(Verschränkung in the sub-title)

The MC stands by the power plant and though there’s no snow on the ground you can tell it’s winter because the trees are naked and the air has that silence which spells cold the only noise a rhythmic hum coming from the power plant and he’s shivering in slightly sagging Wrangler blue jeans the same t-shirt but now a gray thermal underneath Brahma boots from Wal-Mart he should be wearing a coat but instead he stands shivering shoulders hunched one hand shoved down deep in his pocket the other still holding the e-cigarette but now it glows red.

Then in quick flashes you see the image of a cat.  She has beautiful markings she lays sprawled on a hardwood floor stretched on her side with her head up and turned to you the eyes caught in the light. Then in the same flash you see her with her head down mouth open tongue out and her eyes are closed.  These images flash repeatedly for a moment.  Then you see as the MC turns to look behind him.


The American theatre is dead.  The stage is visceral and people don’t want something visceral anymore… it’s always been about an identity—those who set the stage those who act the ones who write the musical accompaniment the ones who go see and talk about it after—and it’s dead because too many people are choosing it as an identity now and I won’t go into the reasons why and so even the timeless pieces become performances with characters made of stone where we admire the divisive allusiveness the thrifty references which make it cool and how obscure can we get calling erudite to show the disconnect from the mainstream and then of course it gets lost in our timelines our endless self-affirmations and if we once identified with it we identify with it no more because of course we’re still searching for something authentic…  So no I can’t stand with you on the stage for then I would be visceral and you don’t want that.