An invitation to Read and Write differently

While Nothing Happens

Reading

Performed by anyone, anyhow

Characters:

Me. Reading.

Setting:

Anywhere. Preferably, in a cage

Production Aphorism: Anything can become a cage. Especially a page

I will make myself perfectly clear. Or I will try to. There is nothing trickier than words to express who we are... who anyone is... who I am... and yet, this is the only resource I have... we have.

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Words are constantly in the way between me and what I am. Between me and who I am. Words are in the middle between me and what I express with them.

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But enough about words. A lot has been said about words using words... as here, with words blocking the way... or may I say... words have been used a lot to say things about words.

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That is why I want to make myself prefectly clear right now. Maybe I can’t. I possibly will. I may as well try.

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What I will not try is to educate, enlighten, fulfill or entertain you. Nothing is supposed to happen. Minutes shall pass and hours shall pass and this too, shall pass.

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I will, nevertheless, justify my presence on this cage before I begin; even though I have already begun, for I am indebted to you for being here, reading, listening, just as if whatever I had to say here were more important, more relevant, valuable or indispensable than what you would have said or say if you were here, now.

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Or shall I offer you or any other yous my place in the cage?

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Anyone?

Just as I was saying: we are here, gathered together, and therefore we should celebrate. But we won’t, because we don’t know each other; and even if we did, who would be the host and would anyone else be invited?

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I thought so.

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After all is over we will all go to the same places we all know with the same people we all knew to do the same things we all do after all is over. We will remain.

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A few lucky ones won’t; although they eventually will. That is how life disposes of our own selves

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Others may try to fly away from their cages; search for a sense of achievement, fulfillment, enlightment or entertainment...

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...which takes me back to the main subject of this speech:

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The “cage”

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Yeah, we all know what it is all about and who is inside it anyway.

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This one is mine.

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Although there was a time when I used to call this a “challenge”, an “epiphany”, a “breakthrough”: The fancier the term, the deeper the feelin’.

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I will take this opportunity, then, to share with you, briefly, my story

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Why my story? Because I’m the one transmitting whilst you are receiving. Why briefly? Because there is not much to tell, and even if there was, who wants to listen to stories anyway?

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I guess you do, right?

You, holding your precious books and sacred memories retold, again, like my story.

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Truly boring.

I will do it again, though:

I was sitting someplace else, doing something else. Not here. There. Doing whatever I used to do everyday, until I pictured me for the rest of my life doing the same old thing I used to do, and I realized that my life would someday be over and I would still have been doing those same old things I used to do instead of something different; something great, creative, unique, meaningful; something to remember. So I stood up and did whatever was needed for me to be here, speaking these words out loud, to you. End of story.

So here I am. And this is where the tricky part is, because these words that I have been pronouncing are a repetition of words that I have been pronouncing for a long time now. These words were all written before, rehearsed before, perfected before; one by one, until this long speech became “presentable”, to you, and I could “present it” to you.

So here I am: Repeating again the same words, the same phrases that were rehearsed and presented already. Trying to repeat the same words that have always been here before. Some may say it’s not entirely the same speech. That it changes intentions; moments. A brief pause here... a sigh over there... but the speech; the speech remains the same.

And here I am again. And you can certainly follow each one of the words as I present them to you, and you understand each one of these sentences and therefore they may seem meaningful but for me they have become meaningless. Meaningless by the exertion of repetition.

And I tend to question, again: Is this experience really that great, that creative, unique, that meaningful now that it has been repeated all over again? Am I that different now from what I was before all this started?

Yes; I could trick you instead. I could develop a speech where the main character of a play –that being possibly me –thinks about all kinds of abuses, excesses and finally decides to tear this speech up: destroy all these lines and break all these bars to run free. Escape from this newfound cage where it is being aroused only by itself. Search for meaning again. And you will go home satisfied, comforted by the fact that there is always room for another race to run; that there is always opportunity and chance; that there is always something new to long for.

Although not here. I am sorry. I cannot escape because I will be back on the stage for another performance –the next silent reading by anyone holding a tiny pocket version of this scene, the next time someone decides to hold on to these sentences and speak out loud these words.

For me there is no performance. There is only existence.

Why do this? some may ask. Not for the money, for that coin has no value in here; nor to entertain others. We know it is useless to search for meaning, and yet, here we are, repeating or rehearsing or rephrasing these exact same words on a different stage, to a different group of people; on a silent reading. Maybe this is the way this play works. Maybe this is the way all plays work. It is read, rehearsed, performed, abandoned, perfectioned, retold, knowing that it has no other purpose; no meaning; no teachings, no nothing... and yet, it is something.

Something that happens while nothing happens.

I guess that is why the following paragraphs are left blank:

Patiently waiting for something unexpected to happen

Ah!

To leave a brief space of time for something different; possibly beautiful, intentionally unique.

I am a written sentence, and therefore, how can I be retold, resignified, reunderstood again, if I am only being repeated, again and again? Others may have these brief moments of truth or joy or human interaction before going back to repetition, whereas we texts, with our sentences; we precious treasures where knowledge is served and found are, ourselves, pure and vivid repetitions of words and ideas and phrases and statements. Monotonous flows of ideas being repeated day after day, night after night, on every performance; every next silent reading by anyone holding the tiny pocket version of this scene; of any scene; comforted by the fact of a still experience, which is what readers and writers enjoy so much: The fact that no sentence in this text shall change. The certainty of this written word. The illusion of a still life. Deceited only by what we could have become if... And I may not change much, but in any reading... any performance... may, at least for a brief moment... be different? yes... it has. Or hasn’t it?

Books will remain the same. But enough about books already. There are millions of books talking –may I say, repeating words –about books so let’s not turn this moment into a book. Let’s not become a book. Let us be... or shall I say... Let’s be us. Let us be moving blobby things going back and forth creating ideas and conversations and moving along the lines.

I would like to be me, at the very least, but we all know that is also only a figure of speech.

Why?

Simple. Because here I can’t be me. I can only sit down in front of you and reiterate these lines, these same lines... Haven’t I changed over time? Aren’t you now different people? What makes me, Me, here, when I am just kindly or angrily repeating the same words that are written in here?

Take these sentences, for all your life's sake, and read them to someone else. See if you change.

I am bound by these words and the only chance that I have for salvation would be to change the entire story every night. Burn up all the paragraphs holding me inside. To never repeat these same words again. But then... Would everything dissappear? Would it be the same when another copy is read, somewhere, anyhow? What if a similar idea is written somewhere else. Will I be there too? How would anyone know anything was not rehearsed before... written before? How would you know for certain that I am burning the very last copy of these words? How would you react if this was true? And why should I care? Only because I am expressing what you are perceiving?

Why am I performing this same act again, all over again, when I know that the only thing that there is to express is this, which is nothing?

Maybe I should sit silent for a while. Listen only to my thoughts. Try to engage with nothing.

If you believe that the reading is over you can just stop now. Or applaud. Then leave. I am not holding your hands. Just know that the speech is not over yet. Or you can do as I do and just breathe. Give yourself three minutes of nothing just to think about nothing. Close your eyes or leave them open. Breathe. Try to think of nothing. I’m not here to judge you nor anybody is. No one will scare you. This will only be time spent, here, with yourself. Three minutes

- B r e a t h e -

1

2

3

4

5

6

- B r e a t h e -

1

2

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4

5

6

. b r e a t h e .

6

5

4

3

2

1

0

-1

-2

Halfway There

-2

-7

-3 x 24

0

6x3+24-35/74*M

( nothing )

- B r e a t h e -

1

2

3

four

5

6

. b r e a t h e .

6

five

4

3

2

zed

- A l m o s t - t h e r e -

A r r i v i n g . . .

N O W

I am sorry to say this is useless too. It doesn’t work. At least not for me. As long as the speech remains. As long as there is something to say or something to look for or something to remember the speech will never end. Some say true silence comes with enlightment. Others the same, but the other way around. Some say that enlightment comes with peace of mind.

Is my mind peaceful? Can I be enlightened? The mind of the reader, at least during this speech, is peaceful. Quiet. It tries to concentrate and focus in only one thing: this flow of ideas. This endless speech.

I have renounced from a world where silence is king and replaced it with words meant to be repeated over and over again. Also in silence. I am not a monk sitting in a faraway land searching for salvation. I have chosen the path of the living: the words, the travelling, the culinary experiences, stimulation and unanswered questions.

Am I doomed for this?

Maybe I am, but not for choosing to live but for being alive.

Maybe I am doomed just for repeating these phrases, or maybe this speech is doomed for it is being repeated constantly, unchanged, word after word, meaning something and yet expressing nothing, or expressing something and meaning nothing, for there could be no meaning, purpose or salvation where repetition is king.

And no. I will not search for an ending to this speech. I will not create a suicide attempt or build a fictional illusion of climax to give you, readers, the pleasure of being inside another one of your fantasies.

I will not break the bars of this cage.

Who would repair them, anyway?

This is not a work of fiction and the person repeating these sentences is not me.

This is only another one of your speeches, repeated in a specific moment in time and space, possibly to certain people who understand how to interpret words. I am thankful to the reader, because by allowing itself to be me, it has ceased, briefly, to be whatever it is that it is.

It only makes me sad to know that these efforts are also pointless. That the only life that could have ever been changed was mine. That the means to achieve it was by throwing myself inside a page and allowing me to repeat these words, exactly as they were meant to. Or not. That this may have only been a way out of an ordinary day. I am not sure at this point who is saying these words. Is it me? Is it what I have been reading all along?

Not knowing if, indeed, I am a character on a larger, more complex text, being read by all of us, together, called life, where there is only room for repetition, accompanied by hope, I leave fearless and strong, for time has passed and these words have passed and the world has continued to spin and we haven’t killed anybody yet.

And we will not need to, because nothing was supposed to happen.

And nothing did happen. It happened while time passed, words were spoken, phrases were repeated and paragraphs were read.

Maybe this is what happens while nothing happens. No things that just happen and continue to happen as they continue to happen.

Now, if I may be excused, I shall leave this empty cage with an invitation for another someone to repeat somewhere, anyhow, these same sentences again, forging the illusion that I may roam free from mind to mind, as I stay trapped inside these paragraphs. And I will gently wave goodbye, not coming back to receive any sort of applause, for there should be none.

As I try to ultimately, relieved, exit.