i am writing a play. i am writing two different plays. one’s focus is language, structure. the other is chaos, a lack of stability. apt metaphors.
at bruford, after rehearsal, i walked with my director and castmate to their flat. we smoked a joint and shot squirtguns at soap bubbles while the sun set over sidcup.
i asked them to explain kantor and why the choices of his plays and their subsequent adaptations were what they were.
they shrugged. they offered something along the lines of “it’s complicated” and “you had to be there.”
i don’t doubt it.
my journey with kantor has been akin to growing tusks: worming one’s way through layers of flesh and muscle to reach one’s full, gory potential. (okay, well, tusks aren’t gory, but they can gore… things…)
i feel as though i’ve grown up with him now, after two years of reading, of trying to understand him. the how, the why.
the answer is, there’s hardly any answers. even that answer isn’t enough. there’s so much more to it.
i’ve done almost everything now, in small pieces–in one way or another. i took two years off of living to recoup from a tumultuous decade. i feel, finally, i am becoming myself.
this “my self” is a bitter-faced polish man holding a cane, tapping rhythm, guiding performers onstage. my desire, my endless dream, to push boundaries, to make people uncomfortable, to show ugliness, to make each other ugly in turn.
i’ve been working on a kantor-esque adaptation of a german absurdist play for over two years now. two months ago, or so, i finally finished the first draft. after that i finished reading kantor’s manifestos and exercises. now, my mind is abuzz with all the knowledge i have gained–and i haven’t even finished gaining it. there is even more that i don’t understand.
so this play has, thus, given that i started one aspect barely knowing what i was doing, and now that i know a little more, ever so slightly more, shown me two versions of itself. i see each one clearly in front of me. one truer to the text, relying on action and pictures, metaphors, one that speaks to me and my life. then, one that deviates from language, one that relies on empty meaning to show there is no meaning, one that evokes D E S P A I R from its emptines, its lack of desire for meaning, one that i can almost reach in this way but fall so far from. they are different methods of communication. they attack different lobes of the brain.
(break: do i dare a series of kaspar stories? do i dare take the journey of kaspar from inside the human mind? the frontal cortex, the one that processes words, the one that processes pictures?
fuck, that’s genius.
but lofty, always lofty.
to be continued while i write this out to its inevitable self-disgusted end…)
i am back.
my mind is constantly on fire, snapping persistently between new concepts and how to apply them, between new ideas and new injustices noticed, how to rectify them, how to use them, constantly aching for discussion, aching to learn further. i am learning more in my own pursuit of knowledge. i am learning to challenge myself. i am a fucking genius when i write. i am a god of breaking down small details. i fear insanity at these moments, but i welcome it as one welcomes going out in a blaze of glory. i see, i understand, i feel an unlocked heart, an unrecognized potential rising from it. a master, a commander of my own destiny, with the ability and power to bring disturbing, upsetting, heartbreaking, crushing everything, dragging us all down to lift us up. us, you, myself.
in my drafts i find myself writing notes in his punctuation, with his emphasis, with his fervor and style. a visual artist above all.
i may be mad, obsessed,
with this idea of zero
of life’s meaningless and my inability to prevent it.
combined with my obsession to clear my past, to move forward, to let it go, not before wallowing, i suppose.
i am loving this obsession, this rabbit hole,