Literature and thought, together,
Who would have guessed
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The story of el gaucho marx as related by tom Dickinson By alex rudy
Scene 1
A man sits at the right of the stage, stroking his mustache. The stage is bare. He sits pensively and looks at the audience occasionally and begins to speak occasionally, half forming words and then looking down with a lack of confidence, as if he doesn’t quite know what to say or where to start. This goes on for about ten seconds Eventually, he looks at the audience.
Tom Dickinson: Experience is a funny thing, you know. Some people have told me all you are is the sum of your experiences. Tom, that’s all you are, the sum of your experiences; that’s all anybody can be… no, that’s all anybody will be. [he pauses and thinks about the statement, gazes at the floor, and gazes back at the audience.] There’s a lot to that statement; if everyone is the sum of their experiences everyone is a crazy addition equation, but it seems like numbers just go on in a line that way (project an equation of numbers being added with an equals sign before a man holding his head in his hands, one below smiling) but at the same time, I have had some strange experiences, seen those having even stranger experiences, and be them good or bad, I’ve seen people become something else other than the sum of their experiences. I disagree, people are more than the sum of their experiences; to leave it as simply as a sum is to demean those experiences… and I’d make a farther comparison, but I only finished tenth grade math, people. But what I do know is calming those experiences down to a mathematical analogy, no, no, that’s not fair. Those experiences are filtered through something else, something no equation could explain: the human experience has no great equation. The muscles have their own science and I’m sure math works in there somewhere, and the people studying the psyche seem to think I want to fuck my mother and kill my father, but these experiences, they filter through these things. They filter through the mind and funnel through the body, becoming incorporated into each breath, pant, moan scream, suck swallow or sublet, the sum of those experiences go through a fleshy filter and can make people weak with a needle in their arm or strong like an ox. [He pauses. He stands up.] I know some of both.I know some people who’ve had everything handed to them up until that needle in their arm, I know some people who’ve had to work against impossible odds just to be normal. And I know some who worked against impossible odds just to be happy-no, not happy-… that’s not what Stevie became… Stevie became something else. Stevie achieved something nobody else in the entire world would ever ask for or even know to think about as a future; its funny how experiences leave you that way. I know a man who became a mountain. [he pauses] I know one man who became more than any of you fucks.
You’re seated here tonight to hear the story of el gaucho marx, a man who has done more in his short life than any of you little pissants could understand, more than your great grandfather that hunted down the coal police. A man who raised himself from an abused child above and beyond all those that made fun of him, all those that mocked him and all those who didn’t understand greatness when they saw it. I didn’t understand it either, I still don’t fully understand it, but when I saw him last, I felt it; something otherworldly, a thunderous aura filling any room he walked into; and in his state, that is, the state when I saw him last, that aura earthquaked walls apart.
(a man, not Tom Dickinson, appears from stage left: it is el gaucho marx, he‘s in a cocksock),
Tom: El Gaucho succeeded in the strangest of ways, in the most esoteric of places but the most obvious to him. He came back to this city when his father died. I still think he’s a fucking asshole. Especially now that he’s dead.
(Music swells, people dance. Title theme begins; reminiscent of people dancing in fields, epic string swells, with white noise constantly in the background until it completely encompasses the sound. People dance across the stage dressed in whatever fucking garb they feel like. Be fucking weird.)
See, El Gaucho was born in Pittsburgh Pennsylvania to Stephen and Elizabeth Doreman (two bright young well groomed people in appropriate suburban 60’s wear, he has well groomed smooth black hair with red tie, white shirt and black suit; she has a lovely off white to yellowish blouse on with a black skirt, a bob hair cut and horn rimmed glasses.) Don’t worry folks, they don’t sty that beautiful forever; don’t worry yourself about your life. He seriously fucks with little Stevie’s head. [A curtain opens, revealing a child walking in from the opposite side of the stage from where el gaucho, shrouded in a shadow, stands. He’s playing with a ball, a bouncy one, and it bounces off the stage into the audience. A sudden roar is heard from the father. A slightly fatter man with ratty facial hair and no shirt on comes out and screams profanities at the child regarding the loss of his ball. His back is to the audience the whole time. The child cringes, starts to run; the dad screams at his and the child looks at him, horrified. The dad takes off his belt, and wraps it around the child’s waist. The figure in the front of the stage maintains stoicism. The curtains close.] That was a pretty regular occurrence in young stevie’s life. See, the mother liked to turn a blind eye to this all, because early on she tried to stop it. (curtain opens, there’s a table set up stage left with the younger father. He’s in a police uniform. She’s in the same dress. There’s an awkward air of silence, he’s reading a newspaper with a bit of aggression in his face.)
E: So how was the beat today? (there’s no response, an awkward silence fills the room for another ten seconds. She repeats the question a little louder. He puts down his paper.)
Steve: These fucking niggers think they own the street, Elizabeth. (He looks at her intently, coldly with n air of instability.)
E: [her face is red, flushed with a bit of fear] Oh.
[he reads his paper some more, she sits there and eats a half grapefruit. About thirty seconds later]
Steve: they keep creeping in and the fucking city’s just housing them up welcoming a bunch of fuckin riff raff into town.
E: [showing disgust, eats hesitantly] well, [she pauses] they can’t be all bad. I mean, there are good people in all walks of life and of all colors, or at least I like to believe..
Steve: You’re not out on the street. You don’t see the shit they do to themselves, let alone what they do to people like us.
E: people like us?
Steve: People like us.
E:People like who? People like women?
Steve: white people. Decent people. Working people. People paying taxes for them to come right on up in the world and steal even more from me.
E: Well I’m just saying that you’re only dealing with the criminals, of course they’re going to all seem —
Steve: shut your fucking mouth. You don’t know what’s past this block, you shouldn’t know what’s past the fucking stove. (He looks at her intently. he reads his paper. She leaves.)
Tom Dickinson: Ah, his stare. His stare scared the bajeezus out of her, out of stevie, out of his mother, out of any law abiding citizen Steve wanted to cripple for no reason, out of the children. I know this cause Stevie and I grew up together, although I didn’t hang out with him much after a certain incident involving his father. There wasn’t much happiness for Steve at home if his father was there. He was allowed to have friends over but his father sat watching the television. (young stevie and young tom enter silently the dark side stage left, the father gets up from the couch and undresses, shirtless, takes off his cop belt. He sits down in a recliner, dodging the kids who are playing jacks. He yells for scotch. His wife obliges. He says its too watery, to get a bigger glass with no ice and put more scotch in it. She obliges.) Sometimes he’d just sit there and watch white noise. He didn’t care. [the kids bounce the jacks, Tom gets a really good score or something and starts celebrating. Big Steve starts getting all pissy, and Stevie starts accusing tom of cheating, and Tom continues to showboat much to Stevie’s chagrin. Big steve is visibly shaking, Tom continues to celebrate and dance, Stevie’s accusations are getting louder. After about ten seconds of escalation, Big Steve snaps.)
Big Steve: [grabs Tom violently, leaves his back to the stage, stevie looks on, shocked, with a look on his face combining embarassment, shame, fear and confusion] look you little fuck, you celebrating the fact you won a jacks game against my boy don’t mean shit. At the end of the day you’ll grow up like the rest of the fucking street trash around this neighborhood nd I’ll have to whip your ass into shape. In the meantime, don’t act like a fuckin jackass in my home.
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The story of el gaucho marx as related by tom Dickinson By alex rudy
Scene 1
A man sits at the right of the stage, stroking his mustache. The stage is bare. He sits pensively and looks at the audience occasionally and begins to speak occasionally, half forming words and then looking down with a lack of confidence, as if he doesn’t quite know what to say or where to start. Eventually, he looks at the audience, points his pointer finger at them and winks and walks off stage. Off stage we hear him over the PA system
Tom Dickinson: This is the story of el gaucho marx (a man, not Tom Dickinson, appears from stage left: it is el gaucho marx, he‘s in a cocksock), a man who did more in his short life than any of you little pissants could understand. See, El Gaucho was born in Pittsburgh Pennsylvania to Stephen and Elizabeth Doreman (two bright young well groomed people in appropriate suburban 60’s wear, he has well groomed smooth black hair with red tie, white shirt and black suit; she has a lovely off white to yellowish blouse on with a black skirt, a bob hair cut and horn rimmed glasses.) Don’t worry folks, they don’t sty that beautiful forever; don’t worry yourself about your life. He seriously fucks with little Stevie’s head. [A curtain opens, revealing a child walking in from the opposite side of the stage from where el gaucho, shrouded in a shadow, stands. He’s playing with a ball, a bouncy one, and it bounces off the stage into the audience. A sudden roar is heard from the father. A slightly fatter man with ratty facial hair and no shirt on comes out and screams profanities at the child regarding the loss of his ball. His back is to the audience the whole time. The child cringes, starts to run; the dad screams at his and the child looks at him, horrified. The dad takes off his belt, and wraps it around the child’s waist. The figure in the front of the stage maintains sto icism.] That was a pretty regular occurrence in young stevie’s life. See, the mother liked to turn a blind eye to this all, because early on she tried to stop it. (curtain opens, there’s a table with the younger father. He’s in a police uniform. She’s in the same dress. There’s an awkward air of silence, he’s reading a newspaper with a bit of aggression in his face.)
E: So how was the beat today? (there’s no response, an awkward silence fills the room for another ten seconds. She repeats the question a little louder. He puts down his paper.)
Steve: These fucking niggers think they own the street, Elizabeth. (He looks at her intently, coldly with n air of instability.)
E: Oh. [he reads his paper some more, she sits there and eats a half grapefruit. About thirty seconds later]
Steve: they keep creeping in and the fucking city’s just housing them up welcoming a bunch of fuckin riff raff into town.
E: [eats away, showing disgust.] well they can’t be all bad.
Steve: You’re not out on the street. You don’t see the shit they do to themselves, let alone what they do to people like us
E: people like us?
Steve: white people. Decent people. Working people. Fed people
E: Well I’m just saying that you’re only dealing with the criminals, of course they’re going to all seem —
Steve: shut your fucking mouth. (He looks at her intently. he reads his paper. She continues to eat her grapefruit. curtain closes)
Tom Dickinson: Ah, his stare. His stare scared the bajeezus out of her, out of stevie, out of his mother, out of any law abiding citizen Steve wanted to cripple for no reason, out of the children. I know this cause Stevie and I grew up together, although I didn’t hng out with him much after a certain incident involving his father. There wasn’t much happiness for Steve at home if his father was there. He was allowed to have friends over but his father sat watching the television. (curtain opens to young stevie and young tom playing jacks by a recliner with the dad in the recliner with a glass of scotch.) Sometimes he’d just sit there and watch white noise. He didn’t care. [the kids bounce the jacks, Tom gets a really good score or something and starts celebrating. Big Steve starts getting all pissy, and Stevie starts accusing tom of cheating, and Tom continues to showboat much to Stevie’s chagrin. Big steve is visibly shaking, Tom continues to celebrate and dance, Stevie’s accusations are getting louder. After about ten seconds of escalation, Big Steve snaps.)
Big Steve: [grabs Tom violently, leaves his back to the stage, stevie looks on, shocked, with a look on his face combining embarassment, shame, fear and confusion] look you little fuck, you celebrating the fact you won a jacks game against my boy don’t mean shit. At the end of the day you’ll grow up like the rest of the fucking street trash around this neighborhood nd I’ll have to whip your ass into shape. In the meantime, don’t act like a fuckin jackass in my home.
Tom: I still think he’s a fucking asshole. Especially now that he’s dead.
(Music swells, people dance. Title theme begins; reminiscent of people dancing in fields, epic string swells, with white noise constantly in the background until it completely encompasses the sound. People dance across the stage dressed in whatever fucking garb they feel like. Be fucking weird.)
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Fred Chappell, "Narcissus and Echo" →
Shall the water not remember Ember
my hand’s slow gesture, tracing above of
its mirror my half-imaginary airy
portrait? My only belonging longing;
is my beauty, which I take ache
away and then return, as love of
teasing playfully the one being unbeing.
whose gratitude I treasure Is your
moves me. I live apart heart
from myself, yet cannot not
live apart. In the water’s tone, stone?
that brilliant silence, a flower Hour,
whispers my name with such slight light:
moment, it seems filament of air, fare
the world becomes cloudswell. well.(via pizzaperty)
Source: sharingpoetry
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My dear grandpapa, I must ask your indulgence for the sum of 13 francs. … This is why. In order to desist from my nasty habit of masturbation I was so desperate to see a woman that Papa gave me 10 francs to go to a brothel. But first, in my nervous state, I broke a chamber pot, 3 francs, and then, in this same agitation, I couldn’t bring myself to fuck. There I was, in for another 10 francs an hour, waiting until I could satisfy myself. … I wouldn’t dare ask Papa for more money so soon, and I was hoping that you would help me out in this circumstance which you know is not merely exceptional, but unique: it can’t happen twice in your life that you’re too distraught to fuck.
– Marcel Proust, from a letter to his grandfather, dated May 1888 when Proust was just seventeen. As cited in Lorenza Foschini’s Proust’s Overcoat, trans. Eric Karpeles.
[prompted by thewebpoet’s word suggestion: “iniquity”] (via proustitute)Source: proustitute
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Above all, don’t lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love.
–Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov
(via ancora-imparo)
(via galileogst)
Source: ancora-imparo
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The memory of a particular image is but regret for a particular moment; and houses, roads, avenues, are as fugitive as the years.
– Marcel Proust (via mothswarm; part of Proust’s birthday)(via proustitute)
Source: mathswarm
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The accounts of these early criminal trials of animals indicate that, as a general practice, the treatment of a beast accused of a serious crime did not differ from the treatment of its human counterpart. People and animals were held in the same prisons, fed at the same levels of expense, and assigned defense lawyers. The animal’s legal right to a proper trial was usually taken very seriously: when a sow accused of wounding a child in Franconia, Germany, in 1576 was summarily executed by the hangman before she could be tried, the hangman had to flee town, so great was the court and public outrage at his usurpation of the judicial process. Courtroom verdcits could be nuanced, too. In 1457, a sow in Sevigny was convicted of “murder flagrantly committed” on a five-year-old boy and sentenced to be hanged; her six piglets, which had been found with blood on them, were indicted as accomplices, but since no proof could be brought that they had actually assisted their mother in the crime, they were acquitted.
– Kathryn Shevelow, For the Love of Animals: The Rise of the Animal Protection Movement(via hailsatin-deactivated20110719-d)
Source: existenceisfertile
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(via proustitute)
Source: bestiario
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Our bones ache only while the flesh is on them.
– Djuna Barnes, Nightwood (via confusionis)(via proustitute)
Source: confusionis
