2.12.2007: The Angel of History (from Walter Benjamin)

While the debris piles toward the heavens before his eyes, the storm drives him incessantly into the Future that he has turned his back upon.
What we call Progress is this storm." – Walter Benjamin

The Guy stands at the post office. In his hand is an envelope. Inside the envelope are this play and an application to the New York International Fringe Festival.

Around him, the actors from the other pieces create a swirl of voices, overlapping, some ringing out more loudly than others:

VOICES
- You should just go to school here. It doesn’t make sense going all the way to New York. Nobody will be there if something happens to you.
- You’re not going to be good enough.
- You can always do this later.
- But you’re good at what you do. Why do you need to go to New York? Because you can still write plays here.
- Relationships matter. Is it worth giving up a relationship that works to go out there and fail?
- How many people actually make it out there? Really? Your chances aren’t going to be good at all.
- You had your chance. You blew it. It’s too late.

And many variations on these ideas, invented ones, all on the same theme – the voice in the back of your head that stops you from doing what you wanna do – overlapping, a storm of voices.

The Guy is clearly immobilized by the storm of voices.

The Angel of History appears – a handsome man, probably played by the actor playing The Curiosity. Have fun with him. He makes a gesture, and the storm subsides.

The Voices continue, only silently. We see their mouths open, but no sounds.

THE GUY
I can’t do this.

THE ANGEL OF HISTORY
Of course you can.

THE GUY
I can’t. This is stupid. Why on earth do I think this will work? Why even bother?

When I was 22, I decided I was done with Louisiana, and I was going to move to New York and win a slew of Tonys before I turned 30.

I was there four days.

That’s it. Four days. And then I was back home.

I couldn’t even handle it for an entire week.

I came home, completely humiliated, and everyone around me, everyone who had cheered me on and waved me off at the bus station (I took a bus, I’m terrified of planes, another story for another time) – when I saw those people once I’d come back, they would just look at me, and you could just see, when they looked at me, they were filled with disappointment and pity and… the look you give someone when they finally realize their limitations.

You carry that around with you.

I’m thirty years old. I should have done this already. I should have done this then… that time…

THE ANGEL OF HISTORY
This is not that time, repeated.

THE GUY
It might be.

THE ANGEL OF HISTORY
It might. And it might not.

The Guy indicates the Voices, still clamoring silently.

THE GUY
When do they stop?

THE ANGEL OF HISTORY
They don’t.

THE GUY
They’re loud.

THE ANGEL OF HISTORY
They have to be.

We’re always staring
at the ruin of the past
because if we ever looked at our future head-on,

its light would blind us,
its noise would deafen us,
its fabulousness would shake us so
that our molecules would break apart
and we’d become just a shimmer
a gleam of light with irreconcilable edges
that once seemed to be us.

The future is more wonderful than we can ever comprehend.

The Voices return, their noise and clamor as fervent as before.

The Guy takes this all in.

There are moments when you just have to go for it. Right? Because not even the Angel of History can turn from the past to see what lies ahead.

The Guy mails the packet.

The Angel of History turns to watch the Voices.

The lights go down.