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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required Greetings to those who would willingly seek admission to theater of the absurd. Zoltan Goliath and Otis Trench are masters of the avant-garde genre silent musicals for the imaginary stage, an art form sui generis. That they are not well-known beyond the fringe element constituting their eccentric cult following should come as no surprise. In the course of their careers, these two gentlemen have taken their work so far underground as to have eventually surfaced in China where they were promptly banned. Their rumored involvement in promoting unlicensed pornography was never substantiated, but they remain under suspicion of conspiracy. It is my hope that this anecdote may serve to whet adventurous appetites eager for the taste of prurient sacraments and sanctified taboos, because that’s what you’re in for – an ontology both sacred and profane. This should give the uninitiated sufficient foreshadowing to expect the unexpected. Whether one chooses to launch lightning raids upon random pages of this tome, or settle in for a long and bloody siege, the walls of Jericho will begin to crumble either way. In February of 2014, while attending the annual bacchanal of the Harry Haller Society at The Spotted Cat Music Club on Frenchmen Street, New Orleans, Louisiana, I suggested to the authors that they go through the scripts of all of their silent musical productions, strip out all the tedious dialogue and confusing stage directions, and publish the remaining arias and soliloquies as a single volume of collected works. I explained, “The libretti could be grouped in cycles of three productions each; that would be very symbolic. Considering the years your work has spent haunting bohemian, art house, hole-in-the-wall opium dens, why not give it a chance to come up for air?” The idea was greeted with much skepticism and a few obscene indulgences. Mr. Goliath unceremoniously mumbled, “ must be on crack,” while Mr. Trench pawed the floor and snorted. Never being one who takes no for an answer, I remained undaunted and pressed further, offering to broker a deal with a publisher and act as promoter for the project. I then inquired whether they were currently involved in any new theatrical endeavors. Mr. Trench cleared his throat and casually replied, “We’re working on it.” My executive assistant, Ms. Willow Divine, was immediate and enthusiastic in her response, leaving no doubt about how wet her panties had gotten: Bravo, maestro Otis! The title of your new production says it all; We’re Working on It – a minimalist lyrical masterpiece, brilliant in its simplicity, yet evocative of both existentialist angst and Dadaist satire. One might even consider it to be the harbinger of a post-post-modernist revolution. You may have started your own literary movement. Volumes are destined to be written by graduate students deconstructing the Sturm und Drang that run like a leitmotif through this piece. It is Wagnerian in scope, an epic orchestration in tune with the zeitgeist of our age, yet it hinges on those uncertain subtleties, the cumulative effect of which is to impart a sense of intimacy making clear, as if in an epiphany, the eternal dichotomy that underscores the poignant drama of human perseverance. I hear those words, We’re working on it, and immediately, the concertos and sonatas of Ernst Wilhelm Wolff, George Anton Benda and Johann Gottfried Müthel compete for the attention of my deepest inner urges, seducers sent to free me from the social ligatures restraining my primal needs. I picture great white marble columns standing stiffly erect beneath a Book of Exodus sky as I feel the Red Sea parting, my pulse racing, huffing short quick breaths as my lips grow moist, my vision blurs and strange incoherent incantations stream forth involuntarily from my psyche’s core. I try vainly to resist the pull of the raging current, all muscles tense and straining, then joyously abandon my will and gloriously release my grip. Time stands still for an eternity. I see the face of God, The Supreme Identity. Then, in an instant, I fall too far to tell how far I’ve fallen and land in the comfort of some serene infinite womb as aftershocks resonate throughout the essence of my entire being, gradually subsiding with tremors of ever diminishing intensity till I’m utterly spent and entirely at peace with the universe. Such is the sublime evanescence you’ve captured with those few terse words; We’re working on it. Your revolutionary pronoun-verb-preposition-pronoun form will become a classic poetic construction as admired and imitated as the sonnet, haiku or limerick. We’ll get it published in The New Yorker and it will be enshrined in the canon of modern American literature. We could make millions selling t-shirts, bumper stickers, travel mugs and tote bags emblazoned with those immortal words, We’re working on it. We could even pitch the concept of a new reality TV series and numerous spin-offs: He’s Hitting on Her; She’s Lying to Him; We’re Better than Them; I’m Happy with That. The marketing possibilities are almost endless. Think of the Twitter following it will generate. You will be trending high as social media darlings and groupies will throw themselves at you! The passion of my assistant’s reaction was sufficient to persuade Mr. Trench and Mr. Goliath to agree to my proposal of publishing a collected works edition. Mr. Trench suggested calling the project, Multiple Orgasms, while Mr. Goliath favored naming it simply, Papers. After many possibilities were debated, the authors finally agreed it should be entitled, Silent Musicals for the Imaginary Stage: The Black Art of Tubal Cain. That the title is both obvious and obscure is an indication of the way these gentlemen think and work. Question is: Can you dig it?
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