Bo I. Cavefors

Summer 1956. Jacob and me. We loved each other since we was twelve. Now: twenty years old. London. I am back in town after a year or more in Uppsala, Sweden. Military service. Jacob back in London after a journey to the old Empire, Ghana. He is on way through the door to Royal Academy of Dramatic Art and I on way down the stairs, to meet my love in the foyer. We kiss each other on the cheeks. Jacob comes from his lawstudies. I have had a sweaty day together with Mr. John Fernald, who is staging The Caucasian Chalk Circle, by Bertold Brecht. First time Brecht is played in London. The Times write that "Mr. Fernald's team responded well". And The Daily Telegraph, with the head-line 74 In Cast Of Brecht Play, writes that the performance was "a good pupils' play; but it must have meant very hard work for Mr. Fernald as director". Exactly. So it was. But now: Jacob and I: deep-kissing. Love. Possible here at RADA. We walk Gower Street to Museum Street, have a speedy check in to the antiquarian department at Collett's Chinese Bookshop. Soon again on the road… we turn in, to right, on New Oxford Street. More and more passionate kisses. We fleet along Poland Street, have the idea to buy some toys to Cecilia, but give up. Then: Regent Street, Royal Academy on Piccadilly Street. Burlington Arcade (many kisses), and there in one shop time to buy more egyptian cigarettes from Andron (Speciales), H.A. Georgopulo & Co, Cairo, and, in another shop, Charbonnel et Walkers, chocolate-creams (our most loved was Pomponette, Moulée and Amande). And: from the Arcadian directly the right way to Mr. Bertram Rota, the antiquarian bookseller on Vigo Street (I bought Criterion from 1914). Kisses. Again. Can’t stop it. Then to right New Bond Street and then to left Grosvenor Street, and then and there: the embassy at Grosvenor Square. The lift to the third floor, a beautiful apartment, “Stars-and-Stripes” behind the desk, and we get some beautiful and with fine artistery folded packets with cocaine, white and fine as italian meal from the Podelta. And so: to our beloved butcher round the corner for warm wellroasted beaf, pickled cucumbers, bread. Strong mustard. And so to our Park-Street-flat, the fourth floor. There is a lift, slow. Again, we are kissing, must do it. And hugs. I fondle Jacob’s teats under his jacket. My hands down, his leatherbelt, his rump. I love it. He love it, to have my fingers in his glory hole. The keys, ok, the flat! Wow. To hell with black shoes, black socks, black trousers and jackets, white shirts and upper-class-ties. Roastbeaf and bread on the table. Pale and Ballantine. We smoke our cigarettes, windows open, the warm breeze catch the curtains. All the sounds from Park Street, people, cars, birds from Hyde Park. All these sounds as a dark cloth outside the curtains. I slumber in the armchair. Read, a lot, in the Criterion, some lines, unconcentrated, some fragments of an Unpublished Work by James Joyce, page 489: "Duff-Muggli, who now may be quoted by very kind arrangement, first called this kind of paddygoeasy partnership the odyssean or tetrachiric or quadrumane perplex”, What!? Difficulties with my concentration. You understand? At the same time: Jacob boll his body round and: his breast down and the rump up. His black skin. He stretch, the back, the shoulders, the blackblue thighs, he rock with the rump, lean the head to the pillow, the right arm directly to the jacket hanging on the chair beside the bed, and from the jacketpocket he take two of these very fine artistery folded packets with cocain. We take it. Expiration. Relax. The cigarettes… finito. No more roastbeaf. Still Ballantine. My foots on the edge of bed. I stretsch my back. My hands on my cock. Hardjacking. Jacob and his legs. It is very clear. Fine lines in the fog. Coca and cock are married. Whisky. Our boddies explodes as solitaire objects among furnitures, beddings, pictures and books. All is smelt as a richly coloured ocean.

The billows run high. The body is sweet. To hug. To look at. Jacob is absolutely still but must raise the rump to give space for his bigger and bigger cock. His black skin, but deep in his rump it was more and more white. Even when I not touch him I can in my fingers and in my tongue feel how it is to kiss the silky hair on his rump. How his rump react, how his body tremble in every limb when my tonguetip tickle him. I stand up from the chair and get to Jacob and fucked him. And fucked him. We really loved. At nine-o’clock we get out of bed. Douche. Nightlife. A private performance. Very much naked and action, on the stage, beside the stage.

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It is Jacobs and my liberty, freedom and equality I try to create in my three plays, produced as a kind of performance-theatre, The leper hermit in the town Aosta, De Sade and the Japanese, and Revolt in the Casbah. My theatre is closed for the world around. The theatre must be a world of freedom where you can do exactly what you must do. On the stage you are absolute supreme and have all power. The audience, the public, the Public Opinion, the High Commissar for the Authorities, has to leave the theatre if they don’t like our creativities; they can hiss off the performance, but they can never kill my ideas, my intentions, my seriousity.

In these three plays the actors act naked, no clothes, only a whip, military boots, tattoos, paints, and so on. Even a catholic play as The leper hermit in the town Aosta, by Xavier de Maistre, must be played with clearly showed erotic meanings, sometimes with really sexual actions. In De Sade and the Japanese the religious problematic and the political dimension is actualized with quotations from Ulrike Meinhof and Michel Foucault. Revolt in the Casbah is a very homosexual play with really actions.

The word has the central position in these three plays, but the word must be transformed into realities, into action, and that can only be done if clothes and stage-properties are out! Naked bodies, naked words, naked readings, no furnitures on the stage. The word, the will, the man, must be what is essential. Is this decadence? Yes it is a theatre decadence. Religious, political, sexual. My ideas of a Decadence Theatre reflect our time, our society.

Decadence? Yes, cocain give our five senses a greater sensibility when we try to get the sound of life, the vibrations, swollen cocks, ecstatic and poignant explosions of whips, blood and sperm, to get a feeling of that our bodies still alive. Seldom or never you get such theatre to-day. Sensitivity and sensuality has been killed by sociology, psychology and psychoanalysis. That’s the result when people departs from their cravings of metaphysics, when you forget the Greek tragedies. A new theatre must be a revival of the Renaissance-dramas in dark colours, ritual actions as reflections of the sadomasochistic need of orgies. Free from rhetoric it’s possible to re-create the relations between erotic and Cross, between love of Christ and suffering of the Cross, between the sexuality and sadomasochism. Art is the way for intensification, for a more rigourous acting. That’s not to profane religious faith and rites. The eroticism comes from the wounds of Christ. That’s all. I have to do it.

Copyright©Bo I. Cavefors, 2008

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