NARRATOR: Bristol Hotel, the Tenderloin.
VALERIE: Where are we going?
NARRATOR: Nowhere.
VALERIE: Who’s president of America?
NARRATOR: Still Ronald Reagan.
VALERIE: Oh.
NARRATOR: I wish the story had a different ending. I wish there were happy endings.
VALERIE (smiles and coughs up blood onto the sheet): Do you know, the little governor, George Bush junior, once asked Ronald Reagan if he’d thought about becoming president. President where? he asked. In America, George Bush said. Reagan answered: I didn’t realize you thought I was such a bad actor … (laughs) … Then he did become president. Joke presidents. Pretend presidents. Next time they’ll doubtless ask Donald Duck or Red Moran.
NARRATOR: You should have been president of America.
VALERIE: Absolutely.
(Silence.)
VALERIE: Nancy Reagan apparently plans her husband’s duties with the help of astrology. Now that’s what I call realpolitik.
(More silence.)
VALERIE: April is the cruelest month. It drives sirens out of the dead ground, memories and desires, stiffened roots, spring rain. You should stop crying now. You’re quite silly and sentimental, toady, a namby-pamby. I want you to hold my hand when I go. I don’t want you to weep. No sadness. No weakness.
NARRATOR: You mean syringa, Valerie. It’s syringa, lilac, in the dead ground, not sirens.
VALERIE: I mean syringa, I mean sirens, I mean whatever. It doesn’t matter anymore.
NARRATOR: I’ll never stop searching for you. You’re my faculty of dreams.
VALERIE: That’s good, little Daddy’s Girl. I’m going to sleep now. I’m going to sleep and dream that there isn’t a question about death in every sentence; I’ll dream about a film being made in the desert with wild horses chased by helicopters.
NARRATOR: You know, Valerie, mouse girls did finally have babies with each other. Little Japanese Kaguya. And human girls learned how to make babies with each other. The women’s movement is a glowing mass moving slowly through the cities and all they wish for is wild horses and peace.
VALERIE: The lines were always covered by something plastic. The sun burned through the parasols, American dreams and nightmares, the American film, the American story, the camera’s lies, world literature’s. America with its desert landscape and wild mustangs was a huge adventure. I never understood what was in the script.
NARRATOR: How’s it all going to turn out?
VALERIE: I’m going to go to sleep now.
NARRATOR: And me?
VALERIE: You just have to be patient.
NARRATOR: One last question.
VALERIE: Go for it.
NARRATOR: Why did you shoot Andy Warhol?
VALERIE: I don’t know, actually. I just did. You’ll have to be satisfied with that.
(Silence.)
NARRATOR: Just one more thing, Valerie.
VALERIE: Yes?
NARRATOR: How will I find my way back in the dark?
VALERIE: I have no idea. But it will be better for you when I’m gone. And there’s really nothing to be sad about. I could have told you from the start how it would end.
AMERICA, LIFE IS A COURT CASE
THE STATE: Name of the accused?
VALERIE: Valerie … Solanas … Jean … Solanas …
THE STATE: Accused’s current employment?
VALERIE: Whore.
THE STATE: Previous employment?
VALERIE: Whore.
THE STATE: Education?
VALERIE: None.
THE STATE: Age?
VALERIE: Unclear. An unknown number of years in exile.
THE STATE: Address?
VALERIE: None.
THE STATE: Where does she come from?
VALERIE: America.
THE STATE: Of what is she accused?
VALERIE: Of being born. Her existence in the world. Of not being dead. Of stinking.
(Silence.)
THE STATE: Thank you. When did it all happen?
VALERIE: She hates herself, she doesn’t want to die, and it’s a supremely permanent condition.
THE STATE: And the criminal act for which she stands before the court?
VALERIE: June 3, 1968.
THE STATE: Where?
VALERIE: In America.
FLORYNCE KENNEDY (stands): The Factory … 33 Union Square … Manhattan … New York …
THE STATE: Thank you. Was she alone?
VALERIE: Yes. She was alone.
THE STATE: No one else present?
VALERIE: She was alone the whole time.
THE STATE: And the motive?
VALERIE: She doesn’t remember.
THE STATE: And what defense does she intend to offer?
VALERIE: None at all.
(Silence.)
FLORYNCE KENNEDY: On June 10, 1968, I was appointed public defense counsel in the case New York State vs. Valerie Solanas. I described Valerie as one of the most important campaigners for the modern women’s movement. Dr. Ruth Cooper at Elmhurst Psychiatric Hospital in New York described Valerie as brilliantly intelligent and … and Andy Warhol didn’t actually die, he was only injured, he survived and he kept on being wealthy and making bad art, even though he didn’t make a full recovery … There was her unhappy childhood … raped by her daddy when she was seven … raped six times before she turned eighteen, her mother abused and raped by an undisclosed number of men in the desert, homeless at the age of fifteen, working as a prostitute, drug addiction, mental disorders, repeated rapes in connection with prostitution—
VALERIE: —Excuse me …
THE STATE: What is she trying to say?
VALERIE: She only wants to say that she’s reeling a bit at the prospect of all this eternity. But she wants to emphasize that she takes full responsibility for her actions. She is an adult and she distances herself from explanatory models of psychiatric illness based on the importance of the past. She prefers to project herself toward the future, rather than her dirty, piss-soaked past. Her feeling on the matter is this: There’s no one to blame. There is no God, there are no happy endings, every chapter is a sad chapter. This is not a world she wants to live in, but she prefers to take the whole blame for all her actions and she would like that to be recorded.
(Silence.)
FLORYNCE KENNEDY: Excuse me, Your Honor … I should like to add one thing … Andy Warhol stole Valerie Solanas’s play. He was a kleptomaniac, he lived as a parasite on other people’s … wreckage and madcap ideas … a parasite on their bloodstained memories and experiences. She asked for her play back on numerous occasions. It was art theft, equivalent to attempted murder.
THE STATE: Does she have anything to add?
(Silence.)
THE STATE: Do you have anything to add?
VALERIE: Forget it.
THE STATE: Pardon?
VALERIE: Forget the play. It’s plain Andy wasn’t interested in it. It was a shit play, a shit script, that was obvious the whole time.
THE STATE: And what does she have to say in her defense?
VALERIE: That she longs to be able to sleep.
THE STATE: And the future?
VALERIE: She is most definitely a girl without a future.
(Silence.)
THE STATE: Thank you very much. The court is adjourned. The American government currently has no charges or indictments against Valerie Solanas.
VALERIE: And what about me?
THE STATE: The defendant can leave the courtroom.
ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE ALPHABET
A. A person approaching death is often unconscious for the last few hours.
B. This does not mean, however, that your presence is not important. It does not mean she cannot hear you speak or move across the room. The last senses to go are hearing and touch.
C. A near relative or friend should be present in the last hours. If that is not possible, a nurse should care for the dying person. She should not be le
ft alone.
D. Feel free to hold the dying person’s hand, talk to her, touch her. She will soon be gone.
E. Moisten her lips with a wet towel. The ability to swallow is lost early on, but the sucking reflex remains to the end.
F. Moisten her forehead too, touch her and stroke her skin. Massaging her arms and chest will assuage the fear of death.
G. Patches of red and bluish color will appear on the chest of the dying person. This is completely normal, as the blood flows more slowly through the body, the circulation is poorer and the pulse weaker. It makes the legs and feet cold, so massage them gently. Talk to her. She can hear everything you say.
H. If there are no analgesics—they are almost always available in modern society—the dying person will often experience severe pain and cramps.
I. Let her know you are in the room, talk to her, take her hand; it will help the pain as well.
J. Right at the end, as the body temperature rises, the dying person will have a fever. Softly dab her forehead and wrists.
K. The heartbeat is now irregular, the pulse in the wrist weak. This is completely normal. Just hold her hand, talk to her; it will calm the fear and soothe the pain.
L. By now the intervals between breaths are commonly so long, it seems unlikely the dying person will take another breath. Do not be alarmed if she coughs and struggles to breathe as she fights for air, it is quite usual. The definitive cause of death is almost always suffocation. Do not be alarmed if she has urinary incontinence.
M. The dying person is often agitated at the very end. She claws at her chest, shouts, cries, tries to get air, her hands fumble with the sheets. At this stage you can take comfort in the fact that sensations and consciousness are severely dimmed. There are only faint slivers and shards of light.
N. Slivers and shards of light.
O. She can still hear your voice, still feel your hands. She is like a babe in arms now; she knows you are there, even though she does not understand. Remember, your presence allays the fear.
P. She might wake for a second immediately before death. Her gaze can be utterly clear and conscious. Perhaps she will say something, perhaps squeeze your hand.
Q. It is vital she is not alone at this moment. Now she is a tiny child, waking at night and calling for her mother. It is important someone heeds her cry.
R. Hold her hands, talk to her, talk to the one you love, soon she will be gone.
S. Touch the dying person, talk to her, soon she will be gone.
T. The last thing to happen is that her heart will stop beating and her breathing will cease.
U. Her last breaths will come after a very long pause. Without analgesics these breaths can also be very distressing.
V. Afterward (after death), the pupils are dilated and fixed.
W. The eyes remain half-closed, living, she has not gone yet. There is still time to talk to her, caress her skin. Remember, the dying person knows you are there, even though she cannot show it. The final senses to go are her hearing and touch.
X. Sometimes she will wake for a moment immediately before death. Perhaps she will say something. Perhaps she will look at you, her eyes often quite clear. Perhaps she will squeeze your hand.
Y. Feel free to take something with you to pass the time.
Z. A book, or some sewing.
BRISTOL HOTEL, APRIL 25, 1988, DURING THE NIGHT
The blood moves so slowly through your body and blood roses appear in pink patterns on your chest and hands, and yet it sounds like a factory site in there; the bellowing and wailing of heartbeats, thoughts, breaths, and brain. The blood roses are a bad sign, the heartbeats are the pulse in a garden of fear, a desert without desert flowers; and, just a few breaths from now, everything will come to an end. Dorothy used to steal roses from other people’s gardens, roses which she later sold in the bars. Dorothy burned down a rose garden when she was mad at Moran. Dorothy was a wonderful pink panther in a nuclear dress who ruled a desert and a junk garden with only sweet wine, watering cans, and dying plants.
You dream that she is blowing you kisses across the desert and across the decades, you dream that she is standing outside her corrugated house, wearing a dress she has made from the American flag and a lunatic hat in a wasp design, waving at you. Welcome to my garden of horror and love.
Dorothy?
Dorothy?
DOROTHY: Valerie?
VALERIE: They’ve haven’t combed my hair right.
DOROTHY: It doesn’t matter now.
VALERIE: They’ve given me a side part. I don’t want it like that, but I can’t lift my hands up.
DOROTHY (brushes the hair away from your face with her gentle, aging hands): I liked hearing my child laugh in the backyard. I often dream you’re young again. You have a high temperature and your eyes are glazed. You reach out for me, for the garden. My hands are caught in coat pockets. In their hair and between their legs. I loved that hardness. I missed all the appointments, I let you disappear into the desert.
VALERIE: My hands are so heavy … I wish I could still ride a bicycle … I cycled in Central Park, I wrote postcards to you from the café in Central Park, I telephoned you from Elmhurst, telephoned from everywhere, but I didn’t know what to say …
DOROTHY: I’m an idiot. I missed all your calls.
VALERIE (holds Dorothy’s hand, it smells of soap and smoke): Your hands have grown old, Dorothy.
DOROTHY: Never mind. I wish I’d not been so afraid of getting old and disappearing. All that longing for eternity. Moran got sick from all those gasoline fumes.
VALERIE: You left me to drown.
DOROTHY: Mr. Emin died in the swimming pool the other day. He wasn’t even particularly old, or particularly overweight. His heart just stopped mid-stroke. Do you remember Mr. Emin? You used to play by the river and he was always following you like your little tail.
VALERIE: I don’t give a fuck about Mr. Emin. I don’t give a fuck about Moran. I don’t give a fuck about you being scared of getting old. I want to know why you left me to drown.
DOROTHY (her face is just a glimmer, but her hands are warm and real): I don’t know anything, Valerie. I remember your hair being quite fair, I remember you catching sunbeams and tiny animals in your dress … You’re wearing that dress again, the little white one, it’s tight. I’m standing on the steps after a night in the bar. You’re sitting at the back, crying. Don’t leave me, you say. Don’t leave me with him, you say. I always left you. And I don’t know why. The sun glinting on the porch, the smell of sand and the netherworld on you when I return, and when I have to go again you try to hold me back. I leave you. And I don’t know why.
VALERIE: I don’t want to die with a side part, I don’t want to die in ugly clothes. I want you to help me put my silver coat on.
DOROTHY: I was so happy when you came along and I remember thinking I should travel that road with Louis once a year with new babies under my dress. At the hospital I swayed my butt to ward off the pain. And then, afterward, when you were lying in my arms, the sky was all flamingo-pink. I have a memory of flamingos hurtling past in the sky outside the hospital window. Hundreds, thousands. All those skies that never come back. I’ll help you on with your beautiful silver coat.
VALERIE: Will you hold my hand when I die?
DOROTHY: I’ll hold your hand. I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep. We’ll say it’s nighttime now, and nighttime is dark like a mother’s embrace or an eclipse of the sun.
The highway the lost highway headlights shining on the tarmac
fleeting white flashes the rain hitting the car windows dead
animals asleep in the grass
motel signs beside the motorways neon rain darkness girls
; with their handbags under streetlamps
trucks lipstick gasoline desert oblivion America
ten thousand fathoms of ocean water
ten thousand different stories about water
lips hands milk teeth
drowning dresses and memories gaggles of girls
pussy souls pussy material death material lipstick
literature
prostitution stories horses hegemony dream landscape
world literature presidents utopias a girl can do anything
she wants
fifties sixties seventies eighties Carter Reagan
Warhol
you know I love you you know I love you
I’ll sit here until you fall asleep
there are no happy endings
you’re going to go to sleep now
you’re going to sleep and dream you’re flying over snow and over people
applauding
that death is like a dark embrace
or an eclipse of the sun
when you shall pass through waters I will be with you
the rivers shall not cover you
and when you walk in the fire
the flames shall not burn you
ONE LAST ROOM LIT UP, ONE EXPLODING LILY IN THE DARKNESS
Valerie Page 21