SMALL APPLIANCES OR THE REAL MCCOY.

SCENE 40: PANCAKES AGAIN.

(Scene opens on a close-up of bubbling batter becoming brown and toasted. As the camera pulls back--we see a small silverdollar pancake. We hear the soft humming of a woman as she filps it over. We then hear her toaster bing, then her microwave buzz, then her blender turn on and off at different speeds--the woman continues humming. She places the pancake on a large stack of already made pancakes, all exactly the same size. As the camera pulls back further we see the back of nude woman standing in a beautiful kitchen surrounded by stacks and stacks of pancakes. She gazes at her new creation and places it on her kitchen table. She then takes a knife and puts it into the flame of her stove. As soon as it becomes almost red with heat she pulls it out and begins to carve an image on the pancake--the image is of the toaster in her kitchen.)

Toaster (voiceover):

"I'm in this room like a dream where you can't move. I'm suspended--I start to howl at her like a wounded animal. I want to enter her slowly, to be her blood, to have her give birth to my death under a fine rain of sweat and ash. Each moment next to her breachs the truth my abjection, we cancel each other out with the vulgar intoxications of labor and preparations, with our need for some other form of communication--outside this impossible rhythm. We are wasted in the dissoluteness of living together unbound and detached. I would like to meet with you alone, beyond our household duties, to depart into the streets that spread open like your legs at night--to burn out for your pleasure only. Please touch me once more, please."

(The woman continues to hum and cook her pancakes. We hear the phone ring until the answering machine clicks on. "Hi. I'm home right now--so don't leave a message and don't call back. Thanks." We can hear that someone is trying to leave a message--but not quiet sure what they want to say and finally hanging up.)

Microwave (voiceover): "Gleaming with nakedness, of too-white whiteness, of redhair and heavy breasts barely pink--my sweet Laure. Never speak to the others, not a single word, of our times together, pulled together by an electronic leash. Of our communion as your hand reachs inside me--my convulsions are endless. I dream of entering your belly and collapsing. Possessed by your flesh like some imploding star of blood and artificial cum--such impossible ecstasy calls and begs every time you open my plastic door. Let us commit the final crime and deny everything and everyone--our humiliation--let us become the other who has no name--that unavowable other that is more than you or I. Laure please hear my prayers, please be my immobility--eternal and faraway." (The woman suddenly stops carving her pancake. She stands up slowly and reachs between her legs. She smiles walks toward the door. She opens it just a little and whispers).

Laure: "Michael, darling, breakfast is ready--I made your favorite stuff again. Beautiful pancakes again. Just for you, Michael. Just for you. Just the way you like them. Small, round, with traces of images, just for you."