PERFORMANCE TEXTS

snowdrops-(0;00;06;22)

Sketch One: NO TITLE

Bare stage: a‘ black box’.  Three white downward spotlights cast circles of no more than one metre circumference on the floor, rest of the stage in shadow.  Performer A jumps to and fro between the circles of light cast by two of the spots, foot falls are amplified.  Beneath the remaining spot performer B tosses and turns in sleep under a sheet of crumpled paper, the rustling of which is amplified.  Both are dressed in tattered and torn clothing: A in red and B in green (hereafter referred to as Redtatters and Greentatters respectively).

 
Greentatters stirs, pushes back the paper and sighs.

 
GREENTATTERS:  Ah, my beautiful, beautiful Hyacinth Rose.

 
One of the pools of light created by a spotlight is moved quickly and slightly outside of the stride of Redtatters.  He gives a shrug gets to his knees and pulls it back with his hands. Continues to move from one to the other as before. A disembodied voice laughs.  Greentatters sits up, rubs his eyes.

 
GREENTATTERS:  One day, one very fine day my lady of dreams shall share my bed.

 
REDTATTERS:  Not a feather-down quilt or a velvet couch, just a hard floor and old paper, eh?

 
GREENTATTERS:  And I’ll be plenty rich, a wealthy man.  My lady shall be dressed in the very best of fur and diamonds, silk and satin, feathers and lace and all that stuff.  And it won’t be long, won’t be long now, my cute, pretty, pretty Hyacinth Rose.

 
He lies down, curls up, turns over, sits up again, lies down, curls up, and turns over a number of times before finally settling to sleep.

 
REDTATTERS:  Ships don’t come in at such places as this.  No water to carry ‘em.  No trains.  No boats. No planes.  No buses…nothing ever comes.  Nothing. Ever.

 
GREENTATTERS (crooning in his sleep):  Ah, Lucy, sweet, sweet Lucy.  Sugar and spice an’ all things nice. Sweet, sweet, sweet Lucy…ah…ooh…Lucy…Lucy…

 
REDTATTERS:  Well, a Rose by any other name is not one.  Not that I s’pose it was in the first place, anyhow or way.

 
Greentatters fidgets and turns over, curls, uncurls, turns over, curls up a number of times.  Settles and begins to snore, quietly at first, then louder and louder.

 
GREENTATTERS (crooning in the midst of heavy snoring):  Oh, oh, Madeline, oh… Mad…Mad…Mad…

 
REDTATTERS:   And a Lucy is not a Lucy if that is not her name.  Yes, he is mad, quite mad, mad as old Sam’s idiots who waited for someone or something named Godot. Not that I s’pose he, or it, was ever named that in the first place, anyway.

   
Again the spot is moved, the pool of light shifts out of reach.  Redtatters leaps but misses, falls over, gets up, brushes himself down, kneels on the floor and drags it back into position with his hands. The disembodied voice laughs again. Redtatters stands, pauses, then resumes jumping. This sequence is repeated a number of times, the light moving in different directions. All the while Greentatters tosses and turns, snoring and murmuring a variety of feminine names.

 
GREENTATTTERS (jerking then suddenly sitting up): Aagggghhhhh!!!

 
Redtatters stops jumping. Both remain statuesque for a while. At the moment Greentatters begins to speak, Redtatters continues his movements between the pools of light.

 
GREENTATTERS (with a tremble): ‘Orrible, ‘orrible, ‘orrible! Two grey eyes in craggy, crinkled flesh… piercing the dark… silver squirrel mop on top of a bone skull…just staring… staring at me out of the black… a ghoul…. a ghost… ‘orrible, ‘orrible, ‘orrible it was…as white as the grave….just looked straight at me it did…its lips didn’t move they didn’t….had no lips to move it didn’t…but it hissed at me…said its name was Buckett… or Bockitt… or some such thing…just gaped at me….out of a hole in the dark…all craggy and crinkly it was… ‘orrible it was! Calming down, looking around Glad I’m here and not there with that Bickitt thing. 

 
REDTATTERS: Well, if its name was not Bockitt….or Buckett…it was maybe not Bickitt either, which means it wasn’t really there at all.  Mad, mad, crazy you are.  Always thinking somethink’s there that isn’t.

 
GREENTATTERS: Glad I’m here and not there with that Blackitt.

 
Greentatters pulls the paper over himself, curls up, fidgets, tosses and turns, curls up, uncurls, grunts, snores and mumbles inaudible words with the interjection of audible female names.  Intermittently he utters variations of ‘Bockitt’, ‘Bickett’ etc. upon which he suddenly jerks up and awake, looks around before resuming tossing, turning and mumbling.  Redtatters tumbles over as one of the pools of light darts away from him. He gets up, brushes himself down, kneels down, pulls back the light circle with his hands, stands, looks around bemused before resuming again. These actions continue for a length of time with intermittent laughs from disembodied voice. Lights fade slowly down, almost to blackout then slowly up again.  Redtatter’s tumbles over again as the pool of light at which he was aiming shifts out of stride’s length.  He stands, peering around, agitated.  Fugitively he drops to his knees and pulls the pool of light over the other, carefully aligning them then stands upon both hopping from one foot to another.  Greentatters’ words and actions synchronise with Redtatters rhythmic hopping.  One spotlight shifts and its cast light circles round the other, Redtatters jumps from one to the other going round with it.  Suddenly the patterning breaks and the spotlight is moved randomly back and forth, through and out, of the other circle of light.  Redtatters attempts to keep his steps within the circles with difficulty.  Very quickly the spots move apart and dart in opposite directions stopping at either extreme sides of the stage.  Redtatters looks from one to the other then at his feet a few times.

 
REDTATTERS (facing front, shouts): Blackitt!!!??

Sudden blackout 

Sketch Two: SSSHHH...

Greentatters is now silent and still, curled up in sleep.  One single spot alights on Redtatters who has stopped jumping and stands facing audience.

 
REDTATTERS:
Self
self
which
self
what
Self
this
self
that
self
my
self
your
self
where
here
there
which
that
one
this
one
what
one
that
one
or
this
one
my
self
or
your
self
Self
self
selves
real
self
false
self
not
self
true
self
which
self
that
self
this
self
what
self
which
where
here
there
one
self
two
self
three
self
four
Self
or
self
or
selves
one
self
two
self
three
self
four
where
here
over
there
where
which
what
one
your
self
my
self
their
selves
my
selves
your
selves
which
where
over
there
Self
self
or
selves
which
selves
what
selves
where
over
there
or
here
where
one
self
two
self
three
self
four
or
more
yes
more
more
selves
of
my
self
for
my
Self
and
your
Self
and
their
Selves
one
self
two
self
three
self
four
and
more
more
and
more
there
where
every
where
but
here
 self
Self
Self
Self
self
self
self
not

 
 Sudden blackout.

Sketch Three: CLOUTIE

N. B.  The Cloutie tree is from Irish Celtic folk custom.  It was said that whoever left a rag on one of its boughs would witness an end to their troubles.  The tree stands,thus, draped in sorrows and tomorrows wishes.

 
Two spotlights fade up on performers. Redtatters, as before, now drawing figures of eight from a point in centre of body (navel) in three directions: back and forth, side to side, up and down. The movement continues throughout the sketch, starting large and gradually decreasing in size, the movement becomes faster and faster. Greentatters, sitting facing the audience, bottom half of body wrapped and concealed with paper, arms stretching outwards and upwards, quietly mumbling inaudible disjointed words before getting louder and delivering audible text. 

 
GREENTATTERS: Once there was a time. And once there was not. Long, long, long ago. Yesterday. Never. Far, far, far way. Tomorrow. Nowhere. Double loop. A figure of eight. Receding into shadow. Fading into light. Betwixt. Between. Rock. Back and forth. To and fro. Looping into past gone. Looping into future not. Returning. Again, again, again. To axis. Not having ventured anywhere. But here. Betwixt. Between. Never and nowhere. Where. Here. At crossover point. In twilight. Not black. Not white. But misty grey. Here. Buried. Crotch deep. Rooted. In a mound. Mound of earth. Crippled. Hung with rags. Shrouded in tatters. Tied with ribbons. No other. None like myself. Nothing to do. Nothing to do. Dress. Undress. Open. Close. Little purses of green. Count. Rags. One. Two. Three. Four. Eight. And cry. No tears. For who. Not she. Not I. But Sidhe. Bean-si. And wait, wait, wait for the Faerie to come. So. Rocking. Rocking. Rocking. To and fro. Back and forth. Pushed. Pulled. By unseen outside inside. Knock. Knock. Who’s there. No one. Continue. Loop to future not. Apple blossom. Pretty palace. When my ship comes in. Casket of gold. Lottery ticket. Raffle tab. Growing stale. Growing old. Dissolve in sand. Melt to void. Returning again, again. To rock of ever return. Scatter the seeds. Empty dreams. Goblin desire. Cyclic rainbow. Eats own tail. No end. No crock. All gone. Blind.  Mirror, mirror. No reflection. See nothing. Nothing to do. Open and shut. Purses of green. Dress. Undress. Tinkle. Tinkle. Rag of blue. Baby in a bag. Forget-me-not. They did. No matter. No blame. No tears. Wait, wait for the Faerie to come. Rock. Rock. Rocking. Loop to past never. His face. His hair. His voice. His poem. Who for. Not she. Not I. But Sidhe. Bean-si. Prince is dead. See-saw. Jackdaw. Peck the carcass. No regret. Not I. For he. Was not. As she. Not like herself. Myself. Not he. Turn away. Ever return. Betwixt. Between. One. Two. Thud. Thud. Ribbon of red. A bruise on the heart. Love-lies-bleeding. Love it was not. No matter. No tears. Here. Fingers stretch. Reach. Expand. Recoil. Contract. Touch nothing. No other. No one. No thing. Mute. Only listen. Crack of bone. Muscle creak. Hiss of blood. No meaning. No blame. No matter. Misty grey. Nothing to do. Open and close. Open and close. Dress. Undress.  Knock. Knock. Knock. Continue. Loop to the right. Pumpkin carriage. Into nowhere.  Glittered in jewels. A cape of lace. Dancing ghosts. Corpse ballet. Decay away. Out of light. Into grey. Crippled in clay. Crippled in clay. Click. Clack. Trim of Yellow. Adder in the head. Sweat on the brow. Cuckoo spit and feverfew. Too many whats. Wherefores. And whys. Not so wise. None of it matters. No concern. No concern. Here. Here.  Nothing to do. Betwixt. Between. Never and nowhere. One. Two. Three. Four. Open and shut. Little purses of green.  Reach. Recoil. Cry. Cry. No tears. No tears. Not for not. Not for I.  Wait for Sidhe. Bean-si. Wait, wait, wait for the Faerie to come. And rock. Rock. Tick. Toc. Tickety.-toc. Stop. Knock. Continue. Forward and back. Loop to the left. Into the black. Slap of the face. Kick to floor. Toys come tumbling after. Turn the key. Lock her up. Swollen face. Bleeding sore. Fist the door. Fist the door. Scream till hoarse. Scream in silence. Evermore. Come, come, come away. No guilt. No shame. No blame. Rock, rock, rocking. To and fro. Back and forth. Forth. Twilight grey. Betwixt. Between. Nothing to say.  Nothing to do. Count. Count. Open and close. Cloth of green. A chicken bone choke. Jack-in-the-hedge and clover leaf. A wish cannot be granted. No tears. No cry. No matter. Girdled abyss. An empty void. A ring-pass-not. Sway. Sway. Sway. Sway. Dress. Undress. Mud up to crotch. Open and close. Reach. Recoil. Expand. Contract. Push. Pull. Back and forth. To and fro. To. Fro. To. Fro. Open and close. Open and close. Little purses of green. One. Two. Two. One. Eight. No tears. No cry. Not for she. Not for I. No guilt. No shame. No blame. No matter. Rock, rock, rocking. Nothing to do. Nothing to do. But call. Call. Call for who. Not for she. Not for I. But for Sidhe. Bean-si. Goblin desire. Desire. Desire. And wait, wait, wait, wait, wait for the Faerie to come.

 

Greentatters’ voice quietens to inaudible mumbling of disjointed words speeding up. Redtatters’ movements get faster and faster, smaller and smaller still until the movement is not externally discernable but the intensity of effort unmistakably visible. Both performers continue in this vein for a while. Sudden blackout.  Mumbling is prolonged for a short while, then silence.

COPYRIGHT: ELEANOR BOYCE All rights reserved unless written permissions are granted by the author.

You are viewing the text version of this site.

To view the full version please install the Adobe Flash Player and ensure your web browser has JavaScript enabled.

Need help? check the requirements page.


Get Flash Player