Althea’s friend Sarah texted her to say that she had written a play. “I know the theater is dead,” she said. “But maybe this will make it live again.” From the description of it, Althea was skeptical. “It’s about you,” Sarah said. “But not you you. A you who is a man in nineteenth-century Russia, who’s mad because his mother keeps trying to marry him off to the meanest woman in town when he’s sweet on someone else—a guy. And he’s scribbling all this into his journals, using a code that he invented so that no one can read it even if they find the journals, which they won’t, because he hides them between his mattress and the bed frame, just like you do. There are songs done in a punk style but more like rat-a-tat spoken word and a dance that gestures toward ballet without being it, and the whole thing ends with a big light show.” The text was too long and much too much. The play sounded dicey at best. And how the hell did Sarah know where she hid her journals?
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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