Taste the Clouds: Inside the Ultimate Post-Apocalyptic Trip * UFOs and Giant Shrooms: When Nature Takes Back the Suburbs
- One Love Energy
- Apr 4
- 11 min read
THE BIRCH AND THE BEYOND
A Play in One Act
CHARACTERS:
DR. YURI ZHIVAGO: A physician with a poet’s soul and a very cold nose.
GIGGLE-BLAST: A Sacred Clown from the Nebula of Joy. He is seven feet tall, neon-pink, and wearing a suit made of recycled stardust.
LARA (Off-stage): Frequently heard sighing about the lack of firewood.
SETTING:
A drafty dacha in Varykino. It is winter. Outside, the wolves are howling. Inside, the candles are flickering. There is a profound sense of Russian melancholy and an inexplicable amount of two-ply tissue.
[SCENE START]
(The stage is dimly lit. DR. ZHIVAGO sits at a small wooden desk, scribbling furiously by candlelight. He wears three coats. The room is stacked floor-to-ceiling with rolls of toilet paper.)
ZHIVAGO: (Writing) “The rowan tree... red like the blood of the revolution... soft like the quilted texture of the ultra-soft rolls...” (He stops, sighs, and looks at a roll.)
Why did I trade the medical supplies for this? One cannot bandage a bullet wound with bathroom tissue, and yet, it is the only thing that feels like mercy in this frozen wasteland.
(Suddenly, a blinding flash of strobe lights. A slide-whistle sounds. GIGGLE-BLAST the Sacred Clown appears in a puff of glitter. He is holding a rubber chicken that glows with the intensity of a dying sun.)
GIGGLE-BLAST: (In a voice like a distorted synthesizer)
BEEP-BOOP! SALUTATIONS, FLESH-POET! I HAVE TRAVERSED THE VOID TO BRING YOU THE SACRED ABSURDITY!
ZHIVAGO: (Doesn't look up)
You are late. The Red Partisans already took the horses. If you are here for the soul of Russia, it’s in the corner, under the stack of Charmin.
GIGGLE-BLAST: (Honks his nose; it sounds like a foghorn)
I DO NOT WANT YOUR SOUL, YURI! I WANT YOUR BOREDOM! IN THE GREAT COSMIC CIRCUS, YOUR SADNESS IS THE FUNNIEST JOKE IN THE GALAXY!
(GIGGLE-BLAST begins to juggle three rolls of toilet paper with expert precision.)
ZHIVAGO: (Stands up, pacing)
You don’t understand. This is a Chekhovian tragedy. We are waiting for a future that will never arrive, while the samovar is cold and the soul is brittle. We yearn! We pine! We look out windows at the snow!
GIGGLE-BLAST: (Trips over a roll of toilet paper, falls spectacularly, and bounces back up)
Pining is just a slow-motion pratfall! Look!
(GIGGLE-BLAST grabs a stream of toilet paper and begins wrapping ZHIVAGO like a mummy.)
ZHIVAGO: What are you doing? This is a metaphor for the stifling bureaucracy of the new regime! I am being erased by the white sheets of history!
GIGGLE-BLAST: NO! YOU ARE A BURRITO OF DIVINE NONSENSE!
(GIGGLE-BLAST pulls a string. A shower of confetti falls from the ceiling. A distant balalaika plays a techno remix of "Lara's Theme".)
ZHIVAGO: (Suddenly struck by inspiration)
The absurdity... the vast, cosmic pointlessness of it all... It’s beautiful. Whether we die of typhus or are vaporized by a space-clown’s seltzer bottle, the snow continues to fall.
LARA (Off-stage): Yuri! The wolves are at the door!
ZHIVAGO: (To GIGGLE-BLAST)
Do you have a weapon?
GIGGLE-BLAST: I HAVE THIS!
(He hands ZHIVAGO a single, glowing roll of extra-plush toilet paper.)
ZHIVAGO: (Holding it aloft)
To be human is to suffer. But to be human... is also to have excellent absorbency.
(ZHIVAGO and GIGGLE-BLAST begin to dance a slow, mournful waltz as the walls of the dacha melt away to reveal a star-filled nebula. The sound of a single, honking nose echoes into the silence.)
[CURTAIN]
Xxxxxxxxxxxxx̌xxxxxxxxxxxxx
THE COSMIC SMEAR
An Ed Wood Production
[SCENE START]
(The dacha walls are now visibly made of cardboard. They wobble as the wind—clearly a stagehand with a fan—blows. The lighting shifts to a harsh, flickering ultraviolet. DR. ZHIVAGO, now wearing a blonde angora sweater over his overcoat, stares into the camera with wide, unblinking eyes.)
ZHIVAGO: (In an intense, breathless monotone)
The world... it’s a graveyard. We are all puppets, pulling our own strings until the wood rots. And then... the peanut butter comes.
GIGGLE-BLAST: (Looming over him, his neon suit glowing with the cheap radiance of a thousand glow-sticks)
SILENCE, YOU POOPY-HEAD CRACKER MAN! YOUR BRAIN IS A STALE WAFER! YOU DWELL IN THE LIMBIC DARKNESS WHERE THE PRIMAL FEARS HIDE!
(GIGGLE-BLAST thrusts a jar of generic-brand peanut butter into ZHIVAGO’S face. It is thick. It is brown. It is destiny.)
GIGGLE-BLAST: YOU THINK YOUR POEMS ARE DEEP? THEY ARE MERELY THE STICKY RESIDUE OF A SOUL THAT REFUSES TO BE CLEANSED!
ZHIVAGO: (Trembling, clutching a roll of 3-ply)
The revolution... it’s so... creamy.
GIGGLE-BLAST: (Pointing a gloved, shaking finger)
WIPE, CRACKER MAN! WIPE UNTIL THE BROWN STAIN OF EXISTENCE IS PURGED FROM THE PORCELAIN OF YOUR MIND! UNTIL EVERY GLOB OF NUTTY DESPAIR IS GONE! THE UNIVERSE DEMANDS A FRICTION-LESS FINISH!
ZHIVAGO: (Frantically unrolling the tissue, his movements jerky and theatrical)
I’m wiping! I’m wiping for Mother Russia! I’m wiping for the stars! The limbic system... it’s screaming! My amygdala is a sticky mess!
GIGGLE-BLAST: (Cackling, throwing his head back so his wig almost falls off)
CAN YOUR HEART STAND THE STICKY TRUTH? WIPE! WIPE UNTIL THE WHITES OF YOUR EYES MATCH THE SOFTNESS OF THE SHEET!
(Suddenly, a UFO made of two paper plates glued together flies past on a visible fishing line. ZHIVAGO falls to his knees, surrounded by a mountain of white paper and smears of legume-based existentialism.)
ZHIVAGO: It’s gone... the peanut butter... it’s finally gone. I am clean. I am empty. I am... a prop.
GIGGLE-BLAST: (Softly, almost tenderly)
NOW... WE RE-LOAD.
(A flying saucer door opens with a squeak. Out comes a giant, radioactive celery stick.)
[FADE TO BLACK]
THE TWIN EARTH INFERNO
A Surrealist Meta-Drama
[SCENE START]
(The cardboard dacha begins to smoke. In the distance, a siren wails, but it sounds like a kazoo. Two identical women, both named LARA, walk onto the stage in perfect synchronization. They are carrying flaming torches and a heavy book titled Women, Fire, and Dangerous Things.)
LARA 1: (Droning) The water on this Earth is H_2O.
LARA 2: (Droning) The water on Twin Earth is XYZ.
BOTH: But the peanut butter... the peanut butter is universal.
ZHIVAGO: (Clutching his head) Putnam! I recognize these semantics! If the meanings are not in the head, then where is the itch coming from?
GIGGLE-BLAST: (Doing a backflip through a hoop of fire) IT’S IN THE FRICTION, POOPY-HEAD! THE CONCEPT OF 'CLEAN' IS A LINGUISTIC TRAP! THE FIRE DOESN'T CARE ABOUT YOUR CHEMICAL NOTATION!
(The Laras begin to circle ZHIVAGO, tossing pages of the book into the growing flames. The smell of burning marshmallows and toasted nuts fills the air.)
LARA 1: Categorize us, Yuri! Am I a "Dangerous Thing"?
LARA 2: Or am I just a "Radial Category" of your own burning desire?
GIGGLE-BLAST: (Blows a whistle) RUN, RABBIT, RUN! THE SEMANTIC POLICE ARE COMING! THEY HAVE HANDCUFFS MADE OF LOGICAL POSITIVISM!
(A man in a giant rabbit suit—played by an actor whose zipper is clearly visible—bursts through the cardboard wall. He is holding a sign that reads: "I AM THE MAN WHO WAS PURSUED.")
ZHIVAGO: (Looking at the Rabbit) The truth! You know the truth about the pursuit!
RABBIT: (In a muffled voice) The truth is XYZ! Run, Yuri! If the Twin Earth burns, our memories become ash in a different coordinate system!
GIGGLE-BLAST: (Grabbing ZHIVAGO by the angora collar) NO MORE WEEPING! THE BURNING IS THE BEST PART OF THE ACT!
(The Sacred Clown begins to use the extra toilet paper to create a "mummy bridge" toward the flying saucer. The fire licks at the paper, turning it into a trail of floating, glowing embers.)
ZHIVAGO: (Screaming at the camera) To be clean is to be empty! To be burnt is to be real! Run, rabbit! Run to the stars where the peanut butter is smooth and the water is unknown!
(The Rabbit jumps onto the toilet paper bridge. The Laras throw their torches into the pile of tissue. The stage erupts in a low-budget flash-paper explosion.)
GIGGLE-BLAST: (Voice echoing from the rafters) NEXT STOP: THE NEBULA OF NO CATEGORIES! HONK HONK, DR. ZHIVAGO!
[THE CARDBOARD WALLS COLLAPSE AS THE CREDITS ROLL IN A FONT THAT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO READ]
THE GREEN RECLAMATION
The Final Act
[SCENE START]
(The smoke from the Twin Earth inferno clears. The cardboard ruins of the dacha have transformed. Moss—thick, synthetic, and vibrant—begins to grow over the piles of toilet paper. The ultraviolet lights shift to a deep, pulsating forest green. The sound of a techno-balalaika is replaced by the roar of a thousand rushing rivers and the rhythmic thrum of a heartbeat.)
ZHIVAGO: (Standing amidst the vines, shedding his coats one by one)
The libraries are burning, Giggle-Blast. The dictionaries, the categories, the chemical formulas... they are all returning to the carbon. The "West" was just a fever dream we had while we were sleeping in the dirt.
GIGGLE-BLAST: (Now perched atop a giant, glowing mushroom, his neon suit fading into the colors of a tropical beetle)
THE RUSE IS UP, POOPY-HEAD! THE CONCRETE IS CRACKING! THE GREAT MOTHER ISN'T ANGRY... SHE’S JUST HUNGRY!
(The two LARAS merge into a single figure—a towering, blonde woman with glasses, driving a Subaru made of woven willow branches. She pulls up to the center of the stage. On the side of the Subaru, it reads: "MOMMA MUSHROOM’S MOBILE MEDICINE.")
MOMMA MUSHROOM: (In a voice like shifting tectonic plates)
Get in, Yuri. We’re going past the borders of the "Safe Space." Past the officers and the killers. We’re going to where the mycelium runs the Wi-Fi.
ZHIVAGO: (Touching a leaf)
It’s so soft. No more two-ply... just the velvet of the lichen.
GIGGLE-BLAST: (Honks a horn made of a dried gourd)
NO MORE PRIVATE PROPERTY! NO MORE SEMANTIC AMBIGUITY! JUST THE SPORES, MAN! THE SACRED SPORES!
(From the shadows, the "Dangerous Things"—wolves, fire-spirits, and the Rabbit—emerge, not as threats, but as a choir. They begin to dismantle the remains of the Western set. They use the discarded toilet paper to mulch a new garden of psilocybin and high-potency flora.)
ZHIVAGO: (Looking into the lens, his eyes finally peaceful)
We thought we were the architects. We were just the compost. And oh... what a beautiful garden we’ve become.
MOMMA MUSHROOM: (Stepping on the gas)
The rabbit has stopped running, Yuri. Because there’s nowhere left to hide from the truth. Nature doesn't need a permit.
(The Subaru-of-Willows ascends toward the ceiling on clearly visible, glitter-covered wires. The stage is reclaimed by a rapid-growth forest that swallows the camera. The last thing seen is a single, neon-pink clown nose resting on a bed of wildflowers.)
[FADE TO A VIBRANT, LIVING GREEN]
[CURTAIN]
THE PETALS OF THE PERIPHERY
An Ed Wood & Chekhov Fever Dream
[SCENE START]
(The vibrant green forest remains, but the air grows thick with a heavy, humid mist—the kind that only a $10 fog machine and a Texas summer can produce. A figure emerges from the foliage, wearing a spiked leather corset over a floral sundress. She is carrying a rhinestone-encrusted whip and a box of high-potency cannabis. This is THE TEXAS BADDIE.)
THE TEXAS BADDIE: (In a slow, honey-thick drawl that vibrates the cardboard trees)
Y’all look like you’re waitin’ for a revolution, but you’re really just waitin’ for a spankin’.
ZHIVAGO: (Shrinking back into a patch of giant ferns, his voice a trembling thread)
I am... a fragile masochist. My soul is a bruised plum. I find the weight of the sky too heavy, yet I crave the crushing gravity of the truth.
THE TEXAS BADDIE: (Cracking her whip, which sends a shower of glitter into the air)
Honey, the truth in the West was a dull blade. But out here in Momma Mushroom’s garden, the truth has teeth.
(She leans in close to ZHIVAGO, her presence overwhelming the scent of the synthetic moss with the aroma of diesel and bluebonnets. She begins to WHISPER—a sound like dry leaves skittering over a tombstone.)
THE TEXAS BADDIE: (Whispering)
“The categories are gone, Yuri. The pain isn't a debt anymore. It’s the currency of the new world. Every lash is a seed. Every sting is a wildflower breaking through the asphalt of your ego...”
GIGGLE-BLAST: (Tumbling from a branch, landing in a pile of discarded 3-ply)
OOOH! THE BADDIE HAS THE WHISPER! THE LOW-FREQUENCY FREQUENCY! IT BYPASSES THE NEOCORTEX AND GOES STRAIGHT TO THE REPTILE BRAIN! HONK!
ZHIVAGO: (Eyes rolling back, shivering in his angora sweater)
Whisper it again... tell me that Western Civilization was just a bad corset... tell me Mother Nature is the Ultimate Domme.
THE TEXAS BADDIE: (Whispering into his other ear)
“Western man is a poopy-head cracker man who forgot how to bleed for the soil. Now... wipe the sweat off your brow with that sacred tissue, and get ready for the harvest.”
(She hands him a single, glowing cannabis leaf. ZHIVAGO takes a bite. The stage begins to spin. The Rabbit from the previous scene appears, now wearing a "Texas Forever" hat, and starts playing a slow, chopped-and-screwed version of a funeral march on a slide whistle.)
MOMMA MUSHROOM: (From the Subaru, leaning out the window)
Don't break him too hard, Baddie! We need him to write the new hymnal!
THE TEXAS BADDIE: (Smiling, a terrifyingly beautiful sight)
Oh, he won’t break, Momma. He’s a masochist. He’s finally found a world that hurts in all the right places.
(The Texas Baddie grabs the end of ZHIVAGO'S toilet-paper mummy-wraps and begins to lead him deeper into the neon-green abyss. GIGGLE-BLAST follows, throwing handfuls of dirt and glitter over them both.)
ZHIVAGO: (Faintly, as they vanish)
The sting... it’s... it’s XYZ... it’s beautiful...
[THE SOUND OF A WHIP CRACK MERGES WITH A DISTANT, GENTLE WHISPER AS THE FOREST SWALLOWS THE ENTIRE PRODUCTION]
[FIN]
THE SOFT LANDING
A Palate Cleanser in One Act
[SCENE START]
(The ultraviolet strobes and neon-green mists evaporate. The cardboard dacha, the space-clown, and the Texas whips are gone. The stage is now bathed in the warm, golden light of a perpetual late afternoon. A gentle acoustic guitar plays—no techno, no distortion. The floor is covered in real, soft clover.)
(SOKO CAT—a serene woman with velvet cat ears and a calm, grounded presence—sits on a woven hemp blanket. Beside her is her SON, a small, bright-eyed boy who looks like the future of a world that never knew a police siren.)
SOKO CAT: (In a voice like warm milk)
The noise is over now, little one. The puppets have gone back into their boxes. The fire has turned to embers, and the embers have turned to soil.
SON: (Reaching for a wooden bowl)
Is the poopy-head man okay, Mama?
SOKO CAT: (Smiling, she picks up a bright, sun-ripened strawberry)
He’s sleeping in the moss. The Baddie tucked him in with a whisper, and the Clown gave him a dream of a world without categories. He’s learning how to be quiet.
(She holds the strawberry to her son’s lips. He takes a bite, the juice staining his chin a vibrant, honest red. There is no peanut butter here. Only the fruit of the vine.)
SOKO CAT: Now, for the heart of the star.
(She picks up a cherimoya, its green, scaly skin yielding to her touch like a secret. She breaks it open to reveal the creamy, white, custard-like interior. She scoops a piece out with a silver spoon.)
SON: It looks like a cloud.
SOKO CAT: It tastes like the dream of a better world. It’s the sweetness that West forgot because it was too busy counting its pennies. It’s the medicine Momma Mushroom grows when the Subarus stop driving and the trees start talking.
(She feeds him the cherimoya. The boy’s eyes light up. It is the flavor of peace—pineapple, banana, and strawberry mixed into a velvet reality.)
SOKO CAT: (Whispering, but this time it is a lullaby)
Wipe your chin with the soft clover, my love. There is no more fire to run from. The rabbit is napping in the shade. The dangerous things are just our brothers in fur.
(A single, white butterfly flutters across the stage and lands on the empty wooden bowl. The golden light fades slowly, not into darkness, but into a soft, protective violet.)
SON: (Sleepily)
More strawberries tomorrow?
SOKO CAT: Tomorrow, and the day after, and every day the Earth is allowed to breathe.
(She pulls a blanket made of woven starlight over them both. The sound of a distant, gentle purr fills the theater as the last of the stage lights dim.)
[CURTAIN]
The Mycelial Mandate
The dacha walls were thin as skin,
A paper cage for Russian ghosts,
Until the Cosmic Clown stepped in
To mock the pride of Western hosts.
The peanut butter—thick and brown—
The sticky grit of human shame,
Was scrubbed until the stars fell down
And took away the cracker’s name.
Twin Earths burn in a velvet fire,
Where water’s XYZ or H_2O,
While Baddies tune the rhinestone lyre
And whisper where the masochists go.
But Momma Mushroom’s Subaru
Drives past the sirens and the law,
To find a world forever new,
Within a green and ancient claw.
Now Soko sits in clover deep,
With strawberries of honest red,
While all the dangerous giants sleep,
And history is put to bed.
The cherimoya’s custard heart,
The rabbit resting in the shade—
The masterpiece is when the art
Admits it’s glad the puppets strayed.
