I sit in my seat, watching the colored shadow the poet throws on the ceiling. I sit there, and instead of considering the words that emerge from the speaker, all I can do is contemplate this strange, technicolor shadow. Of course I know the whys and hows of the phenomenon. Our MC and fearless leader has declared flourescents the tool of the devil. And he should know. So we sit in darkness except for an eerie glow projected upwards from a row of colored lights on the floor. And the colored shadow is nothing more than the combination of two colors being denied because one is hidden in shadow, so that the other stands alone. So I sit and I contemplate this. And I sit and I enjoy the colorful patterns thrown skyward, as if some mad artist were painting overlapping silhouettes of the poet in violent technicolor. And I sit and I think of all the possible metahphors that could be extruded from this simple performance on the ceiling. Is the individual a stronger shade of blue when it stands alone? So I sit. And I sit. Another speaker takes the mike, and still I'm sitting. And it begins to dawn on me. Shouldn't I be up there too? Don't I have something to say? Don't I have emotions, opinions? The answer, of course, is no, absolutely not. I am horrified of these things. I am horrified of being wrong. Too often would I look back on things said, written, or thought, and be disgusted at myself for the assumptions made. So I have resigned myself to the knowledge that my perception is flawed. Any finalized ideas about the world would have to be false, as my perception of existence is that of a 15 year old child. But I will be 16 soon. Maybe this year I will trust myself enough to believe in something. Bullshit. This time last year it was "I am a 14-year-old, but soon will be 15, and will then perhaps believe in something." What am I waiting for? What if I am dead before this perfect pereption is granted to me?
But for the present, I am still waiting. I am still sitting in my seat, watching the colored shadows dance on the ceiling. And there I sit until the night is done with, and another individual from the audience shakes my hand, stares me in the eye, and tells he he enjoyed my performance this evening, even though we both know I had made none. And I play along, shake his hand, and thank him for the compliment. And I start to leave, but I realize the observer has not let go of my hand, and that he has not stopped staring me in the eye. And I think that he somehow knew. And I realize. I realize that I cannot develop an unflawed perception of existence if I refuse to consider my experiences as being valid. I must accept the world as I see it, and hope to grow from there. If I deny everything I experience, I deny myself the footing needed to climb to that perfect viewpoint that I strive for. So I pry myself of the observer's grip, and run home to write. To write of shadows, of long handshakes, and of revelations.
©1998 Michael Isenberg