From the balcony of Boston’s Symphony Hall, lights attempt to direct me towards the pounding Bernstein melody unfurling onstage. Instead, I’m imagining what would happen if I swung from the light fixture, or broke each of the tiny yellow bulbs on the chandelier, one by one.
The timpani guy is bouncing around like a toddler.
I’ve never seen a tuba mute before.
An old man nearby inhales mucous with each breath. I’m hyper-aware, but at the same time I’m gone. I’m not at the symphony as much as I’m letting my mind out of its cage for an ill-advised romp. My eyes close. I insist I’m listening and fervently tap my foot to the beat, but all I hear is the static of my surroundings.