Tuesday, June 25, 2013

my lovely st. lucy

Play8: LUCY'S PLAY. (3F, 3M).First performed Traverse Theatre July 4th 1986. Directed by Jenny Killick.

I keep meaning to write about my 'Lucy's Play' (1986) because I love my Lucy and feel immensely proud of her.

But life keeps interrupting. I seem to keep having to dodge unexpected missiles.

But not now: not this moment in Edinburgh airport waiting to fly to Exeter. Where I'm due to perform QUEEN JESUS in a bike shed and work with Chris Goode on his new project.

And so feel happy. Because although 1986 is a long way off now, one thing has not changed: the constant need to create. The joy of creation.

LUCY came about because LOSING VENICE was so successful and I got another commission from the Traverse. I was still young (ish) and interesting as far as my career was going, and so still allowed to have ideas.

In my naivety, I thought I would be allowed to have ideas for ever.

I wanted to make a woman my central character so I could explore the woman in myself. And also because the feminism of my beloved partner Susie had made me so aware of the injustice suffered by women in the world. And especially in the theatre.

(And I know is those respects not a great deal has changed, but I wanted then, and still want now, to do what little I could).

So there were equal numbers of women and men in the cast and the idea for the play came from an art book that was lying around the Travers green room and had a picture of an elaborately dressed young woman with her eyes on a tray.

It was such a strange picture, and when I looked it up I discovered it was of Saint Lucy.

She was a young Christian woman in Syracuse towards the end of the Roman Empire and her prayers kept being interrupted by a young man who said he was in love with her. He was in love with her eyes.

"If you love my eyes, then you can have them", she said and plucked them out and gave them to him. Then she carried on with her devotions.

Obvious subject for a play, I am sure you'll agree, and a perfect vehicle for Kate Duchene, who had been so wonderful in LOSING VENICE.

I remember the play was difficult to write. I was a bit intimidated by VENICE and by the wit and  beauty of its language. I didn't really believe I could do it again.

And looking back over it I can see I was probably a bit too eager to please. And almost certainly put too much in.

I can see how I was using the end of the Roman Empire as a metaphor for the decline of the West and the slow disintegration of capitalism too.

And then towards the end of the play I got suddenly preoccupied by the cold war. At that time the US and USSR were still in a state of mutual hostility and each had an utterly insane number of ballistic missiles pointing at each other. The constantly threatened outbreak of war would be more than enough to destroy the whole world: and that possibility had overshadowed all of us for all of our lives.

And then on top of that there was a whole raft of angry feelings towards Christianity and the historically disastrous doctrine of original sin:

"So I left the mountains and came down to the plains.

They were building great cities.

Huge cathedrals whose towers touched the sky. Great castles. Impregnable keeps.

Markets full of the richest merchandise.

The most sumptuous brothels.

They were all christians there.

Didn't stop them dying.

Didn't stop them grasping for gold.

Didn't stop them lying.

Didn't stop them cheating, stealing, thieving. Didn't stop them leading miserable, narrow lives.

They blamed it on Pelagians.

"It's the heretics", they said,

"Spreading their wickedness.

If it weren't for them, the land would be at peace."

So they started a crusade. I joined them.

There was nothing else to do.

We marched till we came to an open country.

The valleys were green and well-watered,

The villages were spacious and well-ordered.

We burnt them. We took up the corpses,

And we used them to poison the streams.

And the preachers blessed us.

We were doing God's work.

They told us the heretics denied the necessity of grace.

They denied the existence of original sin.

They believed that humans were naturally good. Madmen. They didn't baptise their children.

They didn't see the need for the sacrament of marriage.

So our priests baptised the babies

Before leaving them to be slaughtered

And the women were raped

To give them an understanding of christian love. And so we proved the necessity of grace.

And I was with them. I proved it too."

Pelagius was and still is a hero of mine. He was a fourth century Celtic monk who denied the existence of original sin and believed human beings were intrinsically good. And it might have helped if I had taken the trouble to explain this properly but I tended to be quite arrogant about these things.

And it might also have helped if I hadn't allowed myself to be overruled about the custard pie fight I wanted at the end, because for me it somehow expressed the grotesque stupidity and wastefulness of the cold war:



I knew it would end in tears.

I knew it. I went up to the Lord, and I said to him: "See here", I said, "them humans", I said, "they're going to end up in serious trouble", I said, "unless you do something."

He just shook his head. Men.

So I just came down anyway to see what I could do. And there's Lucy. Poor soul. I must wake her.



Here love, wake up now. It's all over.

It was just a dream. You're safe now.

That's it love, that's it. That's the way.


What happened? Am I dead?


Dead or alive dear, makes no difference.

Life goes on.


I thought you'd gone.


I did. But I came back when I heard the fighting.




I wanted to help you. Don't be frightened. You're safe now.

Take the water. Use it well.

They were your friends."

But then if I'd been able to understand I was OK, I really could write, and didn't need to prove myself to anybody, and especially not to myself, then that certainly would have helped me even more.

I remain so very proud of the piece, though, because it's warm hearted and tender and funny and sad and has a part in it for Mary the Mother of God:



Lucy. Help me.


I can't help you. I can't help anything.


Help me find my son.

There are no children here.

He wasn't a child. He was a man.

He had dark hair and bright green eyes.

And when he laughed, you had to laugh with him.

When he wept, you had to weep too.

But he was too good for this world.

They strung him up and they killed him.

And after they'd done that they even stole his corpse.

And now his picture's everywhere. I see it in all the churches. I run to each one, hoping to find him. But they're all fakes. Every one of them.

The things that are done in his name must surely make him weep. But if I could find him, I'd wipe away his tears.

I'd embrace him in my arms and we'd be whole again. Then I'd be happy.

And so I travel from town to town, and my back is sore and my feet are just one big mass of blisters and I'm getting tired.

I'm just about ready to leave this place altogether but I tell myself he must be somewhere. Must be.

And I have to laugh at some of the statues. Statues of me.

Awful sentimental. I mean if they knew what I'm really like they'd run a mile. I know they would. And the pictures. Of him and me. In the worst possible taste. Him and his wee willie. And they're nothing like him. Nothing at all.

I mean he was nice enough as a baby, don't get me wrong, I loved him, but he was a wee terror just the same. And at night he was terrible. Wouldn't let me sleep a wink. On at me all the time. Pawing at me. Like he wanted to suck me dry. And when he got bigger he was worse. Talking all the time. Never a minute's peace. About the law. And the prophets. Couldn't understand a word. And the son of man.

Said he was the son of man. I told him he wasn't the son of man, he was my own son and he could he no just leave us alone?

But o no. It was Moses. And the ark of the covenant. At the age of three. And when you're his mother you've got to take an interest.

Wore me out, he did. I was glad enough to see him leave home. And then I missed him. The house seemed that empty with him gone. So off I went. On the road. At my age. Bethesda. Gennesaret. Capernaum. All they places. And he spoke like an angel.

Everyone came to see him. Everyone for miles.

His voice was the loveliest thing you ever heard. Listening to it you felt like you'd give up everything, everything you ever had just to hear him for always. People did. Good people. My friends.

And then they took him away and they hung him.

And I lost him again. My heart still bleeds.

Have you no seen him?

No. He isn't here. He's never been here.

And you must go too. You're in danger.

There's going to be a war. I can feel it in my bones.

And I want to stop it.

But nothing I do makes any difference,

And nothing I do makes any sense.


Don't despair my love. You are Lucy, light on the mountain.

If you have light, do you hide it under a bucket? Do you cover it up with a stone?

No. You put it high on a hillside,

Where everyone can see it. You can't help it.

And you can't put it out. It's in the nature of light.

It was Him who taught me that. Don't forget.

And don't lose hope. Peace will come.

The good you do is never lost.

Remember, Lucy. Never forget.


I won't. I promise.



The mother of God. I have seen the Mother of God. I must tell the others.


It is a real piece of play, angry and funny and deeply serious and surreal and that is what I wanted it to be: a poetic journey through the world of the inner self. Utterly mysterious and utterly clear.

The plane is high above the clouds now: we are in that space which can't be experienced on earth, where the sky is always clear. And the clouds are like cotton wool under our feet and how wonderful to bounce up and down on them. Up and down in the fluffy fields...

I'm thinking of the event I performed bits of QUEEN JESUS in last Sunday. A really lovely spoken word event in the Bongo Club run by Out:Spoken

I felt like I was doing a gig, out there all alone with a fierce light on me. And I so loved the audience: fierce and idealistic and absolutely at home there. Well informed and familiar with it and knowing the score. Able to take part should they wish: not the slightest bit interested in being told what to think.

In love with the word, the beautiful word spoken in darkness, and open-hearted and alive...

I wish LUCY had had that audience. They would have loved her better.

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