Airport Sparrows Act 1 scene iii

Act 1 scene iii 

an airport 

enter MARC 

Marc- What madness is this that I should dawdle

And wait upon vanity’s wayward hope? 

What delusion gives that passing humour

Might find greater joy in my company

When I am, to all other eyes, a fool?

It's as if good sense has given away

My expectation of the bold demise

Usually found when I’d endeavour so.

Now, instead, it baits me onward to act

As though through some measure might gain vict’ry.

Yet what call can be made to the restless

Except to bear patience against fell fear

And wage bold wars upon his temitry.

Airport Sparrows Act 1 Scene ii

Act 1 scene ii

an airplane

lights up.  MARC and PASSENGER are seated.  Behind them is SARAH.  All are unaware

Captain- [over the intercom] Unto the attendant attention pay,

For your safety as we get underway. 

Sarah- [comes to the front for preflight] 

The seat belt sign is illuminated,

And such as the situation will be,

Bid of you fasten your seat belts tightly.

aside

Passenger- Man; I don’t like these puddle hopper flights: 

More than any other, they give me frights.

Marc- They may not have been designed for comfort, 

But they are the shorter, safer legs.

Must admit that I hate these flights too,

Though it's not the flight that really gets me:

But the fact that they oft carry me back

To the places I left long ago...

Oh, shit. I do that flight attendant know!

Sarah- Several exits exist for escape: 

Upon this craft, front and to either side

Will find such doors as do service this end.[sees MARC and smiles]

Pray, spy that to which you would closest bend.

aside

Passenger- Seems to me she recognizes you too.

God’s turned the hot seat on upon you. 

Marc- Yeah; great; an hour’s worth humiliation. 

Behold you my joyous excitation.

Sarah- Fit the mask o’er nose and mouth, then secure, 

Pull the elastic bands to tighten full

And breath normally, as though all were well.

Though the bag may not inflate, air dost flow.

Be sure to mask yourself ere else bestow.

aside

Passenger- Nay man, I don’t think you’ll have such troubles.

She seems more amused than anything else.

I tell you young man, should advantage take,

And with her some wild mile-high lovin’ make

Marc- Think, old man, clumsy is not attractive, 

And that the love felt for such fools as I

Is that light kind of affection that’s held

By all for simpletons the world over.

Her attention is merely amusement

That fate has twice my feet ‘cross her path sent.

Sarah- Please turn off all portable devices. 

We shall alert when such electronics

As have been identified and approved

May be activated, if you are so moved.

aside

Passenger- You are a young fool, just look at her smile.

Clumsy you might have been, but thinks your cute.

Have some courage boy: be resolute.

Sarah- Any questions we’ll answer with delight, 

But for now, sit back and enjoy the flight.

aside

Marc- I do no think the matter’s so easy...

Passenger- Some things are rather simple to change friend, 

‘Pends alone on your desire for that end.

Sarah- Mister Coffee, I see you're flying with me; 

I'll thank you now to have little more care,

I don't have any more uni's to wear.

Marc- My feet are the article of disgrace, 

But being seated, should ease you of fear;

I assure you that I shall remain here. 

Sarah- This is the final leg for us tonight, 

So perhaps I'll accept your offer

And join you for that drink after we land. 

Marc- It would be my pleasure to make amends. 

My name’s Marcus, or Marc to my friends. 

Sarah- My name tag does my name as Sarah brand. 

Wait for me in the terminal when land. [she moves on]

Passenger- Perhaps there’s more to you then meets the eye, 

But you cannot, that she likes you, deny.

blackout

Airport Sparrows Act 1 scene i

So I decided it's time I started putting my plays up here to try and make them more accessible to people.  But, I'm not going to post the whole thing all at once, cause that would be too easy, but I will put them up scene by scene.  I'm going to start with "Airport Sparrows."  As some of you know and participated in the reading last year, this play is mostly set in a rural town a commuter flight away from LA, Marc is returning to a home he never wanted to return to and finds love along the way.  This version is the slightly reworked version based on the critical reviews I received after the reading, so those of you who were there can look forward to seeing those edits.

Airport Sparrows
Dramatis Personæ
Sarah- a flight attendant
Michelle- likewise, a flight attendant
Marc (aka Marcus)
Lyndon- Marc’s best friend, owns the Blue Canary
Laura- Marc’s ex, Lyndon’s sister
Paul- likewise, a flight attendant
Jason- bartender at the Blue Canary
Michael
Betty- Marc’s mother

also passengers, bar patrons, a pilot(over intercom)

scene 
an airport, an airplane, a street, a bar, a hotel room


Act 1 scene i 
an airport

Trebuchet

How about we sidle into the personal for a little while.  I can't actually remember when this was written (which just goes to show I need to date my work) nor can I remember the specifics behind it.  I have a few hunches, and it's possible a few people will see themselves within the thoughts.  I call myself a poet, and this tends to go into the realms of the personal vent that I don't often give myself leave for.  I traditionally consider it a priority to put my pen to paper only when seeking to create, and not so much to vent, but even then, sometimes the mood strikes me.  "Trebuchet" was probably written during one of my long spells of single-dom, but it also echoes things people have said to me; things which I began to see as true even when I wrote it.  In any case, I hope you enjoy it.

Trebuchet

here I look into my soul...

too deep...

A place I cannot yet see

for my heart stands in the

way

How long has it been since I allowed it to feel?

How long have I labored in sacred vanity

o'er the conceit of a broken heart?

I opened the gates to my heart so long ago

let myself be tethered to a dream

that was in fact a trebuchet

that launched my heart away.

What siege was I but fodder for?

I know not.

Nor know who won,

though I know it was not I.

Once, I was selflessly selfish,

but that all changed

til now I stand

still selfish

Trying to remember how to give.

How many loves have past me by

Because giving my all was not enough

when there was not much left to give?

It has hurt every time, in my mind's eye;

and though my heart feels,

How much does it give.

Til now I see reflections of myself in other's lives

making the same mistakes I've already made

and wishing I could teach them.

I have lost great things because I could not let them in,

though I could let them

go.

Trapped in a glacier

Yet visible for all to see:

The great thaw has yet to come to me.

But it is no one else's work,

but mine

to shun the pain, and the fear

to melt the ice

til the path lays clear

again.

Baci n. 08 (version 2)

Sometimes a single thought, quote, person or word inspires more than a single piece.  Sometimes they inspire great works, and sometimes they inspire great moments.  This is probably neither of those, but it still serves as an example of the multiplicity of thought that can be found, and how even they same artist can make an entirely different piece from the same source material.  Below is Baci n. 08 (version 2).  Enjoy

Baci n. 08 (version 2)

"Passion colours everything it touches."

B. Gracián

There is nothing quiet about passion,

Even if he who suffers it does not speak,

It burns as a wild fire through his mind.

He feels it in ev'ry beat of his heart

Making him restless even as he goes

Eager to prove to all the world his love.

And it is worse for he away from his love

When there is no hope to relieve the passion

Which haunts him every which way he goes.

Listen; you will hear it when he does speak

For the love that burns deep within his heart

Is the same that's reigning over his mind.

Truth be told, he's going out of his mind;

The impossibility of his love

Appeals to the romantic in his heart.

Nor would he do away with his passion,

A truth he might never be able to speak

That follows him where ever it is he goes.

It does not matter, either; where he goes

Because the world resonates in his heart.

With echoes of all that his heart does speak.

He's witnessing the world through eyes of love

Where the smallest things ignite his passion

And tests the very limits of his heart.

Every lover must have a strong heart

To carry that burden where e'er he goes;

Being taunted by such absent passion.

Hope and love are trials upon the mind,

No matter how boundless one feels his love,

Tis an impossibility to speak.

But it is the only thing of which he would speak

Because it is the only thing left in his heart,

Hoping beyond hope there is truth in love.

Where passion journeys, his doubt also goes,

Creating violent storms in his mind

That only exists 'cause there is passion.

And so passion makes it useless to speak

All that's on his mind. Yet; his burning heart

Eagerly goes 'cause his passion is love.

Baci n.08

I realized as I was setting down to write this morning, that I haven't actually talked a whole lot about the Sestina project in general.  The group as a whole is called the "Bacio Sestinas".  Baci is the Italian word for kiss, but Bacio is also a kind of chocolate truffle topped with a hazelnut, and back when I lived in Colorado, I worked at Between The Covers and we sold these candies. Inside the wrapper where these love quotes, and I sort of collected them and have been using them as the inspiration point for most of the sestinas in the collection.

On another point of interest, I was first introduced to the sestina via Neil Gaiman in one of his short story collections.  It is an old Italian form of poetry with a very specific pattern.  Generally, they are written in iambic pentameter, though I don't, but the important and interesting bit is that the follow is the repeating pattern of end words. It's a fun and challenging form that I enjoy.

In a continuation of last week's theme, may I present to you "Baci n.08"

Baci n. 08

"Passion colours everything it touches."

B. Gracián

Unloved, none perceived her as a beauty;

A face made unsightly by blemishes

And a figure that's not to current taste.

Were her eyes the wrong colour, the wrong shape?

Did her inner fire not burn as brightly?

Is the world really made to be so blind?

And was it the world that made her, too, blind.

Or popular perception of beauty

That dimmed a fire that should burn more brightly?

She sees but a collage of blemishes

And curses god and devil for her shape;

A beast of fetish, not a thing of taste.

Yet love bears to all a different taste

That ever sees that to which the world's blind

'Cause it is of unfamiliar shape.

True love composes for itself beauty

Where the world descries blemishes

In a person who would burn more brightly.

And so she will ever burn more brightly

When knows how false the world's ignoble taste

Which cannot see beyond her blemishes.

She by being loved, is not longer blind

And can see in herself lies a beauty

That is true beyond any concern for shape.

When she learns to love herself, her shape;

When passion's fire burns ever more brightly

Will recognize within her true beauty.

She looks and sees a world born without taste:

The loveless world no longer strikes her blind

For she perceives perfection's blemishes.

The popular sees only blemishes

Not the irony of its own sad shape,

Because vanity strikes its own self blind.

With this knowledge she will burn more brightly

Guiding the world to a true sense of taste

And a deeper knowledge of real beauty.

Perceive that beauty is false blemishes,

A tongue without taste; beast born without shape,

For when passion burns brightly, love is blind,

the pen returns...

So, it seems I have been away from this far too long.  I think I got lost somewhere along the way, and felt like I was running out of things to share.  This isn't entirely true, of course.  I have many more things I want to present, but I've never been entirely sure how I wanted to go about it.  I've also been a bit scared of the length of some of my pieces, as they are exactly as long as they need to be, but perhaps too long for the medium presented.  Other works, such as my plays, I'm not sure how I want to go about presenting them; in what form and format; by what ways and means, and I've been skittish of letting them have such free reign of the internets as to let them go.  But they also do no good just sitting on computers and flash drives that have the unfortunate tendencies of failing.  So perhaps I should release them into the wilds.  We'll see.

Now, though, to reintroduce myself to the blog-o-sphere, I will return to one of my other projects: Women in Myth.  To follow is a long piece called, "The Nixie of the Mill-pond" which is an adaptation of an old folk tale, and embellished with semi-historical nonsense.  It is possible that this is not its final form, but in the meantime... enjoy.  Did I mention it's long...

The Nixie of the Mill-pond

Twas during the in-between times
Ere Christ had risen to glory
Before the fall of druid lore.
Twas a time when Rome still flourished
When mighty Jupiter still reigned
From that high Capitoline hill.
In a quiet Gallic village,
Much ignored by Roman power
A miller still minded the stone;
Minded as his father before.