Monologues from the Heart

Inaction

2011-12-28T16:11:00.000-08:00

The director yelled, “Inaction!” The actors on stage yelled, “We’re busy.” The lighting guy proceeded to adjust the lighting to an amber glow designed for souls of certain hues and then to silhouette which works for basically everybody. The sound guy adjusted the volume to ten decibels above the recommended human hearing range and people covered their ears. The speakers throbbed and some people lost their hearing. After a sudden silence, the director again yelled, “Inaction!” An opera singer vocalized her outrage and shattered glass. The red velvet curtain closed and the director said, “My work is ruined.” Press photographers beelined to the director who climbed his way to downstage center from his seat in the orchestra. With the microphones surrounding him and the cameras flashing, the director mustered up the courage to say, “Was it something I said?”

Saved

2011-12-26T11:48:00.000-08:00

Building this house brick by brick, I glue words together cemented in context. Inhabiting this space designed with living stones, I search each corner for clues as to where I can find you. You are hidden from me and have been since the birth of time. Separation from you is painful, but no man can see you and live. I choose life among desert sands. Every rise and fall of the earth encountered through Google Maps is an invitation for exploration, a world revealing itself through every excavation that your word is true. Every breath in me is elevated and repeated. My wandering heart is held fast in your hands. The fall has been repeated. Pole vaulting mountains, I land victorious on my feet in each valley running to my next Olympic event. I look outside at the cut grass, at the mailbox, at the street paved and I know I have been saved.

I want to do something big.

2011-12-05T18:45:00.000-08:00

I want to do something – something big. I want to stand on top of a mountain. I want to drive on a highway in reverse. I want to wink at a cute guy when I grow up, when I’m old enough to wink. I want to make people laugh assiduously. I want to dance until dawn. I want to escape death just once. I want to live long enough to say my goodbyes. I want to vote in a fair election. I want to put my name on the ballot. I want to trust what I read. I want to remove the spinach stuck between my two front teeth with a toothpick made of recycled material. I want to drink tea made of panda feces. I want to resurrect the dead. These all sound like good ideas, but I should what? Remove the plank from my own eye before I comment on your collection of splinters. OK, I guess.

The river

2011-11-29T14:45:00.000-08:00

You can never touch the same place twice. Sometimes it's cold. I am a naked body of water that flows into and out of, that swirls, that rushes, that interrupts. Next to me, people convene. They tell stories. They sit in silence. They cross over. I am transparent in the light of day, but felt most powerfully in the light of night...when they wade toward the freedom promised on the other side. I am born out of the conviction that dry land musters up little courage but issues rivers of blood. I am clean. I reflect your image. You swear by the highest power that you are made in His image. I say that you are dust and I wash your words, let them hang to dry as if on a clothesline. The bridge between your hearts casts a shadow I can not erase. I am happier now that you reached within me to pull out this story. But you can never touch the same place twice. You can never laugh the same way twice.

Film is a language

2011-07-07T12:10:00.000-07:00

Film is a language. You can communicate almost anything in this language. How awesome fire and water are. Whether someone is guilty of a crime. I wonder if there really are cameras everywhere. I tend to think society can only operate in a civilized fashion under sophisticated forms of surveillance. Maybe we even have tiny cameras inside our bodies checking out the internal flow. God may be like a camera. You know He’s there. You ignore him, but you act differently knowing He’s watching you, somehow remaining invisible. Sometimes I feel invisible, like I’m a camera watching, recording and noticing things, but I’m afraid to speak and I go undetected. Some people are happy in front of cameras. Generally they are considered tourists, but I live here on this planet and I feel it’s time to speak in this language of film even though the world is so darlingly digital. From now on, I will speak in film and if I have to I’ll use words. Thank you, Francis Assisi. You inspire me.

Dancing is like thinking out loud.

2011-07-02T18:16:00.000-07:00

Dancing is like thinking out loud. You are bound to connect things that otherwise would have been undiscovered. You are bound to offend somebody. Dance history is filled with these offenses: skin and sin. I am apologetic through my choreography. A good degree of shame goes along with vulnerability, and I wonder where I get my ideas of freedom. I cannot imagine writing in official dance notation. I cannot imagine copyrighting a choreographic work. My idea of dance is an image to sound as text. I just cannot take ownership of the text, because the text mirrors life and I have yet to thank the mirror for my good looks. Dance history is filled with people with good looks, who practice in front of the mirror that does not record any of their moves. The ideas they represent have a life of their own, so what is the purpose of dance? To teach us we do not need the mirror, as much as we need the text.

Why am I not at the negotiating table?

2011-07-02T14:42:00.000-07:00

Why am I not at the negotiating table? I’d like reform. You want me to conform. I’d like social acceptance 101. You want special topics in tolerance 646. I cannot move. I am chained to my seat. The books in your library are filled with blank pages, some dog-eared. I know you haven’t read every item on your shelf. There’s nothing to read. Give me a subject. I will produce ten pages. OK, hundreds of pages discussing why I understand that subject better than any other life form on the planet. You want me to speak to the universal human experience. What’s universal changes over time. You are slightly amused. If I were in dialogue with someone else, I could show you what words belong side-by-side on the printed page. What is this talk of social class reproduction? I thought the purpose of college was to bring honor to your family, to show you’re a thinker. I am still a believer in the need for a purpose and a place for everybody. It is not just mapped out for you based on heredity. Yes, I failed Genetics. And when I think of jeans, I think of cotton. I was not born a slave. I became one and as soon as I figure out how to release myself from this temporary prison sentence, how to write on those books with blank pages of yours, how to read the white space…then I’ll be a librarian.

Speaking indirectly with you...

2011-07-02T14:39:00.000-07:00

Speaking indirectly with you drives me in circles. There is no point, no beginning, no end. You think you’re on some exclusive wavelength of truth. Infiniti is just a concept. Don’t talk to me about the eternal. Atheists don’t believe in eternity. Yes, atheists have beliefs. How dare you speak in parable form! That is reserved for Biblical figures, like Jesus. No, I do not worship icons. The next time I order a husband from the catalog of the universe I will specify that I want an open mind and a responsive heart. I do not want to entertain the idea – not even consider the idea – of engaging in a conversation with someone with a wicked laugh. It haunts me to think I noticed you first, to think I chose you, to think I believe we had a future together. You prefer orange juice to mango juice. That’s ironic. What kind of an African are you? The description said “African exposed to Western ideas, culture and music who is not wed to his career, who is open to travel, who does not use capitalization in e-mail, who speaks at least three languages and who loves to do the twist.” You misrepresent yourself. You are brilliant, sensitive, passionate, misguided, callous, and self-absorbed. You are a walking contradiction. Thank God there’s a word for it – contradiction. I love to dance. Yes, that’s the perfect idea. We should go dancing together. I’m open to the possibilities.

You are my quick step...

2011-07-02T14:36:00.000-07:00

You are my quick step and my slow motion. I want to run with you, jog with you, climb the highest heights and reach deep into the earth to excavate every truth known to man. Can I call you sometime? I would like to be your number one pal, your best friend forever, your trainer for life... You want to commit suicide. I can understand the feeling. When I first met you, I wanted to die in your arms. Am I a hopeless romantic? Possibly. I could never explain how much you mean to me, not in words. You are pulling up your sleeves and there is blood on your wrists. You have given this too much thought. You should shoot from the hip. No, I am not suggesting you buy a gun. I am not ashamed of having you in my life. You are not a distraction, you are the apple of my eye. We’re close. Everybody has scars, but I like to think of them as stories attached to our bodies that we don’t always know how to give voice to. When I speak, it’s like a flock of angels…? I do not have wings. I will not kill myself. You shouldn’t either. Death is a temporary solution. You’re right, I don’t know what I’m talking about. And the light at the end of the tunnel is not an oncoming train. It is the sun.

There aren’t respectable places to meet people anymore

2011-07-02T14:31:00.000-07:00

There aren’t respectable places to meet people anymore. Cafés are passé. Theaters are dark and who meets the love of their life at the movies? At church…I have my eyes closed, half the time, most often in prayer. I was once comfortable going to coffee houses, theaters, films and houses of worship alone, but leaving alone feels soulless. You should at least make a friend. Oh, my situation is dark – bleak, hopeless. Online? With all that traffic…how do you know the other person is being faithful and honest? Do you look into their eyes via Skype? I do not trust the Internet, Sam I am, not in a house, not with a mouse. Dating isn’t dating anymore. It is no longer living out an original text; it is reading commentary about an original text. There is no “us” to embody, everything is from a remote location. It is commentary about society, about the war, about our planet, but it is not dating. Maybe I should pursue courtship? Courtship is different than dating. OK? You have made your point: I am not interested in creating a future with someone. I am a prisoner of past mistakes. I am not invested enough. I am divesting from this institution called dating and investing in this institution called marriage. Not all marriages last? This is absurd. I am giving up on everything that does not live up to the ideal. Ideal first, then reality. I want to wake up next to somebody and cook breakfast together and pay a mortgage together and whisper words of forever. Are you that somebody?

Sleeping is not a form of death

2011-07-02T14:28:00.000-07:00

Sleeping is not a form of death. It is a form of meditation. I sleep. I dream. I wake up. I wander into reality a little less imbalanced, a little more on my bare feet. My medication helps me sleep. It helps me organize my thoughts. It’s like a housekeeper cleaning my room in a hotel. I fear she might take something important that belongs to me. So I hide everything of symbolic value: my race, my religion, my jewelry. I let her sweep and make the bed I lie in again and again. This is where I was raped. I fear the world did not liberate me, but the word did. Rape. I was raped and they took everything valuable: my country, my mind. Now I can’t sleep without this medication that allows me to replay the story of my life, like watching muted music videos on YouTube. I am as hollow as an empty plane and afraid I can’t move fast enough away from him, away from me.

I listened to a homeless man

2011-06-24T17:07:00.000-07:00

I listened to a homeless man, who looked like an actor, tell me he was a campaign strategist for former President Bill Clinton and that Barack Obama had hired him for the next election. I wished him well and refused to shake his hand. I refuse to get my hands dirty. I do not believe in the convention of shaking hands. If you are not up to hug status, then we better avoid all forms of physical contact, however innocent.

I used to bleed chocolate cordials, but now I am allergic to all types of chocolate and I am not as sweet. I am allergic to myself, but I know how to laugh at my image ironically. I deeply respect the man who attempted to shake my hand, but his profession is theater, not politics, and he has the natural gift of gab.

Politics is what happens when two or more people are gathered together who do not realize they have the same origin and probably the same destiny somewhere in the spirit world. Like an actor on a stage, the homeless man performed a rehearsed monologue. He waxed philosophical about Caesar’s assassination, Islamic etiquette, and Ethiopian women. Not in that order.

My face betrays itself. I am unhappy. I say I am happy. I look unhappy. I think I have missed my calling to become an actor, like millions of other displaced people. Our home is the stage, but the problem is, we are reading from the same script and there aren’t enough mansions for everybody. So we are refined, like gold through fire, and all God asks is that our hearts are pure and that our words reflect the truth.

I could have listened to that homeless man for days lecturing to me about his idealized self, his past, our future in this country. But I wouldn’t touch him, because I could not bear his suffering. I could only bear witness from a distance. Now I burn. And I do not know his name.

Sincerity...

2011-06-08T17:29:00.000-07:00

Sincerity has never been my strong suit. I know the power of words, but my words bend like the highway…too far, too fast and without control. I do not paint within the lines. Meklit visited me with her soul, her song, her black and white. The road led me to her heart. We have yet to visit Idan Raichel to ask his permission for a collaboration. Could I sing with you another day? I want to ask you more questions – to look into your eyes. But there are cameras and you’re not done speaking in your many languages. I couldn’t applaud you enough. You’re my Lady Day - the difference between night and day. I’ve seen you on so many stages and I know I’m not alone in recording your success. I heard your voice on the radio and introduced your name in a thousand conversations. The gates of heaven opened and you stood still saying not without my guitar. I have yet to study the harp or the part of you that you can’t teach others to emulate. There is no violence there in the being or disbelieving. Only a chair and palm trees. I’m still standing.

The camera can lie...

2011-06-08T17:28:00.000-07:00

The camera can lie and so can the eyes. Is that why you look away from me? I’ve read that picture of yours time and again. I am wide awake. Could you be any more…? The hours seem longer, the accomplishments less important. The residue of our civilization is a fascinating film of stardust and mercury rising. It’s not how many races you’ve won. It’s how far you go. It’s not how far you go. It’s how many races you’ve begun, how many rose petals you’ve plucked, the number of times you’ve shaved. The number of times you colored your hair, the number of people you’ve forgiven, and the way you shake isolated parts of your body. I got to know you that way – in a one life to live kind of scenario without the Shakespeare’s and the regret. When we reach those prophetic moments, it’s good to sit on the trunk of your car and stare directly at the sun. He has burnt my face and I never argue about taste.

The gap...

2011-06-08T17:23:00.000-07:00

The gap between your teeth is a sign of beauty. I am content seeing pictures of you. I know you suffered. The tension in your neck suggests that’s where you housed the pain. The law has changed and it is because you suffered and people were tired of seeing you suffer. Where are you now? I defend you more now that you’ve lost your voice. The battle is mine to continue. You cannot worship what you see. You cannot neglect the unseen. You give me purpose. Can I tell you how you stopped their laughter? How one sentence, “You are not an accident,” sounded like a choir of angels. I imagine you are in heaven where you’ll understand everything better. I don’t understand the separation between us, they don’t understand a mother’s love. I hope you’ll forgive us for killing each other, our friends, our enemies, ourselves. This situation was not part of the original design and that is why it is so difficult to accept. But, I’ll adjust. We’ll take up this cause and wake to the bathroom mirror for a moment of reflection after a little Windex wipes away the stains and I’ll see that my tears were not in vain.

I admire you

2011-06-08T17:20:00.000-07:00

I admire you. Your movies, too. Was it us sitting across a table discussing big ideas? I remember your friend. We all huddled over the papers you had produced white and black. Staring into each other’s eyes we could not predict the future. I want your movies to be a success. I want you to be a success. I look at your wife on your wedding day. Those pictures you shared online stay with me. Sing it. Born digital. You’re right on time. Somehow someone violated your copyright. It’s beyond an injustice. I’m as protective of your ideas as I am of my unborn child. I am a woman. I am your friend. Who said men and women can’t work together? I don’t know your dreams, but I know your heart and the way you reveal it shows me there is hope for cinema. The seventh art so young and fragile. I’d like to get a grip. So many dead art forms. What is a dead language? Who died and made you…? I question immortality and your laugh. Do you know something I don’t? Will I hear it again through your daughter, the one who will be fashioned after you? No, after you. Thank you for opening doors for me. I’m no longer reluctant to cross the threshold.

The Greek in me...

2011-06-08T17:17:00.000-07:00

The Greek in me says, He is risen. The soul leapt out of the body and laughed. I’ve never seen you dance, but I’m told you don’t follow the path of least resistance. You left footprints in the sand first walking, then running, then arms encircling me. I love you with an everlasting love and the seashells by the seashore capture my voice. Back to Nepal, it was a summer and the child I left behind hides a smile in a photograph I buried in a suitcase. I carry it with me. You have seen through me and you know my native tongue, so may I make a suggestion? The objects in this room will not stay in this room even if Vesuvius covered our bodies with ash. I am incomplete and your hands are all I know. The wind enters my body through the open window. Silk curtains are waving as Evita sings, Do not cry for me. Throw the baggage out. Defenestration leaves me with arms crossed and your face chasing pavement.

My voicebox

2011-06-08T17:14:00.000-07:00

My voicebox is filled with ribbons and hairclips of different colors. I sing in harmony with the roses. I’m tossed around in the ocean and spit out onto the sands. I’ve climbed trees, pierced leaves with my long nails and put that on my resume. I am a girl. Soon I’ll skateboard down your block. You will notice my brooch. It’s an image of a dancer from the Kennedy Center. I am a dancer. You caught me with my hair down. I’m an exact replica of the Mona Lisa with a wry smile to make you wait in line for days. Turn the page. The highs and lows have put hair on my chest, given me a calloused heart and taught me to wander the earth. I’d like a glass of water. Let’s keep this contained. I’m not nervous. I just don’t know how to sing. I don’t know how to look at you in this silence. Okay, I will breathe. It’s just an audition. (Sing Nina Simone’s New Dawn, New Day: Birds flying high you know how I feel)

I won't touch it

2011-06-08T17:11:00.000-07:00

I won’t touch it. I don’t need my medication. I’m as fine as...don’t compare me to who I was ten years ago. My candle is not yet out. I’m more creative and in control without the little pills. It doesn’t suit me – the diagnosis. I’m an artist. I’ll lose my voice. I’ll sleep all day. What’s the purpose of taking a tranquilizer? So I’ll blackout? I have better things to do than sit in silence. It’s like a dark knight sky without stars, constellations or the hint of a moon. I don’t want to be in outer darkness. There are certain roles I’ve been cast for and crazy is not one I accept. Could you rewrite the script? Maybe I could invite the distant strangers who flock to me like angels. Who let me sing without being dashed into the rocks. The blood looks fake to me. The blood I bleed looks fake to me. I’m not schizophrenic. These walls are man-made. And last I checked a mouth sewn shut can not speak poetry to life. Can I speak? Can I speak to someone else? I’d like a second opinion. I’d like the freedom to write the script myself or at least comment. Don’t close the door. Five seconds more and I would have looked for the first window. Oh, I’m in a hospital – a room without a bed, where I can walk in circles. Why would I shut my mouth? It keeps running, my mind keeps running, holding onto ribbons and the banner in the sky is red. There is no name on it. So I let go and watched myself from a distance. Signing papers I had not read. I knew I was in trouble.

Rising star

2011-06-08T17:08:00.000-07:00

Rising star, I see your dust on a dark, cloudless night. It is not good for man to be alone. The twinkle in my eye as I went inside, so much is pregnant with meaning. I’ve noticed Scripture in variations of blue with a song or two in my heart. I can dance with you if that is the way of souls, I can stand with you if that is the way of the mind. I’ve heard your laugh and I’ve studied eight and a half by elevens on top of tables in silence freely moving through my hands. The museum is a place of sacred meditation where I asked if you would take it home – the Pollock that was largely untouched. Canvas hands against the wall, holding onto the sound of it all – this is the city. We become and enter into being, parked outside of buildings we’d walk through if given the chance. That is the matrix. I took the red pill. It led me closer to you, friends on Facebook, no questions asked. Is there room for more? Always. Death is not the answer. Just resurrect the language of inclusion. The spirit is ticking like a clock we return to, a form of narcissism. You have to learn to crawl.

I should leave now

2011-06-08T17:05:00.000-07:00

I should leave now. I’ve given you heart, my eyes and you point to my soul. Can I still trust this soul? Or is the distance between us at once a mirror I wouldn’t touch and a plant I don’t care to remember. I hope love is still good enough to be the subject of conversation. Love is more than enough. The modern dance of food and insecurity, the obelisk in pieces returned to me – I have not reached that height. In fact, I’ve slumped my shoulders, curved my back and attacked you for having more than one pursuit. I pursue people. You are alone on camera, and I am not the only member of the audience. Yes, you have loved one another. She’s attached to your arm. Your heart is the mystery made plain and my eyes have seen the glory. The mind has moved beyond file folders and perceived new spaces as accessible. If I could picture myself in your life, if I could picture you by my side, maybe then I would be patient and kind. I don’t know if that’s true, but I feel I have something to sell you - an idea. Not myself. An idea, not my own. You’ve done things I’ve only hoped to do. And the idea is that hope is locked up. But my spirit is free to search the earth for the other, the mirror, the me – before I face reality.

I will sing...

2011-06-08T17:03:00.000-07:00

I will sing in my house. I am not a mouse. The word did not occur to me. I think you’re mistaken. That’s my milk and honey. He promised. Ring on my finger, I wear it out. He will be remembered, but it’s your picture that fascinates me. Somehow you spew blood, and he shed his. I will not follow your leader. I will ask him to step down before my next hair appointment. I trampled the serpent after I licked the dust and the camera recorded my reaction. The one who caused this is nowhere to be found. My voice is magnified with this microphone. It comes in handy. I hear you’re silent these days. The hunt has come to an end. I’m embracing my history, teardrops of disgust follow me in this night air. I have breath in me. Is that not enough?

I am the friend...

2011-06-08T17:00:00.000-07:00

I am the friend you called to explain that seeing the light is not an esoteric subject. That darkness and light are a dialectic. That there is a word for everything. And some words you can sing, the only Lyric I remember stopped me from stepping onto the rooftop. There are too many barriers between women and men, there aren’t enough. You always made an entrance. Has this ever happened in the history of theater? Where is the woman who burned up on stage after an encounter with the light, the heat? I couldn’t stop noticing your voice. It stands out in every memory. That you spoke to me and still speak to me is the good news. I saw you together and I wish I had spoken to you about relationships. I have no specialty, just a lily. Talking too much is a sin, so now I beg to be your audience. To know you are alive. We have read articles about you, not the ones we had hoped would be written, but the ones that identify the problem in our society. Death. You gave me hope. I’m learning to pray through icons. You taught me to read the spoken word, that it was spoken for me, for everyone to hear. I touched it and realized my love could last more than a lifetime.

We were the Iman and David Bowie of our time

2011-06-08T16:56:00.000-07:00

We were the Iman and David Bowie of our time. Only you spoke Spanish and I was busy with my pantomime. You watched me explain to the watchman joy did not always wait till morning. But how could I explain to you without words? You should have rolled down your window and exclaimed, “Fercheezy.” when I exploded, but that would have made you a gangsta and you knew better. Just drive by. Drive on by. Find your turf and splish splash on your stomping ground. You and Jesus walked on water. Water. Peter examined my condition and offered me a pill. I did not refuse his lips, but we left the wrong spirit between us. I wish you had planted flowers. I touched the edge and all I said was, “God.” I didn’t realize that there was more to that prayer. “God please heal her.” – the shortest prayer in the Bible. And I was healed. The Moshe and Zipporah of our generation. Where is Miriam now? I think she’s had a change of heart. Some words are only skin deep.

I'm sorry about your mother

2011-06-08T16:55:00.001-07:00

I’m sorry about your mother. No one deserves to live that way. I felt like your boyfriend touching you at the wrong angle. I love your choreography. And I must be a thug miss, because I know what you mean. You touched the back of my neck with compassion, saying you don’t have to suffer in silence. We listened to jazz and I fell in love with the bass. The best stories begin with good intentions. The road to heaven…where we met…well, I don’t want to return alone. The game ends and begins again with a new cast of characters: Elizabeth Taylor, Cleopatra, naturally a woman. You are up there with the best of them. You zapped me on the train and waved goodbye. The Irish flag was a gift to you to explain I represent Tennessee where we are polite and sit like women in church. The girrl in me wants to take it to the tenth degree but there are only so many hours in the day and we can’t fill them all with laughter. It will only haunt us later. I’ve shaken off the dust, and I’m standing up straight these days. Am I mule? I thought those shoes had gone out of style.

Diana

2011-06-08T16:47:00.000-07:00

Diana, I missed the revolution. It was televised, but I was busy sleeping on my couch waiting for the next election. What time is it? I’m normally good with numbers, but why is it different adding or subtracting? It all stirs my soul – the people in different positions of power. I’ll never forget your voice saying, He is violent. As if he hadn’t evidenced that in a different way, through his actions. Who has control of the apparatus? I’m watching your face and I see the woman I want to become, a naughty housewife incorporated. Count my tweets brave, my observations as reflections of you. Everyone is quotable. It’s just that not everyone’s words are written in red. My blog is on a website and I forget the URL. Thank you for thinking of me and stealing light. Light chases the wind. I will never misplace my compass again. I’ve internalized it and I hope it will lead us to an understanding. Wisdom, that comes after a war. The end of the war I saw on television I would not have believed had I not seen it on television. What is your peace?

Everybody's beautiful

2011-06-08T16:41:00.000-07:00

Everybody’s beautiful. It’s not a matter of percentile. I’m the only woman in the room. Making me number one…for now. What does that mean? Can we go grocery shopping? I know I spend too much time in the frozen food section. You think I should I cook. Isn’t that playing into gender roles? You’d like a diet coke. Could I offer you tea? No, coffee. My country gave birth to coffee. And I love Lucy, Australopithecus afarensis. Have we been colonized? I think we are colonized, but the land has been sectioned off and everyone is bilingual, bipolar and there aren’t enough toilets. I was busy standing still in front of the mirror, thinking I was dancing. But I was being lazy. Relevé. 1, 2, 3. My idea is that I’m the most beautiful person in the room, but you challenge that by saying, “You’re beautiful.” when no one is around. Huh?! How can I be the most beautiful woman in the room, if there is no other woman to compare me to? I’ve developed a theory. It’s called the categorical comparative. Compare me to anyone in any category. But leave me alone? Don’t do that. I’d like to buy the world a diet Coke.

You are not a laptop

2011-06-08T16:34:00.000-07:00

You are not a laptop. You can open up at will. You turn it on and off when you please. I am not a software engineer. I don’t know the first thing to do with you. Download? I did not design you, your inner circuitry, nor can I take the credit for your color. I did not buy you at the store. I’m standing on the dotted line in between lanes and I want to buy a laptop. May it be silver and gold with a keyboard protector and a flash drive. Hope it has the capacity for graphic design although that’s not my area of expertise. You are a genius. Your thighs don’t touch. You listen. You console. You are wise counsel. I’m sorry your trip to Africa was cancelled – something about a corrupt system. I’d like to see you in concert, but I know I’ve wronged you. I’m sorry, but there is nothing sexy about genocide. I shouldn’t have put my agenda before our friendship. You’re a good dancer, choreographer – a lady. This is not a band aid.

Introduction

2011-06-08T16:17:00.000-07:00

Hi. My name is El Shaddai Gebreyes and I teach acting at the Youth Film Academy in Tysons Corner (Vienna, Virginia). I want to share some monologues I wrote with you and I hope you will enjoy reading, editing, and performing them (any one, or all, or some). PLEASE post any which one that inspires you on YouTube and call it "lingua franca." Here is the first monologue. I would love your feedback.

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I defended you. He doesn’t know your heart. The way you walk city blocks not realizing I’m there. I don’t know how you got here with your shorts of ever increasing faith. Someone must have heard you sing your redemption song. I kept the microphone in my hand and resurrected the dead. I trust your image will change and you still define the times. I see your signature is in Arabic. They gave us the concept of before and after. Nothing, nothing is happening between us. I don’t know why you would carry on that way thinking I would let go, lose myself. Hope for the best. I know I’ll see you again. You have a way of rising like steam from sidewalks I walk upon alone. The earth is paved creating straight paths, intersections, parallels and predictable paradigms. Every time you surprise me. So I have the time to traverse the globe with you in mind. As we transition from being into becoming.

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