I'm walking a couple down Amsterdam in the UL /unlicensed district. Except in this reality, it's the upper west side not Triton. I'm wearing a fur shug, no gold eyebrow. I have been chatting with my new companions over guava and a glass of wine. I've found a great connection with these two. We continue our conversation on the city streets, until I turn to stand in front of a familiar red door. (Familiar from my childhood.) My demeanor changes. I am no longer chatty. The show begins, the door opens and we step inside.
The building reminds me of Victorian remodels from the Midwest. Plaster and lathe ceilings, peeling paint, a worn buffet, dusty floors. I am tempted to explore, but do not. I know more faces from last time. We are all much warmer.
There are performers, there is an audience, I am a guide. Through rooms, up stairs and down, for listening, observing, interacting. A journey, an experience, a commentary of man and nature deep in the mechanical beast of Manhattan. Finalie culminates, led down the aisle. I whisper a few words, unlatch the door and the show is over.
I take a momentary pause, then return to my place. The show plays again.
Note: this post is about a real microtheatre performance in NYC. I take the name Microtheatre from Samuel Delaney's book, Trouble on Triton, wherein, his character, The Spike, writes, coregraphics and performs (with her troupe) microtheatre or theatrical experiences in the street for an audience of one.
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