Darkness is essential; a
techie will immediately
melt if
exposed to the
white-hot stage lights. No one is
watching; it is our
nature to be forever
unseen. A
maglite shines but only faintly and illuminating
no one. In
perfect stilless, the
circle of six rises to its
silent music.
Graceful are unseen gestures, a unique movement defined only by the imagination. A dark body passes through my arms right on cue, and I raise her to the heavens as if in worship of the ellipsoidals then softly return her to the newly swept floor. The dance is more spectacular than the visible action onstage, but its very purpose is secrecy.
Someone--an intruder--quietly enters the wing; the sharp techies are all busy, focusing on an upcoming cue. There is no trace of the celebration that passed in that very place only moments before. No one will ever witness the dance of the techies.