More Scenes and Thoughts

For "lunch," I went to Panera and had a bagel and a coffee. I took a collection of plays by Hispanic women with me to read. Before I started eating or reading, I had to document some "scenes" I had come up with while in the shower. How odd how many scenes come to me in the shower. What is it about the shower that presents answers to me?

Anyway, I got to reading "Miriam's Flowers" by Migdalia Cruz. It was written in short scenes that moved back and forth across time, no holding back on location, moving from Church altars to graveyards to bathtubs to a grocery store. Some scenes were merely stage directions. 37 scenes in this short play. They were powerful images, however, and certain scenes were rough to get through. Images and stage action that turned my stomach. Scenes of self-inflicted violence. Miriam's flowers turned out to be flowers that Miriam carved into her arms with a razor. Almost too much for me to take.

I was inspired by the dominating presence of the Church, the saints, Christ, and spirituality. I was also struck at how statues (Jesus, Mary, San Martin) would serve as silent representatives for the larger characters. Jesus was in the play, he had scenes with Miriam, but he was silent. It was obvious that he was present in those scenes despite his silence.

Songs were also peppered throughout the play. The Jackson Five, Spanish children's songs. Music mingled with the visuals, whole scenes being held up by silence or sound. I started to wonder if I'd been influenced by a unconscious Latino sensibility in my writing. Magic realism, drifting time and space, music as an integral character. The scenes spat out their harsh realities in "Miriam's Flowers," and it made me wonder about "All Grace." How will I depict war, pain, and despair in ways that will make an audience feel the full effect?

When I came home, I looked at the tiny tidbits I had written at Panera. I imagined a scene in which Lipchitz returns to his studio to find it burned to the ground. I wrote:

"As a boy, you destroyed a home. As a young man, you destroyed a home. But now. You have finally succeeded. You have destroyed me. Completely destroyed me."

I typed this out when I came home. I let myself drift a moment. Then, I saw the scene:

LIPCHITZ stands before charred ruins of his studio. OUR LADY stands before him.

LIPCHITZ
When I was a boy, you tried to destroy me, but you only destroyed my home. When I was a young man, you tried again, but again, you only destroyed my home. But now. Now you have finally succeeded. You have destroyed me. Completely destroyed me.

(HE kneels, rocks back and forth, eyes closed, mumbling out a whispered prayer.)

OUR LADY
Are you praying to me?

LIPCHITZ
I’m praying to whoever will listen.

OUR LADY
This is where I was sitting. Right here. When it happened.

LIPCHITZ
How did it happen?

OUR LADY
A spark. From somewhere. I don’t know where. But a spark was struck and began to eat and mature, a flaming snake was brought to life. I watched as it ate my brothers and sisters around this room. Each one, crying out. Not for themselves. But for you, Chaim. For you. “Save me, Our Lady! Save me! Not for myself, but for Chaim!” But the fire didn’t listen. It ate them slowly. The circle of fire grew around me like a storm.

LIPCHITZ
I can see it.

OUR LADY
Can you.

LIPCHITZ
I can see it all over.

OUR LADY
It was beautiful, Chaim. When the fire was over me, at first. At first, I wasn’t burning. I was whole, the fire only caressing me. I was the burning bush. I was the burning bush, waiting for you to see the signs of God I was revealing to you. But you never came. I stood up to the fire as long as I could, held it back. “Chaim must see me! I am his miracle!” I grew weak. Miracles are so exhausting to maintain. I could no longer hold back the raging fire. I let go of the miracle. The fire leapt at me. Took hold of me with its piercing claws. And devoured me. Layer by layer. I was disappearing. From white. To grey. To black. Ashes. Here are my ashes, Chaim. This is all that remains of my miracle.