it’s about men, sort of, but mostly about love and sickness and flesh and beforeness and desperation.
it’s got a queerness in its guts
(and a sort of campness to it too?) [it’s about feeling strange and soapy and fleshy and ashamed.]
“God is dead” / “that seems unlikely”
it’s the sort of slick and foamy work that you need to stand in while it pools around your feet, and it makes me think about resonance too
the sense that I get it, in the sense that I couldn’t explain it to my mum but I think I feel the feeling you felt when you put it down even if I couldn’t pinpoint exactly why or how.
(experimental work can be funny! more experimental work should be funny why did we decide that it can’t be!)
there’s something in the politics of laughter too
[men laughing and when they laugh, and when not-men laugh. who’s laughing and when and why. not to be tiredly structuralist about the whole thing.]
[but I don’t want to make a play made mostly by women about men and their feelings.]
it all felt a bit like gently pressing on a bruise. or that expanding foam that I want to press my fingers into. like there’s a twinge of something familiar and gently uncomfortable but in a sort of satisfying way.