When I was a little girl
a short play by Samuel Kastin
A man and a woman stand in front of a burning house. Their small child is with them, they hold her little hands. From the house we can hear a telephone ringing as it melts (this continues to the end).
Woman- John dear, it would appear that we are now homeless.
Man- Yes dear. Very much so.
They carry on watching the fire.
Daughter- (turning her head to us, she takes a step and consciously faces the the audience, this is all very sweet, like a curtsey. Eyes like Bambi); Just think, in the distance a s-sad sold'er and his lover...
They fade out.
In the distance;
We fade in:
A soldier holds another soldier, who is sobbing, in his arms. He sways, forming a melancholy and defiant waltz.
Soldier- (singing); Is that all there is, is that all there is/ If that's all there is my friends, then let's keep dancing/ Let's break out the booze and have a ball/ If that's all there is.
This fades out, he can speak part of the first verse if needs be, the words fading out, as it were, with lighting.
All we now see is the glow/ afterglow of burning.
There is the sound of an explosion offstage; what it is that is exploding, or has exploded, is unclear. The sound of the sea can now be heard as it draws nearer.
Wednesday, 16 June 2010
Tuesday, 15 June 2010
Running Water; end and epilogue
We are in the middle of the ocean. By the size of my beard I surmise that it has taken us a long time to get here. By Clarence's decomposition you can tell the heat of the sun. It pains me to see the sun burn him so. I cannot take it and so he is soon gone. We will never reach home, there is no home for men like us: our home is the sea and it is all we've ever known. I kiss his dead cheek and push him over the side, into the sea, burying him at sea. He is in heaven now.
Epilogue.
You can feel the waves beneath you, like the earth's pulse beating. Like a child being rocked in its crib. Those vultures come back. They become again their coil of death, my death bed's mobile. They have not forgotten me. The sun is in my eyes.
Drowsy and lulled, I close my eyes. In death's half-dream, I see her one last time. She rocks me in her arms softly, singing softly. Slowly the vultures swoop and waves gently crash. As this happens I hear that I have been singing my last words, accompanying the dream, "Que Cera, Cera".
The End.
Epilogue.
You can feel the waves beneath you, like the earth's pulse beating. Like a child being rocked in its crib. Those vultures come back. They become again their coil of death, my death bed's mobile. They have not forgotten me. The sun is in my eyes.
Drowsy and lulled, I close my eyes. In death's half-dream, I see her one last time. She rocks me in her arms softly, singing softly. Slowly the vultures swoop and waves gently crash. As this happens I hear that I have been singing my last words, accompanying the dream, "Que Cera, Cera".
The End.
Thursday, 10 June 2010
Runing Water- end of Act 2 and start of Act 3.
End of Act 2
Falling, falling, crawling toward infinity the forest comes to an end. We find ourselves upon a pebble beach with black and blue and crimson stones. It is no white sand tropical relaxing beach, it is one steeped in the isolation and alienation of the souls of heroes and heroines. My wife took a photograph of it, before I knew her. The raft is still there, by the sole white rock.
Act 3
On
the raft, out at sea, salt in the lungs, the sun shines down on me. I
think of the birds above in the blue sky who migrate riding sea winds
who keep on flying. I think of the fish beneath in the bright,
sometimes dark, blue sea who are circumspect to current and must go
with tide who keep on swimming. I think of myself who is fatalistically driven by the action of self & others as I keep on floating.
Conclusion will hopefully be this weekend.
Falling, falling, crawling toward infinity the forest comes to an end. We find ourselves upon a pebble beach with black and blue and crimson stones. It is no white sand tropical relaxing beach, it is one steeped in the isolation and alienation of the souls of heroes and heroines. My wife took a photograph of it, before I knew her. The raft is still there, by the sole white rock.
Act 3
On
the raft, out at sea, salt in the lungs, the sun shines down on me. I
think of the birds above in the blue sky who migrate riding sea winds
who keep on flying. I think of the fish beneath in the bright,
sometimes dark, blue sea who are circumspect to current and must go
with tide who keep on swimming. I think of myself who is fatalistically driven by the action of self & others as I keep on floating.
Conclusion will hopefully be this weekend.
Tuesday, 25 May 2010
The Sea
A man and a woman stand in front of a burning house. Their small child is with them. From the house we can hear a telephone ringing as it melts (this continues to the end).
Woman- Dear John, it would appear that we are now homeless.
Man- Yes dear. Very much so.
There is the sound of an explosion from offstage; what it is that is exploding, or has exploded, is unclear. The sound of the sea can now be heard as it draws nearer.
Woman- Dear John, it would appear that we are now homeless.
Man- Yes dear. Very much so.
There is the sound of an explosion from offstage; what it is that is exploding, or has exploded, is unclear. The sound of the sea can now be heard as it draws nearer.
Tuesday, 11 May 2010
Running Water: penultimate section, On The Farm
xv.
(parts missing. In brief: still not slept, not since leaving the wife, and an irksome digestive system). There is a cow upon the farm. A quiet animal which they call Inga. When it looks at you with those big brown eyes it has a calming effect. The farmer's daughter, Trudy, milks it at dawn. I think she talks to it as well. I wonder what she says.
xvi.
On the table there is a postcard from the farmer's brother. On the back there is, written, a poem: Dear God/..../There used to be three dots/But now there are four. On the front is the old holidaying sentiment, written in red, WISH YA WERE HERE. The return address is the nearest prison, miles away. Papa never has been able to forgive himself over that, Trudy says as she pours more wine.
xvii.
He falls asleep in the corn and in the morning there is a Scarecrow present on the farm that I have not seen before. Trudy asks me if I have seen her father, I say that I have. She asks me where to find him but I do not say. Flustered, she criticises everything I have ever done since being here and leaves me alone. With my fear I go to hide in the cow shed where Inga treats me kindly.
xviii.
My head is in my arms when I fall asleep but in her hands when I wake. She tells me that I must leave, that her husband is soon back from the war. That I can't I say kisses me we accidentally knocking over a pail of milk in the furore. Before departing she gives me this advice: oh, my dear, try not to be so lonely all the time. I go into the forest. I find Clarence by the stream.
(parts missing. In brief: still not slept, not since leaving the wife, and an irksome digestive system). There is a cow upon the farm. A quiet animal which they call Inga. When it looks at you with those big brown eyes it has a calming effect. The farmer's daughter, Trudy, milks it at dawn. I think she talks to it as well. I wonder what she says.
xvi.
On the table there is a postcard from the farmer's brother. On the back there is, written, a poem: Dear God/..../There used to be three dots/But now there are four. On the front is the old holidaying sentiment, written in red, WISH YA WERE HERE. The return address is the nearest prison, miles away. Papa never has been able to forgive himself over that, Trudy says as she pours more wine.
xvii.
He falls asleep in the corn and in the morning there is a Scarecrow present on the farm that I have not seen before. Trudy asks me if I have seen her father, I say that I have. She asks me where to find him but I do not say. Flustered, she criticises everything I have ever done since being here and leaves me alone. With my fear I go to hide in the cow shed where Inga treats me kindly.
xviii.
My head is in my arms when I fall asleep but in her hands when I wake. She tells me that I must leave, that her husband is soon back from the war. That I can't I say kisses me we accidentally knocking over a pail of milk in the furore. Before departing she gives me this advice: oh, my dear, try not to be so lonely all the time. I go into the forest. I find Clarence by the stream.
Friday, 23 April 2010
A joke?
- Doctor, doctor I feel so sad in my broken heart and I'm so lonesome, I could cry. *sob*
- There, there my dear, here, take a tissue.
Pause.
What are you waiting for? Get out. I have cured you.
- There, there my dear, here, take a tissue.
Pause.
What are you waiting for? Get out. I have cured you.
Thursday, 22 April 2010
Running Water contd
xi.
What a beautiful pumpkin patch, she, C., exclaims as we drive past it. I force myself to agree. I do not tell her that amongst the potential Halloween lanterns lurks Nosferatu and MarvinTheMartian and a blood stained Ted Bundy; it is getting late and we needn't, both of us, be scared like me.
xii.
If you want me, I'll be in the bar, she says as she kisses my cheek goodbye. I take the time to watch her walk away along the railroad tracks, and, without my noticing, she is gone. I question if she ever existed, except for a tingling sensation felt in my cheek, her existance in my life passes with no trace. Nonetheless, She'll be ok, I say to myself, hoping that the Gods will consent.
xiii.
The wheels of the car fall off from either pathetic fallacy or inadvertent telekinesis or the bump in the road. Knowing that I will now have to walk many miles, carrying my dear dead friend, I ram my head into the steerinwheel, harmonisin with the cacophony. After hours of this, I fill my pockets with as much amphetamine from the glovebox I can carry and we leave. I realise neither of us have eaten since I shot him.
xiv.
Up there, on the top of the hill, I notice a farm. I climb the driveway. What you boys doin on my property asks the owner. Sir , we are on a pilgrimage, weary and hungry and willing to work for keep I explain. Him too he inquires of Clarence, the hardest worker I ever knew. I shrug. There is a pause.Come in and wash up and stay away from my daughter, she's bad news, he tells me. You too, by the looks of things, he observes.
What a beautiful pumpkin patch, she, C., exclaims as we drive past it. I force myself to agree. I do not tell her that amongst the potential Halloween lanterns lurks Nosferatu and MarvinTheMartian and a blood stained Ted Bundy; it is getting late and we needn't, both of us, be scared like me.
xii.
If you want me, I'll be in the bar, she says as she kisses my cheek goodbye. I take the time to watch her walk away along the railroad tracks, and, without my noticing, she is gone. I question if she ever existed, except for a tingling sensation felt in my cheek, her existance in my life passes with no trace. Nonetheless, She'll be ok, I say to myself, hoping that the Gods will consent.
xiii.
The wheels of the car fall off from either pathetic fallacy or inadvertent telekinesis or the bump in the road. Knowing that I will now have to walk many miles, carrying my dear dead friend, I ram my head into the steerinwheel, harmonisin with the cacophony. After hours of this, I fill my pockets with as much amphetamine from the glovebox I can carry and we leave. I realise neither of us have eaten since I shot him.
xiv.
Up there, on the top of the hill, I notice a farm. I climb the driveway. What you boys doin on my property asks the owner. Sir , we are on a pilgrimage, weary and hungry and willing to work for keep I explain. Him too he inquires of Clarence, the hardest worker I ever knew. I shrug. There is a pause.Come in and wash up and stay away from my daughter, she's bad news, he tells me. You too, by the looks of things, he observes.
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