The Ongoing Show

Someone invents a machine that can translate dogspeak to humanspeak, so that 'wanwan' means 'I would like some food please' and 'bowwow' means 'give me my food, bitch.'

Someone else invents a machine that translates catspeak to insectspeak directly to newspeak.

We all get bored.

Someone whips out his cell phone, and displays a photograph next to each entry in his address book.

We are still bored.

Someone comes along with a digital audio device, and claims that he has a sound clip for every person he knows. The sound clips do not consist of each person's voice at all, but the sound that is particular and most indicative of each person's sonic contribution to the world: rustle of a certain jacket, length of time between clicks of the heel, a neck that always cracks in multiples of three, the popping irregular timing of bubble gum. I am no longer bored at all, until I realize that this device already exists, not in a piece of machinery in the palm of my hand, but in a sliver of gray in the favorite part of my mind.

An extension of family, everyone outside of immediacy, comes together for a conference in an overpriced rented hall.

A decision is made as to classifications of 'junk.'

Beginning with, then alternating between, the lowest and highest categories of classification, named items are thrown into the swimming pool, one at a time, one person at a time, ceremoniously, silently, everyone there to witness, hear, take mental note of the sound of each splash, to be stashed away in a drawer of the memory never to be recovered.

The person who throws in the item which makes the pool overflow is branded with an 'O' somewhere on his or her body.

Then a job opening is listed in the classifieds, in the Help Wanted section. Need someone to help with overflow.

The process of throwing objects into the pool continues for as long as there are objects to throw into the pool.

Each participant, when it is not his or her turn, continues to live life as normal.

When it comes down to the final piece of junk, of a median level of junk classification, a conference is held once again in the overpriced rented hall, in order to determine what shall be done.

One of the decisions is that the last person with the last piece of junk shall jump into the pool, together with the junk.

Everyone sits in a circle: one big group circle, or that of a more internal and private nature.

In a moment of group anxiety, each person uses their right hand (unless they are left-handed) and begins to incessantly touch, squeeze, or knead a certain body part which gives them comfort.

The baker squeezes his right ear lobe because it reminds him of bread dough at its crux.

The Norwegian kneads the skin on his right elbow because he likes to monitor the moisture level.

A child rubs her right thumb over the skin between the thumb and index finger of her left hand. She remembers what it looks like to press a flashlight through this skin, the brightness and redness of her blood shining through.

A couple of Catholics close their eyes and poke their eyeballs - sometimes with one hand, sometimes both.

The cast
involves a line of people, each with something to sell, stretching clear across.

The audience
may consist of none, one, or many.

The sound
is adjusted by each audience member, by varying the distance and speed with which one walks past the row of vendors.

The end
occurs continuously, as does the beginning.

***

The cast:
(All members of the cast shout at once to advertise their wares)

A kid at a lemonade stand. He knows he is a phony and this is a hoax. Except that the lemonade is real, and damn good, and still going for only 5 cents, just like in the old days. But this is a hoax, the kid an accomplice, and the lemonade has its reasons for tasting the way it does.

The most beautiful woman in the whole row of vendors is not for sale, but is a vendor herself. Her body does not function in the usual ways of a woman, but more in the usual ways of a threshold. Once across this threshold, one wonders vaguely and only vaguely and for inconsistent durations of time whether it is the smell of bullshit, or that of perfume.

Children selling their parents at a high price. The parents have a dumb grin on each of their faces, as if looking down upon their child’s lemonade stand. These are the parents who don’t believe.

Man selling Bullshit Detectors As Seen On TV for only $19.99

Man next to him with apparently nothing to sell. Step closer though, and he motions you even still closer. “Those Bullshit Detectors don’t work. What bullshit are you concerned about?”

Ella Fitzgerald singing Love for Sale. Every once in a while her tongue sticks to the inside of her left cheek, signalling to those in the know or to those that matter the most dearly to her.