mea culpa: a monologue

Today I think this postcolonial stuff, subaltern studies and all, is just splitting hairs to the nth degree. Tomorrow I may think differently, who knows? But today, post-structuralism is a pain is a method for madness. And it's a way to cope with guilt. There is no way to write ourselves out of guilt but we write anyway because that's all we can do. Must....attempt...communicate, share your guilt or die. All the arguments I've read say the same thing in different ways, without even recognizing that that is what they say. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

My existence renders me personally responsible for how I react to genocide, to persecution and discrimination. I am complicit because I am related to you, dearly departed oppressed and voiceless one. I can talk about you. I can write about you. I can even conjure you up and talk to you in my imagination, my books, my academic arguments. But I cannot rescue or re-create you. I cannot relate to you. You cannot tell me when I'm wrong about you. It's like talking behind your back, you know. You died. I survive and must carry your memory on my back like a tortoise carries its home. And honour it in some way, although you are no longer around to perceive that honour and when I honour it of course I'm just honouring myself by showing everyone what a great person I am, loving your ashes so. You're my shell. Remembering you, or at least pretending to, protects me from guilt, you know? Since we can't talk to each other, I have to find a way for your absence to complete me. I'm sorry, man, it's the best I can do. You died. I have to survive.

So that's it, huh? Not going to rise from the ashes and kick me or anything? No? Tomorrow, maybe.

Two Monologues

Stephanie (in rapidfire speech)

Well I wake up at five a.m, it takes twenty crunches and pushups and then I’m off on my morning jog. Those are my mornings usually but I guess you don’t want to know about them (breaks into embarrassed laughter). (hops up and down, as if ready to take off on a sprint). Say, do you want to go for a run? Really, like right now, nothing like exercise to lift the spirits and create a youthful glow, you know?

Everyone asks me “Stephanie you’re practically ageless, however do you manage it?” The girls at the office, they ask me for tips. I mean it’s so simple I wonder why they’re such airheads, they can’t do it themselves: don’t smoke, don’t drink, sleep early, no transfats, low sugar soya milk always—and this rule you can never break—no fastfood. The fat is in the fries, my dears, it’s all in the fries.

Stephanie paces up and down. She seems to have run out of things to say.

Everyone tells me I look great. “You’re looking fit, Steph!” “Steffi so hot!” “Steffi ni de shen zai hao.” Practically everyone, really. Everyone except Ted of course, but who cares about him, right? (disingenuous laughter) I could walk down the corridor in four-inch heels (not that I do, because the elevated posture damages the nerves and knees) and a miniskirt and he would still have that stupid stupid grin, or he…he’d just be humming to himself and seem to be stargazing when he’s only staring at the lights in the ceiling.

Exit.

Enter Theodore Lee. He is in a labcoat and hums the opening of Vivaldi’s Spring as he enters, walking as described by Stephanie. He performs dental procedures on a patient (imaginary figure)

Theodore

Nothing like a bit of Spring to put a spring in your step (chuckles to himself). (motions to his patient) Oh no, just a private joke. Are you ready?

Theodore turns around and switches on the CD player. Soothing classical music plays in the background. He then puts a mask on the patient.

Du calme, du calme. (pulls on gloves) Ah, alone at last. And in peace. No squirming, squealing child, nothing but the dulcet strains of…(short pause to take in the music)—Bach’s final symphony.

(as he operates on the patient) Dolce…dolce…pianissimo…crescendo…crescendo…forte!...pianoforte! (pulls a tooth out).

****not really the end****

THIS IS DEMOCRACY IN MALAYSIA

This is for the playwriting module I am taking. I decided to be brave and put it up. Not like anyone reads this blog anyway, it's been dead for ages. I wrote it because I wanted us to be able to laugh at ourselves for a bit. For a little context, searching youtube for "Malaysia protest" and "lingam" would provide ample info.

A street in KL, with a five-foot way and the wall of a building as backdrop.

Enter RAVI and ABDUL, from opposite sides. ABDUL hurries in holding a cardboard sign, printed with the words BERSIH, Pilihanraya Bersih (or something to that effect). RAVI has a cloth banner with the words We Want Freedom, Justice And Equality painted on it. They appear to be pushing their way through a crowd, until both reach the centre and seem to get stuck.

Ravi Are we near the Istana or not?

Abdul We are marching to Parliament today. Istana was last week.

Ravi This demonstration business is so confusing. Last time we can just complain at the kopitiam and finish, back to work. Now my wife is telling me, Ravi, you better go march. Shankar is going, Dil is going, even Moorthy-tata is going and he is 70 years old. And I say, what if the ISA comes? All this marching just to give pieces of paper to the King and to the PM—nobody reads it anyway. For sure the secretary files it away and it gets lost. Everything gets lost in the government.

(ABDUL has lost interest by now and looks about eagerly for the action to start)

People get lost. Bodies also get lost. One night it’s business as usual, then they knock on your door and off you go. People here are one day Hindu, one day Buddhist, then after they die they are miraculously Muslim. You know what she answered me? She said, “not to worry. My husband is so useless the ISA don’t want him. He is so irreligious nobody wants to claim he is Muslim. I also don’t want to claim you are Hindu.” And I said wh—

Abdul Shh. They’re starting. Look there, got camera near us. Bersih! We want clean elections! Bersih! We want clean elections!

Ravi (clears throat and holds up his cloth) I am here to demand equal rights for Indians. For too long we have been marginalized and forgotten. The government must give us back our schools; the government must take care of all poor people, doesn’t matter whether they are Indian, Chinese or Malay.

Abdul Oh wrong wrong wrong. We are here to give the Secretary of Parliament the memorandum for clean elections and appointment of judges. Your protest for Indian rights, see, in the schedule is next week. We’re supposed to stagger it so the government doesn’t get confused.

Ravi Hah? But I practiced the speech so many times for the camera. (looking around) No wonder so few people here are Indian. No wonder you are not Indian.

Abdul Are you crazy? If it is Indian rights protest then it is Indian protest. What for I join?

A police siren sounds. The two scramble for the only hiding place on stage, a narrow niche in the wall of the building.

Ravi Eh!

Abdul Eh!

Ravi Eh! Eh! Eh!

With a definite push, ABDUL gains the place. RAVI falls backwards.

Abdul Heargh!

RAVI gesticulates madly at the wall. He looks like he is talking to the wall.

Ravi Eeeeh! (standing up immediately) Not enough you destroy our temples. Now must take our hiding place also.

Abdul (offstage) Not me destroy your temples.

Ravi I ask, what is wrong with you? What is wrong with this country?

The siren is louder now.

Abdul (offstage) Nothing is wrong. Shut up. Go away. Stop talking to me.

Ravi Police car police car!

RAVI dances about in agitation then jams himself into the space. The two of them emerge looking very uncomfortable after the siren has passed. RAVI has ABDUL’s sign while ABDUL has gotten hold of RAVI’s banner. ABDUL walks to the side and checks out the area offstage.

Abdul They already arrested some of the bigshots, but nevermind. We are like cacing. Cut off the head the body still wriggles. In the end, cannot arrest everyone. It’s like that in Indonesia. How many people you put in the lori, the same number is still on the street. Come, brother. Let’s go.

Ravi I am not saying we are friend or anything, err…what’s your name?

Abdul Abdul

Ravi Right. I’m not saying we are friends, Abdul. The government doesn’t treat us like friends. And that is Indonesia. Here is Malaysia. I’m going home. I don’t want to get arrested.

Abdul Don’t need to be scared. If we are arrested, at the trial just say you forgot. It always works.

Ravi I forgot? I forgot what?

Abdul If they ask you what you were doing on this day, say you forgot. Say maybe you went out to buy something, you can’t remember what, and somehow there were a lot of people around. It’s the simplest and easiest defence. You see it in the courts all the time. Also since you are not Muslim you can say maybe you were drunk.

Ravi But I’m on camera. The camera saw me.

ABDUL whips out a notebook and flips through it.

Abdul Ah that one is difficult. Let me see. Cameras are very tricky. Yes, this is the second level of defense. Just say that person looks like me and sounds like me, but it may or may not be me.

Ravi Hmmm…Are you a lawyer?

Abdul No. Just a clerk in the court. But I always take note of a good defense. This one slipped right through the judges.

A tear gas canister falls close to them.

Ravi Bomb! I don’t want to die! (grabbing hold of ABDUL.) I’m not Muslim. Remember I’m not Muslim!

ABDUL calmly picks up the canister and throws it back. Smoke begins to drift in.

Abdul Relax. It is tear gas only. But we have to get out. After tear gas is always the water hose. Then is the Al-Jazeera man running away. So when we see him running we know it’s bad. Then we should get out.

The AL-JAZEERA MAN runs across stage, emerging from the smoked-out side, followed by his CAMERAMAN, and reporting to the camera. The one distinct line he must say as he crosses the middle of the stage is “this is democracy in Malaysia.”

END.