I'm only speaking to one of you. Others are excluded
Even the one I'm speaking to. . .doubts. Is it to you I am really
speaking and will you be able to understand the true thrust of
I hope you haven't eaten.
This wonderful serving is for you.
This food is for you
Al the things I wanted to say are going back into the head, that's
why the words are pouring out of me, and when we reach the end
of that we reach the end. What flashes? Oh, a cloudless sky of
Take my fever? I meant to say temperature, of course
Let's return to that rush, and I-- shall I speak self-wise, I,
I, I-- hey, I think what I have here is a stuck on a point.
You too should be me so I can afford to shut up. Shut up! Shut
(her head is held)
You see what my touch is capable of?
All this is a calcuulated effect, professor.
Don't call me professor
A professor wouldn't deny being a professor
On certain occasions, through I admit I can't define them
I'm into magic
It might hurt
I don't saw people in half
One half of me believes it, one half doesn't
The issue at hand seems relevent to the following consideration.
Is it I who pour forth words, and having done so, am I emptied
of or am I filling something, so the final objective is a full
or emptied vessel.
That's genuine magic, professor
Pouring forth, or vice versa
Words pouring forth , or vice versa.
Empting something or filling something, I look upon it as interchangeable,
but that's only for the time being, and therefore it could mean
a vast number of things. Also I call uponme, myself. 188.8.131.52.5--
whatever my repetitions
Multiple enough so that in fact, somebody else is speaking through me. Look what I find, a voice that's capable of taking over my own voice, so that when I, my voice, rests-- it's still going on in the resting, and I do like to put two hands here
(on his own throat)
as a kind of soothing gesture, even though it looks like something
That's the magic, Right
That's the magic. Am I empty or full when I get emptied.
That confuses you, but if I say is IT empty or full, you get the
Snap!His own lines:
What I mean by that, a series of forces exiting from the self-- wait a minute, there;'s no inside or outside. So what am I looking for if there's no inside or outside? And I'm issuing forth, a force.
So what is this force doing if it's not looking for something?
It seems to be pouring forth, but it could also be sucking in.
Something out there. . . sucking in, and that pulling inside.
makes lines, imagined.
Is Dr Laborde in the audience.
That puts me in an awkward position. My discourse is directed
at making a certain impression on Dr Laborde. It is Doctor Laborde,
uniquely, who is in a position to understand the full depth and
pognancy of what I say, and without his presence, as receptical,
my words dispurse in space; in a sense, lost.
I'm not speaking to everyone. Hello.
Dr Laborde exists...as fire in my imagination. And as that fire.
. .burns my very words, something in the world becomes animated,
invisible to most, but neverthless real, as nothing else is real.
Hwllo. I'm speaking to one of you. . .yet you doubt your own identity,
except that you know my words are reverberating in you as they
are self-evidently not reverberating in the minds that surround
you, encased as they are in heads of stone.
(Gilloytine-- thrust head)So, long ago when young.
I located myself at the mouth of this verbal flow.
I tried to flood the world
I recognized that the source was inexhaustable
But then it was exhausted, only I hadn't at that point, the courage to feel better in my emptiness.
Pr was it slightly different, that I wasn't self-locatable in
the emptiness which was elsewhere, and myself being separating
from that by a kind of mental space--
Who would understand me?
The flow from inside me, was a flow from that other space, emptying
itself through me but it wasn't me emptying.
Hello-- I dreamed a magic object
(opens several small doors)
Or better to say-- I made discoveries, without realizing that each discovery lead in the same, call it-- direction.
Because I knew it wasn't a question of direction, but of the source
of that very multifacuted thing that seemed to be a direction
when really it was an "Oh, here I am".
Somebody in the back of my head rises and says "I understand
you, I understand where you're headed"
And I reach out my hand. But then I think to myself, Oh, that
had better be your VERBAL hand, or could we say your internal
No, we could not say verbal hand and mental hand in the same breath-idea.
That would be a total misconception.
And in fact, somebody in the back of my head says "Hello.
I understand perfectly. Aim carefully-- this is what the companion
or potential companion in the back of my head says to me-- aim
carefully, and I turn that perfect aim into a vague trajectory
that wobbles so fast it vibrates with light and look-- I've found
my way for both os us"
I didn't make the mistake of reaching out my hand to somebody
in the real last row.
Rather, if I reach out my hand. . .I send it on a trajectory that
speeds forwayd in that linar direction which, if extended far
enough, we all know must-- of proveable certainty-- circle back
though never circling, always straight, into the heart cavity
from which the hand first thrust. Mine. And there it meets, inside
me, somebody else.
I've never seen you before
It's a different aspect of you.
I don't feel diffgerent
You don't look different
But you said--
--Don't hold me to what I said because I wasn't talking. I was
letting the words pour from my heart but I couldn't give them
a name and that meant, you're not named anything, and that's what
I saw shining like a smile of recognition on your face--
I'd like to see that
Don't ask me to do an imitation. It has to come from my heart, and of course it does.
(They embrace)All in a box
Here, this box
But you quite misunderstand, because this box, entered into and extended from in at least a few, tiny holes,
which means those holes that seem to be a connection between inside and outside are really the thing itself,
and if the thing itself is nothing whicvh is what holes are,
I think you can see how the thing itself is everywhere because
nothing IS everywhere under and between and inside those occasional
things that do arise on the perminant sea of nothing that's simply
another name for something that extends itself immediately through
all places, namly, holes, holes in things
If you can't understand me, you don't have to, because you pick
up instead on the electrricity of my presentation
* * *
Maestro, are you emptying the world or are you emptying your own self
.Each word, tripple in my imagination, overheard, you again multiply that trippleness, and you who overhear are the last in a long line of overhearers, and each one tripples the heard.
And so, each word trippled to the millionth and millionth at least, power.
So the use of words, so that's how it is with the use of words and the overlapping trippleness and complexity that is inherited by you and me and everybody else. Nothing to be done about it. Multiplication of reference as a fact, so ride that trippleness because either you are used by it, or --you use it, though the choice is yours and it doesn't much matter which the choice is because the choice is similar owing to the fact that your words are just the tiny pinprick on the gian globule of words that rolls over you the minute you open your mouth or even think about doing so.The ultimate play began.
The stage emptied.
The curtain rose
The audience collapsed into itself, and travelled at great speed in a direction opposite to vectors penetrating the stage.
In that mutual recoil, the play began.
The stage, emptied, became the perfect arena.
It became 'un-noticed'.
The single spectator slept, and imagined reading a book, The real walls of the theater took on reality, in the form of a material much like stone, but not stone.
The light curled on itself and darkened, inside the head.
The imaginary book, melted into the imaginary theater, and words were both things of the spirit and things of heavy stone.
The actors, never existed, and danced the dance of their never existing.Nothing.
And nothing happens
But something happens
Because the moment
The silverwear writes my tongue,
X'd out verbal twist,
Oh, Radient table!
(use opening of HE WAS EXPECTED?)I'm seaking to
you, of your own life. Separate yourself from the people who sit
next to you
Isn't that a misplaced ploy for theatrical experience?
This is not a theatrical experience
Of course it is.
There's an audience, people assembled, and there's the two of
us, on display, presenting our thoughts, our impressions--
But I'm trying to negate that
Why? (Pause) Wouldn't it be best to leave the room and tell everybody
to go home?
That's a problem
I think it's a problem, but following the implications
of your position, it shouldn't be a problem.
I haven't made my presentation. I've only implied the direction
of my thought
I choose not to think so.
Let's be patient. (Pause) Let's even experience the blank space
of my refusal to be rushed.Exhausted: the ultimate child
I'm in a bad way.
Every moment, every phrase, becomes so loaded, so ultimate, so
connected to every other aspect of the situation and of reality
that I feel no need to move on, to create anything more than what
is already created.
It's true, that most writing, painting, composing, seems to limit
the possibilities inherent and flaming and alive in each accidentally
found moment or word configuration.
So for that reason, most art is rejected. By me.
But accident itself-- not chance, but accident, and I'll explain
Accident is what risaes up, unbidden if, and the if is important,
if the mind is properly fuzzed. Not fuzzed by alcohol or drugs
or frantic expectation, but fuzzed by a specific kind of openness
that loses focus but produces equlibriant tension in the sustaining
of wideness of vision.
Chance is the simple invocation of random happening, in which
the mind's poise is not part of the equasion. I hope you understand
Now I'm waiting for a phrase, which means I'm waiting for an accident.Ahh
The curtain rises on nothing
The audience beats its breast
Rolling on the carpet, one or two spectators break their eyeglasses
When a possible actor exchanges lines of text, so that coherence has the power of an unapproachable goal
Scenery twists, calling attention to devious plots that deem themselves 'the unrecognizable'
The theater of the world collapses. The dust which rises, touches, like perfume, the very wind, and
Seats go to those who think about things.
Actors glide through ariving automobiles, whispering 'curtain time, curtain time' because nobody on real time sees anything
( and to arrive is to fall out of control)
Props lengthen-- is it a function of concentration?
The door into the theater closes:
mad decisions rain on time and many pages of text collect into a self protective system.
The theater of hesitations: sweet, the way a taste can be musical afterthoughts.
The theater that evades responsibility,
balancing just long enough
to make its collapse noticable,
wherein its beauty is re-learned;
Such beauty-- because so hidden, so unnoticed, so defective
So many missing parts, the mechanism fails to function:
exactly in that.Everything is wrong. Everything we taught each
other was wrong. If you can understand that, you've made one more
mistake, and if you know your mistakes, there is no way to redeem
So there's an impass
Oh yes. There's an impass
Should the curtain be opened? or drawn closed.
Is there a way both could be done at the same time?
I can't imagine a way to do that.
(Both think, then rise and go)
This moment. . .of turning away from each other, and leaving the stage, defeated by circumstances, but not really defeated, just giving up in a way that is still productive. . .
Such a moment should be extended. . . .
to imply almost a whole life.
Is there a way to extend this moment, or to imply its radical
Calling attention to it by speaking of it--
That method lets it slip past. It's as if words make it. . .unstable.
(Pause. Exit)Between the stage proper, and the front row of the audience
Space that the audience does not see
Space that the audience looks through in order to see what happens
on the stage
He entered the theater
He walked onto the stage and approached the space between the audience and the stage
He vanished, but was still present, still potent
He became visible as a disruptive factor
The play stopped being the play
The even was re-constituted
The mind of the spectator watching the play was forced to shift focus
It had no focus
But it could not catagorize what it absorbed
At those times when it catagorized what it absorbed, what it absorbed vanished into the appropriate catagory
At those times when it was unable to catagorize what it absorbed, what it absorbed became hidden and worked in secret
The space between the audience and the stage works in secret
If I enter that space, the secret work ceases, so I do not enter that space, but that space is at work inside the audience.
I have found a way, myself, to work in that space without entering that space
The ultimate theater works there, in secret, invisible. Undetected.
The undiscovered theaterThe play beings
Men and women enter dressed in bright colors
The light is adjusted so that their colors seem less bright
When a body falls to the floor, music makes the intelligence travel in a direction that spells 'up is down'
The play begins. Just at that moment, audiences (of course there
are more than one) realize the beginning of the play exists in
impenetrable space and time. This brings sleep.
Nightime. Did you
Have something to say
Lamps on end.
To eat no-flakes
Cast in, an iron life
For one eye
Sleep into idea
Wake into meaning-not
The play in which things are represented
erases the things that are represented
The play in which nothing is represented
grows the one real thing
Where does it grow?
Not on stage
In the mind
If no audience attends the play that grows the one real thing
in the mind, then, alone, it grows in the play itself. This is
In a perfect world, every member of that world joins a rehersal,
and the performances that issue from those rehersals are never
attended by an audience.
Finally, the theater achieves its mission.
Not to please an audience,
not to redeem the individual spectator.
Un-namable and therefore real.He agreed to participate in a real play
He was given a text
He understood that certain parts of the text were part of the text,
and certain other parts of the text were echos of the real text
only and not the real text itself.
His task was to build into his body (into his performance) realization of that distinction,
even though that distinction was to then remain hidden within his performance
He understood that effort would not be rewarded
He circled his own effort, busying, insect-like, into the sweet heart of his own effort.
What emerged was nothing.
Failure and success were held in suspension, in the solidified liquid of his effort.
In the coagulated heat of his effort.
His effort became a mold from which other images were to be cast.
But he was forbidden (it seemed to rise from within himself) to cast images from that mold.
He was forbidden to effect 'realization'
-- and yet his body, and the gestures it performed, and the sounds it made, were still present for audiences to observe.
What were they given to observe?
Not the surface of these things
Not the depth of these things
(There was neither surface nor depth)
What there was that was there was time passing, except as it passed, it was, sequentially, not there also.
But the 'also' existed
What he presented to them was this 'also'
The theater of 'also'
It had no clear beginning or ending
and so it was hardly noticed,
but it was certainly there,
where he was
Look, I am a theater
He didn't spread his arms to proclaim that,
or widen his eyes to suck into his head their lose
(no longer lose)
He didn't raise his voice,
nor did he lower it into the range of un-natural
He vibrated, but held it in check
Look, I am a theater (also)
and he erased the word 'look' and the activity of looking
Of course he negated the 'I am" of "I am"
as it sped from his throat,
as the lips themselves smothered the sounds
in the very act of articulating pronounciation.
since walls and curtains were made to crumble, finally.
-- was the radically evoked also of letters,
being the first and therefore available,
as the automatically ejaculated representative of all letters
and so, in that automaticness,
random and uninvolved,
and so, nothing and everything,
The curtain, closed (by opening)
PerfectMy problem is as follows
I want an art that can function like a reminder, a medicinal pill, a correction.
Life sucks me into its concerns-- no, I haven't phrased that correctly.
Certainly, life sucks me into its concerns, but that's as it should
be since I belong to life, having been born into life and carried
on the crests of its waves.
The more exactly stated problem is that, immersed in life as I am, the tools and techniques offered to navagate it are a variety of tools and techniques and often, the ones at hand toward which I automatically reach (because they are at hand)
are those that float on the surface of life's ocean
around my ocean-tossed body precisely because THOSE are the tools and techniques regurgitated by life's ocean from the deep store of previous shipwreck upon shipwreck,
the countless shipwreck of lives that have not done well riding the waves of circumstance,
and precisely the inefficient tools of those poor shipwrecked souls, the millions and millions of them,
THOSE are the abandonded tools that float about me now,
towards which I so automatically reach because of their proximity;
but as they failed those who came before me, I must understand
that they will fail me now, if I secumb to the allure of their
What's needed are new tools, or old tools, but nevertheless tools
packed deep inside me, stowed safely away from the ripping winds
of the universal hurricane.
And what I need, want, desire from art, is the reminder or insistance or encouragement
to look past the blandishments of failed tools that continually surround me on the water's surface,
so that I may,
remember to grasp in the secret darkness inside myself,
to extract the hidden tool, or-- if you will--
extract that way of proceeding with my life that will enable
me to ride its waves like the hero I might hopefully be.
So I don't reach toward what seduces and swamps me into an imaginary life in a pretended world;
I need an art that places tiny stratagies of re-tuning to my true self,
places pricks of help, somehow,
in the midst of my life, as-it-is.
So I need a theater that doesn't cover my life
with its own blanket of imagined life.
But how is that possible?
Since the theater is a place where my own life vanishes,
or is at least submerged in the surge of an imaginary life on-stage?
Here's the solution.
A play in which, nothing is convincing.
In which the situation is not 'solid'
A thing of shreds and pieces.
But I don't know hopw to keep even shreds and pieces from turning into a seamless whole,
welded together-- if by nothing else--
by the audience's focused attention.
I'm dreaming of an impossible play.
A play that falls to pieces so that truth-bombs,
launched by the play,
can explode in my own life rather than in the imaginary life invoked
by the play.
I want, I want, I want, I want.
Please, take that repitition for what it is--
an echo of your own,
unanswerable longing.Why is a hint better than a complete documentation
of reasons and emotional experience.
Why is a hint better than an explination, better than a deliniation
Why is a hint an explosion of life that seeds whole worlds.
If I hint at the truth, do you understand the truth?
I can't find it
If I can't find it, I don't find it
If you don't find it, you find it; but it hurts. (Pause) Oh well,
everything hurts, finally
Then I don't have to find you
Right. Either you find it, or it finds you
Either way it hurts.
Does it still find me--
The truth-- does it still find me even if I hide myself inside
Ah. You don't want to be hurt
If I hide myself in a story--
--If you lose yourself in a story--
Will I get hurt?
Yes. But later
O.K. I'll put it off--
(Pause. Laughs) I can hardly wait.He spent his life creating plays that slowly coagulated into a world in which the creation of plays was impossible,
in which the impulse to create plays faced an impass.
What have you done, Maestro.
I've backed myself into a corner
I've written myself into a dead end, on purpose
Why on purpose?
(Pause) Do you mean questions are not desirable?
Questions are to be listened to carefully, rather than answered
(Pause) Is writing, the answer to a question?
A better question. Is writing the search for a question that can't be answered
Is writing, the play that finally, cannot exist.
Make a proposition.
The play that exists is a fall into existence.
The fruit from the tree of knowledge, re-eaten.
If the fruit of the tree of knowledge is not eaten,
if the play does not fall into existence.. . . . .?
(Pause) I understand, Maestro.
You find a way to begin posing a question,
but it never becomes a question,
and so something poised--
hovers in space.
(tape) ShhhhThere is spontaniety
within us and exits
Like a gesture
or a word
And that delight is uncapturable,
explodes into wide nothing
But memory is greedy.
Having no being,
as its projected way of being
into future life.
waits for us
to make its demands.
And under the sway of that tyrant which it is,
the spontanious gesture
leaves a trace
and we are forced (seduced) to act,
Under its sway.
And that willed action
Effort we would ape
Also brings pain.
And we are ruled
by avenues of pain
Established like the stone roads that feet cannot slide over
No sliding possible
Except for those who
Make that effort
Who would drink oblivion again
Who would move and speak
From that scar
though fast is still
'again' which hovers
Still, a cloud
over our primordal
Radience no-more.What feeds the world?
(I shouldn't say the world, but something larger, vaster)
Pain, of course
But in fact
All feeling generated by the fantesy that is the world-perceived by man
Inside his head
A universe constructed
Of the waves of waves
invisible to us
But on that artificial and transient grid
of human response
to human fantesy
Is grown the feeling network
that bigger thing
to feed its own invisible energy source.
And so the truth.
That fluctuating human feelings,
drifting, changing shape
by the God we cannot see or name.
And would those feelings cease
(the technique lies at hand)
No longer human
No longer food
In the realm of things
(The silence of things?)
Fighting his way into the theater:
at best, self destructive
At worst, amassing fragments of scenery and torn curtains,
He arrives, finally, on stage
Pouring blood, which fools nobody.
The pretense had to be made, however.
Bandages were applied to everything visible
And so, food for thought was provided.
But certain critical minds proclaimed 'false premises!"
Those wounds, so bound, non-existent.
Those developments that follow, non-justifiable.
But tears, false phrophets,
chased them from the theater.
Was it right to cry?
Was it wrong to preach mental rigor?
Yes and no.
It was helpful for some, (mental rigor)
self-limiting for others;
but the distribution of advantages and disadvantages could be transcribed and evaluated by no known methods.
So mystery was at work
Clothed in the baubble-laden dress of the occasion.
rolling in the aisle
the wonded eye, singular
of the storm.
Ah, that's what should have performed the destructive act;
for the destruction of the visible.
That giant eye
Beholden to no-one.
And swallowing what was seen
So its work can truly begin
And the theater serves it's function,
to go up in flames.
By the very moment in which our true hero
(With what effort,
with what long, disasterous
will it really happen-- that destructive finale?
It depends who asks
It depends who answers
YOU, probably don't want to suffer, a MIND attack
You want YOUR mind to remain invulnurable, the most intimate part of yourself. OK.
You will now suffer a mind attack
Theaters across america
will feature, inner details of YOUR mind
People will view, if not your thoughts, at least your associative tendencies
YOU WILL, to say the least, be humiliated
It is not happening at this moment, not yet, but the minute this aparatus is attached to your head, it will start happening.
But here's the GOOD news--
I've decided to save you from the mind attack,
by offering my own mind.
All you have to do to make this happen is to say thank you.
Thank you for offering to save me,(or us) from mind attack,
by offering your own mind
as the object of the mind attack.
But you do not have to say thank you with your verbal mechanism.
All you have to do is to think it
And I believe, that you think it
That's my belief.
I'm telling you my belief,
here in public
which is the first example of the way I offer MY mind
to save your own mind
from mind attack.This is the first time I have ever offered my mind to protect other minds, and the question must be asked-- why now?
Is it because I love you?
Is it perhaps because I don't love each one of you,
but one of you, I won't say who, is here, who I have looked at, seen, registered, loved.
And the rest of you are beholden not only to me,
but to the one my love has selected, though that one, that 'other', has no idea that 'he' or 'she' is the chosen one
and so each of you may well wonder, is it me? Am I the beloved? You can't know of course.
It could be.
It could be.
It's true. I dare not speak openly, but one of you--
or rather I should speak directly and say
--without looking in the right direction of course
I don't think I really "love' you.
What I need are a few good friends, to talk to.
A life spent in search of a mirror
Now-- here's a mirror.
But why is a human being better than a mirror?
Because you can't see yourself as you REALLY are, in another human being,
but you can see yourself-- almost,
Especially if you CHOSE your friends carefully, and don't we all?
I like you? Don't like you? -- Well, what kind of a mirror are
because I believe myself to be so much more intelligent than the rest of you-- you know why?
Because I know so much more about my OWN life
than YOU do!
You have to admit that
The question is, do you accept my idea of intelligence?
You say no-- but seen from your own point of view, if you see what I mean, don't you think I'm right?
Here are ten words plucked from my brain.
I didn't do the plucking, and if you're not interested, remember-- this is all to save YOU from mind attack.
Call that a personal pantheon, that's why I've been able to produce those words so quickly.
They come up on stage to stand in for
The handleable me,
Made available for so many years--
handled to great aclaim, almost--
because the total illusion contributed to the fiction that
What happened was my own personal effort on your behalf
being all OK.
But it was only . . .being handled that happened to me.
to self-shock myself
the handeling gets. . . de-materialized.
and what looked like withdrawal from the scene of action
plunging into the real action
that of course, has no scene.
Ready to really begin
That's what it doesn't look like when you pull the curtain closed and go ostensibly to sleep--
so something else wakes up and gets down to REAL work
and the false face, burning,
LOOK AT IT!
covers itself in its own smoke--
Hold it right there--!
I went to the theater.
Bodies fell from the stage
Into the orchestra pit.
No music: Music.
I covered the correct ears,
Fists turning into the haphazard
I caused to tragedy,
The whole world of the imagination circled me like a plastic cocoon.
And I bled birth.
I folded the theater
I stepped into the theater from the street--
Was that a second time?
Where was the street?
What bright lights blinded me?
What automobiles decided to control their own collisions.?
No ticket in hand
But my seat was empty
And a funel of energy seemed to be deciding on its direction
But I heard nothing
Turning my head to one side
When the curtain rose
And what entered me
Under the eyelids
Airoplaned into a ceiling that could ONLY
Fall down from the blow.
A hole instead of a story.I went to the theater. Light rose, arose,
and I saw a curtain blocking my line of sight. Penetrating it--
I could not.
But, from the center of the curtain, which parted slightly, emerged
someone in evening dress.
The subject matter encased itself in gold, but it was not real
Artificiality rose under my eyes. Kingdom-- realm of the rejected
anticipation, now enthroned. Septeur in hand, that septeur, passed
to my own hand which lay hidden under the folds of my jacket.
Springing onto the stage, I-- pleateau of emergent sensations--
I glided, in my glide toward the unknowable center.
What twisted inside me was a taste for excess, that which had
propelled me to the theater itself, temple of excess, undone,
I was behind the curtain
But in front of the curtain.
I realized that what had attracted me to the theater was not the
notion of communion, but the notion of artrificiality. Life re-thought,
established upon a ground of arbitrary and non-functional rules.
The grotesque and the beautiful as partners, defying both convenience
and utility, defying also that sweet flow of intention into intention-absorbed
gesture that so stamped what was hereafter to be called 'real-life'.
No. What I prefered was the sharp crack of crystal shattering,
as if life itself --stopped in any of its a-typical yet certainly
occuring moments, no longer held firm against the strain of penetrating--
call it sight, but it was more than sight, it was inner necessity
that just by accident in one particular biological convolution
convulsed itself into eye-probe form from the brain, vestage
Look how I dress.
It isn't perscribed in the imagined way of doing things. It's a mirror.
I wiped my face with language. Did it wake me up? I don't know. Is language supposed to wake me up?
Do I need a telephone in order to use language? Or is my language
telepathic. Do I float through it. Do I disappear under its waves.
The use I made of the theater was suddenly a revelation to me.
I went to the theater. As the play began, I rose from my seat
and found myself on stage. The moment I did that, the play became
You ruined the play
You ruined the play by interrupting it
("Theory": Read a unit, then write (freely) on language of
Did I interrupt it?
How could it stop? It changed course.
It wasn't real, you made it real, which means you stopped it.
You made it die, into life
It died into life
What a crime
Yes. Notice my face aglow. Notice something in side me falling away, like dyingThe "I"
I-- I-- I-- I
Where is it hiding
Let me tell you a story about myself.
We're going to examine a man , today, who's illness is difficult to define exactly. Let me say this. . . No, let me say something-- let's start from the base of a productive ignorance
(Enters) Sit down my friend. (Pause) Don't be nervous.
Oh no (Pause) I'm not used to this
Have you forgotten?
What a strange question to ask me
Tell me aboutg yourself. (Pause) What drives you.
Yes. I am driven
("My world, unfinished: just like the real world)
I don't know
(Pause) How do you think of your relation to the world?
Ah, that's the issue, isn't it.
I want to have a profound effect upon that world. That's the basis
of much misunderstanding
Yes, go on. Go on.
Explain how it's the basis of much misunderstanding.
People misunderstand me, doctor.
Yes, but how?
(Pause) I don't know how. I don't know about the inner working
of other people. That's your business. I'm a simple man.
Are you really simple?
You know better than myself, doctor
Why do you say that?
The questions you ask, I can see you;'re pulling things from my
That's not the answer of a simple man
Yes it is
What drives ytou, sir?
I want the world to keep going
(Pause) Why did you say that?
It means, explain
It confused me
Then erase it
I can't (Laughs) I don't have an effective erraser
Why did you laugh?
At the idea
Oh-- you know
Now, we don't know anything about you
Really? But you've been watching me and listening to me for several
We don't know what goes on INSIDE you
What comes out
That we know. And we understand, of course, that what comes out
comes from an inside. But we think, inside, there is even more,
some of which HASN'T come out. So we'd like to see it all come
(Pause) I can't keep anything for myself
Why would you want to?
Because some of it is for myself (Pause) I don't want to be emptied
out completely, doctor
What drives you. That's what you want to keep secret?
What drives you
I want the world to go on
Go on where. Go on how. You see, that's what we'd like to hear.
Oh well (sighs) I want to please you, of course. (Pause) It's
like this. I let things come forward, things I say. . .in order
to add. . . the unexpected, the unpredictable. . .because otherwise
the world locks into place. Everybody seems to know how to behave
and what to say. It's very. . .regulated, isn't it doctor. But
the world needs something else. A little greese in the mechanism.
A little. . .slipperiness-- so it can keep going.
So the world can keep going?
And that's your contribution
By what I say
(Pause) It's in what you say
It's in your language
Yes. To keep things going, you see. Otherwise, the geers lock. Zip--I open things up. Zip--I keep things going. (Pause)_ That makes perfect sense, doesn't it? You think I sasy things that don't make sense, but now you understand my motives, so it makes perfect sense. (Pause) My true self is revealed. Our relationship is changed. That's why I wanted to keep something to myself-- because now I've explained everything. And our relationship is changed, and I liked it the way it was, your problematic object of examination; but now that I've explained, I suddenly take on the aspects of the wise man who holds the balance of things on the tip of his tongue, and you sit deholden, waiting for me to perform my therapy, and I liked it better when I had you more off balance, trying to figure things out.
But now that's done.--Off with the false faces, but they weren't false, doctor. And now, when I go rattling throiugh my language, -- your language also-- now it's not going to work so well, because you think you know what's happening and that will be broadcast, I dare say, to your associates-- and then what? It grinds to a halt.
Because whatever I say, now you have a pidgeon hole available,
a catagorical box in which to zip whatever comes out like quicksilver--
zip! Into the box-- my goodness, look at all the boxes lined up--help!
Help! I can't move-- excuse me, what I meant to say was help!
Help! None of us are moving!
(Pause) Fine. Now take off the false face
Ah, what a relief. (rips off face) Look who's come to visit.
(Pause) I think I'm going to hurt my facial muscles. Do I have
permission to re-instal my false face? (Back on) Ah, thank you
No. Thank you
(P) I can go back to my comfortable vestabule?
Remind me which direction
Of course. (Goes, hits) I'll be back in a jiffy (gets through)
(OPther blows nose)(Thinking is. . . silence)
His own fist
Lamented, as it turned
From the body
Into a punchless space:
Winded (lost in fistify)
A hundred kisses
Bawled at me
(He didn't expect "I" to roll again
That agrandized, hollow
Of a non-spoken
Into the same-self
Self and self;
Look at your look--
I can be your echo
Then it was my idea
There's no reaching the starting point
That's another miss
I like circling my mistakes
No center, it's blank
It's a center
Then hold onto it
You're right (Backing away) Let's go
Following orders isn't what you had in mind. Of that I'm confident
That, if nothing else.
Looking out the window was not problematic for Gerald. The buildings
stood firm (there across the way) and the flags fluttered so as
to wave, into the building like a thud. The building occupied,
seen from a corresponding window, thud-made from each gesture,
that came from the center of the body the flag in question waved.
Happiness was easy. It was easy for Walter X to bre happy in Paris. All he had to do was experience the void. . .The failure of his relationship to the city. That made happiness in Paris. . .easy. I seem to be
I seem to be totally an inertia system. Totally bored. Totally
wiped out. Something's wrong.
Everybody tells me
Everybody tells me life is various, a kalidoscope of events and
stuff, stuff, stuff
I can't find, any of that stuff. Higher than high, I made with myself a resolution to touch home base, but when I got to home base, it was put out to pasture, apparently, and the base, home, positions re-positioned, there I still was in left field. No bird orchestra of any kind serenaded me. No twit, now, of the biological species to back me up in the sense of reality-- all gone.
Sop sitting down to a sandwhich even was no-go for me in my sad
seer suckers. Ha, I'm lying about what I'm wearing-- but can ytou
see me? That isn't radicallyh clear to my OWN peep into things,
I'll take a powder.No more theater. What I pull back the curtain
to show, is myself.
No more theater.
What replaced it. What replaces it?
I have no right to speak from the position of one who knows. Nevertheless,
nevertheless, it's my belief. . .no. Let's say I think the following
experiment would be useful. If you adapt, toward me, the position
of. . .disciple. I mount. . .something.
And you worship me. And no matter what I am in truth, it changes
You're onstage, Maestro.
(Pause) Yes. (Pause) Have I changed your life for the better?
Too soon to tell.
(Pause) Right. But in the meantime, kneel. (done)I entered a room
and I was in the theater
What's really here, pulsating behind things?
There was a table, which seemed ordinary. But a mirror on the
table, propped from behind, hid more than it remembered, and looking
into its light, I shielded my eyes which evoked a round of applause.
Silence, Silence, I muttered under my breath, tryting to control
an audience I could not see.
I pulled a curtain that, closed, bisected the room, thinking I
would separate myself from those who observed me, but the curtain
became a backdrop, and its red flesh gave color to my indescressions.
What they were, I could not clearly identify, but I sensed that
each part of my body held it's own attention provoking awkwardness.
Looking again into the available room, I saw that the room I had
halved was again doubled, and I was both observer and spectator.
I sat, and it became an event. I turned my head slowly to the
left, and my invisible profile hid a narrative that pierced and
re-pierced itself like impluses from a variety of centers.
Such a theater, intimate yet sufficiently fragmented to echo a
whole distant world. Plunging toward the inside, the night sky,
between stars, echoed like something myself had sung, and the
applause I remembered seemed now, not offensive, but indescriminantly
perfect, like the waves of some nourishing and unavoidable sea.I
entered the theater. Stone benches on stage (as the curtain rose)
created a scene for action. And I thought-- this curtain rises
as I enter. This play is the play in which I speak: and I tried
to mount the stage to seat myself on one of the stone benches.
Then an actor appeared.
I recognized the paint on his face, the dark lines around his
eyes. I recognized the grimaces, pulling his face toward inexplicable
I felt lost-- unable to return to my seat, yet unable to assert
myself into that world that now surrounded me.
I was trapped, I realized, inside the theater. I appealed to the
spectators by waving my hands.
My family appeared and half-recognized me, speaking to no one,
feigning attention-- but from the look in their eyes-- elsewhere,
as I was elsewhere.
I tried to calm myself, uttering the words "This is your
It didn't work.
My heart was pounding in my chest.
The noise dominated the stage.
The curtain came down
No one would tell me what effect my performance produced.
Back on the streets, it was as if nothing had happened. I bought
Words. And I couldn't focus my mind on the words, and I looked at the sky, and was afraid to lower my gaze though I intuited that things were happening below me, in what was, heretofore, the street, where I, in fact, was placed.
If you dislike people as much as you claim, why is the theater
chosen to be the arena of your activity, an arena oriented to
Perhaps I chose to proceed by a stratagy of frustration
Yours? Or your audiences.
Oh, this is really too painful (exits)
I bet soon he'll come back. (Pause) Instead, I'll assume his role, or position, or persona. I'll have a conversation with myself. (Starts-- stops) Oh, this is really too painful (exits)
(Music)We are not, tonight, going to perform a play. Yet here you are. Waiting, to turn this into a play. How can you be stopped from doing that?
I don't know. Music please?