I’m watching the cast of Cabaret rehearse the engagement party at Herr Schultz’s fruit shop with well over a dozen people on stage, the focus of the scene moving rapidly from one group of people to another. As Wendy repositions the actors, the blocking lurches in and out of motion, the whole scene starting and stopping like a dancer atop a music box, frozen while the engine’s spring is wound, pirouetting as its energy is released. When the players play, time crystallizes, precipitated from what it is suspended in: the open field of what-is-not-theater. And in the on-again off-again, off-again on-again movement of rehearsal, it is revealed. Theater or not—it’s just a matter of time.