Created by the Lampazo Group
Performed at CAP21, September 2014
Dutch Kills Loose Leaf Reading Series



Why do I look at a stolen nude selfie of a celebrity on the internet?  I want to participate in the ritualized slaughter of a commodified body, these idols of perfection.  I want to know it was me who put the torch to those dry twigs, that it wasn’t some show, it wasn’t a camera trick or a special effect.  I want to know I really got them, somewhere real, somewhere in their hearts.  I think they don’t feel like I feel, it’s just part of the job, they made the choice.

You always have a choice.

The worst copout of all time.  “Well you always have a choice.”  What a fucking lie.  What an atrocious falsehood.  What a sickening load of crap, privileged, hateful crap.  She “chose” to take naked photos, unlike that “better” class of people who would never “choose” to do this terrible thing.  News flash, everyone is fucking doing it.  Your son and daughters are doing it.  Of course they’re fucking doing it.  Look at the technology and think about being a kid.  I was fascinated by my penis as a kid, fuck, I still am, fascinated.  Then you take the idea of another something like that, but different, and on a GIRL, my goodness.  And then I can...snap and snap...snap and send it to johnnyjamiejessica?  SNAP SNAP SNAP SNAP SNAP!  Are we really going to blame children? we’re going to blame children, blame children for using the technology we put into their goddamn hands and using it to do the things that children do? really?

What is privacy?  It’s not yours.  Privacy is protected communication.  What is “my business” always involves someone else, it’s the third party, the one who might not be complicit.  Privacy is protection from this third party, whomever they might be.  If a woman sends a man a nude photo, is that her property or his?  One would expect some level of common human decency would make the privacy implicit but far be it from me to question our ability as humans, unsurpassed in the cosmos, to be cruel, depraved and perpetuate enormous hatred on this earth and its inhabitants.  The question remains the same whether it’s a celebrity or some highschool girl.  She doesn’t own her body.  It occupies a space of ritualized sacrifice.

The fear of the mother.  This virgin must be sacrificed to keep her from becoming the mother.  Her purity will cleanse us, and for it to forever remain, it must be destroyed.  It must be destroyed by fire and pain.  Jocasta, Josephine Baker, Medea, Madonna, Mary, Juliet my manic pixie dream girl, michael fucking jackson.  Virginity, to be green and flourishing.  Iphigenia, strong born, one who gives birth to strong children.  She must be slaughtered in the public square.  We must all participate in destroying beauty so it never sags, withers and cracks, never called Mommy.  swollen distended Mommy with her squealing squelching little baby inside, never see it sucked dry and torn apart by mouths like ours.  We’ll send the essence to the gods and ashes to the holy earth, we are made pure by releasing this beauty. We can’t stand it to be contained in a body, we can’t handle that something as awful as a human, as base as Mommy, could possess something divine.  Mommy already rules my mouth and my anus, she can’t rule my penis too!  I’m a boy and there’s something special about me.  I can blast a million mommies over!  I can do whatever I want.  I didn’t make the mommy.  She doesn’t control me.  I know the names of things!  She’s too stupid to know names, she’s too busy making babies to know anything’s name.  Mommy is part of the Mommy chain going back in time and I’m not in that chain.  Her sweet death will break the mommy chain.



Does this ever happen to you?



I can’t feel anything.



How about this?



I can’t feel anything.



We’ve all been there, haven’t we?  Well not anymore.



I can’t feel-



Shut up woman.  Are you not sufficiently emotional over death of Robin Williams?  Your childhood icon?  Is the beheading of children in the Islamic State leaving you blank?  Has image saturation destroyed your ability to express authentic emotion?  Are you trapped in a constant cycle of negative regard and crippling self consciousness?  Well we’ve got the product for you, it’s called Tear Gas!


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From the makers of laughing gas, comes tear gas!

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Unable to experience empathy?  Tear Gas!

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He sprays the woman in the face with tear gas.

She begins to weep uncontrollably, but also laughing, kind of weird and scary.

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Thanks tear gas!



Tear gas! Tear Gas!

They become a group of chanting protestors.


What do we want? Tear Gas! When do we want it? Now!  TEAR GAS!  TEAR GAS!

Eventually they all melt into a tear gas puddle of writhing pain.



    Through demonstration and abstraction we can manifest the imaginary, the creatures and the worlds.  Theater is a shamanic activity.  Exploiting the live interval to create tiny narratives, we crystallize the image of the imaginary object in the audience’s mind.  We see the invisible, in time and space, and thus converse with beings beyond our normal comprehension.  An image of space in time and an image of time in space.  The irrefutable procession of the theatrical.  The immutable fixedness of the image.

Blurrings, transgressions of our habitual realms and rules, take on a sacred connotation, magic, both light and dark, suggesting some other set of truths only briefly glimpsed.  The play of light and dark, seen and unseen. How we treat the unseen denotes the sacred body.

Understand this ritual as it applies to process, product, and theme.  The rigors of structural practice support the controlled chaos of characterization.  Only by ensuring these rituals can we become lost in the material.  We must properly prepare our minds, prime them through right practice, pre-ritual rituals.  

This primed being then enters the wilds, in search of some knowledge or insight. These discoveries are shared with the civilized world.  The message is not created by this wanderer, it is interpreted in terms the civilized can understand.  Despite this role as interpreter, the shaman is often an outcast, both revered and feared.  The relationship remains one of extremes, sinew, pulled by forces on both sides, yet flexible and steadfast, able to embody the between.  Between light and dark, between human and divine.

Capturing the invisible in adoration of the umbilicus joining the physical world with another, deepening the connection, enhancing its presence in our normal world.  The appearance of the invisible provokes a primordial, visceral deep brain response.  It speaks to a contact with forces that make a place itself and a moment unique.  The effort to combat this ephemerality through documentation in fact only serves to reinforce its fragile beauty.  

The body and the mind.  The sacred and the profane.  The mask and the counter mask.

the man begins to transform into the boy

Once upon a time...we’re all going to die.

That last part was a joke.

Once upon a time I was a beautiful boy.  Like a child before it.  Like I was.  A beautiful boy.

You see, we need violence, on the stage, we need violence in the imaginary space, to purge ourselves of these dark parts, to confront them, to embrace them in the safety of the imagined, to set ourselves free from their materiality, from their reality.  Maybe.

But I was a beautiful boy.

the man begins to sing as he cuts the boy apart. He cuts off the boy’s skin and wears it like a coat.  “invisible touch” by genesis begins to play.  The man/boy dances until he is pacified by his mommy.