Shannon Writes...

Crabby.

I hear tell that there are people who basically approach life with the same attitude all the time. I am not one of those people. As I've gotten older, I have definitely been able to hide my moods more. If you have ever sat across from me at a theatrical production that I did not enjoy, or during a sermon I found dull, or at a school assembly of any nature, you may not think that I hide my moods well. But, truly, I am better than I used to be.

As a child and teenager, I would say that my moods were the principal source of conflict between me and my mom (my dad is moody himself, and so our conflicts were usually when -- my poor mom and brother! -- we were both in a bad mood, which wasn't very frequent). I was told innumerable times to cheer up, stop my attitude or "let it go." I am sure it's not at all surprising that, in the tradition of teenagers since time began, I did not consider this to be very good advice. I think I felt to be cajoled out of my bad mood would somehow discredit whatever caused the bad mood... that if I could cheer up, it would be a punishment to me. This is just one example of how stupid teenagers can be about emotions. And I was particulary un-adept.

Now, as an adult, I see the point in moving on, letting go, "accept and move on" as Christine and I would say in college. I wouldn't want to say it's Zen, as I don't really understand anything about the practice of Zen, but it's true that I can hear Liam Neeson in my head saying "Flow like water" sometimes when I'm annoyed by something (or as Andrew and I decided last night, in Africa, it would be "Dodge like elephant.") For one thing, it's healthier. For another, it doesn't mean that I'm accepting whatever crappy thing has happened. It's kinder to people around me. And I'd just rather be happy than cranky. Life is short.

This weekend has been a cranky weekend for me. The good news that my grandmother is stable (in serious condition, but with no real decline and stable) seems to have released me a little bit to be grumpy and crabby (a word my mother always applied to me. I have never heard it from anyone else but seems particularly apt this weekend) and generally disenchanted with the world. If this was March - my traditional month of horrors - this attitude would be acceptable, even a step up from my usual utter despair during that month. But it's not March, it's the last week of my summer vacation. I've spend too long already, grinding my teeth and finding fault with people for living their lives not at my instruction and wishing it was less humid or that I was on Cape Cod.

So I've made a resolution. Barring the need to make a trip back to PA (hopeful that I will not have to, accepting that I may, flow like water), I'm taking this week off from the punishing business of being a playwright. I maybe will write. Maybe not. I will work on my upcoming reading and draft an owed article or two. I will bask in the fact that I've queried or submitted to 20 theatres in the last 3 weeks. But for the most part, I'm going to take day trips (I wrote gay trips first -- maybe those too!) and visit a museum and stay up late watching the Olympics and read lots of books and generally reconnect with me before I reconnect with the teenagers of Canarsie.

Crabby I am now, but hopefully, at this time tomorrow, I'll be flowing like water.

Fawn

Baby Fawn P1010211, originally uploaded by TOMT 454.

I'm sorry for the lengthy delay in posting. I was in Pennsylvania, with my folks, and their dial-up internet connection is a strong deterrent to posting anything. I don't know how many times I had just about finished a post when the connection was lost and I had to start all over again.

There's another reason I haven't posted, and that's because my grandmother is very ill. She is 93, and has Alzheimer's, and fell at her care facility on Friday morning. The care facility she's in, Laurel View Village, is a lovely and caring place (one of the nurses we encountered referred to it as "The Cadillac of nursing homes") and we're sure there was no neglect. It just seems that either her hip broke and she fell, or she fell and broke her hip. She was taken to the hospital and operated on the next day.

Providentially, I was already on my way back to PA for a visit, so I was able to be at the hospital with her and my mom, who is her only child and only living relative.

The surgery was successful, but the situation is not good. Basically, she won't eat. Maybe my verb is wrong. Perhaps she can't eat, because she's too scared and out of touch with reality. Perhaps she doesn't eat because she doesn't feel hungry. I don't know. I just know she can't feed herself, will take a few bites of food and then lapses back into asking to be helped to get up so she can get out.

It is an awful thing, to have to tell her over and over again that you cannot help her get up, that she needs to rest, that she broke her hip and that she's in the hospital. Over and over and over again. I found myself thinking about literature a lot, about Shakespeare's Jacques' speech in "As You Like It", which begins, cheerfully enough, "All the world's a stage" but ends "Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything." And about Beckett's plays. And about Alfred, Lord Tennyson's poem that ends "This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper."

When you're there, in the moment with her, it isn't difficult to stay calm and focused. My mom defines brave love to me at this point, with her calm care, her focus on what's best and her steadfast insistence that we'll not go to a feeding tube or anything else that might spare us the pain of a good-bye for a few days, but will not spare my grandmother pain. It's now that I am back in New York, for at least a few days, to pay bills, and see friends' shows, and try to behave normally for as long as I can, that I feel ripped up by sadness, sorrow, anger and even joy (for I believe that my grandmother's beautiful soul may soon be set free from the hell she's trapped in on earth).

I chose a baby deer for the photo on this post because my grandmother lived beside the woods for 87 years, and she'd put scraps out for the deer every night. I remember watching, at dusk - which is still to me the most magical time - out of her parlor window, for the deer to come out of the forest and nibble on our food scraps. She knew each of them, and loved them. She'd talk about the little ones, especially. I am sure that she lived there for so long that she saw some of the fawns grow into adults and bring their own babies.

She loved birds, too, and her big sheep dog, and her garden, and her home. It was a simple, tiny home (my 6' 4" brother couldn't stand up straight in some of the rooms) and when we took her out of it, which we had to do, I know some part of her just died. I think a little part of me did too, because I had such wonderful times there. That's where I learned to bake, and sew, and appreciate the fine stylings of the Lawrence Welk Show.

I miss it, and her, so much.

Fairy alert!

Fairly Fairy, originally uploaded by spleenboy.

Ok, so the fairy in Jacques the Fairy doesn't look much like this fairy... for one thing, he's a he, and for another, his wings are on the downlow. But I still really like this shot and this woman's facial expression.

And it's the perfect prelude into announcing that Jacques the Fairy will be read at Dixon Place, on Weds., September 10th, at 8 pm! I am so excited to have found a venue to share a reading of this play so quickly after finishing my third draft. I'm thrilled to share it with actors and an audience... this will help me grow the play so, so much. And a good time will be had by all, truly.

I'll post a link for tickets when it's available. But, please, if you're in NYC, and you're into fairies, bookworms or research librarians, plan to attend.

Plug.

I got assigned to read Simon Rich's Free Range Chickens for my reviewing gig. It is so, so, so, so funny. I've really not been in a huge laughing mood as of late, as you can no doubt tell from the below, but this cracked me up, several times, out loud, on the subway. It's basically a series of little playlets. My favorite is "A conversation between the people who hid in my closet every night when I was seven" featuring Freddy Krueger, the Murderer from the 6 O'Clock News, his Dead Uncle Whose Body I Saw At An Open Casket Funeral, Chucky and his doctor, Dr. Murphy. Best line? After Chucky and Murderer get into a small squabble: "Dr. Murphy: Hey, guys, relax, all right? We're all here for the same reason: to kill and possibly eat Simon." ha HA HA!

I  must also note that Rich is very adept with the colon as a tool for humor. I like to think of myself the same way, so I applaud his superb punctuation.

He apparently writes for SNL, but I haven't watched SNL, nor, really, seen 1 am on a Sunday morning, for years, so if his brilliance is well documented already, just consider me a new fan.

Difficult Week

What can I post after a week like this one? It's been a taxing, difficult week. One of my closest, oldest friends, a true blue spirit who deserves only the best, suffered a heartbreaking loss. Sickness lurks at the edges of several friends' or family members' lives, waiting to pounce. Dreams have been dashed, random violence and terror has entered lives, and I mourn my friend Sally, who died 7 years ago this week, and who is still missed deeply. People who've I hoped would rally to me to help me through this have not. I have, several times, burst into tears. I have gone to bed without my supper, and I have wailed.

What can I post after a week like this one? This has been a week that has sincerely tested my faith in a loving God, and left me to wonder if I am on some kind of cosmic trial, playing the role of Job. It has made me wonder if my friends are caught in this midst of evil, wherein the devil is using them, cruelly, to test my faith. To save them, to save myself, I have thought about giving it up. And I do not even know if I believe in the devil, honestly. I certainly do not believe in a manipulative God, who seeks proof of my devotion, although I do believe that understanding life as humans is beyond me and any other human. And I know that I do not want to endure any of the above - my friend's loss, illness, death, moral corruption, fairweather friends - without a God I can pray to and love.

What can I post after a week like this one? I can post the following news. A friend made me dinner last night. Two more cancelled their plans to welcome me and my heartbroken self into their evening. I took the students outside today and they actually read under a clear blue, beautiful sky. I saw some amazing dancing on TV. I read The Killer Angels, one of the best things I've read in a long, long time. I saw the hyacinth above and took that photo with a cell phone. People called me. People emailed me. I called and emailed people. I'm beloved enough to be let into the most intimate moments of peoples lives. Today, on the bus home, a former student I hadn't seen in a year came over to me and gave me a big hug.

Do these things make up for the earlier things? No. Of course not. But they help me endure. Amen.

 

 

Giving you the best that I got.

When I went to Amazon.com today, at the bottom of my page, it said, "Do you know that Amazon.com sells NCAA Garden Gnomes?"

I didn't, but now I do, and it's kind of awesome.

Monsters.

I'm going to try to tie together a bunch of different topics under the general topic of monsters. Let's see if I can do it.

First, more dream stuff. Last night, I had a dream that was intense and upsetting. It was no doubt inspired by seeing The Dark Knight with Ryan and Vic yesterday afternoon, not to mention a terrible flurry of bad things happening to people around me. I enjoyed the movie although one aspect of it really bothered me. (See under the SPOILER ALERT below if you want to know what that was). I always enjoy hanging out with Ryan and Vic, but especially this time because Ryan found my phone for me (which I knew had been dropped) as well as my sunglasses (which I did not even know I had dropped) while also finding one specific incident in the film funny at the same time as me. We were the only two people in the theatre who laughed. And it was a special time with Vic because she laughed out (really) loud at a completely inappropriate moment in the movie causing all kinds of evil looks from the parents around us (since Ryan and I laughed at her laughter). I feel no shame about that. There was no way that film was appropriate for children. No way.

Anyway, last night I dreamt that I was in New York, but it seemed more like Gotham. There was a great deal of evil lurking around me. And the subway stations were all messed up. (For example, just before I woke up, I saw a Times Square 4/5/6 sign -- doesn't exist!). There was also a person who really is from my life who was evil and doing bad things, not unlike the Joker (Heath Ledger's performance is pretty unnerving, by the by). It was particularly upsetting because I have always thought this person was trapped within his or her constructed realm of existence. But lately I've been wondering if they actually intend to do evil. The dream was a big manifestation of this. Is this person misguided? or a monster?

Monster 2: At the gym today, I once again caught 1/2 hour of a mediocre Jennifer Aniston film. This time it was The Breakup.  I think I came in about 15 minutes in. I have to say, that was a very hostile film. I remember it getting decent reviews, but I don't recall any of the reviews saying, "This film is the most hostile film since Woody Allen made that film with Dianne Weist after they broke up." With the Picture Perfect incident of a few weeks ago, I seem to be on a roll with Jennifer Aniston films at the gym. Here's hoping for that Paul Rudd-is-gay film of some years back, which I think I would actually enjoy seeing. Anyway, I was just thinking about how Jennifer Aniston is really great on "Friends" but not so awesome in these films, and that the best film work I've seen her do (outside of The Good Girl  which I still have mixed feelings about) has been in supporting roles like Bruce Almighty. She seems to do better in supporting roles, or with a more extreme characterization (e.g. Rachel Green) or at least when having someone to be funny with. (There may be those who find Vince Vaughn very funny. I am not one of those). Yet she's such a big star that it would be hard for her to take a supporting role. So, is Jennifer Aniston's celebrity her own personal monster?

Ok, I stretched to make that work. 2 out of 3! I can do this!

Finally, the novel by Lauren Groff The Monsters of Templeton. It's on my Amazon.com list over there, so if you buy it by clicking through, I'll get, like, 5 cents, so Lauren Groff and I will both make money off of it! Yay!

This is a really good first novel. I'm qualifying it by pointing out that it's a first novel, but that's not meant to be criticism. I think that there is a purity of vision - not to mention a sheen of really hard work and good editing - that happens with first novels more frequently than with second, third or so on novels. Here are some things I like about this novel. 1) The cover. It's amazing. As you read the book, you'll see that the illustrator really read and understood the novel in order to make it. I have in on authority from Ms. Groff herself that she cried when she saw it. Tears of joy, that is.  2) The creation of a place. The setting is based on Cooperstown, NY, where the author grew up, but she's transformed it into a town called Templeton. I love the idea of creating a new place. It is something I've always wanted to do and I hope to succeed as fully in intermingling both exisistent sites and completely made-up places. To me, this is the best, because it's like the subway sign of the above. I know I'm in New York, I know that there is a subway below... but that's a made-up subway stop. Anyway, she does this so well. It's completely believable. 3) Goff writes in a variety of voices and makes them all work. The conceit of the book is that the main character, the last in a long line of an illustrious historical family, is researching her ancestors for a specific reason (which I will not spoil). So, chapters in the book are written in the voices of these ancestors. It's really cool that she was able to write in so many different styles (I'm really loving the 18th century style) so seamlessly. And it's not boring. Sometimes, historical documents (which, granted, these are made-up, not true, but still) are so dull, but these all move the plot along and reveal character. They're not showing off. 4) The main character's delimma is absolutely intriguing and compelling. 5) There is a monster. Yes, a real one.

Read this book!

Whew, I'm worn out now. I hope I kind of made the monsters thing happen!

Until next time, remember, stay away from vicars!

SPOILER ALERT:

1) Aaron Eckhart has an extremely distinctive chin. It's a cleft chin. 2) Christian Bale does not have a cleft chin. 3) Christian Bale plays Batman. 3) The only part of Batman's actual anatomy one can see is his chin. 4) At one point Aaron Eckhart claims to be Batman. 5) Everyone believes him immediately. 6) Why didn't anyone say, "Um, but your chin isn't right." 6) The end.

Slowly, slowly, slowly.

Thunderstorm (HDR Orton), originally uploaded by Lutz-R. Frank.

There are days, as a writer, in which whatever you're writing practically writes itself. You just let the pen, or the fingers, go. It's a fantastic feeling, but also, for me, a little scary, because it's like your muse is in the room but you don't know how long she's going to stay. And eventually, you'll be back to staring at blank paper or a blank screen.

I had a run like that a few weeks ago, working on the play you see below. And now I'm having a few days that are more of the staring at the blank paper/screen kind. Let's put in this way -- if you are my friend on Facebook, you have probably gotten at least one random message or piece of flair from me, as I desperately try to kill my alloted computer time with something other than actual creativity. I am slowly, slowly, slowly building the play forward, but it's not a flow, so much as a hike through marshy wetlands. I think I'll be in the right direction, and then, oh, crap, I'm in mud. Hey, over here looks safe! Oops, no, mud. All you can do is back up and try to find the path again.

The good thing is that, Prostestant Midwesterner (kinda) that I am, I do feel a sense of accomplishment when I do manage to move forward. There was one paragraph, in particular, that I rewrote four or five times today. But it got written. I worked! The funny thing is, the most I wrote when I was on that writing jag was 10 pages in a sitting. And I just eeked out 8 pages. I guess a lot of it is my perception. I doubt anyone who reads this will be able to tell what flew out and what I labored over (if I do so correctly, anyway).

Larry Mullen, Jr., the drummer of U2 says that what they do when they're writing songs is to sit in the room playing, day after day, and waiting "for God to walk in." I love this quote. I think he's right. And you've got to sit there for so long until He stops by, sometimes.

We are in the midst of a long chain of thunderstorms over New York City. I think this hasn't helped my concentration, for thunder storms make me a gibbering wreck most of the time. Crouching over a large electric contraption by a window isn't helping. So I'm going to put the computer to bed for the night. I wrote. It was hard. But now something new is here.

Sorry!

I know the formatting's wonky in places below. Sorry! Typepad is not a perfect platform, and I don't really have the skills to try to fix it. : (

Play Preview

If you've been following this blog -- surely, you have! -- you know I'm working on a play that's set in Ireland. It's not so much about Ireland as it is about all the American misconceptions about Ireland. But even more, it's turning out to be kind of a twisted love letter to theatre, particularly the theatrical conceit that "the show must go on!" In this play, the show keeps going on, despite some really major things going wrong. Thus: comedy.

It's been pointed out to me before that the surest way one can tell that I love someone or something is that I make fun of it/him/her over and over and over. Um, yep.

Copyright's implicit in America, by the by.

 

 

The Upper Emmaus Community Theatre Proudly Presents “The Witches of Ishwick,”

 a New Play by Robert Simpson Sheridan

 

(working draft)

 

by

Shannon Reed

 

 

 

This is for Ryan Migge, in lieu of a trip to Kroger’s.

 

 

Oh, all kinds of lunacy happens in

Ireland, all kinds of lunacy.
- Anjelica Huston

 

 

Níl aon tintéan mar do thintéan féin.

 

 

 

Playwright’s Note: Martin McDonagh and Conor McPherson, please do not come kill me.

 

 

Characters

Fallon Sheridan, later Mrs. O’Bucklin – the playwright’s mother. Very much against violence.

 

Robert Simpson Sheridan, later Cap’n Ahab – has never been to Ireland, wrote this play in the early morning hours before it was due to his Introduction to Playwrighting class at Hofstra. Got a C-. Hasn’t told anyone this.

 

Paddy O’Reilly, later Bobbity (Actor: Dickie Meyers)– a comfortable man in his late 50’s or older.

 

Eileen O’Reilly, later Bibbity (Actor: Irene Nelson) – a maternal-looking woman in her late 50’s or older.

 

Padriac O’Reilly, later Vicar Angus, later Boo (actor: Scott Wheeler) – younger son of Paddy and Eileen, somewhere between 20 and 30. Bit of a Method actor.

 

Mary O’Reilly (actor: Suzie Thompson) – somewhere between 20 and 30 (it’s completely fine if Padriac and Mary’s ages don’t correlate). The actress is very committed to getting her time in the spotlight.

 

Patrick O’Reilly (actor: Samuel Peck)– Oldest of Eileen and Paddy’s sons, now a soldier in some sort of para-military operation. Hates his family, except Mary. The actor is not the best improviser, but wants to see the play go forward.

  

Before we begin, a reminder that everyone (with exceptions noted) is trying to do an Irish accent. None of them succeed. But they might have nailed a Scottish, Jamaican or Indian accent.

A closed curtain. Backstage, crossing from stage right, someone begins to move against it, trying to find the opening. She misses it, goes too far stage left. She stops. She goes back. There it is! Fallon Sheridan, a woman in her late 50’s, steps onstage.

 

FALLON

Oh! There you are! My goodness, it’s dark backstage! But I found you! Hello! (She waits for a response) Thank you all so much for coming to the show this evening [or afternoon]. Now, I must tell you that it is such a thrill to be here, because I am Fallon Sheridan. (She waits) Yes! The playwright’s mother! I am Bobby Sheridan’s mother! The playwright! (She takes a moment) If you are a parent yourself, and I do so hope you are, you can imagine what a joy it is to be here with you to introduce my Bobby’s play. Our director, Dwight Sinecky, did so want to be here. But he’s an EMT – isn’t that fabulous? So multi-talented – and he’s on call tonight. But he sends his very best regards. And I’m here doing the honors instead. Now. I want you to know. It is a difficult thing to be a playwright. While others are getting up at early hours to go work in factories and schools and convenience stores and what not, playwrights are at home, in their pajamas, thinking. I know it doesn’t sound very hard to sit and think, but if you think about it (she finds this funny) Oh, ha-ha! If you think about thinking! Oh! Anyway, if you think about thinking, I think you’ll think it’s doesn’t sound so pleasant to think about thinking, don’t you think? I think, when thinking about how much a playwright has to think, I’d much rather ring up your gas sale! Such difficult work, playwriting. You know, every morning, when I’d bring Bobby his breakfast in bed, he’d be lying there, staring off into space, thinking.

 

At this, Robert enters, also from Stage Right.

 

ROBERT

Mom. That’s enough.

 

FALLON

Oh, look, everyone! The playwright! Bobby Sheridan! She leads the applause. To a non-clapping audience member: Rachel Schumaker! I applauded very vigorously when Frank was accepted into the Rotary!

 

ROBERT

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Ok. Thanks. Um. Mom, listen. First of all, it’s Robert.

 

FALLON

What, darling?

 

ROBERT

My professional name is Robert Simpson Sheridan.

 

FALLON

(to the audience) Robert for Robbie Burns, the great Irish poet. Simpson is my maiden name.

 

ROBERT

Robbie Burns was Scottish.

 

FALLON

Oh, yes! Like George Bernard Shaw!

 

ROBERT

Just introduce the play, Mom. Please? The play?

 

FALLON

Oh, the play! My brilliant boy! Yes, the play. (to the audience) Bobby has written a play! In graduate school!

 

A brief pause.

 

ROBERT

Which you asked the

Upper Emmaus, Pennsylvania Community Theatre to produce.

 

FALLON

And they agreed! Without even reading it!

 

ROBERT

And it’s a what kind of play?

 

She doesn’t remember. He stares, prompting.

 

FALLON

Oh, yes! Sorry, darling. (to the audience, with all sincerity) It’s a very moving, poignant drama, set in 

Ireland

, about the havoc that is wreaked when the Troubles come home to a simple Irish family. (change in tone) My late husband, Bobby’s father, Jackson Sheridan, went to

Ireland

! He kissed the Blarney Stone! Oh, and he brought me the prettiest little white dish, with shamrocks. I keep my rings in it! Isn’t it nice to have a place where you can put --

 

ROBERT

Mom. We should let the audience see the play.

 

FALLON

Oh, yes! Of course. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you “The Witches of Ishwick!” Bon Appetit!

 

Fallon exits. Robert, left onstage for a minute, stares at the audience.

 

ROBERT

Neither of us have seen it yet either. So. Um. Here goes.

 

He quickly exits. The curtain is drawn.

 

The scene is outdoors. A plastic picnic table, with plastic lawn chairs. The sun is shining brightly. Plates and what not, scattered around. A loaf of Irish Soda Bread on the table. This all looks suspiciously more like Wal-Mart than Ireland. Luckily, a backdrop, painted with many shades of green and perhaps a quaint cottage and a Celtic cross, fills us in. Four people are onstage. They are: Paddy O’Reilly, who is playing the tin whistle (there is no need for the actor to learn to do this; a soundtrack tin whistle is preferable. In fact, the tin whistle should be a recorder). Eileen O’Reilly, his wife, who is knitting (the actress does not know how to knit), and enjoying the music. Padriac O’Reilly, their adult son, who looks depressed and drinks frequently from a Guinness beer glass. Mary O’Reilly, Pacdriac’s wife, who sits or stands apart from the others, looking off into the distance.

 

A moment on this tableau, as Paddy/the soundtrack finishes up a song.

 

 

EILEEN

Ach, Paddy! Such a pleasing song to my wee ear!

 

PADDY

‘Tis a blessing to play on such a glorious day in our home country!

Ireland

!

 

EILEEN

Begorah! You be right, Paddy! ‘Tis a glorious day indeed, with the sun shining down on dear

Ireland

.

 

PADRIAC

Ach, that’s all we ever hear from the two of ye.

Ireland

,

Ireland

,

Ireland

! What I wouldn’t give to hear another country’s name said.

 

EILEEN

Why be ye in such a temper, Padriac Sean O’Reilly, son of mine?

 

PADRIAC

Why? Because day after day I sit here at my parents’ cottage in

Ireland

, drinking Guinness and wishing for my wife, Mary O’Reilly (he points her out) to smile again and bring the sun back to the sky!

 

PADDY

I know a song for ye!

 

“Danny Boy” begins on the soundtrack. Paddy earnestly “plays” it.

 

EILEEN

Ach, that’s always a fitting song.

 

But Mary is moved to protest.

 

MARY

Oh, Papa Paddy O’Reilly! Do not play that song, of all the songs ye might play.

 

PADDY

Why not, wee Mary O’Reilly, wife to my Padriac? Does it make you recollect something sad and missing from your life? Something that might have brought you some small piece of joy in the midst of a dull existence, married as ye are to my sad sack of potatoes son?

 

EILEEN

Paddy! Don’t be making fun of potatoes. Where would we be without potatoes! Back in the famine, aye, kin.

 

PADRIAC/PADDY/MARY

Oh, aye!

 

MARY

Now, Papa Paddy O’Reilly! You and Mother Eileen know very well that “Danny Boy” is the song I sung to Mabel in the morning!

 

EILEEN

That it be. That it be.

 

MARY

I beg ye, Papa Paddy O’Reilly. Play another song!

 

Paddy nods and begins to play “Whiskey in the Jar.”

 

MARY

And that be what I sung to her at night!

 

Mary begins to run offstage.

 

EILEEN

Mary Kathleen Corcoran O’Reilly! Where ye be running off to, lass?

 

MARY

I aim to stand on the majestic rocky cliffs overlooking the turbulent

Irish Sea

and keen!

 And, hitting herself in the chest, she exits stage left.

 

EILEEN

Padriac, my son, my beloved boy, your wife needs you.

 

PADRIAC

That may be, Mother. But as you know, ever since my elder brother Patrick ran off to join the rebellion, I’ve cared for nothing but the drink.

 

EILEEN

Ach! You Irish lads and your melancholy!

 

Paddy stops playing.

 

PADDY

Now, now. Alcoholism is a disease, Mother. We Irish cannot help our propens—(the actor has trouble with the pronunciation). Propsens—Fondness. Fondness for a creamy Guinness. It’s in our wee blood!

 

EILEEN

But I be wishing we could be showing Padriac that tough love I hear about from our American cousins.

 

PADDY

Now, now, Mother. It’s not as though we be encouraging him to take to the drink.

 

And he again begins “Whiskey in the Jar.”

 

EILEEN

(to Padriac) Padriac, my boy, my second-born son. Wouldn’t you be going after your wife? She misses her Mabel.

 

PADRIAC

(now slurring) Mabel was mine too!

 

EILEEN

All the more reason to go after her, son.

 

PADRIAC

Ach! (tremendously drunk, suddenly) Enough with your woman’s blather about Mabel and my wife and going after! I do as I see best, for I be a man from Kilarney! And we Kilarney men do what see to be best! For Kilarney is a county in

Ireland

! The best of all counties in the best of all countries! And we Kilarney men don’t need our ma poking her head in to tell us what be best!

 

Paddy deeply moved by Padriac’s speech stands and raises a Guinness to him.

 

PADDY

Hear! Hear! Well-said, m’boy! Eireann go braugh!!!

 

The men slam their glasses together and drink. Eileen watches.

EILEEN

Ach, how I miss Patrick! He, as my eldest and best son, was the only one of ye who understood a woman’s heart!

 

With this, Patrick enters from stage right. He is wearing black, with a black beret. He is holding a machine gun. Eileen sees him first.

 

EILEEN

Ach! Can I believe my Irish eyes? Can this married lady lass see, truly see, her wee first-born son, Patrick, he who went off to study at Trinity College, in Dublin, Ireland, and now is at last back, some five years later, much changed, and seeming to be a soldier in the Troubles, mayhap, but no matter, for to see his Irish ma? Can it be true?

 

PATRICK

Yes. ‘Tis I, Mother.

 

And with this, he shoots his entire family – excepting, of course, Mary, who’s gone to the sea, and Mabel, who’s already dead. They fall dramatically, with some kind of blood spurting out ineptly. Padriac falls so he is facing the audience. We hear Fallon scream offstage.

 

PATRICK

(as he surveys the damage) Céad Míle Failte. A hundred thousand welcomes, huh? Well, now there’ll only be ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-seven welcomes.

 

Fallon rushes on stage.

 

FALLON

Oh! Oh my goodness! Oh my goodness! (to the audience) I had no idea it was this kind of play! This is horrible! (To Patrick) How could you?

 

Patrick doesn’t know what to do about having the playwright’s mother onstage. The rest of the cast might crane to see what’s going on.

End excerpt.