Space

"Why are we drawn to outer space? What happens to us when we reflect on the big cosmological questions? With music, bodies, and science, we offer a piece of quantum theatre that lies somewhere between waking and dreaming."

So I took a different approach to this FringeArts assignment. I chose to go to something that sounded awful. Who knows? Maybe it was the MST3K lover in me, or maybe it was the fact that tickets to "All the Sex I've Ever Had", a panel discussion of elderly folk talking about all their sexual exploits, were twice the price, that led me to seeing "This is the Twilight Kingdom" by the Found Theatre Company. I'll never quite know which one it was. All I know is I thought a lot about old people having sex during that nothing-less-than-contemporary spectacle. I remember at one point, while a young woman ran through the middle of the audience and collapsed upon the floor beside me, lamenting at the top of her lungs the supposed infestation of her body by parasitic space slugs (I could not see them), I thought: "There must have been a lot of useful knowledge thrown around at that discussion. Perhaps I could get my grandparents to relay me some stories, so I don't completely miss out." Regardless, I left with a catharsis that perhaps would not have come to me had I instead listened to old ladies talk about blow jobs.

I tried to catch a train there but I got on the wrong one. It's the little things that frustrate you to no end. At home I know where I am. I know the routes. Nobody can swindle me. When I came out I did my best not to look like a foreigner. Don't look up, don't look around too much, don't stare at your phone. Don't look engaged. It had come natural to me in Pittsburgh. Going to high school downtown made for some great lessons in urban etiquette. The most important thing was to let people have their business. Don't get involved any more than you have to. This time I couldn't rely on someone else for navigation; my go-to friends had both gone home that weekend and I didn't know anyone else well enough to have them pay to endure avant garde theatre for the sake of my own comfort without feeling bad. I needed a cab, and it was raining, so I stopped under the awning of a hotel to hail one, but they were all taken. I was running late now. The doorman asked if I was waiting for a ride. When I said I was looking for a cab, he insisted on hailing one. I talked with him as he did. 

"Where you from?"

"Pittsburgh."

"What brings you to Philly?"

"College."

"Oh? What college?"

"Temple." He turned at that one. 

"Me too. What year?"

"Freshman."

When he got a cab he opened the door and asked me if I had gone to any fraternity events. I said no. He gave me his number there, claiming to be the president of one. "Hope to be hearing from you." he said.

"Sure. Thanks."

 When I gave the cabbie the address it soon became apparent that I didn't know my way around and we went through the same ropes as the doorman, only this time he asked how I liked it here. I said fine. 

"Yeah, it's alright here. Not too hostile."

"Oh yeah?"

"Sure."

He told me about being a cab driver. He said he didn't want to do it anymore. When I asked him what he wanted to do he didn't have an answer. He said he did painting and remodeling on the side and that he should be doing more of that. He was the kind of guy made for small encounters, which I always like. My girlfriend always gets annoyed with me when I talk to strangers that way. I think a friendly stranger is the best type of person on earth. So long as they're not a pedophile I guess. She's in Pittsburgh, too. When we drove past a limousine he whistled.

"There's your answer. Limousine. I wanna drive a limousine."

"The clientele would certainly be better."

"Yes sir."

I got there twenty minutes late, after some fumbling through the wrong art exhibit. The curtain was drawn and there was no stage. I couldn't go in without interrupting, so I sat in the dark room listening. It was the kind of venue I was very familiar with. White walls, chipped up brick, dust and cobwebs lining the sides. Liberal-minded middle class old people, hipsters, family members. I knew the audience without even looking at them. I could smell the boat shoes and chrome book bags. In high school I was part of a "contemporary" (for those who don't know yet, the word contemporary is how avant garde artists get you to pay to see their stupid shit) music ensemble for three years, and then a punk band for one. The punk band got the better venues. But it was fun. The avant garde was a great realm to explore, a fun scene to witness and hell, very fun to play. Many of our pieces, some I had written myself, were performance pieces. In other words I have no quarrel with the avant garde. I appreciate it, even. But at that moment, soaked with rain in a dark room listening to some theatre school drop out recite an abstract monologue on the cosmos, it's just not doing it for me. A man walked past me in a dress and a crown made of electric candles. We did not speak. Later, as the scene changed, some actors run into the room, and one was kind enough to lead me to the back entrance. "There's no more seats," she said "but people are sitting on the floor in the front. Just be sure not to block the pathway." 

Thankful for her empathy in me, I sat, and it is only immediately after sitting down I realize why I cannot block the pathway. This is the part where space slugs girl threw herself beside me, screaming. Then I saw the woman who had let me in, cackling and ranting at no one in particular, and just as soon as she did for me, I felt sorry for her. After a few minutes of that a man stepped into the center and halted the cacophony (it's always the center). A shoddy, pixelated image of the moon appeared upon the plaster behind him, and after a haunting pause worthy of the great method actor Daniel Day Lewis, he began reciting safety procedures in flight attendant style. The audience laughed, but was there a joke? The candle-head man meanwhile danced with a guitar in the shadows. As his volume increased they all began singing. Or maybe chanting. It was hard to tell. 

I remember once, back in Antithesis (my avant garde ensemble), I wrote a piece entitled "Nocturne for eight music boxes." It had, of all things, come to me in a dream, and I looked far and wide for the exact right music boxes to articulate what I had heard in the dream. We set it up at the show so that the one I had at home, the only one I could remember from the dream, was illuminated on stage by a single light. Backstage, at precise moments, the "players" would wind their boxes a certain amount, and let the tunes clashes and harmonize and, eventually, fizzle out. It was intended to evoke the feeling of my forgotten nightmare. I remember how hard it all was to hear my dream again in real life, how hard I had worked for it. And later, when it was all said and done, my mother said "That was neat. Make sure you don't break that music box when you bring it home." That was the problem with avant garde. It just didn't transfer all the time.

When the show had ended the rain had gone from nuisance to torrential. I stayed indoors with the cast and their families and friends all talking amongst themselves. I watched an excited young girl ask her parents about the show. "Interesting" her father said. Her mother was quick to dazzle her with compliments. It was all very intimate. I found myself more engaged in everyone's conversations than I had been for the show. I walked from one to another, taking in everything. My time waiting had become suddenly interesting. I learned about every drop of sweat that went into the show, how they felt about the performance, what their plans were that night. I listened with intent as the photographer introduced himself to a friend's family. I listened to the actors' aspirations, the director's, the crew's. I saturated myself in the hopeful creative energy. I forgot how invigorating it could be. I occupied the entire space as a silent listener. Every moment was so intensely human. I saw a young girl with her friends swearing and smoking then a moment later a complete angel with her family. When they all walked out into the rain together it was my natural inclination to walk with them. They all got very quiet when that happened. So I turned into the emptiness of a wet alley and waited for them to get ahead. It was very cold.