Space Station residency

I’m Thoreau Waiting

Choreographed by Jakki Kalogridis in collaboration with the dancers

Music:

“Don’t Leave Me” by Jauz

“Girl from Petaluma” by Cocktail Shakers

“Ar Maner Kozh” by Yann Tiersen

Sound Design by Kerrith Livengood

Dancers: Abbi LeBaube, Alyssa Watson, Eibhlin Arvizu, Leah Fry, Lyndi Buckholz, Michelle Parkhurst, Ramona Orion

Fools stand on their island of opportunities and look toward another land.

There is no other land; there is no other life but this.

- Henry David Thoreau 

Transcript of performance:

I am waiting for communion. It’s the moment during service every Sunday when I know that the too-long choreographed ritual of sit-stand-kneel is coming to an end. I’m certain that what the priest is saying right now is very important, that there’s some great lesson that I should be learning, but I cannot suppress the bounce in my eight-year-old feet any longer and each time I stand after kneeling or sitting, I am reminded that my pantyhose have been making a slow and steady descent towards my knees for the duration of this morning’s participatory performance and that the droll march towards the front to accept my paper-flavored Necco wafer will require a concentrated effort and a wide gait to ensure that the crotch remains above the hem of my dress. If it fell to my ankles right there in front of God and everyone, I would kindly request that the priest administer my last rites.  

I am waiting for the pharmacy to refill my prescription.

I am waiting backstage for my entrance. Do I even remember how this dance begins? Why do I always experience this moment when my mind goes completely blank on the opening night of every show? Why do I always do this to myself? Like why perform at all? Are dancers all just masochistic weirdos? Do I just live for the adrenaline rush of potentially fucking something up in front of a crowd of paying strangers?  

I am waiting in the drive-thru for my biscuit and tea. So is everyone. But if Heaven is anything like that first bite of a fresh biscuit, life might be worth the (moments of) defective pantyhose.

I am still waiting for my prescription.

I am waiting at Joann Fabrics for them to call my number at the cutting table so I can give some sweet old lady an evasive answer when she asks me what I’m making. This place…there’s no music, no bathroom, no indication of day or time or how long I’ve been hovering next to the fleece waiting for my number to come up…is the sun still up? who knows! Did the apocalypse come and go? maybe. And to be perfectly honest… I think the numbers might just be there to mess with us.

Did I mention that I am waiting for my prescription? 

I am waiting for my babyback ribs at Chili’s, watching with envy as a server goes by with a sizzling hot cast-iron skillet piled high with fajita goodness and now I, along with everyone else in the restaurant, am re-thinking my choice of an entrée but it’s too late to back down now. If only that jingle weren’t so catchy!

I am waiting inside an MRI machine. I’ve been here once or twice or a few times before. They give you earplugs, but I can still hear the industrial thump thump thump of the machine. Sometimes I imagine the end of the world, the isolation of being one of the only survivors, making a shelter in an abandoned culvert and looking out on the crumbling relics of an industrialist era of cement and metal and capitalism and a pervasive grind culture driving us all to exhaustion. Sometimes I think about the apocalypse…and sometimes I think about the possibility that I might acquire super-human powers from an excessive number of MRI’s…

I am waiting to fall asleep, staring at the ceiling, hoping for 8 hours of uninterrupted dreamless, silent, torpid slumber when my overdramatic bladder doesn’t insist on a 4am shuffle through the darkened house to do something that it could’ve waited just 2 more hours to do but Nooooo… it has to be right now. I suppose it’s good to know I’m hydrated??? 

I am waiting in line for the women’s bathroom at a dive bar. Sure, it’s late and yeah, I have to be up early in the morning, but right now I’m more concerned with the apparent lack of single-ply toilet paper in the stall to my right and the puddle of questionable substance in the middle of the floor. 

I am waiting for my uber.

I am waiting for security.

I am waiting for the right moment.

I am waiting for the magic.

I am waiting to grow out of it.

I am waiting to feel like I am doing this for me.

I am waiting for unconditional love.

I am waiting in line to speak with St Peter. If I crane my neck, I can see the gates way up ahead, but it’s as if the TSA have perniciously overextended their jurisdiction into the afterlife…or…pre-afterlife? Everyone feels entitled to get into Heaven regardless of what kind of life they lived. “Oh, I certainly wouldn’t have done that if I had known…” *sigh* I’m not looking to make waves here. I just want my biscuit, my tea, and 8 hours of uninterrupted sleep.

I am waiting for someone to see me.