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New Stage
חיפוש בבמה

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מדורי במה








I - April 2013

"... anyway, would you prefer a multi focal"?
"That's not very funny, you know. It's my brain. What is a
Dysrhythmia anyway? I mean... J. Lo's ass!".
"Pardon?  Did you just say...?"
"Err... yeah. I made it up. Do you like it?"
"I'm not exactly sure what to make of it. What does it mean
anyway?"
"It's an exclamation, just like 'Jesus Christ' or
something".
"How un-demeaning... for both. What's the reference?
Hollywood glitz meets what exactly?"
"C'mon, it's just Jenny from the bloke"
"You're kidding, right? Tell me this is your sick little way
of dealing with your stupid tumor."
"It's not a tumor. And it is funny and you can easily use it
as an f-word substitute in civilized places".
"Because the reference to Ms. Lopez's behinds is much more
subtle, yes; I see your point."
"Anyway, I'm not the sick one with the WW2 memories."
"Thanks for bringing that up. I was just getting used to
being the only normal guy around".
"Anytime".
"Besides, I told you, I don't know if it is World War 2,
World War 1 or whatever".
"You'd think the black and white would be a dead give
away".
"You're certainly on a roll today, aren't you? It's not in
black and white".
"Whatever man. Anyway, this is my stop. I'll catch you
tomorrow at school".
"Sure. See ya' then".
'J. Lo's ass indeed', Patrick thought to himself. His school
buddy Terrance was
certainly a strange one at times. They'd taken few courses
together but that seemed more than enough to create a mutual
base of friendship. Terrance had his quirks (what's with all
matching pens, notebooks and book covers? Is indigo a sign
of success in studies?), but then so did Patrick. Carrying
his MP3 player around, even when going to take out the
trash, seemed a bit unusual in his neighborhood,
but he didn't care too much about that. His music collection
was one of his chief sources of comforts these days, though,
admittedly, Patrick bitterly thought, a very significant
source of grief as well. The damned contraption refused to
sync with his computer, and when it finally did, there was
always a song missing or the wrong album artwork displayed.
'J. Lo's ass!'


II - September 29, 1975

"5 minutes to curtain, Mrs. D.!", the man behind the door
said.
"Thank you, Angelo", the smoky voice rasped. Looking at the
mirror was an acceptable agony now. After so many years on
the stage, there was a certain defiance in the eyes, the
ever so slightly wrinkled smile twitched a bit as the ever
red lipstick did its bit and the powder covered the rest of
the "imperfections". 'Well earned imperfections'. The
thought flattered and disappeared quite quickly.

A long road to get to this moment, to this glitzy cabaret.
Faded memories of that long deserted house  with its
surrounding bushes and pink and red flowers still lingered,
even now. The years of service in the front lines, that
lucky escape on that cold morning partly hidden in Sgt.
Hathaway's arms, the very long self-imposed exile, they all
had a purpose, a meaning. Not only did they lead here, to
this night, but they would also pave the way for a more
secure tomorrow, and based on the arrangements that were
made and a few hopes, a more private and comfortable
existence.
"You're on, Mrs. D.".
There was still tonight though. The smile returned to the
somewhat weary and now semi-mystified eyes.
'Break a leg, Blue Angel'.


III - April 2013

He was having that dream again. His sub conscious, probably
a bit too amused with itself, offered the experience with a
glint of lucidity, which Patrick seized at. This time he
would be more than just observer of his own dreams, he would
try to direct the flow of thought to a direction his Id had
been most reluctant to go - understanding.

The familiar bush fenced house materialized, as expected and
Patrick caught a glimpse of a woman staring out one of its
windows. He didn't recognize her, but he
was accustomed to that by now. The woman seemed fairly tall,
blond and with an anxious look on her face. She was
muttering something to herself but he couldn't make out the
words.

Next was the bus station, but no - it was a railway station
now. A creeping feeling of dread and a strong desire to flee
began to overwhelm him, as he was struggling with his
breath.
Trying to relax, he thought about the
meditation technique Lilly Yang tried to teach him that
sunny day outside the Social Studies library. Taking three
deep breathes he closed and eyes and opened them again. He
was still at the train station, a low hum in the background.
"Hey you, you're gonna buy that newspaper or not?" cried the
seller.
Patrick looked down: "War", shouted the headline of a skinny
1.5 Deutsche Marks paper.
The hum was louder by now and he could almost make out the
words. This was new, he noted. Why, though; what's
different? What am I to do? "Can't help it", suggested the
newsstand guy and faded away.

He was in Paris now, he was sure. Although he'd never been
there, Patrick had a feeling of certain familiarity with the
streets, the light, even the smell of freshly bakes
croissants. With a start, he was awake. "Like moth to a
flame".


IV - April 27, 1992

'Another damned curtain call. Damned that Roger and his
"club"'.
"It's Mrs. D, you moronic little man! Don't you know who I
am?!". There was no reply. The small snickering sound in the
distance was certainly no reply to be considered. Adjusting
the long shawl over the shoulders had a comforting feel to
it. So had the extra lipstick - the best rouge this part of
town. And it came with a price, as always. One of the mirror
lights flickered for a minute. The delicate circuitry would
need to be
adjusted, again.

"Mrs. D, can I come in? It's Jenny". The voice sounded
slightly excited, even muffled as it was through the door.
"Of course dear, come in, come in".
Upon first meeting Jenny, one would almost always think her
out of place here. A slim, short woman with now graying
auburn hair, she may have passed for pretty in her days.
Those years she would hardly talk about to anyone but a
select few. The memories pained her too much, she said,
though it may have been the lack of any new notable ones in
the years that followed that mattered. To her, the glory of
the 40' and the 50', and, though she would vehemently refuse
to admit it, the 30', has never truly passed from the world;
at least not completely. Some, she seemed to believe, still
lingered behind. That was one of the main reasons they
connected so well. That, and the ever kindled, low flamed as
it was, torch she was still carrying. They had a few
conversations about it and Jenny did seem to understand and
accept how things actually were though, most of the time
anyway. And Jenny did look after her Mrs. D.

"You have to be careful, Mrs.D. Mr. Newsom there is...
talking".
"That Roger always talks. He knows who I am, eventually. You
know me Jenny".
"Of course I do, Mrs. D", Jenny said quietly. "I... You know
you can count on me. Besides, I... I don't know... Mary and
Joseph, Mrs. D. I don't know what to do".
Jenny was paler than usual, that was becoming evident now.
Her lips were quivering slightly as she struggled for a deep
breath of air.
"Mary and Joseph? What's wrong, Jenny? I haven't heard you
invoke them since the airline strike of 73' and that was
just because... Dear god, what happened? Tell me!".
"She... she is...". Jenny struggled for breath. "Jack Snipes
from the Mission read the evening post and he knew how I'd
felt, that is how I am and... you and..." Jenny could speak
no longer.
"S-she is dead?"
Jenny managed a nod.
The view outside looked colder now. The easy lights and
spiraling neons leading men to the "Diva's Club" shone on
just as darkly, luring the wanting patrons into the willing
honey trap. But the taste has turned very bitter.

"Mr. err... Mrs. D.? I...". Jenny stammered. Funny, it
wasn't like her to make such a mistake, not after  so long.
"She was the last, you know? There will never be the like of
her again."
"No, I guess not".
"I'm sorry, Mrs. D. 'tis the passing of things".
"Yes, yes, of course. In a way, she lives through us though,
right? What she stood for, you know".
"What she stood for? She didn't stand for the like of... I
mean, You can't really know her... you couldn't really know
her like I did. She's nothing like you".
"Well, no but -- what's gone over you Jenny? I've never
heard you talk like that".
"It's just that you don't understand, that's all".
"Help me understand then, Jenny".
"You -- I've known you for years with your shows and make up
and hair pieces and what not. But she, she was a real lady.
A true woman. The 'Blue Angel' they used to call her. I...
I've...". Jenny wept silently, unable to speak.
"You've loved her, didn't you Jenny?", understanding dawning
suddenly. "You were in love with her".
The shock was quite apparent by now.
"Don't be silly, Mrs. D", Jenny managed, "I'm not like you.
I've got Harry and the kids".
"No, I think I'm right. You are like me more than you'd like
to admit. Who would have thought? I always knew you were a
fan. I mean, that's how we met at first, on the line to the
box office. But it's more for you, isn't it?"
"More?", said Jenny. "It's not more. It's special. It's just
me and her. You could never get her like I do. You could
never love her like me".
Jenny stiffened suddenly. "Yes, I loved her. I still do. You
-- You can't know, you weren't there. It was a different
time and She was different and even I was different".
Jenny wasn't crying anymore. Wiping the remains of her
tears, she was nodding her head continually, muttering to
her self. "Yes, I loved her. There. I loved Harry but she...
To hell with Harry. I loved her.  I love her".
"Here Jenny, won't you sit down. Let me help you".
"No, don't touch me. Don't touch me. You mock me. I see
you", Jenny raved. "I see you. You think you can touch her
like that, with that dress and make up and hair? You know
nothing. "Nothing!" shrilled Jenny.
"I only want to help you. It's a terrible shock for both of
us. Let me help you Jenny".
"No! Don't touch me. Don't you dare touch me!"
Coming to Jenny's side, Mrs. D. tried to calm Jenny down
futilely. "I said don't touch me!", cried Jenny, pushing
away, moving askew the carefully placed hairpiece.

"What the hell are you doing, Jenny?"
"What I should have done a long time ago, when I first saw
you defile her image".
"Defile?! Jenny, I really don't know what's gone over you
but you really need to sit down and have a glass of water or
something".
"No, I'm fine", Jenny breathed. "The world is empty tonight,
so what is one less diva in the sky?"
With that, Jenny pushed and heaved, struggled and clawed. A
few seconds later, she was of the room as well.

The story in the next day's Bay Guardian amounted to a small
rectangle in the back pages, titled "The Fall of the Diva".
Roger Newsom took some small comfort in the mention of his
time honored establishment. 'Bad press is good press', he
thought.


V - Late April 2013

"You're still thinking about going ahead with it, aren't
you?", asked Terrance.
"No. Well, yes. I have to now, don't I?", said Patrick.
"I don't see why really. Switching majors this late is never
a good idea. And this Psych crap! I mean man, I know you dig
the chicks there and all, but come on! You need a graduate
degree to actually work in it, you know".
"I know all that already, Terr".
Patrick wasn't sure how much to tell his friend. Close as he
was to him, even learning some of the details of his more
hazy dreams, or as Terr called them (mistakenly, but why
correct him?) "Your film noir experience", there were some
things he was holding back. Things like his growing
acrophobia he was barely able to mask anymore. That was one
of the chief reasons he did not apply for Psych courses
already. The ultra modern design of the faculty included a
spectacular
view of its surroundings, but for him it was like going
through vertigo just thinking of those stairs.

"Anyway, what do you think of my theory? Doesn't explain
everything?"
"Ah, yes. I can understand why you'd prefer to send it as an
e-mail. Very scientific of you, J. Lo's ass. You didn't even
check the facts".
"What do you mean?", asked Patrick, nervously going in his
mind over the long and repeatedly re-drafted mail he'd
sent.
"Well, for one thing, you got the date wrong".
"What?"
"She died on May 6th, 1992 and you were born on April 28th
1992. I know I'm better than you in Math, but even you can
see something just doesn't add up right here".
"Umm, no, I didn't know that. Damn.", said Patrick,
genuinely shocked. He'd gone through it all, it all fitted
so well but the date was something he did not even look very
deep into. He'd known it was late April-early May. He just
knew.

"Oh, apparently, and get this - I've found it on some
obscure hard core fan site - there were rumors about her
death a few days before it actually took place, but those
were almost immediately denied by the family", said
Terrance, rather triumphantly.
"But I've felt it. I felt that the date was approaching. How
else can you explain the sudden increase in dreams I've
experience, not to mention their content?", Patrick
exasperated.
"Stress. Simply stress and fatigue", said Terrance. "You
obviously have some Mrs. Robinson issues," smirked Terrance
to a blushing Patrick. "Admit it, you always had a thing for
older and powerful women".
"O.K, O.K. Suppose the date thing is wrong and the rumors
were correct?", asked Patrick. "I mean, it's all so vivid".
"Two things. You're a student for electrical engineering
without any apparent artistic streak in you".
"I'm not sure I entirely agree there, but O.K. What's the
second thing"?
"You can't carry a tune if your life were dependent on it".


VI - December 2015

It was snowing early this year, global warming
notwithstanding. The street lamps seem to sweat as the
melting whiteness drizzled around them, adding to the
occasional human breath vapor. The relatively dark corner,
packed with overflowing dumpsters and dotted with broken
bottles, was quiet, at least.
The nearby club, radiating now more in neon than fame, lent
few of its voracious chords at this time.

Yes, some peace at last. An opportunity to light a hasty
smoke and think. Those images were swarming his mind again,
making very little sense: a house he could dimly make out
among thickets of geraniums, a semi deserted bus stop with
the sign "BERLIN -45" partly smudged by traces of smog and
what he could only term as 'the peek'. It was a memory, he
was quite sure enough of that, of a door quietly
opening to reveal someone waxing the hair of their legs.
His own.







loading...
חוות דעת על היצירה באופן פומבי ויתכן שגם ישירות ליוצר

לשלוח את היצירה למישהו להדפיס את היצירה
היצירה לעיל הנה בדיונית וכל קשר בינה ובין
המציאות הנו מקרי בהחלט. אין צוות האתר ו/או
הנהלת האתר אחראים לנזק, אבדן, אי נוחות, עגמת
נפש וכיו''ב תוצאות, ישירות או עקיפות, שייגרמו
לך או לכל צד שלישי בשל מסרים שיפורסמו
ביצירות, שהנם באחריות היוצר בלבד.
"אם ישו הלך על
המים ואם עץ צף
על המים וכך גם
ברוז. ואם מכשפה
שוקלת כמו ברוז
אז סימן שישו
מכשפה..."

סגמנט מ"היגיון
יהודי", מגילות
כנרת בואכה צומת
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בבמה מאז 3/11/07 15:31
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אין הנהלת האתר אחראית לכל נזק העלול להגרם כתוצאה מחשיפה לתכנים אלו.
אחריות זו מוטלת על יוצרי התכנים. הגיל המומלץ לגלישה באתר הינו מעל ל-18.
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