We counted the Stars (Part 2)

avant-garde cabaret, experimental theatre, Dadaist, Brechtian, Sprechgesang, modern opera

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[The Uncountable Night (Or: The Penguin and the Rust)]

Setting: The belly of a beached cargo ship, nameplate reads M.S. Forget-Me-Not. Floor is rust and old newspapers. A penguin in a bow tie that used to be red. A woman wearing three coats and one shared dream.

(Spoken, low, like a lullaby that forgot how to sleep)

Woman Tramp:
That one.
There.
The one that looks like a cracked egg.
That's number seven thousand and four.

Penguin:
No.
That's the same one we counted yesterday.
The egg-cracker.
You're double-counting, darling.
We agreed.
No double-counting.
It's the only rule.

Woman Tramp:
But it moved.
Stars move.
I saw it wink.

Penguin:
Stars don't wink.
You wink.
I once saw you wink at a policeman's horse.
The horse reported you.
We had to leave the city.

(Pause.)

Woman Tramp:
That was a good horse.
He gave me his apple.

Penguin:
That wasn't his apple.
That was the policeman's lunch.
But fine.
Fine.
Let's start again.
From zero.
Like every night.
Like the fool's prayer we keep singing.

(Music creeps in. A single cello string. Then a broken accordion.)

Woman Tramp (sings/spoken):
We sleep inside a dead ship
that once carried frozen fish.
Now it carries us.
And the fish are long gone.
But sometimes I dream I am a salmon
and the penguin is my accountant.
He says: "You are swimming in circles."
I say: "That's the point, darling."

Penguin:
I was never an accountant.
I was a hat-check boy at a disco for nuns.
Every night they said: "Bless you, small bird."
And every night I stole one candle.
I have seventy-three candles in a suitcase.
They are all melted together.
It looks like a brain.
A very holy brain.

Woman Tramp:
Show them the story about the bucket.

Penguin:
Ah. The bucket.
(clears throat)
Once, in a town called Splinter, there was a bucket.
It had one goal: to be promoted to sink.
It wrote letters.
It took evening classes in plumbing.
It fell in love with a faucet.
The faucet did not love it back.
The faucet loved a teapot.
The teapot was married to a toaster.
The toaster only wanted to burn bread.
One day, the bucket became a mayor.
It rained for three weeks.
The bucket said: "Finally. I am useful."
Then it rusted.
The end.

Woman Tramp:
That's not an end.
That's a Tuesday.

Penguin:
Every end is a Tuesday if you wait long enough.

(The accordion hiccups. A triangle rings once — for no reason.)

Woman Tramp:
Tonight I saw a star shaped like a broken shoe.
I called it "Ambassador of Forgotten Things."
It didn't answer.
Stars never answer.
Except that one time in Prague.
You remember?

Penguin:
I remember.
We were sleeping under a statue of a man on a horse.
The horse was the smart one.
A star fell.
Not down.
Up.
Into the sky's pocket.
And a voice said: "Stop counting. Start becoming."

Woman Tramp:
What did we become?

Penguin:
A penguin with a bow tie and a woman with three coats.
We didn't improve.

Woman Tramp:
Speak for yourself.
I learned to whistle with my nose.

Penguin:
That's not whistling.
That's a blocked sinuous.

Woman Tramp:
Art is subjective.

(A drum made of an old biscuit tin. Played with a spoon.)

Both (alternating lines, fast, like a chaotic nursery rhyme):

We counted the star that looks like a potato.
We counted the one that a drunk priest named "Bernard."
We counted the star that winked back — that was a satellite, we agreed to keep it.
We counted the star that exploded in 1492 — we are very late.
We counted the star where the penguin's third wife lives.
(Penguin: I never had a third wife.)
We counted the star where she lives anyway.
Shut up.
We counted the star that is actually a street lamp in Oslo — very persistent.
We counted the star made of forgotten jokes.
Knock knock.
Who's there?
A dead ship.
A dead ship who?
A dead ship full of a woman and a penguin who cannot count.
We counted ourselves.

(Silence. Long. The kind with teeth.)

Woman Tramp (softly):
What if there is no end?
Not of the stars.
Of us.
What if we are like the bucket?
What if we rust slowly
and become a story
that someone tells
to a child
who doesn't understand
and asks for a dinosaur instead?

Penguin:
Then we become a dinosaur.
Next question.

Woman Tramp:
That's not how it works.

Penguin:
Darling.
I am a penguin.
You are a woman with three coats.
We live in a dead ship.
We count stars every night
and every night we fail.
If that is not already a dinosaur
then I don't know what a dinosaur is.

(Pause.)

Woman Tramp:
A dinosaur is bigger.

Penguin:
So are we.
Every night.
A little bigger.
From all the counting.

(The accordion plays one soft, wrong note. Then stops.)

Penguin:
Look.
That one.
The pale one.
Right there.
Where the hull is cracked.

Woman Tramp:
I see it.

Penguin:
Let's not count it.
Let's just... watch it.
For a while.

Woman Tramp:
For how long?

Penguin:
Until it watches back.

Woman Tramp:
That could take forever.

Penguin:
Good.
We have forever.
We have a dead ship.
We have three coats.
We have seventy-three melted candles that look like a holy brain.
And we have each other.

5000/7500

[The Uncountable Night (Or: The Penguin and the Rust)] Setting: The belly of a beached cargo ship, nameplate reads M.S. Forget-Me-Not. Floor is rust and old newspapers. A penguin in a bow tie that used to be red. A woman wearing three coats and one shared dream. (Spoken, low, like a lullaby that forgot how to sleep) Woman Tramp: That one. There. The one that looks like a cracked egg. That's number seven thousand and four. Penguin: No. That's the same one we counted yesterday. The egg-cracker. You're double-counting, darling. We agreed. No double-counting. It's the only rule. Woman Tramp: But it moved. Stars move. I saw it wink. Penguin: Stars don't wink. You wink. I once saw you wink at a policeman's horse. The horse reported you. We had to leave the city. (Pause.) Woman Tramp: That was a good horse. He gave me his apple. Penguin: That wasn't his apple. That was the policeman's lunch. But fine. Fine. Let's start again. From zero. Like every night. Like the fool's prayer we keep singing. (Music creeps in. A single cello string. Then a broken accordion.) Woman Tramp (sings/spoken): We sleep inside a dead ship that once carried frozen fish. Now it carries us. And the fish are long gone. But sometimes I dream I am a salmon and the penguin is my accountant. He says: "You are swimming in circles." I say: "That's the point, darling." Penguin: I was never an accountant. I was a hat-check boy at a disco for nuns. Every night they said: "Bless you, small bird." And every night I stole one candle. I have seventy-three candles in a suitcase. They are all melted together. It looks like a brain. A very holy brain. Woman Tramp: Show them the story about the bucket. Penguin: Ah. The bucket. (clears throat) Once, in a town called Splinter, there was a bucket. It had one goal: to be promoted to sink. It wrote letters. It took evening classes in plumbing. It fell in love with a faucet. The faucet did not love it back. The faucet loved a teapot. The teapot was married to a toaster. The toaster only wanted to burn bread. One day, the bucket became a mayor. It rained for three weeks. The bucket said: "Finally. I am useful." Then it rusted. The end. Woman Tramp: That's not an end. That's a Tuesday. Penguin: Every end is a Tuesday if you wait long enough. (The accordion hiccups. A triangle rings once — for no reason.) Woman Tramp: Tonight I saw a star shaped like a broken shoe. I called it "Ambassador of Forgotten Things." It didn't answer. Stars never answer. Except that one time in Prague. You remember? Penguin: I remember. We were sleeping under a statue of a man on a horse. The horse was the smart one. A star fell. Not down. Up. Into the sky's pocket. And a voice said: "Stop counting. Start becoming." Woman Tramp: What did we become? Penguin: A penguin with a bow tie and a woman with three coats. We didn't improve. Woman Tramp: Speak for yourself. I learned to whistle with my nose. Penguin: That's not whistling. That's a blocked sinuous. Woman Tramp: Art is subjective. (A drum made of an old biscuit tin. Played with a spoon.) Both (alternating lines, fast, like a chaotic nursery rhyme): We counted the star that looks like a potato. We counted the one that a drunk priest named "Bernard." We counted the star that winked back — that was a satellite, we agreed to keep it. We counted the star that exploded in 1492 — we are very late. We counted the star where the penguin's third wife lives. (Penguin: I never had a third wife.) We counted the star where she lives anyway. Shut up. We counted the star that is actually a street lamp in Oslo — very persistent. We counted the star made of forgotten jokes. Knock knock. Who's there? A dead ship. A dead ship who? A dead ship full of a woman and a penguin who cannot count. We counted ourselves. (Silence. Long. The kind with teeth.) Woman Tramp (softly): What if there is no end? Not of the stars. Of us. What if we are like the bucket? What if we rust slowly and become a story that someone tells to a child who doesn't understand and asks for a dinosaur instead? Penguin: Then we become a dinosaur. Next question. Woman Tramp: That's not how it works. Penguin: Darling. I am a penguin. You are a woman with three coats. We live in a dead ship. We count stars every night and every night we fail. If that is not already a dinosaur then I don't know what a dinosaur is. (Pause.) Woman Tramp: A dinosaur is bigger. Penguin: So are we. Every night. A little bigger. From all the counting. (The accordion plays one soft, wrong note. Then stops.) Penguin: Look. That one. The pale one. Right there. Where the hull is cracked. Woman Tramp: I see it. Penguin: Let's not count it. Let's just... watch it. For a while. Woman Tramp: For how long? Penguin: Until it watches back. Woman Tramp: That could take forever. Penguin: Good. We have forever. We have a dead ship. We have three coats. We have seventy-three melted candles that look like a holy brain. And we have each other.

0/500