CREATIVE HEADSPACE
Connecting Dreaming Planning Collectively Creating
Dead in Philadelphia
Renata was so bored of it all. Even coffee had become a dull reminder that she was awake.
She pulled the curtain back just a bit and looked down the street. Rain, slush in gutters, cars looking oddly all the same color, and Holly opening the door.
Holly entered looking fatigued. "You look like i feel, baby."
Holly looked up. "Just the pathos...good god, the pathos seems interminable."
Renata smiled wanly. "There is some coffee here."
"Christ," said Holly, sitting down at the small rickety table. "I am so sick of coffee.'
'coffee is just a symptom, holl. it's a symptom, a substitute--' she poured it, 'for all we wish we were doing that we aren't.'
'god, is it that simple?'
renata and hollobecque were old goth punks. they felt like they were in the stone age in their new neighborhood. in their thirties. in hell seeing heaven. renata painted, holly painted and wrote the occasional play. both had been happy with life years and years ago.
'of course it's a gross over simplification. remember when we tried to quit? those splitting headaches? oh, there are some muffins in the oven, they're just about done. would you like one?'
interior: randal hollobecque's brain:
buzzing hornets and a bare lightbulb made of flesh. the hornets sting the lightbulb occasionally: this is holly's sense of artistic integrity which he feels is stung by the hornets, representing theater critics, when they come to his open rehearsals and leave talking about the revivals on the other side of town.
Holly felt the beginnings of a twitch beneath his right eye. he gripped the edge of the table and said through gritted teeth...'mmm...did you say 'muffins?'
renata smiled.
their relationship had lasted as long as it did because they knew how far to push each other to stimulate a weird twisted sort of emotional growth. that they were both prolofic artists in a community that had seen its share of drug casualties and commercial successes who'd moved to new york or elsewhere laded with checks and promises also strengthened their bond.
renata had become astutely, almost psychically aware of the small quirks in behavior that Holly manifested; she could tell when his words were just words and when he meant to express a deeper idea than he was coming right out and saying. now was one of those times. he might be writing a play, she thought to herself. wonder if those muffins are done. bored, so bored. alas died laughing.
"if there are blueberries i would like one. but basically baked goods are getting so old to me anymore. what a bout crepes? food is food, i'll eat eggs. i'm really not hungry. how come there's NOTHING TO DO???"
the small woodern table, painted baby blue many years previously and seeming hazardously, dangerously shaky, vibrated as Holly gripped it at the edges. 'nothing to do. what? let's go to the openings.'
'what? already? you just got here.' ah, perfect, she thought to herself.
'agh...' he let out a sort of stifled moan. 'even innuendo is boring to me today. this coffee is good though.' and that seemed to be the end of it.
renata had made cunning little muffins with skull face indentations, they looked like little dead heads. holly had no idea how she did things like that. once they had eaten cookies that looked like wystan auden. they smoked, drank coffee and ate the disturbing-yet-tasty skull muffins, chatting wanly about the evening's possibilities.
it took about an hour of debate until the mutual agreement 'stay home and screw' was decided upon.
some time later, covered with sweat in their tiny bedroom, renata said; 'let's fake our own deaths!'
12:13 pm - The Stupid And the Serious
episode one: the Gay-Space
we join our ongoing saga of selfloathing and unwashed alcoholism at the home of chain smoking depressoid and coffee underachiever Basque Etcase.
Basque is simply depressed. He whines and groans into a microphone.
basque:f*cking commies. i wish they were russian communists, at least they know how to drink. or french communists at least they fuck like rabid minks. why, oh why did it have to be these bullsh*t american f*ckers? they smell so damn nasty...unwashed filth.
She pulled the curtain back just a bit and looked down the street. Rain, slush in gutters, cars looking oddly all the same color, and Holly opening the door.
Holly entered looking fatigued. "You look like i feel, baby."
Holly looked up. "Just the pathos...good god, the pathos seems interminable."
Renata smiled wanly. "There is some coffee here."
"Christ," said Holly, sitting down at the small rickety table. "I am so sick of coffee.'
'coffee is just a symptom, holl. it's a symptom, a substitute--' she poured it, 'for all we wish we were doing that we aren't.'
'god, is it that simple?'
renata and hollobecque were old goth punks. they felt like they were in the stone age in their new neighborhood. in their thirties. in hell seeing heaven. renata painted, holly painted and wrote the occasional play. both had been happy with life years and years ago.
'of course it's a gross over simplification. remember when we tried to quit? those splitting headaches? oh, there are some muffins in the oven, they're just about done. would you like one?'
interior: randal hollobecque's brain:
buzzing hornets and a bare lightbulb made of flesh. the hornets sting the lightbulb occasionally: this is holly's sense of artistic integrity which he feels is stung by the hornets, representing theater critics, when they come to his open rehearsals and leave talking about the revivals on the other side of town.
Holly felt the beginnings of a twitch beneath his right eye. he gripped the edge of the table and said through gritted teeth...'mmm...did you say 'muffins?'
renata smiled.
their relationship had lasted as long as it did because they knew how far to push each other to stimulate a weird twisted sort of emotional growth. that they were both prolofic artists in a community that had seen its share of drug casualties and commercial successes who'd moved to new york or elsewhere laded with checks and promises also strengthened their bond.
renata had become astutely, almost psychically aware of the small quirks in behavior that Holly manifested; she could tell when his words were just words and when he meant to express a deeper idea than he was coming right out and saying. now was one of those times. he might be writing a play, she thought to herself. wonder if those muffins are done. bored, so bored. alas died laughing.
"if there are blueberries i would like one. but basically baked goods are getting so old to me anymore. what a bout crepes? food is food, i'll eat eggs. i'm really not hungry. how come there's NOTHING TO DO???"
the small woodern table, painted baby blue many years previously and seeming hazardously, dangerously shaky, vibrated as Holly gripped it at the edges. 'nothing to do. what? let's go to the openings.'
'what? already? you just got here.' ah, perfect, she thought to herself.
'agh...' he let out a sort of stifled moan. 'even innuendo is boring to me today. this coffee is good though.' and that seemed to be the end of it.
renata had made cunning little muffins with skull face indentations, they looked like little dead heads. holly had no idea how she did things like that. once they had eaten cookies that looked like wystan auden. they smoked, drank coffee and ate the disturbing-yet-tasty skull muffins, chatting wanly about the evening's possibilities.
it took about an hour of debate until the mutual agreement 'stay home and screw' was decided upon.
some time later, covered with sweat in their tiny bedroom, renata said; 'let's fake our own deaths!'
12:13 pm - The Stupid And the Serious
episode one: the Gay-Space
we join our ongoing saga of selfloathing and unwashed alcoholism at the home of chain smoking depressoid and coffee underachiever Basque Etcase.
Basque is simply depressed. He whines and groans into a microphone.
basque:f*cking commies. i wish they were russian communists, at least they know how to drink. or french communists at least they fuck like rabid minks. why, oh why did it have to be these bullsh*t american f*ckers? they smell so damn nasty...unwashed filth.
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Permalink Reply by mikal marques haley on -
Basque holds his nose and snots into a wastebasket across the room. close up/interior of wastebasket revealing a truly disgusting scene. close up...blurs...
and we are suddenly in a small room filled with black clad youths who appear grim and hurried, as if being chased by an oppressive force.
we watch for thirty seconds as the youths, all clad similarly in black with few decals, absence of bright colors, expressions range from none to frowning concentration. voiceover:
vox:there is a hope for humanity, and if there was ever a grim time in the world it is now.
the assembled book packers move swiftly, they flow around each other with the easy movements of people used to each others' reactions. boxes are filled with books and taken out the front door.
outside there is a stoop. we see two men in jeans and t-shirts, one shirt says (frag 2) and the other says (frag 3), these are Black and Gray, the musicians called the frags. but they are not playing music.
gray:(frag 2) my throat hurts.
black(frag 3) mine too.
gray: (a rusty croak) why does your throat hurt?
black(a hoarse whisper, sounds much worse off) i was here last night screaming at the "soviets". they are all deaf though.
gray:(laughs; it sounds tortured) oh. (beat) i just have a cold.
cut to- interior of room. Ruby Tuesday is standing at a table packing books. she has peircings and wears black like the rest of them but her red scarf stands out noticably.
ruby: does anyone know what time it is?
(silence, sound of books being packed. no reaction.)
ruby: hey, look I need to know what time it is...(echoes off of walls)
ruby: (agitated now)turns to Johnny Righteous, who is packing books carefully) Johnny Righteous. what time is it? (JR Ignores her; she taps him on the shoulder. JR WHIRLS SUDDENLY AND SCREAMS IN A LOUD VOICE:) WHAT?!
shock in the room. everyone stops and looks around.
cut to: outdoors. the frags are standing by the wall beside the gay-space.
in the background one tiny girl, clad in black, can be seen carrying an box of books almost as big as she is. every few minutes she passes through the background teetering and barely getting the giant boxes in the back of the van.
Black: how'd you get a cold?
Gray: i think I have scurvy.
Black: you kidding?
Gray: (stares)you know there's another march tomorrow.
Black: i was thinking of getting a brand.
Gray: (dryly, as if only somewhat interested in what Black is saying) what kind of brand?
Black: i don't know...it's really just for the pain than the image. i mught just get some scribble scrabble you know?
(purple walks up. purple is dressed in black but skintight revealing black her figure is sexy and slim and curvy in the right places. purple is a notorious lesbian slut, opinionated, pugnacious and outrageous.)
purple: hey black, hey gray.
Black: hi purp.
Gray: (tries to speak, begins coughing fitfully)
(purple has a tail. it swishes)so what's for misery today?
inside purple's brain.
black: you know i really could use a drink. do you have any money?
purple: i have food stamps.
gray: let's get some food, sell the food and buy forty ounces of beer.
purple:sounds cool. you guys wait here. i'll be back. (exit.)
we follow purple down an alley and across alot. in a quick montage we see: her go into the theftway (the sign actually says THEFTWAY in giant red white and blue letters) with a handful of foodstamps, she comes out with a bag. she sits cross legged and sells to passersby
a two watermelons
a sack of potatoes
a can of ghoulash
purple: okay let's get some beer.
(so what.)
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Permalink Reply by mikal marques haley on
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Seven Pistachio's Semi-Impossible Journey.
UNBELIEVABLE. that is what they will say about me. of course, they all think...no, they don't think i'm suicidal:
I think I'm suicidal, am I?
he had eyed the punks at the corner for hours.
they had kicked a hacky sack, smoked cigarettes and drank sodas.
One had a boombox and was blasting tunes. Seven was in three places at once.
It's going to be impossible to get to Africa from here. (eventually he got there though. tricky stuff happened.)
he eyed them and the future spun through his mind. he was seeing as he always had, his future life flash before his eyes. he was hopped up from snorting crushed ephedrine pills he had bought...he was wired.
Hollobecque had hurt his feelings without trying to. It was really from watching Renata there in her smack coma, drooking and puke, that had tripped his last wire and sent him packing, out into the August heat, snapping at everyone and feigning rage to hide his grief. Things like that just shouldn't happen. She was morbid before but she'd been ALIVE, damn it.
no way. no WAY is there no alternative. and he knew about it...it was just one of those things...
finally he got up the guts and approached them. sven's problem was thathe was too clean cut looking. He basically looked like a male cheerleader. they started smirking --
the conversation was complex. if he hadn't known how to kick a sack he might not have gained their confidence. pretending he was a cigarette smoker had engendered more smirking but they got to chatting.
"what you should do," the kid who had called himself Soy had said, "is hide yourself in the wheel well of an airplane while nobody's looking. Go to Germany and get ibogaine. shit, i could use some. More ibogaine and i could shoot up a whole lot more."
He smiled and gritted his teeth thinking that's NOT what I want it for but he didn't say anything.
"that's bullshit dude," the dirt punk who called himself dug said. "people die that way asshole."
"not this big motherfucker! look at him? he's all big and strong n shit. he could take it. you're tough, right?"
Seven smiled and said nothing. "Course the motherf*cker's tough. look at him."
"that's all muscle, man. you need more than that if your are gonna make it across the fucking atlantic in the wheelwell of a 747. It's gonna be f#cking cold: i mean f&ck, you want my windbreaker?" they all laughed. Even seven managed a grim ch^ckle.
They chatted about a lot of other things. Seven zoned and let his moth spill words into space while planning how to get into the wheel well of a jet at the airport. that very night he did it.
he didn't sleep. he screamed.
he screamed as sharp metal things came very close to his soft rib parts. very close. he screamed as he felt the plane rising, he screamed until he blacked out.
blacking out, he noticed as he was blacking out, is NOT the same thing as falling asleep.
at all.
far too much time to have felt like the no time at all it felt like he was smoking a concob pipe with a tall smiling man in Nairobi...somewhere.
he was babbling and telling the whole story.
The man whose name he could not pronounce listened to his whole story and then told him another story...of a man who had lived "centuries ago" he said, a man named Toko who could not die.
A man who had been shot by feds and gotten up and walked away, pointed at the feds and they died, a man who had been pushed into a wheat thresher, threshed and hacked to piecs my the sharp steel blades in a assasination attempt, and then gotten up and walked, literally pulled himself together chantin the name of the Lord and pointed at the people who had set him up, who then 'spontaneously combusted.' Seven, feverish and stoned, listened and believed every word.
What choice had he? he was a european american in Africa: he had decided beforehand that the only way to actually GET the Ibogaine and get back to the States was to be nice to everyone he met. He felt like he was vibrating out of his skin. He smoked the pipe and the man gave him instructions. Three checkpoints of people to talk to, where and when to go. He was told that to talk to certain people and to tell them that he had been sent by the Bishop and they would move him through the right channels. Then he put him put on the street and warned him to do more fleeing than feeling or that Africa would flay the pink flesh from his white bones.
He thought as he sat on the plane ride home -- Sho had only been too happy to wire him the funds...no sane person will ever believe what i have been through in the last three days.
He'd ingested some of the fungual compound as the plane began landing.
On Lancaster avenue he saw some kids he'd known: saw their auras flashing in colors...maybe i died just now, and this is all a dream.
But he had what he wanted. "Dude, you look different," Basque said, opening the door for his friend.
"Something I ate," he replied nonchalantly, calmly. "Where's Renata?"
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Permalink Reply by mikal marques haley on
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Scene: the second world war. A café in Vichy. The eve of occupation.
03:13 am
Scene: the second world war. A café in Vichy. The eve of occupation.
Characters
Gregor: a Yugoslav expatriate. Fighter in the resistance.
Pierre: a Frenchman. Fighter in the resistance.
Paolo: a fresh Gypsy corpse. Was the bartender.
Two AUDIENCE MEMBERS
One bulb burns. The café is closed, dusky light can be seen through the semi-boarded window.
(DIRECTOR’S NOTES: In the half hour before the play has begin a tragedy has occurred. In the tiny café in Vichy, France, three friends are drinking peacefully: Gregor, Pierre, and Paolo, the bartender, who is a Gypsy. Five men dressed in black came in, asked some questions and shot the bartender. Pierre was armed but did not raise his gun to fire. Paolo as a character can be portrayed when the action begins as an actor who plays a corpse who has no lines and lays on the floor, or the body can be represented as being dead behind the bar, not seen. Whether or not the set is decorated to show that there has indeed been a shooting is up to the director: the only necessary props are the pack of unfiltered Camel cigarets, a several bottles of scotch, and a table.)
GREGOR:
How can you smoke those filthy things?
PIERRE:
What are you talking about?
(GREGOR picks up the package, appraises it.)
Camels. Well, at least they’re American cigarets. God! The smell! How can you! And what’s worse, you talk of leaving: where will you go?
PIERRE:
I am going to the place between nations.
GREGOR:
What madness you talk! There’s no such place!
(in this play the mis-en-scene is the passage of long periods of time where there is no dialogue whatsoever except perhaps clearing of throats, belching, the sound of glasses being filled and drained by the two men, who drink slowly yet incessantly. Pierre smokes. Close to ninety seconds pass.)
PIERRE:
I miss Paolo.
Are you sure you WANT this thing?
GREGOR:
Of course you miss him. This is why we must fight!
(a normal break) eventually the Americans will join the fight.
PIERRE:
(smiles) perhaps you should take my spectacles instead!
GREGOR:
No. My vision is perfect.
(another long pause like the first one. They drink silently with smoking etc.)
PIERRE:
You know, Gregor, these are not American cigarettes.
GREGOR:
They are not Galoise!
PIERRE:
They are just cigarettes. They are not French, American, Czech…not even Turkish. They are cigarettes.
GREGOR:
They have taken Poland and they will do their worst to take all of France. You’ll have to fight.
PIERRE:
It’s an illusion, you damned fool. (GREGOR looks angry but says nothing.) For a true pacifist there is only one way, to wait for the mercy that comes with death. Even while Hitler deceives his people with lies of Aryan superiority, our comrades (laughs bitterly) – our so called comrades embrace pig Stalin. (he pauses to get a breath.) They think because he his fighting against Hitler that Socialism is righteous. One talks to them of pogroms and they flap their lips stupidly. Peoples’ memories are so short! Do you hate the Japanese, Gregor?
GREGOR:
When the Americans join the fight it will be victory for our side.
PIERRE:
Fucking Americans. Their liberty, their precious liberty, was won on the backs of slaves. They are children, and cruel, indifferent children who lie. They will prove equally capable of brutality as Hitler and his scum.
GREGOR:
Well, you know that if you stand against us I myself will consider it my duty to kill you. You are practically joining with those who just killed poor Paolo.
PIERRE:
You are not lying…yet you are still wrong. Take the gun. Do it now. If you prefer.
GREGOR:
You won’t defend yourself? (smiles) You are insane.
PIERRE:
All war is insane, Gregor. And your Stalin will betray you. When this war ends it won’t end, Gregor. It won’t. When this war ends, the victors will be greater monsters than even Hitler is now. (drinks.) Do you know how I know? What is an American, Gregor? What is an American?
GREGOR: You ask as if you know so I’ll go along.
PIERRE:
There are two kinds of Americans, Gregor, the innocent and the wholly evil. The innocent were there before, when the Saxons invaded their country, stole their land, stole their names.
GREGOR:
You mean the red people?
PIERRE: I love drinking Scotch. It’s not Scotch anymore. We’re not in Scotland. Nor would we be welcome there.
GREGOR:
You’ve lost your mind.
PIERRE: No, Gregor, I am losing my gun. I am giving it to you! Go! Kill as many Nazis as you can. I intend to drink until I am no longer safe with a firearm. Wait. (quaffs a shot) Done!
GREGOR:
You’ve never been a coward before.
PIERRE:
And really this is all about marie. I wish that I had never seen the brutality…the indifference of war. But I am in this sick hell now. Hitler has no fight with me. But he his blind with hatred.
GREGOR:
You act as if you are about to say that I am too.
PIERRE:
I cannot see into your soul, Gregor. I only assume that you have one. What you do with it is totally up to you. But these are not American cigarettes. They are simply cigarets in my hand. Observe as I light one. This war is the end of the worldf, Gregor. Do you really think that the Americans are any better than Hitler? They did exactly as Hitler does now. They did it slowly, with wooden ships.
GREGOR:
You’re just a coward. I’ve lost a friend.
PIERRE:
I will always be your friend. And you have gained a gun!
GREGOR: (eyes his pocketwatch) It’s time I should be going.
PIERRE:
Oh, come on! Time for one more drink/?
GREGOR: Oh, all right. (GREGOR Pours.)
(another long silence begins as in the beiginning of the play, drinking chairs scraping the floor, and so forth. AUDIENCE MEMBERS 1 and 2 are in the front row of the venue, center stage or wherever the director deems it best for their lines to be heard. They should be in their places before the opening!)
AUD: MEM: #1
This is the most boring play ever. God! What a stinker! Where’s the action?
AUD. MEM: # 2
Let’s get a drink after this.
(the time of the break in the onstage actors’ dialogue should be around 90 seconds.)
PIERRE:
I know that you must hate me now. Will you kill me, here in the café?
GREGOR:
I imagine the Germans will do you in.(after a drinking pause.) Do you know who you are? I’ll tell you who YOU are. You are the damned kings of the world, sending soldiers off to fight wars that they declare.
PIERRE:
You lie. I simply am NOT forcing you NOT to fight. It’s your choice.
GREGOR:
But in choosing not to fight you side with our enemies!
PIERRE:
Do I? Am I in Warsaw doing god-knows-what to defenseless girls? Am I really like those pigs that cal themselves Aryans now?
GREGOR:
(silent)
PIERRE:
Hitler has deceived the German people by making them think they are better than other people. But the Americans ALL think that. You’ll see who you’re siding with. But as for me, I know who my allies are.
GREGOR:
Who, then?
PIERRE:
You’d better run. The atheists are waiting at their secret headquarters. Hey – will you tell them about all this liquor?
GREGOR:
I hadn’t thought of it. Perhaps. You really intend to dispose of his body?
PIERRE:
Yes. I’ll do it.
GREGOR: (leaving) You’re wrong about Socialism.
PIERRE: I know that you are, but what is it that I am?
GREGOR:
Fuck you. There’s a war to be won. (leaves)
CURTAIN
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Permalink Reply by mikal marques haley on
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The Case of the Midnight Express Operations (exploding kitty)
Someone KNOWS for certain. Maybe even someone stubling in the neon groves of urban California right now, someone who understands what Operation Midnight Climax was about: why Feds were setting up street prostitutes with LSD and getting them to bring their clients back to a motel room that was rigged with hidden cameras...so that the Feds could watch the Johns trip their faces off.
The legend has it one dude flew out the window. As in: whatever reaction LSD was having with the stuff in his skull made him think that jumping out the window would be a great idea.
I believe in the demise of all forms of government -- and in humanity being BETTER OFF without all that shit. I do.
here's WHY...
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Permalink Reply by mikal marques haley on
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© 2012 Created by Bill Hayes.
