Shantih Journal Issue 2.2 | Page 27

The burn instantly bubbled into the shape of a horseshoe, a scar that took years to fade. Once it did, I became the rain in Phoenix. Non-existent. In Lysistrata, the women are water, the men are fire. Each try to put the other out and both lose their molecular formula in the process. The women, however, do not have their common sense clouded by longing for bloodshed or crippling sexual desire. The play is revolutionary in that it presents women as the more sensible of the two sexes, a sharp contrast to the even modern- day sexisms that women are inferior because we are more emotional than logical, more erratic than focused. We fight these accusations by taking on roles traditionally assumed by men. We cut our own wood, build our own campfires, and clean up dead animals from the yard ourselves. We not only rip out the water damage before black mold can grow, we safeguard our houses against the next inevitable flood. We clean, construct, install, discard, rebuild, move forward. We eventually perceive two feet of water in our basements as an opportunity to start anew, rather than seeking the presumed closure that comes with a fire. Closure is a drug of choice, an addiction that locks people into the conflicts of time and space. They are rats in a maze and hamsters running on a wheel. They are bitter, jealous lesbians in dark bars who scar people with lighters, and they are nervous little brothers who nearly maim their sisters with illegal fireworks. They are never satisfied until someone gives them permission to be satisfied. It’s no way to live. 27