paul m waschkau # Hyena Heart / A kamikaze’s dream = english version of HYÄNENHERZ - TRAUM EINES KAMIKAZEFLIEGERS

	Hyena Heart A kamikaze’s dream dramatic Perpetrator Text # killer/terror_monolog for 1 m; possible several ms & 1 f Pathos Transport BERLIN 2013; Broschur HF ½_Din4 36 S. FN german (UA) 2003; OrphTheater Berlin # mise en scene: Hans Werner Kroesinger Translated from the German by Joy Titheridge # Original title: HYÄNENHERZ # TRAUM EINES KAMIKAZEFLIEGERS BRUTUS, a dead man catapulted out of history into the present day, a killer cloaked in the grace of an Orphic poet, blood pump of organised murder, is preparing for his next assignment. Although killing no longer holds any attraction for him, he views his work as a job to be done. Intruding memories of distant loves appear to him as if in poetic dream sequences, as visions of lost happiness that hint at his longing for a different life. When his time comes, he will burst into flame. The question is not / how far do I want to go. / The question is / am I able to go as far as it takes.
cover.drawing > Fernando Bryce		german >

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Sample passage from Hyena Heart/A kamikaze’s dream

BRUTUS # The time has come. I will have my revenge. I will have my revenge at any cost. No two ways about it. No two ways. Do I have a choice. No. No choice. So. What are we waiting for. We have received the sacrament. Attended morning prayer. And confessed. So let’s go. I know the road that leads to presumption. I, BRUTUS. Afterbirth of a distant Roman putsch. History’s defeat. The European underdog. In the lawless zones of death I dance my dance. An acrobatic body, plaything of the gods, singing the song of contortion. A warrior in foreign guise. I have long since become a machine. Night for night, my body parts rove absently along the asphalt, past the palatial pyramids, utterly deserted after closing time. Keeping an eye out, following the streaks of spilt oil. Self-laceration, a kamikaze’s re-dreamt reverie. Almost like a battle. A constant circling. But there is no other direction to take. The assignments they give me are always the same. Deadly assignments. Repulsive assignments as often as not. A bounty of horror. You could say I’ve been around since the dawn of civilisation. You probably don’t believe me. As a matter of fact, I am absolutely confident of my cause as perpetrator. When my time comes, I will burst into flame. Plunge into whiteness. Disappear. But it’s not time for that yet. (...) CAESAR always said: It’s all in essence just so many weeds to be culled. Is it really that simple. I’m not convinced. Am I to consider Caesar an old friend, just because we used to go drinking in the pubs of Rome, fearless and brimming with boyish impatience. I would have rather been a boxer. An athlete with the grace of an Orphic poet. Or, like Ben Hur, charioteer of a Ferrari in the breakneck arenas of shrieking mouths. But statesman, emperor, conqueror in the expanses of uncertain campaigns. No. No no. No. (....)

Then all of a sudden something happens. Out of the blue. What can you do. It just happens. From one moment to the next it happens. And you are completely powerless. Just a moment ago you were shouting for joy. One second later you’re a paraplegic, for the rest of your life. Isn’t it awful. We are nothing but blades of grass in the wind. Grains of sand in the expanse of endless deserts. We are disappearing like dying elephants. We’re sinking ships. Blank cartridges in the war of the tides. Fading lights. We flicker briefly before the plunge. Forgotten in the expanses of space and time.