Story for performance #637
webcast from Sydney at 07:09PM, 19 Mar 07

On waking she realises with a slow certainty that it’s still there, inside her, deep. Disappointment registered, she reaches over to her bedside table and does the thing she does every morning; fumbles around for her glasses, then feels around for the glass of water she placed there the night before, nearly knocking it over. Same routine, same near-semi-accident, same irritation at herself—for who she is, where she’s ended up, with this thing inside her, deep…

Stuffing her smudgy glasses on her face, she takes a gulp of water and, addressing her empty bedroom, says out loud, ‘It wasn’t supposed to be like this you know. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. The butler was supposed to walk in with poached eggs on muffin, and a fresh pot of coffee, and the early morning paper. And I was supposed to say, ‘well good morning Jeeves, what a grand old day it is, pop the tray over there and pass me my gown, run me my bath and then that’ll be all.’ And then I was supposed to read my paper, and then I would munch my toast. Obviously, in the absence of all that I guess I’ll just have to do it myself.’

She cracks a fleeting smile, heaves herself up, ruffles her own hair and swings stiffly out of bed. God she’s funny. As her feet touch the floor she straightens up slowly, stretches, yawns and massages her back. And then her hands move to her front where she touches her chest lightly, over to the left where the thing inside her, deep, hurts. She takes a long calming breath.

She moves over to the blind, and rolls it up cautiously. What kind of day is it? She wonders, and says out loud, ‘What kind of day am I to have today world? What kind of day?’

This is a ritual she enjoys. This unknowing; posing this question…Slowly the London estate she lives on is ceremonially unveiled. She whistles and murmurs ‘looking good, looking good’. Set against streaming winter sunshine, blue sky and blustery wind the brown buildings almost look stylish, chic, non-council, non-ugly, non-concrete—well almost. Again she smiles that fleeting smile. She notices the tree outside her window has no leaves on it yet and for a minute she watches the branches wobble in the wind, trying to empty her brain, trying to non-remember the thing inside her, deep, hurting. She watches a man leaving his house for work and again she repeats that earlier gesture: she touches her hand to her chest lightly, over to the left. This time she lets it rest there and places the other on top. She takes another long calming breath. Abruptly she leaves the window and moves through to the toilet and, hitching her nightie up, sits down to empty her bladder. She picks up one of the books on the floor. As usual, she holds the book closed, scrunches her eyes shut and asks the book to give her some advice. Then she flicks to a page and reads the sentence. It says, ‘The spirit grows, strength is restored through wounding’. She thinks about this for a moment. And then feels dissatisfied. She doesn’t think this is entirely true. She puts down the book and moves to the kitchen. She switches on the kettle, finds a clean cup, puts a tea bag in it and waits for the kettle to boil. She yawns and then thinks some more. All advice, all counsel had told her that the thing inside her would fade, that there was no physical ailment and that meant that really soon, there would be no pain. Then why wasn’t it fading faster?

All she knew was that the thing inside her, deep, hurt, badly. And that it was the same. Same today and would be tomorrow. This she knew because this was the way it had been for a while, day in day out. It hadn’t faded, hadn’t gone anywhere, over the days, over the months it had remained the same, a deep heavy-set anxiety attached to a set of memories, a set of eyes, a body, a lover, a missing, a hole, an emptiness. And now just this…An area inside, deep, hurting…

Someone the other day had talked to her about half-lives in relation to nuclear waste. They’d explained that what she was experiencing had a half-life, and that she hadn’t even sat out an eighth of half the time she would have to before she felt better. This wasn’t much comfort. Although they’d meant well, this just meant of course many more mornings of exactly the same manoeuvring—trying to forget, trying to distract, only to discover that actually the thing inside, deep, was just the same, same today, same as always. But then again what alternatives were there?

She shrugs her shoulders, smiles that wry smile to herself and makes the tea. Then she opens her cupboard and gets out the muesli, drops it into a bowl and pours the milk. She moves into the lounge, switches on the radio and settles down on the soft sofa to eat. She takes a long calming breath. The sun streams in. Same. Same today. Same as always.

Adapted for performance by Barbara Campbell from a story by Sheila Ghelani.