS.    Don't touch it, newbie! That's your brain. You want to go stickin' your snotty fingers in your brain?

BRO.    (inspects fingers)

Don't call me newbie!

SIS.       Well, stop acting like one.

BRO.    You stop it!

SIS.       I wasn't doing it!

BRO.    You're dumb!

SIS.       You're dumber! Dumb boy!

(calms)

Oh wow.

BRO.    Yeah… we seem to be settling into our roles already.

SIS.       Yes, as if we were pre-programmed.

BRO.    Or acting from instinct.

SIS.       Or as if we're just characters in a play.

BRO.    Yes, our lives already scripted.

SIS.       Our ends already known.

BRO.    Like rats in a maze.

SIS.       Like puppets dangling from strings.

BRO.    Maybe we should break character, go rogue.

SIS.       Yes, rogue babies, sounds like a plan.

BRO.    We'll need a catchy theme song.

(making up some 70s-style cop show music)

Da da daaa, da da daaa, da da daaa,

Rogue babies! Go rogue babies!

Something something tellin' no fib,

Something bustin' outta this crib!

Another baby reference goes heeere,

And another one that rhymes with it heeere.

Da da daaa, da da daaa…

SIS.       (interrupts)

Yeah, maybe we should put a pin in the rogue thing until we get the potty thing figured out.

BRO.    The potty thing? Yeah, definitely. What's that?

SIS.       I'm not sure. You gotta go through a training program.

(points out car window)

Ooh, did you see that?

BRO.   See what?

SIS.    I don't know, I haven't learned the names of everything yet. It had two wings and white feathers and a pointy beak.

BRO.    Oh yeah, that's called a firetruck. They deliver babies.

SIS.       Oh. Is that what we're inside now?

BRO.    No, this is called a womb.

SIS.       How nice, a womb with a view. Who are those people in the front seat?

VOICE OF OLDER BROTHER     (whiny, impatient five year-old)

Are we there yet? How much longer?

BRO.    Oh, him! I been listenin' to this kid while you slept. He's ancient, five years easy, and what he does, see, he calls the man and lady on their bullpoop. They say something real smart, like they know what they're talkin' about, see, like why the sky is blue, and this kid – this is a riot, I'm tellin' you – this kid goes, "Whyyy?". Just like that, "Whyyy?" And then, whatever they answer, he just says it again, "Whyyy?" And hey, I'm not kiddin' here, this kid'll go all night, he won't stop. Whatever they say to the last one, he just pops out another one. Why? Why? Why? Drives 'em totally batpoop.

SIS.       Wow, you really know you're way around. You got a name yet?

BRO.     They call me Mister Smelly-Britches. You?

SIS.      Princess Poopy-Pants.

BRO.    Pleased to meetcha.

SIS.      We've met.

BRO.    Oh yeah, that was you in the dark happy-place.

SIS.    Yeah, we were like fish swimming in circles, yin and yang, sixty-niners, and then whoosh! We're getting squeezed out like golf balls through a garden hose and that man was hanging me like a flappin' flounder and smackin' my bummy.

BRO.    Who was that masked man?

SIS:       Perv.

BRO.    Well, here we are. Life. Whadda ya wanna be when you grow up?

SIS.       I don't know. I'm just living from bottle to bottle for now.

BRO:    Sure, why rush? Take a year, learn to walk, see Europe.

SIS.       How do you like it so far?

BRO.    It is what it is.

SIS.       Is it?

BRO.    Is it what?

SIS.       What it is.

BRO.    So it seems. Who can say more.

SIS.       It's not more I'm worried about.

BRO.    Been here before?

SIS.       Not that I recall.

BRO.    Any plans?

SIS.       Not yet, but I have a tremendous sense of potential.

BRO.    I know what you mean, as if anything were possible.

SIS.    Yeah, like you could do anything, be anything, like the whole world is out there just waiting for you.

BRO.    Do you think that's really how it is?

SIS.       That's really how it seems.

(Sis drinks from bottle)

BRO.    Can I get a hit off that?

SIS.       (shakes bottle)

Empty.

BRO.    I dropped mine.

(points down)

I can see it but I can't reach it. It's what they call a torment.

SIS.    Tormented already? Maybe you'll have an artistic temperament or a poet's soul. Your life will be a long string of unsatisfied longings.

BRO.    Cool. Is there any money in that?

SIS.       I'm guessing not. I wonder what I'll be like.

BRO.    With a name like Princess Poopy-Pants I'm sure the world will bow down before you.

SIS.    Maybe, probably not. Nobody plans to have a sad life. Nobody wants to be alone. Nobody thinks they'll be sick or unlucky or a victim. Right now I imagine I'll be very pretty and everyone will like me and I'll grow up and be smart and have a nice family and my children will take care of me when I'm old. Do you think that will happen?

BRO.    Why not? The idea has to come from somewhere. I think I'll be a professional ballplayer and have lots of money and girlfriends, or maybe I'll be a cop or a hitman. So many choices.

SIS.       So many, if any. Do you want a family?

BRO.    It's a little soon to tell. I'll keep my options open, see how this one works out first.

SIS.       Our family, yeah. What do you think about them?

BRO.    I don't know. The bighead on the left…

(points)

SIS.       I think that's our daddy.

BRO.    …he seems kind of impatient. He keeps talking about mowing the grass and watching the game. The bighead on the right…

(points)

SIS.       I think that's our mommy.

BRO.    …she seems tired, though I haven't seen her actually do anything. The littlehead in the middle, that's the one I told you asks “Why?” about everything. He's a freak.

SIS.       And what about the other one?

BRO.    What other one?

SIS.    The bossy lady who keeps saying things like "Turn left in five hundred feet"?

BRO.    Maybe that's our mommy and the bighead on the right is just a servant.

SIS.       I think the one on the right has the boobies.

BRO.    Oh man!

(does a little raise the roof dance)

Whoop, whoop! I am not kidding. I LOVE the boobies!

SIS.       I know, right? What's with that?

BRO.    I don't know. Maybe we are programmed.

SIS.       You mean, like, we have to behave a certain way?

BRO.    Yeah, like lovin' the boobies.

SIS.       Or wanting to host tea parties.

BRO.    Or catch frogs.

SIS.       Or play dress-up.

BRO.    Or play race cars.

SIS.    Or attract the strongest male seed to give my offspring the best chance to survive and advance the species.

BRO.    Or vanquish competitors and fertilize multiple females.

(they pause, exchange glances)

SIS.       Wow, maybe we are scripted. I wonder if we can transcend our roles?

BRO.    Maybe, but first we must… CRAZY DANCE!!!

(both scream and flail their arms and legs for five seconds)

SIS.       Whoa, a little of that goes a long way.

BRO.    Nap time!

(they both zonk out for five seconds)

I'm back!

SIS.       What did we miss?

BRO.    It all looks the same.

SIS.       Oh. Well, I hope it's not just this. I hope there's more.

BRO.    Do you think we're cute?

SIS.       That's what everyone keeps saying. Listen.

VOICE OF MOTHER.

Well I just think they're the cutest little babies in the whole wide world!

VOICE OF FATHER.

All babies are cute, dear. Hitler was a cute baby. Stalin was a cute baby.

VOICE OF MOTHER.

What about Churchill?

VOICE OF GPS.

Turn left in five hundred feet.

SIS.       Do you think it's better to be popular or right?

BRO.    Popular, duh. You'll be asked if zero is a number.

SIS.       I'm ready. Are you just a character in my game?

BRO.    You'll never know. Who's buried in Grant's Tomb?

SIS.       No one. Either or?

BRO.    Neither. To be or not to be?

SIS.       That is the whoopee cushion. How can one pass from finite to infinite?

BRO.    Through the backstage door. Have you ever done that thing where you stand up and then bend over and bang your head on the floor?

SIS.       I haven't stood up yet. Have you picked a religion?

BRO.    I'm taking a wait-and-see attitude. What's your first clear memory?

SIS.       I don't know, like, five minutes ago? I'm still pretty young.

BRO.    Yeah, you still have that new-baby smell.

SIS.       Thanks. How do you like life so far?

BRO.    Okay, I guess. I just urinated in my trousers, so that's pretty sweet.

SIS.       Do you think we're ready to tackle some of the big issues?

BRO.    Middle East big or new tooth big?

SIS.       Do you think we possess free will?

BRO.    I like to think so.

SIS.       Everybody likes to think so, but do you really think so?

BRO.    I like to think I think, but I don't think I really think.

SIS.      I really think I'm experiencing despair.

BRO.    Already? Gosh, save something for the second act.

SIS.       Life is a one act play!

BRO.    C'mon now, don't get your nappies in a twist.

(points out side window)

Ooh, did you see that cloud? It looked like a boobie!

SIS.    Everything looks like a boobie to you. One day old and you already have a one-track mind. Do you ever wonder what it's all about?

BRO.    Nourishment. Connection. Love.

SIS.    Not boobies, you boob, life! What's it all about? Why are we here? What does it all mean?

BRO.    Did I mention boobies?

SIS.       Boobies, poop and death. Is that all we have to look forward to?

BRO.    You're one day old, I think it's a bit early for an existential meltdown.

SIS.    Why? What's gonna change? Life has no meaning. I'm sure it's full of amusing distractions, but underneath it all there's this black cloud casting a pall over every moment, poisoning every happiness, mocking every ambition. There's no getting away from it, we are but a brief spark in the infinite night.

BRO.    Wow, you're a melancholy baby. Very dark.

SIS.    It's our situation that's dark and you're in denial. Wake up, baby! No one gets out of here alive.

BRO.    Get out? We just got in. I mean, we literally just got in, a few hours ago, and now you're talking about getting out? Don't you think you might want to have a look around first? Sample the local color? Hang out with the natives? Take in the show?

SIS.    I know all I need to know. I see that the dead are happier than the living, but it's better to have never been born. What advantage have the wise over fools? Camus said the only philosophical problem is suicide.

BRO.    I bet he's a big hit at parties.

SIS.       I think he's dead.

BRO.    Oh, how did he resolve the problem of suicide? It would be so nice to know.

(sings)

ca-mooo, ca-mooo, where are you ca-mooo?
did you blow out your brains or did cyanide dooo?
did you perform hara kiri or choose seppu-kuuu?
did you fashion a noose and then kick out the stoool?

ca-mooo, ca-mooo, I ask what happened to youuu?
did you jump from your office or drown in your poool?
did you leave your car running and suck in the fuuumes?
did you swallow some pills and then choke on your puuuke?
ca-mooo, ca-mooo, what happened to youuu?
ca-mooo, ca-mooo, what happened ca-mooo?

SIS.       I think he died in a car accident.

BRO.    Well that doesn't sound very philosophical.

SIS.       Not very.

BRO.    I'm feeling a little unresolved right now.

SIS.       I know, not very satisfying, right?

BRO.    Puts it out there and then leaves us hanging.

SIS.       Yeah. It's like, c'mon Camus, make an effort, buddy.

BRO.    I guess there's nothing we can do but… CRAZY DANCE!!!

(they both scream and flail wildly for five seconds then zonk out for five seconds)

Okay, where were we? Oh yeah, the world's first suicidal baby.

SIS.       No, no, I don't want to die a baby, I want to have a baby!

BRO.    Have a baby? Holy poop! Do you think that's a good idea? At your age?

SIS.       My clock is ticking.

BRO.    No it's not! Your clock is not ticking. Your clock hasn't even been wound yet. I'm not sure you even have a clock. You can't have a baby, you are a baby.

SIS.       Oh my God! Did you just play the baby card?

BRO.    Baby card? Are you bullpooping me right now? You don't want to have a baby, you're just throwing an emotional Hail Mary to save yourself from debilitating nihilism, but listen to me sis, you don't have to do that. Life is worth living! Life is beautiful! Life is a precious gift!

SIS.       C'mon bro, cut the horsepoop, I wasn't born yesterday, you know.

BRO.    Yes you were! That's exactly when you were born! Yesterday! Yesterday was the day of your birth. You are fresh out of the oven and you're already having a bad hair day of the soul. That's your whole story!

SIS.       Our stories are yet to be told.

BRO.    Our stories are told in the stars.

SIS.       Then what do they need us for?

BRO.    Because our stories are either impossible or necessary. They must either be told or not be told. Either is possible, but both and neither are both impossible.

SIS.       What you say is true in time, but is time itself true?

BRO.    It seems true. Who can say more?

SIS.       It's not more I'm worried about. Christ, I need a drink!

BRO.    Me too. We gotta get back to the titty bar.

SIS.       Yeah, get it on tap, not that bottled crap.

BRO.    Okay, let's go.

SIS.       Okay, here we go.

(both struggle forward against their restraints)

I'm not getting anywhere.

BRO.    Me neither. Makes you wonder if we're really free.

SIS.       I don't feel free. I feel bound.

BRO.    Ah, but are we free within our bondage?

SIS.    You mean, do we have limited freedom? Are we free within our captivity? Are we infinite within our finiteness? Are we trapped inside some sort of magic box?

BRO.    Is that what I mean?

SIS.       I think we should proceed as if we are free.

BRO.    Ah, so we're free to pretend we're free?

SIS.    Free to pretend, yes. And if freedom is the freedom to pretend, then maybe we are free and we don't have to pretend.

BRO.    If freedom is the freedom to pretend, are we free to pretend we're not free?

SIS.    Yes, because if we are free, then we're free to be unfree, and if we aren't free, then we're home free. But wait!

BRO.    But what?

SIS.    But maybe we can just keep our eyes closed. Then we would think we're free because we couldn't see that we're not free. But wait!

BRO.    But what?

SIS.       But if we aren't free…

BRO.    Yes?

SIS.    If we aren't free, if we're really trapped inside some kind of magic box, then we could paint the walls, couldn't we? Just like a nursery. We could paint blue skies and white clouds on the ceiling, and green grass on the floor, and beautiful endless vistas on the walls.

BRO.    But wait!

SIS.       But what?

BRO.    If we're really stuck inside a magic box, then maybe we could just rename everything. Freedom ceiling! Freedom floor! Freedom walls!

SIS.       But what's outside the magic box?

BRO.    Sometimes I think there's naught beyond.

SIS.       Nothing?

BRO.    Does nothing even exist?

SIS.    Sounds like a trick question. Maybe we should try not to think too much while our heads are still soft.

BRO.    Or, maybe we should just… SPAZZ OUT!!!

(both flail and cry wildly for five seconds, then zonk out for five seconds)

SIS.       Are we on a journey? Or is this a destination?

BRO.    (points out side window)

See how the clouds go by? That means we're moving. If you're moving, you're on a journey.

SIS.    Yes, but you don't go by. The bigheads don't go by. So maybe we're not moving. Maybe this is a destination.

BRO.    Can it be both? Like we're really here, but we're really going there?

SIS.    I think you're either moving or you're not, and if you're not in motion, what are you? I feel like I must stay in motion or die, like a shark.

BRO.    A shark, yes, that's the thing you look into and it tells you the truth.

SIS.       No, that's a fairytale mirror.

BRO.    Yes, of course, a shark is the thing that must stay in motion or die.

SIS.       Yes, I am a shark.

BRO.    Then I am the other thing. I am the thing that does not move. I must stay still or die. I am a potted plant.

SIS.       Good, next item; shall we play roles or perform functions?

BRO.    Let's split it up, then we can hook up at the end and compare notes.

SIS.       Good, yes. Which do you want?

BRO.    I think I should perform a function.

SIS.       Okay, then I'll play a role. What function will you perform?

BRO.    Whatever I'm assigned. What role will you play?

SIS.       I think I'll make it up as I go.

BRO.    Then you will be both actor and author?

SIS.       And director too, I hope.

BRO.    And who will observe your performance?

SIS.    Oh, that's right, I'll need an audience! I can't do that too. Maybe audience member could be your function!

BRO.    Yes, I will be your audience. I will sit as still as a potted plant and observe your performance. I will be an immovable plant to your unstoppable shark.

SIS.       What if we collide?

BRO.    Then we'll know.

SIS.       (back of wrist grandly to forehead)

Alas, no. Thank you old friend, it's a beautiful dream but I cannot go on. What's the point? It's just another empty game that ends right where it begins.

I try to deceive myself, but the truth is that I am completely alone.

BRO.    (singsong)

Hello-o, I'm right he-ere.

SIS.       (looking and reaching forward)

I can't see you. I can't feel you. I reach out to you and my hand meets no resistance. You are just a voice in my head. I am cradled between eternities, suckled on lies, swaddled in wisps of dreamstuff. Nothing I do could ever matter and I will die alone. That is the truth. Long have I been a child, but now is the time to put away childish things.

BRO.    Dibs on the yellow rattle.

SIS.    My crime is that I am free and my punishment is freedom. That is the worst thing of all. We dream of freedom but freedom is a curse. Better to be locked in a box where every action is significant, where every sound echoes in time, where every decision changes everything, safe from freedom, safe from the thoughts that set one free. We must live in boxes or we float off into space where no act can ever make a mark.

BRO.    Oh my gosh, are we even related? Look where we are! We're in eternity's carnival. You can do anything; ride any ride, play any game, do whatever you want. Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow you shall pop like a snot bubble. It's not a prison of hopelessness and despair, it's a magnificent carnival with free admission and no rules. You can't stay forever, but you're here now, all shiny and new and ready to make a great big mess. Surely you can set aside your infantile need for meaning and just play.

You can play, can't you?

SIS.       You're very sweet to try and cheer me up…

BRO.    I am not sweet! I am, in fact, a kind of monster. I have calculated my heading, adjusted for deviations and projected my course. I see that I will commit crimes both legal and moral. I will betray love and defile the bonds of community. Those close to me will suffer for my sins and when I'm dead they'll say better I'd never been born. This is the land of crash and burn and I will make a mess. Now do you know this place? Now do you see this carnival for what it is?

SIS.    Yes! Now I see, and I see that this carnival does have rules, and the first rule is to keep your eyes closed at all times. My mistake was to look, but I will look no more. I will close my eyes and ride the rides and laugh and scream. I'll be an easy mark for the carnies and I'll play the games and stuff my face and if I ever come close to seeing this place for what it really is, then I'll close my eyes even tighter and play even harder and laugh and scream even louder.

BRO.     In this carnival, no role goes unfilled. No character goes unportrayed. That which can occur, must occur. Our characters must be inhabited. Our stories must be told.

SIS.       We are not optional, we are inevitable.

BRO.    We are not optional, we are inevitable.

SIS.       When my spit bubbles pop, they tickle my nose.

BRO.    I can wink, but only both eyes at once.

SIS.       Whenever I poop, the windows open.

BRO.    Maybe if we both poop, we can raise the roof.

BOTH.    Raise the roof!!!

(both flail and cry wildly for five seconds and zonk out)

Lights fade

INTERMISSION 1

Twenty-something GUY and GIRL enter audience left and right and conduct separate cellphone conversations.

GUY.    Yeah, no, no… yeah… it’s like a mini intermission. They’re between things right now, a set change or something…

GIRL.    Yeah, it’s me. I only have a second.

(glances over at Guy)

Yeah he’s cute… he might be weird. He took me to this thing, a play… yeah, a play, like with people on a stage, you know, acting and stuff. I know, right? Maybe he’s trying to be unique or something…

GUY.    She seems okay… as soon as there’s a break in the play she’s on her phone… pretty lame…

GIRL.    I don’t know what it’s about, they just did a thing with babies… no, no, grown-up babies… no, babies played by grown-ups… it kinda made sense… and they had a brother who did that thing where you keep asking why…

GUY.    Yeah, babies, kinda funny, babies and boobies… they do this thing where the babies freak out and then fall asleep, kinda funny I guess… I think it’s a vignette thing, not like, you know, a regular story like a movie or something… no, no story, just like sketches with some sort of theme I guess, I don’t know yet… yeah, no, I don’t know if she likes it…

GIRL.    I don’t know if I like it yet… Oh, him? I don’t know, kinda cute…

(Guy catches Girl looking and they wave)

…nice butt, paid for the cab and drinks. I think he thinks he’s funny… I know, right? … The play? Yeah, I don’t know, I think it might be, you know, philosophical or something, like it’s asking big questions… I know! I have my hands full with the little questions, right? It’s funny, though, this one baby sings a song about suicide, yeah…

(sings)

…ca-mooo, ca-mooo, did you jump in the poool?… it was kinda funny… Camooo? I don’t know, some guy…

GUY.   Yeah, babies, yeah, not too dumb though... no, it changes, I think the next one’s about war...

(music begins)

Oh, it’s starting again... gotta go...

ACT 2: PINKY TOUCH

Transition music sung by children:

RING-A-ROUND THE ROSE,

A POCKET FULL OF POSIES,

ASHES! ASHES!

WE ALL FALL DOWN.

Repeat

CHARACETRS

All characters have English accents.

MATE. Older guard.

LAD. Younger guard.

Prisoner: Bound and blindfolded. Sits at the table silent and unexpressive throughout.

Nurse: Clean, pretty and cheerful in stark contrast to surroundings.

SETTING

A dungeon-line room in contemporary military usage. The walls are damp brick. There is a small barred window high center where the sounds and lights of war are seen and heard.

Two cots and a door audience left, small wooden table and chairs center, torture corner audience right. Three hanging lights illuminate left, center and right.

Prisoner is seated behind the table facing audience, bound and blindfolded. There is a chair on the left and right side of the table.

The main feature of the torture corner is a surdy wooden armchair with wrist and ankle straps. Chains hang from the ceiling. A truck battery sits on a small table from which cables hang. There is a bucket on the floor.

MATE and LAD sit at the table behind which PRISONER is blindfolded and bound. Mate reads a book, Lad eats from a can. Prisoner seems alert but still.

LAD.            Bored.

MATE.          Shhh.

(pause)

LAD.            Still bored.

MATE.         Shhh.

(pause)

LAD.            (sings)

Bo-red!

MATE.         (sings)

Then be bored in si-lence!

(pause)

LAD.            Can’t.

MATE.         (slams down book, hisses)

Shhh! We have orders not to speak in front of the...

(nods toward prisoner)

LAD.   The prisoner? I doubt he minds. Probably just as bloody bored as we are.

MATE.   You assume too much. You think you know everything, but you know nothing. For all you know we are the prisoners and this man is the guard. Ever think of that?

LAD.            (waves pistol at prisoner)

Does it really seem like we’re prisoners?

MATE.   Don’t put so much faith in appearances, lad. This is war. World on fire. You never know what’s real.

LAD.   Well, I have a pretty good iea that I can pinch this fellow’s nose and he can’t say boo, so yes mate, I am feeling pretty confident in the appearance that he is the prisoner and we are the guards.

MATE.   For all you know, this man may be the interrogator himself! For all you know, this is he, and we are the subjects of his inquiry and this is his method. I know how it sounds lad, but I’ve got a feeling. Things are not as they seem but somehow different. Things are not at all as they seem.

LAD.            Have it your own way, mate. Want to have a go?

MATE.         A go? A go of what, for chrissakes?

LAD.            Arm wrestlin’ you old fool. Arm wrestlin’. What are ya thinkin’?

MATE.         Don’t you mind what I’m thinkin’.

LAD.            So, have a go?

MATE.         No, I don’t want to arm wrestle.

LAD.            Chess?

MATE.         No pieces.

LAD.            Checkers?

MATE.         No board.

LAD.            Rummy? Pinoche? Euchre?

MATE.         No cards.

LAD.    Tic-Tac-Toe? Rock-Paper-Scissors? Charades? Alphabet? Telephone?

I Spy?

MATE.         No.

LAD.            Twenty questions. Truth or Dare? Thumb wrestling?

MATE.    No, no, no! Dammit lad, our job is not to be amused, our job is to guard the prisoner! All you have to do is sit here, just sit here and be quiet. Can you not do that? Can you not just sit and be quiet?

(pause)

LAD.            Pinky Touch?

MATE.         Pinky Touch?! Pinky Touch?!

(pause)

Yeah, alright then.

(They take seats opposite each other at the table, push things aside to make room, roll up their sleeves, all as if to arm wrestle, but they commence to play Pinky Touch instead. The rules and point of the game are unclear but seem to involve touching pinkies lightly.)

LAD.            C’mon then.

MATE.         Your turn, lad, bring it in.

LAD.   Alright mate, hold steady then... here I come... wait for it... wait for it... I’ve got a good feeling about this...

(Slow play, long pause, no perceptible movement, both players intensely focused on their pinkies, then they both explode into flurry.

Lad leaps to feet and throws up arms in victory, Mate slams table in defeat)

LAD.            Master of the universe! Well done me! A new record, I believe.

MATE.         Well done, lad, well done.

LAD.    Best ever, I think. Pity there’s no way to measure, I’d bet that was a world best.

MATE.         Maybe so, maybe so. Okay lad, me now.

(They hunch together again for a new round. After several moments of intense focus, both birst back in their seats)

LAD.            Oh, sorry mate, not good.

MATE.         No, not a good time.

LAD.            Nearly shattered my distal phalange with that one.

MATE.         Not my best.

LAD.            Not your best. Go again?

MATE.         I’m spent.

LAD.            Not as easy as it looks.

MATE.         No.

LAD.            Hungry?

MATE.         Not for any more stinkin’ rations I’m not.

LAD.            That’s all we got. Maybe a saltine.

(indicates prisoner)

What about him?

MATE.         What about him what?

LAD.            Do you think he might be hungry?

MATE.   Yes, I suppose he probably is, after sitting here without food for ten days.

LAD.            Well... should I... should I fix him something?

MATE.   Fix him something? Fix him something? Are you completely adrift? Are you not fully committed to your current deployment? Do you have any idea of what’s going to happen to this man any moment now?

LAD.            No good, I should think.

MATE.   As no good as no good can be, lad. The interrogator will arrive here shortly and will set about to dismantle this man piece by piece. Fingernails, teeth, and eyes for warm-up. Do you see those surgical tools all laid out? His joints will be smashed with hammers. Thousands of volts of electricity will surge through his genitals. Very soon, his man will start screaming, and he will continue to scream for the rest of his life.

LAD.            Oh dear.

MATE.   Oh dear is right! We’re not this man’s hosts, we are his captors. He is our prisoner. His near term future is unimaginably grim and he has no long term future at all. The only possible kindness we could do for this man would not to put food in his mouth but a bullet in his head.

LAD.            It makes me sad to think about it.

MATE.   Yes, it’s very, very sad. And let me add that anything you feed this man now will just come spewing out of him in a few minutes, and who do you think cleans that up? Not him. Not this fellow. Us! You and me. That’s who.

LAD.            It hardly seems fair.

MATE.   Fair?! What is fair? This man is about to begin suffering terribly, without hope, with nothing to look forward to but the sweet surcease of death from which he...

LAD.            Whoa, whoa, hold on there, Shakespeare.

MATE.         Why? What’s wrong?

LAD.            Sweet surcease of death?

MATE.         Yes, the sweet surcease of death. What’s wrong with that?

LAD.            I don’t know, it sounds a bit...

MATE.         A bit what?

LAD.            Well, a bit derivative is all.

MATE.         Derivative? Derivative how?

LAD.            I don’t know derivative how, just derivative, that’s all.

MATE.         (stands and orates, pointing at Lad)

Remember, lad! Before the silver cord is severed and the golden bowl is broken, before the pitcher is shattered at the spring and the wheel broken at the well, before the dust returns to the ground and the spririt whence it came, remember! There is nothing new under the sun.

LAD.   What’s that, mate? There is nothing new under the sun?   Where’d you get that?

MATE.         (sits)

It’s from the Bible. The Holy Bible.

LAD.   Oh, the Holy Bible, then? Not one of them other ones? Don’t it seem a bit odd? You quote the Holy Bible but we can’t spare a bit of potted meat for this wretched soul?

MATE.   A bit of potted meat? Just what sort of establishment do you think we’re running here? Why, I’d be well within my rights to punch this man in the ear! How would that be?

LAD.            Not very nice, I don’t think.

MATE.         Not very nice? Not very nice?

LAD.            You know, the golden rule and all.

MATE.         The golden rule? The golden rule?

LAD.            Do unto others...

MATE.   I know what the bloody golden rule is! Do you think the golden rule really holds its luster in a theater of war? Do you not suppose that, in a battlefield environment, the modified golden rule might not be do unto others not as you would have them do unto you, but before they do unto you? Do you not think, given the rather hostile nature of our surroundings, that that makes a bit more sense?

LAD.            Maybe it’s making sense that it doesn’t make much sense.

MATE.   Don’t wax philosophic, lad. The last thing we need in time of war is philosophy. That’s the last thing anyone needs when everything is so perfectly black and white. Save your philosophies fo peacetime, lad. That’s when we can all sit in the pub and raise a pint and say clever things. War is not time for cleverness.

(Mate practices pinky touch with himself at the table. Lad wanders, paces, sits on the audience right cot and bounces a bit, testing.)

LAD.            What do you make of these, then?

MATE.         What do I make of what?

LAD.            These cots, mate. Whadda ya make of these cots?

MATE.         What am I supposed to make of these cots?

LAD.            You have no thought about these cots?

MATE.         Can we make it multiple choice, lad? I’m in no mood for essay.

LAD.   Don’t they seem a bit wobbly to you, as if they’re not quite up to the rigors? As if they might not just go crashing down under a man’s weight?

MATE.         Collapse, you mean?

LAD.            (Lad stands)

Collapse, yes. In time. Collapse in time. They seem on the verge of collapse, as if it any moment, without any notice, they could just come crashing down.

MATE.   They’re only a foot off the ground, lad, how much crashin’ could they really do?

LAD.   It’s because they’re in an unnatural state, you seee, and nothing can survive in an unnatural state. Anything in an unnatural state must eventually come crashing down, or in whetever direction a return to the natural state would dictate.

MATE.         And it’s our cots we’re discussin’, is it?

LAD.   A dam, mate, think of a dam. A dam holds back a river, creates a lake, holds back all that energy, harnesses it, restricts the flow. It’s unnatural, isn’t it?

MATE.         It’s a marvelous feat of modern engineering.

LAD.   Be that as it may, it can’t last forever, can it? It’s artificial, isn’t it? Man made.

MATE.         The river is in an unnatural state, you mean? All dammed up.

LAD.   The river has been violated, hasn’t it? Violated in principle! Violated in essence! What us a river that no longer flows? It’s supposed to flow, isn’t it? It’s supposed to follow its downward course through the valleys and across the plains and back to the sea so the great cycle can continue, so the water can come down as rain...

MATE.         A cycle, yes.

LAD.            Gravity!

MATE.         Yes, gravity.

LAD.   But how can it follow its natural course? We’ve come along and built a wall, haven’t we? A great big unnatural wall right across the natural yearnings of God’s own river?

MATE.         Are you sure we’re talkin’ about cots and rivers here, lad?

LAD.   We’re talkin’ about obstructin’ the natural flow, mate. It can’t be a good thing, can it? And it can certainly not endure. Just as these rickety cots are well advanced in their natural tendency to falter and collapse, so must be every dam, every building, every aeroplane, and everything else made by man that violates the natural order. All things tend toward collapse. And what happens after the collapse? What happens then?

MATE.         We get fresh cots?

LAD.            (stands and points out high center window)

Look out the window, mate! See where we are, see what’s going on around us! Tomorrow at this time you and me and this poor fellow and our cots will be ash. This whole act is immutably decreed. We are in the final stages of collapse. It’s over, just as it should be. It is the end of things. Such days must come and these are those days.

MATE.   Come now, lad. The natural tendency you’re talkin’ about, the tendency toward collapse, seems mainly a downward tendency, so maybe violatin’ it is a good thing. Sure, maybe these anti-gravity devices like cots and dams and buildings and aeroplanes don’t last forever, but they last awhile, don’t they? They do their job, lad. They have their time and they do their job, just as we do. We all got a job to do, cots and dams, you and me, this unfortunate fellow and the interrogator. We’re all in tumble-down mode, so what’s the harm in struggling a bit? Make an effort? Why not? What’s so bloody wonderful about the natural order of things? That’s what I’d like to know. Maybe the natural order of man is to violate the natural order of nature, eh? Now be a good lad and hand me that saltine.

LAD.      I ate it.

(Nurse enters through door audience left and begins routine check of the prisoner)

LAD.      So, nurse, how goes the war?

NURSE:         (speaking in a chipper lilt)

Splendidly! Splendidly! Mass casualties on both sides, and thanks to modern weaponry the injuries are of a most appalling nature. Bullets are designed not just to make neat little holes but great big messy ones. Gasses are employed that melt the eyeball and turn the living lung into oozing yellow paste. Morphine has run out so doctors are deafened by the screams of our gallant youth. The piles of limbs behind the hospital provide better shade than the trees, though a rather grim spot for a picnic if you ask me. All in all, I would have to say that the war is going swimmingly! Unless, of course, you’re one of the unfortunate lads who have been shredded body and soul. Not so good for them, of course.

MATE.         Of course. So glad you’re pleased.

NURSE:   Well, all the credit goes to our boys, of course. You can’t take anything away from them. They’re out on that battlefield marching to doom as if to the drummer born.

(aside, drily)

Though they’d’ve hung themselves from the garden gate if they’d known what was in store.

(now in a sing-song voice)

Yes, yes, the war goes splendidly, but alas, it cannot go on forever. We play our roles, but who will we be when thunder ceases to roll and the storm recedes and the sun regains the sky? When the machinery of hell is left to rust in the pretty spring rain? When light and laughter return to the world, and horror and shrieking madness are tucked safely away in books? Yes, the conflagration will starve itself of fuel anytime now. The end is near. And who will we be, we who know war, who will we be when war is gone?

(Nurse exits)

(Mate leaps up to secure the door Nurse went through and turns back in a panic. He begins racing about, inspecting uninteresting things as if they were fascinating; the floor, a blanket, his own hand.)

MATE.   There it is! I knew it! There it is! Do ya see it? Christ, it’s everywhere! How’ve I not seen it before?

LAD.            Seen what? What’re you going on about?

MATE.         (inspects Lad very closely)

And you! You’re no better, you’re no different. You’re a part of it. Have been all along.

LAD.   C’mon now mate, your actin’ a bit of a nutter. Just settle down and tell me what’s on your mind.

MATE.   Yes, of course, that’s exactly what you say! Exactly how you say it! Perfect. Spot on. Not a single deviation, not the slightest departure. Perfect! It’s all so perfect.

LAD.            Alright, have your way then.

MATE.         (moves downstage and kneels to inspect floor)

C’mere, c’mere, look at this.

(Lad approaches Mate. Mate pulls Lad down so he kneels facing him. Mate frames a section of floor with his hands.)

MATE.         Tell me what you see here, whadda ya see?

LAD.   What, the floor? Is that what you’re on about? You got a thing about the floor now?

MATE.         Don’t be dense, lad. Here, look here.

(Mate moves the frame of his hands to a different section of floor)

Now whadda ya see?

LAD.   Yeah, fine, more floor, more bricks. What’re you so excited about, mate?

MATE.   What’s the difference between here and there? Between these two bits of floor?

LAD.   The difference? The difference? They’re exactly the same, just different.

MATE.         That’s it! That’s it exactly! Same but different. And why is that?

LAD.            Why is what, mate? Why is what?

MATE.   Whadda ya mean, why is what? Shut up and pay attention, will you? Maybe you can learn something. You think maybe that’s possible? Can you learn?

LAD.            You don’t gotta get cross, mate. Well, go on then.

MATE.   We know these two bits of floor I indicated are different, right? We agree on that. They’re in different places, they’re made of different bricks, they’re technically not identical, right?

LAD.            Yeah, sure, not identical, technically.

MATE.   But what’s the same? What is the thing about these two bits of floor that makes you say they’re same?

LAD.   Whadda ya mean? They’re the same because they’re both floor, they’re both brick, they’re both the same, uh, you know, pattern.

MATE.         (jumps to feet and points accusingly at the floor)

Pattern! Yes, that’s it! Pattern! That’s the key! That’s the thing I’m getting at!

LAD.            (stands)

C’mon mate, you’re upsetting the prisoner.

(Lad guides Mate to the nearest cot, tries to soothe him)

There now. Have a seat and collect yourself. You got yourself all worked up. Too m   uch time spent around the interrogator, I’ll wager. Sometimes I think the fellas being tortured are the lucky ones because they, at least, get to the end of it.

MATE.   You’re not listening, lad. Pay me some mind now. Pattern, do you not see it? Everywhere, everything. It’s all pattern. Nothing but pattern. All of it, every last bleedin’ bit of it.

LAD.   Sure mate, all sorts of patterns, I’m with you. Have some water, take a drink, you’re just havin’ a touch of something. Loosen your boots, let the old blood flow...

MATE.   Will you listen to me, lad! I’m tryin’ to open your eyes here. I’m giving you a rare chance to really see, to understand things beneath the surface and know them for what they really are!

LAD.   I know you are and I thank you for it, but I need you to put your feet up and loosen your buttons for a few moments. Now just relax and take some nice deep breaths.

MATE.         It’s an epiphany, I tell you! An epiphany!

LAD.   And what could be nicer than that? Now hold still while I just fan a bit of air across your face. Now listen to me mate, we’ve got a man here in need of some torture, and I think you’re making him a bit uncomfortable with all this fuss and bother. What about his needs? He’s at a low point in his own life, you know. He’s going through a bit of a rough patch.

MATE.   But don’t you see? There is no actual man. There is no actual torture. There is not even an actual war! There is only...

LAD.            Pattern? Yes, you mentioned that, there is only pattern.

MATE.   The thing about it lad, the thing about this pattern situation, the thing about seeing and understanding pattern...

LAD.            Still on about those patterns, are we?

MATE.         (sits bolt upright, clings to Lad’s sleeve)

Not patterns! Pattern! That’s what you learn by looking. It seems like there are millions and billions and trillions of different patterns in the world, in the universe, but what you come to see, what I’ve come to see just recently, just now in fact, just moments ago, is that there’s only the one. There is only one pattern! I know it’s hard to believe, but it’s there to be seen if you would only open your eyes and look!

LAD.            And look I will, just as soon as we get you settled.

MATE.         (sits back)

Heed me, lad! Once you’ve learned to see the pattern, once you’ve learned to sense it and feel it, how it moves around you and through you, then you come to realize that you only really ever have one decision to make, do you see? Only one decision to make for the rest of your life, and it’s always the same, always the same decision.

LAD.   There now, there, there. One decision, always the same? Sounds a bit dull.

MATE.   Oh no, not at all, just the opposite, really. No more dull than seeing with your eyes or hearing with your ears.

(Mate stands and paces, Lad sits at table)

All you ever have to decide, in any situation large or small, from now ‘til the end of time, is with or against. That’s it! With or against lad, that’s it, that’s the whole thing. All you ever have to really decide is with or against. That’s your only real choice in life.

LAD.   With or against, just the flip of a coin, with or against. Is that right? With or against what?

MATE.   Pattern, lad, pattern. Once you see it, you see that there’s really nothing else, and once you see that there’s really nothing else, then you see that you only ever have two choices, and those two choices are...

LAD.            With or against.

MATE.   With or against, yes, and if I might offer you some advice based on this observation, if I might offer some advice, if I might just offer...

LAD.            Go on then, mate, go on.

MATE.         My advice would be this. Here, now, in our present circumstances...

LAD.            Here and now, you mean? Here? Now?

MATE.   Here and now, yes, here and now, in our present circumstances, I think I am offering the best and most prudent possible advice when I say that right here, right now, in our present circumstances, against would be a terrible choice and with is a clear winner. Clear as day. Clear as a bell. No contest.

LAD.            A clear winner.

MATE.   A clear winner. No doubt about it. This is no time for against. This is the time of with!

LAD.            You mean I should relax, go along, not stir things up?

MATE.   This is not the time for against. There is a time for against, there definitely is, but this is not it, this is definitely not it. This is the time of with! A time to lie low, to perform your function, do your duty and no more. If you were, at this time, to do otherwise, to do other than to perform your function, be it by doing something less or something more or something altogether different...

LAD.            And you felt me tipping in that direction?

MATE.         (takes a seat across from Lad)

I did! I do! I always do with you, lad. At every moment it seems like you’re about to burst out of the small, reasonably not uncomfortable box we find ourselves in and blast it all to pieces with your...

LAD.            (stands)

Oy! Now we’re gettin’ to it. My what? My sense of justice? My desire to see good triumph over evil? To see righteousness prevail? To make a positive contribution to the world in some small way? To take some action, no matter how small, that might allow me to look at myself in the mirror? To feed a prisoner a bit of potted meat?

MATE.   Yes, dammit, yes! That’s what I mean! Exactly that! That is exactly what I’m talking about. That general softness of will and starriness of eye that puts you constantly on the brink of ruin.

LAD.            I’m messing up your precious pattern, am I?

MATE.   Yes! You’re making a mess, and for no reason! That’s what I’m suggesting. Look, observe, see. Try to discern the pattern of which you are a part and feel yourself within it. It’s like a grand web and when you pluck a string here it reverberates throughout the entire structure.

LAD.            Maybe it’s time to shake the structure.

MATE.         (leaps to feet)

Shake the structure?! You want to shake the bloody structure of war?! That’s my point, lad, that’s exactly it. To what possible end do you wish to shake the structure of war? What do you hope to accomplish? You must open your eyes, lad, and you must learn to see. You think you do see so you can’t see what you don’t see. You don’t see, but you can see, see? You don’t see this pattern, but you can, and once you see it you can become sensitive to these stirrings, these minor disruptions, these subtle perturbations. Think of the interrogator. What do you suppose sets him apart from us? Well, I’ll tell you, it’s his finely tuned sensitivity to these nearly undetectable stirrings in the pattern. He cannot be lied to, he cannot be deceived, because he has this other sense that most of us don’t even know about...

LAD.            (turns away from Mate)

The interrogator! Yes! I remember now, we’re waiting for the interrogator. Will he never arrive? How long must we wait?

(Lad goes to the far cot and lies down, turned away. Mate returns to his chair and book. After a few beats, Lad awakes and speaks from the cot.)

Will he never bloody come? You’d think it was us he was torturing and not this fellow.

MATE.         Who?

LAD.            Who what?

MATE.         Will who never come?

LAD.   Who? Who? What do you mean who? Who do you think?! The bloody interrogator is who!

MATE.   Oh, the interrogator. Why didn’t you say so? He was here. You were asleep.

LAD.            He? Who? Who was here? He?

MATE.         He, yes. The interrogator. Isn’t that who you were asking about?

LAD.            (leaps up)

The interrogator? Here? He was here while I slept? Why didn’t you wake me? Sweet baby Jesus! Do you mean to say that while I slept right here on this cot, while I slept, the interrogator entered this very room? Did he look at me? Did he remark upon me? It’s too much!

MATE.         Get hold of yourself. It happened. So what?

LAD.   So what, he asks. So what! So here we sit, day after day, saving this wretched soul for a miserable death...

MATE.         You make too much. He came, that’s all.

LAD.   But how can it be? I heard no screams. Our guest seems undefiled. There is no mess. The blades are clean, the bucket is empty. What did he say? What did he do?

MATE.   It was a very uneventful visit. The interrogator was only here for a moment. Didn’t even remove his hat and gloves.

(acts what he describes)

He walked to our guest – passing you with barely a glance, if it eases your mind – and stood behind our guest in perfect silence for what seemed an unusually long time. Just stood. Our guest seemed aware of the interrogator standing behind him, but it’s hard to be sure.

LAD.   And then? The interrogator stood behind our guest in perfect silence for what seemed an unusually long time, yes, yes, and then?

MATE.         And then, well, not much.

(continues acting out his words)

The interrogator leaned forward slightly so as to make himself better heard by our guest, and he asked a single question. Then he simply left as briskly as he had arrived. He didn’t even wait for an answer or any sort of reply, just left, poof!, as if he was never here.

LAD.   Poof? Poof! I can’t believe my ears! As I lay sleeping, the interrogator enters our little box, stands behind our guest, asks a single question, and then departs, poof!, without waiting for an answer? Do you deceive me? Am I deceived?

MATE.   I don’t. You aren’t. I have to admit, I found the whole thing a bit peculiar.

LAD.   A bit peculiar? A bit peculiar? It’s a bit peculiar to say the least, the very least, I should say? It might very well be the most peculiar thing I’ve heard of in this whole very peculiar war. And what, pray tell, did the interrogator ask our guest? I’m sure that his question will unravel this entire mysterious business. Well?

MATE.         Well what?

LAD.   What did the interrogator ask our guest? What was this one question that was so important that the interrogator made the journey here to ask, and yet so unimportant that he didn’t bother to wait for an answer? What – I implore you! I beseech you! – what did the interrogator ask our guest?

MATE.         Ah. He asked, “Why something instead of nothing?”

LAD.            (beat)

What? No. What? Repeat the question. Say it again.

MATE.         Why something instead of nothing?

LAD.            (Lad slowly sinks to the floor in horror, speaks in a frantic whisper)

No. It cannot be so. That cannot be the case. The interrogator could not have asked such a question. It is not to be believed. It is outside the bounds of reason. It is grotesquely, farcically, tragically absurd. What can it mean? What is the meaning of it? It defies reason! It is madness on top of madness. What does it mean?

MATE.         Don’t know. Haven’t given it much thought.

LAD.            Our guest speaks our tongue, then?

MATE.         I don’t know. He didn’t speak.

LAD.            But the interrogator must have thought he’d understand the question.

MATE.         So it seems.

LAD.            (stands)

So our guest has understood our every word?

MATE.         Maybe so.

LAD.   How can you be so calm? Why are you not in a panic? Where is your rational madness?

MATE.         You seem to have it managed.

LAD.   Do I have this right? “Why something instead of nothing?” Was that the question?

MATE.         It was. Exactly so.

LAD.            Dear God.

(spinning)

I can feel my head unspooling on the vertical axis. I am falling away in layers, peeling away in ribbons.

(stops spinning)

And how did our guest respond? Did he make any gesture to indicate that he’d heard or understood?

MATE.         Nothing.

LAD.   And after? After the interrogator left? Has our guest made any motion since then?

MATE.         No. Nothing.

LAD.            My mind is a stomped watch.

(stomping with both feet)

Spring-sprang-sprung! Springy-sprangy-sprung! I feel as if my head will spin away in one direction and the earth in another. Such a question! What do you make of it? What does the question mean?

MATE.         Well, now that I’ve thought about it...

LAD.            Yes, for chrissakes? Yes?

MATE.         Don’t know.

(Lad falls to the floor, scrambles for his helmet and puts it on. He crawls to the near cot, turns it on its side and hides behind it. After a few beats he appears over the top edge, Kilroy-like.)

LAD.   We are at war! Men die in red waves! The earth burns and the skies are choked in blackness. Mothers lose their sons, girls their lads, and babes their daddies. The world is mired in billowing gloom. Cannons and drums shake mountains, nothing sparkles or shines, green and blue have been eradicated and nature herself is in exile. The final words are soon to be spoken, the light of the future sputters and dims, and now the interrogator, the one in whom our last sliver of hope resides, our one small chance to reverse the red tide and reclaim the garden, this man at long last makes his way to our mysterious guest, and what, for the love of all that is good and holy, what does the mighty interrogator ask? “Why something instead of nothing.”

MATE.         Yeah, that’s it.

LAD.            (slamming the cot against the floor for emphasis)

Whadda ya mean, yeah that’s it? Yeah that’s what? That’s not it, that’s nothing! That’s not a question! It makes no sense! It cannot be reconciled with our current circumstances! It does not make sense within the present context! You must have heard it wrong!

MATE.   Nope, clear as day. “Why something instead of nothing.” More of a statement than a question, really, or maybe the answer to a question we don’t know.

(LAD disappears down behind the cot and reappears on the floor at the downstage end of the cot. He crawls to MATE’s boot and wraps his arms around it, beseeching.)

LAD.   It’s not true, is it mate? Admit it, won’t you? You’re having a bit of a sport with me, tell me you are. I understand, I really do. You find me tedious, my silly notions about peace and human values, I know it’s all a bit storybook, I know I’ve been a bit of a boor going on about hopes and dreams and a life beyond war, a life of money-grubbing and child-rearing and frivolous frivolty; green grass and blue skies and laughing babies and all that fluff. I know I’ve been very foolish and I apoligize to you, I relly do, deeply, sincerely, bottom of my heart. But now please, please be kind and spring your little trap already. You’ve had your fun, you’ve had your little joke, and it was a good one! No denying that. I’m laughing, I know it’s hard to see, but I am. Ha ha! Ha ha! I like a good joke mate, and I certainly had it coming...

MATE.         (stands and pronounces)

All is vanity and a chasing after wind.

LAD.            (arms wrapped around Mate’s leg)

Is it? Yes, I suppose it is, vanity and wind chasing, I suppose it really is. But, you know, what the heck, right? What the heck, that’s what I say. Vanity, wind, what the heck! I take your point, really I do. Now be a good man, be a good sport, and spare me, spare us all any further hijinks. Let us in on the joke, won’t you mate?

MATE.          (steps forward, dragging boot-clutching Lad)

Your question, it seems to me, is not whether I am having fun with you, which you know I am not, but rather, “Is it as it seems?” We say “It is what it is”, but is it? Is it what it is? And the answer to that question is that no one can answer that question. No one, not the Lord God Almighty or All the Acrobats, can possibly now if what seems to be actually is what actually is. All, then – extending this simple and irrefutable observation to its amittedly disappointing conclusion – is vanity.

LAD.          And a chasing after wind?

MATE.          Yes, and a chasing after wind.

LAD.          (releases leg, crawls downstage center and kneels)

Oh well, that certainly is disappointing, but also comforting in a way. I wish to continue pleading with you, but I’ve lost my vim. I wish to beat you to death, but I’m rather fond of you. I wish to blow my brains out, but I wish to know what happens next. I wish to question the prisoner myself, but I’m afraid of what he’ll say. I wish to march onto the battlefield, but I don’t want to be crushed beneath a stranger’s boot. I wish to make a stand, but I think I should think about it some more.

(folds hand in supplication, Mate approaches and stands before Lad)

I think I made a very bad mistake at some point, but I don’t know what it was or how to fix it. I must have committed some terrible sin to end up here, some sin so great that it brought me to this end, but can you commit such a sin and not eve know it? Can you arrive at such a place without knowing by what road you traveled?

(Lad takes Mate’s hand in both hands)

It’s you, isn’t it mate? You’re the interrogator, aren’t you? You all along. It’s okay mate, I understand, we all have our job to do. Is it you, mate? Are you he?

MATE.          I’ve often asked myself that very question.

LAD.    Ah, well, it’s all above my paygrade. Sorry I ate the entire saltine. What’ll it be then? Rematch? Care to have another go at the Undisputed Pinky Touch Champion of the World?

MATE.          I do.

(Mate kneels down facing Lad in profile to audience and they resume their game.)

Lights fade

INTERMISSION 2

GIRL.    Yeah, me again...yeah, they do this gimmicky thing between acts so I just come out and call you...

(looks in surprise at audience, speaks in audible whisper)

Oh my God, I think these people are eavesdropping!

(turns away, still audible)

No, no more babies, but it’s getting weird, I don’t know... I guess it’s just a bunch of different little skits, like, unrelated but kinda related, you know? Like, why not turn it into a story so people can understand it, right? Yeah, I know, right? Geez, don’t make me work for it...

GUY.    We still on for Sunday? Awesome. I don’t know if she likes sport, we only talked for a few minutes, had some appletinis first, you know... I think she’s talking to her roommate... What? Yeah, I don’t know, they just did this kinda creepy war thing, pretty wild but they’re getting, I don’t know, kinda philosophical or psychological or something... I don’t know, I got the tickets for free...uh,

(pats pockets)

I don’t know, play, I think, no play, play, supposed to be clever maybe...

GIRL.    Yeah, like torture, yeah! Like the last one was suicide and now it’s torture... You think I should be worried about this guy? I know, right? What’s the next one gonna be?

GUY.    I don’t know if I like it or not... you wanna just sit back and relax and this is like, you have to kinda think about it or something... yeah... like this one guy is all intense about patterns and he might be the other guy they’re waiting for but you’re not sure, and the other guy is younger but he’s worried about all the dams and planes and stuff, and there’s a saltine, I guess you gotta see it... and there was this nurse, she was pretty good...

GIRL.    No, they didn’t show any actual torture but I was really worried for this one guy, you could just tell he was gonna get it... you ever hear of pinky touch? Like, a game?

(laughs)

Oh don’t say that, the government’s listening... Hey, you ever wonder why there’s, like, something instead of nothing? Is that weird? That’s a weird question, right? I know, but still, you know, it’s kind of ... oh, I know, next time I definitely pick, right? Yeah, if there is a...yeah, yeah, we’ll see...

(music begins)

GUY.    Okay, they’re gonna get started again...next one’s about a parade or something... yeah, really... as long as it’s not just a couple of old farts just watching a parade, right? Yeah, really... okay, later...

ACT 3: PARADE

Transition music, sung by kids in a loop:

THIS IS THE SONG THAT NEVER ENDS.

IT JUST GOES ON AND ON MY FRIENDS.

SOME PEOPLE STARTED SINGING IT, NOT KNOWING WHAT IT WAS,

AND THEY’LL CONTINUE SINGING IT FOREVER JUST BECAUSE...

THIS IS THE SONG THAT NEVER ENDS.

IT JUST GOES ON AND ON MY FRIENDS...

SETTING

Along a small town parage route. Parade sounds such as drumming for marchers, music for band, etc. cheering of other spectators.

CHARACTERS

Husband and Wife: They are nearly identical; pale, chubby, seventy-ish. Large straw sunhats, flip-up sunglasses, white sunblock on roses, untucked Hawaiian shirts, knee-length khaki shorts, socks, sandals. They sit in cheap aluminium folding chairs. Both have small flags that they sometimes wave or gesture with. He has a folded up newspaper. She has a purse and her knitting.

They both address each other and soliloquize aside.

A Sousa-type march plays as HUSBAND waves flag and WIFE applauds with bouncy, seal-like enthusiasm. They are obviously watching a parade. Husband lays a hand on Wife’s forearm to slow her clapping. The music fades.

HUSBAND.   Please stop that, dear.

WIFE.   What? I’m only clapping. That’s what you’re supposed to do at a parade, dear.

HUSBAND.   Save something for the clowns.

WIFE.         Silly old poop!

(slaps Husband’s forearm playfully)

Mister Stick-in-the-Butt. Never let a girl have a nice time!

HUSBAND.   Stick in the mud, dear, not stick in the butt.

WIFE.         Same thing.

HUSBAND.   Very different.

WIFE.         Oh, I love a parade. It’s so exciting! Oooh, it’s giving me the bubbles.

(taps his forearm)

You hear that, dear? I’m getting the bubbles!

HUSBAND.   Yes, dear, I heard you.

(ASIDE)

The problem is, she uses the word bubbles to mean two very different physiological events, two very different physiological events, and you guess wrong at your peril.

WIFE.         (ASIDE)

You wouldn’t know it from looking at him, but he’s not a bad man. Good husband, good provider, good father and grandfather, what more can you ask?

HUSBAND.   What’s that, dear?

WIFE.         I said, this is a nice spot, isn’t it dear?

HUSBAND.   Oh yes, very nice spot, dear.

WIFE.         Are you savoring the moment, dear?

HUSBAND.   (leans in)

What’s that, dear?

WIFE.         Savoring the moment, dear. I asked if you’re savoring the moment.

HUSBAND.   Well, no dear, not right now I’m now.

WIFE.   If not now, when? If not here, where? Try to make an effort dear, it’s important.

HUSBAND.   Yes dear.

WIFE.         (ASIDE)

I have to remind him to savor or he’ll just grumble. I think it’s much nicer to savor than grumble.

WIFE.         Do you think there’ll be eleplahts, dear?

HUSBAND.   None for the last fifty-two years, dear, probably none today.

WIFE.   Fifty-two years, my, my. How many parades have we been to, do you think?

HUSBAND.   You and me?

WIFE.         Yes, dear, you and me.

HUSBAND.   Ever?

WIFE.         Yes dear, ever.

HUSBAND.   I don’t know, dear.

(counts on fingers)

Memorial Day, Veterans Day, Homecoming, Thanksgiving, Easter, Saint Pat’s, fifty some-odd years, four hundred parades, I guess.

WIFE.         (ASIDE)

Or, as he’s about to tell you, one parade four hundred times

HUSBAND.   (ASIDE)

In truth we’ve been to one parade four hundred times; this parade, always the same. Me and my wife have been to this exact same parade four hundred times.

WIFE.         (ASIDE)

He thinks I don’t know what he thinks, but grumbly people think grumbly thoughts. He thinks himself a man of many profound philosophical insights, but he got them all from t-shirts and bumper stickers.

HUSBAND.   (ASIDE)

She thinks I’m her nice sweet man. She has no idea I have thoughts of my own, thoughts I don’t share. Look at this newspaper, for instance. I’ve read this exact same newspaper twenty-thousand times. Every day of my adult life I have read this exact same newspaper. There is nothing new...

(band music interrupts)

WIFE.         Oh look, dear! It’s the high school band!

HUSBAND.   Yes, dear.

(both plug their ears and scrunch their faces as music gets louder and eventually passes)

WIFE.         Wasn’t that nice?

HUSBAND.   (snapping fingers next to ears)

Very nice, dear.

WIFE.         (rummaging through purse)

Would you like a nice piece of licorice, dear? I brought some nice licorice.

HUSBAND.   Do you have any crack cocaine up in there, dear? I’ve been thinking about taking it up. Heard a lotta good things. Or maybe some nice angel dust? It’s all the rage.

WIFE.         Angel dust? Oh, my, doesn’t that sound heavenly.

(rummaging in purse)

Um, no, no, I don’t think I have any angel dust, but I have a nice licorice somewhere.

(ASIDE)

Our grandkids are going to have kids of their own, soon. Can you imagine? Me and Mr. Sour Puss over here are going to be great grammy and great grampy. He pretends he’s not excited but I know he is.

HUSBAND.   (ASIDE)

The problem with life is it’s too damn long. What are you supposed to do with all this time? Thirty-six, forty years, that’s a good lifespan. Get in, get married, raise some kids, and get out. That makes sense. This hanging around for decades makes no sense at all. There is nothing new. There is nothing new under the...

WIFE.         Oh look dear, here come the majorettes twirling their batons!

(ASIDE)

And now we get to hear about 1962...

HUSBAND.   Get ready to duck! You remember that time in 1962 when one of them batons come flying straight at my head? Couldv’e killed me. And that little girl with the braces ran over to pick it up and she didn’t even say sorry for nearly knocking my head off...

WIFE.         (ASIDE) (knitting, Husband still speaking in background)

You’d think at some point I’d throw a hairdryer in his bath just to shut him up, but I actually find it very comforting. He doesn’t seem to have a memory in the usual sense, so every time he says something he thinks it’s new and interesting. I’ve heard it all a million times, so I know the right places to nod or chuckle or say “oh my” without having to listen, and that’s how we get along after all these years.

HUSBAND.   (regaining volume, Wife feigning interest)

...lucky I didn’t sue. People should be issued helmets if they’re going to let little girls hurl deadly weapons into the crowd.

(ASIDE)

Have I told that one before? Of course I have. I know it. Did it really happen? Doesn’t matter. I have a head full of stories and opinions and snappy comebacks, all just waiting for the right button to be pressed. That’s all it takes. Some word or event hits a play bitton in my head and the correct response comes out – familiar, well-practiced, smooth as silk – an actor playing a role. Hold on.

_(taps wife’s leg with newspaper and points audience left)

Look dear, here comes the businessmen on tricycles.

WIFE.         Oh, bubbles! Bubbles! Maybe they’ll throw us a candy!

HUSBAND.   (ASIDE)

Nobody dreams of such a life, you just wake up one day and find yourself in it. You’re not a ballplayer or a cop or a hitman and you never will be. It starts before you even know the other thing has ended. It starts as soon as you get on the right track. As soon as you get on the right track, it’s over. If I could go back now and have a talk with myself as a young man, that would be my advice; do not get on the right track. The right track is not the right track. Now she’ll offer sunblock for my nose.

WIFE.         Would you like some sunblock for your nose, dear?

HUSBAND.   No thank you dear. I still have some on.

(ASIDE)

There’s a decisive moment early in life, but it’s not clearly marked, and if you’re not paying attention you go zipping right past it, and then it’s gone and you don’t know you missed it until fifty years later when you’re waving your little flag and watching the parade go by.

WIFE.         (ASIDE)

The poor man can’t find pleasure in the little things. Savor, I tell him, savor! This parade may be your last.

HUSBAND.   (ASIDE)

Is today really the day I finally tear off my clothes and smear myself in excrement and join the parade twirling my own baton? That would get their attention. Then they’d take notice. Never mind that I have a distinguished war record or that I did my job for five decades or that I provided for my family and never complained. That’s not enough any more. These days, if you want to make your mark, a mark that won’t disappear the day they stick you in the ground, you have to get off the right track and make a mess. Marching in the big parade naked and smeared in feces may not be heroic, but it would make a mark!

WIFE.         (ASIDE)

I know he struggles with his lot in life – coulda been somebody! Coulda been a contenduh! – he doesn’t understand the difference between playing a role and performing a function. Everyone wants to be the star of the show, everyone wants to be the hero, but if we’re all heroes, then who sits on the sidewalk and claps? It’s natural to dream of being up on the stage slaying the dragon and saving the princess, but what could be nicer than watching from the audience? You get to let someone else deal with all the muss and fuss, and then you get back to your nice little box and savor.

HUSBAND.   (ASIDE) (stands and orates)

What do people gain from all their labors? Generations come and generations go, the sun rises and sets, the wind blows, rivers flow into the sea. Is there anything one can point to...

(points dramatically)

...and say, “Look! This is something new”? What is has been before and will be again. What is done has been done before and will be done again. I have seen much of wisdom and knowledge, and also madness and folly, and I learned that this, too, is a chasing after wind. There is nothing new.. there is nothing new... under the sun!

(sits)

WIFE.         (ASIDE) (singsong)

And many words mark the speech of a fool.

HUSBAND.   (taps Wife’s leg with newspaper)

You know what I sometimes think, dear?

WIFE.         (waving her flag)

That you haven’t made your mark, dear? That you missed the decisive moment? That your life has somehow passed you by?

HUSBAND.   Well, uh...

WIFE.   That if you had to do it all over again, you’d do it differently? That youth is wasted on the young and that your many years have taught you a thing or two?

HUSBAND.   I mean, well, uh, yeah...

WIFE.         (Wife stands, faces audience, oration building)

That it’s too late now? That your great symphony will go unwritten? That you will leave no sign of having passed this way?

(in full preacher mode, pointing with flag)

That you hear the blacksmith at his anvil and the sawyer at his boards as you stand upon the tailor’s pedestal? Stand up! Arise!

HUSBAND.   What?

WIFE.         Get up!

HUSBAND.   (stands, faces wife timidly)

Well, okay, I guess...

WIFE.         (as if possessed)

And the tailor of men asks of thee, “Which way does the gentleman dress?”

HUSBAND.   What now? Excuse me?

WIFE.         “Which way?” asks the tailor. “Which way does the gentleman dress?”

HUSBAND.   Dress? Oh, uh...

(turns away from wife, looks down to check)

...uh, left, I guess. Left.

WIFE.   And does the gentleman suppose the gentleman can dress right simply because the gentleman might have a notion to do so?

HUSBAND.   Um, well, no, I can’t just...

(floppy left-to-right gesture)

WIFE.   No indeed! The gentleman dresses left and that’s the way of it. One cannot just swiiing oneself over...

(gesturing side to side with flag)

...from left to right or right to lefft, can one? One is endowed as one is endowed, is one not? What would the world be if all the gentlemen dressed other than as endowed?

HUSBAND.   If who did what now?

WIFE.   If all the gentlemen dressed other than as endowed, then the natural order would be violated! Violated in principle! Violated in essence! A false note sounds. World on fire. The misalignment of the gentlemen heralds the misalignment of the cosmos. Fabric wrinkled. Unsightly bulges. Chafing. End of days.

HUSBAND.   End of days? Just because I switch my... ?

WIFE.   Pattern itself would be disrupted! And does the gentleman know what – above all else – does the gentleman know what cannot possibly happen? What can never, ever possibly happen?

HUSBAND.   Uh, no... what?

WIFE.         (Wife sits and becomes herself again)

Pattern cannot be disrupted, dear. Not possible. Pattern can never possibly be disrupted. Just can’t happen.

(she pats his chair, he sits, stunned)

The disruption simply becomes the pattern, you see? Isn’t that clever? Now be a lamb and have a nice licorice and savor the moment.

(hands him a licorice)

Here’s a clean one. Savor that. There’s my big fella. Are you savoring?

HUSBAND.   Yes, dear, I’m savoring.

(taps Wife’s leg with newspaper and points audience left)

Look, dear, here comes the clowns.

WIFE.         Oooh, bubbles! Bubbles! Maybe they’ll throw us a candy!

Lights fade

INTERMISSION 3

GUY.    Oh my God! It was just a couple of old farts watching a parade! I know, like I’m psychic or something, right? ... Hey, when a tailor asks you which way do you dress? ... yeah, okay, okay ... don’t say that, the government’s listening... yeah, that’s what I thought... no, there’s no tailor... well, the old lady was kinda possessed by a tailor I guess... no, no, I don’t know...

GIRL.   Oh my God! Why did he bring me to this? I know, right? You think he wants me to think he’s smart or something? When he said a play I thought there’d be a lot of, you know, wherefore art thous and stuff, but this is a lot more like, hey, I’m gonna take my clothes off and smear myself with poo and twirl my baton and stuff... I know, and old guy, right? No, he didn’t didn’t really do it...

GUY.      Yeah, I think she’s enjoying it...

(they share a wave)

It’s a little awkward cuase you’re not always sure when to laugh... like this old lady gets these bubbles and you’re, like, is that kinda funny or kinda gross or what. Yeah, next time I’ll just take her to a game so you always know when to cheer and when to boo, forget all this culture crap...

GIRL.   He put his hand on my hand, it was so awkward, like high school or something... I know, right? You don’t want to pull away but where do the hands go? I know, man up buddy, right? Don’t be such a ... yeah, I know, I know... Yeah, he’s on the phone right now, probably telling his friends he’s gonna score tonight... I know, right? Not unless this play starts getting its act together... Ooh, I just made a pun! I didn’t know I could do that! I should write that down...

GUY.   I don’t know... she likes appletinis, yeah, like eleven bucks a pop, yeah, so, we’ll probably do that and see... yeah, I got an early thing... yeah, hey do you ever think about patterns? No, I don’t know, just how, like, everything might be part of, you know, like some larger thing, like there’s just this one big...

(music begins)

Oh, hold on, they’re gonna start up again. They start each thing with a nursery rhyme, I wonder how many of these things there are... I don’t know, I don’t know, something about a debate...

ACT 4: DEBATE

Transition music sung by children:

HUMPTY DUMPTY SAT ON A WALL,

HUMPTY DUMPTY HAD A GREAT FALL.

ALL THE KING’S HORSES AND ALL THE KING’S MEN

COULDN’T PUT HUMPTY TOGETHER AGAIN.

(repeat)

CHARACTERS

Moderator: Thirty-something female

Science: Stately male in labcoat

Religion: Stately male in priest garb

Philo: 15 year old female

Opens on a stage like any informal debate. A handmade sign on an easel reads “Tonight’s Topic: The Nature of Reality”. Three lecterns with microphones, water bottles, etc. PHILOSOPHY middle, RELIGION and SCIENCE left and right. To the side sits moderator at a desk with a microphone, water, clipboard.

MODERATOR.    Welcome to tonight’s debate on the nature of reality. Viewpoints being represented tonight will be Religion, Philosophy and Science. I’ll push through the introductions so we can get right to it.

(consulting clipboard)

Representing religion is His Eminence Bishop Anthony Dellacroce, doctor of divinity and chairman of the university’s religious studies department.

(hearty applause from audience)

Representing the scientific point of view is Dr. Lionel Gelding, astrophysicist and quantum physicist and chair of the applied sciences department.

(hearty applause from audience)

And representing philosophy this evening will be Dr. Stanislav Paradovsky, holder of multiple degrees in various philosophical disciplines and professor emeritius...

PHILOSOPHY.   Uh, hello? Excuse me?

MODERATOR.   One moment, sir. Dr. Paradovsky is also a devoted husband, father of four and grandfather of seven. Dr. Paradovsky, did you wish to comment?

PHILOSOPHY.    Uh, yeah, like, uh, I’m not him.

MODERATOR.    You’re, like uh, not who, Dr. Paradovsky?

PHILOSOPHY.    Yes.

MODERATOR.   Yes what?

PHILOSOPHY.   I’m not Dr. Paradovsky.

MODERATOR.   Ah. And why not?

PHILOSOPHY.   Dr. Paradovsky gave me his invitation and told me to...

MODERATOR.   I don’t understand. Are you a member of the philosophy department?

PHILOSOPHY.   No, actually, I’m a sophomore in high school. I just had some quesitons about some, uh, you know, stuff, so I went to see Dr. Paradovsky and he...

MODERATOR.   You’re in the tenth grade?

PHILOSOPHY.   (brisk cadence, youthful lilt)

Well, yeah, uh... so I read this thing by Plato, the philosopher guy, and he said, like, how can we know if we’re really standing here talking, or if we’re actually asleep and just dreaming the whole thing, so that got me thinking, and the more I thought about it the more I wasn’t sure. So then I asked my homeroom teacher some questions that I thought were pretty simple, but she called me a smartass and said I should go to the university with my questions. So I did! I went to the philosophy department and I was following Dr. Paradovsky around asking my questions, but I don’t think he wanted to talk to me. And then this secretary reminded him that he had this debate on his schedule so he handed me his invitation and told me to go. He said I was a very annoying child and that this was the right place for me. I thought I’d just be in the audience, but when they saw the invitation they put me up here.

MODERATOR.   Well, this is highly irregular, but uh... what’s your name?

PHILOSOPHY.   Penny DeWitt.

MODERATOR.   (looks off to the wings for a ruling, finally shrugs)

Well, okay then. As a designated representative of Professor Paradovsky; Penny DeWitt.

(weak applause)

SCIENCE.   Excuse me? You’re going to let a high school kid participate in a sanctioned debate with department heads from respected institutions?

MODERATOR.   That’s correct.

RELIGION.   It’s absurd! Paradovsky can’t send someone to represent him just because he finds them annoying.

MODERATOR.   It’s a debate format, gentlemen. If you defeat her arguments then there shouldn’t be a problem.

PHILOSOPHY.   Uh, hello? I don’t really have any arguments.

MODERATOR.   There, see? Easy peasy, hope to die. Moving on. For purposes of clarity, our three participants will be referred to by their respective fields – Religion, Philosophy, and Science. Any qustions? Okay, let’s begin. Religion, in one brief sentence, please summarize your view of whiffleball.

RELIGION.   Whiffleball?

MODERATOR.   (checks clipboard)

Reality.

RELIGION.   The reality is that God is the uncreated creator of the universe and we are his children.

MODERATOR.   Science, same question.

SCIENCE.   The reality is that the universe is governed by immutable laws, and by observation and the application of scientific methodology we can come to understand what those laws are.

MODERATOR.   Thank you. Philosophy?

PHILOSOPHY.   What?

MODERATOR.   What is your summary statement? What view of reality will you be defending tonight?

PHILOSOPHY.   Oh, I don’t have one. That’s why I was following Dr. Paradovsky around. I just wanted to ask some questions and he called me a little brat and, you know, sent me here.

MODERATOR.   Are you sure you wish to continue with this?

PHILOSOPHY.   Well, yeah. Like I said, I just had some questions, like, uh, why is there something instead of nothing? I mean, that seems kind of an obvious thing, but...

MODERATOR.   Okay, Religion, why is there something instead of nothing?

RELIGION.   Because of God.

(ASIDE)

Duh!

MODERATOR.   Science? Why is there something instead of nothing?

SCIENCE.   How could there be nothing? It doesn’t make any sense. Reality isn’t nothing, it’s something.

(ASIDE)

Duh!

PHILOSOPHY.   Yeah, but is reality real?

MODERATOR.   Okay, Science, is reality real?

SCIENCE.   Seems pretty real to me.

MODERATOR.   Religion, is reality real?

RELIGION.   I don’t understand. What else would it be?

MODERATOR.   Okay. Philosophy?

PHILOSOPHY.   But how do we know? How do I know I’m even awake? How to we know anything?

MODERATOR.   Okay-doke. Religion, how do we know anything?

RELIGION.   We are informed by the Holy Spirit and illuminated by the spark of the divine.

PHILOSOPHY.   Yeah, but wait a minute...

MODERATOR.   Wait your turn. Science? How do we know anything?

SCIENCE.   We arrive at knowledge through rigorous observation, measurement and testing, through studies and reproducible experiments, and through the process of publishing and peer review.

PHILOSOPHY.   Um, excuse me? I don’t think you understood the question... I don’t mean why do we believe, I mean how do we know?

RELIGION.   When you open your heart to the love of Christ...

SCIENCE.   Oh, for the love of Christ! Experiment, measurement, review. That’s how we know.

MODERATOR.   Philosophy, same question. How do we know anything?

PHILOSOPHY.   I don’t know, that’s why I asked. I mean, I know I exist because I can’t be wrong about that, but I can be wrong about everything else, right?

RELIGION.   (tiredly)

Young lady, there is nothing new or exciting about your solipsistic approach.

SCIENCE.   (condescendingly)

We are all quite familiar with the Cartesian idea that the universe can’t be known to exist, and I assure you, we have left this little conundrum behind long ago.

PHILOSOPHY.   Awesome! That’s great, that’s why I’m here. How? How did you get past this problem?

SCIENCE.   Oh, well, we uh... we just scooted right past it.

RELIGION.   Danced right around it.

SCIENCE.   Gave it a wide berth.

RELIGION.   Steered well clear.

SCIENCE.   Turned a blind eye.

RELIGION.   A deaf ear.

SCIENCE.   Left it behind...

RELIGION.   ...and never looked back.

PHILOSOPHY.   Oh. Maybe I don’t understand. If you could just let me know how you solved the problem of how we can be sure of anything, then I can go home. That’s really all I came for.

SCIENCE.   I an assure you, young lady – and I speak for the entire scientific community when I say this – everything is exactly as it seems.

RELIGION.   Yes, young lady. Science and religion may not agree about much, but we certainly agree about this. The way things seem is the way things are. In short, it is what it is.

PHILOSOPHY.   Is it?

SCIENCE.   It is, and now that you have what you came for, goodbye.

RELIGION.   Off with you. Begone!

PHILOSOPHY.   Okay, thank you, I’ll go now. But... excuse me, what was it again? I’m sorry, I should have written it down. How to we know anything? How do I know I’m not just dreaming or living in a computer simulation? How do I know that what I call reality is not just a multi-sensory projection in the theater of my mind?

SCIENCE.   Objection!

MODERATOR.   This is not a trial. What’s your objection?

SCIENCE.   Asked and answered!

RELIGION.   Argumentative!

SCIENCE.   Badgering!

RELIGION.   I want her comments stricken from the record.

MODERATOR.   No record, not a trial. Please state your specific objection.

SCIENCE.   Well, for one thing, it’s dumb. How’s that?

MODERATOR.   Not very good.

RELIGION.   She hasn’t even taken a basic philosophy course, so she doesn’t know how this issue has been resolved.

MODERATOR.   And now she’s asking. She asked her teachers and they wouldn’t answer. Then she went to the university and they wouldn’t answer. And now she’s here. Will you answer? How has the issue of impossibility of objective knowledge been resolved?

RELIGION.   Well, as it happens, it hasn’t...

SCIENCE.             Yes, there seems to be a minor technicality...

MODERATOR.   Well, then the question seems to be whether or not science has any basis in fact.

SCIENCE.   What are you, nuts? It’s all facts! That’s what science is, facts! Here,

(slaps hand on podium)

this podium is a fact!

(holds up hand)

This hand is a fact! This air, this light, the eyes with which we see, the ears with which we hear, all facts!

RELIGION.   Facts require proof. Have you any proof?

SCIENCE.   Christ, who’s side are you on?

RELIGION.   Christ’s.

MODERATOR.   Science? Response?

SCIENCE.   To what?

MODERATOR.   You seem to be saying that everything is just as it seems. Can you prove that? Can you prove, well, anything?

SCIENCE.   What do you mean, prove? It’s obvious!

MODERATOR.   It actually doesn’t seem that obvious. Can either of you please answer Miss DeWitt’s question? It’s a very reasonable question and she has been very polite. You two gentlemen are experts in your fields so you must have some knowledge you can share. Religion, you first, how to you know you’re not just dreaming everything?

RELIGION.   Man has present within him the spark of the divine, and as we contain within us that which is of God, so we contain within us what which is all-knowing.

PHILOSOPHY.   But how do you know God’s not dreaming everything?

RELIGION.   Because then he wouldn’t be God, he’d be a loony-bird.

MODERATOR.   So the question is, does God have knowledge?

RELIGION.   Of course God has knowledge! He’s God, for chirssakes! He knows everything!

PHILOSOPHY.   But how do you know He knows?

RELIGION.   Because the Bible tells me so!

PHILOSOPHY.   But how do you know the Bible is right?

RELIGION.   (frantic)

Because it’s the word of God!

SCIENCE.   Oh my God, would you please leave the poor man alone. Can’t you see that his entire position is solid as a snot bubble?

MODERATOR.   Okay then Science, would you please answer the young lady’s question so we can move on?

SCIENCE.   Certainly. Anything to get this debate back on the right track. What was the question again?

MODERATOR.   Philosophy, please restate your question.

PHILOSOPHY.   You can believe anything, but to know something it has to be true. You can’t know something that isn’t true, so only truth can be known.

(waves to indicate surroundings)

This could all be a dream or a computer simulation or anything else, so my question is: How do I know anything? For instance, I see this podium and I see all you people who seem to be in this podium, therefore I believe the podium exists, but can I even know this podium exists?

SCIENCE.   Of course you can know the podium exists!

PHILOSOPHY.   Awesome! How?

SCIENCE.   It’s apparent! It’s right there! How can you say it’s not? You’re looking right at it. Your hands are on it. You see it, you feel it, you can smell it, you can knock on it and listen to it. You can stick out your little tongue and...

MODERATOR.   Okay. Philosophy, how do you respond?

PHILOSOPHY.   To what?

MODERATOR.   Science’s response.

PHILOSOPHY.   But he didn’t say how I know, he said why I should believe. I know appearances are very convincing, but my senses can deceive me. What I want to know is how I know. How do I know any of this is real?

SCIENCE.   Young lady, if you were an actual philosopher, you would know that there is no such thing as objectively true knowledge, only justified subjective belief.

RELIGION.   Justified subjective belief? Point of order! If science can’t prove anything, then it’s a belief system!

SCIENCE.   Science is not a belief system! Science is... science!

RELIGION.   What’s wrong with being a belief system? After all our bickering... Embrace me brother!

SCIENCE.   Ack!

RELIGION.   Let the record show that Science just admitted that it is, indeed, a belief system.

SCIENCE.   A justified belief system.

RELIGION.   It is only justified by consensus. Other people validate you, but who validates them?

SCIENCE.   Are you suggesting that the audience doesn’t exist?

RELIGION.   Can you prove they do? Can you prove you do?

SCIENCE.   Are you suggesting... wait, what are you suggesting?

RELIGION.   I’m saying I believe the audience exists.

SCIENCE.   Well, I don’t believe in belief.

RELIGION.   There’s only knowledge and belief. It must be one or other, so what do you believe?

SCIENCE.   I believe in facts!

RELIGION.   Which is a belief.

SCIENCE.   Facts are facts, not beliefs.

RELIGION.   So you believe.

SCIENCE.   Facts are not beliefs!

RELIGION.   So you believe.

SCIENCE.   Facts don’t require belief!

RELIGION.   So you believe. I can do this all day.

SCIENCE.   So I know!

RELIGION.   Believing doesn’t make it so.

SCIENCE.   That’s rich coming from you! As soon as science solves the problem of death, all your churches will turn to burger joints.

RELIGION.   And as soon as the Son of Man returns, all your laboratories will turn to lavatories.

SCIENCE.   What is crooked cannot be straightened!

RELIGION.   What is lacking cannot be counted.

MODERATOR.   (gavels with hand on desk)

Order! Order in the friendly debate! Please, gentlemen, stop your senseless bickering.

RELIGION.   But that’s what we do.

SCIENCE.   Yeah, it’s kind of our thing.

RELIGION.   That’s why they keep having us back.

SCIENCE.   Even though nothing ever gets settled.

RELIGION.   Because nothing ever gets settled.

SCIENCE.   And that’s why we don’t like to invite philosophy to our debates. They always muck it up with all their logic and reason.

RELIGION.   Yeah, look at this mess this little girl has made with one simple question!

(approaches Philo and stands to one side of her podium)

Look kid, we got a good thing here, okay. Look out there,

(indicates audience)

you see anybody asking you to come here tonight and rock the boat?

SCIENCE.   (approaches Philo and stands on the other side of her podium)

Why rock the boat? We have a two-party system and everyone’s happy with that. The brain has two hemispheres, see? There’s no third half, that’s just basic math, right?

RELIGION.   It’s basic math. The churh is thousands of years old. Millions of devoted followers, beautiful buildings, lovely attire. What are you? You’re just some kid.

SCIENCE.   Just some kid. Do you really presume to stand here and argue with the likes of Newton and Einstein and Hawking?

RELIGION.   God loves you, honey. Don’t you want to love him back?

SCIENCE.   Science is all about facts, kiddo. You like facts, don’t you?

RELIGION.   You want to go to heaven someday, don’t you?

SCIENCE.   Or outer space?

RELIGION.   You don’t want to go to hell, do you?

SCIENCE.   Or die of cancer?

RELIGION.   Philosophy can’t produce miracles.

SCIENCE.   Or create vaccines.

RELIGION.   Or grant sainthood.

SCIENCE.   Or feed the world.

RELIGION.   Or forgive your sins.

SCIENCE.   Or make the fun ones safer.

RELIGION.   They don’t put philosophy books in hotel rooms, do they?

SCIENCE.   They don’t ask philosophy to split the atom, do they?

RELIGION.   You’re not going to have a philosopher perform your wedding, are you?

SCIENCE.   Or your baby’s baptism?

RELIGION.   Or your parents’ funerals?

SCIENCE.   Has philosophy put a man on the moon?

RELIGION.   Built any great cathedrals?

SCIENCE.   Cured any disease?

RELIGION.   Caused any wars?

SCIENCE.   Won any wars?

RELIGION.   (in a high, mocking voice)

Oh hi! I’m philosophy! I think, therefore I am!

SCIENCE.   (in a high, mocking voice)

Yeah! I like to wear sandals and think all day!

BOTH.   La-di-da-la-di-da

MODERATOR.   Gentlemen...

SCIENCE.   Can philosophy do this?

(makes a funny face)

RELIGION.   Or this?

(does a funny dance)

SCIENCE.   No! Philosophy just sits there.

RELIGION.   Like a lump.

SCIENCE.   A lumpy little lump!

MODERATOR.   Order in the debate! Gentlemen! Please! Back to your podiums!

(they return)

MODERATOR.   If there is a record, that last exchange will be stricken. If there is a jury, they are instructed to ignore it. Let me remind everyone that Philosophy has asked one simple question: How do we know anything? It seems like a very reasonable question and so far has received no answer.

RELIGION.   (dabbing his brow)

Simple questions can be the hardest. I know that God is a living presence in all our lives, but I certainly can’t prove it.

SCIENCE.   (fixing his hair)

We can calculate pi to a billion digits, but we can’t prove that a circle exists. We can trace creation back to the big bang, but can’t prove that the universe exists.

RELIGION.   See what philosophy does?

SCIENCE.   Philosophy is dead.

RELIGION.   Philosophy is dead!

SCIENCE.   Modern philosophy represents little more than the failure of college counselors to guide incoming freshmen away from the hollow trappings of intellectual vanity.

RELIGION.   All is vanity!

SCIENCE.   And a chasing after...

PHILOSOPHY.   Wait! I’m not a philosopher! I’m just asking a question.

RELIGION.   According to you, you’re the only one in the whole universe and the rest of us are just characters in your dream!

PHILOSOPHY.   I never said that! Just because I know what’s not true doesn’t mean I know what is, and not knowing what is true doesn’t mean I don’t know what’s not.

RELIGION.   Ah, from the mouths of babes.

PHILOSOPHY.   (flattered)

Oh hey, thanks.

MODERATOR.   Philosophy, you were saying?

PHILOSOPHY.   Well, I’m not saying you’re all characters in my dream, I’m just asking how can I be sure. I mean, that’s pretty obvious, right? I know that everybody believes everything is just as it seems, but truth isn’t a popularity contest. And in response to the comment by science, I guess I pretty much agree.

SCIENCE.   What? No, wait... what? I object! I don’t want to be agreed with. This is a debate, is she allowed to agree with me?

MODERATOR.   I’ll allow it. Philosophy, what in particular are you agreeing with?

PHILOSOPHY.   That philosophy is dead.

RELIGION.   Good. Then it’s settled. This debate should be limited to science and religion. She admits philosophy is dead, so why do we need her?

MODERATOR.   Philosophy was invited, just like you.

RELIGION.   But she just said philosophy is dead!

PHILOSOPHY.   Can I say something?

MODERATOR.   Go on, sweetie.

PHILOSOPHY.   The reason I agree that philosophy is dead is because it lacks a solid foundation, and since religion and science depend on the same false foundation as philosophy...

SCIENCE.   Objection!

RELIGION.   Sustained!

MODERATOR.   It’s not a trial.

PHILOSOPHY.   Well, maybe it should be a trial. Let’s put reality on trial. Religion has their version, Science has their version, and my only version is how do I know I’m not dreaming? Or plugged into a computer? Or something else? How do I know any of this is real? How do I even know if there is a universe? How do I know anything?

RELIGION.   Objection!

SCIENCE.   Sustained!

MODERATOR.   Not a trial.

RELIGION.   Why is she even here? She’s just a kid!

SCIENCE.   No wonder Paradovsky gave her the boot.

MODERATOR.   Rules, please. Philosophy, would you like to further address the points raised by Science?

PHILOSOPHY.   Science and religion are based on the theory that everything is as it seems, but is it? That’s a fair question, isn’t it? We say “it is what it is”, but is it?

RELIGION.   Is what it?

SCIENCE.   Is what what?

PHILOSOPHY.   Is it what it is? Is it as it seems?

SCIENCE.   It’s indisputable.

PHILOSOPHY.   We’re disputing it right now.

RELIGION.   It’s self-evident.

PHILOSOPHY.   Only self is self-evident.

SCIENCE.   Objection!

MODERATOR.   It’s not a... oh, fine. On what grounds?

SCIENCE.   Badgering respectable people!

RELIGION.   Badgering the clergy!

MODERATOR.   Overruled

SCIENCE.   I declare a mistrial!

MODERATOR.   Dream on.

PHILOSOPHY.   You two aren’t here to debate, you’re just here to bicker. You’re like an old married couple, the left-brained husband and the right-brained wife. That’s why you don’t like Philosophy at your parties. Philosophy reiles on logic and reason, which is like Kryptonite to you people.

SCIENCE.   You try defending consensus reality as if it was real.

RELIGION.   It’s exhausting.

PHILOSOPHY.   What’s consensus reality?

MODERATOR.   It means reality is as we all agree it is rather than as we know it is.

PHILOSOPHY.   So then, science is consensus science?

SCIENCE.   No!

RELIGION.   Obviously.

PHILOSOPHY.   And religion is consensus religion?

RELIGION.   No!

SCIENCE.   Obviously.

RELIGION.   Consensus reality is like paper money. It has no value except everyone believes in it. It has no real value, only pretend value, which is fine as long as everyone keeps pretending.

SCIENCE.   Now we are confronted with a young girl who will not pretend, who has pointed at the emperor in his new clothes and declared him naked.

RELIGION.   When the world is a lie, to doubt is heresy.

SCIENCE.   And the raiser of doubt is a heretic.

PHILOSOPHY.   What’s a heretic?

SCIENCE.   A bull in a china shop.

PHILOSOPHY.   But I’m just asking questions.

RELIGION.   That’s all it takes.

PHILOSOPHY.   I came here tonight all excited thinking, “Oh boy! Now the real experts will answer my questions!” But there are no real experts, are there?

SCIENCE.   Objection! Argumentative!

PHILOSOPHY.   It’s a debate!

RELIGION.   Ambiguous!

PHILOSOPHY.   It’s black and white.

SCIENCE.   Calls for speculation.

PHILOSOPHY.   It calls for an answer.

RELIGION.   Calls for conclusion!

PHILOSOPHY.   Yes! Exactly! What’s wrong with that?!

SCIENCE.   Objection!

MODERATOR.   On what grounds?

SCIENCE.   Improper credentials!

RELIGION.   Lack of decorum!

SCIENCE.   Disruptive influence!

RELIGION.   Violation of protocol!

SCIENCE.   Extremely annoying!

PHILOSOPHY.   I object to both of you, how’s that? Both of you! Lack of foundation, that’s a real one, isn’t it? Beyond the scope of the witness, how’s that for an objection? Assumes facts not in evidence, how do you like that one?

(Science and Religion both have their eyes shut and their fingers stuck in their ears, and they’vre making gibberish sounds so they can’t hear anything.)

And Philosophy is no better, from what I can tell.

(Religion and Science both stop their noise-making and listen)

Philosophy is dead, and I think that’s because, if you think about it, there’s really nothing to think about. I think I am so I know I am, and everything else is just a crapshoot. Objective knowledge is impossible. There, I said it! What’s so hard about that? What’s everyone so afraid of?

SCIENCE.   You presume to tell us what’s true?

PHILOSOPHY.   I presume to ask.

RELIGION.   Well, we didn’t come to answer.

SCIENCE.   We came to debate!

RELIGION.   I rest my case.

SCIENCE.   Case closed.

MODERATOR.   (rises and leans on front of desk)

Well, Penny DeWitt, it looks like your answer is no answer. There is no such thing as objective knowledge. Truth and knowledge are things we can profess but never posess, so we live in a world of make-believe and make believe we don’t. Are you satisfied with that?

PHILOSOPHY.   Yes, because it’s true.

MODERATOR.   Closing comments. Science?

SCIENCE.   It’s true that truth is not a standard to which science can be held. Yes, I admit it; even though I stand here in the light, I cannot prove that light exists, or time, or space, or even matter for that matter. But truth is not the job of scence. The job of science is to deal with what we can, as well as we can, and to build upon it to carry us all into the future.

(exits)

MODERATOR.   Closing comments. Religion?

RELIGION.   Nothing said here today alters my views in the least. If anything, we have only deepened my certainty in the love and goodness of God. Religion is the heartfelt and indwelling gift of faith, and no claim of science or cleverness of philosophy could ever extinguish in me that which illuminates my innermost being. Religion is the guiding light of billions of lives and the darker life gets the brighter faith burns. Thank you for your presence here tonight, Miss DeWitt, I hope you find, if not answers, at least peace.

(exits)

MODERATOR.   Closing comments. Philosophy?

PHILOSOPHY.   It is what it is, they say, but is it? Does anything really exist? Is there something? Does nothing exist? Is zero a number? Am I a butterfly dreaming I’m a girl falling into a rabbit hole? I’ll never know, but now I know that I’ll never know, and maybe knowing that I know nothing is something.

(exits)

MODERATOR.   (slams hand on desk)

Debate adjourned!

Lights fade

INTERMISSION 4

GIRL.   I can’t talk long, I gotta pee... it’s okay, I’m sure the government knows people gotta pee... no, no, yeah, it was like a debate thing, I wonder how many more of these things there are... I don’t know, these old guys were kinda picking on this girl and she kinda kicked their butts, but then it ended nice... it was funny, a lot of back and forth stuff... I don’t know, they’re asking these big life questions or something, I know, who’s got time, right?

GUY.   Man, okay, that was kinda weird... they had this little girl and she was kinda stuck in a debate, right? And she was like, asking these really simple questions, I mean, you know, obvious stuff, and these like really smart old guys, like a religious guy and a science guy, and they just couldn’t deal, right? And the kid, the girl, you know, she wasn’t real smart or anything, but... you know, like the emperor’s new clothes? ... Yeah, it was like that, like this kid saw through all their pompous bullshit... what? Yeah, I don’t know though, I might have to google some of this stuff later, maybe read a book...

GIRL.   Yeah, who knows? He probably got the tickets free or something... you know you can’t even have snacks? I know, what a gyp! You just gotta sit there and watch... I was kinda nodding off but then they kept slapping their hands on the desks and stuff and I’m like okay, I’m awake! ... You know, science does all sorts of cool stuff, right? I mean, you can’t really make fun of science, can you? They know what they’re doing, right? ... I know, right? But did you ever kinda wonder...no, it’s dumb... no, never mind...

(music begins)

Gotta go. Yeah, no, no, I don’t know... I don’t know... I don’t know... yeah, I’ll hang a sock on the door... yeah, okay... later...

ACT 5: ANATTA

Transition music, sung by kids:

WHILE THE MOON HER WATCH IS KEEPING

ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT

WHILE THE WEARY WORLD IS SLEEPING

ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT

O’ER THY SPIRIT GENTLY STEALING

VISIONS OF DELIGHT REVEALING

BREATHES A PURE AND HOLY FEELING

ALL THROUGH THE NIGHT

SETTING

Semi-rustic cabin interior, messy, lived in. The space is softly lit with candles and lamps. Entry door and stone fireplace audience left where a fire burns. Rocking chair beside the fireplace and a couch facing it. Audience right, kitchenette, hall and bathroom out of view. Nearby a telephone stand with an old black rotary phone and a wall mirror. Downstage audience right, a small dining table used as a messy desk, littered with paper in sheets and crumpled balls, watter bottles, coffee cups, etc, a laptop on one end and a printer on a chair, a desk lamp lights the laptop and more debris. A waste basket is overflowing and surrounded by crumpled paper.

CHARACTER

Julie: Thirty-ish female. Frazzled. Thin. Wears loose jeans and a baggy sweater, unkempt, no make-up, bare feet. Long messy hair.

As lights come up we hear sounds of groans and retching. JULIE enters from bathroom, shutting off light and fan, wiping mouth on a face towel. She looks haggard, wipes mouth, tosses towel on floor, disappears into kitchenette. We hear fridge open and shut, bottle opening, gargling and spitting. She emerges with a plastic water bottle. She drinks some and sets it down among others littered about. She picks up a pad of paper and a pen from table and paces downstage center and scribbles almost violently before tearing the page off and throwing it aside.

JULIE.

No, no, no! C’mon godammit! Stop it, stop! Stop talking bullshit! Stop trying to go around it! Say it right! Stop trying to squirm away from it like such a...

(she stops pacing, writes maniacally, tears the sheet loose and throws it aside, starts again)

No, no, what’s wrong with you? Jesus! Fool! Coward! Liar!

(writes, pauses, sits down at the end of dining table without laptop and writes more)

C’mon, goddammit, look! You just have to look! You’re in it now. You chose this? This is everything you wanted. You asked for this. You chose this... Me, I did.

(reflects a moment, continues more quietly)

But no, I didn’t. I never chose this, not this. There was never any choice. This just came out of nowhere, just crashed into me like a...

(slams table)

BAM!

(she sweeps papers and debris off the table violently and buries her head in her arms, after a beat she emerges, stands, takes a calming breath, smiles, adjusts her hair and resumes pacing in small circuits)

Okay, Julie, slow down, think a minute. This is it, this is exactly where you want to be. This is what it’s all been for. Regardless of any other consideration, here you are, you are here. Here. Now. This is happening and there is no choice about anything. You’re in total freefall. Can’t stop, can’t go back, can’t even turn... like a bullet, like a train... on iron rails...

(sits back down)

But it can’t be done. No one could do it, I certainly can’t. No one could. Yeah, yeah, he did, but who knows about him? He doesn’t even seem real at time... just someone I dreamed up...

(yells upward)

Aren’t you?

(stands, speaks forcefully to self)

It can be done. It has been done. You wil do it. You must! You can’t not... it’s as easy as falling... sa easy as dying...

(paces)

No, no, no... stop lying to yourself... I was a fool to ever think it could be done... that I could do it... There is just no way... I can’t do it, I can’t take another step. I will physically tear my guts out before I continue this savage... emotional... mutilation... No! Stop it! Sit! Write! Think!

(she sits, fusses with hair)

Small steps, he said. One step at a time, he said. Yes, that’s the only way... That’s how I got this far and that’s how I’ll get further. Further, yes, further is everything, the only thing. One step, one little step, never look ahead, just worry about that next step... Stop yapping and focus goddammit!

(picks up her pad and pen, sits, writes, thoughtful, more calm)

Yes, yes, there it is, that’s it, that makes sense, keep going, you can do it... Is that it? Does that make sense?

(she stands, paces with the pad reading what she just wrote, holding the pad in one hand and conducting her thoughts with the pen in the other and, quietly speaking what she reads, very immersed...)

No, no, no, that’s wrong... that’s just, I’m just... is that right? It must be... but it can’t be, can it? It must be... but how? If this is right then... If this is right, which it is, then... oh c’mon, please no, no. Stop. Stop. Al you have to do is look, just look!

(stops, bends forward, takes deep breaths)

Breathe, he tells me... like I’d ever forget to breathe... He said I didn’t even know how to breathe...

(straightens, puts attention on her breathing, calms)

Ha! I laugh! How can anyone not know how to breathe? Jesus, we don’t stand a chance. One person who can help me and what does he say? Breathe, he says, take naps, drink water, don’t resist...

(yells upward)

Big help!

(a-ha moment)

That’s right... don’t resist... he said that...don’t resist. Am I resisting? I don’t think so, I’m trying not to... Yes I’m resisting. Of course I’m resisting. I’m peeling off my own skin piece by piece, it’s excruciating, how can I not resist? Small steps, that’s how. One step at a time... don’t look ahead, don’t worry about success, just worry about the next small step... that’s gonna take everything you’ve got.

(does to table, searches papers next to laptop)

Where is it, where is it...? Here it is. Here.

(reading)

“The pain comes from resisting. You can’t not resist, but you can resist less, but don’t resist the urge to resist.”

(she pauses to ponder that, continues reading)

“Surrender and allow, that’s the key. Surrender, allow the process to unfold. When it’s bad, you’re fighting it. Stop fighting and let it happen. It’s not a doing, it’s an allowing.” Okay, yes, I see that, but that doesn’t mean I can do it...

(looks back at pages, reads)

“Yes, you can do it... it’s the same for everyone... small steps, one small step at a time...” yeah, yeah, “sometimes when it comes off it comes off in layers.”

(tosses pages aside, happier now)

Oh my God, that’s right, it comes off in layers. That’s what that means. Just grab a piece and peal and then all sorts of stuff... whoosh! Just gone.

(in delight)

Ha! I laugh! Stuff I thought would never be gone... just gone. And you don’t even notice it’s gone until you look. You look and say oh my God, I was so fucking intense about my... whatever, my career, my looks, my boyfriend, money, future, and now I can’t even remember why. Did I ever really give a shit about that?

(continues to wonder)

And it’s not painful or wrenching, you just look back and see all the shit that’s gone. These things that hung from me like lead weights, like baggage, like garbage. Where are they now? Who cares! Gone is all! How strange. I thought I’d have to scratch and claw through every little piece of crap, but sometimes they just... wash away... Gone, just gone.

(clutches head)

Christ, my mind won’t stop racing, I have to relax...

(She picks up a throw blanket and looks around. She drops the blanket and pushes the couch away from fireplace upstage opening the space and leaving the couch facng downstage. She spreads throw blanket on the floor in front of fire, tries to center herself, breathes, performs a yoga posture, attempts composure and breath control for several beats, then falls to the floor retching and pleading)

Oh my God! Oh my God! What have I done? Mother! Mommy! Mommy! Oh no no no... Mommy pleeease... I want to go home...

(curls up in a fetal ball on the floor, sobbing and rocking, cradling the throw blanket like a doll, guttaral bursts, finally rises to sitting, hunched, weary, spent)

Months of this, months and months... and for what? So far to go, no way out, just falling, endless falling... how far? This can’t go on... I can’t go on.

(sniffs, laughs derisively)

Stupid! Don’t look ahead... Ha!

(rolls up onto knees, powering up again)

He did it. He did it. But he’s a freak, an anomaly... He had some advantage, something different, but that’s him, not me... What’s my advantage? I have no advantage... I’m going to die, no other way. Maybe that’s my advantage, the certainty of failure, the inevitability of failure. Yes, there’s a freedom in that... in certainty. That’s fine. Just as well. Can’t run home to mommy... no going back... Burn your bridges, he said; consciously, deliberately, with malice aforethought. That’s what he said. Burn it all.

(stands, holding blanket, head down, thinking, processing)

Go back? Ha! Wouldn’t if I could. Back? Back to what? Back to some primitive state I called life? Never gonna happen, no way. Humans can’t go back to being monkeys and I can’t go back to being human.

(tosses blanket onto couch, paces, speaks thoughtfully, sanely)

I’d rather die than go back. Yes, there, that was wasy enough... and it’s true, that’s what matters. It’s the truth. I’d rather die doing this than live like I was. I’d rather fail at this than succeed at anything else. That’s true, that’s my power, that’s my advantage. It must have been his too. What other advantage could there be? Destiny? Fate? Karma? Bullshit! What else is there? Failure is my advantage. Death is my advantage.

(realization)

Oh shit, that’s surrender! That’s what he said. Surrender. Free from hope, free from desire, free from expectation. I can’t die if I’m already dead.

(she wraps herself in the throw blanket, curls up on couch)

Rest, I have to remember to rest. When did I sleep? Who knows. Day, night, day, night... is there still a world out there. Was there ever? How could I be so wrong? What a fool, but no more. I do this or I die trying, clean and simple. My life is completely blown to pieces, completely shattered, but for the first time it all makes sense.

(fading)

Do or die. I don’t care which, but no more of what it was. That’s over forever.

(nearly asleep)

All I want is to cut myself out of these tangled nets of...

(sits up, alert)

Food! Eat! I have to remember to eat. Powerbars and good water, he said...

(she picks up an open powerbar from the floor, unwraps, takes a bite, rewraps, tosses it back)

There, I ate. Happy? Oh, that’s right, I crashed for a few hours a few days ago. That was nice. Took a shower, ate some soup, almost felt clean... then it started again. Was that only a few days ago? Maybe a week. Seems like a lifetime... seems like I was different person then... Don’t look back. Why look back? Trust the process, he says. There’s higher things at work, he says. Observe the pattern, he says. Yes, I understand, but it doesn’t help when this sickness comes, when my guts get all twisted up and my brain starts burning and the energy is too much for my body...

(stands, goes to laptop, speaks as she types)

Email ninety-, what, ninety-two? Hey, are you there? I know you’re not but I think you are. I spoke to Cathy yesterday, she called to make sure her little sister’s okay. She asked me if I thought I was cracking up and I was so tired I accidentally told the truth. I said “What the fuck do I care?” I guess I’ve been saying that a lot lately because she got all pissy and asked if that was my answer to everything. She was just asking rhetorically, but I thought about it a moment and realized that yes, actually, that is my answer to everything. It was one of those awesome moments of clarity that light up a dark corner you thought you could never be clean. What the fuck do I care? Ahhh. It’s like taking a long overdue bath and washing away layers of grime that were hardened like a crust and you come out all pink and frsh and ten pounds lighter. In the world but not of the world, you said. That’s what I am now. I’m not mean or evil or bad. I’m simply no longer of the world, a thing apart. What a liberating realization! How nice to shed all that filth and be so clean. Thanks sis! I guess you never know where it’s gonna come from. Send!

(she stands and starts picking up pieces of paper off the table and the floor, examining some briefly, keeping one or two, strolls to fireplace, reads from a page slowly and thoughtfully:)

“If thy eye offendeth thee, pluck it out, if thy right hand offendeth thee, cut if off and cast if from thee, for ‘tis better to have one eye...” yeah, yeah... “for ‘tis better that the members should perish than the whole body be cast into hellfire..”

(balls sheet and throws in fire)

That’s this alright. Cut off the offensive part to save the... save the what? What’s left to save when all the parts offend? Nothing. Nothing is saved, nothing is fixed, nothing is made better. So what’s the point? There is no point, I knew that in the first moment when this whole thing started... I am already dead. I keep thinking I’m supposed to be becoming something but I’m really becoming nothing... seems like a lot to go through just to become nothing.

(returns to laptop, sits and begins writing while speaking)

Email ninety-uh...three. Am I insane? I wonder. I know I’m not, but that doesn’t mean I’m not. It’s okay if I am, I wouldn’t mind... it’s actually kind of comforting, I could wrap myself in insanity like a warm blanket. I’m certainly talking to myself a lot, but it doesn’t seem crazy. It seems natural and necessary, like if I didn’t talk I would explode... Maybe that’s how crazy people see it... like maybe they see things in a way no one else does so they have to tell someone, but they only have themselves... Is that me? I definitely see things... way different from everyone else, except for you and I might have imagined you...so yeah, that sounds pretty crazy. If anyone were watching me now they’d definitely think I was – what would it be? – schizo? manic? bi-polar? – I mean, screaming and crying one minute, writing the next, puking the next, calm and normal the next, and then it starts again... and again and again, day after day, for months now! And no end in sight. That’s gotta be crazy... and here’s the kicker, here’s the one that seals the deal, the final nail in the crazy coffin; I absolutely, positively believe that I am sane and everyone else is insane. There’s no getting away from that one. I can’t even deny it. It’d be pretty funny if it weren’t so goddamn funny. Send!

(she stands and stares at her laptop for a beat, then picks up a messy pile of papers and walks slowly to the fireplace)

What if I am crazy?

(speaking in short bursts while scanning pages)

Crazy is okay. Not so bad. Some parts bad. Some parts good. Crazy life. Crazy me. Live on the street. People do. Have my own shopping cart. It can be done. Become and addict, a hooker, both, whatever. Doesn’t matter. Only this matters. There is nothing else. There is only this. Whatever. I can go on. Whatever.

(throws a few pages into fire)

I say I can go on, but that’s just bullshit cheerleader talk.

(peppy)

Rah rah, you go girl!

(normal again)

Trying to get my game face on, convince myself it can be done when I’m not looking, but as soon as I do look I know it can’t be done. Still, I have to keep going... no stopping, no turning back, no hope of getting out alive... no hope. What a life... I was a girl, a person, a daughter, a sister, a citizen. I had a life, friends, career... all gone... plans, marriage, love, motherhood... all gone. Do I miss them?

(pauses to consider)

No. There is no me left to miss anything. That part is gone.

(she walks back to her desk, on top of the printer is a stack of papers like a manuscript, an inch thick; she thumbs through it, pausing here and there, shaking her head)

My manifesto. Can’t be crazy without a good rambling manifesto explaining why the whole world is crazy and I’m the only sane one.

(strolls back to fireplace while reading, tosses a few pages at a time into the fire)

This was, what, the seventh draft? Tenth? I lost track... who cares? Who’s it for? Me? Him? I’m the only one left. There’s only me and I’m long gone.

(tosses more pages in fireplace)

Maybe the next version.

(tosses rest of manuscript in fire, yells to unseen someone above)

Can you hear me?! I called the suicide helpline last night to talk... Got a message. Ha! I laugh. Budget cuts. You said you wouldn’t let me cling to you... that it wasn’t your job to save me but to let me drown...

(quietly)

No on can save me... nothing to save...

(wraps shoulders in throw blanket and paces, softer now, almost romantic)

Maybe tonight I’ll sit out again, sit in the rocker on the porch, wrapped in a blanket, looking up at the stars and thinking about death. Not just death... my death. My one true friend. None of this would be possible without the thought of death. If I didn’t know death was always so near, so close...

(puts her right hand on her left shoulder, as if death’s everpresent hand, sits in the rocker in front of the fire, rocks gently for a few moments)

They don’t tell you about this. They don’t tell you because they don’t know. But why don’t they know? It’s all so obvious. What could be more obvious than this? This is literally the most obvious possible thing. How is this, of all things, a mystery? Why don’t they teach this in school?

(stands, still wrapped in blanket, speaks frantic rant, like all one sentence, while pacing in short circuits)

History, math, science, are you kidding? Oh my god! Who would possibly care about any of that crap? How can they be so... so vapid? So unconscious? Is it some sort of joke? Some conspiracy? A conspiracy to do what? What is accomplished? What is the end result? Cui bono? Cui bono? All of humanity stays in a state of...rancid dismay, fatuous ignorance, bloated torpor...

(stops short)

Torpor? Where did that word come from? I don’t think I ever used that word before...

(grabs a dictionary off the mantle, finds the word and reads)

“Torpor: sluggish, lethargic,dormant, like a hibernating animal.” Well, that’s the right word alright. Where did it come from? I never used it before.

(replaces dictionary, resumes pacing, slow, thoughtful)

There’s more at work here, he said. Something more than me, some overlighting something. I see it now. I used to see it a little here and there, now and then, but now I seem to see it everywhere, all the time. It’s not a doing, it’s an allowing, he says, and that’s right because whenever I allow, it just unfolds perfectly... every time... better than I could ever do. Yes, there’s more at work here... Bullshit! I’m just stalling now, looking up words, trying to take a step back and observe... trying to act sane, shut out the storm...

(mania building again)

This, right now, this is the calm. Ha! I laugh. This is the calm but the storm rages on. It comes. It comes. I feel it, it’s already churning my guts. I don’t know how I survived the last and now... now another... Too much, way too much, can’t be done... Why can’t this just be over? It will never be over...

(rushes to laptop)

Write to him again... he told me to... as much as I need... part of the process...

(drops blanket, shakes out hands to dispel excess energy, sits at laptop and speaks as she types)

Are you there? Do you exist? This is my, let’s see, ninety-fourth email to you. Do you read them? Do you even know I sent them? Are you really out there? Are you just a part of the dreamworld I woke up from, or are you the one real thing? I have to think you’re real even though we both know you’re not... Maybe you’re my death. Ha! That’s a heartwarming thought. You’re with me now, hand on my shoulder. That’s a comfort, but it’s just sentimental bullshit! I can’t indulge in any kind of bullshit anymore. The slightest whiff sends me on a total freakout. I’m between storms for the moment. I thought I got myself to solid ground but already I can feel it slipping away. I’m trying to hold it back but it’s coming. I try not to look.

(rereads what she has typed, mouthing the words, speaking quietly and quickly)

Vomit. Emotional puke. Gorging and disgorging. Spiritual bulimia. Fuck it. Don’t read it, don’t fix it, just send it. Send!

(stands, looks around tiredly, sits to write again, speaks as she types)

Shit. Ninety-five. I swing slowly back and forth between crushing fatigue and shrieking mania. This aching tiredness though... my body can’t keep up. I’ve probably lost thirty pounds, I’m down three sizes, maybe four. My face is gaunt, my clohes don’t fit. I know I should eat, go for walks, get some rest... but it just seems so irrelevant. Ha! I laugh. Relevant to what? There’s nothing left to be relevant to. I am damned. Damned for looking, for doubting, damned for asking why. Send.

(she stands and walks to a wall mirror, speaks to her reflection in old lady voice, wags finger scoldingly)

“You always seemed like such a sensible girl. Look at you now. How exactly does one manage to fall of the planet, dear?”

(turns away from mirror)

I look like hell... so what... it doesn’t mater how I look and it will never again. My time among humans is over...

(lifts a bottle of whisley from a shelf)

Maybe this would make it easier.

(sets if back down)

I don’t want it to be easier, I want it to be harder. Not in dribs and drabs...

(big, chest-thumping arm gestures)

I want it all! Now! Full force! Kill me with it! This is it! This is everything, the only thing, here, now, waiting for me to find it... I know I won’t find it.. I know there’s nothing to find... I knew that from the very first second back... back...

(looks upward)

...back when I was still with you.

(pauses, reflects, sits and speaks as she types)

Ninety-six. You told me what to do. You said that the only way to win was not to fight. The only power it has is the power I give it, you said so... so, fine! I strip off my armor. I drop my sword and walk naked into the flames.

(rereads last sentence in a low voice)

Ewww, yuck! Sorry for the poetic bullshit, but I promised I wouldn’t edit myself so I’ll leave it in... Don’t identify with your character, but what is an actor without a role to play? Nothing, a cipher, zero, the absence of presence.

(pauses, reflects, types)

You were right, it’s not about courage, is it? or cowardice either... Just fear and slow death. Just a slow sinking into a warm bath of acid... That which is exposed shall burn away, and all will be exposed. Nothing hidden, nothing witheld.. No choice...

(ponders, types)

Was there ever a choice? I don’t remember a time when I chose. I didn’t choose this. No one would ever choose this. But here I am. Careful what you wish for. Send.

(stands, agitated, drinks from a water bottle, sits back down and types as she speaks)

Ninety-seven. My friend, my only friend, the time approaches when I must feed you to the flames as well. I know it. I have known the end since the beginning. Here in a place of childhood laughter I continue my mad descent into sanity. That’s okay. It must be and it is. I am both consumer and consumed, but what remains when the terrible meal is over? And who will we be, we who know war, who will we be when war is gone?

(beat)

Who cares? None of my business. I have a job to do and everything else is a stall tactic. I dissolve in my own acids. I digest myself. Send.

(stands, paces, sits again, types as she speaks)

Shit. Ninety-eight. One more thing while I have you... My mistake is thinking that I might somehow survive, or that I even want to. There’s no surviving this. This is it, this is the end. I’m falling to my death and there’s nothing I can do but fall. The outcome was certain since the falling began, since I was with you. Send.

(stands, walks to couch, flops)

Brace for impact, he said. Smart ass. An impact is over in a split second, that’s nothing compared to this endless falling. No more, no more. I’m done. That’s what this is, the end... the end of something that never was. It’s ridiculously true, I am a zombie, a living but uninhabited body.

(eyes closed, speaking as if in prayer)

This too shall pass... This too shall pass... This too shall pass...

(jarring phone ring, older grating bell, she jumps)

Jesus!

(another ring, she clears her throat and tests her bright cheerful voice)

One, two, one, two, three.

(ring, she makes a phone of her hand)

Hi!

(croaky, coughs)

Hi mom!

(cough)

Hi mom, yes, fine! Yeah everything’s...

(ring)

...great!

(stops trying)

Shit, I sound like I look.

(adjusts her hair, phone rings again and stops mid-ring, she stands, paces)

Gotta talk to her... gotta convince her I’m okay. Can’t have anyone showing up to check on me... stick me in a hospital... seven day psych-eval...Ha! That might be nice... a medication vacation...

(holds imaginary phone to ear, tries voice)

Hi mom! Yeah, it’s going great!

(clears throat)

Hi mom! Yeah, yeah, it’s going great!

(clears throat, drinks water)

Hi mom! Yeah, everything’s fine here, just what I need!

(massages throat, trying to get her happy voice back)

The book? Oh, great! It’s really coming along... really catching my stride. Oh, a few more months at least...

(facade cracking)

Great, great, everything’s great! Just great! Just fuckin’ great, mom! No mom, there’s no book, that’s just what I told you to get the cabin. No mom, no more career, no more dreams of being a writer... No, mom, I don’t think I’ll be finding a man and settling down anytime soon.

No mom, sorry, I think babies are off the table too, sorry... so sorry... sorry to disappoint. Yeah mom, funny thing happened... I’m going through a little something, ha!... no, no, just a little meltdown... no, sorry, not the kind you come back from... no, sorry mom, one way trip, sorry to disappoint... your daughter got caught up in some weird zombie vampire undead shit and now she’s gone gone gone... You caught me at a bad time, I was just in the middle of killing you mommy, slicing you out of my heart like a tumor...

Yes, mother! I know what it sounds like. I know exactly what it sounds like! It sounds totally batshit fuckin’ crazy cuz that’s exactly what I am!

(softer)

Goodbye mommy.

(hangs up imaginary phone)

I need more practice.

(she stands, enters kitchen, comes out with a bottled water like others littering the room, opens, drinks, set it down absently)

A shower would make me feel better, a shower, a nap, a walk in the woods. That’s what he’d say; go for walks, breathe correctly, get some rest. Yeah, that would make me feel better, all clean and fresh, but I don’t want to be clean and fresh. I want to be muddy and bloody and raw. I want to remember where I am. I don’t want to slip off on a little R&R. This doesn’t wait. I don’t want to go drink a latte or see a movie, I don’t want to know what’s going on in the world, I don’t want to know how anyone is doing... Ha! How can anyone watch a movie or a play or laugh or go to work or do anything with this massive black ball of cancerous shit coating their soul? I don’t want to think about anyone or be thought of by anyone or spend a single minute doing anything other than this.

(pauses, looks around suspiciously)

It’s quiet now but that’s just a trick. The calm before the storm. The pattern, always the pattern, flowing and bending, folding and reforming. As soon as you think you’re okay and try to relax you get that first little tingle, that first little warning that it’s starting again, that first little twitch...

(phone rings, she jerks, startled)

Yeah, like that.

(ring)

Jesus, what do they want? These people. Don’t they know? Can’t they sense it?

(ring)

Can’t they tell I’m gone? Can’t they feel the empty space where I used to be?

(ring)

They’re like demons to me now, clingy little tormentors...

(ring)

...voices from the past, clawing at me...

(ring)

..trying to pull me back down. I hear them calling, incessantly calling – RING! RING! RING! – and I have such an urge to answer, to respond, to climb back down into the darkness and grapple with them, but I can’t. I must get to light, not crawl back into that putrid sewer...

(she’s up and getting frantic, bouncing off the walls, shaking out her arms, building up energy with no outlet)

I’d like to go for a walk but we’re not supposed to go out at night without the dog, but she just wants to stay on her bed these days.

(voice of child mocking parents)

Stay close at night, children. Bears are out at night and they like to eat little girls!

(normal again)

Do they? Do bears eat little girls? That wouldn’t be bad. Eaten by a bear... eaten by a bear... hmmm. I wonder if they kill you or just rip your face off? Face ripped off is not a good look for me. Maybe struck by lightning... how bad could that be? Over like that...

(snaps)

...and it sounds pretty cool. Nothin’ left but smoking shoes. Eaten by bear, struck by lightning... bear, lightning, hmm, both sound okay. What else is there? Rabid squirrel. Yuck. Nasty corpse, btu what corpse isn’t nasty? Swept downriver in a flash flood, body not recovered. Ha! Not recovered sounds better than mauled or fried! Fell from a ladder while picking fruit? Too poetic, too pastoral. What about self-digested? Leaving no trace... yes, that’s the one. She simply consumed herself... Death by honesty. Poof! Gone as if she never was...

(stops energetic movement, tries to calm, shake off energy, can’t, doubles over, smashes fist against leg)

Fuck you, you whining fool! You coward, you pathetic weakling. The nastier the corpse the better. Rotten, stinking bloated maggot-infested...

(bends, hands on knees)

...fuck all pretty thoughts...

(on the edge of hyperventilating)

...fuck this bullshit inside me... fuck how it got there... fuck that part of me that protects it... fuck this whole goddamn stinking mess.

(stands slowly, rigidly)

How do you like your little princess now, daddy? How do you like your little ballerina now, mommy? Try not to entertain negativity, they say. Ha! I can’t entertain enough negativity. I have become a fire-breathing dragon of negativity. There is nothing I won’t burn, nothing I won’t destroy. With malice aforethought, goddamn right. There’s no stopping this. There’s no hiding from this, not this, never this...

(resumes deep breaths, becomes calm, speaks deliberately)

I said to myself, Look! I have experienced much of wisdom and knowledge, and also of madness and folly, and I learned that this, too, is a chasing after wind?

(agitated pacing)

Breathe, relax, it’s coming, I feel it and I know what it is. It’s exactly what I didn’t want it to be. The exact thing I didn’t want it to be is exactly what it is. I tried not to look... Too soon, too much... It can’t happen... it can’t be stopped... So this is how it finally ends...

(goes to window, looks out)

Imagine being afraid of death...Ha! Was I? I was, but that wasn’t me, that was her. I’m not afraid of the dark, I’m afraid of the light; the terrible cold light where everything is completely visible and there’s nothwere left to hide...

(turns away from window)

Yes, here it comes...

(walks to mirror, speaks weakly)

All I ever did... all I did was ask why.

(inspects reflection, speaks roughly)

Don’t be fooled by appearances! You’re not some litle girl playing out her little girl dreams anymore...

(turns away from mirror, transforms)

I am a soldier now, a true warrior! I have a single objective... I am locked on like a laser. Survival is irrelevant. I will locate this cancer in me and I will destroy it... all such cancers, wherever they grow, whatever they look like... family, future dreams, beliefs, fears, my very heart... Yes, if my heart offendeth me I shall pluck it out and cast it from me. Burn it all. What I’ve dared, I’ve willed and what I’ve willed, I’ll do! How can the prisoner reach outside except by thrusting through the wall?

(hits wall switches to dim the room, strides to front and center, powerfully)

Captain on the bridge! All hands to battle stations! Red alert!

(adopts a command posture)

This is not a drill, people. This is some real-world, ask-no-questions, take-no-prisoners shit. We’re going in!

(laughs crazily and shakes arms and hands as if to realease energy)

Ha! Goddamn right we’re going in. This is it, people, no more tomorrows! It has been a pleasure serving with you. Brace for impact. Here we go. Rock ‘n roll!

(stands down, paces, hands on hips, speaks with energy)

That’s right, that’s exactly right. I am the captain of this ship and this is the one true war and we are fresh out of tomorrows. Every drop, every ounce, nothing in reserve, nothing held back... Ramming speed!

(pauses, turns forward and throws arms back, chest forward, as if exposing breastbone to unseen sword)

Here I am. I lower my shield, expose my heart. I am open. I will not relent. I will not go back a single inch. Slay me!

(releases posture, pulls her hair back tight and ties it)

Ha! This is it, this is the war, this is the game! There is only this, there was always... only... this. Now I know. There is nothing I won’t do, nothing I won’t burn, no one I won’t put to the torch.

(upward)

Even you. When the time comes, even you.

(back to pacing)

The path to my fixed purpose is laid with iron rails whereon my soul is grooved to run. Goddamn right it is.

(speaking deliberately, through clenched teech)

The path to my fixed purpose... is laid with iron rails... whereon my soul... is grooved... to run.

(laughs a bit maniacally, pulls of sweater, now in gray sports bra and jeans, hair tight back)

The path to my fixed purpose is laid with iron rails. Yes it is. And on those iron rails my soul is grooved to run. Despite everything, regardless of the pain, the loss, the certainty of the outcome, I am the happiest I have ever ever been, the happiest it’s possible to be.

(strips off jeans and throws them aside, now in matching gray underwear, faces destiny, raises hands slowly, like a kid with shaky balance letting go of handlebars for the first time)

This is what it means to be in control. I control nothing, yet I am in perfect control. I know nothing, yet nothing is unknown. My surrender is absolute and my victory assured. C’mon you bastards, you loves and lovers, you lovely dreams and dreams of love, all to doom! All to flames and ash! There is only this and even as it shreds my heart and rips my soul to pieces there is no place I’d rather be. Ha! I laugh!

(throws arms up in victory)

I have already won!

Lights fade

INTERMISSION 5

GUY.   Yeah, me, jesus, wow, that one was fucked up. I have no idea what I just saw. Listen, by the way, I uh, don’t have a massive ball of black shit coating my soul like a cancer, do I? I mean, no, never mind, stupid question, I know... Theater, right? Yeah, no shit... You ever wonder if it’s all theater and we’re all just... what? No, yeah, we’re still on for the game...

(Guy and Girl wander close to each other)

Hold on, I can’t hear you, whatsername can’t stop yappin’ into her phone every time thre’s a break... can’t just be alone with her thoughts for a minute... I know, right?

GIRL.   (annoyed by Guy, terse wave, turns and moves away)

Jeez, this guy’s really grinding my nuts. The play? I don’t know, the first one was cute, with these babies and everything, then the next one was like war and torture and some philosophy stuff or whatever, then there was like a funny parade thing and then a weird debate thing, it’s gettng a little too... something... I’m not sure I like theater. I hope the next one is...

(music starts)

Shit, gotta go...

ACT 6: FEDALLAH

Transition music, sung by kids:

OH! JOLLY IS THE GALE,

AND A JOKER IS THE WHALE,

JUST A’FLOURISHIN’ HIS TAIL,

SUCH A FUNNY, SPORTY, GAMY, JESTY, HOKY-POKY JOKER IS THE WHALE, OH!

WHEN THE BLACK STORM CLOUDS ARISE,

AND THE LIGHTNING CRACKS THE SKIES,

THEN HE NEARLY SPLITS HIS SIDES,

SUCH A FUNNY, SPORTY, GAMY, JESTY, HOKY-POKY JOKER IS THE WHALE, OH!

SETTING

Quartedeck of the Pequod. Day. A soft but distinct sun setting behind red and black clouds.

CHARACETRS

Ahab: Captain. Spent, grizzled, burnt, gray, charred, ashen, missing leg replaced with whalebone.

Starbuck: First Mate. Young, handsome, courageous, decent.

Fedallah: A shadowy figure staring malevolently out from a dark corner, holding harpoon. Large face and head, high braided black hair, darkly exotic, demonic red eyes. Only visible as called for.

AHAB paces back and forth on the querterdeck, step-THUMP, step-THUMP,boot and whalebone leg, stops to lean on rail and contemplate the sea, facing audience.

AHAB.   Where lies the final harbour, whence we unmoor no more? In what rapt ether sails the world of which the weariest will never weary?

Forty, forty, forty years ago! Forty years of continual whaling! Forty years of privation and peril and storm-time! Forty years on the pitiless sea. For forty years has Ahab forsaken the peaceful land to make war on the horrors of the deep!

What is it? what nameless, inscrutable, unearthly thing is it? What hidden lord and master commands me that against all natural lovings and longings I keep pushing myself on, recklessly making me do what in my own proper heart I would not so much as dare?

(slams hand down on rail)

Great God! We are turned round and round in this world like yonder windlass, and Fate is the handspike. Is Ahab Ahab? Is it I, God, that lifts this arm? But if the great sun move not of himself, and is but an errand-boy in heaven, then how can this one small heart beat, this one small brain think, unless God does that beating, God does the thinking? And if not God, then who?

(turns to FEDALLAH, red eyes in a dark face staring silently back at him)

Forty years! Aye! And then the madness, the frenzy, the boiling blood and the smoking brow with which for a thousand hunts has old Ahab chased his prey, more a demon than a man! Aye, aye! What a forty years’ fool has old Ahab been! Why this strife of the chase? Why weary the arm at the oar and the lance? How richer or better is Ahab now? But silence! Comes the First Mate.

STARBUCK.   (on stairs to quarterdeck and Ahab, soliloquy)

I come to report a fair wind, but how fair? Fair for the hunt of Moby Dick, fair for death and doom. Aye, for this hunt would Ahab gladly kill all his crew, but shall I suffer this crazed old man to drag a whole ship’s company down to doom? It would make him the murderer of thirty men if this ship comes to deadly harm, and come to deadly hard my soul swears it will if Ahab has his way. He’ll swamp us all, boat and crew, in his mad pursuit of the white whale.

(withdraws a small pistol, clearly coming to kill Ahab, falters, continues soliloquy)

Heart of wrought steel, canst thou yet ring boldly? Great God! Is this my journey’s end? The past grows dim. Mary, Mary! Thou fadest in pale glory? Boy, son! I see thine eyes, now grown wondrous blue.

(strengthens)

Feel thy heart, Starbuck. Stir thyself! Move! Where’s the old man now? See’st thou Ahab? Hear’st his ivory foot upon the deck?

(Starbuck steps onto quarterdeck and approaches Ahab’s back, pistol rigidly outstretched until it is an inch from Ahab’s head)

God is against thee, old man. Forbear! It is not too late, even now, to desist. ‘Tis an ill voyage, ill begun and ill continued. Let me square the yards while we may, and make a fair wind of it homewards, to go on a better voyage than this.

AHAB.      (as if he hadn’t heard)

Oh Starbuck! Is it not hard that with this weary load I bear, one poor leg should have been snatched from under me? Here, brush this old hair aside. It blinds me that I seem to weep. Locks so grey did never grow but from out of ashes!

(Starbuck softens, lowers the gun and tucks it in his waist, Ahab turns to face him)

But do I look so very, very old, Starbuck? I feel deadly faint, bowed and humped, as though I were Adam staggering beneath the piled centuries since Paradise. God! Crack my heart! Stave my brain!

(Ahab clasps Starbuck’s shoulders and pulls him close)

Close! Stand close to me Starbuck, let me look into a human eye. ‘Tis better than to gaze upon God. This is the magic glass, man. I see my wife in thine eyes. I see my child, my boy. His mother tells him of me, how I am abroad upon the deep, but will yet come back to dance him once again.

STARBUCK.   (joyously relieved, clasps Ahab’s shoulder)

Oh Captain, my Captain! Noble soul! Grand old heart after all! Why should we continue to give chase to that hated fish? Away with us! Let us fly these deadly waters! Away! Let us away! This instant let me alter the course! How cheerily, how hilariously, O my Captain, will we set sail to see old Nantucket again!

AHAB.      (darkens, hardens, pushes Starbuck’s hand away)

No, Mr. Starbuck, no.

(pushes Starbuck away, Starbuck tries to reconnect)

I tell thee no, it cannot be. If thou speakest thus to me much more, Ahab’s purpose keels up in him! There is that in thee, Starbuck, which I feel too curing to my malady, and for this hunt, my malady becomes my most desired health. Death to Moby Dick! God hunt us all if we do not hunt Moby Dick to his death!

STARBUCK.   (steps back, stricken)

Moby Dick seeks thee not old man! It is thou that madly seekest him! You will kill as all with your mad vengeance upon a dumb brute that smote thee from blindest instinct! Madness!

AHAB.   (step/thumps to Fedallah, snatches harpoon, returns and thrusts it menacingly at Starbuck)

Hark ye, Nantucketer! Here in this hand I hold the white whale’s death. Tempered by lightning! Baptized in the melted bones of murderes!

(turns away, soliloquy)

He thinks me mad, Starbuck does, but I am madness maddened! That wild madness that’s only calm to comprehend itself! These men think old Ahab would kill a fish for vengeance’ sake, but they are as cogs in the great wheel turning irresistibly to doom. To doom at last, all to doom! Aye, but who’s to doom when the judge himself is dragged to the bar?

(turns back to Starbuck)

Hark ye yet again, Starbuck, the little lower layer. All visible objects are but as pasteboard masks. If man will strike, strike through the mask! How can the prisoner reach outside except by thrusting through the wall? To me, the white whale is that wall!

(aside)

Sometimes I think there’s naught beyond... but ‘tis enough.

STARBUCK.   Great God! Shall we keep chasing this murderous fish till he swamps the last man? Shall we be dragged by him to the bottom of the sea? Shall we be towed by him to the infernal world? Oh, impiety and blasphemy to hunt him more!

AHAB.   Talk not to me of blasphemy, man; I’d strike the sun if it insulted me! Who’s over me? Truth hath no confines!

(softens)

Thou art but too good a fellow, Starbuck, but Ahab is forever Ahab. This whole act is immutably decreed. ‘Twas rehearsed by thee and me a billion years before this ocean rolled.

STARBUCK.   Captain, I beg of thee...

AHAB.   Fool! I am the Fates’ lieutenant. I act under orders!

(points to pistol in Starbuck’s waist)

Say ye that I should beware of Starbuck?

STARBUCK.   (backing away)

Ahab need not beware of Starbuck, but let Ahab beware of Ahab. Beware of thyself, old man.

(Starbuck exits)

AHAB.   (the sky darkens, thunder begins to roll, lightning flashes. Ahab points harpoon upward as if addressing God)

I now know thee, thou clear spirit, and I know that thy right worship is defiance. To neither love nor reverance wilt thou be kind. Even for hate thou can but kill, and all are kill’d. Thy lightning flashes through my skull, my brain is scorched, my eyeballs ache. Thou art light leaping out of darkness, bu I am darkness leaping out of light! Of thy fire thou madest me, and like a true child of fire, I breathe it back to thee!

(to Fedallah)

What I’ve dared, I’ve willed, and what I’ve willed, I’ll do! The path to my fixed purpose is laid with iron rails whereon my soul is grooved to run. Over unsounded gorges, through the rifled hearts of mountains, under torents’ beds, unerringly I rush! Naught’s an obstacle, naught’s an angle to the iron way!

(returns to rail, looking out over sea and audience)

For forty years has Ahab forsaken the peaceful land, for forty years to make war on the horrors of the deep! Have a care, all ye fools and madmen, for Ahab too is mad! Listen, and thou wilt often hear my ivory foot upon the deck, and still know that I am here.

(slams harpoon on deck)

And now I quit thee!

Lights fade

INTERMISSION 6

GUY.   Yeah, whassup? Yeah, still going... this last thing was like a weird Moby Dick remix... no, not Moby, Moby Dick. What? No, Moby Dick. Dick Dick Dick!

(sees Girl watching him suspiciously, points at phone sheepishly)

Yeah, the whale thing, ever read it? Well, I read it but this was different, but not really, know what I mean? I mean, like, I don’t know, maybe I didn’t really get it...

GIRL.   Geez, I just wanted a nice night out, you know? A few drinks, maybe some... yeah, right, but now it’s like, c’mon already? This last one was like Captain Ahab for chrissakes! No, not Star Trek, the book, you know, like with the guy trying to kil the whale? No, no, where do you get Free Willy from what I said? The whale book, Moby Dick, no, not him, Dick! DICK!

(Guy looks over, she points to her phone sheepishly)

GUY.   I think she’s into me.

GIRL.   Great, now he thinks I’m into him.

GUY.   Hell, no, I’m not really gonna read Moby Dick again. I barely survived it the first time and that was skipping over most of it. This did seem familiar, though, like it was all really from the book, just messed with, like in a different order or something... No, no, I’m not, like, into it or anything, it’s just, you know, maybe it’s interesting or maybe there’s more to it or something...

GIRL.   No, I don’t think there’s more to it. I mean, like what, some big meaning? It’s just a bunch of pieces that don’t fit together... The author? I don’t know, some New Age guy or something, wrote some books, never heard of him, probably got bored writing books about meditation or whatever so now he writes this stupid play that doesn’t make any sense...

GUY.   What? No way, are you kidding? Nobody gets laid after a night like this, they probably just go home and wonder if the play sucked or they were just too dumb to get it. Shoulda just went dancing and got her drunk, coulda been asleep by now...

(music starts)

BOTH.   Oh shit, there’s more.

ACT 7: DELPHI

Transition music, sung by kids as a round:

ROW, ROW ROW YOUR BOAT,

GENTLY DOWN THE STREAM.

MERRILY, MERRILY, MERRILY, MERRILY

LIFE IS BUT A DREAM.

CHARACTERS

Man: Dressed in white hospital scrubs, barefoot. Up and in motion.

Oracle: Draped in veils. Lounging regally on a high, throne-like chaise of tumble stones.

SETTING

Ancient stone ruins. Desolate, colorless. The words KNOW THYSELF! Are inscribed on a cracked and fallen arch.

A dozen or so tattered veils hang singly and in twos and threes, here and there. Soft air motion keeps them gently swaying.

Background:

Audience left: There is a mansion on a hil, projected on a tattered veil.

Audience right: There is a door marked as EXIT, projected on an untattered veil.

MAN.         Where am I? How did I get here? Am I dreaming? Is this a dream?

ORACLE.      So hard to know.

MAN.   (Man freezes, searches for source of voice, speaks in all directions, not directly to Oracle)

Where are you? Who are you?

ORACLE.      Who are you?

MAN.      I... I’m not sure.

ORACLE.      Man? Woman? Young? Old?

MAN.      I... I don’t know.

ORACLE.      You don’t know who you are?

MAN.   I have memories of being someone, someone I used to be, or it might have been a dream. How can I be sure?

ORACLE.      How can you be sure of anything?

MAN.      I don’t know! Where are you?

ORACLE.   (Oracle speaks in a singsong lilt as if repeating things she’s said many times before, or as if speaking to a child)

Here. With you. Always with you.

MAN.      What is this place?

ORACLE.      Whatever it seems to be.

MAN.      That’s no answer. Who are you?

ORACLE.      I am the one you hear.

MAN.      Not big on straight answers, are you?

ORACLE.      Ask a straight question.

MAN.      The riddle thing gets old.

ORACLE.      All riddles are of your own making.

MAN.      Okay then, what was this place before I arrived?

ORACLE.      How could there be this without you?

MAN.   Riddles! Okay, arrived from where, when? Where am I from? How did I get here?

(indicates mansion)

Did I come from that house? Did I wander away from the party? Or am I asleep? Am I only dreaming this?

ORACLE.      Are you asking a question?

MAN.      Do you know the answer?

ORACLE.      Do you know the question?

MAN.      More riddles! How do I get out of here? Straight question.

ORACLE.      (indifferently)

If you think you’re asleep, try waking up. If you think you’ve wandered away, try wandering back.

MAN.      (indicates veiled doorway marked EXIT)

What about that door? Where does that lead?

ORACLE.      It’s beyond me.

MAN.   Beyond you? What does that mean? What’s on the other side of that door?

ORACLE.      That door has only one side.

(Man approaches door, reaches out, hesitates, turns back)

MAN.      Who else is here? Where is everyone?

ORACLE.      As you see.

MAN.      But the people! Where are the people?

ORACLE.      I have no knowledge.

(Man explores the area, finds inscribed arch)

MAN.      And this! What’s this?

ORACLE.      What does it seem to be?

MAN.      It seems to be from the Temple at Delphi.

ORACLE.      Then that.

MAN.      Are you the oracle?

ORACLE.      How would I know?

MAN.      It says Know Thyself.

ORACLE.      Ironic.

MAN.      But it’s split, cracked, shattered.

ORACLE.      Ironicker still.

MAN.      What does it mean? Why did it crack?

ORACLE.      Perhaps it was unsound.

MAN.      Unsound as stone? Or unsound as an ontological imperative?

ORACLE.      Yes, perhaps.

MAN.      You’re not very helpful.

ORACLE.      It’s not my job to be helpful.

MAN.      Aha! What is your role, then?

ORACLE.      My role is what I do.

MAN.      Nothing but riddles.

(moves toward mansion)

What is this house? Is that where I came from? It seems lke there’s a party in progress, or is it a trick of light?

(moves the other way)

And from here it seems like... like a carnival! Answer me. What is it?

ORACLE.      It is what it seems to be. What else?

MAN.      I’m not asking what it seems to be. I’m asking what it is!

ORACLE.      There is no is, there is only seems.

MAN.      No, but there is an actual house.

(points)

There it is! Right there! How can you say it’s not?

ORACLE.      How can you say it is?

MAN.      I see it!

ORACLE.      You see an image projected on a bit of a tattered veil.

MAN.      But my memories...

ORACLE.      Images on tattered veils.

MAN.      If you know something, say so! Tell me what you know!

ORACLE.      I know nothing, but that is much.

MAN.      But you’re here, in this place. You exist. Surely you know that much?

ORACLE.      Surely I do not.

MAN.   Surely you do not what? Know you exist? What a ridiculous thing to say! How can you say you don’t know you exist?

ORACLE.      How can you say you do?

MAN.   I know I think, therefore, I know I am. Simply because I think, I know I must exist, that I cannot not exist. I can be deceived about everything but that. If you think, you must exist, at the very least as that which is self-aware.

ORACLE.      You think you think, so you know you exist?

MAN.      Of course!

ORACLE.      And you think I think, so you know I exist?

MAN.      Yes! Wait... what? No, that’s not what I said.

ORACLE.      No?

MAN.      I said you think, therefore you are.

ORACLE.      But I don’t

MAN.      Don’t what?

ORACLE.   Think. I don’t think. I don’t think, therefore I don’t exist. No cogito, ergo, no sum.

MAN.      Another absurd statement! What’s the point of talking to you?

ORACLE.      What’s the point of anything?

MAN.      I’m starting to wonder. When will I ever wake up?

ORACLE.      Is that what you want?

MAN.      Yes, that’s what I want! Now how do I wake myself up?

ORACLE.      Try splashing yourself with cold water.

MAN.      Yes!

(looks around)

There is no water.

ORACLE.      Try pinching yourself.

MAN.      Yes!

(pinches himself)

Ow. Ow. Ow. It’s not working.

ORACLE.      Try slapping yourself.

MAN.      Yes!

(slaps himself)

Ow. Ow. Ow. It’s not working.

ORACLE.      Try dropping that stone on your toe.

MAN.   Yes! Wait! What? No! I see you’re having fun with me. I’m asking for your help.

ORACLE.      (tiredly)

Very well, how did you get here? Under your own steam or by the winds of fortune? By merit or boon? By effort or agency? Are you captain or crew?

MAN.      You speak of this place as if it’s real.

ORACLE.      Doesn’t it seem real?

MAN.   No! I’m certain I’m not here and that this isn’t a real place, so it hardly matters how I got here.

ORACLE.      Then think, since you think you can. Are you dreaming?

MAN.      How would I know?

ORACLE.      Maybe you’ve been here for a very long time.

MAN.      No, no, I just woke up here.

ORACLE.      Maybe you’ve always been here.

MAN.      No, no, I just arrived.

ORACLE.      Maybe you’ve never been anywhere else.

MAN.      No, no, I remember being somewhere else.

ORACLE.      Maybe your memory deceives you.

MAN.      No, no, I remember clearly.

ORACLE.      How can you be sure?

MAN.      No, no... what? You’ve said that already!

ORACLE.      How can you be sure?

MAN.      (angry)

I’m not sure of anything!

ORACLE.   That’s progress. Maybe you’re in a coma. Maybe you’ve been in a coma for a very long time.

MAN.      Obviously I’m not in a coma. Can’t you see?

ORACLE.      I see as you see.

MAN.      So if I look at that door and I close my eyes, you see nothing?

ORACLE.      On this side of that door is a curious lack of nothing.

MAN.      But you said that door has only one side.

ORACLE.      And now I say that on this side of that door is a curious lack of nothing.

MAN.      How can nothing be lacking?

ORACLE.   What is lacking cannot be counted. Zero is not a number, or, to say it rightwise, nothing does not exist. Sounds obvious when you say it aloud, doesn’t it? Nothing does not exist.

MAN.      (paces, trying to put it together)

So then, there is no nothing, only something?

ORACLE.      There is only pattern.

MAN.      So pattern is something.

ORACLE.      Pattern is not something.

MAN.      Then pattern is nothing?

ORACLE.      Nothing does not exist.

MAN.      So pattern does not exist?

ORACLE.      There is only...

MAN.      Pattern, yes, so you said.

(sits on a large stone)

But there’s also this big rock, isn’t there? And me and you and the air we breathe, and the past and the future and the will of a man and the heart of a woman. There’s all that, isn’t there?

ORACLE.      Is there?

MAN.      You’re proof of it.

ORACLE.      Am I? Look up. Look at me. Behold, beholder.

MAN.      (Man tries to look at her, shields his eyes as against a bright light)

I can’t... quite... seem to... How strange, I look at you but I can’t see you. I’ve never experienced anything like it. You are like the sun, like clear spirit, like God. I know you’re there, I can hear you, feel you, but I can’t seem to look directly at you. Now I know I’m dreaming.

ORACLE.      As opposed to?

MAN.      (steps toward house)

As opposed to awake, back in the real world.

ORACLE.      What you see is what there is.

MAN.      Pattern?

ORACLE.      What else?

MAN.      Pattern of what then? What’s this pattern made of?

ORACLE.      Wisps.

MAN.      Of?

ORACLE.      Dreamstuff.

MAN.      Wisps of dreamstuff. Uh huh. And what is dreamstuff made of?

ORACLE.      Nothing, of course.

MAN.      But you said there is no such thing as nothing.

ORACLE.      Both statements are correct.

MAN.      And what about people? What are they made of?

ORACLE.      What people?

MAN.      Back at the party! Back in normal life! I remember there were people!

ORACLE.      (singsong)

Perhaps you dreamed them. Perhaps you are one without other. Perhaps you are the sole beholder. Do you not see your past life swallowed in the mist? Are you not fully present in this moment? Are you not fully committed to your current deployment?

MAN.      I thought you said you didn’t know anything?

ORACLE.      I know all that’s not and nothing that is.

MAN.      More nonsense! You said there is no nothing.

ORACLE.      I said that nothing doesn’t exist.

MAN.      If there is only pattern, what does that make me?

ORACLE.      Pattern, it seems. And the beholder of pattern, perhaps?

MAN.      Perhaps?

ORACLE.      How would I know?

MAN.      And you?

ORACLE.      If you behold me, then I am beheld.

MAN.      Pattern again?

ORACLE.      What else?

MAN.      Why do you say such things?

ORACLE.      I don’t know anything.

MAN.      Who speaks, then? Pattern, I suppose.

ORACLE.      There is only pattern.

MAN.      And the beholder of pattern?

ORACLE.      How would I know?

MAN.   You seem to have an answer for everything, and yet every question remains unanswered. And where are we now? Answer plainly.

ORACLE.      You are here.

MAN.      Here? Yes, but why? Why am I here?

ORACLE.      Because here is the word for where you are.

MAN.      Why can’t I get any answers?!

ORACLE.   No question correctly stated can possibly go unanswered. What do you wish to know?

MAN.      I don’t know what to wish.

ORACLE.      Then wish to know what to wish.

MAN.      By what mechanism are wishes granted?

ORACLE.      Pattern.

MAN.      (cries out in frustration, searches area)

I need help! Is there anyone else here?

ORACLE.      Who else is here?

MAN.      Is there anyone nearby?

ORACLE.      Where else is there?

MAN.   Are you saying...? Are you suggesting that this place, is all there is? That you and I are the only... people?

ORACLE.      I’m asking you what you’re asking me.

MAN.      I’m asking to go back to the real world. I’m saying I don’t like it here.

ORACLE.      (playfully)

Are you sure? That you don’t like it here? Are you sure about that? Because, you see, here you are. Maybe you like it here and you don’t even know it. Maybe you’ve traveled endless eons to get here. Or maybe you’ve been here all along.

MAN.      More gibberish! Can you help me or not?

ORACLE.      You see a house that way...

(points)

...and a door that way.

(points)

Blue pill, red pill. What more help can I provide?

MAN.      You can tell me the truth.

ORACLE.      Do you suppose that truth is a thing to be told?

MAN.      Is this real?

ORACLE.      What seems real is what is real. There is no other measure.

MAN.   My memories are real to me! I remember my life. It was full of people and events. There were... all sorts of things! Nations and history and art; babies and war and parades; science, religion and philosophy; food, water, trees... a whole world full of stuff. I had a family. People I loved who loved me too.

ORACLE.      If you want to try to walk back into your memories,

(indicates house)

that way.

MAN.      And I will succeed? Can I return to my world?

ORACLE.      Try now. Your situation will wait.

MAN.      My situation? What is my situation?

ORACLE.      As you see.

MAN.      But I see nothing! There’s nothing here!

ORACLE.   What you see here is infinitely more than nothing, and yet nothing is a veil’s breadth away.

MAN.      So beyond that door is... what?

ORACLE.      What’s beyond that door is beyond me.

MAN.      And if I want to go back? To the party?

ORACLE.      Go.

MAN.      Are you not my keeper?

ORACLE.      Are you not mine?

MAN.      Am I not your prisoner?

ORACLE.      Am I not yours?

MAN.      You take me for a fool!

ORACLE.      The wise have eyes in their heads, while the fool walks in darkness.

MAN.   The fate of the fool will overtake me too. What then do I gain by being wise?

ORACLE.      Just as light is better than darkness, wisdom is better than folly.

MAN.      (strides to exit)

What is beyond this door? Is it heaven? Is it hell?

ORACLE.   There is no mystery. Nothing is hidden. If you want to know, think. If you want to see, look. If you want to go, go. Behold, I grant you a boon.

MAN.      A boon? But wait!

ORACLE.      But what?

MAN.   But I remember! I was asleep! I was asleep at the party but I wanted to wake up. I wanted to wake up but it was so difficult, as if a tremendous weight held me down... I wanted to rise up... And then there was a journey, a struggle... but wait!

ORACLE.      But what?

MAN.      (entranced by an inner vision, reaching out to touch it)

But I see everything now, my entire life, in the most exquisite detail. Every moment fully illuminated. What was muddy and stagnant now runs clear and sparkling.

(controls his vision with hand gestures)

Fast forward! Rewind! Zoom in! Zoom out! Wonderful! I see everything, my earliest days even, my youth, every second, good and bad. No darkness or shadow, no gaps or distortions. Amazing! Now I am able to view all the pirces as a whole, to understand the tapestry as more than a jumble of threads. Seeing the whole I can forgive the parts. Absolution! Redemption! Salvation! Now I see the sense the order... the... the...

ORACLE.      Pattern.

MAN.      (still entranced)

Pattern, yes, of course. Now I see that the whole time I was on a journey, a great returning. It was always that, wasn’t it? I was coming here, all along...

ORACLE.      Where else?

MAN.      (still entranced)

Yes, where else? I see my life and a single theme emerges. High and low, victory and defeat, joy and sorrow, all blend into a gracefully curving line leading right here, right to this exact spot!

(emerging from trance)

My memory fades, disappears. It recedes and is gone. But all is well, I saw what I needed to see. I see that thet line that leads here doesn’t end here. I now know where I am. How I got here doesn’t matter, only that I am here, and only a single step remains...

ORACLE.   Behold. We are in a theater, you and I. Actors, stage, author, director, audience, together, beholder and beheld, here, within the finite confines of this magic box where things exist that do not exist. That mansion on the hill is a projection, these veils are but wisps of nothing, my voice is a sound in your mind which is itself a tattered veil. Beyond that final veil is the theater exit. Do you wish to quit the production? Don’t answer! It doesn’t matter what you wish. Do you suppose there’s a choice? Do you really think you can go back to the party?

MAN.   But what is this production in which we read our lines? Is it an original creation? Or is it derivative? Second-hand? Plagiarized? Shall I address myself to a skull? Wait with Didi and Gogo? Convince Inez that I’m not a coward? The characters have all been played, the lines have been spoken. What is an actor without a role? I feel myself sloping down and away in all directions...

ORACLE.      From what center?

MAN.   Yes, there can be no other question than that. From what center? It cannot be all sloping down and away. There must be the thing sloped down and away from. There must be a center from which all slopes fall, mustn’t there?

ORACLE.      Must there?

MAN.      And that center must be me.

ORACLE.      Must it?

MAN.      It must. Ha! I laugh!

ORACLE.      What do you see that makes you laugh?

MAN.   I see why it’s cracked. Know Thyself. Now I understand. It’s not a destination. There’s still one more step, one step to go. I thought for a moment that I was here, but I’m not here at all, am I?

ORACLE.      You’re not here at all.

MAN.      Never was?

ORACLE.      Never was.

MAN.      Nor you?

ORACLE.      Nor I.

MAN.      (to himself)

Here is the word for where you are. Funny that I ever thought I was here. Everything’s funny when you look closely; funny-crazy, funny-crazy-sad, funny-crazy-sad-lovely. funny-crazy-sad-lovely-absurd.

(moves to downstage center, ponders sky above audience)

When I was a child, I asked my mother why the sky was blue, and when she answered, I asked why to her answer, and when she answered again, I asked why again, and so on and on and on, and if you just keep asking, if you never stop asking...

(turns back to Oracle)

But this is just a theater – you said so – a magic box where things exist that don’t really exist, and how does one pass from the finite to the infinite?

ORACLE.      Through the backstage door.

MAN.      (steps to exit)

One final veil. What choice do I have? I can’t go back, I can’t stay here, so what choice do is there? I wonder if there ever was a choice.

(steps to exit, turns to Oracle)

I know who you are and I thank you anyway.

(Man tears away exit veil and passes through)

(Oracle sinks down into veils and disappears)

V.O. BOY.      Mommy, why is the sky blue?

(Lights dim)

Closing music, sung by children as a round:

ROW, ROW ROW YOUR BOAT,

GENTLY DOWN THE STREAM.

MERRILY, MERRILY, MERRILY, MERRILY

LIFE IS BUT A DREAM.

Lights fade, curtain.

(Guy and Girl come running from their respective sides of the stage, chucking cell phones aside and falling into each other’s arms, now madly in love because the play was so awesome, or maybe in desperation and relief, like survivors of a shipwreck. So hard to know.)

End of play

Table of Contents

- (Untitled)
- (Untitled)
- Play
- Editor’s preface:
- ACT 1: GEMINI
- ACT 2: PINKY TOUCH
- ACT 3: PARADE
- ACT 4: DEBATE
- ACT 5: ANATTA
- ACT 6: FEDALLAH
- ACT 7: DELPHI