Five act structure

Let me tell you a story.

My dad grew up a few miles interior of Miami, Florida. In October 1962, the month after he turned ten, some men showed up at the vacant lot caddy-corner from his family's house. They had a pup tent and a surface to air missile rack, hanging out in case the Soviets and the Americans had a recreational nuclear exchange. He thought they were all going to die. All the kids thought that.

A thing I roll around in my hand like those metal balls, that I mime even when I don't actually have the metal balls, is the topic of afters. The world, steered by individually identifiable power brokers, is hurtling towards a series of unpleasant outcomes. The thing is that while the play may end, the bows and the bouquets, the theater still exists. If not the theater, the city. If not the city, the memory of the play, the theater, and the city. Humans are much like raccoons, social animals of dubious moral standing who thrive in hostile settings. This hedge is not cement, with some patience it's no different than a hollow-core door from Home Depot.

I once spent several months in therapy, every single week crying in my beloved 2006 Toyota Prius, inching every session towards the truth. There were choices, and those choices each had an after that I had to convince myself existed. Thinking I was on an inevitable path of misery was both a trap and a comfort - I could make myself a noble tragic figure, wronged but my flaw was inherent and built into the structure of the spectacle. That idea rolling in my brain and the tragedy have an important commonality. They're fiction.

It is hard to say this is not the end. As writer Margaret Killjoy posted yesterday, if things were hopeless, we would not be subjected to propaganda. The ruling class does not believe the only ending is oblivion. They are like us, they live in fear.

I believe they are justified.

Artemis