The Connexion Play: Life Doesn't Find Elsewhere
“Every one of us has Ithaca. And life is sailing towards this Ithaca, and we do not realize until the end of life that Ithaca is behind us, not in front of us.
After they are overwhelmed by seasickness and vomiting a lot and water spills into the boat because violence alone is not enough, and because the ability to play with the body on the water is not enough, if there is no need for knowledge, suspicion, knowledge of conditions, and training the heart to question and solitude until longing for water reigns and souls rejoice in meeting And the water of truth is like the water of metaphor, so the sea is betrayed by those who do not sacrifice roaring love for the sake of their union, and by those who buy in exchange for the nobility of feeling, the goods have fallen, and love overflows towards the one who does not search for anything else, whose hook convinces him with a bite that keeps him close to him comforts his loneliness and provides him with the means of life and they share The symbolic salt, or goes on to discover its depths and secrets. And thus sank various boats with or without obituary. The theater is like the sea, disobedience to possessions.
I do not know how to read a theatrical work, after reading has become armed with a great delusion called theory, specializations and branches, like the gods in the myths of plurality where each god is specialized in something that he does not leave, whether it is fertility, love, wine, sea or air, like the saints. And the righteous in the Maghreb, each one is concerned with one of the affairs of life, there are those who bring the beloved, and there are those who bring the children, and there are those who take care of the poetry, so that roaring rivers flow. From symbolic and alternative sacrifices, they squandered the nights with black sacrifices or spilled a lot of water, as an old Berber poet did when he brought water to the goddess, dear Takramt, on a hot afternoon, wanting to own the corner of the hair *, I am not interested in that, and I am not interested in these affairs, my money and the story so that I can resonate. I'm just a passerby, and I don't pretend to know what or facts, just a shepherd of a flock of phantoms, after I was a shepherd in a distant childhood listening to the music of his bones, and I could now be in a distant forest, crushing my flocks to its lairs, and looking at the sky after I was surrounded by a circle that I cut on the sand I read the short surahs to avoid obsessions… I could not have been in a theater or in a city or something similar, but it was my destiny to shake my fantasies to wander in the world of God. My money and what the truth-bearers have and what I have to do with them, I am concerned with signs, and I guess that the shepherd's mood is what gives me the right to speak.
The play The Connexion, in my eyes, was like a place in the tradition of the Sufis. Every place that does not show you abundance is unreliable. Likewise, poetry refers to one thing and means another.
The scene is simple, two strangers meeting at the travel station, a soldier and an intellectual talking to distant females, they wait a long time, and there is no train in sight, and the announcer from time to time warns that the train coming from there and going there will come shortly, they wait before she apologizes for not coming The train and resume life in the absence of the network, carrying their phones as their grandparents carried books and stones, looking for fugitive dreams, or for the females of the higher worlds and the poplar eye, and they also dream of seeing the bodies of their friends, but the network is lacking, there are no bridges or roads that lead to their desired places and their fantasies, in A tragic situation in which the train becomes impossible as if it is Godo that will save them from trouble, and the voice of the announcer is impossible as if it is the mysterious voice of Bazu, and they resume telling their stories about their dreams to waste time, as if she is all humanity and has made the narration the home of her desires, secrets and dreams, so the soldier restores his biography as a bastard to the lover of a sailor descended from the world The inferior goes to enlist to be a "man" to gain a target,The educated young man, the class fighter, and the comrade, in the midst of the youth, recalls his life as a watersman who sells water and rings bells, a waterskin in blood-red clothes, and both believe that life is elsewhere. His udder oozes blood, and the class fighter searches for a scene in which he presents what he has read and firewood to ignite with his firm consciousness in violation of the norm. He believes that life is not here, and while the soldier carries in his bag the mother’s clothes and shirt, carrying a ghost, the class fighter’s bag remains closed, containing its secrets. It opens as if it involves a puck in a jug, or a ghost that should not appear hidden from the eyes as the ghost that roamed the skies of Europe in the eighteenth century, in his brain ringing the father's bell and resonating, the play is busy criticizing the narrative of salvation and the narrative of the opposite to glorify the narrative of the intrepid and the cruelty of the condition Humanity is between those who have power and those who believe in the word, between those who believe in the war of bullets and those who are affiliatedOn the linguistic gang war front, the class fighter chanted that his haunting obsession is, “The bell is ringing for me, and my life has forgotten it.”
The bell that rings in the mind of the class fighter is a symbolic reference to the questioning of his intellectual system and his perception of the world. It is a reference to the idea of salvation, Christianity in particular and Abrahamism in general, that unforgettable metaphysics that infiltrated Marxist thought at least in the Communist Manifesto and the 1844 manuscripts that ruled the imaginary of those The texts defined their awareness and worked in their subconsciousness to put forward the possibility of communism, before the idea was erased from the works of Karl Marx, which made the sound of bells rise from the brain and rise from the depths of thought. It is heaven, for the previous system says the same narrative and the same path. Capitalism is a world of class violence, socialism is the crossing, and communism is the world of salvation... It is an imaginary that says that life is in another place, as if space were a travel station. That the world is tragic and that there is no consolationMan has nothing but to be on the level to live it, not to suffer from his losses and faults, and not to laugh at his joys. He, as Spinoza said, “does not call for crying or laughter, but calls for understanding” with such a fighter’s speech when he admitted with pain that he did not understand anything, why Ta-waze understands, in a moment of unity in pain, fate, and tragedy, in contrast to Kundera’s novel “Life in another place.” The play “Life does not exist in another place.” The meaning of its existence is that the waiting seat may be impossible as a bed of desires, and it may be impossible as a prison, a window, a door, or balconies...In another place,” says the play “Connexion” “life does not exist in another place.” Life is here, and sometimes there is no need for a network or connexion, for a person, despite the harsh conditions, can make sense of his existence.In another place,” says the play “Connexion” “life does not exist in another place.” Life is here, and sometimes there is no need for a network or connexion, for a person, despite the harsh conditions, can make sense of his existence.
An avant-garde play with a sharp critical awareness, which establishes a significant break with the author of this theater of mirroring and teaching the oppressed and directing the point of scorn. Radiant and similar to the pungent smell of death and terrible power relations, a play written ably by Ali Al-Dah, directed by Hassan Badida and performed by Simuka Auragh and Hassan Alawi.
* Amazigh poetry: Alala Aziz Takramt... and as a security guard, he removed Ihman
*Ahmed Bouzid: Moroccan writer
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