ABSTRACT
Who’d have thought the old man would have so much blood in him? When he was stabbed—the teacher so full of zen koans—it seemed perhaps only a jet, perchance a spurt, would issue forth. But here we are, well into the next century, and the blood is still gushing out, refusing to coagulate, staining us all; we who love the theatre, we who bleed the theatre, we who have yet to achieve the theatres that he might have imagined, or helped us to imagine. A theatre of pure blood and guts, that we, that she, scholar-disciple, artist-acolyte, wishes into being, shits into being, evokes into bodily presence. Embodied, organless, but with all the ritual Catholic presence of that other organ, with its pipes and stops that shapes Western belief through its melodic groaning over centuries: ’tis a consummation (devoutly?) to be wished.
