Dancing in the Air Part 2

She reached up and touched the unvarnished wood just above her head. A jab of pain entered the tip of her fore-finger along with a splinter. Vague images of crawling under the table to sleep, nothing before that except the crush of people’s voices competing in unison. Through invisible faces, she had stood for an eternity listening to the tones which ranged from sudden high-pitched laughter to deep-base mumbling.  She had wanted to dance to it but there was no space even to stretch her limbs. As she lay there on a coat which she had taken from the back of a chair she started counting the pieces of gum which reminded her of the time she had put her hand under the desk at school and had recoiled in horror at what she supposed was the saliva of the children who had taunted her in the playground.
   All around her was silence apart from the banging of a distant door and footsteps. Through the light material of the table-cloth which reached to the ground, a shadow passed by. A clearing of a throat and a sigh followed. “Arabella, are you in here?”

Papa.
But she found she couldn’t move and as the footsteps began to retreat, she felt a sinking such as never before. In her panic she tried to call out but no sound came, so her mind diverted its attention to the throbbing finger.
 ...............................................................................................................................................

Miss Beechtree was inconsolable and poured herself another shot of gin.
Her mother sat by the window, watching the branches of the willow swaying in the breeze. She hazily recalled the time when Arabella had gone missing at Jeremy Tripwell's wedding. As they were getting into the taxi to return to Blacksteps Hotel, she'd had the uneasy feeling that something wasn't quite right. They had sent out a search party, and fifty half-drunk men had gone all around the estate with torches calling her name. Eventually Araballa was spotted in the rock garden asleep on the wishing-stone, looking like something the angels had left behind in their haste to return to the other-realm.

"I can't just sit here doing nothing." She shrugged, went over to the piano, hit the C, and then the A, a little too hard.
"We were told to stay here in case she turns up. Please don't do that."
"I'll stop if you do. It is that damn stuff that caused all this in the first place."
"Don't start that again. If you were a responsible mother, you would have brought her home after the show."
"How could I? You whisked her off before I could even...."
The phone went, saving another inevitable row.

A connection with the birthplace of the Irish author Elizabeth Bowen.

I started this on June 7th - six days ago, so it is a belated post.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    I woke up this morning and found my spirit sinking like the water from the torrential down-pour
into the drain outside.

                                                 

After discovering I had nothing to eat, I braved the elements and bought myself some bagels, some hummus and soy milk. That made me feel a little better. Then I decided to look and see what might have happened on this day any time in the past. It usually brings up something interesting, and I like to try and make some kind of personal connection with whichever new birth, death or event catches my eye.

                                                                     My eye...

I got lucky today, as now I can make a connection with an address I used to live in. It was the first apartment, where I was totally independent. That is paying my own rent through working as a waitress, and my own personal living space. I was nineteen and almost fresh out of school. The rent was fifteen pounds a week, and I was earning about thirty five plus tips, so I wasn't exactly starving. I had dropped out of college, and was to my young mind 'living the good life'.

As it turns out, today is the birthday of the Irish author Elizabeth Bowen. 1899-1973. She was born on the 7th June 1899 in the very house I was renting my apartment. It is a Georgian terrace along the banks of the canal between Merrion Street and Mount Street.

                                                    and looks something like this one.

While I was there, the canal below was a meeting place for 'women of the night'. They referred to my girl friends and I as 'virgins' whenever our paths crossed, which wasn't too often, and was a little embarassing. One time someone organised a birthday party for a friend and I was taking photos with a flash camera, my old Kodak. A woman knocked on the door and demanded the film. Apparently they thought I was taking photos of them in action with their high profile clients. Who knew? I certainly didn't sit around spying on them. In fact I never even thought to look out the window at night. After convincing her that nobody was interested in blackmailing anyone, I still had to hand over the film for the sake of goodwill, there was probably a little bit of fear involved there as well.

 All this took place in the very house Elizabeth Bowen was born.

Here she is with students in 1956.

A few years later I was given a book of hers called Bowen's Court, a non-fiction account of what it was to be Anglo Irish in the late eighteenth century. I was also given her 'Irish Stories' for my birthday in '96. They are a good read if you are interested in the topic.

To have or to have not power - that is the question.

So now I know what our ancestors spent so much time doing pre-technology. Instead of coming home of an evening from their nine-to-five, flicking on the lights, non-chalantly logging into facebook, throwing something frozen into the microwave and complaining how stressed they were - they were lighting candles.

The candle ritual actually takes longer than one would imagine. Not only does it fill in an hour or two, it also is a very meditative experience, and when without power a necessary one. Something ancient kicks in, and you begin to time travel. You realise that there is another kind of life than the one you are leading, and you are suddenly immersed in it. You have to use your wits, and wicks too as it happens. The candles must be very carefully placed in their holders, secured well, the wicks must be short or your candle will actually go on fire like one of them did, and I was glad I noticed because despite the warm weather I didn't feel like sleeping under the stars tonight. Then there is the dilemma of finding the batteries for the torch, which made me realise that I need to place things where I can find them and remove any superflouous items which hamper the investigations. In other word simplify everything. It could happen again any time and when it does I want to be able to shrug my shoulders and say: "Ok, time to light the candles." Then sit down and get on with it. None of this running around racing the sunset to get organised.

I was actually reminded of the days we used to spend with my father as kids in his little cottage by a lake, when it was his turn to have us for the holidays. Candles and paraffin lamps were the norm in that house. He had a wood-burning stove and two gas-lamps which burned in the kitchen. The aromas were rustic and retro. For entertainment we read books, played guitar, back-gammon, chess and cards. It wasn't boring at all. In fact it was much nicer than the kind of life-style that everyone seems to have these days, including myself.

It is one of the reasons why I didn't panic when the lights suddenly went off. Early training. Clothes were washed by hand and then wrung through a roller, we had no time to wonder what we should be doing. there were plenty of tasks. Chopping wood for the fire, gathering kindle, and he grew vegetables too. I am glad he didn't have animals because I don't think I would have enjoyed that side of things much.

At the end of the month or six weeks or whatever it was that time, we would bundle into his car and be driven back to civilization. Back to the push button lifestyle that we had to re-adjust to, and in my case regrettably.

So you see, I am glad there was a power cut this evening which prompted these memories and more.

I may even periodically have a 'no power' night from time to time, just to unwind, and remind myself that there is so much more to life than we take for granted. Though I have to admit that I do like my creature comforts - my stereo, my computer, washing machine and light switches, water-heater and other sundries.
But I know that if I had to live without them, I could, and quite happily.

Dancing in the air - part one.

She could see nothing at all except for what was in her extreme periphery. The music penetrated her entire body which responded with a pre-rehearsed automacy. Her spirit soared, blending into the atmosphere of the moment, with muscles that stretched with the kind of ease only an eight year old could carry. Pirouette, demi-plié, bow and curtsy, the curtain threw itself down in front of her heralding the finality of the moment, and as she stood up straight, a flash of light and a loud applause greeted her serenely smiling face, while her eyes adjusted themselves painfully to the sudden brightness.

“Didn’t you feel any nerves at all?”
Her mother asked as she scooped her up into her arms and gave her a lipstick kiss on her cheek.
“No.” came the confident reply, as her hand went up as it always did to wipe the imagined smear.

She meant it. She had quite forgotten everything while she was out there, except the notes floating out from the piano which she had become one with. Even the duet with her friend, the piece where she was proudly wearing a tailored costume made by her own mother a fashion designer and boutique owner, had not tempted her to care if anyone was watching.

She had mild autism which meant that she had already got a head start in that department, by readily retreating into a world of her own, whenever she found the outside too stressful, which was pretty much most of the time. Ballet and her were the best of friends, Siamese twins almost. How she looked up to the older girls and longed so much to wear the pointes and get right up on the tip of her toes, to feel grown up, that she had been allowed to hold a pair in her hands after pleading mercilessly with Aureole, the friendlier of the very aloof girls whom one day she wanted to emanate.  By caressing the pink satin contrasting with the hard toe-piece, she could imagine herself and hear the choreographed steps that she would make in her mind delicately clop and clunk across the wooden floor while she lowered herself to prepare for a leap through the air.

“Arabella, I am talking to you....”   a voice, familiar yet distant, insistently urging her to pay attention. How many times had she heard those words before? So many, she had lost count by now.

“She never listens...” it continued, “Sometimes, I really worry. The doctor said that there is nothing wrong with her hearing, but I don’t know, there is something the matter with that child.” She took in a wind of smoke from her imported Russian consulate cigarette. So elegant she looked, with the rainbow rows of tobacco paper covering the magic dragon weed .

And so on it went, that she retreated back again into her head, not that she had ventured out very far, or even had felt particularly enticed to stay. Then she felt her feet landing back on the floor, toes first, then heels. It was the only thing she knew, or wanted to know.

Then the rush, the crush, the gushing of people, patting her on the head, touching her hair, how beautiful it was, what a pretty little thing, what a great job she’d done. They all blended one into the other.

“Darlings!  Do come for drinks. Why are you standing in the lobby? Celebration time. Come along now, follow me in.”
It was Miss Beechtree, her beloved mentor.  Her saviour, the shining light of her young life. She beamed involuntarily and held her arms up for a hug.

“Ah, there’s my little star! You floated like an angel, my cherub.”

Miss Beechtree took her hand and led her swiftly through the pulsating throng towards the inner sanctum of the theatre’s  refreshment area, otherwise known as the bar....

Status Quo

As I am in the habit of reminiscing these days, what with no job and more time on my hands than I am comfortable with, I have decided to update my blog once again.

Yes, Status Quo, apart from the Latin meaning 'the existing state of affairs'', was also an English rock band of the late seventies. I quite liked them but they weren't as cool as Led Zeppelin or some of the others, at least not in our house.

Anyway, one evening I found myself babysitting for the children of my employer, where I was working at the bottom rung of an up-market restaurant kitchen in South Dublin. A place where The Kinks nearly came to dine, but cancelled at the last minute to the great disappointment of, well, all of us. Bob Geldof's ex girlfriend was a waitress there, which makes it three dubious claims to fame after I tell you the not very interesting Status Quo story.

I was a reluctant babysitter, as I really wasn't a child oriented person, having already been the big sister to three siblings. I'd had kind of had enough of all that by the time I had reached my teens. Anyhow there was a few quid to be had, and we were in a recession, so I couldn't refuse.

The parents told me there was a guest staying and so I shrugged. No big deal. The guest was sitting in the living room with me all evening, we mumbled a few pleasantries, and I kept on reading my book. I couldn't help peering at him over the rim of my book, because I had seen him before somewhere, but couldn't nail it. I came to the conclusion he must be a friend of my Dad's or something. He headed off to bed eventually, and as I was staying over, so did I. (no, not the same bed).

At breakfast, my employer asked me how we had got on. I told her the children had slept all night and hadn't been any bother. No, with the guest she meant. Oh, why?
He was a member of Status Quo. The base player, I think, who had been looking for somewhere low-key to stay while in Dublin. The one who didn't have the permed curly hair, the fashion of the late seventies and early eighties. Ah, so that is where I'd seen him before. Just thinking how I had missed my opportunity for an autograph, and some interesting stories, all for the sake of a book, the title of which I can't even remember.

Well, I warned you it wouldn't be too a interesting story, but I had fun writing it and kept myself out of trouble for a few minutes.

All the best
Fiocle