Tricycle Wittgenstein (Part 10)

experimental theatre, avant-garde opera, dadaist/absurdist, theatrical orchestration

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(High tone dinosaur – falsetto, excited. Butterflies whisper. No stomps. Peace is soft now.)

Fliss (lighting the cigar with a match shaped like a star):
The tricycle flies.
I fixed it.
Not with logic.
With hope.
And pink paint.
And the last page of Wittgenstein.
Gerald read it aloud in Māori.
The wheels understood.

Penguin (climbing onto the back seat, gray bow tie perfect):
Where do we go?

Fliss (puffing the cigar – smoke rises in rings shaped like dinosaurs):
I don't know.
That's the point.
No destination.
Just Tuesday.
But Tuesday counted once.
So maybe today counts too.

(Loch Ness trombone – soft, like a lullaby.)

Bat Choir (first yes – whispered, trembling, then clear):
Yes.
We said it.
Finally.
Yes to the tricycle.
Yes to the cigar.
Yes to the sky.
Yes to the dinosaurs coming along.
Yes to not knowing where.
Yes to Tuesday counting twice.
(Butterflies answer: maybe, maybe, yes. Also yes.)
Yes.

Tenor Bat (dry, but smiling):
Took us nine parts.
But we got there.
Don't expect it again.

(Train whistle – happy. Typewriter dings like a heartbeat.)

Gerald (lowering his head, water lilies in his mouth):
My reading list:
Wittgenstein. In Māori.
Then the dictionary.
Then the back of a cereal box.
Then nothing.
Silence is also reading.
I recommend it.

Sssssera (coiled on Gerald's back, symbols spelling „PEACE“ permanently now):
I'll c-c-c-come too.
On the d-d-d-dinosaur.
Not the t-t-t-tricycle.
Too small.
Too f-f-f-fast.
Too pink.
I love it.
But I am a s-s-s-snake of the s-s-s-slow.

Woman Tramp (three coats, sitting on a small dinosaur – high tone, squeaky, polite):
This one is called Kevin.
He asked if he could come.
I said yes.
He cried.
Water lilies everywhere.
Beautiful.

(Cello. Warm. Accordion – soft. Bagpipes – distant, not fighting anymore.)

Fliss (stomping the tricycle pedal – once, twice, three times):
The big cigar is lit.
The wheels are lifting.
Who comes with me?

Penguin (already on board):
I am here.

Small Dinosaur 1 (high tone, falsetto, holding a tiny suitcase):
I packed snacks.
Water lilies.
And existential doubt.
Gerald said to bring both.

Small Dinosaur 2 (even higher tone, wearing a bow tie – red, stolen from the Earl):
I am the cultural attaché now.
The hamster retired.
I have no qualifications.
Perfect.

Small Dinosaur 3 (shy, whispering):
I just want to see the clouds.
From above.
Are they pink too?

Fliss (laughing – first time in nine parts):
The clouds are whatever colour we paint them.
Today they are pink.
Tomorrow maybe blue.
The whisky blue.
The sad blue that became happy.

(Butterflies – swirling around the tricycle, whispering.)

Whispering Butterflies (together, soft, breathy):
Go.
Go.
Go.
We don't know where.
That's the flight.
That's the freedom.
That's the peace.
Not knowing.
Going anyway.
With a cigar.
With a tricycle.
With dinosaurs who read philosophy.
With a bat choir that finally said yes.
With a snake who stutters peace.
With a penguin who counts stars he never finishes.
With a woman in three coats who dreamed of the Earl.
With a mechanic who painted bombs blue.
Go.
Go.
Go.

(The tricycle lifts. One meter. Two meters. Five meters.)

(All together – not loud. Not quiet. Peace has a volume now. It's medium. It's comfortable.)

The Entire Company (overlapping, soft, smiling):

WE DON'T KNOW WHERE WE GO.
THAT'S THE MAP.
WE DON'T KNOW THE END.
THAT'S THE STORY.
WE DON'T KNOW TOMORROW.
THAT'S TUESDAY.
AND TUESDAYS DON'T COUNT.
BUT TODAY IS WEDNESDAY.
AND WEDNESDAY IS FLYING.
ON A TRICYCLE.
WITH WINGS.
WITH A CIGAR.
WITH DINOSAURS.
WITH BATS THAT SAY YES.
WITH BUTTERFLIES THAT SAID MAYBE UNTIL MAYBE BECAME CERTAIN.
PEACE IS CERTAIN.
NOT BECAUSE THE WAR STOPPED.
BECAUSE WE KEPT READING.
KEPT PAINTING.
KEPT COUNTING.
KEPT STUTTERING.
KEPT SAYING NO UNTIL NO TURNED INTO YES.
AND YES IS PINK.
AND PINK IS THE SKY NOW.
LOOK UP.
THE TRICYCLE IS FLYING.
FLISS IS SMOKING THE BIG CIGAR.
THE DINOSAURS ARE WAVING.
THE PENGUIN IS COUNTING CLOUDS.
AND THE CLOUDS ARE UNCOUNTABLE.
THAT'S FINE.
THAT'S PEACE.
THAT'S ENOUGH.

(Gerald – reading one last page as the tricycle disappears into the pink sky.)

Gerald (deep, slow, ancient, smiling):
Kua tau te rangimārie.
Peace has settled.
Not forever.
Nothing is forever.
But for now.
For this Wednesday.
For this flight.
For this cigar.
For this tricycle.
For this ridiculous beautiful impossible yes.
Peace.

(The tricycle bell rings. Once. Twice. Three times. Fading.)

Bat Choir (last time, from the ground, upside down, watching the sky):
Yes.
Yes.
Yes.
(Pause.)
No.
Just kidding.
Yes.
Forever yes.
Well.
Maybe not forever.
But for now.
For now is enough.
For now is Tuesday.
And Tuesday counted.
Just this once.
Goodbye, tricycle.
Goodbye, Fliss.
Goodbye, cigar.
Goodbye, dinosaurs.
Goodbye, peace.
See you tomorrow.
Same time.
Same pink.
Same Wittgenstein.
Same Māori.
Same stars.
Uncountable.
Beautiful.
Ours.

(Silence. A single water lily falls from the sky. Then another. Then another. Pink rain. Soft. Peaceful. The end.)

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(High tone dinosaur – falsetto, excited. Butterflies whisper. No stomps. Peace is soft now.) Fliss (lighting the cigar with a match shaped like a star): The tricycle flies. I fixed it. Not with logic. With hope. And pink paint. And the last page of Wittgenstein. Gerald read it aloud in Māori. The wheels understood. Penguin (climbing onto the back seat, gray bow tie perfect): Where do we go? Fliss (puffing the cigar – smoke rises in rings shaped like dinosaurs): I don't know. That's the point. No destination. Just Tuesday. But Tuesday counted once. So maybe today counts too. (Loch Ness trombone – soft, like a lullaby.) Bat Choir (first yes – whispered, trembling, then clear): Yes. We said it. Finally. Yes to the tricycle. Yes to the cigar. Yes to the sky. Yes to the dinosaurs coming along. Yes to not knowing where. Yes to Tuesday counting twice. (Butterflies answer: maybe, maybe, yes. Also yes.) Yes. Tenor Bat (dry, but smiling): Took us nine parts. But we got there. Don't expect it again. (Train whistle – happy. Typewriter dings like a heartbeat.) Gerald (lowering his head, water lilies in his mouth): My reading list: Wittgenstein. In Māori. Then the dictionary. Then the back of a cereal box. Then nothing. Silence is also reading. I recommend it. Sssssera (coiled on Gerald's back, symbols spelling „PEACE“ permanently now): I'll c-c-c-come too. On the d-d-d-dinosaur. Not the t-t-t-tricycle. Too small. Too f-f-f-fast. Too pink. I love it. But I am a s-s-s-snake of the s-s-s-slow. Woman Tramp (three coats, sitting on a small dinosaur – high tone, squeaky, polite): This one is called Kevin. He asked if he could come. I said yes. He cried. Water lilies everywhere. Beautiful. (Cello. Warm. Accordion – soft. Bagpipes – distant, not fighting anymore.) Fliss (stomping the tricycle pedal – once, twice, three times): The big cigar is lit. The wheels are lifting. Who comes with me? Penguin (already on board): I am here. Small Dinosaur 1 (high tone, falsetto, holding a tiny suitcase): I packed snacks. Water lilies. And existential doubt. Gerald said to bring both. Small Dinosaur 2 (even higher tone, wearing a bow tie – red, stolen from the Earl): I am the cultural attaché now. The hamster retired. I have no qualifications. Perfect. Small Dinosaur 3 (shy, whispering): I just want to see the clouds. From above. Are they pink too? Fliss (laughing – first time in nine parts): The clouds are whatever colour we paint them. Today they are pink. Tomorrow maybe blue. The whisky blue. The sad blue that became happy. (Butterflies – swirling around the tricycle, whispering.) Whispering Butterflies (together, soft, breathy): Go. Go. Go. We don't know where. That's the flight. That's the freedom. That's the peace. Not knowing. Going anyway. With a cigar. With a tricycle. With dinosaurs who read philosophy. With a bat choir that finally said yes. With a snake who stutters peace. With a penguin who counts stars he never finishes. With a woman in three coats who dreamed of the Earl. With a mechanic who painted bombs blue. Go. Go. Go. (The tricycle lifts. One meter. Two meters. Five meters.) (All together – not loud. Not quiet. Peace has a volume now. It's medium. It's comfortable.) The Entire Company (overlapping, soft, smiling): WE DON'T KNOW WHERE WE GO. THAT'S THE MAP. WE DON'T KNOW THE END. THAT'S THE STORY. WE DON'T KNOW TOMORROW. THAT'S TUESDAY. AND TUESDAYS DON'T COUNT. BUT TODAY IS WEDNESDAY. AND WEDNESDAY IS FLYING. ON A TRICYCLE. WITH WINGS. WITH A CIGAR. WITH DINOSAURS. WITH BATS THAT SAY YES. WITH BUTTERFLIES THAT SAID MAYBE UNTIL MAYBE BECAME CERTAIN. PEACE IS CERTAIN. NOT BECAUSE THE WAR STOPPED. BECAUSE WE KEPT READING. KEPT PAINTING. KEPT COUNTING. KEPT STUTTERING. KEPT SAYING NO UNTIL NO TURNED INTO YES. AND YES IS PINK. AND PINK IS THE SKY NOW. LOOK UP. THE TRICYCLE IS FLYING. FLISS IS SMOKING THE BIG CIGAR. THE DINOSAURS ARE WAVING. THE PENGUIN IS COUNTING CLOUDS. AND THE CLOUDS ARE UNCOUNTABLE. THAT'S FINE. THAT'S PEACE. THAT'S ENOUGH. (Gerald – reading one last page as the tricycle disappears into the pink sky.) Gerald (deep, slow, ancient, smiling): Kua tau te rangimārie. Peace has settled. Not forever. Nothing is forever. But for now. For this Wednesday. For this flight. For this cigar. For this tricycle. For this ridiculous beautiful impossible yes. Peace. (The tricycle bell rings. Once. Twice. Three times. Fading.) Bat Choir (last time, from the ground, upside down, watching the sky): Yes. Yes. Yes. (Pause.) No. Just kidding. Yes. Forever yes. Well. Maybe not forever. But for now. For now is enough. For now is Tuesday. And Tuesday counted. Just this once. Goodbye, tricycle. Goodbye, Fliss. Goodbye, cigar. Goodbye, dinosaurs. Goodbye, peace. See you tomorrow. Same time. Same pink. Same Wittgenstein. Same Māori. Same stars. Uncountable. Beautiful. Ours. (Silence. A single water lily falls from the sky. Then another. Then another. Pink rain. Soft. Peaceful. The end.)

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