First scene. A dia

An author sits by his typewriter, clan, clic, clac, clan, clic, tap.

* I thought you were right behind me. C’mon let’s go.
* Have you seen the light house?
* What light house?
* The really bright one.
* It’ll be dark today, that’s what the paper said.
* Does anybody else know about it?
* Only the old man. He sat outside “the hat”. When I unfolded the paper he stood up very slowly but some sound made him uneasy as if in a rush or impatient about something.
* Well, that’s the first time I hear of the old man actually rising from his seat. It looked like he had been aging on that bench for a while, now.
* Don’t get me wrong here, but I think some part of him was still, somehow, in contact with the bench –even when he stood right behind me.
* Did he talk to you?
* No, he didn’t this time. Although I can recall how the old man, once, told me that words were better uttered in the light. That they could be appreciated for what they were and not because of how luminous they themselves were.
* Well, I guess that will keep me busy.
* What?
* The words.
* What words?
* The old man’s words.
* Oh, I see them now.
* And, you like them?
* Don’t know yet. They look funny.
* That is an incorrect word to use in this occasion.
* Great, we are having an occasion. Let us forget the word, you are right. Let’s focus on the occasion.
* The occasion is like usual, kind of dark.

There you have a word I cannot see.

* What?
* Dark.
* That’s because the lighthouse won’t be working. But there’s some light still. Look. (the word light flashes before them)
* I know, I know. Thanks for doing that. I almost stumbled over that chair… And that would have been disastrous.
* Don’t mention it. You would do the same. (this last phrase is lit backstage in neon lights and goes off indicating the doubt of the man who just tripped before his partners assumption).
* I would assume.

The end.

An old man looks at the sea. He ponders where will there be a moment to spare, a light to overlook, an invisible agenda, a disproportionate amount of love that could be taken. He holds an open flask made out of glass. His hands are timidly shaking while his eyes stand so sharply focused on the ocean that the vision, his vision, is of himself. He puts down the flask, leaves it open, and places the cork on its side.

Now he is looking at himself, inside a picture where he is by the ocean looking at a picture. Nevertheless, he is not that sure of what he is seeing because the sand is blowing. Maybe his eyes are in tears.

a friend once told me a story about a young man who stood by the mountains somewhere, looking at the horizon, and cried sweet tears.

I’m by the shore now and, for the most part, there is salt.

I’m at the table now and, for the most part, there are trees, colorfully arranged, swinging outside this window.

I’m behind my pen. The vision is not of me, but of himself. Imagine you are two people and that one always walks two or three steps behind you. Imagine you are the person on the back. Now, you both turn around – so you have become the one in front.

Luckily it is the morning and the sun is rising. Luckily the sun comes out in front of your silhouette and you can see, from the back, how you stand against the light. Twilight brings confusion about, for you are not sure if that’s the sun anymore or if it’s a word. Maybe you are writing these letters. Hopefully you can read them as well.

* Be honest, you know both of us by now. Don’t forget that.

Be cool, imagine me in better ways. Think of me only if you have to, if not don’t answer.

* I’m here. Never left. Inside a hat, behind you when you walk, and the front man when you turn around. Thank you for the piano music; that was a nice touch.
* What piano? I didn’t send you any.
* What about that bee that just flew away from my notebook.
* Strange, since it was supposed to sting you. I made you allergic to them.
* Well, maybe the music made it change its mind. LOOK.
* Where?
* Can’t you see it.
* No
* It’s flying away. The paper said there’s supposed to be good weather outside the hat. A good time to pollenize, to select a different flower. A good day to try the sweet; not a day to sting.

(He starts loosing energy, to fall asleep, but his eyes are wide open. He doesn’t move anymore).

The end.

A writer sits at his kitchen table. He takes the butter knife and spreads some honey on his toast –a lot of honey. He sits staring at the coffee mug.

(A woman’s voice is heard from offstage).

* What was that dream you had tonight? I barely could sleep.



He sits staring at his coffee mug, toast in hand.

* He defies logic, my front-man. (the writer lets the toast fall from his hand, which he holds very high, and, before the toast with honey reaches the floor, the lights go out).



The end.

Another day, another hat…