palace of winds

Yesterday while pining over the Peter Pan performances I’d mentioned, I jotted down the number for the Ordway box office. Today the sticky resurfaced on my desk and I called on something of a whim. A whim which tonight is carrying my sister and me to Big Bowl for shared stir-fry and then to St. Paul for student rush tickets — and so, with a bit of luck, to the performance. (Incidentally, I find I enjoy going places with my sister even more than usual lately. I’m not sure why but everyone loves seeing a pregnant lady. Myself included.)

I’ve always been enchanted by the Peter Pan story. There are fairies and flying. Pirates. Rogue crocodiles. Hidden woodland forts. The question of age, of course. Gender and desire. Roles we play. In my head it’s now also bound up with Johnny Depp (and for me he is a complex construction that probably has only half to do with the real him at all, if that) and Kathy (who is also complex in my head, but in a way much more solidly related to reality), and it all spiderwebs from there. Today Peter Pan’s become an unexpected touchpoint for everything I love and miss, and I’m anticipating it with a sort of melancholy fondness. With wist.