Rehearsal
In the other room, a small black box theater, I can hear the cast of Bubble Boy, The Musical, rehearsing. From here, I sweat and wait for it to end. Countless nights I have spent here.
Turning over the car, she sounded tired after a long treck down to Columbus, Ohio earlier in the day. My daughter was running lines and choreography in her head for the 30 minute drive. The thermostadt outside read 100 degrees. Almost normal here for July, but too much on the warm side for my taste.
Sweat began to run into my eyes and I though that being in the heat was foolish. With a slam of my laptop lid and a quick exit, I made my way down the hall to the outside door, which was propped open to release and stale air that had been trapped inside the building since 1909.
Now in the car, air conditioning at max, I loaded up my playlist. First off was “Olive Hill”, by Cat Stevens which tells the story of Muhammad’s assension. Fast forward 40 minutes and I am chatting with Claude about the meaning of the razor’s edge found in the Upanishads and how Neo from The Matrix was architected to give people the feeling of having an exit.
I exist in a context of limited free will but one in which I must be aware and accept what is thrown at me always choosing the path of doing least harm. I breath a sigh of disappointed releief. A savior would be so much more convinient.
She pulls at the locked car door, I flip the unclock, and we head home. As we move down Detrioit road over the potholes and through the yellow lights, she scrolls on her phone and I find myself immediately loosing my footing and drifting off to ruminate.