A Scene

A proscenium stage littered with characters: a poet, three ducks, a marksman, two ladies-in-waiting, one chef. There is an overwhelming backlight that transforms all of them into simple silhouettes. We distinguish each by their voice and outline alone. The poet is the first to speak:

How is it then that upon this most festive of occasions all eight of us have happened upon this place?

The ducks quack loudly in response and the marksman, growing frustrated by their quacking, shoots all three dead on stage.

My, my, mutter both the ladies-in-waiting. They were only just quacking.

The marksman turns to them and, in one slow but certain motion, raises his gun to his shoulder and shoots one of the two ladies. He lowers the gun and says, I wouldn’t, my lady, say such things if I were you.

Heeding the man’s warning, she nods her head as if in agreement.

The chef’s figure, meanwhile, has made its way across the stage and to the ducks. He picks up all three and carries them offstage, saying as he leaves, I’ll be back but shortly.

The poet, the marksman, and the lady-in-waiting all wait for the chef to reappear. Finally, he does. He hands each a plate, which to us appear as little more than thin black slivers against the light, and suggests that the please try some. They do, but before any of them has a chance to either compliment or denounce the chef the backlights are shut off and the scene, we presume, is over.

As I write this I am lying down. There is a couch and I am lying on it. I have a fan aimed on me so that I do not become overly warm. This is a constant fear of mine.

For the last I don’t know how many days I have tried to write something down. I cannot say what it is I have been trying to write, but I’m certain it is something. I explained this to a friend and he laughed, saying Why would you want to write something down? This friend is a writer himself, and thus knows firsthand that one ought not to write something down unless absolutely forced to do so. I tried to explain to him that I was just certain that there was something that I needed to write down, and that if I were to just force myself to sit and write then I just knew that something would come out. Somehow. Until now, however, it has not been so simple as that.

The problem, perhaps, was that I had always approached writing as something that needed to be done while seated at a desk. This is not so. I am lying here on my couch, fan aimed at my overweight, overwrought body, and I am writing. It is marvelous. Perhaps, then, that is what it was I had wanted to write down: writing can be done while lying.

Until recently very few people were aware that I knew who they were. Recently, however, I have begun alerting them to this fact. Ma'am, I'll say, I know that you come here occasionally. Oh? she'll reply. Is that so? It is, Ma'am, indeed. We will then part from one another's company, she a bit wiser for my admission.

I pinched one woman on the elbow and then said Do you know that I have seen you here before? She looked down at her elbow. At least seven times that I can remember. She didn't know that, she tells me, then apologizes for having someplace else to be.

Just earlier today I approached a woman pushing a stroller and stopped the thing with my foot. Do you always walk this thing about at this hour? I ask, knowing already that she does. Yes usually, why? Oh only because I've seen you here at this exact hour nearly everyday for the last three or four months. The woman nods and then looks down at the child inside the stroller. She says Excuse me and rolls over my foot as she hurries away.

I told one woman recently that I thought I could probably guess what she was about to order. What? she asked playfully. I then recited to her the rather unique order I had overheard her place at least a dozen times before, and her face dropped. How'd you know that? she asked. I informed her. She left without ordering anything.

I know who so many different people are and yet they don't have any idea that I know – I'd like to change this, to let them know, to make certain that they know. Perhaps then people will finally begin to admit that they know who I am.

P. Fellows's Apartment, IV

Staying in a hotel can be a pleasant experience. Some people, anyway, enjoy it.

P. Fellows was not staying in a hotel – he had his own apartment. From this apartment he rarely ventured, and then only for the briefest periods of time. He invited what few friends he had to come visit him at his apartment, and so, dutifully, each would come once or twice a month.

When they arrived he made it a point to be in bed. They would knock and knock and knock and, as had become custom, eventually let themselves in. Hello, they would perfunctorily say, and then await their friend’s salutation.

Come back please, they would faintly discern.

The friend would then walk back to P. Fellows’s bedroom and stand looking with feigned sympathy down at the man in the bed. And how are you today?

Wretched.

Why is that?

The world.

And what is troubling you about the world now?

&c &c.

Finally the friend would feel he had fulfilled his duty (he had no female friends) and would say, always betraying a bit of glee in his voice, Well I really must be getting along now.

P. Fellows inevitably replied Don’t let me keep you, and the friend never failed to honor this command.

Apartments then, like hotels, can be pleasant, though are not necessarily so.

Minuet II

It is a sturdy piece of machinery, this fan. There is a place for a light bulb in the center, long flat wooden panels for arms, and some sort of apparatus to connect it to the ceiling jutting out from its back. It is called a Minuet II, and it sits in a box in my room.

When people visit me I tell them Please do sit down. They look about for a while and, not seeing any chair, ask Where? I nod in the direction of my Minuet II box and they say Oh, OK.

When people visit me I usually try to keep up some sort of conversation. What have they been doing? I ask. Did they enjoy doing that? What might they be doing in the future? &c &c.

As they leave I am always overcome by a sense of satisfaction, for I take great comfort in knowing that someone has been doing something, that they did or did not enjoy having done that something, and that they will in the future probably do something else.

I then go over to the box holding my Minuet II and admire the impression that they never fail to leave upon the box’s top. Some impressions are larger than others, but that is certainly not to say more interesting. In fact I often think that the smallest impressions are the most interesting of all.

Film Treatment I

First, a scene with a gun.

A woman, short, bovine, takes it in her hand. “Stop right there,” she says to no one in particular.

Next scene: a beach, three tall women.

“Dare we bathe in that thing?” one of the tall women asks, nodding towards the beach.

They all three shed their towels and hurry towards the water.

Scene III – a courthouse.

Do you know why you’re here? the judge asks the short, bovine woman.

She nods.

Subsequent scene, tomorrow.

I haven’t worn shoes this comfortable in a long time, one tall woman says aloud.

The other two tall women reflect upon this.

Finale: a prison.

A short, bovine woman grumbles to herself.

What is that you’re saying? asks a guard.

She doesn’t respond.

An Encounter

He sees her ankle pass, as anyone lying on the curb would, and grabs it. It feels sharp in his hand; he lets out a faint whimper as he gives it a tug. The woman falls to the ground, silent but for the thud of her body against concrete.

He gets to his knees and approaches her face. A scarlet puddle begins to form beneath her face. ‘Like a wet forest,’ he sighs. He strokes her face with his hand.

‘I used to know a woman just like you,’ he begins. ‘She had a face just like yours.’ He nods approvingly at what he has just said, and continues stroking the woman’s face.

‘I’ve written a book,’ he says. ‘It might have been about you had I known you. As it stands now I’m not certain what it’s about.’

Then he looks hard at the woman’s face. He blinks heavily. ‘Perhaps your face isn’t quite like hers after all.’

He is no longer nodding. ‘No I don’t believe it is.’

At this point he rises to his feet and brushes off his pants. ‘I really must be going,’ he says. ‘Pleasant meeting you.’

He hurries along the crowded street.

Neglecting Madame K

Humble Madame K. was put upon. Men howled for her, women howled at her, children continued to be emitted by her. In short, she led a most onerous existence.

One day as she waddled unsympathetically down the street, one of her children ran up behind her and threw itself upon her leg. Mommy, mommy, Sire Rake’s come again and he’s beating up on little Marsh.

Madame K. glared coldly down at this impudent little beast. Little whore Marsh deserves whatever Rake can muster and more. Then, in a swift, violent motion, Madame K. kicked her leg free of the small child.

She continued down the street and for a time went unmolested. What is this? she thought. Where have all my tormentors gone? Madame K was stunned by their neglect, hurt almost. Where in the hell have they all gone? she thought. What is this? She continued down the street.

Her puzzlement turned to bitterness, which in turn turned to loneliness. Her waddle became even less sympathetic. Where have they all gone? she thought. What have I done to drive them all away?

Then a boy emerged from amidst a heap of refuse. Mother, the boy began, but before he could go on Madame K was beating him savagely. Damn you you impudent little beast! she screamed, where the hell have you been?

Madame K is no longer alone.

She wrote requesting my location. I responded, informing her. Then, unprovoked, I wrote asking if perhaps she would be coming through where I was. She did not respond. I sent another note wondering if perhaps she would be passing through where I was. Again she did not respond.

She never did pass through.

I only now just realized why it was she asked where I had been.

Conquest

Conquest, an amiable old warhorse, waddles horse-like down the road. We ascribe to it different emotions: contentment, pride, resignation, &c &c. But, you ask,what is an old, amiable warhorse to do? Waddle, mostly, but other things as well.

Back in its younger, less amiable days, Conquest carried many a mighty man into battle. There was Malfeasance Jab, a general, who purportedly slaughtered over a thousand enemies atop good old trusty Conquest. Then there was Odious Pluck, a hunchback reputed to have slaughtered more natives than all the others combined, no small percentage of which were slain atop our revered horse.

Now though, in its aged, stooped state, Conquest no longer carries our greatest men to their greatest triumphs. Instead he waddles amiably down different paths, neighing as he passes other horses, and respectfully kneeling when those horses happen to be carrying the great men of this our present age. He is old now and waddling, and while age may have deteriorated him physically, he is certainly more amiable than ever. For this, perhaps, we’re grateful.

There is a coliseum: massive, pristine, horrible. Festivals are held there -- fights too, and cocktail hours and conferences and movie premiers and horse races and cotillions. It is always being used for something.

People admire the coliseum. They say things like It’s a wonderful place to watch a fight or My daughter went to the most wonderful cotillion there or I saw the most wonderful film at the coliseum the other day. When people say these things others always nod, though everybody already knows how wonderful the place is so are never listening too carefully. Yes they’ll reply, Yes it is wonderful.

One man in the city doesn’t care for the coliseum. It’s stuffy he says. And filthy. Whenever he says this the others always squint their eyes and shake their heads. No no it isn’t a bit stuffy or I’ve always found it impeccably clean. The man accepts these rebukes publicly, but privately goes on condemning the place.

One day a grand festival is held at the coliseum and everybody in the city attends. They all enjoy themselves, even the man. That wasn’t so bad, he thinks to himself as he rides the bus home. In fact I think I rather enjoyed that.

When the man gets home he chastises himself for ever having said those awful things about the coliseum.

Humming on his lips on the porch, legs out, smiling, fat flashing mosquitoes thick in the air, the boy’s father appears. Son, he says solemnly, son.

The boy looks up at his father and stops humming. His father is always coming onto the porch. He tries to smile. Yes, father.

There is a long pause. I was only wondering, the father begins, then falters. There is another long pause. I was only wondering if perhaps you’d seen – he breaks off again. Then smiles.

I haven’t, the boy says.

The father nods. Well I was only wondering, you see. Only just that.

The boy nods and watches his father recede into the house. He knows he will return again soon, so resumes his humming at once.

The Architect

People meet or are introduced. They say things to one another, smile. They are kind generally, though sometimes gruff. They often wear clothing that either does or does not appeal to others; sometimes it appeals only to some and not to others – this being one of the risks of fashion. I too do all of these things.

Just the other day I was introduced to a tall young man. This is Flat, he’s an architect. I was in awe, naturally. An architect? I mouthed. Yes, an architect.

I didn’t have anything kind or gruff to say to an architect, so I instead stood admiring his clothing. My, my, architects have such fine clothes, I said to myself. He nodded as if he heard what I was thinking.

I haven’t spoken with the architect since we were introduced, but I think of him often. What is the architect doing now? I periodically ask myself. And what is he wearing?

Then I wonder if he ever thinks of me.

The Sculptor

She was a sculptor. Today she was receiving a degree which stated as much. Her parents came. They cheered, then left to take their daughter home.

At home she saw various objects she had never seen before. This is my home, she thought. Why don’t I recognize these things?

For many months she stayed inside of her home wondering what to sculpt. Should I make a feather? she asked herself. Or a bowtie? She didn’t make either.

One day her mother and father came downstairs to her bedroom. They knocked on her door and she said Come in. They did. A long pause ensued.

What are you going to sculpt? the mother asked timorously.

A feather maybe. Or a bowtie.

The father nodded his head. Oh good, he said. Oh yes very good.

The mother and father then left their daughter's room.

Plop -- 1

Plop stares down at his shoes and sneers. Good heavens he moans. Good heavens.

His lips quiver. Good heavens.

For over a month Plop has been suggesting that people listen to him. Excuse me sir, he’ll begin, but I’ve something rather important to discuss with you.

And what is that? the man’s arched eyebrows will ask. But before Plop even gets a chance to explain the man is hurrying down the path, no longer even condescending to arch his brow at Plop. This happens with women as well, but occasionally they feign a quick grin before rushing along.

Plop cannot understand why people are so reluctant to listen. It can’t be what I have to say he declares. Certainly not. He begins to blame his body. One day it’s his pants, the next his teeth, today his shoes. None of it is quite right he tells himself. Something must be done.

For now the only action he’s taken is to sneer. Its effect is still not totally clear.

There

There are tides and tulips. There are other things as well. There are things that people can eat: broccoli, soup, tangerines. There are people there with eyes the color of soap. There are women who wear pink bathrobes and snore loudly. There are fortunes to be won and lost and then won again. There are corduroy pants that can support themselves -- they shuffle about and people admire them. There are horses for riding and chickens for broth. There are three overstuffed pillows with the initials W.B. embroidered on them. There is a stick that people mockingly call Candle. There is a row of tin spoons all balancing precariously on their handles. Eggbeaters provide the soundtrack: a metallic hum. People swear at one another. There are cartons of cigarettes so old women have something to put in their mouths. There is a light bulb brought in to provide warmth and light. There are windows that people occasionally look through. One man wears a top hat with an image of Elvis glued to it. He smiles and laughs too much. Another man has no teeth. People look at him and say Whatever happened to your teeth? He responds in a sort of mumbled slurring hiss, and the people all nod as if satisfied with this response. There are stacks of books that nobody reads. There are courtyards that are only rarely entered. One woman walks with a cane. This is thought to be hilarious by the natives. There are natives. There are also tourists: men with big hats and women with big guts. There are no children. Nor are there any whales. There is fruit, but it is made of wax. For now this place is tidy enough, but one woman – alone and in a corner – mumbles constantly about how the whole place is going to pot. Sadly, we will not be here long enough to find out if this is so.

Our Man

Our man, a fine man, has a moustache. This he curls, twists, or otherwise tweaks on a fairly regular basis, which is to say very nearly at all times. Women do not whistle when he passes by, but it is clear that they are impressed. It is a sex thing, he explains, though nobody ever asks.

Our man has certain opinions on certain things: he enjoys cattle, he does not enjoy reading, he is indifferent to music. All of these opinions, along with his moustache and certain other qualities, more or less define this man.

Our man, today, is inside of a room he has never been in before. At first he looks about with vague curiosity, but after a few moments is thoroughly bored. His fingers begin to feel for bumps or strings inside his pockets; his eyes roll about in their sockets; his knees buckle and unbuckle. Finally he thinks of a food he would like to eat and smiles, briefly, then leaves the room.

Our man’s character has been exhausted. There is nothing more that he can teach us, or more accurately, that we would care to learn about him.

The precocious child sits nodding its head. Oh how lovely one woman comments. It’s simply divine says another. The child continues nodding its head for some time.

Years later the precocious child is leading a rather dull, comfortable life. It eats regularly and is married. Once a week it meets for lunch with a group of people it knew when it was still a precocious child. These lunches, they all agree, are what they look forward to most each week.

One year much later on the once-precocious child’s spouse dies. This is marked by a series of events commemorating its existence, as well as a good number of tears. After some time, however, the spouse is more or less forgotten.

Several years pass and its life has become much less complicated. It doesn’t work any longer and, aside from a few nagging physical ailments, suffers little. Then it too passes, and though there is less commemoration and fewer tears, some people are saddened by its passing.

The Lady's Bib

She was a violent woman. Her hair told you as much. Also, she wore a bib. Throughout the day things would fall from her mouth and she would scream GOD DAMNED BIB. People’s faces looked puzzled by this. Well why wear the bib then? a puzzled onlooker would quietly ask himself. Lord knows she could find a more flattering thing to drape around herself, another puzzled onlooker would quietly say to herself. Yet she wore the bib.

Her violence was often directed at things, but rarely at other people. She would sigh viciously at a tree stump, do horrible things to a fork, curse a gentleman’s collar. Twice weekly she set out with the sole intention of assaulting things: waste bins, sticks, napkins, celery – just whatever it was she could find. She hated things.

Once a man suggested to her that she please stop assaulting a small bundle of old toys someone had left out on the curb. Stop beating those, he had said. There’s no sense in it. She turned furiously towards the man and spat, sharply, at his face. The spit, not matching the ferocity with which it was spat, fell limply from her mouth and landed on her bib. She reddened noticeably and screamed GOD DAMNED BIB.

Although she was violent she only rarely hurt any other person; just mostly things. For this she was left more or less alone, only suffering the occasional puzzled onlooker with courage enough to make their puzzlement known.

A small piece of toast sits on his plate. That is all.

On one wall he has a picture of two children. They are on a seesaw and the girl’s dress blows out as she descends. You cannot see the boy’s face.

He goes to the icebox and removes three purple crayons. Taking them to the table he stumbles and curses aloud: Damnit. He sits down in front of his plate and tries to draw upon his piece of toast. The cold purple crayon pierces through the hard bread and makes a mark against the white of the plate. Damnit, again.

His mother was coming over later to visit him. He both looked forward to these visits and resented them, thus tried not to think about them too much. She just comes over now and again he would explain to his friends, and they would nod.

After she left he was in a sour mood. He returned to the icebox and removed all three crayons. Taking them up in his fingers one by one he proceeds to drop each one to the floor and then stomp on it, making purple marks all over the cool gray floor. Damnit he thinks. God damnit.

A stray something wanders across the floor. People follow it with their eyes. Look there one man says. Look there at that stray something.

One woman admits to noticing the stray something, but adds that she thinks it might be a rat.

A rat? another woman responds. How absolutely dreadful. She says this in a dry, stolid manner.

The stray something continues wandering. It stumbles over something but regains itself. A rather insignificant bump there, it scoffs, scuttling hurriedly along.

After some time people begin to tire of tracing the stray something’s wandering path. Who cares? someone sighs.

Indeed another adds.

Several weeks later a man is sitting alone at his desk. Very little happens at this man’s desk, and for this he is grateful. At present, however, something fantastic happens: he remembers having seen a wandering stray something only a few weeks prior. My, my, he says to himself, I do wonder what that stray something was.

After a time, however, his wonder subsides.

Her club foot. It doesn’t have toes. Nothing on it moves. Just instead stomps. Saw her as I walked by. I was on the sidewalk. She sat beneath a yellow canopy. Eating. She had a fork in her hand. It moved as much as her foot. It danced practically. Compared to the foot.

I pass. Come to you. Set down inside of you notes. This woman. Her club foot. A fork. Eating. I see how then to write it down. I can see then how to write it down.

I sit writing it down. I have a dancing pencil. It shivers. I do not.

She is written down. I think. Then I think it isn’t right. I set the pencil down. My nose is sweating. There is a bead. I point to it with my eyes. There is a bead. It hurtles down. Dancing.

Round Roundly says

that for him to take me seriously I will have to grow three inches. This is unfair, I whimper, simply unfair.

His face is stern. He is a cold man. I know, he says. I know that it’s unfair.

Then why? my eyes ask, but he does not respond.

As Round Roundly walks away from me and out of my life forever I can’t help but weep. What fun we always had, I think. What a charming young man he was, I think. He was always so well groomed, I think.

I think all these things as I watch Round Roundly walk away from me for the last time. These thoughts are important to me for a moment, as Round Roundly was. I become philosophic. I clinch my jaw. Damn you Round Roundly, I hiss silently, damn you.

Now I’m at home and I just thought you should know. Round Roundly has left me and may he be damned for it. Grow three inches! As if such a thing was even possible.

A Day at Court

A day at court begins with tea. Seven cups spread out against a massive marble top. Each member of the court raises their cup to their lips and sips delicately. A collective slurp is born.

Throughout the day various acts entertain the court. A man in motley will juggle pineapples; a woman draped in gossamer will tumble over herself seductively; a napkin will become a bird will become a key will become a napkin once again. All this occupies a good deal of time.

For dinner capers are served floating in bowls of water. Delicious! one courtier remarks. Oh yes delightful, simply delightful remarks another. When they are done they pour the bowls of water over their heads and let out a collective sigh of relief.

Before going off to bed all the courtiers kiss the hand of their doyenne. My lady they all whisper to her outstretched, hirsute hand. Their lips all smack against her fury fist and then recede, like their producers, into the night.

The Poet

‘Her hair,’ he whispered in her ear, ‘is like a plum.’

He always spoke to his women in the third person.

‘So it doesn’t sound strange when she’s reading it later,’ he would explain to her.

Everything he said to his women went into a poem, and though they were never actually published, he himself would often collect them into small, book-like stacks that he would then make them read.

‘What does she think?’ he’d ask.

She would shrug her shoulders and yawn. ‘I don’t really like poetry.’

‘No, no,’ he would respond, ‘she only inspires it.’

Argenteuil-sur-Seine

There is a tree, of course. There are also other things: houses, a boat, a woman, her bonnet. Then there is the river.

The woman admires something that is not shown.

Through the tree’s leaves a couple can be seen boating. The man holds the oars. For a while they discuss various things, but then the conversation ceases.

The woman is alone on shore. She hasn’t spoken with anyone in a very long time. How nice it would be, she thinks, to go boating with a man. A wan smile creases her face.

Throughout the day other things are admired by both the couple and the woman. As the sun begins to set the woman gets up and walks to her empty boat. Once inside she picks up the oars and begins paddling her way home. The water grimaces with each one of her hard, rapid strokes.

Twice a day I eat. Usually something cold. My fingernails are rarely pared.

That is all that is written on the napkin. It is handed to a man sitting alone at a bar. Curious, the man says. Then throws the napkin to the floor.

Later that night a man is sweeping the bar floor. He comes across the discarded napkin. Picking it up he notices that there are letters written on it. Disgusting, the man says, not actually having read the note. Sickening. He throws the napkin to the floor and sweeps it up.

Weeks later another napkin appears in the bar with letters written on it. This time, however, it is neither handed to the man sitting alone at the bar nor swept up by the man who sweeps up. It is simply there for a while and then not. That is all.

With furtive hands the woman reaches into her bag. She glances desultorily in several directions, then breaths deeply in. When her hand reemerges she is clutching a bird’s foot. She waves it in the air and then stuffs it back into her bag.

She walks about for several hours, uncertain. Finally something happens and she is more certain. Then finally something else and she is sure.

Weeks later she attends a movie at a small theater. It is about a woman from New York and a date she goes on. At the end of the movie she weeps, then leaves.

Today, the day that this story takes place, we find the woman alone in her apartment. She is wearing turquoise beads around her neck and a long, brown dress. Her hair is darker than her dress. It hangs over one shoulder. She sighs and her hand skids across her knee.

This is all framed in a window through which a pigeon briefly passes. Filthy creature she would have thought had she seen it, but she doesn’t. Her teeth gnaw insistently on the inside of her mouth.

In the future other things will happen to her. They will not be recorded, but you can imagine for yourself what they might be.

A Love Affair

She is tall, certainly.

This was what he often thought of when trying to remember her. She is tall, yes, I’m certain that she is tall.

He had met her several times but never sober. When they met they drank together and then sometimes would kiss each other too. He always remembered having met her but hardly anything else. She is tall, yes, certainly she is tall.

One unfortunate afternoon he met her when they were both sober. She wore a green dress and had yellow, dotted skin. She was smoking a cigarette as he approached her, and when she smiled his belly cinched. My god, he thought, my god.

Hey she said through a sheet of smoke.

Hey.

He did not like looking at her so suggested that they take a walk. As they walked he pointed at things and told her funny stories. She hardly laughed at all.

Finally she suggested that they go get a drink. I’m thirsty, she had said, and smiled as if she had made a joke.

Oh, he said, yeah.

They went to a bar and sat down. After several drinks neither of them could think of anything else to say. They kissed for awhile, and he thought about how nice it was to just sit drinking and kissing.

They left the bar but not together. He thought to himself on his walk home what a lovely girl she was. And tall, he thought, she is most certainly tall.

A wilted top hat falls to the side of his small, pointed head. None of his teeth are near each other, yet he smiles. His lips are cracked and dry.

He arrives at a small hut where he’s been before. He lets himself in through the draped sheet covering the door. Hello he says upon entering, though nobody is there.

He moves to the center of the hut and sits down on the exposed ground. With one hand he rubs smooth the dirt at his feet. He looks up and blinks his sunken eyes two or three times.

Outside there are birds screeching. He cannot tell what color they are by the sounds they’re making. This frustrates him, and his forehead furrows.

He leaves the hut and returns home. His sister is there and he asks her to please bring him some supper, explaining that he has had a rather long day. She brings him his supper.

Before bed he takes off his hat and places it on the stand by his bed. He says goodnight, though nobody else is in the room.