I'm In Love With An Oyster.

Today I will neither rant nor wax poetic. I will gush. Mommas, hold your babies tight, the world must be comin' to an end.

I went with my lovely ex last night to see Oyster, a dance performance from the dreams of Inbal Pinto. We went because I received the mass university email flyer enticing me in the subject heading with " Free Tix to 5/10 Quirky Vaudeville Dance Performance!".

I see "Free" and I'm already 50% certain to be in attendance. But wait, there's more.

"Taken from Tim Burton¹s ³The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy,² Inbal Pinto¹s
Oyster is part surreal vaudeville, part circus, and part toy store after
midnight. Pinto has created an idiosyncratic dance theater piece that spills
out into a dreamscape of wandering street acrobats and oddly beautiful
creatures with doll-like make-up, spiky blond wigs, and tutus. The work
brings to mind the dreamlike qualities of Fellini and the keen intellect of
choreographer Pina Bausch."

Well, now they've mentioned Tim Burton and Fellini. I suppressed a quiver in my loins.

However, my ex is a bit of a tortured, tired genius. I imagine he's probably a reincarnation of Franz Kafka. He came over, barely able to muster the strength required for a greeting, and quickly slid into a chair with a half-hearted sigh. We began the process of negotiation.

He: "How long does it run?"
Me: "Um, I dunno. We can just stay for a little of it if we don't like it."
He: "Yeah, I'm just so tired."
Me: "Well, I could make you some coffee...or we could just not go."
He: "No, it sounds interesting...But can we leave after about half an hour?"
Me: "Okay. I mean, it's free, so whatever."

I really was being sincere--if it sucked and blew a few goats, who cared? It was FREE!!

We climbed the hill to the theater. We shuffled to our seats and people-watched for a good 20 minutes. He was getting antsy. If it didn't start soon, we would enter into negotiations again.

The lights dimmed. The curtains pulled back, and thus began the most beautiful, wonderful, perfect, fantastical, breath-catching (it didn't just take one's breath, it held it captive) display of human movement, human imagination, human skill, and intensity I've ever witnessed.

The performance didn't rely on hidden meaning, or interpretation; it was the pure intensity of a dream flowing through all of the senses. The lighting was used more like delicate watercolor on a canvas of human bodies. The dancing didn't look rehearsed; it was primal and magnificent and so perfecly synchronized to some latent universal code of movement.

I have never wished to suspend myself in an hour of any of my life as I so fervently desired to do so last night.

The light extinguished, and the music ended. My ex, so lethargic I often wonder how he musters the strength to furnish a pulse, leapt to his feet to begin the standing ovation, which rose like a giant wave over the audience. I fought back tears--because the performance had been so perfect, and because it was finished...

Much like a dream, as I try to replay it now in my mind, I have only a fragment of the beauty accessible to my conscious self; but the emotion lingers, even as that most brilliant image fades.