Playing on Mars
Saturday, 7th. H 15.00.
The bus leaves, packed with strange people all dressed in blue uniforms, laughing, talking, yawning.
The bus crosses the mountains, filled with sunshine, speeds along the lake, bright and beautiful; the strange people dressed in blue uniforms have taken off their jackets, rolled up the sleeves. Laughters are louder, words deeper; somebody's sleeping.
An hour goes by. A voice on the microphone fills the recent silence with details and instructions. The strange people look around, trying to understand where they are.
The bus crosses a street; somebody says "we're in the city centre! There's the university there!" and the strange people understand that they have arrived. The bus turns on a crowded street where no cars are allowed, a street filled with shops and people, young and old, all elegant for the great occasion of every Saturday afternoon: the up and down parade of the show-off. Girls in high heels, smart dresses, mini skirt and boots, shiny make up, holding the hand of some boy in designer jeans, cool top, polished shoes, his hair (only apparently) casually arranged by means of hair-gel, his eyes dark and suspicious. Every head turns towards the bus, looks at the strange people who are looking down, in disbelief and curiosity.
On the bus, the strange people are putting on their jackets again, and some grab their black cases and blue files; the doors of the bus open, but nobody gets out.
"Ok: who's going to get down first?"
"Boy, it feels like we're landing on Mars! Look at them!"
"A small step for man, a giant step..."
Laughters.
A tall black-haired girl carefully descends the steps, followed by another short-haired girl, and another, and another: soon the tiny part of the street the bus has stopped at is filled with strange people dressed in blue uniforms and instruments and worn black cases.
The strange people start walking and carrying the cases and instruments along the street, in casual order, followed by the eyes of the smart people around them, until they get to a semi-desert square, where chairs are being put in semi-circle and music stands are being assembled. The strange people in blue uniform work together and chat and scream, while a group of punk teenagers look at them from the far side of the square, silent and bored.
Once the chairs are all in place and so are the stands, the strange people assemble their instruments, and soon casual notes are echoing in the square, along with the instructions to get in line and prepare: the strange people gather casually until a mass of tidy blue is formed and stands noisily in front of the stage. The blue crowd starts walking, back to where it came from, it crosses more streets, half running, laughing, looking around, smiling at the astonished curious faces of the smart people lined outside shops and cafes; another square fills with their voices and laughers, more elegant people gather in front of them as they begin to play, as a city bus approached at the corner of the square and patiently waits for the song to end. When the last note is played and shy hands begin to clap, the blue crowd turns, and a man in front of it lifts his hand high up in the air, and lowers it quickly with a waving movement: new notes fill the square, and an echo lingers there as the blue crowd begins to march, and plays and marches along the streets and on the sidewalks, until they get back to the previous square, where the stage is lit by the dim light of the sun.
And that is how the blue crowd sits on unconfortable chairs and plays to the smart people sitting outside the cafes, to the passers-by, to the bored punk teenagers. They play and play, holding the laughters when the bells of the church begin to toll in time with a song, holding hands before a solo, releasing relaxed smiles after the solo has been performed, standing up at the waving sign of the conductor, looking around at people clapping.
The square empties: only the punk teenagers are still there. The strange people in blue uniform close the music stands, wipe their instruments and put them back in their cases, approach a table where some refreshment is being offered: chilled white wine, frozen orange juice, crisps, sesame breadsticks. The blue people eat, chat, more laughters echo in the square; then, little by little, in small groups, they pick up instruments and cases and gather where the bus is waiting for them, climbing up and sitting back where they were when they left.
They take off their jackets, roll up the sleeves, close their eyes to sleep, talk little; they look out of the windows at the lights of the city, at the darkness approaching.
The bus leaves, packed with strange people all dressed in blue uniforms, laughing, talking, yawning.
The bus crosses the mountains, filled with sunshine, speeds along the lake, bright and beautiful; the strange people dressed in blue uniforms have taken off their jackets, rolled up the sleeves. Laughters are louder, words deeper; somebody's sleeping.
An hour goes by. A voice on the microphone fills the recent silence with details and instructions. The strange people look around, trying to understand where they are.
The bus crosses a street; somebody says "we're in the city centre! There's the university there!" and the strange people understand that they have arrived. The bus turns on a crowded street where no cars are allowed, a street filled with shops and people, young and old, all elegant for the great occasion of every Saturday afternoon: the up and down parade of the show-off. Girls in high heels, smart dresses, mini skirt and boots, shiny make up, holding the hand of some boy in designer jeans, cool top, polished shoes, his hair (only apparently) casually arranged by means of hair-gel, his eyes dark and suspicious. Every head turns towards the bus, looks at the strange people who are looking down, in disbelief and curiosity.
On the bus, the strange people are putting on their jackets again, and some grab their black cases and blue files; the doors of the bus open, but nobody gets out.
"Ok: who's going to get down first?"
"Boy, it feels like we're landing on Mars! Look at them!"
"A small step for man, a giant step..."
Laughters.
A tall black-haired girl carefully descends the steps, followed by another short-haired girl, and another, and another: soon the tiny part of the street the bus has stopped at is filled with strange people dressed in blue uniforms and instruments and worn black cases.
The strange people start walking and carrying the cases and instruments along the street, in casual order, followed by the eyes of the smart people around them, until they get to a semi-desert square, where chairs are being put in semi-circle and music stands are being assembled. The strange people in blue uniform work together and chat and scream, while a group of punk teenagers look at them from the far side of the square, silent and bored.
Once the chairs are all in place and so are the stands, the strange people assemble their instruments, and soon casual notes are echoing in the square, along with the instructions to get in line and prepare: the strange people gather casually until a mass of tidy blue is formed and stands noisily in front of the stage. The blue crowd starts walking, back to where it came from, it crosses more streets, half running, laughing, looking around, smiling at the astonished curious faces of the smart people lined outside shops and cafes; another square fills with their voices and laughers, more elegant people gather in front of them as they begin to play, as a city bus approached at the corner of the square and patiently waits for the song to end. When the last note is played and shy hands begin to clap, the blue crowd turns, and a man in front of it lifts his hand high up in the air, and lowers it quickly with a waving movement: new notes fill the square, and an echo lingers there as the blue crowd begins to march, and plays and marches along the streets and on the sidewalks, until they get back to the previous square, where the stage is lit by the dim light of the sun.
And that is how the blue crowd sits on unconfortable chairs and plays to the smart people sitting outside the cafes, to the passers-by, to the bored punk teenagers. They play and play, holding the laughters when the bells of the church begin to toll in time with a song, holding hands before a solo, releasing relaxed smiles after the solo has been performed, standing up at the waving sign of the conductor, looking around at people clapping.
The square empties: only the punk teenagers are still there. The strange people in blue uniform close the music stands, wipe their instruments and put them back in their cases, approach a table where some refreshment is being offered: chilled white wine, frozen orange juice, crisps, sesame breadsticks. The blue people eat, chat, more laughters echo in the square; then, little by little, in small groups, they pick up instruments and cases and gather where the bus is waiting for them, climbing up and sitting back where they were when they left.
They take off their jackets, roll up the sleeves, close their eyes to sleep, talk little; they look out of the windows at the lights of the city, at the darkness approaching.
posted by Peggy @ 9:30 AM
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