The Play
The bench was cold. Fortunate for myself, as it was the hottest October on record. How the bench was cold relative to the airborne temperature was a mystery that I was too bored to solve. Some questions are better left to fictitious detectives to solve. We don’t need to know why, as long as someone does. All I needed to know was how to fill my time—empty as space and twice as consuming. All I had was my cool bench and my warm imagination. Young couples with empty strollers carrying on like I knew they could. Sun from behind scorched clouds trying to shine on their happy days, but only half-succeeding as they walked by the bench from where I sat.
I unfurled my paper with the restraint of a priest, meaning a priest that had restraint, not many left I suppose, but the ones that don’t, the ones who don’t let lustful flesh impede on wild imagination. They would do well for my play. They would do well for our play. I scoped the park, the beautiful park which lied on a hill with a vantage point of my glittery city, people bustling with electricity, which also propelled cars throughout, everyone in their private lives, private mysteries, secrets, lies, lives, but still carrying on, during my scoping I saw two fabulous actors with so much inherent potential that only I could reach in, only I could bring it about, only I had the key to a life, their life and only I had the courage, dare I say compassion, to turn it just right and set one on the other with the flick of a wrist, the flip of a tongue, the gaze of two eyes and the touch of ragged flesh, aged flesh. They were very welcoming to my concerns. At my age you can never have enough and I played it just right, as I should, I’ve had enough practice after all.
Her name was Lily; his was Peter. Perfect. I rambled with the incoherence of a maniac; I brushed next to them clutching at them, tears rolling freely, hands tremoring, jaws shut to open again. Gentle hands to stop the shaking, as I fell—only to be caught by this picturesque young couple. My star actors! My love for them eclipsed by my very real intentions: to start the chain reaction. They soon learned of my ‘past’ which I told not with a little pain. An old man, barren fields, empty house, full heart, no compassion, only time, always time, but what to fill it as my lips trembled. My actors looked at one another, while true, this was a heart breaking story, but what do we do with it? A warm meal would tide me over, would mean ever so much to this broken down demon. What else could they do?
They lived even higher into my hill, up my hill. No signs of children; they were still young after all. They hadn’t heard about the war, until I brought it back with my second wine, my second bottle, their last bottle. Look at them try to get rid of an old man, and look at an old man feign ignorance. I wasn’t going anywhere; I had nowhere to go, as far as they were concerned. A warm bed would tide me over and dare they say no?
I spent the night in the comfort of child, brought in from the storm and tucked away with warm tidings, warm milk sucked from cold cup, and love wrapping up child in velvety arms, as the parents stand in the doorway exchanging warm glances, knowing glances. These parents were different. The glances were worried, and they had their first child sleeping like a king on a queen size bed.
Breakfast was made with a flourish. At the subtext of this grand meal were suggestions. Luck was wished upon me, but boundaries were outlined, borders defined and a child swept to an orphanage—my park on a hill overlooking the glittery, glamorous city, again parentless, but still excited. They had passed the first act and already their arc was apparent. The next act would have a twist, but would it be a comedy? A tragedy?
My brave actors never seemed to enter my park after that fine evening. I would have to move the stage accordingly. I lit my tobacco pipe while glaring into the city, the wondrous machine, the terrible efficiency of our world: the buses, the trains, the cars, the bikes, the shouts, the whispers, the murmurs. I needed an obstacle for my protagonists; I needed an antagonist or else the narrative would prove flat, and I started this exercise to solve my boredom, my time, my space. Or else it would be useless, I would be useless.
The next day I followed them to their work, which is where they must have met. I followed them through the glamorous city, smoke coming up from the streets and lingering at the eyes of the skyscrapers, which looked down to my city but up to my hill, sitting there like a beacon, sitting there to bring in lost sailors, gasping for breath and lost at sea, searching for something, anything (think a light house) to hold onto to calm their terrible hearts, to provide comfort to shaking knees, to drown out fears of Ocean rats eating out eyelids, to have to look at a fellow sailor, a fellow passenger, and know that he felt as you do, as you will once the food runs out and the water turns black with plague ridden lice! The sailors suffocating in the ocean, that is my city, glance up to see where the escape will be laid bare—my hill.
Time for the next plot point. Sprint at them as fast as my gnarled legs can, tears flowing like Thames, mouth shaking, blurbing, saliva on dry lips. To see their expressions, to see their horror, their contempt shining on my screen ever so briefly only to be eclipsed by hatred, fear, sorrow, and confusion. Always confusion, it will act as my antagonist in this tale. Come from behind and surprise from the front, sweep in from the side, come from above, don’t dare think about diving from below where they will stomp you, beat you, bruise you until there is nothing left but a furtive glance, a fearsome gesture, powerless in its beauty.
I unfurled my paper with the restraint of a priest, meaning a priest that had restraint, not many left I suppose, but the ones that don’t, the ones who don’t let lustful flesh impede on wild imagination. They would do well for my play. They would do well for our play. I scoped the park, the beautiful park which lied on a hill with a vantage point of my glittery city, people bustling with electricity, which also propelled cars throughout, everyone in their private lives, private mysteries, secrets, lies, lives, but still carrying on, during my scoping I saw two fabulous actors with so much inherent potential that only I could reach in, only I could bring it about, only I had the key to a life, their life and only I had the courage, dare I say compassion, to turn it just right and set one on the other with the flick of a wrist, the flip of a tongue, the gaze of two eyes and the touch of ragged flesh, aged flesh. They were very welcoming to my concerns. At my age you can never have enough and I played it just right, as I should, I’ve had enough practice after all.
Her name was Lily; his was Peter. Perfect. I rambled with the incoherence of a maniac; I brushed next to them clutching at them, tears rolling freely, hands tremoring, jaws shut to open again. Gentle hands to stop the shaking, as I fell—only to be caught by this picturesque young couple. My star actors! My love for them eclipsed by my very real intentions: to start the chain reaction. They soon learned of my ‘past’ which I told not with a little pain. An old man, barren fields, empty house, full heart, no compassion, only time, always time, but what to fill it as my lips trembled. My actors looked at one another, while true, this was a heart breaking story, but what do we do with it? A warm meal would tide me over, would mean ever so much to this broken down demon. What else could they do?
They lived even higher into my hill, up my hill. No signs of children; they were still young after all. They hadn’t heard about the war, until I brought it back with my second wine, my second bottle, their last bottle. Look at them try to get rid of an old man, and look at an old man feign ignorance. I wasn’t going anywhere; I had nowhere to go, as far as they were concerned. A warm bed would tide me over and dare they say no?
I spent the night in the comfort of child, brought in from the storm and tucked away with warm tidings, warm milk sucked from cold cup, and love wrapping up child in velvety arms, as the parents stand in the doorway exchanging warm glances, knowing glances. These parents were different. The glances were worried, and they had their first child sleeping like a king on a queen size bed.
Breakfast was made with a flourish. At the subtext of this grand meal were suggestions. Luck was wished upon me, but boundaries were outlined, borders defined and a child swept to an orphanage—my park on a hill overlooking the glittery, glamorous city, again parentless, but still excited. They had passed the first act and already their arc was apparent. The next act would have a twist, but would it be a comedy? A tragedy?
My brave actors never seemed to enter my park after that fine evening. I would have to move the stage accordingly. I lit my tobacco pipe while glaring into the city, the wondrous machine, the terrible efficiency of our world: the buses, the trains, the cars, the bikes, the shouts, the whispers, the murmurs. I needed an obstacle for my protagonists; I needed an antagonist or else the narrative would prove flat, and I started this exercise to solve my boredom, my time, my space. Or else it would be useless, I would be useless.
The next day I followed them to their work, which is where they must have met. I followed them through the glamorous city, smoke coming up from the streets and lingering at the eyes of the skyscrapers, which looked down to my city but up to my hill, sitting there like a beacon, sitting there to bring in lost sailors, gasping for breath and lost at sea, searching for something, anything (think a light house) to hold onto to calm their terrible hearts, to provide comfort to shaking knees, to drown out fears of Ocean rats eating out eyelids, to have to look at a fellow sailor, a fellow passenger, and know that he felt as you do, as you will once the food runs out and the water turns black with plague ridden lice! The sailors suffocating in the ocean, that is my city, glance up to see where the escape will be laid bare—my hill.
Time for the next plot point. Sprint at them as fast as my gnarled legs can, tears flowing like Thames, mouth shaking, blurbing, saliva on dry lips. To see their expressions, to see their horror, their contempt shining on my screen ever so briefly only to be eclipsed by hatred, fear, sorrow, and confusion. Always confusion, it will act as my antagonist in this tale. Come from behind and surprise from the front, sweep in from the side, come from above, don’t dare think about diving from below where they will stomp you, beat you, bruise you until there is nothing left but a furtive glance, a fearsome gesture, powerless in its beauty.
posted by neilly bojangles at 1:35 PM
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