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.
It was such a strange picture, and when I looked it up I discovered it was of Saint Lucy.
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.
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:
THEY
ZAP EACH OTHER AND FALL DOWN DEAD. THE DUST SETTLES. THE LIGHTS DIM
DOWN TO TWILIGHT. ENTER MARY WITH LANTERN AND THERMOS FLASK. SHE
LOOKS AROUND FOR A MOMENT IN SILENCE.
MARY
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.
MARY
GENTLY WASHES LUCY WITH HER WATER.
MARY
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.
LUCY
What
happened? Am I dead?
MARY
Dead
or alive dear, makes no difference.
Life
goes on.
LUCY
I
thought you'd gone.
MARY
I did.
But I came back when I heard the fighting.
LUCY
Why?
MARY
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:
THE
STAGE GOES DARK. MARY ENTERS. SHE IS AN OLD PEASANT WOMAN, DRESSED IN
BLACK. SHE CARRIES A LANTERN.
MARY
Lucy.
Help me.
LUCY
I
can't help you. I can't help anything.
MARY
Help
me find my son.
LUCY
There
are no children here.
MARY
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?
LUCY
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.
MARY
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.
LUCY
I
won't. I promise.
MARY
HAS GONE.
LUCY
The
mother of God. I have seen the Mother of God. I must tell the others.
EXIT
LUCY. DAWN IS BEGINNING TO BREAK.
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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