About... June Leaving Mule put Galaxy in a Precarious Position - Day 09

June Leaving Mule put Galaxy in a Precarious Position - script.
*contains strong language

Day 09 - a two play day.  I got into this one.

I'm generally not a fan of writing really strong language - I usually avoid it if I can.  Often when doing a free-write (the way all of these plays are for me), I'll come across a moment where the language seems appropriate at the time, but it will rarely make it through any kind of revision - either by changing the dialogue or ultimately abandoning the play.  But without the time for much of an editing process on this project, there it is...

I am satisfied that it is within a story that has an overall understanding of the idea of grace, and the result of a failure to forgive.  After the month of August is over, this is a piece that I might try to do something with - a rewrite, or an expansion of the idea (and perhaps find another way to express the disgust that is intended by the language).

Names just kind of came to me.  I don't know if I like him being called Mule, but I couldn't think of any other name I liked for him.  Makes me pity him even more.

I'm more and more drawn to these kinds of scenarios - dealing with the past, characters who are there and not there/ versions of the way one person remembers them.  I think I'm going to lock into this style for the next couple of days...

This one was written at the dining room table - with the help of the song Give Me Strength by Over the Rhine.

The Singer/Songwriter

Another free-write. I like to go back and find these things in old notebooks. I was actually listening to someone sing a tribute song like this - but this is not their story (or my opinion of them...).

She sang a song for him, piano and voice, to remember him. He had always hated her songs, her voice. He didn't have the courage to tell her - he didn't trust that she liked him enough to survive telling the truth. But now she sings what she calls 'his song,' thinking it is a tribute to him, to their relationship. But really it is a tribute to her own perception of their relationship, which has little to nothing to do with him, or reality. If it had been up to him, the best tribute might have been moments of silence, pure silence, expectant silence which is more full than empty absence of sound. That is how he would have remembered them, who they were together.

But she. She remembers them by covering over that silence with her words, her voice, her playing the piano, her thoughts, her attempts at poetry. And she remembers him with her own creativity, which has little to nothing to do with him, with reality. It is only her, covering over their perfect silence with herself, afraid that in the silence he will disappear. And that she will as well.

She sounds the siren...

This is a short free-write I did a few months back in my notebook, writing to the song "Stay (Faraway, So Close)" by U2. Not sure what it is, really, except that I've come back to it time and time again as I flip through the notebook. Something about the character, I like. If you want, listen to the song while you read...

She sounds the siren. The cry for help. Supersonic, and only the dogs come running. She's been beaten before and expects each embrace to end that way. It's all temporary, she's learned, but it doesn't mean she lives that way. Each meeting is a desperate goodbye, each loss the dawn of a new morning. When he passed, she half expected him to walk in the door the next morning. She opens the door every day expecting the same.

She's a walking invitation to a party in an empty room. Her hair flows down in front of her shoulders. She's long since given up pretending to be attractive, which has only made her more alluring. Do the men that approach her want to be her savior or her damnation? She gives none of them the power to be her either. What can make a girl lose this much of her soul? Where has she given it away - where is it hidden now?

She's the girl who when she wants something, puts her hand in her pocket and, no matter what when or how much, the money is there - in crumpled bills and change - and she's learned to keep her wants to that scale. To want more is only disappointment. To want more is a luxury she can't afford. It costs more than her pocket can provide.

The Hermit's Sacrifice

A man a hermit lived alone in the middle of a wood on the side of a remote mountain far from any other person. He lived for many years in solitude never speaking a word, his lips parting only as necessary for eating and drinking.

On a cold snowy morning, he rose from the pile of thrush he considered his bed and began the process of his day, gathering wood for fire, checking his traps, and climbing to his favorite spot on a ledge high above on the mountain.

This day this cold and snowy morning as he sat on his ledge with his gathered food and fuel, he looked out at the grandeur of the land before him. And he was stirred. In this chest sat, recognized for the first time, a regret. In seeing the purity of the snowy landscape before him, aware that within himself lay a multitude of the sin the transgression against what he was unsure, the land the sky himself nature and the world and that which lay behind it all. That unnamed which rejects name

And today, he opened his mouth. In awe, in regret, in fear in hope. Then he took his two possessions – his fuel and his food. He arranged the wood into a pile and ignited the fire – into which he placed all of his fuel. Then he stripped bare the food and set it on the fire – stoking it until the food was only ash. He waited there on the ledge, considering the dark grey smoke as it rose to meet the clouds above, parting them until the snow lifted and the sun melted the ice on the ground smiling down its approval on the hermit. Who, after being so confused by his own guilt, seemed equally bemused to have such relief at the process of sacrifice – even when he did not fully understand to whom or why the sacrifice was being made.

Thankful, he returned to his hermitage. And began to collect the necessary items for his next sacrifice – thankful to find them.

This was written fall of 09, during the rehearsal process of a short devised piece on sacrifice. While this story didn't make it into the final version of the piece, it was instrumental in its development.

The Boy's Journey

This was a story that I wrote just recently during the writing process of a new play. I almost immediately decided that it wasn't for that play, so it's now on it's own. I do recognize its similarity to the Running from the Sun one-sentence story - maybe going over that one for this blog put it back in my head...

The sky was cold and grey, the day the young boy decided to venture far from his small village, looking to discover what it took to become a man. He carried only his blade and a small knapsack in which he kept enough food for a single meal. Days and days of wandering through the deep woods left him exhausted and starving. He nibbled on fruits, he nibbled on plants, and he found pools of fresh water, enough to sustain him on his further journey.

(beat)

It was many days later before he found the edge of the woods, and he ventured off into the plains. Unsure if that which would make him a man was in the woods or plains, he decided to head off into the plains. There he found grains, and animals that moved in herds, and a running river to drink. And he followed the river through the plains.

(beat)

It was many days later before the river gave way to the sea.

Unsure if that which would make him a man was in the plains or by the sea, he decided to head off into the sea itself. And he feasted upon the fish, and learned how to make the water good to drink. He built a raft and headed out to the sea.

(beat)

It was many days later before the lands on the other side of the sea became visible. Unsure if that which would make him a man was on the sea or in the new land, he decided to land his craft, and explore the new land. Filled with new beasts, new grains, and springs flowing with fresh water, he wondered if this was the land where he would become a man. He ventured far into the new land, and discovered high mountains - and the challenge called him.

(beat)

It was many days later before he stood atop the mountain peaks. Unsure if that which would make him a man was past the mountain top, he decided to descend on the other side of the peak. He reaches the bottom of the mountain; scarred, and battered, his breaths were shallow, and he struggled to see the horizons. He found himself surrounded again by trees.

(beat)

It was many days later before he made his way through the woods, and found himself at his small village, standing at the doorway to his father’s house. He was worn, and bruised, his energy drained and his feet bled. He collapsed in the doorway of the now empty home, for all who had lived there had long since been gone. He crawled to the chair at the head of the simple wooden table, and pulled himself up into it. He placed his blade on the table, and opened his knapsack. He ate his simple meal, the one he had carried with him for days and days, sitting in his father’s chair, in his own village.

(beat)

And he was a man.

The Woods

There was a wood. A cluster of trees, who encircled a small clearing. They protected it, and secured it. Saved it from the areas surrounding. In the wood there lived a creature, small and frail who kept to the wood for its safety, and often lounged in the security of the clearing, taking shade under the branches and dabbling its feet in the pond. A woodsman happened by one day, toting a very large sharp axe. The woodsman knelt by the pond, cupped his hand and drew a drink. He wiped his hand behind his neck to cool himself. The creature was enthralled with the woodsman, and fell in love with him. The creature memorized the woodsman’s every move, whether he understood it or not, and learned the ways of the woodsman. And one day, long after the woodsman had gone, the tiny creature sat in the clearing, with all of the trees at his feet, the pond long since dry. The creature wiped the sweat from his brow, and tried to remember how happy the days had been, before he became a woodsman.

The Testament to True Friendship

Another story that had been written as part of the material for a play, as a monologue, but it hadn't been worked into the context of a conversation, so it's more of a stand-alone story.

The testament to true friendship.

Once a man had a pair of friends, both close, both loyal.

The man one day decided to examine himself to discover which

of the friends was more dear to him. For hours, he weighed

the value that each of the men had to him; their histories,

their talents, their endearing qualities. And while one or

the other could be considered to have advantage in any single

category, he concluded that as to their strengths, the

friends were, in effect, equal.

The man turned his thoughts to weighing the negative

qualities of each man; the vices, the arguments, the debts,

the enemies, the shortcomings. Again, in their weaknesses,

on the whole, the men were equal.

But the thought occurred to the man: what about comparing

each man’s strength to his own weakness. Quickly, he did so,

point by point. It became clear to the man that both of his

friends were heavy to the side of weakness - and that he may

be better off to rid himself of these friends, for their

vices were also his, and may be contributors to his own sin.

The man called his friends together to let them know his

decision. The first friend he told listened to the news

carefully, and understood his friend’s decision. He left

without saying a word. But the second friend, his eyes

welling, punched the man in the face. Towering over his

fallen friend, he said, “You can’t get rid of me. I am your

friend.”

This is a testament of true friendship.

Letters from a Beloved - unedited

Once there was a Lover who turned attentions toward a Beloved. These two spent many hours together, playing, laughing, learning one another, and adoring more and more with the passing of the days.

The Lover’s passion for the Beloved grew to such an amount that not only the time that they spent together was considered a blessing, but the absence of the Beloved produced the strangest effect, that the Lover became consumed with thoughts of the Beloved – so much so that everywhere the eye turned, the mind would be spurred by thoughts of the Beloved being near, appreciating the experience with the Lover, and how the Beloved would respond to what was there.

The Lover was so enamored with the Beloved, the Lover asked of the Beloved some kind of manifestation of mind, words, in the form of letters. The Beloved, who appreciated the adoration, was happy to oblige.

The Lover poured over every letter that the Beloved presented. Each word, syllable, letter, became of such importance to the Lover, that the time spent with the Beloved became time that could not be spent with the letters of the Beloved, and the Lover spent more and more time alone, at home, reading over the letters. The Beloved, still appreciating the implication of love in the attitude of the Lover, continued to write the letters, and filled them with messages of affection, of care, and of longing for the next time they would again be together.

Over the many years, the Beloved continued to write, and the Lover continued to read and care for the letters, collecting them, organizing them, saving them. And while the actual time spent together had dwindled down from the days of initial infatuation, the connection and appreciation for one another was still as consuming.

The Lover’s eyes, strained from the reading of letters by candlelight and starved by being unable to feast upon the sight of the Beloved, began to fail. And the Lover came to decide that the frail eyes should not spend any more time pouring over the old letters, and instead save their sight for only the new ones, that arrived each morning.

And the food of affection, the sight of the Beloved, and the words of the Beloved, became more and more scarce for the Lover. Soon, the tired eyes could not read the entirety of each letter, and could only read key passages. Then phrases. Then words. Then syllables. Then letters. Then marks. And the letters carried less and less meaning, less and less messages, less and less love, less and less food for the Lover’s decrepit, emaciated passion. But these incoherent scribblings were all he would allow his eyes to see.

The Beloved learned of the situation of the Lover, and began to tailor the letters to the needs of the Lover, continuing to write them with the same passion, emotion, and connection of the first letters, and even of the days when they had been together.

Soon, the Lover was blind. And the Lover was surrounded by the letters sent by the Beloved. And it was no longer the words on the page that fed his passion, but the feel of the stacks of pages of incoherent markings, that let him know that the Beloved had never forgotten, never discontinued communication, and indeed, still simply desired to be in company, in communion with the Lover. And was still sitting on the other side of the room, caring for the Lover, writing letters to the Lover, placing them near the Lover, each time hoping for the Lover to open the tired eyes, and adore once more.

I had written this in my notebook in July of 2009. Can't remember exactly why this had occurred to me, but I remember it was during a church service, and was considering how a person has the ability to narrow the ways that we can hear from God - that we are capable of limiting his ability to speak to us, into our lives.

The Adopted - unedited

There was a boy, homeless, family-less, starving and freezing. He passed a large car, in which was a rich man. The man more than pitied the by, but his heart broke for him – for in the boy’s eyes, he saw the eyes of his own son. The rich man brought him back to his mansion, where the boy warmed by the enormous fireplace. Servants came. Food was brought to the boy, and his stomach was filled. His rags were exchanged for clean clothes. He was scrubbed and washed, even behind the ears. He was prepped and cleaned and straightened. And the boy developed an understanding that he had been brought here to replace the rich man’s son.

He walked into the rich man’s library, hoping to find the man, but in his absence, the boy began to examine the study. He pulled a musty book from the shelf and opened it to find only a list of names. The rich man appeared behind him, and the boy immediately began a guilty excuse, as was his habit. The rich man quieted the boy and brought him to his study desk, sitting the boy on the desk.

“Child, do you know why you are here?” said the man.

“I was… brought here,” said the boy.

“That is the truth, but do you know why?”

The boy stammered, “well… uh… you had a son once…”

“Yes I did.”

“…and you loved him very much…”

“I do love him. Very much.”

“And he doesn’t seem to live here anymore…”

“He has not lived in this house in some time.”

“So… I guess you want for… for me to be your son…”

The man smiled. “Oh, child. You cannot be the replacement of my son. My son will always be perfect in my eyes, and I love him as I love myself. You know that my son is not here now. His absence has made me see him in every child I pass by, and my love for him is so great, I have no choice by to love everyone as I love him.”

The man opened the book to a blank page. He said, “Sign your name here. You are now another of my adopted children, for I have loved you. Then I will call for my car to bring you back to the streets where I found you.”

The boy was stunned. He took the pen and scrawled his name as best he could. “You mean I’m not to live here with you?” he whispered.

“This is your home now, and will be. But for now, you are to see my son in others, as I saw him in you. I expect for you to love the others that I have not yet been able to love.”