how do you know? i just know. how can you know? because nothing feels wrong. because i am not presently in pain. because everything feels normal, for a change. then the familiar fullness, the me that could explore and explode. splattering across your dinner table is also taking up space. i hang up my knowing, and pretend even to myself it's not actually the paralyzing fear of not ever knowing that drives this last segment.
change from slacks to short summer dress in under ten minutes. waltz all elegant by the nose tip of our familiar ballroom drunks, and know they'll be up waiting for me when i come back, also. harmless, a basso comforts me. the silky soft of my dress clinging heavily to my bum. the way a loose jacket covers my back, but not the way that soft, silky skirt rides up on my thigh. in my best borrowed profundo, i remind myself harmless is a delicate word. best not to assume.
except it's light now, still, and i get to relish feeling elegant, feeling young. feeling absolutely chuffed at the sunlight in my fresh-tint hair, the elegant hall, and the way i can just sit up here and watch from afar a beautiful man committing art for the umpteenth time. oh, i've been vicarious in this theatre more than once.
i think about slurred words for the last time. think about dinner, and the work. observe perhaps too keenly the older man sitting next to me, but i can't help myself. there's little wonderful, trivial things that make people around me into art, and i've got soul to spare, so i give of it freely. the man sits with his arms crossed heavily across his chest. i do my best not to move, so he won't notice he's sat on a corner of my dress. look down at my thighs, wonder if i've put on weight, then slip back my eyes to see him remain patiently, an eternal basilisk, while the rest of the auditorium applauds.
there's such terrible, awesome dignity i wish i could possess, or at the very least know how to write about. the way the skin sags, the heaving breath of first sitting down, yes, but the carefully pressed jacket, also. elegant, though not in the way of office chimps or elbow pads. this is a studied chic. it's the theatre coat, and it sees regular use, which is more than you can say about mine at the moment.
is he sad to be sitting here alone, or perfectly unfussed? what a strange question. me, who's used to going to the theatre alone all the time.
i turn my attention to the stage, and think about the little ways in which humans become art. about a twist of phrase, the imagery of monasteries and nights wasted making love. about trying to be a good father, about becoming ordinary men, except not now. tonight, on this stage, tonight, he is exquisite. beside me, as if reading my thought, the older man takes out his phone and takes a few, select shots. lets me observe and enjoy the studied movements, the careful precision of zooming in, the subtle satisfaction at capturing this moment in time.
entirely oblivious to my observing.
i wonder, sometimes, if life would be simpler were it not for these little, ordinary hang-ups. these taking an interest. how difficult to explain love, in a way that means less for the people and more for the beauty implicit in every last one of them. how it's not just rockstars who get to play on both sides of the line. by we, when i say the public, seem so fascinated when our idols behave like ordinary people. like it's somehow unimaginable that they might be capable of holding both.
but really, i think everyone is like that. this man beside me, with his careful poise and his elegant jacket. the mum on the row behind, trying not to let guilt over getting the cheap seats not get in the way of a good night. a stolen gaze. a wondering at how many shows will i miss when i become a mum.
i like this equilibrium between the artistic and the ordinary. what's beautiful and intoxicating in people, and what wins out? are we defined by our lowest or more ordinary moments? coming home with onions sticking outta my bag, or the extraordinary twist of one elegant hand?
are we the ways in which we differ? the days we disappoint, disgruntle, disdain? or are we these little monuments of poetry that sit buried inside an iron suit, a gulp of water, a swallow caught in the throat, a lithe, almost boyish way of carrying your forty years and all your yearnings and disappointments?
i'm someone really rather cynical and primitive. yet, for all my brutish manners, i can't help admiring this beauty in people.
i meant to tell you about seeing the national theatre's 'inter alia', and how absolutely brilliant it was. how incredible it is that i get to see such fantastic theatre for just a few euro a month. but then, the rest of my evening stole the show a bit. to be fair, the auditorium in real life and beautiful concert far outdoes anything you can see online, still. i do recommend it heartily though. what a great performance and incursion into what it is to be a woman in the modern age.
