Recommended by Jarred Corona

Art is where we go to escape and where we go to find ourselves, our worlds, our times, and the strange ways we perceive reality. Many of us need it to survive. And it brings us together. It really is a magical, spatial mysticism. And, if you're a sexual person, the same can be said of sex. It's a connection. It's love. It's the passing of time. It's a way to find safety in the cold grasps of life. St. James takes us through the crippling loneliness of Covid times but shows us beauty. There's nothing godawful about this show.

We have the myth of the phoenix because we know fire does not simply destroy. It brings new life. Endings are terrifying and can harm as they go, but new creation will come. We consume tragedy because despite the end, we can begin again. Einar knows this, so he writes of Creation again.

This show is such a joyous ode to storytelling and theatre itself. I love shows where ensembles build scenes and creatures. How would lights and music, puppets and dance, chant and live body bring such a text to further life? I'd love to find out. High fun.

I am a relatively kinda small white gay guy. When things -- it was done by taller, muscular people. But there was one only a tiny bit bigger. He was sweet and kind, shy in a way, and generally not an aggressive person. That night was complicated. He was, objectively, the least cruel. Yet he's the one I hate. Harm can come from anyone. I never confronted him. I'm sure he thinks nothing of it. So, reading this, while painful, had some catharsis to it. It's an intersectional, heavy-hitting show, rich and horrifying, well-written. It's a force. And unfortunately needed.

Is it ironic that I read the final moment, sat back, and said, "Jesus fuck." It's hard not to imagine the film "Don't Look Up" while reading this, in a way, but they're quite different. There was a sense of destined, fatalistic despair to "Don't Look Up." Feriend has a different ethos altogether. There is nothing destined. We have choices... and sometimes we fail. Sometimes we fail in such a way as to fall into utter tragedy.

But at least we tried. Because the end isn't the point. It is, but it isn't. Trying is the point. We've gotta try.

It's easy to think the meat here lies in the twist - which is enjoyable - but I think the true meal of Dzubak's one-act lies in the words of its antagonist as they claim others only want Adam to waste all his money on medicine (and anyone who's been medicated for mental illness knows that prescriptions change and flip as you journey to find what works). It is expensive to be ill. In the US, prescription prices can starve someone. "What demon will you pick?" is the question of the system, yet it makes this show all the better.

Grief is this complicated creature. All across the internet, slathered in countless books and plays, there's advice from people on how they've dealt with it. Yet still, none of us know, not really, how to kill it. It comes. It eases. It returns. We cry. We search. Sometimes it drowns us. Hope and joy are similar creatures. The three fight, but they're siblings. Steven Hayet's play starts in a sort of jubilation. Whacky antics draw out smiles. Then joy goes to sleep, and grief wakes. But he reminds us, grief sleeps, too. As it yawns, hope starts to stir.

To be perfectly frank, I have no love for Shakespeare. If one claimed I hate his plays and their ever presence, how they are taught to school-age children, I could not quarrel with them. I say all of that to make it quite clear: for me to clear that hurdle... Monica Cross, as far as I'm concerned, has transcended the crutch of Shakespeare. In making him inhuman, she has made him more human than ever before. I forgot my dislike. He became a young man struggling for belonging, acceptance, love. I rooted for him.
Now I root for Monica Cross.

Lots of times, ghosts are memories. Monsters are, too. Cruel humans are eventually taken by something, but monsters... linger. We see them in shadows, hear them in jokes. They come and linger. Abuse, like monsters, is often denied. People ignore it. They push it away. Monsters, after all, are others. The people we know are human - as if monsters can be anything. But they can't. Monsters are always people. They haunt. They come. So we chase them away. Vices and addictions are born. But we can't outrun monsters. We can only bring them to light, and try to live.

I've read one of the scenes before on its own, and I enjoyed it, but I do think these pieces are meant to be together. A kiss needs more than one person. The final play sadly kisses earlier ones. These plays kiss. The world needs kisses. What are kisses? The coming of age? The last remaining vestige of Eden? Currency? Loss of innocence? Beauty? Evil? Kisses can destroy, consume, set free. They kill. They dream. They birth. They live. They break.

I think Ten Boys is my favorite of the collection, but I urge you to read it all together.

The heart is a tricky thing. It's quite difficult to understand. Why do we want who we want? What even is love? I'm sure many can relate to moments of longing for an ex to come back, to jump into mutual forgiveness. "In This" follows a collection of young people trying to navigate the failures of love and life. Death makes us yearn for comfort. Nostalgia can clue us in to how we hate our present. But we go forward. We have to.