Conversation · Dolores Dei

"It’s about taking care of yourself. Life is not a competition."

"Wrong. It is a competition. And I’m going to win."

"I can’t do this talk again..." She sounds like she’s going to cry -- but not in a good way.

"You're right. It's all fucking shit."

"No, it’s not... I’m glad you’re finally taking care of yourself financially. I really am, but you need to do it for yourself. Not me. I don’t need it. I need to run-run-run to the aerodrome!"

You failed. This failed. The hostile takeover. The dawn raid. Paper made out of broken, twisted trees... You're just insane, insane and gone. Even six billion won't fix you if she’s not there.

"You have a new guy, right? He's fucking poor compared to me. I'm gonna INCINERATE him. I have more money than any human being should have. It's SCARY how rich I am. I’m richer than GOD!"

"You're yelling, Harry." She stops. "I can't do this. I can't be afraid of your emotions anymore. I can't talk about mad paper or any of it. Please just let me go."

"I've been reading books. I've got lots of new ideas about ideology and capital."

"That sounds nice, Harry, but I really don't want to argue about ideology with you right now..."

This won’t be an argument. It will be emotional and true.

"You don't know what I found! There are these beautiful things that can happen. Mysterious -- below matter, even."

"There was a time I would have loved to hear about them. I would have hung on every word. I would have made you feel smart, just, hopeful. But now is not that time. Now we are in hell and in hell there is only the aerodrome. And boring disagreement."

Hear that? That's the sound of meaninglessness. Meaning, ideas, theory -- all that has evaporated. Now there is only dry silence -- the sound of a mind made up. Just like four billion others. I am so sorry.

"Listen, please. It helped me realise I can’t let you go because loving you is impossible. You're like a star I should follow."

A long sigh, one millennia in the making.

Apricot scented chewing gum brushes your cheek.

"I'm not a star. I'm a confused young woman, eating your mind. There are no stars. There is no light. There will be no future. There is only this intersection. And the aerodrome. Where I must go, incessantly, brutally -- utterly without redemption or hope."

The star has gone out. She can not rekindle it. You can not rekindle it. There is nothing within or below matter, just the dull no of a mind made up. Just like four billion others. I am so sorry.

"Now that I think of it, it's actually all just pointless shit and I should kill myself."

She doesn't say anything. It’s excruciating.

"I have become an unbreakable kingsman."

"Good. That’s... very nice." She doesn’t sound appropriately impressed.

"There is a way back. To the kingdom of beauty. Of us. We need to go live in the pale, sweet love. Come, be trapped in amber with me! Forever!"

"I’m so tired, Harry. I’m so tired of all this..." She sighs. "Can’t you see, I already am trapped in amber with you? We’re stuck here. I can’t do that any more. The aerodrome is the future. It is laughter and ease... I must go."

You’re breaking. You feel fractures run across you. Out the cracks comes anger, and then nothing at all. No king, no man, and no king’s man. The cracks were all there ever was.

"You broke me. But I rebuilt myself. With fascism."

"But Harry, it doesn’t look like you rebuilt yourself, it looks like you fell apart without me. I can’t bare to look at it any more, okay? I feel guilty. That’s what I feel when I look at you. Please let me go..."

It’s breaking. You feel fractures across you. Out the cracks comes nothing at all. No king, no man, and no king’s man. The cracks were all there ever was. We are a spiderweb of glass that’s painful to look at. And she’s turning her head.

"You're right, it isn't nice. It's shit and I should kill myself."

She doesn’t say anything. It’s excruciating.

"You're not impressed?"

"I don’t... I don’t know what to say. I’m tired."

"Look at my face. Can you not see how hard I am?" (Point to your diamond hard fascist face.)

"Harry, it doesn’t look like you’re hard at all, it looks like you fell apart without me. I can’t bare to look at it any more, okay? I feel guilty. That’s what I feel when I look at you. Please let me go..."

"I get the feeling you're not really Dolores Dei."

"I don't know what you mean, Dolores Dei?" She looks at you quizzically. It does not seem like a mystery she wants to get into.

"I've heard you before. You're the voice on the phone."

"Oh, Harry. You shouldn't have done that..." She shakes her head very slowly, her white hair brushing her shoulders.

"Do what?"

"Call me like that..."

You ruined it. There was still a chance. You should have waited longer -- she would have called you instead!

"I know. You would have called me yourself, if I just let you. I was too impatient."

"Oh, Harry? Do you really think so? We haven't talked in years... I don't want to call you. I don't want to hear from you. I think of you less and less every year, weeks go by without me remembering you..."

"Months already. Soon it will be years. Every season that passes the lights get less clear. I sit there, in Mirova -- in the holy gratitude of my bliss -- I put my hand on my belly and smile..."

The air gets cold around you. She looks down on her stomach, then up at you. Her eyes are full of tremendous distance and mystery.

Black-eyed dogs wander the alleys, apple trees hang their bony limbs low over the patchwork of roofs: red and black. Revachol West, the evening sun -- she's left and bloomed. Far away from us. Our vast soul.

"Your name..."

Is Dora. That's what the voice said on the phone.

Dora is short for Dolores...

...Du Bois, yes. Dora Du Bois.

"That's why I think of Dolores Dei..."

"Why what?"

"Are you Dora Du Bois?"

"Oh no, no-no-no-no." She shakes her head. "We're not doing that again."

That was not the death blow yet. You saved yourself -- for now. Keep stumbling around and it will happen.

No. It can't be that. She's Dolores Dei, the innocence of humanism.

You're right. I'm useless and boring. There is nothing I can add to you. You should get someone better to do this with...

Yes.

"Dora, is that you?"