Common Criminal Scene 1

Uploaded by wfitz43 on 07.06.2011

I remember when Gregory McPherson first came to his “new home” with his bike and his
duffle bag and me of course. I’m his most prized possession. His invisible trophy. You
can’t see me. Only he can. But if you listen closely, you can hear me. Listen. I’ll tell
you how it really is. Strange I can speak to you. When I lived I spoke with my hands.
I couldn’t hear. I suppose this is his gift to me, or so he thinks. He’s let me live
in his mind. I’m his Memory after all. I’m his companion, motivation, his comfort and
his conscience. I‘m with him always. Whether he wants me or not.
He knows I’m here. He can feel me. He can call to me. He can see me. But only you can
hear me.
You watch me. I watch you. Le grand malheur, de ne pouvoir etre seul.
It was well said of a certain German book that "es lasst sich nicht lesen"—it does
not permit itself to be read. There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to
be told. Men die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors, and looking
them piteously in the eyes—die with despair of heart and convulsion of throat, on account
of the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer themselves to be revealed. Now
and then, alas, the conscience of man takes up a burden so heavy in horror that it can
be thrown down only into the grave. And thus the essence of all crime is undivulged.
The name’s McPherson, Greg if you like. I had another on the inside, but that’s
a different story. Just a memory now. This is my “new home” a fresh start. A bit
more civilized here, but for that smell. Familiar, oppressive, institutional. These places all
have it. I’ll give it a good scrub. It’s in everything. My things, my hair,
the uniform I wear; a good scrub. Wash it all away.
Hmmm, the room’s small. Bigger than my old accommodation,
suitable I suppose. We’ve a desk, a cot and a table. That’s all I need to work.
I’m a photographer. A collector really. Mostly I like to watch. prefer working in
the dark, under this red light.
All I own is in this bag I put on the table. And my bike of course. I’ll keep in here
too. Time to unpack. The camera, oooh, and today’s paper. I like to read the news.
We’ll put them here on the table eh? An orange.
A symbol for energy and fire. It represents spiritual energy and healing, it is empowering.
In art, the Christ Child sometimes holds an orange,
a redemption symbol ... Or, a symbol of death fortold.
Mmmm. I’ll deal with this later. Ah, and of course my portfolio. Ah, these
will bring back the sweet Memory. Not that she’s ever far away. I know you’re her,
waiting for me. (looks around for her) I’ll pin these up and make it feel like home.
You watch me, I watch you. Perhaps we’ll see. . .
And we dace. We always dance don’t we Greg. Our dance, part waltz, part reality. The song
always speaks the steps of our dance.
In a motel room on the edge of nowhere, The sun goes down through grimy window glare,
We are famous, You and I, See the story that we sha-re?
Your lovely photo graces the cover, Take off the blindfold,
Look at your lover, Why do you stare so blankly,
As I read our story?
You're not the first, There will be more,
I hear your breath, Behind the door,
They'll remember you, You should thank me,
Share our glo-ry,
But I see no appreciation of your place, No gratitude, No not a trace,
Perhaps your bindings are too tight, Is that the problem?
Am I right?
I hope you will forgive me, That's just the way it has to be,
Tell me darling, Tell me true,
I want to know What frightens you?
Au revoir my love. Come back soon. Good hunting. I await you in the darkness as you left me.