by Caridad Svich
We don’t know each other. How could we know each other? Everyone that has ever lived here have been strangers to one another. I look out. I see ppl. They see me. occasionally. Sometimes we wave at each other, but it is a kind of ignorant wave. Or should I say, indifferent? The world is riddled with indifference. The world is steeped in blood. So much blood in the soil, from centuries upon centuries, we will never get rid of it.
someone I used to know used to say, ‘our hands will always be unclean.’ I don’t know if I look at it that way. But I understand the feeling. This sense of un-cleanness. This inability to shed the darkness, and it is a darkness. Darker than many of us have ever known.
Sometimes I want to cry out ‘fuck the darkness.’ As if the universe will hear me.
sometimes I do this shouting alone, here, in this place. Underneath the sky itself.
sometimes the ppl that wave at me occasionally do not like my shouting. They do not like my cursing. They think saying ‘fuck’ is the equivalent of murder.
I know that sounds extreme. But that’s how it feels when they murmur under their woolly clothes. ‘look at them, saying such an awful word.’
But the thing is, I don’t think it’s awful. Cos it’s just a word. And sometimes it’s a very good word. To express feelings.
I have lots of feelings. Too many of them inside the body. Sometimes I have so many I don’t know what to do with them. that’s why I shout. Occasionally. Get the feelings out. Send them somewhere else. Pitch them onto that yard over there. Maybe some good will come of it. maybe a tree.
It’s said ppl gave up on trees a long time ago. Cos they stopped growing. Or should I say, someone came through and cut them all down. ‘clear the earth,’ they said. Use this for kindling.
What kind of kindling did they need so many trees for? What were they doing?
Friend said it was for the graves.
I didn’t know what they meant. Not then. I didn’t look out as much then. I was always running. Going this way and that. Making a show of doing things. it’s what some ppl used to call ‘productivity.’
What an awful word. As if we were all machines.
Well. I suppose we are in a way. Body is a.
But I don’t like to think of it like that, cos when it breaks down, when it’s breaking, like it is now, it just feels like you’re stuck in the repair shop and no one has the parts.
Sometimes I think I’m on the shelf. Waiting for some old piece of machinery to fit inside me. except they don’t make it any more. So, they have to go hunting for it. way out in the outer recesses of God knows where.
They say it’ll take years.
They say they may never find the parts.
They say, ‘be patient.’
I look out at where the trees used to be. I say ‘fuck.’ So the whole world can hear me.
*
At night, the waves. The sea. The roaring quiet. The sound of the breeze. There was a pattern to the illness, but we kept going cos it’s all we knew. At a certain point, you get used to disease. The ground is porous. I look at the trees, at where they used to be. I make a joke. About the old days, when we pretended everything was fine. For some of us. it was a useful pretense. We managed. Barely. We said our prayers. I don’t think we believed them. but we made a show of it. we lifted our hands, we tugged at our clothes, we put our hands to our hearts. Gestures of repentance. We’re all born innocent, after all. It is important to believe this. Or else we would never do anything.
*
You could say it was fear. We were swaddled in it. We knew its contours. We held its shapes. We’ve been living with it for so long that we knew nothing else. Sometimes I’d even go to parties, back when there were parties, and I’d tell everyone we should all be ready for days when fear would leave us, and we’d just be enthralled to violence. Ppl would look at me and say, “you’re being morose. That’s such a morose thing to say.” But I knew, even if I didn’t want to know, that in time, that’s where we would find ourselves.
*
I think when I knew things were changing, really changing was when that woman stood in front of the police. Daring them to shoot. There was a whole line of them with their gear on. Performing their authority. They knew how to do that. We were watching her from across the way. Marvelling at her brazenness. My friend said, they’re not shooting her because she’s white. And I said to them, she isn’t white. She’s not white at all. She just looks white from this angle. But up close, if you knew her, you’d know she wasn’t white. My friend said, “you always justify things.” But I was just telling the truth. Ppl don’t want to hear the truth sometimes.
*
After a while, it was just dark. The whole world was. It was like a movie. Like one of those movies where ppl forage for things and sleep in the dark. I wanted to run, but I didn’t have track shoes. You need good track shoes to make a run for it. So, I waited, like others did. Until it was all over.
Caridad Svich is a text-builder and theatre-maker. Her new participatory performance piece HOW IT ENDS is test-run at theatre and gaming summit Worlds in Play in January 2024 (https://worldsinplay.com). Their book TOWARD A FUTURE THEATRE is published by Methuen Drama (2022).
Something Other 