What my plays look like to the people who hate me

(Scene One: A philosophy of methodology into the inquiry of desire, blabla, talking dog, talking dog, I'm so smart oh look at me I'm so smart.  We enter into a room, or rather, the room enters us.  Woo.  Wrap your head around that, it's deep, bitches.  We are entered by our setting, not the other way around.  This is based on a new theory of space that no one else but Matt Watkins has read, but I quoted it in my play first.  Hot fucking damn, watch me.)

(MAN#23 enters the space, naked, with angel wings, covered with white powder.  He is supposed to be a man who is somehow in between spaces, or liminal, and represents something entirely problematic to begin with.  Is this the male gaze at work again, even though it's couched in pseudo-feminist theory about representation?  Even if we quote Laura Mulvey, there's little doubt that this MAN#23 is ChrisDanowski, and not even very thinly veiled.  He even has the same obsessions and talks like him.  Listen to this.)

MAN#23: Oh, hoho, kiddies, this is not an easy night for anyone, no, not at all, and in fact, specifically and statistically, that is to say, why am I?  Why why why?  I lived in a war-torn country once and saw a tank in the street once and that's why I think I'm the goddam angel of history.  Now watch me puff out my chest and quote Pablo Neruda in Spanish:

Porque en noches como ésta la tuve entre mis brazos,
mi alma no se contenta con haberla perdido.

Aunque éste sea el último dolor que ella me causa,
y éstos sean los últimos versos que yo le escribo.

That was Pablo Neruda in Spanish and I won't translate it just to make you feel dumb for speaking only one language.  Now here's something about the moon with a lot of rhythm.  It's nothing about the moon, I will just use the word moon, with rhythm.  With rhythm.  And repetition.  Of words, like the moon, and the moon is a word that repeats, and maybe the only word that repeats is the moon.  No one reads Borges anymore and that's just so very very stupid of all of you.

LITTLE GIRL (enters.  She represents innocence so she wears a flower on her head, and she is trying to eat the flower but she cannot, because it is on her head.  How will the audience know this?  They never will.  They are too stupid): I was the one who was left in the streets after all the parades were over, and before they came to carry away the bodies of the dead.  I suffer for everyone, and it is sad, and entirely your fault because we are all complicit in the pain of the world, especially the blood running through the streets of your own city.  You people with your day jobs and your supermarket debit cards and your refusal to learn how to read Pablo Neruda in Spanish will be the death of everything that is good.  Let me remind you of a few more things to make you wish you were home smoking pot and watching the Family Guy.  Hurry, hurry, hooray. Bo.

(But it is too late, because not only has this scene already ended but the next one is already started and I don't care if you're lost, that's your problem, it's not because I'm sloppy or distracted.)

Scene Two: A Park

MAN#23: Oh, you, I wish we had something to celebrate with, like a, like a bag of psychedelic chocolate, or a beanbag, or a, what do you call it, an Arab Strap.

WOMAN#8: I don't know what that is, but I do know what phenomenology is, and that makes me so fucking hot.

MAN#23: Oh, you really have no idea.

(She takes off her shirt and they make out.)

(Note: WOMAN#8 is the same character that runs through all of his works, and she might represent something like Robert Graves' The White Goddess--nothing to do with race--which, interestingly enough, is a theme that some critics say runs through Dylan's songs, and this is no accident.  Because Danowski listened to way too much Bob Dylan when he was in high school, and thinks somehow that he might have the same thing, except for the expensive leather coats and the hair.)

Scene Three: A Park (except it's a different park, and there's no way for you to know that unless you are smarter than me, which of course no one is, hahaha.)

MAN#23: I don't want to always have the first word.

WOMAN#8: First word, last word, words don't matter, except when they do, but we are matter even before we become speaking subjects.

MAN#23: Oh my gosh that is so hot.

(He takes off his shirt and they make out.)

Scene 9: A Park (Why scene 9? Because fuck you is why.)

WOMAN#8: I don't know what I mean, I don't know how to mean, I just wish, I just wish, we could see an end to this goddam war.

MAN#23: Here I will say a line about something meaningless, to demonstrate a resistance to clarity that disguises itself as absurd, but is really an agressive stance to keep anyone who tries to figure me out at bay.  Because it will show that I am deep, and just in case you decide you don't like me anymore, some of your smart friends will want to date me.

WOMAN#8: You've heard the sounds of the blood running in the streets, and that's why I say take me.

MAN#23: I can't.  I still haven't gotten over the girl in San Diego.

(Someone else takes off her shirt, and they make out.)

(Last scene: Apocalypse with clowns.)

(You would think there is spectacle, but there is not.  You would think there is going to be music, but there is not.  You would think there might be some kind of orgy of the flesh, but no, instead, he just walks out naked in the angel wings and pours white powder over his head and you all have to sit there and watch it, and pretend that you have not seen this before, and that you didn't understand it the first time, either.)

(Lots of long words on the screen that no one could possibly read.)

(End of play.)


Shawnte Orion said…

If I were smarter,
I would like this even more
than I already do!

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