A Young Man's Dilemma

(A Young Man steps out onto a dimly lit stage and observes his audience.  He views their presence with bitterness, though it is apparent that they were expected.  He seats himself on the floor and gives a show of making himself comfortable.  He is not successful.)

(A Young Man rises to his feet awkwardly.  He feels foolish, like one who has just done something unaccountable and with no sense of purpose.  He looks out at his audience, his eyes glimmer with recognition.  Is that someone he recognises, there in the second row?  No, no it isn't.  Damn.)

(A Young Man paces nervously on his stage.  There is not much within him that he can make sense of.  He is aware of his presence, that much is certain.  He is not however, aware of his intention.  He looks back out at his audience with hope.  Perhaps they might know his intention.  Have they been briefed?  No, no they haven't.  Damn.)

(A Young Man walks to the edge of his stage, stage left.  Does he intend to leave?  That could be an intention.  A purpose.  No, no he doesn't.  Damn.)

(A Young Man walks to the other edge of his stage, stage right.  He seems determined.  Moments from reaching his intention his determination breaks.  He looks out at his audience, mournful – apologetic.  There are tears in his eyes.  He looks up at the rig of lights above him, confused.  He is given a bit more light.)


(A Young Man looks out at his audience...)

A YOUNG MAN:  I'm sorry.  It wasn't meant to be this way.  I was meant to do something.  I know that much... but what?  I'm afraid it's all left me.  Empty.  Meaningless.  (pause) I really am sorry.  It wasn't meant to be this way.  There was something … that I was meant to do.  I think... I think I am here to entertain you.  No, that's not right.  That couldn't be right.


(A chair is lowered onto stage from the rigging above, it is held by ropes that connect it to its controller.)

(A Young Man looks at the chair.  His eyes follow the ropes to the rigging and he engages the chair's controller in a silent conversation of expression.)

(Seeming finally decided on his approach A Young Man – with determination – sits himself upon the seat.  He seems satisfied for a time.  It is a good thing, to sit.)


A YOUNG MAN: (talking to his audience) You don't have to stay you know.  I think I could be quite happy here.  Perched upon my seat.  There is a certain comfort, in a thing that possesses its own purpose.
A seat is for to sit you see.  There is a beauty in it, I think.  So yes.  It would seem that I am done.  Completed.  Finished.  (smiles quite happily)


(The seat is suddenly and with great force jerked upwards, back to the rigging.  A Young Man is toppled from his perch and lies crumpled upon the floor.  Dejected.)

AN OLD VOICE:  You are not complete.  You are not your seat.  Your seat was for to think.  The crutch has been removed.

(A Young Man looks bitterly at the rigging above him.  What kind of ploy is this?  Is he on trial? No, not that.  Damn.)


(A Young Man rises to his feet.  Looks to his audience for aid.)

A YOUNG MAN: If the seat was for to think, then it was not a seat.  It must have been a brain.  A brain is for to think; a seat is for to sit.  Therefore is my brain a seat?  No, not that.  Damn.  I do wish I were to receive a fresh crutch, one that is sweet and not corrupt.

(A Young Man looks to the rigging above him with anticipation and hope.  No new crutch is forthcoming.)

A YOUNG MAN:  If I am to be given nothing with which to think, might I at least be given my seat?  You see I am not sure what it was that I was supposed to do.  I believe I am a performer, but I have yet to realise what it was that I was to perform.

AN OLD VOICE:  You are to speak your truth...

A YOUNG MAN:  Ah, I see... (with a confused look) … what is my truth?

(A script is lowered on ropes from the rigging above.  A Young Man gains a new light in his eyes, suddenly he is himself.  A Young Man looks to his script.)


A YOUNG MAN:  There is something inside of me.  I am not sure where it lies.
                            Possibly my guts
                            It wriggles and squirms like something alive.
                            Probably my guts.

No, not there.  Never there.  Though that seems to be the place; the source of our body's feints.

Generally it's passive.  Quiet.  A whisper.  Sometimes a muted groan.
Every once in a while it slithers, squirms, splutters. It seeks to emerge, gain a will of its own.

It tries to leak
Like oil in sweat.

It pushes at my soul when I think I am alone.

Is it a thing?  No, it can't be.  No.  No, not that.  That doesn't seem right.
It must be a thought.  No, it can't be.  No.  No, not that.  That doesn't seem right.
Not that.
Never that.

I sense that I have asked too many questions to expect a reply.  Best to feign rhetorical intent, lest I seem foolish or distant from my mind.

There is something in it.
Something of value.
Yes.
Something of need.

Does it hold me by my fingers, and burn me to succeed?
Or do I grasp it with my digits, and shape it to what I need?

Yes.
It is something of value.
Value but not worth.
Its value cannot be weighed.
It's value is not of matter, but of position and time.  Hmm, these are too similar to be meaningful.

Should I allow it no further than an arm's reach...
Perhaps the reach of an arm is too distant.
Perhaps the reach of an arm is something infinite.
Perhaps an arm may reach as far as it may be thrown...
Is the reach of an arm something definite?

For yet I have no goal.  Intent can be my only purpose.  For now intent and purpose must remain together.  An inextricable union.  An assumption of similarity – though false.
Should intent become confused by desire, what then?
Am I tool or guide? The similarity must be acknowledged.  Perhaps I am tool and guide.  These are too similar for their distinction to be meaningful.
Perhaps intent must become confused with desire.

Ah, this discourse is too vague.

My equations create too many variables.  Must I invent imaginary figures that they be solved?
Yes.  I must.  That is the course to which my intent directs me.
But I do not believe it is the purpose that bends my intent.
Hmm.

Be it an order of logic, perfect and whole in its conclusion.
Or be it instead a radical, free and roaming in the wild.

… … … This … this something...
This something inside me.
This something...
It means to escape
It would become greater than itself, larger than its parts.
This something … does it mean?
What is its intent?
I believe it has become confused by purpose.

This...
… it is a furnace.
Cold, yet to produce its heat.
It could not help but cloud the still air with its oily sign.  A reflection of the truth it seems to hide.
Does the furnace produce that heat, or is it merely a vessel to contain and direct a fire?
My furnace would be both tool and guide.

What is the question?
The answer is fluid and cannot be contained.

The answer must bounce and be reformed.  Each contact grants a new aspect, indelible and true – familiar, yet infinitely strange.

(A Young Man looks satisfied.  He has expressed his purpose.  A seat is lowered from the rafters by ropes.)


AN OLD VOICE: You may sit.

(A Young Man sits, smiles and dies.)
END.