To launch a manifesto you have to want: A.B. & C., and fulminate against 1, 2, & 3,
work yourself up and sharpen your wings to conquer and circulate lower and upper case As, Bs & Cs, sign, shout, swear, organise prose into a form that is absolutely and irrefutably obvious, prove its ne plus ultra and maintain that novelty resembles life in the same way as the latest apparition of a harlot proves the essence of God. His existence had already been proved by the accordion, the landscape and soft words. * To impose one's A.B.C. is only natural - and therefore regrettable. Everyone does it in the form of a crystalbluff-madonna, or a monetary system, or pharmaceutical preparations, a naked leg being the invitation to an ardent and sterile Spring. The love of novelty is a pleasant sort of cross, it's evidence of a naive don't-give-a-damn attitude, a passing, positive, sign without rhyme or reason. But this need is out of date, too. By giving art the impetus of supreme simplicity - novelty - we are being human and true in relation to innocent pleasures; impulsive and vibrant in order to crucify boredom. At the lighted crossroads, alert, attentive, lying in wait for years, in the forest. * I am writing a manifesto and there's nothing I want, and yet I'm saying certain things, and in principle I am against manifestos, as I am against principles (quantifying measures of the moral value of every phrase - too easy; approximation was invested by the impressionists). *
I'm writing this manifesto to show that you can perform contrary actions at the same time, in one single, fresh breath; I am against action; as for continual contradiction, and affirmation too, I am neither for nor against them, and I won't explain myself because I hate common sense.
DADA - this is a word that throws up ideas so that they can be shot down; every bourgeois is a little playwright, who invents different subjects and who, instead of situating suitable characters on the level of his own intelligence, like chrysalises on chairs, tries to find causes or objects (according to whichever psychoanalytic method he practices) to give weight to his plot, a talking and self-defining story. *
Every spectator is a plotter, if he tries to explain a word (to know!) From his padded refuge of serpentine complications, he allows his instincts to be manipulated. Whence the sorrows of conjugal life.
To be plain: The amusement of redbellies in the mills of empty skulls.
image of a hand pointing to the right DADA DOES NOT MEAN ANYTHING
----
Cheerleader Role play play extended (prior scenes leading up to this one have featured various sexual role plays)
(B is decked out in scant cheerleader garb. scene takes place outside in
abandoned yet sunny park.)
A: Did you bring it?
B: I brought, I got it and I gotta little more to spare.
A: DID YOU BRING IT?
B: I brought the shit out of it, do want some?
A: Right here. PUT IT RIGHT HERE (points to lips) HERE!
B: (she kisses him wetly and licks the tip of his lip. then kisses him on a
protruding lower rib as he leans back.)
A: Bring it! (she grins embarressedly and shakes her cheerleader skirt
coquettishly) (he takes his shirt off completely) (she jumps on him, straddling
and tackling him to the ground subsequently. his back smacks onto the grass
relatively painlessly)
B: Can you feel it now?
A: not enough (he smiles)
B: (she pins him down and slaps him across the face with medium
strength.) ENOUGH?
A: Its never enough! (he struggles underneath her, missing her mouth,
instead kissing her on the chin.)
B: I love you!
A: Bring it!
B: I FUCKING LOVE YOU!
A: (he tenderly lifts up the curtain of her hair and kisses her behind the
ear) (whispering) "I love you too, killer"
B: (looks like she's suddenly been struck dumb) (pulls away) Im sorry. I can't do this right now. I have to remind you. Im leaving and the question remains, are you coming
with me?
A: only if you want to bring me (tries to distract her by
kissing her more.)
B: No. this is your decision. You can’t keep doing this. My
character is going to China and I must follow her for research. You know this.
I love you, but I’m going away. I’m following her.
Will you follow me?
A: You know I want to.
B: Do I?
A: Don’t- I do- I just- You’re going to China. And you have
no what you’re going to do there, no idea where exactly you’ll be. China is an
entire country.
B: I’ll write. I’ll sail the Yangztse. I’ll see the Jade
summer palace in Beijing. I’ll play mahjong. I’ll write.
A: That sounds like a very solid plan. Once you know more,
get back to me. Have you even purchased your tickets yet? (tries to distract
her again by running his fingers along her side. She is reclining.
B: I already bought them.
A: and a return?
B: I didn’t buy one. I don’t know how long I’ll be there.
A: Why does Sarah so desperately need to go to China?
B: She’s running away from mediocrity.
A: Are you running away from me? From possible happiness?
You always do this, killer.
B: (joking) It’s like the song says…I love you but you’re bringing me
down. (kisses him on the lower lip.)
A: stop.
B: stop what?
A: Stop doing this.
B: Make me (she grins devilishly)
A: (suddenly serious) I can’t make you do anything. I can’t
make you stay here (indicates sunny park) I can’t convince you to be happy. I
can’t give you what makes you happiest. I can’t understand you.
B: then you’re staying?
A: No.
B: then what?
A: Maybe I’ll have an adventure of my own and meet you on
the otherside…. Maybe I’LL WRITE. Maybe then I can understand you. OK. Ok.
B: ok, what?
A: Ok.
B: WHAT?
A: Im going with you.
B: really?
A: we’ll have a competition. Who can set Sarah free from
mediocrity first.
B: you know tickets
are probably really expensive by now.
A: I don’t care.
B: You should care.
A: Idiot. I love this about you. Fuck, you fucking nut job, I love you. And I don’t care
if this is an expensive ticket.
B: So you love an idea? I am prototype artsy girl with an air of superiority. thats all. You’ve found yourself a concept to fuck. Does it feel good? Like
masturbation with a piece of breathing meat?
A: That’s not what I meant.
B: Are you serious about helping me write?
A: I didn’t say “help.”
A: Perhaps our competition will motivate you though, I don’t
know. I hope it will. This is for ME. I need to experience it. We should
experience it at least partially together. Show me. Take me to the entrance.
Blind fold me. Kick me into the darkness from behind. I don’t consider it
betrayal. I consider it a compromise. I won’t invade. I’ll find
my own so I can be closer to you. I just need to understand.
B: There is nothing to understand.
A: Bullshit. Bee, you live entirely in your head. There is a
whole fucking plexiverse to understand. AND I expect it to terrify me. Im
ready. Take me with you.
B: Buy one then. Buy one. I’ll send you the manuscript of
what I have so far. Sarah is a complex girl. You couldn’t write about her
without it.
A: of course.
A: ok Bought it.
B: what? Already?
A: you can’t start a love story without an i-phone, darling.
B: don’t call me darling.
A: You can’t start a
love story with an i-phone, you sexy insidious shrew.
B: better. You may have an ear for words after all.
A: the devil carries pom poms.
B: the devil is a man in love.
A: what’s the cost of a single soul?
B: a quarter of a novel.
A: what can I get for mine?
B: we’ll see.
