The Interrupted Stage

Today I opened the blinds to my bedroom not just to bring in the day’s light, nor to watch the dirty gray cotton-batting clouds migrate up and down the piece of the Los Angeles skyline I can see outside my windows, but to see the world. To remind myself that it is there, full of others who may also feel the crushing claustrophobic solitude I’m feeling. This morning I was supposed to go on a whale watch. Instead I rose early to WhatsApp chat with my college buddies, Bob and Susan; somehow our usual telephonic technical snafu and 60-year-old-communal-wattle-check was even more comforting than usual. In the meantime, I’m satisfying myself with looking at the pictures on my niece Martha’s FB page. She is finishing up a whale watching trip down in Mexico right now. Thank you, Martha, for sharing your live experience with those of us who were unable to go in person.

I’m not exactly completely isolated. It was just last night that my friend Rob and I went out to eat at El Cholo and to commiserate about the current events. The restaurant was predictably more empty than full, but there was a large and loud group of women in the corner celebrating someone’s birthday. The rise and fall of their voices and laughter buoyed us all in the restaurant. After dinner Rob walked me to the front door of my building before heading to his own about two blocks away. As we stood in front of the building awkwardly jabbing our elbows at each other, a young, lithe blond in jeans and a jaunty black beret walked by and said, “Just hug already and be done with it.” We all laughed, and I retired into my building.

I think this weekend’s practice isolation has left in its wake the heavy realization that I am widowed. Fifteen months later than the event itself. A bit slow, I know. I’ve found myself thinking many times this past week how happy I am that Jimmie is missing this dark chapter in world history. With the busyness and business of closing out the week and the school for spring break, I was still amidst my colleagues; the full reality of bearing this isolation alone finally hit me today. I’m aware that this paragraph will cue my sensible fisherman brother Duck to make a wellness/sanity check. I can hear his gravelly voice now.

Sis, you all right? You wrote some crazy shit in that blog of yours.

Yes, Duck, I’m fine.

I think my family thinks this blog thing is a little nuts on a good day, but in times that invite darker self-scrutiny, I know they worry. I slept two delicious hours this afternoon, facing the lighted windows and when I woke, I rushed to my computer to capture this realization.

Somewhere outside, in the middle of South Park, I can hear big band music. They’re playing “All of You.” It calls to mind our counterparts in Italy, whose masked figures gravitate to their street-facing windows as they sing their Italian national anthem to each other above the deserted streets. The videos my friend Caro has sent from her quarantine near Venice have cracked me up. I am so grateful to her.

When I awoke this afternoon, I looked out the window and saw a lone figure seated outside his apartment on his balcony. Was he nude? It was just the kind of physical demonstration of lonely exhibitionism we might expect in these strange times. Don’t worry, I’m not going to “frighten the horses,” that way, but his startling pale caucasian form alone on the balcony witnessing the world spoke volumes.

Today, a video made back in June of 2016 by Mitchell Rose resurfaced on Facebook. It features a group of 42 choreographers utilizing the technology and collaboration we still have at our fingertips. This magnificent video shatters the myth that isolation must breed creative stagnation. Young artists and theatre academics, please take note.

For now, I’m marveling at the magic of the Big Band music wherever it’s coming from, as I watch the American flag wave across the way. Just made a batch of New York Times Pecan and Cranberry Couscous.That’s what I see during this Interrupted Stage. What do you see?