May. 4th, 2017

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Treated myself to a pair of trainers that Tod McNulty would be envious of:

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Convergence-continuum presents the Ohio premiere of Massacre (Sing to Your Children) by José Rivera, directed by Clyde Simon. After enduring six years of psychological and physical terror, seven citizens of a small New Hampshire town stage a revolt and murder the man who has destroyed them--or do they? Magic realism and pulpy horror-movie conventions collide when the seven friends conspire to brutally rid their small town of its viciously oppressive mayor. Massacre is a powerful depiction of the use of violence as a response to living under a repressive plutocratic regime, and of our own role in perpetuating the tyranny.

Massacre is directed by convergence-continuum's Artistic Director, Clyde Simon, and features actors Wesley Allen, Lucy Bredeson-Smith, Dennis Burby, Jamal Davidson, Beau Reinker, Kelsey Rubenking, Brian Westerley and Hillary Wheelock. This will be the fourth José Rivera play presented by convergence-continuum, having produced in past seasons Each Day Dies With Sleep, References to Salvador Dali Make Me Hot and Brainpeople.

Massacre (Sing to Your Children) opens Fri, May 19 and runs Thurs-Sat at 8 pm through June 10 at convergence-continuum's Liminis Theater, 2438 Scranton Rd, Cleveland 44113 in the historic Tremont neighborhood.

Tickets are $20 general admission, $15 seniors (65+), $10 students. Reservations at or 216-687-0074.

This production is supported in part by the residents of Cuyahoga County through a public grant from Cuyahoga Arts & Culture.
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That year, the temporal river trickled brown and sluggish between the dusty banks of high summer. Travellers ran their time canoes aground amidst the treacherous shallows of the never-was, their shrivelled corpses baking to ever-lasting beef jerky beneath the eternal August sun. Others find themselves menaced by Timeosaurs when their dino-proof twine became dry and brittle in the heat, and roasted slowly within cocoons of Time Foil that were meant to protect them.

The Milkmen ferried the few survivors back to the present in the back of their refrigerated trucks, dust and sweat besmirching the cool crisp lines of their well-starched white uniforms. The sacred Dairy Cow gazed out at their struggle with all three of her cobalt-blue eyes, but she existed only in the liminal spaces between the clock change and could not interfere for months. Every day, the fifty-foot billboard that showed the Days Since Last Lost Time Injury was reset to zero, and the deep red glow of it's illuminated numbers shone like bloodied failure over the assembled dairy disseminators.

The Garbage Mens' lips were a thin pale line, the edges of their stolen flesh-suits pressed tight to conceal the maw behind. Still, in private, they grinned.

Read the rest of the Milkman series here )


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Eerie Indiana

September 2017

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