nightflower

(The stage is divided in two. To the right: a small room filled with mountains of documents, a table and chair in the centre of them. On the table sits a bottle of juice, an empty glass and telephone. A pen and some paper. A door connects the right side of the stage to the left.)

(The left of the stage: a run-down part of the city. A few dishevelled working-class women stand there smoking, drinking. 'A' is nearby. Two brutes approach, watching the women with terrible eyes, in a way that makes them feel uncomfortable. They come to rest by a stop sign.)

A: Behold machine-man, a mechanical heart as fuelled by alcohol; eager for dominance of everything. Some fuse to a vehicle, have petrol running through them, their blood through it, polluting wherever they are. Or they become one with computer, poisoning the internet, observing from afar. Together they moderate the spheres.

(One of the men burps. A addresses the women.)

A: See what they've done to you my flowers. See what they've done to us all. They think you subordinate, wish to subordinate you further; to have you the slave of slaves. Are you not subordinate enough? Have you not been drained of almost everything you have? Then these men, of the same class as you, represent the height of treachery among humans, their dominance nothing but vampirism.

A: Yet why? Why do these men think themselves superior? Because they have bigger arms? A larger chest? Their system is so paper-thin, so ridiculous, that any man can enter the scene wearing a large jumper and bluff their way into being the alpha male. Now hear my mantra: I will not subordinate myself to the inferior sex, and especially not the violent kind. One does not pay the monkeys when visiting a zoo.

(The men begin pulling at the stop sign, wrenching it back and forth, until it comes up from the ground. They look proudly over what they've done. Then one of them takes notice of the speaker. He nudges the other.)

A: We have a surplus of machine-men. Hence the rise of fascism, hence the threat of war. Hence why we have mesomorphs filling shelves, dwarfing the register. Machine-man is threatened by the very machines he created, by machine civilization, by machine labour. He takes his fear out on women, on smaller men, on minority groups, the environment itself.

A: Much of male behaviour, consciously or not, forms an immense psychological wall around women, patrolled by the violent. A fortress they've been facing in earnest for less than two hundred years, always opposed by men.

(The men seem annoyed by this. They begin approaching. A, now addressing them, slowly backs off toward the doorway on the right.)

A: Woman is our rightful leader, oppressed by man. She'll only bring peace and happiness. Yet he's forever draining her, converting her to fuel, for himself and for patriarchy. Society beneath him will always be rather primitive, always violent. It's the twenty-first century, the 'developed world'; every city yet dangerous, bigger nations invading small ones. Such is the behaviour of predators. Such is the behaviour of primates. Such are the consequences of male domination.

(A enters the right side of the stage then locks the door. They sit down, pour a glass of juice, have a sip, lift the pen. The men knock, press their ears against the wood, listening.)

A: This can't be a dream, the audience aren't gasping for breath. Am I a doomed writer then, or one who finds salvation? Or perhaps I'll have salvation through death. Mother Kombucha, you know I love you! Lend me your strength!

(They drain the glass, pour another. Begin writing.)

A: The machine-men came, carrying the process with them. We're now fairly conditioned, free to analyse from within. A castle of solid flesh with I in the very centre; observing the shrunken heart, the vulnerabilities. (Pause for a moment.) We'll destroy this monster from inside, at the cost of my own life. Maybe even following the final word we're supposed to write. We'll refrain from turning on women, smaller males, or minority groups; as the other conditioned men often do.

(They lower their pen, have another drink. Another man enters the left side of the stage, joining the others.)

A: Patriarchy. An unholy process as driven by wrath. Nearly all of its heroes, if not all of them, reduced to antiheroes at the very least, when we factor in the oppression of women.

(The telephone rings. They rise, unplug it.)

A: Always after my attention. My energy. My élan vitale. Always disagreeing with these ideas and think I should know. I used to answer them, yet they only ever shouted, played games. Vied for control. We never had anything done.

(They sit again. Another man enters from the left, joining the others.)

A: The alleged truths of our universe are held within their mythology, explaining the cycles; mythology as written by man in bygone environments, as moderated by himself. Yet many of these cycles are in fact those of patriarchy, of conditioning; and others will take their place when we evolve beyond them. The word stands in the way and so we change it, and also the order of things.

(They have a drink.)

A: A doctrine pushed by armies of men all frightened of each another, frightened of their own fathers. Roving the countryside, taking their fear out on whoever they encounter: a farm, village, town, another army, passers-by...

(The telephone somehow rings again. They answer, listen for a second.)

A: Then why are you always masculine? Why never let up, even for a second?

(They put the receiver down.)

A: They somehow got through again, as they always do. They were disagreeing with the idea of them all being afraid. Yet they came in mass and brought their fathers, in flesh, and as phantom.

(A has another drink, sits for a while thinking. Another man joins the others outside. A then stands, begins pacing back and forth.)

A: The hard man is renowned by his fellow male for alleged strength and fearlessness, yet our studies on say otherwise. He displays a full body of Reichian armour, a level of tension showing extreme emotional avoidance. He squeezes the muscle with all his power to avoid fear, sadness, even love; an ongoing process from the Stone Age, as passed among generations, often by household.

(Another drink.)

A: Tension ongoing for so long as to be wholly removed from consciousness. He does so unwittingly, without noticing, having forgotten how it all began. He became mechanical one day, automatic. The birth of machine-man! Lumbering away from a conveyor belt, half-mad with rationalisation.

(Pause for a moment in thought. Another man joins his friends outside.)

A: That or he dulls himself with alcohol, bypassing courage and the pains of growth. Or even a bit of both. Having only friends devoid of empathy or none whatsoever worsens the process; as does an aversion to one's feminine side, being the spirit, the creative, where love comes from. Such aversion often births a misogynist, whether conscious or not.

(The phone rings again. Rings out.)

A: And so they came for me, and so they come. And so we endure as always. Mother Kombucha, you know I love you! Lend me your strength!

(Another drink. A long sigh. They go on.)

A: Tensions throughout the body hamper soft movement; depressors on the face prevent whole-hearted smiling, often wearing away at the cheeks. There could be excessive frowning, the voice may deepen. Awareness in general will diminish. Mechanical exercise furthers the whole process, enhancing machine-like motion. Yoga and certain forms of dancing, on the other hand, may free the muscles, encouraging natural movement.

(A pause, in thought. Another man joins their friends.)

A: Local conditioning may occur in perpetually hostile environments: in the home, neighbourhood, anywhere a person must remain. One becomes locked an inch from the fight response when reluctant or unable to fly from the emergency. Some are overwhelmed by anger, others take refuge in evil, places where the fear and pain are entirely blocked out. Before we know it we have machine-regions, mass-producing soldiers; accelerating in winter, in rough circumstances, when machine-man's urge to escape intensifies. As it does when hearing this very writer. Yet machine-man listens anyway, frightening himself in the process. And so they mobilise, and so they come. And so again we're waiting.

(The phone rings, going unanswered for a while. Another man joins the crowd from offstage. The lights dim, curtains fall. The phone rings out.)

'The patient had lived with Alzheimer’s disease for approximately 10 years and experienced severe functional decline over the preceding five years... she had become largely monosyllabic, demonstrated profound cognitive impairment, chronic urinary incontinence, impaired mobility, dysphagia, executive dysfunction, and severe reduction in spontaneous communication and emotional engagement...'

'Over subsequent days and weeks (after ingesting 5g of mushrooms), she regained urinary continence, improved ambulation, dressed herself independently, showed increased emotional responsiveness, and engaged socially... A subsequent 3g dose of psilocybin was given to the patient one month later, and was followed by increased verbal expression, humor, and greater walking agility.'