The Faculty of Dreams

by Sara Stridsberg

In the summer of 1977 you travel to Atlantic City in Virginia to surf. Miss America contests are taking place in the city at that time. You do not do much surfing. Instead, on the lookout for Miss America contestants, you go back and forth along the boardwalk, selling sex and losing your money in the casinos.

  Arithmetic and Surfing III

  At the end of the ’70s you are sometimes seen at Tompkins Square Park and St Mark’s Place in Manhattan. You are always hungry, dirty and alone. You are always selling sex and always trying to sell the manifesto.

  *

  At the beginning of the ’80s you hitch to San Francisco to surf in the Pacific Ocean. You never reach the sea. You end up instead in the Tenderloin red-light district.

  *

  You never return to Ventor and Georgia after 1951. Dorothy and you never see each other again.

  New York State Prison for Women in Bedford Hills, 1969–1971

  I’m scared of the other inmates, Sister White . . .

  Are you still there, Sister White . . .?

  SISTER WHITE: I’m always here.

  VALERIE: When I was a teenage whore. I hoped I would die. I’ve seen your hate. Leave my house. I don’t want those underpants. I don’t want those dresses.

  SISTER WHITE: Valerie . . . it’s not me you’re talking to.

  VALERIE: You suck everything out of me. You take my energy. You’re so much bigger than me. You’re so much bigger than me. Watch me disappear. Darling. I’m destroying you. I’m destroying you. Darling. I can’t save you. Darling. I want you to be on fire. I want to burn every bridge. I’ve burned them all. I regret burning all the bridges. Look at me now. You’re not going to miss me when I’m gone. No-one is going to miss me when I disappear from the story.

  SISTER WHITE: There is help, Valerie. There are white pills and white-clad nurses. I’m here. And nurses all smoke, more than most. There’s a perception that we don’t, that on the inside we’re clean and white. I’ve always smoked. I want to get out of here.

  VALERIE: Where the hell were you when I needed you? You didn’t want to look at me. Let me out. What could I do in you, apart from fall? I never wanted to have you. I didn’t know where to go in you.

  SISTER WHITE: I dream about living somewhere quite different. In a different state, perhaps. By the ocean, maybe.

  VALERIE: You suicidal goddamn bitch. You suicidal goddamn bitch. Leave her in peace. Let her go. And you did let her go. Her heels clipped the moonbeam. She laughed and smiled. And you let her go. All this has been wasted. Where were you when I needed you? Don’t ask me again. Don’t ever speak to me again.

  SISTER WHITE: You’re strong, Valerie. You’re strong and bright. A ray of light. There are dead people lying in the desert, you said. You laughed and flew straight into the light.

  VALERIE: I’m a killing machine. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. I kill. Open him up, look inside. I’ll bury you, darling. I’ll bury you deep within me.

  SISTER WHITE: You had your bag of notes. We weren’t allowed to touch it. We didn’t touch it. Your eyes flicked all over the walls. We kept asking you: Should we call someone? There was no-one we could call.

  VALERIE: Hey you, hey you, hey you, my beloved in the desert. Don’t let anyone look into your eyes. You only have to die and smile at me. You know I want you. Here’s what you get when you fall. Why don’t you just wave goodbye? Heroin. Amphetamine. Cocaine. Who’s the daughter of suicide? I’m in your eyes. I’m on fire. Now I’m on fire. Don’t shut your eyes. Don’t shut your eyes. Your pulse. You’re sucking my scars and wounds. It’s best if you open your eyes. When I come, it’s best if you open your eyes. I’m coming now. I’m just getting older, just charged up. Charged up now. I’m a killing machine.

  SISTER WHITE: You were incoherent. Your voice was high-pitched, cracking. Someone had left you. You said it had been a holiday, a defeat, a thunderstorm.

  VALERIE: Is she beautiful on the inside? Is she beautiful from the back? Is she ugly on the inside? Is she ugly from the back? Promise her everything, even if she’s ugly on the inside. That grotesque girl rabbit. So smooth and beautiful on the inside.

  SISTER WHITE: There’s no more mist in the park now. We can go out. We can walk between the trees. The other patients aren’t there any longer. I can hold your hand if you like.

  VALERIE: The blond rabbit girl has a dead rabbit in her rabbit handbag. The blond girl dissects the lab director’s little family dog. Family values. Wonderlands. Wonder girls. She carries on ringing and terrorizing from the underworld. Being unloved is an act of terror. When they’ve taken what they want, they never want it again.

  SISTER WHITE: You laughed and flew straight into the light.

  VALERIE: I laughed and flew straight into the light. I’m a suicidal goddamn whore. Will the story soon be over? Is Dr Ruth Cooper coming back soon? Cosmogirl? Dorothy? Andy Warhol, is he playing dead or alive?

  Bristol Hotel, April 25, 1988, the Last Day

  VALERIE: I think it’s raining again.

  NARRATOR: It is April.

  VALERIE: What day is it?

  NARRATOR: The twenty-fifth of April 1988.

  VALERIE: Whereabouts are we?

  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 dream of 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 hold your horses.

  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’l
l 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 versus 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’ play. He was a kleptomaniac, he lived as a parasite on other people’s . . . wreckage and madcap ideas . . . a parasite on their blood-stained 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 final hours. If that is not possible, a nurse should care for the dying person. She should not be left 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 improbable 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 impaired. 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, 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. Afterwards (after death), the pupils are dilated an
d 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, breathing, 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 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 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.