The Faculty of Dreams

by Sara Stridsberg

  NARRATOR: Look at the one you love. Smell her. Talk to her. Soon she’ll be gone.

  VALERIE: I don’t want there to be any story.

  NARRATOR: I’ll hold your hand. There is a story.

  VALERIE: What does it mean when I say there isn’t a story?

  NARRATOR: I don’t know.

  VALERIE: It means there is a story.

  New York – College Park, March 1968

  The Philadelphia train is cold and miserable and outside there are only lifeless fields, lifeless slip roads, lifeless birds’ nests in the bare trees, and the sky has never been as vast as this. You do not weep, because you are afraid of weeping, and because you are afraid of someone seeing you weep, and because you are concentrating on the countryside and the sky outside and the walls of water that will crash over the train and drown you.

  *

  The train to Washington is even colder, the sky vaster, the light harsher, and if only there were some shade around you; and you have to masturbate in one of the toilets to stop yourself vanishing into the light. Cosmogirl walking through Manhattan with her fair hair, orgasm. Moving across the ocean, desert, cities, orgasm. Her brain still functioning, orgasm, still with her place at university, orgasm, still working on your agenda for Eternity and Utopia, orgasm –

  *

  The glacial skies outside the bathroom window are all the occasions you were going to fetch her from Maryland, after, later, in a while, in the future; the miles of farmland are all the times you were going to buy train tickets and never did, the rhythm of the train the phone calls you did not make, the other passengers the letters you did not write. New York is oblivion and America is your habit of always forgetting to say goodbye. If you forgave her, why did you not go to see her? When they have taken what they want, they never want it again. What is the point of forgiveness, if death treads on its heels?

  At the university, Robert Brush has destroyed his desk and all the pretty formaldehyde jars. A havoc of water-stained papers and overturned bookcases and Robert Brush with the window open and his shirt undone. When Elizabeth went, Cosmo wrecked people’s backyards, overturned garden gnomes and bird baths and drove stolen cars across their suburban lives. Perhaps it is she, and not Robert, who is responsible for the floor being covered with human embryos and Siamese calf twins.

  VALERIE: Your goddamn cock.

  ROBERT BRUSH: Hello, Valerie. I’m so sorry.

  VALERIE: You have to give me the money. It’s my money. It was her money.

  ROBERT BRUSH: What can I do for you?

  VALERIE: She’s dead. She doesn’t need money anymore.

  ROBERT BRUSH: I’m as sad as you are.

  VALERIE: I need money. She doesn’t need money. Not now, at any rate.

  ROBERT BRUSH: I didn’t realize she was so unhappy. I could see she was unhappy, but not to what extent.

  VALERIE: I don’t know why I should listen to you. You’re the supervisor of a gang of incarcerated mice. Cosmogirl has gone. I’ve nothing left. I don’t care about science any longer. Give me Cosmo back. If you can’t give her back, give me the money.

  ROBERT BRUSH: What happened?

  VALERIE: She’s dead now. She’s not always going to be dead. She’s going to carry on doing research.

  ROBERT BRUSH: Sit down, Valerie. Would you like something to drink?

  VALERIE: There’s something wrong. Her name is light as a feather. I noticed it as soon as I realized the word “Cosmo” doesn’t work with the word “dead”. The weight of the words is completely different. They don’t go together. It’s wrong. It’s a conspiracy. She’ll come back. Cosmo always comes back.

  ROBERT BRUSH: Will you tell me what happened?

  VALERIE: Only that every night she begs me to go down to the beach and hang myself in a tree. Only that I can’t bear to see your crocodile tears.

  Valerie.

  I’ve changed my mind.

  I want to come back.

  There are no happy endings.

  Elizabeth died alone in San Quentin.

  She didn’t recognize me in the end.

  I asked you to stay.

  The last thing I said to you was, don’t leave me here.

  The grass doubles over toward the ground, as if waiting for a storm. Cosmo has disappeared into the underworld. Her eyes are an eclipse of the sun, a black sheet pulled down over the blue. You walk away from the university buildings, the psychology department, Shiver Laboratory, the university grounds and College Park. Robert Brush shouts after you through his open window; he wants you to stay, give him your blessing, free him from possible I.O.U. demands from the underworld. You have your own I.O.U.s, long and dark and impossible to honor right now.

  *

  Hordes of students cross the park, a girl who looks like Cosmo touches your arm as you pass. Over there are the trees where she kissed you the first time. There, her last call to New York. At the bottom of your coat pocket, the telephone message you forgot. There, the days she no longer called and you no longer noticed. And there, Cosmo alone in the laboratory at night, and the first snow falling outside the window (the last snow), where she talks to herself and the blackboard.

  *

  Shiver Laboratory is bathed in flickering, painful searchlights. The corridors are shiny and look as though they are under water and the night watchman waves to you on his way home. The storm inside your head builds up, the amphetamine surges through your body, nothing will bring you down this time. You open the animals’ cages and open the doors to the darkness. You leave the keys on the steps outside, kiss the front door with your lipstick, press your head against the façade until it bleeds. The lab animals vanish into the night.

  Elmhurst Psychiatric Hospital, July 1969

  The Stonewall Riots Have Taken Place Almost Outside the Hospital Window

  Time and trees collapse in the park. The sun burns shamelessly through the foliage and the flowers in the lounge die. You continue playing the patient and Sister White continues playing whatever role she has. You sit for days and observe how the patients act as patients and the staff act as staff; it is a very entertaining pastime and at present it is difficult to distinguish the hospital from a funfair. But in the parking lot on the other side of the fence the yellow Ford is there again, staring at you with its evil headlights. The presence of the Ford means this is not a funfair.

  *

  After the Stonewall riots Allen Ginsberg says: “The guys there were so beautiful – they’ve lost the wounded look fags all had ten years ago.” You are still waiting for the trial and Dr Ruth Cooper and all your confiscated belongings.

  VALERIE: How do people know whether they have to play the part of staff or patients?

  SISTER WHITE: They just know.

  VALERIE: Is it the hospital director who does the casting?

  SISTER WHITE: You could say that.

  VALERIE: With all respect, Sister White, what part do you play?

  SISTER WHITE: Nurse, bordering on an angel.

  VALERIE: Nurse and angel, bordering on my mother. Bordering on a dark embrace, or a sleep.

  SISTER WHITE: That was nicely put.

  VALERIE: Why is that car there all the time?

  SISTER WHITE: The parking lot is full of cars. Which car do you mean?

  VALERIE: The one that’s been standing there for a week. The Ford. The yellow one.

  SISTER WHITE: There are different cars every day. Some of them are the staff’s cars. Others belong to visitors. There are different cars every day.

  VALERIE: No-one ever has any visitors here. This is not a place sensible people visit of their own accord.

  SISTER WHITE: Are you hoping someone will visit you?

  VALERIE: The answer is no.

  SISTER WHITE: I can call Dorothy.

  VALERIE: The answer is: definitely not.

  Cosmogirl My Love

  The sun rises and sets between the skyscrapers. Demonstrations in Harlem continue. In Hiroshima the soot-blackened shadows of burnin
g people will remain forever on the walls. At night she wandered around in the laboratory, talking to the animals and the night watchmen. When they took her keys from her she broke an office window and let the magpies build a nest inside the lab. A keen March wind and Cosmo lectures to herself and to the auditorium, all lit up. Only a few mouse girls sit and listen in the rows at the front.

  *

  She walks back and forth writing her formulae on the blackboard, laughing and smoking, twirling her pointer, chanting, chiding: no Y genes only X genes, no walking abortions – the X gene’s obvious potential to fuse with an X gene a scientifically well-hidden well-kept secret – send chimps into space, send humans into space, manufacture nuclear weapons, teach mice to eat with a knife and fork – conspiracy, red herrings, evasive action – X gene and X gene humanity’s salvation – biologically, morally, artistically.

  *

  Magpies and pigeons enter through the broken window and kill the mice in the cages. Once again the laboratory director is airbrushed out of the family photograph on his desk. When the night watchman arrives on Sunday evening, Cosmo is lying sprawled on the workbench. All the mice have been given potassium chloride. Cosmo has given herself potassium chloride. No hearts beat in the laboratory now. Notes and dead mice are scattered everywhere and the walls are filled with lipstick slogans, lipstick kisses, and lipstick dreams. About the superiority of mouse girls, the latent violence in mouse boys, the possibility of producing only mouse girls, the future, a women’s movement and a world with only whores and mouse girls. About Elizabeth. About Valerie. About love.

  Elmhurst Psychiatric Hospital, July 15, 1969

  The Trial Will Commence in Ten Days, the Gay Liberation Front Takes Part in the Hiroshima March

  I don’t want to talk to any more doctors, I only want to talk to Dr Ruth Cooper . . .

  I don’t want to talk to Dr Fuck any longer . . .

  I want to have my own clothes back . . .

  SISTER WHITE: You’re my prettiest patient.

  VALERIE: Drs Such-and-such and So-and-so. Dr Shitbag. Dr Lie. Dr Hate. Dr Hate-all-women-in-the-universe. Dr Nothing. Dr Pain. Dr Fuck. Dr Blame-everything-on-your-mama.

  SISTER WHITE: The park is full of happy patients. Everything’s going to be fine. You’ll see, it’ll pass. You must stop telephoning Andy Warhol. There are better things to do. You must focus on getting well and start talking about your mother.

  VALERIE: Elizabeth Duncan is murdered in San Quentin. Four months later Cosmogirl dies. There is no childhood. There are no children. The state of California takes Cosmogirl’s life, definitely not her mother. America has assailed all my rights, it was definitely not my mother’s doing. I’m thinking of covering every public wall in New York with medical records. I don’t want to talk to Dr Fuck and Dr Blame-everything-on-your-mama.

  SISTER WHITE: No-one is so great that it wouldn’t be shameful, even for her, to be subject to the laws that determine normal as well as pathological processes with equal rigor.

  VALERIE: I’m going to take over all radio and television stations. It’s not possible to buy the universe. It is possible to customize park benches so no-one can sit on them. I’m a ghost from the ’60s. There’s no public culture. There’s pop art, fake artists, high and low and upside down. Fine art. Foul art. Nothing art. Man’s art. Degenerate art. Degenerate structures. Art politicized. My hands smell of war. There was nothing I could do. There was only me. Or rather, I mean – there wasn’t even me. There’s no organization called S.C.U.M. There was nothing. Maybe that’s enough.

  SISTER WHITE: The trial is getting closer. You mustn’t be afraid, my dear. Andy Warhol has decided not to appear in court.

  VALERIE: I blame myself entirely. I regard this institution as a pathological condition. I submit to an illness. The hospital illness. We can call it hospital-acquired infection, if that’s easier.

  SISTER WHITE: There are so many ways out of here.

  VALERIE: I have nothing to get out of. This is my life. I don’t want to escape my life. I am Valerie Solanas.

  SISTER WHITE: Only those who can accept all their sides can be happy. Evil exists everywhere and in us all. It’s about the ability or inability, as the case may be, to accommodate pain. A thin line separates us, just like thin skin between people. There is no point in denying one’s dark sides.

  VALERIE: My darkest sides are my most beautiful.

  SISTER WHITE: I wish I could help you.

  VALERIE: I’ll make an artwork out of blood and sperm. They’ll love it. The flimflam artists. The plagiarists. The happy, happy whore.

  SISTER WHITE: The clinic can help you leave all that behind. Drugs. Delusions. Prostitution. Destructiveness.

  VALERIE: Sex is a very solitary experience, not at all creative. The historical absence of men in prostitution. Pacta sunt servanda. La dolce vita. This is how it is. Do what you will with my mangy goddamn cunt.

  SISTER WHITE: The park is full of happy patients. It may not help you at all to wear your civilian clothes. Patient clothes create a sense of community, a collective feeling, of being in a group.

  VALERIE: Collective guilt. Group guilt. Buyers and sellers. Woman’s body and soul. In the so-called contract there are no equal parties. They differ on all points. Her social position: none. Age: often young. Housing: none. Education: usually none. Background: none. Social network: none. Drug addiction: always.

  SISTER WHITE: Of not being alone in the desert.

  VALERIE: I take the entire blame. One single telephone call. One single kiss I forgot to send from New York.

  SISTER WHITE: When you were given the chance to go home, you demanded that all the other mental patients should be allowed to go too. When you didn’t get what you wanted, you chose to stay here with them, but you demanded your own clothes. You arranged an orchestra in the park, danced with the girls one at a time all night, finagled permission for all the patients to have cotton candy and beer.

  VALERIE: Twenty dollars. The whole repertoire. The price list. No censorship for tiny God-fearing marzipan ears. Ten for a fuck. Five for a blow job. Two for a hand job. I don’t sell my soul. My pussy isn’t my soul. Pussy soul. Cock soul. I’m an adult, I know what I’m doing. Thirty-two years in exile. All illness can be treated. It’s possible to live forever. If someone is missing, someone else is taken out in her place. There’s no point in trying to escape your destiny.

  The Factory, Later in March 1968

  You sit on that wooden chair again, straightening your clothes and working on your make-up. The spotlight is directed at your face, so you cannot see, but Andy’s assistants move around in the light. Andy is late and no-one answers when you shout. A make-up girl arrives and powders your face, someone else passes with a glass of wine; their T.V.-powder always makes you sneeze. When the girl has finished her work, you pick up a handkerchief and wipe off her make-up. The make-up girl starts again.

  VALERIE: Andy fucking loser. Am I here to get made up or to make this film?

  (Silence.)

  VALERIE: Hello.

  (Silence.)

  (Morrissey emerges from the light.)

  MORRISSEY: Sorry, Valerie. We’re shooting over here. Would you like to hear some music while you’re waiting?

  VALERIE: Sure. Whatever. Please. Go for it. Don’t feel awkward.

  MORRISSEY (puts on a cassette player): It’s the Velvet Underground.

  VALERIE: Aha.

  MORRISSEY: Do you know them?

  VALERIE: No.

  MORRISSEY: They’re the ’60s’ greatest—

  VALERIE: —Thanks for the information. It all sounds incredibly interesting, but I’m a bit busy over here with my make-up. What’s Andy doing? Has he got his hand stuck in his pants?

  MORRISSEY: Andy’s preparing to film.

  VALERIE: I can imagine.

  MORRISSEY: I don’t know why you think Andy’s interested in you. You’re not the first freak to gain admittance here.

  VALERIE: No, I can see that.


  MORRISSEY: Here’s a tip – show a little respect. For Andy. For his art. For the Factory. For all of us, for example. Great art is being produced here.

  VALERIE: Yes, so you say. Great art, I’ll remember that. I only have to bow and scrape and tip my cap. It’s fantastic . . . (bows and scrapes into the spotlight) . . . for “Great Art”. Wherever it chooses to be today . . . (looks around) . . . Yeah. No matter where it is, I’ll bow and scrape. Do you have a sandwich and something to drink?

  MORRISSEY: I don’t want to be hard on you, but you won’t last long in the Factory.

  VALERIE: We’ll see. Maybe Andy’s tired of brainless cock-suckers and illiterates.

  MORRISSEY: You’re no woman, Valerie. You’re a disease.

  (Andy appears out of the light.)

  MORRISSEY: I was just saying Valerie looks fantastic today.

  VALERIE: Like a disease. That’s the nicest thing I’ve heard in a long time.

  ANDY: Thanks, Morrissey. We don’t need you any longer.

  VALERIE: Thanks, Morrissey. We’ll be delighted to be spared the sight of you.

  MORRISSEY: Let me know if you need me, Andy.

  *

  Andy sets up his camera. Morrissey makes vomiting actions in your direction. You give him your prettiest smile and wave to him while Andy starts his whirring little film camera again.

  VALERIE: He’s really nice. That Morrissey. Your associate.

  ANDY: He’s O.K. I want you to carry on talking about yourself, Valerie. Or, I reckon we’ll start with the manifesto. Would you like to read some of the text?

  VALERIE: I’ve thought of something, Andy.

  (Silence.)

  VALERIE: Andy?

  ANDY: Carry on talking, Valerie. I’m listening.

  VALERIE: I need a leader for S.C.U.M.’s Men’s Auxiliary. You’d be perfect, Andy. Your contacts with newspapers and television. You could be the cover boy on Vogue and talk about your work in the auxiliary. You love attention, you love being on television painting your nails.