Human.Suprnva*

“They come in twos.

You come in twos.

You and You.

Kill your double.”

Like, fuck.

I want a moving truck, and i want one side to fold open into a makeshift proscenium, the trim forming a frame around the beautifully painted scenery on the back wall, hiding the diy lighting rigged along the roof, minimum, but agile and intentional. Modest blue tooth speakers placed around an implied audience space.

5 or 6 hungry artists, friends who’ve decided to say “Fuck it” and go all in on an impossible and ridiculous dream, traveling from town to town to set up in a parking lot during the annual festival, or strike up a pop-up arts market for a weekend and help the local artists showcase some work and make some sales, feature a local musician or band after the show has ended.

Living life deeply and vividly and with reckless abandon and divine vulnerability, a band of fuck-ups roaming the rapidly crumbling structure of the before time, whispering and screaming outrageous timeless truths in absurd post dada post everything commedia dellarte fables and myths and fairly tales and finding some small authentic way to find and build community in this insanely lonely world and answer to no one but ourselves and those we have chosen to be equally answerable to and for.

It is so infuriating that something that could be so simple and attainable is so hard to pull together, simply because it’s so hard to believe that there is any other way to live and find fulfillment and joy.