Gertrude Stein is sitting at a desk, her tongue sticking out of her mouth, writing furiously and muttering. Enter Hilda Doolittle.
HD: Hey Gert, whatcha doing?
GS: Oh you know… just trying to get the thing-ness of the thing. I think the secret has to do with the overuse of the verb ‘to be’ in repetitive mode… (continues to write furiously)
HD: I’m in love! I met this dreamy young man. His name is Ezra and he calls me his little “Imagist”!
GS: (snorts) Love?! (Pause). Love.. hmm.. love… I love my love with a c… no. no.. with a z. no.. I love my love with a p…
(Enter Mina Loy)
HD: Hi Mina!
ML: Fuck you.
GS: Fuck… fork.. fork potatoes. Potatoes.. Mean potatoes. Mean. Potatoes…
ML: all your pet illusions will be unmasked, Curie.
GS: Oh! (pauses in her mutterings).
HD: (dreamily) Sometimes, when we make love, he calls me Sappho, and I call him my little schoolgirl. And we laugh. Heehee!
(Mina goes to leave)
Where are you going?
ML: To destroy the futurists and their stupid little manifestoes.
HD: (sighs). Well I’m going to go pick roses for Ezra and read some Pindar in the moonlight while he translates chinese ideograms.
GS: Roses.. hmm.. rose.. is a….