What will hopefully be a two man script at some point. What I have so far.
Older man, 60’s, glasses. In a Dressing Gown. Has been standing on a porch for hours. Late morning. Stands still, occasionally placing his hand over his eyes to improvise a visor of sorts. Squints. Shifts weight from foot to foot. Other than that, no motion at all. The porch looks out into a neatly tended garden. There are white wicker lawn chairs speckled in the green Bermuda grass. If it wasn’t for the patches of hedges and color coordinated flowers within the hedges, the grass is pristine enough to have once been a golf course. The man, in slippers, mumbles about crown molding.
Quietly, to himself:
Yes. Yes. Quite right the painters were here to paint the molding. Seems this place is crumbling. Right before my eyes. Used to be best estate in Sussex county. Best of the best. Crumbling. Crumble cake. Wait for it. God knows.
After some time, and rather forcefully, he exclaims:
Oh, rats and biscuits! The farthest I can see into the garden is just past the hedges! That does nothing for my electrons! Nothing for God and heaven-delusions! Nothing for science and the tea-totaling hopeless badgers! Tell me! Where are the mice going? Scatter, scamper, sloppy creatures! What pill to take to know the Map-of-Imaginary-Mice!
A man, in a Dressing Gown, appears to the right of him:
You said Rats
And besides, If I told you, you’d never believe me
No, mice, obviously
But you said Rats.
I said rats and biscuits. Simply an expression!
I thought nothing was ever “simply an expression.” Either way. We’re dealing with Mice.
Yes, the Map-of-Imaginary-Mice.
You wouldn’t understand. I cannot tell you.
Tell me? Who are you?
That’s an easy assumption, isn’t it? Not so much an “expression” as you said. Nor simple.
I just need to see further into the garden, so as to know where the mice are headed.
No one ever asks about my day! And I cannot tell you.
About your day, or the mice?
My day has the mice in it, running about.
But what about the map?
I cannot tell you.
Who are you?
That I can’t tell either. Not to you.
But I must see past the hedges. Nothing can be done for science otherwise, or my electrons.
Is there something wrong with your electrons?
I think so. I’m looking at it. Well adjusted.
What has just adjusted well?
My own hands. And nothing else. Most unlikely, you. Tell me about the mice! Where are they going?
Past the hedges I suppose.
No, Rats and your mother! I can’t take this. Understand, I am about to climb a tree or unground myself.
Unground, or bury?
Can you read minds? Do you have tarot cards and a scarf from Toledo?
My god, I do, in fact.
Because you know my gut-stone language!
And this is a language by all stones, or just the one in your gut?
You know, I never thought about it before. What does it matter, all stones or mine?
I do have a scarf from Toledo. Hanging on my wall. Rather interesting.
I don’t have time for this. Rather, I have to know the mice’s going aboutness before the others catch me!
What others? Am I an other?
You’re an exception. Though we have never been acquainted, you’ve somehow picked up on my stone language and other such rays. Funny, Toledo is rather miserable this time of year. I had a dog once, named after the river Tagus. One can see the Tagus for miles standing on the Alcazar. There was a woman there, a mathematician. I feel madly in love with her. Toledo, Toledo. I dreamed I was El Greco, and all the gypsies cried over my grave.
This mathematician, a woman you say?
Yes. Quite. And loved by God. Must we revisit such nonsense? Blast her to heaven and all other quadratic formulas! The mice! I need the map and to see past the hedges.
Perhaps a mathematician would come in handy about now. Tell me more about Toledo.
No! Must stick to task. I have God and the electrons in my pocket and one must be careful this time of day, sun’s nearly mad this hour. Mad. Mad. Everyone here is mad.
Am I mad then, sir?
Of course not! Anyone who knows the mice’s map has a grip on something past God and into infinity.
What keeps me standing here is the hope I’ll finally fix my electrons and know how to fix Science!
Tell me! I am positively on my knees, can’t you see?
Do you read my mind? Have you all the words to my gut stone language? All the rules and organizations?
I am not mad! I am the only one concerned for God and science, am I not?
People prancing about my garden, unawares! Unawares! Aware of only their shadows!
If we were in Toledo, the people would pay more mind to garden mice!
I tell you this truthfully, not for my own gain.
Rats and biscuits! It is true!
But Toledo is rather miserable this time of year. Miserable.
What ever happened to the mathematician, this woman who you fell for?
Fell. Fell into a trap! Like hanging oranges off the banister in hopes of catching seagulls or fish! I had a dog once named after the river Tagus. He loved oranges. No, she’s gone, undoing herself in her equations. I dreamed I was El Greco. The gypsies cried over my grave. If we were in Toledo, the people would pay more mind to garden mice. Excuse me; did I give you the password for my gut stone language? I had it written on a piece of paper. Stuck it in my pocket, see, so the others wouldn’t see it.
Am I an Other?
Certainly not! Certain things fly past God and into my hands. My hands are all that are Certain at the moment. This is why I need to see past the hedges, observe the mice. Yes, the mice must know how to fix science and my electrons. Rats.
Yes, mice. Obviously. Did I tell you? I dreamed I was El Greco. Theotocopoulos. Bird of God. Having died, the gypsies cried over my grave. Bird of God. Only then could I see past the hedges.
And perhaps you dreamed you were a bird, so to capture mice?
No. El Greco was Domenicos Theotocopoulos. The Greek. Bird of God. Cast from the Monestary for there were demons in his hands. The electrons were set wrong. Mathematically. In his head.
And the mathematician. She was a dream-vision, or real. A woman of Toledo, or someone you loved as El Greco?
Must we revisit this? Faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see. I do not see any reason for her revival. Her quadriadic equations. I simply need to see past the hedges and get on with it! Tell me about the mice and let us part.
Perhaps I do not want to part with you.
Alas! Did I give you the password for my gut stone language? You’re getting close to sounding like myself. This worries me. Faith is asking for visions. I’m asking for the map of imaginary mice. This must be done swiftly, before the Others find out!
Mathematically, this is impossible. And your electrons know this. El Greco would have known as well.
El Greco washed his hands before entering the orange groves. His feet, as well. Look, the garden is slick-full of mice and their map is hidden past the hedges. I know. I saw it once, in a dream. Things fly past God and straight into my hands, I tell you! This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased, hear ye Him.
Exactly! And I tell you, Toledo is miserable this time of year.