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When There Is No Teacher


Perhaps it’s a kind of game, I thought. We are here pretending to be stupid, not to know; and he is there pretending to know. Put together, we support each other in this performance. When we get out of the room, out of the place, it’s another show. I’m on my own amongst the rabble and a piece of jumped up rabble myself, but I want to know what’s going on outside the theatre. Meetings, letters, drunken chats. Trying to find a living scriptwriter to write me a part I can believe in. Every time I explain something I wish the person would punch me out for it. This pretence to understand sickens me. There is nothing to understand. I can play like a child with these beads but people seem to take it seriously. They are pretending so hard.

The streets and car rides and airports and bedrooms, this body moving along or slumping in tiredness and despondency, the whirring clicks here and there, voices in the head, dreams. Who is in charge? What is there when the voices fade away, the voices of the teachers, the parents, the associates, bosses, lovers? When there is no teacher anymore? The world does not fall apart. It is the best movie ever. Nothing or God, only the sluggish think there is a difference.