Echo. Remember them? Hot afternoons, sun on our backs, naked rocks. We would yell, helloooo into caverns. And hear helloo, replayed but hollow. I am that now. Echo. A dim reminder of something actual. Even a carcass on a butcher’s table has more dignity. Big and bloody at least it represents what it was. You might say ‘poor pig’. But you respect the fact that it has lived. But this? This echo I am, for lack of any other word, is bare, meek. Neither alive nor dead. There is something pathetic about it. I was not meek. No. At training, they called me ‘The Grey’. My hair was the colour of Gun Metal, but I could out run the captain. Strong legs. I was vain about them. I’d sit with them angled straight out from my body. Watch the muscle under the skin like a snake under water. It’s not just limbs you miss. There is a nauseas ache for the whole body. A part of the mind that does not stop mourning. For touch. For all the things it can’t express. I can think of something, a memory say, of us on the rocks, my legs around you. And in it I am happy. But I have no face to make the smile. [Beat]. So there is no point.
Pause.
Poor me don’t you think? Poor me. How eloquent my little diatribe about my fate has become. Don’t be smug thinking you’re the first, I’ve poured my morbid little story out to every floater that comes past me. That’s what I call us, floaters. No one knows where we are. How we got here. Or who else is around.
Or….
Though everyone remembers the filthy process of getting here. Tubes and mountains of broken bodies. No one knows where we are. Or who else is around.
(perhaps some direct extracts from Jospeh Coelhos monologue could be put in here? Interspersed? )
No eyes to see. No fingers. Oh poor me. Poor me. And of course, without the subtleties of body language to express ourselves. A fluttering hand to make our shyness known or a strong gaze to indicate confidence. We have become a filthy mass of stuttering fools. Running into each other blindly and going through all the awkward polite conversation that was so infuriating when we had bodies.
(Changing voice as if having a conversation with someone else).
Oh excuse me.
Yes pardon me.
No my fault.
Have you been here long?
Yes. You?
It’s hard to tell isn’t it?
Yes.
Or rather you forget.
Yes.
What did you do before?
And so on and so on and so on. Dithering geriatrics trying to conjure lost joys.
Oh yes I remember the parties too.
Sickening.
What did you do before?
Well dear it was my job to lace Africa with explosives, blow up mountains.
To find what?
Anything really.
Oh that’s nice, and what did you do in your spare time?
Oh in my spare time I ran a covert team of scientists who utilised invisibility technology to infiltrate the geological teams of opposing states and steal information about natural resource discovery and occasionally I would play cyber? squash to unwind.
Oh I loved cyber squash.
SHUT UP SHUT UP YOU STUPID WOMAN DO YOU KNOW WHAT I HAVE LOST.
Long pause.
We knew of course, years ago even, about the disappearances. It wasn’t exactly a secret when you work for the state. They quietly paraded their lobotomising of people they considered dangerous. Published the occasional paper about their findings on the criminal mind such as (changing voice) ‘the minds of hackers had been found to exhibit brain defects synonymous with over exposure to low level radiation.’ This is fucking B Grade Neurology we laughed, hardy har har har har. Of course it didn’t dawn on me until I was censored and ended floating around like a piece of mucus in an ocean. The reason the reports where so half hearted is they didn’t really give two shits. See the only thing we never really worked out is how to stop people fucking. When you have a population that is growing at the rate we are, everyone is replaceable. So if people were so much as hinting at a little fetish for opening up state files. Bam. If they are even slightly enamoured with group meetings to discuss...Bam. Which is why I ended up in purgatory not with revolutionary intellectuals but with a bunch of fucking morons who want to talk about squash.
Beat.
What have you lost?
Apart from my body?
Yes.
I thought it would have been obvious. Hope. I’ve lost hope.
Long pause.
Oh for what?
Moron. [Beat]. Its incredible isn’t it that our sick voyeurism didn’t disappear with the rest of us. We’re like blind folded strangers who cant help groping each other. You can never tell how long your going to be in orbit with another floater, I’ve been ripped away mid conversation. It’s the only sensation of movement you get here. There’s a sucking sensation and you end up somewhere else. Alone for another eternity. Not knowing when it’s going to happen creates a kind of anxiety. Not that I care who else is in this hell. I haven’t lost hope of course. I lost him. I’m just waiting until we meet. There wont be any time for small talk. (Beat.) I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’ll say. I got you involved and I’m sorry. I wanted to save something, not something people, the people we met in the South, I got obsessed with the idea. Once they stopped me, I had no choice but to tell them what we were doing, I couldn’t survive it, rape with electric wires. They told me that they knew all along. I guess they were waiting until they had enough, footage or photographs. They showed me them, while the blood ran down my legs. Us visiting the mines. Travelling up river. Fucking on rocks. Listening to echoes.
I thought it would be easy. Sell secrets about deposits in the North to the highest bidder and then gain protection for the small area in the South and the people there.
I couldn’t bear it any more see, going in there afterwards, the shattered heads, limbs in tangles, blood soaked ground. They don’t evacuate people anymore, it costs too much. They just blow up whole mountains and go in after and suction up the bodies. (Beat). But you know all this. What I wanted to say is I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. (Beat). And then I’ll try and kiss you here, with words. As best as I can. My legs I’ll say, remember them around you. (Pause). Snakes made of skin.
Draft 2- In response- see changes at end of monologue also
Grey Echo
Echo. Remember them? Hot afternoons, sun on our backs, naked rocks. We would yell, helloooo into caverns. And hear helloo, replayed but hollow. I am that now. Echo. A dim reminder of something actual. Even a carcass on a butcher’s table has more dignity. Big and bloody at least it represents what it was. You might say ‘poor pig’. But you respect the fact that it has lived. But this? This echo I am, for lack of any other word, is bare, meek. Neither alive nor dead. There is something pathetic about it. I was not meek. No. At training, they called me ‘The Grey’. My hair was the colour of Gun Metal, but I could out run the captain. Strong legs. I was vain about them. I’d sit with them angled straight out from my body. Watch the muscle under the skin like a snake under water. It’s not just limbs you miss. There is a nauseas ache for the whole body. A part of the mind that does not stop mourning. For touch. For all the things it can’t express. I can think of something, a memory say, of us on the rocks, my legs around you. And in it I am happy. But I have no face to make the smile. [Beat]. So there is no point.
Pause.
Poor me don’t you think? Poor me. How eloquent my little diatribe about my fate has become. Don’t be smug thinking you’re the first, I’ve poured my morbid little story out to every floater that comes past me. That’s what I call us, floaters. No one knows where we are. How we got here. Or who else is around.
Or….
Though everyone remembers the filthy process of getting here. Tubes and mountains of broken bodies. No one knows where we are. Or who else is around.
(perhaps some direct extracts from Jospeh Coelhos monologue could be put in here? Interspersed? )
No eyes to see. No fingers. Oh poor me. Poor me. And of course, without the subtleties of body language to express ourselves. A fluttering hand to make our shyness known or a strong gaze to indicate confidence. We have become a filthy mass of stuttering fools. Running into each other blindly and going through all the awkward polite conversation that was so infuriating when we had bodies.
(Changing voice as if having a conversation with someone else).
Oh excuse me.
Yes pardon me.
No my fault.
Have you been here long?
Yes. You?
It’s hard to tell isn’t it?
Yes.
Or rather you forget.
Yes.
What did you do before?
And so on and so on and so on. Dithering geriatrics trying to conjure lost joys.
Oh yes I remember the parties too.
Sickening.
What did you do before?
Well dear it was my job to lace Africa with explosives, blow up mountains.
To find what?
Anything really.
Oh that’s nice, and what did you do in your spare time?
Oh in my spare time I ran a covert team of scientists who utilised invisibility technology to infiltrate the geological teams of opposing states and steal information about natural resource discovery and occasionally I would play cyber? squash to unwind.
Oh I loved cyber squash.
SHUT UP SHUT UP YOU STUPID WOMAN DO YOU KNOW WHAT I HAVE LOST.
Long pause.
We knew of course, years ago even, about the disappearances. It wasn’t exactly a secret when you work for the state. They quietly paraded their lobotomising of people they considered dangerous. Published the occasional paper about their findings on the criminal mind such as (changing voice) ‘the minds of hackers had been found to exhibit brain defects synonymous with over exposure to low level radiation.’ This is fucking B Grade Neurology we laughed, hardy har har har har. Of course it didn’t dawn on me until I was censored and ended floating around like a piece of mucus in an ocean. The reason the reports where so half hearted is they didn’t really give two shits. See the only thing we never really worked out is how to stop people fucking. When you have a population that is growing at the rate we are, everyone is replaceable. So if people were so much as hinting at a little fetish for opening up state files. Bam. If they are even slightly enamoured with group meetings to discuss...Bam. Which is why I ended up in purgatory not with revolutionary intellectuals but with a bunch of fucking morons who want to talk about squash.
Beat.
What have you lost?
Apart from my body?
Yes.
I thought it would have been obvious. Hope. I’ve lost hope.
Long pause.
Oh for what?
Moron. [Beat]. Its incredible isn’t it that our sick voyeurism didn’t disappear with the rest of us. We’re like blind folded strangers who cant help groping each other. You can never tell how long your going to be in orbit with another floater, I’ve been ripped away mid conversation. It’s the only sensation of movement you get here. There’s a sucking sensation and you end up somewhere else. Alone for another eternity. Not knowing when it’s going to happen creates a kind of anxiety. Not that I care who else is in this hell. I haven’t lost hope of course. I lost him. I’m just waiting until we meet. There wont be any time for small talk. (Beat.) I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’ll say. I got you involved and I’m sorry. I wanted to save something, not something people, the people we met in the South, I got obsessed with the idea. Once they stopped me, I had no choice but to tell them what we were doing, I couldn’t survive it, rape with electric wires. They told me that they knew all along. I guess they were waiting until they had enough, footage or photographs. They showed me them, while the blood ran down my legs. Us visiting the mines. Travelling up river. Fucking on rocks. Listening to echoes.
I thought it would be easy. Sell secrets about deposits in the North to the highest bidder and then gain protection for the small area in the South and the people there.
I couldn’t bear it any more see, going in there afterwards, the shattered heads, limbs in tangles, blood soaked ground. They don’t evacuate people anymore, it costs too much. They just blow up whole mountains and go in after and suction up the bodies. (Beat). But you know all this. What I wanted to say is I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. (Beat). And then I’ll try and kiss you here, with words. As best as I can. My legs I’ll say, remember them around you. (Pause). Snakes made of skin.