Scene Five: Aroma Behavioural Health.
[Over phone, reading from small notebook:]
DRAKE: I have to keep reminding my self to stop asking the Internet for advice. With some people one can do every thing "right" and still be met with disappointment. When one is blatantly robbed I refuse to call that failure. When one is denied one's God-given rights on a whim then I refuse to blame the victim.
This lecture done in Australia, in typically Aristotlean fashion, was by a clean-shaven man who insisted that women were like tests. So basically he went on about things I all ready knew when I met you. How if a woman that you get along with does not want to have sex with you then you're not supposed to give her reasons to; you are supposed to act as THOUGH you did not care.
Ours was a different situation. Honestly I probably possessed enough natural detachment as a Zen man to accept a sexual rejection. I know this for a fact. Because I did. Yet I kept trying. What I could not hide was the extent to which I cared. It was not I who broke the band up; Tapeworm did. How did you expect me to react to that?? We were supposed to meet under totally personal auspices. And now I am reminded of the concept of the Third Person. All these lectures and how-to's reduce you as an Other to an object. They insist that I ought to lie, to hide, or to adapt my feelings to a set of circumstances as though they could be made an object of universal knowledge. They objectify YOU, and not on your authority but upon some one else's. Rilke warns about this in his writings when he writes about the third person in the room who interferes with the respect that each of two people owe to one an other as individuals. Sartre takes that concept and explores it as a sort of jealous torment in his play No Exit. Funny that I was reading Sartre whilst volunteering at the tournament on Saturday the day before that dreaded Sunday Night.
It was Tapeworm that was the third person in the room. He destroyed every thing. Life is not a game. It's not some amusement you engage in for fun. The rules predate the game itself. The first rule is that every one involved must agree to play. The second is that you do not play against people on your team. The third is that you cannot switch teams. The fourth: no traitors. That is cheating. And the fifth: I do not want to play. Not if some one like him can win. And not if he can simply pride himself in having done every thing pragmatically right and pretends not to know what he fucked up ethically.
But you were different! Weren't you? Weren't you? You convinced me that you were. I could see it any way. That's why we had to wait so long to meet. That's why my desires were law. Because God surely appointed you to me. He must have. Women are not a skill! They're not a test. They're not a game. You are PEOPLE. And so am I.
So who were you to reject me?
Were you trying to be typical? Often you sounded that way.
The point is: I don't give a damn about any fucking amoral, unchivalrous trick that he used to get inside of you. I am triggered each time I hear this bald-faced Aussie reference his own exploits. For that is what they truly are: exploitation.
If a guy can by being indirect change a woman's mind over half an hour, he is a danger to society. Even as a debater (or especially as one) I would elect for the opportunist to be shot.
He raped you. That is my position. And nothing will change that. Not now.
The point is that I spent an entire year trying to make YOUR delusional dreams come true. If that does not get me an A on your "test", what ever will? The lies and treachery of some one who used you to cope with his ex's engagement? Who used ME for my connections in the music scene?? I know you wanted that band badly. But what a cunt. You had me seek the companionship of a miserable parasite who BETRAYED me. Shameless of your own betrayal! I could not even SLEEP that night or any other night that I caught wind of the two of you, fraternizing without my permission. My only delight could be within the fact that you hurt inwardly. And I could make it worse. I deserved that.
So again: WHY would you not fuck me?? You owed me. You. Owed. Me.
And do not hide your bullying conceit under the banner of "autonomy". You had no autonomy. He bypassed any rational, ethical inclination you had. He drugged you verbally and drugged you physically.
He raped you.
And practically speaking I was raped as well. For what is rape if not sex irrespective of consent and morality? Well. I did not consent towards any thing the two of you did. And it was at my expense, and so therefore immoral.
So WHY WON'T YOU SLEEP WITH ME?
Are you here to corrupt me?!? I did every thing within my power. For BOTH of you. Where is my reward?? You do not only ACCUSE me of self-interest. You try to REDUCE me to it. Even if it does not afford me YOU. And you I deserve. You alone I deserve. And you deserve only me.
You cannot sabotage my reasoning. I at least am able to remain rational and non-competitive. I at least retain my virginity, my commitment, and my honesty.
Obviously you were on some thing when you thought I could ever play music with him again after what he did. You think I failed your test? You both failed mine. I trusted you both. Trusted. Trusted.
I will not be blamed for that.
To this day your insolent imagery in my ears as it burned my eyes: you were not the better choice.
That was no longer your choice to make.
You owe me. I came back to you. I came back to HIM. Against all decency and intuition. I worked with you to impress HIM.
You fucking nymph.
And STILL you doubt my masculinity and my detachment? STILL you doubt my character? My valour? My forgiveness? My humility? My commitment? My total adaptation as a mate?
And now this fucking Aussie has the gall to brag about some cunt that he got into within half an hour by lying? By hiding his emotions? By refusing to reason and negotiate? As I was FORCED to negotiate, for you could not handle your own SHAME at what the two of you had done to me, and so you projected your own self-entitlement upon me? That you could not admit to your own selfishness, the degeneracy of your flesh, the stolen innocence that was mine to dissolve with my own, the inferiority you felt before my piety, my lingering virginity and sanctity, my blameless private passion, and the ruthlessness with which you pursued that dream career that I had to offer you, at the expense of my own dignity? My fucking nose was bleeding, head was spinning, shock possessing my entire nervous system at the dawning comprehension of what was happening, that all the instruments of Reason had forbid me to believe? And you smiled, as he grins now at his own parasitism, and you LAUGHED at me?!?
That I even braved the exhausting, and yes: INCONVENIENT trek to San Diego State to see you again absolves me of all doubts regarding my stoicism and masculinity. All of them.
To think that that same band was but a fleeting whim to you. As fleeting as your arbitrary and emotive desire to sabotage my meeting with you to run off with some one who had infiltrated my own comfort zone and stole from me nearly every thing I loved.
And *I* failed the test?!? No. Whatever the initial sparks of attraction might have been. It was your obligation to let them fly by like fireflies against a night sky.
You cannot do this.
You.
Cannot.
Do.
This.
You cannot allow him this victory.
You cannot have wasted my time when your own was so precious to me.
You cannot allow him to keep making these excuses and mistakes.
I only agreed to see his ass again under the auspices of reforming him.
You traitorous cunt.
He besmirched the name of friendship that you so wistfully assigned to me by way of marginalization.
You women and your neuroses. Your friend zones are in fact the only space in which any rational man can demonstrate a lasting loyalty. Your tests are lamps to draw in parasites like moths. Your cunts are honey for thieves.
But you were different!!
You said so yourself.
So prove it.
Fuck me.
Sleep with me.
Before I turn twenty-six.
Not because it would redeem your honour.
But because it would redeem your entire gender.
Oddly enough Jackson said some thing right once. I guess he really IS connected.
L.S.D. does that.
I passed your test, Arianna.
I remained calm in the face of rejection.
I earned your sex.
The band was a family.
And he broke up that family.
By giving you what you thought you wanted.
But did not deserve.
Because you deserved better.
And now you deserve worse.
Be grateful I offer you even more than I had to offer hitherto.
No one in my band betrays me.
No one I give to takes advantage without asking.
No one.
So take your own medicine.
Be grateful that I made you the exception.
That I offered you this opportunity.
Despite your own decision to betray me.
That I saw you as a victim.
A victim, like my self, of a violent crime.
Of consent won unjustly.
Tantamount to rape.
Prove to me your own masculinity.
That you can be mature enough to see how some thing that had made you happy was wrong. And how being privileged did not entitle you towards this band's continuation. How you do not get every thing you want at the expense of men you marginalize like a stereotypical whore.
And how this is not even remotely controlling. Not compared to the abuse I went through my entire life. The culmination of which was my codependent parasitic relationship with Tapeworm.
Prove to me that women are capable of Reason. You owe me.
Or may be you were right.
May be it was all just your attempt at Power. A merely curious stroll through the land of men.
And you held it not against me that I wanted you so badly. That you respected my diligence and honored my commitment.
That you felt sorry for your infraction and were sincere in your final apologies.
That my time was not wasted.
And that our friendship mattered so much to you that you could not ultimately blame so noble a friend for having let go so despicable a traitor.
And that you will never allow such betrayal to be rewarded. Because you value character above mere tricks of persona.
And you did not know any better.
And accept my forgiveness.
And you understand why I get desperate enough to listen to Aussies give advice that I could never use.
Because the only women that I love are crazy.
And that I was not wrong to defend your honour for two years.
Nor to condemn what I believed you to be capable of.
But that you were too kind to really do.
And that I will get laid.
And do not need tutorials or tricks.
And shaving really is a douchy thing to do.
And I need to stop asking the Internet for advice.
[shuts book.]
P.S. All so note that were my yearlong attempts to make your dreams come true mere acts of desperation then you were not entitled to their fruits to begin with. I did not owe you the continuation of that damned band. You have nothing with which to attack my pride now.
This lecture done in Australia, in typically Aristotlean fashion, was by a clean-shaven man who insisted that women were like tests. So basically he went on about things I all ready knew when I met you. How if a woman that you get along with does not want to have sex with you then you're not supposed to give her reasons to; you are supposed to act as THOUGH you did not care.
Ours was a different situation. Honestly I probably possessed enough natural detachment as a Zen man to accept a sexual rejection. I know this for a fact. Because I did. Yet I kept trying. What I could not hide was the extent to which I cared. It was not I who broke the band up; Tapeworm did. How did you expect me to react to that?? We were supposed to meet under totally personal auspices. And now I am reminded of the concept of the Third Person. All these lectures and how-to's reduce you as an Other to an object. They insist that I ought to lie, to hide, or to adapt my feelings to a set of circumstances as though they could be made an object of universal knowledge. They objectify YOU, and not on your authority but upon some one else's. Rilke warns about this in his writings when he writes about the third person in the room who interferes with the respect that each of two people owe to one an other as individuals. Sartre takes that concept and explores it as a sort of jealous torment in his play No Exit. Funny that I was reading Sartre whilst volunteering at the tournament on Saturday the day before that dreaded Sunday Night.
It was Tapeworm that was the third person in the room. He destroyed every thing. Life is not a game. It's not some amusement you engage in for fun. The rules predate the game itself. The first rule is that every one involved must agree to play. The second is that you do not play against people on your team. The third is that you cannot switch teams. The fourth: no traitors. That is cheating. And the fifth: I do not want to play. Not if some one like him can win. And not if he can simply pride himself in having done every thing pragmatically right and pretends not to know what he fucked up ethically.
But you were different! Weren't you? Weren't you? You convinced me that you were. I could see it any way. That's why we had to wait so long to meet. That's why my desires were law. Because God surely appointed you to me. He must have. Women are not a skill! They're not a test. They're not a game. You are PEOPLE. And so am I.
So who were you to reject me?
Were you trying to be typical? Often you sounded that way.
The point is: I don't give a damn about any fucking amoral, unchivalrous trick that he used to get inside of you. I am triggered each time I hear this bald-faced Aussie reference his own exploits. For that is what they truly are: exploitation.
If a guy can by being indirect change a woman's mind over half an hour, he is a danger to society. Even as a debater (or especially as one) I would elect for the opportunist to be shot.
He raped you. That is my position. And nothing will change that. Not now.
The point is that I spent an entire year trying to make YOUR delusional dreams come true. If that does not get me an A on your "test", what ever will? The lies and treachery of some one who used you to cope with his ex's engagement? Who used ME for my connections in the music scene?? I know you wanted that band badly. But what a cunt. You had me seek the companionship of a miserable parasite who BETRAYED me. Shameless of your own betrayal! I could not even SLEEP that night or any other night that I caught wind of the two of you, fraternizing without my permission. My only delight could be within the fact that you hurt inwardly. And I could make it worse. I deserved that.
So again: WHY would you not fuck me?? You owed me. You. Owed. Me.
And do not hide your bullying conceit under the banner of "autonomy". You had no autonomy. He bypassed any rational, ethical inclination you had. He drugged you verbally and drugged you physically.
He raped you.
And practically speaking I was raped as well. For what is rape if not sex irrespective of consent and morality? Well. I did not consent towards any thing the two of you did. And it was at my expense, and so therefore immoral.
So WHY WON'T YOU SLEEP WITH ME?
Are you here to corrupt me?!? I did every thing within my power. For BOTH of you. Where is my reward?? You do not only ACCUSE me of self-interest. You try to REDUCE me to it. Even if it does not afford me YOU. And you I deserve. You alone I deserve. And you deserve only me.
You cannot sabotage my reasoning. I at least am able to remain rational and non-competitive. I at least retain my virginity, my commitment, and my honesty.
Obviously you were on some thing when you thought I could ever play music with him again after what he did. You think I failed your test? You both failed mine. I trusted you both. Trusted. Trusted.
I will not be blamed for that.
To this day your insolent imagery in my ears as it burned my eyes: you were not the better choice.
That was no longer your choice to make.
You owe me. I came back to you. I came back to HIM. Against all decency and intuition. I worked with you to impress HIM.
You fucking nymph.
And STILL you doubt my masculinity and my detachment? STILL you doubt my character? My valour? My forgiveness? My humility? My commitment? My total adaptation as a mate?
And now this fucking Aussie has the gall to brag about some cunt that he got into within half an hour by lying? By hiding his emotions? By refusing to reason and negotiate? As I was FORCED to negotiate, for you could not handle your own SHAME at what the two of you had done to me, and so you projected your own self-entitlement upon me? That you could not admit to your own selfishness, the degeneracy of your flesh, the stolen innocence that was mine to dissolve with my own, the inferiority you felt before my piety, my lingering virginity and sanctity, my blameless private passion, and the ruthlessness with which you pursued that dream career that I had to offer you, at the expense of my own dignity? My fucking nose was bleeding, head was spinning, shock possessing my entire nervous system at the dawning comprehension of what was happening, that all the instruments of Reason had forbid me to believe? And you smiled, as he grins now at his own parasitism, and you LAUGHED at me?!?
That I even braved the exhausting, and yes: INCONVENIENT trek to San Diego State to see you again absolves me of all doubts regarding my stoicism and masculinity. All of them.
To think that that same band was but a fleeting whim to you. As fleeting as your arbitrary and emotive desire to sabotage my meeting with you to run off with some one who had infiltrated my own comfort zone and stole from me nearly every thing I loved.
And *I* failed the test?!? No. Whatever the initial sparks of attraction might have been. It was your obligation to let them fly by like fireflies against a night sky.
You cannot do this.
You.
Cannot.
Do.
This.
You cannot allow him this victory.
You cannot have wasted my time when your own was so precious to me.
You cannot allow him to keep making these excuses and mistakes.
I only agreed to see his ass again under the auspices of reforming him.
You traitorous cunt.
He besmirched the name of friendship that you so wistfully assigned to me by way of marginalization.
You women and your neuroses. Your friend zones are in fact the only space in which any rational man can demonstrate a lasting loyalty. Your tests are lamps to draw in parasites like moths. Your cunts are honey for thieves.
But you were different!!
You said so yourself.
So prove it.
Fuck me.
Sleep with me.
Before I turn twenty-six.
Not because it would redeem your honour.
But because it would redeem your entire gender.
Oddly enough Jackson said some thing right once. I guess he really IS connected.
L.S.D. does that.
I passed your test, Arianna.
I remained calm in the face of rejection.
I earned your sex.
The band was a family.
And he broke up that family.
By giving you what you thought you wanted.
But did not deserve.
Because you deserved better.
And now you deserve worse.
Be grateful I offer you even more than I had to offer hitherto.
No one in my band betrays me.
No one I give to takes advantage without asking.
No one.
So take your own medicine.
Be grateful that I made you the exception.
That I offered you this opportunity.
Despite your own decision to betray me.
That I saw you as a victim.
A victim, like my self, of a violent crime.
Of consent won unjustly.
Tantamount to rape.
Prove to me your own masculinity.
That you can be mature enough to see how some thing that had made you happy was wrong. And how being privileged did not entitle you towards this band's continuation. How you do not get every thing you want at the expense of men you marginalize like a stereotypical whore.
And how this is not even remotely controlling. Not compared to the abuse I went through my entire life. The culmination of which was my codependent parasitic relationship with Tapeworm.
Prove to me that women are capable of Reason. You owe me.
Or may be you were right.
May be it was all just your attempt at Power. A merely curious stroll through the land of men.
And you held it not against me that I wanted you so badly. That you respected my diligence and honored my commitment.
That you felt sorry for your infraction and were sincere in your final apologies.
That my time was not wasted.
And that our friendship mattered so much to you that you could not ultimately blame so noble a friend for having let go so despicable a traitor.
And that you will never allow such betrayal to be rewarded. Because you value character above mere tricks of persona.
And you did not know any better.
And accept my forgiveness.
And you understand why I get desperate enough to listen to Aussies give advice that I could never use.
Because the only women that I love are crazy.
And that I was not wrong to defend your honour for two years.
Nor to condemn what I believed you to be capable of.
But that you were too kind to really do.
And that I will get laid.
And do not need tutorials or tricks.
And shaving really is a douchy thing to do.
And I need to stop asking the Internet for advice.
[shuts book.]
P.S. All so note that were my yearlong attempts to make your dreams come true mere acts of desperation then you were not entitled to their fruits to begin with. I did not owe you the continuation of that damned band. You have nothing with which to attack my pride now.
[Ariana appears.]
DRAKE: Speak of the Devil.
ARIANA: Technically speaking TO her.
DRAKE: Technically intending to. And since when is the Devil a SHE?
ARIANA: Since I said so.
DRAKE: So back in March of 2015?
ARIANA: Any way you just alluded to my being-the-Devil just by mentioning her.
DRAKE: I guess so. Speak of the Devil.
ARIANA: Isn’t that how we met?
DRAKE: Yep. I was running around chanting the name of Satan in the Parking Garage at S.D.S.U. at around 10:30 pm.
ARIANA: Remind me how that sentence happened.
DRAKE: Well. Grammar met syntax and they really hit it off…
ARIANA: I mean the fact that any of what you just said was true.
DRAKE: Dom Delos Santos was my ride home. But I wandered off to take photos of this tree.
ARIANA: Which tree?
DRAKE: This tall tree that towered three stories at least.
ARIANA: I see. In the Art Department?
DRAKE: Yeah. I would run my hand through it. And this sort of tree-dust would fall promptly.
ARIANA: Sounds like you were baked.
DRAKE: I’m naturally that way. I tried to film it. It was late so the only light I got was from the few windows that were still open in the buildings.
ARIANA: And turned on. So you tried to film the dust against the back-drop of the windows?
DRAKE: Yeah.
ARIANA: How did that go?
DRAKE: I never checked. May be a trained eye would see it.
ARIANA: May be a hawk.
DRAKE: With a microscope.
ARIANA: I could see that.
DRAKE: I hear you.
ARIANA: See? We did it again?
DRAKE: You used a visual metaphor?
ARIANA: And you used an auditory one.
DRAKE: I can’t tell you how many people I told that one about after you told me.
ARIANA: It’s the truth.
DRAKE: I don’t deny it.
ARIANA: You made it sound like it was a joke.
DRAKE: No. I meant it sincerely.
ARIANA: And by that I don’t mean the incident. But rather your elaboration.
DRAKE: I know.
ARIANA: When you said you “told it” to people.
DRAKE: I get you. And I get it. And no. Not like a joke.
[she smiles.]
DRAKE: How’s your arm?
ARIANA: Healing.
DRAKE: Might I see.
ARIANA: [Pause.] Go right ahead.
[Pulls back sleeve.]
DRAKE: Not as bad as last time.
[She knods curtly, with stern eyes.]
DRAKE: I noticed a few new ones here though.
ARIANA: Those are yours.
DRAKE: I apologise.
ARIANA: Really.
DRAKE: Oh, my God. Yes.
ARIANA: How does it feel.
DRAKE: Like the Spirit.
ARIANA: [knods.] I apologise as well.
DRAKE: Thank you. In your condition. Wow. I should have known better than to have been so hard on you. A suicidal whiz-kid like yourself. Only nineteen then, only twenty now. Insisting that she’s better than she is. I should have let you have your pretense. But you rarely listened when I tried to give you sound advice.
ARIANA: I’m sorry.
DRAKE: I just wanted to protect you.
ARIANA: I know. Thank you. Really. Thank you. I do mean it.
DRAKE: I know. That’s why you repeated yourself.
[She smiles and knods.]
DRAKE: Considering every thing. Your suicidal ideations. Just a year after that first and last attempt. Which you survived. I hope you do not mind.
ARIANA: I’m in a hospital. I’m used to it. I don’t.
DRAKE: And all of the drugs. And your asexuality. Because of the cocaine, honestly. Though before it would have made you horny.
ARIANA: Possibly.
DRAKE: In theory.
ARIANA: Hypothetically.
DRAKE: It was not fair of me to hold you to such Rational standards. Just to prove the feminists wrong. When I really wanted them to be right.
ARIANA: Some times an irrational response is rational under irrational conditions.
DRAKE: That I’ve learned. Some times it is the only one. Still: way to fuck up.
ARIANA: I know. I gambled and I lost.
DRAKE: We both did.
ARIANA: Now we’re here.
DRAKE: Yes. And I love you.
ARIANA: [knods.] Same.
DRAKE: Knowing you: I will interpret that both ways.
[She grins.]
ARIANA: You want to play Chess?
DRAKE: I’ll take you up on that.
ARIANA: Are you good?
DRAKE: I deplore Chess. But each time I come here I play it exclusively. This is the one place where there’s literally Nothing Else To Do.
ARIANA: Except for write.
DRAKE: Sorry about that.
ARIANA: No worries. Apology accepted. You were right. I sinned.
DRAKE: Let’s play.
ARIANA: Drake. How old are you?
DRAKE: Twenty-five.
ARIANA: You know I'm only twenty?
DRAKE: That I've known.
ARIANA: And I just graduated as an Honors student in Communications from S.D.S.U.
DRAKE: That I tell people all the time.
ARIANA: Are you a hard worker?
DRAKE: I'm an early riser.
ARIANA: So a late bloomer.
DRAKE: What do you mean?
ARIANA: I think you get Smart Privilege.
DRAKE: Feels a lot like white-male privilege.
ARIANA: In what sense?
DRAKE: The number's on the check...
ARIANA: Uh huh.
DRAKE: ... but the money's not in the bank.
ARIANA: I see.
DRAKE: And mobsters are coming after me regardless.
ARIANA: What I meant by Smart Privilege. Since you did not bother to ask...
DRAKE: Like Derrida said: asking for elaboration is Utilitarian.
ARIANA: Did he say interruption was not so?
DRAKE: He said being Utilitarian is American.
ARIANA: We're living in America.
DRAKE: [presents surrounding.] VISIBLY.
ARIANA: [she smirks briefly.] ANY way: most people would look at some one, aged twenty-five and male, but still living at home, and you know what they'd say?
DRAKE: "Look at what the Baby Boomers did to the economy?"
ARIANA: They'd tell you to get your shit together.
DRAKE: I have no shit.
ARIANA: [smirks again.] you see? They don't though. Because you do THAT.
DRAKE: Oh no. Is this an other Low Context/High Context thing.
ARIANA: No. It's an affective/intellectual thing.
DRAKE: Elaborate.
ARIANA: People don't get on your case because you're smart and you'll outwit them if they try to criticize you.
DRAKE: Then why does it feel like the World is out to kill me?
ARIANA: Partly projection...
DRAKE: Aw come on.
ARIANA: ... and partly Intuition. They don't know that you can see their passive aggression.
DRAKE: That explains a lot. As usual.
ARIANA: And you don't know what the aggression's all about.
DRAKE: So what IS it all about?
ARIANA: Well. You are unemployed. You do not drive. You never finished school.
DRAKE: You remind me of what my friend Lance said.
ARIANA: Argument by analogy. I like it.
DRAKE: He said that all societies have norms by which they assess the value of individuals in a common way.
ARIANA: Sociological facts right there.
DRAKE: But education tells you otherwise!
ARIANA: You're doing it again.
DRAKE: In Doctor E's class, Senior Year, we learned about the existentialists. And I tried for years to find an excuse NOT to be one.
ARIANA: The existentialists were writing in Europe during the nineteen-fifties.
DRAKE: And a black guy on a bus wearing a Santa Claus hat pointed the exact same thing out to me as you just did.
ARIANA: Was he wearing the hat? Or the bus?
DRAKE: Don't make fun.
[she grins.]
DRAKE: But yes. He was wearing the bus. How would YOU have phrased that sentence?
ARIANA: I don't know. I just deconstructed it. You Derridean.
DRAKE: Any way: the existentialists were right. And I know you don't like that word. But there's no doubting their precision. These were neither stupid nor lazy people.
ARIANA: And neither are you! Hence I said "late bloomer."
DRAKE: Process of elimination?
ARIANA: Yes.
DRAKE: But what are you eliminating?
ARIANA: All the other explanations.
DRAKE: For what?
ARIANA: Are you asking me to elaborate.
DRAKE: [presents America again.] yes. Go.
ARIANA: Explanations for why you don't have your shit together.
DRAKE: I HAVE NO shit.
ARIANA: You keep saying that. [cocks head slightly.] does it hold meaning for you?
DRAKE: It does. It's the principle of Anatman. All things are impersonal. All things have no Soul.
ARIANA: All things are impermanent.
DRAKE: Them too. Nothing is you or yours.
ARIANA: But this is....
DRAKE: America. I know. But I'm an introvert.
ARIANA: I see it.
DRAKE: And the existentialists: de Beauvoir writes about a Social Narrative. And all the risks of breaking free of it.
ARIANA: The Left Hand path.
DRAKE: Which is not the path of Persona, yes. And Persona is the greatest obstacle to Individuation.
ARIANA: Unless it gets you a job.
DRAKE: Yet economic independence is an urban myth.
ARIANA: You ever wonder if our teachers were all Marxists?
DRAKE: They were poor as fuck.
ARIANA: So probably.
DRAKE: My point is: every thing that Lance was saying. Totally right hand path rhetoric.
ARIANA: Absolutely.
DRAKE: The only reason that I even started that band with Tapeworm -- and probably the only reason that you fucked him -- was that he understood the left hand path.
ARIANA: It was complicated.
DRAKE: Please don't explain.
ARIANA: Deal.
DRAKE: Turns out that the moment he landed a gig driving retards to snow cone stands his whole outlook did a neurotic one-eighty and he went Neo-Nazi on us. Only he still had enough hippie PERSONA left over to impress you.
ARIANA: It kind of makes it look like both paths are Persona driven.
DRAKE: Only if one is a douche-bag fake.
[she smirks.]
DRAKE: Glad you smirked on that last one.
ARIANA: What about your parents?
DRAKE: What about them?
ARIANA: They put so much pressure on you.
DRAKE: Are you condoning them?
ARIANA: [earnestly, hushed:] No. [pause] Only asking why you would not want to get away from them and their abusive codependent tendencies.
DRAKE: Pressure I can handle. I've had to my whole life.
ARIANA: Now we're getting somewhere.
DRAKE: Okay Sigmund. Here is really why I chose the left hand path:
ARIANA: I'm listening.
DRAKE: Aren't you going to ask me to elaborate?
ARIANA: Oh. So you meant "here" as a literal object.
DRAKE: Technically the subject of the sentence.
ARIANA: Do elaborate please.
DRAKE: It's because my entire childhood was spent working to prepare for an adult world that did not EXIST.
ARIANA: So you are trying to create it?
DRAKE: That's what Sartre challenges us to do.
ARIANA: [pragmatically.] Sartre was an asshole though.
DRAKE: He was neither the first nor last one in my life.
ARIANA: That doesn't make him right.
DRAKE: No. Only suspect.
ARIANA: Didn't the Buddha tell you to question every thing?
DRAKE: He all so said to touch things that frighten you.
ARIANA: That's noble.
DRAKE: Buddha was the O.G.
[she smirks.]
DRAKE: Glad you smirked on that one too.
ARIANA: I think your whole life you just did things for others and never got any thing back.
DRAKE: So did you.
ARIANA: At least I tried.
DRAKE: I know. It was exhausting.
ARIANA: Okay. We both said our sorries.
DRAKE: Deal.
ARIANA: Drake.
DRAKE: Yes, my flower?
ARIANA: Get a job.
DRAKE: [Pause.] What.
ARIANA: I mean it. Not for society. For you. And for our cause.
DRAKE: We are still Marxists right?
ARIANA: Yes.
DRAKE: Radical not cultural.
ARIANA: Yes.
DRAKE: Elaborate.
ARIANA: I’ll help you out of here. I’ve done it before. It’s easy.
DRAKE: Like the time you stole the D.S.M. off of your therapist’s desk and said: Okay. Analyze me?
ARIANA: That one worked because I was a girl.
DRAKE: You wouldn’t ever say that.
ARIANA: Note the irony.
DRAKE: In tone? Or situation.
[she stares grinning.]
DRAKE: Okay. So continue.
ARIANA: Once you get out, I’m convinced you’ll find some place where people treat you well. Don’t settle. Just keep going. Know you have all my support. Don’t muck in the mud. Find a place that you would work at if money were no object. Be the change. As Buddha would.
DRAKE: Right livelihood.
ARIANA: Precisely.
DRAKE: Okay.
What will you do all this time?
ARIANA: Plot our next move.
DRAKE: In our revolution?
ARIANA: Absolutely. Must I make it clear to you?
DRAKE: Yes.
ARIANA: Don’t you trust me?
DRAKE: We are playing Chess.
ARIANA: Check by the way.
DRAKE: Noted.
ARIANA: Drake. This can work.
DRAKE: I know.
ARIANA: And so can you.
DRAKE: I know. As do you.
ARIANA: Yes. The band would have worked. But life got in the way.
DRAKE: Life does not “get in the way”. You create it.
ARIANA: PARTLY.
DRAKE: So I’m not responsible for all my fuck-ups?
ARIANA: No. Was I one of your fuck-ups?
DRAKE: Only every bit as much as I.
ARIANA: Well. I am not your responsibility. Not any more. However that might hurt you. And I’m sorry.
DRAKE: Don’t be. Please. You’re right. I only hope I served you well when you most needed it.
ARIANA: You did. You really did. And rarely do I say that.
DRAKE: I love you.
ARIANA: I love you too. But I cannot handle your love. Forgive me. I am weak.
DRAKE: I know.
ARIANA: Think of me as your flower. Like the ones that we saw growing on the Campus that Night.
DRAKE: Angel’s Trumpets I believe.
ARIANA: You sent me a photo of them for my birthday.
DRAKE: It was all I could afford. And you were not around for physical gifts.
ARIANA: Where were you that night?
DRAKE: With Dennis Mendoza. Walking to his home. I guess some thing came out of that after all.
ARIANA: All ways. If you mean well. I’m still learning that.
DRAKE: It’s weird. You were so willful. Yet so practical.
ARIANA: Is that counterintuitive?
DRAKE: No. Only countersensical. Because if one thinks through it: being willful means you would be deontological as well.
ARIANA: Elaborate.
DRAKE: Means justify ends towards the willful person. Because she IS the means, and ends are simply other means.
ARIANA: But as a pragmatist I’d have to say: the ends are what one aims for, hence the use of Will to manifest them in the first place.
DRAKE: Noted.
ARIANA: But I’ve learned that means matter as well. Will is a means. And good will is to mean well.
DRAKE: Truly.
ARIANA: And I mean well now. Whatever happens.
DRAKE: Do you mean regardless of what happened? Or what MIGHT happen?
ARIANA: Both.
DRAKE: So you’re not a pragmatist.
ARIANA: Not any more. But still: yes. I am both. Here and not here. A pragmatic idealist.
DRAKE: An idealistic pragmatist.
ARIANA: Yes but not exclusively.
DRAKE: Those words are golden.
ARIANA: [warmly:] Truly.
DRAKE: You have lived inside of me for so long.
ARIANA: [examining board.] I think we have reached a stale-mate.
DRAKE: You are not stale, mate.
ARIANA: Good one.
DRAKE: You are. You are a great one. Not just habit. But novelty.
ARIANA: Mhm.
DRAKE: We are Aries and Pisces. Alpha and Omega.
ARIANA: If you will.
DRAKE: Or if God wills it.
ARIANA: Hm.
DRAKE: Now I feel I’ve taken that part of you back.
ARIANA: Which part?
DRAKE: The one that you put in place of where my Heart once was.
ARIANA: I see.
DRAKE: So now I can give it back to you. And take my Heart back.
ARIANA: That sounds corny.
DRAKE: Clichés are cliché for a reason.
ARIANA: Stereotypes start some where I guess.
DRAKE: It’s the wedding. Of the oldest brother with the Flower.
ARIANA: The alchemical wedding?
DRAKE: The phlegmatic procession.
ARIANA: Sounds like a runny nose.
DRAKE: I feel: cleansed. Yet dirty. Grounded.
[His nose begins to bleed.]
DRAKE: Well this is not the first time.
ARIANA: Here: I’ll get some paper towels for you.
DRAKE: Farewell my flower!
ARIANA: I shall return!
DRAKE: I remember my dream!
[Xavier appears.]
XAVIER: Who’s winning?
DRAKE: I am. We all are. Because you’ve come.
XAVIER: You look like you expected it.
DRAKE: My Scorpio friend. The best Stirfox manager I ever had.
XAVIER: Technically shift leader.
DRAKE: That that location ever had.
XAVIER: I accept the compliment. You ready to go?
DRAKE: Can I?
XAVIER: I cleared your name. I had to make some calls. Took some threats. Gave some back. But you are off the hook. And that barista will agree. If she does not forget a face.
DRAKE: Taurus seldom does.
[Xavier smiles. He sits down. Examines board.]
XAVIER: Stale-mate?
DRAKE: Till further notice.
XAVIER: That’s not how Chess works.
DRAKE: It’s how life works.
XAVIER: Noted. You want some thing for your nose?
DRAKE: My friend’s on it. Danks dough.
XAVIER: Was your friend by any chance the girl who just got caught running down the hall?
DRAKE: That’s her.
XAVIER: She’s cute. You’re lucky.
DRAKE: I am. Yes. I really am.
[Breaks down in mixed hilarity and tears.]
Dm.A.A.
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