Books

A few written words from me imagination.


One Column Theatre Play

 

ACT I
(A single act: short and concise)

(The curtain rises and we are in a morgue. On an operating table, there is a dead man covered with a white sheet. Enter a Detective and the Coroner. The Coroner pulls back the upper part of the sheet and reveals the face of the deceased. The Detective recognizes the stiff and nods. The Coroner covers the dead man again.)

CORONER: He worked for a time in the lost and found department. Then he disappeared for a few months and was found dead on a bench in Central Park, under a dried old tree, covered with an old map of Roussillon.

DETECTIVE (surprised): Roussillon? Of course, I should have guessed.

CORONER: Why?

DETECTIVE: I’ve been looking for him for years. I’ve been all over the world — Paris, Dublin, China, the Urubamba River Basin, the desert of Chad, the Peloponnese monasteries, the Florida Keys and even the road to Santiago. But I completely forgot about the Roussillon region. What a fool!

CORONER: But he never made it to Roussillon, he died here. You forgot to look here.

DETECTIVE: “Here” made no sense if he was there.

CORONER: But he was here.

DETECTIVE: And I was there.

CORONER: But he’s here and you’re not there now. You finally found him, although he’s dead.

DETECTIVE: Yeah, but he’s useless like this.

CORONER: Right, so he is… But, why did you spend so much time looking for him?

DETECTIVE: Because my clients have spent a long time waiting for him.

CORONER: Well, they’ll have to keep waiting ’cause he’s deader than a doornail.

DETECTIVE: Yeah, I reckon… (he pulls back the sheet again, looks at the stiff and shakes his head in disappointment). Damn you, Godot, you fucking son of a bitch!

THE END 

—– 

The Blasted Haruki Cat

 

 

I wasn’t sure. Lately, it seemed, I wasn’t sure of many things. I was not sure whether my subjective point of view was actually more subjective than objective. Or was it viceversa? Versavice? I figured it had to do with age, that subtle creeping disease of time that gradually eroded my memory and made me not sure of things past and forgotten. Whatever happened to things past and remembered? I wasn’t sure. Did they ever happen or was it all an invention of time, a 3D virtual memory that was created to establish a sense of the past, the present and the future. Of a time continuum. Bloody hell, I wasn’t sure.

But I did know what happened to the cat.

All this to try to find out whether or not I had read a book by Haruki Murakami. I started at the begining, naturally, but after a few pages, I realized that I knew the story…or parts of the story, at the most.

I had already been in the alley, searching for that blasted cat.

So I jumped ahead, skipped chunks of paper, chunks of introspective first person observations, only to find something that appeared awfully familiar. Yet I was not entirely convinced, maybe I knew what was going to happen, even though I had never read the book. Maybe it was all there in the first page, the first paragraph, the first sentence, the first word. Past, present and future. Or maybe time was eroding my sense of deja vu, making it part of a memory that was never really there.

I heard an instinctive metallic sound.

Yet I kept jumping ahead. I had never read this book, I was certain of that, but the story seemed awfully familiar. Was I, perhaps, the literary reincarnation of a Murakami character, reading about himself while being myself? Or was I completely gaga?

The cat, in what frame of time was the cat caught and conceived?

I was tempted to read the last page and finally settle my predicament, but I stopped. That would spoil the past and the future. And the present?

Maybe it would be better to just read or reread the book, follow the flow of the feathered chronicle and reach the end with anticipation.

>Jellyfish, jellyfish from Chattanooga, where I got married.

Jellyfish? Where they part of the mystery?

What if I had already read the book and when I reached the next to the last page, I would suddenly realize I knew the ending to this mystery. I then would decide not to read the last page, not knowing that I had never read the last phage to begin with. And the ending I knew… was not the true ending.

All this time consumed, refreshing a memory that could have used a new and different stimulus. So what was I to do?

I stood staring at the book, expecting an answer from its silent pages. I wasn’t sure. Blasted cat!

Switch on the TV.

Man United was playing Barcelona.

Splendid.

That would do.

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