theatre of the commute statement
We open in a minivan around big houses, long strip malls, and wide streets in neat little striped rows to form suburbia, the plastic palace of turf that needs protecting.
Mother: Get in the car, time for school.
Child: (climbs in minivan)
The window reflects picket fences turning into concrete. The child lives in her public school uniform polo. She is commuting, her formative years being influenced by opposite environments. The ensemble enters with props.
Ensemble member 1: Here is a backpack artificially plasticized with adhesives over its natural cotton to preserve your location.
Ensemble member 2: Here is a down coat stuffed with soft, dreamy feathers to keep your body warm.
Ensemble member 3: Here is a seatbelt to keep your travels safe.
The suburban linear box becomes wavering urban landscape. The child begins to battle with the props that were assigned to her.
Child: I’m trying to grow out of my backpack, but it weighs me down in its funny sadness. The wonder of plastic grass and plastic smiles, trying to make me not forget my appointed home. (as she speaks her polo grows new sleeves, new points of escape but is constantly restricted back to linearity with the presence of the carefully embroidered astro-turf)
The props win the battle as the show nears its end. Cue black out. But as is the nature of the theatre, the act of the child commuter will occur again tomorrow.