Girl of Venezia

Dressed in pink, lilac and gold, silk, cotton and lace.
Upon a bridge of ancient stone she stands.
With a china painted face of gold and cream, and stones like stars upon her brow.
Gazing at the river of water flowing silently below. As candles flicker and glow on steps  that lead down into the black turquoise logon night waters.
Light beams track through the air from open shutters, from a sulpha mist hanging in the air from the fireworks in San Marco square.
Music and song echo around the labyrinth of narrow streets lit only by shop lights, and iron ornate lanterns hanging on the cross roads of paths, and the white blue fairy lights draped between shops on tourist trap streets. 
With Bright blue eyes framed with black shadow paint, they watch the floating candles and flowers of red, yellow and orange  move slowly along their watery path leading out to sea.

On The Ponte di Rialto they do stand. Bauta, Columbina, Servetta Muta, Volto, Pantatlone, Arlecchion, Zanni, the Mask maker, Joker and the Doctor.
With strange ghosty movements and darting eyes.
Dressed all in Black, red and gold.
Hand in hand and arm in arm. 
In dancing movements they move towards the lapping waters of the grand canal. 
The echoing drum of the gondola as they kiss on the waves. 
the distant sound of gondoliers song can be heard. echoing along the waters path.
With laughter, the high tide they wade, like black ghosts. 
Their footsteps echo, as they move slowly along the stone roads, in search of the girl in pink, lilac and gold.

Through cold salty waters she treads. 
The bottom of her gowned turned darker shades of pink and lilac and heavy.
Throw the flooded streets she walks heading to San Marco square.
Flooded with candle light and lanterns hanging in across the square, 
Packed with masked faces and ball gowns, and capes, steering judging eyes from each face she sees.
Looking. Searching.
A cross the crowed square a glance of prying eyes behind Black red and gold, watching. plotting, hand in hand and arm in arm the steer at every move she makes.
A whisper in the ear of Columbina from Zanni, With his black red long nose. A tipped head in laughter from Columbina of secret unheard.
Un-easy and unsure the girl try’s slowly to move through the crowed. 
A white gloved hand reaches form the crowd and takes hold of hers startling her, she looks and sees the smiling eyes of piecing blue behind a mask of dark cream and gold. Dressed in dark pink, lilac and gold.

A loving hand guiding her away from the watchful eyes, of a haunting group in black, red and gold.

© sarah jane patel

NoteBook of a Girl Entry #6

A stuffy airless room with an eternal lingering smell of feet and dust, occasionally lost under the smell of microwaved food and fast food take aways.
Open newspapers spread over the table with mugs of tea sitting on them. The silent companion and  fluid he per of the papers reader attempting the days souduko puzzle. Now left alone while they carry out their chore.
The ten year old TV plays its ground hog day version of the film, with its faded colour and distorted sound with flickering grainy image again for us all.
Maybe the buildings version Ground hog day is envious of the new plasma screen TV that sits below and wants to be played on that?
Sitting on the sofa steering at the TV, zoned out, my feet resting on a box. Not sure whats with in. It might be tap, it bight be bulbs, it might be a million pounds. I don’t know, I signed for it but have not open it, in fear that it might be the printer ink for Satan, the photo copper, and it is. Its evil. Only working when it wants, copying only half a page and when you change the ink you can guarantee you will end up with half of the ink that is left will be all over you. It even has a name sticker on it reading “Hello. My name is Satan” It needs a special touch, thats why I leave it to the admin staff to feed it, its toner ink.
And my feet are comfortably resting upon its lunch.
Being awoken from my day dream abruptly, (like being shaken awake from a deep sleep) by a herd of elephants that are the dancing twirlys of the show go running up the stairs beside the room.
Graceful and delicate upon the stage above the room where I sit. Clumsy and loud behind the scenes where they can not be seen, is the nature of the dancing twirlys of the show. 
Don’t get me wrong they are a lovely bunch, but the stamping feeling of  tap shoes on the metal stairs is not the best treatment for a press night hangover form the night before.
All that free wine was a bad thing, Should have gone home and stayed in. But then I would have missed knowing who kissed who while watching the walk of shame as they entered stage door. Dark glasses and coffee to nurse the pain. No eye contact with the press night fling.
Looking down at my blue cover note pad, with my drawn flower upon its lined page, how productive my last hour has been. Know it is time for move and ascend the stairs and complete my cues.

Now that I am back I am on page number three of writing nonce upon its page, of old TV’s and fairy elephants, upon the stage. A journal of nothing but my distractions.
I watch act one draw to a close on faded colour and flickering pitcher, we wait for the signal as we finish our tea and black coffee’s, that all is ready for us to do a transformation upon the black stage.
Waiting patiently  the dark for the next event to take place. A falling curtain and moving set. this is the dark side of the magic that we take part. The desert becomes Aladdin’s cave, filled with good and treasures, Cinderella’s kitchen full of sadness and broken dreams, disappears in flash of light and smoke and Place you are now within at the ball to meet your prince.
 All dressed in black the silent unmentioned dream makers that you don’t see. 

The smell of fish and chips, freshly made coffee and Chinese fills the room, with its walls of different colours, Shades of white and cream and mix mach of chairs and sofa and arm chair. My box with its mystery contents has been taken, maybe by the admin staff that have descended to the depths of the sub-stage world two floors down, to collect their package.
The TV plays late afternoon Tv while the other shows the  empty stage with cast on coloured mats do yoga before they have their salads, counting calories and watching potions while I sit her eating bugger with cheese and ketchup. No salad here please, we’re british.
One of the guys try’s to send a text walking around holding his it up to the sky hoping that it will connect.
I cant figure out why we do that, walk around holding the phone above your head. its not going to make much difference if your out of range of the aerial. 
Your out of range and all the moving around and holding it in the air and standing on chairs are not going to make a difference especially if your two stories below the ground. 
Two levels closer to the centre of the earth,
Two stories below street level, where it sometimes might seam that this dark Cavan beneath the stage of bright lights, where lover stories and tragedies are told, and where those of us that are forgotten, those who make the magic and placed and forgotten.

Sudden Shirks of laughter and shooed words erupt from the floor above. Curious eyes go out to see. return with smiles and laughter and shaking heads, with tales of ice cold baths and lead cast members being dunked part clothed ing the freezing icy water of the old cast iron bath in the bath room. One of many pranks and jokes that will get pulled, over the weeks to come.

A second family, almost this group has become in such a short time, still a long way to go till closing night drinks and tears. Tempers my fray and moods may change, friendships forged my last longer then just this run. longer then the box of celebrations that sits on the coffee table, less then a quarter left after less then a day here, in this stuffy airless room with an eternal lingering smell of feet and dust, occasionally lost under the smell of microwaved food and fast food take aways.

©sarah jane patel

The Letter I Wish I'd Written.

Bags and boxes packed with clothes, books and films. Sitting along the hall wall waiting to leave you.
A once filled home, of music and laughter now sitting silent and dark. 
Faded marks on the walls where photos once hung. Voids in the dust on the shelfs where frames of friends and china figures once stood.
An over flowing sink of unwashed plates, mugs, bowls and glasses. A stack of take away boxes with half eaten food, lay piled in an over flowing bin.
Laying on the sofa wrapped in a red and black blanket. Looking at you so peaceful in you dream like state.
It has been so long seeing you this way. peaceful and at ease at the end of the day.
A stack of journeys sit on the table beside you.
Each filled with receipts, and pitchers. Ticket stubs of memories. The words on those fade pages of times with smiling faces, and tear drop stains of our days together.
Telling of adventures, pick nicks, hopes and dreams. Of fights and nights of passion.
All of those un said words, reading like a tragic love story.
Do you remember the time that we got court in the rain when out running one summer Sunday evening. And we danced and kissed in the middle of the street as you picked me up and held my tight. Like the closing scene of a 1940s black and white Hollywood movie.
The night of our anniversary when you took me to the Ivy. You dressed in a suit and bow tie and me in that long green dress and those killer black heels. And after leaving in fits of laughter and tears form winding up the waiter and the posh silver spooned couple, that sat on the table beside us. You gave me a piggy back, while I carried my heels. With strange looks and tourists cameras tacking a look. Our heads swimming in champagne and love. I think that I lost an earring that night down by the themes where we walk that starry night.
Pressed rose petals and cut out hearts from the wedding table dressing of our best friends wedding. Best man and brides maid. It was our new love at second sigh. you in top hat and tails and I pretty in pink.
A midnight pick nick on Primrose hill. Fish and chip, champagne, mushy peas and curry sauce. Laid out on a blanket, with bouquet  of red roses. Us dining by burning candle light. with our promise that it would last forever.
I believe that there is a torn piece of the chip bag with the restaurants logo hidden with those pages.
You smile in your sleep still, so sweetly and still. Yet a sadness surrounds you. Which I can not heel.
As you move a book full’s from under the cushion where your sleeping head lies. Laying open upon the wooden floor covered in a red rug. A faded pink pressed flower held in place op the open page with sticky tape and tracing paper, form a bunch of flowers I hit you with. A shower of flower heads and petals us as you pulled me close in sadness and tears . A single flower to remember what might have been.
With the changing sun beams across the walls and wooden floors. The bags and boxes vanish, form the long standing wait. The empty walls fill with vintage posters, and all new art. 
Don’t feel sad, I don’t blame you. But I wish I told you.
With each changing day the winter has now returned. The painting of the Christmas tree that you had brought that christmas here, now hanging on the wall. A last visible memory of us in this room, in this newly dressed room.
I wish that I had told you every day, twice a day how much I cared.
Know all that is left is sitting beneath the bed. A box of journals and photos. A single earring and a champagne cork,  A home made CD of our songs that created memories. 
All of these things, make up, the unwritten letter that I wish I’d written. And left for you to read.

© sarah jane patel

I wrote this as an entry piece for a competition for Elleuk.com in September 2014. Intitled "The Letter I Wish I'd Written."
I have not heard anything form them regarding the piece so here it is for all to see, rather then it sitting saved on my computer.