A man or a woman speaks obliquely of the rivers of Truth. One could imagine that this is spoken on stage in a theater as a short-short piece, a theatrical vignette–a performance art piece, perhaps one time with a traditional comic mask and another with a traditional tragic mask—I would like to create a Mask of the Absurd . . .
I know that abortion is still a complex issue filled with contradictions on the sides of either pro or con. I am not herein going to enter a litany of redressed grievances against a culture narrower than it should be, needs to be, could be otherwise except it cannot because . . . on and on and on once more the petty paces, each of us, more specifically, each woman the poor player who struts and frets her hour upon the stage of having to dance a dance of control in return for the privilege of acting on some of her human rights. If you can get that?
Is the theater of life going to be another Grand Guignol, Artaud’s theater of cruelty taken literally. It is cruel and unusual punishment to subject a woman to unsafe non-medical procedures that mimic mechanical procedures in an auto body shop when she wants to exercise her basic human right to choose what she wants to do with her body–and any repetition herein about what a woman wants to do with her body should only instill with vigor the necessity to respect this right.
I have no patience, as either a man or a woman, herein now in the words I use, for anyone opposed to the basic human right of choice, and any other dumb fucker who cannot get it because he or she has been so systematically undereducated—that he or she remains too horribly semi-litearte to be able to understand; just as these former conditioned suffered by too many are also suffered by too many of the liberal establishment to be able to defend these rights, all the while they have spent the last twenty-five years helping to erode liberty, free-will and individuality at the same time they have launched some of the most savage attacks on Truth and civil liberty, attacking as vehemently as the political Right, the Four Freedoms.
I liked the Native American masks I saw when I was boy at the Museum of Natural History here in New York, masks I saw again the last time I was there recently, this year, particularly the masks of the Iroquois False Face Society, a medicinal society that uses the surreal masks in healing rituals . . . but is that what Donald and Hilary are doing, or are their false faces something else entirely—a Totalitarian Bourgeois Capitalist subterfuge, of course, a masquearde of grotesques, surely.
The Falling Leaf Review 