Shared thoughts of playwrights in Lyon, Berlin and Copenhagen during COVID-19
Dora Cheng
I've stolen time in the early morning.
An hour from 6 am till 7 am.
Covid19 can't have this time,
I stole it for myself.
My daughters questions can't have
this time, since it is reserved for
silence only.
The media coverage can't reach this
time, because it takes place in another.
realm altogether.
But you can. I want to give this time
to you and to the page.
The page makes me feel normal,
again.
Sane. Sane and connected to
someone on the outside.
Someone in my building is playing
the saxophone.
Maybe she stole time for herself too?
/Anna Skov
My head is an island
And everything is turning in my head
Searching for what
For something that is not here
There is no absent
We look for it
Find it where the crack is
Where it rings hollow
Panic of doing nothing
Of being lost
Nothing rings anything
My house has come alive.
so strange!
Because now it is filled with
voices
with
movement
with
creation
before it was
empty
vacant
because I was out
doing
work
other people
parties
My plants are watered again
The coffee stains are cleaned up - coffee stains I didn't even notice before
My house is having a blast
Piano in the air outside
I hear
Decide to play the same music
All windows open
Loud
To see
Let's fill some forms
To be sure that you does exist
To be sure
You're not forgotten here and there
If your name is on some paper
You won't disappear
Never
WHICH PLAYS WILL YOU WRITE WHEN THIS IS OVER ?
I exist
I'm here
I filled out the forms
now please
give me my paycheck
AN OLD MAN ON A BALCONY SCREAMING:
This is so hard!
A WOMAN WALKING HER DOG REPLIES:
What's your hardship?
THE MAN:
My wife gave me three healthy daughters, but past away before they were
all grown.
THE WOMAN:
Oh that is indeed hardship. I feel for you
THE MAN:
That is not my hardship. You see, time heals the loss, and in my children I
found my wife.
THE WOMAN( with a dog that is growing ever more inpatient):
Well what is it then?
THE MAN:
My three daugthers. One is in the army fighting a battle in a faraway land.
THE WOMAN:
I feel for you.
THE MAN:
Another daughter is taken ill by a disease, invisible as the wind and deadly
like a viper on the prowl.
THE WOMAN:
You poor soul
THE MAN:
The third daughter is consumed with love for a bad man. She is lost in a web
of his creation.
THE WOMAN:
It is a wonder that you even stand! Such hardship
THE MAN:
My hardship is this: I have few weeks left to live, and I can only visit one of
them, before my time is up. Who do I choose? What would you do?
THE WOMAN LOOKS AT HER DOG, AS IF HE HAD THE ANSWER. THE DOG REPLIES WITH A LOOK THAT SAYS:
Humans and your problems.. live in the now, do something, anything, sniff
someone, grab a bone, play now or regret it later.
THE WOMAN( Knowing that her dog is of no use whatsoever) replies:
If you go to the sick daughter, you might not make it, she might die on your
way there, and all will be lost. But If you do get to her, you will comfort her
in her latest hour
If you go to the daughter consumed with love, you might not get to see her,
she might be trapped, or bewitched by his powers, and your effort will be in
avail. But if you do get to her, she might break free, and live a long happy
life, with fond memories of you.
If you go to the battlefield, a bomb might explode before you even get there,
or you might be shot, and all will be lost and none of your daughters will
have had a last visit from you.
That is very difficult indeed. A very hard decision to make
THE MAN:
I KNOW! I've been thinking about it for three full weeks!
WHO ARE YOUR HEROES?
-Breathe some air
Take some thoughts
Put them in a well
On a bridge
On some pavement
Breathe some air
Shall you?
-No.
-No indeed.
They might have been contaminated.
-What if I walk them with a lead.
They won't touch anyone.
They won't touch anything.
I will be the only one who is touched by them.
-So you can.
But you will never feel as alone.
Dora
In a newly-built container hospital for corona-virus：
The music is on. The music for collective warm-up is very familiar. It’s the music she used to hear when she was a teenager. It’s a pop dance music she used to hear when running away from school. “四三二一，伸出你的手，跟我一起来。”But it’s not the song anymore because the rhythm is much faster and with all sorts of electronic beats. The woman unbuttons the working shirt and takes off her working trousers. She kicks her high-heels away. Out of the plastics bag with her names written on it, she takes the jogging leggings with a tag on it and she struggles to pull it up. Nurses and doctors wear medical protection clothes with their names written on them. They gather, in the basketball ground at the entrance of the hospital, and the other people come to them. They walk pass the woman, who’s doing sit-ups. They glance at the leggings stuck on her naked thighs. A nurse tries to help her to pull it up. “注意保暖啊，姑娘，病人注意保暖啊” The music gets wilder, and so does the air. She hears the joyful laughter from the crowd, and she jumps, pulling the leggings onto her belly button. The nurse nods at the woman. She pulls the arms of the woman. They both wave hands in the music beats, with the crowd.
In the security camera system, every picture seems like a perfect statistic chart. Words, numbers, colors, sections. Patients are dots. Trolleys are lines. Beds are columns. Busy-working nurses and doctors look like curves among them. Only when the woman starts to jog, to run, to move away the trolleys, to jump over the beds, to jump out of the window, she knows the pictures will be changed, repositioned and rebuilt. But for me, something changed, something, somehow, in somewhere changed at this moment, like a banana ice cream dropped on the street, which you can never put back in the corn.
低级灰
是脆弱的探照灯，所有生命。
伤口结膜，大洋萎缩。
已经死去的，心不再思念，已经死去的身体。它们最热烈，时刻旋转，红日无光。
但有尽头。
死亡也有，穷，尽，虚，空。
是无耻的野草地，所有生命。
五官模糊，雪地蝉鸣。
一个名字的魂魄，不够，一个又一个。用手画皮。脚走出影子。
苍穹无尽，苍穹无尽。
风在野草里，野草在火里，火烧着土地。
灰烬。
是苍白的教科书，所有思想。
“干净的”，三个字。
这三个字，这干净的三个字，
再一次，再一次，再一次，
三二一零。
I forget faces
Too much time goes by
Through the window, nothing
So I go into my memory
I'm looking for shadows and their figures
I'm looking for them
But the energy of the bodies has disappeared
Only flashes remain
Sharp moments
Not even a wake
Not even a rustle
Nothing
So I inspect
And I ask
I interrogate this, this ghost of mist
I ask him if he have seen his face somewhere
Seen its smell somewhere
He says no
He doesn’t know
He knows nothing
And overtakes me
I interrogate her, this smoke
And I ask her
I ask her
Where her face has gone
She smiles sadly
Makes a vague gesture
And pass
I turn in the streets of my memory
I get lost in the shabby emptied corner bars
I pass under the back lanes
I've lost humans
I've lost their cool hands
Their fat laughs
Their raised eyebrows
I've lost the screams
The fists in the belly
The spitting insults
I run to search
I see the fog coming
I ask him if he stole the identity
He answers
That he is not the father of these beings
I try to smash his face
He sneers
And wraps me
I no longer see the ghosts
Melted in the fog
I hear something
I hear that resonates against condensation
They make the droplets clink
With their invisible fingers
They sing
Songs of names
Heennnnnnnnrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiettttttttttttttttttttttttteeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
Sooooooooooooooolllllllllllllliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnneeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
Eééélllllllllllllooooooooooooooooooooooooiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
The fog dissipates slowly
I didn’t realize that I went out of my memory