Oppsie

There many things about this picture that disturb me.

First; I goggled the National Society of Absurdist. I got nada, zilch, nothing! You can find anything on the internet. But no NSA.

Shall we start our own? All that be required is a sense of being out of place: either ourselves, or things.

The second disturbing thing about this drawing, is the memories it conjures.

High school. Bitburg American high school, Germany, mid 1970’s. We had a very strong drama group. The teacher was New York born, raised, and educated. She knew what real theater was, she had participated in the audience. Lots of memories there. Mrs. Lee was her name.

One day, there was an assembly in the local movie threater, closest thing to a stage, I should think.

The drama group presented a round robin of Theater of The Asurb preformances. I was not ready to see it, I did not know how to walk away. Adults said, watch this, I wached this. These days I have recording devises and fast forward buttons.

First of all, the actors dressed in tights. Even the boys. I was all of sixteen or seventeen! Showers after gym were bad enough, but my fellow students running around in full body hose? (I did not mind it on the girls btw)

Second, what was the point of the play? I thought it was going to be parody. But it was so over the top as to become annoying. I am not so dim that the theme must be pounded into my skull.

This is were I first heard the expression; “nothing succeeds like excess.”

In one act, a boy and girl marry. She goes off stage to give birth to eggs. The eggs are walked out to the boy. The boy climbs into a big cardboard packing box and begins to hump the eggs as they are brought to him by dutiful family members. All the while he clucks like a roaster and continues to hump the cornor of the box.

The first couple eggs, it was shocking, the next couple, almost funny, and then it just went on and on. I wished I had walked away. It has been a repressed memory until now.

Afterword, I found a place to be by myself. I concidered tearing my notebook into tiny pieces; my notebook of short stories, plot outlines, character sketches….I did not want to be a writer anymore, not if it meant telling those kind of stories.

I felt sick. It was just too weird. Too self serving…too freaking stupid!

Later, once a grew up a bit, I realized I had a choice. Sure, the world is absurd. (Btw, the war was still going on) But I don’t have to go so deep into symbolism and repetition as to fatigue the point.

She may have been the best and the worst teacher I ever had.