|
First performed at Theatre Passe Muraille. Toronto Canada,
Spring,1999, directed and produced by Hrant Allianak.
INTRO
PRAGUE 1994,
LATE SUMMER
I’m here shooting two small pictures back to back,and staying at the “Hotel Praha” on the outskirts of the old city.The hotel is a monstrous techno-glass and steel compound specifically built for the old soviet politburo 4,5 years before the Velvet Revolution and the
downfall of Communism, before the ascent of Havel.Suffering from jetlag and insomnia and the crazy hours of modern co-production filmmaking.to say nothing of the fatty food and endless cups of dense bohemian espresso I begin to write a kind of lyrical -nightmarish piece reacting to the dark energies of the golden soot- covered city that spawned Kafka, the Golem,Smetana,the Bohemian Spirit of the20th century. It is a city of bridges and castles of alleyways and huge squares teeming with people, at every corner there is life. Gigantic autro-hungarian theatres built by Florentine architects, a creme de la creme of architectural delight, a jewel in the heart of Europe over which, a spell had been cast. I am here when the spell is begin lifted and the Princess awakes, bones breaking and with a bad case of halitosis.
Everything since the Big Change has gone American only the worst elements, a ferocious consumerism, country and western musak, its like a weird mid-European tex-arkana redneckism combined with the residues of 40 years of soviet oppression. The dense packed, paranoid kgbism that was there 5 years before e has been replaced by a bizarre combination of the worst of American kitch and fraudulent raw consumerist need. There are signs on the freeway pointing the way to supermarkets,macdonalds and k mart can be found. No more lineups, no more weighing the chicken bits. Businesses pay as much as 30 percent for protection from the virulent local mafias. Cabdrivers rip off tourists with ferocious intent and yell at you if you argue. Sex-clubs are everywhere, Playboybunny shoots in the lobby of the Hotel with buckbaked naked Czech girls re-enacting the Christmas Cover of
Playboys circa 1965, all run by the former head of the K.G.B.I
Its like watching a speeded up version of the 50’s and the 60’s, the 70’s-circa 1972 now. The lobby of the hotel is filled from tourists from all over Europe, getting a bargain vacation.
The Arabs, ygolslavs, Russian, roumanians, communist Chinese are gone. English-speaking theatres are springing up everywhere ø, the city holds as many as 20,000 kids from all over, re-enacting the Bohemian life getting drunk, getting laid, writing, painting, the clubs are packed to the roof, a kind of 1920’s Paris in the 1990’s. There is a fin de siecle feel here, a repeat of the beginning at the end. It starts to feel feverish, almost insane.At the airport 2 and one half pounds of uranium are discovered in a suitcase en-route to the mid-east sold to the smugglers by the janitor of one of the soviet bloc
Nuclear reactors. There are over fifty-thousand unemployed, highly
skilled technicians from the various nuclear plants, 7000 of whom are capable of building a nuclear device on their own. Back in
America there is only talk of O.J.
Every night watching from the balcony of my suite which had
at one time housed the likes of Breznev and his staff I sit hour after hour watching the distant famous black castle that overlooks
the city. The Tesla tube radio in the corner plays classical music
barely audible. The hotel sleeps.
Voices and Visions assail me from the dark fog all around
and seemingly from the castle itself. Strange dark angels float above me, circle around me, asking me, compelling me to record. Riding the elevator one bleary eyed morning two thuggish looking Russians in ill fitting pinstripe suits are standing next to me, talking in insistent low-voices. Are they gangsters, thugs, businessmen, pimps? As they leave I hear one of them mutter to the other in mid-conversation-”Spolenski”
I go back thru the unlit hallways to my room and write.
Hotel Praha was first produced at Theatre Passe Muraille in Toronto Canada. It was directed and produced by Hrant Alianak, written and starred Nick Mancuso. 7 performances were given.
HOTEL PRAHA
“SPOLENSKI, SAWDUST DREAMS IN AN OLE COMMIE HOTEL”
“more sausages, more pigs than i ever seen anywhere”
Spolenski
“How do you like your blue-eyed boy, Mr Death?”
e.e. cummings
...Sleepless/forsaken/, the town at night/, yes
The twinkling
Lights/ in the foggy distance/, barely visible/the castle
Is heavy/is weary....
& I am exhausted from film and jetlag/
jackbooted
By headaches and a bad stomach/a flu
And times out of joint/
&the frozen headed chatter
of youth
,and jealous older age
i wonder with what detail
of loss i must go to this funeral(,oh spolenski is lost in the fog/gone back to the
steppes/the trancaucaucus/back to old india
she is lost perched above the door of memory
a carrion bird of desire a harpie,a fury,a tornado
of black choking smoke...spolenski is gone
gone back to Brno and beyond.
she was a funeral of lost causes & spent desire
deliquent airs/
a process, a beaurocracy of despair
she told me that the ghost of communism still
hovers here/
at hotel praha,like a toxic fart
she tells me this now sitting/
in the lobby with the low
flat spaceage ceiling ribbed in brass and cut glass
moser crystal,drips drips drips in this elegant
technocratic castle
“in our history we have gone/
from castle to
castle to castle..”she tells me this legs crossed
dressed to the 9s/
a sex bimbo,, neo- °technocratic
in this beautiful day of spring
she is trained
trained for sex,a sex
/ robot,r.u.r.urready
. When Spolenski smiles
her lips curl up
thin and beautiful I tell her
shes a pole and not a czech
shes not from here,shes not a
. czch,vowless,dry,like insects mating
czech what kinda word is that
in the dry darkish air
her eyes are blue large her hair
honey blonde,whatkinda word is
that she says “skuu..”
“Shy?” I ask her” What are you saying? “Are you saying
sky?” sometimes when shes tired she
breaks down and gets pissed
at this english she is forced to
translate how do you translate blood
“How do you translate,blood,bones, breath?”
when i ask her “why is that?”
she zens me with a dry stare replies
“they dont care.”
there are no rivers here
only vlatava,die moldau
Spolenski has known all about this/
about river and plains
about mountains with no name
,she was beaten herself/
half to death by manic cool chainsmoking/
russian mafia cab drivers
once/
one of them took an uzi
out of the trunk of his car and waved it/
in t he air as she ran,
breaking her heel on the black
cobblestoned street
he laughing,choking
, tho he did not fire.
at her
here in Prague
tho the slant-eyed computor salesmen have
have arrived
i cough all the time
living on boiled lard and beets,thick black
bread and espresso, i swallow the mucous
in my mouth unable to find a white a napkin,
covered paper they call it/
(i had never seen a woman as beautiful
as her)
when the commisars of commission arrive
(spolenski says i complain too much, i know nothing
about lying under a bed as the bullets rip thru the
dirty kitchy wall paper..)
they arrive in chinese droves,driving thu the clean
marble lobby ,past the swinging chandeliers,
briefcased
and svelte
into cheap suits,
i choke on smoke
and vomit,while they march
into the narrow tomb of
elevators to variagated floors
. of busted light
while the c&w band
plays in czech-accented english
and the spanish cartoon
tourists complain about this
about that until the desk clerks tells them in no uncertain term s
that they should know english
and not spanish,
english is the language of business
these tourists
at least the italians come for
textiles and whores..
. .......spolenski thinks/
that they are fools/all/all/alles
its 3.am a quivering high voice sings
softly from
the tesla radio,a high voice
small tinny in the corner
of the room;in the shadows,
the dark city sleeps against me
rubbing against my shoulders
leans and snores like a drunk,passed out,
everyone
sleeps the praha
sleeps,
the thick brothy sleep of ages
the dead
in the old jewish cemetery sleep,kafka
and his
mother asleep in
each others arms....
folded,like covered paper
oh spolenski, listen to me
here in rat hotel
where the ensemble cherubic angels
covered in glitter play
136. in the hallsways,next to the sleeping all
night
waitors in frowsy tuxedos
leaning against the wall
the chair off its front
legs asleep.
the bed sleeps but i do not,
i float above the city looking
for you spolenski,champion lover
of the prevailing
dream-winds,
ther e
below the sooted moon...
but i do not find you
insomniac,jetlagged,poisoned
by the food
this place
serves no-one,but everyone sleeps
,over this half world
beneath the poisoned clouds and
the tall bricked
shunts, the stacks, the chimney,
spewing
spewing into the terrible
black night air folded with bright red
sparks inside
burning moths,
ah spolenski
why wont you let me sleep
i have such need,in all the rooms
the families of spanish
tourists, the israelis,are sleeping,the dutch
couples,
the mainland chinese businessmen,the russian
gangsters
the old winos on st.charles bridge
,all of europe is
sleeping, spolenski,
and here i am in the cold
mercury heart of this black night
and am awake
it is not insominia but a deep confusion
of the senses
a playing around of the eternal
bio-rht hyms, even the dogs,mangy
and curled are asleep
and more than all
the soot black castle sleeps.
is it you that keeps me awake?
last night to st.stephens in despair i came
for help not to hug the golden statues
the gold- crowned madonnas
holding porcelain babies
but
to you i came for help
i came and i said
that needed someone to hold
“I can not hold you just now “
you said you were
lost to some distant seas,swimming
in oceans that
have no name,antipodal
and forlorn
as i was i can not hold you
now the current is too strong
it seems foul and enweakened,unable to raise
one arm aganst
the other i dropped
listlessly and slid along
the old walls and
you disappeared winked/ vanished
like a feather/
into the night
where have you gone now?
213. ill formed,at night to s 'tephens church
214. in despair
215. i came for help you said i need
216. someone
217. to hold,weeping,drenched in rain
218. i can not hold you now
219. lost
to some distant seas,stirring
in oceans
which are nameless,
the current is far too strong
the fog too thick in the shrouded
wood
that lets you out beyond
the gulf,towards
the icefloes
You belong to the gulf and
not to to the land,
no to to me or anyone
not to the black-shrouded castle
at breakfast I sit
unable to wake you ask
“why are pulling at me?”
nightvoices are whispering
tossing and turning unable
to sleep or to awake
worring about the time-
why worry about the time?
and the clock
all night long (he worked)
“and a voice woke you and said
clear as the bells of st.stephens
“why are pulling at me?”
she taunts me with teutonic
barbs,half-witch half angel
“i didnt recognize you,not here
in Prague,you have so many
different faces,but this face i like
the more
that man followed me
again last night
while shopping for a winter
coat at the k mart
“what is it you want?”
i asked
“you” he replied
and made a horrible sucking
sound with toothless
gums
She strips before me
her ghost is as
awkward as little bo beep
she calls to things
in the darknesss
small animals with glittering eyes
lost things listen to her and she takes them
in one by one finding them a home
but for me there
is no home
in her
cavernous heart…oh..i sleep
Music Up
(refrain)
“And When it finally Becomes Clear
That the Commission is Too Dear
Then Heads of States and Charlatans
Will Make all Intentions Clear”
New Mornings
Here at Hotel Praha. when i lie down
,cough and swallow the poliburo, I think. must have
swallowed sawdust with the mucous vapourous
love of the common man
the ghost of Stalin hovers here still
at the top of the stairs
and in the bowling alleys
“these
ideals of mispent american youth!”
,(she tells me
that I complain too much,) makes me unattractive
make me rude,undignified,graceless,
at my age
She told me this last night next to the spinning
chandeliers
while the fat proprietor
looked on and did not pretend
to look away she had tears in her
eyes, saltless ones,
in that clean marble stare of hers
. her legs moulded from moravian crystal,svelte
and briefcased I finding the elevator door
down.to hell......a bronze statue of Victory!
And hen that golden opportunity comes,
Yes,when it comes
when that nightmare arrives
dragging behind,the black Horses of
Loss,oh when it arrives
,dragging silver pears in palm
riding the high Horses of Hope,entering thru the
lobby,dragging sacfuls of lost causes & spent wasted
wasted,wasted, ideals O Europa mother Europa,Pan
Europa! thy days are numbered and accounted for
New Voices
I spent two days in anger
over a silly detail of
Her makeup,futzing
like an old queen unable to
find my face in the mirrored halls,the waitors
must
have thought me mad,but
i was un able to find
my face, touched as i was by
ghostly anorexic fingers brushing me
like long haired reeds...
it was all love lack she
said ,simple- love lack-
a feeding emptiness
of depairfrom which the darkness feeds
i got so angry i kicked
over the breakfast tray sending silver spoons and caviar flying in
slow-mo,a feeding emptness
from whatever her sickness fields
THE GHOST MONKS APPEARS
slackjawed now,a black robed figure
hovers above my bed,in the radioactive night
i am brightly awake/ and sad beyond the size of mountains
in a full-clouded moon above/,the thick thumbed
Vescoval giants curse a benediction
i feel sunburst thru this night!
come missile-skies, is coming
wending thru
marshamalow skies
pleased as punch
with direction- directionless
metal phalluses hurled by crones
crouching in despair towards the evil
Star above the city of Prague,” a false paradise
it was all a false paradise/ of power!”
in/
the morning
the sun migrano Ùus,malevolent
winks thru spires and fog riding above Bohemia…
“Oh life was safe then
when the blue comets flew
oh, life, it was safe then, now ignorance
and tomfooleries
abound!”,the skin of the sun
nauseates me
from the day before
oh life was safe then,
transfixed to death,entranced
the skin
of the -sun- hanging-loose- as- old skin
is-loose,dry-hacked ,redolent,
with evil-witch intent!
its 3.a.m.
the night before while i slept
an old drunk rummaged through my pockets
double identities abound
& there can be no sound...........
NEW DAY
“When Spolenski smiles
her lips curl up
thin and beautiful I tell her
shes a pole and not a czech
shes not from here,shes not a
“czech!” what kinda word is that
“czch!”,vowless,dry,like Insects mating
her eyes are blue large her hair
honey blonde,whatkinda word is
that she says “skuu..”
“Shy?” I ask her “Are you saying
Sky? Wgat are you saying”
sometimes when shes tired she
breaks down and gets pissed
at this “english” she is forced to
translate how do you translate blood
“How do you translate,blood,bones, br eath?”
. in the black skoda driving
. at 160 kilometers per hr.,the endless transformers
. flicking by in full broad daylight
flicking by electric T.shaped wires
in the hills around the city where
the the prehistoric metereorite hit, on the lip of
the volcano long spent,voiceless, now
“I want to go to Mala Strana for tea and service”
she says,looking out the window suddenly cheerful
manic
tranformers flicking
by on a field of
green stubbled grass snapped
like a fresh
deck of alchemical cards
past the postcard industry
the coal chocked towns,the tall 1940’s
bricked stacks,the electric wires,wires,wires,
“Are you willing” she asks.
“ I want to go..to go..
“I want to go to Mala Strana, on my broom!”
MUSIC UP
We pull over near the river
no vowels to this landscape
no vowels to your life oh she
is fresh grass at morn ing
tide st soon she’ll go to
seed like those moslem wives
layered in fat and cloth
soon she’ll sprout
smellling of jasmine and sweat
like those covered moslem wives,
at the Holiday Inn
in Vienna a face in each one
yes i say lets go to Malastrana
to Ujezdi st.,near St.Stephens
...........................
HE SINGS
“there are bubbles
in the state of her big fat heart
she serves goulash
morning noon and night
and gawd her feet smell
awful strong”
MUSIC UP,RADIO
we listen to the river high
on the enbankment, where the
black cobblestones are transfixed
one, two, three, into the other like a black
oily sheen,
”there are more pigs
here than i seen anywhere,
more
sausage and dumplings”
in America i tell her we slaughter
pigs by the millions and not
a one complains -she laughs
like
a dark violin
shes been to America she says and she hates it,she knows all about
America
she said it was all a lie
that she had been to newyork and miami
and to the upstate to the Hudson and Calabassas and the meandering indian towns with names like Wannawannabee!
and Panawanatosh,and Irvington,knew about
Hayawatha and the Iriqiuos and the
peaceful legends, before the coming
of the whites,knew it was all a lie!
that there she was just an immigrant
in a land of immigrants
that she undone by Greyhound
and the burnt out centres of cities
and she knew about the awful violence
of its people,
details lack
hands do not move,
glasscracks,toothache abound,hair
falls out in handfuls
in America as well as here
but the raw of her i am not alone
she came back after
Colorado and the Grandcanyon
when the tourist sound of her own language
brought her back
HER STORY
shes been sent by the agency to translate
the first day
459. at breakfast we sit awkward, as children
she said “we go now pliss” go where? i asked
she seemed confused so i repeated “where?
is -there- to-go? just to confuse her all the
more what is your name? how are you?
and i realized that she thought the question was real
when i asked how are you that I meant it
literally because she stopped and made a face
ashen
as if to reply to an impossible demand
“why are you asking?
what is it about me that you see that you should
ask such a question?what is to you?!”
to be continued...
|
