Lizard Dreaming

CHARACTERS:

Blade Stabber – middle aged woman

Lizard – himself

Tale Teller – news reader

Dark Drain - reporter

A suburban bathroom. A woman shrieking and stabbing a pair of scissors into the vanity sink. A lizard running around trying to avoid being stabbed

BLADE: Die! Die! Die! Die! Die!

LIZARD:Wait sister. Why do you wish to hurt me? Peace be on you.

A television studio

TALE: Breaking news. Mad woman slashes saint. Stay with us as we bring you all the details as they occur.  We have cameras across the street and we can see into the bathroom as this terrible tragedy unfolds. Our reporter on the scene is Dark Drain and we are crossing to him now. Dark, can you tell us what is happening?

DARK: Yes, Tale Teller, we are across the street. The curtains are closed but they are just lace so we can see inside. It appears that a woman, who neighbours have confirmed is resident Blade Stabber, has lost control and is attacking her spiritual totem with a pair of arts and crafts scissors.

TALE: Is there anything you can tell us about the scissors?

DARK: Yes Tale. They are standard issue primary school craft scissors with a plastic orange handle and blunted points.

TALE: So there is no real danger for the totem.

The bathroom

LIZARD: Stop! Wait! What are you doing?

BLADE: Get out, you filthy beast.

LIZARD: Stop it, woman! Do you know who I am?

BLADE: Wait a minute, you’re talking.

LIZARD: Of course I am talking. For now anyway. If you make contact with those scissors that may not continue for much longer.

BLADE: You’re a lizard.

LIZARD: You’re a mad woman.

BLADE: Well if a lizard is talking to me then, yes, I must be mad.

Television studio

TALE: So Dark, tell us about this woman’s totem spirit.

DARK: Well Tale, we all have one as you know. The lizard in our culture represents adaptability.

TALE: And do we have any theories as to why this woman is trying to kill hers.

DARK: We don’t have confirmation yet, but sources are telling me that Ms Stabber is rejecting society’s demands that she fit in. It seems to be some sort of rebellion against her natural role in life.

TALE: We hear far to many of those types of tragic stories these days.

In Too Deep

Here's a piece of generative writing based on a tableau.

K: It didn’t help.

L: We tried

A: Not hard enough

K: J?

A: Turn around. Face it.

L: Leave her alone

A: We can’t ignore it.

K: I was hoping for a different outcome

A: No kidding.

A sob bursts from J

L: Can we stop talking about it?

K: There’s nothing  for it now.

A: So how deep are we?

J moans

L: I can’t believe it happened.

K: We have to face up to it. Come clean.

J collapses

L: It’s gonna be messy

K: Alright. Let’s get started.

A: What next?

Perfection Adored

I was playing around with Myerhold and Brecht with this scene.

The stage is a labyrinth of stairs and ramps and platforms. In the centre back is a large gilded idol. It is an ugly, misshapen humanoid (yet not human) figure. The cast move up and down and around the set in a line and in unison. On a ledge above the idol stands the Navigator. The sound of rhythmic large machinery is in time with the walking.

Navigator: Cogs, pause and attend.

Cast stop where they are and look at him.

Navigator: Cogs, you make me proud to be at the helm of this great wheel.

Cogs: Heed the Navigator and sail a clear course.

Cast do some ritual movement with response.

Navigator: You all have your daily assignments. You know where you must be and you know what you must do. But do you know your speak and why? Who be the axle on which we turn?

Cogs: Perfection, Navigator (ritual movement)

Navigator: Do we see Perfection in the world?

Cogs: Yes, Navigator (ritual movement)

Navigator: Where is perfection homed?

Cogs: We see Perfection in the centre of our world, Navigator. (ritual movement) She is amongst us and with us always.

Navigator: As we look upon her visage (indicating idol) we marvel at her symmetry, her perfect lines, a beauty beyond dispute. The calmness of her visage brings us piece and serenity. She is the pure essence of nature in harmony and the true model for our why in the world.

Cogs: (ritual moves) Purity, harmony, symmetry.

Navigator: Now let us sing our vision as we observe our why.

All:

A long time ago in the dawn of our time

A beauty came amongst the people

We wept as we watched her glory start to shine

And to her grace we built a steeple

She was too fair and fine to let on her own

We needed her to be our idol

We dragged her into chains, left her all alone

Her life for us must be pure bridal

At first she fought and screamed defying our love

Her body torn and rent and damaged

Her blood and bones became her freedom dove

And submitted to a life ravaged

You see her golden hair, her eyes of pure blue

Her skin as white as snow and unmarred

Her human form divine, the dream we pursue

Universal truth we ever guard

Navigator: (Kneeling and intoning) Oh great goddess Perfection. We strive in your shadow, truthing daily in our quest for why. In our speak we say what we see. What we see is what we believe. What we believe is truth.

Cogs: The truth is spoke and we revere the word.

Ophelia's Waltz

My final exploration of Ophelia looked at her first private meeting with Laertes upon his return.

Ophelia is going through the standard ballet training positions. She is humming with a waltz tune.  Laertes calls from a distance

L: Ophelia!      

   

She continues humming and starts dancing around the room in formal ballet. Laertes enters.

L: My sweet Ophelia.

She sweeps past him, brushing against him as she dances.

L: I need to speak with you.

She hums louder and dances away from him.

L: It’s about Hamlet.

She pauses, then moves into a waltz, with a pretend partner. She has stopped humming, but smiles dreamily.

L: Ophelia, sweet, you need to listen.

She keeps dancing, so as she waltzes past him he steps into her embrace and dances with her.

O: Hamlet?

L: Yes, Hamlet.

O: They seem higher my love.

L: What do?

O: Your lips.

L: My…?

O: Under the moon I felt your lips without strain. Now my heels must reach for the sky to press our flesh together.

L: Ugh! Stop.

They stop dancing

O: Never stop my heart.

L: Ophelia, I am Laertes.

O: You said you were Hamlet.

L: I want to speak to you about Hamlet.

What Is That Fire Burning In His Eyes?

Still riffing on that moment between Ophelia and Hamlet. This is her interior monologue happening at the same time as the last scene.

What? I don’t understand. Hamlet. Dad. He dropped him like a sack of potatoes. He looks confused. He looks wild. His eyes. Oh those eyes. They burn me. What is wrong with dad? Why doesn’t he get up. I don’t understand. Everything is so confusing. Hamlet, say something. Dad, say something. Move please. I am scared. Help me Dad. Laertes! Please come home. I am so lost. He is coming closer. They way he stares. It burns my soul but…is he looking at me or through me. Is my nightdress see-through? Dad will be so mad. When will he wake up? What is wrong with him? Should I get dressed? Is it immodest for Hamlet to see me like this? His eyes, they burn. Oooh, my stomach has jumping jacks. My thighs are hot. If I part my legs will that be rude. A cool breeze would be nice in my crotch. I am breathing heavy. Am I afraid? What am I afraid of? He loves me. He said so. Is that the look of love? There is passion but something holds me back. I want to step away, but what if that incites him? Maybe I want him to come to me. Laertes warned me about this. Dad will kill me when he wakes up. Why is he asleep? Dad, wake up! What is Hamlet doing to him? Leave him alone! What have you done? Oh my god. Is he breathing? I have to go to him but I am so afraid. Why won’t he leave? Does he have foul intentions. I love him, but heT is unpredictable nowadays. I am afraid. Is that normal? Perhaps it is not him I am afraid of, perhaps it is myself. What is that fire burning in his eyes. Is it me?

The Moon Shines Dimly

Here I am exploring what might have happened between Hamlet and Ophelia before she went mad.

H: The moon shines dimly as day doth break for you.

O: Of what do you speak my lord?

H: Do you see this forefather to your wicked ways? This oaf of virtue who hides his body to lose his soul.

O: I believe t’s my father you splay before me.

H: Correct! Your eyes see clearly though your virtue be stained.

O: My lord, I do not understand your meaning. What is wrong with my protector.

H: Your protector now tends the worms of hell.

O: He is dead?

H: He is!

O: Of what did he die?

H: Of me!

O: I don’t understand.

H: I killed your virtue which was hidden behind a vail, and now I take it again, a twin event bound by the inevitability of fate.

O: Why do you stand behind me my lord Hamlet. I am afeared of you and the night. If my father be truly dead why do you lay him at my feet? Should he not be rested on a dias, cleaned and cleansed and offered to God?

H: His soul will rot with yours. Impurity handed down father to daughter, brother to sister, husband to wife.

O: Oh please make sense. I am not impure I swear! I have kept myself cloistered despite your importatons of love and desire as you well know.

H: All women are impure. A wife will mourn a husband for less than a minute before bedding his brother. An uncle becomes a father in the breath of a moment, and only the moon shall see.

O: No, my lord. My chastity is a fortress to only be breached upon the oaths of love and fidelity.

H: I told you to vouchsafe your husband, yet you did not.

O: What husband? I don’t understand.

H: I asked you to refuse his bed and honour your true lover, the dead man. I told you to seek the protection of abstinence, to take on the habit of the maidens of Christ. Yet here you are, beckoning sin and desire

O: I beckon nothing my lord. I am here in my bedchamber, the place honour and duty and the hour require me to be. It is you who have breached the walls of propriety and lodged an offensive on my honour. As well, you lay before me the body of my sole protector in this land and affright me with you pacing and circling. You come ever nearer and I have nowhere to flee, no comfort or shelter to seek. Is my father truly dead? Surely he will awake and with the fury of the righteous make harm upon your person should you still linger here.

H: It is the eternal sleep, my sweet seductress. As you gown sways in the breeze and teases with the shadow of your promises, his soul flies to hide and he hid afore his death.

Heaven Must Be There

Riffing on the characters in the previous two monologues.

A cocktail reception. Bruce is in a stylish sports coat and tight jeans, Erica is wearing a boob tube, skinny jeans and FMBs, Larry is in a torn, stained t-shirt, torn jeans and smelly sneakers.

Larry: Well don’t you two look all lah-de-dah. What’re you in for?

Bruce: Pardon?

Larry: How’d ya die?

Erica: Fuck off, hobo.

Larry: Ooooh, who’s a prissy little miss then? With a mouth like that I’m taking money on ya old man.

Erica: Fuck off I said.

Larry: You fuck off, ya slag. With tits like that hanging out for all to see it’s more likely you were a whore anyway. Probably tried to diddle ya pimp did ya? Bet he taught you a lesson or two before you carked it.

Bruce: Hey, dude, that’s enough. You don’t talk to ladies like that.

Larry: Lady? Bah! If she’s a lady then the Pope’s a Catholic.

Erica: The Pope is Catholic you old fart. Now take your smelly rotting carcass and go sleep on somebody else’s park bench.

Bruce: Woah both of you. This is not the place for that kind of language. Take it outside if you must. Some of us want to enjoy ourselves. It has been such a long time.

Larry: Oh, look who’s all hoity toity now then.

Bruce: I am not hoity toity. I am just enjoying being able to feel and move again.

Larry: You know that’s not a real body right?

Bruce: (sighing) Yes, I know. On the one hand he giveth and the other he taketh away.

Erica: What are you guys talking about?

Larry: Well, miss genius. In case you missed it – You, are, dead.

Erica: Is that a threat.

Larry: There’s nothin’ left to threaten. You’re already dead. What else can I do to you. Except torment you till the end of time of course, an’ that I looking like a great way to spend my eternity, I can tell ya.

Erica: You’re fucking mad.

Bruce: No, he’s right. About being dead I mean. Didn’t you know? Couldn’t you tell?

Erica: You’re both fucking mad?

Larry: (laughing so hard he chokes) She…didn’t…know…she…was dead  (coughs trying to catch his breath).

Bruce: What’s the last thing you remember?

Erica: That cute barman giving me this divine cocktail.

Larry: Before that, idiot.

Erica: I swear, if you don’t lay off I am going to fucking smash you.

Larry: Yep, a real lady.

Bruce: Both of you please stop. You are ruining my release. I’m Bruce by the way.

Larry: I’m Larry mate. Friends call me Laz.

Bruce: Nice to meet you Larry. And you are?

Erica: Erica.

Bruce: Hello Erica. Lovely to meet you. Now think back. Before you were at this party where were you?

He Loves Me So Much

I missed Luke last night. He’s going to kill me. Fuck! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! I should’ve been more careful. I was just having such a good time. It is nice to be treated like a lady for once…although what I did in the back seat of that taxi wasn’t very ladylike at all. Never done that with Luke. God, I’ve never done anything with Luke. He is sooooo bad in bed. I have had farts longer than his fucks. I wonder if I can make some excuse. Will you cover for me? No? Why not? What kind of friend are you? Fucker! Maybe Jaz will cover for me. She won’t mind. She knows what Luke is like. Do you have any idea what Luke will do if he finds out? You’re an asshole. You know I had to go to hospital last time right? I spent six fucking weeks in a cast and he didn’t even give a shit. There I was, wheeling around on a desk chair because even with my leg in a cast I still had to cook the dinner and do the dishes, not to mention all the rest of the fucking housework. He says he loves me, but you don’t hurt the people you love. Or at least that’s what people say. Did you see Dr Phil the other day? He had that guy on who was in jail for murdering his girlfriend because she screwed around on him. God, do you think Luke can get that upset? It’s a completely different thing of course. Just because he hit me, and broke my leg once, doesn’t mean he’s gonna kill me. That’s just crazy shit. Normal people don’t do that sort of thing and Luke definitely isn’t like that. He loves me. Do you know, he actually brought flowers home the other day. Can you believe it? We had this massive argument. He accused me of screwing around which is kind of funny because I wasn’t then. Last night was the first time ever. Anyway, he went off his tree, broke a few dishes, started choking me… Luckily his phone rang so he just threw me against the wall and then stormed out the back to answer it. I was fine, just a few scratches and a sore neck. He felt really bad about it when he came back in. Wouldn’t stop saying sorry and telling me how much he loves me. I know it’s true, that’s why I stay with him. He must love me so much if he gets that upset about me being with another guy. That’s why he can’t know about this…

It Was A Riot

I saw it all. I tell ya I saw it all. He was there, just like I thought ‘e would be. All greasy ‘n mean. Have you ever seen him look any other way? So there ‘e was, leaning against the wall, choofing on a fag. I expected ‘im to just toss the ash on the floor, bein’ who he is an’ all. But here’s the thing. There was one of those big blue dumpsters beside ‘im and all gentlemanlike he delicately taps the ash into the bin. As if he’s a proper bloke ‘n all! Anyway, he was waitin’ for someone as it turns out, an’round the corner walk this guy. Well to do I reckon. All smart grey suit ‘n pin stripe tie. He looked so odd amongst the trash cans and shit. Walks right up to Joe. They don’t say a word. Joe just reaches for ‘is belt, unbuckles it and rips ‘is pants down. It was crazy man. Suddenly this toff is standing in a dirty lane with his shiny leather belt and perfectly pressed duds on the floor around ‘is ankles. It was hilarious. I almost pissed meself. Then Joe pulls ‘im around, pushes him against the wall and gives him a blow job. Right there and then. They didn’t say a word. Just straight down to business. You don’t see professionalism like that much these days, do ya? Anyways, it was quick I tell ya. The guy squirts, Joe holds out his  ‘and. The guy looks a bit pissed as he pulls up his pants and tries to pull out ‘is wallet. The whole thing was a riot. There ‘e was, tryin’ to hold up his trousers while getting out a wad of cash. Anyway, he pays up and Joe walks. Nothin’ to it. Nothin’ to say. Just turns and walks away. ‘Aint never seen anything a pitiful as that toff standing alone in a dirty lane, holding up his pants an’ flappin’ an empty wallet! Do I know who the guy is? Of course I do. Wouldn’t be ‘ere otherwise now would I?  He’s your man. That guy youse been lookin’ into. That big corruption thing on TV last night. Said there was a reward. ‘Ow much is this worth then?

Rent Day

This monologue was inspired by a picture of a naked woman. She was bent back with her arms on her elbows so that her perky breasts were pointed to the sky. Her head was upside down staring into the camera, hair dangling freely and her mouth ajar.

Could this position be any more uncomfortable? How come it is the most uncomfortable positions which looks the sexiest on screen? Are my nipples erect? They should have made it a little colder. How much am I being paid for this again? I need to redye my roots this week. Wait, I’m not pouting. I better get it right. If I have to reshoot this scene my back will be aching like hell. My shoulders will give it a good run for the money. Are my eyes sultry enough? Should I close them more? It is so weird that men find this shit sexy. What do I care? I have rent to pay.

True Love

This writing was inspired by a picture of two young people sitting on a park bench. They looked bored and had space between the, but the man had one leg flung over the lap of the woman.

F: I can’t stand this guy. He is as boring as shit and look at how he drapes himself all over me as if I was just a piece of furniture. His leg is heavy. I wish he would get the fuck off me.

M: I wonder if someone hot will walk on by. I look hot in these jeans. Anyone walking by will see my Johnson bulging out and… Ooh yeah, a hot chicky babe will walk on by, see my massive dick and start drooling. She stops in front of us. It doesn’t matter that Barbara is here. In fact she’ll love it.

F: Maybe I should break up with him.

M: Chicky babe will stand right in front of me, then get down on her knees, slowly unzip…Christ my jeans are tight.

F: If I wait until after Valentine’s day, I’ll still get my present. Yeah, then I’ll dump him.

M: Her hot wet lips gliding along the supersensitive flesh. Her eyes will look up at me, glimmering with desire. Barbara will object at first, but as she sees how big my penis has grown and how much hot chicky babe is enjoying herself, Barbara will get down and join her. They will fight between them to have my dick in their mouths. Their moist rough tongues will flicker and lick and suck me hard, each vying for the privilege of my cum.

F: I really can’t stand him touching me. I won’t break up with him, but I’m never having sex with him again.

M: They will start taking turns, taking me deeper and deeper into their throats until they gag.

The Executioner

This piece was in response to a picture of an old movie set. There was a middle aged man talking to a smartly dressed woman and she looked uncomfortable. They were near her trailer and away from the shoot set up. It got me thinking about Marilyn Monroe's story.

Man: If you don’t do what I am asking you to, I am going to crush you like a gnat…like this.

Woman: What can you possibly do to me?

Man: Do you know who I am? Do you know who I know? Do you know what I can do to your career?

Woman: I am not a whore.

Man: You’re all whores. We just have to settle on a price.

Woman: I am not a whore and you are not my pimp.

Man: Do you ever want to work again.

Woman: There are laws you know.

Man: You really don’t seem to understand where you are. In this town film makers are the law and if you don’t do as you are told, we are the judge, jury and executioner too.

You're Gonna Die

Okay, I admit it. I can't even remember which picture inspired this piece of writing, but enjoy :)

Man 1: I’m gonna kill you!

Man 2: I’m already dying you idiot.

Man 1:  Bullshit, it’s just a gunshot wound. You’ll survive. Well…no you won’t because I’m gonna kill you meself.

Man 3: Woah, dude, chill! He’s hurt.

Man 1: We’re all fuckin’ hurt and it’s his fuckin’ fault!

Man 2: How is it my fault? Someone get me a fuckin’ bandage. I’m bleeding all over the place.

Man 3: Righto. I’ll be right back. Are you gonna chill dude?

Man 1: Yeah. I’m fine. I just want someone to pay for this fuckin’ blood bath. We should never have been here.

Why Mama?

The picture which inspired this piece of generative writing was a female sitting in a chair. Another person (androgenous) had their head in her lap. 

W: Hush little baby, don’t say a word, mama’s gonna by you a mocking bird, and if that mocking bird don’t sing, mama’s gonna…

M: Stop.

W: Shhh, its okay. It’s all going to be okay.

M: It hurts.

W: I know it does, but it will be over soon.

M: Promise?

W: I promise. Shh now. Mama’s gonna buy you a diamond ring, and if that diamond ring…

Man starts to dry retch.

W: Shhh, baby. Not long now.

M: Buy why mama? I love you. You know I do.

W: And I love you too son. I just can’t let you live any longer.

M: I wasn’t hurting anyone.

W: You were hurting me.

A Good Walloping

This piece of generative writing was inspired by a picture of five people in their thirties. They were very bogun-like and standing in a run down shed.

Mum: Alright you lot. I know one of you did it. Own up or you’ll all get punished.

Fred: Wasn’t me.

Beth: Wasn’t me.

Mum: Joe? Kent? Adam?

Adam: I reckon it was Joe. He’s always doing that shit.

Joe: Fuck off!

Beth: He’s right you are.

Joe: Shut your mouth slag face, or I’ll shut it for ya.

Mum: Enough! I am tired of you lot fighting all the time. If one of you doesn’t own up soon I am going to wallop you all well and good. I don’t care if you’re 10 feet tall and 500 stone, I will still put you all over my knee.

The Dawn of Time

Another picture inspired piece of generative writing. This time the picture was of a monkey at a kitchen table. He has a half eaten pawpaw in front of him. His eyes seem drooping and he is sitting back on a chair in a relaxed fashion.

Monkey: It was a long time ago now.

Interviewer: Tell me about it.

Monkey: I was young. I was very very young at the time. I didn’t know how young I was. You never know how young you are when you’re young. You only understand youth through age.

Interviewer: How young were you?

Monkey: I was so young the earth was still forming. Rocks were sliding, saplings were peeping their heads out of the ground and clouds were only just beginning to part to let the sun shine through.

Interviewer: That sounds like the dawn of time!

Monkey: It was predawn. The birds were yet to fly, the bees to buzz, and the snakes to slither. The waters were just wending their ways down the mountains to form the great oceans, and the clay was only beginning to bake into land.

Interviewer: You were around then?

Monkey: As I said, I was a young’un.

Time Heals All Wounds

A generative writing exercise inspired by a picture of a fly with a man's face. The man is crying.

This isn’t how I thought It would be. When I woke up this morning, the first thing I thought was 'this is going to be a wonderful day. The sun is shining, the temperature won’t get too hot, and I only have fun things planned.' How was I supposed to know? How did this happen anyway? Where did it come from? This is not me. Help. Anybody, please help. Mum. No, no use calling for mum. There is nothing she can do anyway. This can’t be real. This can’t be happening. This can’t be my life. Am I stuck like this forever? Will this go away? Will I get my old self back. I don’t like this. I don’t want this. I hate this. Make it stop. Make it go away. I didn’t see it coming. Of course I didn’t. As if I would just continue on and let it happen if it was foreseeable. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Is it forever? No, it can’t be forever. Things will get back to normal. I just have to give it time. Yes, time.

A Century Later

I just read an amazing play. It is called 'Machinal' by Sophie Treadwell. I can't believe it was written all the way back in 1928! It reads like something written in the 70's, and is incredibly powerful. It is based on a true story too, although that is easier to believe. Perhaps the scariest thing to realise is that this story could be as real today as it was back in 1905 when it happened. That is how little we have progressed socially.

The play falls into the category of expressionist which was very helpful. In my Vorticist research I have been struggling to isolate expressionism in theatre, and this was so on point. I was interested to see that one of the mechanisms I have developed (3 reporters) is actually something that Treadwell used in her play. I don't think she really follows through with the device and the reporters in 'Machinal' tend to just become an ambiguous chorus in the final scene, but I can see where the idea came from in her work and it really is from the same place as it does for me. It is the external eye and the prism of observation.

On a slightly more depressing note, as soon as I read the first scene I realised that someone I have worked with in the past plagiarised her idea. I know plagiarism is a strong word, but the concept and structure and even characters and language are just too similar (as in, almost identical) for it to be mere coincidence. It makes me sad to see someone very talented resorting to this but I think it comes from the ridiculous post-dramatic concept of the death of the author. The author is not dead and shall be acknowledged!

The Road to Salvation

I just read Bernard Shaw's 'Major Barbara' and am thoroughly blown away. What an insightful and important play.  I am surprised it does not get performed more frequently, although with all that exposition I can see why modern directors would struggle with working out how to stage it.

As I was reading it, I just couldn't help but be shocked at how relevant it is for today.  Especially in Australia! Replace the Armery for Mining and you have our industry, our economy, and our political system all sewn up in this one devastating and yet accurate piece of theatre.

The discussions about poverty and salvation are still as true now as they were then. Is a homeless man on the city streets closer to God than one working in a mining town? Doesn't money run everything in the end, including religion - and thus the path to God.

I was also fascinated by Shaw's observations about how humanity manages itself. Each worker using his own slight advantage to keep the one below him in line so that the 'boss' doesn't really have to do any of the disciplining or control. He can just demonstrate largesse by providing society as these minions make the money for him.

Could there be a tale more current or important to Australia right now than 'Major Barbara'?