Nobody is Ready (Part 1)

avant-garde cabaret, modern opera, spoken word, experimental theatre

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[„The Sanity Insurrection (Or: Pebbles for Ministers)“]

Listen closely now.
They say they are in charge.
They say they have a plan.
They say the crayon scribbles on the napkin are a five-year vision.

Look at the man in the big chair.
He just declared war on a cloud.
He promoted his cousin's hamster to cultural attaché.
He thinks the moon is a balloon that someone forgot to pop.

And the others?
The others nod.
The others clap.
The others adjust their ties and say: "Excellent point, sir."

They are all.
Every single one.
Without exception.
Completely.
Utterly.
Magnificently.
Bonkers.

Not the fun kind of bonkers.
Not the dancing-in-the-rain kind.
The kind that builds walls inside walls.
The kind that calls a shovel a freedom tool.
The kind that looks at a burning house and says: "The smoke is fake news."

And the reasonable people?
We sit on our hands.
We bite our tongues.
We say: "Maybe tomorrow."
We say: "Someone else will handle this."
We watch the screen.
We drink our tea.
We do nothing.

Excellent tea, by the way.
Shame about the apocalypse.

Now listen.
Listen to the quiet rebellion growing in the throat of a tired cashier.
She has had enough.
Not of the long hours.
Of the absurdity.
Of the man who pretends that two plus two equals a luxury yacht.

She whispers to her iceberg lettuce:
"We should take over."

Dada says: YES.

We will replace all ministers with pebbles.
Smooth ones.
The kind you skip across a lake.
They will sit there.
Silent.
Round.
Unimpressed.
And already they are more qualified.

We will turn the police force into railway sleepers.
Heavy.
Wooden.
Soaked in tar.
They will lie across the tracks and refuse to move.
When someone shouts "Stop in the name of the law"
the sleeper will answer: "I am the law. And I am resting."

We will make the parliament building into a giant wind chime.
Every bad idea will produce an ugly sound.
Every lie will make a rusted pipe fall.
After three sessions, the building will collapse into a pile of beautiful noise.

What about the generals?
We give them whistles.
Not the kind that command.
The kind that call children home for dinner.
Let them blow.
Let them march.
Let them salute the sunset.
No one gets hurt.

We will write new laws on butter.
They melt.
Perfect.
A law that cannot be spread on bread is no law at all.

And the anthem?
A single cough.
Followed by twenty seconds of silence.
Followed by a laugh.
Followed by: "Oh, were we serious? Sorry."

Come on now.
Come on.
Take my hand.
We will walk to the gates of the madhouse.
We will knock.
We will say: "Your majesty, your excellency, your highness of the hollow head. Time is up."

They will look confused.
They always look confused.
It's their only reliable expression.

And we?
We will offer them a pebble.
A small one.
And say: "Here. Now you are a minister too. Congratulations. Your first task is to do nothing. You're very good at that."

This is not a coup.
Coups are boring.
This is a Dadaist takeover.
With confusion as our flag.
With kindness as our secret weapon.
With silence as our loudest scream.

Ready?
No.
Nobody is ready.
That's exactly why it will work.

Let the rebellion begin.
With a whisper.
With a smile.
With a pebble in your pocket.

One. Two. Three.
Chaos, darling.
Beautiful chaos.
And then – maybe – a little peace.

Just a little.
Don't get greedy.

3330/7500

[„The Sanity Insurrection (Or: Pebbles for Ministers)“] Listen closely now. They say they are in charge. They say they have a plan. They say the crayon scribbles on the napkin are a five-year vision. Look at the man in the big chair. He just declared war on a cloud. He promoted his cousin's hamster to cultural attaché. He thinks the moon is a balloon that someone forgot to pop. And the others? The others nod. The others clap. The others adjust their ties and say: "Excellent point, sir." They are all. Every single one. Without exception. Completely. Utterly. Magnificently. Bonkers. Not the fun kind of bonkers. Not the dancing-in-the-rain kind. The kind that builds walls inside walls. The kind that calls a shovel a freedom tool. The kind that looks at a burning house and says: "The smoke is fake news." And the reasonable people? We sit on our hands. We bite our tongues. We say: "Maybe tomorrow." We say: "Someone else will handle this." We watch the screen. We drink our tea. We do nothing. Excellent tea, by the way. Shame about the apocalypse. Now listen. Listen to the quiet rebellion growing in the throat of a tired cashier. She has had enough. Not of the long hours. Of the absurdity. Of the man who pretends that two plus two equals a luxury yacht. She whispers to her iceberg lettuce: "We should take over." Dada says: YES. We will replace all ministers with pebbles. Smooth ones. The kind you skip across a lake. They will sit there. Silent. Round. Unimpressed. And already they are more qualified. We will turn the police force into railway sleepers. Heavy. Wooden. Soaked in tar. They will lie across the tracks and refuse to move. When someone shouts "Stop in the name of the law" the sleeper will answer: "I am the law. And I am resting." We will make the parliament building into a giant wind chime. Every bad idea will produce an ugly sound. Every lie will make a rusted pipe fall. After three sessions, the building will collapse into a pile of beautiful noise. What about the generals? We give them whistles. Not the kind that command. The kind that call children home for dinner. Let them blow. Let them march. Let them salute the sunset. No one gets hurt. We will write new laws on butter. They melt. Perfect. A law that cannot be spread on bread is no law at all. And the anthem? A single cough. Followed by twenty seconds of silence. Followed by a laugh. Followed by: "Oh, were we serious? Sorry." Come on now. Come on. Take my hand. We will walk to the gates of the madhouse. We will knock. We will say: "Your majesty, your excellency, your highness of the hollow head. Time is up." They will look confused. They always look confused. It's their only reliable expression. And we? We will offer them a pebble. A small one. And say: "Here. Now you are a minister too. Congratulations. Your first task is to do nothing. You're very good at that." This is not a coup. Coups are boring. This is a Dadaist takeover. With confusion as our flag. With kindness as our secret weapon. With silence as our loudest scream. Ready? No. Nobody is ready. That's exactly why it will work. Let the rebellion begin. With a whisper. With a smile. With a pebble in your pocket. One. Two. Three. Chaos, darling. Beautiful chaos. And then – maybe – a little peace. Just a little. Don't get greedy.

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