31: A SCISSORING - by Ed Valentine
© January 31, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS LOW:
A room.
HE sneaks in the door.
Knocks over a plant.
Sets it back on the table quietly.
He’s gotten away with it.
-
Then SHE switches on the light. She’s standing silhouetted in the bedroom doorway.
We do not see her face.
HE:
-
Did I wake you?
SHE: I was awake.
-
The scissors.
You left the scissors out.
-
HE: Look, I –
SHE: I asked you not to do that.
You left them out and I could hear them
scissoring away.
HE: I –
SHE: Don’t.
HE: Honey, I –
SHE: Don’t.
-
I’m going to bed.
(Turns light out. In darkness:)
It’s up to you to find them.
They’re somewhere in the house.
(Silence.)
HE: Honey? Honey, are you –
?
(He can’t tell if she’s there or not. Decides ‘no.’ Shakes it off.)
Scissors: ridiculous.
(Then, a scissoring noise.
It rises all around him.
He is isolated in hot circle of light, nowhere to turn.
Noise: unbearable.
Lights snap out.)
END OF PLAY.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
January 30 Play: GREEN HARVEST
30: GREEN HARVEST - by Ed Valentine
© January 30, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS: Morning. Fading into night by the end of the brief play. Dirt. Set into it, one small shoot of green leaves, not too large.
2 WOMEN in flowered dresses. Floppy hats. WOMAN A is tending to the soil. WOMAN B is watching from behind.
A: How’s your harvest?
B: Poor this year.
A: Mine as well. All the frost.
B: Ayup.
A: The frost was early. Not good for nothing.
B: Or nobody.
A: Ayup.
B: But mine isn’t ever any good. Been years since I’ve grown anything. Years. Don’t know if you knew. Did you know?
A: -
B: Still, you have a fertile plot of land. If anyone can grow anything –
A: Let’s hope!
B: If anyone can grow anything, it’s you.
A: We’ll see.
B: I wish I had your prowess.
A: It isn’t easy. Growing, I mean. It isn’t easy to do this. It isn’t easy to bring forth from seed to reaping. Year after year, season after season, through the frost and the flood, the heat to the harvest. It isn’t easy what I do.
B: At first, it seemed to me like the easiest thing in the world. At first. But its mysteries elude me.
A: Well, what can I say. Some do, some don’t, is all.
B: I suppose.
A: Some do, some don’t.
(Small rustling in the dirt, under the green shoot of leaves.)
Here.
(She pulls on the leaf: a green man comes out of the earth, wet and panting. The leaf is his hair. Strange lights. He lies on the ground.
First of the season.
(The 2 WOMEN approach the green man. He flinches. They back off.)
B: Oh how I envy you.
I envy you, and how.
A: Some do, some don’t.
(She cradles and coos to the green man.)
There there. There there.
(Lights fade.)
END OF PLAY.
© January 30, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS: Morning. Fading into night by the end of the brief play. Dirt. Set into it, one small shoot of green leaves, not too large.
2 WOMEN in flowered dresses. Floppy hats. WOMAN A is tending to the soil. WOMAN B is watching from behind.
A: How’s your harvest?
B: Poor this year.
A: Mine as well. All the frost.
B: Ayup.
A: The frost was early. Not good for nothing.
B: Or nobody.
A: Ayup.
B: But mine isn’t ever any good. Been years since I’ve grown anything. Years. Don’t know if you knew. Did you know?
A: -
B: Still, you have a fertile plot of land. If anyone can grow anything –
A: Let’s hope!
B: If anyone can grow anything, it’s you.
A: We’ll see.
B: I wish I had your prowess.
A: It isn’t easy. Growing, I mean. It isn’t easy to do this. It isn’t easy to bring forth from seed to reaping. Year after year, season after season, through the frost and the flood, the heat to the harvest. It isn’t easy what I do.
B: At first, it seemed to me like the easiest thing in the world. At first. But its mysteries elude me.
A: Well, what can I say. Some do, some don’t, is all.
B: I suppose.
A: Some do, some don’t.
(Small rustling in the dirt, under the green shoot of leaves.)
Here.
(She pulls on the leaf: a green man comes out of the earth, wet and panting. The leaf is his hair. Strange lights. He lies on the ground.
First of the season.
(The 2 WOMEN approach the green man. He flinches. They back off.)
B: Oh how I envy you.
I envy you, and how.
A: Some do, some don’t.
(She cradles and coos to the green man.)
There there. There there.
(Lights fade.)
END OF PLAY.
January 29 Play: LADYGRAY AND QUICKSILVER
29: LADYGRAY AND QUICKSILVER - by Ed Valentine
© January 29, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS: Low. Not much visible outside the circle. LADYGRAY sits in a chair. Haggard, a rotting wedding gown.
LADYGRAY: Where are you?
-
Where?
-
Come and show yourself, I say.
-
VOICE: All in good time.
(Silvery laugh.)
LADYGRAY: You are here, then?
QUICKSILVER: Oh yes. We who are here not here both greet and curse.
LADYGRAY: Why curse?
QUICKSILVER: Because you have what we lack. And we hate thee.
LADYGRAY: Then why also greet?
QUICKSILVER: Because we love thee.
And revere thee.
And pity thee.
LADYGRAY: Why pity.
QUICKSILVER: Is it not clear?
LADYGRAY: No.
QUICKSILVER: It will be.
(Silvery laugh again.)
LADYGRAY: Show yourself.
Show yourself!
QUICKSILVER: No, not to you.
But to them.
LADYGRAY: Who?
QUICKSILVER: The watchers who see.
LADYGRAY: See?
QUICKSILVER: See thee.
(LADYGRAY strains to see us.)
LADYGRAY: This is news. There are others, others watching?
QUICKSILVER: Yes.
LADYGRAY: Watching? Watching me?
QUICKSILVER: Oh, yes.
LADYGRAY: Can I see them?
QUICKSILVER: No.
LADYGRAY: Let me see you. Can I see you?
QUICKSILVER: No.
(QUICKSILVER emerges from the darkness just behind LADYGRAY.)
But they can.
LADYGRAY: Let me –
QUICKSILVER: Do not turn around.
-
We who are about to live again salute you. Kiss me.
Kiss me.
(QUICKSILVER kisses LADYGRAY. LADYGRAY tenses, gives in, falls asleep. Or dies, perhaps.)
Goodnight. Angel flights. Rest.
(QUICKSILVER looks out at us. Lights fade.)
END OF PLAY.
© January 29, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS: Low. Not much visible outside the circle. LADYGRAY sits in a chair. Haggard, a rotting wedding gown.
LADYGRAY: Where are you?
-
Where?
-
Come and show yourself, I say.
-
VOICE: All in good time.
(Silvery laugh.)
LADYGRAY: You are here, then?
QUICKSILVER: Oh yes. We who are here not here both greet and curse.
LADYGRAY: Why curse?
QUICKSILVER: Because you have what we lack. And we hate thee.
LADYGRAY: Then why also greet?
QUICKSILVER: Because we love thee.
And revere thee.
And pity thee.
LADYGRAY: Why pity.
QUICKSILVER: Is it not clear?
LADYGRAY: No.
QUICKSILVER: It will be.
(Silvery laugh again.)
LADYGRAY: Show yourself.
Show yourself!
QUICKSILVER: No, not to you.
But to them.
LADYGRAY: Who?
QUICKSILVER: The watchers who see.
LADYGRAY: See?
QUICKSILVER: See thee.
(LADYGRAY strains to see us.)
LADYGRAY: This is news. There are others, others watching?
QUICKSILVER: Yes.
LADYGRAY: Watching? Watching me?
QUICKSILVER: Oh, yes.
LADYGRAY: Can I see them?
QUICKSILVER: No.
LADYGRAY: Let me see you. Can I see you?
QUICKSILVER: No.
(QUICKSILVER emerges from the darkness just behind LADYGRAY.)
But they can.
LADYGRAY: Let me –
QUICKSILVER: Do not turn around.
-
We who are about to live again salute you. Kiss me.
Kiss me.
(QUICKSILVER kisses LADYGRAY. LADYGRAY tenses, gives in, falls asleep. Or dies, perhaps.)
Goodnight. Angel flights. Rest.
(QUICKSILVER looks out at us. Lights fade.)
END OF PLAY.
January 28 Play: FORGOTTEN
28: FORGOTTEN - by Ed Valentine
© January 28, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: A MAN alone in a blankness.
MAN
I am the forgotten character.
From the forgotten time.
From the forgotten play.
I had things to say,
Plans to make,
Things to do.
But I’ve forgotten them.
It won’t be long
Until you’ve forgotten me, too.
The only memorable thing I can do…
Is disappear.
(Before our eyes, he dematerializes. We hear his voice from afar.)
HIS VOICE:
And then I’m gone. Just like that.
(Lights fade on the blankness.)
END OF PLAY.
© January 28, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: A MAN alone in a blankness.
MAN
I am the forgotten character.
From the forgotten time.
From the forgotten play.
I had things to say,
Plans to make,
Things to do.
But I’ve forgotten them.
It won’t be long
Until you’ve forgotten me, too.
The only memorable thing I can do…
Is disappear.
(Before our eyes, he dematerializes. We hear his voice from afar.)
HIS VOICE:
And then I’m gone. Just like that.
(Lights fade on the blankness.)
END OF PLAY.
January 27 Play: HER FAT MAJESTY
27: HER FAT MAJESTY - by Ed Valentine
© January 27, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: HER FAT MAJESTY lolls on a giant red plush Valentine’s heart. SUITOR, carrying something under a woven cloth. Both in medieval dress.
HER FAT MAJESTY: What have you brought me, suitor?
SUITOR: Something to your liking!
HER FAT MAJESTY: Is it chocolate?
SUITOR: No.
HER FAT MAJESTY: Diamonds?
SUITOR: No, no.
HER FAT MAJESTY: A fur! You brought me a fur!
SUITOR: No. This!
(From under the cloth he takes a guitar. Sings the most beautiful song ever. You know which one I mean: that one. He kneels, opens his arms.)
SUITOR: Well?
(She presses her hand to her heart.)
HER FAT MAJESTY: Guards.
(The Guards come in and seize the Suitor.)
SUITOR: But –
HER FAT MAJESTY: You should’ve brought chocolate.
(Guards drag him away. HER FAT MAJESTY takes out a mirror. Lipsticks herself.)
Ready. NEXT!
(Lights out.)
END OF PLAY.
© January 27, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: HER FAT MAJESTY lolls on a giant red plush Valentine’s heart. SUITOR, carrying something under a woven cloth. Both in medieval dress.
HER FAT MAJESTY: What have you brought me, suitor?
SUITOR: Something to your liking!
HER FAT MAJESTY: Is it chocolate?
SUITOR: No.
HER FAT MAJESTY: Diamonds?
SUITOR: No, no.
HER FAT MAJESTY: A fur! You brought me a fur!
SUITOR: No. This!
(From under the cloth he takes a guitar. Sings the most beautiful song ever. You know which one I mean: that one. He kneels, opens his arms.)
SUITOR: Well?
(She presses her hand to her heart.)
HER FAT MAJESTY: Guards.
(The Guards come in and seize the Suitor.)
SUITOR: But –
HER FAT MAJESTY: You should’ve brought chocolate.
(Guards drag him away. HER FAT MAJESTY takes out a mirror. Lipsticks herself.)
Ready. NEXT!
(Lights out.)
END OF PLAY.
January 26 Play: MAN AS A CAR
26: MAN AS A CAR - by Ed Valentine
© January 26, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: A coffee bar by the Pacific Ocean. A WOMAN and a MAN.
WOMAN: He was a shit, you know?
MAN: Yeah.
WOMAN: An absolute shit. I mean, that was very interesting what they said. Very interesting. That was for my benefit, don’t you think? It must have been. Who else was it for, you know? Like…
MAN: Yeah.
WOMAN: I mean, I should’ve. I don’t know. I spent more time getting the Honda than I did investigating him. I should’ve kicked the tires. Gotten a better rate. Driven him at night. Looked under the hood.
(MAN snorts.)
You know? Like – see how he handled. Gone more than once around the block. Looked into the mileage. Interviewed the previous owner. Put him up on blocks and looked down underneath, you get what I’m saying? Should’ve comparison-shopped. Or maybe. Or maybe. Should’ve test driven a lot of different cars, a LOT of different cars, before buying one. Checked out “Car and Driver” first to see his bluebook value, or –
MAN: I don’t know what you mena now.
-
WOMAN: I’m just saying that I should’ve maybe not been so eager to buy. In the showroom, he looked so go, you know? But I could’ve, I should’ve walked away from the dealer when I had the chance. If only I’d done that. If only.
-
MAN: We could go out.
WOMAN: Who?
MAN: You and me.
WOMAN: That’s silly.
MAN: I guess.
WOMAN: But you know. Thanks.
(They sip coffee.)
MAN: You’ll find someone else.
WOMAN: I don’t think so.
No I won’t.
(Lights fade over the ocean.)
END OF PLAY.
© January 26, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: A coffee bar by the Pacific Ocean. A WOMAN and a MAN.
WOMAN: He was a shit, you know?
MAN: Yeah.
WOMAN: An absolute shit. I mean, that was very interesting what they said. Very interesting. That was for my benefit, don’t you think? It must have been. Who else was it for, you know? Like…
MAN: Yeah.
WOMAN: I mean, I should’ve. I don’t know. I spent more time getting the Honda than I did investigating him. I should’ve kicked the tires. Gotten a better rate. Driven him at night. Looked under the hood.
(MAN snorts.)
You know? Like – see how he handled. Gone more than once around the block. Looked into the mileage. Interviewed the previous owner. Put him up on blocks and looked down underneath, you get what I’m saying? Should’ve comparison-shopped. Or maybe. Or maybe. Should’ve test driven a lot of different cars, a LOT of different cars, before buying one. Checked out “Car and Driver” first to see his bluebook value, or –
MAN: I don’t know what you mena now.
-
WOMAN: I’m just saying that I should’ve maybe not been so eager to buy. In the showroom, he looked so go, you know? But I could’ve, I should’ve walked away from the dealer when I had the chance. If only I’d done that. If only.
-
MAN: We could go out.
WOMAN: Who?
MAN: You and me.
WOMAN: That’s silly.
MAN: I guess.
WOMAN: But you know. Thanks.
(They sip coffee.)
MAN: You’ll find someone else.
WOMAN: I don’t think so.
No I won’t.
(Lights fade over the ocean.)
END OF PLAY.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Still to come...
For those of you who are following the "Daily Ed" project... I HAVE been writing, but haven't had time to type in a play in a few days due to travel. As I may have told you before, I write longhand on yellow legal paper and then type each play in later... though I may have to rethink that plan, as it's awfully time-consuming to write longhand and then type it in subsequently. We shall see!
But don't despair: more fresh-baked plays to come, as soon as I can grab a minute to type them in. Thank you for reading these plays! I am grateful for your support.
But don't despair: more fresh-baked plays to come, as soon as I can grab a minute to type them in. Thank you for reading these plays! I am grateful for your support.
Monday, January 25, 2010
January 25 Play: LITTLE RED REDUX
25: LITTLE RED REDUX - by Ed Valentine
© January 25, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: Cottage. Woods above, and above a full gold moon. GRANDMOTHER stirring the coals of a fire, LITTLE RED by the door with a basket.
GRANNY: You have everything, Child?
RED: Yes.
GRANNY: The cupcakes? The cookies? The meat pies? The pasties? The scones and the pies and the ale and the loaf?
RED: Yes, but.
GRANNY: No time for buts, Child. Be on your way.
RED: But Granny!
GRANNY: What?
RED: It’s dark out.
GRANNY: Not entirely.
RED: It’s night!
GRANNY: There’s a moon. A full moon!
RED: That’s why I’m afraid!
-
I’ve heard that on nights of the full moon, the wolves come out. And if the wolves come out, I’ll be endangered! I’ll be meat, don’t you see?
GRANNY: My Child, My Child! Don’t you see? Those are old superstitions. Old wives tales. And don’t I know some old wives. Do you see?
RED: I guess.
GRANNY: You’re never safer than when the moon lolls over the earth, licking it clean like a wolf’s tongue on its privates.
RED: Uh, Granny...
GRANNY: The earth’s never as clean as when it’s licked clean by the moon’s tongue. How could anything terrible happen on a night like this?
RED: Still.
GRANNY: Now hurry, dear! Your poor other grandmother, poor spindly stick, lies waiting, sick in her bed. Hungry!
RED: We’re all hungry.
GRANNY: Isn’t that the truth! Don’t think about dipping into that basket!
RED: I wasn’t.
(She was.)
GRANNY: Off with you, then, luv! Off with you, off into the forest!
(Pushes RED out the door. Calls off:)
And don’t leave the path, my Sweet.
Goodbye! Goodbye!
My Sweet, My Sweet.
(GRANDMOTHER takes off her face, rips off her dress. She is, of course, a WOLF. SPEAKS TO US:)
WOLF: My Sweet.
Really, dears, what did you expect?
(He licks himself.)
I’ll give her a sporting start.
3.
2.
1!
(HOWLS. Paws the ground.)
Save some meat for me, baby.
I’m coming.
(He gallops off. Lights burn, then fade.)
END OF PLAY.
© January 25, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: Cottage. Woods above, and above a full gold moon. GRANDMOTHER stirring the coals of a fire, LITTLE RED by the door with a basket.
GRANNY: You have everything, Child?
RED: Yes.
GRANNY: The cupcakes? The cookies? The meat pies? The pasties? The scones and the pies and the ale and the loaf?
RED: Yes, but.
GRANNY: No time for buts, Child. Be on your way.
RED: But Granny!
GRANNY: What?
RED: It’s dark out.
GRANNY: Not entirely.
RED: It’s night!
GRANNY: There’s a moon. A full moon!
RED: That’s why I’m afraid!
-
I’ve heard that on nights of the full moon, the wolves come out. And if the wolves come out, I’ll be endangered! I’ll be meat, don’t you see?
GRANNY: My Child, My Child! Don’t you see? Those are old superstitions. Old wives tales. And don’t I know some old wives. Do you see?
RED: I guess.
GRANNY: You’re never safer than when the moon lolls over the earth, licking it clean like a wolf’s tongue on its privates.
RED: Uh, Granny...
GRANNY: The earth’s never as clean as when it’s licked clean by the moon’s tongue. How could anything terrible happen on a night like this?
RED: Still.
GRANNY: Now hurry, dear! Your poor other grandmother, poor spindly stick, lies waiting, sick in her bed. Hungry!
RED: We’re all hungry.
GRANNY: Isn’t that the truth! Don’t think about dipping into that basket!
RED: I wasn’t.
(She was.)
GRANNY: Off with you, then, luv! Off with you, off into the forest!
(Pushes RED out the door. Calls off:)
And don’t leave the path, my Sweet.
Goodbye! Goodbye!
My Sweet, My Sweet.
(GRANDMOTHER takes off her face, rips off her dress. She is, of course, a WOLF. SPEAKS TO US:)
WOLF: My Sweet.
Really, dears, what did you expect?
(He licks himself.)
I’ll give her a sporting start.
3.
2.
1!
(HOWLS. Paws the ground.)
Save some meat for me, baby.
I’m coming.
(He gallops off. Lights burn, then fade.)
END OF PLAY.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
January 24 Play: REVENGE OF THE BEARD
24: REVENGE OF THE BEARD - by Ed Valentine
© January 24, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: Barber chair, barber pole with an “OPEN” sign hung around it. On one side, the MAN WITH THE EXCEEDINGLY LONG BEARD from BEARD PLAY. On the other, the BARBER with a push broom.
MAN: It grew back.
BARBER: You again!
MAN: It grew again.
It’s new again.
BARBER: I’m sorry. We’re closed. There’s nothing I can do to help you.
MAN: But.
BARBER: Nothing.
MAN: But.
BARBER: Nothing.
MAN: Don’t you like a challenge, Mister?
Look at this! Look at this BEARD!
I thought you’d want to bag it, crush it, kill it –
You’re a BARBER, Man, isn’t this like
A Big Game Hunter Bagging the Biggest Game of All,
Huh?
BARBER: Some things don’t want to be bagged.
Some things don’t want to be killed.
Some things just want to be respected.
-
I’m sorry, Sir, we’re closed.
(Turns the sign on the barber pole from “Open” to “Closed.”)
See? Closed.
(He sweeps the man away, across the stage. Exits. Turns out the light. Circle of light only on the man.)
MAN: Well, Beard.
I guess it’s just you and me, now.
(The BEARD enfolds him. It strokes the top of his head, comfortingly. MAN looks out: not entirely comforted. A beat. Then lights snap out.)
END OF PLAY.
© January 24, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: Barber chair, barber pole with an “OPEN” sign hung around it. On one side, the MAN WITH THE EXCEEDINGLY LONG BEARD from BEARD PLAY. On the other, the BARBER with a push broom.
MAN: It grew back.
BARBER: You again!
MAN: It grew again.
It’s new again.
BARBER: I’m sorry. We’re closed. There’s nothing I can do to help you.
MAN: But.
BARBER: Nothing.
MAN: But.
BARBER: Nothing.
MAN: Don’t you like a challenge, Mister?
Look at this! Look at this BEARD!
I thought you’d want to bag it, crush it, kill it –
You’re a BARBER, Man, isn’t this like
A Big Game Hunter Bagging the Biggest Game of All,
Huh?
BARBER: Some things don’t want to be bagged.
Some things don’t want to be killed.
Some things just want to be respected.
-
I’m sorry, Sir, we’re closed.
(Turns the sign on the barber pole from “Open” to “Closed.”)
See? Closed.
(He sweeps the man away, across the stage. Exits. Turns out the light. Circle of light only on the man.)
MAN: Well, Beard.
I guess it’s just you and me, now.
(The BEARD enfolds him. It strokes the top of his head, comfortingly. MAN looks out: not entirely comforted. A beat. Then lights snap out.)
END OF PLAY.
January 23 Play: AFTERLIVES OF THE SAINTS 2
23: AFTERLIVES OF THE SAINTS 2 - by Ed Valentine
© January 23, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: A spa. Two small round pools. Nervously, ST. HIERONYMOUS OF EAST SARJEVO stands at the edge of one pool. Dips a toe in.
HIERONYMOUS: Ow!
(His toe smokes.)
(ST. OPHELIA OF THE WATERS enters, hurriedly. With each step:)
OPHELIA: Ow ow ow ow ow!!!
(She gets in the other pool, robe and all.)
Ahhhhh.
(Looks at HIERONYMOUS.)
St. Hieronymous of East Sarajevo.
HIERONYMOUS: St. Ophelia of the Waters.
OPHELIA: Your feet are filthy.
HIERONYMOUS: Pardon?
OPHELIA: Your feet. They’re filthy.
HIERONYMOUS: That was somewhat rude.
OPHELIA: It isn’t rude, it’s factual.
HIERONYMOUS: I wear sandals.
OPHELIA: Don’t be hurt.
HIERONYMOUS: I can’t really help it.
OPHELIA: Oh, yes you can. I mean, I wear sandals. And my feet are clean.
HIERONYMOUS: Well, bully for you.
OPHELIA: Don’t be hurt.
HIERONYMOUS: Don’t be hurtful and I won’t be hurt.
OPHELIA: ?
HIERONYMOUS: !
OPHELIA: -
-
You could just get in the water, you know.
HIERONYMOUS: Pardon me?
OPHELIA: I’m saying, you could just wash them. In the water.
HIERONYMOUS: You’re awfully concerned about my feet.
OPHELIA: Because they’re filthy!
HIERONYMOUS: You’ve said that.
OPHELIA: I know I’ve said that.
HIERONYMOUS: A number of times.
OPHELIA: And they’re still filthy. Just dip them in the water.
HIERONYMOUS: No.
OPHELIA: That’s what the water’s there for.
HIERONYMOUS: Water hurts my skin.
OPHELIA: ?
HIERONYMOUS: It hurts my skin. Like fire. I was martyred in fire. Now water crackles and crusts and makes my skin smoke.
OPHELIA: Well, air hurts my skin.
HIERONYMOUS: ?
OPHELIA: Because I was martyred by being flung off a cliff. Fell so fast the air itself burned me on the way down. Hawks and ravens swooped down as I fell and picked my skin off.
HIERONYMOUS: Extraordinary.
OPHELIA: The only thing that heals me is water in this spa.
HIERONYMOUS: Amazing.
OPHELIA: I agree. You know, we could be a great pair.
HIERONYMOUS: You think?
OPHELIA: If only you would wash your feet.
HIERONYMOUS: Oh.
(She sighs. He sighs. She sinks into the water and is entirely submerged.)
HIERONYMOUS: I love you, Saint Ophelia. From my head to my filthy toes.
(He watches her, both miserable and ecstatically lovestruck. Lights fade.)
END OF PLAY.
© January 23, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: A spa. Two small round pools. Nervously, ST. HIERONYMOUS OF EAST SARJEVO stands at the edge of one pool. Dips a toe in.
HIERONYMOUS: Ow!
(His toe smokes.)
(ST. OPHELIA OF THE WATERS enters, hurriedly. With each step:)
OPHELIA: Ow ow ow ow ow!!!
(She gets in the other pool, robe and all.)
Ahhhhh.
(Looks at HIERONYMOUS.)
St. Hieronymous of East Sarajevo.
HIERONYMOUS: St. Ophelia of the Waters.
OPHELIA: Your feet are filthy.
HIERONYMOUS: Pardon?
OPHELIA: Your feet. They’re filthy.
HIERONYMOUS: That was somewhat rude.
OPHELIA: It isn’t rude, it’s factual.
HIERONYMOUS: I wear sandals.
OPHELIA: Don’t be hurt.
HIERONYMOUS: I can’t really help it.
OPHELIA: Oh, yes you can. I mean, I wear sandals. And my feet are clean.
HIERONYMOUS: Well, bully for you.
OPHELIA: Don’t be hurt.
HIERONYMOUS: Don’t be hurtful and I won’t be hurt.
OPHELIA: ?
HIERONYMOUS: !
OPHELIA: -
-
You could just get in the water, you know.
HIERONYMOUS: Pardon me?
OPHELIA: I’m saying, you could just wash them. In the water.
HIERONYMOUS: You’re awfully concerned about my feet.
OPHELIA: Because they’re filthy!
HIERONYMOUS: You’ve said that.
OPHELIA: I know I’ve said that.
HIERONYMOUS: A number of times.
OPHELIA: And they’re still filthy. Just dip them in the water.
HIERONYMOUS: No.
OPHELIA: That’s what the water’s there for.
HIERONYMOUS: Water hurts my skin.
OPHELIA: ?
HIERONYMOUS: It hurts my skin. Like fire. I was martyred in fire. Now water crackles and crusts and makes my skin smoke.
OPHELIA: Well, air hurts my skin.
HIERONYMOUS: ?
OPHELIA: Because I was martyred by being flung off a cliff. Fell so fast the air itself burned me on the way down. Hawks and ravens swooped down as I fell and picked my skin off.
HIERONYMOUS: Extraordinary.
OPHELIA: The only thing that heals me is water in this spa.
HIERONYMOUS: Amazing.
OPHELIA: I agree. You know, we could be a great pair.
HIERONYMOUS: You think?
OPHELIA: If only you would wash your feet.
HIERONYMOUS: Oh.
(She sighs. He sighs. She sinks into the water and is entirely submerged.)
HIERONYMOUS: I love you, Saint Ophelia. From my head to my filthy toes.
(He watches her, both miserable and ecstatically lovestruck. Lights fade.)
END OF PLAY.
January 22 Play: TWO ON THE SAND
22: TWO ON THE SAND - by Ed Valentine
© January 22, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: A desert island. A palm tree, tall. Sea behind. 2 castaways, ragged. Long beards.
GUSTAVO: Is that –
ALFIERI: No.
GUSTAVO: No, no – I think it is, it IS! Over Here!
ALFIERI: You’re weak with hunger.
GUSTAVO: Here!
ALFIERI: You’re weak in the mind!
-
What now?
GUSTAVO: You’re right. It was a whitecap. A wave.
ALFIERI: Told you! You see, my friend, that’s your trouble!
GUSTAVO: What? What’s my trouble, huh?
ALFIERI: You are too fanciful, too easily susceptible, too – too –
GUSTAVO: Imaginative?
ALFIERI: Yes, and not sensible at all! You’re too willing to – to –
GUSTAVO: Imagine?
ALFIERI: Well, I’d say ‘lie.’
GUSTAVO: Would you? Really?
ALFIERI: Yes. I would say exactly that.
GUSTAVO: Is all imagination a lie?
ALFIERI: Well, of course! Fancies, phantasms, Cottingly Fairies – and lies. You are too willing by half to mistake a dolphin for a dinghy, a cumulous cloud for a helicopter, a whitecap for a waiting ocean liner, and a breaching whale for a battleship!
GUSTAVO: I don’t know that that’s true…
ALFIERI: I do! You should accept your lot. Better by far to eat the coconut flesh –
GUSTAVO: Stale –
ALFIERI: And drink its milk –
GUSTAVO: Sour -
ALFIERI: And be happy here.
GUSTAVO: Happy?
ALFIERI: Or, if not happy, well. I don’t know.
GUSTAVO: Content?
ALFIERI: I suppose. Or something like it.
-
We’ll never leave here. You know?
GUSTAVO: I don’t know.
ALFIERI: Yes, you do. Deep down you do.
(Settles into the sand.)
You might as well admit it.
GUSTAVO: No.
ALFIERI: Admit it.
GUSTAVO: No!
ALFIERI: Admit it!
GUSTAVO: -
(Pointing. Almost quietly:)
A sail. A sail?
(ALFIERI stands. It is.)
ALFIERI: Well, how about that!
(A beat. Disbelieving. Then:)
BOTH: OVER HERE! OVER HERE! OVER HERE!
O.S. a boat blows its horn. Lights up hot on the two castaways, then fade on them waving and shouting.
END OF PLAY.
© January 22, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: A desert island. A palm tree, tall. Sea behind. 2 castaways, ragged. Long beards.
GUSTAVO: Is that –
ALFIERI: No.
GUSTAVO: No, no – I think it is, it IS! Over Here!
ALFIERI: You’re weak with hunger.
GUSTAVO: Here!
ALFIERI: You’re weak in the mind!
-
What now?
GUSTAVO: You’re right. It was a whitecap. A wave.
ALFIERI: Told you! You see, my friend, that’s your trouble!
GUSTAVO: What? What’s my trouble, huh?
ALFIERI: You are too fanciful, too easily susceptible, too – too –
GUSTAVO: Imaginative?
ALFIERI: Yes, and not sensible at all! You’re too willing to – to –
GUSTAVO: Imagine?
ALFIERI: Well, I’d say ‘lie.’
GUSTAVO: Would you? Really?
ALFIERI: Yes. I would say exactly that.
GUSTAVO: Is all imagination a lie?
ALFIERI: Well, of course! Fancies, phantasms, Cottingly Fairies – and lies. You are too willing by half to mistake a dolphin for a dinghy, a cumulous cloud for a helicopter, a whitecap for a waiting ocean liner, and a breaching whale for a battleship!
GUSTAVO: I don’t know that that’s true…
ALFIERI: I do! You should accept your lot. Better by far to eat the coconut flesh –
GUSTAVO: Stale –
ALFIERI: And drink its milk –
GUSTAVO: Sour -
ALFIERI: And be happy here.
GUSTAVO: Happy?
ALFIERI: Or, if not happy, well. I don’t know.
GUSTAVO: Content?
ALFIERI: I suppose. Or something like it.
-
We’ll never leave here. You know?
GUSTAVO: I don’t know.
ALFIERI: Yes, you do. Deep down you do.
(Settles into the sand.)
You might as well admit it.
GUSTAVO: No.
ALFIERI: Admit it.
GUSTAVO: No!
ALFIERI: Admit it!
GUSTAVO: -
(Pointing. Almost quietly:)
A sail. A sail?
(ALFIERI stands. It is.)
ALFIERI: Well, how about that!
(A beat. Disbelieving. Then:)
BOTH: OVER HERE! OVER HERE! OVER HERE!
O.S. a boat blows its horn. Lights up hot on the two castaways, then fade on them waving and shouting.
END OF PLAY.
Two unmissable events: PUPPET PLAYLIST (NYC) and CROCODILE BOY (BOSTON)
Two upcoming Ed events. PLEASE do not miss 'em! (And tickets WILL sell out, especially for Puppet Playlist. So please get your tickets early!)If you're around, please join me in person:
- I'll be in Boston to see "The Crocodile Boy Project" on Saturday and Sunday, Jan 30-31...
- Then I'll be performing in NYC's Puppet Playlist alongside some of the finest puppeteers I know: Feb 5 and Feb 7.
BOSTON AREA:
Boston Premiere of “The Crocodile Boy Project”
By Ed Valentine and Megan McDavid
Presented in a night of Carnival-Themed Plays by Fort Point Theater Channel
Cambridge YMCA Theatre, Cambridge, MA
Friday, Saturday Jan 29 & 30 @ 8 PM
Sunday Jan 31 @ 7 PM
Friday - Sunday Feb 4-6 @ 8 PM
Click HERE for more info and tickets.
NEW YORK CITY:
I'm Performing in PUPPET PLAYLIST No. 5: ‘COUNTRY MUSIC’
Premiere of my new puppet play, “COWBOY KABUKI, or: TEXAS”
Friday, February 5th: 7:30 p.m. and 9:30 p.m.
Sunday, February 7th: 7:30 p.m.
at The Tank
354 W. 45th Street (btw 8th & 9th Aves.)
Tickets: $7
Click HERE for more info and tickets.
A Bloggity-blogging Tie...
...with the number of posts I made last year, in its entirety! This entry makes 26 posts for 2010, fulfilling a goal of mine towards blogging more often - and more organically. I want to blog as easily (if not as frequently) as I breathe - not because I think that everything I say is precious. (Quite the contrary: I still fear that I'm writing into the void - until great friends tell me they're reading, or leave comments. [Thank you, Kerri! Thank you, Jorge! Thank you, Megan and Louise!]) But rather because I want to WRITE more easily and more often. Have this be more a part of my daily life and a natural means of expression.
The last play I posted, AFTERLIVES OF THE SAINTS, kicked my butt. Honestly, it was a blast to write but it took for-freakin'-ever to type in. (I write longhand on yellow legal paper, then type the plays later, making very few changes.) AFTERLIVES necessitated some research about the saints themselves, and I went down the rabbit hole a bit as I was looking into them. I mean, good gravy! There are patron saints for beekeepers, snakebites, and clowns. (All the characters in the play are real saints, and really the patrons of shepherdesses, dietitians, the Venezuelan National Guard... and so on. If you want to learn more about them, check out THIS SITE HERE.)
As a Catholic schoolkid, I was completely fascinated by the saints. Their stories were so full of drama and pathos, magic, miracles, and murder. (Waaay more lurid children's stories than the original Grimm's Tales!) As a grownup, I grew to admire Gertrude Stein's libretto "Four Saints in Three Acts" and the fantastic music by Virgil Thomson, and I suppose I started the play hoping to use a similar poetic language.
My play took another turn linguistically, though, and became more literal. Stein imagined the saints as something like celebrities of heaven, who sit around and don't do much but... well, sit around, chatter, and be fabulous. My saints are post-fabulousness. I became interested in those saints no one's heard of. It's fine to be Saint Francis or Saint Theresa... but what of Saint Eligius? Or Saint Radegund? What happens when no on remembers them, or prays to them?
Hope you enjoy these saints! Please feel free to leave comments, and come back for more. Fresh plays daily, baked here. (I hope not half-baked.)
The last play I posted, AFTERLIVES OF THE SAINTS, kicked my butt. Honestly, it was a blast to write but it took for-freakin'-ever to type in. (I write longhand on yellow legal paper, then type the plays later, making very few changes.) AFTERLIVES necessitated some research about the saints themselves, and I went down the rabbit hole a bit as I was looking into them. I mean, good gravy! There are patron saints for beekeepers, snakebites, and clowns. (All the characters in the play are real saints, and really the patrons of shepherdesses, dietitians, the Venezuelan National Guard... and so on. If you want to learn more about them, check out THIS SITE HERE.)
As a Catholic schoolkid, I was completely fascinated by the saints. Their stories were so full of drama and pathos, magic, miracles, and murder. (Waaay more lurid children's stories than the original Grimm's Tales!) As a grownup, I grew to admire Gertrude Stein's libretto "Four Saints in Three Acts" and the fantastic music by Virgil Thomson, and I suppose I started the play hoping to use a similar poetic language.
My play took another turn linguistically, though, and became more literal. Stein imagined the saints as something like celebrities of heaven, who sit around and don't do much but... well, sit around, chatter, and be fabulous. My saints are post-fabulousness. I became interested in those saints no one's heard of. It's fine to be Saint Francis or Saint Theresa... but what of Saint Eligius? Or Saint Radegund? What happens when no on remembers them, or prays to them?
Hope you enjoy these saints! Please feel free to leave comments, and come back for more. Fresh plays daily, baked here. (I hope not half-baked.)
Saturday, January 23, 2010
January 21 Play: AFTERLIVES OF THE SAINTS
20: AFTERLIVES OF THE SAINTS - by Ed Valentine
© January 21, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
IN THE DARKNESS: BLESSED SAINT PANACEA alone in a spotlight. White robe and a shepherd’s crook.
BLESSED SAINT PANACEA: They think it’s quite glamorous, you know. They always do. And in a way… they’re right.
(She spreads her wings. In the darkness behind her, colored lights blink on and off wildly. Coolly electronic beeping/chirping sounds. Lights up on a sleek, modern open space: with phone banks. There are many SAINTS with wings, answering phones, wearing earpieces. As if heaven were something between a spa and an Apple store.)
ST. MARIA GABRIELLA: (ON PHONE, AS ARE ALL THE SAINTS:) Hello, Maria Gabriella, Patron Saint of the Poor, how may I help you?
ST. RADEGUND: Hello? St. Radegund, patron saint of leprosy here, how may I help you?
BLESSED SAINT PANACEA: Of course all the buzzing and beeping and the lights. At first it’s quite heady, really. And you get quite a rush.
ST. RADEGUND: No, Sir, I’m Leprosy. St. Swithbert’s Angina, I’ll transfer you.
BLESSED SAINT PANACEA: They all think it’s glamorous. Being a saint, I mean. This is just after beatification, I mean, when you hear your praises sung. And your name’s chanted and called and set to music, and they make shrines and fight over who gets to keep your bones, and in which Cathedral!
ST. VALENTINE OF GENOA: St. Valentine here.
ST. AMBROSE OF MILAN: Yes, I look after Beekeepers.
ST. VALENTINE OF GENOA: (SIGHS:) No, I’m Saint Valentine of Genoa.
ST. CLOTILDE: Patron Saint of Disappointing Children.
OUR LADY OF CHINQUINQUIRA: Venezuelan National Guard? Si!
ST. VALENTINE OF GENOA: No, there’s more than one. There’s also St. Valentine of Viterbo and St. Valentin Faustino Berro Ocho. But I’m sure you want St. Valentine of Rome. He’s the famous one.
OUR LADY OF CHINQUINQUIRA: No, St. Marta’s dietitians. I’ll transfer. You too, ciao.
ST. VALENTINE OF GENOA: Viterbo. Italy. ITALY. I’ll transfer you. Mm-hmm, bye-bye.
(Pushing a button.)
Be specific, people! Jeez!
BLESSED SAINT PANACEA: I was kind of a big deal. Maybe you heard of me? Blessed Saint Panacea de’Muzzi of Quarona? Patron Saint of Shepherdesses? They celebrate my festival with puff pastries? I was stabbed with a spindle on a spring evening in 1383? Remember this – Yes? No? No, I didn’t think so.
ST. CLOTILDE: No, Ma’am, protection against St. Vitus’s Dance is, um. Saint Vitus. Sorry, static. Please hold.
(Covers the microphone on her earpiece. Cracks up.)
BLESSED SAINT PANACEA: But after awhile, the statues in the shrines grow dusty and dusky, and the candles burn down to a wick, and the flowers left at your altar start to wilt. I mean, it can take years, decades, centuries, even, but that hardly matters to you. After all, what does a Saint have… but TIME?
ST. JULIAN THE HOSPITALLER: I’m boatmen, carnival workers, childless people, circus acts, clowns. Yes, clowns. Ferrymen, fiddle makers, fiddle players, hospitality, hotel-keepers, innkeepers, jugglers, knights, murderers, pilgrims, the city of San Giljan in Malta, shepherds, lodgers needing traveling, travelers in general, and wandering minstrels.
BLESSED SAINT PANACEA: And then, of course, unless you're one of the big ones – a Francis of Assisi, say, or Saint Anthony of Padua –
ST. CLOTILDE: He’s dreamy!
BLESSED SAINT PANACEA: Or Bernadette of Lourdes. Lourdes! And don’t get me started on Saint Theresa the Little Flower. But unless you’re one of the big ones, you’re waiting around for the phone to ring. Two weeks vacation a year, but you’re still on call, of course, in case a prayer comes through.
(Holds up phone: a golden blackberry with wings.)
But the calls don’t come in for most of us, not that often. There’s not that much call for prayers for Shepherdesses. And so we sit. And wait. And transfer calls. And make small talk with each other.
(Turns to another Saint.)
Weather’s nice.
ST. HYPATIUS: I was beheaded in 273 in Byzantium.
ST. JULIAN THE HOSPITALLER: A talking stag predicted I’d kill my parents. And I did.
(A beat.)
BLESSED SAINT PANACEA: But small talk is hard for saints. Oh, St. Rose of Lima lent me her portable DVD player for awhile, but St. Balbina the Virgin spilled coffee on it, so...
(Beat. Mind wanders.)
Balbina’s the patron of Scrofulous Diseases.
(Beat.)
Anyway, I guess I’m saying to the children in Catholic school, who wish to be saints someday: be careful what you wish for! Be careful when you pray to become a saint! It’s not as glamorous as it seems.
ST. HYPATIUS: Fine, I’ll give you my name. Hypatius. H. Y. P. A. T. I. U. S. No Sir, you cannot speak to a supervisor.
BLESSED SAINT PANACEA: The smoke rises from the candles, the prayers waft up, smelling of wax and wick. But all too soon, the fragrant scent is gone.
And you’re left with secondhand smoke.
And the smell of sulfur.
(She puts on a headpiece. Phone near her chirps, lights up.)
Hello? Oh.
(Hands it to ST. RADEGUND)
It’s for you.
(Sits. Stares out. Waits. The Saints all shiver their wings. Lights fade, except for blinking lights of the phone bank. Lights out.)
END OF PLAY.
© January 21, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
IN THE DARKNESS: BLESSED SAINT PANACEA alone in a spotlight. White robe and a shepherd’s crook.
BLESSED SAINT PANACEA: They think it’s quite glamorous, you know. They always do. And in a way… they’re right.
(She spreads her wings. In the darkness behind her, colored lights blink on and off wildly. Coolly electronic beeping/chirping sounds. Lights up on a sleek, modern open space: with phone banks. There are many SAINTS with wings, answering phones, wearing earpieces. As if heaven were something between a spa and an Apple store.)
ST. MARIA GABRIELLA: (ON PHONE, AS ARE ALL THE SAINTS:) Hello, Maria Gabriella, Patron Saint of the Poor, how may I help you?
ST. RADEGUND: Hello? St. Radegund, patron saint of leprosy here, how may I help you?
BLESSED SAINT PANACEA: Of course all the buzzing and beeping and the lights. At first it’s quite heady, really. And you get quite a rush.
ST. RADEGUND: No, Sir, I’m Leprosy. St. Swithbert’s Angina, I’ll transfer you.
BLESSED SAINT PANACEA: They all think it’s glamorous. Being a saint, I mean. This is just after beatification, I mean, when you hear your praises sung. And your name’s chanted and called and set to music, and they make shrines and fight over who gets to keep your bones, and in which Cathedral!
ST. VALENTINE OF GENOA: St. Valentine here.
ST. AMBROSE OF MILAN: Yes, I look after Beekeepers.
ST. VALENTINE OF GENOA: (SIGHS:) No, I’m Saint Valentine of Genoa.
ST. CLOTILDE: Patron Saint of Disappointing Children.
OUR LADY OF CHINQUINQUIRA: Venezuelan National Guard? Si!
ST. VALENTINE OF GENOA: No, there’s more than one. There’s also St. Valentine of Viterbo and St. Valentin Faustino Berro Ocho. But I’m sure you want St. Valentine of Rome. He’s the famous one.
OUR LADY OF CHINQUINQUIRA: No, St. Marta’s dietitians. I’ll transfer. You too, ciao.
ST. VALENTINE OF GENOA: Viterbo. Italy. ITALY. I’ll transfer you. Mm-hmm, bye-bye.
(Pushing a button.)
Be specific, people! Jeez!
BLESSED SAINT PANACEA: I was kind of a big deal. Maybe you heard of me? Blessed Saint Panacea de’Muzzi of Quarona? Patron Saint of Shepherdesses? They celebrate my festival with puff pastries? I was stabbed with a spindle on a spring evening in 1383? Remember this – Yes? No? No, I didn’t think so.
ST. CLOTILDE: No, Ma’am, protection against St. Vitus’s Dance is, um. Saint Vitus. Sorry, static. Please hold.
(Covers the microphone on her earpiece. Cracks up.)
BLESSED SAINT PANACEA: But after awhile, the statues in the shrines grow dusty and dusky, and the candles burn down to a wick, and the flowers left at your altar start to wilt. I mean, it can take years, decades, centuries, even, but that hardly matters to you. After all, what does a Saint have… but TIME?
ST. JULIAN THE HOSPITALLER: I’m boatmen, carnival workers, childless people, circus acts, clowns. Yes, clowns. Ferrymen, fiddle makers, fiddle players, hospitality, hotel-keepers, innkeepers, jugglers, knights, murderers, pilgrims, the city of San Giljan in Malta, shepherds, lodgers needing traveling, travelers in general, and wandering minstrels.
BLESSED SAINT PANACEA: And then, of course, unless you're one of the big ones – a Francis of Assisi, say, or Saint Anthony of Padua –
ST. CLOTILDE: He’s dreamy!
BLESSED SAINT PANACEA: Or Bernadette of Lourdes. Lourdes! And don’t get me started on Saint Theresa the Little Flower. But unless you’re one of the big ones, you’re waiting around for the phone to ring. Two weeks vacation a year, but you’re still on call, of course, in case a prayer comes through.
(Holds up phone: a golden blackberry with wings.)
But the calls don’t come in for most of us, not that often. There’s not that much call for prayers for Shepherdesses. And so we sit. And wait. And transfer calls. And make small talk with each other.
(Turns to another Saint.)
Weather’s nice.
ST. HYPATIUS: I was beheaded in 273 in Byzantium.
ST. JULIAN THE HOSPITALLER: A talking stag predicted I’d kill my parents. And I did.
(A beat.)
BLESSED SAINT PANACEA: But small talk is hard for saints. Oh, St. Rose of Lima lent me her portable DVD player for awhile, but St. Balbina the Virgin spilled coffee on it, so...
(Beat. Mind wanders.)
Balbina’s the patron of Scrofulous Diseases.
(Beat.)
Anyway, I guess I’m saying to the children in Catholic school, who wish to be saints someday: be careful what you wish for! Be careful when you pray to become a saint! It’s not as glamorous as it seems.
ST. HYPATIUS: Fine, I’ll give you my name. Hypatius. H. Y. P. A. T. I. U. S. No Sir, you cannot speak to a supervisor.
BLESSED SAINT PANACEA: The smoke rises from the candles, the prayers waft up, smelling of wax and wick. But all too soon, the fragrant scent is gone.
And you’re left with secondhand smoke.
And the smell of sulfur.
(She puts on a headpiece. Phone near her chirps, lights up.)
Hello? Oh.
(Hands it to ST. RADEGUND)
It’s for you.
(Sits. Stares out. Waits. The Saints all shiver their wings. Lights fade, except for blinking lights of the phone bank. Lights out.)
END OF PLAY.
Friday, January 22, 2010
January 20 Play: MOSCOW
20: MOSCOW - by Ed Valentine
© January 20, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: 2 alone, in overcoats. Long overcoats. Fur hat for ALEXI. Babushka for MASHA. Onion domes in the background. We’re in Moscow. Snow all around.
ALEXI ALEXOVITCH: I want it.
MASHA ROMANOFFSKI: What will you give me?
ALEXI: I need it.
MASHA: There is price, comrade.
ALEXI: But.
MASHA: There is always price.
-
ALEXI: But I have to have it!
MASHA: I heard you first time.
(Looks around. Takes out a package, wrapped.)
There.
ALEXI: Everything?
MASHA: Everything you need.
ALEXI: In here?
MASHA: Trust me.
ALEXI: -
Should I?
MASHA: What choice you have?
ALEXI: -
(Shrugs.)
MASHA: With this, you can start new life. New name? Check. New passport? Check. New documents? Check.
ALEXI: And the new face? My new face?
MASHA: Check. With new face you start completely anew. Your future will be fresh and virgins as this snow.
ALEXI: Sweet relief!
MASHA: What are you running from?
ALEXI: Who wants to know? Why do you ask? Who wants to know?
MASHA: No reason. Professional curiosity. I give new face, I wonder why you want new face.
-
So…
ALEXI: There was this girl –
MASHA: Say no more. All right, then: so what you give me?
-
The Price, Comrade, the Price.
ALEXI: Oh.
Well, here.
(Reaches in his coat. Rummages around. Takes out his heart. Maybe it’s a bleeding heart, or maybe it’s a Valentine’s heart. But it’s his heart. If it’s a real heart, maybe it bleeds on the snow. ALEXI hands MASHA the heart. MASHA takes it reluctantly.)
Take it. In my life, where I’m going, I will not need it.
MASHA: You never know. You sure?
(ALEXI shrugs. Leaves MASHA alone in the snow. MASHA sighs.)
You never know.
(Tucks heart in her coat as snow begins to fall. As MASHA begins to exit off the other side, lights fade.)
END OF PLAY.
© January 20, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: 2 alone, in overcoats. Long overcoats. Fur hat for ALEXI. Babushka for MASHA. Onion domes in the background. We’re in Moscow. Snow all around.
ALEXI ALEXOVITCH: I want it.
MASHA ROMANOFFSKI: What will you give me?
ALEXI: I need it.
MASHA: There is price, comrade.
ALEXI: But.
MASHA: There is always price.
-
ALEXI: But I have to have it!
MASHA: I heard you first time.
(Looks around. Takes out a package, wrapped.)
There.
ALEXI: Everything?
MASHA: Everything you need.
ALEXI: In here?
MASHA: Trust me.
ALEXI: -
Should I?
MASHA: What choice you have?
ALEXI: -
(Shrugs.)
MASHA: With this, you can start new life. New name? Check. New passport? Check. New documents? Check.
ALEXI: And the new face? My new face?
MASHA: Check. With new face you start completely anew. Your future will be fresh and virgins as this snow.
ALEXI: Sweet relief!
MASHA: What are you running from?
ALEXI: Who wants to know? Why do you ask? Who wants to know?
MASHA: No reason. Professional curiosity. I give new face, I wonder why you want new face.
-
So…
ALEXI: There was this girl –
MASHA: Say no more. All right, then: so what you give me?
-
The Price, Comrade, the Price.
ALEXI: Oh.
Well, here.
(Reaches in his coat. Rummages around. Takes out his heart. Maybe it’s a bleeding heart, or maybe it’s a Valentine’s heart. But it’s his heart. If it’s a real heart, maybe it bleeds on the snow. ALEXI hands MASHA the heart. MASHA takes it reluctantly.)
Take it. In my life, where I’m going, I will not need it.
MASHA: You never know. You sure?
(ALEXI shrugs. Leaves MASHA alone in the snow. MASHA sighs.)
You never know.
(Tucks heart in her coat as snow begins to fall. As MASHA begins to exit off the other side, lights fade.)
END OF PLAY.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
January 19 Play: BANGERS AND MASH
19: BANGERS AND MASH - by Ed Valentine
© January 19, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: False proscenium with red curtain. A hot spotlight.)
VOICE (O.S.): Tonight, we present… Mr. Bangers and Mr. Mash!
The curtains open. Reveal: BANGERS, a man, with MASH, a ventriloquist dummy.
BANGERS: (SINGS:)
Good evening, and welcome! to the Bangers and Mash show.
We’re very pleased to meet you, and hope that you don’t…
MASH: (BLINKS:) -
BANGERS: Ahem?
MASH: (Looks at BANGERS:) -
BANGERS: (To MASH:) Here’s the part where you sing “Go.”
MASH: -
BANGERS: Sing it.
(MASH blinks.)
BANGERS: Sing it. It won’t hurt you.
(MASH shakes his head. Trying to make a joke of it:)
Ladies and Gentlemen! Ladies and Gentlemen! My comic partner is the most recalcitrant, double-dealing, low-down smug little money-grubbing, finger-wagging song of a stepchild, and moon-mad manatee, he! He is, without a doubt, the WORST I have ever seen. He’ll be fired, I tell you, fired!
(Still, MASH says nothing. It should appear as if something has gone terribly wrong onstage. To MASH:)
SAY something, can’t you? For Christ’s sake, SAY something.
(MASH just blinks.)
BANGERS: You little bastard. Get back in your case.
(The curtains close. BANGERS AND MASH disappear from view.)
VOICE: Ladies and Gentlemen… ladies and gentlemen.
Goodnight.
(Spotlight out.)
END OF PLAY.
© January 19, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: False proscenium with red curtain. A hot spotlight.)
VOICE (O.S.): Tonight, we present… Mr. Bangers and Mr. Mash!
The curtains open. Reveal: BANGERS, a man, with MASH, a ventriloquist dummy.
BANGERS: (SINGS:)
Good evening, and welcome! to the Bangers and Mash show.
We’re very pleased to meet you, and hope that you don’t…
MASH: (BLINKS:) -
BANGERS: Ahem?
MASH: (Looks at BANGERS:) -
BANGERS: (To MASH:) Here’s the part where you sing “Go.”
MASH: -
BANGERS: Sing it.
(MASH blinks.)
BANGERS: Sing it. It won’t hurt you.
(MASH shakes his head. Trying to make a joke of it:)
Ladies and Gentlemen! Ladies and Gentlemen! My comic partner is the most recalcitrant, double-dealing, low-down smug little money-grubbing, finger-wagging song of a stepchild, and moon-mad manatee, he! He is, without a doubt, the WORST I have ever seen. He’ll be fired, I tell you, fired!
(Still, MASH says nothing. It should appear as if something has gone terribly wrong onstage. To MASH:)
SAY something, can’t you? For Christ’s sake, SAY something.
(MASH just blinks.)
BANGERS: You little bastard. Get back in your case.
(The curtains close. BANGERS AND MASH disappear from view.)
VOICE: Ladies and Gentlemen… ladies and gentlemen.
Goodnight.
(Spotlight out.)
END OF PLAY.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
January 18 Play: JACK & JILL ON BLUEBERRY HILL
18: JACK & JILL ON BLUEBERRY HILL - by Ed Valentine
© January 18, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: 1950’s picnic scene. Green field. A hill with a tree. At the bottom of the hill: a picnic basket has rolled down. It’s upended, and its food is spilling out.
A line of ANTS go marching past the hill. The ants chant in a language, not English... in a song, as yet unheard... in voices inhuman, low, and intense.
Atop the hill, a picnicking couple: a MAN and a WOMAN on a red- and white-checkered blanket. They speak in hushed tones, afraid to move.
MAN: There’s so many of them.
WOMAN: Many many.
MAN: And they all are going in the same direction.
WOMAN: That’s what they do, isn’t it? Ants?
MAN: That’s what ants do?
WOMAN: Yes.
MAN: I would imagine. But most queer –
WOMAN: Is?
MAN: is that they seem to have no interest in our food.
WOMAN: Oh.
MAN: They’ve walked right past the food, in a long long line.
WOMAN: They’re circling us.
MAN: Do you think?
WOMAN: They’re coming up the hill. They’re circling us.
MAN: Seems to be.
WOMAN: Maybe we’re the food.
MAN: Maybe –
WOMAN: Maybe we’re the food, yes.
MAN: Huh.
It seems to be so.
-
Yes.
It seems to be so. Don’t move, maybe they’ll go away.
(They sit, staring at the ants, frozen in fear, watching the ants approach. It is as if they are hypnotized. Very scary moment. Very softly, the softest words yet.)
WOMAN: Help.
(Still chanting, the ants start crawling up the woman’s arm. MAN and the WOMAN do not move. Lights fade.)
END OF PLAY.
© January 18, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: 1950’s picnic scene. Green field. A hill with a tree. At the bottom of the hill: a picnic basket has rolled down. It’s upended, and its food is spilling out.
A line of ANTS go marching past the hill. The ants chant in a language, not English... in a song, as yet unheard... in voices inhuman, low, and intense.
Atop the hill, a picnicking couple: a MAN and a WOMAN on a red- and white-checkered blanket. They speak in hushed tones, afraid to move.
MAN: There’s so many of them.
WOMAN: Many many.
MAN: And they all are going in the same direction.
WOMAN: That’s what they do, isn’t it? Ants?
MAN: That’s what ants do?
WOMAN: Yes.
MAN: I would imagine. But most queer –
WOMAN: Is?
MAN: is that they seem to have no interest in our food.
WOMAN: Oh.
MAN: They’ve walked right past the food, in a long long line.
WOMAN: They’re circling us.
MAN: Do you think?
WOMAN: They’re coming up the hill. They’re circling us.
MAN: Seems to be.
WOMAN: Maybe we’re the food.
MAN: Maybe –
WOMAN: Maybe we’re the food, yes.
MAN: Huh.
It seems to be so.
-
Yes.
It seems to be so. Don’t move, maybe they’ll go away.
(They sit, staring at the ants, frozen in fear, watching the ants approach. It is as if they are hypnotized. Very scary moment. Very softly, the softest words yet.)
WOMAN: Help.
(Still chanting, the ants start crawling up the woman’s arm. MAN and the WOMAN do not move. Lights fade.)
END OF PLAY.
Monday, January 18, 2010
January 17 Play: PLOW PLAY
#17: PLOW PLAY - by Ed Valentine
© January 17, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: A field. MAN 1 holds the yoke and a whip. Whips MAN 2, who pulls the plow across the field.
MAN 1: HEE ya! HEE ya! Git on git on git on.
MAN 2: Going as fast as I can.
MAN 1: More plow, less sass. HEE ya.
(WIFE enters carefully with a precariously balanced tray of drinks. A silent CHILD stands next to her.)
WIFE: Lemonade?
(MAN 2 stops.)
MAN 2: Yes please Ma’am.
MAN 1: Did I say stop?
MAN 2: I’m thirsty. It’s hot.
MAN 1: I’ve told you for the last time!
(MAN 1 beats MAN 2 with the whip. Vicious.)
WIFE: John!
(While MAN 1 beats MAN 2, the CHILD screams a high pitched scream. Eventually, MAN 1 stops beating MAN 2. The moment he does, the CHILD stops screaming. MAN 2 lies on the ground.)
MAN 1: Git up.
MAN 2: No no. No no no.
MAN 1: Git up I say.
(Kicks MAN 2 with boot.)
MAN 2: Can’t git up no more no more.
Can’t git up no more.
ALL: -
WIFE: You’re a damned fool, John. Who’s gonna draw the plow now?
MAN 1: -
(Gives MAN 2 a desultory kick.)
-
(Looks at WIFE.)
?
(Looks at WIFE.)
!
WIFE: Oh-ho! No, Sir! Not for all the wheat in the world. Child, come.
(She exits with CHILD. MAN 1 watches them go. Straps on yoke.)
MAN 1: HEE ya HEE ya.
(Can’t pull.)
Hee ya hee ya. Uh.
(Can’t pull.)
(Snow begins to fall. MAN 1 looks up. MAN 2 sits up, looks at MAN 1.)
MAN 2: Weather’s coming in.
MAN 1: I don’t need a weather report.
Need an Oxman.
-
We’ll starve without. All of us.
MAN 2:
-
Alright. Just till this field is done.
(He puts on the yoke. He knows this isn’t true.)
MAN 1: Alright. Just till then.
(He knows this isn't true, either. Takes his place behind the plow. Whips MAN 2.)
HEE ya, HEE ya.
Hee ya, hee ya.
(MAN 2 pulls the plow effortlessly, turning up dirt, as they head offstage. Lights fade)
END OF PLAY.
© January 17, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: A field. MAN 1 holds the yoke and a whip. Whips MAN 2, who pulls the plow across the field.
MAN 1: HEE ya! HEE ya! Git on git on git on.
MAN 2: Going as fast as I can.
MAN 1: More plow, less sass. HEE ya.
(WIFE enters carefully with a precariously balanced tray of drinks. A silent CHILD stands next to her.)
WIFE: Lemonade?
(MAN 2 stops.)
MAN 2: Yes please Ma’am.
MAN 1: Did I say stop?
MAN 2: I’m thirsty. It’s hot.
MAN 1: I’ve told you for the last time!
(MAN 1 beats MAN 2 with the whip. Vicious.)
WIFE: John!
(While MAN 1 beats MAN 2, the CHILD screams a high pitched scream. Eventually, MAN 1 stops beating MAN 2. The moment he does, the CHILD stops screaming. MAN 2 lies on the ground.)
MAN 1: Git up.
MAN 2: No no. No no no.
MAN 1: Git up I say.
(Kicks MAN 2 with boot.)
MAN 2: Can’t git up no more no more.
Can’t git up no more.
ALL: -
WIFE: You’re a damned fool, John. Who’s gonna draw the plow now?
MAN 1: -
(Gives MAN 2 a desultory kick.)
-
(Looks at WIFE.)
?
(Looks at WIFE.)
!
WIFE: Oh-ho! No, Sir! Not for all the wheat in the world. Child, come.
(She exits with CHILD. MAN 1 watches them go. Straps on yoke.)
MAN 1: HEE ya HEE ya.
(Can’t pull.)
Hee ya hee ya. Uh.
(Can’t pull.)
(Snow begins to fall. MAN 1 looks up. MAN 2 sits up, looks at MAN 1.)
MAN 2: Weather’s coming in.
MAN 1: I don’t need a weather report.
Need an Oxman.
-
We’ll starve without. All of us.
MAN 2:
-
Alright. Just till this field is done.
(He puts on the yoke. He knows this isn’t true.)
MAN 1: Alright. Just till then.
(He knows this isn't true, either. Takes his place behind the plow. Whips MAN 2.)
HEE ya, HEE ya.
Hee ya, hee ya.
(MAN 2 pulls the plow effortlessly, turning up dirt, as they head offstage. Lights fade)
END OF PLAY.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Playnote on #16, and Relief Appeal for Haiti
Of course, the images of suffering in Haiti are on my mind, as well as the impossible idea of fissures in the earth. In no way is this play capable – nor am I, yet, as a writer – of encompassing what’s going on there right now. I can only hope someday to write with enough feeling to capture the true stories of sacrifice and heroism I’ve seen on the news this week.
In the meantime, I’m going to donate what I can to help the people of Haiti. I urge you to donate as well. One resource: THE RED CROSS.
In the meantime, I’m going to donate what I can to help the people of Haiti. I urge you to donate as well. One resource: THE RED CROSS.
January 16 Play: FIELD OF FLOWERS
#16: FIELD OF FLOWERS - by Ed Valentine
© January 16, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: A FIELD OF FLOWERS. A MAN and a WOMAN, apart.
MAN: My love!
WOMAN: My love?
MAN: My love?
WOMAN: My love!
MAN: Babykins?
WOMAN: Honey lamb!
MAN: Sweetie bear?
WOMAN: Schnookums!
MAN: Come here.
WOMAN: You come here.
MAN: No, YOU come here.
WOMAN: No, YOU come here.
-
MAN: Let’s BOTH go there.
WOMAN: Excellent idea!
MAN: I’m coming!
(They both run towards each other. A rumble. A crack opens in the ground, a fissure between them. They cannot cross it. They sit, sadly, on the ground.)
MAN: No no no.
No no no.
WOMAN: This’ll never work, Tom. I told you.
MAN: I know. Don’t you think I know?
(They sit sadly. Lights fade.)
END OF PLAY.
© January 16, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: A FIELD OF FLOWERS. A MAN and a WOMAN, apart.
MAN: My love!
WOMAN: My love?
MAN: My love?
WOMAN: My love!
MAN: Babykins?
WOMAN: Honey lamb!
MAN: Sweetie bear?
WOMAN: Schnookums!
MAN: Come here.
WOMAN: You come here.
MAN: No, YOU come here.
WOMAN: No, YOU come here.
-
MAN: Let’s BOTH go there.
WOMAN: Excellent idea!
MAN: I’m coming!
(They both run towards each other. A rumble. A crack opens in the ground, a fissure between them. They cannot cross it. They sit, sadly, on the ground.)
MAN: No no no.
No no no.
WOMAN: This’ll never work, Tom. I told you.
MAN: I know. Don’t you think I know?
(They sit sadly. Lights fade.)
END OF PLAY.
January 15 Play: DINNER WITH THE DEVIL
#15: DINNER WITH THE DEVIL - by Ed Valentine
© January 15, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP ON A MAN AT A TABLE WITH THE DEVIL. DEVIL’s face is very glossy red, his horns are sharp. Perhaps he’s in evening clothes – a smoking jacket. It’s literally smoking: curls of smoke curl out of the jacket. He has a glass filled with ice and bourbon. His dinner companion, the MAN, is very obese. He digs into a heaping plate of food. He has a glass of beer.
DEVIL: You’re very kind to come over. I really needed someone to talk to.
MAN: (ALWAYS EATING) This canapé is delicious, have you tried the duck?
DEVIL: It’s been hard for me lately.
MAN: You always serve the best food.
DEVIL: The old paradigms just aren’t WORKING for me, I can’t seem to get MOTIVATED. Sure, I do what I do. What I’ve always done. And I’m good at it. Really good at it.
MAN: Yes you are. Olives?
DEVIL: No, thanks. So then why, why is none of it satisfying? Why don’t I take pleasure in anything? I remember the old days, when -
MAN: Look. Look, how long have we known each other?
DEVIL: All your life.
MAN: So take it from me – and really, I mean this from my heart – nothing has changed.
DEVIL: But.
MAN: Nothing has changed.
DEVIL: But.
MAN: Are you listening? Nothing has changed. You’re just thinking about it more.
DEVIL: And.
MAN: Talk talk talk talk talk! What good is talk? Just DO something, for heaven’s sake, and don’t THINK about it. Action is all. ACTION.
(FINISHES ONE LAST MORSEL. WIPES HIS MOUTH.)
Now, what’s for dessert?
DEVIL: You’re right. And gluttony is a sin, bitch.
(DEVIL snaps his fingers. Flames. Many long red-silk-gloved HANDS spring up from beneath the table and drag the MAN, screaming, under.)
He’s right. I DO feel better.
(DEVIL holds his own glass and takes the glass his dinner companion left behind. Clinks ‘em together in a toast.)
To me? To me.
(He drinks from one glass. The HANDS come up and caress him. His jacket smokes. Lights fade.)
END OF PLAY.
© January 15, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP ON A MAN AT A TABLE WITH THE DEVIL. DEVIL’s face is very glossy red, his horns are sharp. Perhaps he’s in evening clothes – a smoking jacket. It’s literally smoking: curls of smoke curl out of the jacket. He has a glass filled with ice and bourbon. His dinner companion, the MAN, is very obese. He digs into a heaping plate of food. He has a glass of beer.
DEVIL: You’re very kind to come over. I really needed someone to talk to.
MAN: (ALWAYS EATING) This canapé is delicious, have you tried the duck?
DEVIL: It’s been hard for me lately.
MAN: You always serve the best food.
DEVIL: The old paradigms just aren’t WORKING for me, I can’t seem to get MOTIVATED. Sure, I do what I do. What I’ve always done. And I’m good at it. Really good at it.
MAN: Yes you are. Olives?
DEVIL: No, thanks. So then why, why is none of it satisfying? Why don’t I take pleasure in anything? I remember the old days, when -
MAN: Look. Look, how long have we known each other?
DEVIL: All your life.
MAN: So take it from me – and really, I mean this from my heart – nothing has changed.
DEVIL: But.
MAN: Nothing has changed.
DEVIL: But.
MAN: Are you listening? Nothing has changed. You’re just thinking about it more.
DEVIL: And.
MAN: Talk talk talk talk talk! What good is talk? Just DO something, for heaven’s sake, and don’t THINK about it. Action is all. ACTION.
(FINISHES ONE LAST MORSEL. WIPES HIS MOUTH.)
Now, what’s for dessert?
DEVIL: You’re right. And gluttony is a sin, bitch.
(DEVIL snaps his fingers. Flames. Many long red-silk-gloved HANDS spring up from beneath the table and drag the MAN, screaming, under.)
He’s right. I DO feel better.
(DEVIL holds his own glass and takes the glass his dinner companion left behind. Clinks ‘em together in a toast.)
To me? To me.
(He drinks from one glass. The HANDS come up and caress him. His jacket smokes. Lights fade.)
END OF PLAY.
January 14 Play: FUGU
(I'm gonna have to type this in when I find the pages I wrote them on. Check back here for this one. Sorry!)
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
January 13 Play: PAYPHONE PLAY
13: DESERT PAYPHONE - by Ed Valentine
© January 13, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP ON ONE SIDE OF THE STAGE: A YOUNG MAN, very dusty, with a dirty backpack, at a phone booth in a desert. A ringing sound, as if through a phone.
HE
Come on, come on…
(Ringing continues. Lights up on the other side, an OLDER WOMAN puts down her crocheting [a Christmas stocking]. She picks up the phone.)
SHE
Hello?
HE
Ma, don’t hang up. It’s me.
SHE
-
Who is this?
HE / SHE
It’s Billy, Momma, don’t you… / I’m sorry you must…
BOTH
-
HE
Sorry?
SHE
I’m sorry, you must have the wrong number.
HE
Oh. Oh God, I’m.
(He’s crying now.)
SHE
That’s okay.
-
That’s.
Are you – nevermind.
HE
I’ll be okay. Thanks.
SHE
There there. I’m sure it’ll be okay.
HE
You’re sure, huh?
(Blows nose.)
I’m sorry. You’re very kind.
SHE
Not always. Alright, well, I’m sorry you didn’t reach –
HE
Wait, no, please. Don’t.
Um.
Just one –
Second, ok? Just one second.
Ok?
SHE
-
It’s your dime.
HE
They don’t cost just a dime anymore.
SHE
I don’t imagine so, no.
HE
I put in all this –
MONEY. Fistfuls of change. And then I got
YOU.
No offense.
SHE
None taken.
HE
You have a son?
SHE
-
HE
Cuz you thought I was your son. At first.
SHE
Had a son.
-
HE
-
SHE
My daughter lives in Tucson, she’s a dental hygienist. She finds it hot there, she’d like to move.
Now I don’t know why I’m telling you that.
HE
I’m glad you did.
RECORDED VOICE
Please deposit fifty cents for the next two minutes.
HE
Damn. Dammit, I’m out.
SHE
You’re –
HE
Out of quarters, all out.
SHE
And what were you going to say?
HE
When?
SHE
When you reached
HER, reached your mother?
HE
Nothing. I was –
I was going to ask if I could come home.
RECORDED VOICE
Please deposit fifty cents for the next two minutes.
HE
I was gonna say, can I come home, Momma?
I been away too long, too long.
I been away too long.
SHE
Uh huh.
HE
But now I’ll never reach her. I’m all outta quarters.
RECORDED VOICE
Deposit fifty cents or your call will be disconnected.
SHE
My two cents?
HE
Yes, ma’am?
SHE
Go home. Just go home.
No matter what you’ve done.
She’ll be glad to see you.
You hear me? You hear?
(A click. Lights out on the YOUNG MAN. A dial tone, as if through a phone far away.)
SHE
Oh.
Okay.
Hope you get where you’re going to, Billy.
(She sits, receiver in hand, looking outward and inward at the same time. Lights fade on the WOMAN.)
END OF PLAY.
© January 13, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP ON ONE SIDE OF THE STAGE: A YOUNG MAN, very dusty, with a dirty backpack, at a phone booth in a desert. A ringing sound, as if through a phone.
HE
Come on, come on…
(Ringing continues. Lights up on the other side, an OLDER WOMAN puts down her crocheting [a Christmas stocking]. She picks up the phone.)
SHE
Hello?
HE
Ma, don’t hang up. It’s me.
SHE
-
Who is this?
HE / SHE
It’s Billy, Momma, don’t you… / I’m sorry you must…
BOTH
-
HE
Sorry?
SHE
I’m sorry, you must have the wrong number.
HE
Oh. Oh God, I’m.
(He’s crying now.)
SHE
That’s okay.
-
That’s.
Are you – nevermind.
HE
I’ll be okay. Thanks.
SHE
There there. I’m sure it’ll be okay.
HE
You’re sure, huh?
(Blows nose.)
I’m sorry. You’re very kind.
SHE
Not always. Alright, well, I’m sorry you didn’t reach –
HE
Wait, no, please. Don’t.
Um.
Just one –
Second, ok? Just one second.
Ok?
SHE
-
It’s your dime.
HE
They don’t cost just a dime anymore.
SHE
I don’t imagine so, no.
HE
I put in all this –
MONEY. Fistfuls of change. And then I got
YOU.
No offense.
SHE
None taken.
HE
You have a son?
SHE
-
HE
Cuz you thought I was your son. At first.
SHE
Had a son.
-
HE
-
SHE
My daughter lives in Tucson, she’s a dental hygienist. She finds it hot there, she’d like to move.
Now I don’t know why I’m telling you that.
HE
I’m glad you did.
RECORDED VOICE
Please deposit fifty cents for the next two minutes.
HE
Damn. Dammit, I’m out.
SHE
You’re –
HE
Out of quarters, all out.
SHE
And what were you going to say?
HE
When?
SHE
When you reached
HER, reached your mother?
HE
Nothing. I was –
I was going to ask if I could come home.
RECORDED VOICE
Please deposit fifty cents for the next two minutes.
HE
I was gonna say, can I come home, Momma?
I been away too long, too long.
I been away too long.
SHE
Uh huh.
HE
But now I’ll never reach her. I’m all outta quarters.
RECORDED VOICE
Deposit fifty cents or your call will be disconnected.
SHE
My two cents?
HE
Yes, ma’am?
SHE
Go home. Just go home.
No matter what you’ve done.
She’ll be glad to see you.
You hear me? You hear?
(A click. Lights out on the YOUNG MAN. A dial tone, as if through a phone far away.)
SHE
Oh.
Okay.
Hope you get where you’re going to, Billy.
(She sits, receiver in hand, looking outward and inward at the same time. Lights fade on the WOMAN.)
END OF PLAY.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Introducing... "DAILY ED": My 'Play a Day' Project!
Happy 2010! This year, please join me online for my latest adventure: I’m writing a short play every day - and posting each and every one of them on this here blog thingie.
I was inspired, of course, by the fabulous Susan-Lori Parks, whose “365 Days/365 Plays” spurred me to write 365 short plays of my own back in 2007. (I’ve written about that play-a-day endeavor before, HERE and HERE.) Ok, ok, that year many of those plays were hastily written in December, when I recommitted to the project after months away from it. At the last minute, I crammed through by writing 6 or 7 plays every day until the end of the year. (But I finished, within seconds of midnight on New Year’s Eve!)
This time, I’m trying to do things a little differently. First, I am committing to writing only ONE play a day, every day of the year. I think there’s something about the daily practice that’s important for my own writing development.
Second, I’m (gulp!) making the work public. “Writing wants to be read,” writes Ariel Gore in her snappy and terrific book, “How to Be a Famous Writer Before You’re Dead.” And I think that’s true: there were times in ’07 when I felt a wee bit like the Belle of Amherst, keeping my private stash of one-page-of-yellow-legal-pad-plays in a folder, for no one’s viewing but my own.
So whether it turns out to be a public sharing, a public spectacle, a public festival, or a public flop… for better or for worse, you’ll find the daily plays at my blog (which you can also access via my website: www.edvalentine.com).
While I hope you’ll enjoy them, I have no idea how they’ll turn out! If you want a taste of them, some of the ones I particularly enjoyed writing so far:
Please feel free to leave or email your comments, too. I’d love to hear your 'likes', 'dislikes', 'thumbs-ups' and 'thumbs-downs', your ‘loves’, and your ‘detests’ - and especially your 'what the heck was THATs???'. Yes, I welcome and love love love to hear your feedback and questions!
So off we go – or, as Tennessee Williams put it: “En Avant!” (“Forward! Onward! Ahead!”) Only 352 days to go. Hope you'll go forward with me this year, as well.
All the best,
Ed
I was inspired, of course, by the fabulous Susan-Lori Parks, whose “365 Days/365 Plays” spurred me to write 365 short plays of my own back in 2007. (I’ve written about that play-a-day endeavor before, HERE and HERE.) Ok, ok, that year many of those plays were hastily written in December, when I recommitted to the project after months away from it. At the last minute, I crammed through by writing 6 or 7 plays every day until the end of the year. (But I finished, within seconds of midnight on New Year’s Eve!)
This time, I’m trying to do things a little differently. First, I am committing to writing only ONE play a day, every day of the year. I think there’s something about the daily practice that’s important for my own writing development.
Second, I’m (gulp!) making the work public. “Writing wants to be read,” writes Ariel Gore in her snappy and terrific book, “How to Be a Famous Writer Before You’re Dead.” And I think that’s true: there were times in ’07 when I felt a wee bit like the Belle of Amherst, keeping my private stash of one-page-of-yellow-legal-pad-plays in a folder, for no one’s viewing but my own.
So whether it turns out to be a public sharing, a public spectacle, a public festival, or a public flop… for better or for worse, you’ll find the daily plays at my blog (which you can also access via my website: www.edvalentine.com).
While I hope you’ll enjoy them, I have no idea how they’ll turn out! If you want a taste of them, some of the ones I particularly enjoyed writing so far:
- Jan 2 (“Under the Sand”)
- Jan 7 (“Seventeen Antonios”)
- Jan 12 - today’s play (“The Beard Play”)
- And especially: Jan 6 (“Rough Beast” – for 3 Kings Day, a Nativity Play gone horribly wrong)
Please feel free to leave or email your comments, too. I’d love to hear your 'likes', 'dislikes', 'thumbs-ups' and 'thumbs-downs', your ‘loves’, and your ‘detests’ - and especially your 'what the heck was THATs???'. Yes, I welcome and love love love to hear your feedback and questions!
So off we go – or, as Tennessee Williams put it: “En Avant!” (“Forward! Onward! Ahead!”) Only 352 days to go. Hope you'll go forward with me this year, as well.
All the best,
Ed
January 12 Play: THE BEARD PLAY
© January 12, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: A MAN in a barber chair, covered with a haircutter's apron. On his face: an absurdly long elaborate beard that winds down toward the floor. Behind him, a mirror. To the side, THE BARBER waits with big sharp scissors.
MAN: Wait.
BARBER: How long?
MAN: One second longer. One and a half.
-
Ready.
(BARBER goes to cut the beard.)
Wait! Not ready.
BARBER: Mister –
MAN: Been a long time.
BARBER: One snip –
MAN: You don’t understand!
BARBER: Try me.
(Leans, sharpens his scissors.)
MAN: We go wayback, my beard and me. Way wayback.
I’m attached to it.
BARBER: Naw. It’s attached to you. There’s a diff’rence. It’s attached to you, see?
(The BEARD rises up like a rattlesnake. Or an anaconda.)
MAN: (Evil voice:) Wanna make something of it?
BARBER: Don’t sass me, son, I got scissors.
(BEARD subsides. Normal voice:)
MAN: Sorry.
-
We go backback. Wayback.
(The BEARD rises like a tentacle and caresses him. Enfolds him.)
This beard been with me through thickthin,
Through thickskin and thin,
Shirts and skins, fast food, fine dining, fast friends,
faster wimmin.
So many wimmin.
So many, so many. So fast.
Through it all, my sticky beard sticks with me.
Wimmin come and go,
But the beard do grow. Man, that beard do grow.
Naw, Friend: can’t cut the Beard.
(Gets up. Takes off the apron. BARBER pushes MAN down into the chair.)
BARBER: Sit down, Son.
(To the BEARD:)
You too.
(Holds up scissors. BEARD rears back, wary.)
Boy, that beard’s no good for you.
Makes you done do things you don’t otherwise do.
MAN: Now, listen -
BARBER: SIT DOWN, I SAY.
Son, I got the scissors. And I know how to use ‘em.
It's for your own good. One. Two. THREE.
(BARBER feints with the scissors, like a fencer. The beard parries him. On the third feint, he thrusts the scissors into the BEARD – which fights him, like a snake. Chokes him, like an anaconda.)
Ain’t – frightened – of YOU!
(As he's being strangled, the BARBER raises the scissors and cuts the BEARD with one big snip. BEARD falls to the ground, in death throes. BARBER steps on it. MAN reacts as if amputated.
MAN: AH! AH!!!
(BARBER turns MAN towards mirror. MAN breathes. Pleased:)
Ahhhh!
(Despondent:)
Ah.
BARBER: There there. We all been through it.
(Feels his own smooth chin.)
Let’s finish your shave.
Buck up, Son: it’s trimmin’ day!
(He hums a merry song. Fur flies. Music up. The BEARD slinks off to die.)
END OF PLAY.
Monday, January 11, 2010
January 11 Play: MEDIUM AND THE MESSAGE
© January 11, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LOW LIGHTS UP: A séance room. A table with a candle and a tambourine. A Ouija board. A MEDIUM sits with her female CLIENT. Dress of the 1860’s.
MEDIUM: I tell you truth: he gone far to other side, yes? That place hard to reach. Understand?
CLIENT: Yes.
MEDIUM: I do not think you understand. Will take all my powers to reach him. Very tiring, verrrry tiring. You understand?
CLIENT: Oh.
(Takes out her purse. Gives coins.)
Here’s a little extra for you, then.
MEDIUM: I thank you, that help a great deal. And now we begin, yes?
(MEDIUM goes into trance. Chants, hums.)
CLIENT: May I ask –
MEDIUM: DO NOT BREAK TRANCE! Mmmmm.
From darkest night to day,
from across the river, far away,
appear on distant shore.
Let her see you once more, once more.
Let her see you once more.
Let her see you!
Let her see you!
Let her see you!
(HER EYES FLY OPEN.)
CLIENT: Is he –
MEDIUM: He is here.
CLIENT: He is?
MEDIUM: Right around us.
CLIENT: He is?
MEDIUM: Give sign.
CLIENT: Where is he?
MEDIUM: Give sign!
(The tambourine rises from the table. Begins to shake. Then, in the darkness upstage, four other tambourines rise and shake. Suddenly they stop.)
You see?
CLIENT: But where is my husband?
MEDIUM: Patience, patience… he will… APPEAR!
(A whispering sound everywhere. The candle blows out.)
CLIENT: Henry!
(In the darkness, a GHOST appears in spectral light.)
That isn’t Henry.
GHOST: No. But I know Henry.
CLIENT: Why didn’t he come?
GHOST: He’s not speaking to you.
CLIENT: But –
GHOST: He says ‘You know why.’ Do you know why?
CLIENT: -
GHOST: Exactly.
MEDIUM: After all these years…
(The GHOST starts to disappear.)
Tell him – tell him I ask for his forgiveness!
GHOST: He won’t give it. I have to go now.
CLIENT: No, wait –
GHOST: I have to go.
(Disappears. The candle flickers back on as at the beginning. The CLIENT and the MEDIUM sit for a moment.)
MEDIUM: Well. Are you… satisfied?
CLIENT: No. Not at all. No.
(With one last look back at where the ghost appeared, she exits, shaking her head.)
MEDIUM: They never are.
(Picks up tambourine. Gives it a little shake.)
Next!
END OF PLAY.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
January 10 Play: REFRIGERATOR
© January 10, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
IN THE DARKNESS: Low lights up on a refrigerator. In front of it, a small square of kitchen linoleum. MOTHER enters in curlers and housecoat and goes towards the 'fridge. When her hand is on the refrigerator handle, a little GIRL appears just outside of the circle of light.
GIRL (In a singsong:)
There’s something evil in my fridge,
There’s something evil in my fridge,
There’s something evil in my fridge,
And I know what it is.
MOTHER
How do you know?
GIRL
I can smell it.
MOTHER
And you’re sure?
GIRL
Don’t go in there.
MOTHER
But darling, I’m hungry. I’m so so hungry.
GIRL (Shrugs:)
Do what you will, then.
(MOTHER hesitates. Agonizes. Decides.)
MOTHER
You’re being ridiculous. I’m just going in for a bite, dear, can't you see I’m starving?
(She opens the door of the ‘fridge. Blinding light bursts forth and a tentacle thrusts out and grabs her. Drags her in, screaming. The door shuts. Silence.)
GIRL
He’s hungry too. Goodnight, Mother.
(She turns and walks away into the darkness. The refrigerator door opens. The thing inside spits out Mother’s curlers onto the linoleum floor. The door shuts. Hold. Lights fade.)
END OF PLAY.
January 9 Play: AT THE EDGE OF THE BLACKDARK SEA
© January 9, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: A seascape. A rock. A ruined rowboat. A CAPTAIN in a black hat and a black oilcoat waits, looking out to sea, holding a wicked-looking harpoon. TWO WOMEN in white dresses of the 1890’s stand apart, watching the Captain. They carry clambaskets.
OLDER WOMAN: That’s him.
YOUNGER WOMAN: That’s who?
OLDER: Captain. Captain Black.
YOUNGER: Do they call him so because he’s dressed in black?
OLDER: Don’t be a fool. They call him so because that’s his name.
YOUNGER: Oh.
OLDER: And even if that wasn’t his name, we from the town would call him Cap’n Black.
YOUNGER: Why?
OLDER: Don’t be a fool, I say! Because he’s dressed in black. Black is his heart, black is his mood. Black is his story and black are his eyes when fixed upon the blackdark sea.
YOUNGER: Why stares he off so, so fixed and fearsome?
OLDER: You aren’t from around these parts, are you?
YOUNGER: I’d like to know anyway.
OLDER: No one knows! ‘Tis a great mystery around this island.
YOUNGER: He out here every day?
OLDER: He ain’t. What a silly question from a silly birdie. He ain’t out here every day, but only when the water is peculiar glassy and calm. An obsidian mirror.
(CAPTAIN BLACK mutters something unintelligible.)
YOUNGER: He’s saying something.
OLDER: Most likely.
YOUNGER: What says he?
OLDER: Who knows? Wouldn’t be polite to listen, now, would it? We here tend to let ‘im be. God makes all kinds, you know. God makes all kinds, and best to let ‘em be.
(Still, OLDER steers YOUNGER closer to the Captain. She tries to listen to his muttering, perhaps with an ear trumpet.)
YOUNGER: And he never moves?
OLDER: Never, not when he’s in this state. Then he goes back to his shanty on the shore, covered in oil paper and fishguts to keep out the cold. And he stands in the doorway, and glowers at the world as he shuts the door. Well, don’t stare, child! Best to let ‘im be. He’s cracked in the head, he is. Give him the peace of the sea.
CAPTAIN BLACK: OH!
YOUNGER: He stirs!
OLDER: Indeed.
YOUNGER: He starts!
OLDER: How strange!
(CAPTAIN most agitated. He points out to sea with his harpoon.)
YOUNGER: Captain Black! Captain Black!
CAPTAIN: Can ye see it there? Ye see it, ye lubbers, ye sandloving fools, ye children of the earth? Ye see it? ‘Tis there, there, and there! In the water, thrashing!
(Far off in the water, tentacles rise and unfurl, snatching a seagull out of the air.)
OLDER & YOUNGER: OH!
CAPTAIN: I come, ye Thing! I come, Leviathan! I come, wet Lucifer, many-legged sea-Satan! I come to ye! I come, I come!
(He throws off his hat and oilcoat and starts into the sea. YOUNGER screams and rushes to him, trying to hold him back. OLDER pulls YOUNGER off the CAPTAIN, who shakes her loose. And goes into the water.)
YOUNGER: Why did you let him go? He’ll die out there!
OLDER: Yes he will.
(A thrashing in the water. A gout of blood, then silence. The Captain is gone, and the two WOMEN alone on the beach. OLDER brushes sand off her dress. YOUNGER is destroyed, looking out to sea as the water turns red.)
YOUNGER: He’s lost, lost at sea.
OLDER: Serves him right.
YOUNGER: How can ye be so heartless?
OLDER: Say what you will, serves ‘im well.
YOUNGER: How can ye be so cold?
OLDER: ‘Tis not cold, girl, not heartless. He met the end he wanted. Do ye see? He met death as a man, not a watcher. And so live and so die the men who dance with Leviathan. Now come girl. There’s chowder to be made. Come, girl.
(She shoulders her huge heavy basket of clams. YOUNGER picks up the Captain’s black hat and oilcoat. Regards them. OLDER watches, concerned for the first time:)
OLDER: Did ye hear me, Girl?
(YOUNGER puts on the Captain’s coat and hat. Watches in the same place and same manner as he did at the beginning of the play. Very concerned.)
OLDER: Girl?
(Tableaux.)
END OF PLAY.
January 8 Play: WEED IN THE LILLIES
© January 8, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: A drawing room with a fire burning in a fireplace. A large group of RELATIVES of all ages, clustered around the corpse of a very old man laid out on a bier, surrounded by lilies. The relatives all wear formal black Victorian mourning clothing. One WOMAN, in a veil, leans against the mantel, drinking sherry.)
A RELATIVE: Poor dear. Finally dead.
WOMAN: I wouldn’t count on it.
A RELATIVE: Why not?
WOMAN: We’ve been wrong before.
A RELATIVE: He looks dead.
WOMAN: He was never very lifelike.
A RELATIVE: But he stinks so!
WOMAN: That, too, is no proof. In life he was often odiferous.
A RELATIVE: He’s not breathing.
WOMAN: Oh ho! He’d have you fooled, then. I understand, of course, I’ve been fooled before. There were plenty of nights I looked at him, listened, sniffed. Pressed his chest. Prayed.
A RELATIVE: And God always answered your prayers for his health!
WOMAN: (Snorts:) I wasn’t praying for his health. So many nights. So many nights. He fooled me, fooled me, always fooled me. I shan’t be fooled again.
(She takes a poker from the fireplace.)
Who’s going to do it?
A RELATIVE: It seems brutal.
WOMAN: And yet.
A RELATIVE: Unnecessary.
WOMAN: And yet.
RELATIVES, VARIOUSLY:
What if he never dies?
What if he never dies and we never get his
Money
His paintings
His fields
His gardens
His cows
His bonds
His corgis
His ships
His seeds
His golden sarcophagi
His crocks full of antique gold?
WOMAN: See? That’s just it. He’ll never die. Never. Die. And if he never dies, we can never be free. Do you see? Do you see?
(Brandishes the poker. Goes to stab the corpse. Can’t do it.)
YOU do it.
(Hands the poker to a RELATIVE… who hands it off to another… and another… and another. The last in line throws the poker to the corner.)
A RELATIVE: No! There’s a better way. Call in a doctor!
ALL RELATIVES, EXCEPT THE WOMAN: Yes, yes! Call in a doctor! Call in a doctor!
(ONE RELATIVE opens the door. The DOCTOR enters, and stethoscopes the corpse as all the relatives press in. Listens. Listens. Finally, shakes his head as he takes out of his black bag a black priestly stole. Puts the stole around his neck.)
WOMAN: At last! At last!
DOCTOR: (Intoning.) By the power vested in me by the sanctity of my profession, I hereby pronounce this gentleman –
(The CORPSE leaps up.)
CORPSE: GOTCHA! Fooled ye again!
(Dances on the bier. Flings lilies at the relatives.)
Fooled YE. And fooled YE. And fooled YE and YE and YE.
(To the WOMAN:)
And I even fooled YE. How about that?
WOMAN: Well, I suppose you can all go now. I’ll see you all tomorrow when we’ll do this all again. Thank you for coming.
(She opens the door and ushers the RELATIVES and the DOCTOR out. Shuts the door. The former CORPSE draws close to her.)
CORPSE: Ye’ll never get me in the ground. Never! Isn’t that right,
Mehitabel?
WOMAN: That’s right, Daddy. Daddy’s always right.
(He gives the WOMAN a lily. She turns the gaslamps off. The fire turns the room red and casts strange shadows. Fire noise up.)
END OF PLAY.
January 7 Play: SEVENTEEN ANTONIOS
© January 7, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: Dawn. A Spanish plaza. ANTONIO playing guitar. Above, a balcony. OLD HIERONYMO looks down at Antonio.
OLD HIERONYMO: Ugh! YOU again.
(Calls off.)
Estella!
ESTELLA (off): Yes, Papa?
OLD HIERONYMO: It’s him again.
ESTELLA (off:) Ugh!
(OLD HIERONYMO goes inside. ESTELLA enters on the balcony. Sees Antonio. Folds her arms.)
ESTELLA: I told you to stop this, Antonio.
ANTONIO: I thought you’d be flattered by my persistence.
ESTELLA: I’m not.
ANTONIO: Come on. Just a little bit.
ESTELLA: I find it disturbing. Just when I’m enjoying the smell of the morning, you cram my house full of roses. Just when I’m enjoying the quiet, you cram my ears full of sound. And you play guitar like a donkey.
ANTONIO: Well, you haven’t heard anything yet!
(ANTONIO gives a flourish on the guitar. SIXTEEN OTHER ANTONIOS, all identically dressed, all enter carrying guitars. Together, they all play a flourish.)
See?
ESTELLA: Who are they?
ANTONIO: They’re me, of course! I hired the village necromancer. He grew them from a lock of my hair, a scraping of skin from the underside of my heel, and from yeast mold in a test tube. Now doesn’t THAT impress you?
ESTELLA: Not really. You’ve made it worse. If I don’t love one of you, how am I to love seventeen Antonios?
ANTONIO: (Sings as the OTHER ANTONIOS strum.)
Lovely Estella! My morning star!
There’s no need to be lonely-o!
My star-shaped flower,
Come down from your tower.
And you’ll never be without your Antonio!
OTHER ANTONIOS: (echoing) Antonio, Antonio, Antonio!
(They all throw a single rose on the balcony. She is pelted, and covered.)
ESTELLA: Your roses have thorns.
ANTONIO: And my love has petals! So what say you to our proposal?
ESTELLA: There’s only one thing to do. I shall stay inside for the rest of my life, as if in a nunnery. Forever, farewell.
(ESTELLA exits inside. As one body, ALL THE ANTONIOS moan. The sun travels across the sky through the following.)
ALL THE ANTONIOS: NO!
(They all fall on their knees. Sung:)
Estella!
(Identical gesture of despair. Sung:)
Estella!
(Identical gesture of supplication, arm flung wide. Sung:)
ESTELLA!
(Quietly. Sung:)
Estella.
(The sun sets.)
ANTONIO: Don’t worry, intrepid men. Give it time, she’s sure to crack. We’ll come back tomorrow.
(ANTONIO plays one flourish and begins to exit. One by one, then in groups of twos and threes, the OTHER ANTONIOS play a flourish and follow him off.)
(As the Final Antonio is walking away, ESTELLA comes out on the balcony in the moonlight. Picks up one rose and inhales its odor. Watches the Antonios go. After the last Antonio disappears, she throws the one rose down to the plaza. And exits.)
END OF PLAY.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
January 6 Play: ROUGH BEAST
(A SHORT, DARK PLAY FOR 3 KINGS DAY)
© January 6, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: A scene like a children’s Nativity pageant. The exterior of a rough wooden barn under a starry sky, with one crystalline star bigger and brighter than the others.
3 KINGS arrive from the East, bearing gifts. Perhaps “We Three Kings” plays softly underneath, or perhaps this whole thing is sung to an original score.
KING BALTHASAR (BALTHASAR)
This must be the place!
KING 2 (MELCHIOR)
This must be the place!
KING 3 (KASPAR)
This must be the place the stars have foretold.
BALTHASAR
I have brought Frankincense.
MELCHIOR
I, Myrrh.
KASPAR
I, Gold.
ALL 3
Open up! Open up! Open up!
(The barn opens up like a Christmas card to reveal the manger scene. THE VIRGIN and JOSEPH are around the manger, surrounded by lambs and cows. Perhaps they are played by children. There is something swaddled in the manger.)
ALL 3
We greet thee! We greet thee! We greet thee!
BALTHASAR
I, Balthasar.
MELCHIOR
I, Melchior.
KASPAR
And Kaspar, I.
We followed the signs we saw in the sky.
BALTHASAR
The sky has begotten a little stranger.
MELCHIOR
And tribute we bring here to lay at thy manger.
(Each kneels as he presents his gift, singing grandly:)
KASPAR
We bring Gold!
BALTHASAR
Frankincense!
MELCHIOR
And Myrrh!
ALL 3
AAH!
VIRGIN
Kind you are, ye Magi three.
Would you see the Lord’s baby?
ALL 3
We would! We would! We would!
VIRGIN
I am the handmaiden of the Lord.
Behold.
(Serenely, she lifts the cloth from the thing in the manger. Music snaps out. An acid green light shines forth from the crib onto the KINGS, casting their shadows onto the back wall.)
(At the sight of the thing in the manger, the KINGS stand, confused and stricken: BALTHASAR cannot look away, MELCHIOR peers at the manger through his fingers, KASPAR gets ill.) (*NOTE: perhaps give the impression that that something has gone terribly wrong in the pageant, and that the actors playing the KINGS are genuinely struck dumb by what they see.)
BALTHASAR
What is this?
(A slow sound: something dripping. Then A RENAISSANCE ANGEL WITH A HEAD OF A DOG appears in the sky.)
DOG FACED ANGEL (spoken:)
Noel.
(JOSEPH turns away, shaking his head. The ANGEL sways back and forth in the sky for a long time.)
END OF PLAY.
January 5 Play: PEELERS (1)
© January 5, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: A desert. Hot sun beats down. Two SISTERS in pioneer garb, each at a chair with a metal bucket of by her side. CINDA VIOLET is older, LULABELLE ROSE is younger. Each has a mound of carrots in her lap, and she shucks off their skins with a wicked-looking metal peeler. CINDA wears her bonnet so her face is in shadow. LULABELLE wears her bonnet down around her neck.
BOTH
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10.
(Breath.) (Breath.)
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10.
(Breath.)
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10.
(Breath.) (Breath.)
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10.
(Breath.)
(From offstage, a loud steam whistle. Both sisters shake out their hands.)
CINDA: You’re not fast enough, sister, nowhere near.
LULABELLE: My hands weren’t made for this.
CINDA: Oh, the Queen of Sheba.
LULABELLE: They weren’t and you know it.
CINDA: Oh, the Queen of France.
LULABELLE: They were made for working lace. Nobody could turn the lace like me.
CINDA: And look at you now. All thumbs. Aaaallll thumbs.
LULABELLE: Lacework isn’t peeling.
CINDA: Break’s almost over. Strap on your peeler and get ready. You got no reason to put on airs, you.
(LULABELLE wipes sweat off her face.)
LULABELLE: Someday, Sister.
CINDA: Someday what?
LULABELLE: Someday I’m gonna put this peeler right through your eye. Someday when you least expect it.
CINDA: Well.
(Flicks an imaginary peel from her apron.)
I’d like you see you try.
(Offstage, a second loud whistle. Instantly, they grab up peelers and whip back to their work.)
BOTH
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10.
(Breath.) (Breath.)
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10.
(Breath.)
(Peeling, counting, breaths continue as lights fade.)
END OF PLAY.
Monday, January 4, 2010
My "Fantastic Mr. Fox" review
January 4 Play: IN THE MOONSLIGHT
© January 4, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: Full moon visible outside. A WOMAN sits in a hardbacked chair in a shaft of moonlight that falls from a high window.
The woman has a distraught, destroyed appearance. Obsessively pulls at a loose strand of hair. Her focus: far away, squinting.
WOMAN
She goes towards the light.
He goes away from the light.
She goes closer to the darkened field.
He goes into the field.
She says, why have you come here, and where are you going?
He says: nothing.
She answers, give me an answer.
He answers nothing.
Give me an answer.
Give me an answer.
Give me an answer.
Give me an answer.
Give me an answer.
Give me an answer.
Give me – He says, the old words don’t work.
He slurs it.
She stops.
She says, wait: did you say ‘the old words don’t work’ or ‘the old worlds don’t work’?
He stops.
He says: does it matter?
-
-
-
And with that he begins to walk away from the light again,
into the darkened field.
He walks away from the light.
He walks away from the light.
She never sees him
Again.
(She quiets. Stands. Regards the audience directly for the first time. Then walks backward into darkness. Silence for a moment.)
END OF PLAY.
January 3 Play: VERSAILLES
© January 3, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: Versailles. Hall of Mirrors. A table piled high with cakes. Two WOMEN sit, wearing absurdly tall candy-colored wigs.
1: Tea?
(Pours.)
You ask about my husband. My husband is off riding today.
2: “Riding.”
(Stifles a snicker.)
1: Meaning?
2: “Riding.” So you think.
1: -
2: So he tells you.
1: So that’s how we’re going to play this, is it, dear?
2: Play? I don’t know what you mean. Play?
1: (Mocking, mean:) “Play? I don’t know what you mean. Play?”
2: No need to –
1: You know exactly what I mean.
2: I’m simply trying -
1: You are trying. You try my patience. Good day.
2: You needed to know, if you didn’t know.
1: Good day, Madame.
(2 rises.)
2: Good day, yourself.
(2 goes to leave. 1 stops her with her voice.)
1: He IS riding. I laugh at your insinuations, your feeble attempt to – to… He IS riding.
2: But whom is he riding? That is the question.
1: GET OUT.
(1 flings a bouquet from the table at 2. Misses. 2 exits. A beat. 1, flustered, rings a bell-pull.)
Marie? Marie?
(MARIE, a maid, enters.)
MARIE: Madame?
1: Where is my husband?
(MARIE looks away.)
Where?
MARIE: Riding, Madame.
1: Where?
MARIE: Riding. Riding.
(1 sits, crushed. Long fade out.)
END OF PLAY.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
My review of "Nine"
January 2 Play: UNDER THE SAND
© January 2,2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: A desert. A cactus. Under a moon. A MAN scrabbles through the sand. A COYOTE watches.
MAN: It was here, I know it was here.
COYOTE: You sure it was here, amigo?
MAN: By the cactus. Yes!
COYOTE: It’s a big desert. There’s a lot of cactus.
MAN: Still.
(MAN digs. COYOTE watches.)
COYOTE: How do you know I didn’t eat it? Dig it up, eat it up, swallow it whole?
MAN: You didn’t.
COYOTE: I could’ve.
MAN: But you didn’t.
COYOTE: How do you know.
MAN: You still look hungry.
COYOTE: Don’t go by that, pal! A coyote’s always hungry.
(MAN keeps digging.)
When you find it, I’ll snatch it from your hand.
MAN: Oh will you?
COYOTE: I will, I’ll snatch it in my teeth, clamp down, and run across the desert. I’ll run across the desert with that thing in my mouth, spouting gouts of blood until I’m far away from you.
MAN: Maybe, maybe not.
COYOTE: Then I’ll eat it. Then I’ll howl. Like this:
(Howls.)
And you’ll be there. Bereft.
MAN: I’m gonna find it anyway.
COYOTE: Maybe, maybe not. You close?
MAN: Mm?
COYOTE: Are. You. Close?
MAN: Closer and closer and… ah.
(He digs out a wet bleeding pumping human heart.)
I knew it! I knew it was here! So.
(Regards COYOTE. COYOTE regards him. MAN takes out a knife. Very serious, low, mean:)
COYOTE: I admire your tenacity. But I’ll take that now, compadre.
MAN: I’ll fight you for it.
COYOTE: To the death?
MAN: To one of our deaths.
COYOTE: Well then, be as it may.
(Standoff. A long one.)
GO!
(They lunge. Lights out.)
END OF PLAY.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Happy New Year! And... Play #1: TIDINGS
1: TIDINGS - by Ed Valentine
© January 1, 2010 * ed@edvalentine.com
LIGHTS UP: A WOMAN sits, surrounded by papers. Piles, mountains, mounds, of papers. Her hands are smudged with ink and she types furiously on a calculator.
WOMAN: O. O o o o o O. Carry the seven seven times seven and on and on and…
(Types. Types. Murmurs. The paper spews out wildly from the calculator. WOMAN screams. Then, a small blue ANGEL descends.)
ANGEL: Tidings!
WOMAN: Yes.
ANGEL: And –
WOMAN: Yes?
ANGEL: Tidy-ings.
WOMAN: Yes? YES.
(She shoves the huge stacks of paper offstage in 3 great shoves. The stage is clear. The sky-scrim is blue night. The ANGEL smiles.)
And?
ANGEL: Yes. Now it can begin.
(Clears throat, shakes wings. Sings:)
Aaaah!
(The ANGEL is joined by other ANGELS. Or maybe just their voices.)
ALL ANGELS: AAAAH!!!
(They sing the sun up. The dawn brightens. A new year begins.)
END OF PLAY.
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