Scrambling for reality: live performance and bearing witness

A blog that includes mentions of Kdot, Bridget Everett, Rue Paul and Vonnegut

I’m standing in a stodgy dark hill surrounded by strangers and I’m beyond contact high territory. No music or vocals emanate from the venue speakers but the whole crowd collectively is screaming lyrics in time. There’s this warm, shaky feeling as the whole place vibrates and the stage seems so far away but the words “Pulitzer Kenny” is burning white in the background which creates a backlit effect of the lawn and the stadium. Kendrick Lamar has sang two bars of the song Humble and suddenly stopped the song and the track. The crowd completes the whole song undeterred. Fast words are stumbled on but collectively we keep flowing with no one left behind. The ritual comes to an end. The track begins and we start the song again, this time with vocals and the backing track.

Honestly, it was one of those moments when you become aware of your animal nature. I don’t know any of these people but the ones I came with but somehow all 25,000 of us became bonded. For years, we (collective) spent time listening and learning the lyrics and timing. We sang in our car, blared it in our headphones while tapping away on keyboards at work, yelled “THIS IS MY JAM” when it came on at a house party. It’s like we all trained individually for this moment we had no clue would exist. No other explanation or description arrives to my mind that isn’t corny as hell but it was *special* and *real*.

Thinking back, I had micro-dosed this phenomenon every Sunday at church as a child. The boredom settled in every nerve and sitting still is not a skill i’ve ever mastered. I created a game where I would take the little offering pencil and trace the image on the front of the program timing myself to finish just as the service ended. The only respite was the music. The organist at my church would blow the top of the place and as I would watch her play with her hands and feet at the same time. Sight reading and hitting the notes in time with her felt more magical than any parable we heard that day.

Likely due to prolonged isolation and sensory deprivation, I’ve haven’t been feeling as on my game when it comes to appreciating, digesting, and participating in reality. It’s one thing to daily put on airs, leave the house and be a human with other humans. As Rue Paul says “We’re all born naked and the rest is drag.” It’s like my drag is confused because I’m too busy trying to figure out everyone else’s drag. The poignant moments that should move me instead confuse me with questions and constant internal check ins.

A few weekends ago, my husband and I went to NYC for our 9 year anniversary. I had bought tickets months ago to see Bridget Everett perform her cabaret show and as we arrived to the venue I realized I had such a minimal understanding of what to expect and how it would make me feel. She arrived on stage with a bottle of wine, chugging and constantly manipulating her visible underwear. It was silly but honestly it was kind of alarming. She called some mannequins her children and eventually kicked one of their disembodied heads across the stage after shoving it on the aforementioned wine bottle. She talked about the death of her mom and sister openly weeping in a white thong bikini. She sang a powerful rendition of The Climb by Miley Cyrus. She picked up an 80+ year old woman on her back and after she set her down the lady goes “That was fucking awesome!” After the house lights were turned up, I was not sure how to feel. Was it real? I mean I guess it was, huh, because I just saw it happen. I cried and laughed, that was real. Was it an act? I mean of course it was, she got up there and planned it, and wanted everyone to watch and witness. But why was I so worried for her! Was that what she was aiming for?

And this is where I find myself. Witnessing reality has felt almost like an substance my brain no longer has the capability to parse. It’s like I can’t be in the moment because I’m too busy wondering what the original intention is and if I’m experiencing the intended feeling I’m supposed to. The culture of convenience makes me feel like even my emotions require productivity and efficiency. I can’t even just feel things for the hell of it anymore?

And I paid top dollar for this experience??

It’s slowly getting to be so prohibitively expensive and challenging to witness things in real life. It goes beyond concerts and events, it’s now more convenient and sometimes cheaper to see a telehealth doctor vs a doctor in a doctors office. With a remote job, even workplace drama and banter barely leaves a drop in my mental pond vs the real hand-wringing tea I witnessed when I worked in an office. IRL Social interactions come at a cost now. The cost could be money (ordering a coffee at a coffee shop vs making it at home), time (commuting, waiting in a waiting room), or attention span (not me thinking about fae lore while ur telling me your weekend plans).

As a counterargument to staying home and saving your money, I saw some chunks of a Kurt Vonnegut interview from a magazine in 1996 floating around the internet recently:

…my wife calls up, “Where are you going?” I say, “Well, I’m going to go buy an envelope.” And she says, “You’re not a poor man. Why don’t you buy a thousand envelopes? They’ll deliver them, and you can put them in a closet.” And I say, “Hush.” So I go down the steps here, and I go out to this newsstand across the street where they sell magazines and lottery tickets and stationery. I have to get in line because there are people buying candy and all that sort of thing, and I talk to them. The woman behind the counter has a jewel between her eyes, and when it’s my turn, I ask her if there have been any big winners lately. I get my envelope and seal it up and go to the postal convenience center down the block at the corner of 47th Street and 2nd Avenue, where I’m secretly in love with the woman behind the counter. I keep absolutely poker-faced; I never let her know how I feel about her. One time I had my pocket picked in there and got to meet a cop and tell him about it. Anyway, I address the envelope to Carol in Woodstock. I stamp the envelope and mail it in a mailbox in front of the post office, and I go home. And I’ve had a hell of a good time. And I tell you, we are here on Earth to fart around, and don’t let anybody tell you any different.
Electronic communities build nothing. You wind up with nothing. We’re dancing animals. How beautiful it is to get up and go do something.

I mean, per usual, Vonnegut is right. Live performances and mundane reality drum up deeper and more intense emotion than something you watch on a small or large rectangle. Yes, it might be cheaper to stay home but if we follow Vonnegut’s vision here we probably should stay open to farting around potential, for our own good.

Emboldened by the concept of being a dancing animal, I refuse to minimize my life by only allowing myself to witness things I can understand with no strain. If reality is a commodity now, I’ll treat it as such. I’ll hold tight the ugliness of humanity; every wrinkle and blemish. I’ll notice the vibrating feeling in my fingers and toes when loud music is played through huge speakers. I’ll release the feeling that I need to record or remember every detail. If my brain can’t compute, I’ll stop trying to understand and let it just…be.