happy sad sad happy: a play in one act (2012)

June 5, 2017 § Leave a comment

HAPPY 1: It seems to me that ‘ahem’ ought to be written as it is truly pronounced (or as it truly lacks pronounciation, or at least ought to): ‘cccccckmmmmmmmhh’, like a thick bubble of ash wedged deep in the larynx. Otherwise, our children, as they learn to read, will find themselves stuck in heaps and barrels of amorphous befuddlement upon encountering such disagreeable nonsense sounds. ‘Whatever in all the burbling volcanoes of Jupiter (assuming such a place exists) could this possibly mean?’ they will wonder. ‘Why is it that, in the midst of Father Orion’s fatherly lesson, he suddenly implores his congregation to mend hems?’ We cannot be expected to explain. It is enough that one day we’re to take as truth that planets other than earth exist, never mind that the next day some faraway people, as far away as they can be while still, of course, remaining on earth, revoke all of our good standings. Allow me to attend to this hem while I continue speaking, if you please–oh, I must add, I do appreciate certain puns. Do not hesitate to pun with me, but please, be very particular about it. Ahem, ahem: do you hear how disagreeable that is? The way that we draw attention to ourselves is nothing short of phlegmmy, and ‘cccccckmmmmmmmhh’ surely bespeaks a great deal of phlegm. I am sure you might have gathered, I hope you have gathered, I am sure, I am certain, that you realize that I am normally quite polite. Nothing short of it. But I demand that you listen to me. I will use my entire throat in order to be heard. This is the only context, I assure you, in which I find phlegm remotely proper. Like a bear preparing for hibernation, I gather phlegm in my throat to slurp into my gut, and at the tip of autumn’s very tail I bring it up and into the faces of disobedient children while the winter, the spring, the summer, dart disdainfully around us. Speaking of phlegm, I would be happy to discuss with you the etymology of the term ‘phlegmatic’. I would be happy to boil you–a pot of tea, that is. Ah, I see that you are soon to give birth. Do you need me to induce labor? I could do that as well. The herbs in this tea should surely suffice. Indeed, I would be happy to. I would be happy. I would.

SAD 1: (hisses) bastard! that vile idiot bastard! why does he persist in prattling from his anus?

SAD 1: (clears throat in a manner unapproved by the state) allow me to begin anew. ‘ahem’ backwards is ‘meh-a!’ [dash and exclamation mine] which accurately depicts the spasmodic nature of my precarious pole vaults round the perimeter of The Vast Continuum of Oblivion.

TEXT MESSAGE FROM SAD 1 TO SAD 2: i have thought to reclaim the word ‘introvert’ by converting (congreening) the term into a component of what i intend to call Environmental Frenchglish. henceforth, ‘introgreen’ will connote a tendency toward the conservation of one’s energies as a phlegm-free whirling fortune ball spinning on an axis in the cerebellum, to either seep or bolt into the world at the will of the two energy balls orbiting one another at some unspecified future. or never, never works just as well: the self has every right to contain the self, after all. there is, however, a third ball. the third ball cares nothing for the self as the self conceives of itself. we must speak of this surreptitiously, please: meet me at the hidden boulevard beneath the rusty bridge. lastly, if this does not make sense, think of it as a kind of performance art avec letters in which i demonstrate that i’ve introgreened your translucent despair over your miscreant status in the world, and shall at the very moment following this one–THIS one–carve it into the walls of my cave in neohieroglyphs. i am reclaiming those as well. i have become very large. could it be that the time has come to extrogreen? such a mess i shall make; but, knowing what i know, i shall encounter few problems in sopping it all up. adieu a dew.

TEXT MESSAGE FROM SAD 2 TO SAD 1: are you a thief or a reclaimer, an inventor or a convertor? in ‘invent’ there is a ‘vent’, in ‘convert’ there is ‘covert’, in ‘carve’ there is a ‘cave’ (as you’ve duly noted), in ‘context’ there is ‘cotex’, though yoga wear is not quite what i had in mind for you. i’d encourage you to take the threads back to the first room; why not knit a sonnet whilst pointing out to our ‘superiors’ that there is indeed a ‘hem’ in ‘phlegm’. do you need me to soak up your blood? again? shows what you know. the boiling, phlegmmy midwife is rubbing off on me. go to her. note this also: i do not speak French. dammit, stop bothering me. it’s bad enough that you’ve swiped my face.

SAD 2: We mill about in winding lines. We carry our trays, single-palmed, heaped to the edge with sopping bread. The other hand attends to tall plastic cups, the contents of which slosh from side to side as we weave in and out in unspooled crochet lines. Nothing spills over. Not in here. Today’s joke: Tapioca is so off-pudding.

i most certainly
will never write a sad death
haiku, let alone

two, for that would be
nothing short of très très très
très très très très gauche

HAPPY 2 DISGUISED AS SAD 2: The edge of the dominant left hand aims toward nostalgia, incessantly inking onto each fresh line, and each gone one, the blurred shadows of the words it’s picked up along the way. To make this caprice worthwhile, I invest in versicolored inks to spill whilst winding round The Scant Spectrum of Inebriation.

HAPPY SAD SAD HAPPY: On est tous dans the same boat. (We are all in le même bateau.) Etiam atque etiam. (Again and again.) Diese Situation requires our ganzen Aufmerksamkeit. (This situation…this situation…etiam: attention, attention, ccccckmmh.) We have beschlossen eine neue Wohnung zu suchen. (We are going away. We are going to a new place. We are going. We are.) Estamos muy confundidos. (…..?….¿..) Far and wide. (Longe atque late.)


HAPPY SAD SAD HAPPY (ONE MONTH LATER): We have learned to work together. Some of us deal with the bills, others carve sculptures out of papayas and dumptrucks and pen songs meant for cattle. There are very few songs dedicated to cattle. Downstairs, there is a neighbor. She is a brunette and she has a face that is both round and long. She interns at the hospital. The one above the bridge. We have never been there. She eats in the hospital cafeteria: horse-hoof molds, tendon loaves. She is comprised of 7 Happys and 2 Sads. Later this year, following the event of her wealthy grandmothers’ sudden death, one of her Sads will interrupt one of her Happys’ leisurely moonlight swims down her bloodstream by biting off and swallowing half of it. Moonlight seeps through the skin. We have learned to feel and to see these things. We have learned that outnumbered Sads have the sharpest teeth. Thus, the greedy Sad shall initiate a lifelong battle among the brunette’s Happys and Sads. The will the grandmother will leave behind is punctuated by a tapestry of clauses. There are things the brunette intern with the roundlong face shall have to do in order to claim her ‘rightful’ bounty. She will struggle. She will struggle like the cattle for whom we sing songs. She owns the loveliest vase, the Grandmother. She claims it is a Grecian urn. It is not. But it is lovely nonetheless, smooth and curved as a photoshopped buttock. The vase, not the grandmother. After they happen–the death, the swallowing–our neighbors’ half-eaten Happy confuses her all the time. It is at the forefront of her mind: that haggardly Happy somehow outweighing the 6 intact Happys, the 1 intact Sad, the 1 bloated, greedy, muck-thick Sad combined. Before these things, our neighbor never knew that she had been granted a distinct number of Happys and Sads, never mind that certain elite entities (armed with cryptic, illegible notes provided for blank-faced entities propped behind high countertops) could assist in constructing partitions amongst them. She, on her own (and missing every point, as she is wont to do), will try to reorient her Sads and Happys until they all stand upright and aligned, and she will manage to do so, precarious though it all shall be, since the anemic Happy has cultivated its own brand of greed from the plump Sad’s poisonous teethmarks. This emaciated Happy embroiders a throne of capillaries to rest atop the struggling 6 Happys and 2 Sads, crushing them in waves, knowing not to kill them, knowing in the way that we know what we know, knowing to remind them, periodically, of its paradoxical weight. Hunger has made it strangely pragmatic in this way. Ah, the vase. Our confundidos neighbor will come to believe an orca will drop from the sky and crush it. She will think about how, in the process, the orca will crush the flowers in the vase to the perfect flatness for the books she keeps them in. Flowers, by nature, are extremely happy. Flowers are comprised of at least 12 full Happys and 0-2 Sads. The more their ratio favors Happys, the more unsightly their death shall be. The flowers always go in books that already have words in them, as our neighbor prizes petals above words. Petunias and daffodils do a decent job of obscuring. Our neighbor will think about flowers and begin to feel her hungry Happy bubbling up her throat. We expect nothing less than for the orca, with its grand belly flop, to bring down all four walls. Whales care nothing for walls. We will be happy, of course, to bind them back together with needles and with thread. We will be happy to. We will be happy. We will be. We will.



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