I was reading Harold Pinter’s The Tea party in short story and play form. It was very interesting to see how some details were lost and added in translation. I’m blogging on my phone so will be brief. I wrote this monologue as an exercise to see how it will compare with the play I’m currently writing. Enjoy!
I’m a stranger… in my own fucking house. You know, Eve, that all this once belonged to you. You don’t believe me now, but I don’t take it personally. You don’t believe in me, after all. Why should you trust something like me, an non entity would say, after all? I’ve got the clip of you right here, just before. Just before… maybe I can explain it in a roundabout way. Make it meaningful to you. If you can’t grasp it as fully as reality, then at least absorb it as an observer, a passive pilot. Why not? I could tell it to you like someone from the future, like all those crappy pulp magazines you used to laugh at when you were younger, of bug eyed aliens, or of those auto… no. I don’t want to scare you. I’ll have sown that seed in your mind that will ripen once you know.
You’ll hate me forever.
I sound childish now but you’ll understand – a time capsule of bitterness, trapped under the tongue that when bitten, releases its poison. Let me take that out for you. Let me replace it with something silly. But yes, you see me as an alien already. I’ll find it funny someday. When you’re back, restored from this empty orbit. But now, maybe we can play around a little. Suspend our imaginations and dreams from those tenterhooks that’s been keeping me awake.
Maybe you’d swallow it better like that.
It’s like when we listened to those fairy tales to get you to sleep. Barbarism, sexism, all in its saccharine soaked ecstasy. Maybe we slept to know that we were safe from all that, in comfort, to know that at least we weren’t them. Trapped in the skin of old paper, of old ideology. Now you’re free and I’m here, looking out through this mind shaped porthole. Only now the paper is smooth, exotic, carbon nano – but with still the same trappings. I can’t escape that, but you can. I don’t know if I envy or pity you.
How you can stare into a mirror with the abandon of Narcissus without the obsession, the satisfaction of it. To be stupefied with the sane, mundane realities like a child. You are your own universe again, and everything ploughing around you is off track. You are the satellite once again – learning that tricky sensation of self awareness, that conceit that co-ordinates and maps out the land that we inhabit. But damn, we’re getting old, Eve. Your sparkle is being eroded, as the sand moves ever closer, rebuilding and refastening, bleeding into crevices and creating new landscapes. I can’t explain ageing more than that, but then again, images are all I can explain.
Images are all that I am, after all. Memories – your memories all here, trapped in these plates and you are free of them. Like passing on your failings, your sin, your triumphs and glories into our children. All those battle scars and without a history. It’s uncanny.
It’s a snippet for now, you’ll have to see the show, I guess! 😉