Thursday, November 28, 2013

Annual Thanksgiving Poems by D & E

Elan's 2013 Thanksgiving Poem

It's all about eatin' a toow-key,
we can play foh a wittle bit;
we can make toow-key out of papewr
-- moonies, movies about it.

They was eatin' toow-key
because they want turkeys
because they like turkeys.

Being thankful -- I don't know
what it means. I'm thanks-ful
for havin' a great home
for Thanksgiving. I'm thankful.

I want someone over; wah, wah,
uh, wah, oo, ahh, wuh, uh;
last Thanksgiving everybody comed.



Dar's 2013 Thanksgiving Poem

Turkey time, turkey time
is all about being thankful
for everything-- a time
when we get together
with our families and pray.

It's a peaceful time, a time
when we get together with others
who live far away, a time
when we join people together,
when we're nice to each other.

We should be thankful
for what we have to eat
because most people are poor;
we should feel bad for turkeys
because we actually kill
their bodies to make food.

I'm grateful for Isabelle,
my teacher, school, and the turkey
that gave its body. Turkeys die.
Sad.


Wednesday, November 6, 2013

Tales from the (Pre)Script(ion): Sorority-Sister-Turned-Banana on the Loose(Leaf Tea)

So maybe I'll write a blog post and maybe I'll make it a short one (see: a long wind can learn...when it wants to!). Have I been avoiding this blog like the plague or am I just otherwise occupied? It doesn't really matter, but I'd like to reply to anyone's deep sea call, "Is anybody alive out there?"
Yes, indeed, someone is alive, and she's drinking a delicious pumpkin spice chai latte from the local coffee house (we have one, and on occasion two, in this town), Sullivan Taylor Coffee Housey. I'm almost positive the Housey has a mousey.

I'm a little mousey who has been dumped and rejected in the past couple of weeks, and it's not feeling all that bad. Strangely enough, I feel eerily and ethereally good about this. Ah, but details. Those:

For one, I presented a paper entitled "The Househeld Mind of Virginia Woolf" at our department's graduate conference this week, and, for a second year in a row, did not "place" and receive an award, despite my efforts to not-surpass the length requirements (in other words, I tried to play by the rules).

I will admit: sure, I'm entitled. I'm entitled (read: tricked?) into thinking that some of my work is award-worthy because I think my work is unique, creative, and provocative. On the whole in this department (and it's not a negative), adherence to tradition and "rules" is valued over creativity (in my estimation), and I haven't yet figured out how to get the two in balance when it comes to the work I produce-- I always allow creative freedom to trump academic tradition. In other words, my margins are full and my borders are running off. (Also: I cannot help but try to have fun at all times...fun is fun!) I am, first and foremost, an artist. When I think and write critically, I do so as an artist and not simply as an academic. I am a performer, a minstrel, a buffoon, and I love what I do. I don't privilege the academic identity over the artistic one, and that can be a problem when those who are academics first or academics-and-not-artists are judging the work. Plus, Peeps be so serious in these parts!

Besides the entitled ego (pun intended, English Graduate Organization!) within me that tries to rationalize why it is that I cannot win an award within the department and why it is that I am not one of the recognized "stars" of the department, I do think that there are random factors that have little to do with anything I've done or not done that come into play. It's like a very, very small lottery. Or maybe like Oz. Either way, whatever. I am really proud of my academic mind (and the work it produces), regardless of being a loser,  so it's really...OKAY.

It's also okay-dokay that I was contacted by an egg donor registry about being a long-distance donor for the second time, last week, and that it's likely, now that I've followed up with honesty about my schedule, that it will fall through and I won't be contacted again (last time, the couple decided to go with a donor closer to their location...and I can't argue: Macomb IS a travel frightmare). I would make a great donor, though, and I would do it for free (aside from travel and medical expense coverage). But, tick-tock, I'm almost thirty, and you probably know what happens to egg donors when they turn thirty! S/poof! Oh well, I have produced two beautiful daughters; my eggs have had their days! (But don't bring me into the OB ward if you don't want to taste my thirty tears.)

The other weird rejection is actually somewhat hilarious. Somewhat.

I was contacted by, pa dum bum, a sorority.

Alpha Sigma Alpha,...because they were "looking" for graduate members. Alright, alright, get the giggles out of you right now. I know: it is funny.

Me? A sorority girl? That has EXTREME PARODY written all over it. Yes it does. Alas, Moon help me, I like parody too much and I tend to use myself as the real live experiment in my parody(sexual) lifestyle/narrative. They said that I was recommended to them, but, little to my naive knowledge, that was a clever way of saying my name was on some random list. I didn't just delete the email, as was my impulse, because I am trying to actively STOP putting myself in the "I'm Weird and an Outcast" box; instead, yes: slap my wristy, Sisty, I responded. I looked at the website, which promotes sisterhood (totally my bag, Baby!) and thought, "I should not dismiss this, maybe I can revamp my image and be accepted and part of something surprising...yessss, purrfect, a Sisterhood!"

After I responded, asking if I received the message in error, a very friendly chapette assured me that it was no mistake and that she would love to meet with me. Am I nuts or what? I said yes!

I met my new-and-gone friend, Suzanne, in a lounge in the Student Union for over an hour, discussing the sorority. I had tons of questions, raised a lot of issues, offered innovative ideas, took ample notes, and came to the conclusion (I don't know what planet I occupy, but I thought it was mutual) that I had a lot of attributes that would benefit the organization. We talked about stereotypes, image, and homogeneity. She admitted that they did not have very many African American students. We did talk of lesbians, mothers, and aging folks, too. I thought (and said in so many words) that my being part of such an organization could potentially be beneficial and trans-formative of it. If I were recruiting, for instance, we'd be seeing a population worlds apart in terms of diversity. Surely, a positive. And dear Suzanne, she agreed and was a delightful conversation partner. I have no doubt that she learned quite a bit from our encounter.

Contrary to what you might be thinking, I did not scare the poor sister. She seemed (I stress "seemed") excited and told me that she would be emailing later that night with more information about eligibility. Later that night: no email. The next day: no email. Ever after: nada on the emaila. Which is fine. As we all know, I am a one-woman sisterhood -- a sisterhood wrapped in one body, so I'll get by with or without the organization and my stripes.

I do, though, have to wonder about myself. I'm an (h)aging (s)hipster. I feel like I'm five years old, but I'm almost thirty. Huh-ney, you got me. I have the soul of an 18th century spinster, the free spirit of a tyke, the body of a silly putty fairy, and the hormones of a seventeen year old boy. Help me, Lawwwwd. Or Lord. Because lately I need the Lawd and the Lord. Yuh-s, I'm praying lately. And that's for real. Mostly in the cool, cool, cool of the evening, but today I was on my knees in the afternoon. No joke. Surreal Life has begun. Yes, I pray. I try. Worship suits me, I've decided. After all, I used to be an in/firm believer. Who knows where this kneeling business will lead, but back to the five-year-olds:

I've been spending some time with them, in Dar's classroom, where I volunteer a couple times a week. My little peers (am I their peer mentor?) get a kick out of my perfume (Arabian Oud, to you, I pledge shhhh-eternal allegiance!) and my outfits (Bloomers, to you, I pledge my shhhh-eternal love!). Today, I wore a little ensemble that featured a yellow sweater I have had since high school. When I walked into Linked In, I mean: Lincoln, a kid stopped me in the hall and said, with attitude, "What are YOU?" What am I? I thought I was human, but now I don't have to be held down by that. I can, apparently, be anything. I told him, "I don't know," but I should have said, "Angela Lansbury's purse, what are you?" When I arrived at the Bear Den (Dar's classroom), as soon as I walked in, the purses, I mean humans, began discussing my appearance. It was entertaining conversation, and I recommend that people start dressing with more flare if they don't have anything to talk about! Forget coffee table books and magazines; hire me to be your coffee table!

One kid said, "That's a banana!" That. Ah. Moi. Others voiced their agreement. And so, there it is: today, I was "that banana" (still am, until I become a purse again in the night-shower!). Wonder what I'll be tomorrow. If I may be so bold as to wish on this, I wish to be a chalice.

Elan has news for us, too.  She shared with us, standing on the couch after school, that she told Maxim he is her boyfriend. To be precise, she said, "I just telled him today. I telled him he's my boyfriend." She seemed quite pleased, and I suppose I approve of her choice. If she has to have one of those (briefcases, right?), he seems suitable.

Well, This Banana said she'd keep this short. Plus, she has to play a cocaine addict in a scene for "Acting for the Camera" (i.e., Meisner for film) class tomorrow and teach two classes of her own.

So, adieu, Pretty You.

Monday, August 5, 2013

My Five Year Old Daughter, the Bed-Banging Anarchist Rock Star, Thor!

Dar, pretending to be a performer named Thor (who, notably and disturbingly, puked after every show, saying, "I'm gonna puke, I'm gonna puke" and "I'm goin' to sleep. Nap time for me. Definitely!" and then woke up to another performance, announcing to herself cheerily, "This is the big audition today!"), screamed this song (that she made up) extraordinarily loudly on the bed for a good twenty minutes this afternoon. I could not stop laughing, for at least the first four bodacious rounds.

The improvised lines that really stand out to me, one of Thor's mothers: the one about going around naked and the call to "just hit our heads." If this tune predicts anything about the teenage years, it sounds like we'll have our hands full...of heroically wild empowerment. I will, however, invest in helmets, first thing in the morning! Don't think I didn't expect the gods to give me a taste of my own youthful elixir; I've been told by a wise-ass/embler of truth that I "would be more than a handful for a parent" and I know handfuls always come back to haunt with handfuls. Luckily, the best parenting trick I have up my wisely wild sleeve is my sense of humor, appreciation, understanding, and power of persuasion. Communication is the answer to all questions, especially ones that don't have answers. Something tells me that Dar soon will give my persuasive power a run for its money. I should note, too, that she had been listening to Fiona Apple's new album yesterday. Under the influence, aren't we all...

I'm the Boss of Myself
by Dar Thor

"Don't lay on the bed?"
HEY, who made you the boss?
I'm the boss of myself. I go around naked.
Come on let's go free.
"Don't?" Who said you're the boss,
I'm the boss of myself. I'm gonna do it my way.
Now, everybody, let's go crazy.
Hey, who made you the boss? I'm the boss of myself.
Now let's go free, I'm gonna do it my way.
My brain is the boss of me. I don't have to listen to anybody
because I am the boss of myself.
They say don't do this, don't do that,
I say who made you the boss me --
I'm the boss of myself, you can't boss me around.
I can do whatever I want to do.
Jump on the bed, do everything I want.
They say don't do this, don't do that;
I say, I'm the boss of myself,
 I can do whatever I want, come on let's have a party.
Come on let's just hit our heads.
Who made you the boss, I'm the boss of me.
I'll jump, and jump, and roll all day.
And then get some candy at Walgreens all by myself.
I don't have to sleep, I say no way.
Whoooo's the boss of me? ME! I'm the boss of myself,
you can't boss me around,
I'm the boss of myself, let's jump around.
They say don't do that, I say, who made you the boss;
I'm the boss of me, let's be free. I'm the boss of myself,
you knowwww that, now let's go free.
Rock and roll everything, I'm the boss of myself.
I say no way, I'm the boss of myself,
now let's go free and play.
You can't tell me to do that, I'm gonna go free.
No one can control me,
I'll kick em around if they try cause I am the boss of me.
I'm the boss of myself, I'm the boss of me.
Now let's go free and play,
come and play, come on
let's go free-ee and play.
Free to jump around and free to do anyanyanything.
Come on, come on, who made you the boss of me?
I'm the boss of myself, now let's go free and play.
Everything is free today. I'm gonna go my way.
I'm the boss of myself, so let's go away.
I. AM. THE. BOSS. OF. MY. SE-ELF.

Saturday, January 26, 2013

Get Your Poet On!

I'd like to start a line of perfumes inspired by and named after dead poets. Possible company names (no, not Dead Poet Scentciety or Poet-No-Mort): Poet Aroma, Verse Verdant, or Poessence, perhaps. For travel-size versions, Poet Balm (Frost will be a best-seller every December!). But think of it - what poet would you want (to try) on your skin? How would you WANT or imagine Teasdale to smell (on you)? The poems are the inspiration for the Scent of the Poet. And the motto: "The scent that'll make you wish you were dead!" 100% All-Supernatural Ingredients GUARANTEED! And no discontinuations EVER. You won't want to leave the house without (getting) Your Poet on! Who wouldn't want to give her sweetheart a little Millay on Valentine's Day? Who wouldn't want to douse herself in Dickinson?

If you had this idea before me: NO YOU DIDN'T. I have only one person to thank (or blame) for this and it is Nana (and Nana's Basement Perfumehouse of Avon). Do not let this cat out of the hag. I need to call Oprah first to schedule personal interviews with the dead poets I am representing. Oprah can try out all the poets first because she O-wns the Poet Perfume Network - the dead poets in perfume bottles all want to have tea with Oprah THE MOMENT they come (back) to life. All Rights Reserved for this Aromatic Rumi. You know you wanna put that favorite poet on your favorite someone. You know you wanna Sleep with Shelley.

We are All Mad

Anyone Can Whistle (Laurents and Sondheim)
"Simple"

HAPGOOD:
Grass is green,
Sky is blue,
False is false and
True is true.
Who is who?
You are you,
I'm me!
Simple? Simple? Simple?
Simple as ABC.
Simple as one-two-three!

SCHUB:
But who on that line is what?

HAPGOOD:
One is one,
Two is two,
Who is what and
Which is who?
No one's always what they seem to be.

CORA:
That's certainly true.

HAPGOOD:
For example - you sir, with the manly good looks. Would you come forward please, Mr. Hapgood?

SCHUB:
I thought you were Hapgood.

HAPGOOD:
Calling the patient by my name, he identifies with me immediately, we have an instant transference and thereby save five years of psychoanalysis.

CORA:
Now that is brilliant! Now what happens if I call you Hoover Hooper?

HAPGOOD:
Shall we dance? No, we have. Now then, Mr. Hapgood -

GEORGE (THE YOUNG MAN):
Call me Happy, sir. Or George.

HAPGOOD:
All right, Georgie.

GEORGE:
Thank you, George.

HAPGOOD:
Thank you. Now when we were a child, that is, when you were a child, a boy - you were a boy?

GEORGE:
I was a manly little fellow, sir.

HAPGOOD:
Then I'm sure there was a saying you learned that you have used ever since to govern your life. A motto, a watchcry...

GEORGE:
A watchcry... yes, sir.
"I am the master of my fate
And the captain of my soul."

HAPGOOD:
Good, Hapgood! Now then: married?

GEORGE:
Yes, sir.

HAPGOOD:
Two children?

GEORGE:
Yes, sir.

HAPGOOD:
Two TV sets?

GEORGE:
Yes, sir.

HAPGOOD:
Two martinis?

GEORGE:
Yes, sir.

HAPGOOD:
Bank on Friday?

GEORGE:
Yes, sir.

HAPGOOD:
Golf on Saturday?

GEORGE:
Yes, sir.

HAPGOOD:
Church on Sunday?

GEORGE:
Yes, sir.

HAPGOOD:
Do you vote?

GEORGE:
Yes, sir.
Only for the man who wins.
Only for the man who wins.
Only for the man who -

HAPGOOD:
All right. Headaches?

GEORGE:
No, sir.

HAPGOOD:
Backaches?

GEORGE:
No, sir.

HAPGOOD:
Heartaches?

GEORGE:
No, sir.

HAPGOOD:
Thank, you, Hapgood. Group A. Over there, please.

SCHUB:
What's Group A?

CORA:
Obviously mad as a hatter.

SCHUB:
Magruder! Place the Cookie under arrest.

HAPGOOD:
Just a moment here. George - do you ever wonder whether you're real?

GEORGE:
Oh, no, sir. I know I'm not.

HAPGOOD:
Group One. Over there, please.

Grass is green,
Sky is blue,
Safe is sane and
Tired is true.
You be you and me to some degree.
Simple? Simple? Simple?
Simple as ABC.

CORA:
Well, is he safe or sane, Doctor?

SCHUB:
Safe is sane.

HAPGOOD:
Not always.
The opposite of safe is out.
The opposite of out is in.
So anyone who's safe is "in".

GEORGE:
That I've always been!

CORA, SCHUB, COOLEY AND MAGRUDER:
The opposite of safe is out.
The opposite of out is in.
So anyone who's safe is "in".

HAPGOOD:
That's how groups begin!

CORA, ET AL:
When you're in, you win!

HAPGOOD:
Simple? Simple? Simple?
Simple as ABC.

CORA, ET AL:
Simple? Simple? Simple?

HAPGOOD:
Simple as do you do like me?

CORA:
Well, I do indeed like you. The question is -

SCHUB:
The question is - jus a moment there.

GEORGE:
"I am the master of my fate
And the captain of my soul."
But my name isn't George, Doctor.

HAPGOOD:
What is it?

GEORGE:
Hapgood.

HAPGOOD:
Very good. Group A. Right here, please.

SCHUB:
What is it?

CORA:
I don't know, but it's brilliant.

SCHUB:
But which - which - just which group is what?

HAPGOOD:
It's very simple.
Grass is green,
Sky is blue,
A is one group,
One is too,
One is One or One is A, you see...

CORA:
Grass is green,
Sky is blue,
One is one and
A is too.
...
SCHUB:
No. A is One and
One is, too.
...
(The following is sung SIMULTANEOUSLY)
CORA:
No. One and One
Is always two
To me!
...
I don't agree!
A is you and
Me!

COOLEY:
...
No. One is green.
A is blue.
One can be
In A, you see.
A is crazy!
Maybe.

MAGRUDER:
...
...
No. A is green,
One is blue!
A is "out" and
One is "in"!
I agree.

SCHUB:
...
...
...
No. One is One.
A is one group.
Too.
See?

(They are interrupted by a WOMAN who sings in a strong cntralto and comes forward at HAPGOOD'S beckoning)

WOMAN:
(Very loud)
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-
Woman's place is in the home,

MAN:
A woman's place is in the house.

WOMAN:
And home is where you hang your hat,

MAN:
And that is where you hang your spouse.

WOMAN:
A woman's place is in the home...

HAPGOOD:
Dear Mr. And Mrs. Hapgood.

JUNE (THE WOMAN):
Oh, we're not married, Doctor. He's June and I'm John. I mean she's John and he's June.

JOHN (THE MAN):
June and John are engaged.

JUNE:
John's my secretary.

JOHN:
June used to be my secretary but his corporation went bust.

JUNE:
And her syndicate took over.

HAPGOOD:
Well, it would all be in the family if you got married.

JOHN:
Oh, but John can't support June.

JUNE:
Every cent John makes goes to pay for June's dinners.

HAPGOOD:
Why doesn't June gives John a raise?

JUNE:
He's not worth it.

HAPGOOD:
I see. And neither of you wants John to stay home and do the housekeeping because -

JOHN AND JUNE:
Because...

JOHN, JUNE AND HAPGOOD:
A woman's place is in the home,
A woman's place is on the shelf.
And home is where he hangs her hat,
And that is where she hangs himself.

CORA AND SCHUB:
Group-

HAPGOOD (TO JUNE):
A.

SCHUB:
Magruder!

HAPGOOD (TO JOHN):
One.

ALL (SIMULTANEOUSLY):
"A woman's place is in the home,
a woman's place is in the house."
"I'm the master of my fate
and the captain of my soul."
"If at first you don't succeed, try, try again."
"Beauty is only skin deep."
You can't make a silk purse out on a sow's ear."
"Fly now, pay later."
Never look a gift horse in the mouth."
"Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies."
"Handsome is as handsome does."
"You always hurt the one you love."
"Seeing is believing."

SCHUB:
Stop the music! A man crossed over.

HAPGOOD:
That was a woman.

SCHUB:
Oh.

CORA:
Group One. Ha ha ha ha ha!

SCHUB:
Now wait. Are they all Cookies? If you could produce someone who is sane, present company excluded, of course-

HAPGOOD:
Ah- good lad, Hapgood.
Watchcry?

MARTIN:
You can't judge a book by its cover.
No, you can't judge a book by its cover.
You can't judge a book
By how literate it look,
No, You can't judge a book by its cubber.

HAPGOOD:
Occupation?

MARTIN:
Going to schools, riding in buses, eating in restaurants.

HAPGOOD:
Isn't that line of work getting rather easy?

MARTIN:
Not for me. I'm Jewish ... Group A, would you say?

HAPGOOD:
Group one's more fun.

MARTIN:
Crazy.

CORA:
Group A?

SCHUB:
Group one?

CORA:
It's maddening.

SCHUB:
What's the difference between them?

HAPGOOD:
It's obvious:
The opposite of dark is bright,
The opposite of bright is dumb.
So anything that's dark is dumb-

MARTIN:
But they sure can hum.
The opposite of dark is bright,
The opposite of bright is dumb.

HAPGOOD AND CHORUS:
So anything that's dark is dumb.
That's the rule of thumb.

MARTIN:
Depends where you're from.

HAPGOOD:
Simple? Simple? Simple?

CHORUS:
Simple as A-B-C.

HAPGOOD:
Simple? Simple? Simple?
Simple as NAACP!

MAN:
I get the point, Comptroller Hapgood.

SCHUB:
Oh, shut up and get in Group A.

CORA:
Who's that?

SCHUB:
It's my brother-in-law.

CORA:
But he's not a Pilgrim... And he's not a Cookie... Hapgood, what was he doing on the line?

HAPGOOD:
Who is what?
Which is who?
That is that and
How are you?
I feel fine, what else is new?

SCHUB:
Oh... Every fool wants a miracle.
Hapgood-

CORA:
Who is on the line...?

SCHUB:
Doctor, you are not doing what we want you to do!

CORA:
You are right! Now look here,
Hapgood... Darling-

Grass is green,
Sky is blue,
I'd join any group with you.
Schub's a boob and you belong to me!

CHORUS:
Simple? Simple?

CORA:
Simple as one-two-three.
One-two-three...

CROWD (VARIOUSLY):
Doctor, what group am I in? Where do I belong?
Where am I? Tell me where am I! Where am I?

SCHUB:
Doctor - Group A: Cookies? Or group one: Cookies?
The truth now - which - is - what?

HAPGOOD:
Watchcry!

GROUP A (SIMULTANEOUSLY):
"I am the master of my fate and-"
"A woman's place is in the-"
"If at first you don't succeed-"

HAPGOOD:
Rub your stomachs! Goo-ood... Goo-ood...
Watchcry!

GROUP ONE (SIMULTANEOUSLY):
"I am the master of my fate and-"
"A woman's place is in the-"
"Beauty is only skin-"

HAPGOOD:
Put your heads, Hello! Hello! Goo-ood... Hello! Hello!
Reverse! Goo-ood...Hello! Hello! That's goo-ood...
Goo-ood... Goo-ood... Comptroller.

SCHUB:
Dammit!

CORA:
I adore games!

HAPGOOD:
Watchcry!

CORA:
Hello!

SCHUB:
He's boring from within.

HAPGOOD:
Watchcry!

SCHUB:
Communist!

HAPGOOD:
You would say that,
The opposite of left is right.
The opposite of right is wrong.
So anyone who's left is wrong, right?

CROWD:
Goo...ood... Goo...ood...

HAPGOOD:
Hello!

CROWD:
Hello!

HAPGOOD:
Simple? Simple? Simple?
Simple as ABC.
Simple as one-two-three-

CHORUS:
-Cheers for the red, white and blue...

HAPGOOD:
Watchcry!

MAGRUDER:
Look here I'm the chief of-

HAPGOOD:
Watchcry!

MAGRUDER:
"Ours not to reason why,
Ours but to do or die."
Sergeant Magruder reporting, sir!

HAPGOOD:
Occupation?

MAGRUDER:
Fighting the enemy.

HAPGOOD:
What enemy?

MAGRUDER:
What year?

HAPGOOD:
Yesterday.

MAGRUDER:
The Germans: Heil!

HAPGOOD:
The day before.

MAGRUDER:
The Germans: Heil!

HAPGOOD:
Today.

MAGRUDER:
The Germans: Hail!

HAPGOOD:
Tomorrow.

MAGRUDER:
Hail! Heil! Hail?... Heil?... Hail?

HAPGOOD:
Group A.

MAGRUDER:
Heil?

HAPGOOD:
Group One.

COOLEY:
You're just making him seem crazy, but he's twisted.
I mean - he's been twisted.

HAPGOOD:
Grass is blue,
Sky is green,
Change of time is change of scene.
What you meant is what you mean.
Watchcry!

COOLEY:
Hallelujah!
No, I mean - now, Brother -

HAPGOOD:
Occupation:

COOLEY:
Preacher - er, I mean, Treasurer.

HAPGOOD:
Ah, you were a preacher, Hapgood.

COOLEY:
No, I'm a treasurer, Cooley-

HAPGOOD:
They threw you out of your pulpit-

COOLEY:
Yea... Brother!

HAPGOOD:
Because you were crazy.

COOLEY:
No, because I believed!

HAPGOOD:
In being treasurer?

COOLEY:
In God, and they only believed in religion.

HAPGOOD:
And that made you crazy, Hapgood.

COOLEY:
I am not crazy, Cooley!

HAPGOOD:
No, you're crazy. Hapgood.

COOLEY:
I am not Cooley, I mean - No, I am not crazy, I'm Hapgood!

HAPGOOD:
Are you sure?

COOLEY:
I am absolutely Schub!

SCHUB:
He's crazy.

HAPGOOD:
Thank you. Group A. Watchcry!
Watchcry!

GROUP ONE AND GROUP A (SIMULTANEOUSLY):
"I am the master of my fate and-"
"A woman's place is in the-"
"Beauty is only skin deep..."
"Never look a gift horse in the -"
"Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no -"
"An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of -"
"Seeing is believing. Seeing is believing!"
"You can fool some of the people-"
"An apple a day, an apple a day, an apple a day keeps the doctor-"
"Ours not to reason why, ours but to do or die..."

SCHUB:
I don't have one, Cooley!

HAPGOOD:
Aha...

SCHUB:
Hapgood, we are going to end this right now. My dear Treasurer, I mean, my dear Doctor - dammit! Now. Right now: which group is-

HAPGOOD:
Two questions.

SCHUB:
One answer.

HAPGOOD:
Just two little questions, Schub, and you'll know which group is what.
Where does most of your money go?

SCHUB:
I hardly think-

HAPGOOD:
Where does most of your money go, Hapgood?

SCHUB:
In taxes.

HAPGOOD:
Goo..ood... What do you think of someone who makes a product and doesn't use it?

SCHUB:
He's crazy.

HAPGOOD:
Hello! Hello!

CROWD:
Hello! Hello!

HAPGOOD:
Most of your money goes to the government in taxes.
What does the government do with most of the money?
Makes bombs. Reverse!
Goo..ood... Hello! Hello!

CHORUS:
Hello! Hello!

HAPGOOD:
But you say to make a product and not use it is crazy.
Isn't that what you said, Comptroller Cooley?
And that doesn't make you crazy for letting them waste your money, Treasurer Schub?
Reverse! But perhaps the government is making bombs because it means to use the product.
Which means everyone will be killed, Hapgood. Including you, Schub.
Both together now! Which means you are paying most of your money to have yourself killed.
Which means, my dear Doctor Comptroller Mayor Schub, you are the maddest of all!

HAPGOOD:
Watchcry!

SCHUB:
Help!

HAPGOOD:
Watchcry!

CORA:
Brilliant!

HAPGOOD:
Watchcry!

BOTH GROUPS (SIMULTANEOUSLY):
Grass is green.
Sky is blue.
The opposite of left is right.
The opposite of right is wrong.
So anyone who's left is wrong.
Simple? Simple? Simple?
Simple as A-B-three.
Simple as one-two-C.
As grass is green
As sky is blue,
As simple as the opposite of left is right
Is wrong is right is A is One
Is A is One hello! Hello! Goo-od! Goo-od!
A is One! One is A!
Grass is who is opposite of what is green is safe is
Opposite of dark is opposite of simple which is
Watchcry! Watchcry! Watchcry! Watchcry!
One is One! Two is too!
Who is what and which is who?
Who is what? Which is who?
Which is who is who?
Who is who?!?

HAPGOOD:
You are all mad.

Monday, January 14, 2013

Still I Rise (Maya Angelou)

Still I Rise


You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.


It Dropped So Low -- in my Regard (Emily Dickinson)

It dropped so low -- in my Regard --
I heard it hit the Ground --
And go to pieces on the Stones
At bottom of my Mind --

Yet blamed the Fate that flung it -- less
Than I denounced Myself,
For entertaining Plated Wares
Upon my Silver Shelf --