Moth-eaten hopes and dreams

I would like to make a play with this humming through the speakers, so loud that the floor hums and your knees rattle.

The audience would duck and crawl and climb through a blacked-out labyrinth of ramps and ladders, trapdoors and shrouded, cave-like rooms. Lights will glow and pulse and seep stealthy shadows through the maze. There will be apprehension and curiosity hanging about the dark corners.

Outside, beyond thick walls, is a futuristic, authoritarian state. We are treading through an illicit drinking den, sniffing at the cloying, sweaty stench of desperation and disease. The characters are mad with fear and rebellion. The play will spin above and below and all about you. It will be sordid, tumultuous, grotesque.

The actors brush past people, pin them against the walls, curse and rant and whisper. They will drag them into the story, get them lost and bewildered in the burrows and attempt to knock them senseless with whiskey.

I will never make this. I'm just pondering and stealing ideas. Seeing an inane show five times in a day leaves you itching for some imagination, and boy am I glad there are a few passionate people actually following up their daydreams and making some frighteningly different plays.

Treadmill theatre wants your money, not your heart. Don't feed it your coins. Ignore the big bucks marketing. Seek out the stuff that cares enough to want to rip your heart out.