Stories Left to Tell

Last night as the lights dimmed for the beginning of Spalding Gray: Stories Left to Tell, a man in front of me turned around said “Stop kicking my seat!” and abruptly flicked me off.  I was flabbergasted.  Anger and indignation welled up my spine.

Then the show began.

90 plus minutes of tales written by a genius storyteller.  It was a remembrance.  It was an honor to the spirit of the man.  It had some of the informality of a staged reading.  A few times I found myself staring at the back the head of the man who had flicked me off.  And in the end it also sent waves of emotion up my spine.

I knew Spalding killed himself in 2003.  I knew it was coming.  But when it arrived, told in the words of the man, I found it hard to breath.  My bodied tensed up.  It passed.  I released. Catharsis.  I was surprised to be so moved and forgave the man in front of me.  It wasn’t his fault.  I had been touching his chair with my foot, and he did me a favor.  He primed me for an emotional experience.

I also realized something about Spalding Gray.  He enters my body with his work.  But how?  Rhythm is a big part.  I can only imagine what it was like to see him perform live.  The added physicality would have amplified his genius writing.  I imagine it was transcendent.

Maybe I can imagine a ‘better’ Stories Left to Tell, maybe I lost focus at times, but ultimately this show has changed me.  That’s really what I ask for as an audience member and an artist.  My work will be different.  My storytelling might even improve!