On Richard Foreman’s Old-Fashioned Prostitutes (A True Romance)
End of play. We come to this now for comfort is that ok? An old man with white hair I was traveling ok ok it’s not interesting being a civilian in the theater. Are these light bulbs energy efficient? Is he from the south? Go to Berkeley make film. Do the gals get to be people? Do the gentlemen? This is like his apartment I was there once and RF said I have a bone to pick with you and it was terrifying and thrilling, he was lovely and called me out for something ridiculous I’d said about older artists, repeating themselves. But gently. Read Said on late artistic periods, M says. The entire afternoon. Vermouth. Suffering quietly. Antique apertures and argyle socks and a mirror turned on us we are unlovely are we not?
Ok. Budapest, Shanghai, Vienna now or never. I keep forgetting to write that lady back from Art NE. Shit. Which does Samuel prefer? What if neither? No foamy pits here. Languor and fallen souffles. This life thing. This word thing. Akira Kasai told me hip hop was America’s butoh. Oh my gosh. Tennessee Williams. Ravishing. Come to the verandah. Tenn is everywhere all at once here hurrah. Prostitutes, no. Whores, maybe. The hip outflung. The gentle woman waiting. She is not gentle. He needs her to be.
In another sense this is also true. Teddy bears they tie to the grilles of their trucks. They darken and grow strange. Susie comes looking for you. Ok. The author maybe isn’t dead, he’s only preoccupied by a lady caller. Mistakes always profit someone. The players arrive. No mad hatter. Alarm. Alarm. Horrible empty Sunday feeling theater tries to stop it. No. That’s the first false line. Always the soft idiot softly me. His heart is enlarged. He ties golden gloves around his neck, his physical self dissolving, he walks out into the Sunday square.
I busy myself with making sure the entire alphabet is there. It’s harder and harder to be wide awake. Stranger an hour and four minutes of your life is over there. Plots has he laid. Rage, rage. Try to name it. If not, why not? The day lies crumpled on the hallway runner. His face is Swedish. Hole in one. No.
Then use the back entrance. No.
Lines & scarves & old-fashioned loves. It is a desperate business, this business of having a self to hold and not hold onto. Hold it. I thought this at least. I thought it. A strong drink. A mutual subject. The no hero in his best dressed whites. The whore’s friend giggles. Ok. Time is up. Joan Didion can no longer wear her four-inch red sandal heels. It’s often difficult. The classes are held in the back room. If you don’t pass, you fail. The observer changes the observed. The alphabet and then some returns. Gently, of course. The enlarged heart bursts. Rivulets of blood in the gutter. No, false again. Count again the things one might do. This and that. Famous people. Busyness. Alarms. The hotel room alone late at night.
Waiting again. The beautiful coquette. There’s nothing special about you. The master of ceremonies awaits. He had to return to tell you this. The band is warming up. OP EN AL LN. Rainer Thompson. Now no one can. look. Now there is nothing to see again. Joe Persek. The office worker will one day be a star. hello hello. the world hangs up on you the jeweled fingers slip around your wrist no one cannot say it say it the ribbons hang limply from the sky beckett it isn’t falling yet.