ABSTRACT
Nighttime. Desert. Perhaps right outside of Albuquerque or Tucson. Maybe over on the savannah of South Texas. Far from a city. Not too far. We can’t see too well. The light is low. It’s late, the oldest hours of the night. Overhead, the audience views a dark sky with an astonishment of stars. The playing area is filled with rough dirt. We can hear grit crunch under the actors’ footsteps. Here, there, bits of trash, tú sabes, the detritus that floats everywhere, paper scraps, flattened soda bottles. A road crosses the space—two gray lanes split by white dashes—a county road.
