NOTE: Throughout, stage terms have been altered for the convenience of the reader. All directions are from the audience view. Hence, "right" is just that, audience right, not the traditional right of an actor facing out, which forces the reader to reverse while imagining. Upstage, here, is what is closer—the front. Downstage is the rear. FURTHER NOTE: For now, song samples use artificial voices. If you follow along with the lyrics, you will have no trouble understanding. The four samples may download slowly, depending on your modem speed. But once on your drive, each should open quickly.

 

 

(Twilight. A clearing in semi-desert country. Background to the right is a low mesa in the distance, with plenty of sky to see the stars come out. To the left, chamisa cutouts to suggest native shrub. Just right of center stage is a reflector fire, three or so logs piled behind the fire itself. Its back is to us, so we only see the glow of the fire it hides, and JOE will face audience when he sits before it. Nearby is a tripod of three poles, from which hangs a battery lantern, high enough to give good light. Also visible is a duffel bag and a canvas camp stool, with water bottle near. "Car headlights," offstage right, illumine the scene. We hear a car door open, they suddenly go off and we hear a car door slam)

(JOE enters carrying a sleeping bag. Pony-tailed, middle-aged, he wears his customary black sport coat over black slacks and tee shirt. He moves with grim determination as he carefully lays the bag and unzips it. Then he searches the duffel bag, more and more impatiently, finally moving it close to the lantern to see better. Aided by this light, he quickly finds what he was searching for, a white three-ring notebook. He lays it on the campstool, then angrily crams everything else back. Studying the sky as the first stars appear, he speaks)

JOE
Hellohellohello up there. Anybody home? Ha, doubt it. It’s me again, Joe Poet, remember? Used to say nice things about you, recall? Like last week. When I was young and naive. Said you were like, lights of a switchboard we could plug our hearts into. Like, a brilliant Braille to help us in our blindness.

Now I see I’ve made false gods of you. Yeah, false gods. You know the type. Give them an altar, they take the whole church. Know what you really are? Droppings! Radio-active droppings. Proof that God’s a dirty rat! Either that, or every sane being who’s ever looked in on us has gone away scratching their head, ‘cause I look and I see a hell of a lot of dandruff. No? Well, down here, that’s called denial. Here, deny this! (Pulls a bottle from his jacket pocket) Billions and billions of pills, pouring down a gullet that knows it’s a failure. That’s what I see. Am I projecting? You bet! Is there intelligent life behind those smoldering goddam cigars? Okay, then watch this!

(Gulps down a handful of pills, followed by water from the bottle he snatches. Grimly takes up the three-ring binder, and waves it at the sky)

Here we go. Two years work. Who cares? (Moves the stool and sits before the fire, tears out and feeds several sheets into the flames. Pauses) Hah! Here’s one she loved. Oh, not enough to hang around, of course

The Art of Testing With Your Toe
The Waters of Love.
There are those of us who tiptoe,
and those of us who splash,
when Love turns herself to rain
to wash away each mask.
And those who fake a pratfall,
and those who just say no,
ten thousand muddy dancers,
into the sea they flow.
There are those who fill with rainbows,
those who fill with blood,
as the river fills with stars,
and you and I, above,
dance in flaming slippers
all the way to Love.
Dance in flaming slippers
all the way to Love.

(He crumples the sheet and slams it into the fire. More pages feed into the flames, then another pause, this time to pace and recite)

Ah, here’s one they loved, the academics. Not enough to keep them from firing me, mind you.

This aimless ark, lost without its anchor
cross, shall not contain my chosen grave.
White light heights whose hills hold sheep of
flame, shall not profane my chosen grave.
Sun, foreclosing loans, shall find no light he
owns will let him strip my chosen grave.
And wind, that grinds the stones to tears, shall grind to
bits my bones yet skip my chosen grave.
Sea, at final tide leaving oceans
dried, shall not find out my chosen grave.
And raven time, who plucks all stars, shall ever
mount yet not blind out my chosen grave.
Hearts of those I love who love my most shall
glove my ghost and glass my soul in grace, till
stony death subsides his rage in fire's
last forgiving clasp, his chosen grave.

(Crumples and tosses the page into the fire in disgust. Again, feeds pages into the flames, then pauses)

O-ho, here’s one you loved. My homáge to you guys

Into the wind go stars, whispering,
low voices, without passion,
yet how they roar through me,
O God, how they roar!
Each night’s chorus
more eloquent than the one that went before.
Till I know that stars can see
wonders we can only dream,
and their rapture and delight
fill the pastures of the night,
telling me I too can see, I too
can set free wondrous things
if like they
I dwell above this darkened world
and by my voice
lend lift
where visions wing.

Who wrote that, hah? (Bows) Right, yours truly. From the heart, you bastards!

(Cavalierly lets the crumpled ball drop into the fire. A whoosh, and a huge flame rises. He follows it up, and is suddenly watching something cross the sky)

A falling star! How fitting.
Star light, star bright,
last star I see this life,
wish I may, wish I might
have the wish I wish tonight.
(Raises the pill bottle he has fished out, in a toast. Hesitates to name the big D word)
...Whatever!

(Notices the notebook he still holds, and angrily tears sheet after sheet into the fire. Soon, the flames calm again. He rises and gulps down a second handful, followed by a swig of water. He ponders the bottle, as his spot dims. Through a scrim in the night sky behind him, YOUNG JOE appears, in short pants, seated, looking up at the stars)

YOUNG JOE (Sings)    Quicktime file doesn't load? Hear it with Flash 
WHEN I
LOOK AT THE STARS
DO I SEE ANYTHING?
WHEN I
LOOK AT THE STARS
WHAT DO I SEE?
DO I
HEAR ANY STAR
TELLING ME ANYTHING?
DO I SEE GOD?
DO I SEE CHANCE?
WHAT DO I SEE?

WELL, THE TRUTH IS
WHEN I
LOOK AT THE STARS
I SEE WHAT IS TO BE.
WHEN I
LOOK AT THE STARS
THAT'S WHAT I SEE.
I LOOK
AND WITH MY HEART
I ENTER MYSTERY,
AND I SEE STARS
HOLDING A DREAM
OF ALL THE JOYS
YET TO BE SEEN,
AND I HEAR STARS
TELLING ME PLEASE,
REMEMBER THE DREAM!

(Stands, extends arms)

I LOOK
AND WITH MY HEART
I ENTER MYSTERY,
AND I SEE STARS
HOLDING A DREAM
OF ALL THE JOYS
YET TO BE SEEN,
AND I HEAR STARS
TELLING ME PLEASE,
REMEMBER THE DREAM!
(fading) REMEMBER THE DREAM!
(echo) REMEMBER THE DREAM!

(Spot fades and JOE’s comes up again, where he stands, still brooding on the bottle)

JOE (Sings)
ONCE I LOOKED AT THE STARS
BUT I SAW WITH MY HEART,
AND I FIRMLY BELIEVED
WHAT I HEARD WAS MY PART.
BUT THE WORLD ISN'T EASY
AND THE YEARS CAN BE HARD
WHEN YOU TRY TO BE TRUE TO THE STARS.

SO I'M CLOSING IT DOWN,
YES, I'M CLOSING MY HEART.
I DO NOT WANT TO HEAR
I CAN PLAY A BIG PART.
'CAUSE THE WAY ISN'T EASY
AND THE WALK IS TOO HARD
WHEN YOU TRY TO BE TRUE TO THE STARS.

WHEN I
LOOK AT THE STARS
WOND'RING HOW LONG THEY'VE STARED
WATCHING HOW WE HAVE ERRED,
WATCHING AS IF THEY CARED
HOW WE GET BATTERED WHEN WE LIVE THEIR DREAM OUT,
THEN I
SAY TO THE STARS
YOU WERE THE DREAM I DARED,
NOW I'M HERE TO CHECK OUT.

TUMBLING PAST
LIKE A MILLION PILLS.
LOTS OF HOT GAS
BUT NOTHING TO CURE OUR ILLS.
SO HERE'S TO THAT VAST
EMPTY DARKNESS THAT SPILLS
FROM THIS SWEET LITTLE PLAS-
TIC BOTTLE OF PILLS.
AND HERE'S TO THE PAIN THAT IT STILLS—
O YOU SWEET LITTLE PLASTIC BOTTLE THAT KILLS!
SO IT'S TIME TO SAY:

WHY LOOK TO THE STARS?
THEY CANNOT SEE FROM THERE
HOW WE ARE LOVE-IMPAIRED,
HOW MANY HAVE DESPAIRED.
IT DOESN'T MATTER IF WE LIVE THEIR DREAM OUT!
AND I
SAY TO THE STARS,
WHATEVER DREAMS WE SHARED,
I AM VOMITING OUT!
I AM VOMITING OUT!

(Tips the bottle to gulp, and starts to choke and cough. He puts a finger in his throat and gags. This disturbs him so much, he sinks to his knees, sobbing. Just then a distant voice is heard offstage. Shocked, JOE hides the bottle, tries to compose himself)

TRACKER (Offstage)
Hello!
JOE (Hoarsely)
Just a minute, just a minute!
TRACKER (After a pause, while JOE gets his coughing under control)
Okay?
JOE
...Okay!

(TRACKER and GRANDMOTHER, Native Americans in native garb, push through the tall brush, rear left. TRACKER carries a lantern)

TRACKER (Coming into sight)
Hello there. Hope we didn’t startle you. Our camp is just across the creek, and mother here spotted your light. Thought we’d be good neighbors, say hello before turning in.
JOE (Still hoarse, but improving)
I really jumped. I mean, nobody ever comes out this far. It’s sacred land, private.
TRACKER
We’re just passing through.
JOE
Uh, I’m a writer. Get some of my best ideas out here. Why I like, you know, solitude.
TRACKER
We’ll leave you be, then... This is Grandmother Medicine Hug.

(GRANDMOTHER embraces JOE warmly, who stays wooden)

JOE (After awkward pause)
Okay, and you?
TRACKER
My private name is Onida Onawa Anoki, which means, more or less, "the wide-awake actor, the one you search for." But my public name is Tracker.
JOE
Tracker.
TRACKER
My people say, 'In forest hid by shadow, is lost moon.' So I am Tracker, Hunter-of-Lost-Moon. Sort of a hobby.
JOE
I see.
TRACKER (Offering hand)
Nice to meet you, uh...
JOE (Doesn’t give his name, his shake is wooden as he mumbles)
...Tracker.
TRACKER
By the way, radio says snow tonight. A lot.
JOE
Snow? This early? Ridiculous.
JOHN
Grandmother feels it in her bones. I’d say, count on it.
JOE
No way.
GRANDMOTHER
If it does snow, you can come to our tipi and stay. We have plenty room. Just cross the creek on the stones, like we did. Good night.
TRACKER (Waving)
Stay warm.

(Both exit through the shrub)

(Somewhat dazed now,JOE takes the lantern and goes to his bedding. His knees wobble and he almost stumbles. He zips himself in and turns off the lantern. The dim light fades to black)

(After a bit of nature sounds, a dim light shows the same scene, later. From the rear brush, a shadow steps out, a figure in black and white stripes with ankle and wrist bracelets and a small apron front and rear. His head encased in a white cube, he is TRICKSTER. A blue strobe light follows him as he circles over and around JOE, shaking his two rattles, then silently withdraws. Lights down again, as curtain descends)