A Year In Nadada: Week Twelve- Cabin Fever

Its raining. We've come all this way to Nadada, and we have to stay inside like on a damp Sunday afternoon.

This is not a light drizzle solved with waterproofs or an umbrella. Some of these raindrops can saturate your clothes in one drop. Get two that size in a row and you will get washed away to a tree full of lobsters wearing tutus.

Or somewhere similar. I made the lobster thing up.

Do not despair, the blog will carry on during our confinement. This is a perfect moment to explore The Kandinsky further.

Considering the incident with the Archipenko snake, my gigs are going well. Jean Michel understands I suit the smaller bars on the lower levels. I perform once every few days, and my audience ranges from ten-fifteen on a quiet night, to nearly sixty on a good one. Not bad considering there are about two hundred passengers on board.

Although I have a framework, our show focuses on improvisation, which is most likely why we got this gig in the first place. The big change on The Kandinsky is that the audience can get even more involved. Rather than working with their names, where they come from, and their jobs, in Nadada we play off the things they are creating, in their seat at that very moment.

We play late at night, and even out here most people stick to a sleep schedule. The Butter Mouse and I patrol the corridors in the early morning, and rarely see another sould. We do this out of excitement and to see if anything has changed.

If there is one definite advantage to this job, it’s that I don’t get up for nine.

We stroll past the other cabins first. No matter what the outside looks like, little changes in these corridors, and most of the doors are closed. Not everyone can or even wants to try out the powers of Nadada.

But one has the glow of disco lights flashing under the door, and another has ivy crawling through the keyhole. A man on an ostrich passed us once down one, dropping black and white feathers over the carpet.

We walk past a theatre, a cinema, a restaurant with live performances at every hour. I peeked through the door last night, on stage were five performers in pig masks and uniforms, shouting in a language I didn’t understand.

Regardless of the weather, we end on of a balcony. Nada is always worth a look outside. Today falcons made of paint flew past the tips of redwoods, and we were the only ones who noticed.

I am glad I kept a record of all of this.

 

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