Stone Of A Fortress ♠ The Pandora Matchbox: 12/01/09

"This is a short story I am writing. It is not complete but I hope you people like it so far ^_^"

The Rapunzel

=|Act I
The Garden|=

Faceless. Glass-less. Eyeless.
The marionette sat nude. Its genderless wooden skin was pierced on the front. Obvious caricatures of design. The air left traces of nomadic earth unto its body. The designer was in disagreement. It showed. There were omissions. Erasures. Improvements. Additions.
There was coldness too. No warm blastocyst. This world as an eternal womb is too olden-young to employ the threads of hormonal nursing and creeping, cocoon-blanket. However, it will have to do. The wood is still experiment. This will be corrected by the punished. Or shall we say punished?
The designer in his terrace of thought – precipices and axes all thrown into the being of contemplation – daggers make skilful threads for the avid thinker. Serene. Mad. Furious. Subtle. Forces of Wind. Gravity. Pressure. A centrifuge. A centrifugal lust tapered and tailored into skin, bone, flesh and language. A very beautiful machine.
Clockworks and gears are all generated units. Recycled. Polarised. Nourished. Dutiful – but not drones; into the caskets, out of the caskets. Clockworks and gears synthesized, systematized yet not prey to redundancy. An order casual-formal. A looking glass, kaleidoscope of balance.
The designer was pot-pourri of all the incidences. How can the art be crafted, completed – consoled? Ah, the duties of the mimic-creator – not wise as the Creator-Proper nor ignorant as the stages of neutrality. Ah, designer – where art thou mind? What equation, what curve, sway, blue-dots, coordinates, golden ratios and seams vex your globe?
“ The time is right...”
He utters unsatisfied.
“ I am not right...” he sighs, “ I am confused.”
He wanders, he aims something. Somewhere, it has to be so.
“ But, I must get to a solution...” he sighs, “ I cannot tarry.”
The moon looks in awe. She waves, waxes and wanes. She eavesdrops – or is it a he? Well, the moon waxes and wanes – a certified hermaphrodite. He looks hungry. He yearns to know it. This secret.
The wooden nude model is flirtatiously touched by wind. Its infancy is such that its naivety does not even presume molestation. This surely upsets the designer. The living wood would know. Ay, but what is life? A cycle, a chronological line, a dead weight against the soul?
He would think of the philosophies later. He unearthed in himself the distaste of waste. Waste of time. Such a nausea.
The nudity was a scandal. He thought it nausea too. A medical student. Yes, the naive medical student has been transformed in him. Thus the distaste was nausea. Nausea of the novice intertwined with the experienced. Such a hermaphrodite in itself.
Such a hermaphrodite. Hermaphrodites not deemed normalcy yet so abundant in the world. Ay, the society of contradiction. Man is the irrational animal.
The wood was irrational. Basking nakedness in nausea. No explicit undertones of sexuality: that would be too necrophilic.
Necrophilic: why so?
For the wood was dead weight now - no, not the dead weight often labelled life (existence for the more morbid, pessimistic observer or simply a synonymous word of an elevated kind).
Or were they antonyms? Derived from the same mother root but not conjoined rather hemispheres of an entity? - entity of what proportions? - that be the good question: however, then why where they antonyms - existence was a prescription for life - life a prescription for existence? - life and death – life and existence: so if they were not homogenous then what were they?
Life an individual being and existence the nascent forms of life – or higher forms – subtracted from both the moulded purpose but rather in the spheres of the biological purpose and the purpose of spirit-dom – some would say, though – those sum of somes could be wrong.
Ay – he digresses – that’s not good; no designer should. He smiles. Laughs. Then slaps himself.
Not a masochist – just a serious-sest: or better taxonomic title: perfectionist.
And this project was disorganized – how the perfectionist going to live now – realizing that his own skin and the skin of his wooden blueprint was also inseparably imperfect – the perfectionist gains a horrific inner tantrum.
What the heck was he to avoid that which he hated?
He yearned to scream. Shout. Bully, Bully that wooden enigma-still into motion. Yet...yet...that would not do...no...no...it cannot, will not be forced.
That would be rape.
Raping the womb. He was designer not rapist. Rape seizes the body in many forms and merges with physical space as if it were one with it. Parasite. Parasitic. Oppressive. Virus. Bacteria. Makes one stronger or weaker. The tea of it tastes good – the heat of it is barbaric.
Now on with the proceedings. A tick here. A tick there. Gears combined. Gears relaxed. No, a spill! Paint! But paint is not good enough.
Clothes should be customized. For, he could not get clothes...actually, wished not – outside the laboratory of mind, space and junction lay impotency – potential in wombs not yet dissected, delivered or whatsoever. Rather dull in the marketplace with the “How is it going?” or “I haven’t seen you for ages.” Then behind the radius of the ear, lip-reading and foreseen back it is all “He is a weird one.” Or “ An eccentric bird isn’t he?” or “Marriage will do him good.” Or “A whore might be simpler.”
The word ‘whore’ does it derive from ‘whole’? Does it come from a reversed marriage vow? To be pieced, stitched-back, cut-down but still be whole – that is perverse! ‘Whore’ seems as such! ‘Whole’ is there-not-there and then must be there-not-there and advertised in contradictory potentials: the word ‘potentials’ scared him like the word’ perversion’ – to him they sometimes seemed inseparable.
Then he would be asked, “ Have you been eating well?”
A muscled emaciated look – too heavy for beauty – too light for beauty – etched in disfavoured conflict – not a good syndrome.
His answer,” I eat enough.”
Their answer, “ Enough for who? A rat?” then, “ Don’t wither away! Eat man – there is so much in the world one can experience!” with the additional, “ Get out of your science for once and get fed with the real world!”
His reply, answer to be given, a part-chastisement, a part-apologia, a part- indifference,
“ How can idle merrymaking be the real world? With only laughter as a cushion to sadness and disinterest in aching thunders and paranormal mind, blasted hills and skies never fair or too fair? I find the resolution to avoid these things as avoiding life and to take in ignorance.”
Their reply, most outraged or most sympathetic, “ OH! It is useless to talk to you!” or “Do you believe yourself to be superior! And ourselves ignorant!” or “ I think you should know that not all that you say is right, there is more.” Or “ Oh, you most sorrowful being.”
Sorrowful – not right – superiority complex – useless: man has so many classifications – are each right – each granted a orb of direction? - each thought pounded, each physicality synthesized – possibly so, possibly not – There! The digression! Oh, the task will meet no end due to this wanton need of thought.
Isolation grants the thinker thoughts and the promiscuous dreams: what a idle labyrinth the devil’s workshop is.
He looked at idleness. No indolence – thou must remain uncertain and I will wield kinesis.
The designer could not taste defeat. He didn’t want that to be his epilogue though defeat controls a form of aphrodisiac. No, not a masochist but even a serious-sest has some surrenders to loathsome beings. Defeat may mean human. But disobedience was human as well. Pandora knew her box but she didn’t. She opened it. But it was already open. Mythological constructs have shifts. The narrator is the stage director – the actors act accordingly to her manifestations or his egoism. Preferably both as manifestations too moderate sinks not deep and egoism alone sinks too far.
“ Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down not your hair...” he smiles, “ I demand you as my virgin bride!”
Then he stops. Sighs. Laughs. Rapunzel, Rapunzel. Her hair is synonymous to chastity. When it is cut her chastity is not withered. Body Language meets a clandestine metaphysical in literary analysis – in the folklore passion.
How truly comedy. The Divine Comedy – is man. Comedy. Divine. Rapunzel. Rapunzel. Divine. Rapunzel. Divinity. Rapunzel. The choice.
“ I think Rapunzel...”
He did not intend a girl. Was it more likely to be woman? Father cells say daughter cells and machines of man glean a feminine affection – maybe, it is fated. No, maybe not so simply diagnosed.
Rapunzel is chaste. Despite the law of chastity his Rapunzel is the reverse but the perverse – to many it shall fair in this light.
Rapunzel she will be – or was it a he?
No gender named.
After all this is experimental blastocyst.

+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+

Disarray were in the folds. Expensive. No arithmetic line drawn. No inch analyzed. The artist had erased his blueprints. No calculating math here. No calculating math there. Only a nude life; not naked in dress, but: to the sworn world of paradox.
Eyes naked of sight. Lids in sleep.
No more wood in all. Flesh is in the roots. Stems and Branches share mitochondria and tubes. Vein and veinlets have pinkish-red blood some green to be whole.
Androecia, Gynaecium. Stigma and Anther all. What a bizarre-beautiful-odd-normal creature...
There was long hair. A labyrinth of secret fascinations. The designer’s trademark? Trademarks of predecessors? Both? Man is linear. Man is spherical. Time is a Pandora intertwining with these two lovebirds. They are planetary alignment but star-crossed as well. Time’s job is difficult. Does she have overpay? Does he have vacation time?
“ Ah a Rapunzel with golden hair...” the designer stroked the hair, a great achievement, “ Now open your bud little one – time to bloom...”
The wooden nakedness of a grotesque transformed to the imbued world of flesh, blood and sinew opened her eyelids as if a mask was finally detached.
She looked pale as paleness to the over-sensory world can be fulfilled. She looked abstractedly as dullness to the world of motion and stationary was expected of the child. Her infant body was the developed form of a girl. Twenty years or more. She is a child of uncertain womb. Moulded by a being uncertain. She is body sans body. A chimera of something useless, useful, of human knowledge and of human ignorance.
She coughs a little. Then urinates. She scares at her cough. The man helps her undress. Expenses must be paid. He washes them with a more sharp tone of information. Children should not play with expensive clothes. It might be rotten to many things. Though, he was not annoyed or enraged. Merely a serious-sest.
She cannot speak. Program is given but the command under development. She is a weird infant.
“ Speak...you can...girl....” he adds ‘for now’ mentally – Rapunzel was a girl in the usual world of fairytale fittings – he did not wish to censure the stereotype immediately.
She distorts. Gurgles. Spit and vomit arises. She is nude to thought. Thought brings words. Her nakedness of dress is parallel to the nakedness of the brain. Though, this moment is finite.
“Ahhh....” she coos it strangely then her strangeness becomes fear: “Ahhhh!!!!!Ahhh!!!!!” she screams – a protestation to her voice – the designer sighs fatigued at the purpose of parenthood – hard it is to soak oneself in the embryonic fluid of genesis: she screams at her voice but cannot stop it – her voice is free her mind unprepared. Limbs and organs can become such autonomous beings.
“ Steady, Steady, Rapunzel...” her voice increases as the designer notices as he soothes, soothes more with the fear of parenthood, “ Rapunzel...Rapunzel...”
Her voice increases, increases, volumes soaring – no! The annoying town! Her voice! His design! The Designer! “Now,” he pushes her, not roughly, a bit hard, just to distract her, it works – she ceases her increasing scream of despair. He smiles, “ Listen my dear, you can comprehend my words even though I am able to comprehend that they lead you to distress because yours is a knowledge somewhat pre-given and pre-given does not necessarily translate to talent or comfort – believe me, yes, believe...” Rapunzel points with her finger, then looks scared at her own action, her comfort is alien – the words cycle as air – particles absorbed, inhaled, exhaled and subtracted in respected specialization yet reaping is less than substantial – she knows yet knows not – how can she craft with an expected normalcy?
Tears prick – they seem thoroughly accurate yet she starts rubbing her eyes furiously – she scares for tears. They’re alien-known – such extremes are drugs unbalanced.
Recognition of the state leads the designer to embrace the skin-clad girl whose attributes moulds a fear not even infancy could portray – then, again, her birth with a womb extraneous has displaced nature. Man’s physical cocoons are circumstances – crafted an umbilical cord to them without necessity feeds no fire of metamorphosis. Her umbilical cord was forged in the designer’s inventory. How can it be so flawless than the original ‘sin’ of birth?
Birth may not be sin or irrelevance, however, it is deemed at times at the hands of who writes the relevance.
The designer’s mind infused with this got to work, “ I am like your father though we are not biologically related...” he draped a robe around her, “ I have named you Rapunzel...”
“Ra – ra...ra...” it sounded little rattling, a tongue out to test, “Ra...punn...punnhh....zeeel...”
“ Not correct,” the serious-sest remarked, “ But good for a first timer...” he chuckled... “You could try it again my dear.”
She looked tearfully, “ Ra...RAPUNZEL!” she screamed it.
The designer tsk-tsked; obviously, a sculptor’s work is never done – no, her proportions were right (mental note: do not introduce her to the opposite sex, similar sex must also be tread upon cautiously – added: opposite sex only if well behaved). Also, no one too inquisite ( minds of same nature are bound to pry) and gossipers are thoroughly excluded.
“ Rapunzel, my dear, the world is not right for you now.” The designer smiles, “ It is important you stay inside the house. After all you are not like everybody else.”
“ Stay...” Rapunzel was hypnotized or rather hazy – it has been some moments post-birth.
“ Yes.” The designer casually continued as if he was lecturing a student.
“O-o...Ok...” she seemed to be learning – a sculptor may not be so annoyed to see some lines touched somewhere; her design might be improved. God, Herself, wants it. The designer smiles.
“ Good, Rapunzel, I am glad you understand...” he smiles and decides to note carefully on all events.
“ No, I do not.” Stunned by the new tone of coherence – cogs replacing cobwebs – she looks pale, “ I do not understand many things father.”
“ First my dear do not call me Father...” he looks shy (after the surprise), she looks more human shaped with a voice, a tone, the impressions mean he is fallible, “ ...Because it is too personal in a manner that does not befit me – you may call me ‘designer’ if you want...”
“ Common noun...”
“ What was that...?” another shock to the system.
“ Proper noun...ehhh...” she looks unsteady, she falls to the floor and clutches her head then starts shaking, “ Wrong imput! Wrong imput!”
“ No, it is not necessarily wrong –“ he aided her, by embracing her again, “ You must know of creative freedom. It’s a bend in the fundamentals but it’s alright.”
“ Bend?” She stops, looks – neither fair as the Snow White nor teeming as the blonde damozel – she is bronze with blue-green-black eyes (their unity is extraordinary) and night-hair long as the eve who slumbers in the hands of that clockwork moon gazing at inventions as a Byronic hero reminiscent of old tales told by wives.
“ Yes.”
Soon a knock – she means to scream yet he gives her his hand as a leash – no screaming now. It is not good at all.
“ Ah, Doctor...are you there? It is I Adam, I am here...”
“ Adam wait there –“ he looks at fear, “ You must rest now. I may need to go out, do not scream...” he prepares a sedative, “ This ensures a rest dissolved of restlessness.”
She breathes as leash is gone and he sinks the needle – she does not scream – the child trusts but before going to sleep mutters, “ Adam...Proper Noun...”
This makes the designer sigh – the human was intelligent.

+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+

The girl looked happy for an instant then forlorn. She rushed nearer to him. Eye-looking: intense – the iris made him uncomfortable – beautiful incisions (what are scalpels for?)
“ Adam, how nice to see you...”
“ Do you mean that Doctor?”
“ Of course Adam.”
“ I disbelieve you.”
“ Please do not dear Adam.”
“ Dear Adam...?”
“ Yes...?”
“ When was I so dear...?”
“ When were you not...?”
“ Please, Doctor –“
“ Adam, any reason for this pleasure?”
“ No, no reason except me fancying a visit.”
“ Oh.”
“ Yes.”
“ Thank you.”
“ Please don’t be formal.”
“ Thank you Adam I am so 0”
“ – Delighted, no, you are not.”
“ Adam –“
“ I may have interrupted you – I am sorry – I will leave immediately.”
“ Then I shall leave with you.”
“ What?”
“ Some fresh air may do me good.”
“ Are you serious?”
“ Yes, why wouldn’t I be?”
“ You...you are strange Doctor...”
“ Adam is a strange name for a girl.”
“ Stranger things exist than stranger names that serves as a stranger to comprehension.”
“ I am a stranger?”
“ Yes. You are not known to me as I liked it to be.”
“ Well –“
“ Hush good Doctor – your body is your reservation and your mind your licensed right...”
“ I...”
“ You have the copyright to both of them.”
“ Do you want those rights?”
A eye to the right, pensive, “ Maybe – it is intriguing to know a life.”
“ Really...?”
“ I am going to the bazaar.”
“ I will accompany you.”
“ Your funeral.”
The designer knew the words – what taste it means is not truly a foreknown art. It bodes unrest – the summary, a skeleton is his analysis, in his analytical range for now.

+-=+-=+-=+-=+-=+

“ Oh, the designer!”
“ Blasphemer! Blasphemer!”
“ I thought he became a medicine man...tsk what a pity.”
“ Oh dear God, By Supreme God it is the Doctor – I hope God has kept you well by Allah I thought you were dead.”
“ Hmph, what a sad sight in the Bazaar today. The Devious Doctor Philantropy has decided to visit us and it is good news? Pray tell God to shut His windows or else his houses be defamed.”
“ We cannot say Philantropy is wrong to be here. As a denizen of town he has a right to the bazaar as much as you do. To exclude him is an egotistical, selfish venture.”
“ You Blasted Poets do what you wish but if you ask me Philantropy shouldn’t be allowed in here!”
“ Philantropy is still a good man.”
“ Good man – hmph, he is more of an inventor than a doctor, how is that good? Tell me, No one even knows what he creates – how does that benefit?”
“ Granted he is a secretive man but his secrets, though perturbing, are not foreign for whose secrets are not in want of normalcy – secrets as a species have no ordinary labels.”
“ Go to the soothsayer if you want to wax poetic! This Philantropy is a madman!”
“ Please do not be hasty in your definitions! These are signs of suffocation!”
“ Or the signs of an immediate action!”
“ We must stand as good people.”
“ Good people are not lambs. They do not bare their throats to the wolf and say ‘Shed my blood.’”
“ Who is waxing poetry now? (More like waning the poetic sympathy).”
“ Go to the dogs you blind curs.”
“ There are no Philanthropists here for Philantropy!”
“ Only Men can be loved not shaped demons!”
“ Demons! Hush – such retarded language!”
“ Damn Philanthropy for Philantropy!”
“ Damn you all!”
“ The man, be he saint or sinner, still arouses the masses – a talent that can be admired.”

So, shall the world know him? Maybe-so-not-so-maybe: he can never know the die.
“ Doctor, don’t tell me you are paying attention?”
“ Well, it’s hard not to.”
“ Oh Doctor, do make merry at times then if this what you fear.”
“ A fear of a bad word? Maybe, maybe not – I am not captivated by it that I do know.”
“ Well, Doctor, did you want to buy anything.”
“ Maybe more milk. I prefer it raw or with tea, coffe or with the classic honey.”
“ Oh, nice to know how you like something that is not made in your labarotory.”
“ Milk can be used in experiments.”
“ Fortunate for her that you like her for her wealth as well as her other uses.”
“ I guess.”
“ Alright then.”
“ Excuse me Dr. Philantropy, why are you here?”
“ Excyse me, but Dr. Philantropy can do what he wishes!” Adam went on charge.
“ This does not concern you.” Another man joined, soon a group with the same man saying, “You may fool others with your courtesies but something about you is never right.”
“ I am sorry Madams and Sirs – but I have neither harmed nor will harm anyone with my oddities that I can assure you.
“ Your crime has been done doctor, we don’t like your weird ways,” a woman spoke, “ You are so strange – you neither marry nor tarry and you keep way from us and many a times speak rudely to us – your oddities have already given us offense!”
“ I am truly sorry if I am naive and unknown in the matters of social decorum.” The designer apologized sincerely, “ I will not commit the same folly again.”
They looked steamed, burned, dried, burned-again – soon they cooled, “ Alright.” The woman said, “ We have our eyes on you doctor.”
“ Eyes are best kept in their sockets.” Adam spoke – her glare in her advice.
“ Girl, it is best you stay one of us...” another warned, “ The doctor we may pardon but you are to be quick for exile.”
“ Best be a lone wolf then be in a pack of lambs.” Adam commented.
“ What an outrage!”
“ That girl is no shame!”
“ She is called Adam – a man’s name!”
“ She may not be decent!”
“ Please make your dry assumptions.” Adam laughed, “ It was my father’s idea of Adam and I have no queries to it.”
“ So he is mad too.” That woman dared.
A slap. Shrieks. Yells. The woman on the ground sobbed in confusion, “ A whore’s tongue is best served to be cut!” Adam howled.
“ Adam, calm down, dear...” The designer interrupted, then whispered, “ Why waste your breath on these people.”
“ So, Doctor, your apology was an act...?” she whispered back.
“ No. But how can I deny the existence of wild fire when I see it.”
“ Adam this is an outrage!”
“ You have done wrong child!”
“ Girl Adam how dare you raise hands?!”
“ How can you do so much wrong?!”
“ I had enough.” Adam scowled, “ You think you people are right to judge others when your own hearts are frail and fickle.”
“ You know what spiled girl” the same woman declared, “ It is best if you go to the soothsayer Shylock – after all we are to be punished...”
Adam looked hesitant, “ Why this sudden move? Are you playing a game of chess? Is this a move to attack the pieces?”
“ Dear girl, are you afraid to go to the man?” The woman giggled causing anger to be in Adam.
“ No of course not!” Adam looked livid, “ I can go there now.”
“ Who is this Shylock?” The designer looked weary, “ Adam, are you in trouble?”
“ Don’t worry about it doctor, you should just take your milk and leave.”
“ I cannot leave you behind Adam.”
“ What is to be left behind shall stay behind.”
“ Not if one can collect the sands in the hourglass – if tides can be changed we should change them.”
“ You shouldn’t come – I believe that is what they want.”
“ Good Adam sometimes yielding to the enemy promises victory later.”
“ Yes, true – but, do you think them as your enemies now?”
“ If they attack you then I cannot consider them my bedfellows either.”
“ Alright then – plan that predicted victory – you know you need too – enemies can plan ahead and crush the roots that prosper.”
“ True – I take your advice. But who is Shylock?”
“ You shall see.”

The man is in the street. Ordinary. Without signature of interest. Without apparel-modest or more only scanty. There are crowds generated. They keep distance. It is affirmed that a place for space is good for breathing. The crows are interrupted. Here comes two customers. No, it is not wealth of land, coins or lust that Shylock yearns. A touch of spirit-wonder and destinies-massive are his coins and lust.
Though ordinary is wealth here it is dull, uncultivated thus remaining infertile. He waits a change.
He takes coins though and at times want of comfort makes him lend his hand to ask a sum. But, the aura of two – hmmm – strange license – who are these two? They speak strange things already!
“ Shylock...” the woman smiles, “ This girl was being a delinquent and –“
“ Shut it impudent one!” Shylock retorts shocking the woman and giving bliss to the two,
“ I have sense a pride in your aura not meant to be! – you!” he signals for Adam, “ Come here girl who is named after the first being – are you good enough to be the matriarch?”
Adam forwards hesitantly. Her palm is suddenly plucked by his eager claw. His whites come. Irises in another cosmos. He then comes closer.
“ Yes, a matriarch of deeds – sins, virtues, fallen and ascended...” he then whispers,
“ That man...” he points to the designer, “ Knows of childhood and child-slaying...:
She takes her hand away, Incensed! “ That is not your right to know!”
“ Yes, true, maybe-so...yet...” Shylock smiles, “ i know it now and I am sorry to know – it is hard.”
Adam looked hard.
“ Oh, so this wench has a secret...” the woman looked venomously victorious, “ Dear Shylock please expose this snake’s pitiful crime!”
“ If you are ready to expose yourself in your attire that which Allah gave you I will happily give out her secret.”
A drop of hardness from a countenance and the start of shock on another.
“ How can you ask this of me!” The woman screamed.
“ I may ask you the same.” Shylock smiled then looked at the designer, “ You, you – come here – you have a recent glow.”
The designer looked perturbed. A collector of people’s agony or a true mage of dangerous liaisons to the mind? This axis is radically different from his planet.
He clutched the designer’s palm more sternly, swayed it side-to-side-front-to-back, a carnival of an inspection. Eyes large. He looked at the designer, whispering, “ You...is she...you have done it...”
The designer now was alarmed, “ Whatever could you mean:?”
The soothsayer laughed, “ Don’t be shy...you have her in your grasp...not her for long...”
The designer was uncomfortable, “ How...how do you know?”
The soothsayer smiled wide, “ Don’t be so confident designer...that’s what she calls you...”
The designer looked interested, “ Yes...that’s what I told her to call me.”
The soothsayer smiles sadly, “ Don’t you think you should have given a better introduction...?”
Adam is under light – she is also under an eclipse. However, pure dark-blinding light of awesome kind (a kind of intolerance) has fit the designer in. She looks at the soothsayer and the man.
Man he is and man he shall be.

End Of Act I

Stone Of A Fortress ♠ The Pandora Matchbox

Tuesday, 1 December 2009

I am | Shiori | The Blasphemer Damozel

Touga | Song

Utena | Nakedness Of Long

Utena | Call

Utena| Woman

The Rapunzel Act I