Stopping on Mulholland Dr.

Me: Speak up.


Matthew: I think I said: "I think every woman I've shared a bed with stars in Mulholland Dr. I mean, in their faces, you know? At first, each is laughing and dancing brilliantly without having ever been taught. Then she is pitying or disgusted, with nothing to give at dinner parties."


John: Yes. The new girl, her open chest driving you into the wilderness. The last, a dissatisfied, misremembered porn star.


Luke: I think she said: "Do you want to sleep with me?" I should have passed at the question; instead I rise to the stage for another Act, the baptised pinnacle of my head resurrected through a trapdoor. Reality is desire. It is a sequence shot of jouissance drowning, the eyes open. There are bubbles and boring fish.


Me: What do you want?


Mark: It has been decided for men that a mutilation of genitals is an impossible scenario. So I want to be tied to a mast, moored to a fantasy, with no more failure at sea. If I could devolve, green and amphibian as a flip-book of family cartoons - a text one can make perfect sense of, and smile through, on the bus -
I would live under their gazes. Under the sea, little hands crinkle like the glue and paint of a star, guided by a push of wind onto the surface of an outdoor swimming pool. A child learning to ride a bicycle. A child on holiday. A child, painting and sticking. Under the sea, you do not hear the intones: hesitation or frustration. Seeing, even through goggles, is a constrictive and dissatisfying experience. From now on, my partners are conceding the seductive sibilance and clear music of their siren songs, all to water. Don't give me that look. To be a fantasist is not to regress; in a dream I am another child, recording adult, middle-of-night embraces on a disc, the shame absent as a disonaur from a holy book.


Me: What the fuck are you talking about? Who are you having a pop at? Women? Religion?


Luke: In the movie, do you remember the single blue key on the table? How it reappeared?


Me: No, I didn't notice it. Where are you going with this? I'm going to give Dr. What's-His-Face?-I-Can't-Remember a call.


Matthew: On waking from fantasy: mistakes, sirens and slow monsters. After dying, a silence.


Mark: The languages of the world went static once your lips and your fingers began moving. I have tried to act for the audience I love: the solitary specatator in the Odeon space. Whether or not there is a holding of hands, loved is how I yearn to disappear.


Luke: There was an accident. I came here.


John: This is the girl.


Me: I wonder where you were going.