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  1. To say I watched Sean Lewis’s play, Igor Mortis, wouldn’t be quite right. What I did was witness the inner-workings of a man come to life in a bar, at the foot of a stage—but even that’s not right, not really. The bar wasn’t a bar and the man wasn’t a man and the stage wasn’t a stage, not for theater. And the man’s inner-workings were personified: two men, two women, a master a monster a good guy and a bad — those and more, and all one person (but not) and all having conversations that I thought only I had, with myself. There they were: my inner-workings being staged, and sometimes being staged behind—what was that? Saran Wrap?—and there too was my shame and my desire and my child self and the person I fear I am and the one I wish could become. It was the strangest thing, as if Sean Lewis had reached into my brain and squeezed it so hard, out came characters who confused and mortified me, who disgusted and puzzled me. And then I felt this incredible wash of — yes — I had finally been understood. It was all there, all at once. All in Igor Mortis. I felt so alive after, and completely fried.
    http://www.sarahdohrmann.com

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