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mOVIEs/

first shot: {a very wide shot set for letter box}

midground: A giant malachite hand juts from the floor, it starts at just below the wrist and is cupped towards the left fingers outstretched. background: a gridded plain, in pale green stretching to a pink sunset sky. Interspersed within the landscape are obelisks of blood red carbuncle each emblazoned with a mechanical eye which blink periodicly. foreground: A pale blue hermaphrodite child is seen holding a transluscent amphora of pink glass pouring water into upturned masks set on special tripods attached to a sort of machinery. The masks are arranged and operate Tellurion-like with a central sun-mask and other subsequent masks for the revolving planets. As the child pours water, weakly dribbling water, and precariously balancing the amphora, wooden chairs and complex geometric objects filled with luminous dyes begin to fly into and against the stone hand smashing into small bits, splattering the luminous effluvia, as if carried by a strong wind. The Hermaphrodite pours water into the sun-mask first saying, "Water of being, O King, made thee real, first water, O King, has made thee our sun..." Then the child begins to sing and with the filling of each subsequent mask achieves a different note, a major note for the large planets and minor notes for the smaller planets in ascending scale. . The orchestra music for this scene is a distillation of Holtz's planets played in reverse played entirely on water glasses played by nude tatooed animal women. While the music is playing and after the camera has panned across the nude women playing it, it turns toward the theatre which is itself a kind of mask made from a kind of baroque opera house, in the rear there are but two balconies, the eyes, and the rest of the seats are like teeth jutting out from an open mouth filled with scraggly dirty aristocrats in 18th century attire. The nose appears hanging out over the crowd and is a light source and forms anagrammatically, from the front, the complete face... In one eye balcony is a King and in the other, a Queen, each are surrounded with their own questionable looking subjects, perhaps intimating some sort of divergent sensual appetites... The camera closes in on the groups in turn and then returns to the King's balcony closing in on his face as he speaks, (he is drunk and we catch him in pseudo-glossolaliacal mid-babble) "......but the critics in Voltaire's time called him a genius of first water, by jove I'll make first water here...." "Not again" says one the catamites, "Oh, Oh," screams the Queen from the far balcony as she watches the King precariously undo his silk breeches.... "You, madame, in the 22nd row, yes you, are YOU ready for first water..." She bows conspicuously revealing her ample breasts, and looks up quickly to catch the stream of the King's urine in her mouth.... The audience starts howling with hilarity, but the Queen in a huff takes her retinue and departs...... finally the kings water ends and the woman looks up with a radiant smile and rips off her dress falling laughing into the arms of her consort who kisses her wet face and breasts madly.....The King now drops his britches completeley and stumbles up onto the balcony's edge holding himself upright by using a great black iron eyelash... He calls out to the audience, (speaking to them as if they were one person, an amalgam of confidant, respected enemy, and old friend) who are all drunkenly partying and grabbing the naked glass musicians who throw their goblets into the crowd and a sort of joyous riot cum orgy has broken out... with the nude animal women musicians attacking the frumpy foppish audience louts..... The King begins: "Agasp, poor whore-lick, for these were the cunt-trees we merrily banged our jewel-vomiting weasels in (pointing at his eyes). !Gods of Wealth be praised, a furry canopy-bed lay withering in my mouth, a crinoline cannon of desperate swords ajut with sly and ready answers..... scarlet lemurs, buffoons with sagging livers, all ruminants, revenants, all argyles and gargoyles of dead and eternally fornicating cities, lice in the britches, wearing fat black ticks for earrings and sniffing robustly, the perfumes of hideous disorders in my jade and runic nostrils. This beast without a smirk wears his flag like a cocoon and hides in misery that is yet a paradise all known for its mystery and weirding deshabile. For I live in a cracked masque, a Wren-ah-sens Bam-booozle... Haggard, we Magnificent devils, and golden our horns, of plenty and blowing. Dreamy Inigo Jones, whose breasts of globulous universaloam quivered to the Platorrid hands of Bel-Anna, Hydrous-Queen of the Ocean, while Ben Jonson's Black Rod in bifurcated prodigiality sodomized you both. And in King James' stead would I be Pan, immanence beyond dream, universal god, living pćan, great golden Pharmakontoad. And like Great Fat Henry, Prince of Wails, would I bead, da grate number 8, fallen on my side and become an eternal Oberon, sleeping Prince of Faeries. Hear me well Hollow Campions of the Masque... The court is our secret world, and we are at home in its organs of felicity. For outside these walls, we are set on stages, in the site and veiw of all the world duly observed. And you all know EYe, for I hath turned the Basilikon Doronic shell inside out and poured out its parts and guts and handed its giblets to my slick-yonied Witches.... And they told me... Let your own life be a book of untied tresses, of laws sat on their heads and barking.... Gravel Teats... How can I be virtuous, when my lands are ruled by vice, and my subjects hide in the recesses of my beard so that not even I may find their gnawing mouth parts, wild with fear as if each were a final Jonah in the stomach of God... To our secret Masque do I lay praise... And our Masque of alchemy shall go on... Bring on the Retorts.... Let us change the universal dirt into the Golden Metazoa of inner fortune... plough our convoluted valleys and sleep in mists and strange belonging.... Carry On With the Masque!

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