Tuesday, December 7, 2010

197. A Letter of Saying a Song

A letter, besides being a character, might be a message or a poem or a play, or simply everything at once

(Night, maybe outside, possible inside. Either a sweaty summer night or a suddenly frigid beginning to winter before winter has officially arrived. The sound of a small windchime plays furtively, moved maybe by a breeze, maybe by the convection caused by the steam emitted from the vent a radiator. If it is a radiator a slight whistling is heard from time to time and, less frequently, the sound of the boiler coming on, and the hardwood floor is blond, or blonde. If it is outside, the sound of crickets, but no other insect, is heard, and a car might occasionally be heard in the near distance.)

(There may be two women on the stage, at two different versions of a corner, in two different seasons, with two different sets of sounds around them. But it is night.)
(A woman stands in a small piece of light that illuminates part of a corner of a room [thus, almost an enclosure] or a corner of a house [thus, a point]. Her hair is short and dark. She is dressed simply, in muted colors, except for a bright red heart over her right breast, which the audience sees on the left. She moves slightly, looks carefully around herself, but away from the corner, before she begins to speak.

(The woman moves slowly and trepidatiously as SHE speaks, without ever allowing all of her body to leave the light shining at the corner.)

I speak extemporaneously, as if
beginning without knowing what
I am about to say. Every word is
evidence of the active presence
of a mind. I am surprised to hear
myself speak so clearly without
any practice at all. I must assume
that my body had grown into
these words naturally, over time.

(A man’s VOICE is heard coming out of the darkness, maybe from behind the stage, maybe from behind the audience. His voice is insistently but it comes forth deliberately.)

In a surprise of having
started, or at the beginning
of having finished what,
in this case, might have been
a good reason to have an excuse
to fail against the fall of
the spring. It was a surprise.

(without seeming to notice the voice)

I am alive in the moment of
my voice, which arises out
of me in the form of pigeons
taking flight all at once,
moving in a certain direction
but moving suddenly and
independently. I almost said
“suddently,” but I didn’t.

(speaking slightly over the words of SHE)

When I think of my hands, I think
of the veins of my hands as conduits,
of the blood of my hands as words,
of the fingers of my hands as pages.
If I drum my fingers on the table,
message transmitted in code, and
I cannot stop it, and I cannot
make it have any meaning.

(The sound of FINGERS DRUMMING is heard, but there is no visual sign of fingers being drummed. SHE seems to listen to it, without turning her head in the direction of the sound.)

(pirouetting as well as she can)

In the form of a body of light,
in a body of light in the form
of a shape of a body holding
a body together in flight,
in the shape of a dancing or
in the shape of a dancer, I
can think in the voice of a
dancer dancing in the space
available for dancing, in the space
of the light, in a fragment of
a space of life for dancing, and
in the shape of a sound of the
dancing of a song.

(SHE begins to sing, but the tune changes as she does, it is occasionally out of tune, and it contains no recognizable words. The VOICE speaks over twenty seconds or so of her singing.)

She in her spirit, as I remember it, of
a meaning of motion in the manner of
the ancient apostles of the word of
the one for whom word was wrought.
Or in such a way that there was left
nothing but the right to leave it behind.
It was simple except for the singing.

In my fashion of being the sound
of my voice or in the fashion of
the night. Levels of tiers of stages
of adding to the sense of what I say.

She was without, though it was such,
in a cautious manner of making on the spot,
or at the spot in which the making was made,
a word of it, she was without a sense of
how what she said continued through what
she had never intended to say but had said,
even if at the last moment before falling.

(SHE falls to the ground, but there is no sound of falling. She lies on the ground with her red heart pointing towards the audience. She doesn’t move.)

Within the arc of a sense of falling,
she fell within the arc of a sense,
of falling within the arc of a sense
of falling she fell. How in the sense
of the arcing of a fall of feeling could
she find in the fall of an arching feeling
of sensing the arc of the sense of
falling down. In the job of singing in
the sense a song about the sense of
singing in the sense of song a song.

(SHE rises slowly, beginning near the end of the VOICE’s speech, and dusts herself off. By the time she speaks, she has entered, so much as she can, the light on the corner. The light upon her grows as she speaks.)

Me as a form of I in the shape of eye
on the cusp of an event of speaking
within the limits of creating a means
of sifting the sounds that I might
push into shapes on the date of the
feast of doing at the time of the place
where all beings have been or will be
or exist as if never have been and,
thus, set free to continue in the style
of the manner of the people I had
been told would be available to make
whatever sense could be made out
of the meaning of my words, released
into the wild of my thinking with a tongue.

Deliberate in the form of rations.

Extra in the sense of ordinary.

I always know what I am going to say
because I write it down beforehand,
because I write it down aforefoot.

Nothing could be more boring
than knowing what you were
going to say when you were
going to say it. I hear a voice…

A voice.

(Footsteps approach the stage. Vaguely, the audience can perceive the legs of a man, but nothing else: no face, no arms, no torso. The feet go to as close to SHE as possible without entering the light surrounding SHE.)

(raising her head)
A noise

A song.



(The legs of the VOICE turn his back to the audience. SHE turns to the audience, cupping her hand under her red and open heart.)

I am read.

(The stage goes dark.)

I am dead.

(Exeunt omnes. The sound of footsteps leaving the stage.)

No comments:

Post a Comment