pathetique
tchaikovsky is dying on stage
the philharmonic is bleeding his sixth
but the woman in row g has her cell phone on
moving her fingers and texting away
like she’s on the train ride home from work
perhaps she’s blogging about the music at hand
but chances are good that she’s looking
for a bar nearby to shoot down a few drinks after the
performance
or making plans for the next night
it’s just as well because she’s not the only one
the guy in row j is catching up on basketball scores
and checking his bank
account
the woman in row p has her ipad out
and is shaking the thing like an etch a sketch
the man in row r is watching a movie on his device
and the old woman next to me is looking up her medicare
benefits
amongst these well-dressed dullards
exist pockets of electric blue screens
glowing like an ocean at noon
it comes in a wave as each of them shrug
give in
and join the crowd
there is no escape from this barrage of back-lit insanity
at either baseball games or here at lincoln center
people pissing money away on this brave new world
and tchaikovsky is dying on stage for this
pieces of our brains and our being have died
for this digital servitude
it’s almost sad
but it’s become so de rigueur that it almost doesn’t matter
we’ve let tchaikovsky die before
and we’ve missed so much in this zombie effort to attain it
all
that when the performance ends
and the people rise up to slap out their thunderous applause
shouting bravo
bravo!
at the orchestra
as they put their technological gods away
if for only a moment
you wonder if they even know
what in the hell it is that they’re cheering about.
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