Friday, April 18, 2014

Pterodactyls/ Emma/ Nicky Silver

Hello everybody. I’m dead. How are you? I’m glad I killed myself. I’m not reccomending it for others, mind you - no Dr. Kevorkian am I. But it’s worked out for me. Looking back, I don’t think I ever was supposed to have been born with to begin with. Of course, the idea that ‘supposed to be’ implies a master plan„ and I don’t believe in that kind of thing. When I say I shouldn’t have been born, I mean that my life was never all that pleasant. And there was no real reason for it. I was pretty. I had money. I was lucky enough to be born into a time and a class where I had nothing but opportunities. I look around and there is crippled people and blind people and refugees and I can’t believe I had the gall to whine about anything! I had my health - oh sure, I complained a lot, but really I was fine. And I had love! Granted the object of my affections was a latent, or not-so-latent homosexual as it turned out who was affected with the HIV virus, who in turn infected me and my unborn baby—but isn’t that really picking nits? I can never thank Todd enough for giving me the gun, because for the first time, I’m happy. The pain is gone and I remember everything. Tommy is here but we’re not speaking. He spends all his time with Montgomery Clift and George Cukor talking about movies. I assume. And I’ve been reunited with Alice Paulker. We went to school together. She was shot last year by a disgruntled postal worker. She has long wavy brown hair and skin so pale you can see right through it - I don’t mean it’s really transparent and you can see her guts and everything. It’s just pale. And she has very big eyes. Green. And we listen to music and go for walks. And take turns read aloud to each other. She reads poems by Emily Bronte and I read chapters from The Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller. She was always classier than me. And sometimes we just hold each other. and I run my fingers through her hair and she touches her lips, gently, along my cheek. She makes soft sounds, comforting sounds and she takes her time and runs her tongue around the edge of my ear. We take off our clothes and just look at each other. I was shy at first, but Alice helped me and never rushed me. She held my breasts in her hand and ran her lips between them, down my stomach. I touch her eyelids and her forehead and her hair and her fingers and the back of her neck. And she enters me and I am everywhere at once and nowhere at all. And I remember everything and find that nothing matters. And for a moment, for a moment or two that lasts forever we become one person. And I forget, we forget, that we were ever alive. And everything makes perfect sense. 

Tuesday, March 25, 2014
I do not regret one professional enemy I have made. Any actor who doesn’t dare to make an enemy should get out of the business. Bette Davis (via theatremama)
Monday, March 24, 2014

The Metal Children/ Adam Rapp/ Vera

Why get pregnant? Because we can. Existentially speaking, aside from suicide, it’s the most meaningful choice a young woman can make. We control our own fate. Not parents or priests or politicians. Not coaches or teachers of textbooks preapproved by the educational oligarchy. Not middle aged men with prostate problems and hairy ears. We get pregnant, our community automatically exiles us, our parents disown us. No man wants to be with a single teen mother. We take control of our destiny. Whether you like it or not, your novel showed us that, Mr. Falmouth. Now we only have about thirty minutes. before my aunt starts making rounds of the units. Do you have any sexually transmitted diseases. I’m ovulating and actually quite excited about the prospect of the creator of our great text being my host. There’s powerful poetry at play. You’re not sterile are you? Your fertility is sort of paramount to this actually happening Mr. Falmouth. 

Wednesday, February 19, 2014

The Optimist/ Jason Chimonides/ Declan

I am obsessed. It’s startling, isn’t it? I mean, look out there. Every one of those tragic bipeds, indeed, each and every one of us, Noel is the result of a single tussled gooey act of sex. What if you could see it? Through some sort of crazy telekinetic, portal thing? What if you could see in like, this searing flash, the fuck from whence they came? Like this fat Asian guy,- “reverse cowgirl”?… or that crumpled granny woman over there, with the Medicaid sunglasses on: a melancholic missionary position. Certainly not, “upright doggy”…”suspended Congress” maybe? I wonder what it was like when we were conceived. Probably Mom was on top. I wouldn’t doubt it. I bet she was a hellcat in her day. I hope we were conceived in like a sweaty, febrile, primate kinda way. Not in the sort of lovey dovey Sunday afternoon kinda way. I hope it was like: teeth gnashing, feet folding, tangled sheets kinda sex.

Saturday, January 11, 2014

"I ate the divorce papers"

Monologue is from play “Goodbye Charles” by Gabriel Davis

I ate them. That’s right. I ate the divorce papers, Charles. I ate them with ketchup. And they were good…goooood. You probably want me to get serious about our divorce. The thing is you always called our marriage a joke. So let’s use logic here: If A we never had a serious marriage then B we can’t have a serious divorce. No. We can’t. The whole thing’s a farce, Charles – a farce that tastes good with ketchup.

I mean, wasn’t it last week, your dad asked you the reason you walked down that aisle with me, and you said “for the exercise.” Ha, ha. That’s funny. You’re a funny guy, Charles. I’m laughing, not a crying. Ha, ha. I’m laughing because you’re about to give up on a woman who is infinitely lovable.

Continue reading on Gabriel’s website, Monologue Genie!

Monday, August 12, 2013

Venus in Fur/ David Ives/ Vanda

Knock knock knock! Am I too late? I’m too late, right? Fuck. Fuck! God, I’m so sorry, I am so, so, sorry. I got caught like way uptown and my cell went out. Then my fucking heel get’s stuck in one of those sewer- cover- thing whatevers. Then there’s this guy from the train, I don’t even want to tell you about him, rubbing up against my ass the whole trip. Then it starts to pour. I get soaked through to the fucking skin. Fuck. Fuck! I’m ok. Just my usual luck is all. Thank you. God, once again! Hi! I’m sorry. Vanda Jordan. See what I mean? I’ve even got her name! How many girls in this town are called Vanda? Actually I’m Wanda but my parents call me Vanda. Anyway, I’m like perfect for the part and the fucking train gets stuck in a tunnel while this guys trying to penetrate me. Talk about fate. And you are Thomas Novacheck. God, I love your plays! I mean the ones I know. Anatomy of Shadows? Like Wow, Anatomy of Shadows was amazing! I saw it twice! […] Right, right. I mean you know, the other one. Anyway. God this is embarrassing.  This play sure is amazing. I mean the parts of it I read. Pretty wild stuff. 

Sunday, August 11, 2013

Fat Men in Skirts/ Nicky Silver/ Popo Martin

I am Popo Martin. My friends call me Popo martin. Dr. Nester says I am a paranoid skitzophrenic. I think I have Marnie’s disease. You know, like Tippi Hedren in that movie. When I see red, I see red! I mean, I have an episode. Although sometimes it happends when I don’t see red. And sometimes I see red and it dosen’t happen. I am the most popular girl in the hospital. I get lots of visitors! I was a cheerleader. I’d do a cheer for you now, but I don’t have my pompoms. All my teachers love me. The girls on the squad come to visit me every sunday. The principal sent me a get well note and the boys autographed a football. You can ask anyone in school about me, and they’d all say the same thing. Popo Martin is always cheerful. Popo Martin is a natural leader. Popo Martin looks on the bright side. Popo Martin has a smile on her lips and a kind word for a saddend stranger. Which is propobly why everyone was so surprised when it happend. I tried to kill myself! I took thirty-five sleeping pills out of my mothers purse. I didn’t want to smile anymore. My jaw hurts. And whistling gives me a headache. I want, more than anything to wallow in a hopeless depression - but it just goes against my grain. So I tried to kill myself. That’s why I’m here.

Thursday, August 1, 2013

Scab/ Sheila Callaghan/ Anima

This is the ocean, Susan. She’s vast, isn’t she? The yellow afternoon hanging low above her is her father. He dreamed of her once filled with jewels, emeralds, and sapphires, and diamonds, and she stayed that way. She winks and twinkles for a million miles. You’ve probably dreamed of her as well. Remember the ache you felt in your stem, the small half-pains, the yawning itch…it was her voice riding your dream tides. Stretch to her Susan. Let each new leaf uncurl, one by one life fingers in a fist and let your palms be tickled by her green breath. See. That’s it. Stretch. 

Wednesday, July 24, 2013

Scab/ Sheila Callaghan/ Alan

I am thirty two, nine years older than you. I have penetrated nineteen women, not including you, with my average sized penis. I played the viola all through college and abit professionally before graduate school, I floss my teeth to NPR twice a day, each night I use lotion from a little blue jar to keep me from getting wrinkly, I have an austere set of political beliefs, I am a vegan, I read the Los Angeles Times spread across my carpet every morning, I shop at Trader Joe’s for all my groceries and I use only raw unprocessed honey in my tea.You eat rare meat, you listen to top forty radio, you never read the paper, you drink Bud Ice and you’ve only slept with two men, one of whom was gay. What on God’s good earth ever made you think it would work between us?

Saturday, July 13, 2013

In the Next Room, Or, The Vibrator Play/ Sarah Ruhl/ Mrs. Givings

Do you want more children, Elizabeth? That is a tactless question, you don’t need to answer, forgive me, sometimes I say whatever is in my head. I want more children and my husband desperately wants more children but I am afraid of another birth, aren’t you? When I gave birth I remember so clearly, the moment her head was coming out of my body, I though: Why would any rational creature do this twice, knowing what I know now? And then she came out and clambered right onto my breast and tried to eat me, she was so hungry, so hungry it terrified me - her hunger. And I thought: Is that the first emotion? Hunger? And not hunger for food but anting to eat other people? Specifically one’s mother? And then I thought - Isn’t it strange , isn’t it strange about Jesus? That is to say, about Jesus being a man? For it is women who are eaten- who turn their bodies into food- I gave up my blood- there was so much blood- and I gave up my body- but I couldn’t feed her, I couldn’t turn my body into food, and she was so hungry. I suppose that makes me an inferior kind of women and a very inferior kind of Jesus.