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Libretto: Eileen Myles
Score: Michael Webster
Scene 1
(This scene occurs in a wordless musical introduction.)
Hell takes place in an unnamed future, in a time frame right next to
ours. A poet is sitting at a manual typewriter. She keeps ripping pages
out and balling them up and throwing them into a waste basket. It’s
late. Maybe two or three AM. She stands up, stretches, looks at her
watch. Stoops down and pats a dog. Checks her pockets for money. Puts
her jacket on, closes the door behind her, runs down the stairs. Walking
up the street a man asks her for a match. She digs into her pocket for
her lighter and his buddy slugs her on the back of the head with a beer
bottle. She collapses on the sidewalk.
Scene 2
She wakes up on the floor of the stage close to the audience in a smokey,
sputtering and sparkling world— a giant planet is hovers overhead, above
her and many seated people. It’s a globe, a huge disco ball, creakily
turning-it also looks like an old battered baseball, with loose strings
dangling.
Voices emanate dimly from the sphere. It’s a huge balloon covered in
duct tape! The stage of this immense reality is like the smoky pit of
hell itself. There’s a hole in the center of the stage with smoke
gushing out. Some people are sitting on chairs onstage, near the hole.
Cardboard mock-ups of tall buildings are looming, but the wreckage of
one building, a spindly thing, like a ghoulish poplar is the most
striking detail of the setting-it stands, a lonely sentinel at the
smoking mouth. One voice from the globe grows louder than the rest. A
youngish business man comes briskly stepping out of the rubble:
Man: (Yakking into his cell phone)
It’s called Horns of Joy.
It’s the first Goth poem
The first Goth poem
The first poem written
In 1500 years
Goth, Goth, Goth
Horns and trees
No we don’t-
No, no we don’t
Yes, he’s got a wife
He loves her
He doesn’t want to go
Ireland, Scotland
We can shoot it in New Zealand
ALL: New Zealand!
New Zealand!
Man: She’s a blonde
The wife is a blonde
This is so great
ALL: This is so great
Man: Well it’s not written yet
I said
I said
it would be
the first Goth
It’s not written yet
ALL: In fifteen hundred years
I said
Man: The first Goth poem
written
fifteen hundred years
I wrote it
Godammit
a sentence or two
I will get someone
I’ve got someone
and we’ll get her right on it
I’ll give you one scene:
So he—
(A cardboard guy drops down, in sort of Barbarian-Goth garb.)
A Goth guy
Hunky hunky hunky
The girls like him
The guys like him
He’s hairy and horny and strong
Yes I like him
ALL: It wouldn’t be strange
Goth poem written
In fifteen hundred years
Man: It wouldn’t be strange at all.
I have a vision.
A vision
Yes that’s what I said.
So listen.
Blondie,
she goes:
ALL: It’s the first Goth poem in fifteen hundred years
Man: She goes. . .
We need a female voice
for this line
yeah, you’re fine
(Pointing to a woman in the audience)
yup, stand up
thank you
Honey
(Into phone) The hunk is leaving.
He’s got the armor on,
his skins
She hands him his lunch
She goes…
(Hands the woman his cell, points to a piece of paper.)
Read that:
Woman: A woman is fleeter
than a cow
take me with you!
ALL: Laughter
Man: (Into cell)
You like it.
Good
you like it.
you like it
you like it
Poet:
(Arising from her rumpled pallet on the stage. Wearing torn romantic
flowing shirt. Stretches.)
Hey where are we?
(Walks closer to the action.)
You’re rehearsing?!
Ow! And what’s that?
Man: Don’t worry.
It’s just a bit of wax.
How do you do? My name is Brine.
And you are—?
Poet: Uh, Raphael.
Man: Well, Raphael,
In Constant, which is where you are,
wax which is what has struck you
wax is great for most purposes
but wax melts
when someone gets excited
or confused
which is you, Raphael
don’t get me wrong
we imported you for your
range
excitable and otherwise
we haven’t had a writer of any sort
for about eight hundred
years
ALL: About seven or eight
About seven or eight
About seven or eight
About eight hundred
Man: Though you look kind of bad, whatever you are.
I guess you’re a female
Poet: I’m a poet
and I’m in tatters
I’m a wreck
cause that’s how the world looks.
Will you please help me out
I mean I don’t know what time we’re in
I went out to get dog food
I’m totally lost
It’s dark for morning
And it’s too bright for night
Time is how I know myself
I work its silent tune
But this is weird
It’s like immutable
And blurry
A California time
And Ow!
why do I keep getting hit by wax?
Man: Nothing to worry about.
The place is Constant.
That’s what it’s called.
Believe me, I’m trying
to answer your
questions.
Constant.
That’s the time of day we’re in.
We have a joke here:
Man: Got the time.
ALL: Yeah.
Man: Constant time.
Constant temperature.
It’s always time
to sell
(They are walking through a crowded market place. ALL are chattering
constantly among themselves. Murmuring in a pulsating way back and
forth, handing articles back and forth over counters.)
ALL: And sell and sell and sell.
It’s always time to sell.
And sell
Man: See everybody’s working here in Constant.
Everyone’s got a job.
And everyone wants a job.
Plenty of wanting
No waiting.
Not even a bit of waiting here.
(Visual waiting wanting song. That means the “singing action” in the
market place continues, silently.)
Man: And I’ve got a job for you.
a commission
I need your help on this script.
It’s called Horns of Joy
(Barbarian guy drops down)
It’s the first Goth poem in 1500 years
And I think you can write it.
ALL: And we think you can write it!
And we think you can write it!
Man: Are you ready to work?
Poet: I still don’t understand my place in this scene.
You want me to write something.
Maybe I should get a little familiar. . .
Man: Don’t get familiar, it won’t help
I will give you the groundwork:
We don’t hope,
we don’t sleep
ALL: We don’t dream, we don’t eat
We don’t fight, we don’t groom,
We don’t grow, we don’t lose
We don’t owe, we don’t muse,
We don’t forget
We don’t sweat, we don’t race,
We don’t fret, we don’t pace
Poet: I’m not listening.
Sorry, but. . . .
there’s some trees coming towards us.
Can trees walk here?
Man: Yeah, trees can always walk
That’s a very common situation
Just sit down.
(She parks herself on a white glowing gumdrop about the size of a
stool. For the duration of “Hell” there’s a random bombardment of wax,
and screaming bomb sounds and white.)
Poet: What is this
Man: What is what?
Poet: This, This,
That I’m sitting on?
Man: I don’t know.
They’re sort of all over the place.
Okay.
We can start with trees
Let’s put them in
the script.
Trees always look
good and surely
in Goth time
there were lots and lots
of them.
They’re wood.
People love wood.
Poet: No, I’m serious. There’s a group of trees coming
right towards us.
Man: And I’m telling you
don’t even think about it.
It’s Father Tree.
People love him.
He’s our leader.
And he doesn’t do a thing
He’s the President of the World.
Poet: Well, shouldn’t we greet him, or something?
Maybe he wants to meet me?
Man: No, that’s what’s so great about
him. He doesn’t care.
He has absolutely no curiosity.
He’s famous for that.
Someone I mean
this might be a myth
It seems extremely unlikely
Someone it has been told
suggested he make some changes
in Constant.
And of course that’s ridiculous
because we don’t make changes here
and he said
This is a very famous remark
Why would I
care what you think?
Why would I
care what you think?
What makes you think
I care at all!
ALL: What makes you think
I care at all!
Man: People love that.
He’s made out of wood
He can’t hear you
He really can’t see you
And he looks great
We love him because he
looks real, he looks like
a real leader
He comes from generations
of wooden leadership.
His father was king before
him. And his father
before that.
That’s him standing right
there. Maybe one of his
useless little fraud
daughters will be King after him.
Poet: Women can be kings here?
Man: Tree’s a tree. It’s part of our
freedom and our heritage.
Any tree can become
President of Constant
Everyone is free here
but only
a tree can lead.
Poet: But I thought you said they do nothing.
Man: Nothing is what the trees
have given us.
Nothing can’t burn.
We’re safe now.
ALL: And nothing can’t burn!
We’re safe now.
Man: And nothing can’t burn.
Though lots of things were burning a long time
ago.
That’s when the trees bought hell…
Poet: Father Tree owns hell? Ouch!
Man Well all the trees do.
You kids get up there and explain.
(Dorothy and Thomas, a girl and boy in their best Sunday clothes come
forward smiling.)
Kids: Hell burned in eternity
and on Earth there was time and women
and
men lived and died in a situation called
Earth. And there were constant wars
on Earth, so many wars.
Wars that competed with the fires
of Hell. Competition is good.
It builds character.
Some people win
And some people lose.
We call that story history.
And in that time
It was Hell on earth
ALL: It was Hell on earth
Thomas: and naturally
it was Hell on Hell.
Dorothy: It was hell in hell.
Hell was inside the earth.
Thomas: Oh yeah.
ALL: It was hell in hell in hell in hell
Poet: Where are we now?
Ow!
Kids: It came to pass
that there were more fires on Earth
than in Hell, and Hell
took a nosedive. So the trees
in their infinite wisdom
determined
that Hell
could be
replaced by an inexpensive wax model
with video toasters. . .
Poet: And what about the Earth?
Kids: We think something happened.
Man: Hold on, my browser’s stuck.
(Adjusting remote browser. Click.)
So that’s kind of where we are.
And here they come
Hey Father Tree.
ALL Trees: Hello Hello Hello Hello
Yeah we’re all feeling good.
We’re twenty-seven point
thirty centimeters tall
fourteen point
forty-three centimeters wide
gettin in shape and feelin
sorta growin’, not too much
drawin some sap up into our bark
Ruff-Ruff. Heh-Heh.
My surgeon nipped a coupla branches off.
Says I’m looking good
(Big breath,)
I say
stand tall and de-liver.
Be proud
Everyone!
buy some stuff
keep it up.
We like that,
lookin normal
the regular thing
God made me
I’m a gosh darn tree
Like my teeth? pretty good, got em all,
Dentist said, hey you got your Dad’s teeth,
Well hell whose teeth he got?
Heh Heh Heh-you like me? sell sell sell!
I’m not too smart cause I’m almost
Dumb, I’m the tree of kingdom
come. Oh come ye
see me in the
West, in the blazing eyes
of the babe at your breast.
Hold on baby to the Family Tree
We’re free of the prison
of history
So you gotta love me
for my guts
you gotta love
me cause I’m nuts
love me cause I own the world.
The only backbone
known is mine
get behind me
get behind me
you gotta love my stupid
trunk.
How do you like me?
How do you like me?
Poet: That guy’s an idiot!
(Father Tree and his cohorts pass by. . .)
Man: It doesn’t matter.
Poet: What do you mean?
Man: I mean you’re right
He is an idiot.
But the trees
bought the world
fair ’n square
I mean yes
at the time some people
were pretty sour grapes
about it
like the Gnome
Poet: Who’s he?
Man: If the Gnome mattered at all he’d be Father
Tree’s enemy.
Here I’ll click on him
(Drags down Gnome icon)
He insisted it was a takeover
He called it . . . a cootie tart?
ALL: Har Har Har Har
Cootie Tart, Cootie Tart
Man: But it was just a sale. No big deal.
Point is, we’re in a safe place.
Constant is a very safe place
Poet: Safe from what.
Man: Exactly my point.
Safe from what.
It’s hard to say who matters less
(Click. Click. Click.)
Nope that’s still Father Tree.
Father Tree stays on. He’s like the news.
Now the Gnome.
No one can hear him unless you click
So maybe he does matter more
Than Father Tree
But nobody hears
Him, so what.
Here we go.
Okay, introducing the Gnome. Here he comes.
Sometimes
it’s
slow. I think he’s made out of
numbers
He’s a druid. Damn.
I’m not thinking!
We could use him.
he would be great
for Horns.
Some Gandalf character
guy, you know?!
Gnome:
(Seated at a table, facing an auditorium full of shoppers.)
Uh-hum. Thank you all for coming. A quick note
Before I begin my remarks
I’m sitting
at a table. It is made out
Of trees. (Grim smile.)
(Hollow canned laughter)
This is called
“Cootie Tart”
In the eighties the U.S. fought
A major war in central bought
leaving some two hundred thousand torture
Moo corpses, millions and
orphans and refugees countries mum-
bum Catholic Church bun
committed the grievous sin spore
preferential doption the poor
even the timing of the bombing was Joe’s
and Boaz to making
to launch a whore crime against Iraq
Back Dad at that time I
in fact call for a lawless world
a shingle word in the main purl
Poet: Is he trying to say something, it sounds—
Man: I know. It sounds great. It’s
exactly the sound we need. It’s ancient,
that rhythm, I think it’s Welsh or
something
you can feel a time of struggle:
Angry suffering man with dirt under his nails
(Let the Gnome continue silently maybe with music over–like Michael
Moore.)
Poet: He doesn’t look dirty.
(Audience starts flinging mud at him)
Man: (leading him away laughs)
Now he is!
He’s very dirty.
C’mon,
I want to show you a few more of my ideas.
Nobody, nobody, nobody. . .
(Various faces going by)
Here’s a guy. . .
He’s just a symbol . . .
Nah...
I’m just noodling . . .
I’m just thinking . . .
Here click click click
Iceland
is my idea of successful culture
(White Icelandic band icon appears)
In terms of uniting the ancient,
the human,
the popular and
and and
the capacity of humans to wait
forever if need be
the people of Iceland have been speaking
and singing and telling stories
in their very very very obscure language
for thousands of years
you never heard them complaining
Iceland’s like a gas-station
full of white people
in the
Middle of the Irish Sea
and now they are
Iceland is a constant success story
what everyone is singing
and listening to
(Points to the ball, turning with words)
that’s not English. . .
Listen. . .
Hold on, Hold on . . .
(A pure white Knight with white hair appears Holding a guitar and
another knight Joins him and another and another And some of them are
girls. The song is sung in Icelandic with English subtitles appearing on
an LED moving around the disco globe. ) |
