TIRESIAS: Yes, but it’s getting too hard for some of us to truly accept that. To truly forgive. That’s why we need to go through this process. To discover how upset, angry and hurt we really are with each other so we can work it out. Work out how much we are really being asked to forgive.
OEDIPUS: Wouldn’t it be easier if I just left?
TIRESIAS: Maybe. But that’s kind of giving up isn’t it?
ANTIGONE: I’d like you to stay. I want us to be a family, no matter what.
JOCASTA: Antigone, darling, it’s just too fucked-up, I can’t bear it.
OEDIPUS: You know what the biggest regret of my life is right now? That I was born. That’s pathetic, isn’t it? As miserable as it gets. What did I do to deserve this? I love you all.
(He takes out a piece of paper and reads.) ‘I’m a bad person. I want to apologise for all the terrible things that I’ve done. I’m not doing this to make myself feel better, it’s so you all know the truth and are not sitting there thinking that I’m something great, something special, to be looked up to, to be admired.’
TIRESIAS: Come here, come here.
TIRESIAS gives OEDIPUS a hug. OEDIPUS’ face is covered by TIRESIAS’, then we see TIRESIAS’ eyes open.
OEDIPUS: (Sings ‘I Think We Are Just Waving Ourselves Goodbye’.)
Everything is different now
But I still can’t give you up
I won’t believe the dreams till they are gone again
I can’t hide my face till I’m awake
I hope one day to find a way
To learn how to give you up
Even though you are just scraping by
We are all just waving ourselves goodbye
In hotel rooms
And airport bars
And quiet streets
And public parks
Even though you are just scraping by
We are all just waving ourselves goodbye
In hotel rooms
And airport bars
And quiet streets
And public parks
THE YEAR OF MAGICAL WANKING
BY
NEIL WATKINS
All rights whatsoever in this play are strictly reserved and application for performance etc. should be made before commencement of rehearsal to MacFarlane Chard Associates, 7 Adelaide Street, Dun Laoghaire, Co Dublin. T: 00 353 1 663 8646 F: 00 353 1 663 8649 www.macfarlane-chard.ie. No performance may be given unless a licence has been obtained, and no alterations may be made in the title or the text of the play without the author’s prior written consent.
Written and Performed by Neil Watkins
Directed by Phillip McMahon
Designed by Ciarán O’Melia
Produced by thisispopbaby
Producers Jenny Jennings and Lara Hickey
Performances:
Queer Notions Festival 2010, 10–11 November 2011, Project Upstairs
Cork Midsummer Festival 2011, 23–25 June 2011, Half Moon Theatre
Outburst Belfast 2011, 20 November 2011, Lyric Theatre, Naughton Studio
Dublin Fringe Festival 2011, 9–17 September 2011, Project Upstairs
Melbourne Midsumma Festival, 17–29 January 2012, Theatre Works
Fringe World Festival Perth, 31 January–11 February, Metcalf Theatre
Sydney Mardi Gras Festival, 14–18 February, Sydney Theatre
Adelaide Fringe Festival, 22 February–18 March, AC Arts
PROLOGUE
Great Spirit and Great Mystery hear my prayer.
Bless all the beings gathered in this room.
I bid your tastebuds welcome to my womb.
This is my truth. I bare my fruit. Let’s share.
Tonight, Great Spirit. Shine. Infuse my heart
With courage so sublime that I may say
The details of my story and my way.
I am a wanker. Know this from the start.
I am Neil Martin Watkins and I am
A sex and love addicted innocent.
There’s patterns I’ve adopted that would taint the
Love of Saints. I wank, therefore I slam.
It’s normal to love sex; to love to love.
But it’s not healthy when you’re feeling shame;
When sex becomes a drug to kill the pain.
When pain is all your sex life’s smacking of.
I’m into every act the mind can dream.
But intimacy isn’t on the list.
For me to cum, I’m either stoned or pissed.
So I’m not really there to hear my screams.
This intimacy thing flies over my head.
I’m startled by the sight of same-sex bliss.
Why haven’t I been healed by true love’s kiss?
And so I wank because I haven’t wed.
Sure everybody wanks their willy. Right?
And everybody hurts and needs to heal.
But I find healing hurtful. Hurts to feel.
I deal with stuff by wanking day and night.
I’ve got this little ritual. I score
Weed from a dealer, poppers, then begin.
I dress in leather. Get out of my bin.
So, safe in my cocoon, I go to war.
My right hand pulls the trigger. Consummate.
No other hand could possibly compete.
My left hand is in permanent retreat.
Except to feed me weed. I get my hit.
Me laptop’s primary use is finding porn.
The weirder and the sicker does the trick.
You know, like sharp things shoved up through the dick.
Four Windows of Insanity are born.
The icing on the cake for perfect wanks
Is Poppers for that Crystal paradise.
I yield to feel oblivion’s high price.
It’s kind of you to hear me out. My thanks.
I cum and sure it’s brilliant. Love being high.
I love forgetting that my life is shite.
Forget about the money owed, take flight.
And stuff those comedown feelings. I won’t cry.
I’m 33. The age when Jesus died,
Rose from the Dead, ascended out of Hell.
If she can resurrect, I can as well.
Me bell end’s battered and my hands are tied.
NOVEMBER
There’s nothing like ten years of migraine pain
To needle you and tease a leap of faith.
A White Witch Doctor set with me a date
In Ireland’s garden Wicklow. I’ll explain.
Sweet Medicine Horse Nation is her name.
This woman changed my life forever. Fact.
She held a workshop, this was not an act.
And like the moth I am, I fed her flame.
Inside an earthen teepee twenty prayed
And listened to her ancient wisdom sing.
She’d flown from Oregon, on metal wing
To Ireland for my spiritual upgrade.
My pessimistic pout for the occult
Or anything religious was my shield
To any of the bullshit she might deal.
But I’d an inkling she would bring results.
She looks at me with genuine goodwill.
‘I so desire to say, “look who’s here,”’
Sweet Medicine addresses me. I fear
That she will say a queer gives her a chill.
Instead she glows. ‘I thought that you’d be shy.
My people hold your kind in high regard.
We call you Winkta, Twin Spirited. Scarred
Though you are, you’re angelic. You’re God’s child.’
Moth to the flame I fly now. My sad heart
Begins to heal as I unfeel the mean
And nasty lessons of the Pope’s regime.
Sweet Medicine continues in her art.
‘You are evolved. It is your last time here.
You are a woman’s spirit, and a man’s.
You are Wi
nkta, God’s servant, and you can
Be who you are, be kinky or be queer.’
Now obviously she doesn’t speak in rhyme.
But what’s a little poetry ’tween friends.
Sure Sweetie wouldn’t mind these odds and ends.
She’d say no finer way to paint that time.
Take stock, give thanks and dream your precious dreams.
For who’s to say your dream life isn’t real.
And that this is the dream. It’s time to deal
And to let go of past complaints. So scream.
I smoke some dream tobacco. And I dream
My mother sits beside me watching porn.
We’re smoking joints. Somehow I’ve got a horn.
‘So this is what you’re into, son. Extreme.’
Me mammy’s right. This nightmare of her sees
Some fetish porn. It even bothers me.
It’s one giant slug all dressed up rubbery,
Alright enough, Wake up, ASAP.
A fetish slug, alright, you know…it’s fine.
And perched above the slug there sits my debt.
In garish digital my debt is set.
My mother’s off her box and I am dying.
A magpie taps the roof. Then I’m awake.
The countryside is silent. It is dawn.
I make my way into the kitchen’s warmth.
Sweet Medicine is there. She sees me shake.
Just us alone. The morning bares my soul.
I sense that she has seen the dream I’ve held.
I tell her every detail. I’m compelled.
Her tone is tender. And her words are gold.
I want to extricate my clustered thoughts.
There’s nobody around, It’s not yet 8.
‘Sweet Medicine I would like to be raped.
Does that mean that I’m bad? ’Coz I’m distraught.’
She doesn’t flinch. I’ve taken quite the chance.
‘Raped as a child you were, my husband too,
He prayed for violation, just like me.
Explore that, you are free to be, so dance.’
Permission from the light to be so dark.
God’s servant, Sweetie lets me make the choice
To live inside the consequence. Rejoice.
I’m free to be a dirty little… ‘Hark,
‘Not dirty,’ suggests Sweet Medicine, ‘explore.’
I don’t recall that I was raped I say.
‘You were,’ she gently tells me. ‘There’s no way
That I was raped. Molested. Yes.’ No more
Is said about this and I have to wait.
Until some memory invades my day.
I thought he just molested me but hey.
Why would you want to know when you were eight?
DECEMBER
It is a council flat where I reside.
Since I confessed to having HIV
My family all agree it should be me
Who holds the fort for Grandad who’s just died.
Somehow the Council buy he’s still alive.
No legal right have I to warm his bed.
But I sure need a place to rest my head.
I couldn’t just inherit it. I lie.
The rent’s still paid by ‘Grandad’…hardly costs.
This flat; two bedrooms, on two floors. It’s bang
Right in the heart of Dublin town. I hang
Out on the balcony and smoke. I’m lost.
I cannot go on living in this town.
Why did they have to give the flat to me?
It’s very rough. No place for me to be.
This posh puff is so easily put down.
Grandparents dead. Me in their bed…a queer.
My granny died when I was diagnosed.
So I could cry and nobody would know
That my tears were for her and my new fear.
It’s magic ’coz the flat is right beside
The centre for those who have HIV.
I go there for my meals. I get them free.
You could say that I’m lucky. God provides.
The Council after two years have copped this
And wish for me to leave. It’s time to go.
I’m shocked. This is so sudden. I don’t know
Where I’ll end up. I fear the street’s abyss.
I have until February to leave.
And with this news my disposition lifts.
I get a job as Santa giving gifts.
December and I’m broke.
I’m Santy in the Wax Museum. It’s true.
My friend Patricia says she has a gig.
This isn’t anything too strange. A wig.
Another frock. This is the job I do.
We strike a pose with Bono and The Edge.
Madonna would collapse. The state of her.
It’s nothing strange. Another frock and wig.
Just like that drag act that I used to do.
We come to life and put the fear of God
Into the old and young. It matters none
’Coz it’s escape and this is giddy fun.
It’s like we’re cumming up, the laughs. I plod
Along till Christmas comes then I succumb.
I’m trying not to notice but it’s cold.
Another year without someone to hold.
You’d think by now the drugs would leave me numb.
I make a stab at rescuing my health.
My HIV’s under control with pills
But it’s my attitude to it that’s ill.
I’m tired of studying its stain in stealth.
Do yoga for an hour every day.
One week I live like this. I feel divine.
I wonder will I keep up this routine?
The weekend comes. The addict has her way.
A party in a fancy part of town.
A penthouse, it is homo wall to wall.
And yeah the yoga gives me pick of all.
I choose the one who’s dark. When I sit down,
He smoothly takes position straight ahead.
I rise to meet him. Want to give my all.
He offers me cocaine but I’m appalled.
That turns me to a cunt. I’ll drink instead.
But go ahead. I say. Just not my drug.
I’ll have some of that joint that he’s got there.
Within a very short time I’m aware
I’ve one thing on my mind. And it’s bear hugs.
He offers coke again, so I say yes.
Then ketamine, more grass. Wired. I confide
To him, my handsome black-haired bear and ride
‘I knew you in a past life.’ I’m a mess.
He says he’d really love to play with me.
But since his boyfriend’s here. It can’t be done.
This always happens. They ruin all the fun.
Fuck boyfriends. Ah but magic number three.
Your boyfriend is my type as well. Ah tits.
My bear is now unconscious on the couch.
And I am on my chair. I’m in a slouched
Presentiment. Then home alone in bits.
On alcohol, on ketamine, on coke.
On poppers, on my own, on with the porn.
On headshop herbal smoke, I am reborn.
On x-tube I’m abused and used by ghosts.
Projectile vomit onto my laptop.
I puke some more into a plastic bag.
The porn still plays. I mop up with a rag.
I take more poppers. Really I can’t stop.
I drain my Santy’s sack in Satan’s gaze.
I guess this is taboo for Christian boys.
Who wouldn’t love intense transgressive toys?
I clench my jaw, and roar. My lamp’s ablaze.
JANUARY
Look I’m no muscle Mary. God I wish.
But I love big and scary. You’re a lash.
I’d love to lick your boots, sir, nice
moustache.
You look like Freddy Krueger. He’s a dish.
I’ve got some coke. Let’s play like blokes. You’re hot.
You’ve HIV? Yea, me as well. It’s cool.
You know they only changed that awful rule.
The Visa ban is lifted.
Yer man, Obama, restored hope in me.
Now I can see the States despite my blood.
I can live in America. It’s good.
The world got bigger this January.
You’re hotter than a double whopper meal.
It’s nice to meet you, Rick. You kiss so well.
I’m Neil. Ich bin lihr houndin. Ring my bell.
I love the way your leather looks and feels.
Destiny has joined us don’t you think?
I live in Dublin. But I’m moving here.
New York is so much better if you’re queer.
To moving here. Cheers, Rick. You’re slick. Cheers. Clink.
I’m here on tour. I’m in a show. Ten days.
We tour the world. Well, let’s just say, my dream
Came true this week. It really makes me beam.
Do you believe in magic, Rick? Yea, same.
I’m grateful everyday for stuff I’ve got.
Just like the flat that keeps me safe ’n warm.
I give thanks for ten things. Yeah ten’s the norm.
I then give thanks for ten things I have not.
A decent home, a boyfriend, holidays.
These last few days I prayed that my mentor
Would come. And lead me through the magic door.
I prayed that he would be a genius gay.
John Cam’ren Mitchell came to see the show.
You know him. Good. He’s great. You know his stuff?
I feel like he’s instilled in me self-worth.
He took me out to dinner. I’m like Whoa.
His Hedwig, and, well Shortbus I just love.
I said, I love your work. And he said, you’re
Performance was like poetry…yes sir.
John Cam’ren Mitchell came from up above.
It’s not like this stuff happens all the time.
We go to the Cornelia St Cafe.
It’s where he first performed back in the day.
We sit right down the back. The food and wine
Is lovely. So is he. I don’t feel he is
Playing or objectifying me.
Well, says he.
The movie is called Rabbit Hole. So see,
This was a play on Broadway with your one,
Cynthia Nixon. Rick, sir, I am mix-
Ing with the leader of my A-Gay List.
The Oberon Anthology of Contemporary Irish Plays Page 23