Hello, it is nice to see some familiar faces! I know you’re not all used to this whole, performance thing but it’s just me, Natalie, Natty, Hi. So this is just me talking to each of you, I’ll also be Performing, but it’s still me under it all. Now that you’re all here I’m supposed to tell you a story. That’s, kind of the point of this whole thing; me being here, you being here. (All of this (gesture at set) will come into it a bit later, it’s my way of processing things.) But the whole, construct that we’re working with means that you’re going to listen to me, whether you enjoy yourselves or hate every second is kind of by the by, that’s down to you as much as it is down to me. But, enjoyment aside, I have 10-12 minutes of your attention, give or take. And when I realised that, suddenly this felt like a pretty serious responsibility, that is, actually telling you a story. I mean, which story do I tell, whose story is worth telling, what story do you want to hear, why do I need to tell it? Do you want my story? It’s probably not all that different from yours, I mean, we’re all on the same page here, our chapter titles will have been almost identical, I little variation in actual content and character count but essentially the same story arc has led us here. And now, now we’re faced, not just with a new chapter but an entirely new sequel and I’m questioning, everything. What I have/n’t learnt. What I have/n’t been taught. What I know. What I can and should do with that knowledge.
How do I mould all of that into 12 minutes of story? Sure, at this point in my life I’ve read a fair few…
If the Great Library in which we stand, some call it the universe, contains all. Every story that is, has been and will be exists within this great library for I declare that the library is endless, infinite. Though today we stand in just one of an endless number of rooms. Temple touch Here, each is constructed just as this one is, with six sides and four bookcases each holding 32 books of 410 pages, each page of 40 lines each line of approximately 40 letters, standing side by side, on every side, and one on top of the other, each with a single square shaft through which one can glimpse the others, continuing on from one another endlessly, and so know the limitlessness of the great library.
There is no combination of characters one can make that the divine library has not forseen, for the Library is total, perfect, complete and whole. For every rational line or forth-right statement there are leagues of senseless cacophony, verbal nonsense and incoherency. The certainty that everything has already been written, annuls us.
What redeems this gesture round room is the idea only. An idea at the back of it; not a sentimental pretence but an idea
because, I miss the way geometry of belief made me feel safe.
All I know now is, everything is not as it’s sold. The past, present and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present.
We do not grow chronologically, along a straight path. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are made up of cells, layers, constellations. And the more I grow, the less I know.
If there is a limit to all things and a measure
And a last time and nothing more and forgetfulness
If we cross our bridges as we come to them and burn them behind us so we have nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and the presumption that once our eyes watered. What else can I say but the truth?
When I am dead, compassionate hands will throw me over the railing, my tomb will be the unfathomable air, my body will sink for ages, and will decay and dissolve in the wind engendered by my fall, which will be infinite.
Do I dare disturb the universe?
I’m off track, rambling, miles from the story you came to see,
Had I skill in speech to make my will quite clear.
I want to know, why is it that we simply know and ‘love’ and remember the stories we are told we must read, Those stories and simply accept them as the ones we should in fact read, without question?
Clearly no one expects to discover anything. And yet, I think, therefore I am, I wonder how it is then, tell me this, if every story has been written why hasn’t every tale been told?
What if I could tell you a story that you had never heard, for you had never sought to find it?
This is my goal, methodological composition distracts me from the present condition of humanity because you see Everyone cares what everybody thinks but nobody cares about anyone. If that wasn’t the way we wouldn’t have this story, but it is and we do and it is time to tell it. Though One must be careful of books, and what is inside them, for words have the power to change us…
They say when trouble comes, close ranks. And so the white people did.
But, we were not in Their ranks…
When I asked her why so few people came to see us, she told me that the road from town to the Estate – where we lived – was very bad and that road repairing was now a thing of the past.
My father, visitors, horses, feeling safe in bed all belonged in the past
One morning, my mother’s horse was lying under a tree, he was not sick, he was dead
I ran away and did not speak of it. I thought if I told no one it might not be true.
“Now we are marooned” she said. “Now what will become of us.”
She tied my plaits with string; there was no money for ribbon.
I got used to a solitary life.
Until Mr Mason
I was a bridesmaid when my mother married Mr Mason and Everyone came to see them. There was music and laughing and dancing
**Dance?! He didn’t come here to dance, he came to make money. The big estates are going cheap.**
**A fantastic marriage and he will regret it! She is not like the English girls, she will put up a fight.**
They were happy.
She road into town with him for he brought more horses. She showed him the hidden roads through the hills…
He took her to parties and they held them too for he repaired the house and brought the staff back again
And I, was sent away to school…
When I returned, she had been sent away too.
“Your mother is looked after there, she is, very, unwell”
I did not speak of it, I thought if I told no one it might not be true
“You may not visit”
I got used to a solitary life.
Until Mr Rochester…
Mr Mason introduced us…
“I have asked some English friends to visit us here, you won’t be dull? I want you to be happy, secure, I’ve tried to arrange it. We’ll talk about it later.”
-Say nothing and?-
When at last we met I played the part I was supposed to play, for better or for worse
He did not like our honeymoon house, hidden from view by the trees.
I have seen to everything, arranged, everything. We shall not linger long here. You will be most at home at Thornfield, Bertha.
But what about, happiness I thought at first, is there no happiness? There must be. Oh, happiness, of course. Happiness, well.
He liked the rum, very much, and the maid, even more so.
If I told no one it might not be true.
**The marriage made him a wealthy man but now his father and brother have died he’s inherited everything – Some people are fortunate.
If you imagine this gentleman is the devil you never made a greater mistake in your life. I knew him as a boy, as a young man, he was gentle, generous, brave. His journey has changed him. **
It is always cold here, in this room, cold and grey, with its locked door hidden from the passage by a tapestry…
There is one window, high up, you cannot see out of it.
There is not much else here. Everything is made of cardboard.
Please take me away from this place where it is so cold and grey, I think I am dying.
If I told no one it all might not be true
I am very unwell
It isn’t like it seems to be.
Where is fantasy read, in the heart or in the head?
Don’t ask me.
I wouldn’t know the difference anyway.
She didn’t actually say all this. Not like I can.
But for a moment, I can make you care about her, even if she’s not real.
She was lost in her longing to understand.
So it goes.
I’m starting to understand things: It’s is not about telling the truth.
It’s about telling the version of a story
that gets the most reaction,
the one that flows the best,
But I can hear the inhalation of truth in between breaths of poetry.
Maybe the truth
Isn’t supposed to rhyme so well.
Because aren’t we all unfinished?
Don’t we all need a little editing?
Aren’t we all waiting to be proofread by someone?
Aren’t we all praying they will tell us that we make sense?
All the real people? They’re really not real at all.
That’s you, this is me, we are. We are.
Take a deep breath and listen to the old brag of your heart; I am, I am, I am.
You have to carry on living because the world doesn’t stop for any of us.
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees For a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft, animal of your body love what it loves.
My heart beats and breaks. A successive machine that doesn’t know when to start or how to stop. But I think it will keep on going. My heart beats and breaks, but I think I will keep on because I have so much to give.
I have spread my dreams under your feet.
Everything changes. You can make A fresh start with your final breath, say goodbye to a way of life you thought you had designed. But what has happened has happened. And the water You once poured into the wine cannot be Drained off again. What has happened has happened. The water You once poured into the wine cannot be Drained off again.
At any rate, that is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great.
I am cheered by that but must leave you with this and urge you to remember; it is not as it seems to be.