1 views
The Stage
Sleek. Clean. Modern. Panoramic views of the forest.
It was everything I wanted. A contemporary masterpiece in the mountains with double height cielings, white oak floors and walls of glass windows letting the Denver sunshine in. All the trees and dense shrubbery gave me the seclusion I wanted, despite having neighbors close by. I was so in love with this house. I wish I could go back to those days...
It's 10pm. I'm in the second floor kitchen chopping onions and tomatoes. The staccato of my knife striking the cutting board echoes unbearably loud in this cavernous space. It sounds like I'm beating something to death. It's unnerving, but I keep going. I have to stay focused on the task at hand. I have to keep from looking up. I can't help myself. I glance and immediately regret it.
My reflection in the glass wall is haggard and careless. I wonder if they see it too, how terrible I look. I know it's irrational, but I can't shake the feeling of eyes watching me in the darkness beyond the windows.
Have you ever been onstage? Have you ever stood there sweating under the lights while the nameless and faceless sit watching you, appraising you, judging you?
I turn on the gas burner, drizzle some olive oil in a pan and add my garlic, then onions, then tomatoes. I pour in some chicken stock and a generous splash or two of pinot, then cover and leave it to simmer. I turn off the lights, leaving only the glow of the burner. I feel safer with the lights off. I can see outside. The trees swaying, the golden twinkle of my neighbors' lights. I wonder if they can feel me watching.
I was a great dancer. The faceless ones always demanded encores and left gifts in my dressing room. Flowers, chocolate, cash...
Pills. All different colors and sizes. Like candy, but harder to swallow. Some calmed my nerves before I went onstage. Others kept me awake through long, boring galas with the theater's donors and shareholders. Then there were the ones that let me forget the realities of my long career. They dulled the pain from my herniated discs and swollen tendons. There came a point when the candy wasn't sweet enough. My body, my mind, was breaking. I needed rest, I needed to get away. I begged them...
They pulled out my contracts and reminded me I was their puppet to command. That they made me, and could destroy me just as easily. I remember they brought a pretty young thing fresh from Julliard and paraded her around like a trophy in front of me. It was a message, a warning, that I was replaceable.
The sauce is about ready. I turn on another burner. Salt and boil some water. Start the pasta.
When the verdict was read, I thought I would feel victorious. You know what I mean? Like, I had been dreaming of this big triumphant moment. I forgot who I was dealing with.
When the gavel came down, I looked over at them all standing there in their Chanel and Armani suits. How could they even face me after what they'd done, not only to me, but to countless other dancers in the company. But there they were, looking me straight in the eye, smug grins on their faces. The money was nothing to them. The thousands they were ordered to pay me was the dust off their pocket change.
You should have seen them with the press. All smiles saying they were so glad it was over so they could get started on the impressive season they had planned. The journalists all asked them questions about the new repetoire. They had no questions for me. When the interviews were done, the suits went off to dinner at some Michelin starred place. I went to oblivion.
I turn off the burners and drain the pasta. I toss it in the sauce and plate it up with some fresh, chopped parsley and grated pecorino. I grab the bottle of pinot, walk over to the chair in front of the glass and sit down. They can watch me eat tonight, whoever they are. The owls, the deer. People too. I can't escape the stage, but I can direct my performance.
And the show is free.
#story #trauma #nature #dance #anxiety #healing
© E.D.King
It was everything I wanted. A contemporary masterpiece in the mountains with double height cielings, white oak floors and walls of glass windows letting the Denver sunshine in. All the trees and dense shrubbery gave me the seclusion I wanted, despite having neighbors close by. I was so in love with this house. I wish I could go back to those days...
It's 10pm. I'm in the second floor kitchen chopping onions and tomatoes. The staccato of my knife striking the cutting board echoes unbearably loud in this cavernous space. It sounds like I'm beating something to death. It's unnerving, but I keep going. I have to stay focused on the task at hand. I have to keep from looking up. I can't help myself. I glance and immediately regret it.
My reflection in the glass wall is haggard and careless. I wonder if they see it too, how terrible I look. I know it's irrational, but I can't shake the feeling of eyes watching me in the darkness beyond the windows.
Have you ever been onstage? Have you ever stood there sweating under the lights while the nameless and faceless sit watching you, appraising you, judging you?
I turn on the gas burner, drizzle some olive oil in a pan and add my garlic, then onions, then tomatoes. I pour in some chicken stock and a generous splash or two of pinot, then cover and leave it to simmer. I turn off the lights, leaving only the glow of the burner. I feel safer with the lights off. I can see outside. The trees swaying, the golden twinkle of my neighbors' lights. I wonder if they can feel me watching.
I was a great dancer. The faceless ones always demanded encores and left gifts in my dressing room. Flowers, chocolate, cash...
Pills. All different colors and sizes. Like candy, but harder to swallow. Some calmed my nerves before I went onstage. Others kept me awake through long, boring galas with the theater's donors and shareholders. Then there were the ones that let me forget the realities of my long career. They dulled the pain from my herniated discs and swollen tendons. There came a point when the candy wasn't sweet enough. My body, my mind, was breaking. I needed rest, I needed to get away. I begged them...
They pulled out my contracts and reminded me I was their puppet to command. That they made me, and could destroy me just as easily. I remember they brought a pretty young thing fresh from Julliard and paraded her around like a trophy in front of me. It was a message, a warning, that I was replaceable.
The sauce is about ready. I turn on another burner. Salt and boil some water. Start the pasta.
When the verdict was read, I thought I would feel victorious. You know what I mean? Like, I had been dreaming of this big triumphant moment. I forgot who I was dealing with.
When the gavel came down, I looked over at them all standing there in their Chanel and Armani suits. How could they even face me after what they'd done, not only to me, but to countless other dancers in the company. But there they were, looking me straight in the eye, smug grins on their faces. The money was nothing to them. The thousands they were ordered to pay me was the dust off their pocket change.
You should have seen them with the press. All smiles saying they were so glad it was over so they could get started on the impressive season they had planned. The journalists all asked them questions about the new repetoire. They had no questions for me. When the interviews were done, the suits went off to dinner at some Michelin starred place. I went to oblivion.
I turn off the burners and drain the pasta. I toss it in the sauce and plate it up with some fresh, chopped parsley and grated pecorino. I grab the bottle of pinot, walk over to the chair in front of the glass and sit down. They can watch me eat tonight, whoever they are. The owls, the deer. People too. I can't escape the stage, but I can direct my performance.
And the show is free.
#story #trauma #nature #dance #anxiety #healing
© E.D.King
