The Day After Yesterday (C)

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Permalink Reply by mikal marques haley on July 1, 2009 at 8:37pm

meanwhile...let's hurry back to the home of Steve Haley, Mari Popodopoulous and the harried Henry Salk. Harry And Mari are coffee-ing: Steve is in London at a shoot. Their surrealist friends are about to stop by and as always when Renata and Holly show up life, always interesting, becomes just short of a laff riot--
in a voluminous nothingness of all ness, in a stattic spin that is always moving
deeper than paradox and just as cool; it IS paradox-- the male and the female in the constant in-out play of universal energy attain each other again and again. they are the original pair of opposites; they need each other and love is what they do best.
Randal Hollobecque.


never felt quite at home in the country of his birth, "always on the outside looking in~u.s.a." tatooed in black ink on his left calf. he feels like a european living in america. they put him in an insane asylum after a drunken binge.


he stayed for five days and they let him go with a clean bill of health.

"You're an artist," the shrink said, "now gomake art and don't ever come back.

Hollobecque did exactly that. it was his last trip to an insane asylum.

Traded beer and shots for absinthe.

Hollobecque, histrionic and portly, bearded and wild, wildeyed and wildminded, a dramatist.

the plays kept coming and coming when he stopped drinking, he was a sharp playwright with a sense of mise en scene in a place that respected revivals and dull, dull comedies, shakespeare out the ass.

Holly had created "Shakespeare in the parking lot." for the masses and the masses had come, suddenly he was Hollobecque the Dramatist, the days of gutter sniveling and spare changing seemed gone behind him. and love, Love!


Holly: "I'm not optimist at all, you shit smellers. I'm REALIST i never sold out to statist tyranny or neo-Stalinism like you boring jaded punks! ARRGH! I am REAL! YOU'RE so PESSIMIST that you sold out, you betrayed anarchism, you filthy jokes walking about smelling of tournament stinkfinger. what a bunch of pessimistic -- ugh. I am simply something, that one thing which you pessimistic fakes could never respect, relate to or deal with and I am most common, there are always MILLIONS like me at any given time. if you weren't living in such a filthy vacuum of pessimism, nihilism, antiintellectual self deception, and denial you would see me, but whatever, you worshippers of spineless and hatefilled are really just far too bad, get behind me! I'll be like you, then I’ll do everything in my power, I’ll humble myself before the great creator gods, I’ll do all I can do in the name of love and art and divinity to NOT be like you short of dying to pleaey you envy-twisted WRETCHES, so mote it be! you guys rebel pointless, you tiny turd factories, God love ya. I'm an ANARCHIST. You just don't get it. there's nothing for me to rebel against, everything is okay. I am free. I was BORN that way! This isn’t a brag it’s a ffucking statement of fact! ARRGGH! HULK SMASH! Fuck you shit smelling soldiers of the state, socialist dirtcores! All of you have property of hell tatooed on yer, you stink! Go dive into a dumpster and forget how to get back home! Crust and rot! why should I rebel, so I can conform with your shit stinking stylelessness? Dumb assholes. really, words fail me. So would you like to come in? Fifteen dollars. (Flips them off. They leave, shaking their heads and appearing stunned.)


In the form of a slip of a girl, the strange and fey Renata who gave him chills and massages and love, sweet love.


He has written play after play and now he is in hiding in a West Philadelphia warehouse; no one of his old circle of desperately jealous artists, "lesser lights" he calls them out of a sense of fairness, their petty jealousies and aggressively inhumane reactions mean only a way to avoid getting projects done, and Holly has to finish product.


Hollobecque is seated in the small cafe once called China Sky, the converted apartment that had been a cafe but had become a residence for his friends who are in the attic making love, his friends, Mari and Henry.

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Permalink Reply by mikal marques haley on July 1, 2009 at 8:38pm

ayn rand, cammile paglia and helena blavatsky. i am there too, washing out mugs.


there are people who are simply motivated by envy and hatred. they have been that way since before they had rational awareness of themselves as different iated beings from the parental dyad - they are simply totally motiovated by envy of others and of course petty hatreds.


they spit venom like vipers!

it comes out in the way they justify their little jealousies and the lies they tell. whatis really happening is they are hating their chidlhood situations -- and disassociating, pushing the hatred they fel;t for poor emotional chidlhoods onto others.

sonmetimes the childhood was ful of lies and beatings -- and of course the lies and beatings translate onto other facets in their lies. but --

"such monsters, can they possibly exist?" said renata, boredly.

renata enjoyed playing parts as if she were a typical terrible actress becase she would usually pull out the sliders and fast balls around 12:30.

"yes, they can and do...in fact they are lurking not that far from here, thinking lies, whispering lies psychically, lost in a the bottomeless pit of their own self hatred. some are treading water in the ocean of life, they are treading shit."

it was ten thirty. from the back room i could smell coffee being ground. it was far away but the scent was unmistakeable, like someone had opened the kitchen door for a second and the aroma of beans had come up on a cloud...could having a place to play be any sweeter, i thought?

but i had lines to read.

the play is called 'three of a perfect amnesty.' this is the third night we have done it and it is actually coming together now. renata plays helena petrova blavatsky, the famous russian psychic and authoress. trina is waiting in the side hallway in her cammille paglia costume, and flora is playing ayn rand, the expatriate russian aristotelian. she has the best russian accent because it is real.

renata stops unbuttoning when the simple black dress is around her hips. "the theosophists understood that there was alayer of illusion that covered everything, hollobecque..how can the world hope to truly awaken when..."

there is a dude with his mouth hanging open in the front row of bentwood chairs. i am now officially getting off on strange dudes staring at my wife's naked breasts. i was surprised that i had a problem with it the first night -- i actually lost my lines.

the side door bursts open.

china sky is connected to the hallway and teh rest of the apartments. i see relaxedly , peripherally that actors are waiting there looking excited and happy. it's a good thing for saturday night. live theater, serious, mod burlesque with a hint of the macabre.

flora is what they call "zaftig" -- she is a dark russian with heavy eyeliner and massive breasts. "bubers" she calls them. "thees one is named 'I", and thees one," said flora, pointing to her left breast, is called "thou." they are my Bubers! Do you understand?"

the fact that flora is a baba yaga kind of person, short and very russian jewy and wide hipped and actually resembles the great Blavatsky is why she plays the late ayn rand. the whole play is a homage to Blavatsky's Isis Unveiled and her life story.
"but the world is so divided, hollobecque," and slowly carefully, renata begins unbottoning her long black dress. she is wearing nothing underneath and the point of the play is that simple.

"the world is divided, ancient helena, into castes, and races, and subraces, and geopolitical zone."

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Permalink Reply by mikal marques haley on July 1, 2009 at 8:39pm

The door swings open and light temporarily floods the stage area. flora walks in in her 1967 business suit and immediately begins removing her clothing. her make up is a pallid blue as she plays dead Ayn Rand, like a zombie freshly exhumed.

she sweats the body paint of her largish breasts but it looks cool. "You are lying to yourself, Helena Petrova Blavatsky, as such mystical thinkers as yourself often do. The contradiction is evident."

flora is four feet nine inches tall. her breasts are like twin cannons annihilating the audience. and of course there is tittering -- her voice is sort of high and squeaky. her accent is entirely too russian. she's awesome in other words, it's as if ayn rand just jumped out of the --

"if, as you say there were supposed to be some mystical theosophistic awakening in the world as you so immaturely see it," -

flora's removed her business woman's skirt. she is unshaven down south. the audience are having aneurisms. it's awesome.

at home, i know anne is watching SNL. little fool.

"hello, hollobecque. may i please have a cigarette?"

"don't you have your own cigarettes, ayn?" i smile at her.

"hollobecque! what i lack is time for games. the afterlife is very cold and impersonal and there are no cigarettes available."

"cold and impersonal," says renata, slowly...'as you were in life...alisa."

"how dare you? ahh...hollobecque, this woman, if i must be summoned, improbably from the grave, if you won't give me a cigarette i simply do not know how well we can..."

"i was only kidding ayn. hey, did she just call you 'alisa', ayn?"

"oh, but of course? miss blavatsky is a mystic, and mystics are unintellectual boorish and coarse as well as lacking in an ability to view the universe objectively."

"you're one to talk, you miserable old ghost! and you trampled my dissertation. i was just about to say that the world is slowly undergoing a beatified transfiguration, such as aquinas..."

"ah, phooey. can i have a light, hollobecque?"

flora is a natural talent. it's a breeze to work with her -- she bends over and well, i light her ciggie for her.

i am used to staring at her massive milky dugs. in the cafe someone says 'daaaAAAaamn." like that. it's steve. i think he has found new appreciation for flora.

"thank you steven," says flora breaking character. some of the regulars crack up giggling in the back of the seating area.

"also, randal, if you would be so kind, i would like a chair. blavatsky is so dull, the old bitch..." said flora reverting immediately back into character, "tires me out! and i am dead!"

"certainly, ayn." i step out of the lit floor area and get one of the empty chairs.


it is silent -- except mari is talking to someone in the front of the cafe. it is her usual steady stream of almost whispered talk, it's just fine, the play can go on.

"the mystical fact of my being dead, however, has slightly softened my opinion of people such as blavatsky. although i still do not see her as my intellectual equal there is much to be said for her as a woman and as a writer. even though ISIS UNVEILED was Aryan propaganda, garbage! how could you?" says flora, narrowing her dark eyes at Renata.

renata mocks contriteness artfully and continues unbuttoning her long black dress. "i...was a spiritual woman in life...what politics and men in general would use my words for...i could not be ready for."

the black frock slipped gently to the floor. the lights dimmed. i know groo was back there, experimenting and doing well. we were bathed in a combination of black light and glowing tones...as the music began to swell imperceptibly. i knew it would build.

"the men who came after me raped my intentions," said renata, putting some soul into blavatsky, "for their criminal purposes...many theosophists were so sure...that the Aryan tribes of antiquity were nomads, philosophers...cultural marvels. i am ashamed slightly...we had a lot to learn."

"I'll say, sister," says flora as an americanicized ayn rand. "they raped your philosophies for all they could squeeze, greedy pigs." i am still a little amazed by the black forest of hair south of flora's belly. her crotch and legs are totally unshaven. it's wild...

"men rape. it is all they know how to do, ultimately...you were a fool, blavatsky, as was i in life. men take what they will with little thought more often than not and then congratulate themselves. where is the living one?"

"camille? she's...on her way. but you were crucifying me. it's astonishing. my eyes are watering."

"your guilt as a member of your race, no doubt. give me another cigarette." she stomps the butt on the floor. her breasts shake and a girl in the front row takes in her breath with a gasp.

i smile. the effect of the black lights combined with the key lightr glowing like a slow strobe from behind is crucial. her already large breasts seem to grow and shrink -- to advance and retreat. it's pretty awesome. and wa smy idea.



"my race...you mean jewish?"

"no, hollobecque, you sycophant. i mean male. homo sapiens as opposed to the finer sex, hetera sapiens, ourselves. the women. jewish is not a race...this is why in life i could only be with other Objectivists. now of course i am dead...a lot more is tolerable. thank you," said flora, lighting the cigarette.

"that was another time...ayn..." and renata smiled like a pixie.

she had a tamborine and she shook it in time to the gypsy music that was rising in the back ground and swayed slightly. "the great spiritual awakening that i am speaking of could not have taken place while we were alive, ayn and it is taking place because of your accomplishments. I am ISIS, UNVEILED," said my wife, and the lights changed and the music took on a more mystical tone. "the males could never have created what is about to happen in the world with their ignorant isms...including your Aristotle, literate as he was...so short sighted."

"and a dead fuck as well. I see that now. i was such a fool when i was alive!" she sits and crosses her hairy legs, smoking and tapping ashes on the floor.

"let me get you an ashtray," i say. and i leave the stage area.


"so how do you like being dead?" flora, as rand.

"we are spiritual beings...they are spiritual beings as well, but they are trapped in bags of skin, generally unaware of their trip through the mundane world of mortality and sadness. ah, what a wonderous gift humanity has in its flesh, being so infused with spirit." renata dances and shakes her tamborine.

i am reciting her lines to myself as i head to the prop area and get the standing ashtray.

"it's sort of true, in a way...but i could have never ever admitted that while i was alive. it was all about the clearly definable, the real, what i could see with my eyes and touch with my hands. things, not objects. we had no way to prove...the existance of the soul. i knew i had one of course, but...ah, i know so much more now, from this perspective."

"we are the ghosts of intellect and wisdom, having a spiritual dance byond the veil of magic," says renata, dancing.

in the prop room rachel is standing with her hand on her hip glancing at the script. "surely you are ready, and don't need that."

"ah, you know, randy," says rachel.

"it's just fun to go over it. but yeah, i am, like, way off book. 'and we, in some strange power's employ, move in a rigorous line."

"towards the stage, mayhap," i add nervously. i am always nervous. it's only partly because we put on plays in a coffeehouse. i am just nervous.

"yeah, it's that time."

she shuts off the audio monitor and follows me to the stage.

"really, randal, it's a bore and a little perplexing that you bring me all the way across town to this little dive," says rachel in her camille paglia voice.

"it's not 'all the way across town.' you know...that's the problem with you penn people. for some of the students, anyway."

"oh, you imagine us disconnected? i think i am pretty much in touch with the community, as much as i need to be."

we are doing this in the back room -- before entering the stage area where renata is swaying to gypsy music and flora is smoking cigarettes. the audience has to turn their heads, but that's all right.

"yeah, admittedly camille, you are not as bad as some of the students. a three block walk from pine to chestnut -- "

"that's more like five blocks."

"true. but the point is the kids call that a HIKE, camille. and they are so provincial."

"mm-hmm," says rachel, staring at me with her bird eyes. "you know i actually am hungry, i will eat whatever, you said something about noodles."

"right, right...the cafe is empty. well except for the ghosts."

end of act one.

"so you say the place is haunted -- first and with the ghosts of --"

"ayn rand and hp blavatsky," i say.

we are seated on the floor eating ramen.
"well those are...i mean you're serious aren't you?"

behind us in her chair "she can't see us, can she?"

renata, dancing, "they are so numb..."

"well, ya know...that's why i like living here. ghosts...can be good company. i'm not waiting with breath held for anyone to take it seriously..."

"whatever. so whatever do you think of this world situation re: our president, George the third? i mean what IS happening?"

"what's happening? uh..."

there is laughter as flora as ayn rand is shaking her tits behind the head of rachel as camille paglia. "what are you staring at."

"they're...making fun of you."

"you can't be -- you are serious, you really do see ghosts."

"right now. and well, you obviously don't. that's so perceptive of you, that you say george the third."

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Permalink Reply by mikal marques haley on July 1, 2009 at 8:37pm

"Why don't you just do it?" Blurted Holly characteristically.

Henry was weeping and Mari's brow was frinkled like the edge on view of the Inquirer. "Steven wants that, you know."

"What?" Mari blinked dully.

"Why do you think he's staying away?"

"Holly, you fucking liar, you should know your place."

"Oh shut up, Henry, you sulking bitch," mortified Hollobecque totally.

"Look; i don't need this sort of drama as fuel for plays. I talked with Steven. A long time ago before he left for Turkey. He loves you both and never meant to come between -- look...I'll help."

Henry blinked through the tears as Holly, all six feet and 200 pounds of sweating Jew genius strode with purpose over to the television. "THIS is your problem."

The bombs were exploding, orange plumes of light and smoke in the sky. He grabbed the plug and yanked it out of the television.

"Hey..." said Mari, a little dejectedly...but the hint of a smile was beginning in the corner of her mouth. "We were watching that."

"Exactly. You're stupid. your taste is in your ass. make love not war. go do it--"

and here he pulled the belt off his pants in a swift motion somewhat surprising in so large a man -- "or i will beat you like a angry black woman in the checkout at thriftway. i'm serious. i've had it with you two and your guiltridden bullshit."

"But," stammered Henry, "But Steven --"

"Cares!" Interrupted Hollobecque.

"Look. Think back to 1994. Remember? when it was Mari and Henry, and Steven though Mari was weird?
"I have known you all all this time. And I talk to Steven. He and I ... we are waiting for you two to mature as artists and stop whining about how you must suffer for your art. Steve WISHES you two would fuck. The tension has driven him away. you think he HAS to go to fucking Istambul to make his art? He wants you to get over it.

"Now I am gonna have some coffee. You two are evicted from the downstairs."

THE END.

Looking at her for all these years, i did indeed lose years of my life. I GAVE those years of free choice and free will and open hearted acceptance of who and what SHE was, for all those years. And now I am a man free and a man at peace with the reality thatin this life and in future lives within this life, I will see her only in memories, reflections, daydreams, remebering her as she was, someone who I barely knew, but sort of like, someone whome I eventually came to realise that I could perhaps never truly know in any intimate way, intimately as in the clothed, upright intimacy of one who simply shares the inner recess of his soul. NOT FOR YOU is posted on every inch of HER being: SHE is not for me and so hope has not died.

Hope is impersonal, hope has not died. And hope, my true FRIEND never wanted her, hope wanted the love of a lifetime that could stand all tests and rise glorious in the morning of fire and water, rise glorious and rejuvenating giving all the sweet beautiful things that love can give.

Love is differnt things to dofferent people, though, love, and security...have different meanings to differnt people.

I locked the door of the cafe tonight, even though it has been a former cafe and a home for refugee artists timid and enjoying their sweet privacy, their refuge from all that is impersonal and functionary, bleak and without lovingness, that cafe is home to the artists now, the refugees from cardboard culture.

but i had haunted the place until tonight. I locked the door and left my final shift behind me tonight; I allowed myself to stop being there. Dreams don't die but they are dreams, malleable...i left Candi's icy coldness and material shallowness there, I left Candi's mindless jealousy and race baiting capitalism in there and locked that door tight behind me. I locked Snehal's naivete and conformist thoughtlessness there, her insensitivity to emotional needs not her own and her addiction to corporate cuolture I locked in there, I locked Snehal's shallow appraisal of me in there too, she will never know how deep i truly am!

And I am not so deep, I have flaws, migranes...

I left Shivaani's schizophrenic coldness and counter-culture inability to achieve (oh! but she can earn the state's MONEY) -- i left Shivaani locked inside the cafe hating half the human race, I locked her in there, i locked Henry and Steve and Michael and lars baying at the moon like wild wolves hot for cunt, it is in the front but assistant manager does NOT have combo to safe!

I locked the door and slipped the keys in the mail slot; i left my phone book on my sloppy desk along with all those contacts.

I left the cd player on, New Ghost and The Wrecking Co and Red paint people will cycle until the thing melts, til the lser eats the disc. I left that place behind tonight.

It was two am and usually it would have been time for the after bar rush. I had my coffee though and that was the point. The years were long behind me when all those things mattered. i left melissa's sundrenched lipstik prints on the wall underneath two coats of paint and a heartfelt fare well, I took my heart with me though, I am going to need that...

But I left the rest behind, i left the Amber I remembered back in her private booth smiling cryptically, her hair down past her ass, not saying much and blowing my secret name in smoke rings, i left her inside and I know she is happy there. i left her in there with a roll of quarters for the jukebox, i locked that cafe up TIGHT!

I left the place but before i locked up for the last time i made a point of grabbing that carpet knife and sneaking up on the teevee with deadly purpose. i grabbed the cord and cut it. no one will be able to fix it because i used up all the duct tape...it will never play again unless poltergeists invade the pace, the set is PERMANENTLY DISCONNECTED as far as I am concerned, and I am concerned.

it is about there being a way of life that is open and free and loving and free from the compulsive graspings of Moloch, a life lived unconsciously to satisfy the cravings of a jealous, conceoted DevilGod who takes and owns and covets and never ever shares, it is about HER of course but she -- well, when i found myself saying to myself, or was it my higher self, the one with the secret name that only Amber knows (she is free, she has the keysa nd a rol of quarters)--but I thought about her and her major choice -

and the still small voice said to me directly -

'forgive her, she knows not what she does'

then i left the cafe with twelve names and four calendars and frou-frou foxes in midsummer fires and i locked the double locks and i slid the keys into the mail boxes.

there are some paintings in the basement, but i remember them.

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GAME OVER. And now Hollobecque is at China Sky, the cafe that someone will eventually reopen.

He is waiting...waiting for the right moment, waiting for the opportunity that seems too good to pass up and has no snapback potential.

he is waiting because there is so much going on, he is waiting because for him, it already is a cafe. he has the coffee and the cigarets, and the bad politicians are making asses of themselves on teevee.

Soon the trials will come, more fun than anything on already and Holly will smile and coordinate entertainment at china sky cafe, and renata will make cunning little cupcakes that look like dead heads, Mari and Steven will bicker over the books and Henry will stare and wait for tips and make paintings at the rate of one per millennium...god he's slow, muses Hollobecque.

other things will happen. Renata is skin popping again and what the hell to do about that. it turns him off and she won't get counseling. sure she paints wonderfully but he wonders if she would be better without the--

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Permalink Reply by mikal marques haley on July 14, 2009 at 10:53am

postscript

Mise-en-scène is generated by the construction of shots and the ways that they lead to visual coherence, across the edits from shot to shot. It includes all the elements in front of the camera that compose a shot: lighting; use of black and white or color; placement of characters in the scene; design of elements within the shot (part of the process of production design); placement of camera vis-àvis characters in the set; movement of camera and/or actors; composition of the shot as a whole—how it is framed and what is in the frame. Even music may be considered part of mise-en-scène. While not seen, at its best music enhances the visual and narrative construction of the shot.

Cinematic mise-en-scène refers to how directors, working in concert with their cinematographers and production designers, articulate—indeed, create—the spatial elements and coordinates in the shot and succeed in composing well-defined, coherent, fictional worlds. Composition and the articulation of space within a film carry as much narrative power and meaning as its characters' dialogue. Mise-en-scène is thus part of a film's narrative, but it can tell a larger story, indicating things about the events and characters that go beyond any words they utter.

Mise-en-scène can also be an evaluative term. Critics may claim a film does or does not possess mise-en-scène. For example, if a film depends entirely on dialogue to tell its story, if its visual structure is made up primarily of a static camera held at eye level on characters who are speaking in any given scene, if its lighting is bright, even, and shadowless, it lacks mise-en-scène. On a more subjective level, if a viewer's eyes drift away from the screen because there isn't much of interest to look at, the film lacks mise-en-scène. Such a film may succeed on other levels, but not visually; it is constructed not in the camera but in the editing room, where the process is much cheaper because actors are absent. Films with good dialogue, well-constructed narrative, and scant mise-enscène can still be quite effective. But these are rare—as rare as well-written films.

Journalistic reviewers may care little about mise-eène. They are rarely concerned with the look of films and focus mostly on whether or not the story or characters seem "real." They may term visually centered works "arty" or say they have interesting "camera angles." Filmgoers may simply want to be entertained and not care about how a film is constructed. But dedicated filmmakers and filmgoers, like talented novelists and readers, want complete, self-contained, detailed cinematic worlds that are at the time open to the viewers' own worlds and experiences. Such people will find satisfaction in the visual complexity of mise-en-scène.
Copyright © 2008 - Advameg Inc.

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Permalink Reply by mikal marques haley on July 15, 2009 at 12:11pm

---------mikal adds as post script

I waited all that time to
shout FIRE in this crowded
theater of pain, i AM ON FIRE
FOR YOU in the middle of MY CHEST there is burning
incandescent and BURNING
like the fixed stars of our
fused birth charts. forgive me, i don't know what i'm doing....

if you are the MidHeaven, I am
the Nadir, beneath it all, imperceptible in the dizzying madness of
OUR EXPANDING UNIVERSE
to two souls, one.

ALL THE
SUFFERING male
COCKS WILL
blush and

engorge but
no sound comes
out and they mutter
"No love," and
they don't, we
DO, have
KNOWN you
all this
time
and you ARE love



chaosm
this thing is not on. tap it, blow
on it, sing into it, it's just a
mike but it's not hot, if
you turn it ON the amplified
energy of your STREET
CAT
HEAT
SCREAMING AND YELLING
comments and of course
in STEREO...
Hermes and Aphrodite and our dead
gay
love child.

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