She watches the train grow larger down the tracks and twists her hands together. She hasn’t heard anything from Alfred, which was expected granted the limited time frame, but despite this she manages to be well-plagued with anticipation. She is the only person on the platform. Her hair falls in waves about her rigidly held shoulders, and her neatly pleated skirt just barely brushes the filthy stone floor.
The glowing train puffs into the station and she swallows, holding her chin a little higher and allowing thoughts of his return to flit about in her head, distracting her from reality. In the back of her eyelids she can almost see him striding toward her through the crowd. How she’ll run to him and apologise for her reckless and apathetic behaviour.
“Captain Harrison. I didn’t expect to see you here.” He hoists his bag over a shoulder and his eyes travel over her face, seeming to feast on the very sight of it.
“I had to see you.” She bounces slightly on the balls of her feet. “I was so worried the transfer wouldn’t go through.” They are jostled about by the crowd and he guides her off to the side with a gentle hand on her back. They stop in the mouth of an alcove and he sets down his bag, leaning against the wall.
“Might I ask why?” His eyes never leave her face, though she avoids eye contact, fidgeting and questioning the choice of coming here.
“Because I couldn’t stand the thought of you riding out on a suicide mission.”
“Any particular reason?” There is a tentative smile in his voice.
He knows. He knows but he wants to hear her say it.
“Because, Mr. Fielding, it became apparent to me recently that...that …” She flicks her eyes up to meet his., and finishes her thought in a whisper. “That I'm quite fond of you.”
The smile she missed so much splits his face and he holds her twisting hands to still them. “I assure you the feeling is mutual, Captain.”
The shrill train whistle startles her from her imaginings, and the nervous flutter in her chest returns full force. She can barely keep from sprinting to the train and waiting to intercept every passenger as they step off. Doors are pulled open by weary hands, and soldiers spill from the cars. She scans the crowd, ready to run at a moment’s notice, at the briefest glimpse of him.
But she doesn’t spot him. The crowd pushes around her and he is nowhere to be seen. The nerves morph into grating panic. She takes to weaving among them and looking up into their faces, thinking she might have seen him without noticing. She spies the general speaking with the conductor and takes a moment to wrap herself with a facade of calm before approaching him.
“General, excuse me.”
“Might I help you, miss?”
She brushes her hair over a shoulder so he can see the pin she is required to wear with plainclothes.
He chuckles. “Forgive me, Captain Harrison, what a pleasant surprise. I am used to you in uniform. How are you this fine day?”
She smiles. “Very well, sir. I am looking for a soldier, a friend of mine, who was transferred on this train. Do you know where I might find a Sergeant Alfred Fielding?”
A crease forms between his eyebrows. “You say you were friends with Fielding?”
“Yes, sir. I planned on meeting him here before he was deployed to his next area.”
“Well then, Captain, I am sorry to bring you the news.”
She feels her chest cave inward. “Did the transfer not get through?”
He purses his lips and takes her hands in his. “It was received too late. Sergeant Fielding was gunned down in a surprise attack the night before last. He died with six others. They gave the rest of the battalion time to rally.”
All the breath leaves her. “Sir?”
“He isn’t here, Eliza. I’m so sorry.”
The clock chimes and he pats the back of her hands. “Excuse me, Captain. I’ve a meeting.”
He walks off, leaving her once again alone on the platform, the breeze off the departing train blowing her hair about her face.
Wednesday, March 30, 2016
Tuesday, March 29, 2016
new york: pt 2
If you have read anything else here (translation: you do not exist. nobody reads this blog) you know that I'm a bit emotionally and mentally traumatised by dance. I've been fine on-and-off for a while, and I guess I sort of thought about new york bringing back ghosts, but I didn't think anything would bother me that much. Well, let's just say I was wrong and that many a tear was shed in new york.
The first broadway show we went to (The King and I) was at the Vivian Beaumont Theater, which is next to Julliard and Lincoln Centre. In that area there's like the opera house, this giant circular fountain, another theater, and the New York City Ballet. Now you've gotta understand that that is where I always thought I'd end up with dance growing up. That's just what you do. You go to summer intensives and go to SAB and then end up at NYCB. Obviously that never happened, but there's your oh-so-tragic backstory for the protagonist (ME!).
So anyway, I give my friend my camera and go to get a picture in front of it. (My theatre teacher goes, "go that way! get a picture under the actual sign") And when I go to stand under those simple metal letters labeling it as the New York City Ballet I just burst into tears. Like, tears. I calm down enough to get a picture where I'm smiling, but then we go on to the theater to see The King and I. And I can't. stop. crying. I feel like it was a combination of a few things, but mostly just being near NYCB and Julliard and New York and Theaters everywhere and I wanted it so badly. I wanted that future where I was tall and thin and beautiful and talented and dancing everyday in the blinding stage lights for audiences. I wanted that future, and being immersed in it but from the wrong side of the stage like some bizarre nightmare was a little much for me.
And then there's The King and I, where one of the most famous songs is "Shall we Dance?" and the choreography for "Small House of Uncle Thomas" is beautiful and precise and so vibrant. And there's me, sitting in the back top row in jeans that press into the fat on my stomach and hair that hasn't been pinned up or hair-sprayed in months and muscles that aren't in shape but they ache to be on stage. I cried through almost the entire show (that's right, like an emotional idiot.)
While we were in new york, it would hit me at weird times. Sometimes I'd see a woman with her hair up in the subway and she'd look like a dancer and it would hurt. I'd feel my thighs chafing together as we walked and I'd remember every glance in those floor-length mirrors where I hated everything I was, and I'd feel weak for not keeping myself from becoming the fat reflection I've always been terrified of. Oh, and then there was the tour of radio city music hall, and going backstage was familiar in the way that all backstages are to those who have grown up in them. And we met a rockette who was tall and thin and dancing for a living and I wanted to be her so badly I can't describe it. She told us about the height and weight requirements of it and I was crushed all over again, reminded that I was forever going to be a 5'3" girl with giant calves.
But new york opened me up to broadway dancing. To dancing and performing I could enjoy without being a 5'10" 110 lb ballerina. It reminded me why I loved dance and that I'll be hard pressed to try and live without it. So thank you, new york. You've been a pal.
The first broadway show we went to (The King and I) was at the Vivian Beaumont Theater, which is next to Julliard and Lincoln Centre. In that area there's like the opera house, this giant circular fountain, another theater, and the New York City Ballet. Now you've gotta understand that that is where I always thought I'd end up with dance growing up. That's just what you do. You go to summer intensives and go to SAB and then end up at NYCB. Obviously that never happened, but there's your oh-so-tragic backstory for the protagonist (ME!).
So anyway, I give my friend my camera and go to get a picture in front of it. (My theatre teacher goes, "go that way! get a picture under the actual sign") And when I go to stand under those simple metal letters labeling it as the New York City Ballet I just burst into tears. Like, tears. I calm down enough to get a picture where I'm smiling, but then we go on to the theater to see The King and I. And I can't. stop. crying. I feel like it was a combination of a few things, but mostly just being near NYCB and Julliard and New York and Theaters everywhere and I wanted it so badly. I wanted that future where I was tall and thin and beautiful and talented and dancing everyday in the blinding stage lights for audiences. I wanted that future, and being immersed in it but from the wrong side of the stage like some bizarre nightmare was a little much for me.
And then there's The King and I, where one of the most famous songs is "Shall we Dance?" and the choreography for "Small House of Uncle Thomas" is beautiful and precise and so vibrant. And there's me, sitting in the back top row in jeans that press into the fat on my stomach and hair that hasn't been pinned up or hair-sprayed in months and muscles that aren't in shape but they ache to be on stage. I cried through almost the entire show (that's right, like an emotional idiot.)
While we were in new york, it would hit me at weird times. Sometimes I'd see a woman with her hair up in the subway and she'd look like a dancer and it would hurt. I'd feel my thighs chafing together as we walked and I'd remember every glance in those floor-length mirrors where I hated everything I was, and I'd feel weak for not keeping myself from becoming the fat reflection I've always been terrified of. Oh, and then there was the tour of radio city music hall, and going backstage was familiar in the way that all backstages are to those who have grown up in them. And we met a rockette who was tall and thin and dancing for a living and I wanted to be her so badly I can't describe it. She told us about the height and weight requirements of it and I was crushed all over again, reminded that I was forever going to be a 5'3" girl with giant calves.
But new york opened me up to broadway dancing. To dancing and performing I could enjoy without being a 5'10" 110 lb ballerina. It reminded me why I loved dance and that I'll be hard pressed to try and live without it. So thank you, new york. You've been a pal.
Sunday, March 20, 2016
new york: pt 1
I love airports. I've never been sure why, but I love them. I love that everywhere has somewhere they're going for some reason I'll never know, but for that moment when I see them our paths have crossed, if only for that brief segment of time. I love boarding planes and I love the feeling of lifting off and flying higher than any building reaches.
This past week, I went on a theatre trip to new york. We left on friday afternoon and arrived friday night. Forgive me if I tell this story in the present tense. It feels as though I could still be there, if I close my eyes.
I am supposed to have a middle seat, but the woman who has the ticket for the wall doesn't want to sit there, so I offered to move over. I have a blank stretch of wall, but if I squish my face up between the wall and seat of the woman in front of me I can catch sections of the airport tarmac and welcoming sky through her window. The take off is smooth, and anticipation flutters in my chest with the lurch of the plane into the air. I love flying.
There is something spectacular about the sky from above. Looking up at it from the ground it seems rather 2 dimensional, I think; some curved expanse of solid color, perhaps painted with a variety of clouds or stars or winged things. From above, however, it is entirely different. One is immersed in the solid stretch of color, and it becomes a place to exist inside of. We pass above clouds made of pulled apart cotton swabs and they take the form of an undulating pearl-white sea, rippling around the plane. I am in this great metal ship, sailing through this milky ocean that is infinitely more insubstantial than it appears. And we are so used to such technology! My fellow passengers are buried in books or laptops or slumber, unaware or uncaring of the absolute miracle of flying. They close the blinds on their windows and lay back into their synthetic seats just as if we are on a bus rather than a plane. I nod off at some point as well, I will admit, as time drags on with no apparent change in setting and my face develops pressed stripes from the seat against one cheek. From my position it is all but impossible to watch cities come and go on the ground. I find it very difficult to remain alert while the lull of an engine sings the day into dusk, and I sleep through the stewardesses offering complimentary drinks.
When I awake once more it is nighttime. The smooth blue fabric of the sky has been switched out for a more appropriate star-studded black. I squish my face up near to the window to watch our destination approach. From above, new york resembles a child's art project. Swirls and lines of glue and handfuls of glitter. It shines, it really does. Parallel lines of glinting white and red indicate streets, crowded even this late at night. The tiny buildings layer and flash with lit windows. We are still too high to fully appreciate the height of the buildings, but even from this altitude new york bears the humble arrogance of being unapologetically alive. The shining blocks and avenues run right up to the edge of the inky sea and lakes; black glass forcing the city to take a breath. Bridges span the waters with ease, and the skyscrapers bloom and sprout up around us as we approach our landing airport.
I step off the plane into this new city, into this airport with rows of black chairs close together and a wall welcoming us to new york. We walk to luggage claim and it smells of exhaust and rubber with a stale undertone reminiscent of the stagnant air in greyhound bus stations. We step out into the cold evening air and stand on the sidewalk, watching taxis and buses drive by. Everything is falling apart in that beautifully used-through sort of way. Smoke puffs up from some undisclosed space, blowing through cigarette after giant invisible cigarette. Everything is flashing or glinting dully in the moonlight, begging my attention at every turn.
We board this old bus with the most comfortable seats I have ever sat in. I am so empty of food and so full of excitement my insides are churning and dancing.
I am in new york.
This past week, I went on a theatre trip to new york. We left on friday afternoon and arrived friday night. Forgive me if I tell this story in the present tense. It feels as though I could still be there, if I close my eyes.
I am supposed to have a middle seat, but the woman who has the ticket for the wall doesn't want to sit there, so I offered to move over. I have a blank stretch of wall, but if I squish my face up between the wall and seat of the woman in front of me I can catch sections of the airport tarmac and welcoming sky through her window. The take off is smooth, and anticipation flutters in my chest with the lurch of the plane into the air. I love flying.
There is something spectacular about the sky from above. Looking up at it from the ground it seems rather 2 dimensional, I think; some curved expanse of solid color, perhaps painted with a variety of clouds or stars or winged things. From above, however, it is entirely different. One is immersed in the solid stretch of color, and it becomes a place to exist inside of. We pass above clouds made of pulled apart cotton swabs and they take the form of an undulating pearl-white sea, rippling around the plane. I am in this great metal ship, sailing through this milky ocean that is infinitely more insubstantial than it appears. And we are so used to such technology! My fellow passengers are buried in books or laptops or slumber, unaware or uncaring of the absolute miracle of flying. They close the blinds on their windows and lay back into their synthetic seats just as if we are on a bus rather than a plane. I nod off at some point as well, I will admit, as time drags on with no apparent change in setting and my face develops pressed stripes from the seat against one cheek. From my position it is all but impossible to watch cities come and go on the ground. I find it very difficult to remain alert while the lull of an engine sings the day into dusk, and I sleep through the stewardesses offering complimentary drinks.
When I awake once more it is nighttime. The smooth blue fabric of the sky has been switched out for a more appropriate star-studded black. I squish my face up near to the window to watch our destination approach. From above, new york resembles a child's art project. Swirls and lines of glue and handfuls of glitter. It shines, it really does. Parallel lines of glinting white and red indicate streets, crowded even this late at night. The tiny buildings layer and flash with lit windows. We are still too high to fully appreciate the height of the buildings, but even from this altitude new york bears the humble arrogance of being unapologetically alive. The shining blocks and avenues run right up to the edge of the inky sea and lakes; black glass forcing the city to take a breath. Bridges span the waters with ease, and the skyscrapers bloom and sprout up around us as we approach our landing airport.
I step off the plane into this new city, into this airport with rows of black chairs close together and a wall welcoming us to new york. We walk to luggage claim and it smells of exhaust and rubber with a stale undertone reminiscent of the stagnant air in greyhound bus stations. We step out into the cold evening air and stand on the sidewalk, watching taxis and buses drive by. Everything is falling apart in that beautifully used-through sort of way. Smoke puffs up from some undisclosed space, blowing through cigarette after giant invisible cigarette. Everything is flashing or glinting dully in the moonlight, begging my attention at every turn.
We board this old bus with the most comfortable seats I have ever sat in. I am so empty of food and so full of excitement my insides are churning and dancing.
I am in new york.
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