This is where I’m supposed to offer thoughtful context about the piece you’re about to see, followed by something that ties the work to the present moment in history and leaves you, dear reader, feeling hopeful in a vague yet unsustainable way.

But I’m tired of writing that kind of sh*t and you’re probably tired of reading it.

We’re all fucking tired right now.

In place of “joy as an act of resistance”, may I offer survival itself as an act of resistance?

Because somewhere underneath the many forms of exhaustion we’re collectively experiencing–spiritual, physical, romantic, administrative, moral, digital, existential–there’s a beating animal heart inside all of us that keeps us eating/sleeping/shitting/fucking for another day.

And look at us go! Out of bed, dressed, and anticipating some shared-yet-transitory moment of humanity in a darkened room. Some of us here to offer, others here to receive it.

Breathing together in the dark will always feel intimate to me. As will the rehearsal room. Both distinctly holy & human, which has been my refrain when describing this play.

In a time when I firmly believe that WE SHOULD ALL KNOW LESS ABOUT EACH OTHER (e.g. Elon Musk’s botched dick implant or whatever fresh horrors are atop our feeds by the time this goes to print), I present to you a play about intimacy. Turns out, we can’t avoid it! As the playwright herself says, “We all exist in relation to the world, our partners, the human race.”

I’m grateful to Iron Crow for creating a space where an ambitious process like this is possible for local artists.

To Sarah Ruhl for her brave and ever-evolving work. And her poetry!

To a cast & crew who fearlessly threw themselves into this process.

To the ancients, whose faith in theatre brought the gods, (wo)man, and wine together for something truly transcendent.

And as of late, I’m especially grateful for any opportunity that reminds me we are all wild at heart.

May we be blessed with good sex and strong triangles.