Monday, 2 January 2012

Degrading Haystack With Red Moons Printed Across Part 1

It all starts with performance.

It all ends with performance.

Several minutes until the stage is ready and everything and everybody goes around like flies around your face mostly, because that’s what people are told to look at, but in reality it’s not. I look down with my mouth opened as the gloss is applied onto my lips. I look at the scene costume which is not different from yesterdays and tomorrows.

Is that what we got told?

The face.

The performance when in reality it just collides slightly with the horrible truth. But then why is it always horrible? It’s not like I have to always wear a feather boa and a cigarette between the lips as you cough to the side and sit on the chair as the audience ignores the speaking actor and all devilishly stare at you, as you exit the scene, holding the cough in the red throat.

Coughs escape my throat as I bend in two, the assistants running around like flies giving me pills, ranting on the director and scenarist.

They strip me like a doll into the next costume, as I feel the need for a smoke after three in a row. Eventually I grab one from a supporting actor and regret the action as I cough heavier.  I end up in the tight black clothes which feel like a second skin. I follow the assistant as we head down the staircase into a corridor which is known. I scratch my hand eager to rub off the synthetic fabric which feels like glue. I open my mouth to gasp fragments of air as my scene is soon and we’re running, running, running faster and faster until I get pulled up into the middle of the audience.

I shift myself into position the hay digging into my back like knives, like it’s suppose to and I stir, improvising. There is no guideline of how I should stir in the platform filled with hay, resembling a flat haystack.

I open my eyes to see the viewers look back, forwards, sideways as I am in the middle of the audience like an attraction, like a freak show, only there is no laugh, no pointing, just the hungry stares at my now gone boa and tight clothes. I raise slightly, hay sticking to me like spikes.

I can feel the actors trying to get the scene right, for the words to fit, but it’s like music in a video, no one listens to it mesmerized by the scene. I open my mouth as if to say something, as the words are muted by the audience’s stares. I look further, past the viewers, to see smiling glances, teeth biting the lips, not each others like I’m supposed to imagine.

A horrible screech takes over the ears and I plunge downwards, never raising my head, smiling as the hay kisses me back, our love mutual with the jealous claps from the devilish audience which would stick money to my body if allowed.

I got told that life should be like a dream with weird happenings in it and leaving a weird fuzzy feeling inside with a smile creeping up as you die. Once that is gone, you have to get yourself a ladder and climb up, until everything is gone and the dream is back.

No, no, something-

The words get interrupted in the play, as my chin gets yanked and I’m lured into a kiss, what some call the kiss of life which changes my character completely making two parallel reactions the one he eases into and the one he doesn’t. In one he dies, going insane searching for some silver ladder he can’t find and gets blamed for it. On the other he forgets all about it and lives a happy life with his life partner, an energetic girl, who plays depressive suicidal maniacs as her eyes sparkle.

Knowing that I wait for her to lurch at me.

I hate playing different plays with same actors, because once I play something with one, that’s it you’re whoever you were in my eyes.

But ironically, I like playing different, but I’m still in the haystack after several years with more viewers until the amount of audience cannot be held that I swear that there are chairs stuck on the walls at a higher price.

I die.

In the play and the audience explodes, as I rise and leave, judging stares until a girl stops in front of me. She’s nearly what- two heads shorter than me?
Soon enough a journalist bangs her way through the crowd, grabbing hold of her falling glasses, putting them among her pink face, as a notebook lays in her hand. She’s shorter as well, but is twice my size even with my long legs. Her legs seem hairy and she looks like a fly.

“You look like a fly.” I say stretching out my arm, which is longer than it’s suppose to be, as it might stroke her cheek, going deeper, inhaling the skin, letting it shred apart, giving a touch of something to the scene,  to shake her trembling fingers. I wonder what will she earn from the interview in front of my yelling assistants and rare photos of me near the hay and hay caught in my hair as I shake it and one hits her face, she touches it like a holly place. I want to blow some in her face, but I have nothing besides the carbon coming from my lungs reeking with the smoke which ran around in my mouth a scene ago.

I look at the girl again, a ladder in hand, how did they let it in with her?



This came to me in a dream, it had a lot of scenes and really, just the relevant was left for DHWRMPA (sounds complicated) which would be the actor in hay and a girl walking up towards him in the end. In the dream it had been Jonny Greenwood or something who resembled him at least, that is where the appearance comes from really and Devyn well, not to spill, it was hard to end his parts in this story that's why the second part comes and initially it was supposed to be three one-shots from Jaidem's, Devyn's and the girl's point of view (trying not to spoil).

It is one of the longests parts in the story, so it is divided and this had been part 1.

Thank you.

Part 2

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