I'll be honest, Untitled Goose is, the least-developed idea in the bunch I am sharing. But I know what the ending is and how I want the audience to feel as they exit. Perhaps because it has barely been written yet, this is the one I keep pitching to gatekeepers. A bit, nearsighted, I know. But that provides just enough confidence to offer an earliest-excerpt for your reading pleasure. Besides, as I've stated in those pitches, I think theatre is behind other art forms in tackling the looming threat of climate change.
A lot of the '90's plays I studied in my undergrad were structured to move the audience from laughter to tears. It's smart writing because laughter makes tears arrive more easily, providing catharsis. The opening of this play, which has been written but NOT included below, will absolutely make someone in the audience cry. That's a promise, not a threat.
The laughter comes after. We can always grieve at climate change. But as it slowly arrives with broadening strokes, it is never too late to laugh at it too. To me, this subject matter is too pressing to strictly aim for a cathartic telling. Laughter creates camaraderie, pulling the audience on-side with each other and with the argument. That is why stand-up comedians have made such progressive shifts towards political commentary in the last 10 years. Now it is time to incite community and action by laughing at climate change.
"He came, he went. Perchance you wept a while
and then forgot.
Ah me! But he that left you with a smile
forgets you not!"
~ Robert Lewis Stevenson
I wanted to title this, Mother Goose, since the arch follows a goose (and everything I've written since my daughter was born seems to dance themes around parenthood). But that would be false advertising: this is decidedly not for kids.
I'm fairly certain that absolutely nothing below will make it into the final draft. These are speculative sketches. Adage: ideas are the easy part, writing is the hard part. Yes. But, as I finish some of the other pieces in this series of unproduced work, the execution of this one is clear in my mind. And I am sincerely excited to eventually arrive to the work in earnest.
Until then, take a look at that fish in the picture above, don'cha wanna kiss it??
A lot of the '90's plays I studied in my undergrad were structured to move the audience from laughter to tears. It's smart writing because laughter makes tears arrive more easily, providing catharsis. The opening of this play, which has been written but NOT included below, will absolutely make someone in the audience cry. That's a promise, not a threat.
The laughter comes after. We can always grieve at climate change. But as it slowly arrives with broadening strokes, it is never too late to laugh at it too. To me, this subject matter is too pressing to strictly aim for a cathartic telling. Laughter creates camaraderie, pulling the audience on-side with each other and with the argument. That is why stand-up comedians have made such progressive shifts towards political commentary in the last 10 years. Now it is time to incite community and action by laughing at climate change.
"He came, he went. Perchance you wept a while
and then forgot.
Ah me! But he that left you with a smile
forgets you not!"
~ Robert Lewis Stevenson
I wanted to title this, Mother Goose, since the arch follows a goose (and everything I've written since my daughter was born seems to dance themes around parenthood). But that would be false advertising: this is decidedly not for kids.
I'm fairly certain that absolutely nothing below will make it into the final draft. These are speculative sketches. Adage: ideas are the easy part, writing is the hard part. Yes. But, as I finish some of the other pieces in this series of unproduced work, the execution of this one is clear in my mind. And I am sincerely excited to eventually arrive to the work in earnest.
Until then, take a look at that fish in the picture above, don'cha wanna kiss it??
The Infatuated StorkWhen I first saw you silk on by
I knew that I would starve to wait to see you swim again. The other storks saw my skin slowly pink at the thought of you, your suggestive grace, your invisible trace. When I saw you again I thrust my face under the skin, under the skin, of the water to tell you, to say, bloble glubb snort (gasp!) because I cannot talk under water. And then when I saw you again the storks all said you can love you can love you can love a fish once, you can love you can love you can love a fish twice, but you mustn’t get into the halibut. Well, today I have simply got to say while we glide almost, almost, side by side with the flip of your fin touching, just touching, the tip of my wing you can feel the still water start to sing and it’s easier to say out loud than I ever thought it would be because I am proud that we will make the too-many humans bark, growl, and howl, and make the most kicked-in dogs turn, blush, and babble, when we love when we love when we love when we love you see you look up to me and in that famous rainbow around the inside of your convex eyes I see myself spread so wonderfully wide across your slippery soul. You lean towards the sky with your lips to bloop the dry air that holds me so reluctantly just above you there. I lean towards the wilderness of your dark water and rest my beak to become a little wider. My tongue reaching for your openness, your saltiness, deliciousness, and in that kiss you suddenly, that kiss suddenly, in that suddenly kiss, I miss, I miss, I can’t find you, where? Where have you gone, my love? Where have you disappeared? The water is not deep here. How could you shy away? My love, you loved me. My love, you loved me. And so, I think I will stay here in this place where we almost almost touched. Let the ripples of the river, let the rocks, let the falling of the leaves, the passing flocks, all symbolize together a story for the ages, to be passed down in the clocks of a daughter to her daughter to her daughter to be shaped by the tale of the great blushing stork who almost loved her dinner. I will rest, I will nest, Until my bones float away, I will nest, I’ll digest, In this place of memory With the best of you Forever now, forever, now inside of me. (Burp.) |
Intro drunk hedgehogEllo. Oi didn’t vote fo Brexit. I just want a cuppa tea. G&T, I mean. Heh. No need to be ironic when there’s gin fo’ yah tonic. I made that up. People tend to fink of me on the wrong side of history all because of these spindly little spoiks on mai back. Tha’s just comes wiff bein’ a hedgehog. I don’t even hog hedges. I don’t. Common misconception, really. Why we’re called hog-hedgés is well beyond me. I much pwefer to live down deep in deep down holes. I’m a hedgehog, not a hedge hog. If I ‘ad an ‘edge, I’d share it. Anyway, fact is, when I’m at my very best, I’m boring.
Ten baby trout fryAn openning, perhapsAs you sit, indulge me a moment more.
Square your feet as comfortably as possible on the floor in front of you. Don’t cross them. Let your arms fall to rest where they best fall to rest. Rest the centre of your skull on your spine. Take time to do this mindfully. Close your eyes. And rest your mind. Tuck the thoughts that the world put there in behind your shoulder blades and under your ribcage. You can come back to them later. But, for now, rest. Rest the centre of your skull onto your spine. And allow the seat you’re sitting in to have your back. All your energy gently slides up your insides and slowly glows out of your face. Not your hair, your neck, your head. It quietly beams out of your lovely, beautiful face. You are a face. You are a face, gently floating weightless in a room. A few feet off the ground. And further. The blackness of the water breathes through you as you meander. There is hardly any current. But above you, you can see a vague reflection, gentle brightnesses shimmer slightly on the skin where the water meets the outside. The simple rippled reflections of the glow that makes your face. Your faces. There are others, floating under the surface beside you. They won’t touch you. But they love you. They love you. And now that you know that you have died all your curiosity subsides. There is no need to know. There is no need to wonder. You may know. Or you may not. It won’t matter. For now the water is warm as tears. And it is beautiful. It is beautiful. You are beautiful. And you are fine. You let your eyes glance down. Slowly your face folds with it. Your forehead kisses your chin. And you are gone. You are gone. There is nothing. And nothing. (Pause, of course.) (The cast breathes.) |