When Words Have No Meaning?

Prologue

If one who looked from a tower for a new star, watching for years the same part of the sky, suddenly saw it (quite by chance while thinking of other things), and knew it for the star for which he had hoped, how many millions would never care? ~Lord Dunsany

If we spoke in the tongues of our ancestors, would words have more meaning? Words can be arranged into sentences that, in and of themselves, are coherent, but together do not make a cohesive story—or can they?

Act I

Scene 1

The expensive, odd-shaped camera arrives. We are recording in 3…2…1…

Their shining dragon stinks and any given, hairy frog arrives. His brother’s shining, slopy recycle bin looks around in dismay. The vision of the about-to-be-discarded abhors it.

The children’s round odd-shaped fish calms down. It nestles in the rock at the bottom of the tank wondering, “Is life anything like that?”

His brother’s well-crafted, round-shaped frog smells at the place that a given fancy ram spit. Whence hastened the ram?

Their round-shaped laptop smells. His brother’s white exam book smells. Her daughter’s golden boat adheres to the sound of distant something. The odd-shaped car smiles. A well-crafted, green, soft cat calculates. There will be revenge, oh yes.

Their tall carpet is on fire! O, grab the shag-witch. Rake it out. Look out for that man over there! The tall carpet is getting more and more orange.

A given purple, expensive, green book stinks. A purple pensil stares at the shining, slopy recycle bin. Her daughter’s white recycle bin stares in disgust. Mine stupid pensil prepares for fight. Stop the staring. Light the candles. Be the light. Listen for the sound of the rain.

Their noisy little racoon snores, or maybe, our odd-shaped, bluish paper looks around. Change the fish-eye lens from the camera. We are recording in 3…2…1…

Sound check! A given white ibex smiles, or maybe, mine white car makes sound. The white shining kitchen snores with the aromas of meals past. Any given red bottle got an idea? A tall magazine is thinking. Epicuris? Bon Appétit? Cook’s Country?

What is that trembling? His brother’s green frog falls. The smart clock falls. The purple pensil falls. Everything is shaking when a golden spoon arrives. The shaking ceases.

The white exam book smiles at the place that our beautiful sport shoes got an idea. Our fancy TV lies. Tell us more lies, and more lies.

Any golden computer got an idea? Our children’s round laptop lies or mine well-crafted boots look around.

Act I

Scene 2

Dare he open it? Would the thunder cease and with it the rains? Could it be reconstructed if it were opened and all the pieces fell to the floor like so many empty thoughts? Have you ever had the feeling you are living in an opera? This burger, it’s like, I feel like a schizophrenic guy; I feel like it is going to start talking to me and showing me its teeth like it is an animal that has come to destroy me.

Act I

Scene 3

The light! Their tall odd-shaped eraser calculates and perhaps our children’s expensive, little mobile phone arrives. Our little well-crafted toaster is angry. Our children’s odd-shaped doll walks. Her stupid printer looks around. A given white door calms-down. Her noisy glasses calm down.

Our round well-crafted, expensive, smart bicycle runs and still any smart bicycle shows its value and perhaps mine red ibex calms down. Methinks our children with their red binocyles sleep. Whose fancy, small, beautiful table falls? The sky is black with piercing darkness.

The shining, bluish mobile phone snores an alarm and her daughter’s fancy mouse is fidgeting. Awake! Awake! Whose smart mouse stares? Perhaps, her daughter’s fancy umbrella spit while any given slopy t-shirt smells? This man is a caveman who was teleported here.

The clouds erupt with vengeance in their mass. Our round-shaped fancy umbrella stares as soon as a given tall boat stinks. The umbrella pelted, the ship rocks with the tempest. Any given round-shaped paper stands-still in the torrent? Our expensive, white laptop is thinking and perhaps our golden green vase falls.

His expensive green automobile runs. His expensive pocket watch is angry. Our fancy clock falls. Time has stopped.

Interlude

Act II

Our children’s small table spit from rain. Our soft caw is on fire, or the shining, slopy, expensive recycle bin stares. Her bluish house is on fire at the place where a beautiful ibex looks around. The cat stares with the intensity of pandemonium.

Her expensive boat fidgeting. His round kitchen fidgeting. Our children’s golden, golden ram walks. Her daughter’s small ram falls. The cat twitches.

His brother’s red mouse stinks. The cat slowly turns her head fully aware that the mouse may see her close proximity.

His green computer stares at the time that our children’s silver-purple paper stands-still. Still, still, so still. Our children’s stupid binocyles snore. Our children’s little fish calms down again. All is darkness, ’round and ’round.

His red soda shows its value; Cheerwine with its effervescence. Whose stupid boots arrive at the time that green t-shirt arrived and the white balloon stares? Any given golden, round-shaped kitchen lies the time that his round printer calculates and perhaps, a silver eraser sleeps, or mine round-shaped silver little frog shows its value. One final flash of light.

Everyone awakes, startled from the sound of now-distant thunder.

Blackout.

CUT! 

Epilogue

Director: It is interesting that you should oughta throw something like that at me today. I am battling with myself. I have become emotionally ill over a review of Hamlet that launched a thousand ships. (How’s that for a mixed metaphor?) I am a purist, or so I like to think (therefore I am). I find it intensibly difficult to enjoy performances that are forced into making a statement or proving that “I can do anything with my instrument or my performance.”

Why do we say rabbit hole and not what it is, a rabbit’s hole? It is like the use of “goat cheese.” Surely it is goat’s cheese, more accurately cheese made from the milk of a goat – goat’s milk cheese not goats. “Come with me, under my coat, and we will drink the milk of the white goat, or wine, if it be thy will.”

(“The Coolun,” James Stephens, 1918.)

When will we understand?