from
A Certain Release
{Unless indicated, all sections are spoken by The Narrator, a middle aged man. These are excerpts, divided by ellipses (…)
I allow that there is a fault, a defect of sorts, in my machinery. I function
a bit differently, but I’ll be forgiven at the end of the movie.
“What movie?” you may ask. Mine. I’m sitting right here
in front of you, aren’t I? But it’s all for you anyway. Whoever
you chose “you” to be. Or from whomever you choose to hear.
Though you're here because I netted you in my web as you came in. Hooked
you in, like Madame Defarge knit her, what was it, a sweater? Something
to wrap my love in. whilst I select other delicacies. (pause)
But back to the movie. We could play it as comedy (Takes on voice
and manner of a screwball comedy, Cary Grant type) “I didn’t
touch you darling, not in any manner of speaking”. (pause)
Or we could have the Postman Ring Twice (He is John Garfield in that
movie) "With my brain and your looks, we can go places."
(pause) Or Inspire a kind of Double Indemnity (Mimics Fred
McMurray in that movie) "It was a hot afternoon, and I remember
the smell of honeysuckle, how could I know that murder smelled like honeysuckle."
(pause) Or perhaps as documentary. Truth or Dare, You Were There!
That kind of thing. (pause) How about one which has not been,
shall we say, in general release. It's a mystery, a whodunit. I have already
taken the liberty of casting.
Two young men, YM #1 and YM #2, appear on video screen
They
had no idea an audition was taking place. But their window served as a
most capacious casting couch. But enough about that…We'll follow
my logic, my language and… (gesture, turn to face US screen;
images of YM #1 and YM#2 appear) my lads (gesture; images vanish)
Unlike those others, these are live. (pause) In a manner of speaking.
I do so prefer telling to showing; it's always been a problem for me.
Well, not for me, more for you. But there does appear to be an audience
for imagery, pictures, something called "interaction." (pushing
buttons on his remote. Pause) I thought that was what I, what we,
were doing all this time, but perhaps not.
------
But then the film ends, and you're all alone again. I know about being
left all alone. But I could never stand to have someone else around, demanding
attention. I wanted a dog once, still do, but such a burden really. Even
thought a child would be interesting, but then there's the conceiving
and the paying for it. And the responsibility, the needs, the attention.
Constant feeding, then the feces; one end or the other always needs attention.
(pause) Other peoples’ (pause) pets (silent images
of YM appear) have had to suffice. (pause) Define them as
you will. (images off)
------
I came home to dark house. All the windows closed. He would be lying on
the couch with a hand over his eyes. Headaches. Exhaustion. Always in
a kind of fog. And I had to present myself, my day, for inspection. Like
he was some blasted-out general in the midst of a jungle and I was the
industrious native, fresh from the jungle. So I gave him my reports.
------
The clients always smelled like life.. as it is and not as I would like
it to be. Farting and burping after dinner. I was supposed to keep them
on their feet, keep them moving instead of TV and barbiturates. That was
my job. If only I did not have to smell them; peristalsis and periods
and pee. That was my downfall. That, nothing more than bad smells. (Pause)
And with death, all those processes end. Everything except the fingernails,
and there is no smell to that. Very clean.
------
(Hesitant, soft, whispering) I was in a public washroom, downtown.
One of those places with furtive groping and groupings, hidden from sight.
A child wandered in, couldn’t have been more than ten, but looked
older, with something...odd about him. Everything stopped. Like at an
animal shelter, all eyes focused on the newcomer. Then, something, an
attempt at language. My God! He was one of my (pause) clients;
an adult with the mind of a child. He seemed to be having trouble with
his zipper, seemed not to know what to do. Everything, everyone stopped.
Then someone, several, crept out of the darkness to help him. Nothing
sexual. Not at all. Just help this poor thing pee. So intimate, so innocent.
And the smile he gave! Like he had been given something extraordinary.
Out he went into the light of the upper world. (pause) And back
we all crept. Back to what we were doing. Not a word. Not a thing said.
Everything back to normal. Normal. (a quickly stifled sob) In
the midst of all this lust and longing, this poor wayward thing taken
care of. (pause) But not ourselves, not us.
------
(fascist) They are the invaders, pushing into our territory and
stomping on our patrimony. Dancing their depraved dances on the graves
of all that we consider sacred and sanctified. Be not moved by cries for
mercy and "tolerance"; what is tolerance but a weakness, an
inability to arrive at decision, a fateful and foolish sentimentality
which leaves us supine, begging others for sustenance. When a foreign
agent invades the body, we seek surgery, antibiotics, we strengthen our
own body against the invader. And that is what we are doing now. That
is what I am doing now. (Loop) That is what we are doing now.
That is what I am doing. Now And I am doing it all for you. My people.
My country. Our home. One home. United.
------
Young Man #2
We went to this club. And there was a wall, a glass wall. I think they
call it glass brick. And on the other side of it you could see people
doing stuff. There was a hole in the brick and, you know, this guy was
on one side of the brick and the other guy was on the other side, on his
knees, you know. So you saw the one guy pressed up against the brick,
like he was, you know, having sex with the wall except the other guy was
there on the other side. It was supposed to be sexy but it wasn't, not
to me. It looked like the guy was drowning. Maybe he was drowning. (loop):
He was drowning. He was drowning.
© Jeff McMahon 2003