Disaster is the call of a ceaseless vertigo that goes unanswered, a gift abandoned to the Other who is not flesh.
DOUBLE CROSSINGS OR ARTIFICIAL INVOLVEMENT.
SCENE 3: BEDLAM (machines who leave and never return) (Scene opens on a blinking red light. The sound of door opening, keys rattling, and a truck lumbering by. Footsteps cross towards the blinking light. A finger nail, painted light blue, crosses into the frame and gently touches the light. The sound of a click and roll of the answering machine about to release its messages).
Answering Machine (as the machine speaks the camera pans across clothes that have dropped along the floor): They always kill the messenger, don't they? I refuse then, I refuse to speak your fantasies, your needs, your avoidance of M's, your suppressed entities, your deliquescence of infinity, your resistence to eating the dead, the fodder of the unseen--so don't even speak to me about your torpid day, your extropy,your double in the basement,the bedlam that crawls out of your lips like the last glow of a cigarette. I will speak only about the cave, the sharp bites of the panmorph that glosses your body at the crossroads, of relative value, of the Golden Age of Flaws,of . . . .(The Answering Machine clicks off).
(The long pan ends at another blinking light, another Answering Machine starts to roll-out.)
(as the machine speaks the camera pans across the floor as Maddy's bare feet stumble over a series of objects that are strewn over the floor).
Arguing Machine: Your answers are about a lack that is no longer a part of your life, an informe, a raw base matter that you pretend to need. If only you would read more on formal structures and loss, you would realize that your reality is not only empty melodrama, but a constant source of speculation for machines all across the world. And beyond that--what the hell are going to do with all those doubles that keep pestering your dreams, your bills, your need to use more of that substance that has no name--and one more thing--don't call me unless you have something pleasant to say about my coffee, or mysterium tremendum--which brings me to something else that has really been bothering me about your supposed relationships to that corpse you call Mother . . .(Click Off).
(When the Arguing Machine clicks off Maddy stumbles and falls. Her body is motionless. After a brief moment the third machine clicks on--it's the Questioning Machine. As it speaks Maddy begins to crawl across the floor back towards the Master's bed.)
Questioning Machine: Are you really listening to them, listening to anamorphic objects, listening to the noise of machines talking to machines? Do you think you can con meaning, that you can make it yield the secret between figure and ground? Do you believe that you can shatter the bedlam of your fall, that you can convulsively possess the nude architecture of space, the silhouette of the mouth entering the anus, the devoring mimicry of your shriveling realities, of the effacement of pointless skin covering your empty senses--think about it? Your eyes, so deep and blue, have driven your red tasteless tongue deep into the cavatiy of your obscurity and you still continue to plot about that body, like a village butcher --have you become a broken pyramid on a slaughterhouse. Do you really think that by grabbing that gun beneath the bed you can reconfigure your collapsing organs? You are becoming a suspened tear, a flaccid luminosity, that will . . . (click off)
(When the Questioning Machine clicks off a shout of Maddy reaching under the bed and pulling out a gun, she is still naked splayed across the floor, she takes the gun and points at her head as the sound of the door opening is heard. The camara pans across the floor to the bottom of the door as it opens. Out of the shadows of the hallway two beautiful blue shoes enter. The Anwsering Machine clicks on and speaks as the blue shoes cross the floor towards Maddy).
Answering Machine: Listen I did get some message from that Blue Bitch Thing. It basically said that you could never escape reality. That even if you were to do something stupid, like shut us off, it would never end--your still part of the inventory, just like that body growing in the basement. That all you can really do is listen to . . . (Screen goes black. A gun shot is heard).
Answering Machine: . . . are listening to me--I'm not done speaking to you. I still have more to say, I still have more messages--some of them are from your Mother sometime in the Eighties. Hey are you listening to me. . . . (Click Off).