There's a story about a farm mouse who tells the other animals about a mouse trap that's put in the house. They all dismiss him, saying they're sorry but it doesn't concern them, but the horse let's him stop in his stable.
One night there's a *snap*. A snake gets caught in the trap and bites the farmer's wife.
The sheep are sold to get money for the doctor, the chicken is made into soup, the cow is sold to pay for the funeral, and the pig is served at the wake.
As the horse draws the carriage carrying the wife's coffin, he tells the mouse how, even though we think what happens in someone else's life wont affect us, it does, because all lives are connected in a tapestry.
WAKE UP!
It was pitch black. He stretched his arms out and discovered he was in a small space.
"Where the hell am I?" He said.
Even thought his hands were touching the walls, he couldn't feel them. There was no sensation telling him what they were made of, whether they cold or hot, smooth or rough.
"Hay! HAY! LET ME OUT OF HERE! Creepy voice lady!? Where am I? HAY?!"
WAKE UP!
"OK, OK. I'm up!" Gar moaned, holding his hands over his face. It surprised him when he didn't feel skin on skin, and instead found his hands in bandages. Vague snippets came to him about the fire, then he had a sudden revelation.
Without needing to look around, he got out of the hospital bed, grabbed his jacket, and made his way down the quiet hallways. It was still early. Nurses flitted about from one ward to another, too busy to pay him any mind. He walked into the lift and pressed the button at the bottom of the list. The doors closed. There was once a time when he wouldn't have been comfortable in the small box, but times change.
"Ya know... at times like this I wish I could whistle..." He said to himself. "Um, so... voice that is but isn't in my head... when are going to meet? ... I'm, um, feeling pretty good about this crazy stuff, all things considered. Like, I don't even mind if you're not actually listening, it's, um, quite nice to imagine someone else sitting in the chair next to mine... I mean, normally it's David Schwimmer, that guys who plays Ross in friends... I sort of.. hear his voice when I'm not feeling so hot... he's not there at the moment, though... it's just me... talking to myself as I pretend to talk to a girl, that may or may not be real, about the voice in my head that sounds like a celebrity... OK Gar, you're sounding a bit, um... crazy. OR. Or, um, maybe we should use the word ... OK, so there isn't just one word, more like, a sentence. You just have a different way of coping with situations, and past... events... that may have been somewhat, kind of, potentially , in a way... traumatic..."
It was hard to differentiate and negotiate the thoughts and feelings in his head; they were sometimes so contradictory. Other times it was like having a personal support system. It all depended on who was on stage, who was in the audience, and who didn't come to the show.
The lift pinged.
"Oh, we're here."
He stepped out into the basement and began his walk down the long halls. The bandages round his feet were well done and stayed on, he expected nothing less from the staff at a Dayton hospital. There was a certain smell, a horribly familiar stench, that was all around him. The lingering and constant odour of cleaning chemicals. Gar had gotten used to the smell very fast since moving to America. It had become common, he had learnt to accept it as part of his life, but it still made him uncomfortable.
As he approached the door he pulled a key card out of an inside pocket. The contact lock beeped and he walked into the sterile, metal room.
A muffled voice came from across the room. "Hay! HAY! Is someone there?!"
Garfield stepped round the autopsy table to the refrigerated cabinet.
"Hay! Where are you?" He asked.
"Here! Here!" Came the voice, along with a tapping and a faintly familiar smell.
Gar lifted the handle and opened the metal door. The bed rolled out easily and the person who was inside got out in a hurry.
"What the hell is going on?" He asked, taking in the surroundings.
"Dude, I have no idea... but you look like you're straight out of a science fiction move... like... Robotman 2.0..."
"...What's THAT supposed to mean?! And look who's talking! You're green! If anyone's out of a sci-fi it's you!" He turned round, catching sight of his distorted reflection in the metal door of the refrigerator. "What... what's happened to me...?"
Setting: An interview stage with two, red tub chairs facing each other on a wooden floor. The audience is obscured by the spot lights.
In one chair sits Garfield Dayton in a garish, abstract button up first from the 1990's.
Gar: It's kinda quiet today. Hay, lady voice? You there?... OK, guess not. *He just sits and thinks for a bit. There's definitely others there, doing their own things whilst he sits in the spot light.* Just me... solo!... feeling... crazy...
Garfield the crazy guy, talking to himself...
Sound guy *walking into the light and giving Gar a drink before sitting down*: OR. Or, um, maybe we should use the word ... OK, so there isn't just one word, more like, a sentence. You just have a different way of coping with situations, and past... events... that may have been somewhat, kind of, potentially, in a way... traumatic...
Gar: Hum... Garfield... the human science experiment... who has issues...
Sound guy: AND has been getting help for them!
Gar: Yeah. But it's a slow process...
Sound guy: There's so many metaphors, which one do you want? Slow and steady; Rome; single step; good things come; slow trees; no pain to gain...
Gar: I get it!
Sound guy: Good, good, I'll let you get to it. Now, go weave your tapestry!
