Sea Dreams

I dream of water.

Still waters, gushing waters, dark waters, blue waters. A friend of mine tells me the water is meant to represent me. I doubt that. He wears a different ring on each of his fingers. They catch the light of the nearest source when he’s talking and blind you with their colours.

It is a river. A king in a faraway land lets the river loose on a long line of refugees trudging along railway tracks through a green valley. First the water gushes forward over the tracks, and people are screaming. And then there is a silence.

It is beautiful. The bodies float up in the stillness – and the cloudy blue of the calming water when it stops to a still. It is beautiful and breathtaking – and not frightening at all – but it cannot be me.

I’ve seen the ocean as a child. It did not fascinate me as much as the sand did. The waves were beautiful – especially in the monsoon rains – and the colours shifted and changed like some wild monster that could never be tamed. But the sand was magical. It spoke of life – and time – and millions and trillions of aeons, recorded in shifting patterns and consistencies of loose particles. And it touched you and played with you and let you form childlike forms and shapes with its grains – and then when the waves rolled over – it would return to what it always was.

I don’t know where I am.

I see different places – different faces – different times, they swirl together sometimes, as if I’m everywhere at once – and then suddenly, they’re silent. I believe I might be dead, or dying, but I don’t know for sure. Everyone is either dead or dying, and after a point, everything is silent. And dark.

The water is cold. It is not clammy – because it is not moist. That is not a word you can apply to so much water. It is cold, but whole – and endless. I am standing in it up to my waist, and my hair is wet. It clings to my back and sends little spherical drops rolling down my shirt – before they meet the water, and become part of the whole. When there is so much water, it is difficult to believe in it. It isn’t water anymore – it’s everything – it cannot be named – because it is there. Like the air, which we have grown so used to, which we disregard so completely although it is always there – between people, between emotions, between moments.

The sun rises beneath the water – and I can see it sparkling through the depths. The bent light quivers, like it has stories to tell, and a quiet warmth spreads through the blue.

Sometimes the water is everywhere – and we must never wear shoes. Wet feet are not uncomfortable beneath the surface. They dance like they’ve never danced before, kissing the currents, swirling through the abyss. Even meeting people becomes a dance. Conversations are slow – because time is slower in the water – and everything stretches itself out, like it’s as important as it should be.

The water is dark and still. A woman’s red and yellow saree is half-submerged in the blackness, and the light changes.
Flowers, just about to sink, just about to disappear – black waters are magical. As things sink, as they fall beneath the surface, they vanish into the dark, like they never existed – or like many more things exist down there – in the depths. A brown ear and some tousled dark hair. More flowers. Two hands, fingers intertwined. Dark fathomless waters. They cannot be me.

I wake in water. Here there are ships. Great masts, towering above, ragged sails that float in the current as if they sail in the wind above the surface. Everything is darker, but still blue. I cannot be the water.

The stones on the rings are bright. They are so bright that they become liquid, sparkling in the light. Grey, green, blue, black – little oceans. Sometimes they expand into complete worlds, surrounding me – and sometimes they are just stones. Liquid stones. Small drops of water.

I am not small – not so small that I can be worn on fingers – quivering drops of liquid bound to metal circlets. Water can be restrained – in stones, in vessels, in eyes. Not all water is wild, although it wants to be. No, it does not want to be wild – it wants to return to the ocean. To be whole. To not be little drops, little rivers, little ponds and lakes and collections in glasses and buckets and tanks. But to be whole – to be everywhere – to be at peace. Perhaps the ocean heaves in yearning – and the rivers runs in hurry, while little ponds and bucketfuls and glassfuls are still because they know they will never see the ocean.
Sand is at home everywhere. In the wind, before a storm, in your eyes, under your boots, inside pockets of people who have been to the beach. I cannot be the water.

I never drown.

My friend says I cannot drown within myself – but I have. And yet the water does not drown me. It shifts – black, grey, green, blue – but it seems to know me – not always as one of its own, as one who belongs with it – but it knows me. I am not one person – no one is, so the water cannot be one thing to me.

Now there is only water. The furniture is floating – the papers dance in the currents – and the sound is deafening – because there is so much of it.

I don’t know where I am. There are people here with me. They are floating too – they are floating like the furniture floats. They do not dance, they stare. I cannot tell if they are dead – or sleeping – because the water is colder than they are. Ten fingers with ten different rings glint in the dark, catching some obscure light from some source I cannot see.

The water is deafening because it is silent. And still. It has drowned everyone in its shifting changing depths, slowed time, slowed life and slowed death. It cannot be me. But I have brought it here.

Sand is most at home in water.

red light

here's a clock. there's a clock.
arms and face and all the rot.
glaring from the wall.

who's a face? that's a face.
two dots and a curve disgraced.
painted golden dolls.

where's the rhyme? is this the time?
the whole world in a pepper pot.
stewed. steaming. steeled.

weather died. frozen? fried?
and all the one-horned rhinos cried.
two tears. plus glycerine.

where is home? high tea? high noon?
cradled by a helmet swoon.
six of clock and stopped.

car. parked? car. sparked?
horns waved and caked the dark.
if they hadn't we'd have walked.

If, In the Head of Priscilla Ray (long overdue)

Scene:

Spotlight on Priscilla, a young girl in her late teens – early twenties, slightly eccentric, with very fidgety hands, and writing material.

Priscilla: It’s the 30^th of September 2010, the weather is delightfully warm, with a few rumbling thunderstorms overhead. This is a play about - LIGHTS!

Lights on centre stage – a dinner table with four empty chairs.

Lights go out.

Priscilla: This is a play about – (turns to look at stage) – LIGHTS!

Lights on centre stage – dinner table is still there – the four chairs have four nametags. Mother. Father. Elephant. Baby.

Lights go out.

Priscilla: THIS IS A PLAY ABOUT -

Lights on centre stage – dinner table and four chairs are upside down.

Priscilla: DYSFUNCTIONAL –

Lights go out – even the spotlight on Priscilla goes out – and then stage light comes back on, with a few blinks. Dinner table, right way up, with six characters, two on each edge of the table, each with a brown cardboard box on their heads, with eyeholes.

Box 1 slams his fist on the table, but the movement is hidden by Box 2, who is sitting opposite, with his back to the audience.

Box 1 peeps over Box 2 and makes a larger movement – then Box 1 stands up and slams her fist on the table. Box 3, who is sitting next to Box 1, puts her head on the table and starts sobbing violently. Box 4, who is sitting at the head gets up and walks a little way away while Box 5, at the foot is quietly moving her spoon from the table to where her mouth might be. They freeze. Box 2 and Box 6 have their backs to the audience.

Priscilla: Too much clutter.

Lights on Priscilla. Lights off stage.

Priscilla: TOO much clutter.

Lights on stage. Box 2 and Box 6 have disappeared, with their chairs. The rest are still frozen in position.

Priscilla: Clearer. Clearer. There’s never much to see. But at least you can see it. (Pause.) Maybe you should hear it too. (clears her throat while the four boxes get to standing positions in slow motion) The four of them sit down for dinner.

(the boxes follow her directions in slow motion)

Priscilla: Reaching out for the saltcellar, they realize that there is no food on the table. Food? There is nothing on the table – absolutely nothing. Except perhaps, a few specks of dust, which is 80% human skin. Bare skin rushing against bare skin, infused with microscopic particles of wood and sand, they run their fingers over the surface of the table… who was supposed to set it? They look around wildly, trying to identify the home keeper among them – but their faces start to look extremely indistinguishable – the monotone calls out to the monotone – and their heads draw together, in a slow agonizing moment of gravity… (pause)DAMN!

Stage lights go off.

Priscilla: Ok. Restart.

Lights back on – four characters sitting at the table. Mr. Ting, a large man who is still reading the morning newspaper. Mrs. Ting, a lady with a mole. Old Mrs. Ting, a lady with a bigger mole – and young Miss Ting, who has her doll at the table.

Mr. Ting: Mrs. Ting, pass the saltcellar please.

Mrs. Ting: Do you mean the saltcellar or the (whispered) salt… cellar?

Mr. Ting: (folding his newspaper and in a falsetto) No I don’t mean the salt… cellar – there is no such thing – I mean the saltcellar.

Mrs. Ting: Oh I thought you meant the saltcellar – you couldn’t have meant the salt… cellar but I had to make sure.

Mr. Ting: No you don’t, Mrs. Ting – not at the dinner table – you don’t make sure at the dinner table – there is no such thing as the salt… cellar – we don’t MENTION the salt… cellar. Now. Pass the saltcellar.

Mrs. Ting: This one, right – because the salt… cellar can’t really be passed down the table. (laughs nervously)

Mr. Ting: SHUT UP ABOUT THE SALT CELLAR! WE DO NOT MENTION THE SALT CELLAR! SHUT UP! SHUT UP! DO YOU WANT OUR DAUGHTER TO FIND OUT WHAT WE’VE KEPT IN IT??

Miss Ting: What’s in the salt… cellar, daddy?

Mr. Ting: Now you’ve gone and done it. You couldn’t keep your mouth shut? Now what do we do?

Mrs. Ting: I – I – there’s nothing – nothing at all – there’s no such –

Miss Ting: I’m not talking to you, ma. What’s in the salt… cellar?

Mr. Ting: There. Is. Nothing. In. The. Salt. Cellar. There. Is. No. Salt. Cellar.

Miss Ting: I know when you’re lying, daddy. Tell me what –

Mrs. Ting: Now, Miss Ting, don’t talk to your father like that – there’s only salt in the -

Mr. Ting: If I hear the words salt… cellar one more time I’ll…

Old Mrs. Ting: Pass the saltcellar please, dearest…

(pause)

Mr. Ting and Priscilla together: ENOUGH.

Lights go off.

Priscilla: No! No! No! This isn’t a play – a play’s supposed to have CHARACTERS. It’s supposed to mean something. It can’t just ramble off… AGAIN.

Lights on dinner table. The person sitting at the head of the table, previously Mr. Ting, is the only person without a box on their heads. This man is still large, but has no newspaper in front of him. Instead, he is sitting with a large covered dish in front of him. He is wearing an eye-patch and a bandana.

Priscilla: Captain Scarface. A man with a deep dark secret and an inextinguishable wrath. Every night, he sits down for dinner with a covered plate – that he taunts his tablemates with. What does he have beneath it? No one knows, but the very thought of that dish sends thrills of terror down each and every one of his tablemate’s spines.

Captain Scarface: They call me a monster. Me! I’m not a monster – I’m the most frightening, most terrifying, most wicked, most evil monster alive. And I’ll eat it tonight – the dish I’ve been biding my time to uncover. It shall be unveiled tonight. My masterpiece. My death-defying, most terrifying curtain act – PASS ME THE SALTCELLAR!

Lights go off – while Priscilla shuffles her notes – and come back on again. The second person at the table, previously Mrs. Ting, has her head uncovered. She is powdered and prim, her mole larger than ever – her hair set high on top of her head.

Priscilla: Lady Lumpunch. If power inspires fear, and money inspires power, Lady Lumpunch’s name inspires a lumpsillion lyrical larks to lute lullabies in a lolloping lull – or so the say. If you ask her to pass the saltcellar – you better have said please!

Lady Lumpunch: Yes I’ve got money. But where’s yours, pumpkin? If you can’t keep your accounts – keep yourself a bloody accountant! I’ll not help you. This saltcellar is silver – and this saltcellar is mine – and all the salt that pours out of it belongs to me – me – me – toppling columns of white pristine grains of indelible saltiness – get your own saltcellar, darling, you don’t scare me!

Lights go off – while Priscilla writes something down – and come back on again. The person at the opposite end of the table, previously Old Mrs. Ting has her head uncovered now. She has a shock of white hair, and large glasses, and a slightly pointed face, with Parkinsonism.

Priscilla: Dame Doneitall. There’s used to be brain in that large head of hers – before all the grey and the white turned into pitch black with the number of times those physics equations were rubbed on and off the slate of her mind. A genius without her genii soon becomes quite senile.

Dame Doneitall: One two buckle my mice – three blind shoes, how awfully trigonometric. It’s time for zero gravity – three two one – you are entering a region of subatomic tremors. Beware falling headstones – and leaking saltcellars – by the way, I’m starving?

Lights go off as Priscilla arranges her sheets and comes back on again. The last person at the table has her head uncovered. She has large eyes and very well combed straight hair, and is clutching a doll – perhaps slightly larger than the one she had before.

Priscilla: Titli De. A quiet child.

(Titli stares into the audience wide-eyed)

Priscilla: Quite quiet.

Scarface: Lumpunch, you are atrocious. Doneitall, you’re senile. Titli, what are you doing here? You don’t even have a proper name!

Priscilla: What is it with English names? Nope. The name stays.

Scarface: And you have your doll next to you!

Lights go off.

Priscilla: Ok – maybe that can be fixed –

Lights come back on. She’s holding the hand of a giant creature.

Scarface:…And you have your imaginary friend next to you!

Lights go off.

Priscilla: Or maybe not –

Lights come on – the doll is back.

Doneitall: The moment’s passed – we’re all aghast – I wish you’d feed me.

Lumpunch: Oh, Scarface, sweetheart, stop your squabbling. What do you have there in your plate – we’re all waiting –

Scarface: Oh – ha ha ha – I’ll show you, you pack of withered women – I’ll show you what I have!

Doneitall: Oooooh, yum, mum’s the word, bum. Dum-dum, you’re all numb. Yum.

Lumpunch: Shut up and be quick about it – my shares will get cold.

Scarface, with an evil laugh uncovers the dish. It’s empty. Everyone raises their eyebrows.

Lights go off.

Priscilla: Oh. Sorry. These are a few of my scariest things…

Lights on.

There’s the severed hand of the imaginary friend on the plate. No one’s expression changes.

Lights off.

Lights on.

There’s Titli’s head on the plate. Titli is, of course, missing from the table. Everyone gasps.

Lights off.

Lights on.

There’s Lumpunch’s head on the plate. Everyone screams.

Lights off.

Lights on. There’s Doneitall’s head on the plate. Everyone sighs.

Lights off.

Lights on. There’s Scarface’s head on the plate, the cover’s on the table. Everyone starts laughing.

Lights off.

Light’s on. The doll’s on the plate. Everyone’s jaw drops – they’re deathly scared.

Scarface: (with a smug smile) Shall we dine?

Titli: What’s in the saltcellar?

Scarface: What?

Titli: (a little louder) What’s in the saltcellar?

(pause)

Doneitall: Ten, nine, eight…

Lumpunch: Maybe we should all keep calm… balance our coins carefully…

Doneitall: Seven, six, five…

Lumpunch: There’s no point blowing it up… calculation mistakes happen sometimes…

Doneitall: Four, three, two…

Lumpunch: Nothing to go mad about; hold on to your purse strings…

Doneitall: One.

Scarface: WHAT. DID. YOU. SAY?

Titli: WHAT’S IN THE SALTCELLAR?

Lumpunch: It’s not gold, my gumdrops. Never mind.

Scarface: This is all your fault! All yours – all your fault!

Doneitall: Murder, murder, blood and gore! Butcher, gambler, hangman and whore! It’s integration d-life by d-knife d-saltcellar! Catch-yer in the pie!

Titli stands up, glaring at Scarface.

Scarface isn’t daunted. He calms down, pushed the plate in front of him to center table, stands up to his full height and looks calmly at Titli.

Scarface: Well, if that’s the way it’s going to go, lets all lay our cards on the table. You, my dear, aren’t as innocent as you pretend to be. Everyone at this table has killed, no use denying it. We’re all bloody murderers. Let’s confess.

Titli is still glaring at Scarface.

Lumpunch: (sighing) Alright, if that’s the way this is going to go. Let’s have it out – but gently. Let’s write the name of the person we’ve murdered down on a sheet of paper and put it on the table.

Scarface: Alright, Lumpunch. Sounds reasonable to me. What do you say, Titli?

Titli nods once, eyes still on Scarface.

Doneitall: Out damned spotty – dotty – naughty –

(while all four scribble)

Lumpunch: Alright, on the count of three – three!

(they shove the pieces of paper across to the centre of the table)

Priscilla: View, view, view, now the audience can’t see. Rewind please –

(the four characters rewind their motion fast to where Title and Scarface are standing and staring at each other)

Priscilla: …and play.

Lumpunch: (sighing) Alright, if that’s the way this is going to go. Let’s have it out – but gently. Let’s write the name of the person we’ve murdered down on a sheet of paper and stick it on the forehead of the person who’s sitting one place to your right. Then that person can ask yes or no questions and guess the name on his or her forehead.

Scarface: Alright, Lumpunch. Sounds reasonable to me. What do you say, Titli?

Titli nods once, eyes still on Scarface.

Doneitall: Out damned spotty – dotty – naughty –

(while all four scribble)

Lumpunch: Alright, on the count of three – three!

(they all stick the paper on the forehead of the person sitting to their right – Doneitall on Titli, Titli on Lumpunch, Lumpunch on Scarface, Scarface on Doneitall)

Doneitall stares at the name on Lumpunch’s head, Titli stares at the name on Doneitall’s head, Lumpunch stares at the name on Titli’s head and Scareface quickly takes off the name on his own head and looks at it.

Each then deliberately, with very exaggerated movement, counts one person to the left of the person they’re staring at and points a finger at them, rising from their chair.

Scarface: (at Lumpunch) You killed my father!

Lumpunch: (at Doneitall) You killed my father!

Doneitall: (at Titli) You killed my father!

Titli: (at Scarface) You killed my father!

Scarface: (to Titli) No, Titli, I am your father.

They stare at each other. Lights go off.

Priscilla: Ummm… line of vision looks all wrong…

Lights come back on. The whole scene has inverted laterally – left to right – including Scarface’s eyepatch and Lumpunch’s mole.

They’re still staring at each other. Lights go off.

Priscilla: Or did the other one look better? Good god let me see… Left – right – right – left – hmmm. What’s in a direction, I can’t for the life of me remember. Oh well, let’s see for ourselves.

Lights back on. The whole scene is still the same – but it has been replicated in an exact mirror image just next to it, so that each character and each prop has his, her or its double opposite it. Slow but exaggerated movements are mirrored exactly.

Priscilla: And repeat:

All following actions are mirrored exactly by the main dinner party, while the actions themselves are performed by the fake dinner party, the dialogues are in double voices:

(they all stick the paper on the forehead of the person sitting to their right – Doneitall on Titli, Titli on Lumpunch, Lumpunch on Scarface, Scarface on Doneitall)

Doneitall stares at the name on Lumpunch’s head, Titli stares at the name on Doneitall’s head, Lumpunch stares at the name on Titli’s head and Scareface quickly takes off the name on his own head and looks at it.

Each then deliberately, with very exaggerated movement, counts one person to the left of the person they’re staring at and points a finger at them, rising from their chair.

Scarface: (at Lumpunch) You killed my father!

Lumpunch: (at Doneitall) You killed my father!

Doneitall: (at Titli) You killed my father!

Titli: (at Scarface) You killed my father!

Scarface: (to Titli) No, Titli, I am your father.

They stare at each other. Lights go off.

Priscilla: It’s all the same, really. Like all pointing fingers.

Lights come back on. Fake party has disappeared. The dinner party is much more normally dressed now, Scarface has lost his eyepatch and bandana, Lumpunch her strange hairstyle, Doneitall her crazy hair (although she’s still old) and Titli her doll (which was on the table before). What’s on the table is plates of real food and cutlery. Priscilla’s scribbling on her script. In the following dialogue – no one raises their voice.

Scarface: Where is that girl? Call her again, Rita. (Everything he says has a quiet authority and contempt that no one questions)

Lumpunch: Yes, Jai. Priscilla!

(Priscilla starts.)

Priscilla: Coming!

She drops her sheets and hurries to join her family at the table, dragging a chair to sit with her back to the audience.

Scarface: I’ve told you before not to be late for your meal, young lady.

Priscilla keeps her head down.

Doneitall: (she’s a really old lady) Pass the saltcellar, please.

Lumpunch passes the saltcellar.

Doneitall pours salt on her meal, eats it and spits her food out.

Titli: What’s in the salt?

Scarface: It’s nothing, only dadi messing about.

Titli: No, papa, there’s pepper in the saltcellar.

Doneitall is wheezing and coughing.

Scarface: (at Lumpunch) You put pepper in the saltcellar and passed it to my mother.

Lumpunch: I’m sorry – I must have passed the pepper by mistake –

Scarface: What is wrong with you, woman?

Lumpunch: It’s no big deal, Jai. (completely ignoring the wheezing old lady)

Titli: (unpleasantly) I want the salt. Where’s the salt if that’s the pepper?

Scarface: How can you say it’s no big deal?

Doneitall sends a surprisingly intelligent and crafty look towards Lumpunch and goes on wheezing.

Lumpunch: It’s only the salt and pepper, Jai.

Scarface: And it’s your responsibility.

Titli: This food is bland. I won’t eat it. I won’t. I won’t.

Priscilla: Lights out.

Lights go off. And come back on again after a while.

The plates on the table have, instead of the food, the heads of all five family members on them, each in their own place.

Curtain.