Random Words That Don't Mean Anything

-- This is for my friend Elizabeth for making her perform the most tedious monologue I have ever written…up until now. --

“Random Words That Don’t Mean Anything”

Plastic casings
Duel championship belts
Argyle gloves
Ethiopian silverware
Pumpkin seeds

I hate this
I hate this goddammed monologue
So much
If it were flammable
I’d light it on fire
Then put it out with my own urine

. . . . .

Let’s try again

Blue scarves with red polka dots
Purple pants with blue zippers
Red leather pants with purple buttons
Little dog figurines that bark
An urn filled with the ashes of Napolean

Somebody kill me
This man is my Anti-Christ
He has written a monologue
That I am getting paid to say
A seventy-five page monologue
That I have to get exactly right
Or he will have me fired
And destroy my reputation

If I even slip up
I will have destroyed his masterpiece
He will ridicule me
In front of anyone watching
He’s done it before
He will do it again
And his monologue
Makes no sense

It is literally
A series
Of random words
That don’t mean
Anything

. . . . .

Okay

Copper pots
Steel beams
Monkey wrenches
Buick steering wheels
Ticonderoga pencils

Slaughter me
This is not acting
I am not acting
I am not even phoning this in
I can’t even give it that much credit
I am shaking
I am sweating
I am terrified
I am not acting

These words
Mean nothing
I mean
They do mean things
But that’s all they are
Things
Random things
That mean nothing

Oh sure
The playwright
Knows what they mean
He knows why they’re important
He knows why I have to say them
But won’t tell me
Because that’s ‘my journey’
He says
That’s the journey I have to take
As an actress
With his work

He’s already made that journey
He’s sitting at the finish line
Sipping lemonade
Waiting for me to get there
And by the time I do
I’ll either be as insane as he is
Or bloody and half-dead

Either way
It doesn’t matter to him

I’m a puppet
I’m a puppet that can move her own arms
But isn’t allowed to
Because the playwright is also the director
And he doesn’t want me to move
He doesn’t want movement
Inflection
Tone
Pauses
Beats
Motivation
Accents
Flincing
Blinking
Winking
Nodding
Shaking
Sweating
Nothing

He wants me to stand there
Onstage
And recite
His fucked up list
Of random words
That don’t mean
Anything

. . . . .

Once more

A bucket
A bagel
A bugle
A beagle
A basket
A bobby pin
A basinet
A brake light
A blues record
A brass tack
A brassiere
A bracelet
A brioche
A brick
A brain made of foam
A brandy snifter

I hate this man
I hate him and his mother
For producing him
Putting him in this world
To write words
And have me say them

I hate the critics who like him
I hate the audiences
Who pay far too much money
In this awful economy
While children starve
To listen
To a madman’s grocery list

This is not writing
This is not acting
This is not theater
This is not time well spent
This is not sensible
This is not humane
This is not logical
This is not writing

What if…

What if I just made up my own words?
Would they really be any worse than his?
Would they really kill the piece?
Would he really scream at me?
Would he have me fired?

Of course he would

He’s demented
He wears scarves
Indoors
In July

I hate him

And his grocery list
And his mother
And his reviewers

His friends
His wife
His drinking buddies

My mother
My shrink
Myself

I hate everyone
And everything

But mostly
The list

. . . . .

Blue boxes
Pink boxes
A crown
A clarinet
A monkey

Pillows
Monkeys on pillows
More pillows
Pillows

. . . . .

Wow

Done

Okay

Let’s try this again