ANDRE BRETON- Be quiet. Leave me alone.
RONALD MCDONALD- Why?
ANDRE BRETON- I’m trying to draw my breath. It seems to
require a capital A-plus amount of concentration.
RONALD MCDONALD- That’s good for you?
ANDRE BRETON- Supposed to be.
RONALD MCDONALD- You crave attention, and therefore are
never to be quenched in your struggle for more of it. “Look at me! Look! Look
at me!” What a capital B bunch of bull. Pencil or pen?
ANDRE BRETON- Pencil. Graphite mechanical pencil. Drafting
is my milieu these nights.
RONALD MCDONALD- Like a spoiled brat who beats his new pony
because it doesn’t clean up its own shit.
ANDRE BRETON- In, deep. Hold it. Then, softly…slowly, back
out. Ah. Relaxation comes with a sticker price of
I-don’t-give-a-damn-what-the-hell-any-of-you-shit-heads-thinks.
RONALD MCDONALD- Draw!
ANDRE BRETON- Counting helps. Yes. The steps you’re scared
to take. You can count them. You can name and remember them. They can become safe,
just more recognizable objects for you to take stock of, organize, and stow
away.
RONALD MCDONALD- All mine are of the lowercase variety.
Gardens of them, without sorrow or joy though. Without Marvins. Merely gardens.
ANDRE BRETON- The things one does to dampen the noise of
one’s own existence. What else matches our own self-defeats?
RONALD MCDONALD- Our sketches in graphite of our own breath?
ANDRE BRETON- Not likely. Like, “I write her letters from
the most worried of places, even if she don’t love me anymore.”
RONALD MCDONALD- To get even in the oddest of ways. There’s
challenge in those crap-outings of yours. A take that never gets rehearsed, and
over-and-over is done too wrong and almost just right. Gather up your pity’s
W-2 forms and fill out your soul’s tax returns with the imaginary lines
connecting the stars of closer-than-you’d-think constellations. That breath you
take might just be your own.
ANDRE BRETON- Swift strokes of deft precision. Inimitable
lines of trust penciled in dreadnoughts of cheap chenille dreams. Nobody’s on
first, but we’re all itching to swipe second anyway. A leno weave of staying
put. I connect dots of purpose so I won’t have to behave awfully for company.
My breath is not a circus tent. Not even. Not yet.
RONALD MCDONALD- Clean hands are a must. The gunk out from
beneath the nails-- pliers-cut and emery-filed. Palms constantly wiped dry with
a microfiber cloth. No smudges. No mistakes. All is as it should be.
ANDRE BRETON- Quiet. Please. I am attempting to draw here.
RONALD MCDONALD- As you were. But where?
ANDRE BRETON- …
RONALD MCDONALD- Passed out on too much past. Pssst! I get
it. Yep. Pssssssssssst!
ANDRE BRETON- Yes?
RONALD MCDONALD- No. No. No. Did I mention that I’m
perfectly incapable of making somebody else’s decisions my own?
ANDRE BRETON- Um…yes?
RONALD MCDONALD- Correct. Good. I could say something like,
“Beeswax as usual.” But that’d be inconsiderate of your struggles. No. Instead
it’s, “Draw, my dear. Draw.” That is what the cards say to the poker
faced.
ANDRE BRETON- ...
RONALD MCDONALD- Two can play at that game…
ANDRE BRETON- So many ifs and onlys in this world. Take a
picture of my breath for posterity.
RONALD MCDONALD- Okay. Now you’re really asking for it.
ANDRE BRETON- Better than just taking it. Better than
milking toast for a living? I’d say. But I won’t.
RONALD MCDONALD- And between this and that and…? Well, we
spend our time rollicking in the paragraphs of our lives. We indent the
difference between it all. Skid marks on the underwear of the age. Our age. Any
age. It’s all up to the last minute, and it’s all…bogus.
ANDRE BRETON- Shush it. Have I mentioned that I am trying to
concentrate here? Drawing breath, you know? It ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.
RONALD MCDONALD- Figures.
ANDRE BRETON- Nectarines. No. Wait. Um…okay. Figurines.
RONALD MCDONALD- It’s better than hauling around deplorably
upbeat habits like these. It’s better than playing nice on the surface.
ANDRE BRETON- That reminds me, what the hell are you doing in
my drawing room? The high, ho-less, silver now that I’m pacing around in is
becoming too crowded with valences of empty shapes, shades that’ll cower to
shadows, and turnstile lifestyles. Get me a breath so I can sketch my
consciousness on blue lined paper with it. A splash of grappa for your
thoughts?
RONALD MCDONALD- And a dram of absinthe for my vital signs.
ANDRE BRETON- It’s sweeter, and concurrent with abysmal,
wished-away rights. You cannot force me to stop. I will draw this breath. This
breath I will draw. In my best pajama power suit, in my loafing gear and W-neck
sweater, I digress with the best of ‘em.
RONALD MCDONALD- The neighbors sing on worse lawns than
these. I am certain of it.
ANDRE BRETON- Bathed in neutrality for worse and even worse.
It lets me cross my eyes instead of my fingers, frees me up to scrub tearstains
from the upholstery while I whistle along with the refrigerator.
RONALD MCDONALD- For whom do you take me? A crane operator?
A peanut grinder? A sieve-fisted finder?
ANDRE BRETON- I believe in corrupted tiny miracles, ones
that define less about who we are, who we are taken for, and who we’ll never
get around to becoming. It is in the spiffy gesturing of a soon-to-be-drowning
woman that we might find the rigour and define ourselves as circle drawers
instead of nose breathers caught at a vendue of our formerly least-prized
possessions. “Look at me. I am accomplishing something. I am here. Look.” Or
something like that, I guess.
RONALD MCDONALD- Treat me without respect. It’s alright.
Everything is dancing with okay. Believe me. Or don’t. Keep drawing. This
breath you draw might be your last.
ANDRE BRETON- Elusive puddling. A crossed-out word. Bated,
borrowed, and…
RONALD MCDONALD- Oh, hell. Just some miserable thaumaturgy
for the downtrodden, the weak of brawn and faint of heart. We cannot keep up
this charade of borrowing moods like cups of sugar. Pound out some truth from this thing like it's the hood of a ’58 Packard, my friend. I will keep you up at night with my
daydreams.
ANDRE BRETON- The lingering motions I keep myself from
making, the hushed doubt of trout fishing anywhere but in America. There are
lines I have yet to consider, whims of a circular nature, bits of crumbled
charcoal to wipe from the clean, clear, flat surface. Pristine backdrops lose
their luster in the scribbling of my days. Do not look at me. I am hiding from
greedy coroners. Do not give me away.
RONALD MCDONALD- Draw on, my unfortunate fellow. Your breath
will not be taken lightly.
ANDRE BRETON- …
RONALD MCDONALD- Perfectly close enough.
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