Scott Malby

Polyphemus: A New American Masque Starring Polyphemus the Cyclops, son of Poseidon. Circe, the daughter of Helios. With a guest appearance by Eros, the son of Aphrodite. Based on a mumbled comment by Ben Jonson. Written under the influence of Garcia lorca. Costumes by Inigo Jones. Period research by Paolo Honorificas. On Circe's balcony Polyphemus sits with a tumbler of whiskey in his hand. Patiently, he glues found objects to a canvas of the world. He looks at the sunset appearing in the shape of a nude descending a staircase. He looks for flesh where there is no flesh. Only his eyes move. He thinks, *Where was the sea before I came to it, and the earth, what of it before I was born?* A sparrow brings him a worm. He takes baby sparrows out of the worm's mouth and reflects, *It was'nt in the meadow or vineyard I first learned to dance, it was in my mind.* He conceives of a past but it's not the same. He wraps murdered stars in the corpse of day as the sea whispers in his ear, *Do nothing more until you hear from me.* But he knows, the sea will complain forever to anyone who is willing to listen. The Cyclops looks up at the sky again. The clouds take on the shape of flaming flamingos. The sign of a storm in Heaven. Polyphemus sings his favorite song. He practices it in the wilds of New Jersey where bored trees aren't his only adversary. The song gets wet in his mouth. He hangs it up on a burkwood daphne. The song is more beautiful when dry. This makes the Cyclops purple with envy. He sings the song again but the melody can't be tied down and escapes through the middle of his mouth. Polyphemus reflects, *To a moth a closet is the synagogue of heaven and a light bulb is God. I should have known better. A song wants more than to be just sung. It wants to feel as if it's out for a stroll or floating through water.* Out of tune, resisting much, obeying little, Polyphemus looks like a sad faced cowboy clown dressed in torn shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, venturing forth on a mental skate board colliding full force with the deteriorating body of his own reality. He leaks as he melts into the sunburned arms of himself. He cries. His mind a furnace of fire, consuming both sap and root of countless revelations pointing incomprehensibly to the reality of the insanity of it all. No Cyclops can outgrow their own contradictions or remain unscarred and uncorrupted. It's evolution, you know. A Cyclops hides behind his tools, he scratches where he itches, he grasps at things, holding on, thinking of everything he might lose if he let go. Circe comforts Polyphemus, * I will give you loaves of fresh baked bread, smoked herring, prayer shawls, a good morning in both Mandarin and Cantonese. I will give you computers, excitement, the world wide web. I will bring you e-mails, taxi rides, rude waiters, high gas prices and a city of people so full of schemes, insecurity burns through them like the fuse of a bomb. I will give you all these things if you come with me to New York.* The Cyclops answers back, *Svelte gloom of destiny, I am given pigeons to eat. Light squeals and squeaks through their mouths. My loneliness is to me like a sculptor with a chisel carving indelible tattoos in my heart. The Statue of Liberty lives there. If she were my lover I'd trace on her lips imaginary runes with my tongue. She'd strip me. I'd lust for her. She'd curl her legs around my legs. My eyes would enter her eyes and disembark. I'd never be satisfied. I'd want her to think of nothing but me and when she did, I'd tire of her and leave her after consuming her flesh. Life is as intense as an electric eel descending down stairs, into dark cafes, into seedy clubs. Accepting no prisoners. Refusing defeat. Defying convention. I skin what I trap, feeding it to my unsatisfied desires curling up like a fist in my heart with the beak of a predatory bird. New York streets are treacherous and bold like an icy, flowing ocean frowning inscrutably in the cold. Periods of madness in beasts and men. The dead commit perjury and the rich grow fat from petty thievery. Like a watch in a coffin, New York's whirling refrain would make me dizzy. That tart city has as its symbol an ever changing star, suggesting no one vision can encompass it all. But caught in a land of lost faith, of unmet love, there is another city that scares me more, that daily commits suicide. Desire and Fear are lovers. Fire is their punishment and reward. I have nothing to believe in but them.* Circe replies: *Everything in New York is put on. The buses, the streets, the signs, like hammering copper sheets around the iron carcass of an Amazon.com and calling her Liberty. A pulling of legs to fit extravagant myths. Paul Bunyon and his blue ox. Believe in them. Snow White, Gilgamesh, King Arthur, believe in them. Believe in the Lord of the Rings and virgins and the ghost of an American past that probably never was. Believe in the fictions that elevate the myths without closure giving the lie to a superior vision denying the possibility of seeing differently. Believe in believing and as the Trickster is in us all, let us dress this new age in the Emperor's new clothes and celebrate. Where wonder is out and brazenly about, a double thrill for those not in the know or mind bleed or open window you're pitched through backwards breezing into a baffling land of milk and honey where neon lights mate with Broadway shows in congregations of congestions wending for miles through Manhattan tunnels of big apple cunning and everything is spicy surprise like plumes of dreams flaming into innuendos of hype. There, anything is possible and everything seems an overdose of images or quarrelsome outbreak where everyone arrogant carries a pail of water for brains and deserves to be eaten. If King Kong could make it there you too could be happy on the make there.* Eros enters as Polyphemus and Circe depart through a concealed door. Eros states, *From the Cyclops' height, and through the fog, it's an ant hill or bowl of fruit. Manhattan, where the multitudes swarm like a frenzy of ants over a sweet green leaf. Manhattan, indentured to cinnamon pleasures, diamond desires and black licorice gold, grown fat breathing in the mystic exaltation of greed. Where mountains of cement heave up their own steaming flanks. New York's pleasures are lusty. Its language red to poets. Hearts are forged in bronze, minds in quick silver and tongues made of razors. Every man there is of many parts whose steps are greased with lightning. On a cold night they need three lovers in bed to keep from freezing. Women dress skimpy and laugh at their tricks. You could do far worse, if you're a quick lad, than live in New York.*

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