Verse Drama
To Be Someone Who Would Impress You
And in truth, when he was young, he was without any talent whatsoever, and he only make[s] himself into himself for me, to become one that he thinks I can love.—Itamar Moses, “Szinhaz”
(LYNLEY lives in Jerusalem, the PLAYWRIGHT lives in New York. The stage is thus not a physical location, but a space of dialogue they create between them.
(The setting should be minimalist, perhaps with the low sound of subway trains passing, or a bass playing in the background. The words in parenthesis that occur throughout the play could be projected on the background rather than spoken.)
PLAYWRIGHT & LYNLEY simultaneously:
I moved to New York
PLAYWRIGHT
To be someone who would impress you.
LYNLEY
To be where you were.
PLAYWRIGHT
To be where you were.
BOTH
I followed you.
PLAYWRIGHT
Terrible things
(are happening)
In Brooklyn—
(Just yesterday) 5th Avenue:
I heard rumors:
the low
gleam
of the bottles, the bamboo sink
spout of the litchi
lounge and Thai
kitchen, the hall
of books and bowles
court:
– they're
under
Threat!
(from all sides)
4th Avenue
freeway
(flows,
a roar of wheels and gears
neon, at two a.m.
when even 5th Avenue
shuts off
and the bar lights fade into the night)
is encroaching...
4th Avenue
(that crosses to Bay Ridge clear across)
the restaurants
(Ethiopian, Peruvian, Egyptian)
and the bars
(something’s
going on)
Just yesterday (you moved to 7th Avenue,
bringing 4th Avenue with you)
7th Avenue,
(upscale bars)
haven
for stroller pushers,
lesbian couples,
and little dogs.
(avenue of churches,
bookstores,
schools)
You bring
(night energy of 4th)
an artist's colony,
(the lounge scene of 5th)
you meet me at the
chocolate lounge,
(writers and cocoa drinkers)
Something terrible (and wonderful)
is happening in Brooklyn!
LYNLEY
You reappeared,
your gaze first,
on the D train,
(Bronx line)
rerouted as (Queens
to 57th)
the Q, and you,
an apparition
across
the train isle.
Playwright, stay
behind the scenes,
across
the train. I
slept again
(train sleep)
you shifted
between stops,
now at my side,
watching me.
And when the train
doors slid open
(57th street), you
vanished
into the city.
PLAYWRIGHT
To be someone who would impress you.
LYNLEY
I came to New York.
PLAYWRIGHT
I followed you.
LYNLEY
In your work
I am watching myself
walk across
the stage, a stage
whisper of me. I am
a stranger in my own
life when you write
lines for me. You erase
lovers from
my life like stage
directions, when they
were worlds I
lived in. And you
act in this scene.
Our life together
populates
this stage, your
denouements
that end in us
collaborating, writing lines
across the miles
like love letters.
PLAYWRIGHT
(Come home).
LYNLEY
To be where you were.
PLAYWRIGHT
I moved to New York.
LYNLEY
I moved to New York.
I saw the sea at Coney Island.
Meet me there, by the ocean.
Check the map, the B/Q runs from Brooklyn
to Manhattan, and everything leads
to Coney Island.
Take the stairs down, the benches are worn.
Endless doors and gates closing off
half exposed rooms, stairs to nowhere.
Sit on the closest bench. Or pace
the length of the platform, glancing
into the unlit tunnels at either end.
The scuffle and rattle of a passing express
echoes between the walls. Brazilian dance
beats a rhythm through the ceiling.
Ride to the end of the line at Coney Island,
end of all the lines, where sleepers wake.
Walk across the street, cross the boardwalk.
Talk to the sea, hear the sand respond,
it's dark and you're surrounded
at the lip of the cool water.
Feel at home, Russian families
are all around you. When the air
holds its breath, go find the sea at Coney Island.
PLAYWRIGHT
I followed you.
LYNLEY
I came to New York.
PLAYWRIGHT
To be someone who would impress you.
LYNLEY
I saw you before
your play started
I waited
by the drink stand
in my purple dress
you typed
on your laptop
you wrote a line
for me
you closed the lid
we disappeared
into the theater
the actors delivered
your love for me
in silver blue lyrics
and at either end
the colorless space
dissolved into the fourth wall
into you and I,
the audience.
PLAYWRIGHT
(Come home).
LYNLEY
Come here.
PLAYWRIGHT
(Come home).
LYNLEY
What is home?
Define the term.
PLAYWRIGHT
Come here.
LYNLEY
Here is home,
where I am,
Jerusalem,
when we write
where are we?
I am at you,
home locates here
we are at we,
you at me, I at you,
you and I at we.
PLAYWRIGHT
Come to me.
LYNLEY
I came to New York
to write you.
The paper, the blank page
is a membrane
we write on
to seep through
distance and
the frame of hours
arrayed
in time zones
The skin
is an intimate
language,
a subaltern
discourse, if you
listen.
PLAYWRIGHT
In the picture of you
I want to kiss
your henna tattooed hands.
LYNLEY
Your image flickers
on my eyelids,
in astounding detail.
Your words
form
your lips against
the surface of my fingers
where
henna flower stems
meet
the geometric angles
on my palm
and spiral out
into ivy
leaves' organic curves
on the inside
of my thumb. I feel
your fingers leaving traces
on the skin
of my hands
and under it. The henna
will fade,
your marking on me
runs deep
as the moko tattoo,
carved
in the face of a Maori warrior.
