CONCEPT FOR HISTORICAL DRAMA

Imagine this. An emissary of the horse people visits the imperial city on a sacred quest.
Banners hang from the stone walls surrounding expansive plazas. Slavery is considered normal and
electricity is unheard of.
Because of his exotic pedigree, foreign clothes, and accent, the horseman is invited into the
entourage of a famous astronomer whose sister is the greatest poet in the world. He becomes
entangled in conspiracies and love affairs, a banquet of sub-plots which retards the pace of the main
narrative, inviting the audience to luxuriate in the splendor of the meticulously crafted mise en
scène: historically authentic costumes and sets, a huge cast of characters representing diverse social
classes and professions, lots of gold and feathers, and of course live jaguars, monkeys, and macaws.
I’m talking about ancient Mexico, possibly the Aztec Empire.
The problem is that the production is massively over budget. It is canceled, not renewed for
another season, and all the contradictions of the exquisite plot are left unresolved.
While it lasted, this passage of time, unthawed from legend, became real.
All theater was originally of this kind, a ritual invoking lost generations, in which the living
become puppets of the dead.
In the future there will be infinite money, and finally we will be able to afford our greatest
production: The Last Judgment.

THE INFECTED EAR

I’m in such a foul mood that I’m going to spoil the ending of this ridiculous tale before it’s 
even begun. I cut off my ear. Yes, just like Van Gogh; just like that twisted essay by Georges 
Bataille – do you remember the one? No, I suppose you don’t…Anyway, I cut off my ear, or at 
least, I wanted to cut it off. Such was my pain, such was the awful, obnoxious pounding, the 
pressure, like a swollen cyst I was so desperate to pop, but couldn’t! I fantasized each day about 
mutilating myself: shoving pencils, metal tent stakes, chopsticks, or bent paper clips deep into my 
ear canal; or, better yet, taking a pair of kitchen shears and slicing the whole disgusting appendage 
off my head. 
What would I do with a severed ear? After the celebrations, I mean…After my four weeks of
touring the luxury beaches of Mexico and the Caribbean islands with a gaping wound in the side of 
my skull, blood stains covering the shoulder of my shirt, my hair caked with gore, enjoying the 
greatest freedom I’ve felt in my life, laughing and drinking cocktails in the evening with beautiful 
tourists, perhaps taking day trips into the interior to glimpse the vanishing rainforest ecosystems, 
maybe even visiting a remote indigenous community accessible only by canoe… 
Yes, the world would be open to me you see, I would be like a child or a celebrity, innocent 
and free, able to take in everything, to finally enjoy the rare pleasures and exotic sensations of this 
curious world.  
…if only I could rid myself of this fucking ear, this parasite which drains all intelligence and
erotic joy from life, then I could be free. 
But, then, to repeat my question – what would I do with a severed ear? A severed, infected 
ear. But it must be obvious now…It’s no surprise. I spoiled it at the beginning, remember? I will 
give it away, as a gift, just like Van Gogh.  
And to whom shall I present this repulsive gift? Oh, but you know who…It is, of course, for 
you, and you alone, that I will tenderly wrap my bloody and pus-filled ear in pages torn from my 
notebook. 
It is yours, here, take it! If nothing else, you can always remember me for the courage of my 
stupidity.

Reuben Dendinger is a writer and educator based in Brooklyn. His writing has appeared in The Baffler, Maudlin House, Expat, Protean Magazine, and other publications. His first book, Cursed Images, was published by Hyperidean Press last year. Find him on Instagram @grimoire.91.