Reverse Temporal Engineering by Antony Sammeroff

A scratch night comedy in one act for two actors.
Acknowledgements to Finn Townsley and Gareth K. Vile.

Cast:
TOM. An obnoxious self-described possibilitarian, probably in his early to mid-twenties.
STU. Another character who is more obnoxious than Tom.

Reverse Temporal Engineering.

Tom enters the stage from one side speaking on his mobile phone.
TOM [speaking into his mobile]. Alright man? ... Yeah I'm at my parent’s house... Where are you?... Alright cool that's near mine. 
Stu enters from the other side of the stage, speaking into his phone, they are in different locations.
STU [speaking into his mobile]. Are you coming out tonight?
TOM. I would but I left my wallet in my flat so I'm waiting on my dad coming home and giving me a lift, but he's on night shift.
STU. Damn that sucks.
TOM. Yeah I know. It’s shit.
STU. It’s shitter than shit. It’s like - a turd sandwich with shit as the bread.
TOM. You’re a classy guy. Can you not just conjure up my wallet since you're near mine and I'll walk into town and meet you there?
STU. Well uhm... Maybe I could do that, if I dunno, I had your freaking keys.
TOM. Teleport?
STU. Not invented yet. Why are you at your parent’s house anyway gaylord?
TOM. Well my new brother in law was visiting.
STU. Haaaaa he's bangin' your sister.
TOM. Ummm… yeah. And?
STU. Well, it’s more than you're getting.
TOM. It is more than I'm getting from my sister... not quite as much as I'm getting from your mum.
STU. Touché good sir, I consider myself bested. I assume by your response you like him then?
TOM. Like him how? I'm afraid anything I say will just be construed as an excuse to make a gay joke.
STU. Probably. Well, just like, since you’re, you know, cool with him… how should I put this sensitively?… Ramming? Hm, no. How about ploughing? No, let’s go with Ramming, I like Ramming - original and best. Since you’re cool with him Ramming your sister every night - takin’ that cute little ass to town - I’m supposing you get on with him.
TOM. Such a way with words! I think you managed to make your point really clear there. What a talent. Yeah I get on with him great! Better than with my sister actually hahaha.
STU. Why’s that?
TOM. Well he smokes for one thing, and she doesn't, so we can go out for a fag.
STU. Ah true, that does make him the better human being.
TOM. Indeed.
STU. So when will I catch you? The weekend?
TOM. Balls to that, I’m coming out.
STU. …Of the closet, you surely mean. By the time you walk to yours and then back into town…
TOM. Teleport?
Stu checks his watch.
STU. Noooope… still not invented yet, try again in another half an hour.
TOM. Do you think teleportation will run on the principle of moving particles through a quantum wormhole to another location and reassembling them? or more like a copy and paste mechanism, where the model is molecularly replicated, but the copy is dispatched during the integral process?
STU. Don’t care. Why?
TOM. Well supposing I’m meant to be in two places at once, I could just teleport myself but conveniently forget to “cut” before I “paste” and then there would be two of me.
STU. Yah, but the real you wouldn’t even essentially be at both meetings, so you’d have no memory whatsoever of one of the events. And then what would you do with the copy afterwards? You can’t just Edit/Undo after you control/c control/v. That would be a bit inconvenient to explain away.
TOM. Hmmm yeah I guess you’re right. Maybe he would become unstable and break down of his own volition after filling me in on the details, or maybe his organs could be harvested for science.
STU. No, no, that’s a sentient life form! You’d have protests from People for the Ethical Treatment of Clones.
TOM. Damn those ultraliberal hippies at PECA.
STU. You only want two of you so you can suck twice as much cock as you normally do anyway. To be honest, you’d be better off Reverse Temporal Engineering it.
TOM. What, you mean sucking off one cock, and then going back in time afterwards to suck off another one so that I didn’t have to miss out on any of the juicy cock-sucking opportunities presented to me?
STU. Sure. I actually just meant Reverse Temporal Engineering it so you could be at both meetings at the same time and remember, but your admission of love for the cock was equally satisfying.
TOM. More satisfying, surely?
STU. Indeed.
TOM. How much more satisfying?
STU. Seven. Seven times more satisfying.
TOM. And yet, still not as satisfying as your mums vagiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh.
STU. Damn! Struck by my own sword. You’d also age faster in subjective time while sucking on all those cocks, or being at each of those meetings.
TOM. That’s right actually - but that’s not the only risk. At the second event you could refer to something that happened at the first event which hadn't happened yet subjective to everyone else and confuse people, then – bam! – quantum time paradox, just like that! And the universe collapses in on itself.
STU. That I could deal with, it's all the bullshit you’re talking that troubles me-
TOM. Damn! You really know you lack charisma when a microcosmic temporal contradiction bringing forth the immanent annihilation of the universe along the axes of both time and space is preferable to what is presently occurring in subjective...
STU. Yeah, all that crap would be a relief!
TOM. Ok... I have an idea... Ask behind the bar if your friend left his keys for you.
STU. What are you talking about?
TOM. Look I'm 100% sure this Might work.
STU. Oh you're certain it'll work maybe?'
TOM. Approximately.
STU. On average.
TOM. As a distinct non-zero possibility. In a multiverse all distinct non-zero possibilities become actualities.
STU. In an infinite universe everything that can exist must exist.
TOM. Look, that’s pub talk. Save it for the pub.
STU. But, you're not coming out to the pub because you were at your parents’ house ramming your gay brother-in-law and you left your wallet in your flat.
TOM. Ask behind the bar if my keys are there.
STU. And how exactly do you expect this to work?'
TOM. Well let's see, I saw it in a movie once.
STU. Saw what in a movie?
TOM. This. Teleport isn't invented yet.
STU. Yes, I said that. Twice in fact.
TOM. But, if time travel is invented within my lifetime I can plausibly reverse-temporal engineer things so my keys are left behind the bar for you.
STU. O…kayay... But first - Is the movie you saw this in Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure?
TOM. Fuck the shut up!
STU. Don't you mean...
TOM [interrupting]. Whatever!
STU. But was it though?'
TOM. Obviously. But that's besides the point.
STU. I think that is the point exactly. I think the point is you're taking your queues from a sci-fi-teenage-comedy genre-confused mash up.
TOM. Like Biodome.
STU. What the fuck is Biodome?
TOM. Watch it and see.
STU. You're a dick.
TOM. Yeah, but if you never watch it you’ll never know.
STU. If a man is alone at his parents’ house and no one has a clue what the fuck he’s talking about, will he shut the fuck up?
TOM. Get my keys.
Stu moves to the side to address the barman.
STU [to the wings]. Here! Mate!...
Stu produces a set of keys from the wings.
STU. ‘kin ‘ell! He had your keys!
TOM. See, told you.
STU. ‘the fuck dude?
TOM. ‘the fuck indeed. See, I’m a possibilitarian.
STU. You're a retard. Why didn't you just reverse temporal engineer the keys into your parent’s house?
TOM. Never thought of that.
STU. That’s because you're a retard.
TOM. Not too retarded to do this.
The keys disappear from Stu’s hand or person.
STU. 'kin ell where did they go?
TOM [producing the keys from his pocket and jangling them]. Right here.
STU. Jesus Christ that's awesome!
TOM. Ask the barman for the drink I got you.
STU [addressing the barman again]. Here! Mate!...
Stu produces a pint from the side of the stage.
STU. ‘The fuck dude!
TOM. Yeah you're totally getting in the next round.
STU. Except not I'm not because you're wallets still in your flat, and you're at your parent’s house, and I don't have your keys anymore to go and get it for you.
TOM. Dammit! I am a retard.
STU. I said it first.
TOM. Well, [Tom produces the wallet from his pocket] here it is now I suppose.
STU. You know, this is a very convoluted way to meet up under the circumstances.
TOM. Yeah you're right... We should sort that out.
Tom hangs up the phone and walks across to the other side of the stage to join Stu.
TOM. Hey man.
STU. Hey, Pint?
TOM. Fuck yeah.
They walk off towards the bar like best of friends.
END.

Do I know you?

-->

by Antony Sammeroff
A scratch night play in one act for one actor and one actress.

Do I know you?

April and Anthony enter from opposite sides of the stage as they draw close they catch eyes and think they know each other immediately, but then a moment of doubt creeps in.
ANTONY [with enthusiasm]. Hey!
APRIL [responding in kind]. Hey!
There is a moment of credulity
ANTONY [communicating with his hands].  I thought we…?
APRIL.  I thought we…
ANTONY.  But we don’t.
APRIL. No, we don’t…
ANTONY.  Well I’m Antony. [He presents his hand]
APRIL. I’m April…
They shake.
ANTONY.  So next time we will.
He smiles.
APRIL.  Next time we will.
They part.

Quinny

So I wrote 4000 words of a novel today and just typed it up at Sam and Fiona's. 

If I was to say it reminded me of any author I'd have to say Nick Hornby (who wrote About A Boy, High Fidelity, Fever Pitch, etc.)

Here's the first draft of the first chapter for those who want to read it, I hope it's amusing but it doesn't get into the action until the second ;) ...

Ch. 1 You can call me Quinny, if you have to.

My name is Claire Quinn. Quinny for short, or if we're intimate, which we're not, and Clarissa exclusively if you're my mum because no one else who knows the name given to me at birth by my drunken father, may he rest in pieces, would dare call me it to my face.

Now where was I? Oh yes, my name is Claire Quinn and I'm going to see my ex-boyfriend for the first time in a year. Almost a year exactly. I know because we broke up on the 15th of May 1996, spoke on the phone twice in June, and then once again at the end of July when he asked if he could borrow my couch between the 1st and 6th of August, which, feeling obliged for the time he let me stay in his house for two weeks when he was on holiday and I was between flats, I allowed him to, and barely spoke a word to him while I did. Looking a little glum he left on the morning of the 6th, thanking me half-heartedly, and never got in touch with me again until recently, save to send a thank-you card.

I know what you're thinking. This Claire, or rather, Quinny, as you've probably got me pegged by now, thinking that we're intimate because I've shared all this with you, we’re not, or just because it's the more memorable of the two names I've mentioned (yes, two,) she's rather particular, is what she is. She's very pedantic. Well, people have said that I'm pedantic, and I don't mind it at all that much at all. I think that precise details make everything sharp, and a lack of clarity simply leaves everything confused, but I digress. I suppose you're thinking, 'She sounds rather obsessed with this chap really, a whole year and she's remembering all these tiny little details,' but in fact I'm not obsessed with him thank you very much, and I only remember all these details because of the particulars of the situation. In fact I'm only cogitating over them and sharing them with you because it's a worthy distraction from what I'm experiencing now, which is a mixture between dread, butterflies, and a healthy dose of acrimony. 

Ah, yes, that's it you see. Now we're into the meat and potatoes you say, this sounds interesting! Dread, butterflies and acrimony, that I can sink my teeth into, you ruddy bunch of sadists. Well I shan't be willing to talk about it, so you can all go hang so far as I care.

Oh all right then. I don't like to talk about my feelings in retrospect, and certainly not in the present tense, but since you've all been kind enough to turn up and hear my story told, you curious lot of voyeurs, I might as well share something worth sharing, mightn't I? Otherwise this whole piece will just descend into a continuous prevarication of the matter at hand, and it would be a shame to waste such an endearing literary style as mine on a mere bagatelle.

It seems a shame to use the term bagatelle in the derogatory sense though, since Beethoven composed many very lovely ones. (I particularly like no. 1 from op. 119.)  I could have said trifle, but that would only turn our attentions to our stomachs, lets face it, and Wild Goose Chase doesn't put it correctly either. How about divergence? Yes, that seems to fit. I wouldn't want to waste your time on a meaningless divergence (if you can think of a superior substitute send it on a post card) and I suppose it's not too late as this is a novel, not a poem, and we're merely a couple of pages in.

The short story forces one to be economical but nothing is wasted in a novel really, especially one put in the first person, as you always end up learning something about the character by the way it's written, and if you've read this far (praise your efforts) I can only assume that you're sufficiently bemused, amused, or otherwise entertained by my perceived quirkiness, or some other quality, to want to learn more about me. Only time will tell whether or not your optimism, which I am nonetheless thankful for, is misplaced.

I'm not different from most people, I don't suppose. Not that different from you most likely. Perhaps a little more posh, although I try not to let it show. But this is how we operate isn't it? If we aren't enjoying our experience we escape into our thoughts, don't we? We could be anxious or worried, maybe hurt, emotionally or physically. It's so easy to ignore a back pain, for instance, until it becomes unbearable.

Then there are some of us who do the same thing in the opposite way. They obsess over the little particulars of the situation. All the little details. And speculate what they'll do in this situation or that. 'If they say this, then I'll say this.' - 'I won't let them get away with doing that again. I'll tell them straight this time.' But that's still avoiding the experience of the moment. That's trying to anticipate the future, or as many of possible futures as their mind can muster, but there's no end to it really. No real solutions to be had ahead of time. Every question brings up a hundred more questions. You think that you can figure it out but you can't, because the mind is like the trunk of a tree, and thoughts are like branches coming out of the trunk, or roots, and the more they grow the more other branches can grow out of them, and the more branches can grow off the branches, and then leaves off that one, and then sinews off the leaves, and on and on into infinity. They're like a sequence of numbers that can keep going on, that can keep growing indefinitely. See if you can recognise the pattens in these ones:

0 1 1 2 3 5 8 13 21 34 55 89 144 …

01101001100101101001011001101001...

ok that one's admittedly quite tough, let me make it easier for you,

01 0110 01101001 0110100110010110 ...

and this one:

3.1415926535897932384626433832795028841971693993751...

That last one is pi by the way, and if you managed to find a pattern you're probably be due a nobel prize because top scientists haven't found one yet and likely never will, but I put it in to make sure you were paying attention, and to amuse myself mostly. It didn't work, but it did help me to continue procrastinating, and therefore avoid speaking about my problems while increasing the tension in the narrative and possibly eliciting a laugh all in one fell swoop. 

See I like to think that I know what I'm doing with this writing business otherwise I probably wouldn't be trying it out, such is the bent of my nature, but I don't want to grow tiresome, so I'll return to the story. Well, what little of it I was able to depart from.

So, I'm taking the train into Portsmouth. I've always liked taking the train. It affords a certain comfort which the bus lacks, but, it's more expensive as it so happens. Also, you can read on the train, but you can't on the bus, which, being as I am, I am doing of course in an attempt to distract my attention from my thoughts and what I'm feeling, not that I'm having much luck focussing on either, unsurprisingly. The words just rattle in my head emptily as my mind goes off in a tangent, and I find myself reading the same passage over and over again.

I've not long since left work in Southampton. I work in a legal office. No, I'm not a lawyer as it so happens and I'd thank you not to presume! I'm sorry, it's a bit of a touchy subject really. You see, I know that like most people you probably assumed that because I'm smart, fairly polite, a little cultured, and very well spoken (need I add modest?) that I probably have a glamorous job like be the editor of a newspaper, or at least a university professor. Or more likely a lauded upper-middle-class profession like a lawyer or a doctor, but life doesn't always work out that way. The truth is I'm just an assistant.

It's not that I think there's anything wrong with working in a place like this, honestly I don't. I'm not a snob. I was just hoping to be doing something a bit more personally fulfilling with my life by this age, or at least on the way there by now. Yes, I know I'm only twenty-six, but sometimes I honestly feel like my life's already over. I don't meant to seem melodramatic, but I just can't see a way out of the routine for me. 

I finished my art degree in   , the after a year out travelling I did my masters in fine art at . That's where I met Rich by the way, while I was doing my masters, not travelling, if I wasn't clear enough. Then I figured I'd make some cash while I tried to figure out what I wanted to do next and just kind of got stuck here.

Yes, it's the kind of job where you leave your work at the office at the end of the day and don't have to take it home, but I'm usually just so knackered by the time I get there that I just want to make some dinner, watch a DVD, then go to bed, not to speak of even doing any art which I hardly ever do now. And it's getting more and more stressful. More and more they have me making outbound calls to tell people things they don't like hearing and I don't like telling them.

A year after I left uni Andy and I broke up and now it's about a year after that. Yes, I know I called him Rick last time, but I've decided to change his name periodically on the off chance that you know him or worse, grow attached to him and therefore become biased in his favour, even if it is in part because you perceive me to have some quality that annoys you, such as scattyness (although I don't know where you'd get that idea from.) Next time I should call him Tony and see where it goes from there. Or perhaps because I remind you of some quality you have in yourself which you are against. It happens you know. It's called projection, or externalisation or something like that, and it's something to do with Carl Jung's concept of the shadow. He was a student of Freud's but they fell out because Jung disagreed with some of Freud's wackier theories, and then came up with some of his own such as the idea that everyone is linked by a collective unconscious and that when you die you become part of it or something like that. 

Look, I understand that because I'm the one telling the story you're invariably going to be somewhat biased by virtue of hearing it from my end, but it is my story after all, and I'd like you to sympathise with me first, if you can. I suppose I just want you to like me, is that so wrong? Surely it's a compliment if anything. I promise to try and be as impartial as possible, and here, as an act of contrition, let me do something brave and be straight with you. 

You know how I early told you that AnRickTonich only contacted me once to send me a thank you card up and till recently? I told you a sort of falsehood there. Well, yes, ok, that is just a nice way of saying I lied. I lied to you slightly. The thank you card was followed by a short letter.

Now before we go on, I acknowledge that I'm your one and only source of information on this account, and we need some trust here. If I lie to you the whole thing falls apart. You don't know what is real and what's false, and there's no actual story any more, just a ragtag fantasy mix of possible-truths, half-truths and doubtful uncertainties that don't make up a coherent or fair representation of anything at all. You can't make a fair judgement if I don't give a fair account. I understand that. But maybe you'll forgive me for being selective with the truth when I tell you want I omitted.

The letter said…

Hey, I wanted to thank you again for letting me stay when I needed to, 

you really made my life a lot easier and I appreciate that. 

I also have to say I was sorry you felt the need to treat me more like a

stranger in your house than the friend I would have liked to 

think I was. 

That really hurt.

I didn't write sooner was because I felt I should get my responsibilities out 

the way so I could give it my full attention, and I also wanted to make sure I

was feeling neutral before saying anything I might regret, but I figured you

could do with some space as well so I hope you have benefited from that and

don't think me rude.

I hope you're doing well and life is good for you,

best wishes,

Ebeneezer Algernon Lauri-Adams Sinclair Bain

Now how do you suppose I responded to a letter like that?

I didn't obviously.

I lead a second life in Edinburgh, does that not make me a Bunburyist?

Waking up on someone's couch during the fringe while working as a theatre critic, reviewers pass slung around neck, feels kind of like being a romanticised caricature of a romanticised caricature. 40 minute walk to first venue, then traversing the city in between shows for another day. Helloooooo Edinburgh Fringe, did I really say I need to get more exercise? Please don't put chicken samosas in a box that says vegetable samosas. I fear that after having sufficient to drink one might forget that they feel out of place... while the company becomes ever more aware! Thanks for being an awesome friend ♥ The Devil May Care! (but that doesn't mean I have to give a fuck.) Anyone in Edinburgh lend me 20 quid? pay you back on Tuesday or Wednesday. Wallet got nicked last nite. Damn I was really enjoying the Edinburgh fringe weather but seemingly the Hindus were right, and all things must pass. Why do theatre makers think we like resettings of classics in World War II? what exactly is giving of this bizarre signal that World War II is a compelling or original period to set Shakespeare or Sophocles in? Or anything for that matter? It's not! When they said: "Repent, Repent" : I wonder what they meant? The problem with ethics is that the only people really interested in learning about it are already good.

These are just some of the experiences one might have in August when in Edinburgh.

So I've been catching up on review writing today and it's been getting really fun now I'm in the swing of it. I don't always enjoy sitting down and getting started, but when I finish articles I'm often very pleased with my writing and the ways I've managed to get around my concerns of how to approach certain aspects of a production.

While I'm here I guess this would be as good a time as any to link you to the reviews I've written that have already been posted online, please enjoy :-)

The Improvised Musical @ C
Treasure Island @ C Too
Candida @ Assembly George Square
Suite Hope @ Dance Base
Kaya – Dream Interpreter @ Assembly George Square
Anybody Waitin’? @ Dance Base
Mod @ C ECA

Baloney

A harrowed businessman once came into his therapists’ office after being bothered again and again by a reoccurring dream. Even although he’d been under analysis for a couple of months he couldn’t really tell you that he’d fully engaged with the treatment if he was to be honest. Deep down he was convinced that even seeing a shrink was a load of old baloney that couldn’t really help him with any matters pertaining to the real world, but it was a good opportunity to vent his spleen to someone who would have to listen and give his undivided attention, because he was being paid to. Meanwhile his life was crashing in around him, and getting progressively worse, which only went to prove that psychoanalysis was dated nonsense believed only by socialist professors in ivory towers who had never even seen the reality of the rat race first hand.

“You think I got problems, Doc? Let me tell you, even my ulcers got ulcers! My business is about to hit the rocks, my wife has insisted on separation and won’t even take my calls! Soon I’ll be getting the divorce papers through, heck that’s all I need! If I can’t get the cash together, and soon, I’m going to have to declare bankruptcy and lose the house to boot! I swear to god I’ll end up in hospital with another bypass. ‘Course I got problems. What do you expect me to do?”

This dream, however… he found it so irksome to be bothered by it night after night that he found himself turning up with a new willingness to do just about whatever his Freudian friend might ask of him. The hell with it, he didn’t have that much further to fall after all.

“I’m interested in knowing how often you’ve been having this dream? Or variations on the same dream?”

“It’s the same dream Doc! And I have it every night! Almost every night without fail! The only night I think I didn’t have it was when I was staying over at my mistress’ place. Does that mean anything?”

“Hm, I don’t know. How is your relationship with your girlfriend these days? Better than with your wife I assume?” he added with a sardonic smile befitting an analyst.

“I dunno to be honest. I just don’t think I excite her the way I used to, if you know what I mean. It’s ok I guess. Just no real verve.”

“I see, and is there anything else going on? It seems there’s a little something else playing on your mind, maybe you could let me in on the full story.”

“What, are you a mind reader? Ok, I just keep on thinking about how unfair all this is on my son. He’s only 8 years old and he deserves a good father. With a good strong marriage, and a good strong business to go into. Or at least sell it if he likes. I want to be able to give him an education, you know? Everything I went without. He’s the innocent victim here that’s what really gets to me.”

“I understand. You feel bad for yourself, but you can handle that because so far as you see it you’re the one who made the mess. Same goes for your wife, she’s an adult woman after all. It’s your son you feel worried about because he didn’t have any hand in creating these problems. Right?”

“Yeah! Right! Exactly! You know what Doc? You ain’t too bad! What about my dream though?”

“I’m just coming to that. Let’s go over it again. You keep seeing these little symbols, almost like items in a computer game. One is a small pot of gold. One two short pieces of string. Then there are two hands, one thumb up, the other thumb down. There is also a broken walking stick with a snake for a head, an old, discarded baseball bat and ball, and an olive branch with only one olive and three leaves on it. Is that right?”

“You got it Doc! Can’t make heads or tails of it neither. What do you say?”

“Now look, usually I’d interpret the dream for you, but I want to take a different approach, let me know what you think…”

“So you ain’t gonna make sense of it at all?”

“I think this will be much more effective.”

“Lay it on me.”

“I’m going to write you a doctor’s note and I want you to cut your work hours down to a minimum this week. Especially Monday through Wednesday. Only take absolutely essential calls. Delegate everything else to your secretary, get another one if you have to. I want you to spend time at home, and I want you to spend as much as you can doing the following exercises, here write this down.” The doctor scrambled to hand him a pen and notepad.

“Monday: I want you to visualise at least three big pots of gold, spend as much of the day as you can recreating the dream in your head but this time with these great big pots of gold instead of the tiny one you originally saw.

Tuesday: I want you to keep seeing the dream as much as you can, all day, but replace the two short bits of string with a big long braid that stretches on into the distance. If you see gold also, make sure it’s still great big pots and not the small one you saw at first, and I want you to continue in this fashion.

On Wednesday, I want you to see two hands shaking.

On Thursday I want you to see  that walking stick good as new, in fact turn it into some fancy diamond-encrusted sceptre if you want, go nuts.

On Friday I’d like you to picture a full-sized baseball field, with lots of enthusiastic people playing on it and having a great time.

Finally on Saturday, spend the day visualising a great big thriving olive tree. Then on Sunday you can come back in and tell me how you got on.”

“Doc, you gotta be kidding me! I need your help here! Can’t you see my life is falling apart? How is cutting work to think of cute pictures gonna solve me any problems? I gotta work hard at this. Cut me some slack! All I want to know is what this crazy dream is all about, and you want me to sit back and do nothing but think of cartoons?”

“Listen, this is serious work, I want you to give it a real shot. Don’t deny yourself any important leisure activities, but spend as much time as possible doing as I’ve asked you. If you try this out and it doesn’t work then next week we can take a more active approach. But I want you to give it your everything. Agreed?”

“Alright I’ll give it a shot, but I got to tell you, I’m pretty sceptical.”

“Put your scepticism aside for me, just for this week. I want you to engage with the process fully. Don’t let either of us down now.”

“Alright, alright already! Jeez you sound just like my mother. I’ll see you next week, ma.”

“See you next week.”

And with that the business man left.

A week later he returned to therapy, visibly glowing. He looked five if not ten years younger and there was a slight spring in his step as he entered the office.

“Doc, I don't know what you've done or how you’ve done it but I really gotta hand it to ya, things are changing in my life big time! I did what you said and didn’t go into the office until Thursday, just worked from home, then I got the important phone call and I'm just about to sign this great deal with another company. This could really save my ass! I spoke to my wife on Wednesday night and she’s called off the divorce, we're actually speaking to each other properly for the first time in years and she wants to work things out. I was even going to lose my mistress, but I took her out Friday night and the sex was so incredible I didn't have the heart to break it off in the morning. I checked my blood pressure today and it’s all back in the green zone. But best of all, you gotta hear this! Yesterday, instead of going out to playing golf with my buddies, I played my son at baseball. I was inspired by the big pitch that cropped up in my dream. Like in the movie, huh? ‘If you build it they will come’? Did I mention that? That everything in the dream changed around like you said? Well, the boy and I, we had an amazing heart to heart and I got to be completely honest with him about everything that’s been going on, and my feelings and all that crap, y’know? He’s such a bright kid, he understood everything I said and let me know how he was feeling about everything too, I could hardly believe he’s only eight! Well I feel like we’re best friends now, not just family, what’s family huh? Having sex with each other was just about the last good turn my parents ever done me. So anyway, enough already, I came home and did your visualisations all evening until I fell asleep and I woke up this morning feeling great. There’s only one thing that’s still driving me crazy. What did all that stuff in the dream mean, and why all these pictures? You gotta tell me what you done Doc, you gotta tell me what it all means?”

The analyst took the liberty of a long pause to stroke his beard.

“Well…” he laboured, “To be honest I didn’t really do any of the work. You interpreted the dream for me yourself. You see, the tiny pot of gold represented your attitude towards money. You just couldn’t ever see there being enough of it. So I got you to imagine an abundance of gold. Then you saw two separate pieces of string, and I figured it matched your whole outlook on your marriage. So I simply got you to braid them together into a long enduring tie that stretched out into the future with three strands: one for you, one for your wife, and one for your son. Next you told me how worried you were about your business: you saw one thumb up and one thumb down. You couldn’t see your clients agreeing on deals, so I got you to replace the picture with a handshake to make closing deal possible in your minds eye. Then there was the broken stick. I don’t think we need to say anything about this broken stick, Freud would have a field day. The really rather pathetic olive branch in your dream represented your health, so I got you to replace it with a vibrant tree, and finally that left the old, discarded baseball bat and ball. You wanted to invest more in your relationship with your son, so I got you to visualise a whole baseball field complete with a spirited game in progress. So, my fine analysand. What do you think?”

“Doc,” the client responded with a sardonic smile befitting an analysand, “What a load of old baloney! I think you oughtta see a shrink!”

With that he left the office and the therapist never heard from him again.

(c) Antony Sammeroff,  21/07/12

Two Quarks Interact

A quark Interacts with her friend in a cafe, 'I'm so Down! I'm just too Weak to resist his Charm, he makes me Spin, I feel so Strange'
'Don't worry' her friend says, 'I know you've hit rock Bottom, but keep Strong, I'm sure you'll end Up on Top - take Charge - It's meant to be!'
'How do you know?'
'elementary, Particle, you're Composites.'





dedicated to Finn Townsley


21-09-12 update
A quark Interacts with her friend in a cafe, 'I'm so Down! I'm just too Weak to resist his Charm, he makes me Spin and I feel so Strange! How did I ever get so Entangled?'
'Don't worry' her friend says, 'I know you've hit rock Bottom, but keep Strong, I'm sure you'll end Up on Top - take Charge - It's meant to be!'
'How do you know?'
'Elementary, Particle, you're Composites.'

"Static Speed Dating" by Antony Sammeroff and Finn Townsley 04/12

Cast:
Narcissist (f)
Shy Guy (m)
Insane Girl (f)
Arrogant one (m)
Humourist (m)
Yogi (f)
Intelligent One (m)

Narcissist enters the stage and addresses the Audience.

Narcissist. Hi, I'm a narcissist! I’m into...me, and the things I like, and I really like people who like Me! I really looking for someone who’s interested in talking about me, and likes listening to things I say about life. My perfect partner would look just as attractive as I do but wouldn't have much of a personality so that he could be like, a blank canvas that I would project whatever I want in a man onto. So I'd think that he was exactly the man I wanted despite who he actually was! Ok text back!

Narcissist moves to the back of the stage to watch. Shy Guy enters the stage and addresses the Audience.

Shy Guy. I'm the shy guy. I'm really sweet and tender, and not in any way sexual. I'm the kind of guy you tell your friends you want, and you wish you were in love with, but when you meet me you're just never really attracted. I tend to watch from afar without ever making a move. I think that friendship will one day lead to love, but it never really does. I live in my imagination and I'm artistic: a musician , watercolour painter or short-story writer. I hang out in groups of people who speak about lofty matters but I just listen and never really say much. If I do find a girlfriend she'll be a little more sociable than me, and will probably stay with me for years and years and years, but only cos she's afraid of change. Please be that woman.

Shy Guy moves to the back of the stage to watch. Insane Girl enters the stage and addresses the Audience.

Insane Girl [Overly Enthusiastically at First]. Hi!!! [suddenly self-conscious, she corrects herself] I'm the girl with self-proclaimed insanity! My normality confuses me so I try to make up for it by regularly doing arbitrary things, which may seem 'random,' as they call it, but are all actually completely premeditated! I consider my clothes to be a feature of my personality, because I don't really have one. My perfect partner would be as bland as I am but be in no way self-aware enough to consciously recognise how banal he is!

Insane Girl moves to the back of the stage to watch. Arrogant One enters the stage and addresses the Audience.

Arrogant One. Hi, I'm the arrogant one. I don't care who you are really, you're just an extension of my will upon the world to love me. My standoffishness attracts you to fill the void as you wonder why I’m not showing any signs of interest, but I'll be done with you as soon as I get bored, because I've had you and I need to prove myself! I need to constantly reaffirm that I can have other people, otherwise I won't feel secure in my status. Realistically, lets come together and perpetuate out own cycles of self-loathing. Call back! If you think you can handle me.

Arrogant One goes to the back of the stage and puts his arm around the Narcissist with the implicit assumption of success. She is only too glad for the attention and they pair up, while watching the rest of the speed-dating candidates.  Humourist enters the stage and addresses the Audience.

Humourist.  Hi I’m an alcoholic! Just Kidding! I’m the one who uses humour to cover my insecurities - Just kidding! Well no, not really. I tell jokes a lot! I pretend not to care if nobody laughs but actually in dying inside - Just kidding! Well, no not really. Everyone seems to like me, but no one wants to date me. I can't understand why because I’m always the life and soul of the party! I'm just not quite sure if people are laughing with me, or at me - Just kidding! Well no, not really. Hahaha! I want you to love me! I've been obsessively in love with my best friend for years but I promise not to compare you to her too much... If you choose me I promise devotion, love, and altering my personality in any way shape or form that suits you, quite despite my basic human needs. Just kidding! Well no, not really.

Humourist moves towards the back of the stage and, seeing that Narcissist is already spoken for moves towards Insane girl and prods her in the belly playfully, she gapes dramatically and then starts play-fighting with him, slapping his hands, before suddenly wrapping her hands round his neck and trying to lick his ear while he moves tries to move his head back out of her reach. Finally the kiss once on the lips and settle down as a pair, his arms round her waist, to watch the other speed-dating candidates. Yogi enters the stage and addresses the Audience.

Yogi [Slowly and drawn out, with a sense of calm]. Namaste. I'm the one who does yoga. I'm looking for a spiritual life-partner who will talk about self-attainment and non-attachment while bolstering my spiritual ego by telling me how honest and full of love and light our relationship is compared to those of the common herd. We’ll sip green tea while he ignores his own emotional environment and dismiss any signs of mine as a mere symptoms of the ego, which can be overcome with sufficient chanting and meditation. The Lotus Flower is ever in the water but not of it. Inlakesh. We are one. 

Yogi finds her way over to Shy Guy, presses her hands together before her and bows then leans over to kiss him on the forehead, he blanches for a second embarrassed, and not knowing quite how to react, but he bows back self-consciously. She takes his hands before her and holds them up, then slides them round her waist onto the small of her back, and the two watch the final performance as a pair.

Intelligent One. I’m the intelligent one who’s completely socially inept. Sometimes I come across as a bit interesting at first, but I’ll soon put you off by talking down to you and belittling your opinions. I can’t understand why being serious all the time doesn’t create attraction and I only talking about worldly matters and social science to the exclusion of all personal thoughts and feelings. I look down on most people for being too frivolous anyway and any jokes I might make require extremely specialised knowledge to understand so I’m looking for someone bookish whose as boring and serious as I am. If you’re interested in meeting up to exchange opinions, or better still listening to my ideas, especially on how the world should be run, please email me at this address.

Intelligent One turns round to inspect the talent and realises everyone has already paired off.

Intelligent One. Balls.

Lights go off, actors organise themselves in a row.

Lights come back up and actors take their bows.

If you want a life changing experience try living for a change...

I get up between eight in the morning and one in the afternoon. There's no real routine to it, and it doesn’t much matter to be to be honest because I know no matter what time I get up I won't feel human until about six or eight in the evening. Days are a waste of time. It's the night when things really start to happen for me.

Some evenings I might think that because I have no lectures the next day I can use the time to get some writing done. There's no sense in it though, because in reality without something to prompt me to get out of bed and get dressed I'm going to lie there listening to podcasts or watching videos on YouTube. Like I said, days are time to waste.

Around six, as if on cue, I start feeling a little more awake. I have some dinner. I like cooking but I never make anything elaborate since I don't have a girlfriend to impress at the moment and my flatmate is always out. Soon I'll boil the kettle, pour a nice cup of coffee and take it out back for a cigarette which I never smoke all of because I'm restless and keen to get back inside and do things. My mind is busy.

Now I'm ready to write. Well, I think I am. Actually I have about 60 emails (mostly facebook notifications) to get through first, and some of them contain video attachments that I want to watch. I work through my emails one by one while listening to the songs people have posted on groups I'm a part, partly in case there’s anything I might like to hear more of, but mostly to justify the use of time. A slight moment of nihilism permeates when I see that I've reduced my inbox to zero new emails...

...Where was I?

Oh yes. This play. I want to finish it, I just... I think it's got real potential, but actually there is something holding me back. You see there are a lot of big gaps. I have plenty of beginning, a nice amount of end, and too many bits of middle which are roughly in chronological order but resemble nothing approaching the title of narrative... I just don't know that I can piece this jigsaw together, and the thought that I'll do it wrong scares me to death. So I just read what I've got so far and make a couple of tweaks.

It seems like nothing but something inside me is changing... You see now I've got kind of hooked on fixing these little things, and I'm interested in some of that disparate dialogue I was talking about which I've come to. I rearrange it into a semblance of a conversation that could perhaps, potentially, one day, possibly be spoken by someone on a stage somewhere with some kind of credibility. And it links perfectly into the next bit - Hey! That looks pretty good! I'm proud of this!

What else can I fix?

As I go about the business of tidying things up here and there new ideas start popping into my head. They fit really nicely with what I've got so far, in fact, on one level I feel like I'm not quite smart enough to have come up with some of these little gems myself. I didn't realise the characters had the quirks I'm exploiting, but actually if you read it closely, you'll see that they're hinted at all along. They were there the whole time.

I'm enjoying myself now. I really want to make this work! I realise that if I don't like the way something turns out I can always change it, or load a backup. I'm still not sure of myself but I'm just going to let it evolve as though it were out of my hands, because, in a way, it is.

I've got to the point of ecstasy. The new ideas are so pleasing to me. They've surpassed my expectations, taking surprising turns I never could have imagined, that work in so synchronistically that I feel much like the star in a movie with no script, acting simply for my own entertainment. I'm not sure I've ever been quite so happy as when I'm being creative, but my eyes are getting tired. I'm just about ready to go to sleep, so I put the finishing touches on the paragraph I'm on, and shut down the computer. I'm certain I'll jump straight out of bed in a few short hours eager to continue exactly where I left off, so I close down the top, and switch off at the mains.

I fall into the throws of my blankets at 4am, transformed.

I get up between eight in the morning and one in the afternoon. There's no real routine to it, and it doesn’t much matter to be to be honest because I know no matter what time I get up I won't feel human until about six or eight in the evening.

the Mona Lisa

I talk to the Mona Lisa sometimes.

It's not that I'm mad or crazy or insane or anything like that, it's just...
 ...I get lonely walking through these corridors sometimes.

"We'll always have Paris" the movie says.
There's a whole world out there! Romanticised.
And here I am on my own, again. Night after night. Rinse, repeat, "Play it Again Sam."

But the Mona Lisa's always there. Smiling.
Well, almost smiling.

Why don't I speak to any other pictures? you might ask.
Well, to be honest, I just can't imagine any of the others speaking back!

What would a  Sézanne even say? "I've got a headache?"
You can't talk to a Picasso, because his mouth's in the wrong place.
And I wouldn't even try my luck with the cubists or any of that other late-modern junk.

No, No, the Mona Lisa is the only girl for me.

"Vincent," she calls softly "Vincent..."

"...Come and talk to me."

Act 1 of Counting Down The Days, by Antony Sammeroff and Finn Townsley (with subtitles for humour)

Aritist: (Excited) Oh so you’ve read Adorno’s On the Fetish-Character in Music and the Regression of Listening.

[Oh, fantatic! You're someone as smart as I am!]

Lush: Yes, indeed, I found it most enlightening, but I have to say Tea-adores reliance on outmoded views expressed in the last instalment of Marxes Das Capital somewhat retrograde. (Cooughs) But speaking of cultural theory, did you not find Sartre’s Nausea expressed a most simplistic view of human angst.

[Yes, slightly smarter, but lets talk about something I know more about than you. I'm feeling angsty but am so emotionally stunted I can only refer to it obliquely.]

Arist: I no longer remember anything of, nor can I comment on Angst. It seems so far away, distant, ever since I met the woman. 

[Sorry dude, can't feel ya, I'm getting laid!]

Lush: A Woman? Singular? Surely the plural would be far more worthy. Why, Would Byron set his heart on one? Was Alexander to be tamed? Would Huxley settle for that ragtag Laura alone? But of course not! A man of letters exists to be loved: if by one, well it is, if by more than one, why even more so. For imagine if a man should conclude to write only, arbitrarily, with the letter D. Such a stunt upon his vocabulary would that bring. And likewise, why should the language of love be so limited, if only for a woman.

[What? Just by that one chick? 99 Problems and a Bitch ain't one! Variety is the spice of life! It's good that one chick is into you, but so much better if more people want to shag you. Why would you give it all up for one woman?]

Artist: But were she a letter she would express all the syllables and more so besides. Had you had seen her eyes, like the sun and moon burning bright within that face of which the cosmos is merely an effigy, then you would surely only begin to fathom the depths of affection that well within my breast. Then you would know, that there could be no other sun and moon that could possibly illuminate, nor capture, the heart of the man that I may hope to one day call the earth that these heavenly bodies humble in their orbit.

[She's the best thing ever! If you saw her face the way I did you'd be like "I wanna tap dat" but you wouldn't even know how much I wanna get with that shit! I'm bangin' her and it's so awesome! Do you know how awesome it is? No, cos you're not bangin' her, obviously, but it's so awesome that I don't wanna bang anyone else, ever! And I just feel so lucky that she wants to bang me too!]

Lush: I have gazed upon those celestial bodies that you declare all too fare, as those common features of her face, and I feel you are too much romanced my friend and all too soon, by those baubles that sparkle, not with the light of the sun but only in the sunlight. I fear you will taste these forbidden fruits, much to your folly, and from the gates of Eden I will have to bid you a sad farewell. 

[Yeah she's got an alright face, but it ain't nothin' to write home about. One the spark dies down you'll be all like Dang! Wish I'd put bros before hoes!]

Artist: If Eden is the price to pay for bliss, then for what? When Eden holds no longer bliss, for that which we dare call Eden pales in comparison to those temptations held without, then of what is this fair paradise Eden reduced to but mere shadows upon the walls opposing the platonic form of Love. But we are excommunicated from Eden only to return to it, perhaps not in body corporeal, but in our ethereal heart of hearts, where we find that very true bliss of union with the god incarnate in man, is in the womb of that fair rose we call the woman. 

[Yeah the stuff we done like drink, philosophise, go out sarging (and bum) was pretty awesome at the time, but bangin this chick is so far beyond all that shit. Infact bangin this chick is the new drinking, philosophising, sarging (and bumming.)]

Lush: Why deny the possibilities of the infinite joys that could exist outwith, for those finite joys that must exist only it the confines of that paltry warmth that is her one. As a great man once said, “Marriage is the tomb of love.” Yes, indeed sex is a battle and love is a war, but would Sun Tzu commit himself to strike on only one front in neglect of all the other affairs of state? “The stars move still, time runs, the clock will strike,” and you, my friend, will forget her. 

[But there's so much more than bangin this chick to experience. You shouldn't bang her to the exclusion of everything else because when it end you'll feel totally empty.]

Artist: “This soul should fly from me, and I be chang'd
Into some brutish beast! All beasts are happy,”

[Let me feel empty, she be drainin' me dry bro!]

Lush: “For, when they die,
Their souls are soon dissolv'd in elements;”

[Yeah, and when you're dry you'll be nothing.]

Enter Victoria.

Victoria: Fare artist do you await my call? Charming lush are you yet here past the sunset? With tongue so eloquent yet step’d in vicious poison. Away! Lest thy carriage reveal thy true nature, for it is but a pumpkin dressed in grandeur awaiting the stroke of dawn.

[Hey babe, you ready to go? Oh god not you! The sarcy cunt, why don't you fuck off on home.]

Lush: Save they words sweet scented succubus. Do you not see how you have reduced this once great man, in swaddling bands, to worship in the shadow of thy visage. Will you leave him weeping at the gates of hades as you dance back into Pluto’s arms?

[Yeah you're hot but you're still a bitch. You've got him pussywhipped alright. Go to back to Hell and fuck Satan.]

Victoria: Oh how your words wound me like the sharpest bolts of slings and crossbows. Should you feel that the appeal of thy wits are of more allure than eves of mine tender bosom, then let the kind artist decide how better he should spend out those last dwindling hours of twilight.

[Harsh! Well if you think he'd rather hang around gabbin' to you then get down with this, why not ask him what he thinks?]

Artist: Let me not decide! 

[Duuuuude, unfair!]

Lush: ….Dare thee use thy womanhood to seduce? For what do you think you are but Helen come again?! Do not tempt Agamemnon to send his ships for I will besiege the gates of Troy if it means to lose Achillies a thousand times over in the pursuit. Yet till the morrow, have your wicked way, for Odin held trust enough in Loki’s better nature to let him roam free and to fall (to artist, without pause) by his own errors.

[Got him pussy-whipped, huh? You think you're all that and then some? I will go to town on you bitch! But fair enough, if he wants his hole I'm willing to stand back and let it happen.]

Victoria: (mockingly) Then let our paths not cross once more till Ragnarok ensue. Come now gentle artist, turn thy sweet fingers again through these fragile threads and sing of me once more my praises.

[See you in Hell! Come on babe, tell me how much you love me.]

Artist: Yes, a thousand times! A thousand times and yet a thousand more should it please the swooning heart which beats within thy tender breast.

[Sure, I'll do anything for you.]