A Musing Before The Last Drama Lesson

Harold look at me Harold see me Harold turn your head Harold I am here come back Harold he thought. But Harold kept looking right ahead at the worn blue wallpaper. Harold come back Harold bring it back to me I can’t do it anymore I lost it and Will has been dead for centuries and Samuel is dead and Augusto is dead and Bertolt is dead and Peter has gone bonkers with dementia years ago and you are dead but come back to me bring it back to me Harold he thought. Still Harold’s stern, piercing gaze remained away from his face. The wide, ancient-looking nose still sat with the same prominence on his face, the remaining hair still had the same semi-aristocratic silvery glow and the chin still was severe, even more so in old age, all was there; but Harold wouldn’t look at him anymore. Look at me Harold Harold see me and he started weeping, punching the little wooden desk over and over again.

  It used to work. He used to be able to feel them, wear them on, take them off, change them, make them better, get to know them, understand them. The characters. He could wait for Godot as Estragon, his prostate aching, he could question that son-of-a-bitch called Stanley as Investigator Goldberg; and he could turn the entire city of Rome against that treacherous Brutus as Marcus Antonius. He could scheme, he could kill, he could die, he could be overcome with joy, he could swear revenge—he could act, goddammit. The stage was his last homely home back then. He wasn’t giving a single shit that William Shakespeare and Bertolt Brecht were nothing more than a skeleton back then. It wasn’t his concern when Samuel Beckett and Augusto Boal died. He did like Harold Pinter more than most other playwrights, that much was true; but no, no melodramatic sorrow when he died. He went on stage, performed, bowed to the melodious applause, oh the applause, returned home, drunk his late night glass of wine read a few pages of the latest New York Times Bestseller page-turner and slept a good night’s sleep. Just the same. But that was the last night he could act.

  How can one become unable to act, he asked himself for the billionth time, and yet the only answer in his mind was Just like this the words don’t come to you anymore you cannot become someone else you are stuck in this prison cell but then you are not trying to get out No I am trying I am trying so hard I am trying to get it back be able to feel again and be Ah yes all you do is look at the picture on the wall and wait for Harold Pinter to look back at you and worship a stupid pantheon of playwrights Alright then, help me, you but no, there was no help.

Adam, Thank You.

Adam, thank you.
for you did fall
below and through
and blessed us all!
No, it was not
the fault of Eve:
she was too hot
not to believe.
Thanks to your tool
other hot girls
can make us drool
with smells and curves
behind more than
fig leaves—cheers man!

Adam, Fuck You.

Adam, fuck you.
why did you fall
below and through
and cursed us all?
No, it was not
the fault of Eve
though she was hot
we all believe
Thanks to you, fool
other hot girls
make us men drool
with smells and curves
behind more than
fig leaves, oh damn.