The Curtain Rises, Reality Suspends

A performace by the famed Aquila Theatre Company of New York.

As the lights dim and the curtain rises, reality as we know it suspends.

The world, in that slice of time, becomes whatever we want it to be. We are seduced by performers whose passion has earned them the good fortune of losing themselves, night after night, in this world of their making.

Whatever anxiety or suffering we bring with us floats away, into the ether. Pain cannot touch us ... except, perhaps, for the rear end that tingles sharply on the cusp of intermission.

It takes a moment to get acquainted with this new reality. The actors are not yet characters. They are people playing characters, until their spell is cast.

It is a salve to the wounds that afflict us. It makes our lives bearable in a way that liquor, nicotene, chocolate milkshakes or Lithium never could.

We are free: Free to imagine without boundaries; free to revel in our existence.

Too soon, the curtain falls. We return to flesh and bone, ceasing to be more than ourselves. We are human again because they are human again.

We only stay to watch them bow -- no longer characters now, but people -- because we must show our appreciation for the gift they have given us. If only etiquette dictated they stay behind the curtain, leaving us only to remember what they were before it fell.

Blithe, blissful ignorance. It fades.

Too soon.

Half an hour later, Olivia, noblewoman of Illyria, is smoking a cigarette near the moving van parked in the theater loading dock. Her hair is pulled up, no longer shining under the warm lights of the stage.

The cold night air is biting. She's wearing a sweatshirt.

The spell is broken.