Making Someone Disappear

In our first proper session the performers were asked to deliver/improvise direct address on: apologising for disappearing in banal circumstances (eg going out to work, leaving the dog alone, getting on a bus).  They were then asked to make the switch to apologising for making someone else disappear.  The following text springs from one performer's improvised text on putting a parent into a residential care home - (in particular a line about curtains).

I am imagining that A is spoken by 3 performers, whilst B, the elderly parent is continually played by the same performer.  Maybe the A actors hold B central by a long cloth they all grip at the end.  Perhaps B is physically twisting the As, or the As are twisting B.

A and B are on separate trajectories.  They either cannot hear each other or don't want to hear:

A:         I mean, it’s not so bad here, is it?  You’ve got curtains.  The commode next to the bed is handy; should cut down on those embarrassing incidents for you.  And look, the bedspread matches the curtains: very smart.  Much better than what you had at home, with that mangy old headboard.  You’ve got a phone, too.  It’s not like you’re going to be cut off from the outside world.

B:         I’m spinning, I’m spinning – I can’t keep still. The house, me and everything I own is going round and around and around.  Twisting, twisting, twisting out my guts.  We’re up here dancing in the air, we’re safe.

A:         I bet they’ll get your medication sorted out as well.  I mean, I’m sure that’s why you kept collapsing or fainting or whatever you say it was.

B:         Spinning and twisting.  Then all of a sudden a thud: My eyes must have shut tight on impact, but when I open them…Jesus fucking Christ.  The whole world is shining – colours brighter than you can imagine - all the dreary sepia gone - like a star shining straight through my window.

A:         There’s a telly room downstairs.  I’ve checked it out.  Some of them are chatting.  They seem all right; not all got their heads in their laps.  I mean, you could make friends.  There might be some of your old favourite films on.

B:         Stripy legs buried under the house; mad monkey creatures and a woman with a green face.  Don’t turn nightmare on me.  I don’t want this dream.

A:         I really hope you don’t blame me for getting this organised.  I’m doing what I think is best – for you.  It wasn’t an option to stay as you were, you know that don’t you?  You’ll feel uprooted for a bit but I’m sure you’ll settle in.

B:         Stare blindly at the screen whilst the colours turn sepia?  I don’t think so, little pipsqueak too scared to come out of the curtains!  Get me a woman with a wand or at the very least my red slippers.  They must be in my suitcase, or my holdall or that Tesco bag.  Click, click, click.

A:         I do love you.  I do love you, Mum.  This is hard you know; as hard for me as it is for you in some ways.

B:         Turn it over.  Fred and Ginger are on the other side.  Flick the switch.  I’ve twisted long and hard enough for one day.  Give me my tablets. Close the door.  Turn up the lights before you go.