Slurry Walls

By Mark Hansen

Let me fill you in on a little secret. Confidentially, I seriously doubt that there is the slightest difference (besides the obvious) between the light bulb and the light bulb plant. I realize I’m shattering all your conventions with such a bold statement, but please hear me out before the mob of you proceeds to lynch me. It all began on a day. I was standing in this same exact spot, or maybe it was more over in that direction. I was counting the cracks in the floor, and as there were none, it was slow going. Shortly after I began, I would say roughly three weeks, maybe a half hour, I couldn’t see the clock where I was standing. A man entered. He had a very loping gait, a seriously absurd stride about his legs, as if they splayed forth from his person like the roots of a tree. It looked a little like this. I remained in the same spot, although maybe I moved slightly this direction. I can’t remember now. I do remember that he stopped right in front of me, and that he smelled of whiskey and broken glass, and that he wore a shoe around his neck and a necktie on his foot, in a trendy defiance of social mores, I thought. He peered at me above his glasses, tinted yellow, a very dark mustard yellow, in fact, I think it was mustard that he was trying to pass off for glasses. Maybe it was prescription mustard. He had a very disconcerting look on his face, similar to the gaze of a person trying to indicate that you have stuff stuck in your teeth, only he was looking straight into my eyes. I was going to ask him if I had something stuck in my eyes, but the only thing I could think of that would get stuck there was the third chorus of Silent Night, and I had just removed that. After a pause (whether brief or long, I cannot safely divulge) he finally spoke. "Have you ever partaken of the luscious light bulb plant?" He asked. I confessed that I hadn’t. He laughed a silent laugh that somehow still rings in my ears. Then he produced what was approximately the shape, size and consistency of a light bulb, except for one minor difference. At the end, where you would normally find the ridged piece that screws into the light socket was a long root with a leaf growing out of one end. The man handed it to me and said, "It is a most delectable treat. Eat it, and you won’t be sorry." I considered the plant. It was nothing I had ever encountered, though I had read about it in any number of nature magazines, about how of late it had eclipsed the candle plant in usefulness and public stature. I hadn’t ever seen a candle plant before, but I could tell that this was better. I turned to the man and asked if I could try a little bit. "Eat it all," he said, "like a good little boy." So I did. Broken glass all over my mouth. Stuck in my teeth, stuck in my throat, a little even stuck in my eyes. Now I may have never tasted an actual light bulb before, but I think I can safely say that the light bulb and the light bulb plant taste exactly the same. And how many people find the light bulb a delectable treat? That’s right, no one. The old man noticed the pain in my eyes, and the blood in my mouth, his eyes gaping, his mouth wide, all aghast, he exclaimed, "You’re not tasting it right!" I have no idea what this means. they I think are going out to mall all the time wondering like a ghost reciting their poetries. I loved it, but I feel like I want to direct... take the choking subway a lot

"Slurry Walls" debuted September 8, 2000, performed by Mark Hansen.

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