Arts
What Do You Want to Do
before You Die?
•
Giovanna Pickering & Franny Saunders
Hey, you! Yeah, I’m talking to you. Look at yourself – your hair is untamed, you’ve replaced lunch with studying, and your eyes
look like a zombie’s. What are you doing to yourself? is isn’t living. Put that calculus book down. Let’s be serious; once you
graduate, no one is going to remember that you failed the implicit differentiation test. In the words of Asher Roth, “Do something
crazy!”
We’re big fans of a little show called e Buried Life, which chronicles four boys crossing items off their bucket list. ese,
though, are not just any boys; they are without a doubt, four of the coolest cats we have ever laid eyes on. e show is extremely entertaining and the boys are easy on the eyes. We’re a little envious – not because of their fame (okay, well a little bit) but because they
live in such an uninhibited fashion, truly pursuing their dreams. And that is the sentiment we were trying to emulate through this
project. Rather than continuing to be jealous of their lifestyle, we decided to replicate it – by doing a bucket list item we’ve always
been too scared to try: Live Performances in front of Strangers.
Caroline Fitzpatrick photo
Giovanna: Pitch Black Performance
Giovanna with a new young fan.
e train ran normally that Sunday evening, but my heart
pulsed with each jerk of the car. A muffled voice on the loud
speaker announced: “Next stop, Park Street.” I hiked my black
case onto my back and exited the car as the doors slid closed
behind me. After trudging up the subway stairs, I felt the brisk
wind brush across my face and scanned the Boston Common
for a place to set up. Around the corner sat a lonely wooden
park bench, situated on the side of a path leading to the train
station. I had managed to find the one brightly lit area amongst
a sea of darkness. I unzipped my guitar case, set it out in front
of me, and slipped my guitar over my head. I gripped the
wooden neck of the instrument with my hand and felt the cold
nylon strings with my fingers. After soothing my throat with a
nervous gulp of water, I strummed the first chord and began
to sing.
People passed in all assortments. e first was a tall, slender
man, dressed in a blue pinstriped suit with silver cufflinks. He
clenched his phone in his left hand and walked swiftly by me,
no eye contact. Next came a father and daughter. e father
gripped his daughter’s hand as they walked by, but she tugged
at his arm to turn around. ey turned, listened to half a song,
and dropped three quarters into my case. en three heavy-set
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women strolled by clapping and singing along the words to
“Firework” with me. People passing soon became a colorful blur
of confusion and after forty minutes, fingers cramped, I zipped
my guitar back in my case, pulled the straps tight on my back
and walked back up to the train entrance. I had made eight
dollars and three cents. Right on track with the minimum wage
pay of my summer job.
Walking down the subway steps was easier this time. I entered the car, and the doors slid closed behind me. I sat in the
first open seat I saw. My heart beat regularly. Ten stops, ten
questions. First stop, Downtown Crossing: Who was I to them?
Second stop, South Station: Maybe a struggling musician? ird
stop, Broadway: Maybe a successful musician? Fourth stop,
Andrew: Was I a good musician in their opinion? Fifth stop,
JFK/UMASS: For those who walked by me without acknowledgement – was it the genre of music? Sixth stop, North Quincy: Did
they have somewhere to be? Seventh stop, Wollaston: For those
who stopped and gave money – was it my voice, guitar, or just an
act of giving? Eighth stop, Quincy Center: How do people
survive on the money made street performing? Ninth stop,
Quincy Adams: Do I have more respect for street performers now?
Last stop, home: For the people who listened, even if for one second
– thank you.
They turned,
listened to half a song,
and dropped
three quarters
into my case.
Franny: A Slamming Good Time
Now, I claim to be a spoken word poet. e problem is,
I’ve only ever performed in public once and it was because I
was ambushed. Sure, my photobooth has seen countless performances, but I’m guessing that doesn’t really count. I may
come off as a confident person but the idea of getting on stage
and virtually pouring my heart out to a bunch of strangers
makes me want to vom. Naturally, that is why an open mic
night performance was item number one on my bucket list.
Which takes us to the Cantab Lounge.
Let me just take a moment to set the scene. e Cantab
Lounge is your run-of-the-mill seedy, grody, rundown bar.
A reviewer on Yelp said of the lounge, “e very first thing I
noticed when I walked down the stairs was that it smelled like
pee. A LOT.” Sadly, this is not an exaggeration. e poetry
room was dimly lit, with one bright bulb illuminating the mic,
which acted as the stage amongst a sea of peeling duct-taped
chairs.
I’m not going to lie and say I wasn’t
nervous. I’m not going to lie and say that
I had only little butterflies. If we’re going
for accuracy, I’d say I had some nice angry
crows flapping around in my stomach.
Anytime I thought about the performance
in the days leading up to it, my heart sped
up and hands got clammy. I was so worried
I even called and emailed the club to get
details. (Yes, I know I’m neurotic.)
I’m sure many of you have a stereotypical image of a Cambridge resident and
this truly was a gathering of Cambridge’s
most colorful inhabitants. Beards, leather,
and paint-splattered cargos were all widely
represented. What was so cool, though,
was that every age group (Okay, every age
group 18 and above) was also represented. While one might assume that a poetry slam would be filled with menthol-smoking
college hipsters, this was a community made up of anyone who
loved poetry.
I was 5th on the list and nervously listened through the
first four acts before me. Surprisingly though, listening actually
calmed me down. ey weren’t super human poets, they weren’t
professionals, and they weren’t all going to judge me. What I
had imagined to be some sort of Broadway show was nothing
more than an informal place to share poems ranging from the
mediocre and self-involved to the extraordinary, touching, and
powerful. Regardless of quality, everyone was supportive.
My name was finally called and I decided to preface my
performance by letting the audience know this was my first
time. Everyone broke out cheering. I read a piece I had written
over the summer called “e Towers Tumble.” My face felt hot
as I began. Souls ebb and flow to outdo clouds. My palms were
sweaty. Stars hidden behind the daylight. People snapped when
I said something meaningful. e rotting teeth of cruelty. And
then it was over. ey cheered again. I smiled. I wasn’t the only
one to not have memorized my piece and the mic was easily
adjustable so all of my fears had been for naught.
I sat back down with the realization that although I had
come into this as a one time deal to cross off my bucket list I
would be coming back as much as I could. I wanted so badly
to be a part of this community: these people with their inside
jokes, their lack of judgment, their cheering, and their sharing.
Well, I’m not going to lie and say sitting in that pee-soaked
basement listening to the next wannabe Allen Ginsberg gave
me this massive epiphany, but I will say this: Don’t miss out on
doing something you love because you’re too scared. Had I not
taken part in this project I wouldn’t have found this really cool
community that I plan to join.
MTV’s The Buried Life
Artisan Press photo
Anna Kenyon photo
Franny shares her work at open mic night.
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