Green Terror

					                                        Green Terror
                                         by Gary Brackett

Players:
      The Desaparecido
      The Chorus
      The Prisoner
      Narrators
      A Girl from the Congo
      A Woman
      A Guitar player

    Green Terror premiered at Atelier 210 in Brussels April 29, 2010, with the following cast:

                     The Prisoner and The Desparasido Gary Brackett
                           A Girl from the Congo Giulia Scarselli
                                  A Woman Erin Downhour
                               A Guitar player David Copley
                     Narrators Jean-Pierre Baudson Stéphanie Coppé

                                       The Chorus
Alessandra Valzania Augusto Ciprani Chiara Zompa David Copley Emanuele Macciò
     Enoch Wu Erin Downhour Francesca D. Romoli Isadora Pei Giulia Cappilli
    Giulia Filippo Giulia Scarselli Jeff Nash Laura Cavicchi Lauretta Tallarini Lila
 Baldassarre Maria Ida Barbaresco Mosè Risalit Patrizia Capitanio Paola Simone
                      Ferrari Valentina Effe Viviane Cammarota

                                also with (from Belgium)
         Edith Van Malder Gaetano Crapanzano Klara Deluze Nathalie Schultz
                          Stéphanie Coppé Thierry Chatelais


                                           Green Terror

A bare stage, where some of the action transpires. Extending from the stage to the floor
are platforms in three levels. There is no scenery. Below the stage
is a large playing area (aprox. 5 x 12 meters) and the spectators
are seated on three sides of this area. There are also six raised
platforms distributed evenly among the seating.

           Prologue: Break on Through to the Other-side
                     Action: an insane dance.

As the spectators enter they discover a figure in a black hood and
black cape. He stands somewhat precariously on a wooden crate.
He is naked underneath. His arms are extended out by his sides
and he has bare electric wires attached to his fingers. The wires
are however clearly cut and are not attached to anything. Image:
the Desaparecido1 prisoner of Abu Ghraib in Iraq. He can be heard mumbling to himself.
1 Desaparecido (Spanish: Disappeared) because we do not know what become of this prisoner. Unlike

1
When the public is seated the lights dim except on the Desparasido.
After a moment: very loud rock and roll music (Break on Through to the Other-side by The
Doors). The Desaparecido slowly begins to pulse with the music. He begins an energetic,
insane dance, leaping off his box to move amongst the public and the various platforms.
Sometimes he dances with a spectator or engages in some other interaction. He presents
a litany of gestures: some religious (dervish whirling, for example), others obscene,
sometimes imitating the electric shocks of torture, at times playing the lap-dancer-stripper
on his box. Sometimes he gestures and interacts ritually with this same box. Often he
exposes himself. He is the fool, a clown, a dream image from contemporary culture.

Lights begin to fade: the Desaparecido grabs his box and runs out, exiting through the
back of the house.

Blackout. The music finishes.


                                  Scene 1: In the Beginning
                                Action: pulpy masses of matter

Music: Closing, by Phillip Glass

As the recorded narrated text begins, on stage a low back light reveals part of the Chorus.
They are all down on the ground. They execute a very slow rise to their feet (6 or more
minutes).

Narration:2: in the voice of our creator

                In the beginning the Earth was an infinite and murky plain, separated from
       the sky and from the grey salt sea and smothered in a shadowy twilight. There were
       neither Sun nor Moon nor Stars. Yet, far away, lived the Sky-Dwellers: youthfully
       indifferent beings, human in form but with the feet of emus, their golden hair
       glittering like spiders' webs in the sunset, ageless and un-ageing, having existed for
       ever in their green, well-watered Paradise beyond the Western Clouds.
                On the surface of the Earth, the only features were certain hollows which
       would, one day, be waterholes. There were no animals and no plants, yet clustered
       round the waterholes there were pulpy masses of matter: lumps of primordial soup -
       soundless, sightless, unbreathing, unawake and unsleeping - each containing the
       essence of life, or the possibility of becoming human.
                Beneath the Earth's crust, however, the constellations glimmered, the Sun
       shone, the Moon waxed and waned, and all the forms of life lay sleeping: the
       scarlet of a desert-pea, the iridescence on a butterfly's wing, the twitching white
       whiskers of Old Man Kangaroo - dormant as seeds in the desert that must wait for a
       wandering shower.
                On the morning of the First Day, the Sun felt the urge to be born. (That
       evening the Stars and Moon would follow.) The Sun burst through the surface,

Nguyễn Văn Lém executed by General Nguyễn Ngọc Loan of the famous photo of the Vietnam war, we
never have known the name of this person or what fate was accorded him. Both pictures are perhaps the
quintessential icon of the failure of both wars.
2 From Songlines, by Bruce Chatwin

2
      flooding the land with golden light, warming the hollows under which each Ancestor
      lay sleeping.
      Unlike the Sky-dwellers, these Ancients had never been young. They were lame,
      exhausted greybeards with knotted limbs, and they had slept in isolation through
      the ages.
              So it was, on this First Morning,
      that each drowsing Ancestor felt the
      Sun's warmth pressing on his eyelids,
      and felt his body giving birth to children.
      The Snake Man felt snakes slithering
      out of his navel. The Cockatoo Man felt
      feathers. The Witchetty Grub Man felt a
      wriggling, the Honey-ant a tickling, the
      Honeysuckle felt his leaves and flowers
      unfurling. The Bandicoot Man felt baby bandicoots seething from under his armpits.
      Every one of the 'living things', each at its own separate birthplace, reached up for
      the light of day.
              In the bottom of their hollows (now filling up with water), the Ancients shifted
      one leg, then another leg. They shook their shoulders and flexed their arms. They
      heaved their bodies upward through the mud. Their eyelids cracked open. They
      saw their children at play in the sunshine.
              The mud fell from their thighs, like placenta from a baby. Then, like the
      baby's first cry, each Ancestor opened his mouth and called out, 'I AM!' 'I am -
      Snake... Cockatoo... Honeyant... Honeysuckle... And this first 'I am!', this primordial
      act of naming, was held, then and forever after, as the most secret and sacred
      couplet of the Ancestor's song.
              Each of the Ancients (now basking in the sunlight) put his left foot forward
      and called out a second name. He put his right foot forward and called out a third
      name. He named the waterhole, the reed-beds, the gum trees - calling to right and
      left, calling all things into being and weaving their names into verses.
              The Ancients sang their way all over the world. They sang the rivers and
      ranges, salt-pans and sand dunes. They hunted, ate, made love, danced, killed:
      wherever their tracks led they left a trail of music.

Music changes to Australian didgeridoo with voices.

             They wrapped the whole world in a web of song; and at last, when the Earth
      was sung, they felt tired. Again in their limbs they felt the frozen immobility of Ages.
      Some sank into the ground where they stood. Some crawled into caves. Some
      crept away to their 'Eternal Homes', to the ancestral waterholes that bore them.
             All of them went 'back in'.

Eventually the Chorus is on its feet, standing and squared off frontally toward the public.
They are all naked but have black hoods covering their heads and faces.

Slow fade to Blackout.


                            Scene 2: William Blake's Tableus



3
                       Action: when the morning stars sang together 3

From the back of the house, in the dark, is heard a rhythmic clapping of hands.
Music: loud didgeridoo with voices, but more rhythmical than before.
Lights fade up slowly on stage, in the house and platforms and the playing area.

The Chorus, on stage, is as before but they are now dressed in their black hoodies4.
With the chorus, downstage center, is the Prisoner. He is sitting precariously on the top of
a ladder, apparently his wrists tied behind him, ankles and knees together. He is naked
except for a black hood over his head and face.

The rest of the Chorus enters from the back of the house, also in black hoodies. They
march to the rhythm of their clapping hands. As they enter they divide and move to the
various platforms, the playing area and the platforms below the stage. They move into
groups or alone and execute a series of tableaus taken form the paintings and drawings of
William Blake. Each group or individual has 2 freezes with two distinct emotional states,
the players moving in slow motion between these two tableaus. Three figures however
move about in the playing area: Cain, the Devil and Nebukadnezar.

As the last tableaus are formed the clapping ceases and music fades.

Music up: In a landscape, by John Cage

Text: Haikus5, spoken individually or in voices:

After a long pause:

               How do I get out?
               bullets […] in the park
               shout their anger
       Pause
               Children’s eyes cold
               the wind of silence burns
               light spring breeze caresses my brain
       Pause
               The illusion of having access
               small «1» and «0» everywhere
               Facebook - my best friend
       Pause
               Night- a bird lost
               a woman in the sky
               she smiles- I’m dying
       Pause
               Press a button
               click click I love you click click
3 Title of a Blake drawing.
4 Sweatshirts: like the Black Block, as in Seattle, or that hip-hop culture might wear.
5 These haikus (Japanese form of poetry) are the fruit of workshops of the development period of Green
   Terror. They were written collectively in groups of three persons. The themes, proposed by Gary Brackett
   who also edited the poems, were: My Alienation; How Technology Fucked Me; and The Remedy, or
   Antidote.

4
                virtual emotions
        Pause
                Take the moon down
                pull up your socks
                oh pray atomic desperation
        Pause
                Knocking on the next door
                butterfly, dark honey, caress
                Hairs in the bed - nectar of love

A breath.

All:
        Mmm-hummmmm...haaaaaa6

Music out.


                            Scena 3: Introduction of the Protagonist
                               Action: the coming insurrection

Music up: Requiem For A Dream, by Arvo Part - Lux Aeterna

A narration begins: a female voice, harsh and cold delivers her speech of indoctrination.

All of the Chorus, as the lights begin to fade and the narration begins, moves slowly and
concentratedly toward the back of the house and exit.
Left alone on stage, still on the ladder, naked and hooded, is the Prisoner. During the
following speech he is lit with a hard, white light. At times he seems to look accusingly
toward different sections of the public. Other times he seems to be struggling to stay
awake, or indeed falling asleep, only to wake up with a jerking movement. Occasionally he
seems to be exercising his muscles...or is he trying to break the ties that bind him?

Narration:7

                From whatever angle you approach it, the present offers no way out.
        Everyone agrees that things can only get worse. “The future has no future” is the
        wisdom of an age that, for all its appearance of perfect normalcy, has reached the
        level of consciousness of the first punks.
                There will be no social solution to the present situation. The social feeling
        has already evaporated too much for that. The impasse of the present, everywhere
        in evidence, is everywhere denied. There will be no end of psychologists,
        sociologists, and literary hacks applying themselves to the case, each with a
        specialized jargon from which the conclusions are especially absent. It’s enough to
        listen to the songs of the times – the asinine “alt-folk” where the petty bourgeoisie
        dissects the state of its soul, next to declarations of war from Mafia K’1 Fry 8 – to

6 This onomatopea is an enthusiastic affirmation, or negation, of 'the here and now', a refrain/motif used
  throughout the play.
7 A 'cut-up' from The Coming Insurrection, by The Invisible Committee.
8 French Hip-Hop group

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    know that a certain coexistence will end soon, that a decision is near.
            To call this population of strangers in the midst of which we live “society” is
    such an usurpation that even sociologists dream of renouncing a concept that was,
    for a century, their bread and butter. Now they prefer the metaphor of a network to
    describe the connection of cybernetic solitudes, the intermeshing of weak
    interactions under names like “colleague,” “contact,” “buddy,” “acquaintance,” or
    “date.” Such networks sometimes condense into a milieu, where nothing is shared
    but codes, and where nothing is played out except the incessant recomposition of
    identity.
            In reality, the decomposition of all social forms is a blessing.
            Thirty years of “crisis,” mass unemployment and flagging growth, and they
    still want us to believe in the economy. Thirty years punctuated, it is true, by
    delusionary interludes: the interlude of 1981-83, when we were deluded into
    thinking a government of the left might make people better off; the “easy money”
    interlude of 1986-89, when we were all supposed to be playing the market and
    getting rich; the internet interlude of 1998-2001, when everyone was going to get a
    virtual career through being well-connected. But here we are, we’ve drained our
    supply of delusions, we’ve hit rock bottom and are totally broke, or buried in debt.
            We have to see that the economy is not “in” crisis, the economy is itself the
    crisis. It’s not that there’s not enough work, it’s that there is too much of it. All things
    considered, it’s not the crisis that depresses us, it’s growth. We must admit that the
    litany of stock market prices moves us about as much as a Latin mass.
            Ecology is the discovery of the decade. For the last thirty years we’ve left it
    up to the environmentalists, joking about it on Sunday so that we can act concerned
    again on Monday. And now it’s caught up to us, invading the airwaves like a hit
    song in summertime, because it’s 68 degrees in December.
            One quarter of the fish species have disappeared from the ocean. The rest
    won’t last much longer.
            Bird flu alert: we are given assurances that hundreds of thousands of
    migrating birds will be shot from the sky.
            Mercury levels in human breast milk are ten times higher than the legal level
    for cows. And these lips which swell up after I bite the apple – but it came from the
    farmer’s market.
            There is no “environmental catastrophe.” The catastrophe is the environment
    itself. The environment is what’s left to man after he’s lost everything. Those who
    live in a neighborhood, a street, a valley, a war zone, a workshop – they don’t have
    an “environment;” they move through a world peopled by presences, dangers,
    friends, enemies, moments of life and death, all kinds of beings. And there’s no one
    but us to witness our own annihilation, as if it were just a simple change of scenery,
    to get indignant about the latest progress of the disaster, to patiently compile its
    encyclopedia.
            What presents itself everywhere as an ecological catastrophe has never
    stopped being, above all, the manifestation of a disastrous relationship to the world.
    Environmentalism’s present paradox is that under the pretext of saving the planet
    from desolation it merely saves the causes of its desolation.
            The normal functioning of the world usually serves to hide our state of truly
    catastrophic dispossession. What is called “catastrophe” is no more than the forced
    suspension of this state, one of those rare moments when we regain some sort of
    presence in the world. Let the petroleum reserves run out earlier than expected; let
    the international flows that regulate the tempo of the metropolis be interrupted, let


6
        us suffer some great social disruption and some great “return to savagery of the
        population,” a “planetary threat,” the “end of civilization!” Either way, any loss of
        control would be preferable to all the crisis management scenarios they envision.
               What makes the crisis desirable is that in the crisis the environment ceases
        to be the environment. We are forced to reestablish contact, albeit a potentially fatal
        one, with what’s there, to rediscover the rhythms of reality.
               The only realistic option we can see is to “break the bank” as soon as
        possible and, in the meantime, take advantage of every collapse in the system to
        increase our own strength.
               We are not depressed; we’re on strike. For those who refuse to manage
        themselves, “depression” is not a state but a passage, a
        bowing out, a sidestep towards a political disaffiliation. From
        then on medication and the police are the only possible
        forms of conciliation. This is why the present society doesn’t
        hesitate to impose Ritalin on its over-active children, or to
        strap people into life-long dependence on pharmaceuticals,
        and why it claims to be able to detect “behavioral disorders”
        at age three. Because everywhere the hypothesis of the self
        is beginning to crack.


                          Scena 4: a Rant
               Action: confession, or an accusation?

Lights the same as before.
Long pause.

Prisoner:9

        Let's try this for YouTube: fuck you!

Pause

        Look mom! Sandy, are you there? Can you see me too?
        You guys think this is some kind of joke? I'm a white man. White! I'm not some
        fucking Arab in Abu Ghraib. That's the joke – I get it. You take a white man and put
        him here - that's your idea of fun.

Pause

        Well...they want me to make again every fucking day around this time my
        CONFESSION!
        You see I've been kidnapped. I'm supposed to say that. By – I don't even know the
        group- I'm not supposed to know – these sort of eco-terrorists, green terrorists,
        fuck-face-snotty-nose kids.
        OK.
        Why am I here? Because: I gave a lecture. You see, I am a scientist, a sociologist.
        So...I said, to these kids who were evidently hidden in the audience, when asked
        about the Market, I said: well listen. War, yes. Prostitution, yes. Arms, yes. Drugs.

9 This monologue is improvised by the actor. This text is taken from the April 30, 2010 performance.

7
        These are the big motors of the economy, of actual goods. The Market determines
        everything. Even War, and also the Atomic Bomb, yes.
        And so I said: to make an omelet, you have to break a few eggs. This is the story of
        MAN: History! Evolution! And so the Market has evolved technology to take us ever
        further out of Nature. We break eggs and make omelets all over the place. What do
        we think we are? Nature?
        Have you heard this fucking text of theirs? Nice text. Yeah, very nice.
        But it's like this: we ARE technological. We went into a cave. We got out of the rain,
        HELLO? We made a coat, of fur. We are not Nature. This body is just a temporary
        passage. We are leaving it. We are moving on. The Story. History. Evolution.
        Technology. Who knows where we can go?
        These kids they want to be OUTSIDE of History. They want to destroy History. They
        want to destroy the human project. Those Black Bloc punks in Seattle. Those brats
        in Greece burning banks. Killing with their Molotov Cocktails! They're such cry-
        babies. Nihilists!
        But Capitalism, the Market, Socialism, Communism. It doesn't fucking matter. It's
        moving forward with the Market. The world is what it is and it is PERFECT. Even
        your lovely new age fad Yoga says the same thing.
        And so I asked them: what do you DO? What can you propose to replace the
        Market? Nothing. They don't have any alternatives.

Pause

        Right? Right. Look, here is something new for today's session. Check this out: we
        are moving forward: toward two species. YES! Two human species. One we will live
        two hundred, three hundred, four hundred years old. What do you think Avatar 10
        was about? We will be able to transfer ourselves to some other place, some other
        body. Better yet, a machine, a computer. That's immortality. Living in pure IDEAS –
        pure Thought – Rational - Science – Ideas! Fuck this body! It's just full of shit.
        Literally. And fuck Feeling. And Emotions.
        We will be pure Thought. Imagine.
        And yes: the other species. Those who can not buy our medicine - those who can
        not buy our new genes - Those who can not buy the technology...will be left behind.
        The great human divide. Division: the poor. They will die. Because they won't be
        able to buy it.
        So: it is the new Anthropology of Man. Those of us who will develop, and live, who
        knows, forever. And those who will die.
        And this, is, yes - breaking some eggs.
        And you will break eggs too. You will break GREEN eggs. You will buy your GREEN
        vegetables. You will buy your GREEN Smart cars. You will buy your GREEN
        houses. And the Market will tell you what to buy. And the Market will do it. It will help
        you. We will be GREEN. We can solve all of this. Global warming - no problem.
        Technology can solve that one too. The Market can do everything.
        I am not apologizing for the Market. I'm just a scientist. I tell you what it IS. What it
        does. What it's doing. Where it's going.
        And that's why I'm here. Because for THEM, these idiots, I'm some sort of
        representative, of...what? I teach your students. I teach your children. I teach YOU.

10 2009 American science fiction film. Human hybrid bodies called avatars are operated via mental link by
genetically matching humans. In the plot, human consciousness eventually passes from one body to
another.

8
        OK?
        So...you go buy your GREEN stuff. You separate your garbage. You buy your
        GREEN cars and we will buy GREEN eggs and we will make GREEN omelets and
        we will move FORWARD into the Future.
        Who knows where we can go?
        But not with these kids. They're losers!

Pause.

        Mmm-hummmmm...haaaaaa!


                           Scene 5: There is a Crisis in New Orleans
                            Action: why are you just sitting there?

This scene, and also Scene 9 below, are the fruits of Collective Creation: a process more
important and relevant for the people than any actual play.11 These two scenes are
adapted and developed through collaborations between workshop participants and
company members. Texts and stagings are collectively produced. There are however
forms and several citations which attempt to unify the images and themes presented by
the various configurations of participants. These forms include Rituals, Visiones and
Actions.12
In various moments the stagings involve the Prisoner as witness, confidant, accuser and
accused, etc.

Some resources: TAZ13, by Hakim Bey and The Coming Insurrection, by The Invisible
Committee

A scene note:
      I come as a victorious Dionysius, who will turn the world into a holiday. Not that I
      have much time...!14

Outline of the scene from the production in Brussels:

        1. Chaos: the Hurricane Katrina
        2. The forces of order attempt to combat the chaos
        3. The people are gathered together only to be abandoned.

Blackout.

Music: A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall, by Bob Dylan

11 Paraphrase of Julian Beck from his The Life of the Theatre. The actual quote: Collective creation is an
   example of Anarcho-Communist-Autogestive Process which is of more value to the people than a play.
   Collective creation as secret weapon of the people.
12 From Paradise Now of The Living Theatre. Rituals are ceremonies, physical-spiritual processes that
   culminate in a 'flash-out' and generally involve only the actors. Visions are scenes based upon archetypal
   images (dreams, myths, symbols, media icons) directed toward the cerebral capacities of the spectator.
   The rituals and visions amalgamate into an Action: proposed by the actors and played by them and the
   spectators. Free theater; theater of participation.
13 Temporary Autonomous Zone
14 Nietzsche

9
       Narration15:
             New Orleans, a few days after
             Hurricane      Katrina.   In   this
             apocalyptic atmosphere, here
             and there, life is reorganizing
             itself. In the face of the inaction
             of the public authorities, who
             were too busy cleaning up the
             tourist areas of the French
             Quarter and protecting shops to
             help the poorer city dwellers,
             forgotten forms are reborn. In spite of occasionally strong-armed attempts to
             evacuate the area, in spite of white supremacist lynch mobs, a lot of people
             refused to leave the terrain.

Lights up.

       4. Mutual Aid: the people organize themselves. Tableau: Géricault's Raft of the
       Medusa.

       Self-organization came back to the fore: popular kitchens, supplies, street medicine,
       illegal takeovers, the construction of emergency housing, all this practical
       knowledge accumulated here and there in the course of a life, has now found a
       space where it can be deployed. Far from the uniforms and sirens.

       5. Reaction and repression
       6. Non-violent resistance

Additional text:

       New Orleans (from an Exquisite Corpse16)

       We'll eat mud from mud
       tomorrow already today and after also.
       Directionless and speechless, I drink the space.
       It's taste is sweet like ten million little victories.
       The enchained saints go marching on
       one by one down the line.
       With water on the throat
       that does not quench
       letting go the smell of fear
       it is possible that you will re-find your instinct.
       Like a virgin history, old like the sunrise.
       Fireflies are disappearing like our kin
       drinking gasoline with a smile.
       The raft of Géricault in the tombs singing blues
       burning souls in the rubble

15 From The Coming Insurrection
16 Collective method of writing poems from the French Dadaists/Surrealists.

10
       the light will shatter the night.
       Who will help us on this raft?
       Lost in the dark river
       water - too much, too little?
       Katrina do you have something against me?
       Mississipi burning.

At the end of the scene the Chorus and some spectators are congregated below the
stage, resisting the police repression.

Blackout.


                                    Scene 6: The Congo
                         Action: rape, or empathy training for men?

Dim lights come up in the house and playing area. Lights up harsh on the Prisoner as
before.
The female actors move to place hands on the male actors and roughly move them to
various points in the playing area and platforms. They are laid out and held 'spread-eagle'
on the ground.

An actress steps onto the stage, just at the feet of the Prisoner's ladder. She is naked and
has a black hood over her face and head. She speaks directly to the Prisoner. He is in a
type of 'asana' (yoga) position, his arms straight with his hands on his knees. He listens
with much attention.

The actors enact the following narrative in a stylized, biomechanical17 way.

Girl from the Congo 18:

               I am from the Congo. My parents disappeared in the fighting when I had just
       turned fourteen - perhaps they were massacred, but their bodies never turned up so
       I moved in with my uncle.
               A few months later, the extremist Hutu militia invaded our home. I remember
       that it was the day of my very first menstrual period - the only one I have ever had.
               First, they tied up my uncle. They cut off his hands, gouged out his eyes, cut
       off his feet, cut off his sex organs, and left him like that. He was still alive.
               His wife and his son were also there. Then they took all of us into the forest.
       That militia is known for kidnapping people and enslaving them for months, even
       years. Men are turned into porters, and girls into sex slaves.
               Me and the others were regularly tied spread-eagle and gang-raped, and I
       soon became pregnant. The rapes continued, sometimes with sticks that tore apart
       my insides and left me dribbling wastes constantly. Somehow the fetus survived,
       but my pelvis was too immature to deliver the baby.
               One of the people the militia had kidnapped was a doctor who was forced to
       treat the soldiers. The doctor, seeing that I was close to dying in obstructed
       childbirth, cut me open with an old knife, without anesthetic, and removed the

17 Stylized movement created by Meyerhold and later adapted and developed by The Living Theatre
18 Adapted from a series of articles by Nicholas D. Kristof

11
       stillborn baby. I was delirious - almost dead, so the militia dumped me beside the
       road.
               I was completely destroyed inside.
               The doctor operated on me nine times over three years to repair the fistulas
       that were causing me to leak wastes. Finally he succeeded, and I returned to my
       village to live with my grandmother.
               He told me to stay away from men for three months, to give my body time to
       heal. But three days after I returned to the village, the militia came again and raped
       me again. The fistula reopened.
               I hid naked in the forest. I was stinking because my internal injuries had
       reopened; I finally managed to escape and eventually found my way back to the
       hospital. The doctor started a second round of surgeries but there is so little tissue
       left that it is not clear if I can ever be continent again.
               We need an effort to monitor the minerals trade from the Congo so that
       warlords can no longer buy guns by exporting gold, tin or coltan.

She turns to face the public.

              Unless we see some help here, this war - fueled by profits from mineral
       exports - will continue indefinitely.
       So far here in eastern Congo the war has not only lasted longer than the Holocaust
       but also has claimed more lives. One study put the death toll here at 5.4 million as
       of April 2007 and rising at 45,000 a month. That would leave the total today, after a
       dozen years, at 6.9 million.
              So if someone doesn’t act now, when will they? When the toll reaches 10
       million deaths? When I will be kidnapped and raped for a third time?
       Mmm-hummmmm...haaaaaa!

Blackout.


                              Scene 7: Getting Rid of the Corpse
                                Action: dressing for a funeral

During the blackout is heard again the female voice as before, accompanied by Australian
didgeridoo.

Narration:19
              The first global slaughter, which from 1914 to 1918 did away with a large
       portion of the urban and rural proletariat, was waged in the name of freedom,
       democracy, and civilization. For the past five years, the so-called “war on terror”
       with its special operations and targeted assassinations has been pursued in the
       name of these same values. Yet the resemblance stops there: at the level of
       appearances. The value of civilization is no longer so obvious that it can brought to
       the natives without further ado. Freedom is no longer a name scrawled on walls, for
       today it is always followed, as if by its shadow, with the word “security.” And it is well
       known that democracy can be dissolved in pure and simple “emergency” edicts –
       for example, in the official reinstitution of torture in the US, or in France’s Perben 2
       law.

19 Cut -up from The Coming Insurrection.

12
              In a single century, freedom, democracy and civilization have reverted to the
      state of hypotheses. Our leaders’ work from here on out will consist in shaping the
      material and moral as well as symbolic and social conditions in which these
      hypotheses can be more or less validated, in configuring spaces where they can
      seem to function. All means to these ends are acceptable, even the least
      democratic, the least civilized, the most repressive. This is a century in which
      democracy regularly presided over the birth of fascist regimes, civilization
      constantly rhymed – to the tune of Wagner or Iron Maiden – with extermination, and
      in which, one day in 1929, freedom- showed its two faces: a banker throwing
      himself from a window and a family of workers dying of hunger. Since then – let’s
      say, since 1945 – it’s taken for granted that manipulating the masses, secret service
      operations, the restriction of public liberties, and the complete sovereignty of a wide
      array of police forces were appropriate ways to ensure democracy, freedom and
      civilization.

Lights up.

The Prisoner appears downstage center. The ladder is gone. He is being dressed in what
seems to be a funeral suit by two female members of the Chorus with black hoods
concealing their faces. His head and face are still covered by a black hood.
Once he is dressed they exit and he stands immobile, downstage center.

              Today the West is the GI who dashes into Fallujah on an M1 Abrams tank,
      listening to heavy metal at top volume. It’s the tourist lost on the Mongolian plains,
      mocked by all, who clutches his credit card as his only lifeline. It’s the CEO who
      swears by the game Go. It’s the young girl who chases happiness in clothes, guys,
      and moisturizing creams. It’s the Swiss human rights activist who travels to the four
      corners of the earth to show solidarity with all the world’s rebels – provided they’ve
      been defeated. It’s the Spaniard who couldn’t care less about political freedom once
      he’s been granted sexual freedom. It’s the art lover who wants us to be awestruck
      before the “modern genius” of a century of artists, from surrealism to Viennese
      actionism, all competing to see who could best spit in the face of civilization. It’s the
      cyberneticist who’s found a realistic theory of consciousness in Buddhism and the
      quantum physicist who’s hoping that dabbling in Hindu metaphysics will inspire new
      scientific discoveries.
              The fragmented individual survives as a form thanks to the “spiritual”
      technologies of counseling. Patriarchy survives by attributing to women all the worst
      attributes of men: willfulness, self-control, insensitivity. A disintegrated society
      survives by propagating an epidemic of sociability and entertainment. So it goes
      with all the great, outmoded fictions of the West maintaining themselves through
      artifices that contradict these fictions point by point.
              There is no “clash of civilizations.” There is a clinically dead civilization kept
      alive by all sorts of life-support machines that spread a peculiar plague into the
      planet’s atmosphere. At this juncture, any strictly social contestation that refuses to
      see that what we’re faced with is not the crisis of a society but the extinction of a
      civilization.
              So we have a corpse on our backs, but we won’t be able to rid ourselves of it
      just like that. Nothing is to be expected from the end of civilization, from its clinical
      death. In and of itself, it can only be of interest to historians. It’s a fact, and it must
      be translated into a decision.


13
Music out.

The Prisoner moves tentatively, as if blind, down the levels of platforms.

        Facts can be conjured away, but decision is political: to decide on the death of
        civilization, then to work out how it will happen. Only a decisive decision will rid us
        of the corpse.

Blackout.


                               Scene 8: Vision of the Succubus 20
                           Action: a ruse, or a shamanistic initiation?

Lights up. There is a long, narrow table in the
playing area. The Prisoner is lying on it, arms
crossed over his chest. The Chorus sits in a
large circle around the table. They have the
hoods of their sweatshirts up and their faces
are covered also with black hoods.

The Woman, appearing from downstage
center, moves down the platforms. She carries
a small, naked babydoll and places it on the
Prisoner.

Woman:
    Were there last agonies? Were you in terror, did you know? Could you feel the
    hard hand of death that claimed you? And who is this fool standing over your
    bones, choked with bitterness? And what could a child know of the darkness of
    God's plan? Or how is the flesh so delicate it is hardly more than a dream?

        Why then this loneliness? To make your heart more desolate. The specter of things
        sings in its own ashes.

Prisoner (sitting up):
      I opened my mouth. She pushed the spoon in and emptied its contents down my
      throat. I swallowed. She sat back to watch.

Woman:
    Find the bone that will not burn.
    Scorpion dust, frog-powder in pigs-milk.
    You'll shit through the eye of a needle from thirty steps.

        What?

Prisoner:
      What do I do?

20 All of the text of this scene is adapted from Suttree, by Cormac McCarthy.

14
Woman:
    You don't do nothin'. You will be told.

Prisoner:
      I don't feel good.

Woman:
    Don't you puke.

Prisoner:
      I think I might.

       I needed to lie down. She took my wrist in her spider's hand and turned her eyes on
       me. Pieces of a dream rolled down the back of my brain.
       She watched me as if I were a thing in a glass jar.

       Can I go home now?

Woman:
    It don't make no difference where you go.

Prisoner:
      I tried to get up but then became uncertain if I should walk about. There seemed no
      purpose to it. I laid back down. Then I seemed to be in another room...to be
      somewhere else.
      She was whispering something to herself silently...like a prayer but it wasn't a
      prayer.

       What is this stuff?

       She turned her face in profile, an old, black, androgynous figure.
       I felt empty inside and there seemed to be a cool wind moving through my body like
       a wind in a street. A door closed on all that I had been.

       Look at me!

Woman:
    Hush boy. I don't need to look at you.

Prisoner (getting up off the table):
      Suddenly I realized that the scene was past and I was looking at its disappearing
      reality like a watcher from another room. Then I was watching the watcher.

Blackout. Then lights up. The babydoll appears on the table, naked and also with a black
hood.

       I could feel my hands on my thighs but I could not determine where I was. Then I
       was somewhere else.



15
      I began to move...turning in a vast brown circle and I was moving outward and then
      back again. Every few minutes I would pass the place where I had been.

      Then I felt hands laying on me again. A cold and wet fear froze my heart. I did not
      know if my eyes saw or not. They saw the same opened or closed.
      Reaching out my hand it seemed to sink in nameless mucous. I lay like a fly in a
      web.

He lays down on the table.

Both the Prisoner and Woman speaking. She is now naked and enacts the scene with
him:

      Dust fell from her eyes. From her fallen rags of clothes a dried, black and hairless
      figure rose...her black and shriveled leather breasts like an empty purse hanging,
      her thin ribs, like razors, where hung a heart even darker.
      None so ready as she.
      Her long and flat nipples swung above me. Black and loose skin of her neck, her
      death-sick mouth upon me.
      I stretched my neck to breath. Dead odor of aged female flesh, lifeless and arid.
      Dry withered nothing lips of her sex hung from the outside of her torn dirty drawers.
      Her thighs spread with a sound of cracking ligaments, dry bones breaking in their
      sockets.
      Like a kiss her cunt opened, like a mouth seeking completion.

Prisoner (alone):
      I shook bonelessly in the grip of a horrible black succubus.
      My spine was sucked from my flesh and fell clattering to the floor.

He gets up.

      The light died down and then I saw with perfect clarity a parade I'd watched through
      the legs of the crowd, the floats, the band with its drum and horns and the
      majordomo shaking a baton and dancing and farting like a horse.

      I saw what had been so...
      how a caravan of dark covered cars moved through the rain on a dark day and how
      my twin brother Kenny in short pants and an aviator's hat marched around in a big
      room with a high ceiling and a not very nice nurse in a white uniform barked lots of
      orders and I knew in that house some soul lay dying.

      I saw huge white birds, swans, flying over a house I'd known as a child, enormous
      shapes laboring above chimneys like farm animals flying in a dream, apparitions of
      such graceful lightness turning on the winter wind with their long necks stretched
      seaward, shouldering the thin and bitter air.

      And I saw what had been so...
      the funeral flowers in the corridor and how a door closed and the candle-flames
      trembled and stood righted again and I could smell the flowers and some other
      humid sour smell.


16
       I saw a small boy in a schoolyard with a broken arm screaming and how the
       children watched like animals.

       I saw a jar in a garden with mouse-bones.

Music (live guitar).

Pause, listening.

       I heard organ music somewhere floating up and out from a gramophone and the
       slow shuffle of feet over the polished floors and I was lifted in my father's arms to
       see how quietly the dead lay.

       And I saw what had been...
       how that old lady who had sat in the old photograph like a fierce bird lay now cold
       and still in her burial dress. A black lacquer coffin there in a windy hall and how the
       rain fell from the hats of the men carrying it out.

       Then walking through the corridors of the vast funeral hall I saw in a small room
       among flowers the sleeping doll, the white bonnet, the lace, the candlelight.

He meets the Woman at the table, both looking over the babydoll. They enact the
following scene.

       And the little girl took the thing from its cradle and held it and rocked it in her arms
       and Kenny said you better put that thing up. She took it through the halls singing it a
       lullaby, its long burial dress falling behind her to the floor and me following and a
       woman saw us pass in the hall and called out softly upon God and someone cried
       out: You bring that thing here! And we ran down the hall and the little girl fell with it
       and it rolled on the floor and a man came out and took it away and the little girl was
       crying and she said: it was just lying in there by itself all alone and I was much
       afraid.

The Prisoner lays down at the edge of the stage.

Woman:
    He lay with his feet together and his arms at his side like a dead king on an altar.
    He rocks in the waves, floating like the first germ of life lost on the earth's cooling
    seas, formless spot of plasm trapped in a vapor drop and all creation yet to come.

A Guitar player (singing)21:

       If you're traveling in the north country fair
       Where the winds hit heavy on the borderline
       Remember me to one who lives there
       She once was the true love of mine.

       If you go when the snowflakes storm

21 Girl Of The North Country, by Bob Dylan

17
         When the rivers freeze and summer ends
         Please see if she's a coat so warm
         To keep her from the howlin' winds.

Slow fade to black.


                              Scene 922: Post-scarcity Anarchy23
                   Action: the crisis of desire24, or dream-walking the desert

A scene note:
      To learn to live without things. Things fill men with fear. The more things you have,
      the more you have to fear. Things have a way of riveting themselves on to the soul
      and then telling the soul what to do.25 Solution: no possessions and voluntary
      poverty.

Outline of the scene from the production in Brussels:

         1. Ritual of convocation

         Narration:
               Foxes have hole, birds of the air have nests
               But the Son of Man had no place to lay his head.26

         2. Vision of Scarcity
         3. Dancing to the Totems of Desire
         5. Wings of Desire
         4. Dream-walking

Additional text:

         Post Scarcity27

         Children run naked on moist grass.
         Adults buy clothes and walk slowly toward death.
         I want to throw your hugh heels in the toilet.
         Let's get naked in a strawberry field.
         I'm cold, I squash strawberries.
         I find myself covered by blood, who's the killer?
         A big hole in my ripped stomach
         I pick up what i can find and I'm badly patched.
         All around hide your emptiness, brother.
         We are all the same,
         in this desert without emotions
         I want to find again the warm peace in me
22   Scene of Collective Creation. See footnote #12.
23   From Post-Scarcity Anarchism by Murray Bookchin
24   Thanks to Carlo Altomare for putting so succinctly this concept of the essential dilema of modern society.
25   Songlines by Bruce Chatwin
26   Attributed to Jesus of Nazareth, The New Testament
27   Exquisite Corpse. Collective method of writing poems from the French Dadaists/Surrealists.

18
        lying on the altar, under righteous water.
        I have wings but I am not an angel.
        I come to you not from heaven
        and now the the skin becomes red
        the sun burns and blinds,
        I must live amongst wolves
        but I'm free to sleep with stars.

Blackout.


                      Scene 10: The Leap
                  Action: I am sick, I must die

Lights up.
The Prisoner is seen on his ladder, apparently asleep. Two
men of the Chorus, their faces covered in hoods, approach
and rudely awaken him. They pull him down; he falls toward
the floor. They drag him to the center of the playing area
and place him on the same wooden crate seen in the
prologue. He is still naked and hooded with his arms
extended.

The Chorus surrounds him. The women are all seated in
the yoga asana of the Camel, their hips pulsating toward the
Prisoner. The men stand behind the women supporting
them. All are staring at the Prisoner.
The same rhythmic clapping of hands of Scene 2 is again
heard here.

Prisoner:28

        I'm so tired. You have to help me up, remember?
        You know they bring me here everyday. But today I jump. They think that I really
        believe that this is some real electric trick. That I fall...and that I will fry. Maybe that's
        so - I don't care now.
        I just can't take anymore of this. It's been weeks, months...I don't know.
        But listen, first, just one thing I want to talk about: this thing about the Congo. OK. I
        heard it all, yes. I am guilty...but also you kids...all of you here. Those minerals: we
        buy them. They go into our cell phones, our computers, our watches. We're all
        involved. But why don't we FEEL that we are responsible? That's my question. We
        hear, we know, but we dont feel it. And we don't know what to do.
        But wait. Something HAS happened here...to me. I do feel. Is that so easy to say?
        And that I was wrong. It's not the brain, the thought or just the idea. It's all of it... to
        feel, in the heart, in this body.
        But it doesn't matter anymore.

Pause.


28 This monologue is improvised by the actor. This text is taken from the April 30, 2010 performance.

19
       I have a new game for you boys today.
       It's a kind of a prayer. Yeah, funny..the praying sociologist. But this is not for you.

Pause.

       Sandy? Listen: I'm sorry. I know we said that we were going to go out together. That
       we would wait for each other...for the end. But this might be my end. But wait: there
       is no end. No beginning. It's all, like, now. But what does that mean? I'm so sor- I'll
       explain.
       After all of this time and all these- techniques I've been subjected to- something
       happened. I found by chance, at a certain time in the day, that there was this little
       bit of light shining into my cell. And I looked and I saw this one, so small, blade of
       grass. And I had this..moment...with this blade of grass – I swear – I could FEEL it
       growing and that blade of grass was part of me and I was part of it. It was dead, it
       was growing, it was just being born - and it was the same for me. It ALL was just
       there, me feeling it and Time didn't matter anymore. Believe me that blade of grass
       saved me – taught me so much.
       And then one day one of the kids came in. His hood was sort of half off. I guess he
       thought I was asleep. I opened my eyes and we looked at each other. And I could
       feel his pain, his loneliness and how he had on his face, a mask, to keep all that
       covered. But he couldn't hide from me. The mask couldn't work anymore. And I saw
       that HE saw – that the mask was gone for me...and of course he quickly put his
       hood back on. But it was too late.
       So Sandy what is all this about? Don't worry. I'm going out. And here I am with my
       prayer, feeling my past errors and here, humbly, feeling for this future – right here
       below me. But listen: I'm there. We will be there. We are there.
       So...I'm going out with one of our favorite poems.

              Beauty is but a flower,
              which wrinkles will devour,
              brightness falls from the air,
              Queens have died young and fair,
              dust has closed Helen's eye,
              I am sick, I must die:
              Lord, have mercy on us.29

He leaps from the box and finishes in a death grip.


                                Scene 11: Song of Childhood
                              Action: it quivers there still today.

Music: In a Landscape, by John Cage

Chorus30 (spoken in turns):

             When the child was a child, it walked with its arms swinging,
       wanted the brook to be a river, the river to be a torrent ,

29 From In Time of Pestilence, by Thomas Nashe. 1593
30 Song of Childhood By Peter Handke

20
      and this puddle to be the sea.
      When the child was a child, it didn’t know that it was a child,
      everything was soulful, and all souls were one.

The Prisoner, over the course of the song, executes a slow rise to his feet.

              When the child was a child, it had no opinion about anything,
      had          no       habits,        it       often       sat       cross-legged ,
      took        off    running,        had      a       cowlick      in    its    hair ,
      and made no faces when photographed.
              When the child was a child, it was the time for these questions:
      Why am I me, and why not you? Why am I here, and why not there?
      When did time begin, and where does space end? Is life under the sun not just a
      dream?          Is     what      I      see       and       hear     and     smell
      not just an illusion of a world before the world? Given the facts of evil and people,
      does evil really exist?            How can it be that I, who I am ,
      didn’t exist before I came to be, and that, someday, I, who I am,
      will no longer be who I am?
              When the child was a child, it choked on spinach, on peas, on rice pudding,
      and on steamed cauliflower, and eats all of those now, and not just because it has
      to.
              When the child was a child, it awoke once in a strange bed,
      and now does so again and again. Many people, then, seemed beautiful,
      and now only a few do, by sheer luck.
              It had visualized a clear image of Paradise, and now can at most guess. It
      could not conceive of nothingness, and shudders today at the thought.
              When the child was a child,                  it played with enthusiasm ,
      and, now, has just as much excitement as then, but only when it concerns its work.
              When the child was a child, it was enough for it to eat an apple, bread,
      and so it is even now.
              When the child was a child, berries filled its hand as only berries do,
      and so it is even now.




Prisoner (on his feet beginning to walk toward the stage):

              Fresh walnuts made its tongue raw, and so it is even now.
      It had, on every mountaintop, the longing for a higher mountain yet.

21
Chorus (continuing):

             And in every city, the longing for an even greater city,
      and that is still so. It reached for cherries in topmost branches of trees
      with an elation it still has today, has a shyness in front of strangers,
      and     has      that     even    now.   It  awaited      the    first  snow ,
      And waits that way even now.
             When the child was a child, it threw a stick, like a lance, against a tree,
      and it quivers there still today.

The Prisoner exits.


                Epilogue: Attach Yourself to What is Real: Begin There.
                     Action: mind, body, emotion and imagination

After the Prisoner exits members of the Chorus each invite the audience into the playing
area. The actor who played the Prisoner returns in black street clothes and together with
the help of the other actors leads the public in the Journey Dance.

Basic Outline:
      1. Exploring in the body the four elements of Earth, Water, Fire and Air.
      2. We are never still. Exploring movement.
      3. Various forms of dancing, interactions and contact are proposed.
      4. All sit in the asana "hero pose".
      5. Ritual of calling/invocation.
      6. Circle dance.
      7. Final meditation. Mantra as antidote:

              Attach yourself to what you feel to be real. Begin there.

      8. The people introduce themselves.
      9. Free dancing.

                                         The End

                                         Thanks to:

                                      Eleonora Cedaro
                         All the artists of Living Theatre Europa
                                        Judith Malina
                                         Tom Walker
                                       Carlo Altomare
                                      Orietta Crispino
                                  Theater Lab, New York
                             Loretta Auditorium/New Science
                                        Jessica Slote
                                      Martin Reckhaus
                                       Elena Jandova


22
                                  The Living Theatre
                                       Jeff Nash
                                    David Copley
                                      Enoch Wu
                                   Erin Downhower
                                   Augusto Ciprani
                             Leggere Strutture Factory
     Workshop participants of Green Terror: Naples, Bologna, Pescara, Brussels
                  All the staff and artists of Atelier 210, Brussels
                                   Antonia Masulli
                              LABORATORIO 7, Napoli
                                    Valentina Caia

                                  (more to come)




23

				
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