Psychobabble
A play ... almost featuring some characters.
Characters: T – Therapist
MB – Mrs. Beadle
VOICE – Disembodied / Intercom Voice
T: Right. So, welcome, Miss Babble. It says here that you made this appointment because you are having some type of nightmare?
This feels like it has some importance to you? Correct?
MB: Well, um… yes, but also no. None of that—not as you said it. My name is Mrs. Beadle. I’ve been having a recurring dream for most of my life, and I’d like some help unpacking it? Processing? I’ve heard great things about CBT?
T: Oh—well—I do apologize for some of the semantic errors. Of course, I can work with you, Mrs. Beatle. We don’t offer drugs here, as this is talk therapy, so CBT is not an option. Perhaps… the beginning? Yes?
MB: Again—it’s Beadle, not Beatle. And I mean cognitive behavioral therapy, not any kind of drug.
T: My word, this has gone off wrong. Mrs. Beadle, Beadle. And as relieved as I am that you are not seeking drugs, I am strictly Jungian, unfortunately. Anyway—about your nightmare? The one that brought you here? It is not some clown hiding under your bed, is it?
MB: What? No. I have a dream, umm… most nights, to be accurate. It’s a bit surreal—more of an energy or tone than something concrete—but I’m sure it’s trying to say something.
T: Very good. Now we’re off to the races. Why do you think it’s trying to say something? What about this energy needs to be heard, as you say?
MB: Well… I guess maybe I’m foolish. I don’t know exactly—it just happens so often. Always the same. The color isn’t describable either. It’s not color, really, and not black and white?
T: Heavens, what a pickle. A dream of some importance that neither has shape nor color? Are you saying that every night you have… a feeling?
MB: I—no. I know the difference between a feeling and a dream. Of course I do.
T: Of course, of course. Why don’t you tell me about this beetle of yours? It seems to be one of the few things you can say concretely.
MB: I haven’t mentioned a beetle?
T: Yes, yes. I see here—my shorthand is terrible. I’ve written “beetle” and “nightmare” somehow. Sort of confessional on my end, yes?
MB: How so?
T: Well, you know—beetle, nightmare, this whole thing we’ve got going. It has not been an ideal introduction. We can admit that.
MB: I’m not sure what this is. Maybe I should try someone else.
T: Of course, and that’s your right. Allow me a moment, though. In our limited interactions, I’ve noticed perhaps an acute issue with your Broca and Wernicke areas. A sort of verbal distance. Now, a lot of socialized females have developed—through the harsh lens of patriarchy—very clever masking as a sort of coping mechanism or blending. With some of my… unorthodox behaviors, I was attempting to elicit a response—something beyond, um… manners or propriety. I understand that could be disconcerting. I could attempt another tactic, if you’ll allow me?
MB: Again, I’m sorry. This isn’t something I’m used to. Yes—please. Let’s start again.
T: Wonderful. Let’s leave the beginning for later—for now, yes?
MB: Yes. Fine.
T: Why don’t you give me a sentence? Anything that comes to mind. Just to get a sense of the… flavor of your language.
MB: Um… I don’t know. Ah—the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. Yes, that.
T: Perfect. All the letters are there. A neat little package. Tight, succinct. What about your marriage?
MB: My marriage? What about it? You mean the ceremony?
T: No, no, no, not at all. It’s just that when we began talking, it was quite important to you that I knew you were married.
MB: I don’t think I mentioned it.
T: You did. I said, “Hello, Miss Beets,” and you corrected me—“It is MRS.”—with that inflection of yours. This behavior suggested that the designation mattered to you. Telling, no?
MB: No! You called me by the wrong name, and I corrected you. The conclusion you came to was self-generated.
T: I see. Self-generated conclusion...interesting. And your recurring dream—do you think it’s anxiety?
[CRACKLE through speaker. Harsh. Metallic.]
VOICE (distorted): Miss Deutung, is there a patient in there with you?
[A sharp squeal. Silence.]
[The therapist unplugs a small box. A faint mint glow lingers. Mrs. Beadle notices and says nothing.]
T: That is an unfortunate noise, yes? That interpret system? Hardly the clarity of a Dolby… I mean the intercom system. Blah—what a silly slip. I’ve lost my place. The middle of something was it?
[The therapist flips a few pages of her notes, as a playful pantomime of attention.]
T: And what would be a better place? Serendipitous indeed, yes, the middle. Well, perhaps we’d better start from the beginning? Miss Babble, let’s work on this dream of yours. As it now sits, is there a colorless energy near you? Are you present? Meaning, in your dream form, is it represented in any way?
MB: (long pause) As I said, it’s abstract.
I’m present, but as a sort of first person—a witness. The color schemes are confusing or surreal. I’m alone, but feel the presence of another—near me, not hiding, but not visible. Maybe watching, but I’m never sure. There’s a flash or bang of lightning, and it frightens me. A sort of surround sound kicks in—blaring and disorienting. I’m stuck. I can’t move. I’m weak. The lightning flashes again, but this time it’s grasping at me, like a hand.
T: Very interesting, Mrs. Beadle. This idea of lightning—a sort of flash, something that changes rapidly. A startling into a new birth, almost. In your recounting, you feel oppressed by a presence. The familiar colors of the world are distorted, and a flash snaps you into a new consciousness. But this time, you are powerless. Without agency. A noise begins to confuse—disorient. Another flash, and this one grasps. Claws at you. Is this a fair summary?
MB: Yes. I see it now. The pattern. This could be about my husband. The sort of implied oppression that takes my strength? Ability? But I’ve had this dream well before even meeting him. So, the presence is larger. He is just close. Not that he has done anything wrong, because he hasn’t. I have just never thought of myself in that sense. You know, in the sense that I exist outside of us? Us as a construct.
[A loud tapping thud hits the large window on the side of the room. The therapist gets up from her chair and slowly walks toward the window. She unlatches it, and a large green insect flickers into the room. It bumps off lights and circles around a few times. An atonal dirge fills the room, a humming that swirls and pipes. Mrs. Beadle watches it closely. Her brown eyes follow it until it lands on the left side of her black culottes. It is a beetle with bright wings, the shade of chlorophyll.]
T: Here is your scarab, Miss Babble. What would Carl think of your beetle, Miss?
MB: Who? Oh—the beetle. Very cute, MISS! Is this funny to you? Or another "attempt to elicit?" It is all very silly, to be honest. Hiding behind meaning, protecting what is truly a nastiness of character. If I am a fool to you, I would prefer to just move on and try someone more ORTHODOX, as you might say.
T: No, it is not funny. The opposite of funny. Fine, no beetle then? So, what of archetypes? Allow me to venture a guess, Miss. Let’s see here… Anima? Well, hardly. I have no patience to explain it to you. In fact, I lack the patience to get to know you well enough to craft a crude utterance that would suffice as an explanation to your rattled mind.
[Mrs. Beadle stands up in a huff, ready to leave, but stops as the therapist raises a voice. There was something different in her tone, an almost dual presence as if two were speaking through a single mouth, the words reflected off each other.]
T: Sit down! (The command is followed.) Maiden? We know that to be untrue. All this talk of some torrid marriage. Mother? I would certainly hope not. Never a mention of a child. Wise Woman? HA! Huntress? What would you be hunting, darling? Attention? You have mine. (wriggles free of clenched teeth) Lover?... A Possibility?... Maybe with a pillow princess motif, something twee but quite turgid… Yes, that’s the word. Something… comfortable with passive receiving. But still clinging to that greedy charm you’ve had on display since you walked into this office.
[Mrs. Beadle hears something mumbled and unclear from the therapist: “lues gor.”]
MB: What was that? (Stumbles from her quivering lip.)
T: She babbles? Does she not? Elle babille? No? As ever—
[The therapist lets out an exasperated sigh. The room fills with the odor of breath mints, and a green light pulses.]
T: Syphilis, deary!
Lues venerea!
La Grand Gorre!
…Après moi le déluge! Tu parles!?
No?
Tu parles!?
It is your affliction, not mine! Stop interrupting!
[Another flicker of green. The therapist's shoulders seem to snap back, almost a locking motion or a recalibration. In stereo—a chittering echo. Mrs. Beadle shudders, swallows deeply, wipes sweaty palms on the knees of her culottes. These actions startle the beetle, and it darts away up toward a high, drifting ceiling.]
T: Mystic? Maybe. There is an element of portent in your dream. Some sort of premonition. That can ferment, ripen, wait... until it’s ready to be sampled. With all that said… my guess would have to be… Hmmm… Something unique… Something quite you. Possibly Freudian? Ahh yes… I have it.
[A green light flickers and flashes in the room.]
T: WHORE!
Yes, whore it is. Babble, babble, babble she does.
[A low mechanical tone. The lights flicker again, mint green.]
T: Babble, babble.
["Babble, babble" echoes from A thing—near, but not present. Mrs. Beadle sits in stunned silence. A siren begins to sound. Emergency vehicles, at first distant, then closer. The Therapist rises from her seat. She begins to unfold. Her torso stretches upward, cranking open like an accordion toward a ceiling that is also unfolding upward. The therapist’s jaw unhinges with a loud crinkle; the mandible is now slack, and a thick scaly tongue lolls out. It shifts and twitches now to form misshapen words and slather guttural implications.]
T: Turgid, dear. You see it? Plain English, yes, miss? Liebling? Turgid. Turgid. Sprichst du?
[Sudden blackout. A heavy curtain of darkness is drawn over the office.]
T: Right, Miss Babble. Do you hear those sirens? Next come the floodlights. They will illuminate—like your lightning. A new world will begin—anger or Love—no longer denial.
[A loud CLICK, CLICK, CLICK. Then silence.]
[Silence… Mrs. Beadle sees a flash. A hand. Misshapen. Segmented. Scythe-like. Reaching for her face. The swift movement conjures a sweet antiseptic aroma.]
T: Perhaps we’d better—[STATIC]—from the beginning.
[SYSTEM_LOG_VOICE: UNRESPONSIVE]
VOICE (clear): Miss Beadle, your next client is her, umm—here.
[Miss Beadle sits behind her desk. She tilts her head slightly. She opens the top drawer on the desk and removes a small green box of breath mints. She opens the box, takes out one small, speckled mint, and places it on her tongue. Her finger presses the green SPEAK button on her intercom phone.]
MB: Thank you. Send it in.
This piece comes from my book “Eye in the Sky: The Horus Cycle,” Available Sept 22.
I’ll be posting more about it as we get closer to the date.
Hahaha I laughed quite hard at this. I’ve a similar short story written, well, similar in that it’s psycho talk back and forth in a jungian therapy session. But the script is flipped. But it was written for personal pleasure. I may have to share after reading this. Quite funny!
The way this play spirals, from polite miscommunication to grotesque revelation feels like watching a mask slip off layer by layer.