(Music interlude. Curtain up. Fog rolls across the floor. A great skull towers in the background, with yawning mouth. Can be a projection. Seven Indians in warrior gear enter stealthily, TRACKER, three MALES and three FEMALES. They drop their packs, and place their shields between themselves and the great skull, in a line across stage, then move into dance position. An intense drumbeat sets up their song)
MALES(Sing)Quicktime file doesn't load? Hear it with Flash BEWARE! FEMALES (Sing)
BEWARE! MALES
BEWARE! FEMALES
BEWARE! ALL
BEWARE!
WHEN YOU COME TO DEATH'S DOOR!
TAKE CARE
THAT YOU'VE READ ALL THE LORE!
IT'S THERE
YOU WILL NEED ALL YOUR KNACK
TO REPEL HIS ATTACK
IF YOU WANT TO COME BACK
FROM THE BLACK BLACK BLACK
DECOR
OF DEATH'S DOOR!
WATCH OUT
WHEN YOU COME TO DEATH'S DOOR!
THAT MOUTH
YOU DON'T WANT TO EXPLORE
ONE DOUBT
AND YOU FALL THROUGH A CRACK.
THERE IS NOTHING TO TRACK.
YOU WILL NEVER COME BACK
FROM THE BLACK BLACK BLACK
DECOR
OF DEATH'S DOOR!
(Short dance)
STAND TALL
WHEN YOU COME TO DEATH'S DOOR!
DON'T CRAWL
AND DON'T TRY TO IMPLORE.
FEEL SMALL
AND YOU FALL THROUGH A CRACK.
WITH HIS BLADE HE WILL WHACK.
AND YOU NEVER COME BACK
FROM THE BLACK BLACK BLACK
DECOR
OF DEATH'S DOOR! MALES (Softly)
BEWARE! FEMALES
WHEN YOU COME TO DEATH'S DOOR! MALES
BEWARE! FEMALES
WHEN YOU COME TO DEATH'S DOOR— TRACKER (Suddenly alert, cutting them off) Wait! He comes. Quickly! Prepare yourselves.
(Each takes a bundle, leaving the shields. Half exit to left, half to right, as curtain closes. They re-emerge onto apron. Under spots, they dress, one man and one woman as a Dante and a Shakespeare, Whitman or Poe. The two other women can be Dickinson and any other clear stereotype, Elizabeth Browning, for instance, or Gertrude Stein)
(RUNT, the fifth, puts on a loose robe, then fits on a swollen bulbous brain. He will move about on his knees, legs covered by the trailing robe. He will hold two sticks with tiny hands on the end and when appropriate, press them to his cheeks and wag his head dolefully. QUIXOTE, the sixth, fits on a battered breastplate, and presses on a wispy gray beard. TRACKER dresses as Cyrano, mainly large white-feathered hat, and flesh-colored eye mask with long nose)
TRACKER (Suddenly alert)
He’s here.
(The poets each step onto a pedestal. QUIXOTE hurries off, right. The RUNT, who can also mount a platform to raise him to sight level, goes to his knees. The light turns eerie blue)
JOE (Offstage left)
Hello!... HEL-LO!... It’s me, the writer!
(TRACKER steps into the darkness, left. A howling wind and bursts of snow follow. We hear feet stamping, then the voice of JOE)
JOE (Off)
Wow, what a blizzard! You were right. Thanks for the shelter.
(Both step into sight. JOE looks around at the posturing ghoulish-looking crew of poets, each on their pedestal, mimicking recital)
JOE Say, this is no tipi. Where am I? TRACKER
Welcome to the Dead Poets Society. RUNT
Don’t believe him. This is a lunatic asylum. You’re never gonna get out. TRACKER
On the contrary. This is the Dead Poets Society. RUNT
Lunatic asylum. TRACKER
Dead Poet’s Society. RUNT
Lunatic Asylum. TRACKER (Re-assuring JOE)
Dead Poets Society.
(From behind the curtain, the head of QUIXOTE pops out)
QUIXOTE
WILL YOU BE BAPTIZED BY A DREAMER? (He is jerked out of sight. A brief struggle agitates the curtain. He pops out again) I say, WILL YOU BE BAPTIZED BY A DREAM— (He is jerked out of sight) TRACKER
It is just that, some of our members are more... colorful than others. (Confiding in a low voice) If you feel trepidation, play along. Help will arrive. JOE
It will? TRACKER (Taking out a pocket watch, thumping JOE’s shoulder merrily)
Yes. Any eternity now! QUIXOTE (Stepping onto the apron from left)
WILL YOU BE BAPTIZED BY A DREAMER? (His out-of-sight hand is grabbed. He fights) Let go! Unhand me, I say. I’ll have my dog sue the pants off you. That bastard will sue the pants off both of us, he’s so mean. (Is dragged off) TRACKER
Actually, this is a waiting room. We are waiting. JOE
For what? TRACKER
Why, for you to read your marvelous poetry, of course. Isn’t that so? (Nods all around, then the four poets robotically continue their orations. TRACKER bows) We breathlessly await the moment. RUNT (Looking sorrowful)
This is a lunatic asylum. We’re all trapped. (Dour face. Waggles his enormous head, the tiny hands on his cheeks) When I was on earth, I gave my life to Jesus, and all I got for my trouble was one lousy look at God. TRACKER
Did not. RUNT
Did too. TRACKER
Did not. RUNT
Did too. QUIXOTE (Shouting from the right end of the apron)
WILL YOU BE BAPTIZED BY A DREAMER? TRACKER
WILL YOU SHUT UP?!!
(A stage hook pulls QUIXOTE off by the neck)
TRACKER (To RUNT) Did too! RUNT
Did not!
(TRACKER points with a gotcha expression, which silences the RUNT)
JOE
He said, when he was on earth? (Sudden realization) Am I... dead?? TRACKER
Truthfully, we are all departed spirits who, while on earth, unfortunately thought we could change the world by our gift. JOE
Excuse me, I’m outta here.
(Turns and exits left. Sound of a howling wind and amid a burst of snow JOE comes stumbling back, caught by TRACKER)
RUNT
We’re all trapped. We’ll never get out. TRACKER
Will too. RUNT
Will not. TRACKER
Will too.
(From right, QUIXOTE suddenly runs onto apron with the stage hook)
QUIXOTE
Ha! I found it! I (Thumping the pole) found it! TRACKER
Oh, dear. He found the talking stick again. (To JOE) It means we all have to listen.
(Mid-stage, QUIXOTE poses with dignity, stage hook pole in hand, as all gather round respectfully. He moves a few feet left, and all follow respectfully. He notices this, and moves right. They follow. He obviously likes this, and now looks over his shoulder to go still further. As he starts, pole under arm, TRACKER grabs its bottom, tilts his head and taps his long nose. A sheepish look, then QUIXOTE mounts the pedestal where TRACKER points, gathers himself to his full height, and with command and dignity, recites)
QUIXOTE(Own spot)
Will you be baptized by a dreamer
and consent to live the pathway to the stars?
Will you be anointed, immersed, washed clean
in the bay of the beautiful,
bountiful as the bowl of the sky?
Will you, with magical intent,
imagine all of this more lovely,
and want no other prize
than this earth, made over into love?
Will you swear to renounce
what is not held sacred by your soul?
It is easy to be practical by world approval.
What is practical by your soul?
Will you consent to emerge self-luminous,
a fire-filled wind your flaming gown,
your words
expressing all of us together,
your song
inseparable from mine?
Or will you tip your hat to a dreamless existence
and sit by the river to cry,
till crammed full of betrayal
you can only hate,
till blind and old,
you can only die?
Angels mightier than death await your word.
They inhabit you,
caress even the abyss
wherein you feel trapped.
Across the abyss is love,
one denial poisoning the feast:
"For me, it is out of reach."
Straight out now into the night.
Taste the dark.
Breathe in and love the deeps.
Recall your own trembling descent
into this-and-that.
In you, beyond that door,
the home of all immortal feelings.
Luminaries live in that other land.
They share your soul's secret inquiry.
Are you asleep to their conversation in you?
Does your soul's poetry elude you?
We are not yet in balance.
We do not believe.
Only what gleams gets our attention.
The sacred thing to do is journey home.
Begin in your veins.
Stand square in the breath divine.
Say to yourself:
"Whatever is hid or lost to mind,
I will follow the bleak forbidden
shoreline to find."
If you cling to reason you cannot discover
coming down the road
your own angelic innocence, its love-green shape divine.
Say to yourself:
"I dare let go my burden of opinion, my passion
to be expert and right.
I dare release
my need to control
my own unfoldment."
Say to yourself:
"I dare experience
the mystery of my soul.
I dare approach
in the place of non-acceptance
my foolishness, curled in the dust,
and, my divinity,
there where the coffin's lantern
is a gash in the dark."
Say to yourself:
"No more need to ration love.
In one great global embrace, I freely forgive.
Today, I make the seashells all
whisper a new story."
0 will you be baptized by a dreamer
and consent to live the pathway to the stars?
Look not to what fools say for safety.
Begin.
It costs nothing more than dying.
(A long quiet hush, then quiet clapping. QUIXOTE, tall and proud, goes up to JOE and curtsying, hands him the stage hook. The others now form around JOE, and the spot tightens on him)
RUNT (A voice in the dark)
Your turn. Say whatever you want. JOE
I- I don’t know what to say. I’m almost in tears. That was wonderful. This man is not crazy! QUIXOTE (A voice in the dark)
Then say to yourself, ‘I dare experience the mystery of my soul.’ JOE
I... dare experience the mystery of my soul. QUIXOTE
Again. JOE (Fading and echoing)
I dare experience the mystery of my soul. QUIXOTE (Voice fainter)
Again. JOE (Fading and echoing)
I dare experience the mystery of my soul. QUIXOTE(Barely audible)
Again.
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