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.
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