Musings after a Play (Carmina Burana, Mar 5/99)
--------------------

It was my first ballet, though I'd been thinking for a while that I should
take advantage of living in the big city to complete my roster of plays
and symphonies with a dance outing. My friend furnished the opportunity,
he was treating his mother and I was invited along. I'd purchased at
ticket for him to a Vivaldi concert last week, and he would pay for me
next year, but this one was an extra treat for us. He and I had a long
tradition of sharing a classical concert once a year, but far too often it
ended up being the only time we'd see each other for months, since we went
to university in two different cities.

I met them outside the box office as he was going in to pick up the
tickets, his mum hopping a bit to keep up with his longer stride. She
reminded me irresistibly of a small grey bird, wanting to hover
protectively but also wanting to let her fledgling fly. We crowded into
the quickly forming line and made small talk as we snaked our way through
to the windows. The crowd became even more packed, and he suggested that
his mother and I wait for him in the lobby. I was a bit nervous at this,
but acceded since it was becoming somewhat nerve wracking being pressed
between so many respectable people. I've always felt out of place at
concerts and plays, since I'm so far out of the demographic, being young,
female and not-rich.  My friend's hair had faded to a pale pink by now,
and he joked about not getting nearly as many stares as when it was a hot
vibrant shade. My shaved head occasioned a few glances but he took the
brunt of it.

So, she and I politely pushed out way out of the line up and made our way
to the lobby where I discovered that my friends can have parents that I
could consider my friends also. We talked about Yoga, the ballet we were
about to see, and her last trip up north to help get ready for the
inauguration of our new territory. She told me about the Inuit feast that
she attended and impressed me with her adventurousness; I'd have balked at
eating half the things she mentioned.

He made it in at last and escorted us past the ticket takers. After a
brief longing glance at the sushi bar, we headed for the coat check, where
I admired a long burgundy velvet dress worn by a teenaged girl. Her father
greeted me and it turned out to by my supervisor. Two years at my company
and I'd never run into anyone outside of working hours, but it gave us
something to talk about on Monday. No mention was made of pink hair. 

We found our seats, high in the balcony but near the front, and settled in
to wait for curtain time. He'd put two packages of Skittles in his coat
pockets, one on each side, and his mother and I would reach in at
intervals and help ourselves to the snacks. Eventually the lights dimmed
and we sat through the opening presentation with a measure of confusion it
wasn't horribly clear from the program that were was an opening, and
mostly unrelated, act. Intermission, more Skittles and talk of Yoga
stretches, then the main event began. 

The tread of the chorus as they came out in their long red robes was
precise. They arrayed themselves to either side of the stage, the ranks
filling in in and orderly fashion. The soloists would periodically appear
from the wings, coming out of shadow into the twilight at the periphery of
the performing space, grace us with their voices and fade away again. The
dancers kept our notice centred, with the wheel of fortune dominating the
stage. Having danced to and enjoyed the industrial remix of Oh Fortuna,
now banned for not paying royalties on the score, it was interesting to
see how the dancers interpreted the classical version. The miming of self
flagellation in time with the soaring voices of the chorus, and the
interweaving of the skeins of bodies as they moved around, were
mesmerising. 

I joined in the standing ovation when the performance drew to a close, and
we sat for a time, discussing our impressions, waiting for the crowd to
clear so that we could get our coats. The climb down to the lobby was made
with no mishaps, and we navigated the coat line and emerged back out into
the cold Toronto air. We walked up to King Street and they stopped to talk
with me for a while as I waited for my westbound street car. Farewells
were said, promises to call each other were made, and they ducked down
into the subway. I danced about to keep warm, probably convincing the
others waiting with me that I was a bit touched in the head, especially as
I couldn't help but sing snatches of the libretto under my breath. 

The car finally arrived and I grabbed a single seat on the south side of
the aisle. As it ran through the theatre district, a huge group of
revellers came out of a cafe and stood around trying to decide their next
port of call. The car passed out of sight before they came to a
conclusion, though the dynamic suggested that they were about to disperse. 

A little further on, an open man hole had the top of a yellow ladder
barely sticking out of it, and a man climbing down as his friends looked
on. I wondered if it was to escape the cold night air on the streets or to
perform maintenance, but the lack of uniforms and the lateness of the hour
made me suspect the former. 

As we passed the open lot near the rail road tracks, yet another group
came into view. A police car was parked up on the sidewalk as one
patrolman checked the IDs of a shiver group of punks.  I could tell that
none of them wanted to be there, but they were constrained to keep moving
through the steps of their dance in order to pas through to the end and
home.

The street car continued to move along it's tracks, slowing as we passed
under the rail lines. The cars sped past us on the right, desperate to get
around us before they had to slow their headlong rush to nowhere.

A bare stretch of side walk came into view as we emerged from the short
tunnel, a lone pedestrian walking on the other side of the street. A man
had died there this week, while walking his dog, his death making the
papers after a life lived in obscurity. The chalk marks are gone now, and
other stories fill the news. 

Red brick buildings loomed up, relics from Toronto's past. One long one is
an old converted paper mill, with at least one office housing an adult
content wholesaler for web sites. I car pool to work with the boyfriend of
someone who works there. Bare grey branches writhe over its surface,
waiting for spring to come so they can clothe the brick in fresh young
green.

My stop arrived and I stepped off, moving briskly to keep warm on the last
leg of my trip home. The cold air burned my lungs and my breath steamed
behind me as I walked south, watching the stars. 



May 9/99
N. Aucoin