Script:
Time and Chance by M. L. Joseph Chapter 1 People say I tell other people's stories to avoid telling my own. They are right, of course, yet also they are wrong. Stories are never about one person alone. Most often the real story is the one strung like Christmas lights from one person to another, and beyond those two people are stories that stretch back through time, stories that travel from person to person and place to place. I may no longer have time to tell other people's stories. The truth is, I may not even have enough time to tell my own. I am a dying man. The body betrays what the heart cannot contain. I have come to the conclusion that my secrets have poisoned me, that they have slowly and silently taken over my body and devour it a little more each day. That's how it seems to me. My wife, Maggie, thinks it's the cigarettes, those thin white bayonets of disease, as she calls them. Doc Perkins doesn't know. Everyone has a certain propensity towards cancer, he tells me. Any stress, a problem at work, an injury, any number of things can tip the balance and get the ball rolling. Apparently, there is a window of opportunity each time the body is under duress, the gate swings open, and the rabid cells begin to multiply. I've read that tall people are at an even greater risk for getting cancer, having many more cells that could potentially go wrong. I'm only 5'10 on a good day. So much for theories. Doc Perkins, who used to be a golf buddy I saw every other weekend, is now my oncologist. He tells me to write, reminding me that people need to continue doing the things that they did before they got cancer. Write John, write a little every day. It will be good for you. Not necessarily for your body, but for your soul. Writing is one of the only things I can still do. My legs won't hold me, my voice is a scratchy whisper, but on paper I am something of a man I used to be. Up until we got the dreaded diagnosis, I had been a biographer and my life here was simple. I spent my mornings researching Disraeli or Edison and then wrote in the afternoon. With our two children grown and gone, the house was blissfully quiet. I was sequestered in my study, appearing for lunch and several cups of coffee. Occasionally, I would take the train to New York to see my editor and then retreat back to the calm of our suburban Connecticut home. Every four or five years, I would finish a book and then start on the next. One of a biographer's natural tendencies is to become so mesmerized by the life of his subject that he is quite unaware that his own life is passing by. During those years of chasing other people's stories, I neglected to look at my own. I can see how frugally I have used the past fifty-six years living only in part in shadow, colluding with the distractions of work and family the years have passed with little care or scrutiny. I now know that when I write, I am not writing myself towards death. On the contrary, I am writing myself towards life so that when I die, it will be true death. I sit propped up in a hospital bed that was moved into my study, the writer as patient in a museum of papers and books. I am happy here, surrounded by the remnants of my days before this horizontal existence, writing in a leather-bound notebook with an old fountain pen I bought years ago in Paris for a few francs. The first bit of writing is usually a waste, just bland drivel. I am easily distracted by the sparrows flitting outside my window—they are such loud birds—and the shifting patterns of sunlight moving over the fields. If I keep forcing my pen across the paper, something more meaningful will usually emerge. I am almost always rewarded for my stamina. It is like mining for ore, this writing, digging through the silt and clay of memory. Often a particular word or phrase will jump out at me as I read over what I have written. Yesterday, I put a circle around wordless fear. My latest challenge is to find names for each new strand of terror. I am like Adam naming the animals, except that I am swimming in the nomenclature of fear. My ritual is firmly in place. After I write, I sleep. It is a thick, deep sleep, like a winter stew. Nabs are a most pleasant thing, and invalids escape. Maggie draws the burgundy curtains against the glare of the afternoon sun, and I am enclosed in a russet glow, the color of a Scottish sunset.
Script:
My Lucky Day by Kiko Kaza One day, a hungry fox was preparing to hunt for his dinner. As he polished his claws, he was startled by a knock at the door. Hey, Rabbit! someone yelled outside. Are you home? Rabbit, thought the fox. If there were any rabbits in here, I'd have eaten them for breakfast. When the fox opened the door, there stood a delicious-looking piglet. Oh, no! screamed the piglet. Oh, yes! cried the fox. You've come to the right place. He grabbed the piglet and hauled him inside. This must be my lucky day! the fox shouted. How often does dinner come knocking on the door? The piglet kicked and screamed. Let me go! Let me go! Sorry, pal! said the fox. This isn't just any dinner. It's a pig roast! My favorite! Now, get it to the roasting pan! It was useless to struggle. All right, sighed the piglet. I will, but there's just one thing. What? growled the fox. Well, I am a pig, you know. I'm filthy. Shouldn't you wash me first? Just a thought, Mr. Fox. Hmm, the fox said to himself. He is filthy. So, the fox got busy. He collected twigs. He made a fire. He carried in the water. And finally, he gave the piglet a nice bath. You're a terrific scrubber, said the piglet. There, said the fox. Now, you're the cleanest piglet in the county. You stay still now. All right, sighed the piglet. I will. But, but what? growled the fox. Well, I am a very small piglet, you know. Shouldn't you fatten me up to get more meat? Just a thought, Mr. Fox. Hmm, the fox said to himself. He is on the small side. So, the fox got busy. He picked tomatoes. He made spaghetti. He baked cookies. And finally, he gave the piglet a nice dinner. You're a terrific cook, said the piglet. There, said the fox. Now, you're the fattest piglet in the county. So, get into the oven. All right, sighed the piglet. I will. But, but what? shouted the fox. Well, I am a hardworking pig, you know. My meat is awfully tough. Shouldn't you massage me first to make a more tender roast? Just a thought, Mr. Fox. Hmm, the fox said to himself. I do prefer tender meat. So, the fox got busy. He pushed. And he pulled. He squeezed and he pounded the piglet from head to toe. You give a terrific massage, said the piglet. But, the piglet continued. I've been working really hard lately. My back is awfully stiff. Could you push a bit harder, Mr. Fox? A little to the right, please. Yes, yes. Not just a little to the left. Mr. Fox, were you there? But, Mr. Fox was no longer listening. He had passed out, exhausted. He couldn't lift a finger, let alone a roasting pan. Poor Mr. Fox, sighed the piglet. He had a busy day. Then the cleanest, fattest, and softest piglet in the county picked up the rest of his cookies and headed for home. What a bath! What a dinner! What a massage! cried the piglet. This must be my lucky day. When he got home, the piglet relaxed before a warm fire. Let's see, he wondered, looking at his address book. Who shall I visit next?
