It's only a week and a day until I say goodbye to UST! And with all the stress that's been surrounding me here lately, it can't come at a better time. But I won't go into that. . . I'll go into my scenes for playwriting instead!
For our final portfolio we have to turn in a 10 minute play, a monologue, and a dialogue. I'm pretty much done with all of them, just putting the final touches. My dialogue is something I'm revamping that I've worked on in the past. It's a conversation between two boys who have to make the decision to kill a dying cat to put it out of its misery. The monologue is given by a 40-some year old Denny's manager who is absolutely obsessed with the amazing-ness of her job and is trying to convince a young waiter how lucky he is to work at Denny's. In reality, she is incredibly unhappy and dissatisfied with the way her life turned out.
The 10 minute play follows 4 characters: Peter, Jake, Rebecca, and Robin. The piece is basically a commentary on today's society's need to accomplish something memorable. I'm a bit unsure as to whether enough happens in the play, but at the same time, the focus of the play is that Jake wants to "Do" something important, but really accomplishes nothing in the play. Rebecca can almost be seen as Jake's historian--she follows him everywhere to take pictures of his "Do-ing", but in reality, the pictures are evidence that nothing ever gets accomplished. Peter always seems dumbfounded by the whole "Do-ing" aspect, and doesn't know where to fall. But in reality, in the end, he and Robin together "Do" more without even trying. . . they end up "accomplishing and Do-ing" by having a great moment together, talking and revealing more about themselves. The play ends with Peter reciting a poem he wrote (I'm not sure if this is a cop-out on my part since I'm a poet and not a playwriter, but whatever) that is within the same vein ramble given earlier by a drunk Jake. The ramble, however, was nonsensical and meaningless, whereas Peter's poem is effective and moving. It "Does" something.
To juxtapose the two, here is the scene of the ramble with Jake:
PETER
But I don't want to fuck Robin. I mean, well, not right now.
(Peter seems to consider this for awhile.)
Jake, do you really think you're going to be famous?
JAKE
Fuck, man. You're such a downer.
PETER
I'm sorry. You know, I listened to some of those tapes you made. . . the ones you made when you were high.
JAKE
Oh yeah! Was your mind blown?
PETER
Uh. Well. I dunno. You sorta just went on about trees for a half hour.
JAKE
Dude, you totally didn't get it. Look. . . we breathe trees, right?
PETER
We don't really breathe trees. . . I mean, they give off oxygen. . .
JAKE
Whatever, we breathe trees. So it's kinda like we're
fucking them, like when you're fucking a girl and you start breathing
in the air she's huffing out. And it recharges you cause it's so hot
and sexy and it makes you feel alive! It's like we're fucking trees all
day long! Can you picture it? All these people just fucking trees all
day long!
PETER
Uh. . .
(Jake jumps up off the ground, grabs his acoustic guitar, and screams.)
JAKE
Fuck, take me somewhere. I gotta get out of here.
PETER
What?
JAKE
Drive me somewhere! Blindfolded! Anywhere. Take me somewhere and drop me off so I’ll have no choice but to do. So I have no way of getting back.
----
Okay, so here's the scene with Peter at the end of the play that comes off that rant.
ROBIN
Okay. Actually. . . I'd like to hear one of your poems. You know, if you don't mind.
PETER
Really?
ROBIN
Yeah.
PETER
Well. . . okay.
(Peter reaches into his pocket and pulls out a miniature notepad. He flips it open.)
I guess I'll read you this one. I wrote it yesterday.
It's called Tree, but I don't really like that title. I might change
it. Okay. . .
In a way, you are a tree.
The scars on your arms are initials
carved by lovers too young
to realize it’s all red wine in a cup
drunk slowly to forget the plastic.
Your hair is willow strands after a storm,
strung and stuck together like wet
ropes my fingers comb and separate
until my skin sweeping your hair screams
like the Sharpie you always carry,
almost dry as you continue to push
onto the envelope to write the address
of a city you’ve never been to, but one day
you’ll root your feet and eyelashes and sap
into that city’s soil, which we’ll call my breath.
I will add to your rings, and your body
will tangle into me, the sweetness of mulch
in the air everyone considers rotten.
(Pause.)
I don't know. I don't know if it's any good.
(Robin leans over and puts a hand on Peter's thigh. Lights fade.)
----
I'll be the first to say that I'm not happy with the ending (Robin putting her hand on his thigh and the lights fading). But I'm at a loss as to where to go with it. . . so for now, that's the ending. For now.
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