Archive | April, 2017

Through the Window

11 Apr

Except when he turns his gaze inward, the writer is always looking through the window, in a literal or metaphorical sense. Certainly, that’s what I’m doing with my current project. I stand in the corridor of a train, looking through the windows of the compartments, examining the lives of the passengers. Or I adopt their perspective, looking out at the world from their seats.

When I’m not working from home, I have a favourite place to sit and write. Fuelled by coffee, I sit upstairs in the bar and type. From time to time, I look out of the window at the street below and observe the dramas being played out there. It’s the writer’s job to take the fragments he sees and imagine them into a whole. 

That theatre comprises a number of elements. The backdrop features a church tower, a Georgian terrace and a car park. On stage are a motorbike stand, a few parking spaces, a dilapidated telephone box and a concrete bench. There’s a wall dividing the car park from the foreground, over which actors may peer. In front of all of this is the performance space. Old men sit on the bench and smoke. People wait on the corner, examining their phones. Motorcyclists come and go. Minor villains arrive in BMWs, their heads shaven and white shirts pristine. The telephone box is the exclusive province of the derelicts and drug-users. 

This is what I saw yesterday. A woman and her two sons entered stage right. They waited on the corner in the shade of the tall tree. After a while, a man and a small girl approached them, hand-in-hand from stage left. The family had divided while its members visited different shops, and now father and daughter were returning. But something wasn’t right. The girl had become inconsolable. The man sought to comfort her. The boys kicked indifferently at the dry earth around the tree, chewing on confectionery. This will be their education. At last, the man turned to go. The child was still crying. He walked off alone. I observed the look on his face as he headed for the wings. Ah, yes. And I remember. I remember exactly how that feels. 

This scene, played out time and again on the contemporary stage, leaves no one fulfilled. I can only tell you what I have learnt. It’s not much. We have to remember to be kind to one another, to set aside our petty grievances, not to put our own desires before all else. We need to think of the small cast with whom we share the stage, to treat them as real people. Our common humanity is all we have. 

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I shan’t be looking at that view for much longer. The bar is closing and its future is uncertain. No doubt, I’ll find a new window, new street dramas to observe.  

All text and images © PSR 2017