Seeing the Way

by Violet Rook

The bus was late, so we just stood in the wind and waited.  It looked like rain. It was Sunday, a day for sunbathingon a beach or going shopping in the local mall. Instead I was sitting on a bus heading for the new library.  Watching the traffic forcing its way into the car park of the huge local supermarket and the shopping trolleys layen with cases or cans of liquid refreshment forcing their way back to cars. A silent pursuit of observation, as the bus made its way to the town.

All life passes by when one is on a bus.  It is different from driving a car, one as time to observe without the world realizing that you are observing.  It is like a theatre only the actors move, the scenes move while the audience is moving yet still. A woman walks across a street being just missed by a car, while a young man shouts at his girlfriend who rants and raves, pushes him and then they kiss and  then go arm in arm.  This is a silent movie seen via the bus window.Another play within a play was the memory of standing still in a foyer while the play past by me.

In a reflective mood,  standing in a foyer, the doors opened and Richard 11 came by me in flowing red robes his high heels clunking on the wooden floor.  This was the foyer of the Courtyard Theatre, Stratford.  It was 10.30am on a Saturday and I was about to see the History Trilogy.   Then another player in medieval costume came rushing out.  Everyone present was stunned into silence.  We the latecomers felt part of the play.    The sound of silence united those present in the wonder of the theatre, being in the 21^st century, but being transported back to dates and times in history by such a sight.  The play had come to the audience, or were we in a Reality TV show? A thought came into being as the journey progressed.

The mind raced and changed a gear going to a more recent moment. Present at a GCE examination, the subject was history, again the silence said everything.  Forty teenagers, heads down, pen in hand fighting the clock in an effort to win that precious qualification.  No mobiles with catchy tunes or headphones in the ears or Ipod at the waist.  The aspect of watching history  in progress, being in the scene yet standing apart from it, is often a difficult concept.

All the world is a stage yet in the race to get somewhere, the flowers growing, the birdsong, peoples hopes and fears are often not seen. Just the smell of petrol causing us to cough, or the noise of engines drowning out words, greets us travelling into town.