present: Marc, Jeff B, Barbara, Dale
We spent almost the entire evening looking over Dale’s graphic display of material [pdf] and discussing it and adding to it.
Across the top is a five-minute increment timeline. That’s for later use.
Under that is a line across the width of the poster. It is labeled with the steps of the Hero’s Journey:
- Separation
- Initiation
- Return
…along with a small box with all the steps outlined by Campbell.
At the bottom of the poster is another line, this one with the steps of the creative process, as pulled together by Dale from various frameworks:
- Conception (having the idea)
- Ideation (generating connecting ideas/material)
- Incubation (mulling it over, backing off the problem, letting ideas germinate)
- Parturition (creating the work from the results)
- Verification (performance, publication, evaluation, etc.)
Dale had already put several boxes on there. He explained that they were not tied to the timeline in any way, they were just there to remind us that we had generated the material, and that we could then connect the bits any way we saw fit.
The Montage was there, with other boxes linked to it labeled “minimonologs,” which represent the paragraph-like musings we all seemed to generate last week when we first tried the Montage gesture.
There were the three versions of Old Man Wind as we discussed them last week.
In the center was the big label FEAR, with a box about Grizzly Man/self-delusion. That led to the identification of bears as an image we might want to have recur throughout. In Grizzly Man’s case, the bears represent the treachery of our material, our creative efforts, if we allow our self-delusions to ever disregard their dangerous nature. They will devour us.
Jeff was going to look in his Big Myth to pull out further material with bears. (2/12: he has done so.)
We talked then about the creative process and brainstormed some ideas we thought could be included as we generate work:
- use William Blake’s Inn as a throughline of the Hero’s Journey, since it’s a major completed work and Dale has been through the entire process with it; possible performance of selections; the Return in this case being the Rejection of the Gift
- Anne Bradstreet’s “The Author to Her Book,” which Dale then extrapolated with Barbara’s fear that she’s the “non-creative” one in the group: if Barb (or whoever) were to write a letter to her unwritten, unplanned, unconceived novel…
- a bystander who sat over to the side during the performance and who, while we nattered on about the creative process, actually wrote something
- image of self as a creative person [Marc worrying about creating/sustaining that image]; the impostor syndrome; technology-enabled creative personae [?might need explanation]
- the more mediums the better: the polymath in all of us
- creativity conference/seminar as framework for the evening
- accolades from the spouses
- our work on a “spectacle” for the Centre/Park event
- linked from FEAR in the center:
- uninteresting
- acceptance?
- authority?
- Dale as Creativity Guru/Shadow [shadow?]
- “What are we avoiding?”
- “Other people need to fail if I am to succeed…”
- Reactions (linked to Verification in the creative process line)
- “What were you expecting?”
- FRAUD
- loose connection to reality
- “abortive attempts”
- The Grand Delusion–Bliss
- self-flagellation
- rolls of paper
- “Where’s the present?” as in “we talk about how to wrap the present, how big a box to put it in, when to give it…” but…
- “it’s not me”
- audience indifference
- spite
We forgot to include, but I will here:
- successive approximation
So. Now.
We use this beginning of a list (I’ll mark it up on the graphic and reprint it) and start to generate material. Then we can start figuring out how to combine it, line it up, stage it, etc., etc., etc.
NEXT: FEB. 18, 6:30, NSOD
- TEXTS: Old Man Wind [doc]; new Bear material; Dale’s giraffe piece, nude performance piece
- PATHS: Vocal Sequence; Montage exercise; Contact Improv
- HOMEWORK:
- (Neo-Futurist scripts, always)
- material based on The List
- keep bringing in text, either randomly selected from one’s own library, or some online library like Forgotten Books; multiple sources OK; we’re dumping these in our box for use… somehow
- Montage assignment based on Structuring Drama Work
As we work on material, I’d like us to keep in mind that an evening of monologs is deadly. I say this from a couple of GHP events which were “company developed.” We need some actual scenes, narratives, interaction between cast members, not just a Kennedy’s Children sequence of one-person pieces. As a personal favor to the Guru.
I hate the fact that it’s Polonius who says “by indirections find directions out” and not our calculating gloomy prince, but Polonius is no fool, as Dale will certainly tell you. KRAKEN adopted the phrase as a strategy when working on a piece called Elsinore. I’m a big believer in it. And we are engaged in it, I think.
As to Jeff and Barbara’s concern about the package with the nice wrapping and the decorative bows, the actual package, our stimulus package, will appear. There’s no reason why we can’t use our focused circle approach on this piece. I think the way to find elusive, somewhat unscriptable events and occurrences is to just immerse ourselves in what we know and don’t know. We’ve started to build a “list” which we can continue to reference as we unfold acts and ideas in the circle. We can start to write some text or find some text. I don’t think we have to worry about monologism. We certainly don’t have to write them. We can just write (if we so choose) and explore through actions and reactions in the circle. We can use notions already on our list to try and describe what someone might be up to in the circle.
I think we get anxious and impatient with the void of not knowing. And the prospect of process adds to the anxiety, somewhat. Again, we just have to undertake actions, do things, offer notions, and see what gets spurred into life. Time in the circle need not be deliberate. We can just “follow our bliss.”
Quick vocal sequence note for JB: when you’re breathing, you’re speaking. You’ve gotten into the habit of entering a reflective pause after each utterance. You want that to be a choice, not some habitual. Try making all breathing exist with speech. All breathing. I meant to mention this to you on Wednesday.
Oh, and by the way, I’ve got your stimulus package right here…I’ve been waiting to say that.
I’m still going to apply some of my Lacanian notions to our work with this piece. I think the notion of a “symptomatic atmosphere” is readily apparent on the chart Dale devised with our scribblings added. And to further symptomatize something is to unpack it as a symbol or metaphor for something else. “Creativity” as an S1 which can be linked to other things. Not self-evident. Suspicion of the “Guru’s” certainty. The Guru is the bestower of Master signifiers, S1. The Guru gives us knowledge, S2, which does not manage to meet what is in us as lack, the little a, and which covers up the Guru’s own divided nature as a subject, S with a slash.
When did we become attached to the notion of “creativity” as a response to lack?
If we begin to explore the S2’s as they come out from under the umbrella of the Master signifier, what doe they start to express?
Memory of being very young, three maybe, and crawling into a space between a bed and a wall running parallel lengthwise, a little crevice. The mattress had a tear in it and I remember pulling stuffing out of the mattress until I was surrounded by stuff (my rejected word was fluff). The containing comfort of that act which could, I suppose, lead to my suffocation: I want to liken this to what I seek in the created object. Fluff, too, is pertinent. I can’t pretend I don’t crave an infantile comfort and feeling of companionship. I can pretend I want art that is obscure and difficult. But I also truly value that thing that can be my uterine fluffy companion.
That’s really what an artist needs to know how to do. I’ve never seen myself as able to do that, so it throws my creative abilities into doubt. Resist the urge to counsel or debate me. Take what I offer as material. Associate to it. React to it. Interpret it. Resist it. Put it in dialectic. Etc.
A couple more associations.
Stuff and fluff made me think about comfortable companions–like Bears.
A memory I think I’ve referred to before that connects with a lack of creativity. The child psychologist is engaging me by asking what I would like to do. Would I like to play a game? I can’t think of anything or I can’t make up my mind. We wind up with something very rudimentary–bouncing a red rubber ball back and forth. I remember thinking it had to be boring him.
The yards of paper bundled and strewn on the floor also makes me think of stuff and fluff, of the stuffing I was wallowing in behind the bed. The Bear is there in the room. What kind of companion is he? Does he want me to pick a game? Do I start pulling out stuffing because he tells me to or because I can’t think of anything. Will the bear eat me if I can’t entertain him?
Does the Bear tell me a story?
Also think of Pooh, too.
If he pulls out my stuffing, will it be revealed as so much fluff?
This is me successfully resisting the urge to counsel or debate Marc.
“I feel quite chilly–and it’s all on account of that little bit of fluff!”
Can anyone name the play? And maybe we should actually incorporate it into our evening and our “work.”
Hint: It’s Russian.
We should also think about Captain Kangaroo’s Dancing Bear. I always thought he was spooky.
If Jeff can bring a roll of paper, we could play with that this week?
(I’ll bring the trash bags.)
re: the notion of “creativity” as a response to lack
How else might one notion “creativity,” since its goal is to make the thing that is not?
I have two different responses to Dale’s question depending on whether it’s rhetorical or not.
Freud and Jung had differing perspectives. We should look into both. With Jung, I think in particular of his “active imagination”–in a way a response to a creative illness in which you let the unconscious express itself through engagement with the medium. With Freud we think of the creative act as a sublimation of the drives: the Terror of the Thing is rendered by the artist as the Sublime Object. Late in his career, Lacan added the notion of the sinthome, using Joyce as an example, and suggested a situation in which the artist binds or knots him or herself into a unique claim on reality through an essential lived non-meaning of the symptom. (Finegan’s Wake is an ultimate example, or more particularly, “Joyce–the author of the Wake.”)
It is not rhetorical.
Lack is a concept more lived than perceived.
Lack is something we acknowledge after the fack.
Lack is no fun; I understand the desire to step around it.
Please be assured. These are all intellectual musings. Not the creative process itself. I’m just tilling some soil.
Actually, good definition of the the sinthome: to make the Thing-that-Is Knot.
“(I’ll bring the trash bags)”
Guru sees it as a Waste…of Time?
Very anal spasm. Good. Nod to the drive.
Lacan was struck by Joyce’s phrase: a letter, a litter.
We are in the room full of strewn stuffing. The truth, which the audience doesn’t learn till late in the game, is that the Bear is already dead and we have de-stuffed it. Collective guilt. Regret? We hallucinate him back to life? Have we conquered our FEAR? Or do we feel loss?
Associative frenzy while in the shower. Let me try to re-play it.
Russian play. Is it Chekov? And why are the roots of Modern Realism in the cold North? Russia and Norway. Stories of confinement, literal and spiritual, people trapped by their environments. Our “non-creative” place? JB mentions including play in our piece. Whole-hearted nod to Realism as people trapped in confined spaces?
Also, talk of Russia leads to talk of Bears, of course. I remember having a collection of little pocketbooks full of proverbs and sayings from around the globe. The Russia book, I seem to remember, had many sayings about Bears.
Some days you get the bear; some days the bear gets you.
It not so much that we want the bear to dance well, it’s the wonder that he dances at all.
Noting how these two examples can be related to the creative process. What if we tried to collect more Russian Bear sayings, and tried to compose our own in the same spirit but with a twisting in of our particular situation?
How do we continue to Bear living here year after year.
Barbara’s wondering if our group work would be a creative effort that laid Bear the truth in the way we expect our private creative work to do. Bear our souls.
Dale’s piece in which he Bears all. The continual deferment of his performance of it.
Trying to get our Bearings.
If we can find a unicycle…does anyone know how to…
There are days when I feel bearly there.
There’s a comfy Bear in William Blake’s Inn.
Which Dale mistakenly wrote as a Bearitone.
Simple provincial folks stand amazed at the antics of the bear. We local artists are ambivalent. Do we adopt the bear’s antics to get attention? Can we be trained to do tricks?
Can we re-imagine “We’re Queer” as “We’re Bears?” Otherwise, keep it as is.
There’s a also a short story I read somewhere a long time ago about some circus bears who were shipwrecked on an island, and generations later were observed to gather in a clearing in the woods every full moon, and dance.
Exit, pursued by a Bear.
The Bear is dead, and we have killed Him!
We laugh with glee and show the audience the entrails.
Reading entrails. Big wrinkled reams of paper.
Reading entrails. Fortune telling. Tarot cards.
There is no Tarot card with a Bear on it. We may have to create one.
Soothsayers were the original creatives.
Plato wanted poets banished from the Republic because they were liars.
But liars thrive in our community. It’s a contradiction. Do we Bear witness to the Light? Or Bear false witness?
Audience Bears witness: Bear baiting?
Non-creative: Bear-en. Empty womb. No stuffing. So again I’m in the womb, stuffing it with fluff. Bear-ied
Silly old bear.
Re: The Clearing
http://www.lacunagroup.org/marc/?page_id=53
Bears dancing in the clearing–as our ludicrous utopian longing to live and create, live creatively. From our alienation.
More clearings:
http://www.lacunagroup.org/marc/?page_id=54
There’s a section in there called “looking it up” and I was thinking it might be fruitful to do an OED immersion with some of our critical terms, like “create” and “bear.”
Creating leads to child-Bearing.
Children and Bears. Inescapable link.
Leads us into Objects. Transitional and otherwise.
huhuhuhuhuh! that marcc feller sure duz tawk alott.
Shh! He’s in flow!
The productivity of logorrhea. Jouissance. Yes, I went there.
Logorrhea.
Yes! Dale keeps the anal drive alive!
And yes, jouissance, but of course.
Annon is Galen, by the way.
Or as they say, Jouis-sense. Enjoy-meant!
You know, there’s this troubling aspect to the dancing bears story. Generations later they…are still doing the tricks they were taught to do. They now have a culture built upon the alienation from their “essential nature.” Do they have a story that tells them why they still dance? Or has it just “always been that way?” It is the human condition. It’s Bearing the burden of culture.
The story is sweet and sad.
I, for one, cannot wait to see what Marc brings to the next session, having returned to his yellow pad and created texts for our exploration based on/springing from the last 32 comments.
THE BEAR
By Anton Chekhov
(A new take on the text by Jeff Bishop & Lacuna Group)
CHARACTERS:
POPPY, a landowning little widow, with dimples on her cheeks
SMITH, a middle-aged retired military man.
A foyer in POPPY’S house.
POPPY is in deep mourning and has her eyes fixed on a photograph.
POPPY. [Looks at the photograph] You see, Nick, you little shit. [takes a drag on her cigarette] You goddamn son of a bitch. What did you know about love, you little fuck? What the fuck did you know about love? Shit!
[There’s noise at the door.]
What the fuck! Shit!
[She goes to the door.]
I’m going into fucking rehab, this time, I SWEAR to fucking God. What!
[Enter Smith.]
[He’s turned around, giving someone the bird.]
SMITH: Asshole!
[He turns and sees her standing there.]
Ma’am. Hi. How do you do? Greg Smith, U.S. Marine Corps, retired. Sorry to bother you, ma’am.
POPPY: What?
SMITH: Yes, ma’am. I understand. First allow me to say, I am truly sorry for your loss. You see, your husband — your late husband — with whom I had the honor of being acquainted, you see, when he died, he, um,
POPPY: What?
SMITH: One thousand, two hundred. He owed me one thousand, two hundred dollars.
[He’s got some papers he hands to her. She doesn’t take them.]
You see, ma’am, I wouldn’t have bothered you about it, but I have a payment on the interest that’s due tomorrow. And, like I say, I wouldn’t have bothered you, but…
POPPY: It was the fucking HDTV, wasn’t it? Shit.
SMITH: Ma’am, I don’t know, exactly.
POPPY: Goddamn it. Look, I can’t pay this. I mean, I can’t deal with it today. Isn’t it, what the fuck is it, Lincoln’s birthday, President’s — what the fuck do they call it? Anyway, the bank’s closed today. Why did you come today?
SMITH: Well, as I said, ma’am, my payment is due tomorrow, when the bank opens, and I had the day off today.
POPPY: I thought you said you were in the Army.
SMITH: U.S. Marines. Retired. But I also–
POPPY: Look, I just can’t deal with this shit today, okay?
SMITH: Yes, I understand, but the bank, um, my payment,
POPPY: Just come back tomorrow when the bank is open. I have to see my counselor at 2. Or is it 2:30? Fucking Christ! I should be in a better mood when I get my new prescription. So maybe 4:30. What times does the bank close?
SMITH: Ma’am, I understand, but, you see, my creditor, the deadline, the due date, it’s already past due, and this is the date, I mean tomorrow is the date, it’s a car payment. I’m afraid if I miss it,
POPPY: Right right right right right. Tomorrow. The bank’s open tomorrow.
SMITH: Ma’am, with all due respect, I don’t want the money tomorrow. I need to have it today.
POPPY: Fuck you, I didn’t even want plasma!
SMITH: Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I just can’t wait until that late tomorrow. They’ll take my car.
POPPY: Did you get shell-shocked in Afghanistan or wherever the fuck they sent you? I don’t have the fucking money.
SMITH: You mean there’s no way you can pay me?
POPPY: The fuck! What did I just fucking say?
SMITH: ATM card? Debit?
POPPY: Get out of my fucking house.
SMITH: Last word?
POPPY: Get out!
SMITH: Thank you so much, ma’am. I’ll make a note of it. Thank you.
[He walks “Outside.”]
“I’ll make a note of it.” You know one thing they teach you in the military, keep calm. Keep calm. Callllllm. But you can’t help it, you know. I mean, it’s my car. They’re going to take my car. The things they say to you on the phone. The creditors, I mean. I mean, I served my country. I told them that. I went to everyone who owed me money yesterday. Everyone. You should have seen where I had to sleep last night. One of those hotels where they let you pay by the half-hour. Some Pakistani owned it. Or managed it, anyway. They were all Pakistanis. Or Iraqis or some kind of … But, you know, I had to get here. She doesn’t have a phone. And I have to stay calm, right? It would be, um, unseemly for me to blow my top, right here, in front of,
POPPY: I told you to get the hell off my property, Army man! The. Bank. Opens. TO-MORROW!
SMITH: Ma’am … ma’am, I did not come to see your fucking bank. I came to see you. Excuse me. I shouldn’t have used that language. I’m sorry. I’m a Marine. I shouldn’t have said that. I apologize.
POPPY: Excuse me, sir. I am not accustomed to listen to such expressions or to such a tone of voice. I don’t have to listen to this.
SMITH: Can’t deal with it? She can’t deal with it today? Her new prescription? Seven months, her husband has been dead. Not one payment, not a penny. But how much do you want to bet me that she has every fucking installment of The Bachelorette on TiVo in glorious, fucking High definition television? So I tell Ford Motor Credit, “I’m sorry, she’ll have her new pills tomorrow.” Christ! Does she think I can fly away from my creditors in some balloon? I may have to take a balloon if they repossess. Shit! Not one could pay me. Not one. I lost a toe in Afghanistan. Just a middle toe, but a toe all the same. It was from an infection, but I still lost a toe. I shouldn’t be so fucking polite. I’m not in the military, anymore, you know? They’re certainly not cutting me any slack. You know what? I am going to sit down right here in her front yard until that bitch pays me what she owes me. Shit, I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. What, is that supposed to be a reason? My counselor? My counselor! What is that shit? In Afghanistan we didn’t have counselors. When I lost my toe they didn’t give me a counselor. Well, they did. They did give me a counselor, come to think of it. But it didn’t help. I still lost the fucking toe. She just doesn’t want to pay me the money, that’s all it is, in a nutshell. Counselor. You know something, when you think about it, what is the top reason you hear men say when their friends ask them why they left their wives, their girlfriends. “That bitch was fucking crazy.” I mean, really. Now with women, when they leave their husbands, it’s always, you know, “He didn’t treat me right,” he had some girlfriend. Whatever. But with men? “That fucking bitch was fucking CRAZY.” Sometimes I think I’d rather cut my dick off with a popsicle stick and stuff my hairy balls in my mouth than talk to a cunt like that. Brrrrr. Is it cold out here or what?! Bitch. Fucking crazy-ass bitch. You know, I can’t even see one of these, um, these these these CREATURES without just getting so into a froth, you know, a froth. Can’t look at them. She doesn’t see me, does she? I am going to sit right here, right here, until she gives me that money. She can go get a hundred fucking prescriptions, I’ll be right here. A year. I was in Afghanistan. I can camp here for a year. It’s not like I’ll have a car to drive me home, anyhow. She can’t use those dimples on me. Those dimples. … Is it hot out here to anyone else? Not one person paid me, not one. Friends. That fucking Sultan’s palace hotel. My head fucking hurts. Anybody here got a fucking Advil? Some vodka, maybe?
[Someone in the audience pours him some vodka.]
That’s what I’m talking about. Thank you, sir. That’s how you treat a soldier.
Enter POPPY.
POPPY: (her eyes downcast): Sir, in my solitude I have grown unaccustomed to the masculine voice, and I can’t stand shouting. I must ask you not to disturb my peace.
SMITH. Pay me the money, bitch, and I’ll go.
POPOVA. I told you, Mr. Army man. I haven’t got any money. Tomorrow is the best I can do.
SMITH. And I told you perfectly plainly I don’t want the money tomorrow, but today. It does me absolutely no good tomorrow afternoon. If you don’t pay me today, I’ll have to shoot myself tomorrow.
POPPY. Okay. I might just be able to help you with that. But what can I do if I haven’t got the money?
SMITH: Do you have a check?
POPPY: I’m all out. Those fuckers cost $22 now, can you believe that? For a fucking box of checks.
SMITH. Then you won’t pay me now?
POPPY. I can’t.
SMITH. In that case, ma’am, I reckon I’ll stay here and wait until I get it. [Sits down] You’re going to pay me tomorrow after you get back from the asylum, or wherever it is that you go? Very well! I’ll stay here until then. . I’ll just sit here all the time. [Jumps up] I ask you this, now: Have I got to pay the interest payment to Ford Motor Credit tomorrow, or haven’t I? Or do you think I’m just doing this for a joke?
POPPY. There’s no need to shout. This ain’t JumpNGym.
SMITH. Bitch, I wasn’t asking you about JumpNGym, but whether I’m getting my interest to pay tomorrow or not?
POPPY. You don’t know anything at all about how to behave around women, do you?
SMITH. No, I do so know how to behave around women!
POPPY. No, you don’t! You are a rude little man! Decent people don’t talk to a woman like that!
SMITH. What the– How do you want me to talk to you? In French, or what? [Loses his temper and lisps] Madame, je vous prie. . . . How happy I am that you don’t pay me. . . . Ah, pardon. I have pissed you off now, haven’t I! Such lovely weather today! And how sexy you look in black! [Bows.]
POPPY. Now that’s just rude. You are so not right.
SMIRNOV. [Teasing her) Rude? I don’t know how to behave around women? Ma’am, in my time I’ve shot more women than you’ve got friends on facebook. Three times I’ve kicked somebody’s ass on account of a woman. I’ve refused twelve women, and nine have refused me! Yes! There was a time when I played the fool, lathered myself up, used honeyed words, even wore jewelry, flashed around my plastic, back when I had it. I used to love, to suffer, to sigh at the moon, to get sour, to thaw, to freeze. . . . I used to love passionately, madly, every blessed way, damn me to hell; you couldn’t shut me up — I, wasted half my wealth on “tender feelings,” but now–you must excuse me! I have had just about enough. Black hair, emerald eyes, passionate eyes, ruby lips, dimpled cheeks, the moon, whispers, heaving breasts –I wouldn’t give a nickel for the lot, ma’am! Present company always excepted, all women, ALL of them, are insincere, crooked, backbiters, envious, liars to the marrow of their bones, vain, trivial, merciless, unreasonable, and, as far as this is concerned [taps his forehead] excuse my outspokenness, but ten points to any philosopher in a dress and panties who you’d like to name! You look at one of these poetic creatures: all muslin, an ethereal demi-goddess, you have unbridled joy, and you look into her soul–and see a common crocodile! [He grips the back of a chair; the chair creaks and breaks] But the most disgusting thing of all is that this crocodile for some reason or other imagines that its chef d’oeuvre, its privilege and monopoly, is its tender feelings. Why, hang me on that nail feet upwards, if you like, but have you met a woman who can love anybody except a lapdog? When she’s in love, can she do anything but snivel and slobber? While a man is suffering and making sacrifices all her love expresses itself in fiddling with the buckle on her shoe, and trying to hook him more firmly by the nose. You have the misfortune to be a woman, you know from yourself what is the nature of woman. Tell me truthfully, have you ever seen a woman who wasn’t a whore? Only freaks and old women. You’ll meet a cat with a horn sooner than a pure woman.
POPPY: Oh! So, it’s the man, then, who is faithful and constant?
SMITH. Yes.
POPPY. The man! [Laughs bitterly] Men are whores! [With heat] What right have you to talk like that? Of all the men I knew and know, the best was my late husband, and let me tell you, he was a sonofabitch. . . . I loved him passionately with all my being, as only a young and imaginative woman can love, you know, with — what do they call it? Projection. I gave that bastard my young, tight, pink pussy — and 10 years ago, it was a hot piece of pussy, make no mistake — I gave him my happiness, my life, my grandma’s Buick … I breathed in him, I worshipped him like some slut, and . . . and what then? This man was a LIAR. After he died, you know what I found? You know what? I found in his laptop a porn collection you wouldn’t believe, but that I didn’t mind that so much. Except the Disney cartoons. Those were a little disturbing. But it was the emails. The fucking emails. Just email after email. To my friends. These were women who had been in my house, at my table. Right in front of my fucking eyes, my friends. Using my money, my credit card. But me? I was true to that son of a bitch. I loved him. He used to laugh at me, at any suspicions … And you know the really funny thing? I am still true and constant to that son of a bitch’s memory, even to this day. So that is MY fucking HDTV, you understand me? Go fuck yourself.
SMITH. [Laughs contemptuously] Your fucking HDTV. That he purchased with MY money! Who do you think I am, lady? As if I don’t know why you wear that black get-up and bury yourself between four walls! It’s oh-so-mysterious, so fucking poetic! When some skinny poet goes past your windows he’ll think: “There lives the mysterious Miss Poppy who, for the love of her husband, buried herself between four walls.” We know the score.
POPPY. [Exploding] You’ve got some balls, G.I. Joe.
SMITH. You may have buried yourself alive, but you haven’t forgotten to put on that red lipstick, have you now? And isn’t that dress a little low-cut for a grieving widow?
POPPY. How dare you speak to me like that? Keep your voice down.
SMITH. Honey, it is time to call a spade a spade. And you keep YOUR voice down.
POPPY. I’m not shouting, it’s you who’s shouting! Racist!
SMITH: I most certainly am not shouting.
POPPY: Please leave me alone! Just go away before I call the cops.
SMITH. Pay me my money and I’ll go. Or give me the TV.
POPPY. Fuck you.
SMITH. Fuck you!
POPPY. Okay, now I’m not giving you a fucking thing just out of spite. Get out!
SMITH. I have not the pleasure of being either your husband or your fiancé, so please don’t make scenes. [Sits] I don’t like it.
POPPY. [Choking with rage] So you’re gonna sit down on my lawn?
SMITH. What’s it look like?
POPPY. I told you to go!
SMITH. Give me my money. . . . [Aside] This bitch is really starting to piss me off.
POPPY. I am through wasting my time on a sonofabitch like you! Get out of here! [Pause] Now!
SMITH. No.
POPPY. No?
SMITH. No! Not until you be more polite.
POPPY. [Clenches her fists and stamps her foot] You’re such a fucking bear!
SMITH: A what? A bear?
POPPY: A coarse, vulgar bear! A monster!
SMITH. What? What did you say to me?
POPPY. I said you are a bear, a queer old monster!
SMITH. [Approaching her] May I ask what right you have to insult me?
POPPY. And suppose I am insulting you? What are you gonna do about it?
SMIRNOV. And do you think that just because you’re some poetic creature with big tits you can insult me like that? You got a knife?
POPOVA. Oh, I’ll do you one better than that. You wait right here.
SMITH. I’m not going to be insulted by anybody, and I don’t care if you are a woman. What a fucking cock-teasing BITCH.
POPPY. [Trying to interrupt him] Bear! Bear! Bear!
SMITH. Let’s get it on, bitch. You want a piece of me? Let’s do this.
I’ll bring her down like a chicken! I lost a toe in fucking Afghanistan! What a fucking cunt! Here the sexes are equal! I’ll stick a knife in her on principle! But what a woman! [Parodying her] “You wait right here.” Hmpf. She blushed, I think. Did you see those cheeks? . . . She accepted my challenge! My God, it’s the first time in my life that I’ve seen. . . . What a woman! That’s the kind I can understand! You know? A real woman! I told her to get a knife, she’s going to get the fucking knife. I mean, she’s not backing down, she’s not crying. She’s going to get the fucking knife. “You wait right here.” Not a sour-faced jellybag, but a nuclear fucking rocket! I’m even sorry to have to kill her! I absolutely like her! Absolutely! Even though her cheeks are dimpled, I like her! I’m almost ready to let the debt go . . . who needs a fucking car when gas is fucking $3 a gallon, anyway? And I’m not angry any more, at least I don’t think I am.. . . . Sexy thing!
Enter POPPY with two pistols.
POPPY. You son of a bitch! Come show me how to fire this fucking thing. I’ve never held a gun before. What pleasure it will give me to put a bullet into your thick head!
SMITH. [Examining the pistols] You see, there are many sorts of pistols…these are antique!. . . . There are Mortimer pistols, specially made for duels, they fire a percussion-cap. These are Smith and Wesson revolvers, triple action, with extractors. . . . These are excellent, really antique pistols, in marvelous condition, at that. They can’t cost less than . . . . less than … You must hold the revolver like this. . . . [Aside] Her eyes, her eyes! What an inspiring woman!
POPPY. Like this?
SMITH. Yes, like this. . . . Then you cock the trigger, and take aim like this. . . . Put your head back a little! Hold your arm out properly. . . . Like that. . . . Then you press this thing with your finger–and that’s all. The great thing is to keep cool and aim steadily. . . . Try not to jerk your arm.
POPPY. Right. . . . Listen, I just had those Mexicans install this carpet. I don’t want to ruin it. Let’s take this out into the yard.
SMITH. All right, but I’m going to fire in the air.
POPPY. Why?
SMITH. Because . . . because . . .
POPPY. Are you chicken-shit? Yes? Ah! No, sir, you don’t get out of it! You come with me! I ain’t gonna have any peace now until I’ve made a hole in your forehead . . . that fucking Chaka forehead! Are you afraid?
SMITH. Yes, I am afraid. A little.
POPPY. Then why won’t you fight?
SMITH. Because . . . because you . . . because I like you.
POPPY. [Laughs] He likes me! Do you hear how he says it? Like a little boy. “He likes me.” [Points to the door] That’s the way, Romeo.
SMITH. [Loads the revolver in silence, takes his cap and goes to the door. There he stops for half a minute, while they look at each other in silence, then he hesitatingly approaches POPPY] Listen. . . . Are you still angry? I’m pissed, too . . . but, do you understand . . . how can I say it? . . . The fact is, you see, it’s like this, so to speak. . . . [Shouts] Well, is it my fault that I like you? [He snatches at the back of a chair; the chair creaks and breaks] Dammit, now I’m smashing up your furniture!
POPPY: It’s not mine. It belongs to Aaron Rents.
SMITH: Listen to me! I like you! Do you understand? I . . . I almost love you!
POPPY. Get away from me, you pervert–I hate you!
SMITH. God, what a woman! I’ve never in my life seen one like her! I’m lost! Fallen into a bear trap!
POPPY. Stand back, you sonofabitch, or I’ll fire!
SMITH. Fire, then! You can’t understand what happiness it would be to die before those beautiful eyes, to be shot by a revolver held in that little, velvet hand. . . . I’m out of my senses! Think, and make up your mind at once, because if I go out we’ll never see each other again! Decide now. . . . I do have a condo, and I’m of a respectable enough character, U.S. Marines, retired. I clear about forty thousand a year. I can put a bullet through a coin tossed into the air as it comes down. . . . I have a massive DVD collection. . . . Will you be my wife?
POPPY. [Indignantly shakes her revolver] Let’s fight! Let’s go, Grandpa!
SMITH. I’m mad. . . . I understand nothing. [Yells] Waiter, water!
POPPY. [Yells] Let’s go out and fight!
SMIRNOV. I’m off my head, I’m in love like a boy, like Alflafa! [Snatches her hand, she screams with pain] Darla! I love you! [Kneels] I love you as I’ve never loved before! I’ve refused twelve women, nine have refused me, but I never loved one of them as I love you. . . . I’m weak, I’m wax, I’ve melted like a cheeseburger. . . . I’m on my knees like, like that guy, that guy in Say Anything, with the radio over his head, offering you my song! My song!. . . . Shame, shame! I haven’t been in love for five years, I’d taken a vow, and now all of a sudden I’m in love, like William H. Macy in Boogie Nights! I offer you my hand. Yes or no? You don’t want me? Very well! [Gets up and quickly goes to the door.]
POPPY. Stop.
SMITH. [Stops] Well?
POPPY. Nothing, go away, this is like fucking Jerry Springer. . . No, stop. . . . No, go away, go away! I hate you! Or no. . . . Don’t go away! Oh, if you knew how PISSED I am, how angry I am! [Throws her revolver on the table] My fingers have swollen because of all this. . . . [Tears her handkerchief in temper] What are you waiting for? Get out!
SMITH. Good-bye.
POPPY. Yes, yes, go away! . . . [Yells] Where are you going? Stop. . . . No, go away. Oh, SHIT! I am so PISSED! Don’t come near me, don’t come near me!
SMITH. [Approaching her] How angry I am with myself! I’m in love like a schoolboy, I’ve been on my knees. . . . [Rudely] I love you! What do I want to fall in love with you for? Tomorrow I’ve got to pay the car payment, and here you. . . . [Puts his arms around her] I’ll never forgive myself for this. . . . Watch the toe.
POPPY. Get away from me! Take your hands away! I hate you! I am going to so kick your ass!
A prolonged kiss.
Curtain.
So the Bear, he invites the Rabbit to dinner.
When he comes, the Bear calls his wife and says:
“Have peas for dinner. The Rabbit loves peas.”
“But there is no grease with which to cook them,”
Says the Bear’s wife.
“Oh,” said the Bear, “that’s no trouble.
Bring me a knife.”
She brings the knife
And the Bear takes it
And Bear splits between his toes,
While the Rabbit looks on in wonder.
“No grease between my toes,” says the Bear.
“Well, I know where there is some.”
So he cuts a gash in his side
Ond out runs the grease.
His wife takes it and cooks the peas,
And they have a fine dinner
And vow always to be good friends.
The Rabbit invites the Bear
To take dinner with him the next day.
“Where do you live these days?” asks the Bear.
Pointing to an old sedge-grass field,
The Rabbit replies,
“Way over yonder in that big white house.”
The Bear starts the next morning
And seeks in vain for the big white house,
But while wandering in the sedge
He comes near stepping on his new friend
Who is sleeping in his bed.
“What’s that! What are you tramping over me for?”
Cries the Rabbit as he is awakened by the footsteps of the Bear.
“Oh, I am trying to find your big white house.”
Laughing at the joke, the Rabbit invites the Bear to be seated,
And says he would have dinner ordered.
He calls his wife
And tells her to have peas for dinner.
“But there is no grease.”
“That’s a small matter. Bring me a knife,”
Proudly exclaims the Rabbit.
When his wife comes with the knife,
He holds up one of his forefeet and splits between his toes.
“What, no grease? Then I know where I can find it,”
And he gives a thrust into his side.
But the blood gushes out,
And he falls to earth with a scream.
The Bear cries, “You little fool,
Your side is not like mine!”
And, lifting his friend
All covered with blood,
He puts him on his bed.
“Send for the doctor, Doctor Buzzard,”
Says the Bear to the Rabbit’s wife, weeping bitterly,
While the little Rabbits gather around in tears.
“Run for the doctor,” she says to one of the little Rabbits,
And away he runs at top speed.
Then Buzzard comes in haste,
And she says,
“What a sad sight;
He must be kept quiet.
Carry him to the top of his house
And put him in a room where no one can come
Except his doctor,
And in four days you may enter and see him.”
Her orders are obeyed.
But soon the Rabbit is heard screaming in agony.
Running to the room,
The door of which is closed,
The wife asks,
“Oh, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” says the Buzzard,
“I’m merely dressing his wound.”
Again the screams are heard,
But fainter,
And the Rabbit’s wife asks,
“What makes him scream so?”
“Go away.
I’m sewing up the cut in his side.”
Finally,
No more screams are heard.
After four days
The Rabbit’s wife opens the door
And there lay
Afew bones
And a pile of hair.
So it is told.