I sit alone in an empty basement surrounded by props, boxes, costumes, even a piano or two. In rooms above and to the side, groups congregate to either learn new material, or hone routines they should have memorized weeks ago. There's an energy here, unseen, but definitely felt. Even when empty, the building's alive with ghosts.
The basement's where the public doesn't visit, similar to the butcher shop where the delicious product is prepared, few want to see where the process takes place. It's where lines are delivered over and over again, songs are sung until voices give out, feet in uncomfortable shoes practice steps until blisters pop and heels bleed. It's where blood, sweat, and tears can be seen, can be felt, can be experienced. It's where people who do not have to be here dedicate their time for the enjoyment of others.
There's costumes, hanging like skin, waiting to be animated again. There's tables, chairs, desks, carts frozen in place until called upon. There's memories that float through the halls, the high ceilings, the carpentry shop, the ticket office, the rehearsal spaces--spirits representing the time each person gives up until finally a show comes together on the main stage, where actors, singers, dancers, stage managers and stage hands, lighting and audio experts await the guests.
And when the audience is seated and the curtain rises, the pain, the worry, the stress of each show disappears like a shadows in light. All that matters is the scene, hitting the note, nailing the step, delivering the line so that those who pay to see the finished product catch the smile, the kick, the laugh, or the sob.
And they understand.
I sit in an empty basement and the ghosts speak to me. They whisper the memories of those who came before. And I remember, my ghosts abound here, too.
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