THE OSTRAKA PLAYS, VOLUME SEVEN
THE DAY AFTER YESTERDAY
By
FRANCIS HAGAN
Published by Francis Hagan at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 Francis Hagan
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THE DAY AFTER YESTERDAY
BY
FRANCIS HAGAN
By sacred rites from books that rouse the mind,
From earth-born fateful woes draw up and save;
Who teach to hasten o’er deep Lethe’s wave,
Keep the true way, seek, pure, their native star
Whence they have strayed, whence fallen deep and far
To generation’s shore, where madness runs
To its inheritance of dust
Proclus
SCENES
SHE ALSO WEEPS AND YET
THE INDELIBLE FORTUNE OF HESITATION
THE CARELESS ABANDON AND ITS NEGLECT
ALL ALONG THE SHORE THEY ALSO WEEP
IN RETURNING THEY FOREVER DEPART
INDOLENCE WOUNDS BUT NEVER FATALLY
ECHOES DIE FORLORN THOUGH REPLETE
THOSE CURES WHICH ALWAYS POISON
MERCY WOUNDS THE TENDEREST OF HEARTS
ELOQUENCE FALTERS THOUGH NEVER ENOUGH
THE MATERNAL WOUND ALWAYS WASTING
THE VAGARIES OF THAT SOUL ALWAYS ABSENT
ALONE HE DISCOURSES
THE UNNECCESSARY SACRIFICE ALWAYS FORGOTTEN
FORTUNE DELIVERS BUT NEVER ENOUGH
NOT ALL EMBRACES RELIEVE, NOT ALL TENDERNESS HEALS
IN FALLING WE NEVER CEASE
ETERNITY REBOUNDS BUT PARTIALLY
THE SHORE WRECKS ONLY THE BROKEN
THE UNMADE WEEP ENDLESSLY
The setting is a lost shore on an unknown horizon. It is elemental and covered in the ruins of a forgotten civilisation. The characters who stumble through this landscape are echoes of all those wanderers that the great wars of the 20th century left to us in our imaginations. They are clad in those clothes we always throw upon them – the old scarves, the greatcoats, the battered hats, the worn boots and muddy shoes, the faded silks and chiffons of outmoded attire. All destitute of glamour now of course.
The sea and this shore remain a fundamental component in this play and shift with a choric intensity throughout it.
SHE ALSO WEEPS AND YET
(A Woman, formerly of Troy, alone, wrapped in a magnificent shawl. The dress beneath is tattered. Her feet are barefoot.)
Woman (Marking, as if to remember) . . . Fuck it, it was here – or was it? – the ground shelved steeply, I am sure it did – or was it hollow? – oh fuck it, that is not important, the ground, it is what we did on it, surely, that was important, yes, no matter the convex or the curve, fuck all that, it was the royal splendour of his arms around me, his words tumbling out smeared with wine – and so many ships behind him, sails upon that sea like an endless fall of blossom, and I blazed up high in disdain – despite his arms – and laughed into his eager words – oh fuck how I scorned him – and we knew in our hearts such majesty of love that armies and cities fell before us – here, in this patch, this – there was a tree, yes, a cedar tree – and it was in the shade that we stood, all fierce like leopards before a hunt, we – no, not a cedar tree, an olive tree, yes, and we lay in its shade, a cloak of imperial purple beneath us – whose I don’t know – and we slid like serpents around each other, our skin all silk and gossamer – and the ships beached all along this shore, each sail an echo of our love, our passion – fuck – no, the ships came later, much later, and the sails were black, it was a sea of funereal shrouds, and the waves cut apart by those prows were the colour of bleached bone – as we lay in the hollow of the olive tree, yes, it was a hollow – fuck the cedar tree and all that – (A beat) – and I think it was here in the end that they heaped up his dismembered bits and burnt it all on a pyre hewn from that olive tree in a sort of mocking gesture, yes, a mocking gesture – the smoke from the olive wood has a sweet resiny tang to it and I remember thinking of his lips, his breath, the lick of his skin, as they burnt his bits and laughed and hoisted up the black sails – I remember seeing that smoke drift up high even as they sailed away from this shore and took me with them, my head shaved, my breasts smeared with dung, my hands raw on the galley oars . . .
(An old-style telephone rings amid the detritus.)
(She stares at it intently.)
(The ringing ceases.)
Woman Fuck.
The Indelible Fortune of Hesitation
(An old Beggar, formerly an Epic Poet, appears, pushing a dilapidated pram across the shore. Crowds rush past.)
Beggar - Why rush? Why run through the hurly-burly of life, I say, eh? Oh come on – indulge in the fatuousness of idling. Why not? You, sir, stay a little, I beg you – (The crowds tumble past) No? Well, why would you? Eh? It’s my smell I expect. Ain’t it? The stink of too much time, ain’t I? That’s me. You, madam, stop a moment, won’t you, eh? Fold that parasol – Aegyptian, is it? Very nice – pause by me, eh? My breath is rancid. I will not deny that – but that buttery stench is well-earned, I insist! No? Flutter away then. Your loss, ain’t it, eh? Your loss. (The crowds push past him.) – If not for me then pause at least for my child. At least do that, eh? (Laughter falls past him.) No? She is such an innocent, I swear! Give her that, if nothing else, eh? A moment of your time. The blessing of your gaze on her sweet face, no? Ignore my smell a moment, that is all. My breath is such a rancid thing, I know! Well, what breath wouldn’t be after so much time, I ask? (The laughter batters him.) Think of her – her innocence, her sweetness! Do that, can you? Eh? She alone has yet to taste the bitterness of life, I say, her alone.
(A Gentleman hesitates from the crowd.)
Man She is unmarked, this child, you say?
Beggar - On my life, sir! I swear it! Have a look, do. The face of innocence, she is. All fresh and pure, she is falling snow; she is a flower opening, ain’t she? Here, take a look.
(The crowds rush past.)
Man (He strips gloves made from calfskin leather from his hands.) I deplore your use of untamed metaphors – and quite frankly you smell of – what – sewage, it must be said.
Beggar I do, don’t I? Eh? Too many words, see? Rotted out me mouth, haven’t they?
Man And yet it has been so long since I have gazed on innocence. Pure innocence. I wonder . . .
(The crowds speed past.)
Beggar Oh that she is, sir! Fresh as a daisy, as they say. Ignore my colloquialisms, eh? Come, sir, have a look, do. Why not, eh?
Man To take time out and wonder on that moment before life marks us and twists us into our solitary doom – to gaze on a pure face. Why, man, how often do we do that?
Beggar I won’t ask money, sir. I am not that vulgar – but all I ask is that you bless her with a smile, eh? A simple smile!
(The crowds tumble past.)
Man (He pulls out a silk handkerchief.) You ask too little, I fear – and also your smell is frankly disgusting. You must step back or I will gag.
Beggar Of course you will! Don’t mind me, sir! Here, I step away – bless her, sir, bless her with a simple smile, eh? That’s all I ask! (He steps back.)
Man (He gazes into the pram.) . . . You are the face of that innocence we all lament. Your eyes look but have not seen. Your mouth tastes but has not eaten. Your smile gives with no expectation . . . No face alive now has that beauty.
(The crowds run past, faster and faster.)
Beggar A smile, sir! If you would, eh?
Man (He steps back slowly and makes to replace his gloves.) No. No smile I have is worthy of that face. No smile indeed. Now I must –
Beggar (He lunges in with a knife.) Blood then! Blood it is, I say! No offence – but look on innocence and expect it not to mark you, sir? Fuck you, sir!
Man (Collapsing.) - Such beauty - (He dies.)
(The crowds roar past, all tumult and chaos.)
(The Beggar wipes his blade and makes to push to pram off.)
Beggar - Don’t rush! Tarry a little, eh? Take a moment out, I say. Why not? You, madam, in the chiffon – Persian silk, is it? I thought so – stop a moment, eh? No?
The Careless Abandon and its Neglect
(A Woman, formerly of Thebes, packing amongst the debris. Her hands are trembling.)
(Nearby, her elder sister watches her. She betrays no emotion.)
Woman (Hesitating over an object an old oboe now dusty with age.) - Is this? I mean, is it – it is just I can’t remember if this is . . . (She hesitates.)
2nd Woman Does it matter?