Master of Puppets

Master of Puppets

08.03.2013

Lovely twirls, bows, pirouettes, hops following the rhythm of this hypnotic dirge which is played over and over again.

She does not need to think.

She must not think.

She is moved back and forth through the stage by this mesmerising music. Her mind goes blank and slowly sinks into a mist of unconsciousness while moving in circles like an automaton, led by the skilful hands of the Puppeteer.

No worries.

No anxiety.

No responsibilities.

Life is so easy.

And at the end of the show she’s put where she belongs to: in the closet, with all the other puppets.

“Have you had fun tonight, Cherì?” “So many wonderful twirls! What a graceful show!” “Your train shone in the moonlight!” “And your hair! So long, so bright!” “I’d give my soul to be as beautiful as you are, Cherì!” “Oh dear, dear Cherì! Gift me with one of your glances!” “Laugh, Cherì, please! I want to hear the giggles of the fairies in your voice!”

She was welcomed by the frivolous choir of a coquettish crowd of puppets: so delightful! They were all praising her, admiring her, flattering her. They were all at her feet and she was the navel of the world. No one could have wanted more!

But... there was a ‘but’: a young man sitting alone in a corner. A speckle on her complete victory.

What is he doing?  Reading a book? How can he read a book instead of appreciating my beauty? How can he be so cold in front of my shining smile? He must be blind! How can he be indifferent to my tickling giggles? He must be deaf! Why isn’t he praising my graceful moves? He must be dumb!

She was about to lose to irritation when something in her doll heart that had still a mark of humanity awoke and led her towards him while the silly crowd continued with its hypnotizing flattering without even being aware of her leaving.

“Who are you?” she asked with her real voice, following for the first time her willingness.

“I don’t know, but I know who I’m not: I’m not a puppet.” His voice was confident and his world strong.

“No? But you have threads and the Puppeteer leads your moves according to his own will.”

“Sure, he can lead my moves, but what’s about my heart, mind and soul? He has no control over my thoughts and I’ve decided that it’s time for him to lose control also over my body. It’s time to cut the threads!”

Cherì was confused by his intriguing words: she was now sure he wasn’t blind, nor deaf and neither dumb, but probably he was mad or a rebel or a visionary.

How can he cut the threads? How can he move without the Puppeteer’s skilled hands? What kind of life can exist outside the closet and the theatre? What kind of world can move orderly without a Puppeteer?

“Would you like to come with me?”

Where? When? How? Why? Hundreds of questions in her mind but only an answer on her lips: “Yes.”

And she tore the train, rip the necklace, threw away the jewels, smudge the makeup and finally let him cut the threads.

And she was free.

Free to dance to her own rhythm, to create her own harmony, to invent her own choreography.

But also free to be worried, conscious, responsible.

Free to bump into a new Puppeteer.

Because even when you get rid of the threads that chain your body, there will always be something that affects your thoughts: a god, an education, a culture, an habit. 
But open your mind, listen to all the bells ringing and doubt of everything that can be doubted. Maybe you won’t reach freedom but at least you will approach it. 

Viky Corners