Sunday, 5 April 2015

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

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