Black carpet. A
single chair. A wall made from wooden frames covered in plastic sheeting. Harsh
fluorescent light.
Blackout.
Lights up slowly
on a man sitting on the chair, blindfolded. He wears an oxygen mask, his
breathing laboured, rasping; catching. Slow, sometimes painfully loud. A long
beat.
Blackout.
The man stands on
the chair, his singlet over his head, screaming wordlessly like a Bacon pope
into the void.
Blackout.
Suddenly from
nowhere, the sound of a hurricane envelopes us, total, all-consuming; a great
sonic roar of wind and fury and anger. Like a plane crashing over our heads,
like a building collapsing, like a world falling apart. The man stands on the
chair, naked in the dim light, chanting wordlessly.
The lights snap to
full, the fluorescence blinding, cruel. The man stands on the chair, naked;
ashamed. Alone and suddenly very small. A woman enters the space carrying a
large and somewhat heavy bag and proceeds to wash the man from a tub of warm
water. He tries to retain his dignity, but in the small intimate Downstairs
theatre, it’s not entirely possible.
