Rangimārie say it (Part 9)

experimental theatre, avant-garde opera, dada/absurdist satire

+ Show full styles

V5.5

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

Bat Choir (Haka – but tender now, Māori whispers, learning):

Kāore he pakanga. No war.
Kāore he pakanga i hea. No war anywhere.
We learned Māori.
From the snake.
From the book.
From Gerald's ancient throat.
We say no to war.
We say yes to Wittgenstein.
We say yes to pink.
We say yes to Tuesday.
(Whisper.)
And Tuesdays still don't count.
But Wednesdays do.
And today is Wednesday.
Look at the sky.
The bombs are gone.
The dinosaurs stayed.
The bats are learning a new language.
The new language has a word for peace.
The word is:
Rangimārie.
Say it.
(Scream – then whisper.)
Rangimārie.

(Police whistle – far away. Then closer. Two hundred years late.)

[Stage direction: Two policemen appear. Victorian uniforms. Wet. Confused. Holding umbrellas.]

Police Officer 1 (looking at Gerald, looking at the pink castle, looking at the penguin):
We received a call.
In 1824.
About dinosaurs.
We came as fast as we could.

Police Officer 2:
Is there a problem?

Woman Tramp (three coats, smiling, pointing at the Pink Declaration):
Read that.

Police Officer 1 (reading, slowly):
„War is forbidden. Forever. Anywhere.“
(He looks up.)
That's not in our manual.

Penguin:
Get a new manual.
Wittgenstein is the new standard.
Māori is the new standard.
Pink is the new standard.
You are late.
Go home.
Tell your mothers.
The dinosaurs are in charge now.
And they read philosophy.

Police Officer 2 (tipping his hat, backing away slowly):
Right then.
Good day.
Sorry for the wait.

(They leave. Umbrellas up. Never seen again.)

(Dinosaur stomp – one final, gentle stomp. Haka dancers bow.)

Gerald (lowering his head, water lilies falling like petals):
I will read another page.
Who will listen?

Sssssera (curling at his feet, book open):
We will.
All of us.
The p-p-p-penguin.
The m-m-m-mechanic.
The w-w-w-woman with three coats.
The b-b-b-bats.
The dancers.
The castle.
The l-l-l-loch.
The stars.
Everyone.
Read, Gerald.
Read aloud.
We are listening.

Fliss (dipping her brush one last time into the pink paint):
And I will paint the words.
On the castle wall.
On the loch shore.
On the tricycle.
On the dead ship.
On the bombs that used to fall.
Pink.
Everywhere pink.
So we never forget:
War is forbidden.
Wittgenstein is the standard.
Māori is the language.
And Tuesdays don't count.
But this Tuesday?
This Tuesday counted.
Just this once.

(All together – not a scream. Not a whisper. A song. A real song. Peace has a melody now.)

The Entire Company (overlapping, soft, then holding a single note):

WAR IS FORBIDDEN.
FOREVER.
ANYWHERE.
WE DECLARE IT IN PINK.
WE DECLARE IT IN MĀORI.
WE DECLARE IT WITH DINOSAUR FEET.
WE DECLARE IT WITH BAT WINGS.
WE DECLARE IT WITH THREE COATS AND AN EMPTY PAINTBRUSH.
WE DECLARE IT WITH A PENGUIN ON A BRONTOSAURUS HEAD.
WE DECLARE IT WITH A FUR-SNAKE READING WITTGENSTEIN.
WE DECLARE IT WITH THE CRACKED-EGG STAR WATCHING.
WE DECLARE IT BECAUSE TUESDAY FINALLY COUNTED.
WE DECLARE IT BECAUSE WEDNESDAY IS HERE.
WE DECLARE IT BECAUSE THE POLICE ARE LATE AND THAT'S FINE.
WE DECLARE IT BECAUSE THE BOMBS STOPPED.
NOT BECAUSE WE WON.
BECAUSE WE READ.
PAGE BY PAGE.
STOMP BY STOMP.
NO BY NO.
YES BY YES.
RANGIMĀRIE.
RANGIMĀRIE.
RANGIMĀRIE.

(Silence. Long. A single dish does not break. A tricycle bell rings once. A page turns. Gerald reads.)

Gerald (soft, deep, ancient):
Kua tau te rangimārie.
Peace has settled.

(The cracked-egg star. Still there. Still counting. But slower now. No need to rush. Peace is patient.)

Bat Choir (last time, from the darkness, upside down, finally smiling):
No no no no—
(Long pause.)
…yes.
Yes to peace.
Yes to pink.
Yes to Wittgenstein in Māori.
Yes to Tuesday.
Yes to you.
Yes to us.
Yes.
Yes.
(Whisper.)
Yes.

3750/7500

(Cello. Warm. Accordion – soft. Bagpipes – not fighting anymore.) Bat Choir (Haka – but tender now, Māori whispers, learning): Kāore he pakanga. No war. Kāore he pakanga i hea. No war anywhere. We learned Māori. From the snake. From the book. From Gerald's ancient throat. We say no to war. We say yes to Wittgenstein. We say yes to pink. We say yes to Tuesday. (Whisper.) And Tuesdays still don't count. But Wednesdays do. And today is Wednesday. Look at the sky. The bombs are gone. The dinosaurs stayed. The bats are learning a new language. The new language has a word for peace. The word is: Rangimārie. Say it. (Scream – then whisper.) Rangimārie. (Police whistle – far away. Then closer. Two hundred years late.) [Stage direction: Two policemen appear. Victorian uniforms. Wet. Confused. Holding umbrellas.] Police Officer 1 (looking at Gerald, looking at the pink castle, looking at the penguin): We received a call. In 1824. About dinosaurs. We came as fast as we could. Police Officer 2: Is there a problem? Woman Tramp (three coats, smiling, pointing at the Pink Declaration): Read that. Police Officer 1 (reading, slowly): „War is forbidden. Forever. Anywhere.“ (He looks up.) That's not in our manual. Penguin: Get a new manual. Wittgenstein is the new standard. Māori is the new standard. Pink is the new standard. You are late. Go home. Tell your mothers. The dinosaurs are in charge now. And they read philosophy. Police Officer 2 (tipping his hat, backing away slowly): Right then. Good day. Sorry for the wait. (They leave. Umbrellas up. Never seen again.) (Dinosaur stomp – one final, gentle stomp. Haka dancers bow.) Gerald (lowering his head, water lilies falling like petals): I will read another page. Who will listen? Sssssera (curling at his feet, book open): We will. All of us. The p-p-p-penguin. The m-m-m-mechanic. The w-w-w-woman with three coats. The b-b-b-bats. The dancers. The castle. The l-l-l-loch. The stars. Everyone. Read, Gerald. Read aloud. We are listening. Fliss (dipping her brush one last time into the pink paint): And I will paint the words. On the castle wall. On the loch shore. On the tricycle. On the dead ship. On the bombs that used to fall. Pink. Everywhere pink. So we never forget: War is forbidden. Wittgenstein is the standard. Māori is the language. And Tuesdays don't count. But this Tuesday? This Tuesday counted. Just this once. (All together – not a scream. Not a whisper. A song. A real song. Peace has a melody now.) The Entire Company (overlapping, soft, then holding a single note): WAR IS FORBIDDEN. FOREVER. ANYWHERE. WE DECLARE IT IN PINK. WE DECLARE IT IN MĀORI. WE DECLARE IT WITH DINOSAUR FEET. WE DECLARE IT WITH BAT WINGS. WE DECLARE IT WITH THREE COATS AND AN EMPTY PAINTBRUSH. WE DECLARE IT WITH A PENGUIN ON A BRONTOSAURUS HEAD. WE DECLARE IT WITH A FUR-SNAKE READING WITTGENSTEIN. WE DECLARE IT WITH THE CRACKED-EGG STAR WATCHING. WE DECLARE IT BECAUSE TUESDAY FINALLY COUNTED. WE DECLARE IT BECAUSE WEDNESDAY IS HERE. WE DECLARE IT BECAUSE THE POLICE ARE LATE AND THAT'S FINE. WE DECLARE IT BECAUSE THE BOMBS STOPPED. NOT BECAUSE WE WON. BECAUSE WE READ. PAGE BY PAGE. STOMP BY STOMP. NO BY NO. YES BY YES. RANGIMĀRIE. RANGIMĀRIE. RANGIMĀRIE. (Silence. Long. A single dish does not break. A tricycle bell rings once. A page turns. Gerald reads.) Gerald (soft, deep, ancient): Kua tau te rangimārie. Peace has settled. (The cracked-egg star. Still there. Still counting. But slower now. No need to rush. Peace is patient.) Bat Choir (last time, from the darkness, upside down, finally smiling): No no no no— (Long pause.) …yes. Yes to peace. Yes to pink. Yes to Wittgenstein in Māori. Yes to Tuesday. Yes to you. Yes to us. Yes. Yes. (Whisper.) Yes.

0/500