Beowulf/Male/56

Life is a one-act play performed in a theatre known as society.....

My fellow actors stand on the stage: they are moving, talking, gesticulating. The audience laughs and claps in appreciation of their efforts.

I am waiting in the wings for my entrance on stage, but I've forgotten exactly which part I'm playing: am I the adult, the child, the clown, the sage, the pupil, the teacher, or none of these?

There is a moment of awkward silence as the other actors turn towards me awaiting my entry: one of them gestures angrily at me. I stumble onto the stage where the spotlight blinds me and the music deafens me.

I have no idea what I'm supposed to say as the audience waits expectantly: I mumble apologetically and stagger back to the wings as the other actors continue the story. Seemingly, my part was so minor that they could carry on without me.

I look at the first page: it's blank, and so are all the other pages. I tell him this and he says "Oh, sorry - you'll just have to make up your lines as you go along". I try this at my next cue, but it doesn't work - how could it?

Back in the wings again, he smiles, and passes me another script: this one may as well be written in a language used by aliens. I remonstrate with him: I can't even begin to read this I tell him. "Well, this will have to do for the moment" he says, and thrusts me into the spotlight yet again.

This third time the other players are beyond their impatience with my incoherent apologies for not knowing my lines: they and the audience are now as one in their laughing ridicule of my acting abilities. Once more I leave the stage: the actors continue with the play, painfully confirming that my presence is unnecessary to the ebb and flow of their story.

Now the director grasps my arm, and leads me to a room backstage: like his clothing, this cell is too cloaked in white. He finally hands me a script written in the language of my birth, however it is still unreadable - just a meaningless jumble of words without punctuation. He tells me that everyone else has managed to understand this version of the script. "After a week or so of practise, you can try again with the rest of the actors" he says.

Seven days hence I again find myself on stage. This time I can mouth the words of my new script: the sounds of my voice are there, but the audience doesn't react. The other players pause as I speak: they gesture, smile, and respond to my utterances - at long last, have I learnt my part?

I am invisible and unheard by the audience: the other actors no longer care now whether I'm on their stage or not - they can cope happily without me. Their pity has protected me this last time from their self-righteous scorn. 

As I flee to the safety of the white room, I ask of the director: "In which part have I been cast for this play called Life?"

"That's easy", is his disdainful reply..... "you are playing The Ephemeral." 

- March 2003