(no subject)
Eulogy.
My purpose without a cure, when i stop to contemplate the cold hard facts of...
this isn't hapening
this isn't happening.
You look like you Saw a ghost my dear, two havlves of the same shell, ghost. A figment ghost. My ghost.
This is a...
a...
another Anne for the disection of the eyes. Please eat your fill but don't touch.
Curtain opens upon an empty stage. DEATH strolls onto front right stage casually. He is wearing a pristeen black suit with a white rose boutonnierer. The lights slowly dim until total darkness as a spotlight spontaniously rises upon him.
Death: Lifes purpose? I don’t know that there is one, really. And frankly, it is not a question that is crutial to my job, (AKA, Black Angel of the Underworld, the Guardian of the Styx, The Croaker, The Kicked Bucket…Brad Pitt) and I find no reason for you mortals to rattle your brains like the hand of a High Roller in Vegas in a constipated thought-strain for the answer, either Is it really so vitally important that you should dedicate your already menial lifespan in persuit of an answer to a question related entirely for the logic in that which you are waisting? Humans. Your all desperate, rather illogical creatures. And frankly…sometimes you scare me.
Why don’t you try to find logic in my existance at this moment. Hm? I, the being of your timely end, the coup de grace to all your sniveling woes. If you convince yourself that right now, right before you, on this physical plane, I do not stand here as a becon of my existance, will your perception prove itself true, and I blink back into the matterless reality from wence I came? Or, in a fit of inability to have proved itself correct, will your mind awash itself in a cleansing act of defense, justify me, create new reasons for me, make yourself a new brand of truths to compensate, though I might, still, be nothing more than your illusion?
Beyond your limited expanse is the unconscious world, a heaping mass of truths and perceptions, all boiled down to a depth of fecal worth. Whats it for? To be discovered, upon a later date in the rolling continuum of your species? As the garden of enigmatic knowledge kept souly for the childish devise of a solitary Divine being? What’s the point in questioning your worth or purpose. All you know for truth is your reality, all you can do is trust it.In the infamous words of Mrs. Hunt, ‘Life…is but a dream." And you are just waking up.
DEATH’s hand stretches back to indicate stage left, behind him, where now another spotlight opens to reveal WOMAN, even as the spotlight on DEATH fades compleately. WOMAN is laying on her back on a couch, asleep. Hand facing the audience is limp over the couch’s edge and holding an empty bottle of caffeine tablets, which clatters to the floor as she suddenly sits up, panting, looking around wildly, before throwing feet over the edge of the bed.
Woman: Oh…God…it- it was just a dream. She looks around the room again gloomily.Oh, my head…picks up bottle . What the hell…? Empty. Shit. And I don’t think my insurance covers compleate brain transplants for an I-Did-An-Oops-And-Swallowed-Half-A-Bottle-Of-YellowJackets-While-Depressed liability…
Front Center stage a spotlight now focuses on FIGMENT, a woman dressed in an airy white dress with several thin white wraps about her arms and draped over her head. She is quite beautiful. At the same time, the spotlight on WOMAN fades compleately.
Figment: Since as far as we remember she has been like this…reaches back to indicate WOMAN, but light is already gone. Faces Audience again. Well, since she started using me as Happy, the Pink Elephant, anyway. After that followed Rolly, the spotted Emu…Dalla, the Vengeful Llama…Jamie, the obsessive male…Leranzo, the sadomasochistic…and…oh, how impolite. It isn’t for me to share what I am used for…after all, our Imaginations and Conscious dreams are our private solaces, the revered cesspool of malformed hopes and unactioned plans for what could be. When we start to loose our inability to think privately, we loose all privledges to the gift of thought.
Offstage, WOMAN groans misrubly. FIGMENT frowns.
I must admit, I don’t think I’ve ever seen us this badly off before…well. Yes, she looks fine, but please believe me, speaking strictly from the neurological center of her entire bodies control, our brain’s about as cooked in deep-frying stimulents as a lobster in Maine. You see, she doesn’t realize how badly we’re off, and therefor is unable to show it. But at an external peek-
Spotlight widens to include WOMAN sitting on floor crosslegged Downstage Left, the bed no longer in sight. WOMAN now has mussed hair, eyes wide and wild, mouth slack, body rocking in a fast, jerking motion, arms hugging herself tightly, now repeating what FIGMENT says, though very slurred and sometimes loud, sometimes soft as a whisper.
Figment: -you know that we are having a…well…slight difficulty in gaining control of ourself.
Lights fades on both WOMAN and FIGMENT, while spotlight opens to reveal DEATH once more, front right stage.
Death: Depression...and such a shame, too, she was getting better. Oh, don’t blame me for it’s existance. I merely cart soals around in my Afterlife Mobile, I don’t push them towards the edge. The way I figure, your already screwed enough as it is without me waisting my time trying to coerce. Though…I must admit, now and again, I do get a sadistic kick or two out of watching a human squirm the way you used to watch the severed limb of a Daddy Long Leg struggle for it’s disconnected nerve endings. It’s about the only form of entertainment I’m permitted, aside from tossing the spirits of Roadkill cats into paper bags and jittering them around abit…
Front Center stage spotlight opens to reveal FIGMENT
Figment:But I thought you wanted souls-
Death: Why you uneducated, assuming little heathen. Are you confusing me with the devil again?
A red spotlight now opens stage left, where WOMAN now enters from.
Woman: I wish you would keep it down. I’m trying to sort through some issues in here…
Death: Ah, here joins our subject now.
Figment: How are you feeling, dear?
Woman: Like I just dunked my brain into a McDonnalds deepfat fryer…and the frys are still floating around in my head.
Death: Might want to try a microwave next time…
Figment: Or Ginsing.
Woman: Now you sound like my mother.
Death: Somehow I doubt your mother would be sublimining you into using a microwave to separate yourself from your problems.
Woman: Sorry, I forgot you didn’t know her…she’s still alive.
Death: She must be charming.
Woman steps up stage to face audience: After the last time, I promised myself I wouldn’t do it again…that somehow, I’de find the will to clean myself up. I guess despite how much I was bitter against society, I felt my brain didn’t dessurve the punishment for it. It was an illogical sequence of abuse, like a wife that cradles away in the corner to hide from her husbands assault, and yet will never break away from it, because somehow…phychologically, she tells herself deep down that she needs it, that she wants, that she can’t survive with him or his abuse. I hate it.
So why do I do it? Well, because simply, I don’t care. Oh, yes yes, I do, in a way…it is human nature to want a belonging. After all, what immortality does one have in this life but by their memory? You all want us to love you.
Pause. Woman continues
But caring about how people judge me for my opinions, well…after life is over, who gives a shit if your recognized for having been the greatest world’s leader in history, or the wallflower who accidentally sneezed on Jimmy Ives, the most popular athlete in High School, while sitting behind him in Economy.
Death: Though you know she cares now…
Woman: I do not!
Figment: You might as well tell them…turns to audience. She likes to think she doesn’t need anybody while still in this coil of humanity…
Woman:That’s irrelevent-
Death: No, my dear, I’m afraid that that is, rather, the most important and beneficial contribution to this argument.
Figment: Who’s arguing?
Death: Oh, do shut up.
Woman: Turns away from the two shades, stepping up stage to face the audience. They were right, I soppose…well, the inphysical anima apparation of Death and myself were, at least. It seemed clear to me that all of this self destruction was a farse. That perhaps it wasn’t humanity I was upset at, but myself…why, though…
Death: Perhaps because your such a failure?
Woman. uneasily: What do you mean?
Death: Well, you’ve been rather mislead throughout the course of your menial existance. Oh, slap some paste sticks and crayons to melt into the hands of an impressionable, grasping snot-ragged five year old with a bumber sticker of College of Bust, and theres a surefire way toward mixing yourself a rather nice future prodegy stew…which entails a spice of hope, a dash of lies, a blindsight to reality…mix it all together, and you’ve got a rather nice young dish for the Everclear and PCP entre. All it takes is a small dosage of injected reality, and their gone.
Woman: I’m not a failure…and theres a lot of kids out there less fucked up than I am.
Death: And if you keep telling yourself that, your just as decietful to yourself as they.
Woman: Fuck you.
Death: Tsk. Tsk. Can you honestly not have noticed the change? The tastelessness, stoic ghostly remains of life…even simple pleasures are tainted with disappointment and nose-diving crashes. Because life doesn’t make sense anymore. Because you see yourself. This epitome of what faith in the prospectful future gets you, of belief in finding a meaning, an existance. Of somehow fitting into life.
Woman, falling to the floor: Stop it, stop it! Stop it!
Figment: If you wanted us to stop, you would stop us. We aren’t real.
Woman: No…but, your talking to me…
Death: Do you really think the Angel of Death would waist time with educating a pitiful creature such as yourself?
Figment: We aren’t real, not like you. Your real, your flesh. Can’t you feel your flesh? Can’t you feel the rush of that exploding pulse?
Woman hides head in arms, curled into a ball.
Still can’t face the truth, can you? You are telling yourself this. You are telling yourself what a worthless shit you are.
Spotlights off of DEATH and FIGTMENT now. Woman looks up with rage, confusion, anguish, and pain, but sees no one.
Woman, after a moment of hesitation: …Hello?…Death? Imagination?
Spotlight now fades, too, on WOMAN. The stage is dark, but WOMAN’s voice can be heard.
Voice of Woman: As a child, I was always filled with the uncharted success of what my future held. I was confident, (Voice of FIGMENT joins in the medly as WOMAN keeps talking) some might say cocky. I didn’t stop to question the fact that I might die prematurely, that I didn’t have a purpose in life…I was lead on, fed by a knowing fire that somewhere, there was a life for me. And even if I didn’t know it yet, I would fall into it like a bear foot in an iron jaw snare.
Voice of Figment (starts talking at WOMAN’s que of "I was confident"): As a child, we were always filled with the uncharted success of what our future held. We were confident, some might say cocky. (Voice of DEATH joins in the medly as WOMAN and FIGMENT keep talking) We didn’t stop to question the fact that we might die prematurely, that we didn’t have a purpose in life…we were lead on, fed by a knowing fire that somewhere, there was a life for us. And even if we didn’t know it yet, we would fall into it like a bear foot in an iron jaw snare. All it took, was a matter of time.
Voice of Death (starts talking at FIGMENT’s que of "some might say cocky."): As a child, she was always filled with the uncharted success of what her future held. She was confident, some might say cocky. She didn’t stop to question the fact that she might die prematurely, that she didn’t have a purpose in life…she was lead on, fed by a knowing fire that somewhere, there was a life for her. And even if she didn’t know it yet, she would fall into it like a bear foot in an iron jaw snare. All it took, was a matter of time. And all she got were the cold, eternalized facts.
My purpose without a cure, when i stop to contemplate the cold hard facts of...
this isn't hapening
this isn't happening.
You look like you Saw a ghost my dear, two havlves of the same shell, ghost. A figment ghost. My ghost.
This is a...
a...
another Anne for the disection of the eyes. Please eat your fill but don't touch.
Curtain opens upon an empty stage. DEATH strolls onto front right stage casually. He is wearing a pristeen black suit with a white rose boutonnierer. The lights slowly dim until total darkness as a spotlight spontaniously rises upon him.
Death: Lifes purpose? I don’t know that there is one, really. And frankly, it is not a question that is crutial to my job, (AKA, Black Angel of the Underworld, the Guardian of the Styx, The Croaker, The Kicked Bucket…Brad Pitt) and I find no reason for you mortals to rattle your brains like the hand of a High Roller in Vegas in a constipated thought-strain for the answer, either Is it really so vitally important that you should dedicate your already menial lifespan in persuit of an answer to a question related entirely for the logic in that which you are waisting? Humans. Your all desperate, rather illogical creatures. And frankly…sometimes you scare me.
Why don’t you try to find logic in my existance at this moment. Hm? I, the being of your timely end, the coup de grace to all your sniveling woes. If you convince yourself that right now, right before you, on this physical plane, I do not stand here as a becon of my existance, will your perception prove itself true, and I blink back into the matterless reality from wence I came? Or, in a fit of inability to have proved itself correct, will your mind awash itself in a cleansing act of defense, justify me, create new reasons for me, make yourself a new brand of truths to compensate, though I might, still, be nothing more than your illusion?
Beyond your limited expanse is the unconscious world, a heaping mass of truths and perceptions, all boiled down to a depth of fecal worth. Whats it for? To be discovered, upon a later date in the rolling continuum of your species? As the garden of enigmatic knowledge kept souly for the childish devise of a solitary Divine being? What’s the point in questioning your worth or purpose. All you know for truth is your reality, all you can do is trust it.In the infamous words of Mrs. Hunt, ‘Life…is but a dream." And you are just waking up.
DEATH’s hand stretches back to indicate stage left, behind him, where now another spotlight opens to reveal WOMAN, even as the spotlight on DEATH fades compleately. WOMAN is laying on her back on a couch, asleep. Hand facing the audience is limp over the couch’s edge and holding an empty bottle of caffeine tablets, which clatters to the floor as she suddenly sits up, panting, looking around wildly, before throwing feet over the edge of the bed.
Woman: Oh…God…it- it was just a dream. She looks around the room again gloomily.Oh, my head…picks up bottle . What the hell…? Empty. Shit. And I don’t think my insurance covers compleate brain transplants for an I-Did-An-Oops-And-Swallowed-Half-A-Bottle-Of-YellowJackets-While-Depressed liability…
Front Center stage a spotlight now focuses on FIGMENT, a woman dressed in an airy white dress with several thin white wraps about her arms and draped over her head. She is quite beautiful. At the same time, the spotlight on WOMAN fades compleately.
Figment: Since as far as we remember she has been like this…reaches back to indicate WOMAN, but light is already gone. Faces Audience again. Well, since she started using me as Happy, the Pink Elephant, anyway. After that followed Rolly, the spotted Emu…Dalla, the Vengeful Llama…Jamie, the obsessive male…Leranzo, the sadomasochistic…and…oh, how impolite. It isn’t for me to share what I am used for…after all, our Imaginations and Conscious dreams are our private solaces, the revered cesspool of malformed hopes and unactioned plans for what could be. When we start to loose our inability to think privately, we loose all privledges to the gift of thought.
Offstage, WOMAN groans misrubly. FIGMENT frowns.
I must admit, I don’t think I’ve ever seen us this badly off before…well. Yes, she looks fine, but please believe me, speaking strictly from the neurological center of her entire bodies control, our brain’s about as cooked in deep-frying stimulents as a lobster in Maine. You see, she doesn’t realize how badly we’re off, and therefor is unable to show it. But at an external peek-
Spotlight widens to include WOMAN sitting on floor crosslegged Downstage Left, the bed no longer in sight. WOMAN now has mussed hair, eyes wide and wild, mouth slack, body rocking in a fast, jerking motion, arms hugging herself tightly, now repeating what FIGMENT says, though very slurred and sometimes loud, sometimes soft as a whisper.
Figment: -you know that we are having a…well…slight difficulty in gaining control of ourself.
Lights fades on both WOMAN and FIGMENT, while spotlight opens to reveal DEATH once more, front right stage.
Death: Depression...and such a shame, too, she was getting better. Oh, don’t blame me for it’s existance. I merely cart soals around in my Afterlife Mobile, I don’t push them towards the edge. The way I figure, your already screwed enough as it is without me waisting my time trying to coerce. Though…I must admit, now and again, I do get a sadistic kick or two out of watching a human squirm the way you used to watch the severed limb of a Daddy Long Leg struggle for it’s disconnected nerve endings. It’s about the only form of entertainment I’m permitted, aside from tossing the spirits of Roadkill cats into paper bags and jittering them around abit…
Front Center stage spotlight opens to reveal FIGMENT
Figment:But I thought you wanted souls-
Death: Why you uneducated, assuming little heathen. Are you confusing me with the devil again?
A red spotlight now opens stage left, where WOMAN now enters from.
Woman: I wish you would keep it down. I’m trying to sort through some issues in here…
Death: Ah, here joins our subject now.
Figment: How are you feeling, dear?
Woman: Like I just dunked my brain into a McDonnalds deepfat fryer…and the frys are still floating around in my head.
Death: Might want to try a microwave next time…
Figment: Or Ginsing.
Woman: Now you sound like my mother.
Death: Somehow I doubt your mother would be sublimining you into using a microwave to separate yourself from your problems.
Woman: Sorry, I forgot you didn’t know her…she’s still alive.
Death: She must be charming.
Woman steps up stage to face audience: After the last time, I promised myself I wouldn’t do it again…that somehow, I’de find the will to clean myself up. I guess despite how much I was bitter against society, I felt my brain didn’t dessurve the punishment for it. It was an illogical sequence of abuse, like a wife that cradles away in the corner to hide from her husbands assault, and yet will never break away from it, because somehow…phychologically, she tells herself deep down that she needs it, that she wants, that she can’t survive with him or his abuse. I hate it.
So why do I do it? Well, because simply, I don’t care. Oh, yes yes, I do, in a way…it is human nature to want a belonging. After all, what immortality does one have in this life but by their memory? You all want us to love you.
Pause. Woman continues
But caring about how people judge me for my opinions, well…after life is over, who gives a shit if your recognized for having been the greatest world’s leader in history, or the wallflower who accidentally sneezed on Jimmy Ives, the most popular athlete in High School, while sitting behind him in Economy.
Death: Though you know she cares now…
Woman: I do not!
Figment: You might as well tell them…turns to audience. She likes to think she doesn’t need anybody while still in this coil of humanity…
Woman:That’s irrelevent-
Death: No, my dear, I’m afraid that that is, rather, the most important and beneficial contribution to this argument.
Figment: Who’s arguing?
Death: Oh, do shut up.
Woman: Turns away from the two shades, stepping up stage to face the audience. They were right, I soppose…well, the inphysical anima apparation of Death and myself were, at least. It seemed clear to me that all of this self destruction was a farse. That perhaps it wasn’t humanity I was upset at, but myself…why, though…
Death: Perhaps because your such a failure?
Woman. uneasily: What do you mean?
Death: Well, you’ve been rather mislead throughout the course of your menial existance. Oh, slap some paste sticks and crayons to melt into the hands of an impressionable, grasping snot-ragged five year old with a bumber sticker of College of Bust, and theres a surefire way toward mixing yourself a rather nice future prodegy stew…which entails a spice of hope, a dash of lies, a blindsight to reality…mix it all together, and you’ve got a rather nice young dish for the Everclear and PCP entre. All it takes is a small dosage of injected reality, and their gone.
Woman: I’m not a failure…and theres a lot of kids out there less fucked up than I am.
Death: And if you keep telling yourself that, your just as decietful to yourself as they.
Woman: Fuck you.
Death: Tsk. Tsk. Can you honestly not have noticed the change? The tastelessness, stoic ghostly remains of life…even simple pleasures are tainted with disappointment and nose-diving crashes. Because life doesn’t make sense anymore. Because you see yourself. This epitome of what faith in the prospectful future gets you, of belief in finding a meaning, an existance. Of somehow fitting into life.
Woman, falling to the floor: Stop it, stop it! Stop it!
Figment: If you wanted us to stop, you would stop us. We aren’t real.
Woman: No…but, your talking to me…
Death: Do you really think the Angel of Death would waist time with educating a pitiful creature such as yourself?
Figment: We aren’t real, not like you. Your real, your flesh. Can’t you feel your flesh? Can’t you feel the rush of that exploding pulse?
Woman hides head in arms, curled into a ball.
Still can’t face the truth, can you? You are telling yourself this. You are telling yourself what a worthless shit you are.
Spotlights off of DEATH and FIGTMENT now. Woman looks up with rage, confusion, anguish, and pain, but sees no one.
Woman, after a moment of hesitation: …Hello?…Death? Imagination?
Spotlight now fades, too, on WOMAN. The stage is dark, but WOMAN’s voice can be heard.
Voice of Woman: As a child, I was always filled with the uncharted success of what my future held. I was confident, (Voice of FIGMENT joins in the medly as WOMAN keeps talking) some might say cocky. I didn’t stop to question the fact that I might die prematurely, that I didn’t have a purpose in life…I was lead on, fed by a knowing fire that somewhere, there was a life for me. And even if I didn’t know it yet, I would fall into it like a bear foot in an iron jaw snare.
Voice of Figment (starts talking at WOMAN’s que of "I was confident"): As a child, we were always filled with the uncharted success of what our future held. We were confident, some might say cocky. (Voice of DEATH joins in the medly as WOMAN and FIGMENT keep talking) We didn’t stop to question the fact that we might die prematurely, that we didn’t have a purpose in life…we were lead on, fed by a knowing fire that somewhere, there was a life for us. And even if we didn’t know it yet, we would fall into it like a bear foot in an iron jaw snare. All it took, was a matter of time.
Voice of Death (starts talking at FIGMENT’s que of "some might say cocky."): As a child, she was always filled with the uncharted success of what her future held. She was confident, some might say cocky. She didn’t stop to question the fact that she might die prematurely, that she didn’t have a purpose in life…she was lead on, fed by a knowing fire that somewhere, there was a life for her. And even if she didn’t know it yet, she would fall into it like a bear foot in an iron jaw snare. All it took, was a matter of time. And all she got were the cold, eternalized facts.