I more or less floated through my day yesterday in anticipation of my evening with Sam at Quidam, the Cirque du Soleil show I impulsively bought tickets for last week. When it last came around in 1998, my parents, Linda, and I caught it under Cirque's custom-designed blue and yellow tent in the parking lot of the San Jose Water Company, and it immediately became one of my favorite traveling Cirque shows--a story of imagination, faceless strangers on the street, and the specialness within all of us.
The individual acts were enough to take my breath away, but it was this central message of Quidam that moved me most. Throughout the show, stagehands dressed completely in white from head to toe, including a white face mask, would assist with prop pieces, serve as spotters, and perform otherwise ancillary (and necessary) chores, but they were never given their moment to shine. At the very end, all the stagehands marched out, took off their masks, and revealed to the audience who they really were underneath: the jugglers, the contortionist, the gymnasts, all the ones who did something truly amazing in the show.
As a teenager struggling with self-esteem and identity and worth and feeling, on most days, like a stagehand, I almost cried at the revelation Quidam showed me.
There was no crying last night. Sam and I walked into the Cow Palace, a large arena mostly devoted nowadays to trade shows and flea markets. It was a different experience than walking through Cirque's 'Grand Chapiteau' and actually feeling the very presence of the circus in the air. A lesser experience, truthfully.
While waiting for the show to begin, I remembered all I could from my first Quidam experience: the excitement, the awe, the culmination of months of anticipation. I even recalled the seat I had 15 years ago and the angle from which I viewed the stage. I was 17 at the time, I think, and I could barely contain myself when the soprano sang through a lilting lullabye, heralding the beginning of a haunting opening sequence. Thinking about this made me smile, and I turned to Sam and told him about how excited I used to be before Cirque shows.
Then our iteration of Quidam began with the same soprano, the same opening. And then something happened. Or maybe nothing happened. Either way, my mind started wandering. I wondered if Grr was asleep or causing trouble, what I should do for lunch the next day. I noticed the exit signs across from me and wished they could disappear, how if I moved ever so slightly, my chair would creak like in a horror movie. I thought of some friends, soon-to-be flying off to Paris for a week, and how Sam and I had also planned for a vacation around this time, how I could really use one soon.
It's not that the show wasn't good. It was good, more or less what I remembered from years ago, but something was missing. I spent the next hour or so trying to figure out what it was.
And then the show was over. I clapped, turned to Sam and said, "We have a pup at home. Let's cheese it!"
And we did. In the car, I didn't want to admit to him that I was disappointed, couldn't even explain why, so instead, I told him how I wish I could go back to that time in my life when I would leave shows completely amazed, where I could not have clapped hard enough, where I felt sad afterwards, knowing that I had just played a finite role in witnessing an infinite miracle. Something like that. How I felt lost afterwards, not knowing what to look forward to when a Cirque show was over.
"Maybe you've just outgrown it," he said. "No rule saying you have to love something for the rest of your life."
Maybe not, but I think I like loving things for the rest of my life. Seeing Quidam made me wonder what ever happened to that Cirque du Soleil from years ago, the one who produced CDs I bought the day they were released, the one I spent hours listening to, thinking about, wanting to see. Just like an old friend. Last night felt a bit like getting back in touch with this old friend, arranging to meet up and hang out like we used to, only to find that he is not who I remember anymore, and me a different person as well. It was kind of sad, really.
But still, like a good friend should, Quidam reminded of all the good times Cirque du Soleil and I have had together, even if we were not able to replicate them for each other. They were still some great times.
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