To the young couple hiding away in a bathroom stall of the lady's room in the foyer--the poor damsel being screwed from behind over the toilet, her hair being tightly pulled by her unyielding, sworn protector: cover your tits, Madame, and zip up those trousers, Monsieur. Is your hair frazzled? Well quick, straighten things out--there are mirrors, you know, mirrors in the lady's room. Perform an inspection to determine if you're suitable to walk back out into the foyer. Did you forget your program? Well, there are loads more with the attendees, standing at the doors to the theater. Mr. Stiffnecked-Hadfield, if you would, your doting wife is waiting patiently in her seat for your return from your last-minute cigarette break. Oh, your friends from England are acting tonight in our show? We were not aware of the association. It is a marvelous thing to be friends with an actor! Be nice to Mrs. Hadfield when you come back, for she loves you very much and has fulfilled her martial duties today beautifully, would you not agree? She worships the ground upon which you stand erected and drenched in your own vanity. Speaking of being drenched, does anyone need to urinate? Quite an inconvenience, the burning pervasiveness of bodily functions. You should go relieve yourselves now. If you miss anything at the beginning, your partners are there for you on your return to answer all your questions. But quickly, now. Say hello to the frazzled sex couple coming out of the lady's room! No! You have taken the wrong row, Dubois clan, and now another party has been wrongfully displaced. Each row has a letter clearly marked on the outside of its aisle-seats. How could you be so off? Oh, well here they come. They will show you their tickets and explain that you are all sitting in the wrong row.
Okay, people are returning. The leading oboist, the concertmaster, is sitting at attention to the maestro in the pit. Do not worry; this is not musical theater. There will be no outbursts of song that drag on forever in-between the drama. We will be using the philharmonic as a backdrop, primarily. Be honest. You love the cacophony of the tuning session for its excitement and promise. Here comes the note. The rest of the wind band eventually joins in the musical nonsense.
It is good to see that practically all are here in their seats for the opening of the curtain. The characters on the stage are from another place, so there is no need to worry about any seeming resemblance. You are not obliged to love the characters, just as you are not obliged to love everyone of this world with whom you encounter. We hear that writers should love their own characters--that this affection allows for the story's characters to be fully realized and developed. But you are not all writers, so leave the loving for the creator of the script. Oh, I see that a few of you are. We certainly would not want to be accused of treating any of the characters unfairly. Well then, love away and love them all. Everyone, the ritualistic warming up and tuning of the orchestra is coming to its close. The prelude will come next. Come children, let us open the box and take out the puppets, for our play is about to begin. I will count to ten and the theater will be transported through time and space, across fields with cypress tress and olive tress under a gentle sun to a mansion inhabited by two siblings. Action and atmosphere are both more vibrant and real in a mansion, which does not make its inhabitants any more glib than necessary this evening.
One: You have all been merry making in the lobby and that is a good thing. Our foyer bars are staffed excellently and we hope, consequentially, you are softly buzzed. Although you have left your champagne flutes outside, the music of their social clambering is carried into the theater and it rings in your ears, its fizz slowly dissipating on the outsides of your mouths, tickling you pink. When an actor stands in a spotlight, he or she becomes drunk off of the craft and this helps to carry a scene through to its end and, ultimately, to your applause, which gets the acting crew hammered by the end of the play. Stage and audience become buzzed together and that is lovely. That is real interaction there, between artist and patron-socialite.
Two: You are all falling leaves that ride on invisible air currents, zig-zagging to and fro and occasionally flipping over yourselves. Until you touch the bottom of your descent. Wet with summer pool water. Float here, now.
Three: A man and woman are lounging outside of the pool in wicker chaise lounge chairs. Both are drinking cocktails and carrying on idiosyncratically. Coughing out their private jokes at each other. You are still gliding on the surface of water, pale in size. The chatter of the two is lost on you. It gurgles in your ears. Above where they lounge, another, more squab woman is resting against the balcony railing, smoking the last black drabs of her cigarette. Her attire is quite plain. Uniform like. You understand now that she is subservient to the two sitting below. She attempts to make this time to herself above on the balcony her own time; however, it cannot be her own time if it is being paid for by another. Now, where you float, what looks like a ship is heading en route towards your coordinates. Bells are ringing to let you know the ship is approaching its destination. You all are no longer leaves, but back to your normal selves, only much smaller. You wait, each one of you standing on your own leaf upon the water surface, for the ship to drop anchor. The ship is not a menacing one. Strings of lights, tiny bulbs in blue, gold, green, and red, line its external anatomy. A party ship where there are more bars with bartenders awaiting your next order. What will it be? We hope you do not find the conditions on the ship to be too congested. Climb aboard! Wave goodbye to the poolside strangers.
Four: Further into your voyage, you come near the coastline of a land covered in a thick forest. From the heart of the Black Forest a woman with obsidian black hair walks under the moonlight. She keeps close to a river of gold that is slowly poured from the heavens, holding out her right hand with unsettling majesty. The tree limbs part away from her foot tracks that glow as little pools of fluorescent elixir feeding into the earth. You are bewitched by it all.
Five: You have all been invited to participate in a gangbang. There are two women, two of the same woman, in the center of the room holding each other in their arms, caressing the back of the other and resting their chins upon the other's shoulder. The adagio movement, where the performers are able to collect themselves before the pounding begins again. Men are lined up against all of the walls, beating themselves off, grunting, cheering and jeering for the act. Lines form again from the outskirts to the center of the room. Time is up for you, time for your pounding! A mirror is attached to the ceiling of the meeting place. Both of her, reflected into water snakes. She likes the way her body acts in a mirror; she moves for herself and not for the others. Look, men, at how beautiful woman is when she is stripped! Look at how perfect and docile nature is unsheathed. Both of her are able to stare into each other's eyes. Against the walls, the community of men cannot look each other in the eye. Maybe, they can look each other in the groin. Oh, he is hoping they would have been masked, but that exotic element is already gone. Still, it is good to see woman in her natural state. And you thought woman's special connection to nature was mere mythology. Oh, look: a dragonfly has found its way from nature into the room. It hovers in a corner, watching with its multi-faceted eyes. So much gang and bang! You see the green hills and hear the soft birds of woman. The woman are dying, they love it! Is it not lovely that she is so well tuned into nature? Who would have thought! Time to excrete your bodily fluids onto her, take a piss in her bush during your pit stop on this tour. This is all so natural! You hear that it is good for the soil, good for the ground. It is good to partake in nature. Naturally.
Six: A game of Russian roulette. You see her. She throws her hands at the winding locomotive, circling hap--red--black. Will you take your coffin tomorrow morning black or with cream? How many refills will you have? It is comforting to know you hold a biological clock in your hands, one that you can use to insulate your flesh with steam. The smell of earth rises in outbursts. You cannot pretend that mound of dirt to your right is not from your own shoveling hands. Its base is a cold foundation. The sprinkles on top are light and warm.
Seven: Muses, he groans, then the clay molder morphs the brim of his vase with spit while wheeling the base around. The slightest pressure his finger applies against the body brings vulgar alterations he then fingers with finesse. Love is a crude mold, lubricated and made from the most base of things.
Eight: On the floor of a dimly lit playroom, the woman has returned and is holding a dead Orange-spotted Emerald dragonfly in her hands. She gradually lifts the insect into the moonlight that pierces through the room's curtain-drawn windows. With her left hand she takes a pair of fabric cutting shears and cuts off the wings that glisten like the surface of bubbles drawn out under an ocean of stars. This is the end of flight.
Nine: Out of the playroom you are walking, walking through the hallways of an enormous house you recognize, although you are not sure how. You do not believe you have been here before. The art deco tiling, black and white, is cold. A slow pat-pat is crescendoing towards you all. Down the stairs in front of you a decapitated head is rolling down, wet and smacking each step. A tangle of rubbery purple and blood. You see her above with her hands thrown out in front of her, the room a circling hap. You are transfixed.
Ten: You see a man. He steps foot out onto the ice and slips. The head, so full of romantic ideals and vision, tilts back so the ground can breathe once again. As socio-economical exchange becomes congested, old business and institutions are leveled down to the ground to create new spaces for new ideas and new, younger leaders with bigger and brighter heads for their inherited craft. It is good to keep things fresh and alive! From his spill onto the pavement, from his blood, you will receive the elixir to sustain your life. Come drink (there is enough for everyone) and hear the rumble of the timpani as the stage lights up for your own viewing this spectacular evening.
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