You're Gonna Carry That Weight

[Tenure]

This is, I must stress, a work in progress. I've written scant else for the rest of the play so far, but the finale I have been incredibly interested in - the more I write of it, the more ideas I get for how these characters get here. I am crystallising more and more who these people are (only the two main characters actually feature in this finale, but I have the sub-plots and not-so-main-but-still-very-important characters teeming in my head, with small scenes written so far), what they want, how they're going to get it... the story comes to life, the more and more I know where I'm going.

For instance, at first, this finale was going to take place in the same musky house that it began in. But then, borrowing an idea from Ayn Rand, from the idea of architecture, I wanted the setting of the play to tell the story, just as much as the characters. So, in this very last bit of the finale, which you are about to read, 'Man' (I have no good name for him yet, that I like), is in a new flat he has bought in town. He used to live in his father's old house, brushed aside in the countryside, but now he has sold up, used the riches from the house, and invested some into a new, modern apartment in town, with a large window, over looking the world.

I shall set the scene: 'Man' has been living with Death for a long time now. By this, I mean, the literal embodiment of death (Black cloak, skull, scythe, etc). I haven't decided entirely yet, whether Death exists merely as an invention of the theatre, or whether he is a figment of the imagination that 'Man' makes real. Death has slept on Man's sofa over the years, but 'Man' has finally decided to turf him out. What follows is the end of a heated exchange as Death tries to hold onto 'Man'.

(Edit: I have come up with a new solution for the 'problem of Death' - he will be a literal character, but he will not be Death. I'll reveal how I solved the problem when I've had more time to work on it)

I think I ticked the box, when I joined the forum, that none of my writing, except that explicitly denoted, would be copyrighted material. Consider this my formal declaration that this is Copyright © 2007, and that the work and ideas depicted here are not to be copied or stolen for any use, without my permission.

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Death: You’re going to stay, here?

Man: I’m going to live here.

Death: But why – what for?

Man: Life. Look, every fictional world I may have invented, every story, was bred from my imagination. I took the world and I re-ordered it according to how I saw fit. I saw what it could be and I made it so. But it was only because I chose to do so, in full knowledge, of who I am and the kind of world I live in, that my fiction could ever exist.

Death: And if it is so great, then come, give your life up for paradise, for all the wonders and…

Man: No! Fiction can be fantastical - or it can be horrid or beautiful. It can veer from state to state, “from damnable lamentation to the highest exultation of man’s spirit” – that’s what a Professor of mine said fiction balanced between. But in amongst every bizarre possible configuration of reality I invented, it was the fact that they came from the undeniable, inescapable reality, the existence I inhabit here, which made them possible.

Death: So – you escaped into one world with your writing – escape this existence now, for good.

Man: Fiction isn’t escapism, it’s simply not possible to escape reality.

Death: Then what can you want from this world?

Man: Life! It may not seem like much to you, but it’s my only way to be happy, by living, and I’m going to start by writing something that isn’t aimed at destroying the very process that brought it into creation.

Death: What are you talking about? I thought you said fiction isn’t real, it doesn’t matter.

Man: In every one of my stories, in any story, don’t all the rules that apply here, apply there too? The law of causality always exists in fiction: someone must do something, so that something must happen so that someone might react so that something else might happen, so a bold hero may stride through and right wrongs, so villains might build cages and traps, so the hero might break them.

And, isn’t the worst fiction the stuff that tries to depart from reality? I loathe plot holes and excessive exposition, simply because it’s unreal, because reality cannot simply cease to exist for the convenience of the audience. But I’m not going to do any of that. Suspension of disbelief can only stretch so far, trying to juggle the impossible in your head… I’m sorry, Death. I’ve got to get to work. I have so much to write. I can’t have you staying here any longer.

Death: Please, see what I’m offering you: I am, in fact, offering you the impossible. I am offering you joy without cause, love without condition, life without reason – freedom from the constraint of life! Surely that’s at least worth the comfort of hanging on your elbow?

Man: I honestly can’t imagine the impossible and I don’t want to live in the impossible. I’m sorry, Death. It’s time for me to grow up.

Death: You’re staying.

Man: Yes. Look: this wall is almost entirely glass. Outside it I can see the city below. I’m going to face this world. In every thought, word and action; in every moment of joy, sorrow and creeping apathy; every time I laugh, every time I cry; in amongst every moment of my life, this world will always be here, I will see it and I will act.

Death: I see. Where am I going to stay? Who will keep me?

Man: I may not able to accommodate you, but there is a man, living in that abandoned Church. You see the one a top the hill there? He believes the world changes in response to his curses or praises. I think you’ll like him.

Death: Is he more hospitable than you?

Man: Well, he tried praying for me once; I think he was really praying for you.

Death: I should go then. It was – this evening… it was…I mean, you are… I can’t describe it.

Man: Look at who you are, Death! You’ll never have the words to describe me, because nothing really exists for you – you take men like me to the absence of existence, to the end of life! Don’t worry. We will meet again, I’m sure of it.

Death: When?

Man: When that abyss is unavoidable.

Death: It is unavoidable.

Man: When it’s the only path left.

Death: Will we be able to have a drink together again?

Man: No. But we can walk together, off into eternity. We’ll leave the drinks and all the celebration of life to the living.

Death: Will I ever be celebrated?

Man: Don’t worry - most men celebrate you in every day of their life.

Death holds his head up and forward, and walks out the door.

Man: Goodnight, friend!

Edited September 16, 2007 by Tenure