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Eestikeelsed artiklid

EDITORIAL

EPIFANIO RECOMMENDS

HARRY PYE'S POSTCARD FROM LONDON

MONOLOGUES. TO BE PRESENTED BEHIND THE SCENE DURING PERFORMANCES.
Nato Lumi

NIKOLAY POLISSKY'S LANDMARKS
Vilen Künnapu

PECULIARITIES OF THE RUSSIAN SPIRIT
Vilen Künnapu

ZEN GARDEN FOR BEGINNERS!
Tomomi Hayashi

AABEL VIKERPUU, THE HAPPY DYING MAN
Mehis Heinsaar

TEAM

Monologues.
To be presented behind
the scene during performances

It is said that there are no small or great roles – there are only small or great actors.

But what if you are playing a Fence Post? For some reason or another you have accepted that role – meaning: you could not refuse – so there you are, playing the Fence Post in a five-act play. What to do? The play is a success; it is the 142 time and no end in sight.. Cannot be interesting, no matter what you do! Couple of times a night you show up on stage, make some creaking sounds, and that's it. And much time to spend between the scenes, for hours... What to do? What do you do, really?

Then you must start your own personal show behind the scene. In a small, soundproof room, behind the stage. Invite people you know... tickets for a reasonable price – and there you go! Why waste time.

I give some examples of my personal repertoire behind the scene. Hopefully, it encourages others to do the same. You can also use these texts – no one will ever know you're presenting them anyway, so the copyright question does not arise. So – here are some monologues to be presented behind the scene during performances.

*

Drawing: Aive Mets


Spring. City bus. The most ordinary bus, around nine thirty in the morning. Not so many people, but the seats are taken. I stand, leaning comfortably against the door. One hand holding the pole.
Sunbeams from the window fall on people's faces. Not on mine, my back is towards the sun, and I look randomly around in the bus in the direction we are driving.

A woman. Between me and the bus driver. Stands, looks out the window. The bus sways. Sun caresses her face. It makes her long blond hair light up, makes it look transparent. She is close. Couple of meters from me. Face lines in the sun. Eyes. Lips. Her whole being. Her posture. Now I think she knows I am looking at her. She glances at me. Smiles. I hold the stare. Looking. Looking.

She is not tense, not restrained. Neither am I. The bus sways. I look at her calmly. She does too. Longer. Steady. She gets off in the centre. Throws another look at me. Peacefully. I do too. I do too. She exits. Walks to the traffic light and stops, waiting for the green. The bus passes her. I look through the big door window. She looks at me once more, slightly smiling. Or did it just seem this way.

Exceptionally elegant. Peaceful. A vision that enveloped me and stayed.

Now 20 years later, I have 2 children. What about her. She was. And is. And I am still lost. In these moments – that filled me completely. I drown in them. And nothing else matters. What is it that drowns me, where do I disappear?

I am taken away. That is all. That is all.

*

I did not become a human. In this life. I became a human sketch that was never completed. Intentions, directions, tendencies started to show up... and then, time was up. "It could have been a great work," someone said about me. "He had potential."I was a live, moving, talking, thinking and thoughtless sketch.

*

It is a well-kept secret that we die one day. And less well-kept secret that funerals are funny. Nobody knows how to behave. Nobody. But everybody pretends to know. Nobody understands anything – a total misunderstanding! But everybody pretends they do. And finally, the funeral feast – we eat. Why? Are we hungry? We just ate, before leaving home – chicken and rice.

Nobody buries good thoughts, intentions. Although we should, perhaps.

Nobody buries them. With a feast.
(funeral music)

"We bury the thought of making things better. There's no point. Why bother. May the earth weigh lightly on our thoughts."

We bury our good intentions daily. But not festively enough. That would be too painful.

And therefore – we bury people. Their shells. That which remains of them.

And if we happen to be present, there, after death... well, then. Then we don't understand anything what is happening. We probably don't get food either. The others do, but you don't. You just float around, looking at other people eating. You hear them speak. But you can't take part. You'd like to say, stop it, there is no point. But you can't.

You might like some things too – the speeches, where they praise you. Some moments might lift your ego. That he was such and such a man, successful – although, you know, that really, you were a fluke. I am not sure, that might be embarrassing too. Embarrassed about yourself. Then it is good that nobody sees you.

I do understand, of course – we have to do it somehow. In this... situation of a total lack of information, where we are. Our whole life.

There is much information. Yet there is a total drought of information.

*

If I would ever be born again. On this planet. One day.

God forbid, but still. If I should. As a man. Here. Again. There is no doubt – an old school photographer. An old school photographer. Taking pictures of women's beauty. Old school, you understand. The one who photographs women. Respectfully. Their beauty. And them-selves. Respectfully.

I don't know, it might be the end of the 21st century or the beginning of the 22nd then, and there is a danger of becoming a dinosaur or some relict as an old-school man, who takes photos of ladies with a flash bulb, kisses their hands, and helps them up the stairs. But still. This is my wish. If possible.

Because, what else would you take pictures of, or what else matters anyhow, besides the beauty of a woman?

Kehra paper factory or owls are pretty nice too, but there is no point to capture them. Or some old cathedral – I take a photo in front of it to show I was there? Be there, quietly in the cathedral, look around, pray, do whatever, but there is no point taking a picture. But women, I mean – ladies – there is a point to record. Definitely. I don't know why, but it is so. And I don't know how I know, but I know.

I do not know, why I was born this time, or why some other guy was not born instead of me, let's say Jaanus Zero or someone. But I know that if I came again, I'd be a photographer, and that life would have a point. At least for me. I am not sure about others. You can make an appointment, two generations ahead. Really. That is all.
(starts to leave, and suddenly turns around)

Precisely! That is all!

Everything is erotic!

Browsing a magazine. Walking on a muddy field, in rubber boots. Footprints on the ground. Kehra paper factory... smoke arising from the chimneys to the sky. The rustle of owl's wings. Sitting on a chair. Taking water from a well, filling buckets. Everything. Car tires hissing on the highway.

Eating. Drinking. Seeing someone or something. Clothes. Everything. It's all erotic. And there is no difference to what I capture on film, when I know this. It does not matter. Everything is creation, everything. Or giving it up, rigidness, violence, mechanical, non-creation. That is all.

It does not matter, what I capture.

*

Two different ways, two do-s, two teachings. Two on a wider scale:

One: putting it literally – throw a chair in a window on Freedom Square, reporters watching, show your ass, lights flashing, fast comments to the media, who you are and why you did that. Next morning you are on the cover, the Ass Peter – then in a TV-show for a while. You'll be famous and successful, for a while, some longer, some shorter. You'd be the Ass Peter, but still. You are a success. And don't laugh. This is what you really want.

And the other way: pain and suffering. Work. Work on your self.

And on others...

...it is like this in every field. Polishing your skills. Endlessly. It lasts for your whole life. And in your mind – even beyond life. Like I said – and I mean it – endlessly. I wouldn't recommend it to anyone. I would not ask anyone to stop once they've chosen it. But. It does not bring success. At least, not immediately. And possibly, not later either. You just have to accept it. But. This road is there, and it is real. Really walkable, not seemingly. And... that is its only, clear, benefit... that it is really there, more than the first one... That is all.

And that all is...

...that neither must be devalued. They are intertwined, in all of us, these two ways...

Two parallel lines meet in infinity... What does it mean? I can't remember.

*

And somewhere, there is nature. Birds are singing. A hedgehog runs across the road as you drive at night. "It is all still ahead of me," you think. And this is how it is. At least after the second beer, in the sauna, it seems so.

And it is so beautiful:

Estonia.

Sauna.

Dogs barking in the dark around you.

It is night time. It is spring. You are healthy still. Almost.

Yes – "Everything is still ahead of you" – it is always the truth. Remember – always.

 

Nato Lumi
supersecret name and mask for Mart Aas