Return to the Workshop

The hinges shrieked in protest, but the door ignored its cries and swung inward regardless. Whatever air was moved by the half-hearted push was like a hurricane to the dust coating the room, and miniature sandstorms raged across the hardwood floor. Steps that would have been more fitting in a child of nine or ten months were taken by feet many times that age; joints rusty with disuse creaked and moved the aged body forward.

Watery eyes scanned the room and its disheveled contents. He imagined he could feel the dust molecules gently landing on his pupils, creating a thin layer of mud from eyelid to eyelid. Perhaps this mud would cure him of his blindness, tears of regret and the dust of creation instead of the dust of the road the spit of a saviour.

Bony hands shook as if afraid before settling on a piece that had laid untouched for far too long. They gingerly raised the artifact upwards, brought the forgotten creating close to blinking eyes.

The thick coat of dust was stirred by the wheezing breaths, and the slow monotonous inhale and exhale became a series of hacking coughs. For a brief moment time stood still, and he took this moment to entertain the thought that perhaps he was dying, that neglecting his work had finally done him in. Then time began once again and on the ground were gobs of whatever he had hacked up in his lungs, and clutched in his hands was his invention, mostly free of dust.

He brought it to eye level once more and gazed upon it, fingers tracing its contours and edges, remembering when he had first laid hands on it. It felt good in his hands, and he knew that all around the room were similar projects, left to sit in the dark and the dust. Standing up a little straighter, he let out a deep sigh at the work in his hands.

This needs a lot of editing, he thought, fingers dancing just above the keyboard, disappointedly gazing at the screen.

Uncomfortability

Is it just me or is it uncomfortable in here? I'm sitting here on a stool, swinging my legs back and forth like Canadian stand-up comedian Jon Dore as he transitions from his joke on date-rape drugs into his bit about Hitler. My voice is shot and every time I try to sing my part my ears snag onto other people's voices and I lose it, my own voice fading away to nothing.

Oh, and my voice isn't lost due to singing or talking or what have you; I lost my voice due to being hideously sick. I periodically sniff loudly and cough a couple (two or three) of times into my sweatshirt. My head feels a little hazy, and I shake it back and forth violently as if by doing so I can fling thin threads of cloudy thoughts out my ears.

Physical ailments aside, I feel constantly surrounded by strangers. These people have clearly worked together before, and they show it. At the very least they're all on the same wavelength humour-wise, right? I try to sight-read my parts while simultaneously sorting out social dynamics, figuring out who I'd want to talk to, if the time ever comes to use our vocal chords for conversation and not pour le chant. I also wonder about how I'm supposed to memorize lyrics and lines while continuing to learn French vocabulary.

In a way, I'm feeling extremely in sync right now. Sniff, cough cough cough. My legs swing back and forth in time, and I look from face to face back and forth, back and forth. The soft buzz behind my eyes, inside my head, is like a softly shaken tambourine. In the distance, high up on the wall, the clock ticks in time with me, bringing me ever closer to my exit, stage left.