Fanciful Ideas

This evening, for the first time in months, we went to see a piece of contemporary dance.  Now, something odd happens to me when I’m allowed to indulge in the Arts.  Thankfully, for almost everyone concerned, I don’t get out much.  It makes me delusional.  I know that that might sound ridiculous, given the bizarre reality I piece together from my day-to-day experiences, but even by my twisted standards, my perspective on the world shifts noticeably after an evening at the theatre.  It makes it all the more disturbing.

I’ve always loved dancers.  Obviously I’ve not actually loved them, though I’ve tried.  They are too supple and athletic for me to get my greasy hands on and besides there are laws.  Actually, I’ve never even cleared the orchestra pit - I have more scars from violin bows and timpani mallets than anyone else I know.  But, I continue to admire them from afar in a wildly unreasonable and infatuated way.  I can’t help it.  Maybe it’s the elegance.  Maybe it’s the tights.  Maybe it’s something deeper.  Maybe it’s something deeper within the tights.

Of course, being flagrantly obsessive and appallingly gauche to boot, I’m not sure I’ve ever even managed a conversation with one, except, perhaps, if I haven’t known, say, over the telephone.  Even then, I suspect there’s some subconscious signalling going on because pretty soon they’re freaked out and I’m put into the perpetual piped-music death of ‘On Hold.’  I stay there in optimistic limbo until the telecom company cuts the line.  If there’s one thing I’ve learnt it’s that wildly one-sided fantasies do not produce long term relationships.  Particularly if one of you is paying for the pleasure.  This was another case of clearly having nothing in common with these Objects of Desire. 

But here’s the thing: rather than the fine artistic performances highlighting my own obvious inadequacies, casting into sharp relief my dwarfish abilities and belittling my pathetic attempts at creativity, they seem to reflect a wholly unrecognisable potential for brilliance: a world where I’m not encumbered by warty clumsiness, two left feet and complete inability to synchronise.  My gnarled imperfections seem to disappear in the harsh, albeit reflected, shine of stage lights.  I am blinded.

Without any physical justification, it makes me walk taller, more slowly and with what I believe to be more gracefulness.  Something inside believes that I’m lithe and poised.  Suddenly I believe I can do anything.  It is utter madness. 

It doesn’t last long.  Tonight it stopped the moment I collided with the usherette. She seemed quite upset about her scattered audience questionnaires.  “Prick!” she spat quietly.  She didn’t seem to appreciate my budding renaissance. 

Comments

[The Boy Who Likes To]

I never got 'The Arts.'
Especially 'The Modern Arts,' they're the worst.
I used to live with an drama actress who done a few 'artistic pieces' for a film director and we went to see the film one evening. It just makes me feel a little uncomfortable.