These days, it’s getting harder for me to hear, though
  My hearing is perfectly fine.  

Words, speech, rhetoric, proclaimed in our
  Homes, schools, churches, media and lives,
  Filled with anger, pain, rage,
  Endless debating, name calling,
  Attacking, yelling, shouting,
  Drama and diatribes.

A new willingness sweeps the land, offering
  Gratuitous unfiltered honesty.
  A truth sport that calculatingly
  Cuts off at the knees,
  Sending the newly scarred and
  Wounded soul to walk away, with
  A knife in their back.

What unfulfilled need justifies
  This anger, frustration, rage,
  Blaming, shaming and finger pointing,
  And the creation of new effigies by endlessly
  Dissecting and parsing every word and phrase?

Have we become little more than
  Hurting people who hurt others?
  Are we just reacting in kind with a
  Pent-up frustration that has nowhere to go?

Are we really so fearful that
  Things aren’t going as they should, afraid
  We’ll never get what we want, or scared that
  We’ll never have what we need?
  
Could it be that we are unconsciously
  Caught in a vibration of drama, and
  Easy prey for the hidden plans
  And agendas of others?

Or, have we become slaves of an ego
  That willingly fills our minds with
  Unproven certainties to
  Give us what we do not have but want?

Maybe, strangely, we are
  Seeking a connection in the
  Only way we know.
  Hoping our shrill voices will
  Convince the universe that we matter,
  As we misguidedly attempt to make
  Some difference on our piece of earth.

This isn’t life!
  Yelling never convinces a single soul
  About the rightness of a cause or the
  Correctness of an action.  
  It only drives us further apart and
  Makes us dead to ourselves and each other.

Perhaps it's time to remember
  The wisdom of the ancients,
  Spoken so long ago.
  In compassion there is virtue,
  Blessed are the peacemakers,
  What is given is returned
  A thousand fold; and,  
  In the measure we judge,
  We shall be judged,
  Love the Gods and
  Do no harm.

These days, it’s getting harder for me to hear, though
  My hearing is perfectly fine.

Thoughts of my woes never  really were contemplated
upon reflection, this thing we are all do is fated
to fall on our laps. I was opened armed, I was blind
even though I could see, finding myself easily confined.

It was like I was strapped to a tree and then pulped
reformed to a thousand paper cuts. I was sculpt
in to the form i see now, I was a servant
while those that were calculatingly observant.

Less is more on the thoughts of a subliminal message,
could one even see that which was feed,  a presage
of there controlling. we are woven into this false
motion, confused by the continuous waltz.

I wore no chains no mark upon my supple flesh,
but this was a different kind, woven in unseen mesh.
I was drowning in air, i was sinking in depression
I'm enslaved with no evidence, only my confession.

At approximately 7:43 a.m., when perfect cars with perfectly tinted windows spewing their perfect, cancerous smoke rumbled past on the busy streets between chain coffee shops and designer pumps clicking on cold pavement, the coins would clink in my ruddy can at the highest pitch. This was the time at which wrists wrapped in non-cracked watches and nails painted with calculatingly  precise white lines would help flip dimes or nickels or pennies from mountain rain - aloe vera - citrus burst scented hands. They would flood the bottom as their eyes flooded with pity, their shoes chuckling harshly as they walked away, my holey-socked feet mottled with embarrassment. And this would continue, as long as I kept my teeth bared, instead of behind my thin lips, and my eyes fresh with sea water, as if I had just seen a kicked puppy in this lifeless part of the neighborhood. Chain link fences would warble woefully with the wind, caging me into my “office”, if you could call it that. Just a ratty Coleman sleeping bag, stolen from the scraps of the others in the streets, a small bottle of water, and a couple of pieces of bread a woman had given me. Her hair had been perfectly curled, pale fingers entwined with the auburn strands. Her coat had been freshly laundered, but her bread was moldy and stale. One day, in the middle of the summer, humidity wrapping my skin in horrid sensation and soaking me to the bone, I thought just how much I was like that puppy. I lived off of bread crusts and orange peels, droplets of water from discarded water bottles and sugar-loaded frappuccinos left on the sidewalk in the morning rush. Those with perfect manicures and bad-mannered stilettos might as well have stuck a post-it note, maybe bright blue with spots of sun fading, on my can saying “low budget beast”. Because that is what I was. I was a zoo animal, flaunting my aggression to have a photo snapped of me or a little treat, maybe a few coins. Thirty-seven cents could put light in my eyes like some who saw the subject of their addiction for the first time in hours. I could attack, sure. And that’s what they expected. They could donate two seconds of their lives and be thrilled by the spectacle that was me in my holey-socks and stained American Eagle sweatshirt. I thought I was human, perfect like them, but maybe I truly was an animal.

Trista Means Sorrow (I Act Play)
SETTING: Brooklyn Bridge at night. The sky is overcast, but no rain is threatening. The clouds look auburn. Lights shine in the water. The skyline of New York City painted on a scrim in the background.

A woman (Trista) is sitting on the railing next to the footpath of the bridge. She's facing the water and looks down at it. She has deep sorrow on her face, but no tears are flowing. She is Caucasian. She looks from the south. What would be considered white trash. Dressed shabbily, obviously homeless, her face etched with care. Her belongings are tied around her waist. It is very obvious that she's a jumper.

Enter another much younger biracial woman (Amanda) This one obviously a student, dressed in stylish grunge. She stops. The other has not seen her. Obviously. Trista seems off in another world.

Amanda looks around. It is quite late at night, and the young girl is frightened. She knows how to take care of herself, she's athletic. But she's alone. There is no one around, which has made her brave enough to take a walk at this hour of the night. But now she is confronted with a situation she is totally unprepared for. Trista looks over and sees her. A startled look crosses her face. Then a look of fear. Then belligerent anger.

TRISTA (mockingly): Well, well, well. What have we got here, God? A saving angel... How sweet. ( she glances back at the water, then looks again at Amanda) So. You gonna call the cops? ( her look is menacing).

AMANDA: ( with a shaky voice) No... please. I don't want... I... I don't...

TRISTA: ( interrupting) So. You don't want to... what? You don't want to call the po po. Or you don't want this po woman to jump. ( she looks at Amanda hard) don't think you gonna to stop me. Cuz you ain't.

Amanda is shaking. Filled with fear. It's obvious that Trista might do her harm. But she does not turn around just leave. Moments go by. The two women look at each other.

TRISTA: (In a voice of low, threatening anger) you best leave, little girl. Take your grunge a* outa here. You are not welcome in my livin... or in my dyin. This is no place for you.

Amanda does not budge. She's looking more and more resolved. She's fearful, but she does not want this woman to die

TRISTA: (Shouts) GO ON, YOU HIGH-YELLER !! LEAVE!!

Amanda still stands there. It's obvious that she's not going anywhere. She sees through the woman's anger as fear. She meets her eyes. There seems to be no rancor in her stare. She does not take the insult. She's heard it all before

TRISTA: (In a low, cutting voice) Go on, half-breed. Go on lookin at the white trash. Like you better...

AMANDA: ( obviously digging into her reserves of Bravery) You're not trash...and there's only one race. Human.

TRISTA: ( obviously taken aback but scoffing)
Ah.. ah...HA! HAHAHA.. HAAAW!!! A little Brave One!! Well, I'll be ******. The little brown angel has a voice, God. But it's sayin nothing but *******. Go on out of here little brown angel. Fly fly fly. There ain't nothing for you here, 'cept watchin me die. I can fly too, little brat angel. Or I ustah.... now my wings broken. ( she looks down at the East River again. Her anger has softened. The sadness is coming back into her face)

AMANDA: (softly) You talked to God just now. You believe in him, don't you?

There is a long pregnant pause. Amanda is looking steadily at Trista. Trista is looking down at the water.

AMANDA; (Assertively) DON'T YOU.

TRISTA: Oh, yeah. I believe in 'im. I believe in the devil, TOO. Ben Lorda m' life for years... years... (she's looking down at the water again. Defeatedly.).

AMANDA; Do you really believe that? ( she's looking angry. But she's not mad at Trista. She's mad at the Devil.)

TRISTA: (She's angry again. Her voice is low and cutting) Let me tell you something, little brown angel. I'm not what you would call Saint Catherine. That name means pure. I ain't pure.
I ain't rich and I ain't purdy. I ain't clean and I ain't sober. Only reason I'm not drinking ***** cuz I don't have money. Honey. Only reason I ain't using is same. I'm up against a wall. Wall of pain I can't stand. Can't even buy cigarettes. Had all my money stolen. Most of my stuff. Sleeping on a ******. Oh!! Did I tell you that I a crackhead? Not only crackhead. Crack-w. Been down on my knees with bums have more money than I had. (Trista looks off into the distance. Seems to reminisce) Came here to the Big Apple full of worms with Big Dreams full of . Wanted to be a Broadway star. Same old story same old dance. Same old tale of Bad Romance. (She starts to look haunted). I had no idea. The lights were on. The big Broadway Times Square LED lights. But nobody was f* home.

AMANDA: (Her eyes full of empathy) You are an actress? What happened?

TRISTA: (Hard. Cold. Cutting.) Not "ARE" little brown angel. WAS. Has been that never was. Too corn pone. Ain't Gon School Nuf. Caint reed. Caint spel.Hell. I aint even got a GED. Shoulda stayed outside Biloxi. Married Bubba. Ben barefoot and preggers...

AMANDA: ( narrowing her eyes and looking at her shrewdly) Why do you talk that way? Like your uneducated? Like you're stupid? Like you're racist? You try to make it out like you are oh, but you slip up too often. Like you told me that the name Catherine means pure. And other things too. You may not have a GED oh, but you ARE intelligent. Act like it!!

TRISTA: ( eyes wide with disbelief) Like you care? Who am I that you should care for me? Who are you that I should care for you? Let me tell you, little brown angel, this world is cruel. It's a meat grinder, and you gonna come out a steamin pile o meat an feathers. Don't you care!! Don't you care about anybody!! Do you hear me? DON'T YOU CARE ABOUT ANYBODY!!! (Starts to cry).Least of all ME.

AMANDA : (slowly) But that's why were put on this Earth. To care about each other. Love each other.

Another pregnant pause

TRISTA: (furious) L... L...LOOOVE!!! LOOOVE!!! What the hell you know about that??? ( Trista swings her legs over the railing and stands to face Amanda) Oh. I know all about THAT, you say. (Sarcastic whine) Cuz I know God... God is love, doncha know... God is ****** F LOVE DONCHA KNOW...

AMANDA: (Cutting her off sharply) do you believe in God? Yes. You do. Otherwise you wouldn't be talking the Way You Are. Then why are you cussing him?

Trista stares at Amanda in disbelief. The two women stare at each other. Trista is furious, but she is met with a look of pure courage, love, and acceptance. Her mouth gapes closed and open like a fish.

TRISTA: (Her voice low and menacing again)  One thing I gotta say bout you. You BRAVE. Don't you realize you're in the middle of New York City. On the Brooklyn Bridge. In the middle of the NIGHT. (Her voice gets louder and louder as she speaks) With a CRAZY WOMAN??!! TALKIN BOUT GOD, WHO THE CRAZY WOMAN HATES?? (Her voice gets low again. She doesn't sound angry anymore though. But profoundly sad) go on now little angel. There's nothing for you here cept death and dying. And the crazy woman who could throw you over the side of this bridge at any time. Might have a knife. Might have a gun. A crazy woman. I'm a crack w*. Not a nun.

AMANDA: you are a human being. I can't bear the thought that you might die tonight. I might be young, but I know how to take care of myself. I know I might not look like it, but I've got a third degree black belt in Taekwondo. Believe it. I'm no nun either. I may be small, Young, and a Christian, but I know how to take care of myself. If crossed with physical violence I am nothin nice.

Trista looks at Amanda calculatingly. She's intrigued by this girl now. She knows that in a fight the older woman, she would lose. She doesn't want to keep up her bravado. But she has learned over the years not to show any weakness. Not even to a young Christian woman.

TRISTA: my God angel. You haven't got the sense good God gave a no-see-em. Your brain is smaller! You might think you're ten feet tall and Bulletproof. You can kick like a champ, but you're not going to outrun a gun. I could have a gun in my belt. You are a FOOL.

AMANDA: Well. If you had a gun you would have sold it already for ***** and drugs. No. You don't have a gun. As for being a fool, well. I'm not the one who is sitting on a railing considering  suicide.(Her voice gets soft) I'm not going to try to talk you out of this. I have a phone. I want you to call the suicide hotline. Talk to somebody.

Another pregnant pause. Trista looks at Amanda. She sees that she serious. She knows the girl is not giving up now. Her Pride is starting to melt. As is her heart. She's beginning to like this girl now. She's tough and she's Brave. And she seems to really care.

TRISTA: (With a softer, friendlier voice) Well. Aren't we the smarty pants. You're going to get me to talk to somebody now. What you got one of those smartphones? Smartphones for a smarty pants?

AMANDA: (Smiling) it'll feel like it weighs a ton at first. But they can get you help. Maybe what you need is a rehab. Three Hots and a cot anyway. They'll take you in for a while. Have you been sober 24 hours?

Long pause

TRISTA: Yes.

AMANDA;  (Smiling, but with a serious look on her face) Let's get you clean. What's your name?

TRISTA: Trista. TRISTA MEANS SORROW.

AMANDA: (Her eyes begin to well with tears) Not anymore.

A long, long pause

AMANDA: My name's Amanda.

TRISTA:  (her eyes welling with tears, also) Amanda means worthy of love.( Long pause)

YOU ARE.

Amanda takes a cell phone out of the pocket of her hoodie. She holds it out to Trista. After what seems like an eternity, Trista takes it. She walks over to the railing. Sits down on the cement ground. Amanda sits down a little ways away from her. Trista dials. Offstage voice of a woman saying hello. Trista begins to talk to her, Softly.

TRISTA: Hi... can you help me?

[She continues to talk to the voice off stage oh, but it is a mumble and not really heard by the audience... lighting Fades to Black.

Amanda comes into a spotlight. She recites a poem...

BRIDGES

You're lookin' at the river
Feelin' down and weak
When you're
Wadin' in the water
and it's rushing 'round your feet
When you want to
Reach the other side
And feel you can't retreat
The same insane song
In your head
And it is on "repeat"...

Just remember there are Bridges
They are made of words
Remember there are Bridges
Things you haven't heard
Remember there are Bridges
Made with human hands
Remember there are Bridges
Then you'll understand

The waters in that riverbed
They are cold and deep
They have a riptide current
So look before you leap!
You can't stand against them
They will take you down
You may just go under
Brother, sister, you will drown!

Reaching out ain't easy
But it don't get much worse
Than feeling down and vulnerable
Living with a curse
It's like picking up the planet
To lift that lifeline phone
But there people who
Will care for you...
You are not alone!

Just remember there are bridges
They are made of Words,
Remember there are bridges
Things you haven't heard,
Remember there are bridges
Made with God's own hand
Remember there are bridges
Then you'll understand.

Remember there are Bridges
When you are at a loss
They weren't made to jump from

They were made to CROSS.



THE END