Jack doesn’t approve of emptiness, absurdity, grotesque and repetitiveness of suburban life which the author of the play finds everywhere. Jack doesn’t approve of uncritical repetition of same patterns which his ancestors taught him, he doesn’t approve of the inability to choose, predetermination or beans with sausages. He doesn’t approve of the hat that will “close the chimney” and eliminate the possibility to “go higher”. Full of despise towards mere existence reduced to consumption and reproduction, Jack is determined to reject everything that is seen as the only right or possible choice. Neohomogenous family and society will unite to – by any means necessary – reach their goal and subdue Jack in order to justify their own actions. Sure of his right to be “as he is”, he will resist the emotional blackmail; he will not yield before noisy and dramatic gestures, or before the promises of better tomorrow. However, he will not be able to resist the open violence of the meaningless world which will, step by step, close all the exits and devaluate that which is truly alive, authentic, vibrant, and holy: love, passion and poetry.
Just as Jack before him, Jack will give up, surrender, put the hat on his head and tackle the beans with sausages.
We are left with nothing but a glimmer of hope that, unlike his ancestors, he will leave the door, window and chimney open for his descendants.
Illusion and insubordination
Who is that ancient one who made me, who puts me on a branch and connects that branch to the family tree whose roots reach to the center of the earth and time and tell me what I should do or who I should be? Who is the father of my father’s father who keeps calling me, smiles from the other world and dictates what I eat, drink, do or which holidays I celebrate just like he and so many before him celebrated?
And I don’t approve, I don’t accept it because I am a stallion, a fiery ice and an oxymoron, no matter how you look at me. Even when I don’t see, I see the sky and my sky’s sky and all the skies above. I see them in all the faces that the world has seen, in all the feathers that have written word after word. Blind and deaf I twist in this illusion like a girl hungry for love twists in the moonlight. I bend around the optical illusion as the shadow bends around the sunset and I live all the lives because I am a puppet, because I am the last seed of defiance that brings New life and remains as ember on the fire site of the house which has, out of fear or shame, never been called a theatre.