Blushless Matters

Today I read the play Bent, by Martin Sherman, recommended by my recent and well trained eye in such matters. It was, perhaps, the most perfect play for her to recommend, and yet, *damn*.  How is it that a play can have one of the hottest descriptions of a moment of resistance and energy and connection and sex all at once, yet also be so entirely gutting? [I had to look deeper into the lineage of storm troopers in Nazi Germany. I found what it was that I was missing.]

Act II Scene II.

Act II Scene II.

(pause)

Can you feel me touching your face when you wake up in the morning?

I know I am not there, but, if you hold very still, you will feel me.


be well; be loved,

k.
 (image via untrustyou tumblr)