(amis

Together.

      

Cody Klyne

Editor in Chief

he other night I witnessed
a connection. No, this isn’t

some sort of weird or pervy
telescope-spied-on-my-neighbours-
bedroom-window sort of thing; it
was a delicate something that was
revealed to me over the course of my
evening passively participating as an
audience member. Perhaps it was the
lingering ambiance, the weight of im-
plied romance, heavy in the air of The
Vogue itself, but looking down from
the back of the theatre, as the oddly
eloquent Neil Gaiman and equally
odd, wild child Amanda Palmer did
what they do best as individuals, you
couldn’t help but notice that they
were there together. Not there in the
sense that “I bought tickets to see
Neil Gaiman and Amanda Palmer
in concert,” there in the kind of way
you’re there when someone tells you
they love you. Queue the bleeding
heart tiny violin quartet.

Perhaps I’m just a sap, or
perhaps this is just the first red flag
of male-menopause, but regardless
of their performance—and what
a performance it was—the largest
take-away from that night was a
refreshing reminder of the value of
kinship, or what I will ham-fistedly
refer to as “togetherness.” While the
situation that inspired this slip into
emotional recoil—the kinship of a
talented, witty, and painfully delight-
ful married man and woman—I’m
not necessarily speaking of together-
ness in any sort of physically sexy or
controversial way (though if that’s

what it takes to hold your attention,
it’s totally what I’m talking about).

       

 

 

Neil Gaiman & Amanda Palmer

Yes they’re married and yes, perhaps
I’m putting too much stake in those
lazy moments they shared together
on stage away from microphones, but
perception of what a relationship, of
what togetherness is, is half of what
makes it an interesting and, at least to
me, thought-provoking aside. -.

In our day-to-day lives we come
in contact, connect with, and recog-
nize that an exchange has taken place
(subconscious as it might be) with
more people than ever before through
more ways than ever before. Yes, I’m
counting procrastination-fueled, hast-
ily-written, diarrheaesque comment
wars on someone’s Facebook page
as “normal” human contact. Yes too
to those late night drunk texts; hang
your head in shame if you choose, but
those count. With so many opportu-
nities to “connect,” why then was I
taken aback and, I'll say it, touched
by the display seen two stories away
from my too-old, dilapidated mess of
a theatre seat?

There’s no real answer, or even a
complete thought to be gleaned from
this question. It’s also not some high-
minded jab at how or why we choose
to communicate the way we do. I use
Facebook and I text instead of talking
face-to-face or even on the phone, it’s
where we’ ve moved as a people. It’s
just food for thought that, if you’ve
ever caught yourself saying “awh” at
an elderly couple at the park—that
sounds creepy, but I’m going with
it—or thinking about an old friend
and wondering what they’re up to,
should be a familiar sort of sentiment.

Later days,
Cody Klyne

Editor in chief
The Other Press

 

 

 

 

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