love
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Auditions: strangers.Closing night: siblings.Strike: bitter custody battle where no one gets the good prop sword. That’s the cycle. Every show. Every time. The judge rules: Act I: The Rehearsal Cult You don’t join a cast. You’re abducted.Script in hand.Eyes wide.Someone already humming warm-ups like a Gregorian monk who overdosed on LaCroix. Day One: Hi, nice to
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Love. Grief. Forgiveness. Time. The guy in the subway shouting about pineapples. The law demands order. The theatre invites chaos, serves it wine, and asks it to monologue. I live in both. One world expects exhibits, redactions, and polished shoes. The other celebrates gnomes on trial and emotional breakdowns that rhyme. But there are a
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I’ve spent my life standing in two very different rooms:One has a judge’s bench. The other, a stage.In one, I argue law. In the other, I let characters speak for themselves.Both are performances. Both demand truth. This is Chaos and Craft — not just a blog, but a living collision between the rigid and the ridiculous,
Brian Brijbag 