Green Room

Never green, Green rooms. Wonder why they call it that. For there is nothing green about a room that serves as the passage way between the struggler and the juggler. Messy, dirty; caught in transition. Clothes strewn across it, bags, footwear, plastic, empty bottles and cups, pieces of cotton rubbed over painted faces.

A few huddle together for a drag. Letting out smoke part in blissful relief part in pathetic nervousness. A few sleep, unaware of the glaring light over their heads, lost in a world they continuously try to recreate on stage. A cup of coffee in a lazy hand. A meditative figure in the corner.

At busy times there is a lot that goes on within a matter of seconds. Performers who've stepped down from the stage become people who scream and shout, panic for things they cant find, deadlines they cant meet. Half naked bodies, struggling to wear their garb. Sometimes it takes too long to wear it. Maybe years. Sometimes the struggle wears the garb beyond use.