Sunday, June 20, 2010
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
A Jump in Format
Hi All,
I've been liking the format in tumblr better, so I've switched.
My new blog-type object is sammydwyer.tumblr.com
Check it!
I've been liking the format in tumblr better, so I've switched.
My new blog-type object is sammydwyer.tumblr.com
Check it!
Monday, October 12, 2009
Residuals, ACT 1
Residuals
A play by Sam Dwyer
2009
Act 1, Scene I
Thelonious Monk’s song “Introspection” begins to play in the background.
Curtain opens upon a room that appears to be in a basement. The walls are made of rough, gray cinderblock. Similarly, the floor is concrete, with a drain in the center. Grimy industrial fluorescent lighting hangs from the ceiling – the lighting it gives off at first illuminates the whole room, but soon fades to a pale green-blue light that just barely illuminates a horseshoe shaped arrangement of six large, water-filled translucent boxes containing pink brains on pedestals with electrodes attached to them. The boxes rest atop devices that look like motorized barstools. Characters are named/numbered according to their position in the horseshoe, from left to right: Brain 1, Brain 2, Brain 3, etc.
Two brain-boxes zoom forward on their stands, and stop side-by-side in the center of the stage.
Blue and red L.E.D. lighting on the floor connects the two – one color for each party – and flickers a path away from the speaker, in who’s tank bubbles rise.
Voiceover is normal speech.
Brain 4: [male voice, motorized device is chromed and shiny. The tank is illuminated in purple.] Thank you for loaning me the money.
Brain 2 [male voice, motorized device is crudely spray painted fluorescent orange and pink. The tank is illuminated in green.]: Don’t mention it. I just want you to be happy.
B4: Well, it was very generous of you.
B2: As I said, don’t mention it. It’s nothing, it’s my pleasure – believe me. I’m really happy to see you again.
B4: I’m happy to see you, too. It’s been awhile. What have you been doing?
B2: I’ve been exploring.
B4: [interrrupts] What does that even mean anymore?!
B2: Well, it means that I go and try to find new places to think. My team cracked a firewall in Asia, and I went through. It was the strangest forum… everyone thought so differently. They were shocked to have someone new – I was the only Anglo thinker… I’ve never felt so pulled apart before. It’s like what anthropology used to be. Our species has reprovincialized, you know. It’s ironic – the original promise of the web was cosmopolitan - to connect us all in that white city of the mind.
B4: Why is it always white?
B2: The city?
B4: Yes. Why is it always white.
B2: I don’t know. I’ve thought about it. It’s fascinating – think about the pop culture touch points from our youth. America, the “shining city on a hill.” The design of Apple computers. The Matrix, the white citadel of Gondor. Not to mention how religion has incorporated white throughout our history. What do you think?
B4: I think it’s ridiculous. Why not black? It’s all the same.
B2: But the black city is frightening, isn’t it? Black is where things hide; it’s the color of nightmares.
B4: Are you afraid of the dark?
B2: I try not to be afraid of anything.
B4: You should be afraid. There are some things we should be afraid of. Forces outside of our control is one thing, but mostly we should be afraid of each other. We are something to fear. The white city is a fantasy. The real color of man is black. That’s what you used to see when you closed your eyes, and that’s what you saw when you closed your eyes and went to sleep and dreamed of the girls you wanted to have. You used to dream about girls, right?
B2: Of course. I still do.
B4: The girls made us dark.
B2: Can I tell you about a dream I had the other day?
B4: Of course.
B2: The dream took place when we still had bodies, and I was sleeping and had a dream about a woman breaking my heart. I was a really good-looking guy when we were young, do you remember? Really good looking. People always told me that. I used to date any girl that I wanted to…
B4 [interrupts]: You would claim that a lot, yeah. I don’t remember it being quite so easy…
B2: Jerk! Anyway...
[A projection flickers on behind them and plays the following scene from the first person perspective of a man.]
I was at a restaurant in New York in the winter. [Screen shows from the first person perspective of a man a large dining room – dark wood and white table clothes set with heavy silverware, softened by pale yellow lighting]
It was late, and there were only two other tables seated – a family, and another couple. [Screen pans over other diners, then turns to woman seated across table who is staring into the camera pointedly]
I was with was a brunette – she had blue eyes, a small face and a pointy chin, wearing a black dress and a diamond necklace, which I had bought for her.
I was dreaming that I was young and dreaming about being older – so I was still not yet any kind of success. So, for me in the dream to be dreaming about having bought a beautiful woman jewelry has a different significance. You know, it had this… weight of aspiration to it.
She was furious at me, and I was terrified, which is why I knew I loved her more than any other woman in the world. She stared at me and didn’t say anything, and I was trying to tell her I was sorry, that I had been confused and didn’t know what I wanted, but now I did and I wanted her. I had a white shirt on, and I kept tugging on the cuffs, pulling them up out of my jacket, which was also black. [Screen looks down and shows cuff tugging]
I remember the colors so vividly.
I took out a black velvet box and got down on my knee and asked her to marry me. [Screen shows box out held from kneeling position. Woman shakes her head and looks away, biting her finger] She said no, and I pleaded with her, ‘you’re the only woman I have ever loved!’ I told her. [Woman hides her head in her hands and shudders] And she looked away.
[Screen displays, first person perspective still, and following:] I ran out of the restaurant and out into the snow, around a corner and into the center of a square with a frozen fountain. I sat on its edge and pulled my suit-jacket in around me and shivered and cried.
[Screen goes blank. The brains sit silently for a second]
B4: What do you think it means?
B2: I don’t know. It’s how I feel all the time now.
B4: That’s sad. [Assumes a jocular tone] Have you thought about meds? You’d be surprised at how well they work.
B2: I don’t want to fuck with my writing.
B4: Ah! I read your draft; I think it’s getting good.
B2: How is your play? Have you written at all since time I saw you?
B4: Let’s not talk about it. Yours is so good!
B2: Are any autobiography’s good?
B4: What are you talking about? It’s great. People are dying to read it. You’re the savior of mankind as we know it.
B2: I didn’t invent US, my friend did. I just marketed it. I knew how to sell it. I’m just a businessman, a connector.
B4: You’re the richest man alive. That’s a big deal.
B2: Why?
B4: Dude! Cheer up! You can have anything you want! I know you have a good imagination.
[Pause, laughs – a “heh, heh, heh,” chuckle]
I had a new cord made with the money you gave me. I have a rendezvous soon with a new girl to try it out. It’s black-market, custom, no data limiter. You can’t limit them, and they can’t limit you.
B2: Where did you find her?
B4: I bought a notice on US.
B2: You didn’t have to do that! I could have hooked you.
B4: Please. Some things I have to do on my own. I’m excited. It’s going to be so intense; I’m gonna fucking blow her mind.
B2: That doesn’t sound safe.
B4: What does that even mean?
B2: Why don’t you just set yourself to get off, like everyone else? You don’t need another person to get off. What’s the point of it, even?
B4: Sex is better now than it ever has been. Everyone’s become so content to flip a switch for an orgasm; they’ve forgotten what it’s like. I haven’t. It’s a world of virgins. A perfect world, in my opinion.
You’d be amazed by the response the post got. Women are always curious if you offer them something new. That hasn’t changed. Sex for them is new, and they’re afraid. I like it. You can feel the excitement – the fear. I chase them down and I enter them. I penetrate them. It’s like nothing else - really makes you feel alive again. You can’t synthesize that. You’ve synched before, right?
B2: Of course. [rocks back and forth] Do you know the quote that goes “Who wants 72 virgins? I’d rather have 12 pros?”
B4: [scoffs] Whatever. It’s your loss.
B2: I don’t feel that way. I try to be where we are. I drift the net, looking for new things and people who know things. Quaintly, I still hope to fall in love. I don’t know what that would be like, though.
B4: Don’t we all? But that perfect girl isn’t here. You haven’t found her. You might as well have fun until you find it.
B2: I suppose. It gets boring, though. There are so many, but they’re all just the same.
B4: That’s because you don’t know what to appreciate. It’s funny – I used to appreciate girls with different physical attributes – big tits, long legs, red hair – whatever. But it’s different now. It’s all mind-to-mind. You ever fuck a girl with a learning disorder? The pleasure centers are mostly the same, but the pathways are all different. And the memories! Those are never the same. I love leading them through their memories, and forcing them into mine. Have you ever tried that?
B2: Mine are hidden. I don’t want to see them until I die.
B4: See? You are afraid. We are not going to die.
B2: I know.
B4: She’s supposed to come meet me soon. Do you want to watch? I can set it up so that you can see her.
There is a pause.
B2: Okay.
Act 1, Scene II
Curtain opens on Brain #4 and Brain #1 next to one another. Brain #1’s motordevice is a pale yellow; the lights in her tank are blue.
B4: How are you?
B1: I’m okay.
B4: I’m excited that you’re here.
B1: Me too… but look, I’m not sure I want to do this.
B4: What are you talking about? I just got this new cord for us to try – do you have any idea how much it cost? No one else in the whole world has anything like it. You have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve been working on this for months.
B1: Don’t you care? I’m afraid… Don’t you care?
B4: Absolutely not. You have no idea what you’re talking about – you’re getting worried for no reason. Did you ever get laid before your conversion? It’s the best thing on earth! I don’t need to take you seriously. It’s what we were made for when we were human. And you can still know what it felt like. Trust me – I’ve synched with lots of girls – it’s nothing dangerous. Also, this cord that I just had built – it’s custom – usually they have data limiters for protection, but this one doesn’t have it. I don’t have any bugs. We’re going to be so close. There’s no unnecessary protection. It’s going to be amazing. Believe me, you’ve never felt anything like this in your life.
B1: How do you know that I’m going to be safe? How do I know that you won’t hurt me?
B4: Why would I hurt you? I spent so much time and money trying to find you. You’re so beautiful. Aren’t you lonely?
B1: What?
B4: Are you lonely. I asked if you’re lonely.
B1: … I… don’t know. I’m confused. I don’t think so. I’m empty. Is that loneliness? I don’t think it’s the same. I feel nothing, which means nothing. What am I supposed to feel – unhappy? Why would I feel unhappy. There is nothing to feel, and so I take my equalizers and watch movies with my friend network. I was young when the conversion happened – I remember my mom and dad and grandparents. Sometimes I feel especially empty when I think about them. Most of the time I watch movies about how things used to be. What else is there to do? I’m confused.
B4: I’ll show you. Will you let me show you? I’m going to show you. You’ll thank me. You’ll never feel empty again.
B1: I don’t understand you.
B4: You will.
A thick black cord is lowered from the ceiling, and attaches between the two boxes. All lights turn off and the theatre is completely dark.
A projection of a blonde girl’s face flickers onto the side of Brain 2. The girl makes generic porn-sounding “mm’s,” then an “ah!” and an “oh!”
A man chuckles, and there is silence for a moment. The woman’s face turns red, she shifts and looks downwards, then closes her eyes and tilts her head back and begins to make a keening moan that heads towards a crescendo but breaks off when she suddenly opens her eyes and looks around frantically and shouts…
B1: Stop! Ow! Stop! GET OUT!
She struggles against something invisible
B1: [Slowly, in a quiet voice, crying] ow… oh my god… ow… it hurts. STOP! I mean it! YOU’RE HURTING ME! STOP! STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP [the projection of her face begins to skip, a repetition of her mouthing ‘stop’]
Act 1, Scene III
Curtain opens upon a horseshoe in the same arrangement as previous. Instead of brains this time however, people are sitting in dusty armchairs. The overhead fluorescent lighting is now bright. Brain #’s 3,5, and 6 are revealed to be decrepit and elderly – they are lightly covered in cobwebs. 3 and 6 are men, 5 is a woman. Brain 3 is dressed in many layers of rags; 5 and 6 are attired in drab office wear. They sit with their eyes closed; their heads hang loose. Occasionally they move their lips and their heads loll from side to side. Oxygen tubes run into their noses. The hiss of the oxygen tanks is audible to the audience.
Brain #1, now the beautiful blonde girl from the projection, lies in a yellow dress on her stomach in a small pool of blood that looks as if it came out of her ears. Brains #2 and 4 are revealed to be young men in their mid-twenties. Brain #2 wears fluorescent orange jeans and a tie-dyed dress shirt, glowing under black light; he’s Nordic - incredibly tall and thin. His eyes are mirrored silver. Brain #4 is shorter, but more muscular, with dark hair. He wears an immaculately tailored black suit with a white shirt.
The two men drag their chairs into the center of the stage and face them diagonally towards each other and the audience. The following dialogue is voiced over electronically. Their speech is rendered with a low warble that makes it almost unintelligible. Lips do not move. The LEDs on the flooring continue to light up in the earlier manner, as if connecting the two psychically.
Speech and movements are lethargic. There is a heartthrob bass beat.
B2: What happened?
B4: [hunches shoulders in to appear small, leans in towards B2 and looks him in the eye] I don’t understand what happened. She’s dead. I killed her. I didn’t mean to.
B2: Oh? [B2 looks away]
B4: I don’t understand how it happened. I didn’t know it would happen.
B2: Are you sad?
B4: [leans back into chair and stares downwards] I don’t know. I don’t understand what I’ve done.
Actor begins to visibly cry
Can I be sad if I can’t cry?
B2: [looks at B4, crying, and stands. Walks past B4 to side of stage and back. Stands in between audience and B4 and looks down at him.] I think that you’re sad. Just because you can’t cry anymore doesn’t mean that you can’t be upset. [moves to the side, towards his chair] We are human, and a terrible thing has happened. Death is a terrible thing; it is okay to be upset.
B4: I just wanted to be close to her? Isn’t that okay?
[Actor shudders, sobbing]
I just wanted to be close to her; I just wanted to be close to someone. I don’t know why. Why am I so fucking empty?
Stage blackens suddenly. A projection of black and white static appears. Slowly, white noise begins to build and a picture of a man facing away from the camera, holding something comes into focus. B4’s human voice is filtered through it, from right of stage, shouting angrily.
B4: Fuck! FUCK! I killed her! A beautiful girl! I could have loved her! Fuck!
The static crescendos unbearably, and the black and white, barely distinguishable image of the man on the screen smashes what it is that he’s holding (not apparent to the audience, but, a goldfish bowl). The sound of broken glass is audible within the white noise.
B2: [Human voice, also filtered through static, from left of stage] Shouldn’t we hide, you think?
“Brick is Red” by the Pixies plays (at a volume that would drown out clapping) as the curtain draws shut.
Act 1, Scene IV
Curtain opens on a scene that resembles the interior of a subway plastered with ads for a social network named “US,” with iconography similar to Facebook’s. The slogans say, in a bright, pop-art font: “Escape the Rapture! Join US!” “Join US and be saved!” “Salvation through Connection! Connect with US!”
Lights flash past the windows as if the subway is in motion. The three old people who were Brains 3, 5 and 6 sit on benches. 3 sits at one end of the, 5 and 6 are next to one another, holding hands, immobile. An image of a subway platform flashes in the windows and slows. A sculpture from Tom Otterness’ Life Underground is visible through the window. The doors open, and the two young men who were Brains 2 and 4 step inside.
Brain 2 indicates towards a bench, and they sit, six inches apart. B2 sits straight, with his head tilted back and up as if looking at an advertisement on the opposite side of the subway car. His fluorescent clothing glows, illuminated by black light, his eyes still silvered. B4 rests his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. With a rumble, the subway begins to move again.
The actors speak normally.
B2: You don’t think the notices are too scary, are they?
B4: They look friendly enough.
B2: I don’t want to frighten people.
B4: [looks up at B2] Won’t they find us?
B2: [Doesn’t regard B4. Looks at B3 slumped over in the corner of the car] Who? How? No. I don’t think so. It’ll take forever to find the girl, and then even longer to crack her open and figure out what happened. We’re going to my house. It’s safe there.
B4: You have a house?
B2: Of course. It’s nice, you’ll like it.
B4: How come you’ve never mentioned it? Why do we always meet in generic space then? It’s so shabby.
B2: Brendan don’t be offended. It’s a secret. No one I know from our old life has ever seen it. I never have anyone over.
Brendan: Why?
B2: [Looks Brendan in the eye] Too many variables.
B3 stirs and looks around, sees the two young men.
Brendan: You mean you can’t control them?
B3 pulls himself up and shuffles over to them.
B3: [In a courteous tone] Excuse me gentlemen. Do you have a moment? [Brendan makes an expression of distaste and looks away. B2 looks at B3] I don’t like to ask you this, but I’m desperately in need of help. Any assistance you could give me would be greatly appreciated. You see, I don’t have any money, and I lost my dog. I ran out of money, and was kicked the park. I haven’t seen her for so long.
B2: [Smiles] What kind of dog?
B3: [Desperately smiles back, and then, excited to have an audience, blissfully remembering] She was so beautiful! Her name was Honey; she was a little brown dachshund. I wasn’t always like this, you know. I got money when my wife died. US asked if I wanted to join their park. [With pride] I used to be a premium member; we would walk in the nicest places. I spent all my time with her.
B2: [Smiling, still] That sounds really nice. But what happened, friend?
B3: [Looks down, unsure] And then… all my money was gone.
Brendan: [Looks at B3 fiercely] The dog park is really expensive. You should have been careful.
B3: [Ashamed] I know. I couldn’t leave her there alone though.
Brendan: She’s not even real.
B3: [Defensive:] Yes she was! US converted dogs, too! She was a real dog. She had been a real dog.
B2: [To Brendan] It’s true. All the dogs in the park are real dogs. And they still play and breed and frolic as if nothing has changed. No one dog is the same as another. [To B3] How long have you been riding this train?
B3: I don’t know; a long time. I’ve been waiting for someone to come along and help me.
B2: [Pulls a fat wallet out and thumbs through it and then pulls out a shiny silver card and, smiling, hands it to B3] Here. Do you know what that is? That’s an unlimited Park card.
B3: [Clutches the card and wordlessly drops to his knees, bowing at B2]
B2: [Still smiling, makes a shushing sound] Believe me, it’s my pleasure. [Smiling, but with a firm tone:] My friend and I were having a conversation; may we continue?
B3 nods and sits back in his original position, holding the card in his lap and staring at it. The train rumbles.
Brendan: [Sharply] Is that what you do now? Carry around treasures to give to the wretched?
B2: [Frowns] You match what you comprehend. Not I.
Brendan: What is the difference to you between me and that man? Is there any?
B2: [Stands] Of course there is. He’s absolutely wretched, and you’re a forceful person. You challenge me. That’s pretty valuable. [Shudders and pulls a small bottle of sanitizer out of his pocket, which he applies to his hands] I was never afraid of sickness until I moved here. Even though I’m full of the latest inoculants, you never know how the bugs are mutating. There’s something dirty about this place. Are you scared of bugs?
Brendan: No. No one’s gotten sick for years.
B2: That doesn’t mean it won’t happen again.
Brendan: [Doesn’t answer]
I’m tired.
B2: We’re almost home. Home in my white castle. [Smiles]
The train slows and pulls into a station. They depart.
Act 1, Scene V
Curtain opens on a black stage filled with people dressed completely in black body suits, heads covered. They watch acrobats flit about on a trapeze. B2, still in glowing clothes, opens a door from stage left and leads Brendan.
Five black-suited people greet B2. The first three shake his hand and nod. The fourth shakes his hand and then leans in as if to whisper in his ear. B2 curtly nods at the fifth.
B2: [To Brendan] Wait here.
Brendan: [Overwhelmed] Okay.
B2 strides quickly off stage. The crowd mingles as if talking to one another, looking curiously at Brendan, who ignores them.
A servant dressed in a white tux opens a door on stage right. White light pours out and the servant beckons. The dancers cringe slightly, but not dramatically, at the light. Brendan follows.
Act 1, Scene VI
In an immaculate white room, bright white lights blast out at the audience. The servant opens a door on stage left, and Brendan follows. The servant walks to a Saarinen table with two red-cushioned tulip chairs in the center of the room. He pulls a chair back and indicates for Brendan to sit.
Brendan: Thank you
Servant: Would you like a drink?
B2: Sure. Gin martini, olives?
Servant: You got it.
The servant walks to a white sideboard in the back of the room and mixes two martinis, one with olives, one with onions. He brings the two drinks over on a tray, setting the olive martini in front of Brendan, the onion at the other seat.
Brendan sips his. The servant stands in the corner of the room. Brendan fidgets.
Brendan: Do you have a cigarette?
Servant: Yes, of course.
The servant pulls a hotel-lobby style elevated ashtray out of a panel in the wall, and brings it next to Brendan’s chair, then offers him a cigarette from a pack of Marlboros. Brendan pulls a lighter out of his pocket and smokes. The servant leaves the cigarettes on the table.
They wait.
A door opens, and B2 enters, smiling, dressed trimly, in white jeans and t-shirt. He bounds over to the empty chair.
B2: [Grabs the onion martini and slurps indelicately] Pretty wild place, huh?
Brendan: Pretty wild.
B2: This is my castle.
Brendan: I can see that.
B2: What do you think?
Brendan: You’ve done well for yourself. Congratulations.
B2: I know. I never imagined it would be like this.
Brendan: As I said, congratulations. You deserve it. Who are all these people?
B2: Just talented people I’ve met. I told you, I go out looking for them. When I find them, I invite them here. They’re remarkable, my team – always showing me new things. And in exchange for that, I help them. They’re very dear to me.
Brendan: Apparently.
B2: Just as dear as you are, my murderous friend!
Brendan: [Stares over his martini at B2 and says flatly:] Thanks.
B2: [Smiling] I’m teasing.
Brendan: Great. Thanks.
B2: You know, you don’t really need to hide – no one will ever really come after you. The whole world studies your profile; they know you’re a close friend of mine. We are the new Gods. That’s what you are friend, a little God. You understand, don’t you, little God?
Brendan: That’s ridiculous. We’re just men.
The servant begins mixing new drinks.
B2: I don’t think you understand man as I do. Divinity of course is a fantasy, but Kings are imbued with divinity. How else can their subjects explain their power? Man has always had kings, and I am one.
Brendan: [Blasé] You’re a rich man, nothing more. You’re rich because you’re smart. You’re smart because of a biological anomaly. Don’t confuse that with divinity. The divine is untouchable, but you are man. I’ve seen you upset. You aren’t always in control.
B2: You’re right. I guess the point I was trying to make more was about how people perceive divinity out of the unfathomable.
The servant replaces their drinks.
Brendan: Should I be worried about your sanity? Mentally healthy people don’t refer to themselves as gods.
B2: I don’t know.
They sit quietly and smoke.
B2: Sometimes I worry I spend too much time alone. Though I’m never alone.
Brendan: Why? What are you working on?
B2: Saving the world. Restoring it to what it used to be. It’s the greatest work of art ever attempted.
Brendan: That’s insane. And impossible. The world doesn’t exist any more. We are the residuals of an organism that no longer exists; little wisps of data in a cloud supported by mechanical reality. But we are still alive. [Looks at hands] At least here, in US. And our lives for the most part are better than they ever were. Safer. No need for food. Sure, it causes some misery that you have to pay US in order to live in a physical representation of yourself. But the sensations are no different, and everyone understands that coordinated labor is necessary for our continued existence - how else could our network be maintained? It’s incredibly charitable that we allow noncontributaries access to the media archives.
B2: I didn’t say that I miss the old world for logical, or practical reasons. As I said, restoring the old world is the greatest art project ever attempted. How fun would that be, if I could turn you back into a real person, even for an hour! Wouldn’t you like to try it? Wouldn’t you like to touch something, and know that it was real?
Brendan: But there isn’t a real difference. It’s all in your mind.
B2: [Shaking his head] We were arguing just the opposite sides earlier! You were explaining why you like to fuck virgins and said that it was like being alive again!
Brendan: It’s a fucking figure of speech! It doesn’t mean that I actually want to be alive again! Living sucked. Like Hobbes said: nasty. Brutish. And short. You want every day to be like today, where some girl dies!
B2: [Angry] No! You don’t understand! You don’t understand me!
Brendan: [Startled at how upset B2 is] Dude, don’t get upset. Don’t get upset. There’s no need for us to argue.
B2: [Stands and begins to pace, raging] You know what really fucking ate away at my sanity today? Watching that girl die! That fucking hurt. You knew that I didn’t want to watch, but you also knew how to get me to. You hurt me, you fuck!
A man runs into the room and punches Brendan in the mouth. He falls off his chair and spits blood. The man rushes out.
B2: [Squats next to Brendan on the floor] Do you understand power, little God?
Brendan: [As B2 sits back in the chair] Ow. Get a fucking grip. [Rubbing his face, he sits up on the floor but doesn’t stand. Staring at B2:] You’re such a little bitch. Hit me yourself next time, pussy.
B2: [Coldly, lights a cigarette] Not my strong suite.
The blonde girl who was supposed to be dead enters, wearing a sparkling gold dress. She puts her hands on B2’s shoulders and kisses him on the ear. B2 visibly calms. Brendan stares at her.
Girl: [Confidently, to Brendan] Hi. Remember me?
Brendan stands and then sits in his chair. He sips his drink and looks away. B2 stares at Brendan with mirth, biting his knuckle.
Girl: [Sneering at Brendan] You really thought you’d fucked me to death! [Giggling] You’re a pathetic fuck. You didn’t hurt me, you know. He said you needed to learn a lesson.
Brendan: [Doesn’t look at girl. Stares at B2 over his drink] Fuck you. You’re insane.
B2: [Grinning maniacally, stands, and kisses Girl, then Brendan on the cheek.] Muah! Love you pal!
Brendan: [shakes his head] So messed up, dude.
B2: [leaving with girl, grabs her ass] If you get tired, go play with the others.
Brendan finishes his drink. The servant brings him another.
Brendan: Do you smoke?
Servant: Sure.
Brendan points at the empty seat and hands the servant a cigarette. The servant sips at the drink B2 left behind.
They sit quietly for a moment.
Brendan: Is standing around and giving him drinks what you like to do?
Servant: [Chuckling to himself] I’m actually a physicist. Most of the time I’m doing research, but when he’s around it’s my pleasure to serve him. I like to watch him play – he’s so exciting, especially now that he has her to play with. There’s always some kind of scheme. You should stick around. What is it that you do?
Brendan: I’m a playwright. I write love stories about young people.
Servant: Attractive young people? I love stories about attractive young people! They’re so thrilling! You must be very talented if you’re a friend of his – you should write us a play! [Winks] We have many aspiring young actresses around, you know?
Curtains close.
Act 1, Scene VII
Curtain opens on a dimly lit bedroom. Design cues are plush upholstery/carpets, and tarnished metallic. On the left of the stage, facing ¾ to the audience is a massive desk with a towering array of monitors that cast a blue glow on the far wall. The blonde girl lies suggestively on the bed, staring at B2 with a sharp smile. B2 paces.
Girl: [In an exaggeratedly small voice] Are you mad at me?
B2: [Flatly] No.
Girl: Are you sure?
B2: I was surprised.
Girl: Oh?
B2: You answered the ad?
Girl: You are mad at me! I win! Admit it!
B2: Fucking cunt. You ruined my joke. She was supposed to just scream [mocking a girls voice:] “oh! oh! feels so good! oh! oh!” and then die. Like he’d made her come to death. He was supposed to have some sort of catharsis about caring. His plays are too cold. They don’t make people feel safe.
Girl: [Smiling] You get so mad when things don’t go your way. You know who should be really mad, more than he is? Brendan. [She clicks her tongue and waves her finger] Pretty mean of you, to change his post and ask for some girl to fake dying. So you were just doing him a favor? You’re so full of shit. You probably have no idea why you really did it, besides that you could. Who are you, God?
B2: [Removes his shirt and stands next to the bed, looking down at her] As far as you’re fucking concerned.
Girl: [Looks up at him] Oh? [Smiling with spite while suggestively slipping the shoulder of her dress down. In an exaggeratedly small voice again:] Why don’t you prove it to me, mister Zeus?
B2 smiles, then spits in her face and sits at his desk.
She begins to cry. B2 ignores her.
The girl gets up out of the bed and walks to him. She clutches him from behind and puts her face into his neck.
Girl: [Crying] Please? Please stop. I love you. [B2 looks at her, their faces touching] Won’t you take them out? I love you. You don’t have to hide from me.
B2: Okay.
B2 walks off stage right and the room dims. When he returns he briefly faces the audience, in a subtle spotlight, his eyes are visible, for the only time in the entirety of the play. The lights dim as he embraces the girl.
Girl: [Whispers] I don’t believe that you only wanted to make Brendan’s plays better. You wanted to teach him something good; you wanted to teach him to be more careful. And I think you have. He does care! He pretends that he doesn’t, but he does. You know that. You know that he cares. I know that you’re a nice boy.
B2 holds her closely.
Girl: Now, won’t you pay attention to me?
B2 nods.
Curtain closes on Calvin Harris’ “Acceptable in the 80’s”
End of Act 1.
A play by Sam Dwyer
2009
Act 1, Scene I
Thelonious Monk’s song “Introspection” begins to play in the background.
Curtain opens upon a room that appears to be in a basement. The walls are made of rough, gray cinderblock. Similarly, the floor is concrete, with a drain in the center. Grimy industrial fluorescent lighting hangs from the ceiling – the lighting it gives off at first illuminates the whole room, but soon fades to a pale green-blue light that just barely illuminates a horseshoe shaped arrangement of six large, water-filled translucent boxes containing pink brains on pedestals with electrodes attached to them. The boxes rest atop devices that look like motorized barstools. Characters are named/numbered according to their position in the horseshoe, from left to right: Brain 1, Brain 2, Brain 3, etc.
Two brain-boxes zoom forward on their stands, and stop side-by-side in the center of the stage.
Blue and red L.E.D. lighting on the floor connects the two – one color for each party – and flickers a path away from the speaker, in who’s tank bubbles rise.
Voiceover is normal speech.
Brain 4: [male voice, motorized device is chromed and shiny. The tank is illuminated in purple.] Thank you for loaning me the money.
Brain 2 [male voice, motorized device is crudely spray painted fluorescent orange and pink. The tank is illuminated in green.]: Don’t mention it. I just want you to be happy.
B4: Well, it was very generous of you.
B2: As I said, don’t mention it. It’s nothing, it’s my pleasure – believe me. I’m really happy to see you again.
B4: I’m happy to see you, too. It’s been awhile. What have you been doing?
B2: I’ve been exploring.
B4: [interrrupts] What does that even mean anymore?!
B2: Well, it means that I go and try to find new places to think. My team cracked a firewall in Asia, and I went through. It was the strangest forum… everyone thought so differently. They were shocked to have someone new – I was the only Anglo thinker… I’ve never felt so pulled apart before. It’s like what anthropology used to be. Our species has reprovincialized, you know. It’s ironic – the original promise of the web was cosmopolitan - to connect us all in that white city of the mind.
B4: Why is it always white?
B2: The city?
B4: Yes. Why is it always white.
B2: I don’t know. I’ve thought about it. It’s fascinating – think about the pop culture touch points from our youth. America, the “shining city on a hill.” The design of Apple computers. The Matrix, the white citadel of Gondor. Not to mention how religion has incorporated white throughout our history. What do you think?
B4: I think it’s ridiculous. Why not black? It’s all the same.
B2: But the black city is frightening, isn’t it? Black is where things hide; it’s the color of nightmares.
B4: Are you afraid of the dark?
B2: I try not to be afraid of anything.
B4: You should be afraid. There are some things we should be afraid of. Forces outside of our control is one thing, but mostly we should be afraid of each other. We are something to fear. The white city is a fantasy. The real color of man is black. That’s what you used to see when you closed your eyes, and that’s what you saw when you closed your eyes and went to sleep and dreamed of the girls you wanted to have. You used to dream about girls, right?
B2: Of course. I still do.
B4: The girls made us dark.
B2: Can I tell you about a dream I had the other day?
B4: Of course.
B2: The dream took place when we still had bodies, and I was sleeping and had a dream about a woman breaking my heart. I was a really good-looking guy when we were young, do you remember? Really good looking. People always told me that. I used to date any girl that I wanted to…
B4 [interrupts]: You would claim that a lot, yeah. I don’t remember it being quite so easy…
B2: Jerk! Anyway...
[A projection flickers on behind them and plays the following scene from the first person perspective of a man.]
I was at a restaurant in New York in the winter. [Screen shows from the first person perspective of a man a large dining room – dark wood and white table clothes set with heavy silverware, softened by pale yellow lighting]
It was late, and there were only two other tables seated – a family, and another couple. [Screen pans over other diners, then turns to woman seated across table who is staring into the camera pointedly]
I was with was a brunette – she had blue eyes, a small face and a pointy chin, wearing a black dress and a diamond necklace, which I had bought for her.
I was dreaming that I was young and dreaming about being older – so I was still not yet any kind of success. So, for me in the dream to be dreaming about having bought a beautiful woman jewelry has a different significance. You know, it had this… weight of aspiration to it.
She was furious at me, and I was terrified, which is why I knew I loved her more than any other woman in the world. She stared at me and didn’t say anything, and I was trying to tell her I was sorry, that I had been confused and didn’t know what I wanted, but now I did and I wanted her. I had a white shirt on, and I kept tugging on the cuffs, pulling them up out of my jacket, which was also black. [Screen looks down and shows cuff tugging]
I remember the colors so vividly.
I took out a black velvet box and got down on my knee and asked her to marry me. [Screen shows box out held from kneeling position. Woman shakes her head and looks away, biting her finger] She said no, and I pleaded with her, ‘you’re the only woman I have ever loved!’ I told her. [Woman hides her head in her hands and shudders] And she looked away.
[Screen displays, first person perspective still, and following:] I ran out of the restaurant and out into the snow, around a corner and into the center of a square with a frozen fountain. I sat on its edge and pulled my suit-jacket in around me and shivered and cried.
[Screen goes blank. The brains sit silently for a second]
B4: What do you think it means?
B2: I don’t know. It’s how I feel all the time now.
B4: That’s sad. [Assumes a jocular tone] Have you thought about meds? You’d be surprised at how well they work.
B2: I don’t want to fuck with my writing.
B4: Ah! I read your draft; I think it’s getting good.
B2: How is your play? Have you written at all since time I saw you?
B4: Let’s not talk about it. Yours is so good!
B2: Are any autobiography’s good?
B4: What are you talking about? It’s great. People are dying to read it. You’re the savior of mankind as we know it.
B2: I didn’t invent US, my friend did. I just marketed it. I knew how to sell it. I’m just a businessman, a connector.
B4: You’re the richest man alive. That’s a big deal.
B2: Why?
B4: Dude! Cheer up! You can have anything you want! I know you have a good imagination.
[Pause, laughs – a “heh, heh, heh,” chuckle]
I had a new cord made with the money you gave me. I have a rendezvous soon with a new girl to try it out. It’s black-market, custom, no data limiter. You can’t limit them, and they can’t limit you.
B2: Where did you find her?
B4: I bought a notice on US.
B2: You didn’t have to do that! I could have hooked you.
B4: Please. Some things I have to do on my own. I’m excited. It’s going to be so intense; I’m gonna fucking blow her mind.
B2: That doesn’t sound safe.
B4: What does that even mean?
B2: Why don’t you just set yourself to get off, like everyone else? You don’t need another person to get off. What’s the point of it, even?
B4: Sex is better now than it ever has been. Everyone’s become so content to flip a switch for an orgasm; they’ve forgotten what it’s like. I haven’t. It’s a world of virgins. A perfect world, in my opinion.
You’d be amazed by the response the post got. Women are always curious if you offer them something new. That hasn’t changed. Sex for them is new, and they’re afraid. I like it. You can feel the excitement – the fear. I chase them down and I enter them. I penetrate them. It’s like nothing else - really makes you feel alive again. You can’t synthesize that. You’ve synched before, right?
B2: Of course. [rocks back and forth] Do you know the quote that goes “Who wants 72 virgins? I’d rather have 12 pros?”
B4: [scoffs] Whatever. It’s your loss.
B2: I don’t feel that way. I try to be where we are. I drift the net, looking for new things and people who know things. Quaintly, I still hope to fall in love. I don’t know what that would be like, though.
B4: Don’t we all? But that perfect girl isn’t here. You haven’t found her. You might as well have fun until you find it.
B2: I suppose. It gets boring, though. There are so many, but they’re all just the same.
B4: That’s because you don’t know what to appreciate. It’s funny – I used to appreciate girls with different physical attributes – big tits, long legs, red hair – whatever. But it’s different now. It’s all mind-to-mind. You ever fuck a girl with a learning disorder? The pleasure centers are mostly the same, but the pathways are all different. And the memories! Those are never the same. I love leading them through their memories, and forcing them into mine. Have you ever tried that?
B2: Mine are hidden. I don’t want to see them until I die.
B4: See? You are afraid. We are not going to die.
B2: I know.
B4: She’s supposed to come meet me soon. Do you want to watch? I can set it up so that you can see her.
There is a pause.
B2: Okay.
Act 1, Scene II
Curtain opens on Brain #4 and Brain #1 next to one another. Brain #1’s motordevice is a pale yellow; the lights in her tank are blue.
B4: How are you?
B1: I’m okay.
B4: I’m excited that you’re here.
B1: Me too… but look, I’m not sure I want to do this.
B4: What are you talking about? I just got this new cord for us to try – do you have any idea how much it cost? No one else in the whole world has anything like it. You have no idea what you’re talking about. I’ve been working on this for months.
B1: Don’t you care? I’m afraid… Don’t you care?
B4: Absolutely not. You have no idea what you’re talking about – you’re getting worried for no reason. Did you ever get laid before your conversion? It’s the best thing on earth! I don’t need to take you seriously. It’s what we were made for when we were human. And you can still know what it felt like. Trust me – I’ve synched with lots of girls – it’s nothing dangerous. Also, this cord that I just had built – it’s custom – usually they have data limiters for protection, but this one doesn’t have it. I don’t have any bugs. We’re going to be so close. There’s no unnecessary protection. It’s going to be amazing. Believe me, you’ve never felt anything like this in your life.
B1: How do you know that I’m going to be safe? How do I know that you won’t hurt me?
B4: Why would I hurt you? I spent so much time and money trying to find you. You’re so beautiful. Aren’t you lonely?
B1: What?
B4: Are you lonely. I asked if you’re lonely.
B1: … I… don’t know. I’m confused. I don’t think so. I’m empty. Is that loneliness? I don’t think it’s the same. I feel nothing, which means nothing. What am I supposed to feel – unhappy? Why would I feel unhappy. There is nothing to feel, and so I take my equalizers and watch movies with my friend network. I was young when the conversion happened – I remember my mom and dad and grandparents. Sometimes I feel especially empty when I think about them. Most of the time I watch movies about how things used to be. What else is there to do? I’m confused.
B4: I’ll show you. Will you let me show you? I’m going to show you. You’ll thank me. You’ll never feel empty again.
B1: I don’t understand you.
B4: You will.
A thick black cord is lowered from the ceiling, and attaches between the two boxes. All lights turn off and the theatre is completely dark.
A projection of a blonde girl’s face flickers onto the side of Brain 2. The girl makes generic porn-sounding “mm’s,” then an “ah!” and an “oh!”
A man chuckles, and there is silence for a moment. The woman’s face turns red, she shifts and looks downwards, then closes her eyes and tilts her head back and begins to make a keening moan that heads towards a crescendo but breaks off when she suddenly opens her eyes and looks around frantically and shouts…
B1: Stop! Ow! Stop! GET OUT!
She struggles against something invisible
B1: [Slowly, in a quiet voice, crying] ow… oh my god… ow… it hurts. STOP! I mean it! YOU’RE HURTING ME! STOP! STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP [the projection of her face begins to skip, a repetition of her mouthing ‘stop’]
Act 1, Scene III
Curtain opens upon a horseshoe in the same arrangement as previous. Instead of brains this time however, people are sitting in dusty armchairs. The overhead fluorescent lighting is now bright. Brain #’s 3,5, and 6 are revealed to be decrepit and elderly – they are lightly covered in cobwebs. 3 and 6 are men, 5 is a woman. Brain 3 is dressed in many layers of rags; 5 and 6 are attired in drab office wear. They sit with their eyes closed; their heads hang loose. Occasionally they move their lips and their heads loll from side to side. Oxygen tubes run into their noses. The hiss of the oxygen tanks is audible to the audience.
Brain #1, now the beautiful blonde girl from the projection, lies in a yellow dress on her stomach in a small pool of blood that looks as if it came out of her ears. Brains #2 and 4 are revealed to be young men in their mid-twenties. Brain #2 wears fluorescent orange jeans and a tie-dyed dress shirt, glowing under black light; he’s Nordic - incredibly tall and thin. His eyes are mirrored silver. Brain #4 is shorter, but more muscular, with dark hair. He wears an immaculately tailored black suit with a white shirt.
The two men drag their chairs into the center of the stage and face them diagonally towards each other and the audience. The following dialogue is voiced over electronically. Their speech is rendered with a low warble that makes it almost unintelligible. Lips do not move. The LEDs on the flooring continue to light up in the earlier manner, as if connecting the two psychically.
Speech and movements are lethargic. There is a heartthrob bass beat.
B2: What happened?
B4: [hunches shoulders in to appear small, leans in towards B2 and looks him in the eye] I don’t understand what happened. She’s dead. I killed her. I didn’t mean to.
B2: Oh? [B2 looks away]
B4: I don’t understand how it happened. I didn’t know it would happen.
B2: Are you sad?
B4: [leans back into chair and stares downwards] I don’t know. I don’t understand what I’ve done.
Actor begins to visibly cry
Can I be sad if I can’t cry?
B2: [looks at B4, crying, and stands. Walks past B4 to side of stage and back. Stands in between audience and B4 and looks down at him.] I think that you’re sad. Just because you can’t cry anymore doesn’t mean that you can’t be upset. [moves to the side, towards his chair] We are human, and a terrible thing has happened. Death is a terrible thing; it is okay to be upset.
B4: I just wanted to be close to her? Isn’t that okay?
[Actor shudders, sobbing]
I just wanted to be close to her; I just wanted to be close to someone. I don’t know why. Why am I so fucking empty?
Stage blackens suddenly. A projection of black and white static appears. Slowly, white noise begins to build and a picture of a man facing away from the camera, holding something comes into focus. B4’s human voice is filtered through it, from right of stage, shouting angrily.
B4: Fuck! FUCK! I killed her! A beautiful girl! I could have loved her! Fuck!
The static crescendos unbearably, and the black and white, barely distinguishable image of the man on the screen smashes what it is that he’s holding (not apparent to the audience, but, a goldfish bowl). The sound of broken glass is audible within the white noise.
B2: [Human voice, also filtered through static, from left of stage] Shouldn’t we hide, you think?
“Brick is Red” by the Pixies plays (at a volume that would drown out clapping) as the curtain draws shut.
Act 1, Scene IV
Curtain opens on a scene that resembles the interior of a subway plastered with ads for a social network named “US,” with iconography similar to Facebook’s. The slogans say, in a bright, pop-art font: “Escape the Rapture! Join US!” “Join US and be saved!” “Salvation through Connection! Connect with US!”
Lights flash past the windows as if the subway is in motion. The three old people who were Brains 3, 5 and 6 sit on benches. 3 sits at one end of the, 5 and 6 are next to one another, holding hands, immobile. An image of a subway platform flashes in the windows and slows. A sculpture from Tom Otterness’ Life Underground is visible through the window. The doors open, and the two young men who were Brains 2 and 4 step inside.
Brain 2 indicates towards a bench, and they sit, six inches apart. B2 sits straight, with his head tilted back and up as if looking at an advertisement on the opposite side of the subway car. His fluorescent clothing glows, illuminated by black light, his eyes still silvered. B4 rests his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. With a rumble, the subway begins to move again.
The actors speak normally.
B2: You don’t think the notices are too scary, are they?
B4: They look friendly enough.
B2: I don’t want to frighten people.
B4: [looks up at B2] Won’t they find us?
B2: [Doesn’t regard B4. Looks at B3 slumped over in the corner of the car] Who? How? No. I don’t think so. It’ll take forever to find the girl, and then even longer to crack her open and figure out what happened. We’re going to my house. It’s safe there.
B4: You have a house?
B2: Of course. It’s nice, you’ll like it.
B4: How come you’ve never mentioned it? Why do we always meet in generic space then? It’s so shabby.
B2: Brendan don’t be offended. It’s a secret. No one I know from our old life has ever seen it. I never have anyone over.
Brendan: Why?
B2: [Looks Brendan in the eye] Too many variables.
B3 stirs and looks around, sees the two young men.
Brendan: You mean you can’t control them?
B3 pulls himself up and shuffles over to them.
B3: [In a courteous tone] Excuse me gentlemen. Do you have a moment? [Brendan makes an expression of distaste and looks away. B2 looks at B3] I don’t like to ask you this, but I’m desperately in need of help. Any assistance you could give me would be greatly appreciated. You see, I don’t have any money, and I lost my dog. I ran out of money, and was kicked the park. I haven’t seen her for so long.
B2: [Smiles] What kind of dog?
B3: [Desperately smiles back, and then, excited to have an audience, blissfully remembering] She was so beautiful! Her name was Honey; she was a little brown dachshund. I wasn’t always like this, you know. I got money when my wife died. US asked if I wanted to join their park. [With pride] I used to be a premium member; we would walk in the nicest places. I spent all my time with her.
B2: [Smiling, still] That sounds really nice. But what happened, friend?
B3: [Looks down, unsure] And then… all my money was gone.
Brendan: [Looks at B3 fiercely] The dog park is really expensive. You should have been careful.
B3: [Ashamed] I know. I couldn’t leave her there alone though.
Brendan: She’s not even real.
B3: [Defensive:] Yes she was! US converted dogs, too! She was a real dog. She had been a real dog.
B2: [To Brendan] It’s true. All the dogs in the park are real dogs. And they still play and breed and frolic as if nothing has changed. No one dog is the same as another. [To B3] How long have you been riding this train?
B3: I don’t know; a long time. I’ve been waiting for someone to come along and help me.
B2: [Pulls a fat wallet out and thumbs through it and then pulls out a shiny silver card and, smiling, hands it to B3] Here. Do you know what that is? That’s an unlimited Park card.
B3: [Clutches the card and wordlessly drops to his knees, bowing at B2]
B2: [Still smiling, makes a shushing sound] Believe me, it’s my pleasure. [Smiling, but with a firm tone:] My friend and I were having a conversation; may we continue?
B3 nods and sits back in his original position, holding the card in his lap and staring at it. The train rumbles.
Brendan: [Sharply] Is that what you do now? Carry around treasures to give to the wretched?
B2: [Frowns] You match what you comprehend. Not I.
Brendan: What is the difference to you between me and that man? Is there any?
B2: [Stands] Of course there is. He’s absolutely wretched, and you’re a forceful person. You challenge me. That’s pretty valuable. [Shudders and pulls a small bottle of sanitizer out of his pocket, which he applies to his hands] I was never afraid of sickness until I moved here. Even though I’m full of the latest inoculants, you never know how the bugs are mutating. There’s something dirty about this place. Are you scared of bugs?
Brendan: No. No one’s gotten sick for years.
B2: That doesn’t mean it won’t happen again.
Brendan: [Doesn’t answer]
I’m tired.
B2: We’re almost home. Home in my white castle. [Smiles]
The train slows and pulls into a station. They depart.
Act 1, Scene V
Curtain opens on a black stage filled with people dressed completely in black body suits, heads covered. They watch acrobats flit about on a trapeze. B2, still in glowing clothes, opens a door from stage left and leads Brendan.
Five black-suited people greet B2. The first three shake his hand and nod. The fourth shakes his hand and then leans in as if to whisper in his ear. B2 curtly nods at the fifth.
B2: [To Brendan] Wait here.
Brendan: [Overwhelmed] Okay.
B2 strides quickly off stage. The crowd mingles as if talking to one another, looking curiously at Brendan, who ignores them.
A servant dressed in a white tux opens a door on stage right. White light pours out and the servant beckons. The dancers cringe slightly, but not dramatically, at the light. Brendan follows.
Act 1, Scene VI
In an immaculate white room, bright white lights blast out at the audience. The servant opens a door on stage left, and Brendan follows. The servant walks to a Saarinen table with two red-cushioned tulip chairs in the center of the room. He pulls a chair back and indicates for Brendan to sit.
Brendan: Thank you
Servant: Would you like a drink?
B2: Sure. Gin martini, olives?
Servant: You got it.
The servant walks to a white sideboard in the back of the room and mixes two martinis, one with olives, one with onions. He brings the two drinks over on a tray, setting the olive martini in front of Brendan, the onion at the other seat.
Brendan sips his. The servant stands in the corner of the room. Brendan fidgets.
Brendan: Do you have a cigarette?
Servant: Yes, of course.
The servant pulls a hotel-lobby style elevated ashtray out of a panel in the wall, and brings it next to Brendan’s chair, then offers him a cigarette from a pack of Marlboros. Brendan pulls a lighter out of his pocket and smokes. The servant leaves the cigarettes on the table.
They wait.
A door opens, and B2 enters, smiling, dressed trimly, in white jeans and t-shirt. He bounds over to the empty chair.
B2: [Grabs the onion martini and slurps indelicately] Pretty wild place, huh?
Brendan: Pretty wild.
B2: This is my castle.
Brendan: I can see that.
B2: What do you think?
Brendan: You’ve done well for yourself. Congratulations.
B2: I know. I never imagined it would be like this.
Brendan: As I said, congratulations. You deserve it. Who are all these people?
B2: Just talented people I’ve met. I told you, I go out looking for them. When I find them, I invite them here. They’re remarkable, my team – always showing me new things. And in exchange for that, I help them. They’re very dear to me.
Brendan: Apparently.
B2: Just as dear as you are, my murderous friend!
Brendan: [Stares over his martini at B2 and says flatly:] Thanks.
B2: [Smiling] I’m teasing.
Brendan: Great. Thanks.
B2: You know, you don’t really need to hide – no one will ever really come after you. The whole world studies your profile; they know you’re a close friend of mine. We are the new Gods. That’s what you are friend, a little God. You understand, don’t you, little God?
Brendan: That’s ridiculous. We’re just men.
The servant begins mixing new drinks.
B2: I don’t think you understand man as I do. Divinity of course is a fantasy, but Kings are imbued with divinity. How else can their subjects explain their power? Man has always had kings, and I am one.
Brendan: [Blasé] You’re a rich man, nothing more. You’re rich because you’re smart. You’re smart because of a biological anomaly. Don’t confuse that with divinity. The divine is untouchable, but you are man. I’ve seen you upset. You aren’t always in control.
B2: You’re right. I guess the point I was trying to make more was about how people perceive divinity out of the unfathomable.
The servant replaces their drinks.
Brendan: Should I be worried about your sanity? Mentally healthy people don’t refer to themselves as gods.
B2: I don’t know.
They sit quietly and smoke.
B2: Sometimes I worry I spend too much time alone. Though I’m never alone.
Brendan: Why? What are you working on?
B2: Saving the world. Restoring it to what it used to be. It’s the greatest work of art ever attempted.
Brendan: That’s insane. And impossible. The world doesn’t exist any more. We are the residuals of an organism that no longer exists; little wisps of data in a cloud supported by mechanical reality. But we are still alive. [Looks at hands] At least here, in US. And our lives for the most part are better than they ever were. Safer. No need for food. Sure, it causes some misery that you have to pay US in order to live in a physical representation of yourself. But the sensations are no different, and everyone understands that coordinated labor is necessary for our continued existence - how else could our network be maintained? It’s incredibly charitable that we allow noncontributaries access to the media archives.
B2: I didn’t say that I miss the old world for logical, or practical reasons. As I said, restoring the old world is the greatest art project ever attempted. How fun would that be, if I could turn you back into a real person, even for an hour! Wouldn’t you like to try it? Wouldn’t you like to touch something, and know that it was real?
Brendan: But there isn’t a real difference. It’s all in your mind.
B2: [Shaking his head] We were arguing just the opposite sides earlier! You were explaining why you like to fuck virgins and said that it was like being alive again!
Brendan: It’s a fucking figure of speech! It doesn’t mean that I actually want to be alive again! Living sucked. Like Hobbes said: nasty. Brutish. And short. You want every day to be like today, where some girl dies!
B2: [Angry] No! You don’t understand! You don’t understand me!
Brendan: [Startled at how upset B2 is] Dude, don’t get upset. Don’t get upset. There’s no need for us to argue.
B2: [Stands and begins to pace, raging] You know what really fucking ate away at my sanity today? Watching that girl die! That fucking hurt. You knew that I didn’t want to watch, but you also knew how to get me to. You hurt me, you fuck!
A man runs into the room and punches Brendan in the mouth. He falls off his chair and spits blood. The man rushes out.
B2: [Squats next to Brendan on the floor] Do you understand power, little God?
Brendan: [As B2 sits back in the chair] Ow. Get a fucking grip. [Rubbing his face, he sits up on the floor but doesn’t stand. Staring at B2:] You’re such a little bitch. Hit me yourself next time, pussy.
B2: [Coldly, lights a cigarette] Not my strong suite.
The blonde girl who was supposed to be dead enters, wearing a sparkling gold dress. She puts her hands on B2’s shoulders and kisses him on the ear. B2 visibly calms. Brendan stares at her.
Girl: [Confidently, to Brendan] Hi. Remember me?
Brendan stands and then sits in his chair. He sips his drink and looks away. B2 stares at Brendan with mirth, biting his knuckle.
Girl: [Sneering at Brendan] You really thought you’d fucked me to death! [Giggling] You’re a pathetic fuck. You didn’t hurt me, you know. He said you needed to learn a lesson.
Brendan: [Doesn’t look at girl. Stares at B2 over his drink] Fuck you. You’re insane.
B2: [Grinning maniacally, stands, and kisses Girl, then Brendan on the cheek.] Muah! Love you pal!
Brendan: [shakes his head] So messed up, dude.
B2: [leaving with girl, grabs her ass] If you get tired, go play with the others.
Brendan finishes his drink. The servant brings him another.
Brendan: Do you smoke?
Servant: Sure.
Brendan points at the empty seat and hands the servant a cigarette. The servant sips at the drink B2 left behind.
They sit quietly for a moment.
Brendan: Is standing around and giving him drinks what you like to do?
Servant: [Chuckling to himself] I’m actually a physicist. Most of the time I’m doing research, but when he’s around it’s my pleasure to serve him. I like to watch him play – he’s so exciting, especially now that he has her to play with. There’s always some kind of scheme. You should stick around. What is it that you do?
Brendan: I’m a playwright. I write love stories about young people.
Servant: Attractive young people? I love stories about attractive young people! They’re so thrilling! You must be very talented if you’re a friend of his – you should write us a play! [Winks] We have many aspiring young actresses around, you know?
Curtains close.
Act 1, Scene VII
Curtain opens on a dimly lit bedroom. Design cues are plush upholstery/carpets, and tarnished metallic. On the left of the stage, facing ¾ to the audience is a massive desk with a towering array of monitors that cast a blue glow on the far wall. The blonde girl lies suggestively on the bed, staring at B2 with a sharp smile. B2 paces.
Girl: [In an exaggeratedly small voice] Are you mad at me?
B2: [Flatly] No.
Girl: Are you sure?
B2: I was surprised.
Girl: Oh?
B2: You answered the ad?
Girl: You are mad at me! I win! Admit it!
B2: Fucking cunt. You ruined my joke. She was supposed to just scream [mocking a girls voice:] “oh! oh! feels so good! oh! oh!” and then die. Like he’d made her come to death. He was supposed to have some sort of catharsis about caring. His plays are too cold. They don’t make people feel safe.
Girl: [Smiling] You get so mad when things don’t go your way. You know who should be really mad, more than he is? Brendan. [She clicks her tongue and waves her finger] Pretty mean of you, to change his post and ask for some girl to fake dying. So you were just doing him a favor? You’re so full of shit. You probably have no idea why you really did it, besides that you could. Who are you, God?
B2: [Removes his shirt and stands next to the bed, looking down at her] As far as you’re fucking concerned.
Girl: [Looks up at him] Oh? [Smiling with spite while suggestively slipping the shoulder of her dress down. In an exaggeratedly small voice again:] Why don’t you prove it to me, mister Zeus?
B2 smiles, then spits in her face and sits at his desk.
She begins to cry. B2 ignores her.
The girl gets up out of the bed and walks to him. She clutches him from behind and puts her face into his neck.
Girl: [Crying] Please? Please stop. I love you. [B2 looks at her, their faces touching] Won’t you take them out? I love you. You don’t have to hide from me.
B2: Okay.
B2 walks off stage right and the room dims. When he returns he briefly faces the audience, in a subtle spotlight, his eyes are visible, for the only time in the entirety of the play. The lights dim as he embraces the girl.
Girl: [Whispers] I don’t believe that you only wanted to make Brendan’s plays better. You wanted to teach him something good; you wanted to teach him to be more careful. And I think you have. He does care! He pretends that he doesn’t, but he does. You know that. You know that he cares. I know that you’re a nice boy.
B2 holds her closely.
Girl: Now, won’t you pay attention to me?
B2 nods.
Curtain closes on Calvin Harris’ “Acceptable in the 80’s”
End of Act 1.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
mirrors for lighting the subway
one idea I had is that you could widen the subway grates alongside the roads and replace them with transluscent plastic, then have two mirrors that reflect at different angles
it would look like this
road________,,, (grate)
\
/ (mirror #1)
/
\ l______ (water trap)
\
\
(mirror 2)
__________ (platform)
it would look like this
road________,,, (grate)
\
/ (mirror #1)
/
\ l______ (water trap)
\
\
(mirror 2)
__________ (platform)
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Review: Jesus' Son/Tree of Smoke
Affecting, or Just Unpleasant?
Jesus’ Son/Tree of Smoke
Convention suggests that when evaluating a book, we begin by asking:
Q: In the classical sense of literature, does this work transport us? Does it carry us to a place where we want to be?
If the answer to the second question is “Yes,” than presumably the book is worth reading. The case of Jesus’ Son, published in 1992 by Denis Johnson, requires a third sub-question in order to determine enjoyment:
Q: Would you be happy to live in a cardboard box of unique description?
Johnson answer for a period of time early in his life was, “Yes, provided I was fucked up.” If your answer was similar, or if you have an interest in people who answered similarly, you will probably like his book. Jesus’ Son is of a genre immediately familiar to anyone who’s dropped in on an AA meeting: romanticized addict-noir.
Denis Johnson skins his prose cats differently, which is catnip to people who like peculiar prose. Some writers watch their windshield wipers whisk back and forth while listening to the electric motors whine; some notice the negative space left obscured outside their parabolic reach. In Jesus’ Son, Johnson’s wipers “stood up and lay down across the windshield without much effect.” In 1992, Johnson was talented at the one line twist, but doesn’t attempt to do more than gesture at a plot - the loosely threaded narrative arc of the 133-page short story collection unfolds with a power similar to his wipers. At first there is depravity, and then, towards the end, there is less of it.
In a story titled “Work,” Johnson narrates about getting high, hitting his woman when he sobers up, needing money to buy more heroin, and teaming up with a fellow junkie:
We balled up big gobs of wire in the center of each room, working for over an hour… we made a mound of white-jacketed wire in the top of his former home, pulling it up out of the floor. I felt weak. I had to vomit in the corner – just a thimbleful of grey bile. “All this work,” I complained, “is fucking with my high. Can’t you figure out some easier way of making a dollar?”
Later, at a bar:
“Nurse,” I sobbed. She poured doubles like an angel, right up to the lip of a cocktail glass, no measuring. “You have a lovely pitching arm.”
Johnson has a desperate penchant for women who provide care. Only mom can soothe the furies of boy; there are perhaps more clinical terms available to describe this. Johnson took nine years off after the commercial triumph of Jesus’ Son, and settled down with his third wife and home school his children. It was not time spent idly – his 614-page Vietnam War novel Tree of Smoke was published in 2007. It seems probable that he crafted a detailed outline before writing the book – the way it articulates the same devastatingly unguided masculinity of his earlier work is far more sophisticated.
Tree of Smoke works to illustrate hierarchy and power relationships between men. At the top is the enigmatic Colonel; a larger than life figure who’s schemes are the impeller drawing lesser men into action. As a rouse, the Colonel sets his “secret agent” cats-paw nephew Skip Sands to work doing nothing. On the other end of the diagram are brothers Bill and James Houston, an inebriate seaman and disturbed infantryman. When the story strays far from these four, the skeleton of the work protrudes awkwardly – the novel is bloated with hollow-eyed Machina characters, poorly integrated forays and dull ruminations on morality. Johnson has grand ambitions and the kitchen sink.
He is best when he’s working the same material that he’s always done. And he would be better if he had cut the dead weight surrounding the tender heart of Tree of Smoke. Johnson does not write beyond the major realization that presumably once led him away from self-destruction; he is eternally preoccupied with how the soft, loving woman’s world is held captive by irrationally destructive men:
Before very much longer the two brothers got into an argument with each other over nothing, and Bill Houston spilled a pitcher of beer right into the lap of somebody at the next table – a Japanese girl, who hunched her shoulders and looked sad and humiliated… The beer dribbled off the table’s edge while James fumbled to right the empty pitcher, saying, “It gets like this sometimes. It just does.”
The young girl made no move at all to adjust herself. She stared at her lap.
“What’s wrong with us,” James asked his brother, “are we fucked up or something? Every time we get together, something bad happens.”
“I know.”
“Something fucked-up.”
It gets darker:
When the others were finished she no longer needed holding down. James fell on his knees and put the point of his Bowie knife against the woman’s belly and said, “What’s your rank, sojer? You ever been showed what to do with one a these, sojer? You ever seen one before, sojer? What’s your rank, little sojer? What are you looking at? Do you think you’re my mother? You’re my mother, but who the fuck is my father?” He interrogated her until his hand was too weak to keep hold of the hilt.
The book ends with a letter written by the condemned Skip to a widowed humanitarian worker, with whom he had only an occasional and dispassionate affair. Skip writes of his exploits as an illegal arms dealer after the war, his three children and common-law Philippina wife, and then “Kathy, I believe I loved you. It never quite happened with anyone else.” Kathy remembers him vaguely as a dissembler and a liar, decides that she doesn’t really believe him, and quickly puts the episode aside to think instead about a speech she will deliver at a fundraiser for orphaned children.
Q: Who loves you, Denis Johnson?
A: Mommy loves you. Mommy loves you. Be good to her.
Jesus’ Son/Tree of Smoke
Convention suggests that when evaluating a book, we begin by asking:
Q: In the classical sense of literature, does this work transport us? Does it carry us to a place where we want to be?
If the answer to the second question is “Yes,” than presumably the book is worth reading. The case of Jesus’ Son, published in 1992 by Denis Johnson, requires a third sub-question in order to determine enjoyment:
Q: Would you be happy to live in a cardboard box of unique description?
Johnson answer for a period of time early in his life was, “Yes, provided I was fucked up.” If your answer was similar, or if you have an interest in people who answered similarly, you will probably like his book. Jesus’ Son is of a genre immediately familiar to anyone who’s dropped in on an AA meeting: romanticized addict-noir.
Denis Johnson skins his prose cats differently, which is catnip to people who like peculiar prose. Some writers watch their windshield wipers whisk back and forth while listening to the electric motors whine; some notice the negative space left obscured outside their parabolic reach. In Jesus’ Son, Johnson’s wipers “stood up and lay down across the windshield without much effect.” In 1992, Johnson was talented at the one line twist, but doesn’t attempt to do more than gesture at a plot - the loosely threaded narrative arc of the 133-page short story collection unfolds with a power similar to his wipers. At first there is depravity, and then, towards the end, there is less of it.
In a story titled “Work,” Johnson narrates about getting high, hitting his woman when he sobers up, needing money to buy more heroin, and teaming up with a fellow junkie:
We balled up big gobs of wire in the center of each room, working for over an hour… we made a mound of white-jacketed wire in the top of his former home, pulling it up out of the floor. I felt weak. I had to vomit in the corner – just a thimbleful of grey bile. “All this work,” I complained, “is fucking with my high. Can’t you figure out some easier way of making a dollar?”
Later, at a bar:
“Nurse,” I sobbed. She poured doubles like an angel, right up to the lip of a cocktail glass, no measuring. “You have a lovely pitching arm.”
Johnson has a desperate penchant for women who provide care. Only mom can soothe the furies of boy; there are perhaps more clinical terms available to describe this. Johnson took nine years off after the commercial triumph of Jesus’ Son, and settled down with his third wife and home school his children. It was not time spent idly – his 614-page Vietnam War novel Tree of Smoke was published in 2007. It seems probable that he crafted a detailed outline before writing the book – the way it articulates the same devastatingly unguided masculinity of his earlier work is far more sophisticated.
Tree of Smoke works to illustrate hierarchy and power relationships between men. At the top is the enigmatic Colonel; a larger than life figure who’s schemes are the impeller drawing lesser men into action. As a rouse, the Colonel sets his “secret agent” cats-paw nephew Skip Sands to work doing nothing. On the other end of the diagram are brothers Bill and James Houston, an inebriate seaman and disturbed infantryman. When the story strays far from these four, the skeleton of the work protrudes awkwardly – the novel is bloated with hollow-eyed Machina characters, poorly integrated forays and dull ruminations on morality. Johnson has grand ambitions and the kitchen sink.
He is best when he’s working the same material that he’s always done. And he would be better if he had cut the dead weight surrounding the tender heart of Tree of Smoke. Johnson does not write beyond the major realization that presumably once led him away from self-destruction; he is eternally preoccupied with how the soft, loving woman’s world is held captive by irrationally destructive men:
Before very much longer the two brothers got into an argument with each other over nothing, and Bill Houston spilled a pitcher of beer right into the lap of somebody at the next table – a Japanese girl, who hunched her shoulders and looked sad and humiliated… The beer dribbled off the table’s edge while James fumbled to right the empty pitcher, saying, “It gets like this sometimes. It just does.”
The young girl made no move at all to adjust herself. She stared at her lap.
“What’s wrong with us,” James asked his brother, “are we fucked up or something? Every time we get together, something bad happens.”
“I know.”
“Something fucked-up.”
It gets darker:
When the others were finished she no longer needed holding down. James fell on his knees and put the point of his Bowie knife against the woman’s belly and said, “What’s your rank, sojer? You ever been showed what to do with one a these, sojer? You ever seen one before, sojer? What’s your rank, little sojer? What are you looking at? Do you think you’re my mother? You’re my mother, but who the fuck is my father?” He interrogated her until his hand was too weak to keep hold of the hilt.
The book ends with a letter written by the condemned Skip to a widowed humanitarian worker, with whom he had only an occasional and dispassionate affair. Skip writes of his exploits as an illegal arms dealer after the war, his three children and common-law Philippina wife, and then “Kathy, I believe I loved you. It never quite happened with anyone else.” Kathy remembers him vaguely as a dissembler and a liar, decides that she doesn’t really believe him, and quickly puts the episode aside to think instead about a speech she will deliver at a fundraiser for orphaned children.
Q: Who loves you, Denis Johnson?
A: Mommy loves you. Mommy loves you. Be good to her.
Review: Graham and Boerum Streetcorner Preachers
When the corner preachers begin their guerilla service on the occasional weekend morning, I say “Oh God” with them, in tandem. There are usually at least four of them; they stand across from my building, on the southeast corner of Graham Avenue of Puerto Rico and Boerum place in Brooklyn, in front of the 59¢, 79¢, 99¢ and Up Plaza store, the windows of which are filled with stacks of Bounty brand paper towels. I wouldn’t pay them much mind except that they bring with them an amplifier, microphone and some sort of power source.
At the local Pan Latin Café I’ve learned to order breakfast (a pathetic, stammering “uh… jamon y… heuvos, por favor,” to which the cashier replies “okay papi”), but otherwise I can’t speak or understand Spanish. I know that the street preachers are preachers because occasionally out of their impassioned barking I can make out “Hayyy-zeus Christo.” They turn their amplifier up as loud as it will go; their divine words penetrate through my grungy window into my room.
I don’t mind a biblical fable now and again. I wouldn’t mind so much if the street preachers went in for calm story telling. But these guys want to instill awe, respect and fear of their lord. The performance is like a condensed Latin rendition of Hitler’s final month – raving, and, at least to my ears, incoherent.
Which was okay. But the last straw dropped the other weekend when one man terrifyingly slipped into raspy English and roughly told the story of the Arc. “And then the water began to rise! And then they understood! But it was too late! It’s not too late for you! Jesus Christ is waiting!” I immediately stopped writing a school paper, called 311 and filed a complaint with the police department.
At the local Pan Latin Café I’ve learned to order breakfast (a pathetic, stammering “uh… jamon y… heuvos, por favor,” to which the cashier replies “okay papi”), but otherwise I can’t speak or understand Spanish. I know that the street preachers are preachers because occasionally out of their impassioned barking I can make out “Hayyy-zeus Christo.” They turn their amplifier up as loud as it will go; their divine words penetrate through my grungy window into my room.
I don’t mind a biblical fable now and again. I wouldn’t mind so much if the street preachers went in for calm story telling. But these guys want to instill awe, respect and fear of their lord. The performance is like a condensed Latin rendition of Hitler’s final month – raving, and, at least to my ears, incoherent.
Which was okay. But the last straw dropped the other weekend when one man terrifyingly slipped into raspy English and roughly told the story of the Arc. “And then the water began to rise! And then they understood! But it was too late! It’s not too late for you! Jesus Christ is waiting!” I immediately stopped writing a school paper, called 311 and filed a complaint with the police department.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Review: Monkey - Journey to the West
Monkey: Journey to the West
The album Monkey: Journey to the West, [XL, September 2008] is the sonic counterpart to a theatre creation of the same name produced by musician Damon Albarn, comic book artist Jamie Hewlett, and featuring the UK Chinese Ensemble. Albarn and Hewlett, working in their previously established model of the Gorillaz, retell the 16th century Chinese tale of an existentially troubled monkey named Sun Wu Kong – “the monkey with the realization of emptiness” – who is hatched from a stone egg. The story is articulated through multiple mediums (product platforms is an uglier turn of phrase) and enacted by animated, anthropomorphosized primates.
Per the execution of many concept albums, one follows the protagonist aurally along his quest for enlightenment in a state of incomprehension. Listening to Journey to the West is an interpretive experience. One is occasioned by moments of insight – This bit? One thinks, In “Into the Eastern Sea?” with the bubbling and the scaling-upwards synths? This must be him diving into the water! And Maybe the jabbering at the end of “Iron Rod” is an encounter with some sort of supercilious, educatory being. Or, Perhaps the airy female vocals and penetratingly repetitive organ in “Heavenly Peach Banquet” indicate that our hero has fallen in love? It is emphatically a work of art attempting to communicate.
Though it’s a niggling nit to pick, there are certain points on the album where the limits of Albarn’s talent as an orchestral arranger poke through. This is bothersome to those of us who spent much time with his last multi-artist project – the murky and beautiful The Good, The Bad and the Queen, of which there are echoes. Albarn has a curious knack for reinterpreting martial marching music (“March of the Volunteers” and “March of the Iron Army”), but he is at his best on the weird-pop tracks that are more squarely within the bounds of his abilities as a producer, like the single “Monkey Bee.”
Some of the official online literature for Monkey: Journey to the West argues that in order to better understand today’s China, it may “be wiser to learn… about a little monkey than [it is to read] the conservative philosopher, Confucius.” There is the possibility that by introducing the public to this venerable and apparently influential legend, passed over for far too long by Western Intellectual Society, Albarn and Hewlett are doing us a massive favor that will be remembered for generations. Hard to say. The album is certainly fun.
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