Date: Sun, 11 Jan 2009 01:00:06 -0800
To: puptcrit-AT-puptcrit.org
Subject: [Puptcrit] Wiley


Friends-

It occurred to me that within this expansive 
sharing dialogue among puppeteers, one thing is 
lacking.  We never hear directly from a puppet. 
Manipulation without representation.

So, Wiley is the narrator in our upcoming adult 
show, RASH ACTS, a medley of five stories about 
the politics of daily life.  He's a boney old guy 
with a wide smile, a rod-with-real-hand puppet 
who was in a show we did in 1980 and has just 
emerged from seclusion.  He's doing a good 
workmanlike job for us, but hearing of this 
Puptcrit list, he asked to put in a few words. 
He's not computer-savvy, being from the age of 
celastic & plastic wood, so I'm posting for him. 
Here's Wiley:

***

	So the lights go up and here I am over to 
the side of the stage and I see these people 
staring at me. 

	Yes, guys, I'm a puppet.  "Doris, my God, 
we've come to a puppet show!"  They're all 
thinking "Who is this, Rumpelstiltskin?"  Like I 
stripped away their suit and tie and stuck'em 
back in rompers.

	So in the cold headlights of humans 
thinking they just paid 18 bucks to see the Three 
Little Pigs, I do my job.  Telling people things 
to make them ecstatic they came to the theatre. 
"Turn off your gadgets.  No cameras.  Buy our 
dvds.  Look for the exit signs. Enjoy the show."

	All right, I did that.

	Problem with people, their attitudes are 
smirched by that little asshole Pinocchio.  "I 
want to be a real boy."  Idiot.  Join the 
Marines, why doncha.

	Real boy.  Boy-wise, I don't have 
anything down there to bother with, and that's a 
whole lot less trouble.  Although I see this 
little fox in the front row.  Hi sweetheart.  Yes 
I don't have anything down there except the 
yearning.

	So I announce ok let's get on with the 
fun and entertainment and then we can all go home 
and go to bed. 

	I was in a show once.  Then they put me 
in a storage bin.  The rent's pretty cheap, 
though I share it with seven others, but I try to 
stay on top.  That's my so-called life.  I try to 
keep my hopes up.  They put a smile on me for 
this purpose.  Sometimes it warps at the corners.

	All I do in this show is keep spouting 
between scenes while they set up the props or 
what they call preparing the magic of 
make-believe.  Talk about life, they said.  Life. 
The less said the better.  I get very lonely 
around people.

	Way back when, the play that I was in had 
goblins and fairies and nothing was believable. 
I liked it better that way.  What's believable 
about reality?

	All right, I'll tell you about life. 
Life as a puppet.  Which the way that's usually 
meant, "being a puppet," is that somebody pulls 
your strings or sticks their hand up your butt. 
And that is a valid concern.

	But that refers to actual human beings 
who try to be puppets cause they think it's safer 
that way.  The true puppet, well, I can=8A (And 
here I go nuts, I spin my head around and I fly 
up into the air and I stretch inside out and 
upside down and asswards into the sky.)  I think 
my mobilities are kinda special.  They suggest 
potential.

	And those sweet moments when I surprise 
the ass off my puppeteer.  Let him know who's 
really in charge here.  Yes, it is a known fact 
that this is not my voice, so I personally am not 
speaking the words that you hear, and so I cannot 
be held responsible for what you hear me saying, 
and so I can say anything I damn well please.

	Including the truth.  When was the last 
time you tried that, oh ye almighty humans?  We 
get away with it.  And they say, "Oh, they're for 
kids," but what they mean is that we make'em see 
their pathetic little shrunken worm of a world 
through the kid's eyes they haven't used since 
their pet died and they buried it under the tree 
and sniveled their heart out.  And now stuff 
opens.

	I don't mean to imply that puppets hate 
human beings.  No, we rely on you all for our 
hands and our voice and our storage bins.  And 
for the stories, the great thing being that the 
more you fuck up the more there is to tell, so no 
matter what godawful shit you pull, it's all raw 
material.

	But if you suspect, as at times you do 
when you see us staring at you from the 
workbench, that we form a secret society with a 
secret handshake and a plot to rule the world, 
well =8A that is for you to deal with.  I would 
just ask some humility on the part of puppeteers 
who think they run the whole show.  And some 
respect, just a token gesture that you realize, 
yes, we have a soul.  In fact, we are your soul. 

	And take us out of our storage bins, for 
a week at least, in the summer, when it's mild.

Peace & joy-
Conrad B.
for Wiley


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and
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