The Faculty of Dreams

by Sara Stridsberg

  HOTEL PORTER: Are you O.K., Miss?

  VALERIE: I’m very much O.K. Thanks for asking, but where the hell is Maurice Girodias? Has he checked out of New York?

  HOTEL PORTER: Mr Girodias is working in his room.

  VALERIE: Which room?

  HOTEL PORTER: We can’t say.

  VALERIE: Has he changed rooms?

  HOTEL PORTER: Yes, Miss. He thought it was too dark in the last one.

  VALERIE: Why hasn’t he said something?

  HOTEL PORTER: I don’t know, Miss.

  VALERIE: I don’t know here and I don’t know there. Miss hither and thither. My name is Valerie Solanas. Would you be so kind as to tell me what you do know, instead of overloading me with everything you don’t.

  HOTEL PORTER: You can’t run up and down the stairs anymore.

  VALERIE: I have to speak to Mr Girodias.

  HOTEL PORTER: You have to go home and sleep. You’re confused, Miss.

  VALERIE: I have no home. I’ve never been clearer.

  Mission District, San Francisco, May 1968

  You Have Been Thrown Out of the Chelsea Hotel and Taken a Plane to San Francisco

  Cosmogirl would never have frequented a women’s café by choice, but Cosmo is no longer here, so new rules apply. The dogs in Dolores Park play under the trees and on the hill down to the Women’s Building you change your mind. The sun is blinding, but Daddy’s Favorite Girl, Gloria, has already seen you and there is no way you can turn back. And in your silver coat you are too early, only a few girls on their own have arrived, the coffee makers and one or two others. The boss (we have no hierarchies here, no leaders) gives out jobs and makes you draw the female symbol on some moronic leaflets.

  *

  The girls touch each other’s hair the whole time, braiding and stroking. But the silver coat does not fit in here, nor the dress, nor the boots that gape and smell of sweaty feet. You do not fit in at all.

  *

  The plan is that you will sit in a circle and hold hands, but your hand is perspiring and cold and you have to let go all the time to light more cigarettes. The female symbol made of plush indicates who can speak, but you have no idea what to say when it is your turn, you have absolutely nothing to say next to these four-eyed goody two-shoes. How nice of you to come, Valerie, we would be so pleased if you came back, would love to know what your opinion is, what you think, please tell us about your manifesto.

  VALERIE: I want to emphasize that I’m speaking about all men. They’ll screw any snaggletoothed hag as soon as they get the chance and, furthermore, pay for it. They’re obsessed with screwing, they’ll swim through a river of snot and wade nostril-deep through a mile of vomit if they think there’ll be a friendly pussy waiting for them.

  DADDY’S FAVOURITE GIRL GLORIA: A person’s biology is not her destiny. There are men who are better feminists than women are. And it frightens me, all this business with girdles, corsets and heels that are way too high to run in. I think you should consider that, Valerie. We’re not judging you. I just think you should consider it.

  VALERIE: Cosmo and I are America’s first intellectual whores. And if I don’t do it, someone else will.

  DADDY’S FAVOURITE GIRL GLORIA: If you had a little boy then, Valerie, would you hate him?

  VALERIE: I’d never have a little boy.

  DADDY’S FAVOURITE GIRL GLORIA: But if you did.

  VALERIE: It would never happen.

  DADDY’S FAVOURITE GIRL GLORIA: Use your imagination.

  VALERIE: I would love him like a daughter. I would raise him as a woman, dress him in frocks and in the evenings dance with him in the kitchen. Let him have lipstick outside his lips if he wanted. If not. No lipstick. I would love him.

  DADDY’S FAVOURITE GIRL GLORIA: His biology is therefore not his destiny.

  VALERIE: Man is a machine. A walking dildo. An emotional parasite. A biological accident. Maleness is a deficiency disease. Man’s biology is his destiny. I love black dresses. I regard it as a political act to wear lipstick outside my lips.

  DADDY’S FAVOURITE GIRL GLORIA: That’s ridiculous, Valerie. It’ll lead nowhere. Without men, we’ll have no women’s movement. And to dress in the way you do leads nowhere at all. It can give men the impression that you’re—

  VALERIE (stands hastily): O.K. Thanks very much for nothing. All that about the women’s movement etcetera, etcetera, should be great. Good luck with your project for the future. It’ll certainly be very nice on your mixed demonstrations. I don’t have time to discuss men and male children and clothing styles. Lace or plush. One or the other. I have better things to do.

  DADDY’S FAVOURITE GIRL GLORIA: Can’t you read a little bit from your text?

  VALERIE: Definitely not. But for six hundred dollars, I’ll gladly get to work in your panties.

  New York, May 1968

  Back with Nowhere to Live, the Advance from Olympia Press Has Run Out

  You have a lot of shopping to do. If Andy is investigating the boundaries between art and shopping, you intend to investigate the boundaries between the abyss and shopping. Department stores are beautiful, shining palaces in the darkness. What you need now is a ship to embark. You have to buy lipstick and books for Cosmogirl; her lipstick was called Cherry Bomb and it was sticky and tasted of sugar.

  *

  The shop assistants help you test lipstick and perfume on your wrists. They are blond and inspire confidence. But you walk too quickly from one to another and the security guards want to escort you to the exit. And it is so difficult to understand why everything that was dazzling with possibilities has been turned into nothing. Andy Warhol is obviously an ignorant illiterate, because he will not read “Up Your Ass”, but just keeps looking at pictures in his imbecile fashion magazines. And all you want is to send one damn book to the desert sometime so that Dorothy can finally have something sensible to read.

  SECURITY GUARDS: You have to leave. We’ll accompany you to the door.

  VALERIE: Why?

  SECURITY GUARDS: You have to leave the department store immediately.

  VALERIE: I’m shopping.

  SECURITY GUARDS: We’ll accompany you to the door.

  VALERIE: Why do I have to leave?

  SECURITY GUARDS: You’re in too much of a hurry in here. You’re dashing from one counter to the next. It makes the other customers uneasy when you race around like that.

  VALERIE: I’m shopping for lipstick and books for Cosmogirl. And a powder compact for Silk Boy. A little fuck-wig for Dorothy.

  SECURITY GUARDS: It doesn’t matter what you’re shopping for. You still have to leave.

  VALERIE: You can buy the manifesto for half a dollar.

  SECURITY GUARDS: Come with us, now.

  VALERIE: I’m a writer.

  SECURITY GUARDS: You’re switching between the sales staff too much. It makes people nervous. It’s time for this shopping trip to end, Miss.

  VALERIE: Valerie Jean Solanas. I studied for a doctorate for several years at the University of Maryland. Almost a PhD in Psychology. Almost a professor in the art of ruling the universe without letting on.

  SECURITY GUARDS: This way, Miss Solanas. The main entrance, Miss Solanas.

  VALERIE: I’m an author.

  SECURITY GUARDS: It’s time for this shopping trip to end now.

  VALERIE: I’ve traveled here and there. I’ve done this and that. For a while I lived at the Chelsea Hotel. I mix with artists, writers, publishers, big game, hotshots, high-class prostitutes and wealthy people with hot parties.

  SECURITY GUARDS: We’ll go with you to the door, Miss.

  VALERIE: I’m writing a novel for Olympia Press based on the manifesto.

  SECURITY GUARDS: You’re welcome back another day, Miss.

  VALERIE: I got an advance of six hundred dollars.

  SECURITY GUARDS: Sure. That’s great. As long as you leave the store.

  VALERIE: Hey-ho. Lipstick and literature.

  SECURITY GUARDS (push you through the
revolving door at the entrance): Thanks, that’s enough from you.

  VALERIE: Cosmogirl calls all the time from the underworld. It’s torture, I can’t sleep anymore. She rings and whispers that being unloved is an act of terror and giant tears roll out of the receiver and I’ve moved from the Chelsea to Hotel Early and it’s absolutely alright, but it’s absolutely wrong. I loved the Chelsea, but I’m sure it wasn’t mutual. They don’t like me there. As soon as I settle down in the lobby, there they are, asking me to leave. They’re planning a summer party. I think it’ll be fantastic. They won’t invite me, but you’d definitely be invited.

  SECURITY GUARDS: Sure, sure. Thanks for coming, Miss.

  VALERIE: Cosmogirl says she needs more lipstick. She has my Pink Panther and she’s very particular. She wants me to hang myself in Central Park or drown myself in the docks. Negotiations are currently ongoing with the underworld to find an alternative course of action that would mean I might possibly survive.

  Chelsea Hotel, Still May 1968

  By the time Maurice finally arrives, with a haughty “It’s O.K.” to the porter and no time to talk, you have waited outside in the street for half a day and the son-of-a-bitch doorman has called in reinforcements. And nobody harbors the idea anymore that you were the most wonderful guest the hotel ever had and no-one remembers your favorite doorman, the polite one, but never mind. But Maurice has to stop to discuss the novel and the future with you, it is the very least a female mammal who knows she is on the way down can expect. Anything else would be indecent, unnatural.

  VALERIE: I’ve been writing all night. I need more money.

  MAURICE: Hello, Valerie.

  VALERIE: I need more money for the novel.

  MAURICE: Nice to see you, Valerie.

  VALERIE: I can suck your dirty cock, if you like.

  MAURICE: Thanks, but no, Valerie.

  VALERIE: Have you spoken to Andy?

  MAURICE: No, I have no contact with Andy Warhol, as you know.

  VALERIE: I know you’ve discussed “Up Your Ass”. I know you’ve discussed my work. I know you laugh at me behind my back.

  MAURICE: I don’t know Andy Warhol. I know nothing about his play.

  VALERIE: It’s my play.

  MAURICE: Sorry, Valerie. You don’t need to worry about your play. There’s hardly anyone interested.

  VALERIE: I need a bigger advance. I need to discuss my work. Can I sleep in your hotel room?

  MAURICE: Definitely not.

  VALERIE: I can suck your ugly cock again.

  MAURICE: Move. I’m on my way to the airport.

  VALERIE: Maybe we could put on a show, it might earn us some cash.

  MAURICE: You’re disgusting.

  VALERIE: You said I had talent. You said we should work together.

  MAURICE: And now I regret it.

  VALERIE: We have a contract.

  MAURICE: That doesn’t matter. You need to get ahold of yourself. Stop the amphetamines, for example. Then we can talk about it. It’s impossible to talk to you when you’re like this.

  VALERIE: All you’re bothered about are your horrible Lolita books and sex books.

  MAURICE: You’re not well, Valerie. Those pills you’re taking make you look like an idiot, standing there licking your lips like a cow. Stop taking them, and then we’ll see.

  VALERIE: I’ve never felt better. The sun’s shining. I’m writing. The natural order of things. The annihilation of men.

  MAURICE: Goodbye, Valerie. I’m going to work now, Valerie. Good luck with the novel. I’m looking forward to reading it.

  Bristol Hotel, April 23, 1988

  NARRATOR: And the question of identity?

  VALERIE: Suspended identity. What’s the use in being a little boy, if you’re going to grow up and become a man? Giving up isn’t the answer, fucking up is.

  NARRATOR: I only wish I knew how to fuck all this up.

  VALERIE: Artificial historiography. The story of the whore and mental illness. Of the American underwater population.

  NARRATOR: And the question of identity?

  VALERIE: Non-identity is the answer. Non-female females. Non-lesbian lesbians. A non-lower-class lower class. Peonies smell like magnolias. Dogs smell like dogs. And gardens smell different at different times of the year. There are no given identities, there are no women, there are no men, no boys, no girls. There’s only a little puppet show. An endless shitty play with a shitty script.

  NARRATOR: So it mustn’t end like this?

  VALERIE: You’ll have to write something new, baby-writer, you’ll have to find new endings. There’ll be new rose gardens. Dorothy burns down a rose garden and the flowers that grow again are entirely different. A garden full of pussies, roses, fragments of text and oblivion. Now we’ll close the literary factory for the time being.

  (Silence.)

  NARRATOR: Valerie.

  VALERIE: Yes?

  NARRATOR: I can’t stop thinking about you.

  VALERIE: It’ll pass, you’ll see. Go home and finish this novel now.

  NARRATOR: The novel’s just shit.

  VALERIE: That’s fine. Go now, baby-writer. It’s going to be a nice day out there.

  Max’s Kansas City, New York, May 1968

  Summer arrives in New York in earnest. The wind chases with you along the avenues, amphetamine pumps in your blood and through the half-light. Your heart keeps up its beating like a Manhattan church bell. You pass out on a rooftop after a night with sharks, and when you wake up again, the wind has taken all your papers and one shark has stolen your turquoise Swintec. Andy does not answer your calls anymore. Maurice never calls back. At the Chelsea you are stopped before you come in from the street and Cosmo makes her fevered calls from the underworld no matter where you are, no matter whether a phone booth is nearby.

  *

  You no longer sleep, because she prefers to pay you a visit when your guard is down and you cannot defend yourself. At the end of every night she is waiting for you with her pearl necklace and her pale eyes and all she wants (all she has ever wanted) is for you to drop by in the underworld. And if you have really forgiven her, why have you not been to see her?

  *

  You spend entire days at Max’s Kansas City, waiting for Andy to appear and drink a toast to the production of “Up Your Ass”. Meanwhile a thin, cigar-smoking professor and a projectionist jerk off on your face in the toilet. When Andy finally arrives with a new wig, he is nervous and forgets to say hello. And he has that way of sliding through the walls and being swallowed up by the shadowy presence of his companions.

  Hey you, hey you, hey you, Andy, what do you know about torture and histrionics?

  MORRISSEY: Andy doesn’t want to speak to you. He’s tired of your telephone terrorism.

  VALERIE: Thanks for the information. But I’d like to speak to Andy . . . (to Andy who is hiding behind Morrissey) . . . Andy Stupid Warhol?

  MORRISSEY: You’re vile, Valerie. Everybody hates you. No-one gives a fuck what you say. We’re laughing at you in the Factory. Andy’s laughing. Everyone’s laughing at you.

  VALERIE: Read my manifesto. That’ll tell you who I am. I was in “I, a Man”. Played myself. Had a role in “I, a Man”. Didn’t I, Andy? You said you liked it. Didn’t you, Andy? I made up my lines myself.

  MORRISSEY: There isn’t anyone in this city who’s not laughing at you.

  VALERIE: My instincts tell me to dig chicks. Why should my standards be lower than theirs? Well, not yours. Your standards are abysmal. Man-lover. Faggot standards.

  (Silence.)

  VALERIE: I just want to know whether you’ve read my play. I want to know if you intend to produce it.

  (Silence.)

  VALERIE: Hello? Andy? If that bad Muzak you listen to has given you hearing problems, we can use sign language. The sign for lesbian is very easy. A quick stroke of the lips . . . (signs in the air) . . . Do you understand me now, Andy?

  (Silence.)

  VALERIE: Do you have a dollar,
Andy? I need money for a hamburger.

  MORRISSEY: It doesn’t matter how much you talk, you’ll still be filthy and vile.

  VALERIE: That Johnny Carson show you lured me onto, Andy, the one where you sat painting your nails and calling yourself Miss Warhola, it was a disaster for me. I went on there to talk about the manifesto. There were bright spotlights pointing at me and spiteful laughter from the audience. That Carson guy was a killing machine under the T.V. powder, and all the workers in the studio were snickering. Then they cut me out. The show was never broadcast. I’m glad I refused to wear their disgusting powder. That whole program is just a means for male fake artists and male plagiarists to lie about their work.

  MORRISSEY: And what does that have to do with us?

  VALERIE: I don’t know, but being unloved is an act of terror.

  *

  Morrissey tries to move you and there is nothing you hate more than someone trying to move you. The only thing you hate more is someone imitating your voice.

  MORRISSEY (imitates your voice): It was really nothing special. Louis used to screw me in the porch seat after Dorothy had gone into town. The fabric on the seat cover was covered with roses and I counted the roses and the stars while I rented out my little pussy for no money. And I don’t know why, but some chewing gum got stuck in my hair every time. It must have fallen out of my mouth. We used to cut out the stickiest snarls afterwards and he would chain-smoke. The strange thing is I sometimes miss the electricity and that tingling sensation in my legs and arms.

  *

  Sounds of crowd laughter and individual sniggers. Andy laughs like a desert animal and tries to disguise it behind a copy of Vogue. The ceiling tilts toward you at alarming speed and in a flash you duck.

  VALERIE: They’re my words.

  VIVA: You were even disgusting when you were a child, Valerie. Men wanted to screw you, because you were disgusting by the time you were seven. No wonder you’re a lesbian.

  *

  Andy gets up and walks away. He never needs to say anything; like fleeting shadows they move behind him, picking up his Vogue magazine and his cigarettes. And he does not answer when you shout after him.