sketch

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.

(leaves)

HD: (sighs). Well I’m going to go pick roses for Ezra and read some Pindar in the moonlight while he translates chinese ideograms.

(skips away)

GS: Roses.. hmm.. rose.. is a….

end