Model by: Gary English
Vertical truss frames a space containing a bed, an armoire, and a silhouetted figure. Hanging in a circle above is the black and white image of a face superimposed with hands, one eye peering out.
Pityriasis Rosea
by Joseph Lavy
I’ve got this skin disease. Pityriasis Rosea. They say. It’s a viral infection presenting as a rash on my trunk and arms. So far. I noticed it about two weeks ago. And it’s continuing to spread. Could be up to eight weeks before it’s gone.
It freaks me out. If it’s worse next week I’m going back to the doctor.
The doctor. I need to write that letter to the doctor proposing my topic of study. What’s his name?
To whom are we faithful?
I’d have been up earlier except my watch stopped sometime in the night. Well, not just sometime. 11:35, apparently. I’ve reset it. I hope it’s not broken.
Why be faithful to the Playwright when the Playwright will not be faithful to you? The Playwright is just an absentee father. The Playwright seduces with his beauty, his music. His form, intellect, and sensitivity. We carry his child within us. Give it birth unto the world. Legs on which to walk and a voice with which to sing. But the Playwright has gone. Fuck the patriarchy. Patriasis Rosea. A viral infection.
It’s not contagious. Pityriasis Rosea. But the rash can resemble syphilis.
Why am I here? Invisible observer of the unattainable. Coming in fleeting glimpses from flashing eyes.
Welcoming
Objecting
No matter.
The beginnings of sunrise clued me in to wake up. Watch must be wrong. I hope it’s not broken.
Should the abandoned mother be faithful to the absentee father? Absurd. She should be faithful to the child. A child undeniably of the father but on whom the father’s only true influence has been his absence. The child may not turn out how the father would have wanted, but he has no place to complain. He left. He got it started and he left.
So fuck him. Raise the child as you see fit. With your love. Your ideals. Your sweat. Your frustrations. Your passion.
Affirming an existence already denied by those who claim to matter.
By all but the tiny hands feet limbs the great heart spirit of a presence which refuses denial. Which sprang from within you.
Should I see the doctor? Write to the doctor? Which doctor? I’m terrible about names. Getting them and keeping them in my head once I have them. I think I don’t really listen when people tell me their names.
I’ve always known Narcissus in me. And I know what hides beneath the waters of his reflection.
It’s not love for himself. It’s fear. Fear that if he stops looking, he’ll cease to be.
Audio Recording
Monologue Performed by: Renee Lynch
Directed by: Elizabeth Bonjean