Act One
A performance in a large auditorium. The silence of opening night.
Here I am centre stage, lights from above in my eyes.
I’m holding onto my script with both hands. I read the only lines I can see.
I read them fully, slowly, and when I’m done the actor next to me replies but I can’t hear the words.
Then stillness as everyone waits. The audience. The actors. The technical crew.
Everyone waits as I’m head down, staring blankly at the page.
Someone whispers, ‘you can act. You’ve been acting for a long time’.
Suddenly, I want to speak to the audience.
I move quickly to the edge of the stage.
I need to tell them. I explain that I’m not like them.
I’m having trouble with my lines. My place.
Can I try again?
They seem to understand, to agree, so I turn and find that the other actors have gone.
Act Two
Beside me, onstage, is an open book the size of a movie screen.
In the book I am larger than life, eyes heavy with dark makeup, crystal teardrops on my cheeks, projected onto the screen dressed in gossamer and gold. Sea-blue denim.
The deep orange/red of sunsets.
Images of my past. The life I once tore through, never stopping to take a breath.
My accomplishments.
‘Because you were accomplished.’
I try to play my part again. I see that the script is someone else’s journal.
I flip through the unbound pages; there are no prompts, only dense handwritten text.
Photographs of people, places I don’t know. Black and white and sepia.
Finale
I can’t understand what I’m meant to be saying or doing.
I stand there letting the pages fall to the floor of the stage
and it is dark now.
The auditorium has emptied.
‘Performance’ (c) 2024 Deaborah Rise.
All Rights Reserved