Often Lie

Is it possible to engender genuine horror in an audience through a live stage experience? 

That’s the question I started pondering a decade or so ago. Now don’t knee-jerk back some glib response. Think before you answer, and be honest. I have given a lot of thought to this, and I am still not completely sure. So this Halloween season I thought I would crack open the question again for churning with a series of scripts, excerpts and essays, in hopes that together we might strike some undiscovered insights.

Let me kick it off with “Often Lie”, a very short play I wrote for the late-night horror series Psychopomp Presents. . ., which was produced by Paul Morgan Stetler and myself, and directed by Braden Abraham, at Capitol Hill Arts Center in October 2005 .  We billed the show thusly:

A late night modicum of mayhem featuring world premiere plays penned to plumb the very depths of the collective unconscious.  "Lil' Heroes" "Often Lie" and "The Reckoning" are works by three of Seattle's most innovative playwrights: Louis Broome, Paul Mullin and Stephanie Timm.  Come on, give your dark side a joy ride!

It was a failure.  But one of the very best kind, a true experiment wherein a hypothesis was advanced, a test was run, and data was extracted.  Our data read something like: “You cannot scare drunk hipsters after 11 pm no matter how hard you try.” 

The idea for my contribution “Often Lie” was essentially, “What if two random people met and discovered they were having each other's dreams?” From here I began lightly building in my favorite freest fashion, by just randomly associating and seeing where it takes me. I thought of Queen Mab and went back to read Mercutio's famous rant. Spiders seemed to be prominent in that speech, so I let that take me further on. I leave it to you to find the connections, such as they are. I soon decided that only one of the characters should be dreaming the other's dream, thus leaving more opportunity to explore the "who's dreaming who?" question. I landed on a sort of Donald-Rumsfeld-meets-Queen-Mab scenario which pleased me. I think, given the right circumstances, it might possibly frighten an audience that wasn’t simply looking to laugh and get drunker before getting laid.

For its world premiere, I was blessed to have the dream casting of Michael Patten as “Drum” and Stephanie Shine as “Mabel”.

Here’s the play:

Often Lie

      (A woman, Mabel, enters wearing a lovely, albeit vaguely antique dress.  She may also carry a clumsy bag.  She walks to a bench-style train seat large enough for two and sits down.
      Drum enters from behind the seat, wearing a dark, conservative suit and tie and carrying a thin attaché.  He stops at Mabel.)

DRUM:  May I?

MABEL:  You very well may.  By all means.

      (Drum sits.
      Mabel speaks again after a beat, in a somehow different voice.)

MABEL:  By any and all means.

DRUM:  I’m sorry.

MABEL:  Of course you are, dear.

DRUM:  What?

MABEL:  Of course.
      I’m called Mabel.  Pleasure making your acquaintance.

DRUM:  Likewise.  Name is Drum.

MABEL:  “Drum”.  Lovely.  Drum.  Drum drum drum.  Drummmmmm.  Drummmmmmm.

      (pause)

    Do you know what?

DRUM:  What?

MABEL:  Do you know?  Drummmmmm.  Do you know what?  By all means?  By any means?  You may.  You may not.

DRUM:  I’m sorry?  I’m afraid I don’t understand.

MABEL:  Of course, dear, of course.  Afraid.  Don’t understand.

DRUM:  Okay.  Maybe I should - -

MABEL:  They’re only blankers’ box.

DRUM:  What?

MABEL:  No need to fretfuss.  They’re only blankers’ box, and I’m afraid you’re afraid you may you may not know don’t you know?

DRUM:  (beginning to get up):  Yeah, okay.  I think I’m gonna--

MABEL:  Stay.

      (He sits before a thought stops him.)

DRUM:  Okay

MABEL:  Stay.

DRUM:  Okay.

      (beat)

MABEL:  Was I just talking?

DRUM:  Were you . . . just now?

MABEL:  I was, wasn’t I?

DRUM:  Yes.

MABEL:  Spouting nonsense.

DRUM:  Well, I don’t know that I would . . . sure.

MABEL:  Do I seem different now?

DRUM:  Now?

MABEL:  Than just earlier, just then, when I was speaking nonsense.

DRUM:  I suppose.  Sure.  Look I--

MABEL:  Stay.  There’s no other seats.  Please stay.

DRUM:  That’s all right.

MABEL:  I’ll give you mine if you don’t.  I’ll stand if you go.  So stay.  Let’s both be comfortable.  No more nonsense talking.  I’m better now, right?

DRUM:  Sure.  You weren’t . . . .  Sure.

MABEL:  I was dreaming of course.

DRUM:  Oh, you were . . .

MABEL:  Sleep talking.  I do it more and more.

DRUM:  Oh.

MABEL:  I couldn’t tell you why.

      (Long pause.  Drum begins to relax a bit, closes his eyes.  The lights blink on and off for just a second, as if the train were passing through an arch.)

      What was I dreaming?

DRUM:  Uh--

MABEL:  Just now, talking to you?  My nonsense.

DRUM:  I-- don’t know.

MABEL:  Well, of course I don’t expect you to know.  I don’t think I’m crazy.
      Wait. . .
      I’m a spy.  I’m a spy in this vast place.  Only maybe it’s not so vast.  It has boundaries.  I know it.  Maybe it’s a forest, dark, but beautiful and welcoming.  Then again, maybe it’s an old-fashioned department store, the same, dark, welcoming vast, it takes up the whole block, or maybe the whole city.  In any case, forest or department store, it’s crawling with people, all pleasant, and darkly beautiful.  So why am I here?  I want to stay here.
      But now I’m in the sand.  On a beach.  It’s a beach.  But where’s the water.  I can’t see it.  I wanna see the water, see the big waves, there’s some solace in them, I know it.  But all I can hear is this damned gull.  “Aidee!”, it screams.  “Aidee!  And then I realize, this is my name.  It’s screaming for me.  And I am a darkly beautiful woman named “Aidee.”
      Here’s the strange thing?
      Are you listening?

DRUM:  I’m sorry.

MABEL:  The strange thing.  Here it is.

DRUM:  Okay.

MABEL:  It’s not my dream.

DRUM:  It’s not?

MABEL:  No.

DRUM:  It’s someone else’s dream?

MABEL:  Someone else’s.  Completely.

DRUM:  Whose?

MABEL:  Who knows?

DRUM:  So how do you know the dream?

MABEL:  How do I know it?

DRUM:  If it’s not yours.

MABEL:  I dreamt it.

DRUM:  You said it wasn’t yours.  How could you have dreamt it?

MABEL:  I closed my eyes and dreamt it, didn’t I?  How else would I have known it?

DRUM:  I-– I’m confused.  You dreamt someone else’s dream?

MABEL:  That seems obvious, doesn’t it?

     (beat)

DRUM:  No...

MABEL:  You mean to say it’s never happened to you?

DRUM:  No.

MABEL:  You just dream your own dreams?

DRUM:  I don’t dream.

MABEL:  What?

DRUM:  I don’t dream.

MABEL:  You’re lying.

DRUM:  No, I’m not.  I haven’t dreamed since I was kid.

MABEL:  A kid?

DRUM:  Ten maybe.

MABEL:  Don’t dream?

DRUM:  Listen.

MABEL:  Not since a kid?

DRUM:  I’m sorry.  But could I. . . ask you-- 

MABEL:  To be quiet?

DRUM:  I’m just very, very tired.

MABEL:  You work hard.

DRUM:  I’m wiped, yes.  Very much.  Thank you.

MABEL:  You should try and relax.

DRUM:  That’s easier said than done.

MABEL:  Well, many things are.

      (Another blink of darkness.)

DRUM:  People are afraid.

MABEL:  I know.

DRUM:  Why should people have to be afraid?

MABEL:  I don’t know.

DRUM:  I do.

MABEL:  You know why people have to be afraid?

DRUM:  I know why they shouldn’t have to.

MABEL:  How?

DRUM:  Faith.

MABEL:  Faith?

DRUM:  You have to have faith in not being afraid.

MABEL:  You have to?

DRUM:  It’s about freedom.

MABEL:  I love freedom.

DRUM:  So do I.

MABEL:  Do you think we love it as much as each other?

DRUM:  What?

MABEL:  I mean. . . do you think I love it as much as you do, and . . . vice versa.

DRUM:  I -- I always think of those four paintings.

MABEL:  I love paintings.

DRUM:  By that guy, famous guy, I don’t remember, but . . .  “The Four Freedoms” they were called.  Freedom to Speak.  Freedom to worship.  Freedom from want.  Freedom from fear.

MABEL:  Freedom from want?

DRUM:  Freedom from fear.

MABEL:  You can be free from wanting?

DRUM:  It’s an expression.  It means something different from what you mean.

MABEL:  Are you sure?

DRUM:  I’m talking about fear.

MABEL:  And freedom.

DRUM:  And freedom.

MABEL:  You’re a freedom fighter.

DRUM:  Well . . . I would say I’m just a soldier.

MABEL:  But are you a soldier?  I mean, really?

DRUM:  Yes, actually, I think of myself as a soldier, yes.

MABEL:  Yes, but. . . of course you do.

DRUM:  No one supports . . . let’s put it this way, I can’t imagine anyone supporting the guys over-- and gals-- overseas more than me.  We’re all soldiers, when you think about it.  Either you’re a soldier or you’re not fighting and if you’re not fighting you might as well be on the other side, and if you’re on the other side, well then you’re a soldier on the other side, right?  So in any case, no matter how you look at it, you’re a soldier.

MABEL:  That is a distinctly fascinating perspective, and intricate.  Is “intricate” the word?

DRUM:  My job is to support the men ideologically-- and women-- to make sure they are supported, that they have a mission and that that mission is supported.

MABEL:  Well, it sounds very important.  Your job.

DRUM:  Well, I’m just part of a bigger thing.

MABEL:  I don’t doubt it for a moment.

      (This time there are two blinks of darkness, the second one rather more sustained than the first.)

MABEL:  Were you trying to sleep?

DRUM:  Just resting my eyes.

MABEL:  How delightful.  My father used to use exactly the same phrase.  “Resting my eyes.”  He’d be sitting, eyes shut, kicked back in his ratty, wool recliner.  And I’d climb into his lap and say, “Whatchya doing?”, and he wouldn’t move.  And then I’d pull his eyelids open, and ask “Whatchya doing?”  And he’d say, “I was resting my eyes.”

DRUM:  That’s funny.  I have almost exactly the same memory.  Right down to the ratty recliner and the pulling the eyes open.

MABEL:  I’m sorry.  I seem to have stolen your memory.

DRUM:  Not at all.  I’m just saying that we have a similar memory.  It’s funny.

MABEL:  Is it funny?

DRUM:  Yeah.  Don’t you think?

MABEL:  Strange or ha ha.

DRUM:  I –- I really couldn’t say.

      (A blink.  The lights that come up after a moment are strange.  Drum’s eyes are closed, his head tipped toward Mabel.  She reaches over and brushes a lock of hair back from his face.
      Darkness again.
      This time, the lights come up normally.)

DRUM:  Look, there are basically three kinds of knowing.  You can know what you know.  You can know what you do not know.  And you can not know what you don’t know.

MABEL:  Hmmm.  What about the fourth?

DRUM:  There is no fourth.

MABEL:  Oh absolutely there is.  There’s not knowing what you know.

DRUM:  That’s not possible.

MABEL:  No?  In your heart?

DRUM:  If you don’t know, you don’t know.  End of story.

MABEL:  Are you sure?

DRUM:  I’m sure.

MABEL:  Are you sure you’re sure?

DRUM:  Yes.  I am.

MABEL:  In your heart?  How would you know?

DRUM:  If I don’t know, I don’t know.  Certain logic is indisputable.

MABEL:  It is?

DRUM:  By definition.

MABEL:  Oh.  I suppose I wouldn’t know.

      (A blink.  Strange lights up.  Both Drum and Mabel stare straight ahead.
      Darkness again.
      Then normal lights up.)

MABEL:  I’m in a classroom.  With wooden floors.  A nun is teaching the class, but I’m not certain there are any other kids but me.  Maybe her name is Sister Maureen Mary Joseph.  I’m in trouble.  The nun calls me to front of the class.  She’s very short.  She only comes to my chest and I’m in kindergarten.  She swings a ruler at me, or a pointer maybe, but she misses ‘cuz she’s shrinking.  Oh, she’s mad now.  With every swing she misses and gets a little bit smaller.  It’s horrible.  She’s nearly the size of a doll.  She is the size of a doll.  She is a doll.  She topples over.  And I run.  And I run down the wooden corridor outside ‘cuz I know that three men are chasing me, three men that Sister MMJ is sending, to grab me.  Oh my god I am so scared I’m running I’m running don’t let me trip I’m running--

DRUM:  You’re full of shit.

MABEL:  What?

DRUM:  What’s your game?

MABEL:  My game?

DRUM:  Yeah, your game.  What’s your angle, lady?

MABEL:  I don’t know that I have an angle.

DRUM:  Are you some kind of protestor?  Is that it?

MABEL:  Am I protesting?

DRUM:  That’s my dream.

MABEL:  What?

DRUM:  Sister Maureen Mary Joseph?

MABEL:  She--

DRUM:  That’s my dream.

MABEL:  You don’t dream.

DRUM:  My first nightmare.

MABEL:  You said so yourself.

DRUM:  My very first one.

MABEL:  But you - -

DRUM:  How fucked up is that?

MABEL:  I had no idea- -

DRUM:  Who did you talk to?  Who would know such a thing and tell it you?

MABEL:  I--

DRUM:  Who told that dream to anyone?

MABEL:  Who told--

DRUM:  And your other dream, the one where you’re in some dark forest, or dark building, crawling with beautiful dark people, and then all the sudden you’re in the sand, and the gull is crying “Aidee”, and you realize—

MABEL:  I am Aidee.

DRUM:  You don’t think I know what that means?  “Aidee?”  I.E.D?

MABEL:  You know what it means?

DRUM:  Improvised explosive device?

MABEL:  I’m an improvised explosive device?

DRUM:  You’re trying to say that’s my dream, some dream you dream you dreamt.  But I don’t dream.  See?

MABEL:  I had no idea - -

DRUM:  Crawling with darkly beautiful--  You don’t see how obvious you are?  You don’t think I could dream that crap if I wanted, an airplane floating sickeningly out of the sky into the drink and I’m swimming molasses from the wreckage inevitable explosion but I have to know my daughters are trapped behind you don’t think I could let that bubble in my brain if I wanted?

MABEL:  Your brain?

DRUM:  Do you know how much could bubble if I let it?

MABEL:  Bubble?

DRUM:  Do you have any idea?

MABEL:  Bubble.

DRUM:  Do you?

MABEL:  I have no idea.

DRUM:  No idea.

MABEL:  No idea.

DRUM:  Get the fuck away from me you crazy, crazy bitch.

MABEL:  Of course.

      (Mabel gets up to leave.)

      Of course, I’m very sorry.  I’m sure.

DRUM:  Just go.  Just --

     (Blackout.
      Several seconds.
      Lights up.  Strange.
      Drum sits, staring blankly ahead. 
      Mabel enters and makes her way up the aisle to sit beside him.)

MABEL:  You poor, poor dear.  Don’t dream?  Dearie-dear, I can heal you.  I’ll fill your mouth with spiders.

      (She puts her hand to Drum.  His eyes shut and he begins, twitching and blinking.
      Fade to black.
      After a moment, strange lights rise on Drum alone, facing straight forward and speaking the following.  As he does, Mabel appears behind and slowly approaches.)

DRUM:  I’m watching a soccer game.  It’s fall.  Trees on fire and big empty skies.  The kids are in red and blue but it doesn’t matter, ‘cuz they’re playing like kids all glomming round the ball.  I mean, what do you expect?  They’re just kids for Christ’s sake..
      And then I’m the goalie, and I have a mask, but it’s not hockey, but it’s slippery, ‘cuz it’s winter I guess.  And I’m terrified.  And I think that’s funny, ‘cuz I’m the one with the mask but I’m terrified.  And they’re heading toward me, and one kid kicks another kid like a ball and the kid ball rockets at me and I realize my gut is a furnace blazing white hot blue and one by one they fire at me and into me my gut furnace.  And it feels so good awful when they fire into me, just like--

MABEL:  Sex?

DRUM:  No.

MABEL:  Sex then?

DRUM:  No.

MABEL:  It’s like sex, isn’t it?

DRUM:  No.

MABEL:  Have you always wanted to be entered?

DRUM:  Yes.  No.

MABEL:  Is it like sex?

DRUM:  No?

MABEL:  Like rape?

DRUM:  Yes.  No.

MABEL:  It’s....

DRUM:  Like....

     (Mabel finally reaches him.  Touches his shoulder from behind.)

BOTH:  Dying. . . .  Yes.  No.

      (Blackout. 
      In strange light, Drum climbs on top of Mabel and pounds her with his fists, ultimately strangling her.
      Blackout. 
      Lights up.
      They ride together quietly, both with their eyes closed.)
DRUM:  I never wanted . . .

MABEL:  Of course.  Of course not.

DRUM:  You think I don’t want . . . .

MABEL:  Of course you do.

DRUM:  Peace?

MABEL:  Of course.  Of course not.

DRUM:  I refuse. . . .

MABEL:  Of course.

DRUM:  I utterly refuse. . . .

MABEL:  Utterly.  I understand.

DRUM:  To be a victim.

MABEL:  You refuse.  I understand.

DRUM:  It won’t happen.

MABEL:  Refusal.

DRUM:  It will not happen.

MABEL:  Can be very noble.
      (In strange light, Mabel climbs on top of Drum and begins passionately kissing him, mouth, neck and chest.
      Blackout. 
      Lights up.
      The ride together quietly, both their eyes open.)

MABEL:  You’re on a train.  You’re devastated and you don’t know why, but what you don’t know is that you absolutely know, in the way of knowing you can only know in dreams, that you have caused this.  This devastation.  You.
      And you cannot get off this train.
      You will not get off this train.
      You absolutely and utterly refuse.
      Anything less would be ignoble.
      So breathe.

      (Drum bursts into wrenching fits of sobbing.)

      There’s nothing to be afraid of.  Because as sure as reason you know that you cannot know what you absolutely know.
    Now beg.

DRUM:  What?

MABEL:  Beg.

DRUM:  I will not.

MABEL:  Beg.

DRUM:  Never.

MABEL:  My beautiful boy.  My soldier.

      (Blackout.
      A long moment passes.
      Lights up.  The train is empty.
      Mabel, enters, walks up the aisle and sits.  Drum then enters up the aisle.  He stops at Mabel.)

DRUM:  May I?

MABEL:  You may not.  You may very well not.

     (He sits.  He sleeps.  She smiles.
      Blackout.
      End of play.)

© 2005 – Paul Mullin

Comments

[Louise Penberthy]

I saw "Play Dead" in New York in May. It was part illusion, part magic show, and part psychological manipulation.

I was genuinely scared at parts of it, mostly the parts where the actor manipulated our thoughts and made us scared of what we fear and what we were imagining.

Some of it was just plain cheesy.

[Paul Mullin]

Thanks, Louise!