This post was written by Duke Miller on July 22 but through some unidentified strangeness decided to float to the top of the site as one of the buttons to be clicked on. I’ve relocated it but now it demands to call me Mother. I am not its mother. That would be Duke.
“This is not a story about the Jews, the Irish, or the Italians. No movie deals here. Nor is it about the breakup of a marriage or the perfect crime. It is not about growing up or getting laid or going to school or doing drugs. Tonight I give you three men: Kosinski, Duke, and me. We share only one thing in common: emotional language. We learned our words on different planets, yet the movement of our lips and hands are the same. We’re like silence, the surface of the sea, or stealing bibles and you can hear us if you listen, choose to see. Chance is our heart and we have built empires upon the philosophy that terrible decisions at noon become great ones by midnight. But there’s the flip side as well. Great moves can turn bad, even evil. The balance is delicate. The current is thin. Ask any parent or hangman. Surely there is something beyond the push and pull of fate. We are more than animals, more than spinning wheels. Perhaps it begins with the dream and ends with personal choice. Our emotional language is born in dreams, both waking and sleeping and surely there is no difference. You only need listen and see to understand and so my story starts with Kosinski’s bag and how I make choices while I dream.
Many people have stopped dreaming. They live exclusively inside three-dimensional boxes. Maybe you’re one, but that’s a chance I’ll take. Here is the bag. It talks to me. Listen.”
I wrote a one-man show a few years ago. The title was “Kosinski’s Bag”. It was performed in rehearsal at the Pan Asian Theater, just down the street from my old hangout at the Show World. Over time I added characters and it became a three act play. It was performed at Sara Lawrence College and I heard it was a piece of shit. I don’t know, because I never saw it. I wrote the play with an old buddy who was the main character. When it was finally produced, he took my name off the billing and that ended our friendship. The same thing happened with a screenplay I wrote titled “The Millennium”. Five plot points ended up in something called the “Seventh Sign”. Somebody lifted part of the story. It got a 17% on the Tomatometer. I guess the point is whatever I write is often bad and people don’t much appreciate it. Do I care? Not really. Writing is a lot like breathing for me. I’ll stop writing when I stop breathing and I don’t worry too much about my breathing, at least for the present.
I changed my writing room to a different part of the house. The front was too noisy. Trucks drove down my throat and out my ass, but the new room also has acoustic issues. It is covered with ceramic tile. Floor, ceiling, and walls are all cold and shiny. When I talk to myself, which is constant, the echo hurts my ears. Skilled doctors and qualified nurses used to perform plastic surgeries on mostly older women and criminals in this room. People still ring my bell asking for Dr. Monlavy. I tell them he died in a chemical fire. The women wanted a new life, whereas the criminals wanted the same life, but in a disguised form. The face is key for many people. I am waiting for the day when they will simply attach a different head to your body, so needy people will get a new face, plus ears, tongue, teeth, hair, eyes, and brain. At that point smart, good-looking people will need to watch their backs.
I put up old photos on my new walls. There was my friend who I partnered with on the one-man show. He married a former girlfriend. A framed picture of a destroyed bridge across a river in the Congo takes a prominent spot. A small incident, yet I framed it as if it were vital. Why do little things haunt us? The same can be said of me and the clown. His face was painted red. A large print of doomed children marching in Africa; all too young to die, but that’s just something we say, since the young are the most likely to die.
I placed two black and white photos side-by-side. One was the photo of a painting, while the other was a photo of a prostitute. They were both close-ups of faces covered in shadows. The painting was done by a 17-year old artist who painted like Picasso, while the photo was taken by a heroin addict who died from a hot-shot. I don’t know what happened to the 17-year old. I guess I was friends with both of them, but since they didn’t know each other, the only things that join us together are the two photos of dark, worried faces upon my wall.
The two images are of young transgender women and they tell me that thirty years of art by two different people, will sometimes produce exactly the same results. I wonder if the subjects in these artistic studies are dead. Probably, since 40% of all transgenders commit suicide before they are thirty.
Too young…yes, we are all too young to die.
I have allowed you into my dream through my emotional language. Can you see the choices I made all those years ago? “Who are you” he asked. “Floater,” I answered and I chose to keep him out of my dream and so I went down to the river for a swim with the women beating clothes upon the rocks and it was there that Maria waited in the sun.