IT'S THE TRAPS
The logic, then, is absolutely undeniable, an ecstasy of good sense; but then, there, a sliver crack in an otherwise unblemished slab of marble, a defect in that diamond ring. There's always a trap somewhere, an almond shaped pit of darkness. There's traps everywhere, laid down every bend and corner; on the straight stretches they just materialize, dropped right out of nowhere. This is at the common defective core of every human being.
Sometimes I'm just sitting around. The lights may well be dim. My feeble eyes prefer a brightly warm lit room, by definition incandescent. Throughout the evening, in the rather dim light, forms swob up before my face, and finally I recognize many of my acquaintances. Invariably they ask me for a synopsis of the play I would write, basically if pressed on a moment's notice, with the given having me write a play that would best be my Thomas Bernhard play.
The traps, I say, every time it's the traps.
What I imagine, I think, is all the lights, the house lights and the stage lights, illuminating the audience. Then back to the darkened, damn near pitch-black stage. Empty of course. Thomas Bernhard and I dance a little pas de deux in our stocking feet across the empty barren pitch-dark stage. Empty but for the several dozen spring-wired bear traps. We'd go ouch, ouch!