Thanks for all your help

by Brendan deVallance

Little Theatre
Dixon Place
161 Chrystie Street
New York, New York




The Script

Additional music by The National, Get Smart!


Knife in Head

I stand before you, knife in head. Not a good day for me really, knife in head. But not the worst any of has ever seen. Water under the bridge really. Water under the bridge, and I am the water. Evaporating, evaporated. A glass of water. That is what I am like, simple and plain, except for the knife. I am serious and I am the essence. Essence of all life and all that is full or empty. Sorta like a cool breeze. I eat the cool breeze for breakfast. That is what gives me my power, my whammy, my fit in. I do so desire to fit in, knife in head and all. Dont want to be like you, but want to be near you, with good seats. Hot days turn to cool days, and that means the end is near, some kind of end vs some kind of beginning. I beg of you, beginning begins. Beg your pardon as the jail door slams. I will make the best of it as I often do. That is my way as is the way with water. Keep thinking half full even though it looks more like bone dry empty. The glass is most likely in some state of half. A sideways glance at a glancing blow. My ride becomes my personality crutch. My personality is on strike these days, giving up on good grooming as a trade in for grime, pure grime. Sad statistics of the world gone bad add up to a headache I cant stomach. Knife in head you ask? Yes knife in head like a much needed diversion to the pain caused by breathing. Breathing, I usually recommend it except when returning to the sea as we are apt to do. As the human race nears the finish line I get tired legs, they turn to jello, turn to stone or worse. A made up sound echos thru the caverns and then I realize that I am the cavern. That echo is the echo off my own interior walls and as the sound returns to the original source I attempt to launch a boat on the sound waves as they approach. The boat will not sail but the boat is not needed. The sea is my destiny and the dark days give way to dark depths. Ready for the darkness? Oh yes, ready. Like any good fish in any old pond. I hope for a life that is mostly mental but seem to settle for damp. Fish outta water could be all I can hope for at this point. A good day?, sure, yes, maybe, a day worth live in the long line of days. Knife in head? always, like jam on toast. This must be looked at as ice in the drink, not the drink itself. Cold drink on a hot day, or at least the memory of such things. Stand alone, stand out, I stand before you with knife in head and not much else really, hope it’s enough.



Fingers tell the truth, nothing else they can do really. Proof with finger poking my eye. Your good day is my bad day, all along. Plugged in and plugged up. Raising it, the bar. Lowering it—expectations of fellow man. Cigarette smokers unite! Undo the tyranny. Sandwich eatters become delirious. Smacking: the sound of lips with nothing to say. Perfect specimens with inconsequencial motives. My motives are pure and plain. I do not want attention. Never trust the truths you discover on stage. Because there is no way down from such a perch. My brain is usually checked at the sidelines—running on the fumes of instinct really. No one has time or patience to hear you going on about broken hearts and gummy bears. Really I understand that this is a passing thru place, not a stay for ever and die here type of place, so I will try to keep it brief, stick to the bullet points. The talking points stab at my brain like an ice pick. My feet stand sweetly below the legs but it all becomes just a foot note to the history that is passing us by. My main plan is to stop it monkey wrench style. Grinding halt situation. How can you look at something that spins so fast? You can’t see it for the blur. Not that the world is spinning that fast really, but I need calm to clear my head. You cant come up with a good theory with the stereo turned up so loud. The sound outside is deafening even in the forest. Lets face it even a watch needs a vacation every once in a while. The situation as it falls to pieces around us tugs at my sleeve. Which way up, which way to the front. This is a battle and I plan on being in the front lines for. Shadows on the wall turn to flames as the house is consumed around us. But we are left standing like brick chimneys. Is it us or just the idea of us? Am I here or just my good ideas? When this is all over give me a clue. Losing touch with what is real and what is fake as I stand before you, sorry about that. I am a professional, s’posed to know better. Well good times and burned candles always end the same way, puddle at the bottom. Heaven has a way of hiding in plain sight. Tossing out the directions and then putting it together: that is how I have promised to live my life. And the promise I make to you tonight is to


box head with mic (photo: Jeremy Darty)