Alone, the Simpleton sits on a stone in the wide, empty steppe. Staring at the flames of revolution on the distant horizon, he bewails the fate of his land. [Curtain]
—Boris Godunov, Mussorgsky
Joy and peaches, Camper, and welcome again to Your Uncle Jerry's Dream Journal.
Those appointments with the nice doctor have been suspended because of the semi-quarantine around here. But the doctor has asked Uncle Jerry to keep writing in his journal, and to scan the pages for her. Uncle Jerry thinks she must be analyzing his handwriting, or something. Because there's nothing to see in the dreams themselves; the Freud Van done loaded up and left this address years ago. As you can plainly see.
Conversation at 2:35 a.m.
INNER PARSON: What are you doing? You’ve been down here forever.
INNER PIRATE: Self-isolating.
INNER PARSON: What? Why? You’re not sick. You haven’t even been exposed.
INNER PIRATE: You don’t know that. The virus walks the streets at night.
INNER PARSON: You need to come upstairs pretty soon. Here, I brought your coffee.
INNER PIRATE: I like isolation. . . . Besides, everyone is doing it.
INNER PARSON: They are not. You’re just checking your tweets again, aren’t you. And nobody’s "liking" them.
INNER PIRATE: No, I’m not. Get out.
INNER PARSON: Listen, people don’t respond to your tweets, because you’re so . . . I don’t know. . . . You’re so angry all the time.
INNER PIRATE: You’d be angry, too, if you had to be self-isolated.
INNER PARSON: Yeah, I’m not even going to reply to that.
INNER PIRATE: How are you not angry? The country is going to hell in a handcart.
INNER PARSON: Ha! Handcart? Is that a Mormon slur? Because those honky pioneers had it way worse than you, Bucko. They left a grave every 20 miles between Iowa and Oregon.
INNER PIRATE: That was careless of them.
INNER PARSON: Listen. Come on, this quarantine is temporary; we just have to stay positive. Hold each other in the light. That’s what I think.
INNER PIRATE: I don’t.
INNER PARSON: Hey, at least we're not sick. They say a simple grateful thought turned toward heaven is the most perfect prayer.
INNER PIRATE: Okay that’s enough of that, St. Platitude.
INNER PARSON: That's not nice.
INNER PIRATE: They also say, “I am too alone in this world, yet not alone enough to make each hour horrible.”
INNER PARSON: Did you just murder T.S. Eliot?
INNER PIRATE: Now you’re getting it. . . . Anglican bastard, anyway.
INNER PARSON: You know what? How about this? I think if we had cookies and milk every day, maybe about 3pm, we’d be just a whole lot happier.
INNER PIRATE: OMG
INNER PARSON: And maybe lie down for a nap. Make the best of the solitude.
INNER PIRATE: You’re an idiot.
INNER PARSON: Am I, though?
INNER PIRATE: You don't know my pain. You're producing dweeby, pansy Facebook memes, while here I am with a full-blown case of existential ängst.
INNER PARSON: Hmm. Are you sure it’s existential ängst?
INNER PIRATE: What? . . . Pretty sure. . . . Could be ontological. . . . Hmm.
INNER PARSON: I get those mixed up.
INNER PIRATE: Point is, it’s dark—dark, I tell you—here in my soul. How do you not understand this?
INNER PARSON: Okay, well. . . . I’ll put your coffee right here. It’s dark roast, no cream. Just how you like it.
INNER PIRATE: Arrrgh. . . .
INNER PARSON: And then I’m going upstairs to make some muffins.
INNER PIRATE: Whatever.
INNER PARSON: Shall I put on an opera for you?
INNER PIRATE: Yes: Boris Godunov, and turn it up.
INNER PARSON: Okay . . .
INNER PIRATE: Okay then.
INNER PARSON: All right . . .
INNER PIRATE: All right.
INNER PARSON: . . . Look, I’m sorry no one is responding to your tweets.
INNER PIRATE: Get out!
INNER PARSON: I liked one of them—did you see?
INNER PIRATE: Would you get . . .
INNER PARSON: The one with the Corgi pups. That’s my favorite.
INNER PIRATE: We are so effin' doomed.