Joey Bargsten, Ph.D., and fau-xMedia Ensemble
Incorporating the
totally disrespectful, abject personification of the disgrace and embarrassment
of being human. This principle is given the all-purpose problematic BEEST. In
the view of the dramatic personae who occasionally and unpredictably make their
pronouncements throughout the work, all is BEEST.
BEEST
OPERA is divided into ten sections, which take as their titles:
I.
Film
– overture – SKRATCHES ÒHere we have scratched film, and scratched
is the BEESTÓ
II.
Film
– solo – EMPIRES AND TOURISTS
1. Textual: (chorus )
2. Textual: (chorus )
a. turba dance 1
i.
feedback – BEEST LIVE!
III. Film
– duo – SINKING CITIES
b. turba dance 2
3. Textual: (chorus
)
IV.
Film
– trio – FACES OF THE BEEST
A number of
contributors to this particular little diversion: I would like some Plotinus, I
would like some paraphrases of the Willam DeKooning book – no, too artsy,
pretentious. Plotinus is good, because heÕs interesting and somehow lost to
history and philosophy for most people.
We can look at his
life or paraphrase his life or wrap it up in some kind of contemporary
metaphor. These are all such predictable ways of dealing with a story.
We see Plotinus as
someone who runs a strip club. In this manner we may use all the stripper jokes
weÕve collected over the years. We also do that to establish him as one
manifestation of the beest. But he is a beest in a rather prosaic sense. Not
terribly beastly, he is. But he takes great pleasure in reconciling or perhaps
just appreciating the body/mind dichotomy-thingy.
So, Plotinus does his
philosophy stuff, has a few students, runs his strip club, and dies, the end.
But, weÕd want to
focus on one or two or three key defining moments in his life, probably where
heÕs living with Gemina and her daughter Gemina. So, thereÕs that, and thereÕs
his future biographer dude (whatÕs his name? We can call him pH), who might be
narrating part of it, or maybe the trio is P, G, and pH. ItÕs not much, but
itÕs a start.
Next, the texts of
the choruses, they are called ÔtextualsÕ – do we have a reason why they
are called this? What does that mean anyway?
Finally, we are stuck
on this desire to create a form using video jam hardware and software. We
suspect the form will amount to a catalog of effects or a list of memes, as we
move through this experimental media storm.
There are BEESTS, and
we must accept that BEESTS have DREEMS. Dreems are the inchoate, ultrapersonal,
and ephemeral firings of synapses of memory blended with fantasy. So the dreems
will be what the chorus sings. They will be the textuals . . . no, wait, the textuals
should be in Latin (even though Plotinus is Greek), because they will be less
difficult to sing, so thatÕs what the audience (who stumble into this
exhibtion) will sing – since weÕre outsourcing all the vocals in such a
reckless way. You are being so cavalier. Why donÕt you jump in your pants, ass,
jumping what the hoo.
You know, itÕs taken
your whole life to arrive at this place, and the place (i.e., the work, this
work) is a little disappointing, init?
* * * ** * * *
OK, so dramatis
persona:
PLOTINUS (lyrical
tenor) – ancient philosopher (so, heÕs about 50), runs a strip club, in
his spare time works as a customer service phone person out of his tiny place,
which he shares with:
GEMINA (mezzo
soprano) – formerly a student of Plotinus, occasionally works at his
strip club, occasionally works the phone as a customer service person, Mother
of :
GEMINA II (contralto)
daughter/son of Gemina, also lives
with Gemina and Plotinus, also occasionally works at PlotinusÕ strip club
(probably not in a stripping capacity). Who is his/her father? We are never
told. (S)HeÕs young but not innocent.
Here are the elements:
3 main performers - content on line, parts provided randomly.
6 turba chorus – content on line, parts provided randomly.
2 screens – one running feedback flash with random vector
animations , one running live videojamming applications, vjam clips provided
ahead of time
electronic score created live in the ether from 3 contributors over
collaborative software, source material provided ahead of time
InTRO
/ProLog/MetaLog/EpiLog:
(first
version, where I was trying too hard)
What is the Beest?
The Beest is bad customer service.
The Beest is not being able to get things on paper with an
actual signature.
The Beest is not trusting the internets
The Beest is why are you not able to send this package and
give me a receipt for it?
The Beest is that's terrible - why can't I get that on
paper?
The Beest is like, is this even legal?
The Beest is tell them you need a paper statement and we
haven't gotten a paper statement in nine months because they always send it to
our old address in oregon.
The Beest is I am going to go mad.
The neon life is the beest
The deal is broken, the life is broken, the beest is
broken.
I am the beest.
I beest when I hate you
I beest when I fill your mouth with cement
I beestifest all beest things
All is beest, then is deth.
Beest is loozing everything, beest is deth of nuance.
I beest when I see the energy come and go.
The beest is when I kill the childrens
The beest is rank odourous, foul lifeage.
The beest is much
meat
ACT
1 – Scene 1
P(lotinus):
Time is short.
G(emina
I): My shift is almost over. God, I hate these morans.
G(emina
II) 2: IÕm going out.
G:
Is your taser charged? DonÕt forget it, and be back by 2.
G2:
Yeah, yeah.
P:
You know, I thought when the revolution finally came, theyÕd save the Louve
instead of Bangalor Phone Bank. (Backbone?Hub? Internet term for really big
pipe, main artery?)
G:
(channelling angry customers) ÒWhy canÕt you replace the black one with the grey one?Ó
G:
IÕm sorry, the grey oneÕs been discontinued.
G:
ÒWell I want the
grey one. Let me talk to your supervisorÓ
G:
IÕm sorry, maÕam, My supervisor stepped away from the phone. Would you like his
voicemail?
G2:
(speaking into technology device, to friend) The doctor is examining her
food-pipe? You mean Ôexamining her esophagusÕ?
P:
This is it: the end of badness. (gives G2 his/her drug or candy or piece of
technology or gun).
G2:
Are you sad because all your friends are ded?
P:
ItÕs the post-meaning world, girls. Time to shake something . . . meaningful.
G:
ÒI want my money back, and I want a replacement for my original, and I want you
to pay for shipping and insurance and restocking fee, or I will kill my
hostagesÓ
P:
Wha – how did you handle that? Did you have them strangled?
P:
(speaking into technology device, to receptionist) I need to schedule the
healthworkerÕs visit for next Tuesday instead of next Monday. Yeah . . .
MondayÕs a holiday.
P:
(meta-speech)
Yeah . . . ThatÕs right: unknown quantities
of unknown persons of unknown talent and ablities providing the unintelligible
texts of unreliable and un-socially-intelligent dramatis personae.
SONGS
OF DESPAIR AND DELIGHT (I):
Deth imagines animals.
What if women need some sweet fingers?
With the killing thoughts
Boring, fragile roses
A flaccid hand
Time decays.
A neon penis
One shadow
This miasma, your miasma. . .
Boys making worms calm loneliness
A flaccid violence
Lifeless, clever CDs
Knowing, mindless CDs
Some people
(- Tunnels stealing tunnels kill reality
- Your flesh like metallic bones)
Notice another fragile deth
Make a stinking cat
A dingy hand
Quiet-Ass: vacant, nice.
Note that beginning of the funny feeling
This imagines people!
Hurtful women.
The odd thing is how aimlessly I need!
Several men
My equipose, my listlessness. . .
Psycho woman
What could we expect?
Lifeless, angry girls
Destroy a defective man
Give her a broken verse.
Demand deth!
ACT
1 – Scene 2
P: Never HEARD of outov Pocket AND deductible?
G: ThatÕs what she said.
G2: ThatÕs what she said.
G: (meta-speech) How much of this will be outsourced
to folk on the net, adding the mechanical turk element to interactive theatre,
so conceptually, this is all made out of whatÕs out there, and donÕt like, work
on too much, too hard.
SONGS OF DESPAIR AND DELIGHT (II):
Boring, clever children
Imagine this, nicotine Black-mark.
Celebrate that return of that old emotion
Murder deceives bones.
His life . . .
Remember a scratched bird
Life expands.
Women mocking blades control tranquility
Roses stealing women rock clarity
Ironic how awkwardly you escape!
Your teeth, your shattered odor.
Knowing, clever roses
Shadows devouring flames devastate intimacy
Sketch him this broken incident.
Pungent, half-alive soldiers
Request life!
Request life!
Naturally, like dark-angelic panties, you kill me.
Did it need to develop this way?
Before the Fucking blackness
Call me weird but it's secretly very memorable how
vigorously I lack!
ACT
2 – Scene 1
G2: (meta-speech) OK? LetÕs think about this a
bit.
G2:
(meta-speech) BEEST! Man is angry, man is angry man -
- hi! Hit – hurt! We like to hit and hurt and hi!
Can we
maybe work the hitting and hurting into all soft and neat things? Can we make
the world more about hitting and hurting? Can all things be hitting and
hurting, nothing more, OK? So, letÕs all get on that right away!
These
are the werds of the BEEST.
SONGS OF DESPAIR AND DELIGHT (III):
Six roses
Fucking this dull woman
Broken, mindless time
What should they expect?
Hate pleasures buttocks!
Why does it fade?
Death charms.
Could I maybe excite your lies?
What would they do?
Incapacity helps.
Should he maybe seal my deceptions?
Give her this hot lie.
&ucking half-alive nurses
Before the Fucking glance
Boys devouring wonders devastate shallowness
Stupid girl
Boys destroying worms kill reality
Miss-Lovey-Pants endures.
Children slicing blades reinvent serenity
His sleeves like hot dogs.
Touch this, baroque Big-Ass.
Desire food!
I want love!
Your sex like lovely air.
Truth like tasty houses.
Your shame.
Your bad sex.
I want love!
Love deceives women.
Wonders collecting roses destroy self-esteem
I need strangeness!
His fingers like bad bones.
Blessed animals.
Monkey-Boy expands.
Your shadows expand with magic.
One sex-shadow
Ancient, scarafied men
Money: meaningful, metalic.
Meat like silent leaves.
Humanity dies.
His skirt like sorry time.
Demand deth!
Sweet-candy: merciful, mindful.
I demand love!
Truth like fallen shadows.
Your odor.
Your bad panties.
ACT
2 – Scene 2
P: (meta-speech) Why should we entertain people?
Holding us between – what and what else?
Art
should be hard, it should hurt to make it and hurt to take it.
These
are the werds of the beest.
SONGS OF DESPAIR AND DELIGHT (IV):
Light imagines people!
Why should it be that you are dreadfully alone?
Demand food!
This pleasures women.
Your presence.
Your bad sex.
Women stabbing men kill courage
Her presence like shattered animals.
Touch this, deceptive Age.
Realistic friends.
Request life!
This is meat.
Quietly, she ends up traumatized.
why, do you suppose, we must face this?
Love transforms people!
Your shame.
Your bad tubetop.
Give him one dumb lie.
Reveal a soiled cat
Two tunnels
Incapacity deceives.
My sleeves like bitter sleet.
Touch this, sterling Big-Cat.
ACT
2 – Scene 3
P:
(meta-speech) Self-Deprecatio Dispositio
G:
(meta-speech) BEEST is all that what the fuck are you
blabbering about, you deak. You slippery, spongy deak. Shame on you. Why are
out you wasting our time? DonÕt waste our time with your stupid arcanity, your
flatulant, insipid superiority. DonÕt you know itÕs dumdum time on the planet?
And that the planet is rooled by BEEST principles? Well. You should know that,
you stoopid poopy man.
SONG OF DESPAIR AND DELIGHT (V):
Wonders stealing flowers kill boredom
Your flesh like dumb lips.
Think this, fulfilled Lion.
What if I show those sweet membranes?
Manage you meatiness.
Its life is dead.
Request me!
Women eating worms
What's digging deep into your shadows?
&ucking boring remarks
How can I be so surprising?
Girls marking flames
Let us talk of your dusty complacency:
Among the Fucking beds
How can we be so predictable?
I continue to marvel.
Notice another questionable illness
Ironic how carelessly I reveal!
One mouth
Shadows eating roses rock drama
Her face like acrid hail.
Psycho boy
&ucking scorned thought-bubbles
Why does it begin?
Delicious Moments are on the wedding cake, and they
are kicking faces.
<this part not in the xml document>
Merely an oversight; a yellow accident
should-beautifully! scan her tormentors
into a flaccid apathy.
Delicious Memories are on the divorce cake, and they
are pinching hands.
Tremble-fuck pogs Fucking in the cheap, cheap
shadows.
They no longer avoid clarity.
They no longer announce energy.
Dump beests re-interkrak?
How harshly these demons ruin, how really aimlessly.
Sex changes men.
Sketch her this lovely song:
Tremble-fuck pogs Fucking in the cheap, cheap glance.
We no longer whisper heartfulness.
Your momentum, your listlessness. . .
Life decays.
The deceptive moment when I went to the farmerÕs
market
Controls her.
Whatever.
ACT 3 – Scene 1
SONGS OF DESPAIR AND DELIGHT (VI):
Moments slashing children
sucking dying demons
Did it have to begin this way?
The glaring moment when she's like one of those
catfish
Shatters you.
Whatever.
Whatever whatever.
Love glows.
His skirt like pungent time.
Asia-delight!
A slinky improbability
One death-longing
Tragic how carelessly you scream!
Another oozing psychosis
Dream this, flowery India.
Your loneliness, my ambivalence. . .
G2:
(meta-speech) Use them wings to mess up you face, all
messy. Heed the werds of the BEEST.
P: (meta-speech) Between Peen and Vadge is the
Third Mind. Meet me there!
EPILOGUE/ POST-SCRIPT
G: This, beest madness. We are the beest
P: This, you, I, beest madness, beests we are.
G2: The truth beests, we are, and we endure. Beests
all, forever!
P: . . . Except when we all die, then be are worm
food, dirt dwellers, cold rotting clay.
G: LetÕs get drunk and ride our bikes!
G: BeetchinÕ !
* * * * * * * * * *
SONGS OF DESPAIR AND DELIGHT (VII):
Your histories overflow with hate.
Worms destroying tunnels
Sucking knowing saints
What do they expect?
Blessed arrangements.
Bread like silent houses.
Bread like silent houses.
Moments marking girls
Fucking clever tunnels
We mustn't explore our fretting touch.
It appears weird how gently you want!
One complacency
Notice that return of the bleeding deth
How can I be so cold?
A man-eating shadow
One death-longing
Invariably, like belly beests, he can smell my sex.
It seems weird how harshly I announce!
The funny emotion
Fondling-you-this!
Monkey-Boy helps.
Material not quite ready: Genocide qwa
Menage a Quo
Status a Trois
Menage A Vu (Foo)
Second Pass.
More BEEST OPERAª material – will fold it in later.
(this is much better, because I wasnÕt trying to do
anything)
P: So, any more thots about the BEEST?
G2: The beest comes in subtle, tiny, sneaky ways, too!
G: Like when frendz succeed and you hate them secretly.
G2: Like when IÕm in the shower and somebuddyÕs thinking
about me and I donÕt know it and nothing happens.
P: Like when quantum thingies happen, and nobody notices,
and you live and die without notice! Whoa, think it! Thunk!
G: The ghost of ideas are locked in the Beest!
G2: Silver and manic ideas are in the Beest. They itch to
get out.
G: Beest is when the paper comes, but nobody reads papers
anymore.
G2: Or, contrariwise, the Beest is the life unlived and the
accomplishments unaccomplished because youÕre . . .
P: . . . because you were too figuring-it-all-out to notice
and act upon it. And the erasure comes along, which is deth, and all lies in
its path.
G2: And the mean ones lust for you, and you are living your
own life, and the mean ones tell you how wack they are by hurting you and then
realizing how stupid that was, but now itÕs too late and they have to live with
it. With the fact that they are BEEST!
G: I never needed that much additional drama. I just needed
clean socks.
P: Beest! There is only the beest of the familiar faces at
the party, that you want to brush against, I mean brush against their bodies,
but you are too old—manny and they, too happy not having anything to do
with you.
(funny big bear takes a crap on the stage! Haw haw haw!!_
P: Then, letÕs realize the Beest may not be listening to
you.
G: The beest may not care.
G2: The beest may be too busy setting the table or smacking
a friend in the face with a brick.
G: Gee, the beest sure can be a subtle bug!
P: Jee-zuz Jimmy! The beest is here/now, but the beest is
also hey-what-the-fuck-let-go-of-my-arm crude fruit provider, is essence to
power and truth, and sucks on the gentle vegetables with his frendz, who are so
little his frendz.
G: Slap-pappy, why does the Beest become who we are, who we
gonnaÕ be?
G2: So many Beests we are, at so many places in our dumb
lives. And all becomes rotting bodies!
G: But donÕt forget – The Beest is always present in
danger and control situations.
G2: Like those involving undergarments?
G: Like those involving undergarments, and also various
hypo-allergenic plastics and other materials.
P: I want to go to the Beest and ask for more time to
finish this, The Lifey-poo thingy.
P: The beest is taking obscure art from the 1980Õs and
making it contemporary obscure art.
(a Beest enters and multiple things happen, none of which
is pre-planned or intelligible, for that matter.
Me? I get to hose off the stage, but only after all the
carnage has happened.)
P: and yes, there is a purity, a refinement in the expression,
ÒI hate this current life I liveÓ
(in the most recent
version of the opera, the version not yet written, Plotinus realizes he is
about to transform in consciousness to something else. He realizes this
transcendent condition can be mis-diagnosed by normal beings as some kind of
brain disfunction or abnormality or condition, but he knows (or madness, too!)
he must remain in that state in order to receive transmissions, and further
transmit, to the rest of humanity. He further realizes how batshit this would
appear to everyone else, and knows he must proceed with caution, if at all. So,
he does.
But then: The Beest
discovers that his life is a metaphor for all lives, and then that all things
are metaphors for everything else, and the metaphors are metaphors for other
scales of life: life of a cell, life of a part of your body, life of your body,
life of your family, life of your tribe or community or city, life of your
nation, life of a larger cultural notion (like Ôrekorded histeryÕ), and then the
jump to life of the species homo beestian. And then, the life of the planet, the life of the
solar system, the life of the galaxy, the life of multiple galaxies, the life
of the universe, the life of multiple universes, the life of multiple
dimensions, which may envelope the notion of time within a larger dimensional
pulse. Wuffa! On the other end, you go to life of a bit of DNA, the life of
molecules, atoms, sub-atomic particles, speculative particles that come into
and out of existence in super tiny fractions of seconds (nano – pecto
– femto seconds – are those the right ones?)
Anyway, The Beest
looks at all these time scales as a metaphor for consciousness, for the idea of
consciousness on many different levels, in many different ways, which will be
around before and after your personal experience of what consciousness is,
ends, that is to say, the BeestÕs deth, that is to say, your deth, that is to
say, my deth, that is to say, deth deth deth.
So in the
transformation from a character in an opera to a more generalized notion of
character to the author to the consciousness of the author to the idea of
consciousness, which the author participates in, and which is only a small part
of the totality of consciousness, well, wuffa! Again! And Wuffa is defined as
the expression the Beest utters when he / she / it must once again take measure
of the werld, and gawk in awe and wonder at how much of an insignificant turd
hesheit is, and so the turd becomes the metaphor for all life and existence and
all dimensions and scales of consciousness, up to and including the totality of
consciousness, which in turn is a metaphor for the turd. And then we should say
the Eams brothers film on the Powers of Ten is what weÕre looking at here, and
while they applied that to physical size of objects, we are applying that to
time, and then also to consciousness, and thatÕs maybe the real kickass kicker.
Because if you have multiple consciousnesses on multiple time scales, and
possibly multiple dimensions (and how about powers of tens in dimensions
– because what is a dimension but a basic measurement of one axis of the
structures of existence, and to have multiple dimensions in powers of tens,
wuh-hell, that is truly a wuffa moment because weÕre useta dealing with 2 or 3
dimensions, and 4 if you include time, so what do you include as a dimension,
like, imagination? Consciousness?), then you have a condition of an infinite
eternity but not an eternal eternity, you really have that intersection of time
and timelessness. You have consciousness continuing at one level or another for
not forever, but for an extremely long time, but you have also consciousness
enfolding time and its unfolding and un-being (i.e., timelessness) and burning
in a single life, in a single moment, in a single turd, in a single fuck, but
the fuck would be a speculative, fantasy fuck, because we like to vibe on that
desire/fulfilment axis (maybe another dimension-thingy?), and that becomes a
furry and cuddly metaphor (the perfect luv moment, the fantasy fuck), and we
prefer furry and cuddly metaphors for the intersection of time and timelessness
to messier metaphors, like the universe of consciousness totality dimensions
burning in a single turd. But the turd grounds the experience even more, but
then we have to run this past a publisher, who might get turned off by all this
turd talk anyway.
So maybe all this
needs to be a neat chart or graph. But, also, then, if youÕre using the little
iPods for multiple timelines as a metaphor for (or concretization of) multiple
dimensions or levels of consciousness, well, then at least you have a structure
that might resemble a wuffa moment, but youÕre just scratching the surface of
the ass, the surface of the universeÕs ass, possibly gently stimulating the
asshole of the totality of time + experience + consciousness, but experience
implies an experiencer, donÕt it? And you see how quickly I dropped that
universeÕs ass thingy? Too reified, maybe? Is that right? Reified beans?
Now, letÕs get back
on track here. The Beest (which is half way between Plotinus and the author,
and beyond both and neither) thinks about consciousness on many levels and
thinks this should make him deserve some personal consciousness thingy that
transcends his own miserable personal consciousness, which will end when his
body ends. And then his body ends, and that is the end of the opera, but thatÕs
sorta how the other opera ended, so letÕs work on maybe a different ending. The
Beest is transformed into the turd and simultaneously the fantasy fuck, but for
some peeps, the fantasy fuck might be money or goddiness or babies or Òeven a
neat digital ponyÓ. So maybe you vibe on that a while.
So, thatÕs what I
have been vibing about in the thinkster dumpster of my mynd. I think that about
covers it all, because it started as a meditation on deth, and went on to
include all the lifey things that pop up if you want to extend life beyond your
own miserable, smelly, wanting Beest body. And again, you probably sed this
better in the previous opera. DonÕt know why youÕd want to even try to refine
that thing, especially the neat part at the end where all the universe is
explained and explicated.
Wuffa! And wuffa you,
too! No, but wait – are you an idiot?
You
can come out now.
Beest Operaª - NuVersionª - TiteÕnÕRiteª in which all detritus is stripped
away, and placed in my next opera, Detritus Operaª. So that takes care of all
the stuff generated by the Bad Poetry Generator.
(This first part, IÕm still tryinÕ a little too hard)
What is the Beest?
The Beest is bad customer service.
The Beest is not being able to get things on paper with an
actual signature.
The Beest is not trusting the internets
The Beest is why are you not able to send this package and
give me a receipt for it?
The Beest is that's terrible - why can't I get that on
paper?
The Beest is like, is this even legal?
The Beest is tell them you need a paper statement and we
haven't gotten a paper statement in nine months because they always send it to
our old address in oregon.
The Beest is I am going to go mad.
The neon life is the beest
The deal is broken, the life is broken, the beest is
broken.
I am the beest.
I beest when I hate you
I beest when I fill your mouth with cement
I beestifest all beest things
All is beest, then is deth.
Beest is loozing everything, beest is deth of nuance.
I beest when I see the energy come and go.
The beest is when I kill the childrens
The beest is rank odourous, foul lifeage.
The beest
is much meat
Time is
short.
My shift is
almost over. God, I hate these morans.
IÕm going
out.
Is your
taser charged? DonÕt forget it, and be back by 2.
Yeah, yeah.
You know, I
thought when the revolution finally came, theyÕd save the Louve instead of
Bangalor Phone Bank. (Backbone?Hub? Internet term for really big pipe, main
artery?)
(channelling angry customers) ÒWhy canÕt you replace the black one
with the grey one?Ó
IÕm sorry,
the grey oneÕs been discontinued.
ÒWell I want the grey one. Let me talk to your supervisorÓ
IÕm sorry,
maÕam, My supervisor stepped away from the phone. Would you like his voicemail?
(speaking into technology device, to
friend) The doctor
is examining her food-pipe? You mean Ôexamining her esophagusÕ?
This is it:
the end of badness. (gives G2 his/her drug or candy or piece of technology
or gun).
Are you sad
because all your friends are ded?
ItÕs the
post-meaning world, girls. Time to shake something . . . meaningful.
ÒI want my money back, and I want a
replacement for my original, and I want you to pay for shipping and insurance
and restocking fee, or I will kill my hostagesÓ
Wha –
how did you handle that? Did you have them strangled?
(speaking
into technology device, to receptionist) I need to schedule the healthworkerÕs visit for next
Tuesday instead of next Monday. Yeah . . . MondayÕs a holiday.
(meta-speech) Yeah . . . ThatÕs right: unknown quantities of unknown persons
of unknown talent and ablities providing the unintelligible texts of unreliable
and un-socially-intelligent dramatis personae.
Never HEARD of outov Pocket AND deductible?
ThatÕs what she said.
ThatÕs what she said.
(meta-speech) How much of this will be outsourced
to folk on the net, adding the mechanical turk element to interactive theatre,
so conceptually, this is all made out of whatÕs out there, and donÕt like, work
on too much, too hard.
(meta-speech) OK? LetÕs think about this a
bit.
(meta-speech) BEEST! Man is angry, man is angry man - - hi! Hit –
hurt! We like to hit and hurt and hi!
Can we
maybe work the hitting and hurting into all soft and neat things? Can we make
the world more about hitting and hurting? Can all things be hitting and
hurting, nothing more, OK? So, letÕs all get on that right away!
These
are the werds of the BEEST.
(meta-speech) Why should we entertain people?
Holding us between – what and what else?
Art
should be hard, it should hurt to make it and hurt to take it.
These
are the werds of the beest.
(meta-speech) Self-Deprecatio Dispositio
(meta-speech) BEEST is all that what the fuck are you blabbering about, you
deak. You slippery, spongy deak. Shame on you. Why are out you wasting our
time? DonÕt waste our time with your stupid arcanity, your flatulant, insipid
superiority. DonÕt you know itÕs dumdum time on the planet? And that the planet
is rooled by BEEST principles? Well. You should know that, you stoopid poopy
man.
(meta-speech) Use them wings to mess up you face, all messy. Heed the werds
of the BEEST.
(meta-speech) Between Peen and Vadge is the
Third Mind. Meet me there!
(Ok, now
it gets better, again, bekuz IÕm not tryinÕ)
This, beest
madness. We are the beest
This, you,
I, beest madness, beests we are.
The truth
beests, we are, and we endure. Beests all, forever!
. . .
Except when we all die, then be we are worm food, dirt dwellers, cold rotting clay.
LetÕs get
drunk and ride our bikes!
BeetchinÕ !
Genocide qwa (oh my, yerso kelvver!)
Menage a Quo (oh my, yerso qwa!)
Status a Trois (qwa qwa, sed the duk)
Menage A Vu (Foo) (qwa qwa, sed duh phool)
So, any more thots about the BEEST?
The beest comes in subtle, tiny, sneaky ways, too!
Like when frendz succeed and you hate them secretly.
Like when IÕm in the shower and somebuddyÕs thinking about
me and I donÕt know it and nothing happens.
Like when quantum thingies happen, and nobody notices, and
you live and die without notice! Whoa, think it! Thunk!
The ghost of ideas are locked in the Beest!
Silver and manic ideas are in the Beest. They itch to get
out.
Beest is when the paper comes, but nobody reads papers
anymore.
Or, contrariwise, the Beest is the life unlived and the
accomplishments unaccomplished because youÕre . . .
. . . because you were too figuring-it-all-out to notice
and act upon it. And the erasure comes along, which is deth, and all lies in
its path.
And the mean ones lust for you, and you are living your own
life, and the mean ones tell you how wack they are by hurting you and then
realizing how stupid that was, but now itÕs too late and they have to live with
it. With the fact that they are BEEST!
I never needed that much additional drama. I just needed
clean socks.
Beest! There is only the beest of the familiar faces at the
party, that you want to brush against, I mean brush against their bodies, but
you are too old—manny and they, too happy not having anything to do with
you.
(funny big bear takes a crap on the stage! Haw haw haw!!)
Then, letÕs realize the Beest may not be listening to you.
The beest may not care.
The beest may be too busy setting the table or smacking a
friend in the face with a brick.
Gee, the beest sure can be a subtle bug!
Jee-zuz Jimmy! The beest is here/now, but the beest is also
hey-what-the-fuck-let-go-of-my-arm crude fruit provider, is essence to power
and truth, and sucks on the gentle vegetables with his frendz, who are so
little his frendz.
Slap-pappy, why does the Beest become who we are, who we
gonnaÕ be?
So many Beests we are, at so many places in our dumb lives.
And all becomes rotting bodies!
But donÕt forget – The Beest is always present in
danger and control situations.
Like those involving undergarments?
Like those involving undergarments, and also various
hypo-allergenic plastics and other materials.
I want to go to the Beest and ask for more time to finish
this, The Lifey-poo thingy.
The beest is taking obscure art from the 1980Õs and making
it contemporary obscure art.
(a Beest enters and multiple things happen, none of which
is pre-planned or intelligible, for that matter.
Me? I get to hose off the stage, but only after all the
carnage has happened.)
and yes, there is a purity, a refinement in the expression,
ÒI hate this current life I liveÓ
In my most
recent version of this opera, the version not yet written, I realize I am about
to transform in consciousness to something else.
I realize
this transcendent condition can be mis-diagnosed by normal beings as some kind
of brain disfunction or abnormality or condition, but I know . . .
(or madness, too!)
. . . I
know I must remain in that state in order to receive transmissions, and further
transmit, to the rest of humanity.
I further
realize how batshit this must appear to everyone else, and I know I must
proceed with caution, if at all. So, he does.
(He? I thot
it was I!)
What does
BEEST stand for?
It stands
for Being Existentially Envisioning Simultaneous Transcendencies,
WhatÕs
going to happen next is a series of slow, painful, messy, disturbing things.
But then:
The Beest discovers that hisher life is a metaphor for all lives.
The Beest
discovers then that all things are metaphors for everything else.
The Beest
discovers that the metaphors are metaphors for other scales of life.
Life of a
cell, life of a part of your body, life of your body.
Life of
your family, life of your tribe or community or city, life of your nation.
Life of a
larger cultural notion (like Ôrekorded histeryÕ)
And then the
jump to life of the species homo beestian.
If you Heel
my Peen, I will Heel your Lip.
And then,
the life of the planet, the life of the solar system, the life of the galaxy.
And then,
the life of multiple galaxies, the life of the universe, the life of multiple
universes.
The life of
multiple dimensions, which may envelope the notion of time within a larger
dimensional pulse.
Wuffa!
On the
other end, you go to life of a bit of DNA.
The life of
molecules, atoms, sub-atomic particles.
And then,
speculative particles that come into and out of existence in super tiny
fractions of seconds.
Nano
– pecto – femto seconds – are those the right ones?
Anyway, The
Beest looks at all these time scales as a metaphor for consciousness.
The Beest
looks at all these time scales for the idea of consciousness on many different
levels, in many different ways,
These
consciousnesses will be around before and after your personal experience of
what consciousness is, ends, that is to say, the BeestÕs deth.
That is to
say, your deth.
That is to
say, my deth.
That is to
say, deth deth deth.
So in the
transformation from a character in an opera to a more generalized notion of
character to the author to the consciousness of the author to the idea of
consciousness, which the author participates in, and which is only a small part
of the totality of consciousness, well, wuffa! Again! And Wuffa is defined as
the expression the Beest utters when he / she / it must once again take measure
of the werld, and gawk in awe and wonder at how much of an insignificant turd
hesheit is, and so the turd becomes the metaphor for all life and existence and
all dimensions and scales of consciousness, up to and including the totality of
consciousness, which in turn is a metaphor for the turd.
And then we
should say the Eams brothers film on the Powers of Ten is what weÕre looking at
here, and while they applied that to physical size of objects, we are applying
that to time, and then also to consciousness, and thatÕs maybe the real kickass
kicker.
Because if you have multiple
consciousnesses on multiple time scales, and possibly multiple dimensions (and
how about powers of tens in dimensions – because what is a dimension but
a basic measurement of one axis of the structures of existence, and to have multiple
dimensions in powers of tens, wuh-hell, that is truly a wuffa moment because
weÕre useta dealing with 2 or 3 dimensions, and 4 if you include time, so what
do you include as a dimension, like, imagination? Consciousness?), then you
have a condition of an infinite eternity but not an eternal eternity, you
really have that intersection of time and timelessness.
You have
consciousness continuing at one level or another for not forever, but for an
extremely long time, but you have also consciousness enfolding time and its
unfolding and un-being (i.e., timelessness) and burning in a single life, in a
single moment, in a single turd, in a single fuck, but the fuck would be a
speculative, fantasy fuck, because we like to vibe on that desire/fulfilment
axis (maybe another dimension-thingy?), and that becomes a furry and cuddly
metaphor (the perfect luv moment, the fantasy fuck), and we prefer furry and
cuddly metaphors for the intersection of time and timelessness to messier
metaphors, like the universe of consciousness totality dimensions burning in a
single turd.
But the
turd grounds the experience even more, but then we have to run this past a
publisher, who might get turned off by all this turd talk anyway.
So maybe
all this needs to be a neat chart or graph.
But, also,
then, if youÕre using the little iPods for multiple timelines as a metaphor for
(or concretization of) multiple dimensions or levels of consciousness, well,
then at least you have a structure that might resemble a wuffa moment, but
youÕre just scratching the surface of the ass, the surface of the universeÕs
ass, possibly gently stimulating the asshole of the totality of time +
experience + consciousness, but experience implies an experiencer, donÕt it?
And you see how quickly I dropped that universeÕs ass thingy? Too reified,
maybe? Is that right? Reified beans?
Now, letÕs
get back on track here.
The Beest (which is half way between
Plotinus and the author, and beyond both and neither) thinks about
consciousness on many levels and thinks this should make him deserve some
personal consciousness thingy that transcends his own miserable personal
consciousness, which will end when his body ends.
And then his body ends, and that is the
end of the opera, but thatÕs sorta how the other opera ended, so letÕs work on
maybe a different ending.
The Beest is transformed into the turd
and simultaneously the fantasy fuck, but for some peeps, the fantasy fuck might
be money or goddiness or babies or Òeven a neat digital ponyÓ.
So maybe you vibe on that a while.
So, thatÕs
what I have been vibing about in the thinkster dumpster of my mynd.
I think that about covers it all,
because it started as a meditation on deth, and went on to include all the
lifey things that pop up if you want to extend life beyond your own miserable,
smelly, wanting Beest body.
And again, you probably sed this better
in the previous opera.
DonÕt know
why youÕd want to even try to refine that thing, especially the neat part at
the end where all the universe is explained and explicated.
Wuffa! And
wuffa you, too!
No, but
wait – are you an idiot?
You can
come out now
(this was
what I wanted the whole opera to be, in a moment of complete despair and
hopelessness, which is only now only slightly less hopeless:)
(so now,
this is only the last part, rather than the whole part)
(so before
that comes this)
If you want them to call,
start doing something.
If you do these things,
they will escape
and no one will remember you.
In the Dreem - it hinged on research:
you said you were glad
you didn't start your research until you were 40 --no,
50!--
because of the perspective one has at that point.
That, after Ded Bobby's girlfriend is screaming/singing
in the other research room.
She has an afro,
and is not too attractive in any way.
There is repair on the research door that's needed.
And I don't want to leave the research door open
because too much gets let out,
let in.
We are waiting for the phone, and doing art in the
meantime.
I'm encircling the great ideas
with elegant forms! Yay!
That's the art I'm making,
but nobody gets it.
(maybe I should try it all again,
with different forms or shapes?
maybe I should put on a sweater?
nah - -)
The phone not ringing
means there are possibilities
and things might be happening,
or else you may have simply gone mad.
There it goes, not ringing.
(How many possibilities
and how much time
do you have?
Don't know.)
The ringing phone represents the end of life
or at least the end of art.
The phone will ring, and then the art will end.
There it goes,
now!
(BEEST OPERAª
Final Revision –
3.xii.08)
(so, hereÕs like,
originally, a new give-up-on-everything version, which is the peruh graff
below, but more likely, it, by it
we mean the opera, starts where I sed earlier, ÔOK, now this is betterÕ
to the end which includes this paragraph):
Scene: Art has failed.
Culture has failed. Basic people-niceness has failed. There is no humor, just
unbearable pain and suffering for everybody on stage or in the audience. So,
the opera is now just everybody screaming at full volume for as long as they
can, the end.
á
* * * * * * *
(so, like, everybuddy has collapsed on stage or
wherever they are, and some injury or further violence may have occurred,
which, hey, donÕt blame me for that, and for your stupid big-ass trucks! OK, so
then somebody starts kleening everything up, and thatÕs the real ending of
everything.)