CAROUSEL WIND
Act 1
Scene 1
The Characters:
Enigma, the Italian mime
artist
Mr. Poet, the Troubled Troubadour, and Joy’s secret brother
Joy Montagne, Girl With Chestnut Hair
George Montagne, (Great Engineer)
Molly Montagne,
Granddad
Nanny
The "Director"
Mr. Poet, the Troubled Troubadour, and Joy’s secret brother
Joy Montagne, Girl With Chestnut Hair
George Montagne, (Great Engineer)
Molly Montagne,
Granddad
Nanny
The "Director"
Starlet (who doesn't have
any lines)
Laughing Lady
Fortune Teller
Ice Cream Man
Pretzel Man
Record Man
Window Shopper
Laughing Lady
Fortune Teller
Ice Cream Man
Pretzel Man
Record Man
Window Shopper
©2006 by Stefan des
Lauriers
Joy had a shadow that
followed her around, even when the sun was not shining. The shadow was her
younger brother, Mr. Poet, who would have been like any other kid, had he not
taken a wrong turn down a steep hill in a peddle car. The accident caused a
severe head injury that knocked out all the negativity, and left him with the
mind that refused to grow up, and get a real job. Joy’s parents were ashamed of
Mr. Poet’s lack-luster songwriting career, and in their minds the shame cast a
shadow over the family. [That is why he seldom went home, and when he did he
would hang around the beach to run into his sister Joy.] But this was not the
case with Joy, who believed if she found herself under a dark cloud one should rise above
the rain.
In the early morning when the sun rose above the Jersey Shore where her family had their summerhouse, Joy liked to walk along the beach by Carousel Square. It was a quaint arcade and amusement park built in a style after an Italian courtyard with repeated arched columns. Joy liked to look at the sunrise with Manhattan in the distance with the skyscrapers appearing like an enchanted island kingdom. As she walked along the edge of waves she would pick up the occasional shell and think of ideas for children's stories.
Two faint figures appeared from where the shoreline stretched into the Enchanted Skyline walking towards Joy. Two young men, one in a striped shirt and the other, her secret brother, with a guitar strapped around his neck and strumming stopped just before running into Joy. The three converged at a large conch shell on the shore. As the one in the striped shirt picked up the shell the guitarist started singing:
In the early morning when the sun rose above the Jersey Shore where her family had their summerhouse, Joy liked to walk along the beach by Carousel Square. It was a quaint arcade and amusement park built in a style after an Italian courtyard with repeated arched columns. Joy liked to look at the sunrise with Manhattan in the distance with the skyscrapers appearing like an enchanted island kingdom. As she walked along the edge of waves she would pick up the occasional shell and think of ideas for children's stories.
Two faint figures appeared from where the shoreline stretched into the Enchanted Skyline walking towards Joy. Two young men, one in a striped shirt and the other, her secret brother, with a guitar strapped around his neck and strumming stopped just before running into Joy. The three converged at a large conch shell on the shore. As the one in the striped shirt picked up the shell the guitarist started singing:
Mr. Poet:
How many hearts are slow on their feet
Waiting for love to pick up the beat
Since the first heart was stolen away
We've been yearning for love's harmony
Let's get together in a song
When our hearts are in harmony
There's no note you can sing wrong
When our hearts are in harmony
The singer's heart lives on in a song
And with the same breath you carry it on
Is love meant to last for an eternity
His song will be there a long time after he's gone
True love can lift all souls
From the dungeons to the towers
When other persons beating hearts
Are put in place of ours
A trumpet shell that washed ashore
Heralds our love with whispered roar
The whole universe wrapped up in a song
It's a heartbeat away if we can just sing along
How many hearts are slow on their feet
Waiting for love to pick up the beat
Since the first heart was stolen away
We've been yearning for love's harmony
Let's get together in a song
When our hearts are in harmony
There's no note you can sing wrong
When our hearts are in harmony
The singer's heart lives on in a song
And with the same breath you carry it on
Is love meant to last for an eternity
His song will be there a long time after he's gone
True love can lift all souls
From the dungeons to the towers
When other persons beating hearts
Are put in place of ours
A trumpet shell that washed ashore
Heralds our love with whispered roar
The whole universe wrapped up in a song
It's a heartbeat away if we can just sing along
Enigmo:
Hello, my name is Enigmo. I am a mime artist from Italy
[The one in the striped
shirt said to Joy. He put the shell to his ear and water squirted out his
opposite ear. Joy laughed. Mr. Poet and Joy shared a knowing nod. Joy secretly
mouthed the words: “Don’t let on that you are my brother.”]
Joy:
Joy:
How did you do that? Have water squirt from your ear like that?
Enigmo:
I am Inigmo the mime from
Italy. When I saw you coming I hooked up my squirting shell so it looks like I
have a hole in my head. Usually I get unsuspecting girls to smell my flower and
squirt them— so you are lucky — today I'm using a shell. You put it to your ear
and eternity is hear
Joy:
My name is Joy. I've been collecting shells for years but never saw one like this around here. You're a long way from Italy.
My name is Joy. I've been collecting shells for years but never saw one like this around here. You're a long way from Italy.
Enigmo:
This is Mr. Poet. I just
met him down the beach. Actually I'm here to star in a video for a song called
"Leading Man Gets Lost." I play a promiscuous clown who breaks the
heart of a young starlet. One of my props is a trick shell. The action takes
place on the beach, and at the arcade with all the rides. Usually I use a
squirting flower to win the hearts of girls. I get them to smell it and then
squirt them, but it is just a fine spritz of perfume. An invisible bouqet of tiny balloons, or is that bubbles?
Joy:
We have a summer place
here. My grandparents will be visiting us tomorrow. They are flying in from
London.
Enigmo:
Didn't I see you on the
carousel yesterday afternoon?
Joy:
Yes, I was there. When I
come down to the shore I stop by the merry-go-round in the arcade. I live a
block away from a carousel in Paramus. It's at the Garden State Plaza. Often I
go there and sit on the bench to watch the children smile. I write children's
stories, well— think up stories sitting by the bench beside the Carousel. The
carousel has pictures of Venice all over it. To me it is a magical place. I'm
thinking of writing a story called "Her Majesty's Magical
Merry-Go-Round.
Mr. Poet:
Nice alliteration.
Nice alliteration.
Joy:
The story has a young princess sitting beside a magical merry-go-round. There are murals painted on the top of the merry-go-round; scenes of whimsical places. Every time the carousel stops, actually it's a carousel; a picture of a different realm appears. Whenever the princess gets on — that's the world she travels to.
The story has a young princess sitting beside a magical merry-go-round. There are murals painted on the top of the merry-go-round; scenes of whimsical places. Every time the carousel stops, actually it's a carousel; a picture of a different realm appears. Whenever the princess gets on — that's the world she travels to.
Mr. Poet:
That's like a giant
Carousel, you know, those slide projectors
Enigmo:
There's a Venetian Carousel
in my hometown in Italy. It's at the Piazza Ducale – in Vigevano (Pavia).
That's where I do my mime routine. Entertaining the people who stand in line.
Joy:
So we have something in
common. A Venetian Carousel. Why don't you show me one of your skits?
Enigma:
I'll do the invisible
maze. But I must warn you if I do it here the maze will not be invisible...
Joy:
I know. Because you will leave footprints in the sand.
[Enigma does his mime and the background noises become silent. When he finishes there is the faint sound of a bell and the sound of a carousel.]
Mr. Poet: [Sings while walking in the invisible maze strumming his guitar in a mock trance.]
I saw the ghost of Michelangelo
It was in a maze of metaphors
Or was it the moon in cameo appearance
That made an image of that old chiseler
Joy, Enigmo: [in harmony]
O why are you so troubled my young troubadour
Meandering in a maze of metaphors
Mr. Poet:
The artist stood by his "Window to the Soul"
It was painted with colors that never dry
His brush was dipped in a black hole
And a star burst in the gleam of an eye
Joy, Enigmo [in harmony]
O why are you so troubled my young troubadour
Meandering in a maze of metaphors
Mr. Poet:
I saw chameleons square dancing in delight
On a chessboard stretching to infinity
It rained crystal balls as two white cranes
Were faced with endless possibilities
Joy, Enigma: [in harmony]
O why are you so troubled my young troubadour
Meandering in a maze of metaphors
Mr. Poet:
Old Father Time with a beard of indigo
Was turning an hourglass of sand
Inside the glass an ant chased a grain of rice
And made the cosmic order get out of hand
Joy, Enigmo [in harmony]
O why are you so troubled my young troubadour
Meandering in a maze of metaphors
Mr. Poet:
With an ant up my sleeve I built castles in quicksand
Having time and broken glass on my hands
Then I had a sinking feeling that I was in a hole
It was an impression that mirrored my soul
Joy, Enigmo: [in harmony]
O why are you so troubled my young troubadour
Meandering in a maze of metaphors
Mr. Poet:
Joy:
I know. Because you will leave footprints in the sand.
[Enigma does his mime and the background noises become silent. When he finishes there is the faint sound of a bell and the sound of a carousel.]
Mr. Poet: [Sings while walking in the invisible maze strumming his guitar in a mock trance.]
I saw the ghost of Michelangelo
It was in a maze of metaphors
Or was it the moon in cameo appearance
That made an image of that old chiseler
Joy, Enigmo: [in harmony]
O why are you so troubled my young troubadour
Meandering in a maze of metaphors
Mr. Poet:
The artist stood by his "Window to the Soul"
It was painted with colors that never dry
His brush was dipped in a black hole
And a star burst in the gleam of an eye
Joy, Enigmo [in harmony]
O why are you so troubled my young troubadour
Meandering in a maze of metaphors
Mr. Poet:
I saw chameleons square dancing in delight
On a chessboard stretching to infinity
It rained crystal balls as two white cranes
Were faced with endless possibilities
Joy, Enigma: [in harmony]
O why are you so troubled my young troubadour
Meandering in a maze of metaphors
Mr. Poet:
Old Father Time with a beard of indigo
Was turning an hourglass of sand
Inside the glass an ant chased a grain of rice
And made the cosmic order get out of hand
Joy, Enigmo [in harmony]
O why are you so troubled my young troubadour
Meandering in a maze of metaphors
Mr. Poet:
With an ant up my sleeve I built castles in quicksand
Having time and broken glass on my hands
Then I had a sinking feeling that I was in a hole
It was an impression that mirrored my soul
Joy, Enigmo: [in harmony]
O why are you so troubled my young troubadour
Meandering in a maze of metaphors
Mr. Poet:
Sculpturing sand; the sun upon the bay
Became a wand of sparkling rays
I looked at wrinkled fingers speckled with golden sand
The universe was in the palm of my hand
Joy:
You could have ended it with
"All I need," I mimed
"Is the perfect metaphor
Something like a clown
With a seashell on the shore"
Mr. Poet:
The universal metaphor...
That's what I'm looking for
You may think it's a trumpet shell
Because it resembles the shape of a galaxy...
Since the dawn of time people have longed
To be remembered in art
A man and woman in love
Are the perfect metaphor
That is what resembles the universe
Not an empty shell...
Joy:
To me the universal metaphor is a star. When I was a child a mystical drifter's wagon parked by our school and a man in a top hat with a mustache like handlebars charged us each a nickel to see the star in his magic telescope. I paid my nickel and saw the outline of a star drawn on the glass at the far end of a cheap imitation telescope. I thought that hope was the star at the end of the telescope. Hope makes the stars appear brighter than they really are
Enigmo:
To me the Universal Metaphor are the Fibonacci numbers in a Nautical Shell... It sounds like you have an interesting story.
Joy:
I did write a story about it. It's called the "The Magic Telescope" It is set in the Sixties when the gas stations had that "Put a Tiger in your Tank" advertising campaign. I include my brother in the story; he was a budding kleptomaniac. He'd pilfer people's tiger tails and surreptitiously stuff them into the gas-caps of the police cars. That really frightened the mystical drifters. In my story, I ended up with the telescope and whenever I let someone look through it they'd smile. That was before my brother's accident.
Enigmo
Was the story published?
Joy:
No
Enigmo:
Maybe because of the "budding kleptomaniac"
Mr. Poet:
I envision the image of Enigmo on the shore lying in the sand making a human starfish. A single moonbeam lights upon him like a cosmic telescope.
Mr. Poet: sings
Enigmo was a mime artist
Lost in a maze of heart
He never knew which way to go
To the finish or the start.
Deep within a see through maze
His hands defined the space
And there's just so much of it
Between love and death’s embrace.
When a star hits the moon
Its mark can't be erased
If it weren't all those falling stars
The moon would have no face
Enigmo was physical eloquence
Depicted in black and white
His stage a crater on the moon
Where the dark side meets the light.
His head in a tower of ivory
Ebony dungeons hold him down
We find him stuck forever
Between phases of smiles and frowns.
When a star hits the moon
Its mark can't be erased
If it weren't all those falling stars
The moon would have no face
Enigmo:
And I envision Mr. Poet here becoming a star. It was all I could do to convince him to sing a few songs. Why carry a guitar if you’re not going to use it? He's burnt out before he even he becomes a star. You can't give up on music just because you can't make a living at it.
Joy:
My grandfather was a Vaudeville entertainer. He never gave up. He did a routine about an "Over the Hill Mountain Climber," about returning to the scene of the climb.
Became a wand of sparkling rays
I looked at wrinkled fingers speckled with golden sand
The universe was in the palm of my hand
Joy:
You could have ended it with
"All I need," I mimed
"Is the perfect metaphor
Something like a clown
With a seashell on the shore"
Mr. Poet:
The universal metaphor...
That's what I'm looking for
You may think it's a trumpet shell
Because it resembles the shape of a galaxy...
Since the dawn of time people have longed
To be remembered in art
A man and woman in love
Are the perfect metaphor
That is what resembles the universe
Not an empty shell...
Joy:
To me the universal metaphor is a star. When I was a child a mystical drifter's wagon parked by our school and a man in a top hat with a mustache like handlebars charged us each a nickel to see the star in his magic telescope. I paid my nickel and saw the outline of a star drawn on the glass at the far end of a cheap imitation telescope. I thought that hope was the star at the end of the telescope. Hope makes the stars appear brighter than they really are
Enigmo:
To me the Universal Metaphor are the Fibonacci numbers in a Nautical Shell... It sounds like you have an interesting story.
Joy:
I did write a story about it. It's called the "The Magic Telescope" It is set in the Sixties when the gas stations had that "Put a Tiger in your Tank" advertising campaign. I include my brother in the story; he was a budding kleptomaniac. He'd pilfer people's tiger tails and surreptitiously stuff them into the gas-caps of the police cars. That really frightened the mystical drifters. In my story, I ended up with the telescope and whenever I let someone look through it they'd smile. That was before my brother's accident.
Enigmo
Was the story published?
Joy:
No
Enigmo:
Maybe because of the "budding kleptomaniac"
Mr. Poet:
I envision the image of Enigmo on the shore lying in the sand making a human starfish. A single moonbeam lights upon him like a cosmic telescope.
Mr. Poet: sings
I used to think love
Was just a Laff in the dark
Until I got stuck in a maze of mirrors
In life‘s amusement park
Enigmo was a mime artist
Lost in a maze of heart
He never knew which way to go
To the finish or the start.
Deep within a see through maze
His hands defined the space
And there's just so much of it
Between love and death’s embrace.
Enigmo: sings
When a star hits the moon
Its mark can't be erased
If it weren't all those falling stars
The moon would have no face
Mr. Poet: sings
Enigmo
was a shooting star
Caught between now and never—
On one hand there was blinding light
The other cast shadows forever.
His tears were either black or white
Depending on which way he faced
But then don’t tears of joy and sorrow
all share the same salty taste.
Caught between now and never—
On one hand there was blinding light
The other cast shadows forever.
His tears were either black or white
Depending on which way he faced
But then don’t tears of joy and sorrow
all share the same salty taste.
Enigmo: sings
When a star hits the moon
Its mark can't be erased
If it weren't all those falling stars
If it weren't all those falling stars
The moon would have no face
Mr. Poet: sings
Enigmo was physical eloquence
Depicted in black and white
His stage a crater on the moon
Where the dark side meets the light.
His head in a tower of ivory
Ebony dungeons hold him down
We find him stuck forever
Between phases of smiles and frowns.
Enigmo: sings
When a star hits the moon
Its mark can't be erased
If it weren't all those falling stars
The moon would have no face
Enigmo:
And I envision Mr. Poet here becoming a star. It was all I could do to convince him to sing a few songs. Why carry a guitar if you’re not going to use it? He's burnt out before he even he becomes a star. You can't give up on music just because you can't make a living at it.
Joy:
My grandfather was a Vaudeville entertainer. He never gave up. He did a routine about an "Over the Hill Mountain Climber," about returning to the scene of the climb.
Mr. Poet: (singing)
To my friends who left their names on the wall of the cabaret...
[he stops singing]
Mr. Poet:
I don't feel like playing that one...
We could all be poets on a quest
For the perfect rhyme
Architects have the golden mean
Healers search for the fountain of youth
and preachers seek the way of truth
Alchemists dream of the philosopher's stone
Joy:
And dogs like to gnaw on mighty bones...
Mr. Poet:
You know what would be fun? To dig out huge dinosaur footsteps along the beach...
Joy: [gets up to leave]
I must go now. Time to be getting home. We have to go to the airport.
Enigmo:
I'd like to see you again
Joy:
I'll meet you in two days. Friday at noon, by the carousel. The same carousel I was on yesterday afternoon.
To my friends who left their names on the wall of the cabaret...
[he stops singing]
Mr. Poet:
I don't feel like playing that one...
We could all be poets on a quest
For the perfect rhyme
Architects have the golden mean
Healers search for the fountain of youth
and preachers seek the way of truth
Alchemists dream of the philosopher's stone
Joy:
And dogs like to gnaw on mighty bones...
Mr. Poet:
You know what would be fun? To dig out huge dinosaur footsteps along the beach...
Joy: [gets up to leave]
I must go now. Time to be getting home. We have to go to the airport.
Enigmo:
I'd like to see you again
Joy:
I'll meet you in two days. Friday at noon, by the carousel. The same carousel I was on yesterday afternoon.
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