star the cat
element, a muralist
katherine, a writer
[katherine and element are inside a fourth floor loft within an old warehouse that is rented out as artist housing on a dismal side street in baltimore, with a view of another newer complex of artist housing, an emerging arts middle school (under construction), and a big old cemetery at the far end, off right, behind a rather busy street. it is a sunny morning, if a little wet outside. the two twentysomethings are in an area of the loft with a bed, some couches, clothing everywhere on the floor, and some art and supplies strewn on surfaces in the background. big old windows accept huge white light into the room. element and katherine are sitting up on the edge of the simple, dirty bed.]
katherine:
don’t be angry with me
because you stepped on star’s tail
when you were drunk,
too important of an artist
to take him to the vet.
element:
fuck you. what are you talking about?
star’s tail got crushed during the show
when everyone trampled the house
shaking to some trap shit.
no way that could have been me.
i would have felt it or remembered
or heard star. in fact i didn’t see
star anywhere, not even afterwards
when it was just shannon, max and me
talking about my mural. i’m mad
because you’re looking at me,
judging me when i got so much shit to do.
i don’t want to keep thinking about some party
that we threw and got drunk at. sure, star
hobbling around with a busted tail
is distressing, makes me as much as you
want to rush out and get him fixed
but the truth is no one has any money.
the grant i got is plugged into this mural
of the dove-chasing little girl.
the stress is eating my ass
and here you are compounding shit.
katherine:
i guess i don’t make anything better.
i guess max and shannon are the ones
you can talk to about art … the ones
who can speak, critique, joke,
just sit around and it all matters to you.
you respond to them. but i am
some sad-eyed source of guilt …
slept over and now the sun is up
and you're rushing around
ready to work and i am just in the way.
element:
again and again. look, i want you here.
[hard kiss delivered on her forehead.]
ok, let's do this …
[he holds her hand.]
let's try not to think about my mural
for at least this morning.
we can go get breakfast …
[he kisses her cheek and moves their clasped hands into her lap.]
no point in thinking about star either
though i know you love cats to death
and can't stand to see one suffer.
but all last night and even this morning
star has been moving about just fine,
no huge complaints meowed,
and limping ain't the end of the world.
he took the wet food you put out.
katherine:
you're calming me too much,
treating me like a cat
when i feel like i was just stepped on, too.
the way you got up this morning
and rushed around busily
because i looked at you,
the way when i tried to ask you simple questions
you blew up, it makes it that much harder
for me to ease into quiet intimacy
and breakfast. i feel shattered,
fucked up and worthless. shannon and max
are your conspirators,
whereas if i get close to you
for something other than making out,
to play a hand in helping
your work, you push me off,
scream or bury me
like i'm just some nag.
element:
these insane conversations. always ...
[he grabs his hand out of hers and stands.]
it's almost like … what if i did step on star?
when is it ever the fault of the one who got in the way?
he must have a right to prowl and pry,
hunt and poke his nose where it doesn't belong,
but then when a shitty tail gets stepped on,
the lights go on and somebody is invariably the asshole.
that's how i feel when you want to poke
your nose in my shit. i can't share everything with everyone!
i know that sounds like i'm an ass, but guess what?
it's hard enough for me not to feel like complete shit,
get depressed and not want to work on anything.
this is a moment i'm actually in context:
there's a real grant, a real demand for my work.
i'm making a fucking mural down the street
after months of sitting on my ass
destroying my brain with anything around.
can't you see this is not a time
i can suffer analysis
or, worse, guilt trips?
fuck that. i thought
we respected each other,
could snuggle and fuck
but keep our distance on the art thing.
because remember when you critiqued my shit
prematurely, and i had to walk away from the whole thing?
i only finished the mustache on the mural
behind Rite Aid, and the tired, incomplete shit
made me feel like a laughingstock
until now when i have another opportunity.
katherine:
well then what makes you think i shouldn't
turn my back on you and this shitty little circle
of fragile but militant fucks? if your big baby art
can't handle a little dissection or pawing,
then i guess i better scamper
down the alleyway and eat rat.
why stay? there's wet food,
yeah, and a warm rug but no real love
or play beyond fickleness
from you who are only in it
for petting and lap warmth,
the agreeable purr and pussy.
about time this stray is leaving.
[laughing but shaken, she goes to the window and looks out to the building facade where he has started the mural of the dove-chasing little girl. some doves are in place but no little girl beyond just a few lines indicating where her head of hair will start. it is on the side of the nice new artist housing the city has built. element goes up behind katherine and puts his arms around her.]
element:
you are my big cat, aren't you?
look, i want to laugh this shit off with you.
you know i feel bad about not sharing,
but you got your own trip to plan
and you got your writing. maybe
i don't say enough after you read me things
but i always thought that was better
anyway, because what the hell
do i know about stories and poems?
i told you at times what i thought
sounded musical or magical.
i demanded more of that.
but damn it! i'm no critic.
maybe that's why i can't bear
for you to get close to my work.
you are a critic, an editor, a wit
and that all scares me shitless.
since college i've been doing my thing
in the presence of yes men and women,
all my profs still singing my praises,
alerting me to grants, work,
and promising recommendations.
but with you, it's a different audience.
you take a long look
and see what isn't there.
it's like trying to walk on water
in front of you.
you say i won't fall in
but i'll be damned if i don't.
[katherine pushes away from him. she has to. this is all sounding too helpless.]
katherine:
you make me something i'm not.
it is not that serious. but it is serious
when i feel like i have to censor myself
or be excluded. if we can't share our work
and our minds, fuck that altogether.
i should pack up now. get ready
for costa rica now. why should i let you
touch me? this is fake as hell,
not painful. it is boring.
let's face it, we're not right for each other.
it's just some animal shit
where we're attracted to each other
in the short run, dumb-as-fuck
nature betraying us. but in the long run
our separate lives and the kinds
of oppression they invite
have made no space for us.
we need to stop this shit.
yeah. don't fucking touch me.
where is star? staaaaaar!
[katherine looks all around the loft while calling "staaaaaar" a few times in a sweet but sad kitty voice. meanwhile, embarrassed element foolishly attempts to come toward katherine to embrace her in reconciliation, but she turns on him and starts crying, batting away his arms.]
star's tail! star's tail, you fucking asshole!
[element freezes. katherine, after letting it out, cries more softly, wiping her nose and eyes. she goes to the window again and looks at the unfinished mural. the sunlight turns more yellowish.]
i know you need to work ...
don't worry. i won't say anything about the girl.
i know you have not thought her out completely.
maybe a walk over to the wall with max and shannon
will bring something to light about her.
you guys we will talk
and then maybe go for a bike ride,
get lunch or hit the bar later.
i don't mind. i'll be
taking another look at costa rica.
got to get there
before i fucking die here.
this place is shit for me when it's gold
for just about everyone else.
element:
it is not shit for you.
katherine:
no it is. it is. trust me.
i don't have friends in this city.
i don't really have you.
and every time i try to write
it is the same faux poet
self-bemused boredom:
girl walking through the city
tearing everything to shreds
because she can't find herself
but she knows
other people and animals,
what their dreams mean
and what they need to live.
if costa rica were suicide. . .
element:
what the fuck? seriously?
katherine:
why not? i can't find star in this hellhole
this morning.
miserable tail on a miserable cat
but a loving cat,
i love that cat. i don't love you
except in the only way i can,
which is a fucking flash
like from a camera:
what i see is not exactly what i capture,
no matter how good i am.
though one life is all it is.
doesn't matter what i say
this time, what i feel
is judged enough by itself.
i don't need to worry,
but the love i feel for you is passing.
still here
but it feels wrecked, like it is rushed
for a deadline
to satisfy a grant.
element:
look, katherine, i got to meet up with max and shannon.
i can't do this.
if you want to see star
check by the kitchen.
[element starts packing a bag of some paints and supplies for the mural. after it's packed, he combs through his hair in a distressed manner and puts on his baseball cap. katherine sees his vulnerability and her face frowns, smiles, frowns, quickly, involuntarily.]
katherine:
actually, come here a minute.
[she kisses element on the mouth and the whole thing lasts a long time. then she pulls back a little to look him dead in the eyes.]
do you think you would want to meet up
with me in costa rica?
we could keep going and not care
or worry about whether or not
we eventually get divided or lose interest.
we might both work well
in the new atmosphere
with strangers all around us
and a clean slate.
it might make us like strangers to each other.
element:
i don't know.
i feel like i am not done working here
in this city.
i've only made half-assed things on a few walls.
how will i be any better in a foreign place
where nobody knows me
to give me an opportunity?
i have to make something here,
and what would i do with star?
i don't even want to give him to friends,
not with his tail all wrecked.
katherine:
star could make the trip
fucked up tail and all.
it would be a trip for the damaged.
it would be hell and heaven and suicide
and new life, death and sun.
we would run and be together.
sometimes i feel like i am no fucking poet
but that i am also the only poet alive
because i am not spouting off
phony correlatives for what i feel.
let this shit be one flash,
one verse,
one wall,
one cat stepped on by a world
as long as we're drunk on love.
none of this shit will last or matter.
i can say i love you
critically or not,
no matter how far we are into things.
this is not some art
that can be fucked up
more than it already is
in passing;
i want to share something
for better or for worse:
a marriage in one second.
kiss me.
think how it will be in costa rica.
[they kiss but element seems like he wants to say something else. but the kissing is good and it goes on. suddenly, star the cat hobbles limply past them (they don't notice) and with a little bit of effort he gets up on a couch and then onto the warm bed, and he extends his forepaws onto the window glass and peers out simply into the sun. the sun is more orange this time.]
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