After the Intermission, Acts V and VI
(Acts I – IV condensed, from the original by LJ Findlay-Walsh)
Act I
The sun filters through [the avenue of trees] and different hues dance on the tabletop and blind my eyes. I’m busy but I’ve stopped.
Act II
It’s raining; the moon casts a sheen on the surface of the table.
ACT III
The birdsong we hear reminds [me] of something; tears fill [my] eyes.
Act IV
[W]e are on that table, bare feet on that cool surface, doing that dance, all of us, at least I think we are. It feels very much like we are.
Act V: NOW
After the Before Times, after the table was a stage, it was mostly a shelter. Its still shiny surface reflected a quiet sky, where the stars had just begun to reappear. Loneliness pervaded; small damp animals scurried by (they were not afraid); there was so much birdsong.
Six months in and it’s all gotten a bit scraggly: the table is worn, the grass has grown, the birds have confidence, the sky is bluer and the stars hurt the eyes they are so bright. Sometimes loneliness slinks away. And the women stand apart from each other, their hair greyed and grown, they wear their clothes for days in a row now (no one cares). Remnants of monuments and thrones lie in rubble around the park, splashes of paint catch the moonlight.
Things have changed.
Should we try to get back to any of it? Can a map take us anywhere anymore? The roads have been repurposed, the buses are empty, everyone’s habits have changed. Where did Normal go anyway? It was never shared in the first place, so we can just let it go, right? The future feels pretty bleak right now but maybe austerity will breed a new kind of beauty. A warmth, with hundreds of colours, letting the intentions of nature take the lead. Let’s join those attempting a return to the Way Older Normal, the one a few before the last one. Let’s help with that.
I can hear better now. I can see better too. The food isn’t as processed so I can taste and smell better. But that occasional emotional hit to the solar plexus? That’s gone, along with the lump in my throat, the brimming tears. That is what I miss. But my purpose has shifted so I’ll stand to the side. I can bring treats and a bit of the old, just enough to keep some memory connection, but nothing more.
Act VI: LATER
I’m still in the park. Fatigue and sadness are finally begetting some hope and eventual joy.
The table stays here.
This is the most liminal of moments ever: let’s glance back one last time at the night; the New Era beckons and the sun is shining.
Act I
I’m in the park. My route is obstructed by a large table and many chairs. The table is made of oak or granite or glass. It sits in my path. If I took my usual route I’d have to walk straight over it. Right through it. It’s vast and heavy. I imagine its legs have already sunk into the earth. The sun sits low; its light drips over this table like an 80s chandelier. There is a symmetry to this vista. The table is ensconced in an avenue of trees or dilapidated walls or stained glass, cocooned and calm but porous to noise: traffic and a children’s play park and a football match and a woman screaming down a phone at a friend, her lover, her unruly offspring. The sun filters through and different hues dance on the table top and blind my eyes. I’m busy but I’ve stopped, and I run my finger softly over it. Its surface, as smooth as a mirror, seems to form a meniscus around my fingers and just for a moment I’m not sure where it begins and I end.
Act II
It’s raining; the moon casts a sheen on the surface of the table. It looks black like a scarab beetle. The trees farther off in the dim light are abstract symbols inscribing the environment, a giant cartouche. I consider whether it’s meant to be deciphered. Wet leaves cover the seats of the chairs and I remove them all, carefully, before I crawl under the table to take shelter from the rain.
Act III
An elderly woman gives me a smile of recognition because I’ve been watching her. She sits outside amongst other women; they are giving each other manicures and pedicures, exfoliating elbows, and massaging temples. The table is covered with half-filled bottles of lotions, potions, and lacquer. The empty chair beside her is an invitation. I sit. The chair feels like a throne; so large, so regal. I hug my knees to my chest. She slowly brushes my hair. I feel her connected to every tug and tingle of my scalp. The birdsong we hear reminds her of something; tears fill her eyes. I stand up and cover her ears with my hands.
Act IV
I think it’s day and night and day again. I’m a little farther off and I feel them before I eventually see them. Like many before them they were going somewhere and stopped there. They have been up all night and are smashed on this and that. They have tinny-sounding tunes playing on their mobile phones, filling the relative silence of this outdoor place, and I know this frisson and I smile so hard. A blond girl with an asymmetrical haircut attempts to lead a choreography; she is intent, but keeps forgetting what she’s just taught. It doesn’t matter because we are on that table, bare feet on that cool surface, doing that dance, all of us, at least I think we are. It feels very much like we are.