decadence, decay. (so what, moon...but, we'll be reunited again.)
i love genet's plays. love them. first it was the balcony. and mm. he's so indefatiguable and dirtygrimy. lace and blood and sex and flea bites. absolutely vulgar. absolute.ly.
these bits are from his the screens.
p. 13
The Mother (still laughing): If you laugh until you cry, your tears'll bring her face into focus. But the point is, you wouldn't have the courage...
Saïd: To...
The Mother (still laughing): To treat her as an ugly woman. You're going to her reluctantly. Vomit on her.
p.19
Warda (to The Maid): Red velvet. (to Brahim): Lead. Lead in the hems of my three petticoats. (The two men burst out laughing. Malika, still solemn, takes two or three steps.) It takes a man's hand to turn them up, a man's hand or mine.
p.24
Leila's face will always be covered with a kind of black hood in which three holes have been pierced, two for the eyes and one of the mouth.
The Mother is wearing her violet dress. She will wear it eternally.
p.26
The Mother: He [Saïd] couldn't care less. He knows what pants are. He puts his big legs into them, his ass and all the rest. His rank and titles. If he lays out his pants for the night, it's they who keep watch on a chair, it's they who guard you and frighten you. They keep watch, they keep their eye on you. Saïd can doze away. He knows that pants have to live, and it's the patches that keep them on their toes, and the liveliest are those that are inside out. Don't worry. Saïd's like me, he doesn't mind things being loused up and tearing off in all directions till they reach some star or other, till the moment when trouble--are you listening to me?--grows so great that your husband'll burst. With laughter. Will burst. With laughter. Since you're ugly, be idiotic. And don't slobber.
pp.32-32
Saïd (frightened): Good God! What's in it? His fist?
Habib: Straw. Packed tight, so as to look as if his fist were in it.... (A pause.) And so as to look more dangerous.... (A pause.) And to look more real....
Saïd (looking at the object): It looks more beautiful.
Habib (sarcastically): So it does! (A long silence.) It's evening, got to be getting home. (In a low voice.) Every finger is listening with an ear as big as an umbrella.... Be careful.... It's evening. (Habib tears up the paper sun, rolls it into a ball and flings it away.)
/
hawaiian baby
the spinanes
this is a picture of hawaii that you brought me
santa claus with a baby that you brought me
standing by the back screen door
watching you wash dishes
writing love letters to others just for kicks
moving down on taylor
dinner with your father
looking for a mailbox
someone's rolling in the mud
someone does it just because
it's cool on their skin
this is a picture of a cowboy that he drew me
letters scrawled across the bottom spell "i love you"
this is a taste of your right ear lobe can't you hear me
this is a taste of your left elbow don't you feel it
it's my heart and it doesn't fit yours
ram's down at the bar teaching hardships
verlaines, verlaines, verlaines...
trucker speed and the harm of having loose lips
six days, six days...
sex and cigarettes and slow sad says he
verlaines, verlaines, verlaines...
santa claus with a baby that you brought me
it's my heart and it doesn't fit yours
moving down on taylor
dinner with your father
searching for a mailbox
someone's slinging up the mud
someone does it just because
it's not on their skin
i love it. i want to send invisibly-inked love letters of gratitude and admiration and dingyknee'd anxiousness (unctuousness...) to rebecca gates. smart women who write make me fold and twirl tiny bright.
i like her, i love this song.
...
you know how i'm always saying something annoyingly adolescent and as trite in meaning as WhatItAllCameDownTo, listen to this song please.? yeah. this is it, again. familiar, hello.
my little one is leaving.
and he's coming back from.
and i'm stuck wondering
not stuck at all
(at least not for today,
feellikeit)
these bits are from his the screens.
p. 13
The Mother (still laughing): If you laugh until you cry, your tears'll bring her face into focus. But the point is, you wouldn't have the courage...
Saïd: To...
The Mother (still laughing): To treat her as an ugly woman. You're going to her reluctantly. Vomit on her.
p.19
Warda (to The Maid): Red velvet. (to Brahim): Lead. Lead in the hems of my three petticoats. (The two men burst out laughing. Malika, still solemn, takes two or three steps.) It takes a man's hand to turn them up, a man's hand or mine.
p.24
Leila's face will always be covered with a kind of black hood in which three holes have been pierced, two for the eyes and one of the mouth.
The Mother is wearing her violet dress. She will wear it eternally.
p.26
The Mother: He [Saïd] couldn't care less. He knows what pants are. He puts his big legs into them, his ass and all the rest. His rank and titles. If he lays out his pants for the night, it's they who keep watch on a chair, it's they who guard you and frighten you. They keep watch, they keep their eye on you. Saïd can doze away. He knows that pants have to live, and it's the patches that keep them on their toes, and the liveliest are those that are inside out. Don't worry. Saïd's like me, he doesn't mind things being loused up and tearing off in all directions till they reach some star or other, till the moment when trouble--are you listening to me?--grows so great that your husband'll burst. With laughter. Will burst. With laughter. Since you're ugly, be idiotic. And don't slobber.
pp.32-32
Saïd (frightened): Good God! What's in it? His fist?
Habib: Straw. Packed tight, so as to look as if his fist were in it.... (A pause.) And so as to look more dangerous.... (A pause.) And to look more real....
Saïd (looking at the object): It looks more beautiful.
Habib (sarcastically): So it does! (A long silence.) It's evening, got to be getting home. (In a low voice.) Every finger is listening with an ear as big as an umbrella.... Be careful.... It's evening. (Habib tears up the paper sun, rolls it into a ball and flings it away.)
/
hawaiian baby
the spinanes
this is a picture of hawaii that you brought me
santa claus with a baby that you brought me
standing by the back screen door
watching you wash dishes
writing love letters to others just for kicks
moving down on taylor
dinner with your father
looking for a mailbox
someone's rolling in the mud
someone does it just because
it's cool on their skin
this is a picture of a cowboy that he drew me
letters scrawled across the bottom spell "i love you"
this is a taste of your right ear lobe can't you hear me
this is a taste of your left elbow don't you feel it
it's my heart and it doesn't fit yours
ram's down at the bar teaching hardships
verlaines, verlaines, verlaines...
trucker speed and the harm of having loose lips
six days, six days...
sex and cigarettes and slow sad says he
verlaines, verlaines, verlaines...
santa claus with a baby that you brought me
it's my heart and it doesn't fit yours
moving down on taylor
dinner with your father
searching for a mailbox
someone's slinging up the mud
someone does it just because
it's not on their skin
i love it. i want to send invisibly-inked love letters of gratitude and admiration and dingyknee'd anxiousness (unctuousness...) to rebecca gates. smart women who write make me fold and twirl tiny bright.
i like her, i love this song.
...
you know how i'm always saying something annoyingly adolescent and as trite in meaning as WhatItAllCameDownTo, listen to this song please.? yeah. this is it, again. familiar, hello.
my little one is leaving.
and he's coming back from.
and i'm stuck wondering
not stuck at all
(at least not for today,
feellikeit)