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Revolt(ing) Response


Revolt. She Said. Revolt Again.

a play by Alice Birch
produced by Company One

A response to the Sunday matinee:
by Línda Vanesa Perla

There was once a vagina named Veronica. She was quite the vagina. So much a vagina that I liked to think of her as my cunt—which she was. Sometimes she disappears for a while while I think about the last time I saw a dead bird. Other times she is the loudest muffled mouth in the room as the throbbing of the carpet runs through my toes and I am again captured on film trying not to look at anyone’s pupils for too long. She came to find her name one cigarette filled morning last September.

There wasn’t much, she thought as she perched on top of her beige dream boat. There wasn’t much and that’s okay. But all of a sudden she felt the urge to peer over. And as she crawled to the edge of her dreams she caught glimpses of hands. Old, young, familiar, strange– hands reaching for her throat, her heart, her eyes, her own hands. There wasn’t much but hands and a sudden flash of green. In the distance she could see green convertibles with their tops down waving at the red sea around them—the color of a period stain (?)

Upon seeing the color she opened the bathroom door and found her brain clogging the toilet. The only way to get to the toilet was to snip the cord connecting her to her. It was the only way. The puffs of a dying smoke made the image in front of her a little more bearable. A little more of an illusion rather than a reality. So in her illusion she grabbed the cord and snapped it in two with her two front teeth. Simple, like taking a bite out of half cooked spaghetti, she thought.

That’s when the mirror broke.

Maria looked down at the floor. What she saw wan’t the yellow notebook she had just dropped. Rather it was a caterpillar the size of her foot. Oh wait, it was her foot. Her foot had turned into a caterpillar. Or had it been that way this whole time? It was impossible to know—it was the first time she had ever really looked at her foot. Her notebook had disappeared. It’s yellow nature had been comforting to her. When she wrote there was something about the mustard taste that the notebook provoked in her mouth that made her remember death.

Breaks are part of the past. They tick and tick tick tick and tick and tick and tick by as you do nothing but wait until you get back into the grove, Maria. WAIT! Now get back into the grove!

I CAN’T. I want to be able to turn around and say WELCOME TO THE NOW! But I can’t because once I turn around I get so lost that I have to face a mirror to bring me back—

—Why hello there
—God no not right now
—You’re not happy to see me?
—When am I ever happy to see you?
—Understood, baby. But—hey—why don’t you come a little closer, eh?
—I can’t. It’ll freak me out. You’ll touch me and that can’t happen again.
—But look at how fun it in here.
—I know
—Come closer
—I
—Come come

And here I am trapped in this mirror. Just a reflection. Veronica welcomes you all.

And as Veronica I would like to say—Make me a cake. I want you to make me a cake. Make me a cake that is glazed in your own blood. Not mine. Make me a cake that is chocolate throughout until you get to the middle and you reach bone. Hard hard bone. Bone is good. Bone is great. Bone is amazing. It’s doesn’t matter. Baby, let’s bone.

And suddenly I looked up and saw robots. It was horrifying. It was nothing. Nothing but real. It was nothing but apples. It was nothing but—

Trees. When trees start to speak by themselves I start to wonder why they were stopped. My own idea of commutation is hindered by the fact that I talk to myself too much to be able to fully develop an outside point of reference. Rocks do nothing to ground the emerging flower buds half naked in the stark moonlight that I call my father’s eye. Tensions run high whey you’re high. It’s a way of life, she says. I know but that doesn’t mean anything. Everything is a way of life. A way of life is the direction that the wind blows when the sun is burning into your back. Why do you always have to do this? Because I don’t care about your are much as much as I care about you. That makes no sense, I know. But listen closely. My life is not mine. It is a slave to every subconscious tick that crosses the faces of everyone around me. Your tick doesn’t have special value against everyone else’s tick. It’s the truth and if it hurts let it hurt.

You see, there are men in the corner and I can never tell whether or not they are talking about me. It’s strange. My brain seems to shift people’s focus to stare at me. When I walk in public places I find faces following me everywhere. They begin to turn slowly in the corner of my eye but the I turn to check—they are gone—consumed in their own world. It makes my bones shudder as I make a ladder of danger in my mind with my own mind being at the top.

Stop Stop Stop: I can’t because the smell of piss doesn’t really bother me anymore. Come into my bedroom and smell it with me. I cannot stand to do it alone. Although it doesn’t bother me. You’re teeth are the color of piss. I’ve noticed. But that doesn’t bother me. So why does my piss bother you? On the computer screen it’s something you love to watch. I guess I don’t understand why grass sways but my thumbs aren’t purple and green together when you’re in the middle—does that make any sense?

There is nothing on a table except for cigarette butts, dwindling cups of James, and half lit candles–
OH! and candy
—always candy.
For Alice. For Veronica. For Vaginas. For a Woman. For all Women. For all.

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