Scott MacLeod
    Theater & Performance Texts

Written 2006, as yet unproduced.

C’EST UN AMI

"We're going to spend all summer looking at this thing. On one piece of paper or one canvas and we're going to look at it until we get it exactly the way it is. Then we're going to keep working on it until we kill it. And then we're going to keep working on it until it comes back on its own."
-de Kooning

“We're summers already going past what examines this thing. We're this part of the document or a canvas, and will examine précisement the manner jusqu'nous with death. Then we're this jusqu'à us is be to with and will hold active when we're this, will hold with activates on its cost.”
-MacLeod

(A few stragglers occupy Outcrop Zero, a military base/refugee camp on a windy, rocky promontory overlooking an ocean.)

Major Brass:
Tough tactics. I long for a piece of self-absorbing ass.

Cemetery Stoner:
As soon as whales’ ghost gives up Daisey’s tush & booboos.

(Clock ticks)

Major Brass:
Pull chains, fold in mechanism’s sprung lungs, broken links, calling foul.

Global Villager (reading lips):
According to my expectations, the Sea intends big waves to flavor the partyline, bloom like Big News on the day’s recitals. Papyri bob like apples.

Bubbles:
Inside, outside or upside down, it’s all just rectal brunt to my stone-ground nose.

Major Brass:
Drops design the ocean, drunks design the road. Drivers’ edges earn crap beach space, say “cheese” and bite deep into chino pasture.

Bubbles:
Koran harlots may guzzle copula prism like puffing hot bobble heads, but mature sprites, we ark the lactase cellophane knife, help Kobe flap labs, juggle erotic euclidean tasks.

Major Brass:
Taste embosses the center’s deceit-wide myth while stinking thief Uncle Dotcom rifles baggy-waist jeans in pantheistic mid-life transition. Months haggle, time runs outs, Nature runs all hacks to ground.

Cemetery Stoner:
Man, the cuts tic d'erts botched! Donut we lung for soma ocher pierce?

Global Villager:
Poor us! Right when the toe of the dish soap suits the portions, right when we finally obtain the rights of the radon ring, the edge of wild disco wind sweeps habit out the edge of our backyard ermitaño, falsifies the dirt-yellow periscope, hasjiejs the matinee out the edge of the next street! Slumber falls! And where the spur of the wolf frows, the edge meows by maymythe, for which they Tarn!

Bubbles:
The transfer of khaki hydra starts off the prolix texts of wily young snoot kin: street octopi filling parking lots to the brink.

Major Brass:
Piqued parking glut.

Bubbles:
Code lurks in ratio to patio.

Global Villager:
Read burnt rugged byline, mope.

Major Brass:
Glossary = All Knowing = Thumbtacks

Cemetery Stoner:
We axe the lasts cipher bagel. Woeful impetus.

Global Villager:
Cuprous digression candidate!

Cemetery Stoner:
Hey, young person-nap of CHÈVRE, go pneumatic tumble hasjiesjmatinee edge zalige! By the may my my, why the muskus of the hiring store? The typestyle afflicting with oodjeimpuls? Pemmican without leaven to penetrate the coa? Curb your few blurts while slates tern in wind-bootlegging shambles. Whittle mantic ore botch, browse cain phase secretive roisters, spell drinks for effect. Climb down off your fief hoarse and let shops hire chord musk tarns, tumble graft wherever cotton hashish matinee!

Global Villager:
The lung works at the edge of hocks up, at the edge of the meat gepooide. The disco edge of the crap hound pings the infinite diplomacy. (sighs)

(Zeefje, snapping snaar muskus, uses the store)

Bubbles:
Myth of the slipped-on sausage portions of the soap dish on the ice cream sidewalks of Musewelhaak.

Major Brass:
Global edge-cap dyed diameter of the impact at Outcrop Zero.

Zeefje:
Minutely-felt dirge of the wild emptiness of the blue cotton sky.