From left to right: My brother, Wayne, my father, Henry A. Norsworthy, my second doggie, Roscoe, and me. The time was 1958.
Monday, January 31, 2005
Sunday, January 30, 2005
Opposites: A one-act play
by A. Ray Norsworthy
Marie: (looking offstage) Here they come. It's about time.
Enter Breck and Michael
Marie: What took so long?
Michael: Breck was transubstantiating.
Breck: (singing) Eleven trannies toking, ten dildos pumping, nine winos whining...
Marie: (to Breck) What are you on?
Breck: ...eight butches boffing...
Michael: Christmas spirit, can't you tell?
Breck: I'm one of Santa's helpers. Seven shleppers shlepping, six shtuppers shtupping, five gold nipple rings...
Marie: Breck, you promised me...
Breck: Four call girls, three French fries, two turtle soups...
Everyone stares at him, waiting for him to finish.
Roberta: (tossing her cigarette down in disgust) Well, are you going to finish it or are you waiting for the Vienna Boys Choir to arrive?
Breck: Nope. It's a form of discipline. Denial of the easy riff. (long pause) Oh, all right! And a Par-tridge Family or-gy.
Roberta: Your singing lacks soul. Come to think of it, so does the rest of you.
Marie: I think Breck has a lot of soul. Everyone has soul, you dig down deep enough.
Roberta: Sure, he's a combination of James Brown and Gandhi.
Breck: Roberta, you of all people, should know better than to judge anyone. You cover your own imperfections with your fancy words, your East Village artist personna! You use words like duct tape. You know what duct tape is? This grey industrial looking stuff that's real sticky and makes a screech when ya peel it off. It's tough too. I had this friend once, his name was Duncan. He was a cokehead, but he was a fucking genius, I mean this guy was genuine, his art was on a level that I could only dream about. A lot in common with Dubuffet. You know, art brut, except he's not French so his brut is more brutal. So one night, we get really shit-faced, you know, just drunk for the hell of it--I was out of coke and out of money, frustrated, horny, full of self loathing and desperation--so I start punching holes in the wall with my fist. What the fuck, it was a dump anyway, condemned. And it was kind of conceptual violence, if you think about it. (yelling) Tear down the temple and let my people go!
So anyway, Duncan had this huge box of duct tape, 'cause his father was a plumber, you know, and like every time I punched a hole he would cover it with tape. Well, this went on for hours, at least it seemed like it. Finally I just passed out. (pause)
What I didn't know was Duncan had some coke stashed that he didn't wish to share with Mr. Greedy nose. I remember waking up the next morning and Duncan had taped the whole fucking apartment. Windows, doorways, everything! Ashtrays, beer cans, magazines, stray shoes, my favorite Klee poster, some leftover Fettucini Alfredo in the fridge that we had splurged on. He'd even taped the toothpaste and the toothbrushes, for Christ's sake. About the only thing he hadn't covered with tape was me. He even taped himself like a goddamn mummy! Duct tape from head to toe!
(Roberta listens in rapt amazement)
Just lying there amidst all the carnage, so to speak, like some kind of industrial mummy. Well, I am speechless, completely amazed at this scene. At first, just puzzled you know, like what got into this boy, he really flipped out, but the more I thought about how bizarre, how fucking...outrageous it was, the more it made perfect sense. This was Duncan's ultimate artistic statement, his crowning glory, you might say. You talk about conceptual, this was real self-expression--this wasn't conceived, it exploded from the morass of his fucking imploding existence. And it was the last artistic statement of his life.
Roberta: You mean he was dead?
Breck: Of course not. He moved back home to Brooklyn and became a plumber.
copyright A. Ray Norsworthy, 2005
by A. Ray Norsworthy
Marie: (looking offstage) Here they come. It's about time.
Enter Breck and Michael
Marie: What took so long?
Michael: Breck was transubstantiating.
Breck: (singing) Eleven trannies toking, ten dildos pumping, nine winos whining...
Marie: (to Breck) What are you on?
Breck: ...eight butches boffing...
Michael: Christmas spirit, can't you tell?
Breck: I'm one of Santa's helpers. Seven shleppers shlepping, six shtuppers shtupping, five gold nipple rings...
Marie: Breck, you promised me...
Breck: Four call girls, three French fries, two turtle soups...
Everyone stares at him, waiting for him to finish.
Roberta: (tossing her cigarette down in disgust) Well, are you going to finish it or are you waiting for the Vienna Boys Choir to arrive?
Breck: Nope. It's a form of discipline. Denial of the easy riff. (long pause) Oh, all right! And a Par-tridge Family or-gy.
Roberta: Your singing lacks soul. Come to think of it, so does the rest of you.
Marie: I think Breck has a lot of soul. Everyone has soul, you dig down deep enough.
Roberta: Sure, he's a combination of James Brown and Gandhi.
Breck: Roberta, you of all people, should know better than to judge anyone. You cover your own imperfections with your fancy words, your East Village artist personna! You use words like duct tape. You know what duct tape is? This grey industrial looking stuff that's real sticky and makes a screech when ya peel it off. It's tough too. I had this friend once, his name was Duncan. He was a cokehead, but he was a fucking genius, I mean this guy was genuine, his art was on a level that I could only dream about. A lot in common with Dubuffet. You know, art brut, except he's not French so his brut is more brutal. So one night, we get really shit-faced, you know, just drunk for the hell of it--I was out of coke and out of money, frustrated, horny, full of self loathing and desperation--so I start punching holes in the wall with my fist. What the fuck, it was a dump anyway, condemned. And it was kind of conceptual violence, if you think about it. (yelling) Tear down the temple and let my people go!
So anyway, Duncan had this huge box of duct tape, 'cause his father was a plumber, you know, and like every time I punched a hole he would cover it with tape. Well, this went on for hours, at least it seemed like it. Finally I just passed out. (pause)
What I didn't know was Duncan had some coke stashed that he didn't wish to share with Mr. Greedy nose. I remember waking up the next morning and Duncan had taped the whole fucking apartment. Windows, doorways, everything! Ashtrays, beer cans, magazines, stray shoes, my favorite Klee poster, some leftover Fettucini Alfredo in the fridge that we had splurged on. He'd even taped the toothpaste and the toothbrushes, for Christ's sake. About the only thing he hadn't covered with tape was me. He even taped himself like a goddamn mummy! Duct tape from head to toe!
(Roberta listens in rapt amazement)
Just lying there amidst all the carnage, so to speak, like some kind of industrial mummy. Well, I am speechless, completely amazed at this scene. At first, just puzzled you know, like what got into this boy, he really flipped out, but the more I thought about how bizarre, how fucking...outrageous it was, the more it made perfect sense. This was Duncan's ultimate artistic statement, his crowning glory, you might say. You talk about conceptual, this was real self-expression--this wasn't conceived, it exploded from the morass of his fucking imploding existence. And it was the last artistic statement of his life.
Roberta: You mean he was dead?
Breck: Of course not. He moved back home to Brooklyn and became a plumber.
copyright A. Ray Norsworthy, 2005
Automatic Transfiguration Conquistadorian
Automatic Transfiguration Conquistadorian
The bells in my head are ringing; the vibrations shake the dust. The twilight sings. I'm on a hill between nowhere and Olympus. Earth moans, the horizon
is on fire. I want to dance like a drunken groom, I want to dance like Tevye from Fiddler On The Roof. I want to kick out the jams, Jellyroll.
Turning in circles like Julie Andrews in The Sound Of Music, I grope the Nazi wind's naked breast and lick the sweat from her lips. Her face is wet with tears of sound. She's beginning to look a lot like Christ on the cross-town Expressway.
Earth moans, the horizon is on fire. I'm not one of Santa's helpers, I'm a blind soldier of doom, I'm auditioning for a role in a police line-up. Too bad I'm cracked up, spinally. Stargazing is for dreamers, I cry to the hills lapping at my feet like dogs.
The moaning changes to a hum. The orchestra hasn't been paid. Feed the string section to the wolves. Where are the strippers and dwarves? Whose back alley is this? Where do I sign? This is a bird's wing, not a broken bottle, biddy biddy bum.
The Little Drummer Boy inside my head drums me to my knees on this dance floor of death, I fall into the lap of dusk, I roll down the hill toward the songheart, gathering speed and crushing the breath of words where the sun falls to its knees in the welcoming dust.
is on fire. I want to dance like a drunken groom, I want to dance like Tevye from Fiddler On The Roof. I want to kick out the jams, Jellyroll.
Turning in circles like Julie Andrews in The Sound Of Music, I grope the Nazi wind's naked breast and lick the sweat from her lips. Her face is wet with tears of sound. She's beginning to look a lot like Christ on the cross-town Expressway.
copyright A. Ray Norsworthy, 1999
For Blog so loved the world...
he gave you me.
Symbiosis
by A. Ray Norsworthy
Welcome, traveler
This way station is for you,
And you alone.
Others may visit, of course,
But you are the one who
is here now
Who shares my thirst
You are the wanderer
who has crossed the vast
desert between us, for barely
enough water to sprinkle
your parched mind
By drinking from my cup
dipped in this cool
well, you sustain my
life. Without you I am
dust.
Symbiosis
by A. Ray Norsworthy
Welcome, traveler
This way station is for you,
And you alone.
Others may visit, of course,
But you are the one who
is here now
Who shares my thirst
You are the wanderer
who has crossed the vast
desert between us, for barely
enough water to sprinkle
your parched mind
By drinking from my cup
dipped in this cool
well, you sustain my
life. Without you I am
dust.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
