I work in a theater in downtown philadelphia. I live on the cusp of the suburbs, where stately homes sit a block away from relic shells of stateley homes. I don’t know why I work in the theater, I am drawn to it, in any capacity. I say I don’t know why I always seem to find myself working in the theater, because I hate the theater. I hate the theater like many people hate their fathers. Maybe if I hated my father, I wouldn’t hate the theater as much as I do.
I am poor, in a pure way. I wear clean colared shirts and I don’t talk about my money problems. but it is my poverty which makes me feel entitled to feel things about American art, and in as much as I feel them, these things seem important to me. Did I mention that I hate the theater?
Right now I am a telemarketer for a theater in Philadelphia. I make a large number of calls on the off chance I will reach somone whoes life circumstance is strange enough that they would feel compelled to donate money to a theater over the phone. This is an alienating idea to me. I have never given money to a nonprofit over the phone. I have, however given a great dea lof money to panhandlers over the years. Telemarketing is for faluires like me, because of the large volume of faluire one must endure in one night. But this is not why I hate the theater.
I ride the bus to work, and I am often the only white person on the bus. I don’t live in a neighborhood where white people pretend to be poor, I live in a neighborhood and perhaps if I stay there long enough I will become someones neighbor, where as the icy indiference of the gentrified parts of town don’t alow for such behavior.
The reason for this exposition is that the story I am about to tell would be painfuly boring without understanding my temprement, opinions on art and my poor upbringing. I was to take the bus downtown to see a play for free. I did not want to see this play, but as this play would normaly cost thirty five dolars, I felt compeled to try and see it. So I gathered change from my girlfriends various pants strewn around the floor, counted enough out for the bus and waited on Broad street.
The play I was to see had a one word title, a noun. It wasn’t a noun like ‘revolver,’ or ‘penis,’ a word one could infer a vuage notion of the probably arch of the play. In fact the content, meaning and jist of this play was a mystery to me. There was no reason for me to go to the show. Hilary had the existential urge to afirm Everest’s existance. I had a perk and a reason to not spend money in a bar for a little while. People got on the bus. People getting onto a buss headed downtown in the evening are different. They arent spent like people coming home from work. They are maybe on one leg of a longer journey, on their way to recreate, or hating theater and feeling self... did i mention I hate the theater?
I am poor, in a pure way. I wear clean colared shirts and I don’t talk about my money problems. but it is my poverty which makes me feel entitled to feel things about American art, and in as much as I feel them, these things seem important to me. Did I mention that I hate the theater?
Right now I am a telemarketer for a theater in Philadelphia. I make a large number of calls on the off chance I will reach somone whoes life circumstance is strange enough that they would feel compelled to donate money to a theater over the phone. This is an alienating idea to me. I have never given money to a nonprofit over the phone. I have, however given a great dea lof money to panhandlers over the years. Telemarketing is for faluires like me, because of the large volume of faluire one must endure in one night. But this is not why I hate the theater.
I ride the bus to work, and I am often the only white person on the bus. I don’t live in a neighborhood where white people pretend to be poor, I live in a neighborhood and perhaps if I stay there long enough I will become someones neighbor, where as the icy indiference of the gentrified parts of town don’t alow for such behavior.
The reason for this exposition is that the story I am about to tell would be painfuly boring without understanding my temprement, opinions on art and my poor upbringing. I was to take the bus downtown to see a play for free. I did not want to see this play, but as this play would normaly cost thirty five dolars, I felt compeled to try and see it. So I gathered change from my girlfriends various pants strewn around the floor, counted enough out for the bus and waited on Broad street.
The play I was to see had a one word title, a noun. It wasn’t a noun like ‘revolver,’ or ‘penis,’ a word one could infer a vuage notion of the probably arch of the play. In fact the content, meaning and jist of this play was a mystery to me. There was no reason for me to go to the show. Hilary had the existential urge to afirm Everest’s existance. I had a perk and a reason to not spend money in a bar for a little while. People got on the bus. People getting onto a buss headed downtown in the evening are different. They arent spent like people coming home from work. They are maybe on one leg of a longer journey, on their way to recreate, or hating theater and feeling self... did i mention I hate the theater?
posted by Bloodnock at 1:30 AM
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