Train Of Thought
Entry by: littlelin
17th July 2015
Departures and Arrivals
or
The Communication Chords
Well, this train journey has nothing to do with Whitsun Weddings. That was years ago, today it’s her funeral. We three sisters of the shadows are retracing a spider’s web as we converge. I have until the hub at Waterloo to come to terms with this. Shall I pull the communication cord? If not soon it’ll be: ‘All hail the country mouse’.
Wife, mother, carer for aged parent, almost enough money for a holiday somewhere nice but not quite, not quite, not quite, not ever quite enough. My mind has become stuck on the telephone poles passing the window. Two seconds apart and, I guess 50 yards between that means, Watson, we are travelling at X miles an hour but I never get anywhere nor ever have quite enough.
Success breeds contact and I’m sure Beth and Ruth and well the whole bloody world have missed none of her triumphs of the stage.
Should I have stayed in my mouse hole?
Obviously we were all dreamers that is the only reason you would ever put yourself on the stage so young. At the drama school finale I was one of the three witches and she, of course, was the Lady in the Scottish play. Her huge personality turned it into a type of comic opera of all things. She was so charged with talent that sparks shot from her breasts. The event made her name. We nameless actors all hailed the Lady Judith; now deceased, found in her bath, drugged to the eyeballs apparently. Well I never.
I am beginning to envy the train, and the driver, and the buffet car staff. You see they know where they are going – there and back again. The route doesn’t vary and they only ever need to look ahead. They know exactly how they will cross the exactly designed bridges. And one carriage follows another to the last syllable of recorded timetables.
Once the track is laid nobody has to wonder where they are headed.
Perhaps they envy me, who knows? A smile, a kiss, a touch, a meeting of molecules, a hasty ring and almost enough money for a safari honeymoon, but not quite. From the witch’s caldron crawls something amphibian into air and dry land crying, endlessly crying. Round and round you go, don’t look back. Dreaming is over when you know where you are headed.
You know I haven’t had time to myself like this for years. I have nobody but myself to care for as long as this journey lasts. The repetitive swaying, the beat of the rails, the humming notes become a musical meditation and form chance chords. There is deep communication here. Can’t get off the train… enjoy the ride…unconscious confidence… art is just what happens as your imagination watches the world go by.
Meanwhile the train, with unconscious confidence, is descending a long swooping curve at speed, coming out of the sun. ‘Oh the wonder of, the mastery of the thing.’ And my son the amphibian has become something of a handsome prince which is the birth right I gave him. The wonder of the thing.
We are slowing through the cuttings and soon stop. Waterloo. I join the sea of faces and head for the rendezvous. I’m glad I didn’t pull the communication cord. I feel strangely full of life and I have an idea.
*********
That was some funeral! Well you probably saw it on television which is as near to it as I got. All I can say is that death is what happens to you whilst you are busy making other plans. (Sorry John).
My old classmates are both mothers and like me hadn’t had much to say during the long years after RADA. Well Ruth, Beth and I sparked off each other and stirred up a storm as we sat in the restaurant at Waterloo. You can’t be a mother for 20 odd years without learning about life, without learning to communicate. We shared a bottle of red and forgot Judith’s funeral. Who would miss a mouse anyway? We erstwhile young rosebuds of RADA blossomed and rediscovered latent talent.
The idea for the musical had somehow always been there I think but train journeys are creative artist time. No need to rush, the tunes had been always inside us we agreed.
Look out for a production of ‘The Communication Chord’ near your town soon. Oh and do put your daughter on the stage – but only when she can sing her songs with her own words.
or
The Communication Chords
Well, this train journey has nothing to do with Whitsun Weddings. That was years ago, today it’s her funeral. We three sisters of the shadows are retracing a spider’s web as we converge. I have until the hub at Waterloo to come to terms with this. Shall I pull the communication cord? If not soon it’ll be: ‘All hail the country mouse’.
Wife, mother, carer for aged parent, almost enough money for a holiday somewhere nice but not quite, not quite, not quite, not ever quite enough. My mind has become stuck on the telephone poles passing the window. Two seconds apart and, I guess 50 yards between that means, Watson, we are travelling at X miles an hour but I never get anywhere nor ever have quite enough.
Success breeds contact and I’m sure Beth and Ruth and well the whole bloody world have missed none of her triumphs of the stage.
Should I have stayed in my mouse hole?
Obviously we were all dreamers that is the only reason you would ever put yourself on the stage so young. At the drama school finale I was one of the three witches and she, of course, was the Lady in the Scottish play. Her huge personality turned it into a type of comic opera of all things. She was so charged with talent that sparks shot from her breasts. The event made her name. We nameless actors all hailed the Lady Judith; now deceased, found in her bath, drugged to the eyeballs apparently. Well I never.
I am beginning to envy the train, and the driver, and the buffet car staff. You see they know where they are going – there and back again. The route doesn’t vary and they only ever need to look ahead. They know exactly how they will cross the exactly designed bridges. And one carriage follows another to the last syllable of recorded timetables.
Once the track is laid nobody has to wonder where they are headed.
Perhaps they envy me, who knows? A smile, a kiss, a touch, a meeting of molecules, a hasty ring and almost enough money for a safari honeymoon, but not quite. From the witch’s caldron crawls something amphibian into air and dry land crying, endlessly crying. Round and round you go, don’t look back. Dreaming is over when you know where you are headed.
You know I haven’t had time to myself like this for years. I have nobody but myself to care for as long as this journey lasts. The repetitive swaying, the beat of the rails, the humming notes become a musical meditation and form chance chords. There is deep communication here. Can’t get off the train… enjoy the ride…unconscious confidence… art is just what happens as your imagination watches the world go by.
Meanwhile the train, with unconscious confidence, is descending a long swooping curve at speed, coming out of the sun. ‘Oh the wonder of, the mastery of the thing.’ And my son the amphibian has become something of a handsome prince which is the birth right I gave him. The wonder of the thing.
We are slowing through the cuttings and soon stop. Waterloo. I join the sea of faces and head for the rendezvous. I’m glad I didn’t pull the communication cord. I feel strangely full of life and I have an idea.
*********
That was some funeral! Well you probably saw it on television which is as near to it as I got. All I can say is that death is what happens to you whilst you are busy making other plans. (Sorry John).
My old classmates are both mothers and like me hadn’t had much to say during the long years after RADA. Well Ruth, Beth and I sparked off each other and stirred up a storm as we sat in the restaurant at Waterloo. You can’t be a mother for 20 odd years without learning about life, without learning to communicate. We shared a bottle of red and forgot Judith’s funeral. Who would miss a mouse anyway? We erstwhile young rosebuds of RADA blossomed and rediscovered latent talent.
The idea for the musical had somehow always been there I think but train journeys are creative artist time. No need to rush, the tunes had been always inside us we agreed.
Look out for a production of ‘The Communication Chord’ near your town soon. Oh and do put your daughter on the stage – but only when she can sing her songs with her own words.
Feedback: Average score: 325 (65%)
Marker comments:
Marker 1
- What I liked about this piece: There's so much here! It's like putting your hand in Pandora's Box with the lid still shut. It's a proper train of thought too, one thing connecting to another and all connected by circumstance and a circular connectivity.
- Favourite sentence: She was so charged with talent that sparks shot from her breasts.
- Feedback: This is really lovely. I want more of it, it needs to grow? It's really got something slightly crazy. It's very much the beginning of something and definitely has legs. I like the outline characterisation of it, I can really feel the characters coming to life. Don't put this one in the draw!
Marker 2
- What I liked about this piece: I liked the unsaid of her daily life,the boredom and the insecurity. I liked, too,that Judith,despite her fame,came out worse than those of less import.
- Favourite sentence: Should I have stayed in my mouse hole? I completely 'get'what the author means!
- Feedback: I liked this - I liked the pace and the unsaid. I enjoyed the idea that life could have been different - but we make choices. We choice to keep the train going or to stop it and get off.
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