live via: the sky. somewhere between new england and good old home.

I once heard that Ancient Egyptians never documented the battles that they lost, allowing them to construct a flawless history. Yes, I am tempted to do the same as well, to only make public my accounts of the shows where the audience swayed with the tip of my tongue--laughed at every joke, hooted at every punchline, snapped their neck at every vocal acrobatic. Of course, in the real world every performer has a bad show. Scratch that, every performer has a show that entices them to shrink into a hidden hole, wince at remembering, sigh deeply at an attempt for human connection gone awry. So at the risk of establishing a not-so-perfect performance resume, I must confess that our show at Connecticut last night sucked mucho asso

In no way is this a blaming finger pointed at the curators of the event, the audience, iLL-Literacy, or even myself. Plain and simply, there are some situations where I have to accept that spoken word doesn't work. Three hours into a 14-act variety showcase exists as one such situation. They are the moments in which you huddle with your crew members, aware of the restlessness in the seats of 1,000+ college students sitting in an event they thought was going to end an hour ago. The set list that you carefully tailored is dismantled, poems are replaced, dissected, contemplated upon, and in the end you realize that all you can really do is go out there and give it the best you've got.

You walk onto the mile-long stage and the lights are blaring, but not as sharply as the empty seats that were once filled by bodies that didn't find it necessary, compelling, worthwhile to listen to your story. The audience that is left, you give thanks for. You shut your eyes and just let the poem do the work, allow each syllable to project like darts to pin the remaining audience members to their seats. You close your eyes to see the words more clearly, to ignore the sound of shuffling feet, mumbling voices, your heart pumping lopsided.

I suppose it wasn't as bad as I make it out to be in my head. Nobody forgot their lines, or fell on their face, or called out the wrong city. In fact, under the pressure of it all I saw some of the most passionate performances by the squad. The crew had a great conversation afterwards, interrogated every factor, condition, excuse, and the truth we uncovered was plain and simple. Some shows are bad, and some shows are good. This show was one, and not the other. As simple as this truth is, I still struggle with its presence in my system, as it battles my longing to believe that no matter what, every person in every audience will absolutely love me. What hurts the most in this situation is that it is a cruel actualization that eradicates the bliss I love to live, that my art is universal 720 degrees. Fortunately, we instead live in a realm where people have the audacity to like and dislike different things, to criticize, and to react accordingly. Sometimes you toss yourself out there, and accept that you won't always reel back what you were fishing for.