11:59 AM

Never like this. We had run before, but never like this. Sang before, but never like this. Felt before, but never like this.
And what is feeling? Passion is simply the opposite of apathy.
Visible visible visible. I speak in hazy terms, of .....
So here's the dilemma. I just finished a play and I have no characters. No plot or setting, nothing calls to me "write this write now". Except one idea: hope. I want to explore hope. I want to try to convince myself that ignorance is not an ingredient in hope's creation. I am someone aware of the beauty, every night I drive home towards a mountain and watch the sunset. And each night, pop music blaring shamelessly, windows down, and newly-cut hair pointing towards the sky, I appreciate it. This homeward drive has occurred every night (or nearly) for the last two weeks. So what?
Throw throw throw.
I'm trying to remember how to write. I've spent the year getting rusty. Essays? I now have that formula down. But where did these characters use to call from? If I ask myself to write (bid it), do I lack the need? I think, before I can write I need to come up with some opinions, some beliefs, or at least the questions with which I wish to toy.
I also think I want to write about totalitarianism. I think. So...hope and totalitarianism? Could work. There was a story from a while ago, based off a dream that's been playing in the back of my mind for almost 3 years, maybe it's time has come. Or I could finally commit to the novel I started a while ago. I need some motivation.
Politics and, possibly, hope. Sounds good.

Act None, Scene 1

A man in the crowd stood up. The general excitement quieted, no one had expected him to show. One half observed with grins, a third weary, the final sixth in fear.
Him: The mosquitoes are biting me.
"Impossible!" a woman shrieked, her face covered by a scarlet veil, "you are inside!"
He shook his head serenely: Nonetheless, I am being eaten alive.
A rather large man in the second row who hadn't bothered to look back sneered to the man on his left: I bet he blames it on the California heat, or the West Coast in general.
Man on his left: Do I know you?
Large man: Oh, pardon.
The large man turned to his right, where an old colleague sat and muttered: What issue will he bring up today?
Old Colleague: Surely he'll bring up--
The Standing Him: Commies!!!
Old Colleague: And probably--
The Standing Him: Inevitable chaos!
Old Colleague: Without question he'll end with a sermon regarding--
Him: Love, love, love.
"Not again" the veiled woman hissed. People tried to spot her in the crowd.
"I bet she's ugly" some hicupped "of course, there's a veil" some whispered "I want a veil" some guffawed "I wonder if that's my wife" some sobbed "why doesn't she just stand up" some gasped "I love her" some howled. The order remains debatable.
The standing man sat down and stood up again, for effect.
Him: Oh oh oh! Dearly beloved wonderfully adored cherished hooligans with whom I acquaint myself. I had a sonnet prepared but lost it in the rain. A tornado swept my pages away from the words I wished and I was left without rhyme. Speechless I stand before you and hope that I do not need line-paper to speak my prose. I do not consider us equal.
"Hooray" "Below" "Up yours" "Tut tut" "Pursue happiness!" "Saliva dripper!" erupted the crowd.
Him: No one should claim my meaning as personal. My meanings are my baggage and their faults belong to me.
Veiled woman: Confessions are for dead men.
Him: Believe me, there will come a time when I'll be dead.
A child with white-blonde hair leapt atop his chair: We all die? I too shall die? I too shall wander amidst the dead and contemplate my life? The yellow in my hair will abandon color to its past and the smoothness of my skin will weary into wrinkles, I too shall die? What a fool am I, I thank you sir, but I have no time to listen, I must live!
The boy ran from the room, amidst a smile and various tears.
Him: Worthiest assembly, let me begin. The sky grows lighter in the morning, a transition from dawn blue to morning silhouettes to crisp cold A.M. Then, noon, bearable in some climates, and unbearable in others. A time for sun and staying inside or burning skin should ignorance so demand. Evening follows, a mirror to dawn, slow transition to blue. Then at midnight an instance of black sky, moon perhaps, stars perhaps, clouds perhaps, wind perhaps. That, my friends, is "day".
"ooh" they awed, "hmm" they ummed, "tsk" they tutted,
while "uhh" they contemplated with detailed indecision.
At last they agreed (in hushed and vibrant tones) that he was right.
"You are right" they hushed and vibrated.
Him: A day is a day is a day. That is my assessment, opinionated as it is, I have spoken.
Man on the Left: This, my friend, is art. True innovation. He challenges perceptions. He asks me to ask of myself what I ask of the world and what the world asks of me. I question his questioning me of my questions.
Large Man: I don't believe we've met.
Man on the Left: Oh, pardon.
The standing man sat down, amidst boos and bravos. Immediately the veiled woman stood. Unquiet, birthed in anticipation, barred her words.
Veiled Woman: I do not know how to love.
Not sure whether it was a joke, too bizarre to consider, or uncomfortably normal her words experienced no response.
Finally the once-standing man went to the veiled woman and kissed her.
She spat on him once it was done.
Veiled Woman: I know how to kiss. Such easy demonstrations do not spawn love.
Old Colleage (shouted): Where is the chaos?
Standing Man: Where is it not?
The doors creak open and the boy shuffles in. White-blonde hair now a salt and pepper grey, old skin baby soft and wrinkles supporting smiling eyes.
"I have lived" he croaks and promptly dies.
Cheers pour from the crowd for a life well-lived.
A different man stands up, the cheer descends to silence, they had expected him to come. They had hoped that he would speak.
He smiles instead,staring for half a minute into each person's eyes. The crowd dissolves into individuals. They smile back and, once finished, he sits down.