From the Bottom
I don’t like how the document doesn’t copy verbatim.
Exercise #1: The Object of Desire.
For comment box: What does one character want? It has to be tangible.
Fountain of Youth
Characters
Eugene Grahm—Man. Twenty one.
Albert—Man. Sixty.
Scene
In a room full of books an earthquake had occurred, so there are books splayed everywhere and empty shelves.
Eugene
Over there?
Albert
No.
Eugene
You held it last, you don’t know?
Albert
No.
Eugene
Did you check that corner?
Albert
No.
Eugene
(Pause.) Sorry. I didn’t mean to step on boundaries.
Albert
That’s fine.
Eugene
(Pause.) Do you have a problem with me?
Albert
I don’t.
Eugene
(Believes him.)
Search over there.
Albert
(Doesn’t listen.)
Eugene
All I need is a couple of pages; from there I can fill in the spaces. A page or two will generate an idea and maybe I could pare down my understandings from there. If only I had a base, a trunk I can stem from.
Albert
Trees don’t work like that.
Eugene
(Pause.) Like I said before: Some might think it’s a burden, others citizens find it a luxury— redefining themselves, even. One of my coworkers told me you—you, Albert—could rebuild your past.
Albert
Don’t stand in shadows you don’t know their weight.
Eugene
Listen for a moment. Let’s say everything you know to date; what if you had that thirty years ago?
Albert
I don’t want it.
Eugene
Your wife is not here anymore! (Stops.) I’m sorry. The fortune allocated to you was a sad one, I know. Why she left your house is no one’s fault. If ever I have children, once they’re adults, I hope my wife remains; that she found something indelible in my soul since we fell in love. I believe that. Honestly. Beyond conventions and the institution of marriages. I know she left a note saying she was gone. Left unexplained. And I want to bestow some peace tonight; that note doesn’t survive if you and missus…(Doesn’t know last name.) live above it together. The mind forgets and that’s how we forgive. But you know where she is now. Go there with youth and wisdom and build a new home from there; better, you can both have your youth and rebuild a home together. Who doesn’t want to pass away with a beautiful ending?
Albert
I don’t want it.
Eugene
You’re a janitor! How are you qualified for any moral judgment?
(Silence.)
Albert
May I tell you something? A little candidness never comes to short for a character; for people, passing nights a dreadful voice may sing below a red moon. So I’ll share another one: Last month I installed the Grounder underneath the city and caused the earthquake.
Eugene
Did you?
Albert
(Hyperbolic.) No!
(Afraid, Eugene searches frantically, as if divine fortune was to bless him.)
Albert
In here, doc. Over there, doc. Sleeping before your eyes. Pages and pages and pages. Latin characters, Egyptian numbers, black ink arranged in billions of ways.
(Silence. Eugene gives up.]
Albert
You know the compounds of the fetus, work from there.
Eugene
(Stressed.) Let me package it in terms—in human emoting terms; in human emoting melodramatic terms—in terms accessible: It’s a dream now. The harder my mind forces the reality, my mind sees another dream I don’t want to see. My mind and I are, as if, apart; that it doesn’t line up how I want and when I want it.
Albert
Reality doesn’t want to be found.
Eugene
It’s the Fountain of Youth—a legend produced. Are you listening? You know what you should try? Try saying it. Then listen to yourself. Say it with me, “The…Fountain…of Youth.”
Albert
I tasted the words. They are not ripe.
Eugene
Nothing occurred to you that you are not alone in this world. (Suddenly.) You are selfish. Your moral plateau, from what I concluded in your apathetic nature, doesn’t lend a hand in helpless society; while people are hurt, hungry, and ill; while people who are cold…
Albert
Have you had a lick of bourbon to yourself?
Eugene
I’m of age. I can imagine—
Albert
(Goes to him.) How can you tell my life back to me? Snatch moments from a stream that is my life and isolate one part of my character in one piece of time. You don’t believe my minimum pity wage follows the current—
Eugene
That’s irrelevant…earlier—
Albert
The least a listener could understand is the fowl hum on my upper lip. Thank you for not having me walk alone in the city unemployed, but it won’t compel me from strangling a man, light a house on fire, find a grasshopper under my boots, if that is —the reality—troubling over heads. They’re everywhere and I find pleasure in destruction. You would know eyeing a lick of bourbon.
(Silence.)
Eugene
Did you know I had a gun on me?
Albert
I anticipated. Know someone long enough—there gestures, the rings on their fists, the inward steps in their ankles; how they string words together, one behind another—you can design any kind of phantom. When he’s gone and you go home, think of one gesture that repeats like motif, and the haunt begins. (Beat.) I see you every night, in here overtime, slipping a pistol in your belt after the lights are off. What are you afraid of? Because you walk between Ashton street and Cather boulevard? Your brick home standing low on bladed grass. The quiet. The safe. The high as clouds that is home.
Eugene
What are you even saying, anymore? Symbols? In symbols? They don’t say anything.
Albert
I cannot cope with the world’s sanity, either. I have these ghost—these mythologies, you call them—that understand me.
Eugene
How do you understand the Fountain of Youth?
Albert
It doesn’t understand me, if you listened. (Beat.) It’s time I left.
Eugene
I found it! (Waves page in the air.)
Albert
You didn’t find it.
Eugene
(Reading.) Hydrogen…Oxygen…Phosphorous…This is it.
Albert
(Disbelief) Because I have it here. (Takes out paper.)
Eugene
I don’t need it. It’s in here. (Points to his head.)
Albert
Your chapter is right here. (Reads introduction.) Second year in University of Solitmine, Eugene Grahm discovered the mythology, “The Fountain of Youth,” a study on the chemical phosphorous and a isolates study on the human DNA.
Eugene
I’m remembering.
(Albert steps closer, and Eugene pulls the gun.)
Eugene
Stop. What are you doing? Go on the other side.
Albert
Full circle. This a mirror image?
Eugene
What are you doing?
Albert
I know you will shoot me. (Takes a step.)You’re a child behind a gun. Either me or you. Point and end. A baby who has no sense of the future for anyone. Cry and pull.
(Steps closer. Eugene shoots him. Shocked, he drops the gun, takes the original document and exits.)
Curtains.
Exercise #2: A Funny Sketch
Spite & Assumption
Characters
Stefanie—Thirty.
Jason—Old as Stefanie.
Construction worker—Has the appearance of the leader.
Scene
An abandoned coffee shop: no people, no workers, an empty shelf, a few tables and chair; it still has a cash register and some paintings. There are lawn chairs Jason and Stefanie think they make the place “original.” Jason is waiting alone next to a gumball machine. He notices a message on the machine when Stefanie returns.
Jason
Look. Been missing since ninety-nine.
Stefanie
Oh, that’s sad.
Jason
Makes me wonder how old the candy is.
Stefanie
What’s her name?
Jason
Don’t know. Didn’t read it.
Stefanie
Go read.
Jason
Sarah Skirba. What a name. She looks white, though. I can see golden locks. Green eyes.
Stefanie
And she’d be pretty, and everyone would ask about her name—not to her face of course, but amongst each other. Then I’d explain why no one knows your name because they are still talking about it. Like an honest rumor, so it’ll take some time so everyone will get it right.
Jason
(Ignores.) What kind of last name is Skirba?
Stefanie
Indian, I think. Can you hear it for yourself? Ski-bra. It’s Indian, I’m positive.
Jason
(He put a quarter in the machine. While Stefanie talks, he turns the silver knob.)
Stefanie
What are you doing? It’s probably four years old. You want to get sick again?
(Jason keeps turning until the candy comes out.)
I only have to remember a few months until I see you sitting in a stretcher leaving the hotel. It’s so funny when I think of it today: You were naked crawling on the floor, crying: “Could you call for help. Help me.” You were leaving on that stretcher with your little penis out. You couldn’t have seen the looks on their faces, but they were smirking. The best part is they didn’t put a sheet over you. It’s alright though, you were unconscious. It must’ve been some kind of funny dream for you.
(He lays the candy out on a napkin.)
Jason
What do you want me do with them now? We can’t waste them. (Eats one.)
Stefanie
Stop.
Jason
What?
Stefanie
You can throw them away. Consider that? I’ll buy you bag.
Jason
No, I’m good. (Fascinated with the color.) Yellow. (Eats.)
Stefanie
(Finally takes her seat.)
Are you spiting me?
Jason
No, dear, you’re making assumptions. Assumptions can be drawn from anywhere.
Stefanie
Don’t be spiteful. It doesn’t fly with me.
Jason
You do this all the time, in public space, in private space. I have no trouble with what you think.
Stefanie
Private space? You mean home.
Jason
I mean your house.
(Silence for some time.)
Stefanie
Isn’t it nice I’m thinking of you?
Jason
It is nice. I don’t mean to discredit your love. It’s warm, like your soft face (Pause.) Remember when we saw “Love’s Labor’s Lost”—You were there for me and that’s the seed I fell in love with; but you were buried in my heart when we sat close in the white beam of the movie and I felt the warmth of your cheeks…and I heard the king sang for my unsaid soul, “My love (her mistress) is a gracious moon, She (an attending star) scarce seen a light.”
Stefanie
So you didn’t mean everything you said?
Jason
No. Let’s have everything back to order.
Stefanie
Okay. I’d like that, too.
(Silence for a while.)
Jason
Can I ask if you want a piece?
Stefanie
I’m still waiting for someone so I can order some chocolate.
(Sees the machine. She puts a quarter in.)
Jason
What are you doing?
Stefanie
Craving chocolate.
Jason
Take mine.
Stefanie
No, I’m fine.
(She takes a napkin. Makes a set.)
Jason
Now are you spiting me?
Stefanie
That’s exactly not what I’m doing. By the way, how do you know what I’m thinking now?
Jason
(Ignores.) What do you want me to do now? A. I can wait until you eat the candy. B. Be upset and apologize for something that’s over. And C. Pretend the elephant was never in my thoughts. (Pause.) I’ll choose…A.
Stefanie
Fine. (Places the candy between her teeth.)
Jason
Where in heaven is Picasso? Put the cashier behind you, add more old people there, put a bag of grounded coffee over there, some mugs, a little cart of condiments and boom…The Coffee Shop. Draw some squiggly lines…boom, Rembrandt. (Moves head side to side.) Boom, Monet.
Stefanie
(Eats. Coughs. Jason laughs.)
You have it wrong, idiot! Rembrandt was the realist, Monet the impressionist.
Jason
I know.
Stefanie
(Silence.)
We enter. It’s snowing papers. A nice coat. Everywhere: On the desk, on the lamp, the couch, the TV stand, the movies you have on the floor, on your porn—oh yeah, I forget, they took those, too—we’ll call the portrait, “The bastard thieves pushing Stef’s boyfriend into her home like a gang of assholes: Jason’s prelude: Oh yeah, I know a lot about a gang of assholes, but they took that, too.”
(Pause.)
Then he should have this one here, in this shop. Keep everything the way it is. Call it “The Abandoned Coffee Shop” you laughing, have your skin lighter, your teeth brimming, then me in the shadow, the side of the poor lighting, because this is your story.
(Begins weeping.)
Jason
(Pause.)
That’s sad. Are you alright?
Stefanie
(Composes.)
When are you leaving?
Jason
We can leave anytime now?
Stefanie
I want you out by midnight. (Pause.) I want your clothes on the street. I want it to rain. When it floods I want the dogs and pigeons gone in the current.
Jason
You know we live on the second floor.
Stefanie
Out by eight o’clock.
Jason
Come on. Let’s go.
Stefanie
No.
Jason
See, now, I drove…my car. The city is another twenty miles from here. It’s almost four o’clock. Do you want be stranded in an abandoned building in the dark?
(Construction worker enters.)
Construction Worker
Hey! What are two you doing in here?
Stefanie
It’s a public space.
Construction Worker
You’re standing in a building we’re about to demolish.
Jason
Why is everything still here?
Construction Worker
Lunch.
Jason
And you came back in for the lawn chairs?
Construction Worker
Get out.
(Stefanie and Jason ignore Construction Worker.)
Stefanie
There are some things I never said to you.
Jason
Like which? The photo of me in a Kimono. When I fell asleep on a bus to Davis and I woke up in Richmond. Not picking up a grain of Cheerios off the floor, and I argued specifically that evening, “No ant wants to eat anything in alcohol.” Because sorry, those are the cards showered on me because I lost a couple of hands.
(Silence.)
Stefanie
You are a fucking complete asshole.
Jason
(Pause.)
Fair enough. What do you want me to do about that?
Stefanie
So you don’t want to have our daughter Sarah?
Jason
(Looks at the machine, then at Stefanie.)
Her?
Stefanie
You can’t imagine us in a Sakura field, us and our daughter, finding each behind the trees. The pink petals on your daughter’s shoulder and you brush it off. Then because there’s a hill, a violet sky on our backs, we climb and have our lunch on the verdant grass.
Jason
You lost your mind.
Construction Worker
Get out!
Lights dim
Exercise# 3: A Speech
Invading Privacy
Awhile ago, a friend of mine texted me I should update my blog. With what? I wondered at night in cold room, a yellow shack in the backyard of a Catholic household. For the last sixteen weeks I was writing in my notebook and simply was too lazy to transcribe it where it would be lost in the infinite that is the internet. Also, there hasn’t been anything material worth posting.
This morning I was reading my last entry on playing Jim, the Gentleman Caller in Tennessee William’s The Glass Menagerie, and remembered why I began the site last year. The world has a lure of its own and I tried to capture every instance, which my friend Gabe believes is “invading privacy.” That is the perfect term for housing Things, the past, friends, people, the city, the town, politics, so on and so forth. And I’ll use it here for a title, “Invading Privacy.” There is voice in everything.
Last semester I lost perspective where I stood as a writer. Was I novelist, short story writer, or a dramatist? Each is a machine in its own way. Yet I forgot the simplest concept for a writer: An interest with the world or one who can’t make peace with the world. Genres are shapes, and they help one out if you can recognize their parts. Sadly I think I only “recognized” or saw the architect of fiction but never trusted its shape, as I had my hand in the craft; it was foreign tool making sense of a foreign world. Intuition is a tool. Although because it is natural it discredits its tangibility; nonetheless it is used to help where the body is limited. I imagine some works in fiction, but I’m realizing those souls and concepts may not belong in that home, especially if they are forced from my hands.
Invading privacy, I’ll remember as I write everything, for everything has voice.
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