A Monologue

A Monologue There are moments wherein I think it very appealing, quite possible, and almost necessary to any hope of enduring happiness that I have, to never, ever speak again. This may seems hard to believe, given my current and often extravagant verbosity, however, it is imperative that one remember in our current situation that I am not the "I" that I am speaking of, nor am I the "I" that is speaking to you. Lest we fool ourselves into believing all the balderdash about the suspension of disbelief et al, we are all, of course, aware of the fact that I am an actor. And this admission of mine, of course, instantly falls into the disgusting realm of theatrical trickery and technique in which some non-existent, never-existent "fourth wall" is suddenly broken and I audaciously identify my ​self​ with myself as myself, rather than with my ​character​, in which case my "self" which I have identified myself as becomes merely another layer of character, and I stand here through it all, feeble and impotent with absolutely no power to possibly reveal anything about myself to any of you, because my very placement here on this stage in this play makes any and all attempts at honesty or revelation mere cliches and theatrical trickery. And even if I, he, it, me, this being that you see before you, was to step off of the stage, leave the building, go out into the streets and hurl stones at you all, due to the history of the theater and the embarrassing experiments of the avant garde, combined with the natural human tendency to create narratives and connect events which occur sequentially in our experiential time, and and all actions that I commit, once I have been introduced as "the actor" will forever be considered as PART OF THE SHOW. I AM TRAPPED! Now, let us review that phrase, for a moment, to see if we are on the same page. When I claimed, or rather exclaimed, "I am trapped!" did you understand that to mean that I, the actor, am trapped, or did you see through this human illusion, this curtain of flesh, to consider the man behind the man, "I" the writer, speaking to you from the safety of my study, I who have the nerve and audacity to complain of my own entrapment while making use of this vehicle, this siphon, this empty skin-speaker that resonates my thoughts like the strings of a stringed instrument when I pluck at him. I pluck and he clucks, thoughtless chicken of a man, if one may go so far as to call an actor a man at all. And that wasn't the point I was trying to make anyhow... now "I" as actor is up there feeling sorry for itself when what "I" the author am trying to express is my utter disdain for the egomaniacal, emotional cesspool before you. The pathetic play actor dancing to whatever tune comes its way. Bag of bones, self loathing and evasion is what you are witnessing. "I" the author would like to state for the record that I absolutely and without a doubt despise and resent the man before you, speaking these words, because I am dependant upon his lowly living corpse as the vehicle of my communiques to the globe. How and why do I have such a hatred for this pathetic vessel of a dancing monkey, this sorry mimicking fool of a man whose great desire, drive, and passion is in the imitation of another man? Man mimics man, and reveals to us the lowest form of wit and imagination: sheer mockery. ​”Imagine, a man acting like a man. How novel!" ​ I find it far more enticing and interesting to watch a real chimpanzee smile and wear dresses. An elephant stand on one foot. Far more innocent and honest. Everything that comes out of man is a lie, a sham, a falsehood and an act. Here there and everywhere, inaction is the only truth. The animal and the inanimate are the only honest souls. It is the peculiar quality of Man alone that he wishes to be other than he is. A rock only wishes to endure in its rock-ness, the tiger wants nothing more than to go on being a tiger. Only man, cursed with his conscience and consciousness... again, I stray from the point. The point of this whole debacle was to direct your attention to the distinction between the "voice" that is coming through the man you see before you, and the voice that is coming out of him. Just as there is a distinction to the emotion coming through him to you, and the emotion that he is experiencing himself. Do not delude yourself that they are the same! For, without a doubt, I assure you, they are not. When you, as audience, are experiencing a sadness, it is not shared. At that moment he, vicious idiot, is experiencing a mocking glory, an egomaniacal sense of achievement and a veritable bliss at having moved and manipulated you into ​feeling​. I assure you, he takes the credit and the responsibility for your each and every thought and sensation, jealous, pathetic, worthless coward. All I am trying to express here is that I am speaking through this man, not speaking myself. At this moment (which has nothing to do with the moment you are in, for I am writing this a long, long time ago, rain is falling, it is night, I am sitting quietly and have not spoken a word in many hours) And, as is the case whenever I am given the grace of not having to speak to another person for a few blessed hours, I begin to conceive of a life in which I don't ever have to speak again. And there is a process to this dying of the slavish tongue; not simply the tongue of the mouth, but the tongue of the mind which wags and wags and wags. The process goes thus: body, mind, and ​then​ soul. Stop speaking with the mouth, verbally. Then cease communicating with the body, terminate all body language. Stop looking at people. Remove yourself from their company. Cease communing with nature, flowers and trees and sunlight. Cease thinking of thoughts. Cease having ideas. Cease naming and describing every item in your mind in order to log and file said vision, inspiration, or information in its proper cabinet. Cease speaking with your God or Gods. Cease wanting, desiring, changing, moving, growing, aging. Cease. This is the long and short of it. It can begin at any point, it doesn't really matter. It goes all the way forward and all the way back in every direction, simultaneously... so you may begin ceasing wherever you like and they will all be covered and it all leads to the same place: The End. And still, this is not what I was trying to express. It all becomes much more dramatic and explicit when I get started writing about it. I fall in love with the rhythms and the words and I'm selfish or selfless enough to let them be said because I believe in some way deep in my soul that words are much better when said. And that is the particular curse with which I live. I write. I could give up speech and its titillating vibrations, personally, anytime. With pleasure and relief. For the stillness in my own throat is more pleasurable to me than any tingling and sonorous vibrations. I despise the sound of my own voice, which sucks all of the fluidity and beauty out of the words themselves and leaves only the mangled corpse of an idea at the altar of another's ears. I despair. I pray to God to remove from me this compulsion to confess, this desire to share and to be known, this bastard egoism that is always flailing about in a futile effort to communicate these rhymes and rhythms to someone else. And what is the means to my end? The instrument of my release and salvation? This dancing monkey fool you see before you. This pathetic shell of an imitating instrument of a man. This vessel and void of non-identity. He tests his soul against this: he sees it as some sort of noble deed that he would speak the words of another, take the direction of another, move his body as dictated by another, do as he is told. And in his obedience he assuages himself with the thought, dream, or hope that he is doing God's work, he is answering to his calling. That this is an act of humility. That his great offering and sacrifice is of his own words and thoughts and movements. His offering is his self. This actor, of course, all things considered, is the perfect actor to play the part of the Humiliated, because his whole being reeks of nothing but humiliation. Here he is, presented to you primped and powdered to do his little bit. He hopes you like it. He hopes you clap and tell your friends and the kids at home, "​Oh he was such a delightful monkey of an actor. Such a talented young man. He will do everything that is asked of him, say any word which is written for him. What a compliant young void."​ A humble servant to his art? Or merely the most cowardly of all men. A play actor, who leaves the business of being human to those more bold and qualified. He is content to mimic man's ways, parrot his speech, and spend his time trying on the suits of other men.