Recommended by Jarred Corona

I squirmed reading this, and, if you're reading this recommendation, let me clarify that that's a good thing in this case. Overt monsters are easier to deal with than humans. Humans are downright horrifying. They can smile and believe they do good. They can convince others of their righteousness. They give gifts and ask for thanks. They collect debts. They smile when they do it. They joke. They try to massage away our fears, melt our defensiveness. So we carry pain. We hurt ourselves to protect ourselves. It's a cruel cycle.

Looking at the concept, I expected to connect this play to Fefu, but after finishing, the only show that whispers "this is my family" is The Band's Visit. It's beautiful.

Our lives are performances. Or maybe they're real. But we're separated by walls. We can't see and know what happens. But we catch glimpses. The glimpses hurt. Sounds distract and hurt us. The future alienates us. The unknown threatens us. How do we move? How do we stop? How do we...
We kiss.
We smoke.
We dance.
We sing.

Ultimately, we live.

I'd love to actually see this.

I sat for a bit after reading this, and a horror film played in my mind. A film of mirrors and keys and doors opening into unfamiliar worlds and faces. The films "Annihilation" and "I'm thinking of ending things" come to mind. But there's not only horror. There's love. There's fun back and forth in the dialogue. There are joyful stories of fond memories. But isn't that how horror hits us hardest? When there's hope and love involved.

It is difficult, living. Confusing. Bitter, at times. Lonely. Alien.

Abigail would hate that last word. She's not from Earth, or so she claims. People attempt to fix her, to ease her out of delusion. But Jackie Martin refuses to let us follow that well-worn path. Abigail's beliefs aren't her problem. She is lonely. She doesn't belong.

But she does.

"Abigail, For Now," filled with likeable characters discussing mental health without ever feeling like walking PSAs, brings us a single, unyielding hope. It is not reality that matters. It's connection. It's kindness. It's living. I very much enjoyed reading this.

I keep mulling over what I want to say about this play. The obvious is to compare it to The Crucible (though I enjoy Bowden's show more). The next is to talk of its importance in light of the ever-increasing attacks on reproductive rights in America. I think the cleverest things are the allusions to contemporary problems. When you hear about restrictions on hallway size, you think of current law. That quick jump out of time estranges you and forces a subtle but continuous comparison, and, hopefully, a desire to act. An excellent show.

There's always something comically enjoyable about someone freaking out over a ridiculous situation. Add on to that continued talk about repopulating the world, a game of I Spy, and one friend continuing to feed the other's anxiety, and you're in for a fun time. (Pro-tip: if you accidentally read one of the two boys as maybe a bit queer, there's an added layer of interest in the whole situation.)

What are we meant to do with hurt from those who love us? With gifts from those who hurts us? Most of us are traumatized in some way. Even monsters are still human. Even saints are still sinners. What matters is that we try. That we seek help. That we repent.

When I was r-ed in college, I retreated into my room with movies and wine coolers. Blocked it off. When the memories returned, everything was too much. Plays like this hurt, but they're good reminders: We aren't just trauma. And we will survive. So thank you for the reminder.

I wonder if we don't make cruel gods because, on some level, we desire punishment. Yet still, we need hope. So our cruel gods give us new chances, however small, however horrid. "I shall give you a smile whilst I destroy all you've held dear." Or is it, "Despair comes, and I will gift you hope. So go forth and do better." Gods are tricky in that way, on equal hands amusing and horrible. But most importantly, a "surely" "Shirley" joke is always a winner.

Normally my recommendations are long winded. This one won't be. Half-way through, as the concept sunk in and peace started to settle in with the lead, I started crying. A peaceful cry. The sort that the show "The Good Place" gives me. Any art that can do that is magical.

You know a writer is good when you're sad and settling into that state and an unseen character dies and it makes you cackle. Brilliant. I quite enjoy horror, and the sudden apocalypse genre is a greatly entertaining version of it. I think, mostly, it was the bond that got to me. If the world ends, you're where I want to try to fight it off in vain. If the world ends, I'd be more scared for you. I'd break away all those burned bridges and scream away those polite fears that keep us back, and go. How uniquely despair-hopeful.