Loss For Words
Scene: balcony of housing project. A hanging pot of landscape geraniums. Night.
MATTERHORN: Have I ever told you this? Whenever you hear the sound of an emergency siren...
BRAGGADOCIO: ...like right now...
M: ...yeah, like right now. It is... ambiguous. You can be sure shit is going down, but it also indicates that wehatever shit is going down is being addressed. Social safety net got your back. Slightly less so if you're not of the same colour as 47% of the people of this city...
B: ...white?
M: ...no, jackass. Of course white!
B: So why didn't you just say that?
M: Because I wanted to point out that white folk are in the minority. Also I like the sound of my own voice. Jackass.
B: You do have a good voice. A certain CBC radio quality to it. Makes you seem cultured just by saying things slowly enough. Not like my voice. Mine's thin like those extra-thin spaghettis you can get at Zimmerman's. Thin and crispy. And it seems to boil at a higher point. Man, those were the days.
M: What days?
B: Last year when we ate spaghetti every night, and we fed the homeless with our extras.
M: Is that why they're still milling around the dumpsters?
B: Hell yeah. Our own private harem of smelly, ugly/deformed/toothless, male boy-toys. Don't you remember?
M: (To the fourth wall.) I did remember, but I wanted to get Braggy here to talk. For the sake of clumsy exposition, ya dig?
B: What?
M: Meh; don't worry. Why are we up here anyway?
B: What, on the fourth story of the half-collapsed, third-world-style clapboard monstrosity they call an aparment building? This Moby Dick enclosure for the recently poor and bereaved, this pipeline of neighbours' screams of agony, of ecstasy, of loenliness...
M: Calm, there. You know what happens if you get worked up.
B: Yeah...
M: So quiet. Here, have chocolate bar. You have to practically inhale it before it melts. (He takes the chocolate bar, which is actually a proein bar coated in chocolate.)
...
M: Can you tell me, without your roundabout speech, what we're doing here?
B: We're waiting for Godot.
M: Shut the fuck up! We're not.
B: No, we're listening to ambulance sirens and whiling away the night because it's too fucking hot inside.
M: Oh...
...
B: You got any cardamom?
M: What? No.
B: You got a pitcher of ice water?
M: What does it look like?
B: I don't know, for, you see, I am blind.
M: No you're not!
B: Fine. You got any henna dyes?
M: What do you want henna dyes for?
B: To trade for cardamom.
M: You're strange.
B: All part of the plan. You remember the one red paperclip guy?
M: If this was on the internet, I don't remember shit.
B: Well, whatever. Got any stencils?
M: No.
B: Shit. I was gonna use them to make political graffitti.
M: Where? All the wall space is used up.
B: Not on the second floor, it's not.
M: But you'd need rigging and such.
B: I can trade for it.
M: I don't know.
B: No, this dude on Craigslist is offering free scaffolding.
M: Why the fuck?
B: I don't know. Something to do with "walking the world". Possible it's some kind of occupational therapy.
M: Are you browsing Craigslist right now?
B: In my mind I am. Hey, got any balustrades?
M: No.
B: Got any warped poker chips?
M: Threw them out in the dumpster.
B: Where's the dumpster?
M: Homeless people sold the contents and container for scrap.
B: To who?
M: Probably with the aid of Craigslist.
B: Oh, you totally won that conversation. I am vanquished.
M: Great.
B: Got any weed?
M: No, man. And you know you can't smoke any.
B: Yeah, makes my hypothalamus swell.
M: Yeah, what's up with that? They ever get back to you about the results of the study?
B: They couldn't draw any conclusions. The sample size was too small. Wasted millions of dollars.
M: Shit.
B: Meh, snakes on a plane.
...
B: Got a telescope?
M: No.
B: Have you memorized any poetry recently?
M: A couple of quatrains by Hafiz.
B: Serious?
M: Yeah. Wanna hear them?
B: No. Got any empty soup cans?
M: Why specifically soup cans?
B: I have my reasons. Yay or nay?
M: None. You know what I do or don't have. You're sitting in my apartment.
B: No I'm not.
M: Oh, fuck a duck. What else do you need.
B: Who said I needed any of this stuff?
Enter POPE, stage right, four stories below.
POPE: Hey, guys, has anyone seen my bong?
B: I'll trade you a new bong for cardamom.
P: No dice. Sentimental attachment, ya dig?
B: Fine.
P: Besides, you didn't specify how much cardamom.
...
Exit all but Matterhorn.
M: جز نـقـش تو در نـظر نیامد ما را
جز کوی تو رهـگذر نیامد ما را
خواب ارچه خوش آمد همه را در عهدت
حـقا کـه بـه چشم در نیامد ما را
...
M: Which reminds me: I need some wine.
Exit Matterhorn.
Consider: "When childhood dies, its corpses are called adults and they enter society, one of the politer names of hell. That is why we dread children, even if we love them. They show us the state of our decay."
MATTERHORN: Have I ever told you this? Whenever you hear the sound of an emergency siren...
BRAGGADOCIO: ...like right now...
M: ...yeah, like right now. It is... ambiguous. You can be sure shit is going down, but it also indicates that wehatever shit is going down is being addressed. Social safety net got your back. Slightly less so if you're not of the same colour as 47% of the people of this city...
B: ...white?
M: ...no, jackass. Of course white!
B: So why didn't you just say that?
M: Because I wanted to point out that white folk are in the minority. Also I like the sound of my own voice. Jackass.
B: You do have a good voice. A certain CBC radio quality to it. Makes you seem cultured just by saying things slowly enough. Not like my voice. Mine's thin like those extra-thin spaghettis you can get at Zimmerman's. Thin and crispy. And it seems to boil at a higher point. Man, those were the days.
M: What days?
B: Last year when we ate spaghetti every night, and we fed the homeless with our extras.
M: Is that why they're still milling around the dumpsters?
B: Hell yeah. Our own private harem of smelly, ugly/deformed/toothless, male boy-toys. Don't you remember?
M: (To the fourth wall.) I did remember, but I wanted to get Braggy here to talk. For the sake of clumsy exposition, ya dig?
B: What?
M: Meh; don't worry. Why are we up here anyway?
B: What, on the fourth story of the half-collapsed, third-world-style clapboard monstrosity they call an aparment building? This Moby Dick enclosure for the recently poor and bereaved, this pipeline of neighbours' screams of agony, of ecstasy, of loenliness...
M: Calm, there. You know what happens if you get worked up.
B: Yeah...
M: So quiet. Here, have chocolate bar. You have to practically inhale it before it melts. (He takes the chocolate bar, which is actually a proein bar coated in chocolate.)
...
M: Can you tell me, without your roundabout speech, what we're doing here?
B: We're waiting for Godot.
M: Shut the fuck up! We're not.
B: No, we're listening to ambulance sirens and whiling away the night because it's too fucking hot inside.
M: Oh...
...
B: You got any cardamom?
M: What? No.
B: You got a pitcher of ice water?
M: What does it look like?
B: I don't know, for, you see, I am blind.
M: No you're not!
B: Fine. You got any henna dyes?
M: What do you want henna dyes for?
B: To trade for cardamom.
M: You're strange.
B: All part of the plan. You remember the one red paperclip guy?
M: If this was on the internet, I don't remember shit.
B: Well, whatever. Got any stencils?
M: No.
B: Shit. I was gonna use them to make political graffitti.
M: Where? All the wall space is used up.
B: Not on the second floor, it's not.
M: But you'd need rigging and such.
B: I can trade for it.
M: I don't know.
B: No, this dude on Craigslist is offering free scaffolding.
M: Why the fuck?
B: I don't know. Something to do with "walking the world". Possible it's some kind of occupational therapy.
M: Are you browsing Craigslist right now?
B: In my mind I am. Hey, got any balustrades?
M: No.
B: Got any warped poker chips?
M: Threw them out in the dumpster.
B: Where's the dumpster?
M: Homeless people sold the contents and container for scrap.
B: To who?
M: Probably with the aid of Craigslist.
B: Oh, you totally won that conversation. I am vanquished.
M: Great.
B: Got any weed?
M: No, man. And you know you can't smoke any.
B: Yeah, makes my hypothalamus swell.
M: Yeah, what's up with that? They ever get back to you about the results of the study?
B: They couldn't draw any conclusions. The sample size was too small. Wasted millions of dollars.
M: Shit.
B: Meh, snakes on a plane.
...
B: Got a telescope?
M: No.
B: Have you memorized any poetry recently?
M: A couple of quatrains by Hafiz.
B: Serious?
M: Yeah. Wanna hear them?
B: No. Got any empty soup cans?
M: Why specifically soup cans?
B: I have my reasons. Yay or nay?
M: None. You know what I do or don't have. You're sitting in my apartment.
B: No I'm not.
M: Oh, fuck a duck. What else do you need.
B: Who said I needed any of this stuff?
Enter POPE, stage right, four stories below.
POPE: Hey, guys, has anyone seen my bong?
B: I'll trade you a new bong for cardamom.
P: No dice. Sentimental attachment, ya dig?
B: Fine.
P: Besides, you didn't specify how much cardamom.
...
Exit all but Matterhorn.
M: جز نـقـش تو در نـظر نیامد ما را
جز کوی تو رهـگذر نیامد ما را
خواب ارچه خوش آمد همه را در عهدت
حـقا کـه بـه چشم در نیامد ما را
...
M: Which reminds me: I need some wine.
Exit Matterhorn.
Consider: "When childhood dies, its corpses are called adults and they enter society, one of the politer names of hell. That is why we dread children, even if we love them. They show us the state of our decay."
posted by A. D. at 6:20 PM
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