leap of faith

I had been telling my mother about a shop that stocked all kinds of wonderful things when we happened upon it, after hours. We peered through the glass doors and, in doing so, found the shop was unlocked and empty. The stock and shelves had been removed and all that remained were bare white-brick walls. It was an extraordinary space - very large with an extremely high ceiling and stairs on either side of the front wall, leading up to a balcony that crossed the back wall. Above the balcony was a vast window, which let in a beautiful blue light. It was raining outside and somehow - a play of light, perhaps - the rain appeared to shower down through the window into the room, although the room was perfectly dry. My mother and sister ran inside and up the stairs on the right side of the space, more or less dancing and running across the balcony and down the set of stairs on the other side. They seemed to know the space, and to know exactly what to do. They were carefree and exuberant. I followed them at a much slower pace, a little bewildered, climbing the stairs and walking across the balcony, wanting to share their sense of freedom and growing accustomed to the seemingly enchanted space. In the middle of the balcony crossing, I stopped and sat down, surveying the giant room. I imagined it being ideal for theatre with its generous size and the unusual, almost theatre-in-the-round design. I tested the acoustics, singing lines of songs. The notes resounded around the room. While I was singing, more people entered the space. Some ran up the stairs, along the balcony and down the other stairs. Others leapt off the balcony, hurtling downward until an unseen force  - a gust of gravity - slowed their descent, so they landed softly on the cement floor. Some people, after falling down, instead of landing, rose back up through the air to the level of the balcony before plunging down once again. This was a game of trust. A lighting box appeared in the rear left-hand corner of the room, a little lower than the balcony, and I could see a few people through the glass, operating lights inside. My dear friend A was there. A small stage appeared against the front-right corner. Two people I recognised rose in the air before me - I remembered them from long ago and instantly felt unsure, for they were gossipers and unkind to many. They plummeted back down and, imagining their ending, I said, 'Splat'. Immediately, I withdrew my thought, just in case they did, in fact, die upon landing. Although I was wary of them, I didn't want anything horrible to happen in this room. I looked instead at my friend through the glass of the lighting box, knowing that she would always be a true friend. I noticed a group of people were now sitting beside me on the balcony, their legs similarly dangling over the edge. The young man beside me took my hand and, together, we jumped. We whipped through the air, hearts pounding, until only a few feet before the bottom, it was as though the very air gathered and held us up, cushioning our landing. We lay on the floor, arms and legs wrapped around each other, exhilarated and breathless. My heart was racing in a way it had not for many years. I felt younger, as though a something was remembered, as though I had come through a lackluster wilderness and was now reborn into light. We lay there, unconcerned about our bodies touching, until we caught our breath. We had no attachment to one another beyond sharing the jump and, after recovering, we parted ways. Now, the room filled with people, ready for a performance. Vast cement steps appeared, skirting three sides of the room, so that the audience could sit on the steps and the balcony to view the small stage at the front. I took a seat, transfixed by the performance that had begun. A woman I know delivered a monologue, captivating us with her outstanding performance. A short break before a man took the stage and told us a wild tale, improvising parts, appearing completely comfortable and confident. It seemed the room, the theatre, somehow brought out the best in everyone. It supported those who dared. I looked around at the audience and could see two close friends sitting in a row perpendicular to mine. One of them saw me and waved, smiling warmly. She said something quietly to me and somehow I heard her clearly, as though she whispered in my ear, even though she was at least twenty feet away. I was delighted to see them both, but particularly buoyed by my friend's words and presence; I felt she was my guardian angel and I knew she wished me well and loved me. I also noticed another friend - a mentor - sitting further along the same row. After the man's performance, my mentor walked over to me and gave me a sheet of paper, saying she had had an idea: I was to perform next, singing three songs. I was shocked and, in that state, could not make head or tail of the words on the page, but realised that it was the programme - I was listed to sing next. Although completely unprepared, I was willing to sing. I tried to think of three complete songs I knew well enough to perform, but could not. I decided to wing it. I dared.

theatre and grandmother

I entered a theatre and found a seat towards the back. The worn russet leather chairs had wooden arms and fold-down seats, like those in old cinemas. The theatre appeared to have capacity for three hundred or so people and it was near full. We excitedly waited for the show to begin. I was there alone. The curtain was raised and three women appeared on stage, singing an electric, almost eccentric, song with great mastery. My dear friend was one of the performers and, I realised, I had come this night to watch her perform. While they sang, the audience began to leave. At first, I was appalled, but it became apparent that the audience had already seen the matinee performance, that they were lingering in the theatre and the night-time show had started too early. The curtain was lowered and the show stopped. Soon the theatre was almost cleared. I took the opportunity to search for a better seat, closer to the front, so that I would have a clear view of my friend. A new audience began to fill theatre and, among them, my grandmother sat down next to me. I was overjoyed and yet perplexed, as I have not seen her since her death some years ago. I felt somewhat neglectful, as though I had forgotten her and not visited her for years. She was wearing a mustard jumper and had a few bags about her. Together, we waited for the show to begin again. It started and, while my eyes were on my friend on stage, my grandmother disappeared. I turned around to glance at her, but she'd gone. Worried, I crept out of the theatre, sorry to miss the performance, to find her. She was in the foyer, sorting through her bags, preparing to go home. All kinds of personal items were strewn across a table. I helped her sort out her washing, including two blue towels, and repack her other bags. I noticed that the contents of her handbag were lying on another table nearby, and I took particular note of the bright red lipstick in a gold case - Chanel No 13.

lost friend

I was dressing for a night out, but I was tired and late. I sat  - half-dressed - and hurriedly ate a meal, knowing I would be even later. My friend rang to find out where I was; I could somehow see her waiting, standing on a hill, dressed in dark red, the wind blowing her hair. We arranged to meet here instead and, even so, I knew I hadn't enough time. Sure enough, she arrived at the front door well before I was ready - a glamorous figure. We hugged and she looked into my face; she could see that I was tired. I finished dressing, though not well; my clothes were ill-fitting and drab. I had no time to shower or groom, and we left. Arriving at a large concert hall, we were ushered to our seats toward the front of the theatre. Once seated, the usher returned and pointed out a better vantage - seats up toward the back. My friend followed the usher to inspect the seats, while I minded our spot. I lost sight of my friend int he crowd and, knowing the show was soon to start, I went to find her. I couldn't see her anywhere but heard that she was in the foyer, talking with friends. I thought it best to sit down as the curtains were opening. I shuffled through the legs of the seated audience until I reached the two vacant seats, still distracted by the absence of my friend. I was not at all comfortable; in fact, the seat had now elevated so that I was blocking the view of the person behind. I tried to lower it, disrupting the people around me. A couple of people moved and I was somewhat embarrassed. The show began and it was awful: bad acting, dreadful singing and of terrible taste. Someone came to tell me that there had been an accident in the foyer, so - relieved that I could abandon the show - I raced out, thinking my friend had fallen or some such thing.
There had been an accident at sea. I peered out to the horizon and could see ships bottom up and sinking. Ships nose-down, black in a grey ocean. The water had risen and my friend was swept away. She and the others in the foyer were now dragged by a swift current south. About seven people were struggling to stay afloat, powerless against the pull as they rushed through the water, desperately grabbing at anything to aide their plight. I ran along the shore, following them, my friend ever in view. I shouted to her, words of encouragement to buoy her. I followed for miles, running apace, keeping track of her. I thought she was lost.

letting go of old behaviour - coffee parable

I was in Brisbane city, visiting the Metro Arts building, where I had worked for many years. I noticed many changes in the surrounding landscape: new hole-in-the-wall coffee outlets, cafes, shops and such. I went for a walk around the block, taking it all in. On the way back, I found a cafe that was owned by people I knew, who also own wellness stores. I thought I would buy a coffee there. I wondered if I should buy a coffee from the coffee house on the corner of Edward and Charlotte Streets, just near the Metro Arts building, as I had heard that their coffee was great, but I decided to support my friends. I waited at the counter for someone to serve me. While I waited, I could see into the theatre adjoining the shop. There were about a thousand wooden ant puppets lined up like and army, a choir, with another marionette dressed in dark red conducting them. In time, the ants waved their legs and clicked them. The scene changed and there were several actors on stage, rehearsing for a musical show. I knew several of the actors and could see at least two of them who also formerly worked at Metro Arts. My attention returned to the coffee house, where I was still waiting for someone to serve me. Finally someone came my way but she went instead to serve someone who had just arrived at the counter. I objected and the woman served me. I felt a little embarrassed about complaining and I made a joke of it. I ordered a soy flat white, which arrived shortly after. I gave her five dollars and, instead of the two dollars change I was owed, she gave me a tiny plastic pearl. I looked at it and saw that it was broken and chipped. I showed the woman and she went to give me another plastic pearl, but I asked for my two dollars change instead. I could plainly see that this pearl was barely worth anything at all and was certainly not a fair exchange. I started walking back down the street with my coffee and decided to take a sip. It was awful; luke warm, weak and overly milky. I realised that I would have to go back and complain again as it was simply not good enough. Now I felt that, at the point when I realised I was waiting a ridiculously long time, before not being served, before being cheated and then served a bad coffee, I should have walked away. I should not have put up with it and I should have simply walked down the road, back to where I was going, and bought a coffee from the place that made great coffees, rather than feel obliged to support people I know.

audience

I went to the theatre. The square stage was set low in the centre of the space, with four banks of raked seating flanking each side, rising high above the stage so that the audience could look down at the actors. My friend and I arrived late; the show had already begun. Three sides of the seating were reasonably full, with the fourth side empty. We crept along the space between the front row and the railing of the empty side, aiming to sit over in one of the more crowded banks. The railing, part of the wall that enclosed the bank of seats, and the entire wall below gave way, tipping over, falling like a tree toward the performers below. I was hanging onto the railing, falling with it, so I gathered all my strength and heaved the wall - as though it were a giant piece of cardboard in the wind - to fly over the actors and land beyond them on the far side of the stage. Danger was averted and the show went on. I climbed back up and found a seat on the opposite side of the stage to where my friend was now sitting. In fact, I discovered that I was sitting alone in the light box and, from there, I had a particularly good view of the audience. I watched my friend, and her behaviour - she heckled and laughed at the actors, stealing focus - made me pleased that I was not sitting with her after all. Rather than watching the show, I continued to watch the audience. I could see a person, renowned for brief love affairs, sitting with a very young woman. I hoped that this was not the latest fling as she was far too young. I then saw a dear friend of mine and caught her eye. She joined me in the light box and we cooked a meal together, separating fine slices of meat and laying them in a pan.

unprepared

I visited a friend who was starring in a theatre production, staged by a national theatre company. There was a very minor role that needed filling for the matinee performance the following day. My friend asked me if I would mind doing it, as it required no speaking or rehearsal, just a brief appearance on stage, following her, like a lost child. I was wary, but wanted to help her. The next day, I arrived at the theatre well before the opening time. I donned my costume in the dressing room and then waited for my friend to arrive. No one told me when I would be required, but I trusted that my friend would arrive soon and would tell me what to do. The show started and still she didn't arrive. I paced the floor backstage, growing increasingly anxious. As the huge crowd applauded - the curtains closing, marking the end of the first act - my friend arrived. I saw her walking, self-assured, around the rear of the building to the backstage area. Once there, she set about readying herself - makeup, hair and costume. I asked her what I would need to do in my minor role. She handed over a script and, suddenly, I was frightened. Where yesterday she had told me there was no speaking required, I now realised this was indeed a speaking role, with far more acting needed. I had not rehearsed, I had never seen the show and I had not acted in years. She continued to remain frustratingly nonchalant. I tried to wrestle information from her. Where were the props I was to use, how was the stage set, what was I to do? The script informed me that I was a young boy, pressed to make a choice between remaining loyal to someone, or signing a cheque that somehow sealed the fate of another actor. I was to sign the cheque, have a conversation, appeal to the audience and then leave the stage. I did not know where the cheque was or how I could possibly learn the script in the few minutes before we were due on stage. I was furious with my friend for misleading me and now failing to properly prepare me for the role. I considered walking out, but didn't want to let down the rest of the cast and crew. I realised I had to go on stage and entirely improvise the part, in front of an audience of a thousand or more.