sometimes
i feel
quiet
like a tree
only wanting
to bend
in the wind.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
At Peace
He is a Pillsbury doughboy with short fingers and pudgy hands. At 53, he carries a journeyman beer belly and a gentle grin indents his puffed out cheeks. He sits in my living room, faded tan jacket still on, and knots with care the apron strings of my daughter’s doll. She, in her own adolescent pudginess, works her hands in mid-air in a perfect mimic of his. A five year olds’ grin mirrors the one on his face. He is my boss at the water treatment plant and he asks me if I would please work a graveyard shift tonight on my day off….and by the age of 20 he has two tank destroyers under his command shot up and is driving a third when they order him to stop at the edge of Berlin so the Russians can finalize their revenge for Operation Barbarossa upon the Berliners and their army….
He has a special regard for me because, at 30, I have two daughters, ages three and five, who remind him of the innocent days of his three now grown daughters. In turn, I have a growing respect for him as we talk at length during our slack periods at the filter plant about our families and about World War II, its history in his life and in books. I pause during our frequent talks, hearing for the first time what he is not saying while he recounts about time standing still….the incendiary shell bursts at his feet and propels him backward with a giant’s sucker punch. Desperate for oxygen, he pulls the first deep lungful in through his nose and the heat sears the mucous lining. He is robbed so completely of a sense of smell that a bologna sandwich is a steak is a chicken leg is a bowl of Campbell’s tomato soup....
“Sure, Claude. Be glad to. I’ll be there at 11,” I say, already counting the overtime money.
“Well, good. Thanks, I appreciate it. You know, we’d be okay if some of our people would just quit flushing their toilets.”
“I know,” agreeing with the old joke all water operators share.
“With that settled, I think I’ll get back to my bird watching,” he softly confides
Another joke shared, I just chuckle. He sneaks out on Friday afternoons when our shifts overlap and states that he is going bird watching.
“I’m still seeking the elusive red-headed, double-breasted mattress-thrasher,” he intones solemnly and I know he really means he is headed for the Airport Lounge for a few gin and tonics and the furtive smoking of borrowed cigarettes. But I follow our ritual and reply with the caution “Keep you eye out for bears”…. the sleeping bag is a double thickness wool blanket with a zipper lengthwise in the middle. The bag can be pulled over his head mummy style. When it is wet, it retains little heat lying on the rain-soaked ground. The German shelling stops sometime in the night. The jeeps, trucks, and tanks pull into thickets of trees and brush in the darkness. They throw their bags onto the ground, so tired that they don’t even shovel away the mud and the pools of water to create a dry cradle for their bodies. His tank cracks, pops, and hisses as it cools nearby. He falls quickly into a hard dead sleep. He wakes when his gunner jabs him in the ribs whispering, “Look! Look there!” Through the lifting morning fog, he sees rows upon rows of green onions. Last night they stopped in their blind weariness by a farmer’s field. Here the spring crop pops up through the French soil. Mindless now of the mud, he joins the other newly-awakened men and crawls on all fours into the field and grabs at the green clumps….
I know full well that he is married, very married, as only those who have lived through the war years can be married. It has now been twenty eight years and her name is Colleen, but he nicknames her The Bear. The war uprooted them, separated them. Friends were shipped to places unpronounceable and some died there. War rationing made for lean times, but not as lean as the Depression. Back then, the concept of uncertainty was transformed into a tangible emotion. Now they do things they can share like hunting together, playing in a band together, eating together, or drinking together: the simple things, the easy pleasures that are as sure as sound sleep…. he still dreams war dreams, some funny, like when they prop up the body of the frozen Kraut captain in the back of their jeep and drive around to the different camps scaring the hell out of the lieutenants. After they are ordered to never do that again, they laugh and say, “What are they going to do? Send us to a war front?” Other dreams weren’t funny, they were nightmares; like when he advances on a distant enemy under sniper fire, looks around and then down at himself. He is dressed in a German uniform. Those soldiers he shoots at are Americans. He bolts out of bed screaming and....Colleen wakes, goes into the kitchen, and starts the coffee which they will drink until the sun comes up and Claude goes to work. She then strips the bed of the sweaty sheets, opening the window to air out the room.
He shows up on the Fridays we share looking like hell. After we get the plant running, the chlorine dosage set, and the flocculent chemistry balanced, he says, “I had that dream again”. We finish our morning chores, getting the water flowing through the plant. We pour our cups of coffee and talk and listen and listen and talk …. today is quiet so Claude turns the driving over to his gunner from New Jersey and steps down off the moving tank. He starts a conversation with a fellow GI from Pennsylvania and they compare deer hunting stories. After a mile of walking, Claude climbs back into the tank and secures the hatch. A couple of minutes later a shell lands so close to them that it knocks them to a stop. Their ears ring from the explosion. Claude lifts the hatch and inspects the damage. The kid is gone and the tank drips red, fresh and wet like a new coat of paint….
Long after the war he first sets their hunting rifles in the corner of the least used room of the house. Then for some housecleaning reason, he moves them into a closet that is now just a storage space with sliding doors. And, finally, coming across them years later, he takes them downtown and sells them .
He has a special regard for me because, at 30, I have two daughters, ages three and five, who remind him of the innocent days of his three now grown daughters. In turn, I have a growing respect for him as we talk at length during our slack periods at the filter plant about our families and about World War II, its history in his life and in books. I pause during our frequent talks, hearing for the first time what he is not saying while he recounts about time standing still….the incendiary shell bursts at his feet and propels him backward with a giant’s sucker punch. Desperate for oxygen, he pulls the first deep lungful in through his nose and the heat sears the mucous lining. He is robbed so completely of a sense of smell that a bologna sandwich is a steak is a chicken leg is a bowl of Campbell’s tomato soup....
“Sure, Claude. Be glad to. I’ll be there at 11,” I say, already counting the overtime money.
“Well, good. Thanks, I appreciate it. You know, we’d be okay if some of our people would just quit flushing their toilets.”
“I know,” agreeing with the old joke all water operators share.
“With that settled, I think I’ll get back to my bird watching,” he softly confides
Another joke shared, I just chuckle. He sneaks out on Friday afternoons when our shifts overlap and states that he is going bird watching.
“I’m still seeking the elusive red-headed, double-breasted mattress-thrasher,” he intones solemnly and I know he really means he is headed for the Airport Lounge for a few gin and tonics and the furtive smoking of borrowed cigarettes. But I follow our ritual and reply with the caution “Keep you eye out for bears”…. the sleeping bag is a double thickness wool blanket with a zipper lengthwise in the middle. The bag can be pulled over his head mummy style. When it is wet, it retains little heat lying on the rain-soaked ground. The German shelling stops sometime in the night. The jeeps, trucks, and tanks pull into thickets of trees and brush in the darkness. They throw their bags onto the ground, so tired that they don’t even shovel away the mud and the pools of water to create a dry cradle for their bodies. His tank cracks, pops, and hisses as it cools nearby. He falls quickly into a hard dead sleep. He wakes when his gunner jabs him in the ribs whispering, “Look! Look there!” Through the lifting morning fog, he sees rows upon rows of green onions. Last night they stopped in their blind weariness by a farmer’s field. Here the spring crop pops up through the French soil. Mindless now of the mud, he joins the other newly-awakened men and crawls on all fours into the field and grabs at the green clumps….
I know full well that he is married, very married, as only those who have lived through the war years can be married. It has now been twenty eight years and her name is Colleen, but he nicknames her The Bear. The war uprooted them, separated them. Friends were shipped to places unpronounceable and some died there. War rationing made for lean times, but not as lean as the Depression. Back then, the concept of uncertainty was transformed into a tangible emotion. Now they do things they can share like hunting together, playing in a band together, eating together, or drinking together: the simple things, the easy pleasures that are as sure as sound sleep…. he still dreams war dreams, some funny, like when they prop up the body of the frozen Kraut captain in the back of their jeep and drive around to the different camps scaring the hell out of the lieutenants. After they are ordered to never do that again, they laugh and say, “What are they going to do? Send us to a war front?” Other dreams weren’t funny, they were nightmares; like when he advances on a distant enemy under sniper fire, looks around and then down at himself. He is dressed in a German uniform. Those soldiers he shoots at are Americans. He bolts out of bed screaming and....Colleen wakes, goes into the kitchen, and starts the coffee which they will drink until the sun comes up and Claude goes to work. She then strips the bed of the sweaty sheets, opening the window to air out the room.
He shows up on the Fridays we share looking like hell. After we get the plant running, the chlorine dosage set, and the flocculent chemistry balanced, he says, “I had that dream again”. We finish our morning chores, getting the water flowing through the plant. We pour our cups of coffee and talk and listen and listen and talk …. today is quiet so Claude turns the driving over to his gunner from New Jersey and steps down off the moving tank. He starts a conversation with a fellow GI from Pennsylvania and they compare deer hunting stories. After a mile of walking, Claude climbs back into the tank and secures the hatch. A couple of minutes later a shell lands so close to them that it knocks them to a stop. Their ears ring from the explosion. Claude lifts the hatch and inspects the damage. The kid is gone and the tank drips red, fresh and wet like a new coat of paint….
Long after the war he first sets their hunting rifles in the corner of the least used room of the house. Then for some housecleaning reason, he moves them into a closet that is now just a storage space with sliding doors. And, finally, coming across them years later, he takes them downtown and sells them .
Sunday, November 23, 2008
aperitif...a play in one act
Cast of Characters
(In order of appearance)
Nathan James a present-day, non-traditional student at a small Northwest college…Amy is his girlfriend
Gertrude Stein at the time of her part in this play (1925), an author of experimental literature and a source of encouragement to all artisans who “want to make it new”
Sylvia Beach at the time of her part in this play (1925), owner of the bookstore, Shakespeare and Company, and a friend to many literary and artistic figures
Ernest Hemingway at the time of his part in this play (1925), a young author about to publish his first novel
F. Scott Fitzgerald at the time of his part in this play (1925), a well-known author of short stories and "The Great Gatsby"... with his wife Zelda, they epitomize “The Jazz Age”
(In order of appearance)
Nathan James a present-day, non-traditional student at a small Northwest college…Amy is his girlfriend
Gertrude Stein at the time of her part in this play (1925), an author of experimental literature and a source of encouragement to all artisans who “want to make it new”
Sylvia Beach at the time of her part in this play (1925), owner of the bookstore, Shakespeare and Company, and a friend to many literary and artistic figures
Ernest Hemingway at the time of his part in this play (1925), a young author about to publish his first novel
F. Scott Fitzgerald at the time of his part in this play (1925), a well-known author of short stories and "The Great Gatsby"... with his wife Zelda, they epitomize “The Jazz Age”
aperitif
The curtain rises. There are three groupings of set props, each free-standing and separate from the others.
Stage Right, a plain wooden door hangs in a partially-framed wall with bare studs exposed above a half wall of sheetrock. On the door is a coat hook.
To the left of this wall, a kitchen sink with no plumbing rests on a counter top supported by bare 2 x 4 legs. Above the sink is an empty window frame in a bare stud wall.
Stage Center, midway between Up Stage and Down Stage, a small wooden table stands with a plain wooden chair on each side of the table, Right and Left.
Stage Left, a double-hung window, partially open, is framed in a bare-stud wall with half pieces of sheetrock on each side. Floor-to-ceiling stage curtains bracket the window.
The door opens. A young man, late 20’s, enters. A backpack is slung over one shoulder. He talks on a cell phone.
NATHAN:
. . .just walking in the door, as a matter of fact. What’s up, Amy? (Pause) No, I can’t. I’d really like to, but I just can’t. I have to get this poem written for Johnson’s class tomorrow. You know I’m behind in his class, what with work and all.
He walks to the table, sets down his backpack, and returns to the door where he hangs up his jacket.
Amy, you’re not listening! I can’t come over. I have to do this homework. (Pause) No, I’m not driven. I just have to do well. I don’t want to be a janitor forever and that’s all I am now. A janitor who is trying to be a college student. I’m not yelling. Look. That’s it. I have to go. Goodbye.
He puts his cell phone in his backpack and pulls out a small writing tablet and pencil. He sets the backpack on the floor and sits down. He starts writing.
What the hell’s her problem? Just leave me alone.
He stops writing, wads up the sheet of paper, and throws it toward the sink. He stands up and paces back and forth Downstage in front of the table.
I just can’t get started. I’m fresh out of ideas. Great! I should be a waiter instead of a janitor. “I’m sorry, Sir. We’re fresh out of ideas, but may I recommend the filet of sole?” Right.
He walks to the wall by his apartment door, leans forward and looks at the wall in several places.
Come on, my rogues’ gallery of writers. How about some help? How about you, Fitzgerald? God knows you had your share of writer’s block, trying to keep Zelda under control. . .as well as your drinking. Aw, what’s the use? (Pause) Wait a minute. Why not? I’ve read a lot about Scott and that time period and the others of his generation. I know I can’t go back in time. Why can’t I use my imagination and bring them here? (Pause) Only I want Fitzgerald in his prime, at the top of his form. Like right after "The Great Gatsby" was published. Where was he? Oh, yeah. Paris. That’s it! Paris, France, 1925.
He walks from Stage Right to Stage Left. As he crosses an imaginary line directly in front of the table, the stage lighting on Stage Right Fades Out to darkness.
The lighting on Stage Left Fades In with the golden glow of an afternoon sun.
The window bracketed by stage curtains rolls to the right behind one curtain. A large potted tree with flowers around its base now stands between the two stage curtains, illuminated as though by sunlight.
He walks slowly toward Stage Left, his head swiveling back and forth taking in the sights. He stops. A smile of recognition comes over his face and he waves toward Stage Left.
Gertrude! Gertrude Stein! Over here. It’s Nathan.
A short portly woman walks on stage from Stage Left. She smiles broadly at him and waves back.
NATHAN:
Hello, Gertrude. Good to see you again.
GERTRUDE:
And it’s good to see you. I didn’t know you were in Paris. Will you be here long?
NATHAN:
Oh, I just arrived. A spur of the moment thing. Don’t know how long I’ll be here. That depends. I’m looking for Scott Fitzgerald. You know where I can find him?
GERTRUDE:
Ha. That would be anybody’s guess. It won’t be very far from a bottle. That much I know. He’s been on a running drunk since Gatsby was published. Life is just one big merry-go-round for him and Zelda.
NATHAN:
Shit! That’s just great. Sorry for swearing, Gertrude, but I really wanted to talk to him.
GERTRUDE:
Well, good luck. Here lately you never know which Scott is going to show up. I’ll tell you, the company he’s been keeping. He and Zelda. They’ve been going to parties up on Montmarte. A vicious crowd. They devour people like sharks. Anything goes with that group.
NATHAN:
Maybe Scott’s a drunk, but I didn’t think he was that self-destructive. Is he really that bad off?
GERTRUDE:
It’s Zelda. She’s the problem. Remember that affair she had last year with that French aviator?
NATHAN:
Yes. Scott told me a little about it.
GERTRUDE:
Well, they patched that up. But things are still a little tenuous. Now she’s making him jealous with other women. Flirtations. Secret little conversations. I don’t think she’s serious, but I don’t know that for sure.
NATHAN:
But this just keeps Scott from his work, his writing.
GERTRUDE:
And that’s precisely the point! Zelda’s jealous of Scott’s writing. Not what he writes, but the time he’s away from her doing the writing.
NATHAN:
I always knew Zelda was high maintenance. I didn’t know it had gotten this bad.
GERTRUDE:
It has. Also. . .I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something else at work here. I really think that girl has some deep-seated mental problems. That’s why Scott goes to those parties. To keep an eye on Zelda. He’s afraid of what might happen if she passes out and he’s not there.
NATHAN:
Damn, what a mess. Now, I don’t know what to do and I still don’t know where he is.
GERTRUDE:
Don’t give up all together. You might get lucky and catch him in a rare moment of sobriety. (Pause) Just a thought. Try Sylvia Beach. She has people coming and going all the time at Shakespeare and Company. She might have heard something. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I want to finish my walk through the Gardens. Then to home and Alice. I wish you luck.
NATHAN:
Thanks. Give my best to Alice.
GERTRUDE:
I will. Next time you’re in town, you must stop by for tea. And bring Amy. Goodbye.
NATHAN:
I’ll make a note of that. (Smiling) Goodbye.
Shaking his hand, she turns and walks Up Stage to the tree. She looks it over and walks off stage, Stage Left.
Nathan walks slowly Down Stage a few paces. While he is walking, the tree rolls toward Center Stage and is hidden behind the stage curtain.
In its place, a three-shelf bookcase now stands on a square wooden table. A sign fastened to the bookcase says “Shakespeare and Company”. There are about a dozen books placed haphazardly on the three shelves.
A petite, sharp-featured woman walks on stage from Stage Left and starts dusting the books with a feather duster.
Nathan turns and walks Up Stage toward this set.
NATHAN:
(He leans over as though poking his head through a door opening). Hello. Anyone home?
SYLVIA:
(Turning around, startled) Oh, Nathan, it's you. You gave me a fright! Come in, come in, what a nice surprise.
NATHAN:
Sorry for the scare. How are you and how’s the book business?
SYLVIA:
I’m fine. So’s the business. Are you in town for long?
NATHAN:
Not this trip. I’m a man on a mission. Although, it’s looking like a doomed mission. I’m trying to hook up with Scott Fitzgerald.
SYLVIA:
Oh. I see. Then I take it you’ve heard.
NATHAN:
I ran into Gertrude. She was taking her afternoon walk through the Luxembourg Gardens. She brought me up to date on Scott. I guess it’s not been pretty.
SYLVIA:
No, no it hasn’t. It’s like watching a moth circle a flame. You know it’s going to burn its wings and come crashing down.
NATHAN:
Yeah, Gertrude told me about Zelda, too. What a waste.
SYLVIA:
Yes, it is, but it’s not all Zelda. Let’s face it. Scott’s an alcoholic. He doesn’t need a reason to drink. The drink’s got him. Zelda just compounds the problem.
NATHAN:
Great. That makes me more discouraged than ever. To hear it from you as well as Gertrude. I was really hoping he could help me.
SYLVIA:
What is it, Nathan? You can tell me. You know I’m the soul of discretion.
NATHAN:
I know. It’s nothing earthshaking. Except to me. You see, I’m under a deadline to finish this poem and I can’t get it going.
SYLVIA:
(Laughs) Is that all? A slight case of angiosse de la page blanche.
NATHAN:
(Smiling) What’s that? I don’t speak French.
SYLVIA:
Writer’s block. That’s French for writer’s block. It happens to every writer sooner or later. If they write long enough.
NATHAN:
Well, it’s happening to me. That’s why I’m looking for Scott. Thought he could get me jump-started.
SYLVIA:
Don’t know about that. Maybe this big lug coming through the door could help.
Ernest Hemingway enters, winks at Nathan, walks over to Sylvia, and gives her a bear hug.
ERNEST:
(In a loud voice) Who’re you calling a big lug, you little sweetheart? When are you going to run away with me?
SYLVIA:
(Laughing) Let go of me, you big brute. Or I’ll call Adrienne to come teach you manners.
ERNEST:
Stop. Stop. Don’t call in the war department. I’ll be nice. Promise. Scout’s honor.
All three laugh. He turns to Nathan with a warm grin and they shake hands.
How’ve you been, Nathan? Haven’t seen you in a coon’s age.
NATHAN:
Good, Ernest, good. How’s the writing going?
ERNEST:
You wouldn’t believe it. Just kicking ass and taking names. Knocking the hell out of my first novel. It’s going to set the literary world on its ear. Mark my words.
NATHAN:
Outstanding. What’s it called? What’s it about?
ERNEST:
(Quieter now, not so boisterous) Well, the working title is "Fiesta". Can’t tell you what it’s about. Bad luck to talk about work in progress. Up to my armpits in revision. Just trying to tread water.
NATHAN:
Hmp. Wish that was me.
SYLVIA:
Our Nathan’s hit the brick wall at 60 miles an hour. Writer’s block.
ERNEST:
Hell, is that all? Come into Dr. Hemingstein’s office and we’ll lance that pesky boil. Seriously, what’s the problem?
NATHAN:
Can’t get it started. Mind’s a blank. Then I get mad and I know that’s not helping the cause.
ERNEST:
Right. Time to back off. That’s what I do. I set my pencil down and look out the window at the rooftops. Then I try to think about the last true sentence I’ve read. Or heard. Nothing elaborate. Just a simple true sentence. Then I write about it. Next thing you know, the juices are flowing and I’m on my way.
NATHAN:
Good idea. I’ll try it. That’s why I told Sylvia I was looking for Scott, so he could. . .
ERNEST:
(Explodes in anger) Fitzgerald! That drunk! Don’t waste your time. He’s washed up. A has-been. Zelda’s killed his talent. He should have dumped her ass a long time ago. A wife interferes with writing, she’s history. Plenty of fish wiggling their tails out in the ocean.
Nathan and Sylvia stare blank-faced in stunned astonishment at Hemingway.
Well, I’m out of here. Have to meet Hadley. That damn Fitzgerald makes me so mad. Have to go cool off. Sylvia. Nathan. (Nods his head and leaves)
It is quiet in the bookstore with Nathan and Sylvia looking at one another in a long pause.
NATHAN:
What the hell was that all about? I thought they were friends.
SYLVIA:
They were. Scott got him signed up with Scribner’s and shared a lot of good advice with him. Now, Ernest doesn’t need him.
NATHAN:
You don’t throw away your friends simply because you’re starting to get known.
SYLVIA:
You don’t know Ernest the way I do. He’s like a boxer in a boxing ring. And remember. You can only have one winner in a boxing ring.
NATHAN:
I’d still like to track down Scott. I’ve come this far. I’d like to see it through to the end.
SYLVIA:
Hmm. It’s 6:00. You might catch him at the Closerie des Lilas. He sometimes goes there for an aperitif before going home for dinner. . .or an evening of partying.
NATHAN:
It’s worth a shot. If he’s not there, I guess I can always go back to my apartment.
SYLVIA:
You’ll find him. And good luck with the poem.
NATHAN:
Thanks, Sylvia. Goodbye.
Nathan waves, turns away from Sylvia and walks Down Stage toward the audience.
Sylvia exits Stage Left and the bookcase rolls to the left. Again the tree in the pot stands between the two stage curtains.
Nathan turns and walks slowly to the tree, admiring it with a smile. He then turns toward Center Stage and walks toward the desk where a dapperly-dressed man wearing a suit and tie sits, sipping a glass of wine and looking about him as he enjoys the afternoon sun.
SCOTT:
Nathan! I heard you were looking for me. (Standing) Please come join me. (Looking Stage Right) Jean, another glass of your Chablis for Nathan.
Nathan walks over to Scott and they shake hands. They then sit down, Scott in the chair to the Left and Nathan in the chair to the Right. Scott appears slightly drunk, yet friendly.
NATHAN:
How’d you know I was looking for you?
SCOTT:
I saw Gertrude on her way home from the Gardens. Had some apologizing to do. A little incident that happened the other night. Did she tell you about it?
NATHAN:
No, she didn’t.
SCOTT:
Just as well. Not one of my better moments. So, you came to Paris to see me. I’m flattered. What’s the occasion? Wait, before you start. . .Jean, a full carafe of your Chablis, s’il vous plait.
Jean, the waiter, is imaginary, as are the wine glasses that Scott and Nathan drink from in pantomime.
NATHAN:
I’m really not that thirsty, Scott, and. . .
SCOTT:
Nonsense. Nonsense. The very thing to work up an appetite before dinner. Where were we?
NATHAN:
The reason I came looking for you. I’ve got a deadline on a poem and I’m dead in the water. Writer’s block.
Scott gazes off in the distance before answering.
SCOTT:
(In a quiet voice) Yes. Yes. Isn’t that always the way it goes? You’re talking about an old friend of mine there. We go back a long way. He still comes to visit me occasionally, damn him.
NATHAN:
Hemingway said the same thing this afternoon. He said. . .
SCOTT:
(Suddenly alert) Ernest? You saw him earlier?
NATHAN:
(Evasive) Uh. Yeah. At Shakespeare and Company. He came in while I was visiting with Sylvia.
SCOTT:
Did he mention me? Did he say anything? I’ve been trying to get a hold of him, but he’s never home and he never answers the notes I send him by mail.
NATHAN:
He didn’t say anything about any notes. No. Said he’s hard at work all the time. That’s about all.
Scott drains his glass and pours another. He offers the imaginary carafe to Nathan who shakes his head.
SCOTT:
Once upon a time it was Ernest who’d look all over Paris for me. To show me what he’d written or to ask my advice. Guess he doesn’t need me now.
Scott drains his glass and pours another out of the carafe. There is a long pause.
Well, what about you, Nathan? You need me, huh?
NATHAN:
I could sure use your help. Yes.
SCOTT:
Good. Good, that’s what friends are for. (Pause) I was reading Masefield the other night. A double sonnet called “On Growing Old.” Damn fine. You read him before?
NATHAN:
John Masefield? Yeah, some. Not much. Don’t know that one. Isn’t he the one that said “Give me a tall ship and a star to steer her by,” or something like that?
SCOTT:
Yes, that’s him. Well, at the end of the first sonnet in that poem, he says “Only stay quiet while my mind remembers the beauty of fire from the beauty of embers.” That’s what you need. First of all, quiet yourself. You see, you’re looking for a blazing conflagration, a finished poem right at the start. Complete and intact. It doesn’t work that way.
NATHAN:
(Excited) Yes, you’re right. Go on. I’m with you.
SCOTT:
You have the core of a poem burning a hole inside of you. Quiet yourself and you’ll find it. Concentrate on those few fiery coals. Blow on them. They’re there. Trust me. See the beauty of embers he was talking about. That’s your starting point.
Nathan stands. A large smile is on his face as he starts pacing excitedly.
NATHAN:
I get it. You’re right. I’ve been expecting the poem to be fully formed at birth, so to speak. I need to slow down and start simple. The basics first.
SCOTT:
(Excited as well) Now you’ve got it. Great. Let’s celebrate. Jean, another carafe over here. Drink up, Nathan, drink up.
Nathan sits down, calmer now. He looks at Scott intently. Scott drains his glass and pours another.
NATHAN:
I can’t celebrate yet. I still have to write it.
SCOTT:
Yes. Yes. But you can do that tomorrow. Let’s paint the town. I’m in the mood now.
NATHAN:
I can’t, Scott, the poem is due tomorrow. Remember? (Pause, then guardedly) Besides, don’t you have some writing you want to do tonight? Aren’t you working on something?
Scott stands shakily and grabs the edge of the table to balance himself. He’s drunk.
SCOTT:
(Angry) What’s this? You trying to give me advice? Maybe you’ve forgotten, buster. You came to me. You’re the student, I’m the author. (Pause) Or is that it? You’re lording it over me that you’re still in college and I had to quit. Huh? Is that it?
NATHAN:
(Calmly) No, Scott. That’s not it. Please sit down. Didn’t you just say that’s what friends are for? To get together and talk about writing?
Scott sits down. He now looks intently at Nathan. He shakes his head, looks down, and then looks back at Nathan.
SCOTT:
I’m sorry. It’s not you. I wish I could spend the evening writing. It’s Zelda. She needs so much attention and it’s not just the drinking. She’s been acting strange lately. It’s like her mind’s a broken alarm clock that can’t keep time and the alarm goes off unexpectedly at all hours.
NATHAN:
I don’t know what to tell you. I’m sorry.
SCOTT:
Well, she needs me. I know that much. I can’t leave her and I do love her. She was there for me when I needed her.
(Pause. Scott stands, a little steadier now) So I’d better get on my way. We’re going to the Ile de la Cite to meet some friends for dinner. Sorry I have to run off. Duty calls.
Nathan stands and they shake hands.
NATHAN:
I understand. There’s someone I need to see tonight, as well. A little fence mending.
SCOTT:
Sorry about earlier.
NATHAN:
It’s already forgotten. Thanks for the help. That’s not been forgotten. Have a good evening. Goodbye.
SCOTT:
I’ll try. Goodbye for now.
Nathan watches as Scott walks slowly away Stage Left. He sits down and notices the writing paper and pencil still on the table. He begins to write slowly and then faster.
The light on the Stage Right side of the apartment grows brighter matching Stage Left. The potted plant rolls Stage Left and Nathan’s other apartment window appears between the two curtains.
Nathan stops writing and stands. He stares across his apartment and then bends over to his backpack on the floor. He pulls out his cell phone and punches a number.
NATHAN:
Amy? Hi. You still talking to me? (Pause) I know. I know. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I was a jerk. (Pause) The poem? Well, I’ve got a rough draft, believe it or not. Would you like to hear it? Great. I call it “aperitif with F. Scott: Paris, 1925.” Okay, here goes.
in the streaming video
he is a visual archive
one mega-byte of mpeg format
from a university website
he sits at a desk
and writes with a scowl
suit and tie are grainy black
the trees twitch darkly
under the sterile sun
halting the unreeling frames
I ask him to join me
it is a late autumn evening
an aperitif at the Closerie des Lilas is more in line
did you write well today
keeping Zelda at bay?
I too know the fear
when it is not formed
the wonder of that newborn shape
the frustration when it is not fully alive
pursed lips smiling
Scott walks the rue Cardinal Lemoine
down to the Seine
seeking old friends
recalling with them
when the words were effortless
I chew on our last conversation
Fitzgerald and me
the memoir before us
of the beauty of fire
from the beauty of embers
What do you think? (Pause) Well, let’s celebrate then. Can I buy you a beer? Good. The Burger ‘n Brew in ten minutes? Great. And, thanks Amy. I am so sorry for the way I’ve acted. I have so much to tell you. (Pause) Okay. Ten minutes. I’m already out the door.
He closes his cell phone and goes to the door. He puts on his jacket, his back to the table.
Scott Fitzgerald quietly walks to the table and sits in the chair at the Stage Left side. He crosses one leg over the other and rests his hands on his lap in a relaxed pose. A slight smile is on his face.
Nathan turns and sees Scott. He pauses, staring at him, a smile on his own face. He quietly opens the door and walks out turning the lights off as he leaves.
The stage is dark except for a soft diffused spotlight on Scott sitting at the table. This stays lit for a few seconds, then slowly dims until all of the stage is in darkness.
The End
Stage Right, a plain wooden door hangs in a partially-framed wall with bare studs exposed above a half wall of sheetrock. On the door is a coat hook.
To the left of this wall, a kitchen sink with no plumbing rests on a counter top supported by bare 2 x 4 legs. Above the sink is an empty window frame in a bare stud wall.
Stage Center, midway between Up Stage and Down Stage, a small wooden table stands with a plain wooden chair on each side of the table, Right and Left.
Stage Left, a double-hung window, partially open, is framed in a bare-stud wall with half pieces of sheetrock on each side. Floor-to-ceiling stage curtains bracket the window.
The door opens. A young man, late 20’s, enters. A backpack is slung over one shoulder. He talks on a cell phone.
NATHAN:
. . .just walking in the door, as a matter of fact. What’s up, Amy? (Pause) No, I can’t. I’d really like to, but I just can’t. I have to get this poem written for Johnson’s class tomorrow. You know I’m behind in his class, what with work and all.
He walks to the table, sets down his backpack, and returns to the door where he hangs up his jacket.
Amy, you’re not listening! I can’t come over. I have to do this homework. (Pause) No, I’m not driven. I just have to do well. I don’t want to be a janitor forever and that’s all I am now. A janitor who is trying to be a college student. I’m not yelling. Look. That’s it. I have to go. Goodbye.
He puts his cell phone in his backpack and pulls out a small writing tablet and pencil. He sets the backpack on the floor and sits down. He starts writing.
What the hell’s her problem? Just leave me alone.
He stops writing, wads up the sheet of paper, and throws it toward the sink. He stands up and paces back and forth Downstage in front of the table.
I just can’t get started. I’m fresh out of ideas. Great! I should be a waiter instead of a janitor. “I’m sorry, Sir. We’re fresh out of ideas, but may I recommend the filet of sole?” Right.
He walks to the wall by his apartment door, leans forward and looks at the wall in several places.
Come on, my rogues’ gallery of writers. How about some help? How about you, Fitzgerald? God knows you had your share of writer’s block, trying to keep Zelda under control. . .as well as your drinking. Aw, what’s the use? (Pause) Wait a minute. Why not? I’ve read a lot about Scott and that time period and the others of his generation. I know I can’t go back in time. Why can’t I use my imagination and bring them here? (Pause) Only I want Fitzgerald in his prime, at the top of his form. Like right after "The Great Gatsby" was published. Where was he? Oh, yeah. Paris. That’s it! Paris, France, 1925.
He walks from Stage Right to Stage Left. As he crosses an imaginary line directly in front of the table, the stage lighting on Stage Right Fades Out to darkness.
The lighting on Stage Left Fades In with the golden glow of an afternoon sun.
The window bracketed by stage curtains rolls to the right behind one curtain. A large potted tree with flowers around its base now stands between the two stage curtains, illuminated as though by sunlight.
He walks slowly toward Stage Left, his head swiveling back and forth taking in the sights. He stops. A smile of recognition comes over his face and he waves toward Stage Left.
Gertrude! Gertrude Stein! Over here. It’s Nathan.
A short portly woman walks on stage from Stage Left. She smiles broadly at him and waves back.
NATHAN:
Hello, Gertrude. Good to see you again.
GERTRUDE:
And it’s good to see you. I didn’t know you were in Paris. Will you be here long?
NATHAN:
Oh, I just arrived. A spur of the moment thing. Don’t know how long I’ll be here. That depends. I’m looking for Scott Fitzgerald. You know where I can find him?
GERTRUDE:
Ha. That would be anybody’s guess. It won’t be very far from a bottle. That much I know. He’s been on a running drunk since Gatsby was published. Life is just one big merry-go-round for him and Zelda.
NATHAN:
Shit! That’s just great. Sorry for swearing, Gertrude, but I really wanted to talk to him.
GERTRUDE:
Well, good luck. Here lately you never know which Scott is going to show up. I’ll tell you, the company he’s been keeping. He and Zelda. They’ve been going to parties up on Montmarte. A vicious crowd. They devour people like sharks. Anything goes with that group.
NATHAN:
Maybe Scott’s a drunk, but I didn’t think he was that self-destructive. Is he really that bad off?
GERTRUDE:
It’s Zelda. She’s the problem. Remember that affair she had last year with that French aviator?
NATHAN:
Yes. Scott told me a little about it.
GERTRUDE:
Well, they patched that up. But things are still a little tenuous. Now she’s making him jealous with other women. Flirtations. Secret little conversations. I don’t think she’s serious, but I don’t know that for sure.
NATHAN:
But this just keeps Scott from his work, his writing.
GERTRUDE:
And that’s precisely the point! Zelda’s jealous of Scott’s writing. Not what he writes, but the time he’s away from her doing the writing.
NATHAN:
I always knew Zelda was high maintenance. I didn’t know it had gotten this bad.
GERTRUDE:
It has. Also. . .I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something else at work here. I really think that girl has some deep-seated mental problems. That’s why Scott goes to those parties. To keep an eye on Zelda. He’s afraid of what might happen if she passes out and he’s not there.
NATHAN:
Damn, what a mess. Now, I don’t know what to do and I still don’t know where he is.
GERTRUDE:
Don’t give up all together. You might get lucky and catch him in a rare moment of sobriety. (Pause) Just a thought. Try Sylvia Beach. She has people coming and going all the time at Shakespeare and Company. She might have heard something. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I want to finish my walk through the Gardens. Then to home and Alice. I wish you luck.
NATHAN:
Thanks. Give my best to Alice.
GERTRUDE:
I will. Next time you’re in town, you must stop by for tea. And bring Amy. Goodbye.
NATHAN:
I’ll make a note of that. (Smiling) Goodbye.
Shaking his hand, she turns and walks Up Stage to the tree. She looks it over and walks off stage, Stage Left.
Nathan walks slowly Down Stage a few paces. While he is walking, the tree rolls toward Center Stage and is hidden behind the stage curtain.
In its place, a three-shelf bookcase now stands on a square wooden table. A sign fastened to the bookcase says “Shakespeare and Company”. There are about a dozen books placed haphazardly on the three shelves.
A petite, sharp-featured woman walks on stage from Stage Left and starts dusting the books with a feather duster.
Nathan turns and walks Up Stage toward this set.
NATHAN:
(He leans over as though poking his head through a door opening). Hello. Anyone home?
SYLVIA:
(Turning around, startled) Oh, Nathan, it's you. You gave me a fright! Come in, come in, what a nice surprise.
NATHAN:
Sorry for the scare. How are you and how’s the book business?
SYLVIA:
I’m fine. So’s the business. Are you in town for long?
NATHAN:
Not this trip. I’m a man on a mission. Although, it’s looking like a doomed mission. I’m trying to hook up with Scott Fitzgerald.
SYLVIA:
Oh. I see. Then I take it you’ve heard.
NATHAN:
I ran into Gertrude. She was taking her afternoon walk through the Luxembourg Gardens. She brought me up to date on Scott. I guess it’s not been pretty.
SYLVIA:
No, no it hasn’t. It’s like watching a moth circle a flame. You know it’s going to burn its wings and come crashing down.
NATHAN:
Yeah, Gertrude told me about Zelda, too. What a waste.
SYLVIA:
Yes, it is, but it’s not all Zelda. Let’s face it. Scott’s an alcoholic. He doesn’t need a reason to drink. The drink’s got him. Zelda just compounds the problem.
NATHAN:
Great. That makes me more discouraged than ever. To hear it from you as well as Gertrude. I was really hoping he could help me.
SYLVIA:
What is it, Nathan? You can tell me. You know I’m the soul of discretion.
NATHAN:
I know. It’s nothing earthshaking. Except to me. You see, I’m under a deadline to finish this poem and I can’t get it going.
SYLVIA:
(Laughs) Is that all? A slight case of angiosse de la page blanche.
NATHAN:
(Smiling) What’s that? I don’t speak French.
SYLVIA:
Writer’s block. That’s French for writer’s block. It happens to every writer sooner or later. If they write long enough.
NATHAN:
Well, it’s happening to me. That’s why I’m looking for Scott. Thought he could get me jump-started.
SYLVIA:
Don’t know about that. Maybe this big lug coming through the door could help.
Ernest Hemingway enters, winks at Nathan, walks over to Sylvia, and gives her a bear hug.
ERNEST:
(In a loud voice) Who’re you calling a big lug, you little sweetheart? When are you going to run away with me?
SYLVIA:
(Laughing) Let go of me, you big brute. Or I’ll call Adrienne to come teach you manners.
ERNEST:
Stop. Stop. Don’t call in the war department. I’ll be nice. Promise. Scout’s honor.
All three laugh. He turns to Nathan with a warm grin and they shake hands.
How’ve you been, Nathan? Haven’t seen you in a coon’s age.
NATHAN:
Good, Ernest, good. How’s the writing going?
ERNEST:
You wouldn’t believe it. Just kicking ass and taking names. Knocking the hell out of my first novel. It’s going to set the literary world on its ear. Mark my words.
NATHAN:
Outstanding. What’s it called? What’s it about?
ERNEST:
(Quieter now, not so boisterous) Well, the working title is "Fiesta". Can’t tell you what it’s about. Bad luck to talk about work in progress. Up to my armpits in revision. Just trying to tread water.
NATHAN:
Hmp. Wish that was me.
SYLVIA:
Our Nathan’s hit the brick wall at 60 miles an hour. Writer’s block.
ERNEST:
Hell, is that all? Come into Dr. Hemingstein’s office and we’ll lance that pesky boil. Seriously, what’s the problem?
NATHAN:
Can’t get it started. Mind’s a blank. Then I get mad and I know that’s not helping the cause.
ERNEST:
Right. Time to back off. That’s what I do. I set my pencil down and look out the window at the rooftops. Then I try to think about the last true sentence I’ve read. Or heard. Nothing elaborate. Just a simple true sentence. Then I write about it. Next thing you know, the juices are flowing and I’m on my way.
NATHAN:
Good idea. I’ll try it. That’s why I told Sylvia I was looking for Scott, so he could. . .
ERNEST:
(Explodes in anger) Fitzgerald! That drunk! Don’t waste your time. He’s washed up. A has-been. Zelda’s killed his talent. He should have dumped her ass a long time ago. A wife interferes with writing, she’s history. Plenty of fish wiggling their tails out in the ocean.
Nathan and Sylvia stare blank-faced in stunned astonishment at Hemingway.
Well, I’m out of here. Have to meet Hadley. That damn Fitzgerald makes me so mad. Have to go cool off. Sylvia. Nathan. (Nods his head and leaves)
It is quiet in the bookstore with Nathan and Sylvia looking at one another in a long pause.
NATHAN:
What the hell was that all about? I thought they were friends.
SYLVIA:
They were. Scott got him signed up with Scribner’s and shared a lot of good advice with him. Now, Ernest doesn’t need him.
NATHAN:
You don’t throw away your friends simply because you’re starting to get known.
SYLVIA:
You don’t know Ernest the way I do. He’s like a boxer in a boxing ring. And remember. You can only have one winner in a boxing ring.
NATHAN:
I’d still like to track down Scott. I’ve come this far. I’d like to see it through to the end.
SYLVIA:
Hmm. It’s 6:00. You might catch him at the Closerie des Lilas. He sometimes goes there for an aperitif before going home for dinner. . .or an evening of partying.
NATHAN:
It’s worth a shot. If he’s not there, I guess I can always go back to my apartment.
SYLVIA:
You’ll find him. And good luck with the poem.
NATHAN:
Thanks, Sylvia. Goodbye.
Nathan waves, turns away from Sylvia and walks Down Stage toward the audience.
Sylvia exits Stage Left and the bookcase rolls to the left. Again the tree in the pot stands between the two stage curtains.
Nathan turns and walks slowly to the tree, admiring it with a smile. He then turns toward Center Stage and walks toward the desk where a dapperly-dressed man wearing a suit and tie sits, sipping a glass of wine and looking about him as he enjoys the afternoon sun.
SCOTT:
Nathan! I heard you were looking for me. (Standing) Please come join me. (Looking Stage Right) Jean, another glass of your Chablis for Nathan.
Nathan walks over to Scott and they shake hands. They then sit down, Scott in the chair to the Left and Nathan in the chair to the Right. Scott appears slightly drunk, yet friendly.
NATHAN:
How’d you know I was looking for you?
SCOTT:
I saw Gertrude on her way home from the Gardens. Had some apologizing to do. A little incident that happened the other night. Did she tell you about it?
NATHAN:
No, she didn’t.
SCOTT:
Just as well. Not one of my better moments. So, you came to Paris to see me. I’m flattered. What’s the occasion? Wait, before you start. . .Jean, a full carafe of your Chablis, s’il vous plait.
Jean, the waiter, is imaginary, as are the wine glasses that Scott and Nathan drink from in pantomime.
NATHAN:
I’m really not that thirsty, Scott, and. . .
SCOTT:
Nonsense. Nonsense. The very thing to work up an appetite before dinner. Where were we?
NATHAN:
The reason I came looking for you. I’ve got a deadline on a poem and I’m dead in the water. Writer’s block.
Scott gazes off in the distance before answering.
SCOTT:
(In a quiet voice) Yes. Yes. Isn’t that always the way it goes? You’re talking about an old friend of mine there. We go back a long way. He still comes to visit me occasionally, damn him.
NATHAN:
Hemingway said the same thing this afternoon. He said. . .
SCOTT:
(Suddenly alert) Ernest? You saw him earlier?
NATHAN:
(Evasive) Uh. Yeah. At Shakespeare and Company. He came in while I was visiting with Sylvia.
SCOTT:
Did he mention me? Did he say anything? I’ve been trying to get a hold of him, but he’s never home and he never answers the notes I send him by mail.
NATHAN:
He didn’t say anything about any notes. No. Said he’s hard at work all the time. That’s about all.
Scott drains his glass and pours another. He offers the imaginary carafe to Nathan who shakes his head.
SCOTT:
Once upon a time it was Ernest who’d look all over Paris for me. To show me what he’d written or to ask my advice. Guess he doesn’t need me now.
Scott drains his glass and pours another out of the carafe. There is a long pause.
Well, what about you, Nathan? You need me, huh?
NATHAN:
I could sure use your help. Yes.
SCOTT:
Good. Good, that’s what friends are for. (Pause) I was reading Masefield the other night. A double sonnet called “On Growing Old.” Damn fine. You read him before?
NATHAN:
John Masefield? Yeah, some. Not much. Don’t know that one. Isn’t he the one that said “Give me a tall ship and a star to steer her by,” or something like that?
SCOTT:
Yes, that’s him. Well, at the end of the first sonnet in that poem, he says “Only stay quiet while my mind remembers the beauty of fire from the beauty of embers.” That’s what you need. First of all, quiet yourself. You see, you’re looking for a blazing conflagration, a finished poem right at the start. Complete and intact. It doesn’t work that way.
NATHAN:
(Excited) Yes, you’re right. Go on. I’m with you.
SCOTT:
You have the core of a poem burning a hole inside of you. Quiet yourself and you’ll find it. Concentrate on those few fiery coals. Blow on them. They’re there. Trust me. See the beauty of embers he was talking about. That’s your starting point.
Nathan stands. A large smile is on his face as he starts pacing excitedly.
NATHAN:
I get it. You’re right. I’ve been expecting the poem to be fully formed at birth, so to speak. I need to slow down and start simple. The basics first.
SCOTT:
(Excited as well) Now you’ve got it. Great. Let’s celebrate. Jean, another carafe over here. Drink up, Nathan, drink up.
Nathan sits down, calmer now. He looks at Scott intently. Scott drains his glass and pours another.
NATHAN:
I can’t celebrate yet. I still have to write it.
SCOTT:
Yes. Yes. But you can do that tomorrow. Let’s paint the town. I’m in the mood now.
NATHAN:
I can’t, Scott, the poem is due tomorrow. Remember? (Pause, then guardedly) Besides, don’t you have some writing you want to do tonight? Aren’t you working on something?
Scott stands shakily and grabs the edge of the table to balance himself. He’s drunk.
SCOTT:
(Angry) What’s this? You trying to give me advice? Maybe you’ve forgotten, buster. You came to me. You’re the student, I’m the author. (Pause) Or is that it? You’re lording it over me that you’re still in college and I had to quit. Huh? Is that it?
NATHAN:
(Calmly) No, Scott. That’s not it. Please sit down. Didn’t you just say that’s what friends are for? To get together and talk about writing?
Scott sits down. He now looks intently at Nathan. He shakes his head, looks down, and then looks back at Nathan.
SCOTT:
I’m sorry. It’s not you. I wish I could spend the evening writing. It’s Zelda. She needs so much attention and it’s not just the drinking. She’s been acting strange lately. It’s like her mind’s a broken alarm clock that can’t keep time and the alarm goes off unexpectedly at all hours.
NATHAN:
I don’t know what to tell you. I’m sorry.
SCOTT:
Well, she needs me. I know that much. I can’t leave her and I do love her. She was there for me when I needed her.
(Pause. Scott stands, a little steadier now) So I’d better get on my way. We’re going to the Ile de la Cite to meet some friends for dinner. Sorry I have to run off. Duty calls.
Nathan stands and they shake hands.
NATHAN:
I understand. There’s someone I need to see tonight, as well. A little fence mending.
SCOTT:
Sorry about earlier.
NATHAN:
It’s already forgotten. Thanks for the help. That’s not been forgotten. Have a good evening. Goodbye.
SCOTT:
I’ll try. Goodbye for now.
Nathan watches as Scott walks slowly away Stage Left. He sits down and notices the writing paper and pencil still on the table. He begins to write slowly and then faster.
The light on the Stage Right side of the apartment grows brighter matching Stage Left. The potted plant rolls Stage Left and Nathan’s other apartment window appears between the two curtains.
Nathan stops writing and stands. He stares across his apartment and then bends over to his backpack on the floor. He pulls out his cell phone and punches a number.
NATHAN:
Amy? Hi. You still talking to me? (Pause) I know. I know. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I was a jerk. (Pause) The poem? Well, I’ve got a rough draft, believe it or not. Would you like to hear it? Great. I call it “aperitif with F. Scott: Paris, 1925.” Okay, here goes.
in the streaming video
he is a visual archive
one mega-byte of mpeg format
from a university website
he sits at a desk
and writes with a scowl
suit and tie are grainy black
the trees twitch darkly
under the sterile sun
halting the unreeling frames
I ask him to join me
it is a late autumn evening
an aperitif at the Closerie des Lilas is more in line
did you write well today
keeping Zelda at bay?
I too know the fear
when it is not formed
the wonder of that newborn shape
the frustration when it is not fully alive
pursed lips smiling
Scott walks the rue Cardinal Lemoine
down to the Seine
seeking old friends
recalling with them
when the words were effortless
I chew on our last conversation
Fitzgerald and me
the memoir before us
of the beauty of fire
from the beauty of embers
What do you think? (Pause) Well, let’s celebrate then. Can I buy you a beer? Good. The Burger ‘n Brew in ten minutes? Great. And, thanks Amy. I am so sorry for the way I’ve acted. I have so much to tell you. (Pause) Okay. Ten minutes. I’m already out the door.
He closes his cell phone and goes to the door. He puts on his jacket, his back to the table.
Scott Fitzgerald quietly walks to the table and sits in the chair at the Stage Left side. He crosses one leg over the other and rests his hands on his lap in a relaxed pose. A slight smile is on his face.
Nathan turns and sees Scott. He pauses, staring at him, a smile on his own face. He quietly opens the door and walks out turning the lights off as he leaves.
The stage is dark except for a soft diffused spotlight on Scott sitting at the table. This stays lit for a few seconds, then slowly dims until all of the stage is in darkness.
The End
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
mantis
dried corn husks scritch
in the morning breeze.
a praying mantis
settles on a box elder leaf,
the delicate lilt of a water skip
on a pond.
a grasshopper struggles,
goes still,
a morning meal.
I’m back
in my granddad’s den,
six years old.
bath robe open,
the roped belt hung from its loops.
cowboys and Indians
on my pajamas locked in combat.
click click click of typewriter keys
the only sound as
sunlight climbs my granddad’s shoulder.
the rolling cylinder,
metal arms
that rise and fall,
black letters
on a stark white page.
I hold the cup
of hot chocolate against my chest.
my granddad stops.
his huge fingers hover
over the black round keys
mantis-like
ready to pounce.
in the morning breeze.
a praying mantis
settles on a box elder leaf,
the delicate lilt of a water skip
on a pond.
a grasshopper struggles,
goes still,
a morning meal.
I’m back
in my granddad’s den,
six years old.
bath robe open,
the roped belt hung from its loops.
cowboys and Indians
on my pajamas locked in combat.
click click click of typewriter keys
the only sound as
sunlight climbs my granddad’s shoulder.
the rolling cylinder,
metal arms
that rise and fall,
black letters
on a stark white page.
I hold the cup
of hot chocolate against my chest.
my granddad stops.
his huge fingers hover
over the black round keys
mantis-like
ready to pounce.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
