Sunday, December 30, 2012

Karma

LOVE POEM

He saw the teardrop on the rose
And again, he saw the teardrop on a rose
And he knew he could never melt the teardrop
And he knew this was already the end

So he kissed the face of the evening wife
As he had kissed it before, in all its varying forms
And again said hello to a precipice of silence
A precipice of silence
For his eighteen months of loving

The Queen of Swords is crossed over
And all the king's horses and all the king's men
Are trying to get her together again
like me
To no avail.

Gigolo and Gigolet
This side of the lake of mutilation
Strike a match
And the hotel burns

There is only
this path of silence
As we dump our gods
And become like them

--Ivan Prokopchuk

Friday, December 28, 2012

Ego
By Ivan Prokopchuk

Through the labyrinth of soul
I crawl
U p through the maze
Down to the dregs
And sideways, left, right
But always returning to centre.
Ego centre.

Wednesday, December 19, 2012

ACT I, Scene 3 THE FIRE IN BRADFORD,
A TV Script by Ivan Prokopchuk

INT.
GREY GOAT ENGLISH PUB AGAIN. THE PLACE IS NOISY AND RAUCOUS. THE MAIN
ATTRACTION IS THE BUSY BAR WITH ITS FULLBREASTED, SATIN-BLOUSED BARMAIDS.
THERE ARE TWO OF THEM , A BLONDE AND A BRUNETTE SERVING. THE PLACE IS
INTERNATIONAL, THOUGH LARGELY SCOTS. SOME OF THE MEN ARE INDEED IN
KILTS.

LYING DOWN ON THE GREEN BAIZE POOL TABLE, ONE FOOT STILL ON THE FLOOR AS PER RULES, A SCOTSMAN LOOKS SLIGHTLY RIDICULOUS, KILT HIKED WAY UP, BUTTOCKS SHOWING, AS HE ATTEMPTS A TIGHT CORNER SHOT FROM THE MIDDLE OF THE TABLE.
ONE OF THE OPPOSING PARTNERS TAKES HIS CUE AND WORKS IT UP THE KILT OF THE SUPINE SCOTSMAN.

SCOTS POOL PLAYER.

Will ye just fuck- off, Mate?

HE GETS OFF THE TABLE AND RAISES A CUE TO THE CHEST OF THE OPPOSING PLAYER'S PARTNER.

THERE IS A MELLEE. AS OTHER CUES ARE RAISED AS IF IN EN GARDE POSITION.

VOICE OF MANAGER, WHO IS BEHIND THE BAR WITH THE MAIDS. HE HAS A MICROPHONE.

You guys start fighting, you're all cut off for life.

THE POOL PLAYERS SETTLE DOWN.

THERE IS SMOKE IN THE AIR IN THE PUB, AND A COMFORTABLE WHISKEY SMELL.. HUM OF THE CROWD.

THE PROFESSOR AND HIS BOOK EDITOR ARE IN A BOOTH AT STAGE LEFT OF THE BAR. THEY ARE DRIKING TOBY BEER.

EDITOR (WHO IS DARK, BEARDED AND WEARING GLASSES)

What kind of a place did you take me to? I thought you said it was a swell British pub.

THE PROFESSOR.

It is. But all these Scotsmen, mostly just off the boat, have all taken over. Most of them out of
Glasgow, looking for a new life. I guess old habits die hard. They come here looking for a
woman or a fight. They'll take either one.

THE EDITOR
So what did you ask me out for? Sounds like something's very much on your mind. It's so
smoky in here. (WIPES FOREHEAD)

THE PROFESSOR:
It's smoky in my head, John. Right among the pillars.

There is this woman....

THE EDITOR
Oh yeah. Always "this woman." Most men, when they get divorced, find another woman. With you, it's one after another. You're right off the scale.

THE PROFESSOR
No. This one is different. Way different situation.(HE RAISES HIS GLASS AND TAKES A
LONG DRAUGHT.)
Got this problem. I was more thoroughly loved last night than I'd ever been before. Yet somehow, I didn't finish.
She came to me without reservation. Yet I did not complete the act. I feel somehow that I had
not been a full man. I had not achieved completion.

THE EDITOR
David, David, David. You know that old bit out of Johnny Carson. Where this guy brings in this motorized
unicycle, which he calls a "Wheelie"?
Some days you just can't get your wheelie to work.

THE PROFESSOR
No, it wasn't anything like that. Seems she poured sand into my wheelie. Fucked me up.

THE EDITOR TAKES HIS OWN DRINK OUT OF THE TOBY GLASS.

BEAT

THE EDITOR
...New one on me. It's usually you who is playing musical broads.

THE PROFESSOR.
It's different this time. She is married, her husband looks like a voyeur, probably a poof, and I'll
bet she's getting her real sex out of third guy if I know some women. I think she is just using
me for entertainment and a sounding board. ...I think she's on drugs.

THE EDITOR
Wow. You really pick 'em. Sounds like a story. Maybe you should write about it.

THE PROFESSOR
Jeezus, John. I really don't want to be in this play.
But I've got her smell. She seems right inside me. Ever been so horny your brain seems awash
with alligator sperm?

THE EDITOR.
Or so horny you could faint? LIke James Joyce, jacked off by a woman in a theatre and
following that woman around for most of his days?

THE PROFESSOR
You got the scenario. I guess that's why you're the editor and me the writer. Yep. Looks like it's
Professor and the Blue Angel. Poor old Professor Rath. Horny and confused as a mink on a sandbar. And crowing like a rooster while Marlene does everybody in town.

THE EDITOR (TAKES ANOTHER DRINK. HE SWATS AT A FLY)

This sound a bit different from Prof. Rath's situation. More bizzarre.
Can I say something?

THE PROFESSOR

Shoot.

THE EDITOR

Sounds like you've just stumbled on a houseful of pimps.

So what happened?

THE PROFESSOR

One day she walked into my creative writing class....

THE PROFESSOR IS INTERRUPED BY A WAITRESS WHO BTINGS MORE DRINKS. SHE IS BOSOMY AND THE PROFESSOR NOTICES.

"SHE FINISHES SETTING UP, THEY HAVE FRESH DRINKS, THE PROFESSOR IS ABOUT TO PAY, BUT SHE IS DISINCLINED TO TAKE THE MONEY AT FIRST.

WAITRESS:
Are you Professor Lohan?

PROFESSOR.
Why, yes.

WAITRESS
Therere's a phone call for you. At the bar. Do you want to take it?

PROFESSOR (LOOKS FIRST AT THE WAITRESS AND THEN AT THE EDITOR).

Oh, I guess I'd better...How did anyone know I was here?

THE PROFESSOR STANDS UP AND TURNS AROUND TO WALK OVER TO THE BAR. A LONE WOMAN IS
SITTING AT THE FAR CORNER, NEXT TO THE TELEPHONE. SHE IS PERCHED ON A VERY HIGH STOOL,
WHICH IS ABOUT TWO FEET AWAY FROM THE BRASSY, OAKY BAR. THE PROFESSOR WONDERS HOW
SHE CAN REACH HER DRINK, AND SHE IN FACT IS HAVING SOME TROUBLE WITH THIS.

THE PROFESSHOR HAS TO GET PAST THE FUMBLNG WOMAN TO GET AT THE PHONE. HE HUNCHES DOWN A BIT TO GET AT IT.
SUDDENLY THE WOMAN, WHO IS DRESSED IN A BLACK SKIRT AND HIGH HEELS, AND NOW SOMEHOW IMMEDIATEL"Y BEHIND HIM, WINDS HER LEGS AROUND HIM. FROM BEHIND. HE CAN"T GET AT THE PHONE. HE TURNS ROUND TO DISCOVER PANTIES.

MYSTERIOUS WOMAN
You've been doing some hard work, haven't you? I can smell the work and stress.

THE PROFESSOR (UNTANGLING HIMSELF, ONE KNEE AT A TIME. HE DOES THIS AS NATURALLY AS HE CAN, PUTIING AN ARM AROUND THE WOMAN'S RIGHT SHOULDER):

I think you're lovely. It's just that I have some business to attend to right now.

THE PROFESSOR KEEPS AN ARM AROUND THE WOMAN"S SHOULDER. HE REACHES FOR THE TELEPHONE WITH HIS RIGHT HAND.

THERE IS A DIAL TONE.
THE CALLER, PROBABLY TIRED OF WAITING, HAD HUNG UP. THE PROFESSOR TAKES HIS LEFT ARM OFF THE MYSTERIOUS WOMANJ, GIVES HER A HUG AND GOES TO MAKE FOR THE BOOTH WHERE THE EDITOR STILL SITS WITING FOR HIM. HE REJOINS THE EDITOR.

PROFESSOR
The woods are full of funny people.

THE EDITOR (NOW A LITTLE AFFECTED BY THE BEER THAT HE HAS ALMOST
FINIISHED:

Ummm. Wha..?

PROFESSOR
I don't know how to tell you this. It really reminds me of a joke, the one about the musician, playing badly all night, complaining over the actions of a disgruntled pervert who kept masturbating in the second row.

EDITOR
I don't want to know!

PROFESSOR

Lady at the bar. Almost attacked me.

THE EDITOR
You got confidence. That's what it is.

THE PROFESSOR SHRUGS.

PROFESSOR 9TAKES A DRAUGHT OF HIS UNFINISHED BEER)

Did you ever read a book by Frederic Exley, "A Fan's Notes"?

THE EDITOR
Of course. What of it?

PROFESSOR
It seems that Mr. Exley is disgusted over being a fan all his life, of loving the great football guy, The Gipper, of loving great authors.

But it was always somebody else that was great, never him."

There is another guy in this Celia's life. I can sense it. It's never going to be me.

THE EDITOR
Yep. You're like your archetype, I guess. Prof. Rath. Crowing like a rooster.

THE PROFSSOR TAKES A DEEP DRAUGHT. HE STANDS UP FROM THE TABLE, CAUSING
A GROAN OF CHAIRS. SUDDENLY HE CRIES OUT, AS IF COMPELLED BY SOMETHING
ALIEN IN HIM ABOUT TO GIVER BIRTH IN HIS VERY BODY....

Cuckarukakoo!

THIS CAUSES A STIR AMONG THE OTHER TABLES.

THE EDITOR (A LITTLE EMBARRASSED):
You sir, are a fucking nut. You seem possessed.

Get out of that situation. Walk away from it.

Walk! That's what you do.
You walk
.....end ACT I,, Scene 3 THE FIRE IN BRADFORD,

.............................................INTERMISSION.....................................................................
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Saturday, December 08, 2012

A try at a gothic novel, with local colour

Heh. Quite the opposite.

Here is my impression of a house in Riverdrive Park, back in the "Eyes Wide Shut" eighties. It is, uh, fiction.

THE MASTER

An exurban gothic novel
by Ivan Prokopchuk

The countryside was hilly and in bloom. It was spring in Riverdrive Park where a neat white cottage was almost hiddent behind a screen of Australian pines. The house number, in its brass calligraphy, read 410. Same as a shotgun.
The Australian pines almost obscured a huge Williamsburg picture window, but you could not see inside, some kind of tinting through which you could see out, but outsiders could not see in.

Inside, a beautiful woman was preparing breakfast for somebody, certainly not her husband. She was especially beautiful because she had made herself up for the stranger. She was very fair, roundfaced, lots of blue on her eyelids, the look of a woman who wanted out, who was attracting somebody, anybody who would rescue her out of her trap.
Trapped indeed she had been, with her Dracula of a husband, lab worker, in fact, who had a penchant for making her drink her own tears and his bestiality in what may be called bed. Then too, there was the complicated accommodation she had to make to arouse the Master's sleeping and complicated sexuality. But to trace the convoluted links of the Master's passion, to also involve his male lover, took some doing, and frankly, she was exasperated by it all, though in her own involved way, she loved the Master all the same.

There was this supreme power he had over her.
The Master had some modern twists. There was that business with the VCR, where afterwards they had watched their romp, and at one point in the replay there was no image of the Master at all, merely some sort of electric
outline as if from some monster out of a vintage B movie like Forbidden Planet. She'd had the first horrid intimation that the Master may not be from this world at all.
It was not the first time she had felt this way.
Kara had been married to Frank for fourteen years. Fourteen years it took her to realize that the world was not at all the way she was compelled to see it through Frank's eyes. Oh yes. Those eyes. Dark. Hypnotic. One night, when the curtains blew, she had had the hollowest, emptiest feeling that she was totally artificial, a total creation of Frank, that she was Frank's novel, Frank's VCR project.
She recalled playing the tapes on her day off, with Frank away at the laboratory. She was examining Frank from all angles. Yes, yes, he was extremely tall, much taller than she. He had a soft voice and a gentle manner. Handsome, a Simon Cowell if Simon Cowell could be made up to be handsome, the same black tee shirts, the confident manner. Quite a catch it had been for her, herself so fine, the envy of the campus.
Until you realized what Frank did for a living. Torturing animals in a laboratory where they ran tests for smear-proof mascara, day after day, the rabbits, the white rats, the monkeys with their eyes red a bleeding.
Come to think of it, she was having trouble with her own eyes lately--she had always had trouble with here eyes, and now tith this thing building up between her and the newfound "friend", her eyes were irritated all the more.

"You can't get everything from one person." Where had she heard this before? Why from Frank, of course. Frank with the dark sensitive eyes who would bring his gay friends to bed with them, here in this neat white cottage, this White Hotel, from out of a book she was reading, this white hotel where everybody was welcome, especially stray men with no obvious family connections, where nobody was selfish "in bed" and where a paradox of life was revealed: That which can be truly possessed was that which was to be shared.

That which you share. How did I ever get these atttitudes? Good God. I am a book keeper and an accountant. I have a regular job like everybody else in my set. Frank works in the laboratory. We are the ideal exurban couple. We are the young professionals, the house the mortgage, my car, Frank's SUV. How did I involve myself in this style of life with Frank, the mammoth parties, the drugs and satanism--all these "friends."

She thought of a couple of the "Friends", their questionable sexuality, their elegance, sometimes one of them disappearing. And that Hungarian gardener Frank had hired. Always trimming the edge of the lawn with what must certainly have been an axe.
The drug den downstairs.

The friend in the kitchen, for whom she was making a very labored and time-consuming breakfast (opening the oven door, sensing that the eggs benedict wer still lukewarm, the toaster seeming to not work at all)--was becoming a little restless and she caught him out of the corner of her irritated eye twiddling with the FM radio on the kitchen table.

...CHARGED WITH KEEPING A COMMON BAWDY HOUSE WAS FRANK...Did she hear that right? Must have been her imagination.
The friend, a touch silver-haired, a very open man, something of a poet, kept twirling the knob until a song came on, an older one by the Eagles, out of California.

She's got a lot of pretty boys

that she calls her friends.

He kept playing with the radio until he settled on some strain of elevator music, all the while lighting a cigarette, his third one since she had begun making breakfast. She had another look at him.
An elegant-appearing chap all right, from the way he held his cigarette, almost European-fashion, with the slim fingers extended, but there was a hint of strength in the hands, the leftovers of hard work, of mines and wars and of other people with hard hands. He came from the aristocracy of war and famine and that was a real aristocracy, Kara knew, perhaps the the only viable aristocracy in this crazy, sexy and druggy age. His eyes were green, and had the tendency to take on the shade of whatever dominant colour was around, and now they were reflecting a read-and-whie tablecloth, a bistro colour, which she had strangely selected this morning.
The tablecloth did not go at all with the danish blond and grey decor of the house with its white walls, its picture groupings of Cezanne and Monet prints, of all the yellow wood.

Yet it seemed somehow fitting for this man, this "Friend".

Through the large front window, Kara caugh a glimpse of the Hungarian with the axe. " I can not have this man murdered. I love him."
The "friend" seemed to have almost heard her.

The radio was now playing the soundtrack of an old movie called "The Collector".

"I have come to collect you, the friend's eyes seemed to say. "Frank sent you to 'collect' me.

"But I will 'collect' you.

"I will rescue you."

She finished making the coffee at last and picked up two cups, one for herself and the other for the Friend.