Actor - Singer - Photographer - Host
Porter monologue
SCENE III. The same.
Knocking within. Enter a Porter
Porter
Here's a knocking indeed! If a
man were porter of hell-gate, he should have
old turning the key.Knocking within
Knock,
knock, knock! Who's there, i' the name of
Beelzebub? Here's a farmer, that hanged
himself on the expectation of plenty: come in
time; have napkins enow about you; here
you'll sweat for't.Knocking within
Knock,
knock! Who's there, in the other devil's
name? Faith, here's an equivocator, that could
swear in both the scales against either scale;
who committed treason enough for God's sake,
yet could not equivocate to heaven: O, come
in, equivocator.Knocking within
Knock,
knock, knock! Who's there? Faith, here's an
English tailor come hither, for stealing out of
a French hose: come in, tailor; here you may
roast your goose.Knocking within
Knock,
knock; never at quiet! What are you? But
this place is too cold for hell. I'll devil-porter
it no further: I had thought to have let in
some of all professions that go the primrose
way to the everlasting bonfire.Knocking within
Anon, anon! I pray you, remember the porter.Opens the gate
Enter MACDUFF and LENNOX
MACDUFF
Was it so late, friend, ere you went to bed,
That you do lie so late?
Porter
'Faith sir, we were carousing till the
second cock: and drink, sir, is a great
provoker of three things.
MACDUFF
What three things does drink especially provoke?
Porter
Marry, sir, nose-painting, sleep, and
urine. Lechery, sir, it provokes, and unprovokes;
it provokes the desire, but it takes
away the performance: therefore, much drink
may be said to be an equivocator with lechery:
it makes him, and it mars him; it sets
him on, and it takes him off; it persuades him,
and disheartens him; makes him stand to, and
not stand to; in conclusion, equivocates him
in a sleep, and, giving him the lie, leaves him.
MACDUFF
I believe drink gave thee the lie last night.
Porter
That it did, sir, i' the very throat on
me: but I requited him for his lie; and, I
think, being too strong for him, though he took
up my legs sometime, yet I made a shift to cast
him.
The Laramie Project
AARON KREIFELS. Well, I, uh, took off on my bicycle about five o’clock PM on Wednesday from my dorm. I just kinda felt like going for a ride. So I – I went up to the top of Cactus Canyon, and I’m not super familiar with that area, so on my way back down, I didn’t know where I was going. I was just sort of picking the way to go, which now . . . it just makes me think that God wanted me to find him because there was no way that I was going to go that way.
So I was in some deep ass sand, and I wanted to turn around – but for some reason, I kept going. And, uh, I went along, and there was this rock on the – on the ground – and I just drilled it. I went – over the handlebars and ended up on the ground.
So, uh, I got up and I was just kind of dusting myself off, and I was looking around and I noticed something – which ended up to be Matt, and he was just lying there by a fence, and I – I just thought it was a scarecrow. I was like, Halloween’s coming up, thought it was a Halloween gag, so I didn’t think much of it, so I got my bike, walked it around the fence that was there. It was a buck type fence. And, uh, got closer to him and I noticed his hair – and that was the major key to me, noticing it was a human being – was the hair. ‘Cause I just thought it was a dummy, seriously, I noticed – I even noticed the chest going up and down. I still thought it was a dummy, you know. I thought it was just some kind of mechanism. But when I saw the hair, well, I knew it was a human being.
So . . . I ran to the nearest house and – I just ran as fast as I could . . . and called the police. There was nothing I could do. I mean, if there was anything that I could’ve done to help him, I would’ve done it, but there was nothing. And I, I was yelling at the top of my lungs at him, trying to get something outta him. Like "Hey, wake up!" "HELLO!" But he didn't move he didn't flinch, he didn't anything...
White from The Sunset Limited by cormac mccarthy
I don't believe in God. Can you understand that? And I loathe these discussions. Your fellowship is a fellowship of pain and nothing more. And justice? Brotherhood? Eternal life? Good god, man. Show me a religion that prepares one for death. For nothingness. There's a church I might enter. Yours prepares one only for more life. For dreams and illusions and lies. Every road ends in death. Or worse. Every friendship. Every love. Torment, betrayal, loss, suffering, pain, age, indignity, and hideous lingering illness. All with a single conclusion. For you and for every one and everything that you have chosen to care for. There's the true brotherhood. The true fellowship. And everyone is a member for life. You tell me that my brother is my salvation? My salvation? Well then damn him. Damn him in every shape and form and guise. Do I see myself in him? Yes. I do. And what I see sickens me. Do you understand me? Can you understand me?
RABBIT HOLE
JASON. Dear Mr. and Mrs. Corbett, I wanted to send you my condolences on the death of your son, Danny. I know it’s been eight months since the accident, but I’m sure it’s probably still hard for you to be reminded of that day. I think about what happened a lot, as I’m sure you do, too. I’ve been having some troubles at home, and at school, and a couple people here thought it might be a good idea to write to you. I’m sorry if this letter upsets you. That’s obviously not my intention. Even though I never knew Danny, I did read that article in the town paper, and was happy to learn a little bit about him. He sounds like he was a great kid. I’m sure you miss him a lot, as you said in the article. I especially liked the part where Mr. Corbett talked about Danny’s robots, because when I was his age I as a big fan of robots, too. In fact I still am, in some ways – ha ha. I’ve enclosed a short story that’s going to be printed in my high school lit magazine. I don’t know if you like science fiction or not, but I’ve enclosed it anyway. I was hoping to dedicate the story to Danny’s memory. There aren’t any robots in this one, but I think it would be the kind of story he’d like if he were my age. Would it bother you if I dedicated the story? If so, please let me know. The printer deadline for the magazine is March 31st. If you tell me before then, I can have them take it off. I know this probably doesn’t make things any better, but I wanted you to know how terrible I feel about Danny. I know that no matter how hard this has been on me, I can never understand the depth of your loss. My mom has only told me that about a hundred times – ha ha. I of course wanted to say how sorry I am that things happened the way they did, and that I wish I had driven down a different block that day. I’m sure you do, too. Anyway, that’s it for now. If you’d like to let me know about the dedication, you can email me at the address above. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll assume it’s okay. Sincerely, Jason Willette. (Beat.) P.S. Would it be possible to meet you in person at some point?
LAUGHING WILD BY CHRISTOPHER DURANG
MAN: I used to be a very negative person. But then I took this personality workshop that totally turned my life around. Now when something bad or negative happens, I can see the positive. Now when I have a really bad day, or when someone I thought was a really good friend betrays me, or maybe when I’ve been hit by one of those damn people riding bicycles the opposite way on a one-way street, so, of course, one hadn’t looked in that direction and there they are bearing down on you, about to kill or maim you—anyway, I look at any of these things and I say to myself: this glass is not half full, it’s half empty. No—I said it backwards, force of habit. This glass is not half empty, it is half full. Of course, if they hit you with the stupid bicycle your glass won’t be half full or half empty, it will be shattered to pieces, and you’ll be dead or in the hospital. But really I’m trying to be positive, that’s what I’m doing with my life these days. I was tired of not being joyful and happy, I was sick of my personality, and I had to change it. Half full, not half empty. I had to say to myself: you do not have cancer—at least not today. You are not blind. You are not one of the starving children in India or China or in Africa. Look at the sunset, look at the sunrise, why don’t you enjoy them, for God’s sake? And now I do. Except if it’s cloudy, of course, and you can’t see the sun. Or if it’s cold. Or if it’s too hot. I probably need to take a few more personality workshops to complete the process. It’s still not quite within my grasp, this being positive business.
Losing Father's Body by Constance Congdon
GEORGE: Well. Scott. Kimberly. Fact is, we’ve hit kind of a snag. It’s no big thing, really big thing, anyway. I mean, everything is legally going forward. It’s a personal, more of a personal— Basically, it’s this: your Uncle Cecil feels very strongly that the chartered plane costs too much and has decided to drive your father back in the station wagon. Himself. From Canada. He’s stored him—your father—under the canoe, on the roof, carefully wrapped, and has been advised by some Mountie up there—some guy who knows what he’s talking about—that game is transported at this time of year with no problems in—ah—you know, preservation. So. Now, I know this may seem a little bit—I mean—ah—a little, ah, a little, ah, a bit uncomfortable. But Canadian law on the transport of, you know, remains is incredible. Incredible. I mean, the red tape— Now, I know what you may be—what’s running through—what you may be thinking—I mean, it’s, it’s NOT, by any stretch of the imagination, ideal. I realize that, and so does your Uncle Cecil. But he is—you know how he is. He and your father built this company from a very modest—well, you know the story, of course. All of this from these principles of frugality and practicality, which I admire so much—have always admired in them both, and in you and in Pauline. And determination. It’s incredible, really, Cecil’s determination is incredible, really. I wish you could hear him on this subject. I mean, the immediate subject at hand...that we’re discussing here. So, what do you think? Before you say anything, though, here are some things to consider. It’s not a long drive, and he is driving straight through, so our basic timetable would be the same. The other thing is, well, this is really the thing, he’s on the road, you see. Already.
STU: I saw death. God, What have I become? You don’t even realize you’re sinking until you hit rock bottom. I’ve become a base animalistic waste of flesh. There I was, standing on the roof singing Grateful Dead tunes with the moon and that little voice called to me “Just one more step, Stuart.” “Just one more step.” I slowly lifted my foot to take that last long step and thank God I was so drunk I fell backwards and smashed my lampshade on the shingles. That sobered me up. And now I see things differently. I didn’t realize what I’d been putting in to my body. Until it all started coming out. I smoked a burrito. I ate plant food. I snorted bath soap. I’m not sure, but I think I ate kitty litter. Look at this face. I can’t believe I’m only 24. No more. I’m going to a gym. I’m going to church. I’m going to get my car inspected! And Stuart, Monday morning, you’re checking in to a rehab. Now wait a minute. Let’s not go that far. You’re standing here in a toga and a lampshade. You’re in no position to refuse. Besides, think of all those young nurses. I hope they make me turn my head and cough (laughs) I’m proud of you Stuart. Let’s go have a drink and celebrate.
Venus in Fur by David Ives
THOMAS
No. No. Nothing. Nobody. It’s maddening, it’s a plot. There are no sexy women like this. No young women, or young-ish women. No beautiful-slash-sexy women. No sexy-slash-articulate young women with some classical training and a particle of brain in their skulls. Is that so much to ask? An actress who can actually pronounce the word “degradation” without a tutor?
(a roll of thunder)
Honey- Honey, in the book Vanda is 24, for god’s sake. Back in those days a woman of 24 would’ve been married. She’d have five kids and tuberculosis. She’d be a woman. Most women who are 24 these days sound like six-year-olds on helium. “And I was all like whatever and he was all like, y’know, and I go like whatever and he’s like all, y’know?” No, I don’t know, I don’ know anything except I saw 35 incompetent actresses today, and even the ones pushing retirement didn’t have the stuff. Anybody who does is either shooting a series or she isn’t gonna do this for a nickel a week. And the stupidity. They bring along props, whole sacks full of costumes. And whatever happened to femininity? Bring along some of that, please. Young women can’t even play feminine these days. Half are dressed like hooker, half like dykes. I’d be a better Vanda than most of these girls, all I’d have to do is put on a dress and a pair of nylons. Well our Vanda’s got to be out there somewhere. But at this point...
(thunder and lightning. The lights in the room flicker.)
Hello? Hello? Honey? Honey, Are you there?
MAN - LAUGHING WILD BY CHRISTOPHER DURANG
The other night I dreamt my father was inside a baked potato. Isn't' that strange? I was very startled to see him there, and I started to be afraid other people would see where my father was, and how small he was, so I kept trying to close the baked potato, but I guess the potato was hot, cause he'd start to cry when I'd shut the baked potato, so then I didn't know what to do. I thought of sending the whole plate back to the kitchen - tell the cook there's a person in my baked potato - but then I felt such guilt at deserting my father that I just sat there at the table and cried. He cried too. Then the waiter brought dessert, which was devil's food cake with mocha icing, and I ate that. Then I woke up, very hungry. I told my therapist about the dream, and he said my father cried because he was unhappy, and that I dreamt about the cake because I was hungry. I think my therapist is an idiot. Maybe I should just have gurus. Or find a nutritionist. But what I'm doing now isn't working.