Big Ben strikes thirteen. Light dawns through the floorboards
from deep down below, revealing an emptied stage. It is cold, and there is a
lingering smell of gas. A double rainbow flickers briefly.
MADAM SPEAKER (unseen but heard, slowly, with gentle
authority, unfurling grandeur): In a land where once it was a crime to be
lost, it has been a crime to be found, long since the destruction of hope. But
to this crime we now entrust forever. In the politics of time, in the spirit of
all that is last past the post, in an artistic landslide on a scale no longer
merely universal, but as big as can be global, in the after-image of wasteful
meaning, in the tried and tested and democratically elected acquisition of
eternity – a drama at all times most scrupulously observed – The Security of
Lostness has once again replaced the Security of Foundness. This smile of the
land in consensus, may to the old and decrepit look divine, but is the people's
now for ever, it is yours and it is mine. Like a drug accept it gladly.
BOSS PERSON (OF THE PEOPLE) (also unseen
but heard, reverently, but with some signs of nervousness):
This remains unsaid, but known. We
know also however, of the continuing existence of the few old Cynics who await
what is New. Privately, we may concede that they do survive, though we know very
well that they shall not thrive. The Net informs us of ghostly shadows in
malign places, which of course we possess, so better to disown. There they speak
with malformed nature – to misshapen birds particularly, and to flowers with
human heads and antlers sprung from crocodile teeth – of 'inconceivable
insecurity', which is 'neither lost nor found', but which 'can, in truth,
be imagined.'
—
Big Ben strikes fourteen, and keeps going.
At the heart of government, state of the art, lies the art of the state. The
stage is a flurry of lawyers, merchants, and legislators of atheism. It's the
art of good government. Death – its beauty and plenitude, are on everybody's
lips. Little groups in the crowd become distinctly audible. (They speak mostly
in French and American, and occasionally in Japanese, and stutter footnotes in
post-graduatism, but will speak in brittle British for the benefit of the
audience. No English has been spoken for many long years.) Bankers and other
religious leaders, like people possessed, talk of aesthetics; politicians and
other arms dealers talk of ethics; sporting heroes and other perfectly formed
television presenters talk of sacrifice; conceptual artists and other butchers
talk of genocide; the directors of charities and other prison managers talk of
which they will sponsor. Clothes are shared and swapped as easily as the sex,
and sexual favours, of their wearers. Ever conscious of fashion, it would be a
crime not to alter one's perspective. 'Change your style Peter, change your
lifestyle Paul' are the last words heard, as they all leave the stage
eventually, upside down.
—
The bowels. Dark twilight under dawn. Big
Ben inaudible. In the castle of Nihilism, known otherwise only as a private
clinic, the ghost of faith is imprisoned by the agents of Belief. A room of
electric light and exact geometry. The Law explains The Crime… patiently,
certain of victory, despite being sorely tested… The Crime, as ever, trying to
be helpful…
THE LAW: Belief is that which we are wont to
know, and that, surely. Belief is certain knowledge. We believe in
knowledge. To know is to believe; to believe is to know. This is what we have:
We have what we know. What we cannot know we cannot have. We cannot have
what we cannot know. Knowing nothing you would still have nothing, not
knowing nothing, you might still have something. Belief is beyond doubt a
closure of possibility. It excludes all that cannot be possessed. We know what
you are, we have you there, and we have you here. We believe in You.
THE CRIME: But not knowing anything, am I open to
question?
THE LAW: Fear not, all questions are known.
THE CRIME: Then I am the answer to your question?
THE LAW: Indeed, you are our question and our answer.
THE CRIME: But whose then the power?
THE LAW: Both the bomb and the flower. We believe that knowledge
is power. Belief is as nothing without power, as power is as nothing without
belief. Nothing is truly powerless and nothing is truly power. The powerless are
powerful and the weak empower the strong. Nothing, thus, is Power itself, you
see.
THE CRIME: But who then the free?
THE LAW: Why nothing of course, and no one is free, for there is
no better order, no harmony of hierarchy, outside of tyranny. And this of course
is beautiful, quite as much to you as me.
THE CRIME: Love then chaos worse than anarchy, and poverty an
insult?
THE LAW: Our light at last you see. Love we accept where your
money is lacking. Observe The Law. Not for Nothing does it command your
unfailing respect, for Nothing is Everything. 'Love'. Even that we can tolerate.
It is but a sad form of power, a failing currency, but one worthy at all times
of investment. For in the power of love, is the love of power. Gold always, for
ever, as from dust. (Aside to the audience: The recurring miracle!) There
can be no kingdom of love outside of the kingdom of power. (Sounding more and
more like a Poet with every false breath) Each sacred structure rises
and falls in its shadow. For there, where love is dressed for show, no naked
love can ever go. A naked love, unarmed by belief, is a love so poor it beggars
belief.
—
Darkness, less of dawn than of twilight. Big Ben's chimes are
blurring. Walls are dissolved. No edges are seen. A ghostly flower, the
faith-crime gleams. An honest form of life, but quite useless as an instrument.
Howls of laughter from the audience, retreat to silence as lawyers with
truncheons take position in the aisles. Torches are shone on the front row of
the stalls, where the Philanthropists sit in seats reserved some months, even
years, in advance. They process onto the stage, in costumes regal, ministerial
and ecclesiastical. With great patience and precision they entomb the gleaming
gloom in concrete and announce (inaudibly) the Dominion of the Dome. A
celebration in miniature emitting no sound. Dumb show or mime. Pitch darkness.
New Night. Years might have passed, the scene is unchanging.
—
And yet, outside, somewhere in the global space beyond the
theatre, and unknown to its captive audience, the tired old Cynics awaiting what
is True, have somehow sent birds to the city. Inconceivable Skyborn Cripples.
They each return exhausted, burdened with hope – thus punished – to a bad barren
place, judged the place of ill-placed judgement. Toxic sand. Broken bones.
Naked, malformed nature. Grotesque. Fearsome. Unsmiling. They address
themselves, croaking, to Bad, Sad, and Mad.
THE SKYBORN CRIPPLES (their bones pushing through, yet
keen-eyed still, pupils bright with hunger): The darkness there, is the
dream coming true, a nation at prayer, in the prayer of a few.
THE FEW OLD CYNICS: What more could we do.
THE FAITH-CRIME (faintly, as if from a puff of dust in a sand
dune): How very true.
[1999]
