Tuesday, February 28, 2017
Mr. Burns: A Post-Electric Play
At first I don’t think it’s a problem, but then I realize that it is a problem, a big problem, and so I call Dot.
Dot doesn’t answer, because she’s at chemotherapy. I instantly feel bad that I’m going to bug her about something as silly as a cinematic existential crisis. She’s dying. Nothing trumps that.
I resent the fact that the word T-R-U-M-P is now ruined, because before all of this baloney I really did like that word.
Dot calls me back before dinner, while the chicken breasts sear in the pan, and NPR plays from the shitty speaker in my phone.
“I can’t say I know what you’re talking about,” Dot says, in that way that she does, in that way that feels like chamomile tea.
“I see the slug-lines of my life, Dot!” I cry, flipping the over-cooked chicken with a pair of tongs she gave me. “For example right now, this conversation, it’s an overhead shot, lit dimly, with a score of sweeping cello!”