Bridges

Bridges

The Eighth Bridge

Velirious vindications that we receive, a star-struck eternal monologue.

Where, do we call out? When, do we call out? Who, do we call out?

Being one with the environment helps greatly. In a way, it helps disperse the laughter burning our insides. It's burning out like kerosene, fire that has no end and knows no mercy. Truly, laughter is a greatest virtue and a horror beyond belief. What comes with it, though? The happiness that we seek - what do we sow from it?

What good in sharing with the others if we lack it ourselves? The solitude of self - this, here, what we should focus on. Render unto Caesar? Don't give a damn about Caesar, don't give a damn about the prince and the pauper and whatever. Why should I? Who - tell me - invented altruism, this need of ours? If we seek it, this longing is natural. Sure, sure thing. It is. But, overcoming it, don't we take a step above nature?

But not just ourselves, of course. Family. Close friends. We care about them. We must care about them. It is a personal choice with no variations, affirmative.

But who the hell is Octavia Philarmonica?

Friend?

Enemy?

What relation does she hold to me and why, tell me why, why would I why should I cling to her like this? Better even, why should I depend on her?

And if I do, is that not a sweet bath of solar sunshine? Do I reek of it like a swine or do I become better for it. This, here, is the question.

And hell knows if it's a question of love. Or trust. When we make a promise - out of fear - can we break it? Must we break it, even, given that a promise out of fear will not set a church, will not plant the seeds, will not set a religion or a God, and will not, will not, will not, bring true love? We reap what we sow, but we also sow what we reap.

Act II

Cast:

Vinyl Scratch, a mentally unstable, alcoholic rapist

Octavia Philarmonica, her marefriend and fiancee

The Director

The Scriptwriter

The Priest

The producer

(The curtain rises to reveal a crowded stage, with actors revising their roles and the crew trotting about hecticly. The main stars, Octavia Philarmonica and Vinyl Scratch, are engaged in a heated make-out session on stage. The Director is running about, shouting at the crew to move faster. The Scriptwriter is rolling on the floor, flailing his hooves wildly. The producer is enjoying a cigar in his chair.)

Octavia Philarmonica:

Mffffmmmmmh~

Vinyl Scratch:

Mmmmmmmmffmm~

The Director:

Move that ladder to the edge!

The Scriptwriter:

I've written a terrible play. (Cries) I've written a terrible play and my actors are terrible.

The producer:

Sceebidi-wop. Sceebedi-daaaa.

Octavia Philarmonica:

Mmmmmmmaaaah~

Vinyl Scratch:

You like it, don't you? You want me to fuck your little cunt right here on the stage?

Octavia Philarmonica:

Oh yes!

The producer:

Rattadattadaa. (Taps hoof against the floor.) Skippy-dippy-bop. Dattadadaaa.

The Director:

Vinyl, Octavia! Please, can we begin?

Octavia Philarmonica:

Vinyl, please, we need to rehearse.

Vinyl Scratch:

We need to have sex.

The producer:

Dittimaa. Wabba-dubba-rap-taptap.

The Scriptwriter:

I'm scared. I never wrote this. I don't know. I don't believe. I don't know.

The producer:

Skibbidy-bop! Skibbidy-da!

The Director:

Come on! Act Two!

(The crew leaves the stage. The Priest takes the stage stately. Vinyl Scratch wanders off the stage.)

The Priest:

Are you ready, my dear?

Octavia Philarmonica:

Yes, Father.

The Priest:

Marriage is a sacred pact.

Octavia Philarmonica:

Yes, Father.

The Priest:

Do you know the right words?

Octavia Philarmonica:

Yes, Father.

The producer:

Tkkataa. Scttsctt-taa.

The Scriptwriter:

It's a horrible play. I'm a horrible author.

Vinyl Scratch (entering the stage and looking around):

Celia? Celia? Where are you? (Sees Octavia Philarmonica)

Oh, Celia! Who is this lovely bride,

That all her swains commend her?

Octavia Philarmonica (blushes):

I'm but your mare, my dear,

Be not confused.

Vinyl Scratch (grabs Octavia Philarmonica by the waist):

Oh, life! The rains of lust

Have stricken me and broke my heart.

Tell me, oh Celia, will you be mine forever

Or will you turn me down and play your part?

The Priest:

...In sickness and health etc etc...

The Scriptwriter:

Look! That's modernism for you! Good, right? It can be good! Please?

The producer:

Stampy-dampy-daa. Hmph. Hmph. Tada-tta-tta!

Octavia Philarmonica:

I do! I do! I do!

Vinyl Scratch:

Oh, lovely day! I do!

Vinyl Scratch and Octavia Philarmonica kiss and take their bows. The Priest takes a bow. Curtain.

The Director:

So? (Looking at the producer in fear) How was it? What do you think about it?

The Scriptwriter:

Just tell me what to change and I will change it! (Crawls towards the producer) Tell me!

The producer:

Skibbidy-bop skibbidy-bop skibbidy-daa.

The curtain falls.

***

The farce is the history repeating itself twofold, the vacuum hole that sucks in everything holy but not what we hold dear and we are thankful indeed but we also take it for granted the way it goes and went and will go and vent and the sheer practicality of life scares us but we remind ourselves that it is not largely true finding what is true is may be important maybe but the importance of the mundane is what we know and what we really seek all holes and vacuums be damned and so they shall be.

Vinyl Scratch opened her eyes, Octavia's fur tickling her nose, itching away all fear and insecurity. But that feeling - that feeling of having forgotten something important THE TALK. Vinyl rolled over, shutting her eyes against the thoughts. Octavia stirred. "Vinyl?" She yawned sleepily.

Vinyl winced. Here it comes.

(A spacious bedroom. The curtains are shut, and the light barely gets through. Furniture stands majestically, gazing sternly upon the actors, Octavia Philarmonica and Vinyl Scratch.)

Vinyl Scratch:

Good morning, Octavia.

Octavia Philarmonica:

Good morning, Vinyl.

Vinyl Scratch:

Want some breakfast?

Octavia Philarmonica:

No. No I don't.

Vinyl Scratch:

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Octavia Philarmonica:

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Octavia Philarmonica:

...Vinyl, you tried to kill yourself.

Vinyl Scratch:

...I know.

Octavia Philarmonica:

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Octavia Philarmonica:

Don't you want to tell me something?

Vinyl Scratch:

No.

Octavia Philarmonica:

But you will.

Vinyl Scratch:

Yes.

Octavia Philarmonica:

Then tell me.

Vinyl Scratch:

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Octavia Philarmonica:

Tell me.

Vinyl Scratch:

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Octavia Philarmonica:

Tell me!

Vinyl Scratch:

I raped a filly when I was thirteen.

Octavia Philarmonica:

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Vinyl Scratch:

I loved it.

Octavia Philarmonica:

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Vinyl Scratch:

If I could do it again, I'd do it again.

Octavia Philarmonica:

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Vinyl Scratch:

I ripped her vagina open with my horn. It was so bloody. There was so much blood.

Octavia Philarmonica:

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Vinyl Scratch:

I loved it so much.

Octavia Philarmonica:

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Vinyl Scratch:

My father treated me like a whore. I have OCD, panic attacks, anger issues and what-not.

Octavia Philarmonica:

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Vinyl Scratch:

You can dump me now. It's time you dumped me. That's the point where you go away.

Octavia Philarmonica:

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(Curtain.)

Octavia Philarmonica (embraces Vinyl Scratch):

Vinyl, you need help. We all do.

The curtain falls.

***

Act III

Cast:

Vinyl Scratch, a general

Vinyl Scratch:

Hehe. (Looks at the map.) We're moving them here. Hehe. Good. Good. We're moving them there. Hehe. Heeeeee. Good. Very good. (Looks at the map.) And then they die. Hehehehehe. (Shouts out) Who is the fucking traitor now, huh?! WHO IS THE TRAITOR?!

The curtain falls.