the god of spectacles

Some gods sit behind you in the theater with a bag of popcorn.
Just a thought, but shouldn't there exist, somewhere beyond timespace, a deity who loves the theater? A deity to whom actors, dancers, musicians and mountebanks are devotees? A god, well, perhaps a goddess, who smiles at performance? A god who thrives in the moment when a human steps out of himself, becomes free from ego or limit, and creates that perfect doorway into the infinite? To such a splendid being, performance is the best sacrifice, and every time we show that part in ourselves before others, the god of spectacles is fed. I'm sure he? she? it has a better name.
The hunger of the human spirit for delight and magic in a dissolving experience means the god of spectacles will never die. Its shrines, movie theaters and opera halls and high school stages will not go unvisited, and its altars will always be filled at the Oscars.
This is the god listening in an empty theater, reverberating through the floorbeams, sighing in the air breathed by so many lungs gasping in wonder. It is a god of darkness and of listening, of behind-the-scenes improvisation. It is the god who demands that the show must go on, and gives its followers a swift kick off an impressive-looking cliff to teach them how to fly.
And once the dust settles on the floor, it is the god waiting for the next inspiration, the next intake of breath before a human begins what will become the next prayer to the god of spectacles.