The Epinoia of Light

lies.

ONE

…And of you, at nature’s dawn, when the flowers are in bloom, during the mist o’er the morn. Then enflame within me, nature’s light, that of the stars that I see only in your eyes… At nature’s dawn, whence your presence fills the room, and absent of you, what shall I do?

I was mesmerised. Captivated. The words when spoken carried shapes, not just sounds. They were smooth, curved, round, and sparkled an array of colours – a kaleidoscope of magnificence. I was amazed; tears in my eyes, and had it not been for the presence of others, yes, admittedly, I would have cried.

And then Donald spoke.

In time, from this line thy words shall carry away, evaporating like the mist in the morn. And, you shall continue, ne’er the less, without thy words to accompany thee…

His voice croaked, sounding weak, full of pathos and pity. He was ruining it. All of it. Two and a half hours of arduous labour, trying to get it right; and here, at the finale, he was ruining the entire night.

...Shall I ne’er more come to thee, far away they shall carry me, but solace save in your heart, for e’er more…

The light on Donald dimmed, and now lit up Antoinette. She turned to face him, though did not look at him as she was not supposed to be able to see him. Her face alone carried so much emotion that language felt redundant. What emotion can language capture that an expression cannot? The limitations of words appeared to me, all too evidently. No, I silently compelled her from behind the stage; no, do not speak, not a word, neither a syllable nor a sound; just stand, motionless; beauty coupled with melancholy gracing your most precious face. Face the audience to let them see just how amazing…

Surely there must be a better place, where love truly can flourish. What life is this, when such love is brief, momentary and fleeting? Is there a time another where there shall be a greeting of our hearts, before we depart? Alas, my love, take solace, I love you like no other, as you glide through nature’s lights, recall past times in which we did delight…

Tears swelled again in my eyes. There were harmonies in her voice, an intonation of pure curvature, smoothly gliding upwards and downwards, gently oscillating, fluctuating, tugging my heart to and fro, high and low; as the motion of the rhythms of the tides, not unlike the swirl of the Northern Lights. How I wanted to comfort her, to reassure her that things would be fine – in fact, they would be sublime, because all wounds are healed over time; and I had the magic to help her heal once she would again start to feel. Oh, Antoinette… I could have wept.

And then Donald spoke.

E’er more shall those rains fall. No, I implore thee not to accompany melancholy, but, rather, live again. Waste not these precious earth years in sorrow, lamenting all…

The light on Antoinette had dimmed and lit up the other half of the stage, where Donald was lying in bed. True, he was sick, making his final utterances. But his voice was grating: a monotone, a whisper, driving me to despair; no more could I bear.

Get up! I yelled, having momentarily taken leave of my surroundings. Get up! Get out of bed…

Heads turned; eyes fixed upon me. But I wasn’t in the least bit aware of the attention I’d drawn to myself, for I was far too caught up in the emotion of it all.

Move! I commanded Donald. Move! Don’t just lay there, mumbling, pitifully, feeling sorry for yourself… Just… you… and…

Coherent sentences were a struggle to form; my mouth opening and closing to no effect. It felt as though there were too many words to say, and that they were all trying to come out at the same time, consequently causing a bottle-neck where they were all jammed in my throat, tailing back to my mind. Unable to speak, I instead waved my arms, like an irate Italian.

I’m sick, Donald said, as if I’d forgotten. And I’m dying.

So? I shouted at him. So what?

So what? Jameson, the director, a half-wit, yelled at me. He’s breathing his last words, what do you expect him to do? Summersaults?

He climbed up onto the stage and was about to order me off, but the emotion was still in me; I wasn’t done.

He’s saying farewell to the love of his life, I shrieked incredulously. Look at him, just lying there… Where’s his passion? Where’s his fervour? His zeal? For love commands passion.

He’s on the verge of dying! shouted Jameson, almost pulling his hair out. He’s been sick for months, for years…

All the more reason to show passion, to have one final burst… Get up! I again shouted at Donald. Get out of bed! Go to her! Crawl to her if you must! Make your words sing – shout! Let the audience hear the anguish and pain that comes from your heart! Let Antoinette know that even when you are at death’s door you are capable of doing anything for her! You’re hundreds of miles apart, so call to her, as if…

This wasn’t how it was in real life! Jameson shouted at me. "Haven’t you done the research? Don’t you know anything? He died peacefully in bed, thinking about the love of his life. He didn’t go crawling around, bawling his eyes out… going, I love you, I love you!"

But this is not real life, I shouted back at him. This is better than real life. This is drama. This is a stage where anything can happen. We can make the story ten-fold, a hundred times better if we dramatise. We could have the entire audience wrought with emotion.

There followed a silence. It was awkward. It was tense. And in that tense-awkward moment, it dawned on me what I had just done.

Get out, Jameson said quietly, though sternly, through gritted teeth. Get out! this time he shouted, pointing at the exit.

I looked apologetically at him, pleading for forgiveness.

Go on! he yelled, his voice echoing around the empty theatre. Get out!

I turned, now fully conscious of the eyes upon me, feeling mortified and ridiculous. Reluctantly, I trudged away, hanging my head in shame while walking off stage.

Philistine! he called out after me. And don’t come back. Ever!

Ever?

Never!

TWO

I walked away in a daze, having surprised myself with my outburst, my unprofessionalism, my sheer stupidity. Why had I let my emotion get the better of me? How had I got so enraptured in a play? Why couldn’t I have been as the others, and kept my thoughts to myself?

I sought solitude in a coffee shop, trudging down the street, through the drizzle, with my head hung low in despondency. Lamentations were soon replaced by thoughts of Antoinette. I thought of her as I walked. I thought of her as I ordered my coffee. I thought of her as I sat down. I thought of her as I sat staring with gloominess out of the window at the raindrops running down the window, like tears running down a cheek.

Ah, dearest love, sweet home of all my fears, and hopes and joys and panting miseries. Tonight, if I may guess, thy beauty wears a smile of such delight.

Antoinette? What words could I express? None. So I sat gormless instead.

Isn’t it amazing? she smiled. How he managed to express that… I don’t know what you call it… but he just had a way with words…

Say something interesting, I told myself. Say something intelligent and witty in one sentence. Don’t be a fool – just play it cool.

Yeah… yeah…

Mind if I join you?

Yeah… I mean, no… no…

She went away to order coffee and I wasn’t sure what was happening. During two and a half months of rehearsals, we had never spoken. I had simply stood from afar, in silent admiration; in admiration of her ability to act with such conviction; and her ability to shine, basking in all the warmth of her glow. Largely, I had considered myself invisible to her. Perhaps my outburst had impressed, however. Perhaps she had seen through my foolish antics and could appreciate them for the well-intentioned antics that they were supposed to be.

Bit stupid what you did back then, she told me, returning with a coffee.

Yeah… yeah…

We all know Jameson can be an arse, but none of us say it; you’re not supposed to say it. You can think it, but don’t ever say it.

Yeah… yeah…

Some of the stuff Keats wrote, I mean, mind blowing. And I know what you mean, when you were telling Donald to get up, because the words exude passion, and they lift you, they should do. Don’t you think?

Yeah… yeah…

Well, obviously you do; you made that clear enough.

Yeah…

I thought we should have put the other verses in, from the other poems. I thought it would’ve made sense and been novel if we mixed the poems up. I told Jameson, but he just scoffed at the idea – not because he didn’t like it, just because it wasn’t his idea. But those verses from the other poems which I put together were really relevant and would’ve worked well.

Yeah... yeah…

Why are you agreeing? You don’t know which poems I’m talking about.

Yeah… no... I mean…

It was imperative I say something, if not witty and intelligent, then at least relevant and appropriate. In other words, all I had to do was say something which wasn’t stupid or inane.

The overall concept you were talking about, I’m in complete agreement with.

She sipped her coffee, looking at me curiously over the rim of her cup. Had I done enough? Had I managed to say something without making myself look even more stupid than I had already done?

She put down her cup and gazed out of the window, looking through the people walking past, as if they weren’t there, as if she could see something else, and her eyes drifted skywards, as her demeanour altered slightly, softening slightly.

I cry your mercy, pity, love – ay, love! Merciful love that tantalises not. One-thoughted, never wandering, guileless love.

The words almost appeared irrelevant, but the intonation, those shapes and sounds she was able to produce, coupled with that distant look in her wonderful eyes, had me enraptured; wholly captured.

Isn’t it beautiful? she smiled; and I wish she hadn’t smiled, for it only melt my heart further.

Yeah…

What do you think he was going on about?

I knew not. I knew nothing certain at the time, other than the fact that I was falling in love with Antoinette. How could I not? I pulled my gaze away from her mesmeric eyes and looked out to the grey and cloudy skies. ‘Focus’, I told myself. ‘Say something impressive. Dazzle and enchant her with your words, as Keats did with Miss Brawne. You may never get another chance.’

Well, I think…

Hi, Antoinette. Sorry, did I keep you long?

Who else?

No, that’s fine. Shall we get going?

Donald.

I need to stop in at Sainsbury’s on the way, if that’s ok?

She stood up and he pecked her on the cheek. My heart sank, but I smiled, covering well my disappointment and jealousy.

Bad luck with what you did in there, Donald said to me, as if I should have known better – which I should have done. We all know that Jameson’s an arse, but don’t say it, just think it.

I could only smile, but really I wanted to take my coffee and pour it over him. I hadn’t really forgiven him for his listless performance on stage. ‘How could you?’ I wanted to shout at him. ‘How could you just lay in bed mumbling sorrowfully, knowing that you would not see the love of your life ever again? Where was your passion? Bring Keats’ words to life, you imbecile. Can you not see how amazing this woman is? Would you not crawl on your hands and knees and shout out your love for her with your final breath? Would you not move mountains, swim oceans…?’

So, it’s the unemployment queue for you, is it? he asked without any tact.

No… yeah… I mean, no… but just for a while… I’ll get some other work…

Not in theatre you won’t, he very matter-of-factly told me. Not if Jameson has anything to do with it.

THREE

Back at the flat, no sooner had I stepped through the door than Grant came to the fore.

Stop! he called.

I waited for something more, but there was none. He stood there, hair a mess, looking ruffled, wide-eyed; in one hand, a bottle of red.

Well?

He gasped, taking a deep breath, and stepped back dramatically.

Well? Well? You ask me, well?

Look, I’ve had a really crap day…

It’s about to get worse.

I took my coat off, threw down my bag and headed to the kitchen.

No! he called out, seizing my arm and yanking me back into the living room. No!

What is it?

What is it? It’s…

He turned towards the kitchen; a frightened look appearing on his face.

What’s happened?

He only shook his head, furrowing his brow, clearly troubled; a look of fear etched over his face. Slowly I edged towards the kitchen, and stood at the door; the two of us peering in cautiously.

What’s going on, Grant?

There are things… in there, he whispered. Things. Living things.

Where?

There, he whispered, looking over at the sink which was packed with dishes.

Don’t worry. We just need to wash up.

I stepped into the kitchen but he pulled me back.

No! You cannot. You do not understand. There are things which are alive in there.

What do you mean?

I can’t say…

He drifted off as I scratched my chin, looking curiously at the sink. The washing up hadn’t been done for several days – or perhaps it was a week – or several weeks – or not since I’d started working – which was two and a half months ago. We had gone through every plate, cup and bowl in the house a while ago, but rather than wash up we took to buying plastic plates which we would just throw out. The situation had clearly become untenable.

It’s ok, I’m just going to wash up, I reassured Grant, who looked to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

No, you do not understand. In the sink, things have grown, festered…

It’s ok, it needs to be done.

I stepped into the kitchen but he, again, yanked me out.

Have some of this first, he advised, pushing the bottle of red into my face.

I took his advice. Then, with my courage renewed, I walked confidently over to the sink. There I undertook the task of washing up. It was indescribable – both the sight and the smell – better not to describe it. Grant, meanwhile, paced back and forth telling me about his day, which sounded very much like every other day he had.

Couldn’t do it… Couldn’t do it, he bemoaned. Started to do it… Did a little bit… But then could do no more…

Ever since I’d known him he’d been writing an album, a novel, and a musical, all about the same thing. While time had passed, his creative productivity seemed to be stuck in a constant rut, a listless dim.

Wrote the first verse, then tore it up. Wrote another verse, then tore it up. So I gave up. Then wrote half a chapter. It was awful, awful. Tore it up. Wrote a few bars on the piano for the musical, but then scrapped it. And at the end of the day, I found myself back where I had started, only a bottle of wine down.

As I scrubbed the grime from the plates, trying not to look at what had grown on them, Grant went on.

Damn it! Damn it!

What’s wrong? asked Tom, the other housemate.

What’s wrong? chuckled Grant. What’s right, more like? Yeah, why don’t you answer me that? What’s right?

What you doing? Tom asked me, ignoring Grant.

Washing up.

Why?

We got through all the paper plates and cups.

I’ll get some more, yeah?

No, it needs to be done. Stuff’s growing.

What’s wrong? shouted Grant, more to himself. Take a look at the world, and you tell me what’s right.

The pair of them went to the living room where they embarked on a conversation about something. After twenty minutes of washing up, which I found strangely therapeutic because I wasn’t thinking about how I was going to pay next month’s rent, I joined them.

…And then I thought I’d pulled the moon out of the sky.

Tom sat grinning, nodding his head, while Grant absorbed this information in some fascination.

Wow… muttered Grant after a short while. Wow… You pulled the moon out the sky?

No, I didn’t actually pull it out of the sky, it just felt like I’d done, yeah? I thought I had done, just for a split second, yeah?

That must’ve been incredible, mused Grant, sitting forward and trying to comprehend how it must feel to pull the moon out of the sky.

It was mental, yeah? I’m telling you, I reached up, and sort of, accidentally, just got hold of it, yeah? Like it got in the way, yeah? And it felt like I’d pulled it out of the sky… And that, basically, was the best part of my day.

What are you talking about? I asked Tom, collapsing onto an armchair. There’s no moon during the day.

But there was, he grinned. And if it weren’t for that, my day would’ve been well crap.

You’re so lucky, Grant told him. To have had that experience. How many others can say that they thought they had pulled the moon from the sky? How many others of these billions of people on the planet, have had the sensation of achieving such an incredible accomplishment? Not many, I assure you.

I sat contemplating how it would feel to pull the moon from the sky. Would it always present with such an amazing sensation? Would the sensation be so amazing, in fact, that life would never be the same again? Everything would feel second rate; nothing would compare; whatever you would do after that would only...

What about you? How was your day, yeah?

Me?

How could I tell them? I couldn’t. But I had to. But I couldn’t.

You’ve done something stupid, haven’t you? smiled Grant.

I sighed.

I knew it! What is it? Can’t wait for this. Go on…

It was nothing…

Did you burn down the theatre?

What? No, don’t be stupid.

Did you throw paint at someone?

What?

How about an egg. Did you egg someone?

What are you talking about?

Then tell us!

I did my best to explain.

It’s the guy who’s playing the role of Keats…

You’re his understudy, yeah?

Yeah, and, in a nutshell, he just really pissed me off with his lame acting…

So? smiled Grant, unable to sit still, as though he had