This is an extract of a monologue I am tinkering with.
Lights up on Michael, dressed as a Fool)
Michael: It interests me, this fantasy you have fashioned to justify your horrific deeds. You’ve created a myth that lays firm foundation to your repeated cruelty towards others, dressed up as kindness. I truly do believe you. like the rest of us, struggle to find your good heart which is, undoubtly there, and reflected in the overt deeds of material kindness you do.
But your story, your myth, is almost a work of art! Such a tale you have spun and it runs thus:
There are people out there in the land who “fall into love” with you (through no doing of your own, you cry – I know different of course! Many more than you would like know different, I think, have fallen prey to your sad eyes, your lamented overtures). Occasionally you have responded, but always these would-be suitors fall into (in your words)”obsession”, or reveal their true nasty side; they are hunters, chasers, mad-hatters. They play games in the night; they stalk the base of the tower. (meanwhile of course, you are already entertaining your next suitor).
And now we have watched you for – how long? More than a few moons, and less than an age. And who does the aforementioned description describe best? You, of course! It is you who plays the games of feeling, you who has the scheming heart, even as you dole out alms to the poor, you allow your slave-warriors to hound the true feelers of this world.
You falsify rumours and play a jig of exaggeration to demonise the sincere. And you of course, turn your attention elsewhere, and begin your playing over and over again.
We’ve watched it decay you in body and soul until you are now a confused mix of unclarity, anger, and scheming wiles, addicted to the scratch of nails rather than the caress of freely-given love. You can now only enjoy the kiss of a cruel soul.
Your weapons are entrapment, then demonisaiton and worst of all, indifference. I wonder if there’ll ever be true remorse in your heart?
The castle walls are crumbling now with neglect, the foundations moving on shifting sands, the moat water is rotting away the brickwork, which was never well constructed in the first place.
But no, we are not the demons, nor the souls in pain.
You are, and your addicted entourage.
You can destroy us all, but our spirits remain ever free.
It’s you who is ill, you who is cruel, not we.
(Lights)
Paul Levy 