“Is that what political theater is? Isn’t that what poetry is–” The YM is making an argument vaguely characterizing poetry and theater as finely wrought urns full of the ashes of things everybody already knows: fascinating about how YM feels invited to natter on, and seems unabashed about the sweeping things he is saying. I love that he is so generous–he is not censoring himself, he is genuinely asking questions, and genuine about revealing what he does not know. Or maybe he does not know how much he does not know?
“Pardon me, that is not what poetry is: things we all know.” Someone is genuinely, icily, livid about the insult to poetry. But YM apologizes, and move on. No fighting, alas.
The conversation is dominated by a few voices, YM for a while now.
SW is showing her dimples, smiling, but not speaking.
JW is genuinely disgusted: what purports to be energizing is enervating. He discusses the potency of audience–but so what, they go and discuss it afterwwards: I did my civic duty. That is not enough, sonorous JW weighs in.
Now more people are chiming in. Somehow JW’s aggression and conviction have the wonderful effect of getting the other audience members stirred up.
If you don’t want people to take action, why write Ruined?
DL is amazing at channeling Interest at the barrage of comments. At performing the Tell Me More face teachers and therapists love to hate.
The question who sees off B-way plays arises. JW characterizes them as the hip, already politically minded, bourgeoisie (i.e. anyone with an extra 20 dollars to spend).
CW’s rejoinder: I think YOU have a marginally political view of who goes to theater. Again, real hostility; or is it staged? Is there backstory here?
No one moves towards the fact that this is exactly what they are doing: already a captive audience, a politically motivated audience, a politically minded audience de facto, as soon as they walk in the door…Except that it turns out a good bit of the audience is mandatorily here as a class.
Political theater: theater against the will of the audience!?
My fingers are actually tired. The piece of Trident bestowed upon me by Gordon at the maiden flight of this blogging business, my sacred gum, is chewed.