I Love Dick by Chris Kraus Read Free Book Online Page B

would’ve happened if he’d been involved and willing?
    C: I would’ve fucked him once and then he’d never call.
    S: But what makes all this legitimate is that you didn’t. What thinking about it’s brought up is the essential thing. You know, I was picturing Dick before as a wicked, manipulative creature. But perhaps he’s keeping silent just to give us time…
    C: To get over him. He wants us to get over him.
    S: Chris, what sort of strange zone are we entering? To write to him is one thing but now we’re writing to each other. Has Dick been a means of getting us to talk, not to each other but to some THING ?
    C: You mean that Dick is God.
    S: No, maybe Dick never existed.
    C: Sylvère, I think we’re entering the post-mortem elegiac form right now.
    S: No. We’re just waiting for his call.
    8:45 p.m.
    S: It’s so unfair. I guess these silent types make you work twice as hard and then you can’t escape because you yourself create the cage. Maybe that’s why you feel so bad. It’s like he’s watching, watching you do this to yourself.
    C: Misery and self-loathing is the essence of rock & roll. When stuff like this happens you just want to turn the music up really loud.
    TWO HOURS LATER —
    (Dick hasn’t called. Chris writes another letter and proudly reads it to Sylvère.)
C:
    Crestline, California
    December 11, 1994
    Hey Dick—
    It’s Sunday night, we’ve been through hell and not quite back, but now that you’ve been semi-informed about “the project” I guess it’s only fair to bring you up to date: we’re ready to call it off. We’ve travelled galaxies since Sylvère talked to you last night about shooting video at your place… Well, the video was not the point, we just wanted to find a mechanism for involving you in the process. Since then I’ve embraced/discarded several other art ideas but all we really have’re these letters. Sylvère and I are wondering if we should submit them to Amy and Ira at High Risk or publish them ourselves in Semiotext(e)? In three days, we’ve written 80 pages. But I’m miserable and confused and judging by your silence you’re not into any of this at all. Let’s let it rest.
    Bonne nuit,
    Chris
    S: Chris you can’t send that. It makes no sense at all. You’re supposed to be intelligent.
    C: Okay, I’ll try again.
    EXHIBIT E:   THE INTELLIGENT FAX
    (printed on Gravity & Grace letterhead)
    Sunday night
    Dear Dick,
    Well the “tempest in a teapot” seems to’ve passed without your entering it, which’s fine with me. What is it we’ve been doing here over the last few days? I’ve been in limbo since disengaging emotionally from the movie and when this THING —the “crush”—came up, it seemed interesting to try and deal with dumb infatuation in a self-reflexive way. The result: 80 pages of unreadable correspondence in about 2 days.
    It was interesting, though, to plummet back into the psychosis of adolescence. Living so intensely in your head that boundaries disappear. It’s a warped omnipotence, a negative psychic power, as if what happens in your head really drives the world outside. Kind of a useful place to move around in, though maybe not so interesting to you.
    In the future I’d like not to have to leave a room if you happen to be in it, so it seemed best not to leave things hanging.
    Do let me know if you’d like to read (perhaps selections from) the letters. Through all the haze, at least some of them relate to you.
    All best,
Chris
    At midnight they transmit the fax. They go to bed but Chris can’t sleep, feeling like she’s compromised herself. Around 2 she slips into her office and scrawls the Secret Fax.
    EXHIBIT F:   THE SECRET FAX
Dear Dick, The idée fixe behind the tempest was that I’d like to see you Wednesday night after Sylvère leaves for