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This is the third installment in Stories from the Strange Side, about my adventures and explorations into less conventional forms of theatre—specifically in coursework I did at Grinnell focusing on avant-garde performance art. As with the last piece featured in this series, this performance was tailored for an audience of one. There are many feelings and activities intrinsic to the collegiate library, and many which are taboo. Focus, not distraction. Peace, not disruption. Despair, not mirth. Everything has its proper place and upsetting that order earns piercing glares and punitive tsks. So it goes with Burling Library, a squat grey brick of a building with an adorable addition reminiscent of a top hat. You weave your way through the stacks to an open study area at the rear of the first floor, taking a chair placed for you between two shelves. You survey the room for a short second, wondering for a moment how the students with their brows in their books will behave once the antics commence, before movement flickers in your peripheral vision. The performance has begun. The two emerge from the aisles on either side of you, scooting on library chairs towards one of the multi-level study complexes signature to Burling. Coming to rest flanking the structure, they stand and deftly scale the sides, curling themselves over the balustrades onto the upper deck and immediately setting to their task. Dark curtains unfurl to cover the sides, transforming the blocky jungle gym into a black monolith. White flashes from the upper level as the two erect a square of cloth affixed to a mast, and the study space shifts to a ship, ready for adventure on the scholarly seas. Then, once again, movement in the corner of your eye. Flinging their books to the side, the aspirant academics in the surrounding seats take up black balls and hurl them at the vessel! The two sailors scramble for cover, let fly a salvo in response, and in an instant you find yourself caught in the crossfire of a full-fledged naval engagement. One by one the assailants fall, and the seamen stand victorious. Descending from their perch, they usher you from your chair to the gun-deck, drape you in a long robe, and cock a feathered tricorne on your head. Grasping hands, they lead three cheers for you, their pirate king, and you weigh anchor and set forth across the waves of imagination. Prompt: Transformation Discovery: Fuzz the borders. It keeps ‘em guessing.
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