Poem of the Month - July 2024

I am the gentle breath
moving leaves to speak
as you walk through the
forest

A touch so tender
my hands massage
your shoulders, cascading
down your back, soft
willow branches

Taking your hand to dance
as the trees sway, showering
us in leaves of lust
intertwined in the passion
of the wilderness

I take you there
on the forest floor
undressing as the wind
sings to our flesh

We enjoy the time
each breathing in the other,
hands, fingers, mouths at play
making love to the rhythm
of the earth

He held the long arch of an embrace
White light of skin
pocketed by exhaustion
(He had shined such a very long time)

Pocketed pale blue

He held in his grasp a question mark
He kept under his thumb an elipses
...
Answers not spoken loud enough
To wake the sleepers
But filled with context
...

Enough said

Far from casting out delusions
He kept them in the mirror
Reflecting a light
That withered in the Sun

He held the Gold
For tug of war
And the seas came crashing
in Huzzah!

His face was minted
On old currency
Time

And time again

   
   
ACT ONE : SCENE 1    
   
   
“But what can a decent man speak of with most pleasure?    
Answer: Of himself. Well, so I will talk about myself.”    
― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from the Underground    
   
   
"He was born with a gift of laughter    
 and a sense that the world was mad."    
- Rafael Sabatini, Scaramouche.    
   
   
   
   
A stage shrouded in darkness. The rhythmic thump of darts punctuates the silence.    
   
   
               Thnnnkk    
   
   
                           Thwnnnnkk    
       
   
                  Thnwwnnnk    
   
   
The curtain rises to reveal a cozy apartment bathed in amber light.    
Two young men, IVANDEL and PAVEL, engage in a game of darts.    
An old TV flickers with Jean Cocteau's silent "Orphée"    
beside a sleeping, round man on a threadbare couch.    
A clock reads April 1, 10:04 AM. Somewhere outside,    
the Moon hangs in Capricorn, the Sun a maned-lion exultant.    
   
IVANDEL VIACLOVSKY aka VANYASA aka V:    
        (In the midst of discourse.)    
...Consider, please, the days of my dear demented youth...    
   
                  (V pauses to toss his dart.)    
   
      ...The formative years when I, Viaclovsky,    
      a Childe Herold of the heart in riposte,    
   was born unto this fractured world and of it;    
          in one most vehement thrust.    
   
PAVEL PALAVER, affectionately known as PASHA:    
(Somewhat confused, squinting.)    
   In riposte, did you say? Like...err...in a duel?    
   
IVANDEL:    
By the outermost lingam and the yoni of the universe, my friend,    
Half on Earth in earnest, and half in air,    
But neither here, entirely, nor there.    
   
PAVEL:    
So...not like a duel?    
   
IVANDEL:    
Oh swashbuckling of thought, for sure, in brilliant riposte, yes,    
and doubtlessly debonair.    
   
PAVEL:    
(A clean youth of 21, raven-haired, spectacles balanced on his nose,    
he wears a smart checkerboard shirt.)    
I am not entirely clear as to...?    
   
IVANDEL:    
      (Building with excitement, he continues.)       
  It was as if a burst of inspired star-dust absurdly hurled,    
  parried, volleyed, indeed, with honest flair, ripostes unfurled.    
   
PAVEL:    
Ah, well, you're a space cadet alright. That much is true, at least.    
   
IVANDEL:    
(His fingertips grazing his jawline, lost in profound rumination.)    
Born of a family both genteel and modest. I was the outlier, you see,    
an unconventional son, impetuous, a blight upon their respectable facade.    
   
PAVEL:    
   Do tell more, Vanyasa.    
   
(He lines up his dart. With a swift motion, he releases it.)    
   
IVANDEL:    
(His twenty-seventh year upon him, clad indifferently in sagging trousers    
tucked into his boots, donning a loud tropical shirt. His neck is garlanded    
with an assortment of beads and talismans, bracelets jangle from his wrist.    
His countenance sharp and inspired, if I do say so— a face akin to Michelangelo's defiant stone David    
or perhaps the bronze of Donatello. And atop that chiseled cranium, a wild spread of uncombed mad honey.)    
   
In the naive embrace of early years, I ventured forth to capture wisdom's writ, but soon my path did veer.    
   
PAVEL:    
Veer? How so? In what way veer?    
   
(Shadowplay of cats on the back wall.)    
     
IVANDEL:    
For six moons turn I studied the cryptic tongues    
of the gutter-kings, the cunning whispers of the twilight hunters.    
   
PAVEL:    
(Scratching his head)    
Meaning what, exactly?    
   
IVANDEL:    
(With cat-like dignity)    
I imbibed the lexicon of the felines.    
The frequency of the whiskered ones.    
Mews and sibilant utterances various.    
   
(V takes his turn, aims, and launches. Alas, his foot ensnares on the worn Persian carpet.    
The dart veers off course. The shadowcats scatter away.)    
   
PAVEL:    
That's a fine picture you make. (laughs.)    
      Seems you're tripping on more than just the rug.    
   
Have you been in the funny mushrooms? Did you, by chance, have a bit of pumpkin juice    
this morning, perhaps a generous helping? The feline frequency? (laughs again.)    
So you learned the art of the purr? And how did your venerable sire receive this?    
   
IVANDEL:    
(With a dancer’s poise, he straightens out the carpet before resuming his recital.)    
Imagine it. My father, the duke, ordered me to find my place.    
   
PAVEL:    
You don't say? Talking up the pussy cats didn't impress him much?    
   
(Pavel composes himself and throws his next dart.)    
   
IVANDEL:    
I do say that, yes.    
Indeed, he pressed me onward to find my shine.    
   
(He collects their darts as if they were jewels lost in time. The stage lights shift to a forest motif.)    
   
And so I descended into a thicket of mystery, a mystical pond I happened upon,    
which reflected therein not only myself, but all of existence.    
The exploded verse of the universe, you might call it.    
   
PAVEL:    
Of course. Because every respectable coming-of-age story involves a magic pool.    
   
IVANDEL:    
(With eyes wide in wonderment. The stage lighting brightens.)    
From that pool, I emerged reborn. A boy no more, nay, but a daffodil, splendid and bright.    
   
(His movements, elegant and deliberate, as if each is a petal opening to greet the morning sun.    
He plucks a flower from a vase and gentlemanly presents it to Pavel.)    
   
PAVEL:    
(Accepts the flower with a mocking smile.)    
A daffodil huh? You turned into a flower? A narcissus?    
   
(The lights shimmer mysteriously.)    
   
IVANDEL:    
Yes, and, even more curiously, the flower believed it was me.    
Each conscious of our own being, one of themselves, a prophet of their own.    
   
PAVEL:    
The flower...it dreamed it was you, and you, it?    
   
IVANDEL:    
Yes, each of us in hypnotic trance, tossing our heads in sprightly dance.    
   
PAVEL:    
Hmm. And the duke, he bought this act? Did he succumb to the aromatic deception?    
   
(V fills his goblet with wine, partakes with a grimace that speaks of bitter vintage.    
The lights return to normal.)    
   
IVANDEL:    
He dismissed me utterly. 'You are no progeny of mine,' he decreed,    
'neither a feline whisperer nor a tender shoot. You are but a sprat, a brat,    
and of no more use to this house than is the doormat!'    
   
(Pavel arches an eyebrow.)    
   
PAVEL:    
He thought you were a small, herring-like fish?    
   
IVANDEL:    
Not a sprat like that.    
   
(Ivandel quickly sits at the typewriter    
      -but just as quickly gets back up.)    
   
I turned to him and said, 'Papa Daddy Duke,' I says,    
 'O Patriarch of mine flesh and blood, a vision is but captive    
to the angle, and by the context from which it dangles.'    
     
'For instance, this domain rests in your hands,    
   this is factual, and yet,    
      by my mind's dominion...    
         (He points to his head.)    
         ...the cosmos itself    
         is dearly mine to define.    
   It is vantage point which a difference makes.'    
   
(Pavel ponders silently, V continues.)    
   
...Yes, he, too, was stumped.    
   
Like a candle consumed by flame, time swiftly erodes.    
The lacquer tree serves well until it's cut down.    
People often value being useful for the benefits it brings;    
yet, don't you suppose, that they overlook the beauty in being useless    
—which sometimes has a deeper meaning that they cannot conceive.    
   
(Pavel shakes his head, chuckling. V throws a dart.)    
   
PAVEL:    
You bring a unique outlook. I'll give you that.    
   
(Silence. They play for a beat. Pavel turns to Ivandel.)    
   
PAVEL:    
What do you mean, the cosmos is yours to define?    
Do you have some kind of god complex or something?    
   
IVANDEL:    
Life is a paradox – intricate yet elegantly straightforward. Like a net adorned    
with sparkling gems, it ensnares us with concerns, yet every decision we make    
weaves the fabric of our reality all the more.    
   
(Pavel considers. Nods thoughtfully.)    
   
PAVEL:    
So, it's as if we use ideas like courage, sadness, and so on to paint our universe?    
   
IVANDEL:    
Yes! As George Eliot said, "The strongest principle of growth lies in human choice."    
   
(Pavel grunts, unconvinced.)    
   
PAVEL:    
Did your quote unquote 'logic' convince the duke?    
   
IVANDEL:    
(With an air of melancholy.)    
He marked me as nothing more than an idler –    
a wastrel, languid and aimless.    
   
(V readies his next shot. Pavel wanders the room, taking in the ambiance.    
A large curtained window and walls of dirty cream, save for one adorned    
with lavish Edwardian wallpaper featuring peacocks, songbirds, butterflies.    
Against the walls, bookshelves filled to bursting with books and knick-knacks.    
One shelf is home to an odd shrine.)    
   
PAVEL:    
So, you spun your wheels again, huh? Thought you'd win over the old man,    
become his prized little dukeling?    
   
IVANDEL:    
(With a flick of his wrist, he sends a dart soaring, a similar flicker of sadness in his eyes.)    
They shipped me off to some big-shot sage, to learn how to play the noble.    
   
PAVEL:    
And from this instruction, what insights did you pick up?    
   
IVANDEL:    
To him I did not go. The fenlands drew me in instead,    
where the locals taught me their mystical ways. I mastered    
the language of the swamp, The amphibian tongue, the serpentine syntax.    
   
PAVEL:    
Wait, you're saying you learned... to talk to frogs and toads? And serpents, too?    
   
IVANDEL:    
Serpent wisdom is powerful, my young friend.    
   
PAVEL:    
Don't snakes mostly just eat and lounge around in the sun? That's not exactly impressive.    
   
IVANDEL:    
It is a very great wisdom, do not be in doubt. The symbolic resonance of the serpent delves far beyond    
mere sloth, temptation, or wickedness; It is the coiled Kundalini keeper of the caduceus.    
   
PAVEL:    
Run that by me again?    
   
IVANDEL:    
   (Continuing.)    
It crowns pharaohs. Vasuki, the serpent, was...    
   
PAVEL:    
(Cutting in.)    
Yes...yes...alrigh-    
   
IVANDEL:    
      (Continuing.)    
...a creature of paradox: creation and mortality, the profane and the sacred. The Ouroboros.    
   
PAVEL:    
Uh huh.    
   
IVANDEL:    
Who are you to doubt the methods of such a luminous being?      
   
PAVEL:    
(Calmly.)    
Did the snake whisper all that into your ear?    
I swear, Van, conversing with all these critters.    
               (He chuckles and shakes his head.)    
         Such a Dolittle you are.    
   
         (Pavel lines up his shot, darts in hand.)    
   
IVANDEL:    
Which is what the Duke said, nearly exact. His rake of a son, doer-of-little-and-none.    
   
PAVEL:    
(The sarcasm in his voice is palpable as he smoothly lofts his dart across the room.    
Instead of watching its flight, his focus remains locked on Ivandel, an amused smirk playing on his lips.)    
And you figured that...talking to frogs would change his opinion?    
   
IVANDEL:    
(Shrugs sheepishly.)    
It seemed a fine idea at the time.    
   
   (He bows his head in a momentary display of sorrow.)    
   
PAVEL:    
Well, I suppose it's worked for some fairy-tale princes.    
   
IVANDEL:    
This isn't a fairy tale, Pasha. This is real life.    
   
PAVEL:    
I have my doubts.    
   
(Ivandel's gaze hardens, his shoulders squared.)    
   
IVANDEL:    
True and truth, I was cast out, with nothing but my wits, a pillow of grass,    
the moon in a dewdrop, and not a solitary jingle in the pocket of my pants.    
   
(His voice trails off, a hint of longing in the adhering silence.    
Pavel breaks the stillness, his tone light but with an undercurrent of curiosity.)    
   
PAVEL:    
And then what? Did you find solace?    
   
IVANDEL:    
(He adopts a more theatrical demeanor, painting the scene in a gouache of words.)    
Rendered nearly an orphan, I was, solitary and unshackled,    
through the nights and through the days I vanished. Down the labyrinthine ways, oh,      
and under running laughter. Amid the objects of the world I skirted, a Honeychurch,    
a Dublin Jack, a runaway, I skittered, I sputtered in the lurch; the cobblestones    
became my home, until at length...    
   
                   (Ivandel pauses to launch his dart.)    
   
PAVEL:    
         (Tilting his head into a question mark.)    
   Until... what?    
   
IVANDEL:    
Until my uncle, in a stroke of mercy, offered me sanctuary among his canines.    
   
PAVEL:    
Your uncle? That one? The one passed out on the couch?    
   
   (He indicates with a thumb towards the slumbering figure on the divan.)    
       
      He just let you bunk with the dogs, did he?    
   
               (Pavel tosses his dart.)    
   
IVANDEL:    
(Leaning in, his voice hushed to a conspiratorial tone.)    
The very one sprawled on yonder settee indeed.    
YAKIV SVYSTOSLAV, a man of few words but great compassion.    
He'd often say 'Hardships loom, youngster, and to survive in this world, one must have the dog in them.'    
So I, undeterred, broke bread with the beasts, and harbor no ignominy for the deed.    
For dogs, it is known, are amongst the highest, and I will brook no debate on this matter.    
   
(Vanyasa hurls his dart with a feckless flourish. Pavel has since turned his attention to a table cluttered    
with an eclectic assortment of items—a Maneki-neko, a mug repurposed for pens and knives,    
an antiquated typewriter, empty whiskey decanters and wine bottles stand sentinel beside an alembic.    
A sizable bone repurposed as a paperweight. A cornucopia of fruits offers a vibrant contrast to a vase    
of wilting blooms. And amidst these, other sundry artifacts.)    
   
PAVEL:    
(With a disbelieving smirk.)    
Ah yes, quite right. It figures.    
   
(A distant train rumbles by, its passage sending tremors through the apartment.    
They pause, allowing the clamor to subside, before resuming their conversation.)    
   
IVANDEL:    
(His voice swelling with passion, he paces.)    
I matured, to some degree, and once again embarked into the world,    
an unknown sentry, to rove alone, aye, to scratch and scrape a road of my own.    
A cicerone, also, you could say, a vanguard, a pioneer, a dark priest.    
   
PAVEL:    
You claim to be a priest now too? What shall we expect next,    
the vanquishing of mythical beasts? Oh, I know, maybe you    
took down Grendel and his mother? You've extracted Excalibur and, after lunch,    
conquered the fair Lady Guinevere amidst a grove of fern and birch?    
   
IVANDEL:    
(With a deadpan demeanor, he leans on an invisible sword.)    
The lot of them, frontwise and back.    
   
PAVEL:    
Preposterous.    
   
IVANDEL:    
(Dramatically, overcome suddenly by the muse.)    
      Hark!    
Through sacred courts of yore we stride,    
Where knights and honor, not simply tales, abide.    
In life's vast maze, 'tis true, we oft contrive,    
A round assembly of our own devise, where thoughts thrive,    
To feel the regal burden, a monarch’s crown derive.    
   
Like Arthur, he, who from stone did sword entreat,    
I've drawn not blade from hardship's seat,    
But the share of plow from adversity's heat,    
For each man's fate, his very own Camelot had, complete,    
Forging not dominion, but a yield of spirit's wheat,    
Fields golden, innit, a bounty of resilience, life's trials to defeat.    
   
PAVEL:    
(Shakes his head.)    
You sound like a kid, making up wild stories.    
   
IVANDEL:    
Verily I say unto you, lest ye become as little children,    
you shall not enter the Kingdom of Heaven.    
   
PAVEL:    
Are you, a shameless libertine, quoting Bible scripture at me, the son of a preacher?    
          (Waving his hand dismissively.)    
Be as little children? Airy-fairy talk, Vanyasa. Do not be so naive.    
   
IVANDEL:    
To have a kind of childlike faith means having a pure heart,    
an openness to fresh experience, and a willingness to believe.    
   
(V tosses his dart.)    
   
PAVEL:    
This world’s about ambition and standing tough.    
You gotta play it cool and unyielding. Be strategic and calculating.    
You know, like, have a real poker face.    
   
(Pavel tosses his dart.)    
   
IVANDEL:    
(Chuckles.)    
Ha, you know the funny thing about poker, Pasha? Everyone and their dog    
thinks they know how to play it. I should know, having lately been both person and dog.    
   
But there's a difference. Dogs chase their tails, and naïve people just accept things    
without really thinking, each making wild assumptions. But rarely do they know for certain,    
and rarely do they ask the right questions. Yet they just push on, wrong-headed in every direction,    
nipping at their own back-end, and making ever-greater asses of themselves.    
   
PAVEL:    
   (Confused.)    
Are you talking about people or dogs now?    
   
IVANDEL:    
(Continuing unabashed.)    
Consider hardness and softness. Does the mountain control the wind, or does the wind    
gradually wear down the mountain? Gentle and moveable triumphs over rigidity.    
What's the value of hardness in a world of constant change? Embrace the flow and...    
   
      (V tosses his dart.)    
   
PAVEL:    
And?    
   
IVANDEL:    
(Casually.)    
And just let go.    
   
PAVEL:    
Come off it, we’re too old for make-believe. Life’s a strict boss; it needs you to stay sharp    
and serious! Not...(he sputters for a second.)...not full of hot air!    
   
IVANDEL:    
(Dismissively.)    
Bah, life isn't nearly so serious as people think it is.    
   
PAVEL:    
(Growing more irritated.)    
Give it to me straight for once.    
   
(Pavel throws, in his irritation his shot sins off course.)    
   
IVANDEL:    
(Stopping his theatrics and looking directly at Pavel for a long, tense 22 seconds exactly.)    
Straight, you say? My dear boy, life is never so.    
   
(Returning to the theatrics, he launches into a poem made up on the spot.)    
   
In the waltz of days, the glory rests,    
Not in high crests bested, nor victories tight in grip,    
Not in the loud pride of possessions, nay, but in the soul's pure guise...    
   
PAVEL:    
Again with the rhymes.    
   
IVANDEL:    
      (Continuing.)    
            ...Aye, the true wisdom of the wise-    
            To be a thing that lived a moment    
               in the splendor of the sun,    
            Oh, and to have danced as you could    
               to the music that there was.    
   
PAVEL:    
(Skeptical.)    
And what happens when the music stops, Van?    
When life's harsh notes burst in, what then?    
   
IVANDEL:    
Ah, but the music never truly stops, Pasha. It changes its tune, shifts its rhythm.    
 Life's harsh notes are merely a counterpoint, an essential part of the symphony.    
You must learn to dance to every note, whether it's sweet or sour. To ebb and flow with-    
   
PAVEL:    
(Scoffing, he cuts V off.)    
Any other legends, or animals, or minerals, or vegetables you care to claim as kindred?    
   
IVANDEL:    
(Erect in stance, he hurls his dart.)    
Most assuredly.    
The noble    
aubergine.    
   
PAVEL:    
(With a perplexed chuckle.)    
The eggplant, really?    
But...why on Earth?    
   
IVANDEL:    
(With utmost gravity.)    
Think hard at it for a moment.    
It'll come to you.    
   
PAVEL:    
(He muses...then his face scrunches in a grimace.)    
    Ugh.    
   
IVANDEL:    
"Like a young Phil Larkin," they said, "with the faint hint of the absurd. "    
   
PAVEL:    
How about we get back to the land of reality?    
All I ever see you do is behave like a weirdo, drinking, and quarreling,    
and scribbling in notebooks. Doing queer dances in the street sometimes.    
No one in town knows quite how you get by. What is it you do again?    
   
IVANDEL:    
(With a sweeping curtsy to Pavel.)    
Poet-errant, at your service.    
   
PAVEL:    
(Strangely unimpressed.)    
Of course, yes. Is that a career? Is it even a thing?    
   
IVANDEL:    
(Serene, almost philosophical.)    
Tat tvam asi. Thus we be; I is it and it is me.    
   
PAVEL:    
   (He puts down the darts, finished with the game,    
      and massages his temples in frustration.)    
Uh-huh. That tells me less than nothing.    
In fact, I am more muddled than before.    
You always do seem to have this effect on me.    
   
IVANDEL:    
(With a gentle smile, setting his own darts down.)    
One’s bewilderment shan’t tarnish the merit in the slightest.    
But- are you done with the game? We're tied 3 to 3. A deuce. (Slight pout.)    
   
PAVEL:    
What do you mean by that?    
   
IVANDEL:    
(Slowly, so that his friend can understand.)    
It means that the...game is even-steven...like all-square...dead-locked...homologous...    
   
PAVEL:    
No, the other thing.    
      (In a rudely pretentious voice.)    
   'One’s bewilderment shan’t tarnish the merit in the slightest.'    
   
IVANDEL:    
Pal, yourself being confused does not a thing discredit.    
But as I was narrating, so did I wander forlorn and threadbare    
in the midnight garden of that Bomarzo of maddened stone.    
Please do try to keep up. (He spreads his arms, as if unveiling an invisible garden.)    
O misery! Ah valiance! Through those rose-gardens of creation, wayward spurned,    
an outcast where-ever I tread and roam- a vagabond of love alone.    
   
PAVEL:    
(He has moved over to investigate one of the cluttered bookshelves,    
pulling out a book and absently thumbing through.)    
         You sure enjoy the sound of your own voice, don't you?    
   
IVANDEL:    
Conceived in the great cosmic laboratory, in that majestic atelier of souls.    
Here stands a patchwork Prometheus in cosmosis, snatching at fire from the fount.    
A modern model Frankenstein, some might even claim, stitched by the lightning divine.    
   
PAVEL:    
(Returning the book to the shelf.)    
Pompous sounding, Vanyasa, buddy. I fear that you have your head so full of fictions and poesies    
that you've hardly room for anything else. Honestly, I do not even know where to start with you.    
   
(V's reply is abruptly interrupted as Yakiv, like a towering specter, silently moves    
toward the bathroom amidst their intense discussion. Both halt and watch him leave.)    
   
PAVEL:      
(To Ivandel.)    
You've got some nerve, making those claims with a straight face.    
Keep talking, Van. Fill your mouthwith your words and spew them out;
maybe one day, they'll start making sense.    
   
IVANDEL:    
(Casually sipping from the wine bottle.)    
It might cohere, or perhaps cohere not.    
   
PAVEL:    
You sound insane. A real nutcase. No one talks like that.    
   
IVANDEL:    
Madness, ha. What folly, in man or beast, in a world as absurd as ours?    
Do you really believe that being well-adjusted to such madness is a sign of good mental health?    
You have your brain on inside-out if you think that.    
   
(A knock sounds at the door, but it goes ignored for the sake of the tale.)    
   
A sacred spark hides within your self-doubt and fear.    
You change who you are for a hint of validation,    
working tirelessly for fleeting joy.    
   
But true treasure isn't a destination; it's a journey, a dance with the universe,    
a winding path through the inner woods.    
   
PAVEL:    
The inner woods? The forest of the self?    
 
(The forest motif returns)  
   
IVANDEL:    
(Sagely.)    
Is true freedom merely fleeing from life's tempests? No, it's in honing awareness, discipline,    
and compassion. Look into your own heart; don't your reactions reveal the essence of your being?    
The journey within may seem like traversing the valley of doubt, yet with each step we kindle    
a guiding beacon.    
   
PAVEL:    
(Sarcastically.) Oh, thank you, Master Yoda.    
   
IVANDEL:    
In time, shadows will recede, revealing nature's brilliance. Like a seed cracking open...    
   
PAVEL:    
(Raising an eyebrow.) Save it, Van. I'll stick to what I can see and touch—not some far-fetched spiel about inner magic.    
   
IVANDEL:  
You don't believe in the power of inner magic? Well, that makes you rather paradoxical.  
 
PAVEL:  
Paradoxical?! Paradoxical as in...?  
 
IVANDEL:  
As in...Daedalean.  
 
PAVEL:  
Thanks for clearing that up.  
 
IVANDEL  
I understand very well that we live in a world craving quick results, easy money, easy answers.  
But I believe true satisfaction lies not just in our actions but also...  
   
(He's interrupted by another knock at the door.)    
   
PAVEL:    
I get it—you're selling hidden power or significance. But I can't afford blind faith.    
   
IVANDEL:    
(He uses a dart to 'fence' around the room, a Zorro of his own mind.)    
   
Do you know Lord Byron defied convention by keeping a bear at Cambridge because 'dogs were not permitted'?    
   
(He lets himself chuckle softly.)    
   
Now there was a fellow who understood that ridiculous rules sometimes call for ridiculous response.    
   
PAVEL:    
Sounds unhinged.    
   
IVANDEL:    
(Turning dramatically to the audience.)    
Don't listen to dull convention's voice.    
Wild ideas could hold genius's key. When the world goes mad,    
embracing absurdity might reveal the soul's logic.    
   
(Another knock. He pauses, then continues.)    
   
In the embrace of the absurd and unconventional, we may find    
the spark that ignites the mind and brings our boldest visions to life.    
   
      (He sets down the dart, strolls nonchalantly towards the door.)    
   
PAVEL:    
Laying it on with a trowel this morning, are you?    
Do you expect me to buy this blockhouse of bullocks you're selling?    
   
(Another knock. V opens the door. There stands an olive-skinned youth of some 23 years,    
pretty in an androgyne way. They hold a parasol, bright and eye-catching.    
Their dress is colorfully bohemian, old-fashioned. V opens the door wide,    
allowing a spotlight to briefly capture ILIYA AMADOR in a dramatic silhouette.    
A whimsical musical motif plays. The room pulses with vitality.)    
   
IVANDEL:    
(Cheerful.)    
Ah, Iliya Amador, as unpredictable as the wind. Come, whirl into our home and make it your own!    
   
ILIYA AMADOR called sometimes LILA:    
(With exaggerated disappointment.)    
Vanny, darling, I thought you'd left me to wither away till noon!    
(They close the parasol, kiss Ivandel's cheek.)    
   
PAVEL:    
(Clearing his throat, his annoyance thinly veiled.)    
Iliya. Good morning to you.    
   
ILIYA:    
Pavel Palaver, still trying to iron out the wrinkles of the world    
with that furrowed brow of yours? (They lean in to examine the wilting flowers.)    
Did you wilt these poor pretty flowers with your usual melancholia?    
It's catching, I hear. Near everyone is glum in the face these days and sour.    
All quite blue. Blue blue blue and full of gloom. Everywhere blue. Drawn and droopy    
as these petals are, and blue as the sad side of the moon!    
With so many delights and distractions around us nowadays, well,    
you'd think we'd be chirpier! (A pout) But nope — things aren't sunny at all!    
   
PAVEL:    
The world is a serious place, Iliya. Not all of us are lucky enough    
to be born...as well off as yourself.    
   
ILIYA:    
(Ignores Pavel to hand V a large pine-cone.)    
Oh Vanny, someone left that pine-cone on your doorstep.    
(Shrugs) Don't ask me why. I didn't have a thing to do with it.    
   
(V takes the pine-cone and looks it over, confused as anyone.)    
   
PAVEL:    
Maybe it was the squirrels seeking an audience with the town dryad.    
   
ILIYA:    
(A bemused look passes Iliya's face before attention turns to Pavel.)    
Say, still clerking away at that dead letter office, Pasha?    
Matti and I popped in recently, and we caught a glimpse of you,    
buried in letters, before you vanished into the back like a ghost.    
(The tone remains airy, yet a sharp, inquisitive glance betrays their true interest.)    
   
(Pavel, teeth clenched, gears up for a sharp comeback,    
but before a word can escape him, Van cuts in.)    
   
IVANDEL:    
Now, now, let's not pour vinegar in the proverbial punchbowl, friends.    
Lila, I will have you know that comrade Palaver and myself    
were caught up in a most rousing discussion. He is very into birds,    
as it turns out, as you are, no?    
   
PAVEL:    
(To V.)    
I'm into birds? Is that what you got from that conversation? And it was    
the one of us not named 'Pavel' who was doing most of the talking, as usual.    
   
(V strolls over and takes a wine bottle from the table.)    
   
ILIYA:    
(Grabbing Pavel's arm excitedly.)    
Oh? We should go birding in the park sometime! We could make an afternoon of it!    
That would be most delightful, don't you think so?    
   
PAVEL:    
(Reluctant to agree, he pulls away from Iliya.)    
I don't know, Iliya, I...I do not have a lot of...free time, what with work and art school.    
   
(Turning his attention to Van.)    
Speaking of. Vanyasa, can you tell me why you invited me here? Surely it wasn't just to play darts.    
   
IVANDEL:    
(Drinking straight from the bottle.)    
Here where, do you mean? In the recesses?    
(He offers the bottle to Pavel.)    
   
PAVEL:    
(Waves off the wine.)    
In the...the recesses? You've lost me.    
   
(In the background, Iliya studies The Tree of Life, Stoclet Frieze, 1905    
by Gustav Klimt, which hangs on the wall. Turning around, nearly colliding with    
Uncle Yakiv who is staggering zombie-like back to the sofa.)    
   
ILIYA:    
(Gives a small startled yelp but quickly recovers.)    
Oh...Yakiv, good morning to you, sir.    
   
(Yakiv gives a grunt and a half-hearted wave and returns to his nap.)    
   
IVANDEL:    
(Taking another drink.)    
In the recesses, Pasha, where we embark a pilgrimage upon,    
to the very core of who we are, pal, to discover true, and carry the thread through.    
   
PAVEL:    
(Raising a curious eyebrow to Ivandel.)    
Discover true? What are you on about?    
   
(A woman's voice calls from offstage in a Nigerian accent.)    
   
ESERE:    
   Iliya? Is that you out there?    
   
ILIYA:    
(Calling back to Esere.)    
Esere, it is me! Where are you, darling?!    
   
ESERE:    
(Calling from a back room.)    
I am doing my hair! Be a dear, will you, and come help. We can catch up!    
   
ILIYA:    
(To Esere.) Gladly, I will!    
(With a flirty little curtsy and smile to V and Pavel.)    
I will be back in two shakes, boys.    
(Iliya hustles off stage to assist Esere.)    
   
PAVEL:    
(To Iliya.) Of course, take your time.    
(To Ivandel.) What did you mean, discover true?    
   
IVANDEL:    
(V has been staring into the TV for a moment, watching Orphée.)    
         Who to be, Pasha? Who to be, and how, and why to be?    
A soldier, should I? No. Doesn't much suit. Too grim. A baker? A chewy option.    
   
   (He runs a right dirty left hand through his hair, tangled in thought.)    
   
Carpentry or candle making? Might I wax philosophical?    
      Cogito, ergo sum, eh Pasha, or no?    
Maybe glue-making in Oregon or mining in Copiapó?    
A retail position in the suburbs? (Quickly waves that idea off.)    
Nay, not a chance, what with people being as they are.    
Maybe I should be a simple clod, desiring only that which clods desire?    
   
PAVEL:    
Reconsidering poet-errantry as a career, are you?    
Maybe Papa, the Duke, was right...something more...responsible?    
   
IVANDEL:    
(Contemplative pacing.)    
A politician? No. Nothing so repugnant.    
Accountant? Nay, numbers do confound me.    
A copper? Not bloody likely. A laundress? Eh, honest work at least.    
An angler of marlins or bass? Very Hemingway, that.    
   
PAVEL:    
You could join the Navy. I'm sure they would love you.    
Rum, buggery, and the lash, as they say. It is right up your alley, Van.    
   
IVANDEL:    
(Considers.)    
Tempting, aye. But I'm not overfond of boats; and they would    
   likely dismiss me for being of indifferent character.    
So no, not that, as fun as it sounds.    
   
PAVEL:    
(With mock excitement.)    
Have you checked behind the wardrobe? There might be adventure back there.    
   
IVANDEL:    
(Suspicious.)    
   Are you lyin'?    
   
PAVEL:    
(Matter-of-factly.)    
No, you can be the lion. In fact, I suspect you are often a'lyin'.    
   
IVANDEL:    
(Indignant.)    
I would never. Nay, never.    
Perfect honesty is my cross to bear.    
   
PAVEL:    
Bear? I thought you wanted to be the lion? Besides,    
you are too small to be a bear, and lacking overall in body hair.    
And I don't think you could get into Cambridge either,    
with or without Byron at your side.    
   
IVANDEL:    
How about...a cultivator of exotic plants, maybe?    
I do love a good bit of nature.    
   
   (V produces a rolled up joint, lights and puffs on it.)    
   
         Or follow in other great footsteps, should I? As if Burroughs, Pushkin?    
         Ben Franklin, Berryman, or a Brontë? Jean Valjean? Jean Genet?    
         A thief in the night, a dog on the run?    
         Or a dancer of the ballet might better fit? I wear tights well, if I do say.    
   
PAVEL:    
Is it so easy to follow the greats? Maybe instead of talking to animals,    
you should try talking to a career counselor?    
   
IVANDEL:    
A wrestler, maybe? I could still wear tights.    
   
PAVEL:    
Sounds to me like a bunch of malarkey, alright.    
A Marquess of malarkey, you.    
   
If you want to wear tights so badly, why not go all the way with your absurd story.    
You could be a superhero, leaping from tall buildings and all that. Something like...    
   
            (Pavel thinks and then suggests mockingly.)    
   
         Plastic-Van? Bat-Van?    
            How about Spider-Van? Van Van the Astro-man?    
   
IVANDEL:    
(Seriously considers this for a moment as he gracefully picks an apple from the table.)    
   
   That does have a nice ring...    
       
         (V strikes a brief superhero pose.)    
   
But, no, I prefer to channel my astro-energy in different ways.    
Perhaps as Balzac, that swinging chap? Hmm...or Monet or Baudelaire?    
A chevalier? A courier in Big Sir? A raconteur with Elvis hair?    
Should I draw manga on the veranda and sip lemon water Perrier?    
Or wear a mail pouch in Atlanta? A mind-shrink in Havana?    
A cockroach under the couch as did Kafka? Spy or old maid?    
Dodge Nazis in Casablanca? Or as a footballer in Columbia or Spain?    
   
PAVEL:    
You needn't go all the way to Morocco; there are fascists aplenty in our own back yard.    
And you're an adequate footballer, but I don't know about going pro...    
   
IVANDEL:    
A fine point, alas. Hmm...a tracker in the everglades instead?    
As kingfishers catch fire, aye, or as dragonflies draw flame?    
   
(V casually tosses an apple towards Pasha, who is not paying proper attention.)    
   
PAVEL:    
(Catches the apple, narrowly avoiding an ungracious meeting with his face.)    
I lack an appetite.    
   
And ambitious, I would say, most of those are.    
Perhaps something more...modest? A quieter approach?    
   
(He tosses the apple back to V, who catches and pockets it.)    
   
IVANDEL:    
Quieter? Should I diminish my voice to a hush, a fox, a mere whisper    
in the underbrush? (Ponders.) Maybe then I should be as Li Tieguai,    
shrouded in myth, the immortal in disguise?    
   
PAVEL:    
Immortal? Getting ahead of yourself, no? Are we not all bound by the mortal coil?    
Some of us have our heads in the clouds, maybe.    
         (Looks at Ivandel.)    
But it's a bit premature to claim likeness with eternal deities of lore, no?    
   
IVANDEL:    
(Pacing faster and more intently.)    
Indeed, Li Tieguai, transcending time, left his body to decay,    
a silent testament that more is futile. In sorrow profound,    
his disciple replaced the lifeless husk with one disdained, a beggar lame,    
crippled but true, bound to earth with staff of bamboo. Yet Li, ever the sage,    
accepted this vessel flawed, and veiled his brilliance beneath a shawl    
to wander among us and search for truth,    
among the common, the simple, the unproved, and the untoward.    
   
PAVEL:    
Ah, and which one of those am I?    
   
(V wanders over to a shelf and lights some incense.)    
   
IVANDEL:    
It is unwise to ask questions one doesn't actually want the answer to, Pasha.    
   
(Pavel frowns but says nothing.)    
   
IVANDEL:    
Like Li Tieguai, I'll wander, a pilgrim of the spirit, touching souls,    
healing wounds, kindling an enduring love. For within    
his tale lies secrets unveiled: The broken can sparkle; life’s rhythm prevails.    
   
PAVEL:    
(Checking his watch.)    
Sure, do that, why not?    
   
IVANDEL:    
As Li Tieguai, it is decided.      
   
   (His contemplative pacing intensifies.)    
       
-Or might I assume the role of Edmond Dantès under guise, plotting my return and rise?    
   
PAVEL:    
Changing your mind already?    
   
IVANDEL:    
The options are many. (He gives a little yelp of frustration.)    
A veritable tyranny of choice and uncertainty!    
      Perhaps I might emulate the lively Lazarillo de Tormes?    
   
PAVEL:    
Lazarillo de Tormes? Is he some...local proprietor, or something?    
   
IVANDEL:    
(Taking another drink of wine.)    
A sly trickster indeed, was Lazarillo, whose exploits near Salamanca delivered truths    
in guileful fashion, with ear pressed now and then to a massive bull's ribcage to hear great    
reverberations within. Much like the yarns I spin for you, whether full of bull-air or not.    
   
(The train roars by again, rattling the room and halting the conversation.)    
   
PAVEL:    
You were saying something about...bull air, was it?    
   
IVANDEL:    
It is possible, consider please; it is possible...probable even,    
that no such parts are ours to play this day, what with resources    
as meager as support for the arts.    
   
Instead, maybe I am as Anansi, the trickster-hero    
or cunning villain who once sought to steal    
all the wisdom in the world, but spilled it-    
and asked, or likely asked, of themselves    
the question most pertinent to our story, which is this:    
   
(The lights dim to a single spotlight on V as he dramatically pronounces his question de grande importance.)    
   
               What O what    
   
   
                  would you do    
   
   
           if you could dream      
   
   
                   any dream    
   
                     that you wanted to?    
   
   
(The lights cut immediately to black...)    
   
   
   
END SCENE 1