Scene: Evening, campus
Henri Rousseau is surrounded by guides, who attempt to extricate him from the derrick. They be- come increasingly tangled, and must use the improvised weapons to saw each other free.
Guide 1: I pulled him in to kiss him.
Guide 3: His breath was salty.
Guide 2: A sea opening up a horizon.
Guide 3: I bit his tongue.
Guide 1: Spat it out.
Guide 2: And felt a love like never...
Rousseau: George Bataille once wrote to me about the mouth, writing in a fit of anger, the kind of rage that ran like a dark thread through his optic nerve, sensitizing it to demon vibrations in architecture, writing as he stood, pointer in hand, before a cadaverous sheet...
Guide 1: What?
Guide 3: Tell us.
Rousseau: (distracted) A computer worm reset my homepage to http://www.divinedicks.ru ...
Guide 1: Worm?
Guide 2: A worm gave me a gift. The gift of a particular shade, a shade you wouldn’t even believe....
Guide 3: I saw a shade of blue out at sea once.
Guide 1: I was once on an island.
Guide 2: A shade you wouldn’t...
Guide 1: There was a drug, distributed freely by the tourism industry, distributed to fat germans in ships, to pale comics on shipboard clubs. Sends the user down a glittery surface, forgetting each inch, a kind of program of which the user is just runtime. In it, a two-sided world infinitely reproducible, transparent, moveable, through microadjustments of the fingers. But this drug....
Rousseau: (interrupting)
Economics is far closer to the occult than any of us would like to think. It is simply the ruling classes’ proclivity for a world within a world. A riddle like that of the secrets of the market where they squat.
Guide 2: No poem is for the reader. No picture for the beholder.
Guide 3: Blue the shade of a giant molecule...
Guide 1: Viva quanta!
Rousseau: Bataille once wrote to me of animals, the animal’s mouth. This mouth is a prow, plowing through the waves. It is the foremost projection of a sleek horizontality. A ship’s silhouette, a straight line from mouth to anus. Not so, for men. For men, eyes have driven the mouth into obscurity.
Guide 2: Forget our names.
Guide 1: Mouth the songs.
Guide 2: No need to speak.
Rousseau: Something has happened, but what?
Chorus of Guides:
But as in landlessness alone resides the highest truth, shoreless, indefinite as God...so better is it to perish in that howling infinite, than to be ingloriously dashed upon the shore, even if that were safety.
For worm-like, then, oh! Who would crawl to land?
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