Eyes are the mirrors of the soul.
ACT I
The lights come up to create a stylistic desert-scape. Nathan enters wearing a set of virtual
equipment: a large, bulky headset attached to cables which extend down to wired gauntlets. He is
manipulating his way through a virtual world in which he is a gunslinger facing an opponent. He
makes his way center stage, faces the audience, and prepares his virtually-rendered holster. His left
hand twitches, and when it comes time to draw he fumbles with his virtually-rendered weapon. He
resets the standoff scenario and tries again, and again his hand does not work properly. After
restarting the scenario a third time and having the same difficulty, he switches the scene off and
turns away. He is about to remove his headgear when suddenly he is shot from behind. He turns to
face the virtual opponent. After being shot again he falls. The lights return to black.
The lights rise again, more fully this time. Nathan’s virtually rendered apartment. Most of the
stage, if not all of it, is taken up by a virtual grid deck around which are a few personal items.
Nathan is lying stage left with his headgear still on. After a moment of silence he comes violently
awake – an addict coming out of a nightmare.
NATHAN:
Ah, bolish. Fo-ral! Wha... ? Ahh. Ahn!
(Nathan moves his head and neck about as though trying to rid himself of an unwanted thought--or
like he's got water in his ear. He reaches behind his headgear, switches it on, and then works his
way on-line.)
504639. - Audible tasking. - Respond. Clarence... ? (Immediately exasperated) What o’tha tink ma
fra? Sadorn 4am er klatch, whadaya? - Obviolé, soy solo, whadaya? - So I'm alone, buftahump,
whadaya opine? - I’m nil corporeater metnal, that’s Proximate. Thursday. - Nono, nono, RL is
sequential, bio, feature next week! - Aw wendel, bio! I can't do this now; sipona! - 'Cause I'm
stringin', Clarence! I'm turtled! Shirkin’ a slatch, bio. I haven’t upped without a mask in, sup... two
months. - I can’t afford it! It's not copiset, dicot? - But why they want my calibrations? Why me? Bush, but… how fat a pipe you talkin’? And wha’do I eat? (Awed by what Clarence has said) Whadaya LSV? - They gonna give me a personal sustain? - A full 87 fer a kilo? - Two months?
You're not ballooning me bio, they'll up my personals two months on a corporate account? - Well…
stanch!, I’ll do it. (Gettin up) Sign me on in 14, A-flat over nine. Convince you to give me a dram
flogiston or pop me an orgone tab could I bio? - I'll juice my deck. I'll be in the first drawer.
(Nathan goes to the back of the stage and steps on a switch to up his deck. The lights intensify on
the grid floor space and Nathan’s control panels appear [to him, not the audience]. As he begins to
calibrate his deck, he manipulates his way by a combination of vocal and physical commands.)
 504639, soundprint: one, two, three, four. Confirm.  Bind up the deck for a diagnostic.  Open a
hail.  Dial Clarence. Put me in the first drawer.  Unlace the gildorn.  String me a fibonachi
display.  Float me a caliper.  Fire the gimbals.  6DOF on the gauntlets.  Track. Tsss.  Go to
default settings.  Override.  Deck perimeter off my center.  Axes on 90's all around, sliding scale.
 Track.
(As Nathan begins walking the perimeter of the deck, Clarence suddenly logs on, stage right.)
Oh, hey Clarence. I’m doin’ a diagnostic now—. - Well yeah, bio, but I’m not finished; don’t you
think—. – Bush, bush, stanch.  Cease the diagnostic.  Launch the deck. (Becoming more excited
as the lights intensify) I'm not skating yet, bio. - Bush.  Unlock the flush pipe. How much am I
gonna need? - (Becoming still more excited) M-sats!  Dilate it all the way.  Punch a cetylene filter.
(Nathan moves to the rear of the space again and takes off his headgear and gauntlets. We now can
see that his hair is bleached white and woven into tight corn rows that hug his skull.)
Mask is off, Clarence. Go ahead and open the pipe. Up me in.
(The lights flicker as an inbound 87 pipe is opened. The light on the grid space intensifies. Nathan
is wracked with pain and pleasure at the rush of information and sensation. Laughter and
grimacing vie with one another for precedence until the laughter finally wins. It takes a few
moments before he is able to speak, but when the convulsions subside he is more confident, direct
and articulate. He’s still a junkie, but now he’s had his fix. He is now facing front without his
headset for the first time, and we can see that his eyes have no irises or pupils—they are mirrored
silver disks.)
Oh. Ah... ah. Nice tincture, Clarence. This is good. Nice to be back up to speed. Umn. I'm never
offing again. I'll sell my internals to any fucking corp that'll keep me throttled. - Sorry bio, it's just...
it's good to be back at speed. - (Going to the axis) Bush; stanch.  Bundle the vertical for a 2-trunk
impact. (Realizing that this bandwidth doesn’t require physical movements for most tasks – it’s an
entirely verbal interface) Ha ha ha. Slonge the counter. Lapse. Clarence, there's something wrong
with my third digit haptics here; it's a tactile simulator. - 'Cause if I have to manipulate anything—and
I will if you've got me manholing—I'll need it bio, you know that. - Bush. Here: see how you feel this
.
(Nathan reaches with his left hand stage right, toward Clarence. The reach electrics and extends
until the attached body becomes Clarence holding out his right hand for Nathan to touch. Clarence
is tightly wound and unsuccessfully trying to swallow his nervous tension. He speaks with a nasal
tone.)
CLARENCE: You'll have to void the signal from that digit; integrate the signals from your second and
forth digits and use that to ghost the third. I'm getting a hail from our monitor. Why don’t you get your
deck set up here; I'll be right back to up you into The Man in the Iron Mask. - Well, this time we have
a monitor. And Nathan, will you talk to him normal? Quit the dingo lingo, alright? Cooperate. 
Suspend the first drawer .
(Now offline to Nathan, Clarence lets go of his forced calm, becoming openly agitated. He, like
Nathan, uses a combination of vocal and physical commands to navigate and manipulate the virtual
world. His interface utilizes more vertical boards and switches than Nathan’s, which was more
horizontal boards with buttons and knobs.)
 Gather his spring lines fore and aft at the axes.  Monitor his autonomic systems. Have a second
flood-tide ready to float him if he drops below nadir peaks.  Reopen the hail to Coral Gables. (Taking
a deep breath, steeling himself to face Stanley)  - Stanley? - Yes, he’s up and running. - No, he can’t
tell the difference between VR and RL at this point. - I erased his last run and did a generic continuity
backfill; he won’t remember anything, just don’t ask him about it directly, it might trigger something. Nathan? No, he doesn’t work for us; Nathan’s a stringer. We haven’t used him for quite some time;
he’s useless for undifferentiated calibrations. But now that we’re parsing we can record just his
emotionals, and they’re perfect for the asylum characters. – No, his platform is fried, he can’t support
that right now. I morphed his own icons and masked us in through those. We’ll all just have to look
like him. - Sure. You should know, though, that there aren't any signals getting through from his third
left digit. - I don't know exactly, but the YR Bite did surge some of his motor cortex. I’ll show you if
you like. You want to step down onto your deck?
(Clarence turns away from Stanley to manipulate some controls. After a moment of silent business
he gets the courage up to ask what he wants. He continues working the controls.)
 Stanley, just between you and me... do you really think this is... necessary? It just seems... pointless to
me to try to—. – Well, I think if we really wan—. - Sure, sure. His digit should feel something like
this .
(Clarence has turned back to Stanley. As he reaches out to touch Stanley his body electrics and
becomes Stanley's body. Stanley is totally poised and almost dangerously calm; his voice is
somewhat deeper and clearer.)
STANLEY: That'll be close enough for what I need.  Have you told him who I am? - Good, I’ve
got something worked out. Now, we’re masked in through his own icons; you’re sure he won’t suspect
anything? - Good.  I’m going to stay on an observe channel, so I’m set up here; why don’t you up
him in.  First though, Clarence: I understand you’re using this man for more than one of your
calibrations, is that correct? - And how many profiles was he scheduled to calibrate for this project? I’m not accusing you of anything, Clarence, I’m just trying to straighten this out. - Fine. Why don’t
you bring him in. (Turning to address Nathan’s icon) Hello Nathan, my name is Stanley Fohrn. I’ve
been asked to monitor this project for our investors. Now, this isn’t my field, so I’ll be asking you to
explain some things to me as we go along, just for my own clarification. - (Indulgently) Thank you.
Oh, and I understand you’re having some sort of difficulty with your left gauntlet. May I see that
please. - No, there's nothing wrong; I just want to make sure that the contiguous digits are signaling
the ghost correctly. - (With a condescending smile) No, it’s not my field; but I do know something
about it. Go ahead and bring your avatar over here .
(As Stanley reaches for Nathan's hand, his body electrics into Nathan, who is offering his hand to
Stanley.)
NATHAN: I don't know how it happened. I'm having it looked at next week. - Bush, I will. (Becoming excited) Now? - Bush! Stanch! Clarence, now? - Stanch! Can you... bring it in? Start it?
- Copiset. Copiset. (After a pause, turning) So, to… to start the game you just dilate the pupil like this
 and pull it back  and then... you’re in the police station.
(Nathan has dilated the pupil and drawn it back around himself. The lights change—Nathan has
entered the virtual entertainment. He craves this experience and has a difficult time staying focused.
He explains things to Stanley.)
Ha ha ha. (Turning to Clarence) Bush. It’s copiset. Uh, (Turning back to Stanley) this is the foyer
for the prologue section of the game—entertainment. They’ve already done all the graphics,
environmentals, the logic platforms, proprioceptors. They’re using this new Parsing System, and
emotional calibrations are done last, so I only come in at the end. - No, you won’t see it; it’s still in
development and it only vistas to the player. - Well see, that’s what this new Parsing System is for.
(Turning to Clarence) I learned this, Clarence. (Turning back to Stanley) See: a player always wants
to haunt the best, and the person who gives the best logic response probably isn’t the same person
that’ll give the best emotional response, so they’re calibrating them separately now. I do emotions. Bush, bush. It’s called The Man in the Iron Mask; it takes place back around the end of the 1900s.
The host is this police investigator who's looking into this crazy guy's murder and the player is the
investigator’s new sidekick; he’s meeting him here at police station for the first time. - No, no, the
investigator is a stock character; he’s not calibrated, he’s totally slaved. I was only hired to do the four
Asylum characters. Didn’t Clarence tell you? - (Confused by Stanley’s seemingly ignorant question)
This isn't even an interactive section yet, it’s just the prologue. - Bush. Stanch. So, uh... the player just
watches for a minute as the people move all around the police station. ‘Cause at this point the player
doesn't even know who they are or why they're here or anything. But then the investigator comes in—
oh, this is him here, see. He pauses there for a second, but then he crosses to his desk, and as he goes
he motions for the player to follow him.
(Nathan steps into the character of the investigator, who is just entering a crowded police office.
Holden has a quick, mousy voice and a brusque, New York gumshoe manner. He is a cartoon, not a
realistic character.)
HOLDEN: What line's he on Godfrey? Come on over, sidown. Five? Just grab a chair, pull it over.
Five? I'll be wit ya in a second. (Picking up the phone and punching the fifth line) Cleo? - Jesus,
don't whine Cleo, I hate dat shit. - I'm not squeezin' ya Cleo. (Covering the receiver) Coffee's over
there, ya want some. (Returning to the phone) I'm wit the good guys, Cleo. Kimichan’s the one gave
ya a 45 caliber wedgie. - You gonna tell me ‘bout the Lazy S? - What is that, what is that: you're
suddenly king a the stutter? You're fartin' out your mouth Cleo. – Then you can sweat it out. You
know what ta do: just make sure ya duck around tha corner whenever ya see a squad car. Keep outta
sight: don’t go in any donut shops, don’t visit any your friends, don’t go home. ‘Cause they'll bring ya
to me they find ya. - A course that's a threat Cleo, I'm a man a my word. - I'm hangin' up Cleo.
Guhbye. - No Cleo. Guhbye.
(He hangs up and turns to the player. He takes out a new pack of cigarettes, extracts and lights one
during the following.)
Name's Fiasco, Holden Fiasco. I don't like jokes, expecially about my name. You're new
around here, right? I mean, not just to me, to the whole department. You don't need to answer that.
Look: I work alone. I work fast and I really don't need’a be giving piggy backs right now, so if you
find me abrasive or think you can't keep up, why’nt ya do us both a favor scoot your little ass in there let
the sarge know now. (Assessing the player as he takes his first drag on the cigarette) Fine. You
know Stuart Vintzen? Owns about half the retail in town. His son Phil is dead. I wouldn't particularly
care except for the fact I been assigned the case, which means it's not Stuart's problem any more, it's
mine. And now yours. Phil Vintzen was a nut case; I don't have time to explain it to ya, you can look
at my prelims with his doctor. He’s out at the Hubbel fucked farm—hush hush fer the family, and we
still gotta deal with that crap, understand. Two nights ago someone tried to make it look like Phil hung
himself. Amateur, botched job. We got a lot ta work on—too much. I’s out there yesterday conducted
prelims. Pretty straight forward, but I gotta head back—... . We gotta head out there this morning, do
some follow up. (Getting up) Anyway, I gotta hit the can. (Gesturing to the manholes as he heads
out) Why’n't you look at the prelims ‘fore we head out.
(As Holden leaves he steps into Nathan addressing Stanley.)
NATHAN: No, the investigator is hard-wired, he’s slaved. This is just the prologue, none of it’s
interactive, it just introduces the characters to the player. Clarence, you tell him. - Bush. Stanch. So
now the player can choose which character they want to see first. (Pointing out the manholes) See, the
manholes show up after the investigator goes to the bathroom. The player can just grab whatever
manhole they want and pull it down and look at the investigator’s interview with that character from the
day before. Before the player gets assigned to the case, see, so it’s all background kind of stuff. (Laughing uncertainly) Well no, they... they wouldn't have had anything like this, but... (Looking
toward Clarence for help) you'd have to ask the designers. I don't think they were trying to be realistic,
it’s just a game. - The manholes? There’re two inmates there and there, and the night watchman there
and the head doctor there. - (Suddenly excited) Now? - Bush, bush. Clarence, now? - Stanch! So,
you just go to the manhole, whichever one you want. I guess I’ll do this one first.  You unlock it and
then you pull it down. He he heh .
(The lights change as he draws the manhole down around himself . He comes back to a crouch and
is the first inmate, Krista. She is looking out at the police investigator with an expression that swims
between suspicion and amusement. She ducks her head and laughs at something said off to her
right side, then looks back to the police investigator. She over-enunciates everything and moves her
lips even when she's not speaking.)
KRISTA:
My head was awake. I saw. (Laughing at something to her right again, she blows her
cheeks out at it) It wasn’t doctor Frankson. (Suddenly self-conscious, bending and playing with her
fingers) I was afraid my ear holes were growing shut with the voices still inside. I didn’t want that
because I like to be alone inside. The doctors said that I didn’t need to worry because the ones that talk
all the time, they’re not real. (Speaking loudly and indicating right with her head) That’s how you
know: if they never stop talking, they’re not real. (Smiling and turning back to the investigator) I had
a visitation. My aunt. She has my papers, she can take me out. We went to a cafe. She knows I like
coffee. It makes me feel better. On the way we stopped at an automatic teller. It only had one eye, like
Hal. (Self conscious again, going back to her fingers) There was a woman there playing a guitar. The
guitar case made a hollow guitar hole in the pavement. It was misty. She was a waif... with a hooded
sweatshirt. She was singing and playing with her eyes closed. Something about a faraway sea. My
aunt transacted and got back in the car. Why didn’t you put some money in the guitar hole? ~I don’t
have any change sweetie, and I wasn’t going to give her a twenty.~ We left. I watched the waif through
the back window. I could see her through the moving water beads. She got smaller and smaller. And
she was still playing. Singing to the automatic teller about a faraway sea.
(She convulses badly and slumps over for a moment. The lights shift, and when she comes-to she is
in the Cafe. She gets up and explores it.)
We went to the cafe. There were computers everywhere and people were typing at the voices inside.
They were sitting on stools and chairs and drinking coffee and bottled water and vegetable juices and...
they were very different.
(Krista finds the people amusing. As she moves from one to another she smiles more and speaks
faster.)
Vinyl, pierces, tattoos; docksiders, horn-rimmed glasses; poofy hair, big boots; no bra, faded tie-die,
no shoes; extra-baggy jeans, Fruit of the Looms, acne; sport coat, big wrist watch; black turtle neck,
slick hair, leather pants. (Suddenly self-conscious again) Some of them weren’t real. I could tell
because they didn’t stop talking; and the ones that don’t stop talking, (Emphatically, toward an
imaginary person) they’re not real. There was a man at the center of the room and he seemed to be in
charge. He had a tall table and there was a microphone attached to his computer. Whenever he called
on them, people would come up and speak into the microphone. And there was a banner on the ceiling.
It said: ‘Neuropoetics - On-line Poetry Slam.’
(Krista has craned her neck back to read the banner. When her head snaps forward again she is
Sid, the insouciant host of the poetry slam. Sid is lazily confident, blasé, and somewhat feminine.
He manipulates a keyboard and mouse and coordinates the live and on-line poets. The different poet
voices emerge fluidly out of welcoming gesticulations.)
SID: Alright Ned, you’re up first. Ned, ladies and gentlemen. For those of you who are unfamiliar,
Ned is our resident beatnik. He doesn’t really write poems, he just sort of riffs on whatever topics he
gets from the didiots out there. So you didiots start sending me your suggestions for Ned. Ready?
Alright, the rest of you can just line up behind Ned. First though,  we do have a final didiot entry for
the first round. Cheryl, could you get me another decaf please. Thank-you. Okay, this is from Tray...
Schlenisflenginbinger. I’m sorry if I’ve mispronounced your name Tray. Tray’s poem has no title, but
it directs me here to… heh. It says: ‘Be a manly man and sing it like a drinking song.’ Alright Tray,
I’ll do what I can.  Here we go:
I don’t know, but I’ve been told
Whiskey in my water
Makes you pretty, makes me bold.
(Sid looks about) Heh.
I can’t say, but I’ve heard tell
Rum and coke a-plenty
Staves off sickness, makes you well.
Well.  Well, I’m sorry Mr. Schlesinbleh..., the natives here in the cafe seem to have... lowered
their expectations, but I’m going to use this opportunity to exert my veto power so that we can—. No
no, now: this is my show, I’ve got veto power!, and I’m not reading any more of this... doggerel. ‘And
so it goes.’ So, that’s the didiot’s first round, and they have… three on the board. Now it’s our turn
here for a few carbon-based poems. Ned is first—and tonight I’d like to challenge Ned with something
new. Let’s complicate things a little and combine two didiot suggestions in the same poem. Feel up to
it Ned? - Super. Okay.  So, I’ll go to a random one… and we get...  computer chips. Okay, and a
second one…  Oh, heh. Nuclear fallout! Well Ned, you ought to be able to come up with something...
apocalyptic from that. No thinking for you now: ready, go.
(Ned has a sing-songy, slightly sarcastic tone. He is powerfully aware of his own poetic mastery, and
as he finds a rhythm he becomes carried away.)
NED: Hand in hand we walk
Out of the mushroom cloud
Into the computer chip.
(Ned raises his hands in anticipation of appreciative applause.)
Our aim is not articulated,
Navel gazing is our business.
Look at all that lint in there.
Look at what your mother did for you.
When did the veins close off?
When did your mother stop nourishing you through that cable of love?
And if you’re an inney, what are you in-to?
Are the outeys tryin’ to get out of something?
Out of what?
Out of sight? Out of mind? Over mind?
Get over it.
Maybe we should all get over it: open these things up again and let out the new-age fuzziefeelies and the corporate Oakland Raiders with the stadi-ums stadi-ahs stadi-ers paid for by our taxes
and the government we elected and can’t seem to not re-elect because we’re all too numb-headed from
television to realize that a sound bite
isn’t nourishing us
not like a bite outta crime would, if it weren’t just another pretty slogan for bumper stickers and
t-shirts like bite me, bite this, consume, consumerism
die of consumption, why not get online, buy pornography, eat donuts, because it makes you feel
good, because you deserve it, because by god by gum it’s the American way to get ahead, to get a life,
to
to get laid
laid off, laid up, laid out
laid out like the corpses we already are to everyone except Equifax and the post man who’s got
the only real (Turning, then turning back)
who’s got the only real job left because the rest of us are too numb-headed to -. (Turning)
What? What?
SID: Sorry Ned; if you’ll look at the monitor there you’ll see that the didiots are lining up against
you; it’s almost two to one to cut you off. And I have to agree here, Ned, you were wandering there, a
little far afield. More than usual. Sorry my friend, maybe next week. (Turning and making a face
that Ned won’t be able to see) Okay, so... yes, you can go next. Step around to the mike. Thank you
Cheryl. Alright, go ahead.
(Pinker holds a copy of his poem in his left hand. He almost never looks up from reading it. He
over-articulates everything, placing particular emphasis upon the aspirated consonants and
plosives.)
PINKER:
Hotel Commander
Shrouds of rain capture the shapes of the wind
Searching through the city streets
Chasing people into alleys, into doorways
Then moving on.
Hunkering under a stairway next to a discarded doll’s head,
Its cherub face and empty eye sockets,
Stray cat - street cat
Hisses at the rain
At god, who put him there.
[ Inside the hotel the commander stands and sees,
Envious of the cat, more envious of the doll.
He turns his back to the window, to the world,
Impassive as an Easter Island stone
Until, looking down, he sees again:
The letter lays, discarded, on the floor;
Not crumpled, not stained with tears.
He could never tell her all that he wanted
And he dared not want what little he could tell.
His thoughts and feelings exiled in his head,
Never to leave his cage-door mouth.
And the fruit of his silence:
Solitude.
He hisses a laugh at himself
As though his humor has been fitted with a silencer.
But it hasn’t
And so it fits completely in his mouth.
He knows that the cold of the metal
Should reach his memory before the heat of the flame
But this is the clarity he seeks to avoid.
And it bursts suddenly forth - his release.
Scattering his thoughts to the winds and the rain.]
SID: (Ushering Pinker away) Alright, very serious, very… very serious. Poetry. Excellent.
(Making the sign of the cross in the opposite direction) Excellent. I’m just teasing. And you did get
through it all. Okay so, Cheryl, will you put him on the board there. Great. Now - oh, right here? Yes,
you can go next. Okay. You ready now? Okay, let’s go. Come on.
(Hortense is a large, awkward, and terrifically shy man.)
HORTENSE: I’m Hortense. (Looking around at the response, then back to Sid) That’s not part of
my poem. (Looking back to Sid for direction) Should I go?
(Hortense nods, then takes a deep breath. He is very serious. He digs in his pocket and comes out
with a fist, which he slowly opens during the course of the poem, as though revealing a tiny,
precious treasure.)
Loneliness is
This thing
That crawled out of my cellular phone:
A small red spider
With long
Black
Spindly legs.
(He has held out his hand with the imaginary spider in it. He now slams the thing viciously into his
mouth and grinds his teeth. After swallowing he returns to his staid, awkward self and gives a little
bow. He turns to leave.)
SID: Oooookay, that was... different. I wish we had a live video feed for you people on-line, there
was some... what, choreography? involved. Kind of performance arty really. And you did... get
through it all I guess, so... . Cheryl, will you put his name up on the board too please. So, that’s two for
us here. The advantage of short poems. Thank you, uh... Hortense. Okay, you’ll be next, come on
over. No, it’s fine dear, step around. It’s fine; come on around. And I’d like to warn our didiot friends
out there: I only have one submission for your next round, and we’re on a roll here, so you’ll have to do
better than that. This one is from… trident@atlantis.org. Oh. And, uh… Trident’s poem here is called
‘Touching Myself.’ Now now! Hang on, wait until we read it. No, now—. I’m sure that’s not what
it’s about. (Looking) Oh… . Well, I guess that is what it’s about. - Alright now! Decorum, please!
(Into the microphone) Trident, don’t let our carbon crowd here get you down. I think this is fine
subject matter for poetry. And I’m sure that many of my carbon companions, at home, in moments of
silence and darkness, have gotten online themselves and spent a great deal of time tou—. (Ducking)
Hey now. Now! There’s expensive equipment here. (To Julia) You see what I have to deal with. Are
you ready? You ready? That’s fine dear, come on. Come on. Come on.
JULIA:
(Young and self-conscious, being hurried to the mic) I’m not sure if this is really a
poem, but anyway. ‘Cause what is a poem, hunh? Anyway. I keep this diary on-line of, like... well
like everything that happens to me. What I’m doing and thinking and stuff. Anyway. I set up a chat
room, so if you go to my site you can read like all these, like, comments on my life. And I don’t know
anything about these people, and they don’t know anything about me. But that’s like anybody, hunh?
Nobody really knows anything about you except what you tell ‘em, hunh? Anyway. These are some of
the responses to my diary entry last week when my brother Nathan d-d-d-dye-dye-died. D-d-died.
(After convulsing slightly she continues) And I don’t know anything about any of these people, so I
thought it would be interesting to put them all together. Like a collage. About Nathan’s death.
Because these people are from, like, everywhere. All over the world. So I thought it would be... .
Anyway-en-en-anyway. An-an-anyway .
(Julia convulses one last time. Clarence emerges, already manipulating his virtual controls.)
CLARENCE:  704-4. Clip the 617 chain.  String new spring lines and flood-tide the Vitriol. Float
him an octave lower for now. I told you this was a bad idea, Stanley. - He’s not supposed to be
calibrating yet,  these are slaved characters, it’s the prologue. - Of course that's not our story! It
doesn't even make sense. He's got it completely off the sphere, he's freeforming. - It should be about
three minutes of the investigator’s interview with this inmate from the asylum: you get a couple of plot
points and enough information so that you can understand what’s happening when you get to the
interactive parts. - We would have stopped him if we’d known, Stanley. We had him up to tetraflow
for the prologue: he only went for eight seconds, we stopped him as soon as we could, but he’d already
done 14 hours of virtual time. What could we do? - That won’t work Stanley, what he’s doing is
totally random. - I don’t see the point. He’s totally off the sphere, there’s nothing to diagnose. - It’s
just going to happen again. He won’t stay with our slaved profile, he’ll just spin off again into who
knows where. - Well I’m sorry Stanley,  I just don’t know what you’re hoping to find .
(Clarence’s virtual manipulation reflects into a mirror image of itself. Stanley emerges.)
STANLEY:  I’m trying to figure out how he got off the sphere, Clarence. - All this content has to
be coming from somewhere;  if it’s not coming from your entertainment then it must be coming from
him. - He can’t be freeforming off of no locus, Clarence, even RL dreaming has a locus. - Well, if we
can isolate his axle locus  we can work around it and stitch him back onto the sphere. - Because it
would be good for the investors; that’s who I work for. We need to be able to show why Nathan went
off the sphere and, more importantly, why it will not happen again. We can’t afford to have the
ARPCA coming in here and thinking of unlacing the parsing project at this point, we’ve got too much
invested. - Fine. Why don’t you get ready to bring him back in. Attach a creeper mingle to my pipe. 
Do another continuity backfill for him and slonge the counter to where he'd be. (Manipulating his own
virtual controls)  C-0414839.  Give me a diagnostic rostrum, class four with a neural stent. 
Alright, I’m ready Clarence, why don’t you bring him up. (Pause) Thank you Nathan, that was
excellent. - I do have a few questions before we continue. And you seem to still be having some
difficulty with your left gauntlet there; why don’t you bring your avatar over here, let me see if the Vpress-sim is still active .
(Nathan electrics out of Stanley's reach. His left hand jerks from time to time.)
NATHAN:  I think it's bush. - No, I don't think it'll affect any manholling. - Bush, I will. Stanch.
- (Going toward Clarence but then turning back to respond to Stanley) Well... I don't think it really
matters. I mean, it's not supposed to be real, it's a story. There aren't really manholes either, it’s just
something you accept as part of the game. Reality doesn't matter here. - You mean like who killed the
crazy guy, Phil Vintzen? Yeah, I know. - It was his father, Stuart Vintzen. He dressed up like a doctor
that night and snuck into the asylum and hung him. - Well, it’s pretty complicated, I think Clarence
could explain it bet—. - Bush, bush. It’s copiset. Uh, it was because of Stuart Vintzen’s father’s will.
He had a brother who met this guy... (Turning to Clarence for corroboration) under the freeway ramp,
right? (Turning back to Stanley) - You mean in the end; did they convict him? No. - Because there
were no reliable witnesses. Everyone at the asylum is crazy except for the night watchman, and he was
on drugs, so they couldn’t—. - Yeah, I know the whole thing.
(The lights change into the police station.)
- Stanch. Stanch, I will. (Turning back to Clarence) Can I... can I ask you a quick question
first Clarence? There’s some kind of feedback on this, right? This isn’t like the other’s I’ve done. (Turning to answer Stanley) I mean it’s not like other games I’ve calibrated. I’ve never seen a thing
skate from profile to profile like that — (Turning back to Clarence) and flashing from one place to
another like that. What is that, bio? - (Turning to answer Stanley) No, I don’t mind, I think it’s
stanch. And I love poetry slams—I log onto Neuropoetics whenever I can. I just didn’t expect poetry
in an immerse like this, it’s eldritch. But it’s stanch, (Turning back to Clarence) I just wanna know if
they’re gonna be like that when I calibrate ‘em? (After a confused squint to Clarence, turning to
listen and respond to Stanley) - So it’s just a weird setup for the intro section when the characters are
slaved? - No, that’s stanch. Copiset. It’s probably... sup, innovative or something. - (Becoming very
excited) Now? Bush, stanch. Clarence, now? - Bush. So the, uh, the player goes to whichever they
want next. I guess I’d do the night watchman next.  It's this manhole here. So... . He he .
(He pulls the manhole down and stands up as Trevor, who has the heavy-lidded look of a regular
partaker.)
TREVOR: Like any other night, ya know? I was here watchin’ the monitors, readin’ the Weekly
World news. Heh heh heh. Doctor Frankson was the last one out—always is. On the way out he axed
me how I was an' I told 'im I was feelin' a little under the weather. An' he says to me, he says: "Take
two tabloids and call me in the morning." Heh heh heh. Then he shoots me with his finger, you know:
“p-kyew.” (Mock-winking as the doctor) Heh heh heh. He’s usually pretty serious, but he seemed
kinda pleased with himself last night. "Take two tabloids. P-kyew.” (Winking) Heh. 'Cause I was
readin' the Weekly World... heh heh... . Friend, lighten up. (Pause) - Yeah, sometimes I take a little
something to help get through the night. ‘Cause you known what I do around here. You see these
empty halls here. (Leaning in, sharing a sad confidence) I watch ‘em. Henh henh, heh heh heh.
That's my job: watch. Do the rounds, watch, do the rounds, watch. Lemme tell ya what's it like around
here. Having spent half my fuckin' life watching empty halls on these little monitors here—they used to
have big monitors mounted in the wall up there, but now they just got these dinky little—like
Watchmans, they're like these little Watchmans in the desk there. And having... having watched 'em for
effectively fucking ever, I now can say—unequivickly—that if you can do that all night long, staring at
these empty halls like they want you to... if you can do that without taking something you're not—no
way—human. ‘Cause you'd go crazy, staring at these empty halls all night long. You’d lose it. So
what do ya do? You take a little something to make the monotonous time a little less... ya know. So
yeah, I was a little wall-eyed last night. Not like I missed anything though, I found him didn't I? I's
doin' my job. Watchin' tha monitors, readin' tha Weekly World News.
(A shudder wracks his body. He flips back to a previous attitude.)
“Take two tabloids. P-kyew.” (Wink) Heh heh heh.
(Another shudder, and this time it doesn’t entirely go away.)
So yeah, I was a little wall-eyed last night—la-la-last night—tr-tr-tripping—wa-wa-wall-eyed—
wall-wall—wacked out.
(His elbows come together in a convulsion. When he pulls them apart he is reading a tabloid.)
Child Flushed Down Toilet Found Alive After 13 Days Alone in Sewer. Heh heh heh. Internet
Witchcraft: On-line Coven Raise Dozens of Dead Around the World. Cure Your Baldness. Heh. Bat
Boy of Borneo Plays Baseball. (Beginning to sing) Little rabbit Foo Foo—. (After convulsing again,
becoming slightly more animated) And I can see him there: the little Bat Boy squatting there with his
baseball bat, screeching his high-pitched bat squeaks, telling me it's time to do my rounds. Okay Bat
Boy, okay. I'll go. I’ll go.
(Another shudder hits him and he accelerates. He enjoys the rush, but he is confused by his own
words.)
Reeee reeee reee reee.
See see ka-reeeeee
Sky high, don't ask why
Don't be shy, sink or fly
Or down or up or
Your last supper
Halls and malls and waking calls
A true religion, busted balls
(Catching a thread of logic and trying to make a point)
A worthy doctor never falls
He's got a patient—wouldn't kiss her—
Maybe pissed her off
Until he bent her, twist her
Punctured blister
Uh oh, uh oh someone missed her
And she’s a him, he’s hanging there
Alone and twisting in the air.
Are you flying
Are you crying
Are you trying not to dream this dream?
(His body is wracked again. As he emerges he tries to pick up where he left off, but things are not
connecting.)
And this little bat boy keeps at me until I leave and do my rounds. So I go, just to get away.
And I'm in the wards, carooming down these sterile halls, banging into the handrails. The whiteness of
everything is driving me crazy, it's so bright. So I duck into the little chapel room across from physical
therapy. It's never used. And this smell of medicine follows me in, but then it mingles with this... just,
dust and... age. And I know it's a tiny little room, but I'm tripping harder than I ever have, and it's... it’s
like a dream.
(He is wracked again, but this time he emerges with something like clarity. The lights change. He is
awed by his new environs.)
Votive candles. Arches. Huge stone columns. Stained glass windows. Frescos and mosaics.
Acolytes, monks, and martyrs fractured and pieced together in positions of ecstasy: arms raised, fingers
outstretched, eyes uplifted, mouths open, knees beginning to bend in supplication. Heh heh heh.
(Hearing his own laugh) Echoes. Out and back in the candle-wavering gloom. Dark, wooden pews.
Worn stones of the main aisle reaching back toward the altar. (Turning, then backing quickly away
from what he sees) A statue. But... what is it? A monk or friar, its face lost in the shadows of its cowl.
And with both hands it’s reaching down and holding a stone child. The child is looking up, peering into
the cowl, trying to—. No, it’s… .Oh god. God, it’s eyes are... ! (Turning, arrested and horrified by
what he sees) I turn to go but, turning, find there is no door, only a wall of wrought-iron: scrolls and
vines, leaves and vegetal arms reaching up and out to hold individual candles. It's a confusing tangle of
dripping wax and twining metal. And there in the middle is a stained-glass window, broken. The
ragged edges pointing out toward... a sculpture garden? (Realizing) And the back of the cowled
figure… in the middle, what is… is that… ? It’s a pew-pew-pew-pupil. Is the statue part of the game?
(He looks around as though there might be someone to answer his question) Is he calibrated? Do I…
am I supposed to dilate his pupil?
(After a pause he goes to the statue and dilates the pupil, wrapping it around himself and becoming
the statue.)
STATUE:
No-o. No. Don't look - don't harm... your eyes. First let me tell you why - I'm here. Why
- your mother made me. Listen. Lis-ten. Your father worked for news - papers. Crosswords, acrostics,
word - searches, puzzles and mazes and - he married her. Your mother - a - sculptor. Her parent's rich. Gave them this – man-sion, the house with this cha-pel the gar-dens. They lived - here, had a boy.
You. But - your father - left. Your mother - bitter. An-gry. And so she began. That's - why I'm here.
The sculpture – gar-den. The walled back yard. Her puzzle. To punish - your father - for leaving.
(The statue lifts it’s arms into the position of the child and speaks as the child.)
I don't know why daddy left. It was Halloween and he always took me trick-or-treating but he
didn't then because he wasn't there. And Pandama and Pandapa came and sat in the living room with
mommy and told me I couldn't go that year, and I was mad so I went out in back in the garden. I went
over to the wall and pulled out my secret spy-hole brick and watched the other kids go by in the street in
their costumes. And I was mad that I couldn't go out. And the next week mommy had them deliver the
stones out back and then mommy brought her hammers and chisels and things, and she worked all the
time. And after a while my friends said they weren't allowed to come over because of what mom was
building out there. And then the school counselor asked me if I everything was all right at home and I
didn't know what to say. And when I told my mommy she said I should tell her that she was drinking a
lot and talking to herself, which was true. And then she laughed. And I ran up to my room. I was
scared to go out back and I didn't have any friends any more because they all said mommy was crazy
and so I yelled at them and hit them.
(The statue resumes its position and speaks as itself.)
She was bitter, but she finished. And nobody knew - why, she built them. Why? She closed
this - chapel. Went to work. Alone. Building. Me. Almost gone, she was - almost gone but - she
finished. Me. Invited her husband, ex-husband - your father. For Halloween. She wanted to - show
him. Show him the sculptures - the creatures. Show him her - puzzle.
(The sculpture raises his arms and speaks as the child.)
And mommy seemed happy for once. I thought it was because daddy was coming the next day
for Halloween, but it was like she was mad too. She told me she needed to show daddy the sculptures
when he came and that I should wait in my room. But when I went to bed that night I couldn't stop
thinking about it. So I got out of bed and went over to my window and looked down into the garden
and... they gave me the shivers. I didn’t know why mommy built them. I didn't know what it meant.
But it was like there was a secret there that she wanted to show daddy. And I wanted to know what the
secret was, even though I was scared. And I looked out the window and the moon was very bright and I
could see.
(Trevor breaks out of the statue.)
TREVOR*: And I can see. I can see it out the window: stone monsters grappling with the silver
light of the moon. Fantastic creatures frozen in menacing, angry contortions.
(He pulls a pupil back to enter the garden. The lights change. He is now free to explore the garden
as a narrator, simultaneously describing and conjuring the scene.)
The plants of the garden have rioted, choking off the paths and reaching up as though to pull
down these... abominations. Imps and gargoyles and perversions, here standing alone next to a tree,
there gathered together in some evil discourse. And there... the boy. Alone. Creeping into the garden
on anxious feet, pushing through a snarl of branches, tufts of grass, making his way between them,
wanting and not wanting to look up into the mushroom glow of their faces. The clawed shadows cast
by the naked branches above scratch at him, warn him. But he ignores it and continues on to the most
central figure: (Going to the creature and taking its shape) a huge, squat man, sitting like a Buddha,
great folds of flesh cascading down the sides of its body, swollen fingers woven together, palms
upturned, resting on its distended belly. The thing is so huge the boy can just clamber up into the palms
and reach from there to touch the bloated face, the exaggerated grin. (Shaking off it’s voice and shape)
The boy shudders and turns, looking, in fact, in the same direction as the sculpture. And there is
another creature: (Going to the sculpture and taking on a new shape) a lithe, lizard-like man, sleek
and wet-looking, its sinewy muscles visible underneath a coat of scales, a thick tail protruding in one
direction and in the other its long snout, bent intently, looking... . At another nightmare in stone.
(Shaking off the voice and shape again and going back to the Buddha figure) The boy looks back
into the fleshy face, and... something in the eyes has changed. The boy leaps down, rushes across the
garden, scrambles up onto the pedestal, encircles the lizard-man’s torso with his arms, embraces it and
shimmies his way up so that he can look exactly as the thing is looking. And yes, there is another
monster: (Going again to the new creature and taking its shape) a humped-back creature with spines,
covered in armor, it's mouth agape, lips snarled back to reveal toothless gums. It seems to be silently
hissing, and staring its malevolence at... (Shaking off the voice and shape again) another sculpture.
To which the boy goes, again and again, criss-crossing the garden, following the lines of sight from one
creature to another.
The house seems to stand guard over the garden, its great, dark bulk ominous and threatening in
the autumn chill. But it sleeps: not a flicker of light shows in any of its window-caves. And the boy
moves through the branches, thorns, death-rattling leaves as the creatures become more and more
fantastic. (Taking on a new voice and shape again) An imp that holds an ear, horribly ripped from the
side of it's own head. The dancing, cavorting thing seems to be laughing and offering the ear down to...
. (Another voice and shape) A leathery mass of discolored flesh, tangled down around itself, its
bunched muscles straining as if to free themselves from their stone prison. Short, thick stalks of hair
sprout in erratic bunches from the arms, the chest, the shoulders, the groin, the back of a reaching hand.
And its wide-open, dish-like eyes staring out at... (Stepping out of the scuplture) yet another
nightmare-sculpture. To which the boy goes, again and again and again, until he has spent every
sculpture in the garden and finally come to the last. Which is not a horrible creature, not a nightmare.
It’s simply a man, crouched down with it's hands on its knees, looking into the shadows at the side of
the house. The thing’s eyes are just at the boy's level, and he gazes into them for a very long time. But
there is no evil that he can discern there, no... mal-intent. And so the boy follows the line of the thing’s
vision into the shadows at the side of the house, and there he finds... a broken window. And even in the
dulled silver light of the moon shadows he can make out the colors there, and he knows... that it must
be the chapel.
(He pulls a pupil back into the chapel. The lights change.)
The thick darkness is moved about by a sudden rush of air that bursts in through the broken
window, but the boy pauses at the door. His mother has told him not to enter here. Yet he has never
seen this sculpture before, and something about it seems to be calling to him, drawing him. And so he
begins forward, and as he moves his step becomes more trance-like, his gaze becomes fixed until he is
standing directly within the statue’s outreaching arms, looking up into its cowl, into its mocking face,
into its eyes.
(He is now standing in the position of the boy, looking up. He experiences the following.)
Oh god. He can’t look away. Something about this statue has a hold of him; he wants to look
away, but he can’t. He tries to move away, but he can’t. The thing is burning into him. It hurts, but he
can’t get away! He struggles and strains and finally he is able to tear himself away (Falling to the
ground) but... there on the floor: the mocking face is staring up at him. And there it is again, on the
ceiling, staring down. It’s in the stained glass windows, the pillars, the pews—it’s everywhere.
Somehow the thing has burned itself into the child’s eyes. He squeezes his eyes closed, trying to shut it
out, but even there, on the inside of his own head: the mocking thing is staring in at him. He can’t get
away. He claws at his eyes, but the face is still there. He begins to gouge at his eyes, trying to make it
go away, trying not to see.
(Convulsions bring Trevor into the position of the Statue.)
STATUE:
I - didn't make me. I - wasn't the one. She - did. To burn the - retina. The face that follows; the face that can’t be - left - behind. That's - why I'm here. That's - what she made. To punish
- her husband. But - it was the boy. He couldn’t not see - me. But - I could see, I could - hear. I could
watch him - struggle - frantic. Unitl he found - the candles. Drew him. Like a moth. He took them.
Held them - to his eyes. Closer. Closer still. Until - I went - away. I went – a-way.
(Suddenly Trevor emerges.)
TREVOR: I mean I ran outta that chapel! I booked it down past reception two and into the third
ward. And I was breathin' so hard I had to stop to catch my breath. So I leaned against the hand rail
there in the hall. And I knew the doors were there, lining the hall in front of me and behind. I mean,
it’s a hall. But I didn’t hear him. E Eddie, the fuckin' freakazoid. And I'm there gettin' my breath and
he's there all of a sudden—I mean, I didn't know he was there. And then… suddenly, it was like he was
in my head or something. And I'm like 'Jesus! Fucking E Eddie, shut your mouth.' (Moving across the
stage and turning back toward where he was) And E Eddie's all smiles - he's always all smiles and his
idiotic voice.
(He invokes each of the following voices by opening his fist in the proper direction. E Eddie is now
across the hall and to his left, Bissitch is immediately to his left, Jiminez is across the hall and to his
right, and Andy is immediately to his right. He does not become these characters; he is only
invoking their voices, exaggerating them as Trevor would. The names are not spoken.)
E EDDIE:
TREVOR:
E EDDIE:
TREVOR:
E EDDIE:
TREVOR:
BISSITCH:
TREVOR:
BISSITCH:
TREVOR:
JIMENEZ:
E EDDIE:
TREVOR:
Good evening Trevor.
Shut the fuck up E Eddie.
The moon's coming in through my window.
Well just make sure it leaves before morning, I could get in trouble.
I wish he could see it.
I wish he could too, E Eddie. Now shut up, you're gonna wake somebody.
I'm awake general.
Shit. Go back to sleep Bissitch.
Prisoner's are all locked up sir.
Good work.
We're not prisoners, Bissitch.
I'm a prisoner.
Will everyone just shut up and go back to bed.
(Pause.)
ANDY:
BISSITCH:
TREVOR:
JIMENEZ:
ANDY:
TREVOR:
E EDDIE:
BISSITCH:
E EDDIE:
TREVOR:
Shut UP, Shut UP, Shut UP, Shut UP…
Only one casualty today, general.
Quiet down Andy.
We're loonies Bissitch; we're not prisoners, we're loonies.
Shut UP, Shut UP, Shut UP, Shut UP…
Shut up Jimenez.
I'm a prisoner of the moon
Self inflicted. No problem with the Geneva code.
I don't mind though.
Shut up!
(Pause.)
JIMENEZ:
ANDY:
JIMENEZ:
E EDDIE:
BISSITCH:
TREVOR:
ANDY:
BISSITCH:
JIMENEZ:
TREVOR:
BISSITCH:
E EDDIE:
BISSITCH:
JIMENEZ:
ANDY:
E EDDIE:
TREVOR:
BISSITCH:
The doctors are killing us off.
Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill…
Like they're supposed to.
I wish he could see it.
Doctor F-f-f-Frankson didn't kill him!
What are you talking about? Kill who?
Kill, kill, kill, kill, kill…
Ha-ha-he-he kill-killed himself.
Doc Frankfurter killed him.
Killed who?
(Whispering to Trevor) He-he didn't!
He must be cold.
That would be a v-violation.
He hung him.
Hung hung hung hung hung...
A cold prisoner of the moon.
Who's dead Jimenez?
He hung-hung-hung himself; nobody's fault.
E EDDIE:
JIMENEZ:
ANDY:
JIMENEZ:
TREVOR:
E EDDIE:
JIMENEZ:
ANDY:
TREVOR:
JIMENEZ:
A cold prisoner.
Doc Frankeincense hung him.
Hung hung hung hung hung...
I wanna be next.
Who, Jimenez?
What happens after you die, Trevor?
Phil Vintzen.
Die, die, die, die, die…
Shut up Andy!
Na-Na-Na-Nathan.
(Pause.)
TREVOR:
BISSITCH:
JIMENEZ:
BISSITCH:
E EDDIE:
ANDY:
TREVOR:
JIMENEZ:
BISSITCH:
E EDDIE:
ANDY:
Who?
He hung-hung-hung himself!
Then what was Doc Frankenstein doin' in his room?
St-st-stand-standard interrogation.
Do you think Nathan’s cold, Trevor?
Trev Trev Trevor Trevor, Trev Trev Trevor Trevor...
SHUT UP Andy!
Ripping sheets is standard interrogation?
N-Nay-Nay-Nathan did that.
Do you think Nathan can see the moon, Trevor?
Nay-Nay-Nathan, Nay-Nay-Nathan, Nay-Nay... Nay Nay Nay .
(His body is wracked by something like an electric shock. Clarence steps out, already manipulating
the controls.)
CLARENCE:  704-4 -  kick it in.  Cauterize the bitter end there and do a back-grope for the lead. 
Set up a live kiosk. Monitor his autonomic systems on channel 2;  flood-tide it as much as he’ll take.
I told you this wouldn’t work Stanley! - (Placating) I’m not saying you mishandled him, I’m saying... .
It’s the same thing again, I told you. He’s completely freeform. - (His frustration coming through) He
is off the sphere, Stanley. That’s why you couldn’t reign him, that’s why he spun out of his gildorn. Alright, what? - I’m telling you, it’s the same as last time: he starts off on the slave trajectory but then
something causes a turbulence at the interface and he’s chaoses out. - (His frustration blossoming into
anger) Why would we do it again, Stanley? It’s not going to change. - I don’t see how that’s going to
help. - Be realistic Stanley, it won’t work. I think—. - Well no, we—. - Well, I think—I THINK... I
think we need to consider... we need to consider… lighting him up here. - You know what I mean! It’s
the only way—. - (Becoming desperate) Why does it matter? Stanley, look, this is bad. If the ARPCA
sees this they will definitely shut us down. You said that’s what you wanted to avoid. - Not
necessarily. If we light him up there won’t be anything left to find. They won’t know if, for instance,
he took too much bandwidth himself. It’d be untraceable. - Well Stanley, you—. - You—. - You were
the one who said we couldn’t afford a shutdown at this point. I don’t see any alternative here .
(Clarence has moved forward to manipulate something in his space. His manipulation mirrors itself
and Stanley emerges.)
STANLEY:  We need to play this conservatively, Clarence . Nathan is going to be bad enough
publicity as it is. Think about how it would look if we ignored it now  and then it were to happen
again . - You don’t know that Clarence; we haven’t isolated the problem yet.  There may be
something wrong with the Parsing System; we need to find out. - You don’t know that, it could be
something else. - (Beginning to lose his temper) You can’t know that, Claren—. - There is no way for
you to know that. - (Pause) You seem awfully sure of yourself here; is there something you need to
tell me? - Well, you’re very anxious to ‘light him up’ as you say. - Oh, now, that’s going to require
some explanation. What exactly do you mean by ‘cover up?’ - No, that was your phrase Clarence, not
mine. Yours. (After listening, turning to manipulate his controls)  C-0414839.  Lock the current
session through my rostrum as the helm.  Subordinate the first platea . - Yes, I am subordinating
your platea.  I’m locking you out. I will be helming this session from now on . - I’m making sure
everything is aboveboard. I’m—. - Clarence, I work for the investors; I’m here to look out for their
interests. You seem to have another agenda and I’m making sure—. - Are you finished? - Well then
you don’t have anything to worry about, do you? - Are you ready to begin again? - No.  Before he
calibrates I’d like to do a diagnostic of his active neural arbors, see if we can’t find a plangent trellis .
- Fine, I’ll bring up his dossier .
(Blackout. Intermission.)
ACT II
(The lights come up. The stage is the same as in act one. Stanley is working his virtual controls.)
STANLEY:  Untrace his glials.  Flush his backflow circuits. Slack tide him enough to vang him
at parity for the next calibration. - Yes, I am going to do another one, Clarence. - Because the locus 
is still swimming somewhere in his onboards . If I can draw it back into our system while keeping him
tied to only one of your profiles  I might be able to stamp that: imprint it as his standard configuration.
Then  when we bring him down there won’t be anything wrong for the ARPCA to find. - I don’t think
you—. - Clarence, I would think that a person in your situation would want this to work more than
anything. - I think you know what I mean. If I’m able to stitch him back onto the sphere there won’t be
nearly as much for you to explain. If I can’t… . You will be held accountable for what’s happened
here. - Clarence! I’m not going to argue with you about this. Let’s just hope that it doesn’t become an
issue . - I’m going to force his attentional Pics  so that he stays with the slaved character. He won’t
be able to skate into other profiles like he’s been doing with you.  Then, if I can’t train his content, I’ll
simply restart him again. - Over and over if necessary.  Until his acquisitors learn that they will be
offed unless they unconditionally accept the inbound token from your entertainment . - Clarence!
Calm down. Let’s see if this works first. I’ll bring him up. We left him in the first drawer, correct ?
(He begins to manipulate a virtual control and electrics into Nathan, who is holding out his hand.
Nathan isn’t expecting the shock he receives in his left hand.)
NATHAN:  Yeah, it’s—OW! Is there a—AH! It’s working! It’s working. Bush. - Stanch.
(Turning his attention to Clarence) Can I ask... can I ask what’s—what’s going on? - The, ah, the
entertainment. It’s not like any other project I’ve worked on. It’s eldritch, like it’s drawing some of
the... some of the plot from my onboards. From me. Is that, sup... what it’s supposed to be doing? But this is all supposed to be hard-wired, these are slaved sections, right? How is it... how is it drawing
from my personals for this section?
(The lights change back to the police station. Nathan turns to Stanley.)
- You want me to do another one now? - No, I’ll do it. Stanch. I just... I wish I knew more
about what’s going on. Sup, what’s the story of this thing. (Turning) Clarence, you know what I’m
talking about. Come on, bio, somethin’s up here, right? Aver... this isn’t like a normal interactive. So is there some special feedback on this—something to make the whole plot of the thing refer back to
the player somehow? I don’t mind bio, I just wanna know what I’m into. (Turning and responding
testily to Stanley) - Because it’s a little uncomfortable, seeing parts of yourself popping into this other
thing. I wasn’t expecting it. - I did—. - I am, I—. - Bush, I’ll do it, I—. - I was, but—. - Stanch.
Stanch. (Moving to a manhole, then leaning toward Clarence) Can you tell me though if this thing is
gonna bring me into the whole thing, bio? When I get to the interactives... am I gonna be calibrating
against myself? Am I—. - (Responding to Stanley) I am, I—. - I was, I just—. - Stanch, I’ll do it.
It’s copiset. - Bush. (Unlocking the next manhole)  I’ll do the doctor next. (To himself) Somebody
sane .
(He pulls the manhole down, becoming the good doctor.)
DR. FRANKSON: Inspector, you’ve established that I wasn’t
There at the time he took his life. And now
You ask if I feel somehow responsible?
Do you mean to suggest that my treatment was somehow unsound?
I ought to take offense, now don’t you think?
Allow me to describe his case, and stop
Me where you think the fault was mine.
Phil Vintzen started life with ADHD.
When Dexidrin and Ridilin both failed
To keep his poor behavior in control—
Aggressiveness and inattention in school
Combined with antisocial, hyperactive—
And willful misbehavior at home as well—
His doctors finally diagnosed CD:
Conduct Disorder. Chronic noncompliance
Resulting from unstable family life.
Neglect. The child was simply left alone.
Like most such children, Phil was headed
For prison, except that Phil had family
With wealth enough to further diagnose
His mood disorder: Manic Depression. Saved.
A life of crime transformed into a life
Homogenized by drugs and ECT.
Except that lithium could not control
Phil’s mania; SSRIs did not
Combat his profound depression as we’d hoped,
And so we had to keep him ice-ice-isola-isolated.
(A small interference comes down the good doctor’s pipe.)
The rich man’s son is in his room alone—al-al-al-alone.
(A small interference comes down the good doctor’s pipe.)
Which is, of course, the natural state of man.
We’re born alone, we die alone, returning
To our solitary silences. Like
Shadows, lengthening past recognition
Until all that remains is darkness.
We’re shadows only, wearing masks of flesh.
I came to know this as the sun went down
Two nights ago, when all my learning broke
Upon the shore of understanding.
The truth of what we are. And I have felt
That truth, and now I know that sunset’s not
The blush of night—as though the night reached out
Asserting modesty before assent.
The sunset isn’t part of night, it’s day’s
Last light, the stain from what has come before.
No blush of night, a bruise left by the day.
(The good doctor is adjusted from without.)
Inspector, you’ve established that I wasn’t
There at the time he took his life. And now
You ask if I’m the one responsible?
Of course I am. Who else? He was alone.
I killed the boy, and now I’ll tell you why—wa-wa-why. Why.
(A small interference comes down the good doctor’s pipe.)
The mind is like a landscape filled with wonders:
Broad meadows, swamps and reaching mountain peaks,
Bare deserts, mesas, oceans pulsing waves
Beneath the dome of sky. The mind is such
A land as dreams aspire. Yet every day
You walk the path between your home and work.
You wear that path with shoes that know the way
All by themselves. You’ve never been atop
That hill, across that stream, around that bend.
Your life is habit, destined for regret.
It’s unexplored except for places you’ve
Been paid to go again and yet again.
We are paid to busy past our lives without
Exploring, sounding depths and climbing heights,
Which is our nature.
The inmates of this institution, they
Are the true explorers of the world of thought,
The ones who aren’t afraid to travel where
There are no roads, no guarantee of comfort,
Exploring thoughts from which the timid mind
Will shrink. If distant shores are ever found
Within the mind of man, the first inhabitants
Will be the people here, who cast their minds
Upon the seas of chance without some chart
To guide their journey back. And this is why
For them there is no turning back. And why
For them the way is always found alone—al-al-alone.
(A small interference comes down the good doctor’s pipe.)
Now Phil was an adventurer like none
Who’d come before. I helped him. Underwrote
His voyage, so to speak. I ripped the sheets,
I helped him tie the knots. I
(The good doctor is adjusted from without.)
Inspector, you’ve established that I wasn’t
There at the time they took his life. And now
You ask if I’m the one responsible?
Absurd. Ask Stanley here, he knows it all.
Or better yet, ask Clarence; he was there
To watch them hook him up.
(The good doctor is adjusted from without.)
Inspector, you’ve established that I wasn’t
There at the time they took his life. And now
You ask if I’m—iii-if I’m—iiif I’m—if I 
(Stanley emerges, already manipulating his virtual controls.)
STANLEY:  704-4. Ice him.  Now.  Cauterize all of it.  Put him on a gioles peg and let him
dangle. - Because he’s coming untethered Clarence. Restarting him isn’t helping to channel his vector
at all. It’s over. - No, it doesn’t mean I’m lighting him up, Clarence. I’m bringing him down.  We’ll
just have to let the ARPCA analyze him as he is. - No, it will look bad for you, Clarence ; the rest of
us will be fine. - (Losing patience) Because it’ll be as obvious to the ARPCA as it is to me what
exactly has happened here. It’s obvious that when your team set up his feedback circuitry you forgot to
exclude the prologue. You already had the looped circuit open on him when you upped him in. He was
trying to do an interactive against slaved characters; that’s why they started to randomize, they were
routed through his narrative locus . Probably somewhere in his dream trellis considering the
characters your people wrote . - I am saying your team screwed up, yes. That’s what I think—that’s
what happened . - I don’t know what the fallout will be. I’m sorry, but I can’t risk the entire parsing
project just because you screwed up .
(Clarence emerges from one of Stanley’s manipulations.)
CLARENCE:  Hang on.  Hang on, Stanley. - Well I don’t think that is how it has to be. You can’t
tell me I’m taking the entire weight on this. I would go to jail, I’m not that plastic. - Don’t off to me
like that, you know what happened here. - You know! - Fine Stanley, you don’t know anything. I’ll
tell you what happened. Nathan is junk! We didn’t open him wrong, his circuits were already fried
from upping at corporate speed too much. - Yes, I’m saying he’s a virtual junk head. That’s why we
chose him to calibrate, and you know it. - Don’t off to me, Stanley. It’s policy, and you know it. Fine, you don’t know anything about it. You go ahead and bring him down soft. But let me tell you
something first. (Pause) I’m pretty sure I don’t want to go to jail over this. I was pretty sure when they
first assigned me. I could see this thing was kicking sparks from the very beginning, so you know what
I did? I started forcing the no-retain mems and circulars. - No, I know. But: if you put your own
channel on a warble monitor while you upload, the monitor signal doesn’t retain the auto erase. You
can save it. - Yeah, I did. Everyone deserves insurance Stanley, this is mine. - I’m saying that if you
want to tell the ARPCA that my team screwed this up, well... there might be another explanation. And
if you want to paint me as some rogue who swam against the moral, ethical stream here by hiring a
piece of junk to calibrate, well... my own records might show that for the lie that it is. (Losing control)
I’m not the one who demanded that this parsing thing work like god’s fingers its first time out, Stanley!
I did not up the ante, I was following orders! They were the ones who demanded something totally
new, ‘like nothing before.’ ‘Extreme calibrations!’ Well, they got it! - No. No, I’m not demanding
anything, I’m... I’m making an observation. It seems to me that a piece of virtual junk getting
scrambled is easier to explain than a full-on scandal. - Well, that’s not my problem any more, is it
Stanley. You locked me out, remember. Subordinated my platea. This is all your input now, Stanley.
You’re input exclusively .
(Stanley emerges from Clarence’s gesticulation.)
STANLEY:  You’re playing a dangerous game, Clarence. This will not get you on many guest lists,
if you take my meaning. - Well I suppose that’s right, isn’t it. It may very well keep you out of prison.
(Pause) Alright. Let’s try one last thing here . - Because lighting him up would be the worst sort of
publicity Clarence, if I can avoid it I will. And I would suggest you help me. This is not over yet.  C0414839.  Take him off the gioles peg.  Vang him to parity for another calibration. Clarence, spike
directly into half a dozen profiles from your entertainment and have them ready on a carousel, I’ll cycle
them through . - Do I have to explain this to you, Clarence? - I am going to disorient his locus  by
forcing different profiles down his pipe.  I’m going to take the profiles from your carousel and cycle
them through at random intervals.  If he’s got any continuity filters left,  they’ll recognize that
something is wrong; they’ll search for a marshaling agent to helm the session. They will locate us .
We can freeze that connect and pull the locus back through that pipe. - Well as you may guess,
Clarence, I don’t particularly value your opinion. I think it will work. He’s ready now. Are you ?
(Nathan emerges from Stanley’s reach. He is facing Stanley, but he is confused and agitated. He
turns toward Clarence.)
NATHAN:  Ahh! Clarence? Clarence, what’s goin—? - No, no, no, no no, don’t planter-box me,
bio. What the chizap’s happening here? What kind of feedback is this? This was supposed to be a
slaved section; you said it was hard-wired. It’s drawing you in too, what’s the key on that? - (Turing
to Stanley) Who are you, anyway? (Turing back to Clarence) Is this some kind of experimental thing,
bio? You using me like a guinea pig? - (Turing again to Stanley) It’s not normal, don’t tell me it’s
normal. - (Shouting) Why should I be calm? You guys got me upped into some experimental thing
without telling me. - (Turning to Clarence) You didn’t tell me, Clarence. - Oh, do you know it’s
safe? Do you know that bio, or’re you just blowing pringles at me? - (Turning to Stanley) I didn’t
agree to have some glitch worked out on me! I’m offing right now. (Turning, then turning angrily
back) - Why should I do another one, I didn’t agree to this one! - (Incredulous) Oh, ha! Right! A
perpetual token! Is he even RL bio? - (Suddenly serious and suspicious) Why would you give me a
perpetual token? - It’s not safe. - You’re sure? - A kilo, full 87? And a perpetual token? - System
wide? - (Pause) Wuh… . Well... . Bush. I’ll do it. Stanch. One more! - Bush. (Going to the
manhole) A perpetual token! - Bush . Stay with me Clarence .
(He pulls the manhole down around him and stands into Herman.)
HERMAN: What are you asking? Are you asking me if I knew that Dr. Frankson was going to kill
him? Everyone knew. Phil asked him to do it. (Squint convulsion) Do you know why I’m here? I’m
a hermaphrodite. My body was crazy before my mind. Same difference. (Squint convulsion) You’re
not an outcast, are you? But you don’t seem happy either. Weird. I guess there are three types; I
thought there were only two. There are people who are forced to be alone, like me. There are people
who like to be alone. And I guess there’s your type too: people who just sort of end up alone. You
didn’t choose it, you’re not happy about it, but nobody forced you, you just... . Weird. They didn’t
have your type on the talk show. I was on a talk show once.
(After a final, emphatic convulsion which takes Herman to its knees, the Host emerges. He is
consulting with a television camera operator.)
HOST:
Okay? Alright... and here we go,
It’s time to play, let’s start the show.
(Flourishing for the camera)
Hey hey hi and howdy out there,
It’s time to look, feel free to stare
At the wretches and the refugees...
The orphans, pariahs, and tragedies
Of various kinds. We’ve got it all,
We search the world to bring appalling
Freaks here for you to see and gawk (Laughing that nobody seems to be getting his joke)
I meant, of course, to listen and talk
And learn about. Examine these folks
With kindness and without the jokes
That sometimes creep into other shows
That don’t respect their guests. Who knows
Why their sensationalism sells.
Button pushing, ringing bells.
But here we seek truth, not just to pass
The time with strangeness. Insight’s our task
Here on... (Flourishing) The Man in the Iron Maaaaask!--Talking the Bizaaaare!--Lives Like
Car Wreeeeecks!--Outcaaaasts! Out-out-out Outcaaaasts.
Our first guest today
From very far away
Is falling here now
Let’s see if we can’t catch him.
(He catches the falling character, becoming him. The character is a guest on the talk show,
addressing a question from the audience. All of the following characters are guests on the talk
show, emerging from various sorts of convulsions as Stanley forces Nathan into each new
character.)
BRADLEY: Yeah, well, being famous isn’t easy. People feel like they know you just because
they’ve seen you in a movie. And you know, just to sit in a restaurant and eat is... a real luxury. I can’t
do that any more. Anonymity. Not being recognized, just to be left alone. That’s gone for me. And
the money and things are nice, but I don’t think people realize how much we celebrities... we really
become isolated and… we really sacrifice our personal lives for our art.
SHOBIE:
Yeah, well, I’m lookin’ forard to it. Oh, we on now? National TV? God damn! TEN
MINUTES! (Making an electrocution movement) Gud-zzzzzt. Tssss-gl. Betcha wish ya could smell
it. Boy, I wouldn’t wanna be the fella ta pull the lever, ‘uld you? Shooo! My soul’s already fucked,
but at least I’s mad about it, ya know. I got ticked an’ I did it. But this fella, ‘e’s jus’ settin’ there, cool
and rational. I wadn’t thankin’ when I did it, I’s outta my head. But this fella, he’s deciding ta do it!
I’m a killer? Fuck ‘at! What’s this guy? What’re you? Yeah, all y’all. Isolate me, don’t let me see
anyone, do anything, keep me caged up an’en fuckin’ light me up. Hell, I’m looking forard to it. ‘Least
I won’t be pacin’ tha cage no more. But you will! Ha! You will! They’ll always be anuther one a me
ya gotta sangle out, cull out yur herd, isolate. You pacing the cage too my friends. Lookit tha guard
there: back and forth, just like me. Ha! ‘Cause onc’t you build a cage ya got two locked sides, ya
cayn’t jus lock me in, see: you’s locked out too. All y’all, even out there in TV land. Pace yur way on
down tha store, git y’self another TV dinner; tatter tots and a coke. Shooo! Hurry back though, don’t
wanna miss the fish fry. Ka-zzzzt. Yeah, y’all jus’ pacin’. You jus’ pacin’ yur own cage ‘til you free
like I’ll be.
EUGENE: Yes, I’m a hermit. Not a monk, a HERMIT. There’s a big difference. A MONK lives
with other monks in one of those... big stone places. A Monkestery. (Looking to god, thinking)
MANISTARY. Men, menistar... . It doesn’t matter, the point is monks live together, in GROUPS. I
live ALONE. Now, I have CHOSEN to live alone because I wanted to work on my INDIVIDUAL
relationship with GOD. You see, I am a HOLY man. A GODLY man. An ASTHMATIC, as we’re
sometimes called. I believe that one cannot come to a true UNDERSTANDING of God until one is
ISOLATED from others. Now, in today’s world it is difficult for people to believe that a person can be
so truly SPIRITUAL, could so DEDICATE themselves as a SEEKER of TRUTH that they would
willingly FOREGO the society of others and embark upon their own, SOLITARY spiritual JOURNEY.
KATHLEEN didn’t believe it. KATHLEEN was a BITCH.
CHAD:
Yes, that’s where I got my theory. From the time I was a boy I always loved books.
Best friend a person ever had. Sh shuh. I worked in the, uh, the university library there. Years. I’d,
uh, I’d take my vacation in Hawaii every year. Come back with a bit of a tan. Sylvia was the director...
at the university there. She’d come down to the bindery room and shuh shuh... . She’d uh, she’d fun at
me that I’d lost my fluorescent tan. Shuh shuh shuh shuh. She was... delightful woman. But I was a,
uh... . Working with books is how I came up with my theory. It struck me as odd that all thoughts
comes from people. And then the notion occurred: perhaps they don’t. Perhaps thoughts exist...
independent of people somehow. People’re just... vessels for thoughts, if you take my meaning. People
come up with an idea like they come up with a fish. Somehow it’s not right that they made the thing,
they just caught it - it was out there already, they just... caught it somehow. Like you’d catch a fish.
And if that’s true, then perhaps thoughts don’t even need people any more. There are other things with
thoughts in them now. There’re books and records and... computers and such. Perhaps the thoughts are
just as happy being in those things as they are being in people. Shuh shuh shuh. It’s an odd notion.
Very odd.
BRADLEY: Yeah, well that’s really what the film was about; it’s about me. And I really had to
explore... me. And I think people don’t realize how difficult that is. For instance: in that scene where I
play the prisoner in the cell: for that scene to work I really had to be ALONE in that cell. And when
we filmed that there were upwards of... oh, 40 people there on the set. So how do you be alone in a
situation like that? Well, you have to concentrate. It takes a tremendous amount of concentration.
More concentration than most people have, I think. And that’s why all those people are there: they’re
there to help me concentrate. And I really need all of them: costume hair… right down to the caterer
and my trainer and my trailer. And I know it can seem excessive to somebody who isn’t familiar with
how demanding it is, what I do. But for instance: if I were distracted, if I was worried that I wouldn’t
have a good meal waiting for me at the end of the day—or a comfortable place to sleep that night, I
wouldn’t be able to give my undivided attention to being that character alone in that cell. And that’s
how much concentration it takes. I think people don’t realize.
EUGENE: Yes, I left eight years ago. I traveled as far as I could from the city in which I had lived.
It USED to be that such a SELF-IMPOSED EXILE was a more DIGNIFIED thing: the holy man would
wrap his rags about himself and be in the solitude of NATURE not five MINUTES after being released
from JAIL, having been arrested for urinating in the garden of some wealthy person while foraging for
FOOD. But TODAY a self-imposed exile is not so SIMPLE. And I wanted to go into the wilderness, I
wanted to find a CAVE in which I could LIVE and be like the monks and martyrs of old. But MY
journey was plagued with DIFFICULTIES that you do not READ about in the lives of the saints who
didn’t have EIGHT LANES of TRAFFIC to deal with when they went into THEIR exile, who did not
have to NAVIGATE the temptations of STRIP MALLS and DONUT SHOPS and 95 SCREEN
CINEPLEX ODEONS. For them exile was EASY.
WALLY:
Yes, most of my work had been centered around quantum chromodynamics. I was
trying to provide experimental evidence to prove that gluons are not needed to explain (particularly the
affiliative properties of) quarks. But then I got sidetracked away from hadrons by the rather intriguing
possibility of a third type of elementary particle: neither a quark nor a lepton. Leptons are the other
type of building blocks—electrons are the easiest example. And although my university did not get
behind me as much as I’d hoped, I was able to apply for an extended leave, and then I was able to
finagle my way into some time on a German accelerator. And so in that way I began working on my
own.
SHOBIE:
YEAH! FIVE MINUTES! I wish ‘ey’d hang me so I could shoot my load. Fella outta
be able to get off one last time, doncha thank! But no, I’m supposed to be proud. Hell, I’m a celebrity:
I’m the first white guy they fried in five years. Put ‘im on tha TV, ‘at’s big news. ‘Cause the black
folks got more crazys than the white folks, doncha know? Oh yeah, whole big crowd a sane white folks
out there just millin’ around. All them white folks’re all just sane as Sanny Claus! Ha! That’s tha big
lie, idn’t it? ‘Cause aint nobody crazy; ‘s jus’ more white folks got sumpun ta lose. ‘At’s tha
differnce. Most white folks got enough stuff ta keep their little crazies swalluhed. Oops, I let mine out
fer a second, now I’m pacing the little side a tha cage. Maybe I had a little more ta loose I ‘d still be out
thare. Yeah, an’ maybe a little less ta lose ‘n’ you might be in here. Yeah, y’all wanna be differ’nt’an
me, but you aint. Y’all wanna be able ta say ‘Oh, oh, oh he aint like us. We’re normal, we’re all like
‘is, he’s differ’nt. We ken jus’ lock him up and thow ‘way tha key. Er jus’ fry ‘is ass! ‘Cause he’s an
exception. We’s tha rule, he’s the exception.’ And then ya all sit at home an’ worry ‘at somebody’ll
find out you’s an exception too. You keepin’ it swalluhed down, but you just as differn’t as I am. All
y’all. Livin’ alone in yur own little skulls thare, pretending to be like ever’one else. At’s tha lie my
friends. ‘At’s tha lie.
CHAD:
Yes, that’s an interesting question. You know I read a book about that, but I can’t...
remember the name. Shuh. It talked about the invention of the printing press. It talked about how, at
that time, quite a number of people were afraid that having so many books would... would ruin people.
Would make them lazy and stupid. Because what’s the point in knowing anything, in putting
something in your head if you can just go look it up in a book? Shuh shuh shuh. People were afraid
that having so many books would stop people from thinking! Shuh shuh shuh shuh. Oh, and I’ve heard
them saying the same things about computers now too. But I shouldn’t talk about that. Computers:
that’s all just... passed me by. As it should, out with the old... . Shuh shuh shuh. Funny thing though:
I work on computers. Shuh. True. There’s a little lady... Esther. Comes in with this Senior
Advantage program: useful things for seniors to do, little projects and things. Esther’s an artist: she
makes little... landscapes and things out of the innards of computers there. The... boards and diodes and
things in there. Delightful little landscapes. And she heard that I was good with my hands, so she set
me up as a sort of helper. Shuh shuh shuh. And so here I am, working on computers. Shuh shuh shuh
shuh.
EUGENE: Yes, I persevered and eventually I did find a cave of sorts. I drove my car as far as I
could and abandoned it. I took up lodgings underneath an overpass. It was a SPIRITUAL place, I
could tell that right off. I thought it would be a place in which I could embark upon my solitary quest
for a greater understanding of GOD. But it is hard to be ALONE in today’s world, where even an
overpass has inhabitants that one wouldn’t expect to have to ENCOUNTER on a daily basis, especially
when there is RAIN and people seeking shelter stop
(His left hand wanders away from his body, twitching slightly. He draws it back while continuing to
speak.)
paying ATTENTION to the broken BOTTLES and low-fat chocolate milk CARTONS that I hurl at
them from above in my overpass which I have CLAIMED as my OWN and which is already crowded
enough with pigeons and smaller birds that flit and screech, disrupting my MEDITATIONS with their
guano which gets all OVER ALL of my meager possessions DESPITE my attempts to get RID of the
birds by casting small bits of FOOD onto the HIGHWAY with the hope that the birds will follow and
be CRUSHED by the rushing CARS which, though ANGRY in their own way, make a kind of WHITE
NOISE which actually aids me in my meditations when I have the TIME to CONCENTRATE, when
people aren’t INVADING my SOLITUDE like KATHLEEN, the BITCH.
WALLY:
Yes, well, working on one’s own can be quite difficult. I can be lonely certainly, and
frustrating at times. But I think there’s another aspect to it that ought to be addressed. Working on
one’s own can be tremendously productive, and one is free to pursue whichever avenues one feels are
appropriate to one’s research. I don’t think I would have found the lepto-quark if I had been working
under the strictures of a university department or research institute, which tend to be driven more and
more by financial considerations. Because there isn’t any profit involved in finding a third type of
fundamental particle—not yet anyway. However—and I feel
(His left hand wanders away from his body, twitching slightly. He draws it back while continuing to
speak.)
this is the salient point here—there are philosophical reasons for wanting to do this type of research,
and it is these philosophical questions that can really motivate an individual to... to rigorously pursue
his or her subject matter. It’s certainly what motivated me. And now, of course, I’ve forgotten your
question. Does that get back to it at all? Am I making sense here. Is what I’m saying at all clear?
BRADLEY: Yeah, well, as an artist I need the script to inspire me. Me, you understand. It’s a
personal thing. People come to me with different parts, but they’re their parts. I need a part for me.
Because unless I’m inspired by it... . Unless I’m inspired by the part, the part’s not art. You see, real
art is about an
(His left hand begins twitching slightly. He shakes it a bit, massages and examines it while
continuing to speak.)
individual’s vision. Real art is personal. And it’s going to be me up on the screen. Me. Not a bunch
of writers or directors or producers. Me. So for it to be art, I have got to connect with it; it has to be
my vision. My art. Because it all comes through me. If it doesn’t come through me it simply doesn’t
come, and then it doesn’t function as art. And people won’t pay for that.
CHAD:
Yes, they’re just... boards. Mostly green. There are little metal lines going everywhere,
and solder. Esther marks on the card where she wants me to work and I trace the pencil marks with the
solder there. It makes the little roads and streams and things for the little landscapes. Delightful little
things. They had to teach me how to solder in order to do it; it’s good for my hands, very intricate.
You bring the solder and the iron down together and... it’s extraordinary.
(His left hand moves away from his body. He draws it back, massaging it while he continues
speaking.)
The solder melts all of a sudden and this small pool of silver suddenly covers the area around the tip of
the iron there. It’s magical. After only a bit it congeals and dulls over, but for a second there there’s
this liquid silver droplet... a shiny, beautiful thing reflecting the light from all around. It’s a beautiful,
beautiful thing. Magical. Like a silver tear. Shuh shuh shuh. But then it congeals and dulls over and
you have to move on.
SHOBIE:
YEAH! ONE MINUTE! Any bets on tha after life? I’m takin’ ALL bets. Hell, I’ll take
a check too, I trust all y’all. Make it out ta my momma, she’s tha one’ll need it. All she’s got’s tha
money I’m makin’ right here, right now. Oh yeah, they paid me good so y’all ken share my very last
minute on god’s earth. I’m makin’ more money now ‘n I ever made at workin’. Hell—hell, dyin’s a
better livin’ than livin’. Shoooo! An’ here comes the preacher man an’ tha officers an’ all. It’s a damn
parade! Guess I’m done. Rest a you dice jus’ keep on bouncing round out thare. Er maybe you just
layin’ there, waitin’ fer someone ta pick ya up an’ give ya a roll, see which way you turn up. But not
me; I’m done. No, come on! Brang it on! Strap me down, light me up! All I got left’s ta wonder how
they’ll do it. I’m told they strap yur hands down at the sides so ya cayn’t pray, so I hope all y’all’ll put
yur hands tagether fer me in a big ol’ prayer. Won’t ya do it now?
WALLY:
Yes, well I didn’t set out to be a popularizer of science; but I think there’s an interesting
point here. Science was always driven by individuals. Personalities. And I’ve always felt that the
reason for this is that we take in knowledge as individuals; we are individuals, and so when we read the
work of another individual it has a... a coherence to it, a personality with which we can identify. I don’t
think the same is true of knowledge that comes from a committee. Committee’s tend to present
information in a way that has a sort of... homogenized, negotiated logic to it, whereas the individual will
present his or her findings
(His left hand jerks away from his side and twitches. He has difficulty drawing it back, and shakes it
with his other hand as he speaks.)
with their own idiosyncratic, personal thread of logic to it. And even when the individual’s point isn’t
as straight-forward as it might be, I think there’s a personality there that allows us to identify with it.
We think of knowledge, and particularly scientific knowledge, as being absolute in some way, without a
personality or agenda. But I feel that even scientific knowledge is shaped to a very large extent by the
personality of the individual who created that knowledge. And again I’ve forgotten the question, but I
think this is an important point. Is it clear though? Is what I’m saying making sense at all?
EUGENE: Yes, I did have one visitor who came more than once. I think I’ve mentioned her before:
the lovely Kathleen. Of all the people who didn’t understand my solitary quest, Kathleen was the most
ignorant. Kathleen worked for the government, and so had no UNDERSTANDING of God. She
thought my quest had no value. Because SHE couldn’t place a value on it she assumed it was
valueLESS. She tried to lure me away from my quest—just as any DEVIL would have done to the
SAINTS and MARTYRS of old. But I resisted. I resisted because I
(His left hand twitches and begins to move away from his body. He grabs it and forcibly folds his
fingers together as he speaks. The hand continues to want to move away, however, and he is
constantly having to pull it back with the other hand.)
believed that I had been CALLED into my solitude for a PURPOSE. And I was borne out. I was borne
out that night the semi crashed and I was able to wrest Mr. Vintzen from his crushed luxury sedan
before it burst into flames. I was there. I was THERE because I had sought SOLITUDE, I BELIEVED
and I PERSEVERED, and in so doing I found my FORTUNE. Not ONLY was I included in Mr.
Vintzen’s WILL, but now I am also being paid HANDSOMELY through television appearances such as
THIS. And while it wasn’t the... it wasn’t the SPIRITUAL fortune that I had gone in search of, it was a
FORTUNE nonetheless. And isn’t that the way God works.
(He has a large convulsion, with his elbows smacking together. Nathan emerges and looks about,
confused.)
NATHAN:
Clarence?
(Nathan’s mouth opens in a slow convulsion. His left arm is not functioning normally. He takes in
an incredulous, drug-rushing breath. His voice sounds as though it were coming through a moving
fan.)
NATHAN: C-c-la-a-r-r-en-n-c-ce? W-wh-a-a-t’s-s ha-a-a-pen-n-ni-ing? C-c-la-a-r-r-en-n-c-ce? Uu-u-p-p m-m-m-e-e-e o-o-u-u-t-t. C-a-a-a-a-l-l-a-a-a-r-r-r-e-e-en-n-n-c-c-c-c-e-e-e .
(His body shudders and he torques into an impossible position. Stanley emerges, already
manipulating his virtual controls.)
STANLEY:  704-4.  Drain the box and slack tide him slow.  Slonge the counters back to zero. I can see that it’s not working, Clarence . - Well, I suppose we’ll have to light him up. Unless you can
see another way. - Fine. Why don’t you get on with Joe and Peter and explain this for yourself; but
remember that I will be giving them my report later. - Fine.  First though, you should explain to
Nathan. - I think he has a right to know. – If we’re going to light him up, I think he at least has a right
to know what’s happening to him. - Fine, I’ll do it.  Why don’t you get off-line now, you disgust me.
And let me have a few minutes with Nathan before you throw the switch. – Fine .
(Stanley manipulates some virtual controls and the lights change.)
- Nathan. - Calm down for—. - Calm down. I know—. - Are you finished? - No, we haven’t
been straight with you. Let me—. - Clarence is off-line. Let me explain. - Let me—let me explain?! Clarence brought you in earlier today to do some calibrations. He put you on a tetraflow for the
prologue. Unfortunately, many of your circuits are already so... so well used, that somehow a feedback
loop got started and you began incorporating the slaved characters into your own personal cache. You
were overloaded. - That doesn’t matter. The point is you went opaque. Clarence floated you on an Speg vac and brought me in. We erased your first cycle and started your session again. - No, we did a
continuity backfill for you; this is the second time you’ve been through it. - Well, we morphed your
own icons and masked in through those. (Pointing) If you look at the registration numbers you’ll see
that they’re all variants of your own. This is all you. - No. I know it feels that way, Nathan, but you
have to understand: it was designed to feel that way. There simply are no outbound pipes for you right
now. We’re haunting your own icons. These are all your morphs. We are all you. - Yes. We were
trying to see if we could reconfigure your onboards. (Pause) It didn’t work. I’m sorry. - It means that
while you’re on a relative flood tide now, we can’t bring you down again without a total loss of your
integrity. - I know, but—. - Nathan, I know. It feels that way, but it’s all virtual. None of this has
been RL for you. - Well, if you were to try your left gauntlet now it wouldn’t work properly because
you are a virtual presence at this point. None of this has been Real Life. - Your RL body? It’s in the
lab. Clarence is there with you. (With genuine difficulty) You’re lying on a diagnostic table with sustubes up your nose and 87-band pipes heaved directly into your eye pics. - I’m afraid that’s right, you
won’t be getting up again. I’m sorry. - No, I understand. - I understand Nathan, go ahead and try.
Here, see if you can feel this .
(He goes forward and reaches for Nathan. Nathan emerges. He tries for a moment to feel Stanley’s
touch.)
NATHAN:  No, I can’t feel it. (Trying to feel his left arm) Bush, so this isn’t my deck either?
You guys do a nice job. What’d, you up the incidentals from my own cache? - Clever. And my RL
body is... . Clarence is there... . And so... what now? Is he... . What happens now?
(Nathan nods, listens again, then breaks into a laugh.)
- Is that what you call it? Heh. - No, we always just said when a piece of junk gets fried that
they’d gone nova. - Ha! Like what, like a cigarette or something? Aver... . This is classic. This is... .
- I don’t know; what would you want with your last minute? You wanna go to a beach, you wanna get
laid? What? - I don’t know! - I don’t know! I... Uh... . - You know the Muséo Distál? They got a
planetarium board there, I used to jack into it when I was a kid. Could you put me in that? - No no, not
the research board, just their night sky watch. I just... wanna... . I just wanna look at the stars.
(After a moment the lights dim.)
Yeah, that’s it. - Environmentals? Uh... . Give me a... high desert nightscape. A cool breeze.
And how ‘bout a little light from a distant town; just a glow silhouetting some distant hills on the
horizon there.
(After a moment the lights dim again.)
- Yeah, that’s nice. - No! No, don’t... quash the emotions. Leave ‘em. Just... leave the
emotions like they are. I just wanna... feel it like it is. - No, it’s copiset; I just wanna be alone here... .
- Bush, stanch. Stanley. Thanks.
(The lights dim again. Nathan is alone. He looks at the stars. He sits and looks some more. After a
while of stillness the lights fade again, then suddenly flicker, and finally go out. Nathan lets out a
slight sound just as all goes dark.)
The end.
©Copyright 1997. Revised edition ©Copyright 2000.
Don’t think you can prevent the night by shaking your fist at the setting sun.
On the other hand, sometimes a small candle is seen from a great distance.