Lukewarm. It looks luke warm, and it feels quiet and still. As if you were sitting in a tub full of bath water up to your chin, unmoving. Nothing but small ripples from your breath on the water, your blinking eyelashes, presumably, and the lukewarm vision and softness. But you’re not in a bath full of water, or anywhere warm, but in a room with pages from books spread across the floor, you kick a few as you walk in a circle, observing the quiet air, smelling the thick paint that looms from the edges of the room, everything is bright.
What does it smell like? What does it feel like?
Textures, there’s something about the texture of this space, of this room.
On Mondays I write about where I’ve been, a cool place, a memory of a place that is recent. I’ve been many very cool places just this weekend, and yet the only thing I feel comfortable writing about tonight is a place that exists in my head still, from my new play.
Big, dark wooden table, large, so large you can’t reach the other side when you lean over, no matter how tall you are. Pages cover the surface too, these are bigger, covered in handprints with thick paint, blues, emeralds, you run your hands over them and receive a big thud in your chest, like you’re about to speak infront of lots of people, as if you swallowed your tongue whole, that feeling comes with these pages in particular.
It smells like tea, like deeply steeped tea, long gone, still hot, boiling over somewhere close, and the air is thick with that too now, as if there’s tea brewing in the cans of paint somewhere in the back, thick, brewing heavy paint, filling up the room. Soon you’ll be covered in paint, goodbye then clean world.
But that would ruin the pages, the paint would never spill, or it would, but just on the sleeves of the books.
The books that are not present, the books that are lost or gone or somewhere else in another room.
This room does not sound. It does not sound like books, or like paint or like breathing or like filling up or anything. This room does not sound, but maybe it does, a bit like smoke, it sounds like billowing, soft, warm billowing somewhere in the back.
Always in the back, but nothing ever stays here.
Note: This is a riff off of a scene exploration I’ve been working on, as I continue to develop the location of this play, I am struggling with realism and linearity right now while I develop my characters and space, and so I thought setting it in a place that doesn’t really exist anywhere is nice for me. It exists for me, I’ve been here, and if you go far back enough in my blogs you might find where I explore my happy place, the place that only my brain knows, this room lives there too, but not close by. This isn’t a space that I’d like to spend much time in. This space is too heavy for my chest to handle.