A Thoughtful Night
A poetry recital. A philosophical poetry recital. When I saw the notice of the event on my daughter's Facebook page, for some reason, my eye was caught. It was further caught when I saw it was to begin at nine o'clock in the evening.
I have been completely content to remain at home in the evenings, especially in the cooler months of the year. While my father was alive in these last years, it was rare that my husband and I went abroad together in the evening for many hours, lest he become ill and call to us. It had become my habit to reject any outing at night, except some few nights of the year; sitting home at night by the fire with my own projects was nice enough. But when I saw that event, I realized I could attend.
My classes end at eight. In a half hour (or less, with me at the helm) we can be parked in Santiago. I have never been to a recital, much less a philosophical poetry recital, and I like poetry. As for the philosophical angle, all poetry is philosophical. Considering all this, what clinched my final decision was seeing my daughter's name as one of the reciters.
I convinced my husband and we were off. My poor husband was tired, and his recently sprained knee hurt after a day's work, but he's proud of his daughter, so he overcame his inertia, and we went together. We were early, so we wandered for a little bit, watching the last shops close and pull down the shutters. People going home, students still wandering, crossed our path, as some lights in some shops turned down their brilliance. It wasn't as cold as we had expected, only around 50ºF/10ºC, and it was a nice evening for a slow stroll. We turned around, and just after nine approached the café in which basement the recital was planned.
It's a café in the old section of the city, and not very large. We sipped a coffee upstairs, while conversation and laughter floated up the open areas from downstairs. When we finished, we went downstairs and had to stand by the stairs, as the small room was completely filled, and there was standing room only. Some people were sitting on the stairs, and shifted whenever someone came down with food and drinks, or went upstairs to acquire them. Practically as soon as we went down, the recital started.
Most of those present were college students, and possibly a professor or two. We seemed to be the only outsiders to this world. All of those who recited were students. Some were very good, and recited poetry and short prose that incited to thought. Others were a little stiff, and had obviously no practice speaking in public, yet were game to do so, and gave well-chosen works. Our daughter was last, reading one of her re-worked gothic stories that Susan Hill would have admired. Of course, the story was about a student of philosophy.
The recital was over too soon, it seemed to me. After my daughter finished at the mike, everyone stood up, and we went upstairs and outside. My husband didn't want our daughter to see us, he thought it would look like we were spying on her. I disagreed, she had put the comment on her Facebook page for all to see, and went back to the door, where she was standing in a circle of friends. I walked up behind her and let my hand fall on her shoulder. Slowly she turned around and got a shock when she saw me. I explained that we had simply decided to attend the recital because we had decided that we could, and that we had enjoyed it. Everyone was laughing when she saw it was me, and she quickly recuperated. I explained her father had gotten an attack of shyness, and didn't want to say hello, but he had liked it, too. I hugged her and we parted. I went to where my husband was waiting for me, and we went for a short walk through the almost empty streets, back to the car park.
We got home before eleven after an enjoyable couple of hours. I think we should do this more often. Daughter, understand we're not spying on you, just checking out an interesting world different from what we're used to!
I have been completely content to remain at home in the evenings, especially in the cooler months of the year. While my father was alive in these last years, it was rare that my husband and I went abroad together in the evening for many hours, lest he become ill and call to us. It had become my habit to reject any outing at night, except some few nights of the year; sitting home at night by the fire with my own projects was nice enough. But when I saw that event, I realized I could attend.
My classes end at eight. In a half hour (or less, with me at the helm) we can be parked in Santiago. I have never been to a recital, much less a philosophical poetry recital, and I like poetry. As for the philosophical angle, all poetry is philosophical. Considering all this, what clinched my final decision was seeing my daughter's name as one of the reciters.
I convinced my husband and we were off. My poor husband was tired, and his recently sprained knee hurt after a day's work, but he's proud of his daughter, so he overcame his inertia, and we went together. We were early, so we wandered for a little bit, watching the last shops close and pull down the shutters. People going home, students still wandering, crossed our path, as some lights in some shops turned down their brilliance. It wasn't as cold as we had expected, only around 50ºF/10ºC, and it was a nice evening for a slow stroll. We turned around, and just after nine approached the café in which basement the recital was planned.
It's a café in the old section of the city, and not very large. We sipped a coffee upstairs, while conversation and laughter floated up the open areas from downstairs. When we finished, we went downstairs and had to stand by the stairs, as the small room was completely filled, and there was standing room only. Some people were sitting on the stairs, and shifted whenever someone came down with food and drinks, or went upstairs to acquire them. Practically as soon as we went down, the recital started.
Most of those present were college students, and possibly a professor or two. We seemed to be the only outsiders to this world. All of those who recited were students. Some were very good, and recited poetry and short prose that incited to thought. Others were a little stiff, and had obviously no practice speaking in public, yet were game to do so, and gave well-chosen works. Our daughter was last, reading one of her re-worked gothic stories that Susan Hill would have admired. Of course, the story was about a student of philosophy.
The recital was over too soon, it seemed to me. After my daughter finished at the mike, everyone stood up, and we went upstairs and outside. My husband didn't want our daughter to see us, he thought it would look like we were spying on her. I disagreed, she had put the comment on her Facebook page for all to see, and went back to the door, where she was standing in a circle of friends. I walked up behind her and let my hand fall on her shoulder. Slowly she turned around and got a shock when she saw me. I explained that we had simply decided to attend the recital because we had decided that we could, and that we had enjoyed it. Everyone was laughing when she saw it was me, and she quickly recuperated. I explained her father had gotten an attack of shyness, and didn't want to say hello, but he had liked it, too. I hugged her and we parted. I went to where my husband was waiting for me, and we went for a short walk through the almost empty streets, back to the car park.
We got home before eleven after an enjoyable couple of hours. I think we should do this more often. Daughter, understand we're not spying on you, just checking out an interesting world different from what we're used to!
reminds me of BLS declamations.
ReplyDeleteI suppose it was similar, but it was much more intimate and there was no pressure to excel.
ReplyDelete