January 14th, 2007
Chapter Nine: I was a love slave of the demon goddess Bohemia!
Before I began working with POT (People Of Theatre), I labored under some fairly common illusions about the world of stagecraft and the mystical pixie like beings who inhabit it. In fact, like most children, I was raised with enchanting bedtime stories about the whimsical shenanigans of the fairy folk known as Actors, about avuncular Directors with their long flowing white beards, conical hats and sonorous Gandalf voices booming orders good naturedly to their flying monkey assistants. I was treated to visions of dwarf production crews who toiled long and hard constructing something called "Sets" while they happily whistled Disney tunes from the 1940s. Black turtle necked playwrights worked feverishly over dusty leatherbound tomes with feathered pens that were plucked from the tails of a peacock. It was a strange world filled with forests where various types of cubed cheese hung from the branches and where the rivers flowed with cheap red wine. I had of course read the myths and stories of Chatterton and Tennyson that POT were actually the human decendents of the High Elves of Avalon, who were unable to escape from the prison of this reality by the chthonic magicks of the Elizabethan sorcerer William Shakespeare, better known by such infamous nomenclatures as The Bard, The Shakeman and Gargamel. In fact it is said that one of The Bard's most deadly magick spells is contained in the play Macbeth (the very mention of which can cause an Actor to experience extreme vertigo, memory loss, nausea, the Bends, beri-beri and finally what doctors call The Death).
It was only much later that I learned that much of this was nonsense. Mere folk tales and cautionary parables to keep overly curious children away from the admittedly often drunk POT that can be found in almost any community in the world. Actually the truth was much more horrible than any of that. When I finally caught a glimpse of the terrible Lovecraftian secrets that lurked in ambush behind the Fourth Wall it was too late. I was a prisoner to madness and a slave to the demon goddess Bohemia.
Their fiendish plan is simple. The destruction of the 'Fourth Wall' that protects mankind from certain unspeakable terrors. The Fourth wall is not an imaginary wall, as they would have you believe, acting as a conceptual veil in front of the stage of a common proscenium theater. No, it is much more than that! It is a barrier between our universe and the howling void of chaos where the Old Ones sleep deeply until that dreaded day arrives: "Where upon ye Greate & Terryble Fourth Walle shall be shattered like the vowes of fidelity a younge maiden doth pledge" and on that terrible day of their awakening they shall rise from the ocean deep in all their terrible glory or descend down from the stars to feed off humanity like a Hobo at an all you can eat buffet.
This is why, dear reader, I have not been able to BLOG as often as I would wish of late. Know that I am a love slave to the POT. Know that the POT demands all my time and money! Know that the POT has made me it's bitch! Know that the POT has my soul contracted out and only by attending the black mass rituals called "PRODUCTION MEETINGS" and "WRITERS WORKSHOPS" for the express purpose of invocating the Ghost of Robert Anton Wilson, a ceremony that will be completed on this 23rd night of February will I have any hope of freeing myself from these diabolic Charms that have been cast upon me.
Pray for me dear readers, pray with all your might to Hebrew Carpenters and promiscous Moon Goddesses for my swift and safe release!