I sit in the dark, wedged in row twelve, aisle C, seat
sixteen, my legs crossed tightly and I wait.
The audience is suspended in blackness; the single center stage
spotlight with the number eight filter falls faintly on the middle five seats
in the very front row. I watch the people
seated there
One man leans forward, tightly coiled as if he’s
going to spring from his seat at any second.
The woman sitting next to him picks lint off her black scarf,
occasionally patting her grey hair piled loosely in a bun at the nape of her
neck. The woman on her right is
motionless save a slightly tapping forefinger in an otherwise still hand
resting in her lap. Next to her, a young
man in canvas shorts, long sleeve t-shirt and silver Asics running shoes, fidgets
all his extremities, crossing and uncrossing feet, legs, arms and hands. The final man in the row wears sandals and I
see his toes curling tightly and then stretching, toes fanning out with an
impressive amount of space between each toe. He must do yoga.
A woman in row ten muffles a cough with two cupped hands
placed tightly over her mouth. Someone
else shifts and their shoes sound as if sand is being rubbed into the
floor. It seems as if everyone is
holding their collective breath, as if all fifty of us are exhaling with
extreme caution. The air feels like the low pressure before a summer storm.
A lone man on stage stands in the white pool of light, one
arm arched over his head, each finger dangling precisely towards the floor. The
other arm is folded tightly around his torso.
The veins in his forearm pulse slightly. Otherwise, he is perfectly still. It is impossible to detect his
breathing. He has stood this way
forever. We, the audience, continue to
wait and pretend we can be as still as he can.
Three dancers enter from behind the audience, descending
from each of the three isles, they storm the stage. Their arms move wildly, popping shoulder
joints to flick forearms, wrists, fingertips in crashing waves. Feet rolling, knees angled assertively to the
sides, they suck in all the air and exhale it back in silent thunderous clouds. They form a small circle around the lone man
who has not moved. They kick, step, pop
knees up in high jumps and land soundlessly.
Move! Do something!
This is what I hear when I watch them. The lone man remains motionless. I don’t know who I should root for.
A ballerina leaps across the stage, all legs and long arms with
fingers that seem to stretch for miles, dark hair piled tightly in a neat bun
on the back of her head, a red tutu unraveling behind her as she leaps, legs
stretched impossibly straight, across the stage.
Lookatmelookatmelookatme…
I notice a mime who has somehow made it to front center
stage and is silently screaming.
Earlier that day my husband and I were arguing about what it
means to really listen.
Would it have been a better argument if we could communicate
this way? Me, popping, rolling and chin jutting to make a point about the
importance of clarification and reflection while he twirls, kicks and
summersaults across he living room in rebuttal: You don’t have to reflect to listen. Would we end up in flailing versions of West Side Story, a Jets vs. Rockets: Communication
Miscommunication Breakdown! Would we listen differently? Discover new
perspectives? Would we see one another
anew?
The mime is gone.
How does he do that? Just appear and disappear? The other dancers have left as well. The lone man remains standing in a white pool
of light, one arm arched over his head, fingers dangling towards the floor. The
other arm folded around his waist. After
a few moments, I realize his arms are reversed and that if I’m patient enough,
I can see the slight rise and fall of his abdomen.
I reach over for my husband’s hand. I will not be pirouetting through the living
room to tell him that he does in fact, need to learn how to validate my feelings
more. But I can try.
