Darcie Dennigan - A Play and a Poem
SEX WITH MONSANTO
(after hiromi ito)
I.
at a large outdoor bus station
a woman is backing up a few steps and accidentally steps on someone's foot
woman, without looking back:
oh sorry, sir
seed:
i am a seed
not a sir, a seed
woman:
oh god, a sperm?
seed:
no, canola
woman:
oh. can you die?
seed:
no
woman, interested:
yeah?
seed:
yes, i'm one of those seeds that cannot die
woman:
yeah, i read about those. No matter the poison
the seed begins doing a lovely and strange ballet.
his feet are stuck to the ground but his body is otherwise moving, like in a wind.
the woman watches him.
maybe 2 minutes pass
woman:
you're doing it right now huh?
seed:
what? growing?
woman:
no... dodging! dodging poisons.
surviving!
seed:
yeah, i'm a seed
woman waits, thinks. then she takes off her shoes, pants, and underwear
woman:
come inside me
no reaction from seed, who ripples in the wind/bus exhaust
woman:
this bus stop is wholly inhospitable!
all these plastic benches melting in the sun,
giving off god knows what fumes, all the particulates from the buses--
and even if you're surviving everything that's killing me right now,
they'll mow you down.
you're a weed and they'll mow you down.
seed:
i'm a seed.
i can start over.
woman:
buddy the bees are all dead. there's tar for miles. nothing's getting you to a cornfield.
seed:
except the right bus.
(quiet)
seed:
even if you are in heat, you don't really want to have my canola baby. nothing will beat my genetic engineering.
there's no chance you'd give birth to anything but a plant.
woman:
fine. wonderful
i'm not in heat. i'm a cool pragmatist
i see very clearly that your seed--you-- would make a baby with a chance of surviving this whole--- situation
seed:
you'll feed me, water me, farm me when it's time
woman:
yes
she climbs onto a bus bench and then on top of his head, her vulva straddling his seed scalp
woman:
i don't want to enjoy this but i may not be able to help it.
II.
the seed and a seed baby stand together at the same bus station
seed:
i'm sorry
he says that with deep shame
seed baby:
nothing?
seed:
nothing. i'm so sorry
after a while
seed:
all i want to do is die too.
seed baby starts to dance.
his feet are not planted in the ground/ he can move everywhere/on bench etc.
he dances for rest of scene
seed baby:
even if I--
seed:
you'll flourish
seed baby, looking at the concrete:
what if I--
seed:
no soil necessary
nothing will stop you
seed baby:
and where is my mother?
seed:
she got run over by a bus
seed baby, after a while, calling out to the wind:
mother, mother, congratulations on your destruction!
from
The F-Scale: A test of the authoritarian personality
How disposed are you to think in rigid categories?
i hate men.
i mean, this morning. also last night. Also yesterday afternoon when i was
in the middle of making these mini custard cakes. For dessert.
("but niobe had thought of eating, when she was weary of tears")
Also my sister had gotten me this cake cutter. Little nice round cakes cut right
out. Kind of like a cake guillotine. i was bringing down the blade when i saw
my husband shudder. This contraption is really too large to fit a (his) penis.
("no worries!") But balls, yes. When you've been able to really work them
into that round robust shape, balls would fit nicely inside a mini-cake guillotine.
(need i mention the cumliness of this custard) but no no nope. That's using
the means of a man. MIGHT. (Men are Israeli snipers and women are dead
Palestinians) Might (said a woman) is that which makes a thing of anybody who
comes under its sway (blade). I have been made a thing by a man (men are
penisguns and women walk around with their hands up) (Don't shoot!),
been made a thing by a man's fist coming down hard (how rigid are you?)
on a kitchen table. ("Not all men!") (Stereotyping is laziness of thought, dear,
which is ALSO indicative of an authoritarian personality.) It's true: those who kill
(slowly, slowly, over decades even) (happy anniversary honey!!!!!!!!) were also
killed in their turn, were also little boys (things) shuddering in other kitchens
after different fistpounds... (i.e., all men are children) Pacifiers to all of them,
to free up women's breasts for better things (i.e., ______________?)!
Though if i am to eschew might, i must (because "her particular strength lies
in her charms" --Rousseau), put my own breasts in the cake guillotine too.
("Qu'ils mangent de la brioche!”) (Which Marie Antoinette never said) (Rousseau
just said she did) (All the great temples are held up by penises) But have i not
pounded my own fist down? Have i not been man-like and used my might?
Since we're speaking French, lemme tell you that, in a guillotine's workings,
as essential as the blade is the mouton. Which is some kind of weight. But also
the word for lamb. But also the word for meat. (you may ask yourself, well, how
did i get here?) Let me be not domineering nor a sheep neither! In other words,
i love to be fucked, but i hate the man inside me. (Is that too mighty a
statement? i'll cut it out.)
for MKA and KC