A Year In Nadada: Week Twenty Seven - Metronome

I’ve laid out what happened on the stage as one of my interviews. Our conversation fits the format, although written down there may be some confusion. I assure you everything is verbatim, and made sense at the time. The answers are there, but you will have to find them for yourself.

I've referred to my interviewee as Metronome. Who knows what her actual name is.

M: ?tresed a fo tuo delwarc tsuj uoy ,rettam eht s'tahW !owt eseht ta kool ,enoyreve yeH

TBM: Yes actually. Although we had a lovely sleep in between.

M: ?ekawa peehs eht gnipeeK ?bulc ylevol ruo ni ereh gniod uoy era tahW

TBM: Sheep? I’m a mouse!

M: ?su rof snoitseuq yna evah uoy oD !won taht tuoba yrrow ton s'teL

TBM: What the hell happens to the doors round here? And don't you have anywhere decent to go to the toilet?

::Laughter from the audience::

M: .dnuora kool reporp a evah nac uoy nehT .erehwemos pu nrut lliw srood esohT

TBM: We had a look around already, but all we found were exploding tents! What kind of town is this anyway?

::More laughter::

M: .elbissop sa hcum sa aedi taht erolpxe ew os ,elihw trohs a rof ereh eb ylno ereh gnihtyreve wonk eW .emit htiw ssem na gniyrt ew pmahcuD ni ereH !tuoba yrrow ot gnihtoN

TBM: Wow, that's a heavier answer than I was expecting. So there’s a rhyme and reason to everything here? There’s actually a point behind a tent with a piano in? How do you change the strings?

M: .evah ew nuf eht ees ll'uoy ,ereh dnuora kcits uoY .snaginanehs eht fo trats eht ylno si pu wolb stnet gnikaM .nuf fo eman eht ni lla stI !gnikoj ylno ah aH

TBM: Couldn’t you clean the place up a bit?

M: .gniog tog ew emit ,tcaf nI .yadot nuf tuohtiw enog evah ew tsegnol eht ydaerla si sihT .gninaelc rof emit oN .taht rof emit oN

After we finished a backing track loud enough to make the air in my lungs vibrate kicked in. Our metronome wearing pal vanished into a darkness that engulfed the whole room. The crowd were only apparent from the odd whoop, and the red dot of a cigarette.

The lights went up in a bright clinical glow found in clubs at the end of a night out. The audience had vanished. In their place was a mucky floor, smattered in those plastic cups with an identical lipstick stain.

A mural made from life size figures plastered the floor, ripped from newspapers, or cut from magazines. They were all at an isometric angle, forming a crowd scene of chatting  droning, smoking, frozen in two dimensions behind a layer of varnish. The only noise was an electrical buzzing.

So yeah, this wasn’t a normal interview.

There was nothing to do but leave. But where were the doors?

My view from the stage- before the audience vanished. 

My view from the stage- before the audience vanished.