Scream No. 57 : July 2012 (From the Archives of SHP)

An idea that seems to be about one thing or another is probably about something quite different. The following piece is a short ramble marking out a frame through which an idea might grow and become part of the Trinculo’s Bathtub series of plays being undertaken by Shadow House PITS. This is not linear writing; nor is it a distraction. Rather it is a serious sketch to inform the psyche of the creator.

inhabiting the matrix of one’s own history

one day the ghost discovers 
the defining moments of its life
were not defining moments
but distractions where
the ground beneath the feet 
was not made of stone
but cooked in quick sand 


the ghost who dreamt of a creative life
was really the ghost of someone else
someone else that someone imagined

An old car, a 1936 Pontiac, once drove from one side of a city to another. The father seemed calm. The mother was agitated. The children sat in the back silent. The mother’s agitation grew into hysteria. She grabbed the wheel of the car and screamed “crash the car”. The husband and father hummed “but what of the children?” The mother exclaimed “they would survive”.

Fifty five years later the children pretend they never heard such speak. The mother continues her seething. The father is long dead. The intervening associations were mostly idyllic and the old haunting remains dismissed in the back of the mind. The weddings, baptisms and funerals provided the rituals for the ongoing imaginings. The losses and gainings in faiths and religions stalled the inevitable realization of standing on emptiness.

the artist plagiarizes
and a good story never gets in the way of the truth
or truths
lurking in the back of the mind
crying and screaming to be heard
but used to being ignored
while the artist evades the very basis of creation

the dedicated communist of 1950
never listened
deafened by the chants of ideology
while today
the dedicated post modern nobody
grabs at the wheel and screams
a cry of nothingness
to crash the vehicle
and placate the existential hysteria
ringing in the air waves
emanating from the call to prayer
of sincere demons
and hostile clones