Act Three, Scene One
Caribbea, shoreline
(Spaceship lands. Mayor Made of Gold awaits the unboarding. Scientist exits spaceship)
Scientist:
'Tis well being of the sky no longer, but again to have it. Quite a bitter journey!
Mayor Made of Gold:
To the rich kingdom welcome! The world with open arms greets you!
(Scientist stares blankly back)
So pass'd time certainly has.
Scientist:
Oh, that I may amend. Now, mmm, I must ask your leave. Allow me the ocean, please.
Mayor Made of Gold:
But of the flight what? Missing has the crew gone?
(Scientist again stares blankly back)
Any wisdom starly grant'd? Speak directly to me!
Scientist:
Said simply, an experiment forever fail'd. Now allow me the ocean, please!
Mayor Made of Gold:
Very well! May we at a later date then converse? I find it strange...
(Scientist runs to the shore and dives into the ocean, screaming)
Act Three, Scene Two
The Principle Field of Battle
(Dreaming Jellyfish drifts slowly over the battlefield)
Dreaming Jellyfish:
Float high and far ghostly beauty. May each man be reborn into his heart's eye on this field of cellularity. To walk the spaces between bullets only, alive stay for another moment; of this new world only now seen. A passing cloud, how incidental, may become more than the marvelous kiss of the soul, given in this life, but a single time for what may be the last, absolute moment. The grassy plain on which the heart had given home trades in its uniform most untouch'd and whole for that inescapable purity, falling under the moon's blue light. Reverent eyes dart forward across the landscape picking up every detail, sucking everything in. The body searches for things to fill itself, but the encroaching ghosts understand more and expertly work the atmosphere. The shells perfect fire forward and back again from places already deep within. How to seek shelter from such intimate attacks? Infallible still is war's dream of beauty. 'Tis not mine, but the battle's fantasy; however, a dream be it not at all for 'tis the most real thing in all the world. Love comes with truth closest to us in annihilation's company. The river ever continues... though for the fable'd lands of the east or west, I cannot say.
(Lost Balloon enters, drifting alongside Dreaming Jellyfish)
Lost Balloon:
Sparks the memory so, this silent swaying of the tall grass to the green waves of Caribbea. The compelling wind I cannot escape and sail ever on.
(Mr. Birthday is lost on the battlefield)
Mr. Birthday:
The morning is very dark. Perhaps, I may hold it a bit longer than the last. How arrive'd? Hmm... I've long forgotten. The way the air feels is more important now. The direction in which the grass blades against the breeze move when it slowly flows in; that too is more important. There is little of that good wind, but 'tis good and will always come, like the whisper'd waves of the Caribbean shore or the spiritual rains of Appalachian white.
(pauses as snow begins to fall)
I am moving up into the sky. The snow has in midair stop'd and I simply pass beyond it. Without question, there is something here. Directly encounter'd it I've not, but glimpse'd before faintly, stirring under the sunlight, in the fresh wake of angels. Be it the fullness, the sum of the explosions in my childhood eyes and the unleashing of rainbows in my head. It lies in days of sickness, in children's shoes, the quiet of spring houses, and in certain postcards and letters. Perhaps I spy'd a small gleam in a backyard swingset, the sun'd eye'd ducks and geese, felt it during summertime in the coolness of theaters, in all the diamonds in the snow hiding, and in blackouts, both summer and winter. It lies surely in acorns from vacations, lamplight on the pages of age'd books, and the character of moonlight on delicate skin; holiday embraces, things seen in the clouds, recollections of friends. May this fleeting spark be found even in our old lawnmower, in the rearranging of rooms, rain hitting the sidewalk outside the house, and memories of mosquito bites. It lies in a sunburn I once had, my robe and slippers, the sunrise I saw with my parents, and the depths of space; electricty, my hometown, Christmas trees, and in true love always. It is Caribbea as it is Appalachia. The dawn and dusk; mind and heart, together. Heaven.
Act Three, Scene One
Caribbea, shoreline
(Spaceship lands. Mayor Made of Gold awaits the unboarding. Scientist exits spaceship)
Scientist:
'Tis well being of the sky no longer, but again to have it. Quite a bitter journey!
Mayor Made of Gold:
To the rich kingdom welcome! The world with open arms greets you!
(Scientist stares blankly back)
So pass'd time certainly has.
Scientist:
Oh, that I may amend. Now, mmm, I must ask your leave. Allow me the ocean, please.
Mayor Made of Gold:
But of the flight what? Missing has the crew gone?
(Scientist again stares blankly back)
Any wisdom starly grant'd? Speak directly to me!
Scientist:
Said simply, an experiment forever fail'd. Now allow me the ocean, please!
Mayor Made of Gold:
Very well! May we at a later date then converse? I find it strange...
(Scientist runs to the shore and dives into the ocean, screaming)
Act Three, Scene Two
The Principle Field of Battle
(Dreaming Jellyfish drifts slowly over the battlefield)
Dreaming Jellyfish:
Float high and far ghostly beauty. May each man be reborn into his heart's eye on this field of cellularity. To walk the spaces between bullets only, alive stay for another moment; of this new world only now seen. A passing cloud, how incidental, may become more than the marvelous kiss of the soul, given in this life, but a single time for what may be the last, absolute moment. The grassy plain on which the heart had given home trades in its uniform most untouch'd and whole for that inescapable purity, falling under the moon's blue light. Reverent eyes dart forward across the landscape picking up every detail, sucking everything in. The body searches for things to fill itself, but the encroaching ghosts understand more and expertly work the atmosphere. The shells perfect fire forward and back again from places already deep within. How to seek shelter from such intimate attacks? Infallible still is war's dream of beauty. 'Tis not mine, but the battle's fantasy; however, a dream be it not at all for 'tis the most real thing in all the world. Love comes with truth closest to us in annihilation's company. The river ever continues... though for the fable'd lands of the east or west, I cannot say.
(Lost Balloon enters, drifting alongside Dreaming Jellyfish)
Lost Balloon:
Sparks the memory so, this silent swaying of the tall grass to the green waves of Caribbea. The compelling wind I cannot escape and sail ever on.
(Mr. Birthday is lost on the battlefield)
Mr. Birthday:
The morning is very dark. Perhaps, I may hold it a bit longer than the last. How arrive'd? Hmm... I've long forgotten. The way the air feels is more important now. The direction in which the grass blades against the breeze move when it slowly flows in; that too is more important. There is little of that good wind, but 'tis good and will always come, like the whisper'd waves of the Caribbean shore or the spiritual rains of Appalachian white.
(pauses as snow begins to fall)
I am moving up into the sky. The snow has in midair stop'd and I simply pass beyond it. Without question, there is something here. Directly encounter'd it I've not, but glimpse'd before faintly, stirring under the sunlight, in the fresh wake of angels. Be it the fullness, the sum of the explosions in my childhood eyes and the unleashing of rainbows in my head. It lies in days of sickness, in children's shoes, the quiet of spring houses, and in certain postcards and letters. Perhaps I spy'd a small gleam in a backyard swingset, the sun'd eye'd ducks and geese, felt it during summertime in the coolness of theaters, in all the diamonds in the snow hiding, and in blackouts, both summer and winter. It lies surely in acorns from vacations, lamplight on the pages of age'd books, and the character of moonlight on delicate skin; holiday embraces, things seen in the clouds, recollections of friends. May this fleeting spark be found even in our old lawnmower, in the rearranging of rooms, rain hitting the sidewalk outside the house, and memories of mosquito bites. It lies in a sunburn I once had, my robe and slippers, the sunrise I saw with my parents, and the depths of space; electricty, my hometown, Christmas trees, and in true love always. It is Caribbea as it is Appalachia. The dawn and dusk; mind and heart, together. Heaven.
Scientist:
Mayor Made of Gold:
(Scientist stares blankly back)
So pass'd time certainly has.
Scientist:
Mayor Made of Gold:
(Scientist again stares blankly back)
Any wisdom starly grant'd? Speak directly to me!
Scientist:
Mayor Made of Gold:
(Scientist runs to the shore and dives into the ocean, screaming)
Caribbea, shoreline
(Spaceship lands. Mayor Made of Gold awaits the unboarding. Scientist exits spaceship)
'Tis well being of the sky no longer, but again to have it. Quite a bitter journey!
To the rich kingdom welcome! The world with open arms greets you!
Oh, that I may amend. Now, mmm, I must ask your leave. Allow me the ocean, please.
But of the flight what? Missing has the crew gone?
Said simply, an experiment forever fail'd. Now allow me the ocean, please!
Very well! May we at a later date then converse? I find it strange...Act Three, Scene Two
Dreaming Jellyfish:
(Lost Balloon enters, drifting alongside Dreaming Jellyfish)
Lost Balloon:
(Mr. Birthday is lost on the battlefield)
Mr. Birthday:
(pauses as snow begins to fall)
I am moving up into the sky. The snow has in midair stop'd and I simply pass beyond it. Without question, there is something here. Directly encounter'd it I've not, but glimpse'd before faintly, stirring under the sunlight, in the fresh wake of angels. Be it the fullness, the sum of the explosions in my childhood eyes and the unleashing of rainbows in my head. It lies in days of sickness, in children's shoes, the quiet of spring houses, and in certain postcards and letters. Perhaps I spy'd a small gleam in a backyard swingset, the sun'd eye'd ducks and geese, felt it during summertime in the coolness of theaters, in all the diamonds in the snow hiding, and in blackouts, both summer and winter. It lies surely in acorns from vacations, lamplight on the pages of age'd books, and the character of moonlight on delicate skin; holiday embraces, things seen in the clouds, recollections of friends. May this fleeting spark be found even in our old lawnmower, in the rearranging of rooms, rain hitting the sidewalk outside the house, and memories of mosquito bites. It lies in a sunburn I once had, my robe and slippers, the sunrise I saw with my parents, and the depths of space; electricty, my hometown, Christmas trees, and in true love always. It is Caribbea as it is Appalachia. The dawn and dusk; mind and heart, together. Heaven. The Principle Field of Battle
(Dreaming Jellyfish drifts slowly over the battlefield)
Float high and far ghostly beauty. May each man be reborn into his heart's eye on this field of cellularity. To walk the spaces between bullets only, alive stay for another moment; of this new world only now seen. A passing cloud, how incidental, may become more than the marvelous kiss of the soul, given in this life, but a single time for what may be the last, absolute moment. The grassy plain on which the heart had given home trades in its uniform most untouch'd and whole for that inescapable purity, falling under the moon's blue light. Reverent eyes dart forward across the landscape picking up every detail, sucking everything in. The body searches for things to fill itself, but the encroaching ghosts understand more and expertly work the atmosphere. The shells perfect fire forward and back again from places already deep within. How to seek shelter from such intimate attacks? Infallible still is war's dream of beauty. 'Tis not mine, but the battle's fantasy; however, a dream be it not at all for 'tis the most real thing in all the world. Love comes with truth closest to us in annihilation's company. The river ever continues... though for the fable'd lands of the east or west, I cannot say.
Sparks the memory so, this silent swaying of the tall grass to the green waves of Caribbea. The compelling wind I cannot escape and sail ever on.
The morning is very dark. Perhaps, I may hold it a bit longer than the last. How arrive'd? Hmm... I've long forgotten. The way the air feels is more important now. The direction in which the grass blades against the breeze move when it slowly flows in; that too is more important. There is little of that good wind, but 'tis good and will always come, like the whisper'd waves of the Caribbean shore or the spiritual rains of Appalachian white.
