The 37th Situation

This is a different post. It's a response to a brilliant Fringe-festival play that we went to watch last week. Brilliant. Just brilliant. If you ever get the chance to see it, you should - it was funny and intelligent, and incredible cleverly intertwined, well acted. I forgot all about my Skittles until the lights came up and I realised the whole hour had gone by without sneaking one mouthful.

I've been reading a fantastic book about writing, in which the author encouraged writers to just write - first thoughts. Un-edited. And so I did. It's a bit of a strange way to write because you get to the end and think "hmm that's an interesting way of putting that - I'm not sure if I would have done that myself" and"I don't exactly know what that means" and then you realise you did do it yourself, and that you've converted feelings to poetry, but it is yet to be translated into something immediately recognisable. Here goes;

Theatre is
a cesspool of
crudity and
nudity
and lewdity with wings. Wickedness.
The things
that make us laugh, cry and ring
the bell of resonating identity that hangs
from a twisted rope
on a tortured soul
roundly tolling with each hoot and whistle of
ragged plebians, the commoners
flocking, jeering, beering
swimming in endless circles.
While righteous kings sit
pale cheeked and silent. exceptional
exclusionism.
Unscarred. Unscathed. Un-lived
UNREAL.
When the actors are the actors it is an enigma.
smears reality so no one knows
who is watching whom is watching who is watching whom.
They're playing with us
Us in the padded 36 boxes
where we perform
theatre of our own.