I've come a long way since the raucous pots and pans and "2010" party hats from the last New Year.
In many ways I've stayed the same, but nobody really dwells on these aspects, do they? So let me detail the funny (and not-so-funny) advances/detractions that have shaped the girl sitting here, typing this.
1. High School --> College. College life has made me sassier and more inclined to stay up extremely late. It has also given me a new appreciation of elevators, and of food.
2. Vegetarianism. I don't really know when this happened, but it was surely some time after watching Food, Inc. and spending countless hours researching our disgusting meat industry. Not only do I feel much more awake because of this, but also more alive. I can't explain it, but vegetarianism had a profound impact on my personal choices, on my stomach (well I can explain that one), on my mindset.
3. Contacting Mr. Hurst. First time in...three years? I thought that, transitioning to college life, I needed closure. We spent a couple of hours on the phone asking and answering questions, catching up, etc. After I hung up, I went outside for a long run and felt like a huge weight had been lifted (even though it's cliche, this is totally the truth). This man has impacted my life in SO MANY WAYS, from my music choice to my handwriting. After talking to him, I was finally able to let go of a lot of regret, self-loathing and, yes, mild hatred.
4. Friends. I can say a lot about this. I have made friends whom I know will be my friends for a long time to come. The friendships that weren't going to survive, didn't. And those golden friends, the old ones, are the best friends I could hope for. Wow. I mean I know I'm introverted, and maybe I don't say it enough, but my friends mean the world to me. I've also recently made some new friends and am very excited to see where the world takes us.
5. Love. I thought I was in love. Perhaps I was, at the time. But looking back, I understand that the relationship I was in would not have survived. I wish that I didn't have to hurt anyone. But I don't want to be the girl who has second thoughts at her wedding. I don't want to be in a relationship just because of time, and because of other things that are beyond my control. It was the best choice, I am very confident in that, but led to a lot of bad choices on my part.
6. Boys. There are one, maybe two boys who I trust with my life and who I love dearly. The rest...eh. I don't think I am a good rebounder. Hence the bad choices comment above. First, there was half-Indian Nom Nom, who I'm ashamed to admit was nothing more than stupidity. Doesn't want to be in a committed relationship-- check! Drinks and smokes frequently-- check! He was a real winner. Honestly, he's a great friend though. And we had fun, I suppose. We wrestled, went on some dates, spent a lot of late nights watching King of the Hill, walked Ollie, played soccer. Then, there was J___ the Jalapeno on a stick. I'm still smarting from this wound, so we'll just say he's a player and leave it at that.
7. Living by myself. I have increased my independence tenfold. I cook for myself, I clean up after myself, I choose when I need to do homework, when I need to meditate, what I need to do next, etc. etc. I am very proud of my accomplishments in this area, and I can only hope that I continue to learn and grow.
8. The continuance of poetry. I'm SO GLAD I took creative writing class, because I admittedly stopped writing for a good while. I think it was because I was too comfortable. And you might say, there's no such thing as being too comfortable. But there is. I was so comfortable that I was unhappy. And so I just stopped writing, which sucks. Just like a soccer player getting his leg amputated (okay maybe not that drastic but it's the only way I can describe it. It hurt, like a lost limb. It was full of longing), I felt like I was missing such a huge part of myself and it was hindering me from expressing my emotions. I bottled up a lot of things, without my poetry. And now I have this fancy blog, I have my left-handed pen, I've got my favorite Miquelrius notebooks and I'm set for life.
9. Reuniting with my family. When I say family here, I mean my Aunt and my cousins. They came back from Florida, and I just wanted to cry. I hope that the New Year brings more opportunities for me to reunite with them. I miss them more than imaginable. For a while there, I was visiting Uncle Mike's grave and just crying, asking him why my family had to go through all of this. Now I understand that Uncle Mike's death created in me a huge passion for suicide prevention and awareness, has created a bond with my family that is stronger than ever, and has created obstacles that have overall made me a more open person.
10. Meditation. Other than getting caught by the police with Nigam in Holiday Park after hours meditating...umm...I think meditation has had an extremely positive effect on me. I have really embraced my spirituality. I know who I am, what I believe, and why I believe it. Generally, I have become an even more accepting person. I like being able to sit and appreciate the things around me. I also like sharing this time with others.
11. There are so many more parts of myself that have amplified, that have diminished, but I'll leave it at that :D
Happy New Year (almost) and hopefully you can go into 2011 with hope for wonderful things :)
Friday, December 31, 2010
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Fiction
So I need to revise this to work out some kinks, but my professor really enjoyed it. Yes, it is based on a true story, and it may be difficult for some people to read. Know that I use my inspiration to honor the dead, to express feelings that I might otherwise suppress, to intertwine reality with fiction. In fact, I know that a lot of this is not reality, is nowhere near reality. Please do not be offended by the content-- it is merely a borrowed backbone.
His legs, sticky with sweat, are glued to the leather seat but he doesn’t care. The garage is dark and empty save the pasty flickering overhead light that always stays on due to a lightning storm about a year ago. He never got around to fixing it, and had forgotten about it until he came back today for the first time since the divorce. Something seems different about his old house; he feels like a stranger barging in on someone else’s life. It’s dead summer, but Mr. Brooks doesn’t notice because he’s falling asleep and his mind is far from thoughts of late nights and fireflies and cookouts. His minivan’s driver door is cracked open and the glint of a silver nozzle is almost unnoticeable, peeking into the car like an unwanted stranger.
Mr. Brooks dreams of cradling baby Joel in his arms when they first came home from the hospital (it seems like yesterday or an eternity ago), caressing the shock of blond peach fuzz so unlike his own dark brown curls. He dreams of God (hopes, but doubts He is real) sitting in the passenger seat, whispering words of encouragement and strength. He’s never been a religious man, but he yearns for the comfort of life after death. The smell of gasoline and oil permeates the dingy garage, and the hum of the engine lulls Mr. Brooks into a deep slumber. This time last year he was having a cookout with his family. He could still smell the blaze of hot dogs on the grill, Joel’s shampooed hair after a bath. His hands are grimy from his job repairing vehicles, with fingernails that are blackened and have been that way for decades. No headlights illuminate the garage, no friends or loved ones are thinking of Mr. Brooks tonight but are instead clearing the table after a filling dinner and reclining in their leather sofa-seats in preparation for Family Feud, or the Price Is Right. People are probably commenting on the nice weather, talking about vacations they will take and future plans. Inside the house, Mr. Brooks guesses Joel is probably fervently dreaming upstairs while Mrs. Brooks is on the loveseat, quite unaware (she’s always been a deep sleeper) that Mr. Brooks is in their garage despite a restraining order and a year of divorce. Mr. Brooks twitches, wipes his hands gingerly on his button-down, and prepares to die.
He remembers that the hospital was that egg-white sheen that glares like it wants to dissect and sanitize and absorb you into the deceivingly placid atmosphere. Jr. Brooks, four years old at the time, bounced past Mr. Brooks and jumped over to the kids section of the waiting room. Mr. Brooks didn’t want to watch his wife giving birth this time. He almost fainted when Jr. came. In fact, Brooks was perfectly content to sit in this little blue waiting room in his little blue chair, far away from the screaming and sweating Mrs. Brooks whose jaw was always clenched and whose dark eyes, though beautiful, were taunting and ready to fight. As a child, Mr. Brooks had learned to give space to women with mad eyes. A portly looking man in white glided over a few hours after Mr. Brooks’ arrival, smiling serenely.
“If you would follow me please, Mr. Brooks.” Brooks and Jr. swiftly follow him up the escalator, past the cafeteria and into Mrs. Brooks’ room, where she holds a bundle with peach- blond hair. Mr. Brooks is at first overjoyed because the baby’s light locks almost seem a miracle.
“Jr., you looked like a monkey when you were born. A monkey! Your black hair stuck out like a little fuzzball, all over the place. Out of control. ” Mr. Brooks gleams and tousles Jr.’s hair. Jr. giggles fiercely and peeks at his new brother.
“Must’ve been a blond gene somewhere in there,” coos Mrs. Brooks as she gazes adoringly at the baby bundle. For a second she tears her glance away from the baby and to Mr. Brooks, and looks uncomfortable because they both know but don’t vocalize the fact that a blond gene is almost impossible. Mr. Brooks has never met a relative without dark brown, curly hair, and Mrs. Brooks comes from a long, traceable line of Native Americans. Mr. Brooks pushes his discomfort to the very back folds of the mind where he can easily and happily forget about genes and probability.
Joel, his infant hands curling and uncurling, looks like an albino.
“Jr.! You’re too close, don’t scare him!” Mrs. Brooks whispers severely and Jr. backs away, looking ashamed. Mr. Brooks stays far from the hospital bed, knowing that he will hold his baby soon enough. He has plenty of time.
Mrs. and Mr. Brooks and Jr. drive home from the hospital with baby Joel. Six years of diaper changing, first steps, minor injuries and thank god no major injuries, Spongebob Squarepants, babbling, endless talking, eating, learning to read, and sleepless nights passed like a snapshot in a collage of yesterdays that want to be remembered. Mr. Brooks conveniently forgets Joel’s blond hair and light eyes and convinces himself (mostly) that somewhere deep within his family history was a blond-headed relative. He lives a comfortable, almost beautiful life with his wife and his children, despite the occasional furtive look or underhanded comment about light hair. Maybe the beauty of these years is only apparent because Mr. Brooks has so little time left. Maybe Mr. Brooks wishes Joel was never born, was never conceived.
On the day that he finds out, Mr. Brooks just returned from the garage. His blackened fingernails scrape in his one-size-too-tight jean pocket to fish out the ringing cellphone. Joel is six and a half years old, and Mr. Brooks lives in an ancient apartment a few towns away from his family.
“You know you haven’t paid child support this month! Why do you do this to me and the kids?! You’re a selfish son-of-a-bitch, I knew it from the beginning. Always thinking about yourself—“
“Now you wait one goddamned minute. When have I ever thought about myself? I’m living in a rat-infested apartment, for Christ’s sake! Where are you? In my house, on my furniture, living off of my money—“
“Your money?! You mean the money that I need to raise my kids! You don’t live with them, you don’t know what in the hell you’re talking about!”
“Your kids? Your kids? Are you that independent now that they’re no longer our kids?” Mr. Brooks’ palms are sweating and the phone slips for an instant and crashes against the cracked white linoleum kitchen floor. He gropes for the phone like a lifeline, wiping angry tears from his eyes that cloud his vision all too often now. It’s a shame he and his ex- wife can’t talk face-to-face anymore, but after she locked him out of his own home and slapped a restraining order on him, the relationship went downhill. She claimed he was a “threat to the children” because of his nightly beer, but Mr. Brooks just drinks as a man after a long day’s work; he needs to unwind. Anyway, the wife always gets custody of the children in a divorce, so the restraining order was just Ex-Mrs. Brooks’ way of laughing in his face. Oh well, it’s not like he can do anything about it anyway. He finally picks up the phone and dials his home number, emotionlessly listening to one ring, two, three…
“Why did you hang up on me?” Ex- Mrs. Brooks breathes furiously.
“The phone slipped—“ a pause.
“I can’t do this anymore. I can’t live like this.” She begins to jaggedly inhale like a dying camel.
“You can’t do what anymore? You have my house, my money, our kids. What more could you need?” Mr. Brooks speaks solemnly and slowly, like a business report.
“I mean, I can’t lie to you. He’s growing up and he’s starting to look less and less like you and I can’t lie anymore.” Ex- Mrs. Brooks rapidly and furiously breathes, quelling her mania. “When he was born, I thought it would be easy to cover it up, pass the hair color off on some distant branch of the family.”
Another pause.
“He’s not yours. He’s not your child.” She sucks in breath like a vacuum, waiting for an explosion. “He’s mine, but he’s not yours.”
The phone clicks off. Mr. Brooks doesn’t remember who hung up. They both saw this coming, but neither wanted to admit it.
Lining the grey-white apartment walls are tidbits of information—post-it note To-Do lists, pictures of Joel as an infant, potential email passwords. Mr. Brooks has spent months (he’s lost track of time) tracing every male correspondent of Mrs. Brooks. He sits at the kitchen table, remnants of last night’s Chinese takeout strewn across piles of notebook papers and pictures. Mr. Brooks rolls an empty bottle of Woodchuck Ale back and forth, back and forth, whistling jumpily and tapping his foot on the cracked linoleum. He re-checks his newest information (days old), looking ashamedly at his covert snapshots of Ex- Mrs. Brooks speaking animatedly in her driveway with a man. Mr. Brooks is tired of being that guy who lets all of the bad things happen to him; he needs to take action.
He’d had to borrow one of the vehicles from the garage in case she recognized the white minivan, but he’s been watching her come and go from the house for quite a while now, and she still hasn’t seen him. And this man in the snapshots he recognizes. Mr. Johnson, the family’s real estate agent. He is blond and thin, a few years older than Ex- Mrs. Brooks but in good enough physical condition to lie about his age and get away with it. He has one of those cheesy billboard smiles that consist of all teeth and no laugh lines. He is despicable, a rogue, a wife-stealing salesman with no morals. Mr. Brooks clenches the Ale so tightly that his knuckles turn white and his veins show bumpy blue against pale skin. Why would she want him? What does he have that Mr. Brooks doesn’t?
In the early evening, Mr. Brooks cruises down Main Street with his minivan window rolled down, checking for the wooden sign with “Johnson and Banhart Real Estate” neatly etched in bold red. There it is, right next to the failing beauty salon and the fire station. Mr. Brooks finds a place to park and walks inside the agency, knowing that Johnson is waving goodbye and getting ready to leave the building. All Mr. Brooks needs is a small talk, an affirmation of his wife’s infidelity, a key to understanding his own faults (why did she choose him?). Brooks corners Johnson just as his hand reaches the door handle.
“Excuse me, Mr. Johnson. You haven’t seen me since you sold us that house on Lewis Lane…no, no. I’m not looking for any real estate advice right now. I need to talk to you.” Mr. Brooks looks at Johnson with a mixture of anxiety and anger, because Johnson looks so composed and Brooks feels like a fluttering heartbeat or a pounding hammer or both.
“Mr. Brooks, it’s a pleasure. And I wondered about the real estate; that house was a real deal and I was sure you wouldn’t be dissatisfied. Let’s take this conversation outside, shall we?”
Mr. Brooks turns a deep shade of scarlet. Less than a few sentences into the conversation and he’s pushing his goddamn real estate agenda. He’s cracked. He slams the door forcefully and faces Mr. Johnson.
“Listen here, Mr. Johnson. I know what you did with my wife. I came here to tell you that if you come near Mrs. Brooks again, there will be consequences.” Mr. Brooks had rehearsed this line all night (he’d never said anything threatening to another person before), and knew that it sounded impressive and powerful. He waited, chest puffed out, for Johnson’s response.
“Mr. Brooks.” Johnson faltered for an instant, but looked squarely at Brooks. “Marty is not your wife. I clearly remember her filing for divorce. She doesn’t belong to you. She can talk to whomever she wants, including myself. You need to step off of this property before I call the police; I hope you understand that a threat is not tolerable. At the rate you’re going, you’ll never see your kids again.”
A pause. Mr. Brooks backs away, retreating to the minivan, knowing that he has lost.
My family. My family. The only family I know. I love them. Why? I spent fifteen years with her.
The night in the dim light of the dance hall she forced him to go to, she spun like a top and he asked to marry her.
My family. Her dad hated me, a blue-collar mechanic holding his middle-class daughter’s hand. Who was I to think she loved me, anyway? I had nothing to offer her.
He handed her the ring, looking bashfully at her clenched jawline, waiting for a smile that never came. Tears escaped her eyes, though, as she nodded her head.
My family. My sons. She was ready for a family, and so was I. They hardly know me now.
Jr. pedaled faster, faster on his bike until Brooks was able to let go and watch as his son gleefully rode down the street. Joel’s chubby fingers were pressed against the window, reaching for his daddy.
My family. My family. Who am I without my family? Nobody. I am a meaningless name. A forgotten face. A dark-haired man in a blond, happy family.
Mr. Brooks doesn’t know how he got to his home. He remembers driving, pulling into the garage, worrying that he would wake up the children, his ex-wife, even though their vehicle is gone and they must be enjoying a pleasant evening out.
The nozzle breathes release, whispering words of solace to Mr. Brooks who is sleeping. The pasty flickering overhead light clicks off, and Mr. Brooks heavily opens his eyes to darkness. For a moment, he sees Mrs. Brooks smiling, Jr. and Joel peeking out from behind her with giggles etched in their eyes. They fade.
His legs, sticky with sweat, are glued to the leather seat but he doesn’t care. The garage is dark and empty save the pasty flickering overhead light that always stays on due to a lightning storm about a year ago. He never got around to fixing it, and had forgotten about it until he came back today for the first time since the divorce. Something seems different about his old house; he feels like a stranger barging in on someone else’s life. It’s dead summer, but Mr. Brooks doesn’t notice because he’s falling asleep and his mind is far from thoughts of late nights and fireflies and cookouts. His minivan’s driver door is cracked open and the glint of a silver nozzle is almost unnoticeable, peeking into the car like an unwanted stranger.
Mr. Brooks dreams of cradling baby Joel in his arms when they first came home from the hospital (it seems like yesterday or an eternity ago), caressing the shock of blond peach fuzz so unlike his own dark brown curls. He dreams of God (hopes, but doubts He is real) sitting in the passenger seat, whispering words of encouragement and strength. He’s never been a religious man, but he yearns for the comfort of life after death. The smell of gasoline and oil permeates the dingy garage, and the hum of the engine lulls Mr. Brooks into a deep slumber. This time last year he was having a cookout with his family. He could still smell the blaze of hot dogs on the grill, Joel’s shampooed hair after a bath. His hands are grimy from his job repairing vehicles, with fingernails that are blackened and have been that way for decades. No headlights illuminate the garage, no friends or loved ones are thinking of Mr. Brooks tonight but are instead clearing the table after a filling dinner and reclining in their leather sofa-seats in preparation for Family Feud, or the Price Is Right. People are probably commenting on the nice weather, talking about vacations they will take and future plans. Inside the house, Mr. Brooks guesses Joel is probably fervently dreaming upstairs while Mrs. Brooks is on the loveseat, quite unaware (she’s always been a deep sleeper) that Mr. Brooks is in their garage despite a restraining order and a year of divorce. Mr. Brooks twitches, wipes his hands gingerly on his button-down, and prepares to die.
He remembers that the hospital was that egg-white sheen that glares like it wants to dissect and sanitize and absorb you into the deceivingly placid atmosphere. Jr. Brooks, four years old at the time, bounced past Mr. Brooks and jumped over to the kids section of the waiting room. Mr. Brooks didn’t want to watch his wife giving birth this time. He almost fainted when Jr. came. In fact, Brooks was perfectly content to sit in this little blue waiting room in his little blue chair, far away from the screaming and sweating Mrs. Brooks whose jaw was always clenched and whose dark eyes, though beautiful, were taunting and ready to fight. As a child, Mr. Brooks had learned to give space to women with mad eyes. A portly looking man in white glided over a few hours after Mr. Brooks’ arrival, smiling serenely.
“If you would follow me please, Mr. Brooks.” Brooks and Jr. swiftly follow him up the escalator, past the cafeteria and into Mrs. Brooks’ room, where she holds a bundle with peach- blond hair. Mr. Brooks is at first overjoyed because the baby’s light locks almost seem a miracle.
“Jr., you looked like a monkey when you were born. A monkey! Your black hair stuck out like a little fuzzball, all over the place. Out of control. ” Mr. Brooks gleams and tousles Jr.’s hair. Jr. giggles fiercely and peeks at his new brother.
“Must’ve been a blond gene somewhere in there,” coos Mrs. Brooks as she gazes adoringly at the baby bundle. For a second she tears her glance away from the baby and to Mr. Brooks, and looks uncomfortable because they both know but don’t vocalize the fact that a blond gene is almost impossible. Mr. Brooks has never met a relative without dark brown, curly hair, and Mrs. Brooks comes from a long, traceable line of Native Americans. Mr. Brooks pushes his discomfort to the very back folds of the mind where he can easily and happily forget about genes and probability.
Joel, his infant hands curling and uncurling, looks like an albino.
“Jr.! You’re too close, don’t scare him!” Mrs. Brooks whispers severely and Jr. backs away, looking ashamed. Mr. Brooks stays far from the hospital bed, knowing that he will hold his baby soon enough. He has plenty of time.
Mrs. and Mr. Brooks and Jr. drive home from the hospital with baby Joel. Six years of diaper changing, first steps, minor injuries and thank god no major injuries, Spongebob Squarepants, babbling, endless talking, eating, learning to read, and sleepless nights passed like a snapshot in a collage of yesterdays that want to be remembered. Mr. Brooks conveniently forgets Joel’s blond hair and light eyes and convinces himself (mostly) that somewhere deep within his family history was a blond-headed relative. He lives a comfortable, almost beautiful life with his wife and his children, despite the occasional furtive look or underhanded comment about light hair. Maybe the beauty of these years is only apparent because Mr. Brooks has so little time left. Maybe Mr. Brooks wishes Joel was never born, was never conceived.
On the day that he finds out, Mr. Brooks just returned from the garage. His blackened fingernails scrape in his one-size-too-tight jean pocket to fish out the ringing cellphone. Joel is six and a half years old, and Mr. Brooks lives in an ancient apartment a few towns away from his family.
“You know you haven’t paid child support this month! Why do you do this to me and the kids?! You’re a selfish son-of-a-bitch, I knew it from the beginning. Always thinking about yourself—“
“Now you wait one goddamned minute. When have I ever thought about myself? I’m living in a rat-infested apartment, for Christ’s sake! Where are you? In my house, on my furniture, living off of my money—“
“Your money?! You mean the money that I need to raise my kids! You don’t live with them, you don’t know what in the hell you’re talking about!”
“Your kids? Your kids? Are you that independent now that they’re no longer our kids?” Mr. Brooks’ palms are sweating and the phone slips for an instant and crashes against the cracked white linoleum kitchen floor. He gropes for the phone like a lifeline, wiping angry tears from his eyes that cloud his vision all too often now. It’s a shame he and his ex- wife can’t talk face-to-face anymore, but after she locked him out of his own home and slapped a restraining order on him, the relationship went downhill. She claimed he was a “threat to the children” because of his nightly beer, but Mr. Brooks just drinks as a man after a long day’s work; he needs to unwind. Anyway, the wife always gets custody of the children in a divorce, so the restraining order was just Ex-Mrs. Brooks’ way of laughing in his face. Oh well, it’s not like he can do anything about it anyway. He finally picks up the phone and dials his home number, emotionlessly listening to one ring, two, three…
“Why did you hang up on me?” Ex- Mrs. Brooks breathes furiously.
“The phone slipped—“ a pause.
“I can’t do this anymore. I can’t live like this.” She begins to jaggedly inhale like a dying camel.
“You can’t do what anymore? You have my house, my money, our kids. What more could you need?” Mr. Brooks speaks solemnly and slowly, like a business report.
“I mean, I can’t lie to you. He’s growing up and he’s starting to look less and less like you and I can’t lie anymore.” Ex- Mrs. Brooks rapidly and furiously breathes, quelling her mania. “When he was born, I thought it would be easy to cover it up, pass the hair color off on some distant branch of the family.”
Another pause.
“He’s not yours. He’s not your child.” She sucks in breath like a vacuum, waiting for an explosion. “He’s mine, but he’s not yours.”
The phone clicks off. Mr. Brooks doesn’t remember who hung up. They both saw this coming, but neither wanted to admit it.
Lining the grey-white apartment walls are tidbits of information—post-it note To-Do lists, pictures of Joel as an infant, potential email passwords. Mr. Brooks has spent months (he’s lost track of time) tracing every male correspondent of Mrs. Brooks. He sits at the kitchen table, remnants of last night’s Chinese takeout strewn across piles of notebook papers and pictures. Mr. Brooks rolls an empty bottle of Woodchuck Ale back and forth, back and forth, whistling jumpily and tapping his foot on the cracked linoleum. He re-checks his newest information (days old), looking ashamedly at his covert snapshots of Ex- Mrs. Brooks speaking animatedly in her driveway with a man. Mr. Brooks is tired of being that guy who lets all of the bad things happen to him; he needs to take action.
He’d had to borrow one of the vehicles from the garage in case she recognized the white minivan, but he’s been watching her come and go from the house for quite a while now, and she still hasn’t seen him. And this man in the snapshots he recognizes. Mr. Johnson, the family’s real estate agent. He is blond and thin, a few years older than Ex- Mrs. Brooks but in good enough physical condition to lie about his age and get away with it. He has one of those cheesy billboard smiles that consist of all teeth and no laugh lines. He is despicable, a rogue, a wife-stealing salesman with no morals. Mr. Brooks clenches the Ale so tightly that his knuckles turn white and his veins show bumpy blue against pale skin. Why would she want him? What does he have that Mr. Brooks doesn’t?
In the early evening, Mr. Brooks cruises down Main Street with his minivan window rolled down, checking for the wooden sign with “Johnson and Banhart Real Estate” neatly etched in bold red. There it is, right next to the failing beauty salon and the fire station. Mr. Brooks finds a place to park and walks inside the agency, knowing that Johnson is waving goodbye and getting ready to leave the building. All Mr. Brooks needs is a small talk, an affirmation of his wife’s infidelity, a key to understanding his own faults (why did she choose him?). Brooks corners Johnson just as his hand reaches the door handle.
“Excuse me, Mr. Johnson. You haven’t seen me since you sold us that house on Lewis Lane…no, no. I’m not looking for any real estate advice right now. I need to talk to you.” Mr. Brooks looks at Johnson with a mixture of anxiety and anger, because Johnson looks so composed and Brooks feels like a fluttering heartbeat or a pounding hammer or both.
“Mr. Brooks, it’s a pleasure. And I wondered about the real estate; that house was a real deal and I was sure you wouldn’t be dissatisfied. Let’s take this conversation outside, shall we?”
Mr. Brooks turns a deep shade of scarlet. Less than a few sentences into the conversation and he’s pushing his goddamn real estate agenda. He’s cracked. He slams the door forcefully and faces Mr. Johnson.
“Listen here, Mr. Johnson. I know what you did with my wife. I came here to tell you that if you come near Mrs. Brooks again, there will be consequences.” Mr. Brooks had rehearsed this line all night (he’d never said anything threatening to another person before), and knew that it sounded impressive and powerful. He waited, chest puffed out, for Johnson’s response.
“Mr. Brooks.” Johnson faltered for an instant, but looked squarely at Brooks. “Marty is not your wife. I clearly remember her filing for divorce. She doesn’t belong to you. She can talk to whomever she wants, including myself. You need to step off of this property before I call the police; I hope you understand that a threat is not tolerable. At the rate you’re going, you’ll never see your kids again.”
A pause. Mr. Brooks backs away, retreating to the minivan, knowing that he has lost.
My family. My family. The only family I know. I love them. Why? I spent fifteen years with her.
The night in the dim light of the dance hall she forced him to go to, she spun like a top and he asked to marry her.
My family. Her dad hated me, a blue-collar mechanic holding his middle-class daughter’s hand. Who was I to think she loved me, anyway? I had nothing to offer her.
He handed her the ring, looking bashfully at her clenched jawline, waiting for a smile that never came. Tears escaped her eyes, though, as she nodded her head.
My family. My sons. She was ready for a family, and so was I. They hardly know me now.
Jr. pedaled faster, faster on his bike until Brooks was able to let go and watch as his son gleefully rode down the street. Joel’s chubby fingers were pressed against the window, reaching for his daddy.
My family. My family. Who am I without my family? Nobody. I am a meaningless name. A forgotten face. A dark-haired man in a blond, happy family.
Mr. Brooks doesn’t know how he got to his home. He remembers driving, pulling into the garage, worrying that he would wake up the children, his ex-wife, even though their vehicle is gone and they must be enjoying a pleasant evening out.
The nozzle breathes release, whispering words of solace to Mr. Brooks who is sleeping. The pasty flickering overhead light clicks off, and Mr. Brooks heavily opens his eyes to darkness. For a moment, he sees Mrs. Brooks smiling, Jr. and Joel peeking out from behind her with giggles etched in their eyes. They fade.
Finished One Act
Here it is...YAY!!
Joy and Sorrow
Chastity- a young girl who thinks she is in love with a man who doesn’t love her back.
Todd- The object of the girl’s affection
Joy- A figure in white, representing joy in life.
Sorrow- A cloaked figure, representing sorrow in life.
Joy and Sorrow are sitting on a bed in a plain, feminine-looking bedroom.
Joy: Really, Sorrow, lighten up a bit!
Sorrow: Easy for you to say, when you can blind the world with just your smile (breaks into sobs).
Joy: Not this again…you know that I can’t help it. Those whitening strips really had
an effect. (laughs)
Sorrow: And all I can do is cry, cry, cry. (snivels)
Joy: Not if you dry your eyes. (holds out a handkerchief)
Sorrow: And then I’d moan and groan and cry some more. I’m pathetic, Joy, really (quietly crying).
Joy: Turn that frown upside-down! She’s coming soon and you want to make a good impression.
Sorrow: Do I really? She’ll just be looking for melancholy company, anyway. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Let her take another swig from the self-loathing bottle?
Joy: Well I’m going to make a good impression, anyway. How’s my dress?
Sorrow: Pristine, as always (snivels).
Joy: How’s my hair?
Sorrow: Sparkling with the light of a thousand suns, nothing new (begins to cry).
Joy: My smile? (Smiles widely)
Sorrow: (sobbing) You’re perfect, perfect!! I’ll never even come close. She’s going to think I’m despicable, I know it.
Joy: Don’t say that, Sorrow. Chastity has no idea what to think right now.
Sorrow: O woe is me! Once she sees you, she’ll know what to think.
Joy: We both know that this is an important time for her, and it’s our job to stay in this together, all right? We’re the Blues Brothers, on a mission from God! We’re the perfect balance, can’t have one without the other! Right? Am I right? (laughs heartily)
Sorrow: If you say so. It’s just that, every other time we’ve come she always picks you. And then I have to face the pain of rejection, again and again. It’s almost too much; I want her all to myself, sometimes.
Joy: Remember when her daddy died when she was ten? You had her for a good two years, and I only got to come around during the holidays.
Sorrow: Of course I remember. She looked good in mourning. Like a little heartbroken angel.
Joy: Well she’s eighteen now. Not so little anymore! (laughs)
Sorrow: No, not so little. And in love! (spits out the word, and begins to cry again)
Joy: Yes, in love! (laughs, gets up and skips around the room) Isn’t it marvelous?
Sorrow: Love, marvelous? Love? Love is the reason so many of these humans turn away from you and come to me.
Joy: (stops mid-skip) …Oh, you’re right. (shrugs and smiles) But it’s worth it, just to feel love for a second! To get those butterflies in your stomach, to never want to leave his arms, to look at him and see your world reflected in his eyes! It’s the most beautiful feeling in the world!
Sorrow: (muttering) Easy for you to say, you don’t see them when they’ve fallen, when they’re begging me to take the pain away, when they start to realize that he took a part of them when he left, and that he’s never coming back. You don’t see them when love tears them apart.
(from offstage you can hear giggling and talking)
Joy: They’re here!
Sorrow: Oh, blessed day, the two doomed lovers have arrived.
(enter Chastity and Todd, holding hands, Chastity is gazing at Todd adoringly. They cannot see or hear Joy and Sorrow)
Chastity: Can you imagine? Six months today. Todd, I had such a wonderful time with you this evening.
Todd: Well, yeah, me too Chastity. But I really need to talk to you.
Chastity: Wait just a second! I have a surprise. Close your eyes, now.
(Todd closes his eyes and Chastity quickly runs to the bed, lifts up her pillow, and picks up a shell necklace. She comes over to Todd)
Chastity: Okay, open your eyes! (Todd opens them and Chastity holds out the necklace) It’s my dad’s old shell necklace; he was always superstitious. He’d wear this when he was in the hospital; he thought it would protect him from the cancer.
Todd: Chastity, I can’t take this.
Chastity: Todd, I love you.
Sorrow: Oh, no.
Joy: Oh, yes!
(pause)
Todd: Chastity…I just can’t take it. I’m sorry.
Chastity: But I want you to have it, Todd. I’m in love with you. You make me laugh, and smile…you make me happy! I know it’s only been six months, but I’ve never been happier in my life!
Joy: See, Sorrow, this is why I love love!
Todd: How do I say this? (pause) I had a good time with you, Chastity. But I’m not ready for this. I mean, I’m not ready for a commitment. We’re only eighteen. You’ll be going off to a college that’s halfway across the country. I’ll be here.
Chastity: (almost pleading) We’ve talked about this, Todd. We can make it work.
Todd: No, we can’t. It won’t work. I’ve kept this together for too long, and we won’t work anymore. I have to go now, Chastity.
Sorrow: See, Joy, this is why I despise love.
Chastity: (clutching the necklace, looking at Todd’s retreating figure) No, no, no. (Sits on the bed with head in hands and begins to cry)
Joy: Cheer up, buttercup!
Sorrow: Joy, this is no time to give your little motivational speeches! Can’t you tell she’s heartbroken?
Joy: Chastity, think about it! Remember the moments you shared together!
Chastity: (looking up) Todd always took me to the park, and we’d walk for hours until the moon came out and we could see the stars. And our first date…
Joy: He took you ice-skating and you held hands,
Chastity: but I told him it didn’t count because we were both wearing gloves.
Sorrow: Don’t encourage her, Joy. Chastity, think about the first big fight.
Chastity: He never wanted to lose an argument. I told him that I believed in God. He wasn’t very religious.
Sorrow: And so he told you that your God was fake. Remember?
Joy: But he apologized! And you only got closer after that. It’s about embracing differences, about loving against the odds! Wasn’t that first kiss magical?
Chastity: He was too shy to just kiss me, so he asked first. I took him to visit my dad’s grave; it wasn’t very romantic, but it was important to me.
Joy: And his lips erased Sorrow from your mind.
Sorrow: But I came back, Joy. I always come back. Chastity, don’t forget the time you caught him cheating.
Chastity: Well, he wasn’t really cheating, but he started talking to Sarah. And they kissed. He told me they kissed.
Sorrow: That’s what love gives you. Jealousy. Betrayal.
Joy: But it also gives you thousands of moments of pure bliss!
Sorrow: Do you really think the Joy can take away the Sorrow? Do you really think the good times can take away the bad?
Chastity: I was lost without Daddy. He was gone, no matter how much fun we had together. And now Todd is gone, too. (gets up from the bed, and throws the shell necklace across the room)
Sorrow: And it’s only so long before everything you love leaves you.
Joy: But to live and to love, that’s all that matters! It makes no difference if you lose everything; you still have the memories!
Chastity: But he’s gone, he’s gone. They’re all gone. What do I have now? My memories? That’s a joke. (laughs bitterly)
Joy: Chastity, that’s not how you should be laughing.
Chastity: Six months, wasted.
Sorrow: Love isn’t real.
Joy: Love is everything!
Chastity: What was I thinking? That he loved me back? Who could love me?
Sorrow: I could love you, Chastity.
Joy: I do love you, Chastity!
Chastity: I am unlovable. (goes over to pick up the shell necklace and acts as though she’s going to break it)
Sorrow: I could love you, I could love you. Come to me. (Sorrow reaches out to Chastity and holds her in his arms. Chastity begins to sob)
Joy: She can’t be yours forever, Sorrow. Eventually she’ll come back to me. She’s just thinking irrationally right now. (Joy reaches out to touch Chastity’s hair, picks up the shell necklace and walks out of the room)
Sorrow: No more Joy. Nothing left to live for. Chastity, I can’t see you hurt again. I don’t want to see you crying anymore. Joy can’t know how much it hurts, to only be with you in the worst times. To never see you laugh, to never see you smile. I don’t want you to hurt anymore. I want to take the pain away. I want to bathe you in Sorrow until you can’t feel anything.
Chastity: I don’t want to hurt anymore. (Chastity lays down on the bed and Sorrow picks up a pillow)
Sorrow: I want you forever. Forget about Joy. The pain will only last for a minute longer. You can sleep in your memories.
(Sorrow smothers the girl with her pillow; fade to black)
Joy and Sorrow
Chastity- a young girl who thinks she is in love with a man who doesn’t love her back.
Todd- The object of the girl’s affection
Joy- A figure in white, representing joy in life.
Sorrow- A cloaked figure, representing sorrow in life.
Joy and Sorrow are sitting on a bed in a plain, feminine-looking bedroom.
Joy: Really, Sorrow, lighten up a bit!
Sorrow: Easy for you to say, when you can blind the world with just your smile (breaks into sobs).
Joy: Not this again…you know that I can’t help it. Those whitening strips really had
an effect. (laughs)
Sorrow: And all I can do is cry, cry, cry. (snivels)
Joy: Not if you dry your eyes. (holds out a handkerchief)
Sorrow: And then I’d moan and groan and cry some more. I’m pathetic, Joy, really (quietly crying).
Joy: Turn that frown upside-down! She’s coming soon and you want to make a good impression.
Sorrow: Do I really? She’ll just be looking for melancholy company, anyway. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Let her take another swig from the self-loathing bottle?
Joy: Well I’m going to make a good impression, anyway. How’s my dress?
Sorrow: Pristine, as always (snivels).
Joy: How’s my hair?
Sorrow: Sparkling with the light of a thousand suns, nothing new (begins to cry).
Joy: My smile? (Smiles widely)
Sorrow: (sobbing) You’re perfect, perfect!! I’ll never even come close. She’s going to think I’m despicable, I know it.
Joy: Don’t say that, Sorrow. Chastity has no idea what to think right now.
Sorrow: O woe is me! Once she sees you, she’ll know what to think.
Joy: We both know that this is an important time for her, and it’s our job to stay in this together, all right? We’re the Blues Brothers, on a mission from God! We’re the perfect balance, can’t have one without the other! Right? Am I right? (laughs heartily)
Sorrow: If you say so. It’s just that, every other time we’ve come she always picks you. And then I have to face the pain of rejection, again and again. It’s almost too much; I want her all to myself, sometimes.
Joy: Remember when her daddy died when she was ten? You had her for a good two years, and I only got to come around during the holidays.
Sorrow: Of course I remember. She looked good in mourning. Like a little heartbroken angel.
Joy: Well she’s eighteen now. Not so little anymore! (laughs)
Sorrow: No, not so little. And in love! (spits out the word, and begins to cry again)
Joy: Yes, in love! (laughs, gets up and skips around the room) Isn’t it marvelous?
Sorrow: Love, marvelous? Love? Love is the reason so many of these humans turn away from you and come to me.
Joy: (stops mid-skip) …Oh, you’re right. (shrugs and smiles) But it’s worth it, just to feel love for a second! To get those butterflies in your stomach, to never want to leave his arms, to look at him and see your world reflected in his eyes! It’s the most beautiful feeling in the world!
Sorrow: (muttering) Easy for you to say, you don’t see them when they’ve fallen, when they’re begging me to take the pain away, when they start to realize that he took a part of them when he left, and that he’s never coming back. You don’t see them when love tears them apart.
(from offstage you can hear giggling and talking)
Joy: They’re here!
Sorrow: Oh, blessed day, the two doomed lovers have arrived.
(enter Chastity and Todd, holding hands, Chastity is gazing at Todd adoringly. They cannot see or hear Joy and Sorrow)
Chastity: Can you imagine? Six months today. Todd, I had such a wonderful time with you this evening.
Todd: Well, yeah, me too Chastity. But I really need to talk to you.
Chastity: Wait just a second! I have a surprise. Close your eyes, now.
(Todd closes his eyes and Chastity quickly runs to the bed, lifts up her pillow, and picks up a shell necklace. She comes over to Todd)
Chastity: Okay, open your eyes! (Todd opens them and Chastity holds out the necklace) It’s my dad’s old shell necklace; he was always superstitious. He’d wear this when he was in the hospital; he thought it would protect him from the cancer.
Todd: Chastity, I can’t take this.
Chastity: Todd, I love you.
Sorrow: Oh, no.
Joy: Oh, yes!
(pause)
Todd: Chastity…I just can’t take it. I’m sorry.
Chastity: But I want you to have it, Todd. I’m in love with you. You make me laugh, and smile…you make me happy! I know it’s only been six months, but I’ve never been happier in my life!
Joy: See, Sorrow, this is why I love love!
Todd: How do I say this? (pause) I had a good time with you, Chastity. But I’m not ready for this. I mean, I’m not ready for a commitment. We’re only eighteen. You’ll be going off to a college that’s halfway across the country. I’ll be here.
Chastity: (almost pleading) We’ve talked about this, Todd. We can make it work.
Todd: No, we can’t. It won’t work. I’ve kept this together for too long, and we won’t work anymore. I have to go now, Chastity.
Sorrow: See, Joy, this is why I despise love.
Chastity: (clutching the necklace, looking at Todd’s retreating figure) No, no, no. (Sits on the bed with head in hands and begins to cry)
Joy: Cheer up, buttercup!
Sorrow: Joy, this is no time to give your little motivational speeches! Can’t you tell she’s heartbroken?
Joy: Chastity, think about it! Remember the moments you shared together!
Chastity: (looking up) Todd always took me to the park, and we’d walk for hours until the moon came out and we could see the stars. And our first date…
Joy: He took you ice-skating and you held hands,
Chastity: but I told him it didn’t count because we were both wearing gloves.
Sorrow: Don’t encourage her, Joy. Chastity, think about the first big fight.
Chastity: He never wanted to lose an argument. I told him that I believed in God. He wasn’t very religious.
Sorrow: And so he told you that your God was fake. Remember?
Joy: But he apologized! And you only got closer after that. It’s about embracing differences, about loving against the odds! Wasn’t that first kiss magical?
Chastity: He was too shy to just kiss me, so he asked first. I took him to visit my dad’s grave; it wasn’t very romantic, but it was important to me.
Joy: And his lips erased Sorrow from your mind.
Sorrow: But I came back, Joy. I always come back. Chastity, don’t forget the time you caught him cheating.
Chastity: Well, he wasn’t really cheating, but he started talking to Sarah. And they kissed. He told me they kissed.
Sorrow: That’s what love gives you. Jealousy. Betrayal.
Joy: But it also gives you thousands of moments of pure bliss!
Sorrow: Do you really think the Joy can take away the Sorrow? Do you really think the good times can take away the bad?
Chastity: I was lost without Daddy. He was gone, no matter how much fun we had together. And now Todd is gone, too. (gets up from the bed, and throws the shell necklace across the room)
Sorrow: And it’s only so long before everything you love leaves you.
Joy: But to live and to love, that’s all that matters! It makes no difference if you lose everything; you still have the memories!
Chastity: But he’s gone, he’s gone. They’re all gone. What do I have now? My memories? That’s a joke. (laughs bitterly)
Joy: Chastity, that’s not how you should be laughing.
Chastity: Six months, wasted.
Sorrow: Love isn’t real.
Joy: Love is everything!
Chastity: What was I thinking? That he loved me back? Who could love me?
Sorrow: I could love you, Chastity.
Joy: I do love you, Chastity!
Chastity: I am unlovable. (goes over to pick up the shell necklace and acts as though she’s going to break it)
Sorrow: I could love you, I could love you. Come to me. (Sorrow reaches out to Chastity and holds her in his arms. Chastity begins to sob)
Joy: She can’t be yours forever, Sorrow. Eventually she’ll come back to me. She’s just thinking irrationally right now. (Joy reaches out to touch Chastity’s hair, picks up the shell necklace and walks out of the room)
Sorrow: No more Joy. Nothing left to live for. Chastity, I can’t see you hurt again. I don’t want to see you crying anymore. Joy can’t know how much it hurts, to only be with you in the worst times. To never see you laugh, to never see you smile. I don’t want you to hurt anymore. I want to take the pain away. I want to bathe you in Sorrow until you can’t feel anything.
Chastity: I don’t want to hurt anymore. (Chastity lays down on the bed and Sorrow picks up a pillow)
Sorrow: I want you forever. Forget about Joy. The pain will only last for a minute longer. You can sleep in your memories.
(Sorrow smothers the girl with her pillow; fade to black)
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
NEW One Act
So I decided that I really don't like my old One Act. It was time to make a new one :)
Here's the beginning...what I have done so far. This is the first movement...I'll have two more and I'll post them as soon as I finish :)
Chastity- a young girl who thinks she is in love with a man who doesn’t love her back.
Todd- The object of the girl’s affection
Joy- A figure in white, representing joy in life.
Sorrow- A cloaked figure, representing sorrow in life.
Joy and Sorrow are sitting on a bed in a plain, feminine-looking bedroom.
Joy: Really, Sorrow, lighten up a bit!
Sorrow: Easy for you to say, when you can blind the world with just your smile (breaks into sobs).
Joy: Not this again…you know that I can’t help it. Those whitening strips really had
an effect. (laughs)
Sorrow: And all I can do is cry, cry, cry. (snivels)
Joy: Not if you dry your eyes. (holds out a handkerchief)
Sorrow: And then I’d moan and groan and cry some more. I’m pathetic, Joy, really (quietly crying).
Joy: Turn that frown upside-down! She’s coming soon and you want to make a good impression.
Sorrow: Do I really? She’ll just be looking for melancholy company, anyway. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Let her take another swig from the self-loathing bottle?
Joy: Well I’m going to make a good impression, anyway. How’s my dress?
Sorrow: Pristine, as always (snivels).
Joy: How’s my hair?
Sorrow: Sparkling with the light of a thousand suns, nothing new (begins to cry).
Joy: My smile? (Smiles widely)
Sorrow: (sobbing) You’re perfect, perfect!! I’ll never even come close. She’s going to think I’m despicable, I know it.
Joy: Don’t say that, Sorrow. Chastity has no idea what to think right now.
Sorrow: O woe is me! Once she sees you, she’ll know what to think.
Joy: We both know that this is an important time for her, and it’s our job to stay in this together, all right? We’re the Blues Brothers, on a mission from God! We’re the perfect balance, can’t have one without the other! Right? Am I right? (laughs heartily)
Sorrow: If you say so. It’s just that, every other time we’ve come she always picks you. And then I have to face the pain of rejection, again and again. It’s almost too much; I want her all to myself, sometimes.
Joy: Remember when her daddy died when she was ten? You had her for a good two years, and I only got to come around during the holidays.
Sorrow: Of course I remember. She looked good in mourning. Like a little heartbroken angel.
Joy: Well she’s eighteen now. Not so little anymore! (laughs)
Sorrow: No, not so little. And in love! (spits out the word, and begins to cry again)
Joy: Yes, in love! (laughs, gets up and skips around the room) Isn’t it marvelous?
Sorrow: Love, marvelous? Love? Love is the reason so many of these humans turn away from you and come to me.
Joy: (stops mid-skip) …Oh, you’re right. (shrugs and smiles) But it’s worth it, just to feel love for a second! To get those butterflies in your stomach, to never want to leave his arms, to look at him and see your world reflected in his eyes! It’s the most beautiful feeling in the world!
Sorrow: (muttering) Easy for you to say, you don’t see them when they’ve fallen, when they’re begging me to take the pain away, when they start to realize that he took a part of them when he left, and that he’s never coming back. You don’t see them when love tears them apart.
Here's the beginning...what I have done so far. This is the first movement...I'll have two more and I'll post them as soon as I finish :)
Chastity- a young girl who thinks she is in love with a man who doesn’t love her back.
Todd- The object of the girl’s affection
Joy- A figure in white, representing joy in life.
Sorrow- A cloaked figure, representing sorrow in life.
Joy and Sorrow are sitting on a bed in a plain, feminine-looking bedroom.
Joy: Really, Sorrow, lighten up a bit!
Sorrow: Easy for you to say, when you can blind the world with just your smile (breaks into sobs).
Joy: Not this again…you know that I can’t help it. Those whitening strips really had
an effect. (laughs)
Sorrow: And all I can do is cry, cry, cry. (snivels)
Joy: Not if you dry your eyes. (holds out a handkerchief)
Sorrow: And then I’d moan and groan and cry some more. I’m pathetic, Joy, really (quietly crying).
Joy: Turn that frown upside-down! She’s coming soon and you want to make a good impression.
Sorrow: Do I really? She’ll just be looking for melancholy company, anyway. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it? Let her take another swig from the self-loathing bottle?
Joy: Well I’m going to make a good impression, anyway. How’s my dress?
Sorrow: Pristine, as always (snivels).
Joy: How’s my hair?
Sorrow: Sparkling with the light of a thousand suns, nothing new (begins to cry).
Joy: My smile? (Smiles widely)
Sorrow: (sobbing) You’re perfect, perfect!! I’ll never even come close. She’s going to think I’m despicable, I know it.
Joy: Don’t say that, Sorrow. Chastity has no idea what to think right now.
Sorrow: O woe is me! Once she sees you, she’ll know what to think.
Joy: We both know that this is an important time for her, and it’s our job to stay in this together, all right? We’re the Blues Brothers, on a mission from God! We’re the perfect balance, can’t have one without the other! Right? Am I right? (laughs heartily)
Sorrow: If you say so. It’s just that, every other time we’ve come she always picks you. And then I have to face the pain of rejection, again and again. It’s almost too much; I want her all to myself, sometimes.
Joy: Remember when her daddy died when she was ten? You had her for a good two years, and I only got to come around during the holidays.
Sorrow: Of course I remember. She looked good in mourning. Like a little heartbroken angel.
Joy: Well she’s eighteen now. Not so little anymore! (laughs)
Sorrow: No, not so little. And in love! (spits out the word, and begins to cry again)
Joy: Yes, in love! (laughs, gets up and skips around the room) Isn’t it marvelous?
Sorrow: Love, marvelous? Love? Love is the reason so many of these humans turn away from you and come to me.
Joy: (stops mid-skip) …Oh, you’re right. (shrugs and smiles) But it’s worth it, just to feel love for a second! To get those butterflies in your stomach, to never want to leave his arms, to look at him and see your world reflected in his eyes! It’s the most beautiful feeling in the world!
Sorrow: (muttering) Easy for you to say, you don’t see them when they’ve fallen, when they’re begging me to take the pain away, when they start to realize that he took a part of them when he left, and that he’s never coming back. You don’t see them when love tears them apart.
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