Anywho, don't tell Sheryl Crow what I'm about to do.
Ilunga (Tshiluba, Congo): a person who is ready to forgive any abuse for the first time, to tolerate it a second time, but never a third time
Lights up on a small coffee table in SISTER’S kitchen. SISTER and BROTHER sit on either side drinking coffee. She is drinking coffee, he is drinking tea. BROTHER is on his cell phone, ending a call. He hangs up and puts the phone on the table. He is distressed, but trying to hide it. He takes a sip of tea and acts nonchalant. SISTER isn’t having it.
SISTER: What’s up?
BROTHER: Nothing. She… No. Nothing.
He puts his tea back on the table and spits out a sigh
BROTHER: Her dog died.
SISTER: What?
BROTHER: Her dog, the fucking- Her dog died. It’s been sick, apparently. God damn it.
SISTER: God damn it…
BROTHER: God damn it! Every fucking time.
SISTER: Hey…
She reaches across the table and grasps his hand, giving it a loving squeeze
SISTER: That sucks. What-
BROTHER: What am I supposed to do? “Oh yeah, that sucks but I don’t want to talk to you”… She doesn’t have anyone else to talk to, what am I supposed to do? Dumb.
SISTER: Hey, you’re a good man.
BROTHER: Whatever. I’m working up some good fucking karma is all I’m saying.
SISTER: You’re a good man.
BROTHER: What am I supposed to do? Every time. “Oh, talk to me I just had sex with my boyfriend and feel bad about. Oh feel bad for me this guy is getting kicked out of his house love me. Oh my dog died I need your shoulder.” I’ve had it. I’ve fucking had it with her shit.
SISTER: You can’t let her get to you.
BROTHER: Come on, you know it’s not that easy. Christ. We’re gonna be eighty years old she’s gonna call me all like, “Oh, I can’t sleep because of life talk to me”
SISTER: You’re going to have to put your foot down eventually. She can’t have this power over you. She just calls you- You hear her voice and just shut down. That’s not okay. You are your own person, you have your own life, you can’t deal with hers every time she has a little breakdown.
BROTHER: It’s not even a breakdown… It’s… I don’t know. God damn it.
SISTER: God damn it.
BROTHER: God damn it.
The scene continues. It doesn’t matter too much what happens next, the two characters are just projections of my thoughts, helping me to sort through ideas that are keeping me from sleeping and they’ve done their job. The audience becomes slightly uncomfortable with the public catharsis that has just taken place, but hopefully find solace in the fact that they see something in the situation that can apply to their own life. Suddenly the character’s conflict (as well as mine) takes a back seat as the question is raised:
BROTHER: If I write a story that is just for me, and don’t let anyone else read it, does it make it less legitimate?
SISTER: I don’t follow you.
BROTHER: If I make art just for me as a form of catharsis, is it selfish if I don’t let anyone else see it?
SISTER: No. That’s ridiculous.
BROTHER: But if I share it... It becomes something more. It means more.
SISTER: I don’t think so. I see no difference, besides public catharsis running the risk of offending someone close to you.
BROTHER: But if I don’t share it, it’s just a journal. A diary, my own private whatever. The second another pair of eyes sees the piece it becomes art.
SISTER: Huh. I see what you’re saying, I will respectfully disagree, but I see what you’re saying.
BROTHER: Emily Dickenson.
SISTER: What?
BROTHER: Nothing.
SISTER: No, I didn’t hear you, what did you say?
BROTHER: Don’t worry about it.
SISTER: God damn it. I hate when you do that.
BROTHER: Do what?
SISTER: Mumble something I can’t hear and then be like, “Don’t worry about it” It’s obnoxious, I want to hear what you have to say.
BROTHER: I said, Emily Dickenson.
SISTER: What?
BROTHER: Emily Dickenson.
SISTER: No, I heard you this time. I don’t understand.
BROTHER: See? I told you. Nothing.
SISTER: I want to hear what you have to say, but it doesn’t matter if I don’t understand the context in which you’re saying it. Then it’s just your own thoughts kind of randomly falling out.
BROTHER: I think it’s interesting.
SISTER: I don’t.
BROTHER: It’s art.
SISTER: No, I’m just watching you process thoughts. It doesn’t apply to me. I don’t have context.
BROTHER: Emily Dickenson.
SISTER crosses her arms and glares at BROTHER. BROTHER sips his tea and stares back
BROTHER: What’s up?
SISTER: God damn it.
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