What Happened to Me Tonight at the Oberon?

ORG: asylum

Young artists in pain.  (Okay, one older artist in pain.  One brilliant mime/ballet dancer, worth the price of admission.)

BUT, young artists.  Really in pain.  Who knows why.  Because they’re artists.  Because creativity is such an unhappy thing.  It drives us all crazy.  Think of Van Gogh, Sylvia Plath, Nijinsky, Dylan Thomas.  They did.  They hung photocopies of self-destructive artists around the venue.

Oh, to be an artist.  We wear black.  We’re in pain.   We are all lunatics, suffering, suffering, suffering.  Pain, pain, lunacy, pain.

I may become suicidal just because it’s back in vogue.

At the Oberon, at least.

And, it was called a performance party event, which I figure means it’s kind of like a rave.  A suicidal, lunacy-worshiping, costumed rave.  I have been to my first RAVING LUNATIC PERFORMANCE PARTY SUICIDAL EVENT!

It wasn’t exactly fun, and I wouldn’t go again, but it did remind me of Rocky Horror and THAT is fun and I think I may have to return to Dr. Frankenfurter who seduces everyone.

Let’s do the Time Warp again.

Not suicidally.  Not at an asylum.  Not raving about anything in particular.

I am now officially grateful for my wildly weird attachment to Ernest Hemingway because though he did kill himself, I only worshiped him for his knowledge of Spain.

I mostly worshipped James Baldwin and anyone who lived in Paris because I wanted to move out of the United States and be an expatriot by the time I was twelve.

Okay, I did have a thing for Sexton and Plath.

Don’t remind me.




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