Monday, Art Part 1

It's now November.  The changing of the clocks makes me feel like I'm back to myself, or maybe it's just that the sun is out.  Been raining for days, last week I missed the early train and even walking in late, work vehicle lights glared out in the dawn, made it feel like it was still night.  Today I woke up early and had time to return a library book, go for a walk, watch the birds flock on the lake, and buy groceries and still made it in time to work.

Went to my first indoor "performance?" since the pandemic began over the weekend.  Faye Driscoll's "Come On In" at On The Boards.  I bought a ticket to the earliest slot, still somewhat concerned about COVID-19.  Took the two longest bus rides there and back, that I've taken since late September.  (The last bus ride I took was crammed full of people, the driver kept letting more and more people on, even when you wouldn't have thought more could fit.  This after a-year-and-a-half of mostly empty buses.  It gave me anxiety, though I took comfort in everyone wearing a mask, and that everyone was probably vaccinated, but I've mostly taken the light rail since, which gets more crowded each day, but at least I'm building up a comfort level to it. And it's under two minutes.)

You walked into the darkened theatre and took off your shoes and placed them in one of the cubbies.  All the listening spaces were in use, and I sat on the bench for a while trying to figure out how the space was to be navigated.  More people arrived, and as people finished listening they moved off of the "beds" and sat on the carpet in the dark.  So, I took a space and listened, lying on a bed, in a room of strangers.  Listening to Driscoll speak over the headphones was a way to mark the time, each track lasting 6-8 minutes.  And then you'd get up and move to the carpet and let someone else take your space.  And somehow it works unlike musical chairs where someone is always out, to navigate a shared experience with strangers in silence, and in the dark, where everyone was able to participate, and no one was left to wait for long.

Most of the beds were for a single person, except one.  And at first I thought it would be uncomfortable to lie down there with a stranger, but then I did it anyway, actually 2x (though it was the same track on each of the two headsets) and it didn't seem strange at all.

And sitting on the carpet in the dark, in that space felt holy.  That the artist created a form of return to a shared experience of strangers.  (Has it been three years? Four years since I got to perform here?)

A meditation for coming back to life, while the northern hemisphere prepares for darkness and sleep.