Theatre Bizarre: Provoking, Invoking

Subtle symmetries abound whenever the fire-whirlers image is captured and stilled.

   Sarah and I can surely be accused of many failings without fear of contradiction. We do not harbor a burning ambition to compete in the global marketplace. We do not strive to gain the notice of our peers for deeds creative or generous. We live simply, softly, and close to the ground - the ethos of rabbits transformed into humans.
   And yet, for all our bunny feeling, we are still human, and subject to the tidal pull of human wonder. We dream of triumphs and adventures we are unlikely to truly pursue. Once the kids are grown, we say to ourselves. Once I get these bills caught up. Once we're ready.
   Some adventures don't wait for you to come find them, though. Those adventures don't care if you're ready and don't want to know what else you have to do today. Those adventures kick down your door, or surprise you on an ill-lit side street, or kidnap your family and force you to come to them. Sometimes fate's fickle machinations take on the aspect of a street magician, winking and feinting as he pulls two terrified bunnies from a hat.

Why, yes, that is a sextuple-breasted ram wielding a sword and mystical wand - why do you ask?

Masonic Temple detail 

   We came to Theatre Bizarre with little warning and less intention. A week before the show, we posted our simple-yet-disturbing Halloween get-ups to Facebook - amazing what a wig and mask can do - which led to Sarah's brother calling to offer us tickets to the gathering. "It's like nothing you've ever done before," he assured Sarah. "It's crazy. You're gonna love it."
   In truth, we had ogled the photos from the last couple of years admiringly - the craft and inventiveness of the costumes was inspiring. And it looked like a crazy party. At the very least, the people in the photos were convincingly simulating a good time. And yet, and yet ... the kink and the madness evident fills the bunny-mind with terror ... I entertain visions of awakening in a slave pen, or a tub of ice ...

   One of the difficulties of a baroque imagination (such as that possessed, generally, by the odd bunny-human) is the disparity between what seems possible and what actually happens - the constant fracturing reminder of how fallen is this, and are we, and is everything. There are times when this fracture works in one's favor, though.
   Sarah and I arrived early, thrumming with anticipation. For example, I noted three possible exits from the parking lot we eventually chose, just on the off chance that the lot attendants were servants of Cthulu, who is dead yet dreams. But the reality, usually so disappointing, was instead mundane in a pleasant way. It was one of the rules of the night: Everyone official was nice. The lot attendants were alert and expert. The security was genial and laughed along with everything. That, alone, was magical.

Dancer/cultist/old pal?

   Real magic, though, is subtle and hard to summon in this fallen land. Theatre Bizarre is a sort of invocation, a magical rite, a doubling back on the idea that magic is a past thing; vastly meta; an invitation to participate in the magical act of summoning magic back into the world. We participated, passively, feeling the weight of all that art - the Masonic Temple, the Theatre's banners and signs and live performers ... all that human genius harvested, channelled, shaped and then lit on fire to produce an orgasmic nine-hour infusion to one's spirit.
   Time in the invocation is unstable and hard to gauge. I know we were there; I know we did not emerge unscathed. The details are not in focus, though; perhaps that dancer was a cultist? Or someone Sarah knew from high school? Or both?