Though really, what’s going on is I’m trying to make posts that aren’t as unreasonably long and ridiculous. The ridiculous part I can’t so much help. I try.
I could potentially have walked to where the Cirque’s set up its tent and have walked home. There’s a nice park and a river between the two locations, but nothing horrible. Possibly it would have taken forty-five minutes – so not even my usual walking-for-the-day. A few things deterred me, in order of their importance: it was cold. It was cold. It was cold. (As well it was dark and I, not thinking the day through, had already gone for a run at the gym and was lazy).
So I took the metro there and back. Sitting in the compartment on the ride home, I felt like all of my senses were overwhelmed. As I’m writing this I’m still sitting in my room with the overhead light off and no music on (both rarities) and the quiet is soothing.
Then I thought on Jenny’s “senses” blog posts, and I wondered if I could do the same with Cirque. “No, stupid,” my first response: “There was little more there than sight and sound.”
A conclusion I quickly rejected. I’m still not going to try to describe the different impressions of the circus, though, for three reasons:
1. I don’t want to argue whether Cirque du Soleil is tasteful or just “too Las Vegas” or “too French,” because I fear there’s too much truth in either of the latter claims.It was a great show! I very much enjoyed myself, and I had a great seat, and the performers were excellent.
2. For once I’ll take pity on my mental reader-construct and assume that reading my analyses of whether the contortionist’s exceedingly glittery costume was over the top or cool, or why they didn’t offer beer to Russia when they do to America, would, indeed, be cruel and unusual punishment.
3. See Movement IV (Waltz-memory) of the previous post’s sonata.
During intermission I saw a ring of employees lining the stage. I had heard some of them speak English before, and I figured they were the more permanent, important ushers. I picked a target (I’ll admit my own stake in the patriarchy; she was young and female and I am young and male, so…) and asked her if she happened to know how one might get backstage. She was bewildered at first, and then when I lied (not wanting to admit to my illicit photographic contraband) that I wanted to collect autographs, she said that ne daiut avtografi, voobshche [in general they don’t]. (I was mistaken in thinking she was one of the English speakers.) I trust what she said – at least in this country, I guess it’s ne priniato [not the custom].
Then I walked the perimeter of the fence after the show remembering (Movement I – Adagio) my literature teacher in St. Pete. All I found was a gate and a bus running its engine. Assumedly where the performers would eventually leave, but it was cold and late and I had no idea how long it took to sort costumes and take off makeup and, in general, being a random sketchy guy, standing in the night by the fence, is much creepier than being a paying customer at the show, going backstage.
Cf. Movements II – Allegro – Flaw and III – Minuet – Neurosis. I had a great time at the show. It was good! It was what I wanted to see; it was worth the cost; I was happy. And yet I was upset at myself on the metro home, all because I gave into that which has been the greatest detriment to humanity ever since my namesake leapt into the sun – ambitious desire.
That inner voice that told me I should get my head out of the clouds, simultaneously, off-handedly, mentioned that I might stop by the grounds of Luzhniki on another day, around the time I thought the performers might be arriving – after all, they can’t be in rehearsal all day before the show, right? There must be a call at some hour...in general, that inner voice was way too smooth and sneaky in the way he phrased it.
So I thought – I could. But I could also not. And looking at all of the movements of the sonata – the craziness of my teacher, my own neuroses, the way the Cirque bloggers portray themselves, the shattered necklace on the floor – I’d rather not.
Of course then that inner voice tried throwing up another story, to add to the four I’d already composed. I’ve mentioned it here before.
And yet I know a final variation on this same theme:
And for three whole weeks Ti Moune did wait by the gates- and I fear it.
Not sleeping, not eating, not drinking, only waiting
Only watching, as the grounds of the Hotel Beauxhomme grew even more lovely
In preparation for the wedding
Ia bois’, shto ia ctal tem samym, kak eti sumashedshie cirque-bloggery - I’m afraid I have become just as crazy as those Cirque bloggers.