(no subject)
hey guys. found the momolouges that we wrote in english for our final (emailed them to myself. woohoo.), and felt like posting. they're from the chairs. so if you're bored, read and comment. i send my love.
This is spoken by Semiramis’ son, though it is never stated exactly as to whether he exists or not. He says after running away from his parents because of the dead birds. He’s sitting in a granite alcove on the edges of the city and its grey and ashy all around him. He is seated on the ground, back leaning against the wall corners, with his legs bent up in front of him. He speaks half to himself, and half to a dead pigeon lying on the ground diagonally in front of him. As he speaks, his voice grows frantic and he gestures wildly with his arms and body.
Their fault- killed the birds with these stones of Parisian rock, red giants towering above, who brought the city to their knees, laughing as wrath destroyed winged hopes in the air. They they slaughter, they-eyes-they-fallen. They- indescribable. So dark, so old, coldcoldcold: feathers matted, I killed her, I left them. No help, they couldn’t see. And I ran, I called the rain, and the world spun and away they went; their pairs in twos and I was mono- I was soul, I was sole. And she cried and she cried and he kept searching, kept digging, and I ran and the granite turned to steel and twisted into worlds beyond as the sky fell red and the world turned dark and they winked at me, my reflection in their dead eyes, upside-down. And here I am, and only you can hear me- I see you nod your head- and I can’t understand, nothing makes sense and it keeps going round and round and round and round and round and round and round and round and it won’t stop and- make it stop! I’m so scared, why won’t it end- why are you all dead? Fly, fly away, go somewhere safe, go home, hide in a cave, they’ve betrayed us. Take me with you, I’ll fly too, just take me away, make me gone: they won’t remember me anyway. Goodbye, goodbye….
Semiramis is in the midst of telling the Photo-engraver about her son and his leaving her and her husband. When she’s done, her eyes go unfocused, and she stares at a wall, as if seeing a memory come to life. She freezes in this place, on hand on a chair, unmoving. In her head, she relives the ordeal in head, several times over.
“It happened in Pais, in Paris that day…Paris. Yes, that was it-Paris. The birds were dead, blood all around; corpses on wings, flying through the air. And he screamed and he raved, “responsible,”…onsible...respon…NO I’M NOT. I was his mother, I didn’t betray him-m-m-m. Not my fault; dead birds take wing on their own fate. And the sky grew dark, darker than it’d been for hours three, and the thunder crashed and the wind blew and everything was spinning, spinning, and he backed away. And the birds’ eyes turned red and everything was miscoloured, and I screamed after him, “My son, my child, my son, my child,” and he ran, never looked back. And I couldn’t save him as he vanished into the stones and the doors and the red, and the birds laughed as the rain took us all away.”
The old man is speaking to Belle, whom isn’t listening very intently. He gestures wildly as he tells his story aloud, growing quieter and more still as his memory takes him back and back, years and bygones. Eventually, his arms settle and his gaze remains on the ground, near Belle’s feet. As his voice drifts off and eventually ceases, he recounts to himself the story and blame he’d held close for years.
“And hi, hi rocks falling from the sky, Paris crumbling, fallen - three days dead on the ground. And the water came and our ice-wet bones were dry, the rain sweeping us away as thunder voices from the sky enveloped all light. And my mother was dead, I’d killed her and buried her- all sons kill their mothers in abandonment and disregard. I couldn’t save her and the fault was mine, and when I reached she wasn’t there and I fell. I searched, earched, guilted blood fingers churning the earth, the decay, those that had chosen a ball over a matron saint, my Miriam. A ball, a nall, a ball, a baiel; danced to her death as the earth burst and my world erupted and I was never the same. I never forgot, and everyone pushes me to the side, declaring me forgotten. Empty ghost hands where she had lain, and the planet kept turning and people kept breathing and I was dying in a ditch, alone in crypt broken open by human hands. I take the blame, solely my cross to bear, to drop, to hold- no help, mine. My fault, she’s gone, she echoes in my head, “Don’t forget me, don’t forget me…” They- no, I. I- yes, they-all…blame…me..fault..I…fail to arise…my fault…no…mine.”
so, ya think i could be the next beckett?