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.

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)

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.

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.

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 16^th 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.

Abigail's a Cool Girl..

Sam Dwyer

 

 

Mom took me by the hand and led me across the parking lot towards the small crowd of people standing in front of the old brick building.

“That yer date, Maddie?” one woman with frizzy blonde hair says.

“She’s a cu-tie!” says another lady with blonde frizzy hair; I looked down at my new shoes.

Most of the people are smoking. I hate cigarettes; they smell so gross. I’m glad my mom doesn’t smoke. I cover my nose and mouth with my hands while my mom talks.

“Hi, Maddie,” a man with a leather jacket says, “Nice to see you again, and who’s this?”

“This is my daughter, Abigail.”

“Hello Abigail, gosh you’re big, how old are you?”

“I’m ten.”

“She’s turning ten next week.” My mom betrays me. Sometimes, as my dad used to say, my mom doesn’t know how to go with the flow.

“Oh, so you’re getting excited about your birthday then? Are you having a party? Can I come?”

Mom laughs, “Abigail says that parties are for babies.”

“It’s just not a big deal, turning ten.”

I feel so awkward. I look at my new shoes. They are really cool. They have pink, sparkly laces.

“Oh I think it’s a pretty big deal. My daughter just turned twenty. We couldn’t have a party – she lives too far away, now.” The man says and I look at him in the eye for a moment and he looks sad.

“I’m sorry.” I tell him.

“Do you like cookies? You should go inside and get some.” He says, and I’m confused because I thought we were talking about his daughter who he misses.

“Let’s go get some cookies before they all get eaten.” Mom says.

She leads me up the stairs to a heavy wooden door that I try to open for her but can’t by myself and we go inside. We walk across a big, musty smelling room with a brown carpet. Many brown plastic folding chairs face a table; seated at the table are two saggy and faded blue and yellow striped chairs. Through a serving window with blue trim I can see people standing in the kitchen, which is where mom takes me.

“Hi Hannah, is coffee ready?” my mom asks.

“Sure is, Maddie. Here.” she pours mom a cup, “Nice to see you again. And you,” she looks at me, “must be Abigail. Your mom and I are good friends. I’m Hannah.” She’s really cool; she has stars tattooed on her wrists and a poufy, gauzy scarf. I wish I had a poufy, gauzy scarf. We shake hands. “I like your shoes. Those laces are so pretty.”

I make sure to look her in the eye when I say “Thank you.” My dad says that that’s very important, and I want Hannah to like me.

“We ordered them online and just got them earlier today.” Mom says.

“I guess you didn’t need a ride, huh, Hannah?” A man dressed all in black with his hair slicked back and his face angry looking interrupts, “I mean, I guess you didn’t need a ride because you didn’t call. Yeah. You made it here just okay I see.”

“Yes, thank you for offering though, Matt. My other friend lives right down the street from me, so it’s really no problem for her to give me a ride. If I get in a jam, I’ll give you a call.”

“Yeah, okay.” He abruptly grabs two Oreos from the open box on the counter and walks quickly into the main room and takes a seat, staring ahead at nothing.

“That was aggressive.” My mom says.

“Yeah. Another miserable one.”

“Aren’t we all, here?”

My mom is miserable?

“Would you like a cookie, Abigail?” Hannah asks.

“Yes, please.” I would also like to be invisible.

“Take as many as you’d like. I’m going to sit down, now.”

“You can have three.” My mom holds up three fingers. “I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

I take two pecan Sandies, which are my favorite, and one Oreo. I watch through the serving window as Hannah is waved over to a small group of other cool-looking young people. The hall is filling up, and I know that people are watching me as I leave the kitchen and walk along the edge of the main room, inspecting the bookshelves. Lots of bibles and old books – who is Jonathan Edwards? I pretend to read it, and look to see if Hannah and her friends are watching me, but they aren’t.

My mom hugs me from behind and I close my eyes.

“Are you ready to come sit, sweetie? Do you want to bring your book?”

“No.”

We sit, and I can’t see the man in the green hat who has begun to speak, and I can’t understand him well, either, because he mumbles.

“What’s he saying?” I ask.

“Shhh.”

There is a lot of talking, and then two men, one of whom is crying, go up to get silver coins and a hug.

“Do you have a coin, mom?”

“Yes. Hush though.” She digs through her purse and hands me a silver coin.

“Is this money?”

“No, read it.”

On one side, it says:

God grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change, Courage to change the things I can, and Wisdom to know the difference.

On the other side arranged around a triangle, it says:

TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE. UNITY. SERVICE. RECOVERY. 24 HOURS.

I turn it between my fingers for a little while, and then give it back to her. I notice that the man sitting next to me smells terribly of cigarettes. He has great big tattoos on his forearms, but I can’t tell what they are because they are dark and blurry, and his skin is so tan. He notices me looking, and for a moment I am scared that he will be angry, but instead he turns his arms so that I can see better.

A new man stands up to talk. I look at my shoes – these pink, sparkly laces are so cool. My friend Lindsey said so earlier today when I was at her house, and so did Hannah. I lean over so that I can look at them more closely. They say “All Star” on the tongue, with a star between the two words. They have pink stitching, and a green rubber heart on the rubber side part near the front. My mom and I bought them online after dad left to get better. Mom was crying and so was I because she was, and she said,

“I know what will cheer us up. It’s trite, but why don’t we go online and buy new shoes. You want a new pair of sneakers?”

I nodded, “What does trite mean?”

“It means that something’s predictable; that it’s been done before.”

“Is that bad?”

“Not always.”

I don’t understand why buying new shoes could be a bad thing. If you spent all your money on shoes and then didn’t have any left over for food, I guess. I undo the laces and then retie them.

“Stop fidgeting,” my mother whispers, “listen, he’s telling a story.”

The man is standing, and says, “…And I didn’t care, and my moms stopped talking to me after I stole her money to buy, you know, to score. And then we were driving around, you know, high on crack, and she said ‘you know, there’s five percent alcohol in Nyquil.’ And I said ‘lets get some of that!’ you know, cause I wanted to get high. So we drove to one drug store but there was a cop outside, so we drove to another and then we stole a bunch of bottles of Nyquil and drank them…”

“Mom, where’s the bathroom?”

“Can’t you wait? Grownups use the bathroom beforehand, you know.”

“I really have to pee, mom.”

She points me in the right direction and I excuse myself past the people sitting in our row and walk down a dark hallway decorated with posters. They’re like the kind that I have in my school, only they talk about God and are faded and old looking. I find the bathroom and walk from one end to the other.

I count the tile squares from one end of the cold bathroom to another, then look at the urinals and the paint on the radiator, which is pale blue and chipped in places so you can see that originally it was painted pale yellow. I stand on top of the toilet and jump to grab the top of the stall. It has a sharp edge that hurts my hands! I pull myself up anyway, and sit on the corner swinging my legs in the air. Sometimes at school my friend Lindsey and I get bored and we go to the bathroom together and do this.

The doorknob turns and I stay very still; a young man walks in. He goes to the sink and turns the faucet on; touches the water, waits, and then touches it again and slowly washes his hands. He’s tall and slender, with soft looking straight dark brown hair; he’s wearing a black sweater and dark jeans. He looks at himself in the mirror and runs a hand through his hair, rolls his shoulders and exhales loudly. He turns away slowly from his reflection and then jumps around quickly and pretends to shoot himself – “powpow!” He takes out his phone, runs his fingertips against its screen and holds it to his ear. He’s cute, I decide.

“Jacky-o? Hey dude, just calling to say that I’m not coming down to the city this weekend. … Yeah, I’ve got the car still, that’s okay? … Right. Okay.” He turns and sees me for the first time; he jumps a little and blinks. “Jacky? There’s a girl perched on top of the bathroom stall. … No, she doesn’t look like orphan Annie; she’s blonde.” He laughs, “Yeah. Okay, Ciao.”

“What are you doing up there, little friend?”

“Nothing.” I tell him; I am ashamed at how shy and quiet I am. I want to be bold.

“Oh? How did you get up so high, then?”

“I climbed.”

“Oh, hm, yeah? And why are you here?”

“My mom brought me. She didn’t bring me last week, but she brought me this week because she can’t afford a babysitter and because my friend Lindsey’s parents couldn’t take care of me. They are at a dinner party. And my Dad is sick and he is somewhere getting better.”

 “I see,” he looks down, “I’m sorry about that.”

Why is he sorry? What did I say wrong? I’m so embarrassed. I want this cute boy to like me.

I must look upset; “It’s alright,” he says, “lots of people in my life are sick too. My name’s Grady. What’s your name?”

“Abigail.”

“Nice to meet you, Abigail. Do you live around here?”

“Yes. I live on Whitwood farm. My family’s always lived there.” I am very proud of this; everybody in town knows my family and where Whitwood farm is. Grady doesn’t seem to, though.

He raises his eyebrows, “Is it nice?”

“Oh yes, very.”

“Hm. Well Abigail, I should go sit back down, but I have a proposition for you. If you’d like, when the meeting is over you should introduce me to your mother, and tell her that I’ll babysit you in the future, for free, so that you don’t have to come to meetings, if she wants. You having to hide here in the bathroom is depressing.”

“Okay.”

He reaches up and we shake hands.

“Okay, I’ll find you later.” He says, and then leaves.

Oh my god, he could be my babysitter? I’m excited. I don’t want to have to come here anymore. It’s so boring.

I jump down off the top of the stall – it’s higher than I thought, and when I hit the floor I fall forwards and put my hands out and my left wrist makes a crunching and snapping noise and oh my god it hurts so much! I scream and run out of the bathroom holding my hand and crying where is my mom, where is my mom?

I wipe the tears with my good hand that is holding my hurt hand as I rush into the hall where they are still talking. There is a commotion and several people stand up, including Grady. I see my mom stand up behind him and I run to her.

I am sobbing. I hold up my hand.

“What happened, mouse? What happened?”

I can’t speak because I am crying too hard. My nose is also running.

“Shhh, shhh, shhh,” she says, leaning over and holding me, “it’s okay; you hurt your hand? It’s okay little mouse.” She runs her hand through my hair and asks, “Hannah, will you call an ambulance, please? Lets get out of the hall so they can finish the meeting.”

Grady follows us into the kitchen, and asks, “Did you fall, Abigail?”

I nod.

“Fall? What did you fall off of?” My mother asks.

“She was sitting on top of the bathroom stall when I was in there.”

“What were you doing that for?”

I don’t feel like talking so I don’t say anything.

“The ambulance is coming.” Hannah says, clicking her phone shut, “Oh, poor Abigail.”

“I was a little worried about you being up there.” Grady says.

“Why didn’t you tell her to get down?” My mother turns on him. She looks scary.

He stammers, “I don’t know.”

“Sorry,” she softens quickly, “It’s not your fault.”

My mom is so tough.

I stop crying. The four of us stand in the kitchen, waiting.

“I, ah, Abigail and I were talking, and she told me that she had to come tonight because you couldn’t get a babysitter? And because her friends parents were busy?” Grady isn’t very good at talking to other grown up people, I don’t think.

“Yes. That is correct.”

“Well, I wanted to offer my services as a babysitter. For free. My name’s Grady Griffen. I’m a college student. I’m ah, living with my step-great aunt and taking a semester off to write a novel.”

“Oh yeah? And who is your step-great aunt?”

 “Helen Blanche.”

The meeting finishes, and people begin wandering into the kitchen and eating cookies and chatting. I hear a siren noise. I’m so tired, I just want to go to sleep; I feel warm and fuzzy. My wrist hurts so much, though.

“Oh I know the Blanches. Well, if you’re a Blanche, you must be okay.” My mother turns to Hannah, “What should we do to get you home? I guess I’ll drop you off and then go to the hospital.”

“You don’t have to do that, I can get a ride with someone else. What about you, helpful stranger?” Hannah gives Grady a look, which makes me furious. It pleases me that he seems scared of her.

We go to meet the ambulance men, who wrap a splint around my wrist and strap me down onto a board. As they are carrying me out I see Grady and Hannah getting into a red convertible. I am so jealous it hurts. This is the worst day I have ever had.

 

Mom let me stay home from school today, because of my wrist. I wake up at eight, and then I leeaan way far out of bed, without getting out, so that I can pick Animal Farm off the floor. My Dad gave it to me as a birthday present last week before he left; he wrote a message for me inside the cover. It says:

Dear Abigail,

This is a really good story. When I was ten, this was my favorite story. Pay close attention to it. The reason it is so good is because everyone can understand it. Think about what that means. When you finish reading it, you should look it up on Wikipedia for an historical explanation. Maybe you will be our first female president, providing that there’s still a country in thirty years.

I love you,

Dad

It’s hard to read with this cast on my wrist. I hold the book up with my right hand, but it gets tired. I sit up and hold it in my lap. It is a strange book, but it is not boring.

There is a scratching noise… ah! A squirrel on my windowsill! It stares at me and makes a chimpering noise, then jumps away. I wonder if it doesn’t like me? Maybe it was here to tell me a message.

The sun shines golden through the open windows opposite my bed; the wind blows my yellow curtains inward. The floor creaks as I get out of bed and walk across the room and look outside to see if I can see where he went. Maybe I am supposed to follow him.

I put on jeans and a t-shirt and socks and go downstairs to find my mother. She hears me coming down the stairs and yells,

“Hey Abigail! I’m in the library!”

I move very quietly, on tip toe, to the threshold and wait.

“Is that you, little mouse? Are you out there?” She asks.

“Boo!” I jump around the corner and yell.

“Oh, so scary! I think I might faint!” She leans back on the faded red-velvet chaise by the tall window, and covers her face with her book. I walk past my grandfather’s dark desk and over the thick shiny green rug to her. She doesn’t move.

“Mom?” I walk up to her. “Mom?” I stand next to her and yell, “Hey Madeline Annabel Forester are you there?”

She grabs me and tickles me and I laugh and I scream very loudly.

“Ouch, Abigail! You hurt my ears.”

“Sorry Mom. Mom, what are you reading?”

“Just a trashy novel.”

“Why is it trashy?”

“It’s not very good. Trashy means that the story isn’t very original, and that it’s poorly written.”

 “Why are you reading it then?”

“Because it’s easy, and because it’s funny. It gives me pleasure.”

“What’s it about?”

“It’s a love story. Couldn’t you tell from the cover?” She holds it up and I see a bare-chested and strong looking man holding a woman, her gauzy white dress slipping off her shoulder. “It’s about a barbarian prince who’s secretly in love with his serving wench.”

 “What could be bad about a love story? Mom, a squirrel came to my windowsill this morning. He looked at me, and then he ran away, but I think he wanted me to follow him. Do you think he’s a prince squirrel?”

She smiles, “Maybe he does, like the toad prince. Would you want to kiss a squirrel?”

I’m embarrassed, “Um… he was cute… for a squirrel. Maybe if I give him a kiss he will turn into a cute boy?”

“It’s a possibility worth exploring if you can get close enough.” She lays the book down and picks me up, “Ugh! You are too big for me to carry anymore!” She puts me down, “let’s go make you some breakfast.”

I follow her down the long, wide hall covered floor to ceiling with paintings into the kitchen. She pulls a stool out from under counter for me, and then walks around to the other side.

“What’ll it be, miss?” she asks in a scratchy voice.

“Why are you talking like that?”

“I’m pretending to be a waitress at a truck stop.”

“It’s weird.”

“Okay.” Her tone lightens, and she lilts, “What would you like; dear, dear, sweet, precious child-o-mine?”

“I would like scrambled eggs and toast and orange juice, please.”

“You got it little lady.”

I watch her as she lifts the cover from the cooking surface of the strange enameled red stove that’s always on, lifts a cast iron pan from a drawer and drops it loudly into place. From another drawer, she pulls out a loaf of bread, and puts two pieces in the toaster. She whisks an egg and drops a little piece of butter into the pan; it sizzles as she swishes it around and then she pours in the egg and stirs it. The toast pops and she butters it for me, then puts marmalade on it – which I am proud to say is the only kind of jam I like. I think it’s a very grown up jam, not like the grape jelly everyone eats at school. My mom says she wont buy grape jelly.

“Voila!” She dumps the eggs on my plate and hands me a fork. “Oh no! How is my lefty-mouse going to eat with her paw all damaged?”

“Mom, look – it’s not going to be a problem. I can use my other hand.”

I eat. She walks around the counter with a glass of orange juice and sits beside me.

“You’re pretty good at switching your hands,” she says, “you’re ambidextrous, like me. That means you can use both hands equally well. Did you know that I can write with both hands? It’s pretty unusual. Most people can’t do it.”

I’m not sure what to make of this. “That’s interesting.”

“Isn’t it? It must be genetic… I wonder.”

“I don’t know.” I finish my breakfast. “I think that I’m going to go exploring.”

“Sure. Dishes in the sink first.”

 

In the mudroom I decide to put my old sneakers on instead of my new ones, because I’m worried about mud. I walk out the front of the house and circle around the side, passing the windows of the kitchen, the dining room and the library where I can see my mother. I spy on her through the window; she is reading and chewing on her knuckle, occasionally she stops to drink tea from the kind of rough clay mug that I dislike.

I slip away without her knowing that I was there.

The grass is bright green and damp; I walk through the apple orchard and my shoes soak through. The blossoms are so beautiful – I can see the spots of yellow stamens above pink petals, backgrounded by green leaves and the silvery gray bark of the trees. The last time we were here – in the winter, before grampa died – there was snow, against which the trees looked violent.

At the edge of the field the grass changes. It’s unmowed and so it’s taller, though not as tall as it gets later in the spring; there are also different types, some are round and hollow and stiff, and some are flat and bendy. Their seeds are different as well. My legs get even wetter because the grass is higher.

I walk out and up my favorite small hill in the center of the field, which takes a couple minutes to climb. At the top are two long benches and a table that my grandfather made. I stand on the table and look back at the long driveway that leads up a slight hill to a cul-de-sac in front of the house, the tiny guest cottage and barn. Behind the barn and not visible from the driveway are a tennis court and the pool, still covered from the winter. Further away is the forest.

I turn away from the house and look out at the valley, shading my eyes against the bright late-morning sun with my splinted hand. I remember when we had a picnic up here, last summer, with my grampa and my mom and dad and my dad’s younger brother and his brother’s wife and my two baby twin boy cousins. And now my grampa is dead and my dad is sick and my mom is sad and my uncle and his family live in California. And my wrist is broken and it hurts! Why is life so sad?

My dad always tells me that at least I’m alive; at least there isn’t a holocaust or purges happening. He knows a lot about the holocaust and purges. He told me once that at the end of World War Two, the Germans were running out of bullets so they would go up onto a bridge and tie two people together then shoot one of them and push both off the bridge; the shot person would drown the other person.

I try to think of something else besides being tied to a person who is shot and then pushed off a bridge.

Oh! Where is my squirrel? I forgot that I wanted look for him. Squirrels don’t spend time in fields, I don’t think.

I jump carefully off the table and walk down the hill in the direction of the house and the woods behind it. I pass back through the apple orchard and around the house. Past the pool and the tennis court there is a ravine at the bottom of which is a stream the same width as the length of a car. Arching over the gully is a wooden footbridge, with a railing on one side. I sit in the middle and hang my legs off. There isn’t a lot of water but there is a gurgling noise.

I try to copy the sound,

“gclu-gclu-gclu,”

but it’s not right.

I follow the path from the bridge to the edge of the woods, and then inside. I can’t see very far, because on both sides of the path are tall, thick pricker bushes. I don’t see any squirrels, only birds. It’s very quiet. I keep walking.

I see something flashing silver! I step off the path and go to it. It’s a deflated mylar balloon, lying in a bed of dark orange and brown leaves. I step close to it, and my foot sinks to my ankle in mud. I bend over to try to reach the balloon with my good hand without stepping deeper, but I can’t grab it or it’s plastic string. The mud slurps when I pull my foot out.

I go to look for a stick. The first one I find is layered in cream-colored mushrooms, and when I try to pick it up it falls apart; the second is as thick as my arm and twice as tall as I am. It’s heavy, but I carry it awkwardly over to the mud pit and hook the balloon with it.

The balloon makes a crackling sound as I hold it; it’s got wet mud on it, which transfers to my hands and splint as I spread it open. In faded pink lettering it says “Happy 16^th Birthday!”

How long has this cool thing been here?

I can’t wait until I’m 16. I’ll be in high school and get to learn how to drive. Maybe I’ll have a boyfriend? I wonder if we will still live here, or if we will move back to New York. I like it here better; I like exploring, and in New York I can’t walk around on my own yet because it’s too dangerous.

I carry my balloon and drag the stick out of the woods. It makes a clocking sound across the boards of the bridge, and down to the house a scratching noise on the gravel driveway. Mom must be able to hear it, because she waves from a couch on the screen porch that is facing away from me.

I drag the stick off the driveway and onto the lawn towards her.

“Did you find your squirrel prince?” Mom asks without getting up.

“No. There weren’t any squirrels. Look, though.”

She sits up and looks at me over the back of the couch.

“Huh! What’s that you’ve got… a big stick! And a dirty deflated balloon. What treasures! Hmm… is it lunchtime? Why don’t you leave them outside and come in for awhile.”

I come to the screen door; she looks at me and says “Shoes off.”

 

After lunch I plan to write a novel. Mom likes this; she sets up her thin silver laptop on my grandfather’s desk for me.

“Good luck.” She shuts the door behind her.

I sit in his black stretchy-mesh wheeled chair and think.

I wiggle around a bit.

I don’t know what to write! So I write that. But that’s not a story! I decide to start with how a normal day starts… with an alarm clock! But I don’t use an alarm clock – my mom wakes me up every morning. And waking up isn’t very interesting. What happens after I wake up? I could write about what I did today. I think about it though, and all that happened was that I read, saw a squirrel, ate breakfast, took a walk and found a balloon and a big stick, then came home and ate lunch.

My day seems stupid now, and it makes me angry. I am so boring! I get up from the chair and walk back and forth on my grandfather’s green rug. I wish something exciting would happen to me. Like… I could get kidnapped and held for ransom in a cave. That would be exciting.

I regard my grandfather’s books that surround the room, floor to ceiling. How the heck do people write all these? I take a really big, old one off the shelf and read:

The wealth of societies in which the capitalist mode of production prevails appears as an ‘immense collection of commodities’; the individual commodity appears as its elementary form.

I don’t understand what that means at all! It’s like it was written in another language. I put the book back and look for another. I find a new looking one with a white dust jacket. It has a picture of a cartoon man on the front, swallowing a pill. I bet my Dad would like this one.

I read:

Not until my ears popped and the plane was coming down over the winking lights of Bogotá – or really it looked like any other city at night – did I raise my eyes from the page I’d been puzzling at and begin to think of the girl, or woman, the friend or acquaintance, Natasha, whom I was flying so far to visit. That’s how it was with me then: I couldn’t think of the future until I arrived there.

A trashy love story! I clap it shut and put it back.

All these books are no good. I’ll write a poem.

I write:

I’m little,

I’m small but

I have stories to tell you.

How will you find me?

I can’t yell so you can hear.

Yet.

 

I bring the poem to my mother, who says she likes it a lot. I’m not sure that I believe her, but “as proof of her conviction” she gives me a couple cookies. I eat them in the kitchen.

She leans over from the other side and puts her elbows the counter, “Do you want to listen to the Beatles?” She asks.

“Of course!” I love the Beatles.

She turns on the CD player that hangs from under a cabinet; she skips forwards a bunch of songs, listens to the first second of one, and then skips forward once more to our favorite.

We sing together,

“Ooooooh I need your love babe, guess you know it’s true. Hope you need my love babe, just like I need you. Hold me, love me, hold me, love me. Ain’t got nothing but love babe, eight days a week.”

We dance around the kitchen together, holding hands. My mother sings, “Love you every day girl, always on my mind. One thing I can say girl, love you all the time. Hold me, love me, hold me, love me. Ain’t got nothing but love babe, eight days a week.”

“God, the Beatles were so cute.” She says.

The next song comes on, and we keep dancing.

Generally, my work is really subtle

Lots of ways to engage your audience and impress upon them how intelligent you are,

Or

Generally, my work is really subtle.

An especially good way to draw peoples attention to your work is to mess things up and by this I mean spellingwise or other – you want attention whether it’s positive or negative! The point is to grab that shit! Writers are like rugby players! If you get things like your intent to deliberately misspell stuff and generally be a wanker out in the open at the beginning of your essay, it tips your hand and people realize that you are not a retard mentally handicapped person, but are in fact tongue in cheek, haha a tricky writer just like my professor! My dad who represents mental patients says that the word retard is the new nigger. Be extraneous and extemporaneous! Make them groan and whinge (Word 2008 says that “whinge” is not a word, but I totally speak British) and hit the dictionary.

Ambiguity serves great purpose in writing an argument I think, as does citing Joyce cause he lends credibility to not making a whole lot of sense either, right? I hear no one understands Finnegans Wake except for people who are into it, but I suspect that they’re just faking it. I kinda dug A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, because Joyce lets you see more of himself, but Dubliners I did not like because it felt sterile. My employer David Kamp agrees. Ambiguity is good because if people can’t understand you, they might presume that it’s because you’re so much smarter than they are. I personally am brilliant though, so if I can’t understand you I presume it’s because you’re a retard mentally handicapped person, or an average person trying to sound smart.

Junot Diaz says that there’s a psychic connection between writers and dictators, and I think he’s right. You have to be pretty arrogant to think that anyone wants to read your spit, dribble and drool soaked absorbent bib of an essay. I used that “absorbent bib” line in an argument I once had about Michael Thomas with my friend and occasional writing tutor who first introduced me to n+1, who will probably not like this essay because of how self-aggrandizing it is. But my point is that if you don’t cultivate a truly odious personality, you will be easy prey. A good writer, like Kirby (who is not a writer, but a character in Super Smash Bros.) consumes the personality of others, and you don’t want to be a comestible. I think that Sun Tzu said something along the lines of “keep people guessing” and I’ll say that’s good advice.

I want you to be arrogant, because nothing irritates me more than pretentious people worrying about being pretentious. If you don’t feel like you can hold your own, read more – the smoke and mirrors ability to cite other authors will make you feel more secure and your work more easily defensible to other people who are into quoting things. An example of this would be: “Oh, you don’t remember Murakami going velociraptor on Jonathan Franzen’s The Discomfort Zone, zeroing in especially on his opposition to charity?”

I once got drunk under a highway overpass in Seattle with a bunch of homeless kids.

Where is your red pen now you marginally cognizant ape?!?!

As I said in class the other day, sweeping generalizations are awesome, as we all know in our hearts of hearts but I don’t want to waste space deliberately perpetrating clichés cause that shit’s small bore. Instead, I’m going to go get dinner now and then come back and maybe write something really safe cause college is so goddamn expensive and I ain’t a rich kid and can’t afford to fuck it up. My younger brother once wrote a sad poem about being dumb and his teacher submitted it to a children’s poetry anthology; it was published with all the spelling errors corrected. Eventually he dropped out of school. Glad I stuck to it, maybe someday I can buy a Porsche.