A monologue by Coleman.
Dorothy, the mad rooster.
A woman stands alone. Strong. Serene. Dressed in denim. Holding a live chicken*.
We hear her thoughts.
I used to read a lot of science fiction. Not the fantasy kind, except for Orson Scott Card and Jack Chalker and Joanna Russ, but I had to give up on Card because he hates queers. He is an awful man.
I can’t read science fiction now.
Instead, I live it.
Do you Zoom?
I can’t Zoom. Can’t Skype either. For one, internet service where I live is shit. For two, the idea of substituting a computer or a cell phone image for a living person is abhorrent to me. I may not look it but inside, down deep, I’m a sensuous person. I happen to have a liking for flesh. Not the zombie eating of it, for Christ’s sake, but the glorious touching of it. There’s nothing like flesh. And I don’t mean in a sexual way, though that’s most definitely fine, too. Or was fine.
I just mean ...
... a handshake.
... a handshake.
... a hug.
... or touching your lips with one finger.
... and your touching mine.
... or grazing your cheek with the back of my hand.
... or my leg accidentally rubbing up against yours at the bottom of a swimming pool. A community swimming pool. Any swimming pool.
Or breath.
I miss breath.
Someone’s.
Anyone’s other than my own.
Even bad breath. I don’t care.
And voices. Real voices. Live voices. Next to me. In front of me. Beside me. Behind me. Not voices in a phone or on a screen. Voices. Voices. Voices.
And movement. People. Moving. Doing things. Together. Separately. In a crowd. In a stream. In a room.
People.
People in my home. I miss people. In my home.
My mother died last week.
I was ... informed.
I should be grateful I’m ‘self-sufficient’. Hillside garden. Chickens. Solar power. Remote as hell. I wanted that. I thought I wanted that. Back then. I still do, but I don’t.
I want ...
I want ...
Flesh.
Breath.
Movement.
People.
The sun goes down.
The sun comes up. Goes down. Comes up.
The chickens lay eggs. I eat them. They lay more eggs.
The sun goes down. Comes up. I eat more eggs.
I could use some chocolate.
*While we prefer a live chicken, if your production cannot accommodate this demand a basket with fresh garden vegetables might be substituted. However, we love the idea of a live chicken, as a substitute companion.
Doghouse
Coleman is a Wisconsin-based playwright, now quarantined in a very rural country home, with his eight laying hens and his mad rooster, Dorothy.