LETTERS 

The writer had forced himself downtown to the movie theatre where a long crowd waited patiently to enter. It was a well-advertised fare. The critics and money-men raved about it. It was compared to every fabled piece of art in existence. More money was spent in a day of advertising than the writer would see in a lifetime. 'Since it humiliates the people with preposterous amounts of money it'd better be good. It better live up to expectations' He too waited in line. There was little conversation. He felt it odd that now people wanted their conversation structured for them and projected at their heads like enemy troops in a fabled battlefield. He shuffled toward the front and bought his ticket. The line was long but the crowd was easily absorbed by the spacious theatre that had been, at one time, a burlesque theatre. Men pulled rabbits out of hats while telling obscene jokes. He sat in his seat and imagined the life of burlesque performers and how they had to hide away in the backalley bars after performance. There was a smell to them, no doubt, the writer thought. There must have been large dreams among the feeling of being used and anonymous.

Soon, the lights dimmed and an old dark and velvet curtain parted before the dancing bits of light. He watched in silence. There were splendid murals of nudes all along one wall with garish green light projected on them and stars where the sex organs were. He had ambiguous thoughts about what he was about to see. He didn't particularly want to see it. But as it started he was suddenly overwhelmed by a terrible feeling. It was hypnotism. It was the evil eye! It was sucking the soul from the people. Without regard to his safety the writer jumped up and run down the aisle and onto the stage where the magicians and strippers had been. 'People,' he shouted. 'There's an art that liberates and an art that enslaves! It's not really art at all but a posturing of surfaces and expectations. When art becomes posture and expectation all you get is a grandiose attempt to put something over on you; you the audience. You are merchandised with tricks! And you expect it because that's all you get!'

He could see dim figures at the top of the theatre aisle. The projected light sliced through him like some ancient sword. 'They have spent a great deal of money to prove to you that it rules you absolutely. It tries to heal old memories of the poor. When you leave the theatre all the old dullness remains as before. It is a theft from your soul!'

With that the writer leapt from the stage as Wilkes Booth must have after the assasination, with his hand and arm raised high with clenched fist.

As he escaped through a side door and ran toward the street he heard the one thing he did not expect and which humiliated him. Laughter! As if he were the final vaudeville act before the closing of the live and spontaneous acts, forever, of the fabled people.

David Eide
September 1, 1999
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