Model by: Richard Finkelstein
A colorless world of steps and platforms and frames that looks and feels like shattered glass surrounds a delicate caped figure made of spun wire
The Heath
by Caridad Svich
A figure in tatters stands in the middle of the world.
Ripe morning soon. Must wait till time passes.
Others stopped waiting long ago.
Somewhere inside an ache.
The waiting begs my knees.
Raps at my knuckles.
Calls me a loser. With a long O.
I say “To hell with ya, Mister Waiting,
I don’t care for your insistence.”
I pretend I have all the time in the world.
Just as I had once in the Pyrenees.
To think of such times. Renders ease.
“Blow winds, crack your cheeks.”
So a poet once said.
In better days I’d say these words
And fill them with mighty passion.
Imagine being an actor.
You’d have to be some kind of dreamer.
Was told once that was not for me.
I was not entitled.
I was to be cast out. Here. On the heath.
I told them, just like I tell Mister Waiting,
I’m not going anywhere.
You’ll have to put up with me.
Audio Recording
Monologue Performed and Directed by: Steve Snyder