The MAD AND INAPPROPRIATE FAERIE is very excited tonight because so much has happened and there's so much we have to tell you. For one thing, a spell was cast, and for another, it seemed to be working. They were on a pirate ship, but now they wake up and realize that it's really just a raft, and oh, they are floating. Except. There shouldn't be an except. One raft is enough for anyone, and all sorts of things can happen on a raft, but look.
This is the problem here.
The raft is really too fucking big.
It holds way too many people, it can and it does, and when they wake up, it should be a brilliant morning, and it might be, except there are dozens of people on the raft with them, and they all have questions.
But he has more than anyone.
HE: I really think I need to start thinking through my own motives about all of this.
SHE: I don't think it's altogether necessary to think through anything, because when you're on a raft at sea, things tend to work themselves out exactly the way they're supposed to work out.
HE: But what are we supposed to do with all of these people?
And here, it's true, all of these people are listening to what she might say to this, and for the first time, being on the raft seems like it might be real, and even more, she is starting to feel like she might be real, like one of those souls that get called back from the dead. And she is obviously expected to make a speech, and so she does.
SHE: Vinegar and roses. Scorpions crawling out from under my skirts. Catholic school uniforms, nun habits, centaur horns, and a very useful balm. My first methodology, and my first methodological error. The habits of the sun and the moon. The way we love in outer space, where there's no gravity and no sound. Those embarrassing moans that escape me in public, when I'm remembering what I wished for last night. The worst love letter I ever received. Too many feathers on my doorstep for me to sleep comfortably. Am I supposed to be convincing you all of something? I'm not sure if I can convince anyone of anything, because I don't like it when someone convinces me. If I already know it, then I usually decide to know something else, and if I don't know it already, I remain unconvinced. It's not a curse of my age, it's the curse of the age I live in. Everyone's a liar with rotten teeth, and the sweetest songs always mean that by morning, someone is going to try to steal my jewelry. I'm not here, I've been gone for a long time, I'm not here, and neither are you.
HE: I don't think so. You're crying, and that means you've landed back in your body again. Welcome home.
SHE: I already told you! I cry at the very least little thing, especially where you're concerned. It doesn't make us real.
A very inquisitive looker-on has a very good question. The FAERIE acknowledges him.
LOOKER-ON: How do you resurrect the dead, and isn't it always a question of transubstantiation.
HE: I love the idea of transubstantiation, because it means we can be the next thing whenever we need to, and it means that this skin is permeable.
SHE: Oh, my gosh, you never read theory, you just skimmed it! What a dick. Skin is always permeable. You don't need any religious metaphors to know that. Good gosh, people, what has become of us, we're all just getting stupider. I need a night light. I need a thicker blanket. I need a full-body pillow that's stuffed with the feathers of all the birds I eat over the course of a love affair.
HE: I don't eat chicken, but when I do, it's always followed by a very fine cigar. Not one of those stogies, and not one of those little prissy panatela goddam jobbers. I'm talking dark fucking wrapper around a thick fucker, something with a little time on it, a little bit of bloom even, oh my gosh I goddam love cigars. And when they bloom, it's like spring. And when they bloom, they taste like you.
SHE: They smell like death.
HE: You smell like death. That's a compliment, really.
She gets very, very quiet, and it's so uncomfortable and awkward on this raft. No one wants to say anything, and it's so quiet no one even wants to cough. But everyone else but her suddenly really needs to cough. They all try to cough very quietly, and there are some successes, but a lot of failures, too, including ones that are terribly violent and embarrassing.
But it's not what you think at all. She's not offended. In fact, she's embarrassed, because she understands that she's been recognized, and that he is not who he pretends to be, but is something much, much less larger than life, and is landed himself in a body that is open to her, and if he understood this, he would not be able to sleep for another 400 nights.
This is the problem here.
The raft is really too fucking big.
It holds way too many people, it can and it does, and when they wake up, it should be a brilliant morning, and it might be, except there are dozens of people on the raft with them, and they all have questions.
But he has more than anyone.
HE: I really think I need to start thinking through my own motives about all of this.
SHE: I don't think it's altogether necessary to think through anything, because when you're on a raft at sea, things tend to work themselves out exactly the way they're supposed to work out.
HE: But what are we supposed to do with all of these people?
And here, it's true, all of these people are listening to what she might say to this, and for the first time, being on the raft seems like it might be real, and even more, she is starting to feel like she might be real, like one of those souls that get called back from the dead. And she is obviously expected to make a speech, and so she does.
SHE: Vinegar and roses. Scorpions crawling out from under my skirts. Catholic school uniforms, nun habits, centaur horns, and a very useful balm. My first methodology, and my first methodological error. The habits of the sun and the moon. The way we love in outer space, where there's no gravity and no sound. Those embarrassing moans that escape me in public, when I'm remembering what I wished for last night. The worst love letter I ever received. Too many feathers on my doorstep for me to sleep comfortably. Am I supposed to be convincing you all of something? I'm not sure if I can convince anyone of anything, because I don't like it when someone convinces me. If I already know it, then I usually decide to know something else, and if I don't know it already, I remain unconvinced. It's not a curse of my age, it's the curse of the age I live in. Everyone's a liar with rotten teeth, and the sweetest songs always mean that by morning, someone is going to try to steal my jewelry. I'm not here, I've been gone for a long time, I'm not here, and neither are you.
HE: I don't think so. You're crying, and that means you've landed back in your body again. Welcome home.
SHE: I already told you! I cry at the very least little thing, especially where you're concerned. It doesn't make us real.
A very inquisitive looker-on has a very good question. The FAERIE acknowledges him.
LOOKER-ON: How do you resurrect the dead, and isn't it always a question of transubstantiation.
HE: I love the idea of transubstantiation, because it means we can be the next thing whenever we need to, and it means that this skin is permeable.
SHE: Oh, my gosh, you never read theory, you just skimmed it! What a dick. Skin is always permeable. You don't need any religious metaphors to know that. Good gosh, people, what has become of us, we're all just getting stupider. I need a night light. I need a thicker blanket. I need a full-body pillow that's stuffed with the feathers of all the birds I eat over the course of a love affair.
HE: I don't eat chicken, but when I do, it's always followed by a very fine cigar. Not one of those stogies, and not one of those little prissy panatela goddam jobbers. I'm talking dark fucking wrapper around a thick fucker, something with a little time on it, a little bit of bloom even, oh my gosh I goddam love cigars. And when they bloom, it's like spring. And when they bloom, they taste like you.
SHE: They smell like death.
HE: You smell like death. That's a compliment, really.
She gets very, very quiet, and it's so uncomfortable and awkward on this raft. No one wants to say anything, and it's so quiet no one even wants to cough. But everyone else but her suddenly really needs to cough. They all try to cough very quietly, and there are some successes, but a lot of failures, too, including ones that are terribly violent and embarrassing.
But it's not what you think at all. She's not offended. In fact, she's embarrassed, because she understands that she's been recognized, and that he is not who he pretends to be, but is something much, much less larger than life, and is landed himself in a body that is open to her, and if he understood this, he would not be able to sleep for another 400 nights.
No comments:
Post a Comment