Consciousness, Literature and the Arts

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Volume 13 Number 1, April 2012

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THE BOY FROM CODY

by P.K. Brask

(It’s the summer of 1956.  Jackson Pollock sits on the floor of his studio drinking, continually. One beer is followed by the next.  Several empty bottles lie scattered about. Charlie Parker in the BG. The laughter of a young woman breaks through from time to time. A rear projection shows Pollock’s painting “Search” from 1955.)

JACKSON POLLOCK (takes a gulp, then:) I fucken hate her.  Fucken thinks she’s a painter.  Doesn’t know how to fucken live a painting. (Beat) No one’s got a better eye, though – I’ll give her that much.  And “Bird Talk” really does work. It works. (Yells.) But for fuckssake just leave me be! (Beat.) They should all just leave me be.  I can’t paint with all their goddamned yammering. She doesn’t understand what I’m trying to say.  (He tries to get up. Can’t. Sits.) Intensity, please!  Turn up the intensity!  I’m fucken’ croaking here.  And some intimacy would be nice.  (Big gulp.)  The problem is what to do when I’m not painting…

(Whispers) I feel I will make an artist of some kind.

Colors – on the move.  Being one, Krishnamurti said.  All one.  I hate flowers – and sometimes tables.  Showers are good and so is digging for clams with your toes. (Beat.) Drinking is --- drinking.  It’s what cowboys do. (Beat.) I am nature and I want to be with Ruth, it is in me to want that. I have to be me. And Lee can just lump it.  I mean the three of us could be swell together, if only Lee wasn’t so goddamned conventional.  (Yells.) Come back here Ruth! Come back to Daddy! (Nothing happens. He drinks. Young woman’s laughter in the BG.)  Lee never was beautiful, but god her body, her body was a gift from the gods.  What I’d give to have those tits back in my hands.  Ruth’s are okay but Lee’s, man… (He closes his eyes and sighs loudly and lasciviously.)  Without Lee I wouldn’t have survived.  I’d be dead if it wasn’t for her. (Beat.) Ruth could live in the big house and Lee could move over to the shack.  They’ll like each other once we all...  Lee’s just jealous because of the age difference. (Beat.) I should have gone with her to Paris.  I’ll send her some flowers tomorrow. (Big gulp.)  “She Wolf” (He chuckles.)

“The best painter of a whole generation,” I mean what the hell am I supposed to do with that?!  After that everything is retrospective.  Thanks a lot Clem.  Whatever I can do in return… to make you wobbly.  (Raises a freshly opened bottle.) You’ve been generous, Clem, I’ll give you that much:  “first,” “best,” “greatest,” “most powerful,” “strongest,” “most original,” most important,” “the best painter of a whole generation,” and honestly, Clem (Big swallow.) I live for those words – and whenever you or someone else use them about any other abstract painter I fucken hate it.  (Beat.) I live for those words.  But I can’t live with them.  (Yells.) FUUUUUUUUUUCK!

(Pause. Big successive gulps. Then, calmly:)

Ah, come sit beside me

Open and free.

As the even flow of clear sunlight,

So shall thine understanding come to thee.

The burdensome fear of anxious waiting

Shall go from thee as the waters recede before the rushing winds.

Ah, come sit beside me

(He leans back closes his eyes, remembers Ojai.)

I fucken wish.  (Big gulp.)

Oh, Ruth, I love that swing in your lower back.  To touch it just so with a finger and then run my hands over your fleshy ass and grab it. But why all the talk, talk, talk?  You want to talk about the future and becoming the next Mrs. Pollock and talk, talk, talk.  What the fuck is a man supposed to do. Why do I have to choose?  I want you both.  Why not? Let’s stop all the talking and start doing.  I once had a therapist who told me we should break down all conventional relationships.  Sleep around - start the whole thing over. Klein, yeah, Klein - said that we all need to express ourselves – freely - and that the root to creativity is to act on our sexual impulses. Free love is on the horizon, folks, and it’ll make us all happier and more creative. Well, let’s just fucken get on with it. I’ll sleep with Ruth, I sleep with Lee and we’ll all be HAPPYYYYY. And paint and fuck and go to the beach and dig for clams and cook great dinners – well you two can.  I’ll mow the lawn.  You’ll give and I’ll take. (He tries to get up.  Can’t. Rests on all four.) 

I’m fucken the dog here.  (Laughs uproariously.  The sort of thing only a drunk finds funny.) I want my, mummyyyyyyy!  Jesus, Lee, what the hell am I going to do without you? (Manages to sit down.)  I can’t paint anymore.  I can’t live anymore.  (Beat.) I’ll send her flowers tomorrow over there in gay Pareeee. The city of lights and great paintings. (Big gulp. Then another, and a third.  He smiles.  Mission accomplished.) Oh, yeah, I feel the quite come on now.  (He lies down on his back, drinks and almost drowns.  Turns over, coughing.)  Jesus!  Arghhh.  (He takes a big gulp while sitting.) Oh that’s better. Here they come again, gentle waves creeping up on the beach.  Soothing, smoothing.  (He lies down slowly).  Yes, that’s what I’m talking about.  Ahhh.  Yes, Ruth, come and lie beside me, open and free, as the even flow….. (He begins to fall asleep. A wet stain spreads on his pants around his crotch. Whispers:) It’s not working.

THE END