The Sticking Place Theatre and Film productions

“This village had to be destroyed to be saved,” said Colonel Smithson, as he surveyed the mass of rubble, over-turned rice-bowls and shards of Buddhist figurines that constituted the landscape to the horizon-line. Fires were burning at irregular intervals.

“Given the circumstances, your editorializing has become inoperative,” replied Clarkson, attempted to wipe some blood off his tattered yet still definite uniform. The empty beer can fell, his remaining fingers insufficient to support it. The background wail in an unfamiliar language remained a jumble of grating non-sequiturs.

“The people back home will realize the dimensions of our pacifying intent once its paradigmatic context has been established in our mass-circulation magazines as a signifying icon of the deep structures of Western civilization,” said Smithson wistfully, as he surveyed the peculiar omen inherent in the unprecedented alignment of sun, moon and Saturn, denoting order as well as divine intervention.

“The kinesthetic aspects of non-verbal communication revealed in the positioning and body language of these innocent corpses reveal that even in death the search for an aesthetic integration of reality is inescapable,” said Clarkson. He sighed with the satisfaction that comes from the correct formulation of an unprecedented phenomenon; its elucidation would have to be left to the military cosmologists still airborne, yet undoubtedly on their way.

“Objectively, however,” said Smithson, “their collective guilt is clear, even if they appear innocent in their repose.”

“They do continue to communicate,” Clarkson affirmed moodily. A pause ensued, unbroken by commercials.

“There would be no need to show The Exorcist here,” said Smithson finally.

“You are right,” replied Clarkson, turning his glance to some ex-fields, where certain traces of chemically-induced hiatus in herbal evolution were apparent, “but you fail to mention the absence of screens and projectors.”

“Only because here reality no longer requires illusion,” said Smithson.

“The death of art?” mused Clarkson politely.

“The birth of reality,” said Smithson.

The landscape remained silent, simultaneously articulating both content and form. The corpses, the buzzards, the remnants of straw-hats, the intermingled artifacts of civilizations – economy-size soft drink bottles and incense sticks not yet exported to Greenwich Village – rested in eternal embrace. To make the signification of the obvious more obviously significant, a fiery sun detached itself from the rigid celestial configurations painstakingly described above and spread its bloody rays more forcefully over the terrestrial moonscape. Yet true contrast between sky and earth was lacking in this chalk-like reality, similar to its terrifying absence in television prints of Hollywood films.

“We must proceed to pacifications elsewhere,” said Smithson, “though I am weary.”

“Your mood is an understandable reaction to the inevitable,” replied Clarkson, applying his lighter absent-mindedly to the remnants of a straw roof.

“There is no free will,” said Smithson, “but to choose is human.”

“And to act, divine,” replied Clarkson, as he turned in surprise. A dazed, scantily-clad peasant, in a state of obvious perturbation (possible caused by unexpected, high-decibel noises in his recent past), appeared as if from nowhere, clutching a pre-pubic hair Playboy centerfold in his delicately Asiatic hands. Smithson, taken aback by what might be an apparition of profound religious significance, waited until he had invaded his territorial space (different for different cultures) and knifed him.

“God is everywhere,” said Smithson, observing the untended rice paddies, “therefore we must be his agents.”

“No,” replied Clarkson, “I think; therefore, I am.” Both had attended Ivy League schools with financial aid.

“Is… the war over?” said Clarkson cautiously.

“It must be,” said Smithson, “we have reached the limits of liberation and reversed the falling of the dominoes.”

“The war is over,” continued Clarkson, thoughtfully. “This would be an appropriate slogan for the integration of the remainders of the anti-war movement into our camp.”

Smithson laughed softly. “Yes,” he agreed, “but other areas remain to be liberated. The dialectic of history… you know… given the proclivities of human nature, it is clear that the emergence of wrong ideologies and their concomitant eradication by militarized love remain on the agenda forever.”

“Yes,” confirmed Clarkson. “We must keep our powder dry, but we must keep our powder. This” – his one remaining arm sweeping what used to be a landscape – “must not permit us to lower our guard. One liberation does not yet make a summer. We must maintain our international posture and credibility as well as our national security needs. United we stand, separately we fall.”

The sun started to set. It was a beautiful sight.

“All this,” said Smithson with some disgust, “is entirely too obvious.”

“Don’t worry,” replied Clarkson, “it will be understood.”

© Amos Vogel, 1971
All rights reserved by the original copyright holders