Trombone Wounded Tuesday (Part 6)

avant-garde, experimental theatre, opera

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(Bagpipes. A bomb. Loch Ness trombone – low, wounded.)

Bat Choir (Haka – stomping upside down, wings fluttering):

Bombs fall. Bombs fall. Scotland is pain.
The zeppelin mechanic has tears in her veins.
She fixed all the floating. She painted the gold.
But war doesn't care if your story is told.
(Stomp.)
War comes on Tuesday.
(Stomp.)
War comes on rain.
(Scream.)
WAR COMES AND WAR COMES AND WAR COMES AGAIN.

Tenor Bat (dry):
We said no to the bombs.
They didn't listen.
Typical.

(Train whistle – broken. Another bomb. Closer.)

Fliss (on the floor, paintbrush limp):
I fixed zeppelins.
Big floating corpses full of hope.
Now they fall.
Not because of me.
Because of men who draw lines on maps
without asking the map.
The map is tired.
The map wants to be a blanket.
I want to be a blanket.
Instead I am here.
Pink castle. Scotland. War.
A paintbrush.
Nothing left to paint.

Penguin (soft):
Paint the bombs.

Fliss:
Pink bombs?

Penguin:
Yes.

Fliss:
That's stupid.

Penguin:
So is war.
At least pink is honest.

(Pause. Bomb. Castle trembles.)

Fliss (crying quietly):
The stars are still there.

Penguin:
Even bombs cannot reach the stars.
That is something.

Fliss:
It's not enough.

Penguin:
It's never enough.
That's why we keep counting.

(Cello. Dissonant. A note that hurts.)

Sssssera (bursting in, symbols flickering „GHOST“):
I s-s-s-saw it!
Churchill!
The b-b-b-bulldog!
In the w-w-w-west wing!
Smoking a c-c-c-cigar!
Looking at a m-m-m-map!
The map was c-c-c-crying!

Bass Bat (from ceiling):
Churchill is dead.
Dead people smoke silence.
Probably a plumber with a strong jaw.

Sssssera:
P-p-p-plumbers don't wear s-s-s-suits!
This one was s-s-s-sad!
Ghost-sad!
The worst kind!

Chaos Bat (screeching):
WHO CARES ABOUT THE GHOST?
BOMBS ARE HERE!
BOMBS DON'T CARE ABOUT YOUR FUR-SNAKE!
BOMBS WANT TO EXPLODE!
THAT'S THEIR HOBBY!

(Silence. Bats stare.)

Soprano Bat (tiny):
Are you okay?

Chaos Bat (quiet):
No.
That's my whole personality.

(Accordion. Barely a breath. Bomb – very close.)

Woman Tramp (kneeling, putting a coat around Fliss):
War is here.
Even in our pink castle.
Even in Scotland.
But you.
You fixed zeppelins.
You painted tricycles.
You turned the Borg into an interior design collective.
You are not nothing.
Stand up.
Not because the war is over.
Because someone has to paint the bombs.
Pink.
With gold spokes.
And a small bell.

Fliss (whisper):
I have no pink left.

Woman Tramp:
Then use blue.
The whisky blue.
The sad blue.
Blue is also a weapon.

(Bagpipes. One drone. Lonely. Bat Choir – Haka soft, hovering.)

Bat Choir (whisper tsunami, overlapping):

Bombs fall. Stars stay.
Ghosts smoke. Mechanics pray.
The fur-snake saw a bulldog with a map.
The penguin counts the cracks.
Tonight we are still here.
The bombs did not win.
Because we refused to leave.
Refusal is a flag.
Refusal is a bat saying no
while the world burns
and the ghost of Churchill
finishes his cigar
and vanishes
into the pink wallpaper.

Soprano Bat:
Tuesday.
Always Tuesday.
Tuesdays don't count.
But we do.
We are the stars now.

(Loch Ness trombone – sliding up. Not happy. But not dead either.)

Sssssera (symbols now spelling „HOLD FAST“):
The g-g-g-ghost is gone.
Churchill or p-p-p-plumber.
We are s-s-s-still here.
Pink is not the colour of war.
Pink is the colour of s-s-s-saying:
„You didn't win.
We are s-s-s-still painting.
We are s-s-s-still counting.
One s-s-s-syllable at a t-t-t-time.“

Fliss (standing slowly, taking the brush, dipping into blue whisky):
I will paint the bombs.
Not because it helps.
Because it's Tuesday.
And Tuesdays don't count.
But Wednesdays might.

(All together – Haka finale, stomping, fluttering, screaming into whisper.)

Entire Company (overlapping, chaotic, then fragile):

WE LIVE IN WAR. WE LIVE IN PINK.
THE GHOST IS GONE. THE BOMBS REMAIN.
BUT WE ARE THE STARS. WE ARE THE RAIN.
WE ARE THE BAT THAT SAYS TO YOU:
NO NO NO NO NO—
(whisper)
yes.
Just this once.
Yes to staying.
Yes to painting.
Yes to the cracked-egg star.
Yes to the mechanic with the broken heart.
Yes to the bombs that fall from the sky.
Not because we love them.
Because they are here.
And we are still here.
And here is pink.
And pink is enough.

(Silence. A bomb falls – far or close? Impossible to tell. A dish breaks. A tricycle bell. Then – paintbrush on metal. Blue on bomb. Stroke by stroke. Like a heartbeat. Like a no that became a yes. Just for tonight.)

Bat Choir (fading, fluttering away, upside down):

No no no no—
(gone)
…maybe.

4482/7500

(Bagpipes. A bomb. Loch Ness trombone – low, wounded.) Bat Choir (Haka – stomping upside down, wings fluttering): Bombs fall. Bombs fall. Scotland is pain. The zeppelin mechanic has tears in her veins. She fixed all the floating. She painted the gold. But war doesn't care if your story is told. (Stomp.) War comes on Tuesday. (Stomp.) War comes on rain. (Scream.) WAR COMES AND WAR COMES AND WAR COMES AGAIN. Tenor Bat (dry): We said no to the bombs. They didn't listen. Typical. (Train whistle – broken. Another bomb. Closer.) Fliss (on the floor, paintbrush limp): I fixed zeppelins. Big floating corpses full of hope. Now they fall. Not because of me. Because of men who draw lines on maps without asking the map. The map is tired. The map wants to be a blanket. I want to be a blanket. Instead I am here. Pink castle. Scotland. War. A paintbrush. Nothing left to paint. Penguin (soft): Paint the bombs. Fliss: Pink bombs? Penguin: Yes. Fliss: That's stupid. Penguin: So is war. At least pink is honest. (Pause. Bomb. Castle trembles.) Fliss (crying quietly): The stars are still there. Penguin: Even bombs cannot reach the stars. That is something. Fliss: It's not enough. Penguin: It's never enough. That's why we keep counting. (Cello. Dissonant. A note that hurts.) Sssssera (bursting in, symbols flickering „GHOST“): I s-s-s-saw it! Churchill! The b-b-b-bulldog! In the w-w-w-west wing! Smoking a c-c-c-cigar! Looking at a m-m-m-map! The map was c-c-c-crying! Bass Bat (from ceiling): Churchill is dead. Dead people smoke silence. Probably a plumber with a strong jaw. Sssssera: P-p-p-plumbers don't wear s-s-s-suits! This one was s-s-s-sad! Ghost-sad! The worst kind! Chaos Bat (screeching): WHO CARES ABOUT THE GHOST? BOMBS ARE HERE! BOMBS DON'T CARE ABOUT YOUR FUR-SNAKE! BOMBS WANT TO EXPLODE! THAT'S THEIR HOBBY! (Silence. Bats stare.) Soprano Bat (tiny): Are you okay? Chaos Bat (quiet): No. That's my whole personality. (Accordion. Barely a breath. Bomb – very close.) Woman Tramp (kneeling, putting a coat around Fliss): War is here. Even in our pink castle. Even in Scotland. But you. You fixed zeppelins. You painted tricycles. You turned the Borg into an interior design collective. You are not nothing. Stand up. Not because the war is over. Because someone has to paint the bombs. Pink. With gold spokes. And a small bell. Fliss (whisper): I have no pink left. Woman Tramp: Then use blue. The whisky blue. The sad blue. Blue is also a weapon. (Bagpipes. One drone. Lonely. Bat Choir – Haka soft, hovering.) Bat Choir (whisper tsunami, overlapping): Bombs fall. Stars stay. Ghosts smoke. Mechanics pray. The fur-snake saw a bulldog with a map. The penguin counts the cracks. Tonight we are still here. The bombs did not win. Because we refused to leave. Refusal is a flag. Refusal is a bat saying no while the world burns and the ghost of Churchill finishes his cigar and vanishes into the pink wallpaper. Soprano Bat: Tuesday. Always Tuesday. Tuesdays don't count. But we do. We are the stars now. (Loch Ness trombone – sliding up. Not happy. But not dead either.) Sssssera (symbols now spelling „HOLD FAST“): The g-g-g-ghost is gone. Churchill or p-p-p-plumber. We are s-s-s-still here. Pink is not the colour of war. Pink is the colour of s-s-s-saying: „You didn't win. We are s-s-s-still painting. We are s-s-s-still counting. One s-s-s-syllable at a t-t-t-time.“ Fliss (standing slowly, taking the brush, dipping into blue whisky): I will paint the bombs. Not because it helps. Because it's Tuesday. And Tuesdays don't count. But Wednesdays might. (All together – Haka finale, stomping, fluttering, screaming into whisper.) Entire Company (overlapping, chaotic, then fragile): WE LIVE IN WAR. WE LIVE IN PINK. THE GHOST IS GONE. THE BOMBS REMAIN. BUT WE ARE THE STARS. WE ARE THE RAIN. WE ARE THE BAT THAT SAYS TO YOU: NO NO NO NO NO— (whisper) yes. Just this once. Yes to staying. Yes to painting. Yes to the cracked-egg star. Yes to the mechanic with the broken heart. Yes to the bombs that fall from the sky. Not because we love them. Because they are here. And we are still here. And here is pink. And pink is enough. (Silence. A bomb falls – far or close? Impossible to tell. A dish breaks. A tricycle bell. Then – paintbrush on metal. Blue on bomb. Stroke by stroke. Like a heartbeat. Like a no that became a yes. Just for tonight.) Bat Choir (fading, fluttering away, upside down): No no no no— (gone) …maybe.

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