Art, Culture, Rodrigo Garcia, Satire, Theater, Theathre of cruelty, theatre, Theatre of cruelty, Theatre review, Uncategorized

Theatre of cruelty. Before the show. The director’s diary.

Oh, I need to do some art, I really, really need it! When I don’t do art, I feel like I am on fire! Silencio! I got an idea! Let’s find a lobster and hang it. Oh, my cruel theatre, it is going to be cruel, very very cruel! I love it, love it, love it! Hey, stage manager! Come here! Where is the lobster? Nice, red and alive. It will be a pleasure to kill it! Yes, hang it here, where is the hook, you moron? How do you want me to hang it without the fucking hook, I am asking? The show opens in half an hour, and there is no hook! You are fired! Hey, stage manager! Where is the mud and the saw? What saw? How do you want me to cut it without a saw? My goodness, what an idiot! Oh, there is mud, good, let’s bring some more and put this minced meat on her head, yeees, very nice, a little more here, don’t you understand, her whole head must be covered in this! My God, why do I have to work with such stupid assholes! Talking about assholes, you look nice today. OK, quick, quick! The show opens in 15 minutes! The lobster is hot and ready for the performance. Curtain up! Up! Up! Up!


Art, economics, politics, Satire, Uncategorized

A pseudo theatre review from a certain play in New York.

It is rotting. This face of this little red spider with black curly hair, like a sheep. A black sheep. I seem so tall above her, but she is the boss – she is holding the red chair under her unfit butt. Of course I don’t need her for anything, but I was asked to be nice to her and it wasn’t exactly easy, cause my headache was growing, and I am not sure if it was due to the stuffy air or due to this piece of art I was just watching or due to my hypocrisy which I was asked to endure. Thanks to all the unseen spirits who made this performance short – that was the best thing about it. Then, I had to shake the hand of this bold guy with unsympathetic blue eyes- the creator of this performance- a self proclaimed anarchist, but unfortunately sponsored by the state. But which state? Don’t worry, not yours, you wise American reader! Which state? Let me give you a riddle- who are the dumbest people in the world? Yes, yes, you guessed! Oh, don’t be so politically correct. I’ve heard  it was Marx’s idea and besides, you are absolutely right this time, so don’t worry about insulting me! But let’s stop this way of thinking, the theatre is not a place for logic! Don’t you understand? You idiot? They do theatre because they suck at logic! That’s the result of it! Otherwise, they would be quite happy programming in Python all day long or constructing bridges which would work and not collapse  after the first trial! Oh, why are people so stupid? Can’t they understand that if he prays from the stage to abolish the state and the money, it doesn’t really mean that he seriously wants it! It is a metaphor of revolution! It is for you, you idiot to make you feel good about your work and that your taxes go towards something revolutionary! Oxymoron? Oh, who cares. I like the money, too. Let’s keep it. And then, let’s have a party. Good night.


In the Cocoon

Meaningless lying on the floor in the dark room in the middle of strange Manhattan, far away from home and my roots. Meaningless lying on this mattress in the dark room, under a high ceiling, in the empty air of unknown galaxy, silent universe. If I was living in a village , surrounded by a familiar bunch of villagers, with whom I would wake up at the morning and look at the twinkering stars at evening, listening to the crickets on the little bench during the evening summer, that would be better , I think. But those things are impossible. My voice is dying inside of my mind, somewhere. In my chest. A silent transcription of my demotivated mind. It’s stuffy. The monotonous sound of the air conditioner exemplifies this weirdness and hollowness of my existence. I know, talking about existence is not in the fashion. Lying is in the fashion. And smiling. But the energy in me imploded and I am a dying one. It is so monotonous that I will die and lie in the cementery – what does it change if I say anything or nothing. And the life goes, goes with it’s whole unimportance. The politics. The carriers. The people. Especially the politics. I just can’t get excited anymore. It’s the way I am constructed. I wanted to play a flute and piano when I was a kid, but it was a long time ago. I loved many people and many things. But here, it just feels like nothing belongs to me, nothing, not even my mind. Nothing. I have lost opinion on everything. What is the point of having an opinion, anyway? Somebody will have a contrary one and will cancel yours out. And so on and so on. Everything, my whole surroundings seem so strange and boring. Cannot connect to this furniture, to this food, to anything. Sometimes only a quick hatred erupts, just to make me even more exhausted and disgusted. Days pass, and pass, and pass in irrelevant universe on Upper West Side.

Art, Poem, poetry, politics, Uncategorized

Royal cigarettes

Better world, where is the better world

I’m down chained to the earth with no beauty around

and I dream about

white pages and black india ink

and a bench in acacia hedge garden

but no

it all belongs to the queen

and I belong on the street

on the pavement which belongs to the nation

and I smoke my cigarette under the foggy sky

because I can

but what am I going to do

what am I going to do

when the state say

‘you can’t smoke on the sidewalks anymore’?