Inspired by Raymond Queneau’s works (I wanted this to be a set of 50 pieces, let’s see where I get till). The same piece written over and over again in different styles.
Notation (main plot line): The woman looks into the mirror. Her reflection stares back at her. Her too-thick eyebrows, too thin smile, too pasty complexion. She confronts her reflection, rubs the corners of her lips so the tint stays within her lips. Fixes her brooch so it pierces at a better angle. Tucks a strand of hair behind into her too tight, little bun. Turns back, rummages through her closet for a different pair of pumps. Doesn’t find what she was looking for. Looks at her diary, and the page is too empty. Her meager obligations stare back at her. Yesterday, it was too full and she was running around screaming at the backs of too many taxis and forced to chatter away to too many people. At the end of it, her head was hurting her far too much and she had left a voicemail to Cal, “Talk tomorrow. It’s been one of those far too many days.”
Retrograde (end to beginning): The woman had left a voicemail to Cal, “Talk tomorrow. It’s been one of those far too many days.” It had been a day where her diary was too full, and she had been running around screaming at the backs of too many taxis, and had been forced to conduct several conversations one after the other in rapid succession. Today, she awoke, and peered hazily into the mirror with half closed eyes and found her reflection gaping back at her. She notes with fleeting impatience her too thick eyebrows, too thin smile, too pale complexion. Her cheeks had no color to them. She confronts her reflection with some degree of pedantism and blends a tint into the borders of her lips, and fixes her brooch so it pierces at a more refined angle. She tucks a strand of hair back into her tight little bun. She turns back, empties out her cupboard to look for a pair of pumps which would suit better, doesn’t find them, is exasperated before the day has even begun. Looks at her diary, and there isn’t enough to do.
One Act Play:
ACT ONE
SCENE 1
In the bathroom of a woman as she’s waking up in the morning and looks into her mirror.
HER REFLECTION: Look at our eyebrows, just look at them. Don’t you think they’re desperately in need of a plucking?
(the woman looks down now, the corners of her lips bending in a frown)
HER REFLECTION: Look at our lips, so thin, so lacking the proper shape. Look at our face, look at how it has no color, how it’s blank, like our dreams at night.
The woman confronts her reflection with a somewhat determined expression.
THE WOMAN: (rubbing the lipstick onto her lips): Lips, done. (rubs some tint onto her cheeks). Face, not so pasty anymore. (adjusts her brooch and fixes her hair.) Presentable, at the very least if nothing else.
SCENE 2
In her bedroom, the woman rummages around her room frantically.
THE WOMAN: I can’t find those goddamn red pumps anywhere. (opens yet another cabinet in her closet). Where are they? I bought them just the day before, didn’t I? (her searching becomes more aggressive over the next few minutes.) I can’t find them, I just can’t. They can go to hell!
Walks across to the opposite end of her room with a diminished sense of purpose.
THE WOMAN: (picks up her leather diary): By God, I haven’t had such an empty day in months.. I remember yesterday how full it was. One thing after the other… (thinks speculatively back to the day before).
SCENE 3
A flashback: On a crowded street, where the woman is in a taxi.
THE WOMAN: No, head down Third Avenue and take a sharp right, the building should be right there.
DRIVER: Yes ma’am.
THE WOMAN (on the phone): Yes, five bottles of the Rosé and some of those hors d’oeuvres that you sent last time… no not those dreadful shellfish cocktails!
(thinking to herself) Heavens, I left my Hérmes right there on the counter!
(To the taxi driver): Driver, do you think you could turn around the intersection of the 2nd and 5th instead, right down to Smiths and Woollards? I just remembered I’ve left something terribly important there.
DRIVER: Ma’am it’ll be charged on the meter.
THE WOMAN: Yes, yes, it can’t be helped now can it?
(on the phone): Just post the check to me, I’ll get to it within the week. No, you must send it by express courier.
(gets another call): Harvey, I’ll be there when I’ll be there, I left my Hérmes down at some counter! I can’t bear the thought of it being nicked.
(To the taxi driver): God, man, didn’t I say intersection, not straight crossing?
SCENE 4
At night, she sits ruminating in her bedroom with a glass of wine.
THE WOMAN: I have a splitting headache… (picks up the telephone to leave a voicemail).
Cal, can’t talk now, I’ll talk to you tomorrow. I’ve been running around like mad. It’s been one of those far too many days.
(downs the glass of wine. Curtains close.)