A Writer of Sorts
The problem, I suppose, is that I don’t know most of the music I found. Not by name, anyway. Playing it, aware that my sight reading isn’t brilliant . . . well, I don’t know if it will be anything approaching what it’s meant to sound like. Not having anyone to impress or feel embarrassed by if I screw it up has it’s bonuses, I suppose. I recognised some of the names, though. I have some Bach, Haydn, Satie, Debussy and Scriabin who I’ve never heard of. Lots more too.
I started with a familiar name and hoped that I recognised something. Turns out it was Grieg’s A minor Piano Concerto which I recognised from Morecambe and Wise. I must try and work out the sketch version. I think the cats recognised that I was happier and playing something new. They were very affectionate this morning and rubbing round the piano stool, purring. This cheered me up and I thank whatever gods there may be that Carla taught me to play before she left.
I went underneath the stage to look for the faulty prop and sure enough, one was beginning to splinter. It’ll be hard work, and dangerous, replacing it on my own, but I can’t afford to compromise the garden. I’m guessing if one of the props goes, it will cause the others to pull over. I need to fix this now.
Understage has strange associations from when I was here as a pupil and from when I first found myself back here. When we did school plays, this was always the spooky place no one wanted to go. It was full of props from previous school productions and the lighting was inadequate. Shadows leapt, props fell on top of us, everything conspired to scare the living shit out of us. There is nothing scarier than a room full of things that may spring to life at any moment. I still hold that uneasiness, even though it’s now well lit and cleared out.
It doesn’t help that when I first arrived here, the colony, as was, hadn’t shored the building up and used the understage area as a safe bunker. We all piled down there at sunset and held each other in terror until the beasts left and morning came.
In the morning, we’d crawl out and try and scrabble enough food to survive on from the local supermarkets and houses that remained accessible.
I biked over to rural studies with a trailer attached and found a suitable tree trunk. There was still a store from a couple of summers back when we did the orchard management. . . wait if me, Rich and Tam did it, that must seven years ago. Tam died soon after. Jesus. Seven years. We buried her at the far end of orchard. She was so proud of it.
Anyway. The point is, there’s a dry store; a lot of wood; all tempered and ready to go. It’s a bitch to move, more so to get it cut to the right size and hauled to the trailer. It takes until mid afternoon to get it the right size and shape and then until dark to get it under stage. Dear god I could do with another pair of hands. There is a woodwork block but, in a triumph of stupid design, it and the metalwork room, is up a flight of stairs. Getting the wood up there would mean twice the work.
I’m exhausted. I make sure everything is locked up, pick some food up from the kitchens and go to bed. Two of the cats follow and settle in for the night.