at the goodman
on sunday, ST took me to see mirror of the invisible world by the wonderful mary zimmerman at the goodman theater. the playwrite and the institution are both heavy hitters in chicago and nationally, but i had only admired both form afar until ST sprung this impromptu, "after june birthday present" on me. well, let me tell you it was lovely. we both adored the play which was simply plotted, artistically original, beautiful, funny, and unpretentious. we couldn't stop effervescing as we left and i kept exclaiming, "now that's what theater's all about!" i really do continue to be impressed with ST's knack for knowing my taste perfectly, without necessarily liking what i like, or even seeming to pay very close attention. ineffable.
beyond the cheerful loveliness of the play, we also had the good fortune to be seated next to an elderly couple who had clearly been going to the goodman for years. they had to be in their eighties, but they seemed as engaged as ever, making witty comments to each other during intermission, helping each other arrange their old bones in positions that would allow passage through the aisle. they chuckled a lot with their heads bent together and seemed always to be touching in small ways. watching them interact filled me a great sense of peace.
when i came home, i felt moved to write. and this is what happened:
At the Goodman
In the Theater I imagined we were old.
Our skin curled in on itself creating soft, dark
curves and odd furrows. Everything about us seemed tiny.
My shoulders grown narrow, my fingers thin. You turn,
a long-legged wisp in your seat. The air has become stiff
and chill in the dark room.
It is time to wrap yourself
in the pale cardigan that one of the granddaughters
pushed on you at that department store on State Street,
the one that's changed its name yet again.
The sweater is not easy to manage over the angles
of your bones, but you retain a simplicity of movement,
turning toward me in a familiar, trusting swivel
on the creaky knob of your hip.
Also, your eyes are the same--lush, dark, easy with affection.
I reach out to help cover you and my wrist beneath my sleeve
is decorated with light and dark spots. We are
old in the theater, and after the contortion is accomplished
and the bright, thin wool secures your years-whittled frame,
we come to rest against one another, tired, but
warm where our arms touch.
On the stage, the spotlight has turned red, the performer is wailing
under the illusion of demons, shadows made in the footlights. I feel
your skinny hand squeeze my skinny thigh reassuringly, the same as now,
as always. It is wonderful, this chaste cuddle in the dark. More so,
because I did not need to be reassured. In this dream
of ever-after, I have finally learned how not to be afraid.
-drw
beyond the cheerful loveliness of the play, we also had the good fortune to be seated next to an elderly couple who had clearly been going to the goodman for years. they had to be in their eighties, but they seemed as engaged as ever, making witty comments to each other during intermission, helping each other arrange their old bones in positions that would allow passage through the aisle. they chuckled a lot with their heads bent together and seemed always to be touching in small ways. watching them interact filled me a great sense of peace.
when i came home, i felt moved to write. and this is what happened:
At the Goodman
In the Theater I imagined we were old.
Our skin curled in on itself creating soft, dark
curves and odd furrows. Everything about us seemed tiny.
My shoulders grown narrow, my fingers thin. You turn,
a long-legged wisp in your seat. The air has become stiff
and chill in the dark room.
It is time to wrap yourself
in the pale cardigan that one of the granddaughters
pushed on you at that department store on State Street,
the one that's changed its name yet again.
The sweater is not easy to manage over the angles
of your bones, but you retain a simplicity of movement,
turning toward me in a familiar, trusting swivel
on the creaky knob of your hip.
Also, your eyes are the same--lush, dark, easy with affection.
I reach out to help cover you and my wrist beneath my sleeve
is decorated with light and dark spots. We are
old in the theater, and after the contortion is accomplished
and the bright, thin wool secures your years-whittled frame,
we come to rest against one another, tired, but
warm where our arms touch.
On the stage, the spotlight has turned red, the performer is wailing
under the illusion of demons, shadows made in the footlights. I feel
your skinny hand squeeze my skinny thigh reassuringly, the same as now,
as always. It is wonderful, this chaste cuddle in the dark. More so,
because I did not need to be reassured. In this dream
of ever-after, I have finally learned how not to be afraid.
-drw