this is:

A life that was split. you choose when to start it. the common logic says you start today, but who knows what's the time in there. InSiDe ThAt DaRk RoOm In ThE mIdDlE oF ThE sUn*************************************************************************************************************************************************

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…

comienzo

Imagine the world lasted a day only, a day and no more. It would be strange to think of what to say without having learned the language. Our hands could be used for walking and our feet could be writing lies. Foreheads would be a ridiculous topic but the subject would have no headaches. The sun becomes the most important thing out there, something that grasps you from afar but remains far away and out of reach. Then again, rehearsals would have no purpose, if only one thing could be said.

The paradigm is convenient while you try to keep silent but twilight insinuates the loss of control. A life well lived would be a life of chaos since order equates the way things are. And if it lasted two days, would you lie to me on the first one? Maybe, maybe you would.

Don't you get it? This place is too small to last for eternity and too big for just one day.

On the other side of this coin there is a face. She is on every other coin.

That chair has forgotten all about utility, it has forgotten all about comfort, it has forgotten nothing at all, it forgot it was a chair, it remembers when it was warm, it changes if the light don't show it, it brakes if the weight is ready or not, is a refugee from a third world country, it is a symbol of the deterioration of man, it is the humanization of a chair it, it is the damage in the binding link, the crack in the system that cannot be opened, it is a dark room inside the sun, it is a cigarette burning slowly and it is always a chair, it is a place that don't need to deliver invitations, it is definitely the mutation of a symbol into a rock that uses what it has forgotten, it lurks, it tries, it brainwashes people, it creates subliminal impressions within their comfort area, utility about all has forgotten that chair. PHENOMENALIA

The hat is dark inside but light enough to perceive the lack of color. One beam of light seems to shine through the stage drawing an illuminated segment between the crack in the “tela” o “telon” and the simple wooden chair.

nuevo

It is time to write. This time to say good bye again, but in a different way. There are different kinds of struggle in here, inside this hat. The one that has got me busy the most relates to the idea that she is not an idea. But here is the dilemma, there was never something there that I could call mine. Well, there was a lot to consider but nothing to take. Here my problem. If there was something that could be called mine it was the wrong idea, for she is not an idea. Paradoxically, she escaped this hat and could not be reached even after I tried so hard by telling the winds to carry my message. Maybe I did not try at all.

Today I try to forget, forgetting that is not an idea, as if it was one. Something got stuck in my head, but only after it had already seeped in through every membrane that composed me. What a ridiculous idea. He who is religious calls it faith while hoping it will become fate. I will not call it anything anymore, and try to sweat it out before it drowns me. This ocean, so immense, escapes me by the instant. That is what it all seems to be, an instant. If it was a spark it lit nothing. Fire does not get along with the water very well, but we all knew that.

Maybe this vision has taken the best of me—hopefully not. Today, I start breaking the mirrors since it is more than clear that they won't brake themselves. It is going to be the hardest thing, but if of something I'm sure is that you know where to find me. One day I'll let it be. Now, I write.

Disculpame por las molestias causadas. If I'm silent it is because I can't wait any longer, and to utter a word is too hard. What's the reason? There's no reason, only fire burning out.

Inside A Hat

The red announces the revolution that cannot wait to come. The order is built on glass from toasts and transparent agreements, laws, only before the absence of their humane condition. Because the desire in him is so strong, the writer finds it hard to give direction to this irresolute energy. At the same time he needs to fix the fire, move the wood, open the window, and breath the air. This time by the fireplace was a long trip, a place full of destinations.

The day's balance is restored, the magic dissipates in the air, with the flaming tones of his eyes that wonder. If he could only figure out how to maintain the composure the afternoon would easily turn bearable. A hot-line for boring people, where their fantasies involve reading and writing, ink and pens, there is where they invite him to think of the future. The writer becomes a character himself but cannot predict the situations that will hone his personality. What will you be doing of your life ten years from now? This question was enough material for a good time of mental masturbation. Maybe he will be holding a camera, shooting still or moving frames that reveal a little more of the world that nurtures his mind and spirit. There will also be a moment by the coffee table in the mornings where he reads the newspaper and comments on the news, maybe he'll comment on his own work -at least as fragments of his imagination. On the last page there is a little note from the obituaries that reads: “that's the end of your life”. By the window, next to the boiling pot, stands the radio that calls him a joke and plays whispering Bach's. The writer is back in time, back in front of the screen, whit his eyelids duck taped to his forehead and his hands tied to his back.

-Writer, Make me stronger! Give me a story I can play with, a path to walk. Give me the blues, also the greens. Make me a character of fiction and live our life. Forget that you've regretted me, forgive that you have forgotten yourself, write my story with your words. Then, voice my winds.

• No can do.

-Wish,vacillate, make yourself feel at home but don't stop writing. Can you find me in your dreams or am I too real, too solid and irresolute.

Where do these words come from if it isn't from your twisted head that takes no reins for his ideas. It would be stupid to think that my character has nothing to do with you personality. Even if I am a fragment of a larger story, couldn't you pick for me a better role in my own fictional life? Why am i an actor that plays all these characters, if I'm still the same spine that holds their tensions which are to be posited in a flask... The very same one that you picture hanging from my neck. What is that, a sort of punishment?

is the ulcer of my dreams

a strange confession? To want to fly by my own means and not being able, even when it is clear in my memory that I've done it before. To ask your friends to help you out in order to get frustrated by their inability to do so. That's it, I have had enough of you.

• Then, it is obvious and predictable. Thus, it is boring.

(a new night, a new page, and the story continues to be trapped in the discussion)

• I cannot go to the bathroom because it's dirt makes mine look ridiculously cute. That is the first thing that came to my mind this morning. Why? Why would i think such a stupid thing? How is it that you make me think of this, or that you allow me to question you in this way? It is clear that you want me to or else we would not be having this conversation.

Where are you today? Your voice cannot be heard and I barely feel your presence. Have you set me free in order not to hear my voice anymore? Intertwined or not, our relationship goes beyond the words you write for me. If even you character realizes how empty your words are, what's left for those who hear my excuses and recriminations. It is an empty space where I can dream with all I have. Sometimes I can see my own house, my chair, but I know they don't exist. Everything is black around here. That explains only that this world absorbs all the light, that the painters' hand took less than a minute to conceive of me in my context. You forgot to give me a story, a place I could call home. Tell me why it all looks like it comes from a dark pit, from a magician's hat that has never tasted magic.

It is only reasonable to believe in you, but it is absurd to believe you.

You draw my face and paint my gestures, then, why don't you want to reach my hand to pull me out of this vacuous ...oh writer, if there was only an island to escape to, to be lost forever. If there only were a book and a girl, or an angel in the winds, who could tell me that this life will prosper. Where did Nietzsche write that conviction was a prison? Give me freedom, something I could invite inside this hat. But before give me a door, so it could stand wide open.

Vaco... I'd like him for a ghost. Can you make him appear? (he walks around the room and finds a banner written behind a curtain where it reads: “derecho de autor”)

a gold fish? A fucking goldfish at least, he said out loud as if it was the end of a monologue he rehearsed in his head.

It is all part of a dream with grotesque proportions, with a midget and a bold woman spitting fire -or blood for what I could see-

Of all things, I beg of you, write my silence.

An Irish idea

Luck is on his side today, next to the fire where he learned to listen to his instincts, to bet it all. Today he is the lucky charm of the writers mood; a miracle drug that hopes to be kissed. You will be withering for not accepting the chances that blossomed disrespectfully and free. Such freedom insisted on its predicament and faded not to be confined. He glanced at the half written page while the cloud smiles from the window and illuminates the writer, his sun -his virgin- shines brighter to caress the grapevine's leaves.

God loves the fire and we get the comfort in the wind, with the sand in our eyes. A sunset is private, but where does the zenit-point take us? Staring into the white core and the clear becomes green, underneath the gray clouds that walk by to say hello; to smile again. He celebrates, his character is growing from his own personal desire. No chains seclude him in the dark, no bars impede his tors from absorbing the winds. His hair shivers and the scalp laughs arrogantly: free. The writer hands are so small in comparison to the head expanding, the fire claps and the logs burn with decrepit looks.

Alas, a brave new world!

A bus could be heard on its way up the sloppy street that runs meters away from the window he had opened and, confusing the echoes of the wind, the barking dogs gasped for new air as well. There are so many voices getting lost in one sentence that, at times, the writer is not sure if what he says is what he had planned to or the very words he hoped to leave out of the conversation. Like a storm that comes from the south, words seem better uttered when they come freely. Not like the slam of crap that I say, thinks the writer, which is only the result of an idea that has been ricocheting, for who knows how long, and sounds only like the echo of a rustyintention; definitely not like a word.d

Luck is on his side today, next to the fire where he learned to listen to his instincts, to bet it all. Today he is the lucky charm of the writers mood; a miracle drug that hopes to be kissed. You will be withering for not accepting the chances that blossomed disrespectfully and free. Such freedom insisted on its predicament and faded not to be confined. He glanced at the half written page while the cloud smiles from the window and illuminates the writer, his sun -his virgin- shines brighter to caress the grapevine's leaves. God loves the fire and we get the comfort in the wind, with the sand in our eyes. A sunset is private, but where does the zenit-point take us? Staring into the white core and the clear becomes green, underneath the gray clouds that walk by to say hello; to smile again. He celebrates, his character is growing from his own personal desire. No chains seclude him in the dark, no bars impede his torso from absorbing the winds. His hair shivers and the scalp laughs arrogantly: free. The writer hands are so small in comparison to the head expanding, the fire claps and the logs burn with decrepit looks.

The red announces the revolution that cannot wait to come. The order is built on glass from toasts and transparent agreements, laws, only before the absence of their humane condition. Because the desire in him is so strong, the writer finds it hard to give direction to this irresolute energy. At the same time he needs to fix the fire, move the wood,open the window, and breath the air. This time by the fireplace was a long trip, a place full of destinations.

The day's balance is restored, the magic dissipates in the air, with the flaming tones of his eyes that wonder. If he could only figure out how to maintain the composure the afternoon would easily turn bearable. A hot-line for boring people, where their fantasies involve reading and writing, ink and pens, is where they invite him to think of the future. The writer becomes a character himself but cannot predict the situations that will hone his personality. What will you be doing of your life ten years from now? This question was enough material for a good time of mental masturbation. Maybe he will be holding a camera, shooting still or moving frames that reveal a little more of the world that nurtures his mind and spirit. There will also be a moment by the coffee table in the mornings where he reads the newspaper and comments on the news, maybe he'll comment on his own work -at least as fragments of his imagination. On the last page there is a little note from the obituaries that reads: “that's the end of your life”. By the window, next to the boiling pot, stands the radio that calls him a joke and plays whispering Bach's. The writer is back in time, back in front of the screen, whit his eyelids duck taped to his forehead and his hands tied to his back.

-Writer, Make me stronger! Give me a story I can play with, a path to walk. Give me the blues, also the greens. Make me a character of fiction and live our life. Forget that you've regretted me, forgive that you have forgotten yourself, write my story with your words. Then, voice my winds.

• No can do.