wordpress is fucked up!
METROPOLIS TV CULTURA “O RETORNO AO TEATRO”: Gerald Thomas e Fabi Gugli: “G.A.L.A.” abre o Festival de Teatro de Curitiba
PALESTRAS DOCUMEMTADAS: RUY FILHO (ANTROPOSITIVO) Festival de Teatro de Curitiba, Março de 2022 – Gerald Thomas
Crítica: ‘G.A.L.A.’ é uma viagem ao fim do mundo – Festival de Curitiba
Gerald Thomas estreia nos palcos durante o Festival de Curitiba com ‘G.A.L.A.’, peça que foi projetada para ambiente digital.
por Maura Martins
em Em Cena
Cena de ‘G.A.L.A.’, de Gerald Thomas. Imagem: Nicolas Caratori/Divulgação.
Um cenário inóspito, iluminado por uma lua avermelhada, em que um barco arruinado carrega uma linda mulher adornada por penas, como se vestisse uma fantasia do Carnaval. Pode ser a superfície da lua, pode ser um deserto – e pode ser apenas o Brasil. G.A.L.A.(espetáculo criado por Gerald Thomas durante a pandemia, originalmente para ser projetada online) chega ao Festival de Curitiba com o intuito de provocar certa tensão.
“Beckett virou NFT, hoje tudo é bitcoin” são algumas das primeiras falas do monólogo feito pela atriz Fabiana Gugli. Claramente a peça busca desnudar as crises que acometem todo sujeito que hoje habita este planeta, em que todas as referências preestabelecidas estão se tornando bens irrelevantes, descartáveis, ouro de tolo – como as obras de arte virtuais e o dinheiro que não existe.
Vale lembrar que Samuel Beckett é tido como o grande mestre do teatro de Gerald Thomas, e G.A.L.A. marcaria o afastamento da obra dos dois. À Folha de São Paulo, o diretor declarou que “a peça, como outras, é autobiográfica, e é meu rompimento com Beckett. Há 40 anos ele martela e esculpe seu nome no meu cérebro”.
O cenário projetado por Thomas é um ambiente onírico onde sonho e pesadelo se misturam. Bombas e tiros eventualmente soam no local, assim como clássicos da música erudita se misturam com Rolling Stones
O cenário projetado por Thomas é um ambiente onírico onde sonho e pesadelo se misturam. Bombas e tiros eventualmente soam no local, assim como clássicos da música erudita se misturam com Rolling Stones e outras bandas de rock
A Gala do título – uma referência à artista Gala Dalí, artista russa proeminente no século XX e que se casou com Salvador Dalí – transparece no texto que remete a uma mulher que conversa o tempo todo com seu amante perdido, a que chama de Sancho, e diz que sente sua falta, apesar das traições entre ambos.
A ruína do mundo, portanto, é multifacetada: o barco está destruído, a morte está próxima (um dos únicos objetos cênicos presentes no palco é uma caveira), os pilares foram derrubados, tudo que confiávamos esmoreceu.
É difícil saber para onde vamos a partir daqui – e se, tal como crianças mimadas, estamos todos exaustos à toa. “Está pior que as fogueiras da Inquisição? Pior que o Terceiro Reich? Jura? Pior que o crash da Bolsa e a fila da fome, a fila do pão, a fila da sopa de 1929?”, profere a mulher de G.A.L.A. Ela ainda atende o telefone que não para de tocar e responde: “estou em ruínas e você me vem com essa notícia?”.
Ainda que tudo esteja acabado, que sejamos já a sociedade do cansaço, há ainda um tanto de festa, pois a mulher dança e se embriaga (tristemente, vale dizer). Com texto afiado e absolutamente atualizado (que chega a mencionar o tapa dado por Will Smith na cerimônia do Oscar, no último domingo), G.A.L.A. é a estreia “em carne e osso” de uma peça pensada para transmissão virtual. Uma chance e tanto para deleitar-se com o texto de Gerald Thomas e presenciar uma grande performance de Fabiana Gugli.
G.A.L.A apresenta as ruínas da contemporaneidade
01/04/22 às 10:04 Ana Reimann, para A Vida É Palco
As diferentes vozes a respeito de um mesmo espetáculo é uma das possibilidades que a crítica artística abre. E aqui temos a visão da Ana, colaboradora do blog na cobertura do 30º Festival de Teatro de Curitiba.
Quem é a autora?
Ana Reimann é atriz, formada pela Faculdade de Artes do Paraná e jornalista pela Universidade Positivo. Como artista e comunicadora, investiga a linguagem contemporânea de criação e a convergência entre arte, comunicação e cultura. É assessora de comunicação da Smartcom – Inteligência em Comunicação e parceira do Grupo Obragem de Teatro.
Cercada de ruínas, em uma festa no fim do mundo, uma mulher dança nos destroços de um naufrágio. Vestida com penachos, ela rodopia entre tiros, bombas e a solidão causados pela pandemia e pelos conflitos que abalam o mundo na contemporaneidade.
Em G.A.L.A, cada prato quebrado é um grito de socorro.
A dramaturgia de Gerald Thomas, marcada pela influência dos dramaturgos Samuel Beckett e Heiner Müller, se atualiza enquanto a peça acontece VIVA, em cena. Thomas demonstra um desejo genuíno de romper com os autores que o acompanharam durante a sua trajetória, talvez uma tentativa de atualizar sua própria história a partir dos novos tempos de guerra. Guernica, de Picasso, realmente, parece (?) um pouco distante.
Quando Fabiana Gugli, com a sua presença digna de prêmio, se é que isso é mesmo relevante, levanta o crânio, que simbolicamente representa as milhares de vidas destruídas pelas guerras, pelo descaso com a saúde pública, pelo governo genocida, as crianças órfãs ou mortas nos conflitos, o espelho do que somos no caos do dia a dia das nossas vidas solitárias, silenciosas, ora psicóticas, presas no DNA que carrega a ancestralidade, vemos também que Ofélia, aquela que o rio não conservou, ainda vive. Heiner Müller não morreu para ele. Em tempos de NFT e bitcoins, o adeus a Godot não será tão fácil.
Triste é perceber que as piadas casuais, que ocupam o lugar comum, sobre o coentro no feijão, as menções às dancinhas do tik tok e as propositadamente rasas chacotas de apelo sexual, são as únicas que tiram risinhos da plateia. Não temos mais referências.
A artista russa Gala Dalí, casada com Salvador Dalí no século XX, e seu amante Sancho, protagonizam o texto de G.A.L.A. Eles têm conversas intermináveis sobre questões existenciais. As reflexões representam o alter ego de Gerald e, também, a “existencialidade” de Gugli que, vivencia cada gesto de forma única e desnuda-se em cena, ao também se mostrar à procura por respostas que o universo não é capaz de responder. É possível enxergar suas veias, o amontoado de células, os ossos que a sustentam em um cenário global que perde para as fogueiras da inquisição, para a fila do pão, a crise de 1929, o terceiro Reich. Só restam a lua vermelha de sangue projetada na parede vazia, a bebida e o rock and roll.
De repente parece que, mais de uma vez, a encenação chegará ao fim. Aqueles finais que terminam no auge, em imagens dignas do hiper-realismo de Hopper: a solidão de um corpo e da luz que invade, de forma precisa, a arquitetura, como um dejavu. Um guarda-chuva que se abre no dilúvio, em busca de proteção. Um braço estendido implorando por ajuda. Uma epifania.
A figura de uma ave quebrada, como se fosse posta em sacrifício para salvar o mundo, é um exílio do ser humano em si. O ritual de tirar as penas da cabeça, uma por uma, como quem larga o seu ejá e deixa o ori exposto para guerrear sozinho é uma pista de quem, talvez, utiliza o microfone para reverberar palavras que nunca encontram o destinatário.
Às vezes é a falta de sanidade. Outras, é um fio de cabelo, um osso, um dente não encontrados.
Nesse ponto, começa o processo catártico. No ápice, o microfone desliga (será que estragou?), entra a música estridente, uma luz que ofusca e chega aquela cena fútil sobre a mulher de classe média que procura ouvir o sexo dos vizinhos. É exatamente esse o momento que te fazer acordar: você está no teatro, essa é uma encenação, a mulher é uma atriz e o diretor é o Gerald Thomas. Os braços para cima são da Fabiana, ela chora para comover, há uma fita em formato de X nos seus seios com o objetivo de se fazer gritar a todos, como Munch, o pavor aos resquícios da nossa desoladora realidade burlesca. Em um looping, aquela imagem será quebrada, e outra se formará, e outra, até o momento em que entenderemos e nos cansaremos do choque de realidade que é enfrentar o nosso caos. Como hamsters, simplesmente apreciaremos a tristeza do fim.
Em G.A.L.A, não há espaço para riso. A não ser se for para constatar o quanto somos ridículos.
Senti falta de você e da sua guitarra no palco. Eu te encontro nas suas próximas ruínas. Até a próxima, Gerald. Aqui ou em Itaim Bibi.
Crítica | G.A.L.A. de Gerald Thomas arrebata Festival de Curitiba com auge de Fabiana Gugli
POR BLOG DO ARCANJO · 30/03/2022
Por MIGUEL ARCANJO PRADO
Oidealizador do Festival de Curitiba, Leandro Knopfholz, é um cara do mundo, vivido e experimentado, que sempre encarou seu evento como cosmopolita, rejeitando qualquer tipo de provincianismo ao mesmo tempo que jogou holofotes constantes a quem contribuiu para a trajetória de 30 anos de sucesso do maior festival das artes cênicas na América Latina.
Tendo isso em mente, faz todo o sentido que o diretor Gerald Thomas tenha sido o escolhido para abrir o 30º Festival de Curitiba na noite desta terça (29). O reencontro presencial foi no tradicional palco do Guairinha, com sua plateia de elegantes poltronas de veludo vermelho, repletas de um público que misturou versados e novatos no diálogo com o famigerado diretor.
O nome da nova obra de Gerald Thomas não poderia ser mais propício: G.A.L.A., uma espécie de monólogo surreal tropicalista direto do caos protagonizado por Fabiana Gugli, em atuação digna de ser premiada. O título também homenageia a mulher e musa do pintor surrealista Salvador Dalí.
Referência do pós-dramático
Ícone do teatro pós-dramático no Brasil da década de 1990, mesma época em que começou o Festival de Curitiba, onde esteve na primeira edição, Gerald Thomas sabe como ninguém construir imagens de alto impacto e pura sensibilidade, dividindo com o público a busca incessante por sentido.
A sensação ao ver a nova peça de Gerald Thomas continua a de se estar diante de um quadro vivo, tamanho domínio das nuances de cores e luzes. E da beleza do fazer teatral.
E, se os olhos estão satisfeitos, os ouvidos, também. Gerald Thomas possui refinado e sarcástico texto, onde sobram alfinetadas e referências por todos os lados, que vão da brasilidade do “coentro no feijão” à literatura pop de Paulo Coelho ou a canção Satisfaction dos Rolling Stones, ainda recordando o medo asfixiante na pandemia. Aliás, o espírito da obra de Gerald Thomas, como evidencia boa parte de sua trilha, é essencialmente rock’n’roll garage.
Náufrega sem saída, com uma mistura de nostalgia e rechaço de um tempo que já passou, a personagem de Fabiana Gugli é um alterego do próprio diretor e dramaturgo. Ela dá vida a uma artista sob o infortúnio do naufrágio e que evoca o démodé dos velhos tablados e seus nomes icônicos, que soam como peças de um moribundo museu em um mundo algoritmado na velocidade do bitcoin e da dancinha do TikTok.
Realmente, as novas gerações não parecem muito preocupadas com Beckett, Walmor ou Cacilda. E só são capazes de rir se houver algum palavrão ou referência sexual na frase. E não há muito que se possa fazer em relação a isso. Tal desalento leva a personagem a um alto grau de desespero, num diálogo constante que busca justamente quem ainda lhe preste alguma atenção. Ou compreenda sua mensagem.
Uma atriz no auge
Em seu auge, Fabiana Gugli demonstra domínio coeso das matizes emocionais de sua personagem. E se joga de cabeça em cada uma das cenas oníricas propostas por seu diretor. A atriz quebra pratos com veemência e, logo depois, torna-se dócil e carente, com a velocidade de troca atmosférica que só as grandes intérpretes conseguem. Com G.A.L.A., Fabiana Gugli se firma como uma das atrizes mais importantes de sua geração no teatro brasileiro.
Engenhoso e atento ao aqui agora, Gerald Thomas trouxe para sua estreia de Curitiba a síntese do tempo, tão necessária a este mundo cada vez mais impaciente, fazendo seu espetáculo durar menos de uma hora. Ele ainda assimila temas quentes do momento, no que é perceptível a herança de outro grande encenador obcecado como aqui e agora: Zé Celso.
Ponte no tempo-espaço
O diretor atualiza a Guernica de Picasso e cria a ponte no tempo: “Agora é a Ucrânia”, concluiu no palco Fabiana Gugli. Ou quando a personagem, já no fim do espetáculo, pergunta: “Tapa? Uma loucura! Will Smith, sério?”, fazendo referência ao episódio de agressão envolvendo o ator Will Smith e o humorista Chris Rock, que marcou a noite do Oscar menos de 48 horas antes da estreia da peça em Curitiba e sobre o qual (quase) todos opinaram.
Comunicando-se com o imaginário Sancho por telefone, evocando a peça Dias Felizes, de Beckett, o dramaturgo a certo momento define seu Sancho como sendo “sua mulher”. Assim, Fabiana Gugli – ou Gerald Thomas — se assume como um Dom Quixote errante nestes fugazes tempos contemporâneos altamente digitalizados.
Resta saber se a mão, que surge como fio de esperança ao fim do espetáculo, é uma ajuda concreta ao anti-herói à deriva ou apenas um delírio momentâneo e efêmero. Como o é o próprio Festival de Curitiba. E é justamente aí que mora a beleza do teatro.
Avaliação: Ótimo ✪✪✪✪✪
Crítica por Miguel Arcanjo Prado
O jornalista e crítico Miguel Arcanjo Prado viajou a convite do Festival de Curitiba.
“G.A.L.A.” opens the 30th anniversary edition of the Curitiba Theater Festival (O Estado de São Paulo)
TRAPPED, DRAPED AND BLOW-DRIED
A Play by Gerald Thomas for Lisa Giobbi
Jan 29 – 2o22
(Lisa is on the phone almost as if singing)
I was distraught, I was distraught but what I did love about him was his description of being waterboarded, held in the nude and chained to the ceiling to the point that he began to hallucinate. Imagine ! That image alone is so overpowering that you don’t need all those extras screaming, pleading for this, that and the other. What? You’re billing it as a comedy? I’ve promised my mother…no can’t do that! What about his cracked skull ? What ? People roared with laughter?
*my mother was so horrified she couldn’t stop laughing. They found her between rows on her knees over popcorn and hotdogs screaming at the occasional rats :YOU MUST WATCH THIS! COME! YOU MUST WATCH THIS!) ,.,,and that was the day I decided to go deaf. Yes, there’s a snag, a snail, a glitch, a hitch, a snitch. There is no popcorn in the theater. Unless you happen to be in ZIMBABWE ! There is popcorn everywhere in Zimbabwe and that is where we ended up. I had a boyfriend once, long ago, many moons ago, stars and planets, galaxies too….we used to go to the movies and NEVER ever watch the screen. Always straight down to where the rats fornicated to aspire ….never mind. It was mostly a mouth, a tong tango thing, a making out, the upper lips and the lips down there (always boiling hot) – I am deliberately delaying the objectification.
You’re really saying that it ran a successful run as a comedy?
Not a bad choice exactly, not a good one either but a strange one.
They wanted me to do a Pinter you see? Yes, play the title role up in the air. Yes, exactly while flying, acrobatic style, circus like, you know…in harness,…All those silences in harness. Oh Pinter! All those psychological pauses, those killer stares, those lighting bolt scares filled with 6.000 watts, 5 thousand volts, moments so pregnant you wish you hadn’t been born. And above all those silences up there, in the air. Ha! What a silly idea. Well, if there happened to be the slightest noise in the wings…. then the silences would disappear and I’d just be hanging there with my Pinter play….in mid air… dangling like an idiot.
I’m assuming you are saying something to the effect of “nevertheless, that idea of staging an aerial Pinter was, is indeed marvelous”, Which Pinter, by the way?” You are asking me that, I assume?
(silence of a Pinter play)
I’m deaf by choice you see? It’s more comfortable this way. I don’t get to hear all this crap you and everyone else – (you know what? I’m just going to leave you here talking to yourself while I make myself a nice cup of coffee pretending it’s tea.)
(silence of a Pinter play)
The rub? The director wanted me COMPLETELY STILL – IN MID AIR during those silences! Can you imagine? I’d be in mid flight full speed and then, all of a sudden, with no breaks (I’m not a car, I have no engine goddamn it) he wanted me to come to s screeching HALT and REMAIN THERE IMOBILE hanging there till someone else spoke.
“STAY STILL STAY STILL” he’d scream and scream during rehearsal and I ? I got more and more upset and the more I got upset, the more tangled up I got in my cables. A mess. “YOU ARE RUINING PINTER” he would scream.
“STAY STILL STAY STILL” “STAY STILL STAY STILL” –
“YOU IDIOT” – I replied from my the depth of my guts because I can’t hear. But, honestly, if THESE BLOODLY SILENCES ARE SO IMPORTANT then why not cut all the words out all together and simply keep the silences???? Wouldn’t that be quite a relief? Hey? Come in ladies and gentlemen and pay $ 200 for 3 hours of silence. It’s a metaphor, it’s hermetically packed sealed so as to guarantee the increase of your sadomasochistic fetishes, you kinky shyster boys!
Yeah, so…. Up there…..in harness, in mid-air, performing Pinter I became deaf.
Coffee anyone ? Oh good. Milk and sugar ? No? Black? Ok !
(she walks across a wide room to a coffee machine)
Oh, it’s neither. It’s a strange equipment I’m not really familiar with. Never mind, I’ll head back OH! How strange ! I must have left another person talking (Lisa picks up another live phone) “Hello? Anyone there? Which Pinter, I’m assuming you are asking ?” Are you? You are asking me that, I assume? The full collection of plays!!!! All of them, all of it, from Homecoming to…whatever, all in the air. Terrible connection. I must go. Sorry.
I hated it so much. I hated it so bloody much….all those silences… they made me deaf. Partially deaf. I felt alright. I took that deafness as a sign. I took it seriously. I study my roles, I am a method actor. If I need to be buried in a deep grave to “feel” death, so be it. If I need to feel what torture was, then please: RIP my skin off and fry me alive, pour vinegar over me if all that renders me one damn scene and a golden statue in the end. And a red carpet photo. And that hand imprinted into the sidewalk. And the autographs and the free meals.
But then I decided to go FULL deaf. I invested in it. It put me in a special category. I checked with the Union beforehand.
(Lisa goes back to the original place, picks up the phone) “Hello? Have I spoken to you before? I’m assuming you’re saying yes but I can’t hear you so, because you see…I’m deaf by choice. Ah, the coffee machine at last. Oh. It’s not coffee. It’s tea. Not tea, it’s a pill dispenser… let’s see….what pill? What color? What taste?
(swallows one, two, three)
(to the audience)
This is fun
(Comes close to the audience)
No, it’s not.
I’m legally blind. Blind and deaf. I don’t know if you can hear me or see me. I’m insensitive to the touch. All I have is….
It all began when they attempted to arrest God. Nothing to do with Pinter. Pinter was just a night gig. Any other job would have raised a red flag. But even that one did. It raised a red flag. Well, yeah. That was it.
I tolerated pretty much everything till now. Voter Freud, this damn CLAMStitution of ours, CUMvernment …It’s OBVIOUS! We’ve become slaves.
THAT DAY….THE DAY… day I found out that they were out to capture God…. I lost it.
And this is who I am. I quickly developed this ability to think inside the box. Literally.
I was diagnosed with early autism last year. When lockdown brought life to a crashing halt, I decided to expound on my diagnosis and so…. I became this box. I felt the headline….how interesting:
“God is saved by impaired woman in the air in a box within a black box doing a half Pinter play in braille and sign language hidden from the audience”
Yes, have no fear. Lie. I’m filled with them fears. They plunge into frequent “crippling” crises but they can also manifest themselves as constructive outbursts or meltdowns – yes, meltdowns I said and how is that possibly constructive are you asking I’m assuming? …or silent withdrawals… shutdowns (Lisa laughs nervously) and then I discovered that they can all be exacerbated by “masking” – changing your instinctive behaviors to appear “normal” (laughs nervously again) It’s taken me all year to “start to unlearn these bad habits”. What bad habits? Flying, for instance. Flying and doing the full collection of Pinter plays. Why? Because it gets you nowhere. It achieves nothing, Method that I am, in the air you have to have 3 times the weight. Method, Pinter and silences… well that is a riddle for NASA or Besos or Musk… Disney maybe Netflix.
But in spite of everything I am and I am not: God, anger, fear, deafness, madness, blindness, Pinter…. I do wear high heals. Very high.
I wasn’t born yesterday. I did have a life. I know what fun is. I know what coffee is. And tea. I’m not STUPID. I had my dates, my lovers, male and female but one day….one day I fell in love with a forklift. That is when I felt all my expectations being raised, encouraged, deposited. The operator of that forklift was a very special man in my life. He understood me. He knew how to treat me with respect. He saw me as a human and not just as a box. After placing me between boxes of tulips for export he once said to me: “Madam, I have nothing but respect for you. I studied acting once. I know what it is like to do a Pinter play, especially hard with the silences. I wish you good luck mam.” And left in tears.
I was moved. This was the only time in my life I ever felt something good.
You may be laughing. Laugh all you want.
I used to…A T T A C K (laughs nervously) my fear of being attacked made me into an attacker. See? Even while up there, at highest height, close to a pipe and the lights, I used to insult the crew in the hopes that they’d let go of the ropes and I’d come crashing down and my paralyses would then be complete. One hundred percent incapable.
Please listen to me.
Please listen to me.
Think of what it must be like. Just think. When you’re invisible…it’s almost like the tire of a truck rolling over your head and not even noticing it. You’re not as much as a bump on the road or a hole for that matter, your scream can’t be heard, your blood can’t be seen…. Think about it. That is who I am. An Installation created with your patronage, your funds because you think that modern art is “fun”. Well, here it is. Here I am.
I’m NOT deaf by choice you see? It’s more uncomfortable this way. This is what used to be written about me….
LOUD SPEAKERS ON THE FLOOR ABOVE ARE LOUD AND ONE HEARS
“She usually starts to feel woozy. Before she has time to process, it’s lights out and that’s just the first in a series of nasty surprises. The believable meet-cute first act takes place entirely, audaciously, before the opening credits, a sweet 30-minute romcom that quickly switches up to reveal something sour, like biting into a succulent peach that’s rotten on the inside. It would be a spoiler, I believe, to detail exactly what the big reveal is although Installation has given us ample warning signs. BEWARE !!!
I heard that!
I heard that because I was programed to hear that.
(A voice) SILENCE ! SILENCE ! SHUT UP.
I don’t show it but I tremble with fear. And so do you. And so do we all. I’m just like you. How I came to be? Long story. I’m just like you. Human. No difference. No genetic anything. Just like you. But it all came to a head one day. It all came to a head on day when I realized I couldn’t find my way home. I didn’t know where home was. I looked around – tried to be discreet. I didn’t want to call attention to myself. I had been looking at a statue of Danton in the middle of Boulevard Saint Germain. But I wasn’t in Paris. I hadn’t flown in years. Yet, to my right… no can’t be. Can’t be.
“I need to regain my senses” I thought. “I need to snap back, wake up. This is horrible”. Yet, it continued. Out of the corner of my right eye could see Trafalgar Square, the Strand, Charing Cross Road. I was actually almost standing under Admiral Nelson’s Column…except…never mind. Danton, yes. I took a few steps and started to remember my outrage, my explosive outrage which brought me to this point.
I cried then just as I’m crying now. I am not. I can’t. I’m speaking fast. It’s E-motion-less. And that is terrible. My black box. That is where I want to be. I want to be where my Pinter play takes me, where my emotional recall takes me, where the monarchic and oligarchic traditions of horse riding and slavery take me because IT IS SO IN RUSSIA, my identity and yours…we were forged in “STAY STILL STAY STILL” Russia, we all come from there because we are stupid enough when we are “forced to believe” whatever truth we’re forced to believe. “Coffee anyone?”.
“STAY STILL STAY STILL” … that horrible sound still rings in my ears incessantly and makes me lose my balance. Yes, he is from the Romanov family. Can’t you tell by the way he orders blood soup for lunch ?
Ah… all those psychological pauses, those killer stares, those lightning bolt scares filled with 6.000 watts, 5 thousand volts, moments so pregnant you wish you hadn’t been born. And then the long walk back home, the other kids passing by, each one of them sitting in their mother’s Oldsmobiles or Pontiacs while the soles of my shoes practically melted into my feet.
I didn’t know the term pedophelia then. Not until much later. But not that much later. Of course they didn’t introduce themselves that way “hello, I’m a pedophile!” and I want to fuck you and then kill you. No. Never. …. (gesture of exhaustion, lost cause, giving up)
But you know all that. Everyone knows all that. It’s just like everything else: everyone knows WHAT IS WRONG with the fucking system, all systems. Yet, we do nothing. We allow them to continue!
“Hello? Can you hear me? I’m assuming you can. I have EBDD (Extreme Bone Distress Disorder) and am in tremendous pain) BUT I can talk….important, very important: have you had your coffee today? Now, how can I be of help? Oh, yes, you must be the stagehand, yes? I’m assuming you are. Can you pull? How much weight ? In how much time? I’m assuming you’re saying “mam, I can do 42 feet in about 5 seconds. But can be faster…can be faster depending on your weight mam.
TRAPPED. Always. By everyone. Even by the kissing boy on the floor of the movie theater – he trapped me because of, well, he broke my dreams, shattered them by sawing off my hand when he refused to hold mine one day while crossing 2nd Avenue…..He was trapped too. In a different way. Now I understand why, although he doesn’t.
I just couldn’t see it. It came in all shapes and forms – and was determined to keep me boxed in, in a corner…. Tamed… Had I been a threat back then as a child? In the early days? Was I a part of a Pinter play, an XXX rated Pinter play without knowing it? Have I always been an “entertainer”?
“Coffee?” Coke? He was the one on coke and I was the one flying higher and higher. The more blow, the bigger the distance. I took that blow to mean wind. It’s different today. Today we cry laughing and vice versa. I don’t know the real meaning of this inversion. But I do know we’ve moved on.
(a voice) DO NOT BE REDUNDANT. SILLY
See? It’s not about me and yet, it is about me. It certainly is about someone. Or else, why all those psychological pauses, angry male voices, those killer stares, those lightning bolt scares filled with 6.000 watts, 5 thousand volts, moments so pregnant you wish you hadn’t been born.
“Dad, what are you making for dinner?”
“Chicken shit soup, just like yesterday and the day before and every day”.
“At home, all we eat is chicken shit. We have one occasional egg from the same chicken”. I had to say it with a smile on my face and with pride and override the super loud chuckle of the entire classroom. I felt, for the first time, that tragedy and comedy were basically the same thing, And instead of crying out my sorrows that day, I enjoyed their laughter – and laughed with them.
Have I always been an entertainer?
it into her little chant there. It just never fit. Too many “o”s I guess and the ending with an X is kind of weird. I agree. “Keep it clean and tidy and don’t forget your Pine-Sol and that POWERFUL Germ killer Lysol, oh…Dawn” she loooooved that white man with white hair and moustache Mr Clean, oh it was such a lovely world we had before Clorox invaded and destroyed it all. What to you is Christmas, to us was Ajax day. We had an Ajax tree. And what to you is Thanksgiving to us was Febrezeday. We spent the day spraying. Spraying everything from the entire house, the garden and even the turkey. It used to be such a lovely day. Before dinner, every night, my parents would hold hands and, instead of saying a prayer would repeat the following refrain: “The hardest part about cleaning is finding the right — well, best — products to get the job done. Because, let’s face it, a pesky wine stain isn’t going to remove itself. Whether you’re dealing with stubborn soap scum, hard-to-clean streaks, or burned-on spills, these cleaning products selected by the Good Housekeeping Cleaning Lab will make everything in your house — clothes, countertops, and carpets, included — look just like new. Right this way to a cleaner, mess-free home…”
How do I measure my own survival rate?
“Keep it clean and tidy” my mother used to hum all day but boy, when Clorox appeared on the market, she had a real problem fitting
Clorox never made it till they died. That’s the kind of family I come from. And I come from a swing state. Thus…..
In all seriousness. I didn’t choose to levitate. Sounds cliché I know but… it chose me. And here I hang. But the truth about me, my life, who I am, where I’m headed to, who we all are, what this is all about and all the Greek Eugene O’Neil questions came to me like a bolt at the corner of Bleecker Street and La Guardia Place while watching the traffic lights flashing: “WALK / DON’T WALK” “WALK / DON’T WALK”
I took one step forward and one backward, one forward and one backward. I kept doing that for a good one hour (I guess) till a crowd gathered around me and called it a performance piece. Others debated. Called it a live-spontaneous installation. Years later… I see Michael Jackson doing the same thing. I remember him being in the crowd.
To me, I had FINALLY BROKEN FREE from all the commands given to me “get out of the way, CLIMB DOWN FROM THAT TREE, turn off the lights, run to the store, don’t say that in front of people, you’re not tall enough, not dark enough, not muscular enough, not this not that….I had FINALLY BROKEN FREE from the question to be or not to be, to stick a knife into you or not, to run away from you as far as I can or not, to smack you as hard as I can or not, to stick my nose into a mountain of heroin or not AND WHY? Because a live and spontaneous installation can also hide her emotions so damn well.
So I became airborne. You’re not following. Which is just as well because we only have one harness.
(Lisa looks at this ginormous knot that has formed over her head and that virtually makes it impossible for her to ever free herself from the harness)
So, what connected Freud to cocaine other than that bitter taste which resembled life, resembled death and everything putrid ? Was he really seeking the truth? The truth in the 1st person or in the 3rd ? or, even, perhaps the truth of a runaway character?
My truth is (as far as I can tell) is that I have fallen in love with my rebellious runaway characters and I’ve tended to reject the obedient, somewhat predictable ones. You came here tonight because you seemed attracted by a half promise, something of an improvement to your lives, using mine… my horrid example as a basis… a basis of all that isn’t; a human that wasn’t meant to be but kept on trying their best anyway, a basis of all possible misconceived notions..ah…concepts, something which lurked behind – miles behind those who received the awards, the Nobels, all awards, all those medals, accolades, gold over platinum, platinum over diamonds – and all they ever really did was…. Well, they wrote about those
who gave them the awards, who distributed the accolades and, in between one and the other, he would write in those silences…..
…..those silences I so naively thought I could represent because they so well represented me. It did not turn out that way. Michelle Obama whispered in my ear “honey, it did not turn out that way”. Eric Burdon – founder and lead singer of The Animals who enabled Hendrix’s entry into the London scene whispered in my ear “it did not turn out that way”.
The ONLY mission I was ever given, I screwed up: to come to a complete stop during the silences of those plays by Pinter. I didn’t. I couldn’t. Others did, not sure how. Fact is, in intimate terms, I didn’t pass the audition.
“And now?” you’re asking? I assume. Yes, that is the question. This place is called “CROSSROADS”, as in Clapton and Jack Bruce’s. Crossroads. There is only one rule of law here and that is: don’t get stuck here. Flee.
IF IT IS THE LAST THING I DO ON THIS EARTH !
SIR, SIR??? YES, YOU!!!! Look at me please. Please pay attention while I stay completely still during Pinter’s next silence.
(Lights fade slowly and Lisa is shown hanging and yet, not even when dead, completely still)
ARNALDO JABOR RIP
Tremulo ainda da estreia de Quatro Vezes Beckett em 1985 e da morte de Julian Beck, toca o telefone aqui em Nova York. “Oi, aqui é o Arnaldo Jabor…quem me deu o teu numero…” Antes que ele pudesse completar a frase eu interrompi aos berros “Oi Jabor, que prazer!”. “Pois é, estou aqui por uns dias e queria te conhecer e conversar sobre Beckett e….”. Dia seguinte, estávamos sentados devorando um bife com espinafre (Glorinha Kalil contando calorias por ele, sempre de regime).
Nunca mais nos separamos. A ultima conversa foi em Julho do ano passado. “Voce precisa fazer uma exposição desse seus desenhos rapaz! Eu não paro de olhar esse teu livro. Vou ligar pra Raquel (Arnaud) pra ver no que dá”. Jabor sempre foi uma das pessoas mais cultas que já conheci. Seus ensaios sobre Beckett – escritos em meados dos anos 60 são brilhantes. Suas resenhas para a radio CBN sobre os meus espetáculos Circo de Rins e Figados – onde ele salienta a frase “Nada Prova Nada”, repetida ad nauseam por Marco Nanini, passou a ter outra conotação a partir da leitura dele. A mesma coisa aconteceu com a leitura que fez de Diluvio, meu ultimo espetáculo em São Paulo em 2017. Mesma coisa: “É o fim do mundo, com uma única brecha de salvação”.
Jabor era o ultimo romantico. Acreditava não somente no amor mas na trilogia do amor. Trocavamos “informações secretas” (é como chamávamos essa brincadeira): ele mandava um VHS cru com as cenas que havia editado até aquele momento e me perguntava “e aí? E o Dan Stulbach ? Não está ótimo?” .
Em 1986 ele entrou furioso pela Sala Laura Alvim onde eu ensaiava Quartett de Heiner Mueller com Tonia Carreiro e Sergio Britto. Sentou lá nas ultimas filas. “Oi querido. Vem aqui pra frente”. “Não, não interrompe não, segue ai”. Nervoso, eu sabia que tinha coisa ali.
“Jabor, o que foi?”
“Tá tudo uma merda. Seguinte. Me bota de teu assistente na ópera que você vai fazer”
“Ta doido cara. Como assim? Voce é o Jabor. Jamais será assistente. Enlouqueceu. Eu é que seria o teu assistente!!!”
“Eu não sei mais nada, preciso aprender tudo de novo!”
Até hoje eu não entendi o que aconteceu ali.
Mas nem tudo foi um paraíso. Quando casei com a Fernanda Torres (que ganhou o premio de Cannes com o “Sei que vou te Amar” dele) e montei com a Fernanda mãe e filha o Flash and Crash Days, ele sentou na plateia do teatro Sérgio Cardoso em SP e, orgulhoso disse: “vou estreiar como colunista da Folha abrindo uma matéria com voces. Mas algo deu errado. Não aconteceu. No camarim falamos sobre o Babenco. Algo deu errado.
Certa vez eram três: Babenco, Cacá Diegues e Jabor.
Cacá e eu somos íntimos ate a alma até hoje, Jabor também. Algo deu errado com o Babenco. Não vale a pena explicar.
A imprensa criou um clima de rivalidade entre nós na época em que eu fiz (e ele fez) o Manhattan Connection. Não havia nada disso. Eu não gostava do seu pessimismo nas colunas. Mas falava isso pra ele. E riamos. Choravamos.
Sim, andávamos por essa Nova York e chorávamos.
Em Londres, em 2011, depois de um ensaio meu, andávamos e riamos.
E agora eu vou rir com quem?
E agora eu vou chorar com quem?
Nos ombros de quem ?
NYC Feb 15, 2022
Escrevo no meu diário ainda na década de 70 (está na minha autobiografia) “Li, pintado em um muro de Holborn, Londres: “a arte está morta.” Fui encontrado morto e usando botas, porque não apenas a arte estava morta. Eu também estava. Mas usava um par de Dr. Martens. Toda essa coisa começou alguns anos antes, aqui em Nova York, na Second Avenue com a East 4th Street, no apartamento (transformado em loft improvisado) onde Hélio Oiticica vivia. Ele tinha displays de suas homenagens a Cara de Cavalo (Box Bólide), e — é desnecessário dizer — sua grande coisa na vida era sua declaração “tropicalista”: “seja marginal — seja herói.”Agora, tente converter isso em termos norte-americanos do século XXI. Onde estaríamos? Ou no Brasil, aliás? Onde estaríamos? É claro que é mais fácil começar pelo Brasil. As pessoas encarregadas do governo e a “mentalidade prevalente /mentalidade dominante” no Brasil são canalhas que subscreveram intensamente o sistema da frase de Hélio, profética e clara como cristal. São todos ladrões. Todos eles. Se você odeia Washington, D.C., pense novamente. Tente Brasília. Olhei para aquele muro em Holborn no início dos anos 1970. Nem todos os meus valores mudaram!!! Toco “Hurt” no baixo. Não sei porque me sinto ferido. Tinta spray não é pensamento. Nenhuma tinta jamais é. Nenhuma tinta jamais é. Nenhuma pintura jamais é. É justamente isso que doi. (Gerald Thomas, NYC 2016)
Eu me emociono com facilidade. Não, minto. Não me emociono mais com facilidade.
Mas hoje as lágrimas rolavam em abundancia enquanto Fabio Sallva lia as ultimas paginas da minha autobiografia (em seu podcast) Entre Duas Fileiras, capitulo em que falo da Fabiana Gugli. Eu não li o meu livro. Escrevi ele. Escrevi no impulso da paixão e nunca mais o reli. E mais: nunca o li em português já que o original foi escrito em inglês.
O Fabio Sallva entrou na minha vida hoje, 11 de Janeiro de 2022, via Instagram, porque fui marcado, fui tagged. Não consegui achar o link, fiquei irritado como sempre e…bem, não importa. O que importa é que me deparei com 23 minutos da mais sensível, mais detalhada, mais delicada impressão que já ganhei (sim, a palavra é ganhei) de qualquer pessoa (incluindo Haroldo de Campos e explico porque), já que Sallva veio despreparado, com o coração aberto, sem preconceitos ou ideias preconcebidas ver meus espetáculos. Veio assistir “Circo de Rins e Figados” (Nanini e Fabi) em 2005 e “Entredentes” (Ney e Didi) em 2014. E procurou, através de entrevistas e depoimentos – como no Café Filosofico com Contardo Calligaris (2005) ou no Roda Viva (2017) fazer conexões importantes pra que se habite no planeta Gerald – sem necessariamente ter que entender tudo…assim como se estivéssemos numa ilha e olhássemos um tucano numa arvore piando para uma garça na água e – sem que entendêssemos o que queriam dizer, compreendíamos a gestalt daquilo como um todo. Já o Haroldo via tudo e conectava tudo ao planeta Haroldo. Era o encontro de duas “Galaxias”. E nesse encontro, anos luz de onde existia a anti-matéria, o anti-Fausto bradava Joyce e o anti-Joyce segurava a mão de um Parangolé de Beckett. O lindo na crônica de Sallva é justamente aquilo que eu não gosto que um ator faz, quando ele / ela fazem: percorre a trilha do método. O método da lógica Aristotelica. Do ritmo aristotélico. Mas hoje, Ufa! Ufa! Como caiu bem. Como esse principio, meio e fim vieram como a aspirina que Beckett se recusou a dar a seu publico confuso. Como Sallva honrou seu próprio nome e me apareceu no momento certo assim como um sallvador. Passo por momentos difíceis e seu tom de voz parecia traduzir isso. Passo por uma tremenda transformação e a sua narrativa parece desvendar isso. Suas escolhas, suas revelações, a luz que ele acendeu sobre a minha própria vida no vídeo – no som – no podcast linkado ai em baixo, é uma dos momentos mais altos e mais emocionantes da minha vida. Obrigado,
Why a foreword ?
I was very fortunate in my career to have the opportunity to work with director Gerald Thomas. It was very evident to me that his methods and structure were well thought through, as well as based on technical innovation and sublime storytelling. It seemed as though we were following an intricate storyboard when working hour after exciting hour creating characters and subplots which, in this case, my first Tristan from Wagner’s “Tristan und Isolde”, was an eye-opener in understanding the composer, the Leitmotifs and above all devouring the stage with the help of directorial brilliance. It remains today, one of my most cherished memories. I had often wondered about this person during our first work together, this highly intellectual beast, this driven artist, as to where his motivation and often “not-of-this-earth” theatrical procreation came from. I slowly became acquainted with the painter, the sketcher, the über-doodler and saw the stories in form of stains, coffee, ink and such which he used in his motivations in storytelling. Some of the art was brutal and gut wrenching, hysterical and comical, some downright decadent but with a purpose rather than motivation to shock. I had read international critiques of him as a bad-boy of the stage, as a genius in operating in his milieu, as far too experimental, but I experienced the nurturing and transcendent humanism which served as a guide to my creating. I began to read his works and pour over countless sketches, backdrops, paintings, and unbelievable expressive modern masterpieces that had been a part of his every stage creation. It was such an expansive universe of material in word, paint, and life’s sweat, I couldn’t help but be overwhelmed and humbled. This creativity, over 50 years of scratching the surface of every walk of life, is in a collection which has recently been brought to the market. I felt it necessary to at least present a digital gallery before everything was gone to happy owners across the globe, especially as the collection is in New York City and I am situated in central Germany. Enjoy these works, which can also be found in various publishing’s of Gerald Thomas as well.
To inquire as to sales or availability of Artwork, please refer to Gallery Nr. and Object Nr. with an Email
© 2021 HansiwerksAgreeEinstellungen
@ COPYRIGHT – Gerald Thomas NYC DECEMBER 2021
In the last hour on flight 101 from London back to New York I always tend to get a little nervous. Well, nervous isn’t the right word. Fidgety is more like it. Well, actually, it’s restless. Flying over and across Newfoundland gives me the creeps. I always want to get up and run a marathon, run for miles, run up to god, run up steep hills, scream, run in torrential rain and against the wind.
These flights used to be shorter. Not shorter but faster. Faster, more dynamic. And, in the past they promised us only “hell in the skies plus an apple” and that is what Freddie Laker’s Sky Train used to be. Not to mention B.O.A.C. PANAM was great if you happened to be on cocaine because you could deal or snort it right there: an open market ! Oh yes, there was the Concorde and there was a glimpse into the future. Almost like the Flintstones taking a peek into Jetson’s land. Funny, the noise insensitive us! All that talk of “sound barrier breaking”, “light speeding shaking”….!!!! We loved all that crap. And yet….and yet, we’re taking the exact same time to cross the ocean now as we did back in the 1970s. Makes no sense. This is 2021 ?
Once we had passed Newfoundland, I tried glancing at the book the passenger next to me was reading so calmly and so meditatively. Aren’t they irritating? Those calm and meditative people? Seems like they live in a bowl of marijuana jell-o ! No good.
But in first class this hardly matters. The seats are so wide apart and so distant from one another, you can barely recognize a face. “Igor, be happy you’re in first class”, I said to myself while pinching my right arm. Not so long ago, I’d be with the cattle in the back, screaming, begging and yelling for a glass of water. Glass? I mean, a plastic bottle filled with liquid.
I had seen my neighboring passenger as he had boarded the plane. He was extremely noticeable because all the flight attendants flocked towards him and were fighting to serve him. I thought I’d recognized him, perhaps from TV. A rock star? My neighbor had the book in his hand as he came in. He carefully placed it on the seat while adjusting his carry on bags. On the cover, in blood red the title: SHAME.
I did the unthinkable. Not the unthinkable exactly. More like the unimaginable, although I imagined it. I did it. During the last moments before landing at JFK, as everyone was queueing up to go to the bathroom, I took advantage of his absence from his seat and swiftly leapt over and sat on top of SHAME, dragged it from under my ass and towards the lower left of my hip where I could randomly open some pages and tear some of them out. Discreetly, that is. And so I did.
No noise. Not a sound.
Torn pages folded into my underwear and SHAME returned to under ass. I got up and returned to my seat.
My neighbor almost caught me. Well, catching isn’t really the term since I wasn’t in the air to be caught. Actually, I was, literally IN the air, thousands of feet in the air still, but not “catchable” per se.
This is how those torn pages read:
“THIS RITUAL IS CONFUSING TO YOU. Really confusing for, as far as you can understand, the partition could easily be broken and all hands could simply get whatever pastry they wanted, as well as the dead bird: it could simply be lifted from the street and become alive again. Why not? So, you reinvented a system whereby, daily things could again be recognized and, thus, come to life again and become accessible. Apartheid ceased to be and so did segregation.
Do not forget what you’ve invented !!! There’s something wrong with this system, people on this side of the glass: the uniformed ladies on the other side of the glass;
They do uniform something that may be, in reality, most unorthodox and ununiform and yet, somehow, somewhat quite uniform. Their expressions on the outside of the pastry shop you make an incredible discovery that frightens you terribly; you notice an old bag lady, a homeless lady, an old bum, with her breast showing and her son on her lap.
Yes, it all bothers you, it all tortures you because none of them take into account the Reine supreme, the Queen Mother of God, that beautiful black lady with those huge black breasts sitting at the entrance as the Buddha en guarde. shop you make an incredible discovery that frightens you terribly; you notice an old bag lady, a homeless lady, an old bum, with her breast showing and her son on her lap.
You feel strangled, suffocated, erotically aroused and attracted, disgusted….because you’ve realized that you were able to see her without her seeing you. She lives in some kind of soliloquy, a repetitive and endless monologue and longings, like all crazy people laugh while sitting in the street, in the filth, in the stench, away from our world of “perfection”. Dirty and with a crust built around her, her son hanging by her neck, the only thing you notice is her breast her huge black breast, her nipple, her son your age, the chill in your stomach the comfort of holding your mother’s hand an a sense of profound sadness.
This may have been the first day in your life when sadness has played such a role, coming from the outside, bearing no relationship to your toys, your vegetable soup or a scalding from your parents.
You and your mother adopt a faster pace but still the images don’t disappear from your head. You have questions; yet, have no way of asking them.
You walk for another 2 or 3 blocks, but as of that moment you don’t notice the street and its details any longer and nothing distracts you – no people, their expressions, nothing, you’re suddenly become an introvert and look hypnotically the same of street textures without giving a damn. All you can think about is that old woman with her breast apparent and apparent nipple and hanging son and the little corner of the world she has found for herself right in the middle of the crossroad – where she is invisible and ignored right there, by the footstep of where people line up to stuff themselves with fat and sugar and creamy pastries, she sits in a pool of filth, erotically ignored. And that huge breast, that extraordinary breast, juicy, wrinkled but with a firm hard nipple!
You notice that your mother’s hand has tightened her grip as you continue walking just a little bit faster because she has obviously noticed that something has happened to you! Or, maybe to run from an oncoming tram but mixed in with the lack of breath and the desire not to be there, you’re more than sure that you saw something you shouldn’t have.
You saw something that has compromised your license to simply be a child.
You’ve become a ball of fire. To call it fear would be to undermine it to call it fear would be to undermine it to call it repugnant, would be to subvert it, to call it fascination might be an exaggeration. What could this be, so strong, that would prompt you to beg your mother not to serve your lunch that day, and to cry your eyes out till they bulged any popped as if extinguished organs begging one again not to as if disfigured organs begging once again not to eat your Wurst and lentils (your favorite dish!) and implore to disappear, if only for a while, into your bedroom, for a quick nap, where you always come to your senses with your most private questions, staring at a gigantic wardrobe that baroque wardrobe – your first forbidden city and set, what was that feeling which would later find your crouching on your bed, crying in silence for having pissed all over it, your bed …
In the middle of a sunny afternoon, when all other children were playing ball in the street?
You were feeling blinded by the noise of their playing and the imagination of the scorching heat of the sun. What would all that be in your solitude?
There was no doubt.
You were in LOVE. “
It took me longer than usual to deplane. My usual arrogant walk through Customs was halted. “Over here, Sir !”
Two Customs and Border Patrol Officers took me to a booth and almost stripped me naked. “Do you usually carry folded notes in your underwear, Sir ?”
“Oh wow! I forgot !”
“Forgot what? Some sort of a nuclear code?” As one of them unfolded those pages and read what was on them, the situation suddenly got serious. “Hey Bill, look at this”, as he handed the papers to his colleague. I still stood there naked. I was trying to think of something to say. Nothing came to mind. I started to overhear a conversation between what I believe were other officers outside of my booth: “Can you believe this son of a bitch walked right past us?”
“Fucking infuriating. So who the fuck is this guy in there? !”
“The guy with the note!”
“Can’t arrest a guy without the evidence, right? A note….. A book…. It’s infuriating!!!!”
I finally asked one of my officers: “Sir, what are you holding me on? And why am I still butt naked?”
“All in due time.. All in due time.”
Never even looking at me once and so heavily focused on filling out those forms….It crossed my mind just to run out, like yeah, pick up my clothing on the way out and run fast. “Are you charging me? With WHAT? POSSESSION OF ILLEGAL DRUGS?WEAPONS? TREASON”
Oh damn it. I gave it away.
“No no no, never mind that. The drugs- we found them in your shoes – they’ll will be our… say….”bonus” (and they laughed)
“AM I BEING CHARGED ????”, I screamed angrily – didn’t really mean to. Just thought it fit the role, the place, the scenery. I was going through a method actor moment.
“AM I BEING CHARGED ????
They kept staring at me.
No answer. Only that blank cynical glare of denial you so well recognize when it hits you in the face. The blank cynical glare even when the news is bad. Even when it means bad news for you and when they deny you the right to know.
Isn’t that fascinating? The basic human right has been in hiding ever since the apple was bitten and yet the apple, the apple, the apple. It wasn’t really ever bitten at all. Excuse me? Okay, it was bitten. It wasn’t swallowed.
“I meant it in the Decameron style”
“I’ve lost track of it all, officer. One day I woke up and it was all different. Rules upside down. Literally, upside down, genders all mixed up. You go this way, you CANNOT go that way. But you HAVE to go that way. Almost like those days when “Paul is dead, Elvis is Alive and so is JFK”, all of them in a vegetative state in a luxury hospital in Memphis, Tennessee.
I must have insulted dozens of transsexuals by erring their genders, must have xxxed out their wrong fenders, the most bonkers street vendors, the punkest of pretenders, the sexiest who cursed their benders, joined the wrongest vegan blenders of rainbow progressive Muslims offenders and the Irish who turned black, the Jews who turned red, the Turks who turned gay, the queers who chewed like when I chew like when I chew like when I chew
(can’t you see that I’m su-ffe-ring
can’t you see that I’m going b-lind
can’t you see the human be-e-i-n-g in me
Can you see me O-FF-I-CER
Can you see me O-FF-I-CER
(pause – scene comes to a halt)
They seem somewhat paralyzed.
« Il n’y a absolument aucune raison de nous parler en français, Monsieur. Nous sommes en Amérique. Nous sommes tous américains. »,
“I am not speaking French to you. What do you mean? Since when is this French ? Is “motherfuckers” a French word?”, I was really beginning to lose it. It was getting late. I had not done anything wrong other than….well….rip off some pages from a book of the passenger next to me.
« Très bien... vous ne nous prenez pas nous ou la situation au sérieux. Peut-être que vous devriez vous asseoir ici pendant quelques heures et réfléchir à tout... »
Officer, please. Please. There is nothing to reflect on. I’ve done nothing wrong.
They sat me down on a hard cement bunkbed and gave me a metal cup and water, a blanket, no pillow. It was then that I noticed their nameplates and badges. I was stunned.
SGT. Jack Rimbaud and
LT. Clive Danton
They seem to have almost everything on me, except my name. I go back quite a while. I wasn’t born yesterday.
I forge identities. Yes, that’s what I do. Or…used to do.
Now, if I get to repossess those pages, I’ll be able to forge love as well.
My name you ask? Ha ha! As it is written in that passport there: “Richard Wagner. Born in Bayreuth, Bavaria. Of course I changed the DOB and the photo to the 20th century.”
Alles begann in meiner späten Jugend, als ich eine Stelle bei Siemens, Computerabteilung, annahm. Mir wurde klar, dass sich mir das Universum der Wahrheit geöffnet hatte. Und so beginnt meine Geschichte….
I can’t stop thinking that this entire thing has a connection with Newfoundland. That’s why I always get so damn fricking nervous there. Not there but over air there. My father. My biological father. My tribal father, yes. Always staring at the sky. I KNOW that he knows I’m on that plane. I KNOW for sure that he gathers, amalgams, compounds, fuses…no perhaps not fuses but surely mix a synthesis of a composite of energies to bring me down to earth which – in short – means – CRASHING! Being reborn. Into his hands. Atop a mountain.
I can hear the hymn.
I can hear the hymn.
OMG! I can hear the hymn in him.
This is an outrage of a plan. All my identities together couldn’t prevent it. SHAME on me. Yes.
Off-I-CER let me make a statement please: (for posterity that is)
“I know that all these other passengers who have arrived from London in the past three hours that I have been here, did not fly over Newfoundland and, thus, their flight was one hour shorter and plague-free, voodoo-free, purple haze and all.
LT Clive Danton, you will understand me. Please come close.
I will only bring you trouble if you keep me here. I’m a riddle. I wish
Someone could actually rewire me straight. But no such luck. He sits on top of a mountain and howls day and night looking at the East still believing in the universal confluence of external forces, you know, energies, incense, quartz, cupacu, ayahuasca, shamanism and buddhism and tarot-ism and the inside out via the 9th symphony by Van Gogh and that gorgeous sonata by Edward Pollock. It’s intense.
Rape is intense.
Shouldn’t fuck around with it.
I’ll rephrase that.
Shouldn’t fuck around with it.
There is no other way to rephrase that.
Rape is intense.
It rewires you.
It turns out the lights you might still have glowing inside you.
Hay una sensación que tengo cuando miro hacia el oeste Y mi espíritu esta llorando por irse En mis pensamientos he visto anillos de humo a través de los árboles Y las voces de los que se quedan mirando Ese eres tú Y se susurra que pronto, si todos decimos la melodía Entonces el flautista nos llevará a la razón Y un nuevo día amanecerá para aquellos que permanezcan mucho tiempo Y los bosques harán eco de la risa
¿Recuerdas la risa?
Hey Sgt Rimbaud how nice of you to drop by. Now that you know the true story, do you feel I was orchestrated ? manipulated ? Violated ? Do you ? Was I pre-programmed to own that testament to LOVE, hmmm what should I call it… The Magna Carta of LOVE ? the sketches for a possible Constitution for the Heart? Was I supposed to tear out those pages obviously not belonging to me PRECISELY over GODDAMN NEWFOUNDLAND ?
WAS IT ALL HIM.
WAS IT ?
(is that the reason why the French comes in? Canada? )
Well, the art of escaping from the now – see? I’m not calling it the present. I’m calling it the NOW for the present (you see?) comes with a rather dangerous proposition which is the protection of a “bracket guarantee” (I’ll explain later), yes, a bracket guarantee which armors it against all kinds of speculations such as: “how can we divide a moment? “Is a moment equal to a particle?” Does a moment resemble an atom?” “is it, therefore, safe to assume that, if a kiss is encapsulated by a moment, is it then nothing more than a particle? An atom?” tricky hey”
Riddles that tell our story officers and, in fact, are hovering around like tiny specks of dust like dandruff plaguing all of us, from hair down to our toes, all the way from our NOW to back then and onto the past, perhaps even from or to the future and to some other tense such as the present. Or to some other tense not yet know – at least not made public yet. Yes, that is, indeed a possibility.
Fact: Houdini freed himself from those chains in the NOW but not in the present. That means that the NOW can be present in the present and also at any other time.. It’s a riddle or an enigma.
No, that does not hold water. Not backed up by science.
I don’t know. Maybe just a play of words. So, if I manage to free myself from the chains like Houdini did or do it merely by the using a combination of the right words for creating an illusion….then I will have achieved something. Oh yes. I will have freed myself from drowning and yet, I will have fallen flat into Ariel’s treacherous terrain , say, that of angelical treason, i.e. the terrain inhabited by these two officers.
So, officers, why don’t you close and try out a scene with me?
Oui, nous avions l’habitude de Ouais, nous faisions du théâtre euh à l’école en Allemagne. Oh oui. Eh bien, et qu’avez-vous fait? Très intéressant. Bon. Et Silla ? Oh oui. Eh bien, je ne prétends pas aller aussi loin, mais je fais juste du naturalisme. Vous savez, par exemple, falsifier des documents. Je suis bon. Qui était doué pour forger ? Et vendre le sol ? Oui. Oh, c’était un cordonnier ? Non, l’âme l’intérieur ? Oh oui. Oui. Même une sorte de boucher de sentiments. Vous vous sentez boucher
(Looks around. It looks like a prison cell. Knocks on the walls. Measures the thickness of whatever she can find.)
So then, this is our ultimate destiny. No, not destiny. I mean, threat. Not threat…punishment. Yes, punishment for having committed the smallest and the most heinous of crimes, depending on your skin color. Not only that. Not only punishment or the crime or the skin… think about it. But the WHY.
WHY that stabbing? Why 44 times into the person you loved? Why?
How do you live with yourself? How do you deal with the past, the present, the now? What will it be till you reach that chair? Was it rage? Did you plan it? Are you cold?
Think about it. I think it’s interesting to explore the Butcher of all feelings, the slaughter master meaning basta the bleeding hacking slicing of a human body you once loved. A soul you once kissed, missed, cried and told stories of love to, confessed your secrets, shared your warped sticky smelly inner most…..
So then, this is our ultimate destiny. No, not destiny. I mean, threat. Not threat…punishment ! Reward ? Reward ? This is what we are rewarded with… I see…. That’s why it’s interesting to explore the Butcher of all feelings, the slaughter master meaning a reward at the end, close to the end….. the inner sentiments that we never, that I never really was capable of dissecting…..
Because I’m not equipped mentally with surgical precision instruments
the inner wirings all running a-mock GodForBid hammock of all gods LOOK AT ME neurons of SHAME, SHAME, SHAME
the inner wirings the neuron the neurotransmitters? Well, they’re a joke mocking bird a humming device bit more complicated than that, and the dopamine and the endorphin, and so on and so forth. NO They’re not. They’re very much they’re much more complicated, because it’s not really just a chemical reaction. It’s so subjective.
Like spilling milk. Ha. Simple. Spilling milk. That simple.
Now, the real reason is…. For all this…. Is… there was no need or desire to take that flight to London in the first place. I only took so I could take the flight back.
In fact it isn’t the first time that the airport staff are alerted by my presence there. It always happens. I get stopped right after pushing my passport into and out of that machine. I’m escorted into a room. The immigration officers ask me the same questions every time:
“Sir, how can this be? You flew out of here last night and barely made it to London, then made a U turn at the Heathrow airport and returned. Just like so many times before. Why?”
“That is an extremely pertinent question Sir. Thank you for asking it but I feel I cannot answer it, not yet anyway. I need a few more trips”
I understand their concern. Seriously I do. Am I a contrabandist with an abortive mission ready to blow myself up with methamphetamine and GHB, thus causing a generally well tolerated and much desired feeling of ecstasy and – WOW … how WOWWWWW how overly aphrodisiaccccc wooooowww right here right nowwww at the very epicenter of the explosion?
Is that whaaaat I ammmmmm ?
Do I always carry notes in my underwear? Am I the missing link between terrorist organizations communicating their nuclear codes through me? Am I a müuuuule?
“I think I understand, Sir. You simply want to be high.”
“Bummer, with all my knowledge, this one hit me hard. It hadn’t occurred to me”.
“It’s about my father. It’s really about my father and that mountain top in Newfoundland…”
“Extraordinary. And I thought I’d never meet you. I truly believed you were a work of fiction. You have no idea how long…… …… …….
You simply have no idea how long I’ve been trying to meet you”
If your life happens to consist of only theater let me tell you this: you’re lost.
So then, this is my ultimate destiny. No, not destiny. I mean, threat. Not threat….GATE! This is not an airport. Never has been. That wasn’t London and neither is this New York. I get it. I get it.
How do I break this cycle? This ridiculous cycle?
Or am I doomed to repeat it and continue walking blindly in concentric circles till the ground beneath me caves in, swallows me and I transforms me into a single baseboard of an immense stage somewhere in the world….
That man…. That man…. Sitting on top of that mountain…. No wonder! No wonder he looks like me! That IS me before I fell into the trap of trying to reinterpret the TALMUD.
Now? Now the punishment for having committed the smallest and the most heinous of crimes, depending on your skin color. Not only that. Not only punishment or the crime or the skin… think about it. But the WHY.
(Julia looks at a drawing : “man screaming in a sunny box” which prompts her to leave that jail behind and light up a cigarette and sit by the river)
I like to get away sometimes. Leave them there talking to themselves. See? I am nothing really. Could be me, could be anyone. And I could pretty much say the same about them. I am just part of a drawing but if I tear it up or burn it, I’ll cease to exist. I mean, not I but him. I’m still here ha ha. After all what is the difference between us all? Really? A couple of cells? Hair strands or styles? I mean, same jeans, same manners, same cakes, same cheese, same sodas, same news, same hatred. Same roads, same cities same interior, same wives, same beginnings same middles same ends. So, what’s the difference really? Oh. Google is collecting your data: careful.
- WHAT DATA?
- CAREFUL ABOUT WHAT ?
- THAT I PREFER POTATOS OVER RICE? THAT I WATCH HARDCORE PORN WHILE EATING POP CORN?
- DOESN’T THE ENTIRE BUILDING?
- DOESN’T THE ENTIRE CITY?
- DOESN’T THE ENTIRE WORLD?
- WHAT DATA?
- What is so extraordinary about us that we want to be preserved and photographed and kept in history when, say you (yes, you!) don’t even know the etymology of your fucking name, you misogynist PIG !!! How do I know that ? How can I tell? Ha ha. YOU don’t JUST hate women….you hate everyone….Come here baby….. do you want to be caressed? Do you? PIG ?
- The REAL reason why I take that plane is OBVIOUS! Escape. Not only that! I just cannot stand to live amongst you all. Not only that. It’s your size. It’s our size. So…I make you even smaller. And for seven hours out and seven hour in I’m safe.
- Want the truth? Do you?
- Ok…. Those pages I tore out…. What those officers found in my underwear was there deliberately, meant for them to find. They are false. They were pretending all along. They’re actors. We’ve known each other since kindergarten. I like them.
- The real pages? I swallowed them.
- Pity is, I’ve been to the bathroom twice and I did notice that they have decomposed and were flushed away.
Whatever it is that you do: keep busy ! Keep yourself busy.
We don’t want to understand death.
I should have shot myself in the mouth. But ..had I done that, you would certainly have been deprived of this rather strange and yet wonderful performance.
AND ? And in the end, at the end of the day, towards the end of your prime, at the twilight of your beautiful life, close to the FINAL horizon of your ending plateau …. You are called a WHORE !!!!
Because, once in a while I lied.
I lied. I lied because I didn’t know the truth. I could only imagine it.
It was too ugly to describe.
I’ve had my loud laughs. I have. I did. Or did I ?
Well, they heard them. Or did they?
I would like to say goodbye but, before that… I would like to shed some tears. Real tears. I need those artificial ones to get me going… but once they’re flowing, the emotion is for real, understand?
WHORE ! WOW !
THE END (or Is it?)