Marcelle Schmitz captures the ambiance, characters and chaos
of a train ride to Central Station.
The train didn’t stop at Newtown yesterday. Another young man had killed himself. As we pull through this grey morning, I can’t help looking to see if there’s any, what, any evidence, any blood, any….remains. Something that proves that it happened, though I know it did. Or maybe this curiosity is pure morbidity. But there was no sign, no stain, no bunch of flowers. Just the usual throng of workers and crazies, hopers and no-hopers surging towards the doors and stuffing the carriage with smells and body mass and noise. Multi-layered voices and arbitrary music fills the space. Volume, pitch and rhythm lurching wildly, randomly into a symphonic cacophany of monologue, dialogue, multi-logue, shout and whisper, and I find myself selectively tuning in, and out. How to recreate this in the theatre? How to orchestrate such intricate, complex patterns? The cuing, timing, shifts in volume and tone, not to mention content, meaning…..plus the surround-sound-ness…. and it’s the shapelessness, the un-orchestratedness, that makes it live…. Caryl Churchill only uses two voices…..you’d have to improvise. Tuning in.
Yeah, she’s gotta get forty more votes. ….An ipad 2. …..An ipad 2, that’s what she can win if she gets enough votes……Facebook….. Nah, me either I thought it was shit but still, she could get an ipad 2 and she’ll let me use it. I’ll make her let me use it. It’s got iOp, imovies, imessage, imail, itunes icloud… I know. Gotta go. Message me later. And vote for her even if you did hate it. …….. No. Coz I got hacked. I got hacked and somebody’s been using it. I know. I know but the bank said they can’t close the account. I don’t know they just said they couldn’t. ……Well dad said he’d lend me some but he’s fifo now so I have to wait till he gets back. I’ve still got my other ones. Yeah just the Mastercard. No it was from ebay. E-bay. Remember when I bought those shoes, my yellow ones? Yeah well I paid it on my Mastercard on Ebay and … Oh what, but you said you were gonna wait for me, we were gonna go together. How long will you be there, will you still be there when I finish? I wanna go shopping with you I need some lipstick.
Tune out. Lipstick. Need. Really? Can one really need lipstick? The boy who killed himself, don’t ask why. There’s no reason and every reason. Out the window it’s drizzling as we pull into Central. An old man sleeps with his bottle, a young man on his Iphone nearby.
I pad, I phone, I Op, I movie, I message, I mail, I tune, I cloud… I know. Message me later. I. I. I. I know. Another young man is dead. Gen X Gen Y Gen I…I.I. I know. No-one’s to blame. How can you blame them, who can you blame.
But it’s I. I. I. All the way in the wheelbarrow. To hell. Which is here. On a train. Not that I’m above them, not that I’m below. I’m amongst. Amongst. And trying to get by. But this I. This I. This I is driving me in the wheelbarrow. To here. To Central.