My memories do not look like the sun;
Flames burn brighter than my looking back;
If snow be white, then my thoughts are none;
If I have life, I know not what I lack.
I have seen a world of my own, shut it tight;
Where no man might venture to stories told;
I have watched the ticking of time in delight;
Though never did I feel I might grow old.
I love to think things past, yet well I know
That I carry the baggage in my hand;
I grant I never thought the past would grow;
My memories, when they walk, make me stand:
And yet, by recall, I think my life as rare
As any given up and never shared.
Monday, 21 February 2011
Saturday, 19 February 2011
Hurricane
Black. The only colour I can see as the door closes and the world is shut out of our haven underground. I feel stifled already, terrified as the sounds begin to collect themselves, building momentum, gathering strength.
The scratching of a match and the sudden flame horrifies my senses; I was becoming accustomed to my muffled surroundings: deadened sight and hearing only through the thickness of the earth. The flame brings me back to the reality of the situation - we are waiting for the hurricane to hit.
In the flickering light I can see the marks of the recycled aluminium that forces us close together, strangers and love ones, sealed tight into this living coffin. The sounds of heavy breathing recreate the hurricane in my ears and I am reminded of last time we were struck; some of us weren't lucky enough to make it down here that fateful night.
The air in the shelter shivers with anticipation as the orchestra on the ground above reaches towards its crescendo. No one moves down here when up there it must be chaos; it is a scene we can only imagine - until it is all over. It's hard to catch precise sounds in the confusion of vibrations, but I am sure I can hear a woman's scream fading out into the distance, perhaps the snap of her neck as the wind whips her around a tree trunk.
I can no longer remember the world as it once was: everything in its place. In my imagination even the colour has drained from the world outside. When we ascend the steps and look out at the devastation we will find that the sun has been swept away with the rest of our belongings, never to be seen again and we will be forced forever more to live in a land of clouds and misery. No flowers will light up the roadsides and no balloons will reflect in the blue of a child's eyes. This time is not the same as the last.
I will awake and the ground will be at peace once more, but for now my dreams are haunted by the proximity of relative safety and the nearness of utter destruction. I cannot reconcile my mind to the here and now. A child begins to tear at its hair in desperation and I know how it feels. Outside the wind is tearing foundations from the earth and it is just as painful as ripping out hair.
My breathing begins to echo the sound of the tribal drums pounding outside - a car, a street sign, no discerning musicians in this hurrcane. My mind begins to swirl and race as I drift into unconsciousness. The only way to survive is to give yourself up to the hurricane's demands: listen, listen to my power. Listen, come dance with me.
The scratching of a match and the sudden flame horrifies my senses; I was becoming accustomed to my muffled surroundings: deadened sight and hearing only through the thickness of the earth. The flame brings me back to the reality of the situation - we are waiting for the hurricane to hit.
In the flickering light I can see the marks of the recycled aluminium that forces us close together, strangers and love ones, sealed tight into this living coffin. The sounds of heavy breathing recreate the hurricane in my ears and I am reminded of last time we were struck; some of us weren't lucky enough to make it down here that fateful night.
The air in the shelter shivers with anticipation as the orchestra on the ground above reaches towards its crescendo. No one moves down here when up there it must be chaos; it is a scene we can only imagine - until it is all over. It's hard to catch precise sounds in the confusion of vibrations, but I am sure I can hear a woman's scream fading out into the distance, perhaps the snap of her neck as the wind whips her around a tree trunk.
I can no longer remember the world as it once was: everything in its place. In my imagination even the colour has drained from the world outside. When we ascend the steps and look out at the devastation we will find that the sun has been swept away with the rest of our belongings, never to be seen again and we will be forced forever more to live in a land of clouds and misery. No flowers will light up the roadsides and no balloons will reflect in the blue of a child's eyes. This time is not the same as the last.
I will awake and the ground will be at peace once more, but for now my dreams are haunted by the proximity of relative safety and the nearness of utter destruction. I cannot reconcile my mind to the here and now. A child begins to tear at its hair in desperation and I know how it feels. Outside the wind is tearing foundations from the earth and it is just as painful as ripping out hair.
My breathing begins to echo the sound of the tribal drums pounding outside - a car, a street sign, no discerning musicians in this hurrcane. My mind begins to swirl and race as I drift into unconsciousness. The only way to survive is to give yourself up to the hurricane's demands: listen, listen to my power. Listen, come dance with me.
Friday, 5 March 2010
Greetings from the Outside
The last time I saw my mother was fifteen years ago. She watched, sombre in black, as I was taken away from the court. The room had been deathly silent as we left; the guards to the side, front and back, staring into middle distance. I took on their expression as we marched the corridors and as disassociated themselves with me, I joined them in their vacancy.
I had mastered the look over time; devoid of emotion in order to survive. They called me ‘the ghost’ but never to my face, on the inside only the trusted had the right to own their nickname. A ghost I was, even in the mirror, a palid, shadow of the person I had been. I drifted from my cell to my duties and seeming to appear in a room without entering it I was known to frighten the more superstitious inmates, crossing themselves and glancing at the walls. They joked, why stay in here if you can walk through walls?
I stayed because I had to; there was no magic in that. Now I was being released, back into the sunlight, to become solid and tangible all over again.
I had not been effective out in the world, did not understand the rules I was expected to follow. Inside I had learnt to be a chameleon and I hoped this would provide the shielding I needed to function in the world. I could float in and out of the shadows as I pleased, blend into the walls and fade into the distance. This was what prison had taught me.
As they prepared my belongings I stood calmly, rocking on my heels. They had arranged for a place to stay for a couple of nights, an address scribbled on the back of my paperwork. I would make my way there, used to sleeping in discomfort I had no real needs. I had no plans for the future and my chameleon skin was the only change in me. I hoped to be more successful, that was all.
There was no bright sunlight to blind me as I stepped out into the open, but there was a figure arms folded, leaning against the walls of the block. As I walked past, the figure pushed off and began to keep pace behind me. Staring straight ahead, keeping my stride steady I walked on, but I could hear the footsteps behind, tapping out my rhythm, saying ‘I know you’ with every beat.
Marching round a corner I collided with a young man, who scowled, muttered and carried on. The footsteps behind had stopped with mine and I could see the figure, without turning, I could see its arms unfolding, hands resting on its hips. I imagined the shape of its body, rounded and stern, legs spread in reprimand.
It no longer mattered that I was a chameleon, the intangible ghost; nothing could compel me to move forward. Softly I turned and ran, as a child with a grazed knee would, directly into the waiting arms of my mother.
I had mastered the look over time; devoid of emotion in order to survive. They called me ‘the ghost’ but never to my face, on the inside only the trusted had the right to own their nickname. A ghost I was, even in the mirror, a palid, shadow of the person I had been. I drifted from my cell to my duties and seeming to appear in a room without entering it I was known to frighten the more superstitious inmates, crossing themselves and glancing at the walls. They joked, why stay in here if you can walk through walls?
I stayed because I had to; there was no magic in that. Now I was being released, back into the sunlight, to become solid and tangible all over again.
I had not been effective out in the world, did not understand the rules I was expected to follow. Inside I had learnt to be a chameleon and I hoped this would provide the shielding I needed to function in the world. I could float in and out of the shadows as I pleased, blend into the walls and fade into the distance. This was what prison had taught me.
As they prepared my belongings I stood calmly, rocking on my heels. They had arranged for a place to stay for a couple of nights, an address scribbled on the back of my paperwork. I would make my way there, used to sleeping in discomfort I had no real needs. I had no plans for the future and my chameleon skin was the only change in me. I hoped to be more successful, that was all.
There was no bright sunlight to blind me as I stepped out into the open, but there was a figure arms folded, leaning against the walls of the block. As I walked past, the figure pushed off and began to keep pace behind me. Staring straight ahead, keeping my stride steady I walked on, but I could hear the footsteps behind, tapping out my rhythm, saying ‘I know you’ with every beat.
Marching round a corner I collided with a young man, who scowled, muttered and carried on. The footsteps behind had stopped with mine and I could see the figure, without turning, I could see its arms unfolding, hands resting on its hips. I imagined the shape of its body, rounded and stern, legs spread in reprimand.
It no longer mattered that I was a chameleon, the intangible ghost; nothing could compel me to move forward. Softly I turned and ran, as a child with a grazed knee would, directly into the waiting arms of my mother.
Wednesday, 24 February 2010
Elation
in my mind i am a giant
i haven’t got the capacity to imagine myself any other way
no one can touch me and nothing will defeat me
in this world i am everything
i am the air that swims around me
rushing and gurgling
i am the heat that gushes in from the holes i have made in the sky
there is no one out there and yet the noise is deafening
tragedy has thrown it’s gaze around the room and there is no one to stop it
the walls have begun to decay
small chunks are hanging from the threads in the paper
crumbling beings hanging themselves with a floral rope
the lights have flickered and died
but the flames are sufficient
the sparks trip and fly away from the centre
escaping the chaos of the blaze in a panic
i will not be afraid
there is nothing here but me
in my mind i am nowhere
but the walls are closing in
the floor has become a grating gash
a cavernous gorge that will swallow me into its depths if i do not lift
i scrabble across the crags and into my sanctuary
my safe place
where i am a giant
there is no other way
in my mind i am suffocating
my lungs fill with sulphur and the world is blue
the darkness carries me away and in the night i am a giant
bigger than the earth and stronger than the wind
i can carry life on my back
crush it with my swipe or savour it in my arms
nothing will ever change, for
I am here, I am here, I am here.
i haven’t got the capacity to imagine myself any other way
no one can touch me and nothing will defeat me
in this world i am everything
i am the air that swims around me
rushing and gurgling
i am the heat that gushes in from the holes i have made in the sky
there is no one out there and yet the noise is deafening
tragedy has thrown it’s gaze around the room and there is no one to stop it
the walls have begun to decay
small chunks are hanging from the threads in the paper
crumbling beings hanging themselves with a floral rope
the lights have flickered and died
but the flames are sufficient
the sparks trip and fly away from the centre
escaping the chaos of the blaze in a panic
i will not be afraid
there is nothing here but me
in my mind i am nowhere
but the walls are closing in
the floor has become a grating gash
a cavernous gorge that will swallow me into its depths if i do not lift
i scrabble across the crags and into my sanctuary
my safe place
where i am a giant
there is no other way
in my mind i am suffocating
my lungs fill with sulphur and the world is blue
the darkness carries me away and in the night i am a giant
bigger than the earth and stronger than the wind
i can carry life on my back
crush it with my swipe or savour it in my arms
nothing will ever change, for
I am here, I am here, I am here.
Saturday, 20 February 2010
Fertility
He knew what was coming; pretty much. He was ready for it. The café was alive around them: the shouts of the kitchen staff and the chatter of the customers were the cheerful everyday sounds of life. The café was buzzing; suits came and went with Styrofoam cups of strong black coffee, mobile phones bleeped, students chatted, took their time. A child screamed from a slap on the arm. None of this could drown out the words waiting to come out of Sally’s mouth.
“I’m pregnant, Dan.”
She said nothing more. No explanation, no excuses, no questions. She just sat there, on the red plastic chair; sat there staring at him.
Dan had been careful every time, he was sure of it. But all those ‘how could that be’ questions were not forming in his head. What was the point? He could fight it or take the punch.
He stared at her, willing a look of surprise onto his vacant face. His eyebrows should raise, his mouth should form an O; he tried, but in the end all he felt was immense tiredness. His eyelids, instead of being wide and surprised, began to droop. Her face became a blur and his mind thought, if I don’t say something soon I’m going to just fall asleep, right here on this table.
“How long?” He shook his head, kick starting his brain back to life.
“How long have I known? Just yesterday. Dan, I told you as soon as I could. Have you been to bed at all in the last four days?”
She was not frustrated, she was concerned. Perhaps she’ll make a good mother after all.
“What are we going to do?” She sounded as if she was talking about a trip to visit her parents, not a…a what? A baby, a life? Neither of these terms sounded right. They didn’t fit; that wasn’t the situation at all.
Dan was glued to the seat. He had a few choices open to him: run away and never look back, say something - anything would do - or break down crying in a nervous wreck. He did not feel like he could do any of these things, his mind was empty and wanted to sleep. He could feel the dreams through a satin cloth of wakefulness; this is the wrong way round, I feel like I’m waking up into a sleep. This is not right.
He was becoming less aware of the café noise around him, drifting into a thick, soupy haze that was smothering him softly. The edges began to blur, he was looking through water and it was as warm as…the womb.
“Shitting hell!” Dan’s body convulsed and the world came back into focus. No, no, no. From cushioned tissue he was back to razor sharp edges in a flash. He was a fly zipping around the café, picking up minute images of the food, the lights; sounds came to him in surround and he was everywhere all at once.
A thud brought him back to the table, back to his body. In his panic he had knocked over the chair his arm had been leaning on and people were beginning to stare.
A plate smashed in the kitchen and Turkish curses distracted his unwanted audience. Dan looked around; his vision was returning to normal, the hum leaving his brain. Did I just have an out of body experience?
He felt exhausted, but not in the same way as before: normal adult exhaustion, like after a big shock.
“You alright? It’s quite a shock I know, but we can work it out. I haven’t even thought about the options yet. Do you need some time to think about it?” Sally reached out across the table, placing her hand palm up, an offering.
Dan was tired, but his mind was clear. He knew that he could finally take action.
“Sal, I’m sorry…”
He threw his own chair over as he stumbled around the tables and out the door. He caught his breath and ran as fast as he could, without looking back, away from there.
“I’m pregnant, Dan.”
She said nothing more. No explanation, no excuses, no questions. She just sat there, on the red plastic chair; sat there staring at him.
Dan had been careful every time, he was sure of it. But all those ‘how could that be’ questions were not forming in his head. What was the point? He could fight it or take the punch.
He stared at her, willing a look of surprise onto his vacant face. His eyebrows should raise, his mouth should form an O; he tried, but in the end all he felt was immense tiredness. His eyelids, instead of being wide and surprised, began to droop. Her face became a blur and his mind thought, if I don’t say something soon I’m going to just fall asleep, right here on this table.
“How long?” He shook his head, kick starting his brain back to life.
“How long have I known? Just yesterday. Dan, I told you as soon as I could. Have you been to bed at all in the last four days?”
She was not frustrated, she was concerned. Perhaps she’ll make a good mother after all.
“What are we going to do?” She sounded as if she was talking about a trip to visit her parents, not a…a what? A baby, a life? Neither of these terms sounded right. They didn’t fit; that wasn’t the situation at all.
Dan was glued to the seat. He had a few choices open to him: run away and never look back, say something - anything would do - or break down crying in a nervous wreck. He did not feel like he could do any of these things, his mind was empty and wanted to sleep. He could feel the dreams through a satin cloth of wakefulness; this is the wrong way round, I feel like I’m waking up into a sleep. This is not right.
He was becoming less aware of the café noise around him, drifting into a thick, soupy haze that was smothering him softly. The edges began to blur, he was looking through water and it was as warm as…the womb.
“Shitting hell!” Dan’s body convulsed and the world came back into focus. No, no, no. From cushioned tissue he was back to razor sharp edges in a flash. He was a fly zipping around the café, picking up minute images of the food, the lights; sounds came to him in surround and he was everywhere all at once.
A thud brought him back to the table, back to his body. In his panic he had knocked over the chair his arm had been leaning on and people were beginning to stare.
A plate smashed in the kitchen and Turkish curses distracted his unwanted audience. Dan looked around; his vision was returning to normal, the hum leaving his brain. Did I just have an out of body experience?
He felt exhausted, but not in the same way as before: normal adult exhaustion, like after a big shock.
“You alright? It’s quite a shock I know, but we can work it out. I haven’t even thought about the options yet. Do you need some time to think about it?” Sally reached out across the table, placing her hand palm up, an offering.
Dan was tired, but his mind was clear. He knew that he could finally take action.
“Sal, I’m sorry…”
He threw his own chair over as he stumbled around the tables and out the door. He caught his breath and ran as fast as he could, without looking back, away from there.
Friday, 19 February 2010
Unpopular
There was a time I was somebody; now I have no substance.
People look through me as if I am made of air. Sometimes they wonder what has brushed their arm, or they shiver as if a tingle ran up their spine. They don’t notice the spectral figure that wanders the borderlands, searching for a mate.
I imagine myself lifeless, somewhere in the distance, sitting just beyond reality, out of reach of all but the spirits. A mist hangs over me, thick and lifeless. My movements are dull and stiff, slow like running underwater.
I haven’t been seen for days, but if you look closely I am always there, standing in the shadows, hanging onto the edges of things, standing with my back against the wall.
Some said there would be nothing; some said it would come in a blinding flash of light. They didn’t describe the shackles as tight as an air lock that tether me to the earth.
My feet fall heavy and my mind is lead. There is nothing to think of, nothing to share, only the bleak mist of confusion, hankering for solidity; between life and death.
People look through me as if I am made of air. Sometimes they wonder what has brushed their arm, or they shiver as if a tingle ran up their spine. They don’t notice the spectral figure that wanders the borderlands, searching for a mate.
I imagine myself lifeless, somewhere in the distance, sitting just beyond reality, out of reach of all but the spirits. A mist hangs over me, thick and lifeless. My movements are dull and stiff, slow like running underwater.
I haven’t been seen for days, but if you look closely I am always there, standing in the shadows, hanging onto the edges of things, standing with my back against the wall.
Some said there would be nothing; some said it would come in a blinding flash of light. They didn’t describe the shackles as tight as an air lock that tether me to the earth.
My feet fall heavy and my mind is lead. There is nothing to think of, nothing to share, only the bleak mist of confusion, hankering for solidity; between life and death.
Thursday, 18 February 2010
Living in my Mind
I'm scared. In fact, I'm terrified.
I have checked all the facts; nothing odd or strange. It all fits. But it shouldn't fit. When it comes to instability, nothing should fit this perfectly, that's the nature of the thing. Surely.
It does though. I've spent a while with it in the back of my head, wondering, guessing. Until I say it outloud it won't be real. But the feelings are real; I can't deny it to myself. Not really.
I'm still scared.
More scared than a broken leg, or a bad case of liver damage. Im not sure if I'll ever repair, I don't know if it can heal itself.
Nothing has to change, I suppose. Life will be the same as it was before, perhaps even better. At least now I know what I'm dealing with. Still don't know what to do about it, but I guess I can stop feeling guilty. Not a chance. That really is the nature of the thing. Guilty is what I do.
I think at least now I can understand a bit more. Understand the way some people treat me when they figure it out. They saw it all before I did, no doubt about that; but it's not unusual. Some people never believe it of themselves. It feels almost like a relief. I don't have to be a failure, just messed up. I don't have anyone to blame, but at least I don't have to blame myself. I can do something about it without having to begrudge the sacrifice I make. Now it's a sacrifice I have to make, before it was just a punishment. It won't get better, but I can stop paying pennance.
I don't have to scared anymore, I feel like I can start to understand. If I can control it then I don't have to worry again. The weight hasn't been lifted, not yet, but I can feel it easing every minute. Just like the lithium I'm afraid of what I'm leaving behind, but I'm looking forward to the future of no fear. I can stop feeling responsible for my own misery, even reject those feelings that turn people away. Maybe I can even get better.
But now that I know the reasoning, what if it gets worse? When I think about the potential that has been there all along I wonder how I have managed to stay this safe. I know what it can lead to and what it can do, I think about it and I can't breathe. My heart is racing and I'm picturing the scene. I don't want to describe it, the grabbing, pulling, punching, slashing violence of it all. Now I'm terrified again.
I can control it, if I understand it. Not in a power hungry, I must be the best way. Perhaps I don't mean to control it. I think I mean I hope I can live in harmony together with it; so that it won't take over, won't run me out of control. That I can accept it and carry myself through the hard times and into the good without hurting anyone at all. I hope I can carry it with pride and use the bad times to understand it more, learn what it can give me and take the good sides out of it. Maybe one day it will leave me alone and I will be in peace, but I don't remember a time when I was; don't know what there is to miss out on.
I am proud of my mind, even though I don't understand it. We will travel together, it and me, to make whole what has always been lacking and to carry what has always been dragged.
I have checked all the facts; nothing odd or strange. It all fits. But it shouldn't fit. When it comes to instability, nothing should fit this perfectly, that's the nature of the thing. Surely.
It does though. I've spent a while with it in the back of my head, wondering, guessing. Until I say it outloud it won't be real. But the feelings are real; I can't deny it to myself. Not really.
I'm still scared.
More scared than a broken leg, or a bad case of liver damage. Im not sure if I'll ever repair, I don't know if it can heal itself.
Nothing has to change, I suppose. Life will be the same as it was before, perhaps even better. At least now I know what I'm dealing with. Still don't know what to do about it, but I guess I can stop feeling guilty. Not a chance. That really is the nature of the thing. Guilty is what I do.
I think at least now I can understand a bit more. Understand the way some people treat me when they figure it out. They saw it all before I did, no doubt about that; but it's not unusual. Some people never believe it of themselves. It feels almost like a relief. I don't have to be a failure, just messed up. I don't have anyone to blame, but at least I don't have to blame myself. I can do something about it without having to begrudge the sacrifice I make. Now it's a sacrifice I have to make, before it was just a punishment. It won't get better, but I can stop paying pennance.
I don't have to scared anymore, I feel like I can start to understand. If I can control it then I don't have to worry again. The weight hasn't been lifted, not yet, but I can feel it easing every minute. Just like the lithium I'm afraid of what I'm leaving behind, but I'm looking forward to the future of no fear. I can stop feeling responsible for my own misery, even reject those feelings that turn people away. Maybe I can even get better.
But now that I know the reasoning, what if it gets worse? When I think about the potential that has been there all along I wonder how I have managed to stay this safe. I know what it can lead to and what it can do, I think about it and I can't breathe. My heart is racing and I'm picturing the scene. I don't want to describe it, the grabbing, pulling, punching, slashing violence of it all. Now I'm terrified again.
I can control it, if I understand it. Not in a power hungry, I must be the best way. Perhaps I don't mean to control it. I think I mean I hope I can live in harmony together with it; so that it won't take over, won't run me out of control. That I can accept it and carry myself through the hard times and into the good without hurting anyone at all. I hope I can carry it with pride and use the bad times to understand it more, learn what it can give me and take the good sides out of it. Maybe one day it will leave me alone and I will be in peace, but I don't remember a time when I was; don't know what there is to miss out on.
I am proud of my mind, even though I don't understand it. We will travel together, it and me, to make whole what has always been lacking and to carry what has always been dragged.
Monday, 8 February 2010
Nature's World
Back then there was little to worry about.
Life was simple. Easy.
Times changed slowly, like landscapes eroded over time.
Often nothing moved at all. There was just the landscape and me.
People often passed through, but they left no mark on the earth; there were no footprints in the sand.
I used to sit and wait for the tide to come in. Just a gentle rise in the water that no one noticed but me. It was as if the tide was teasing me, waiting for me to give up watch and go inside. I would catch it every time. I played games with nature and it smiled.
One way, I could see nothing but ocean, in the other, mountains and sky. To the west everything was ocean, or everything was sky, it made no difference. In the east, a violent landscape. A slap of tranquility that stung my face with its magnitude. The sleeping giants and the sighing mermaids.
Serenity.
-----------------------
Something happened to change it all. Now I can’t get it back and I don’t know if I’ll make it through.
The life has been sucked from this place, like marrow from the spine.
When it came, the death throws came in contractions and the tide would no longer play with me. I watched, helpless, as it slammed its fists into the rocks and screamed and cried. Disregard the natural order of things, it said, I am the almighty!
So it was.
Giants played chess on the rocks and mermaids became sirens in the night. Nature did not need me, it never had. It laughed in the face of human suffering and showed me over and over. The natural order of things.
Chaos.
---------------------
What do yo get when serenity and chaos are done? Resignation. The silence of resignation is as deafening as chaos, as thick and luxurious as serenity.
There is a finality to resignation that can last forever. There is no white flag, but it is surrender.
So like an exhausted child in the final stage of tantrum, the earth succumed to its own power. The ocean rested, but it was not a gentle rest. The mountains stilled, but they were not sleeping. With nowhere left to go and nothing more to fight, they muted their voices and wept silent tears.
Life will eventually end here and nothing will be left.
When nothing is left I will be empty. Even I will leave no footprints in the sand.
Life was simple. Easy.
Times changed slowly, like landscapes eroded over time.
Often nothing moved at all. There was just the landscape and me.
People often passed through, but they left no mark on the earth; there were no footprints in the sand.
I used to sit and wait for the tide to come in. Just a gentle rise in the water that no one noticed but me. It was as if the tide was teasing me, waiting for me to give up watch and go inside. I would catch it every time. I played games with nature and it smiled.
One way, I could see nothing but ocean, in the other, mountains and sky. To the west everything was ocean, or everything was sky, it made no difference. In the east, a violent landscape. A slap of tranquility that stung my face with its magnitude. The sleeping giants and the sighing mermaids.
Serenity.
-----------------------
Something happened to change it all. Now I can’t get it back and I don’t know if I’ll make it through.
The life has been sucked from this place, like marrow from the spine.
When it came, the death throws came in contractions and the tide would no longer play with me. I watched, helpless, as it slammed its fists into the rocks and screamed and cried. Disregard the natural order of things, it said, I am the almighty!
So it was.
Giants played chess on the rocks and mermaids became sirens in the night. Nature did not need me, it never had. It laughed in the face of human suffering and showed me over and over. The natural order of things.
Chaos.
---------------------
What do yo get when serenity and chaos are done? Resignation. The silence of resignation is as deafening as chaos, as thick and luxurious as serenity.
There is a finality to resignation that can last forever. There is no white flag, but it is surrender.
So like an exhausted child in the final stage of tantrum, the earth succumed to its own power. The ocean rested, but it was not a gentle rest. The mountains stilled, but they were not sleeping. With nowhere left to go and nothing more to fight, they muted their voices and wept silent tears.
Life will eventually end here and nothing will be left.
When nothing is left I will be empty. Even I will leave no footprints in the sand.
Monday, 7 December 2009
Twelve Shots
There were twelve shots before I died. Flashed before my eyes as if the shutter were opening then and there. Twelve shots for the price of one. In the end that was all it was. You only have one shot and I had it. I could say they would haunt me for the rest of my life, but that would be ironic. Although they took away the shock of the action - a gun fired out of the blue into the base of my spine - they left me with a feeling of regret, deeper than any pain could be felt; the feeling that I had finally lost and there would never be another chance.
The soft down of a puppy rests alone and large eyed in the centre of a rug. It has been playing and has the beginnings of looking tired. The rug is technicolour, a reminder of decades passed, but the walls are contemporary, perhaps just ahead of their time.
In a brown leather jacket I rest on a fence post that would be more at home by a country stile than a garden gate in the city centre. A tiny garden that was never really welcomed into the smog of the city. I look tired; worn and weary after a long day at someone’s office. I never quite fitted in, the brown jacket jarring with the shine of patent shoes.
A sunset shows the most beautiful picture I ever took. Although the lens is dirty and my finger is in the corner the shot is immaculate. Gold and red and blue mix in the sky and it is aflame, bursting with energy and potential. Somewhere in the distance I hear you calling me back from the edge.
Friends, smiling and smoking cigarettes in my pokey city house. We drink from cans, not glasses and the butts are left to soak into the remaining beer to be tried again in a few hours with a splutter and a cough. We all had nicknames then: Moon, Shakey, Leaner and me. Seemed odd when someone called me by my proper name.
More friends. This time not so happy. In dark shirts we all stand at a graveside trying to look on the bright side of life. He would have wanted us to be happy for him, but we can’t quite do it. The raining is pouring on our half concealed hip flasks and our fags are getting wet. There is a small boy with us, looking over his shoulder at some imaginary escape route; he had no way out.
There is a black shot in the middle of all the images. It is not entirely dark, a fire is burning bright in the centre. Everything else is blacked out by the illumination of the flames.
A shot that I hate. A shot of you. Glamourous in red, but without your shoes, you are smiling at the camera as if you have a dirty secret. You hair is long and a cigarette is slipping from its holder onto the carpet. There’ll be a fire if it drops. I cannot look at your face, I focus on your feet; glossy red toenails appear to wiggle at me as they skip down the grass. I cannot look at you.
I tried to be artistic once and here is one of my shots. A peacock blue flower sits in the centre of a large pile of ash. The beauty takes over the dirt. But now it seems more like the other way round, ugliness is bringing destruction.
My first photo is of a balding baby, wrinkled face and stained babygrow. There are no arms holding me, I rest in a crib all alone. My fists are clenched and I scream at the life I have been pushed into.
Snow on the ground as I push the car onto the road. I have shovelled all morning and I am red in the face, shining with the bitter cold. The car is green, to match the grass I never see. I can see people looking out their windows at me as if I am crazy. They don’t know that if I don’t see you I will die anyway. Who took the picture I’m not sure. Perhaps it is not a picture after all.
School photos are always the worst. Grinning like a toothless hag I have strightened my tie and cleaned up my face to uphold the illusion that school is a nice place to be. A place where you get homework and they give you books to read; not punches from the boys and cracks round the head from the teachers. The uniform was blue. My brown eyes never suited it, but it wasn’t enough to put me in a school where I really belonged. There would never be enough until it was too late.
The last image is almost too fast to see, but it seems to be something I have never seen before. A disinfected place of green walls and people with masks. I hear beeping and shouting, the light are flashing red red red. I am lifted and I think this is it, the last shot I will see, as I hear the words, “Clear!”
The soft down of a puppy rests alone and large eyed in the centre of a rug. It has been playing and has the beginnings of looking tired. The rug is technicolour, a reminder of decades passed, but the walls are contemporary, perhaps just ahead of their time.
In a brown leather jacket I rest on a fence post that would be more at home by a country stile than a garden gate in the city centre. A tiny garden that was never really welcomed into the smog of the city. I look tired; worn and weary after a long day at someone’s office. I never quite fitted in, the brown jacket jarring with the shine of patent shoes.
A sunset shows the most beautiful picture I ever took. Although the lens is dirty and my finger is in the corner the shot is immaculate. Gold and red and blue mix in the sky and it is aflame, bursting with energy and potential. Somewhere in the distance I hear you calling me back from the edge.
Friends, smiling and smoking cigarettes in my pokey city house. We drink from cans, not glasses and the butts are left to soak into the remaining beer to be tried again in a few hours with a splutter and a cough. We all had nicknames then: Moon, Shakey, Leaner and me. Seemed odd when someone called me by my proper name.
More friends. This time not so happy. In dark shirts we all stand at a graveside trying to look on the bright side of life. He would have wanted us to be happy for him, but we can’t quite do it. The raining is pouring on our half concealed hip flasks and our fags are getting wet. There is a small boy with us, looking over his shoulder at some imaginary escape route; he had no way out.
There is a black shot in the middle of all the images. It is not entirely dark, a fire is burning bright in the centre. Everything else is blacked out by the illumination of the flames.
A shot that I hate. A shot of you. Glamourous in red, but without your shoes, you are smiling at the camera as if you have a dirty secret. You hair is long and a cigarette is slipping from its holder onto the carpet. There’ll be a fire if it drops. I cannot look at your face, I focus on your feet; glossy red toenails appear to wiggle at me as they skip down the grass. I cannot look at you.
I tried to be artistic once and here is one of my shots. A peacock blue flower sits in the centre of a large pile of ash. The beauty takes over the dirt. But now it seems more like the other way round, ugliness is bringing destruction.
My first photo is of a balding baby, wrinkled face and stained babygrow. There are no arms holding me, I rest in a crib all alone. My fists are clenched and I scream at the life I have been pushed into.
Snow on the ground as I push the car onto the road. I have shovelled all morning and I am red in the face, shining with the bitter cold. The car is green, to match the grass I never see. I can see people looking out their windows at me as if I am crazy. They don’t know that if I don’t see you I will die anyway. Who took the picture I’m not sure. Perhaps it is not a picture after all.
School photos are always the worst. Grinning like a toothless hag I have strightened my tie and cleaned up my face to uphold the illusion that school is a nice place to be. A place where you get homework and they give you books to read; not punches from the boys and cracks round the head from the teachers. The uniform was blue. My brown eyes never suited it, but it wasn’t enough to put me in a school where I really belonged. There would never be enough until it was too late.
The last image is almost too fast to see, but it seems to be something I have never seen before. A disinfected place of green walls and people with masks. I hear beeping and shouting, the light are flashing red red red. I am lifted and I think this is it, the last shot I will see, as I hear the words, “Clear!”
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
Virus
It was spreading, there was no doubt about that.
The clouds were coming in from the east; whatever the fuck that meant. I only knew it was the east because I had watched the sun come up that morning, sitting in exactly the same position I was in now. Although it was late afternoon I was still sitting there. I couldn’t get the thought out of my head that it was getting worse. Like a virus the feeling was spreading through me, undeniable, like immersing yourself in a luke warm bath, it was encompassing me until only my nose was above the surface. Bloody hell.
I knew I had to do something about it. I had to get up out of this chair and open the front door. Not so hard really. Except the front door was a million miles away and someone had stuck shit in the key hole. It was about as appealing as a black eye. I’d had a few of those in my time too. But none would be worse than having to face the truth that waited for me behind the front door. I knew she was home, I had heard her voice calling for me as she tottered across the hall, expectant, waiting for the good news.
There wasn’t any good news. There never would be now. The last train had left the station. Elvis had left the building. Oh crap, how was I going to tell her? ‘Hi honey, sorry I’m late, spent the day in the back garden thinking about what a fuck up I am.’ She would smile and nudge me playfully, saying how much she loved me, just the way I was. Bollocks.
My arse felt like a dead weight, but the weight was comforting. A day of vacancy had not given me closure, just a desperate sense of failure and despair. It was final. The last refusal I would ever take for the bloody team. Anger boiled. An anger I had supressed while I was alone bubbled to the surface as I thought of having to face the final humiliation. My fists clenched, my nails digging into my soft, uncalloused palms. As I hit the fence I realised the anger had propelled me out of the garden chair into pacing like a caged tiger. I shook out my fist; that bloody hurt. Throbbing and stumbling my dead legs paced faster and faster. My breathing had become short and irratic and I began to feel the effect in my brain. Had to sit down again.
I surveyed the house that was so nearly hers. Just four walls made of brick. Who got attached to a house anyway? Who bloody well cared? I was building myself up; distancing myself from all that I held familiar in an attempt to stop the hurt from penetrating too deep. I couldn’t give a fuck about the new sofa or the fridge freezer it had taken so long to save up for. I couldn’t give a fuck about the four wheel drive ready to pounce into action on the drive. Christ, I didn’t even give a fuck about her with her patronising manner and oh so perfect composure. What did I have to lose anyway? Absolutely nothing. Nothing I wanted that was for sure. I rose, slowly this time and headed round the side of the house. The wind was picking up.
“I got a virus.” I said as I stepped into the flourescent light of the kitchen.
“What on earth do you mean dear? They gave you some kind of promotion? That’s wonderful dear! You are such a fabulous author, but you know that, of course. We should celebrate! Look I can save this for another day, shall we go out for dinner? We can have champagne at De Rito’s! I’ll get myself ready!” She pranced around the room, oblivious to the true meaning of my words. I hung my head. What could I do? Her illusion was appealing, but my sense of failure didn’t have the energy to go along with it.
“Lilly, will you pack it in? For fuck’s sake! No bloody champagne! Did you hear what I said?”
“What dear? No champagne? Why ever not? You always were modest. Come on, live a little!”
I turned and stepped into the doorway. I couldn’t face a failure that refused to be heard. I would have to live with that on my own.
“I’m tired. I’m going to lay down for a while. Don’t come up.”
Walking away I could feel the virus creep up over my nose. For a moment it felt warm. Peaceful. But then I was drowning. My throat tightened as I struggled for air, my knees buckled and the room went black. Swimming and spinning I clutched at the wall, pulling objects over in a desperate attempt to stay vertical. It was no good.
Failure finally took over. An all encompassing darkness that never quite eased the pain, it simply prolonged it. Who knows how long I have been here. I wonder, did the rain come from the east? Fuck it.
The clouds were coming in from the east; whatever the fuck that meant. I only knew it was the east because I had watched the sun come up that morning, sitting in exactly the same position I was in now. Although it was late afternoon I was still sitting there. I couldn’t get the thought out of my head that it was getting worse. Like a virus the feeling was spreading through me, undeniable, like immersing yourself in a luke warm bath, it was encompassing me until only my nose was above the surface. Bloody hell.
I knew I had to do something about it. I had to get up out of this chair and open the front door. Not so hard really. Except the front door was a million miles away and someone had stuck shit in the key hole. It was about as appealing as a black eye. I’d had a few of those in my time too. But none would be worse than having to face the truth that waited for me behind the front door. I knew she was home, I had heard her voice calling for me as she tottered across the hall, expectant, waiting for the good news.
There wasn’t any good news. There never would be now. The last train had left the station. Elvis had left the building. Oh crap, how was I going to tell her? ‘Hi honey, sorry I’m late, spent the day in the back garden thinking about what a fuck up I am.’ She would smile and nudge me playfully, saying how much she loved me, just the way I was. Bollocks.
My arse felt like a dead weight, but the weight was comforting. A day of vacancy had not given me closure, just a desperate sense of failure and despair. It was final. The last refusal I would ever take for the bloody team. Anger boiled. An anger I had supressed while I was alone bubbled to the surface as I thought of having to face the final humiliation. My fists clenched, my nails digging into my soft, uncalloused palms. As I hit the fence I realised the anger had propelled me out of the garden chair into pacing like a caged tiger. I shook out my fist; that bloody hurt. Throbbing and stumbling my dead legs paced faster and faster. My breathing had become short and irratic and I began to feel the effect in my brain. Had to sit down again.
I surveyed the house that was so nearly hers. Just four walls made of brick. Who got attached to a house anyway? Who bloody well cared? I was building myself up; distancing myself from all that I held familiar in an attempt to stop the hurt from penetrating too deep. I couldn’t give a fuck about the new sofa or the fridge freezer it had taken so long to save up for. I couldn’t give a fuck about the four wheel drive ready to pounce into action on the drive. Christ, I didn’t even give a fuck about her with her patronising manner and oh so perfect composure. What did I have to lose anyway? Absolutely nothing. Nothing I wanted that was for sure. I rose, slowly this time and headed round the side of the house. The wind was picking up.
“I got a virus.” I said as I stepped into the flourescent light of the kitchen.
“What on earth do you mean dear? They gave you some kind of promotion? That’s wonderful dear! You are such a fabulous author, but you know that, of course. We should celebrate! Look I can save this for another day, shall we go out for dinner? We can have champagne at De Rito’s! I’ll get myself ready!” She pranced around the room, oblivious to the true meaning of my words. I hung my head. What could I do? Her illusion was appealing, but my sense of failure didn’t have the energy to go along with it.
“Lilly, will you pack it in? For fuck’s sake! No bloody champagne! Did you hear what I said?”
“What dear? No champagne? Why ever not? You always were modest. Come on, live a little!”
I turned and stepped into the doorway. I couldn’t face a failure that refused to be heard. I would have to live with that on my own.
“I’m tired. I’m going to lay down for a while. Don’t come up.”
Walking away I could feel the virus creep up over my nose. For a moment it felt warm. Peaceful. But then I was drowning. My throat tightened as I struggled for air, my knees buckled and the room went black. Swimming and spinning I clutched at the wall, pulling objects over in a desperate attempt to stay vertical. It was no good.
Failure finally took over. An all encompassing darkness that never quite eased the pain, it simply prolonged it. Who knows how long I have been here. I wonder, did the rain come from the east? Fuck it.
Saturday, 28 November 2009
A Diet of Happiness
Lettuce and cucumber today. Not even any cheese for this sandwich. Not even any bread for this sandwich.
The thought of meat makes me crazy these days. I feel like there is a wailing banshee trapped in my head and all she wants is a Macdonald’s.
It won’t be long now, I keep telling myself; won’t be long until the big day comes around. Won’t be long until I waste away and die more like.
I had never realised that dieting was so anti-social. Everything I want to do seems to involve eating: let’s go for a meal, why don’t we watch a movie with some popcorn, better have some sweets for the journey. It seems I can’t do anything because of this bloody diet.
I sit on the couch with a book half open in my hands. Reading would be so much easier if I could have a bag of crisps, something to nibble on. But they say if I don’t do it now I never will: you’re not getting any younger dear.
“Got any plans, love?” Asks James, his coat under his arm. He is off to the pub.
“Just relaxing and having a read. Might go for a run later.” Might chop the ends of my own fingers off and fry them in a little butter. Mmm.
“Enjoy that. I won’t be late.”
It’s not his fault he seems so inconsiderate. I haven’t told him what it’s like.
I flick the page unconsciously and glance at the words. I can make them look like a cheeseburger if I squint my eyes.
Perhaps I’ll just have a little digestive biscuit. It won’t hurt. I sigh deeply and shift, eyeing the kitchen door. No. no. no. Something to look forward to, think of that.
I slam the book shut and get up. I don’t care about the big bloody day. I don’t care if I’ll look so much better and feel so much happier. I won’t. I won’t because I’ll look back on the six months I spent sitting in a world of lettuce and cucumber and I’ll wish I’d had some chips! This is not life! This is food prison, torture by dieting. I mean, I even thought about going to the shop, buying a cake and disposing of the evidence in someone else’s bin. This is sad.
Fuck it. I’ve had enough.
Feet first I head for the kitchen. I feel a sudden weight lift from my shoulders as I begin to rummage through the cupboards. Cheese, bread, olives; a feast, I’m going to have a feast!
***
“Ginny? Where are you?”
“Mmm?”
“Hey love, how was your evening?”
“Great. Just great.”
I looked up at John, still blissfully full and warm. He looked down and smiled.
“I never wanted you to lose any weight in the first place.”
The thought of meat makes me crazy these days. I feel like there is a wailing banshee trapped in my head and all she wants is a Macdonald’s.
It won’t be long now, I keep telling myself; won’t be long until the big day comes around. Won’t be long until I waste away and die more like.
I had never realised that dieting was so anti-social. Everything I want to do seems to involve eating: let’s go for a meal, why don’t we watch a movie with some popcorn, better have some sweets for the journey. It seems I can’t do anything because of this bloody diet.
I sit on the couch with a book half open in my hands. Reading would be so much easier if I could have a bag of crisps, something to nibble on. But they say if I don’t do it now I never will: you’re not getting any younger dear.
“Got any plans, love?” Asks James, his coat under his arm. He is off to the pub.
“Just relaxing and having a read. Might go for a run later.” Might chop the ends of my own fingers off and fry them in a little butter. Mmm.
“Enjoy that. I won’t be late.”
It’s not his fault he seems so inconsiderate. I haven’t told him what it’s like.
I flick the page unconsciously and glance at the words. I can make them look like a cheeseburger if I squint my eyes.
Perhaps I’ll just have a little digestive biscuit. It won’t hurt. I sigh deeply and shift, eyeing the kitchen door. No. no. no. Something to look forward to, think of that.
I slam the book shut and get up. I don’t care about the big bloody day. I don’t care if I’ll look so much better and feel so much happier. I won’t. I won’t because I’ll look back on the six months I spent sitting in a world of lettuce and cucumber and I’ll wish I’d had some chips! This is not life! This is food prison, torture by dieting. I mean, I even thought about going to the shop, buying a cake and disposing of the evidence in someone else’s bin. This is sad.
Fuck it. I’ve had enough.
Feet first I head for the kitchen. I feel a sudden weight lift from my shoulders as I begin to rummage through the cupboards. Cheese, bread, olives; a feast, I’m going to have a feast!
***
“Ginny? Where are you?”
“Mmm?”
“Hey love, how was your evening?”
“Great. Just great.”
I looked up at John, still blissfully full and warm. He looked down and smiled.
“I never wanted you to lose any weight in the first place.”
Thursday, 26 November 2009
Three Boys Wait
"Go on, push it."
"I don't know what it is. It might be a switch for the alarm, my mum'll kill me."
"He said it was harmless. He said you couldn't get it wrong. why would he say that if there was any danger?"
The boys stood in front of the main switch board of the office block and stared at the blinking lights.
"Why did your mum want you to meet her here anyway? She should of finished work hours ago."
"She had a late client. I'm not allowed to stay in the house on my own, she says I'm not old enough yet. But she said if I had you guys with me I could wait in here until she was finished."
"Who was that other bloke then? Was he with your mum too?"
"Nah. He was just the security guy. Doesn't like people touching his stuff. But I think he likes me. I mean, it doesn't take a genius to work this stuff out...here, this one changes the camera and this one sets off the alarm."
"Careful! Last thing I want is your mum to catch me here. Your mum might have asked you here, but mine didn't. She'd blow her top if she thought I wasn't at your house now. An alarm that calls the police direct? Can you imagine being taken down to the station in one of their cars with the bullet proof glass and the sniffer dogs?"
"They don't bring them on things like that. Only serious drug stuff gets the sniffer dogs."
"So what? You want your dad to have to bail you out for wasting police time? I'm out."
The boys stared at the screens some more. Nothing was moving. The cameras flicked from one image to the next, all just empty hallways and offices.
"How long's she gonna be anyway? I gotta be home before they notice. I'm not meant to be out at all."
"Stop moaning. I'll tell your mum you been at mine. She likes me."
"Mum'll be coming soon. She said about half an hour."
"What's the time then?"
"Dunno."
"Oi! What was that? I saw something! Wait! Bring that camera back on!"
"Just my mum I guess. Stop being a drama queen."
"Wasn't! Was big and weird looking. Hang on!"
"Shut up for god's sake, will you? If she's coming, we 'd better be as far away from this stuff as possible."
"I saw it! Wasn't your mum, I swear!"
"Give it a rest, jerk."
"LOOK! There it is again!"
"What? Nothing there, chicken!"
"No...wait. I saw it too. Like a big bulk in the office, moving around. Not a man really, but shaped like one. Let's get a better look. Put the screen back to where it was."
"Shut up! There's nothing there!"
"Then move it back so that we can check. If there's nothing there, we'll get back to waiting. Nothing to worry about."
He flicked a switch and the screen glowed a dismal green. Night vision.
The boys gasped.
"See! I told you. Nothing bloody there!"
"Wait.There was. I swear it. It was there."
"What was that? What's that noise?"
"The generator probably. Kicking in for the night. Stop being such a freak."
The noise got louder and higher. Like the sudder of an old car engine as it struggles to start. Louder and louder. Deafening.
"WHAT'S GOING ON??!"
Ther lights went out then and they could not distinguish between the humming sound that reverbarated from every wall and the movement of their own bodies in the blindness. The room shook steadily as the pitch of the sound grew into a scream of momumental proportions, bursting their ear drums and shattering the nerves in their brains.
Suddenly there was a blinding flash of light in which they saw each other as they really were: bleeding from the ears, eyes bursting out of their sockets like golf balls and bodies writhing in agony, backs arched and muscles tense to breaking point. The light left a halo on their eyes. The shadows of what they had seen, in an eerie green negative, reversed the images and imprinted them on their minds.
As their bodies froze, looks of horror were etched on their faces. A horror they could never describe, a fear that had taken even the imagination of a ten year old boy utterly by surprise. Hair stood on end on arms and legs and their joints were rigid as if set in concrete. Skin white and grey, as if to exaggerate the blood trickling down the neck.
Halos still etched on their eyelids, their frozen statues were buried with looks of horror on their faces and arm and leg hair stuck straight up in the air.
"I don't know what it is. It might be a switch for the alarm, my mum'll kill me."
"He said it was harmless. He said you couldn't get it wrong. why would he say that if there was any danger?"
The boys stood in front of the main switch board of the office block and stared at the blinking lights.
"Why did your mum want you to meet her here anyway? She should of finished work hours ago."
"She had a late client. I'm not allowed to stay in the house on my own, she says I'm not old enough yet. But she said if I had you guys with me I could wait in here until she was finished."
"Who was that other bloke then? Was he with your mum too?"
"Nah. He was just the security guy. Doesn't like people touching his stuff. But I think he likes me. I mean, it doesn't take a genius to work this stuff out...here, this one changes the camera and this one sets off the alarm."
"Careful! Last thing I want is your mum to catch me here. Your mum might have asked you here, but mine didn't. She'd blow her top if she thought I wasn't at your house now. An alarm that calls the police direct? Can you imagine being taken down to the station in one of their cars with the bullet proof glass and the sniffer dogs?"
"They don't bring them on things like that. Only serious drug stuff gets the sniffer dogs."
"So what? You want your dad to have to bail you out for wasting police time? I'm out."
The boys stared at the screens some more. Nothing was moving. The cameras flicked from one image to the next, all just empty hallways and offices.
"How long's she gonna be anyway? I gotta be home before they notice. I'm not meant to be out at all."
"Stop moaning. I'll tell your mum you been at mine. She likes me."
"Mum'll be coming soon. She said about half an hour."
"What's the time then?"
"Dunno."
"Oi! What was that? I saw something! Wait! Bring that camera back on!"
"Just my mum I guess. Stop being a drama queen."
"Wasn't! Was big and weird looking. Hang on!"
"Shut up for god's sake, will you? If she's coming, we 'd better be as far away from this stuff as possible."
"I saw it! Wasn't your mum, I swear!"
"Give it a rest, jerk."
"LOOK! There it is again!"
"What? Nothing there, chicken!"
"No...wait. I saw it too. Like a big bulk in the office, moving around. Not a man really, but shaped like one. Let's get a better look. Put the screen back to where it was."
"Shut up! There's nothing there!"
"Then move it back so that we can check. If there's nothing there, we'll get back to waiting. Nothing to worry about."
He flicked a switch and the screen glowed a dismal green. Night vision.
The boys gasped.
"See! I told you. Nothing bloody there!"
"Wait.There was. I swear it. It was there."
"What was that? What's that noise?"
"The generator probably. Kicking in for the night. Stop being such a freak."
The noise got louder and higher. Like the sudder of an old car engine as it struggles to start. Louder and louder. Deafening.
"WHAT'S GOING ON??!"
Ther lights went out then and they could not distinguish between the humming sound that reverbarated from every wall and the movement of their own bodies in the blindness. The room shook steadily as the pitch of the sound grew into a scream of momumental proportions, bursting their ear drums and shattering the nerves in their brains.
Suddenly there was a blinding flash of light in which they saw each other as they really were: bleeding from the ears, eyes bursting out of their sockets like golf balls and bodies writhing in agony, backs arched and muscles tense to breaking point. The light left a halo on their eyes. The shadows of what they had seen, in an eerie green negative, reversed the images and imprinted them on their minds.
As their bodies froze, looks of horror were etched on their faces. A horror they could never describe, a fear that had taken even the imagination of a ten year old boy utterly by surprise. Hair stood on end on arms and legs and their joints were rigid as if set in concrete. Skin white and grey, as if to exaggerate the blood trickling down the neck.
Halos still etched on their eyelids, their frozen statues were buried with looks of horror on their faces and arm and leg hair stuck straight up in the air.
Wednesday, 25 November 2009
The One Thought
There are only ever three thoughts in my mind at any one time: what I am doing right now, what I will be doing next and you. Always you.
Right now I'm thinking about driving this car, turning the wheel, changing the gears, gently pressing the brake as red lights flash on in front of me. I'm also thinking about what to do when I get home. I might go for a run, write in my diary or just relax in a hot bath; sounds good to me. Then there is you. Always you.
I want it to be soft, all the time. Soft music, gentle touch, sweet tastes. But the world is hard and solid like a gobstopper that cracks against your teeth as you move it around your mouth. A rough, lumpy gobstopper. One that has chunks taken out of it and slashes running through it. The world is rough and jilting. I slam on my brakes, not gently this time, a jerky movement that surprises me, brings me back to the jagged edges of the world.
I screw my eyes up tight and open them again quickly. Dry and rough just like the world. But I want it to be soft like feathers and warm water droplets. You make me feel soft. I wish I could only think of you, only you and not the doing; not the acting, not the moving, not the seeing. If you could reach me I would never have to touch the jagged edges of the world, I would never have to slap my foot against the brakes, tensing my neck muscles and straining my spine. I could float through life on a cloud of emptiness.
There is no space in the world for this kind of love. No space in the world for nothing but you. They always want me to make a plan, decide what to do, take action. I don't want to act I just want to think about you.
I indicate and turn the corner carefully, just as they taught me to. Hands at ten to two and feed the wheel through. I don't want to follow the rules, but the stars are staring down at me, judging me, burning holes into my skin. I could live without stars if I had you. We never really see them as they are now. We only see an echo of what they have been, light years ago. I never get to see you, not even the shadow of your past and it feels like a knife edge scraping across the surface of my skin.
I glance up at the sky and all the stars disappear. A cloud is suffocating them now. Eyes on the road, careful, careful.
I can't concentrate for much longer. You are taking over my mind; drowning me in warm watery softness. My heart is thumping in my chest, but it sounds soft, muffled, pink. The world drifts out of focus, becomes blurry and soft. It is better that way. It takes away the jagged edges and everything blends into a mass of water coloured blots. I can still see the road, still follow the red lights in front of me, but the other thoughts in my head are fading now. It is beautiful. I have never been able to take away the other two thoughts before. The movement of the car makes me feel weightless and stationary, just you rocking me gently from side to side. I close my eyes and a warmth strokes my skin, tickling my face and smoothing my hair. Gently moving from side to side my muscles relax just a little and my breathing slows. My heart is caressing my lungs and my body is in perfect harmony as you drift closer to me until there is just you. Only you. You and the softness of the new world, a world of pink and blue and green. There are no shapes now, only colours and warmth, warmth and colours. My fingers begin to tingle and my legs are swinging loose. Free. Free from the sharp corners and blade-like sides of the world. There is only you, you , you.
I feel a jolt and the car seat becomes real again just for a second, bouncing me up and down until I don't land, only float again. But it's nothing to worry about, I can still follow the lights in front of me, even through the haze.
Another jolt. A scrape. It quickly fades from my hearing as the warmth surrounds me, hugging me safe and close. I will never be alone again. The world can not hurt me now. I wanted it to be soft and so it is. Soft like honey. Sticky. You are all around me, you are everything there is. I drift again and the world is yellow, I never thought it could be...
"She's dead sir. Sorry." The policeman had forgotten to remove his helmet when he entered the house.
The man just stared at his hands as they removed the hat, fixing on it even as he lay it in his lap.
"I...do you understand what I am saying sir? We have no idea what happened, just lost control I guess. Can happen to anyone. You are her next of kin aren't you? Sir? You are Mr Wayde, aren't you? Sir can you hear me? I know you have had a shock, but there are things we need to know. Did she suffer with depression? Was she taking any medication? For the record sir."
The man raised his hand slowly as if requesting to speak. His eyes never left the hat, but his voice was strong and clear.
"No. She was happy. I know it."
Right now I'm thinking about driving this car, turning the wheel, changing the gears, gently pressing the brake as red lights flash on in front of me. I'm also thinking about what to do when I get home. I might go for a run, write in my diary or just relax in a hot bath; sounds good to me. Then there is you. Always you.
I want it to be soft, all the time. Soft music, gentle touch, sweet tastes. But the world is hard and solid like a gobstopper that cracks against your teeth as you move it around your mouth. A rough, lumpy gobstopper. One that has chunks taken out of it and slashes running through it. The world is rough and jilting. I slam on my brakes, not gently this time, a jerky movement that surprises me, brings me back to the jagged edges of the world.
I screw my eyes up tight and open them again quickly. Dry and rough just like the world. But I want it to be soft like feathers and warm water droplets. You make me feel soft. I wish I could only think of you, only you and not the doing; not the acting, not the moving, not the seeing. If you could reach me I would never have to touch the jagged edges of the world, I would never have to slap my foot against the brakes, tensing my neck muscles and straining my spine. I could float through life on a cloud of emptiness.
There is no space in the world for this kind of love. No space in the world for nothing but you. They always want me to make a plan, decide what to do, take action. I don't want to act I just want to think about you.
I indicate and turn the corner carefully, just as they taught me to. Hands at ten to two and feed the wheel through. I don't want to follow the rules, but the stars are staring down at me, judging me, burning holes into my skin. I could live without stars if I had you. We never really see them as they are now. We only see an echo of what they have been, light years ago. I never get to see you, not even the shadow of your past and it feels like a knife edge scraping across the surface of my skin.
I glance up at the sky and all the stars disappear. A cloud is suffocating them now. Eyes on the road, careful, careful.
I can't concentrate for much longer. You are taking over my mind; drowning me in warm watery softness. My heart is thumping in my chest, but it sounds soft, muffled, pink. The world drifts out of focus, becomes blurry and soft. It is better that way. It takes away the jagged edges and everything blends into a mass of water coloured blots. I can still see the road, still follow the red lights in front of me, but the other thoughts in my head are fading now. It is beautiful. I have never been able to take away the other two thoughts before. The movement of the car makes me feel weightless and stationary, just you rocking me gently from side to side. I close my eyes and a warmth strokes my skin, tickling my face and smoothing my hair. Gently moving from side to side my muscles relax just a little and my breathing slows. My heart is caressing my lungs and my body is in perfect harmony as you drift closer to me until there is just you. Only you. You and the softness of the new world, a world of pink and blue and green. There are no shapes now, only colours and warmth, warmth and colours. My fingers begin to tingle and my legs are swinging loose. Free. Free from the sharp corners and blade-like sides of the world. There is only you, you , you.
I feel a jolt and the car seat becomes real again just for a second, bouncing me up and down until I don't land, only float again. But it's nothing to worry about, I can still follow the lights in front of me, even through the haze.
Another jolt. A scrape. It quickly fades from my hearing as the warmth surrounds me, hugging me safe and close. I will never be alone again. The world can not hurt me now. I wanted it to be soft and so it is. Soft like honey. Sticky. You are all around me, you are everything there is. I drift again and the world is yellow, I never thought it could be...
"She's dead sir. Sorry." The policeman had forgotten to remove his helmet when he entered the house.
The man just stared at his hands as they removed the hat, fixing on it even as he lay it in his lap.
"I...do you understand what I am saying sir? We have no idea what happened, just lost control I guess. Can happen to anyone. You are her next of kin aren't you? Sir? You are Mr Wayde, aren't you? Sir can you hear me? I know you have had a shock, but there are things we need to know. Did she suffer with depression? Was she taking any medication? For the record sir."
The man raised his hand slowly as if requesting to speak. His eyes never left the hat, but his voice was strong and clear.
"No. She was happy. I know it."
Sunday, 22 November 2009
What We Read and Why
I have just been looking at a very interesting blog about our reading habits. Well, I guess it was more a transcript of the author's reading habits than an analysis - such a shame, promised the objective world and given a subjective dissection.
I think our reading habits are simple to analyse really. This blog said 'we read to relate' and that really sums it up for me. Ever had the experience of starting a book and having to give up on it for its inaccessibility, only to find in a year's time to pick it up and relish it like a gormet meal? Our reading habits almost always relate to what is going on in our life at the time; when my life is rosy and stress free I can read heavy non fiction on the great poets and their lives, but when I'm bogged under and exhausted all the time, a trashy novel is all I can manage. So the level we read at could be an indicator of the levels of complexity our life course is experiencing.
Some people don't read anything heavy. Does this mean that they are under mountains of stress all the time? Things are never as simple as that. Our reading habits are not just connected to the activities in our life, in order to get a full understanding of why we read the way we do you would need to look at the whole person: their upbringing, needs, wants, education, lifestyle and whole host of other aspects. Really the only person who can analyse your reading habits is yourself; you would need to know the truth about far more than most people are willing to tell and some things that people don't even know about themselves.
So we can't analyse the reading habits of any person but the one we know the most about. How is this useful? The understanding of your own reading habits may be able to tell you things about yourself that you had no idea about. For example, you may find that reading a lot of crime or mystery novels satisfies your need to have all the answers to everything. Or role play games give you the power to be in control all the time. Usually you can see the traits attributed to a genre without a great deal of difficulty. This may sound like a generalisation and of course your analysis can be wrong, but quite often, even if you think it is wrong in some way it's just something you didn't know about yourself.
It is not impossible to second guess a person's reading habits with a small amount of information; this also works the other way around. By looking at a person's book as you sit opposite them on the train you can have a lot of fun creating the person behind that book. The better you get at understanding various genres and what they tell us, the easier you will find the analysis. It is even possible - for the hardened analyst - to differentiate between various authors or styles within a genre; if a certain novelist does not allow all the crimes to be solved in their murder mystery, where is the satisfaction in reading the story? The must be another motive.
I am fascinated by my own reading habits at the moment, beginning to understand that I still have a lot to prove to the word through my reading habits - high brow literature and heavy duty non fiction. Being aware of this doesn't make me want to change my habits, but it does make me read the books in a different way; I can enjoy them now without having to worry about what I'm not reading, what I should have read or why I am not a genius yet. Well I think that's where I'd like to be...I understand it, I've just got to get my head around it!
I think our reading habits are simple to analyse really. This blog said 'we read to relate' and that really sums it up for me. Ever had the experience of starting a book and having to give up on it for its inaccessibility, only to find in a year's time to pick it up and relish it like a gormet meal? Our reading habits almost always relate to what is going on in our life at the time; when my life is rosy and stress free I can read heavy non fiction on the great poets and their lives, but when I'm bogged under and exhausted all the time, a trashy novel is all I can manage. So the level we read at could be an indicator of the levels of complexity our life course is experiencing.
Some people don't read anything heavy. Does this mean that they are under mountains of stress all the time? Things are never as simple as that. Our reading habits are not just connected to the activities in our life, in order to get a full understanding of why we read the way we do you would need to look at the whole person: their upbringing, needs, wants, education, lifestyle and whole host of other aspects. Really the only person who can analyse your reading habits is yourself; you would need to know the truth about far more than most people are willing to tell and some things that people don't even know about themselves.
So we can't analyse the reading habits of any person but the one we know the most about. How is this useful? The understanding of your own reading habits may be able to tell you things about yourself that you had no idea about. For example, you may find that reading a lot of crime or mystery novels satisfies your need to have all the answers to everything. Or role play games give you the power to be in control all the time. Usually you can see the traits attributed to a genre without a great deal of difficulty. This may sound like a generalisation and of course your analysis can be wrong, but quite often, even if you think it is wrong in some way it's just something you didn't know about yourself.
It is not impossible to second guess a person's reading habits with a small amount of information; this also works the other way around. By looking at a person's book as you sit opposite them on the train you can have a lot of fun creating the person behind that book. The better you get at understanding various genres and what they tell us, the easier you will find the analysis. It is even possible - for the hardened analyst - to differentiate between various authors or styles within a genre; if a certain novelist does not allow all the crimes to be solved in their murder mystery, where is the satisfaction in reading the story? The must be another motive.
I am fascinated by my own reading habits at the moment, beginning to understand that I still have a lot to prove to the word through my reading habits - high brow literature and heavy duty non fiction. Being aware of this doesn't make me want to change my habits, but it does make me read the books in a different way; I can enjoy them now without having to worry about what I'm not reading, what I should have read or why I am not a genius yet. Well I think that's where I'd like to be...I understand it, I've just got to get my head around it!
Friday, 20 November 2009
Not a Nine to Five
The class is silent. Finally. I sigh inside as I walk over to my desk and sit staring at my papers. Have I pushed it too far this time? Will they all think I'm a joke, a drama queen? Stopping the clock like this is pretty easy to do these days; perhaps I snap too easily. Really it's only a few, not all of them. But it's amazing how much control one kid can have over the whole class; far more than me, that's for sure. Once one gets away with it you can't blame the rest for feelinglike they should get their turn too.
I shuffle the papers and glance around the room. Astonishing. Silent and waiting for me to do something. Get up and start all over I expect. Why on earth would I do that? Perhaps two or three years ago I might have let it pass, but as time has gone by I have become more and more cruel. I'm never nasty and I never cross the boundary line; but I'm pretty certain I push it almost every lesson. On the other hand, who is doing the pushing? I mean really? Am I pushed to the point of no return or is it me taking out my own frustrations on them? Sometimes I feel frustrated at the world, but not often. Mostly I feel frustrated by them.
I won't start again, not now, there hasn't been enough punishment. But I've got to do something. I might lose them otherwise. I can see eyes starting to wander, pens tiptoeing back to paper or the skin on the back of a hand. So I get up and look around. Mostly they are still looking at me, waiting for me to start on Romeo and Juliet for the fourth time in twenty minutes. I won't. I lecture them instead.
"How do you expect me to teach, when everytime I start to say something, a voice is talking over me? Who is not doing their job here? Is it me? Or is it you?"
The influx of rhetorical questions confuses them. They are in the habit of answering questions, but they're being told off for talking out of turn. They stay silent. Better not to risk it. A pen clicks; my head snaps round. Wide eyes glare at me, still defiant, always defiant. I can almost feel their thoughts, pulsing out across the sound waves. Wasn't me. I didn't do it. Ain't fair, this. School is a waste of time. If I switch my eyes on and my brain off, I can get away with this for hours. I'm sorry, I hope I haven't upset you!
Finally the table at the front chatches my eye. The four boys stare up at me, waiting patiently for the storm to clear; it is turbulent weather they know they don't belong in. Too bright, too nice, too studious. It is them that finally force my hand. If they could ever force anything that is. With a careful consideration they have their pans raised, ready for the first instruction, ears pricked to do exactly what I ask. The pressure is almost too much for me; I can't teach them with all these others around! They don't deserve it! But boiling point is just avoided and I sigh again.
By this point I don't care about Romeo and Juliet anymore, only about lunchtime and the bell that will finally signal the end of another painful hour. The passion I had is slowly dying as I talk about the language of the play and the best way to write a formal paragraph. Still they stare with defiant eyes, stony and dead. It is as if they really have mastered the art of switching off to the point just before no return - they will be able to do the task when I ask it of them, but until then they are noncommittal, stand-offish and scornful. Staring at those thirty pairs of eyes squarely is a hard task. Set them the activity as quickly as possible. The eys are burning holes in my skin.
Fickle as ever they are infinitely needy in their work: can you look at this Miss? Is it alright Miss? What shold I do next Miss? So I help them again, repeat the advice again, slowly fry my brain, again. The bustle of work for a few minutes eases the pressure and I begin to smile and joke with them. I actually begin to believe they aren't all that bad. I'm getting somewhere, I'm really making a difference to these kids.
The bell rings loud and chaos ensues. I let them go all at once, too exhausted to keep the terrors behind. As they dump their books in a mess on the desk I realise that really I was just fooling myself; I'm not making a difference and these kids don't care about any of this. Times have changed and we don't know how to keep up.
They whoop and spit down the corridor, intimidating with their hoods and stony stares. I tidy my papers and collect in the books. Ready for the next hour to begin.
I shuffle the papers and glance around the room. Astonishing. Silent and waiting for me to do something. Get up and start all over I expect. Why on earth would I do that? Perhaps two or three years ago I might have let it pass, but as time has gone by I have become more and more cruel. I'm never nasty and I never cross the boundary line; but I'm pretty certain I push it almost every lesson. On the other hand, who is doing the pushing? I mean really? Am I pushed to the point of no return or is it me taking out my own frustrations on them? Sometimes I feel frustrated at the world, but not often. Mostly I feel frustrated by them.
I won't start again, not now, there hasn't been enough punishment. But I've got to do something. I might lose them otherwise. I can see eyes starting to wander, pens tiptoeing back to paper or the skin on the back of a hand. So I get up and look around. Mostly they are still looking at me, waiting for me to start on Romeo and Juliet for the fourth time in twenty minutes. I won't. I lecture them instead.
"How do you expect me to teach, when everytime I start to say something, a voice is talking over me? Who is not doing their job here? Is it me? Or is it you?"
The influx of rhetorical questions confuses them. They are in the habit of answering questions, but they're being told off for talking out of turn. They stay silent. Better not to risk it. A pen clicks; my head snaps round. Wide eyes glare at me, still defiant, always defiant. I can almost feel their thoughts, pulsing out across the sound waves. Wasn't me. I didn't do it. Ain't fair, this. School is a waste of time. If I switch my eyes on and my brain off, I can get away with this for hours. I'm sorry, I hope I haven't upset you!
Finally the table at the front chatches my eye. The four boys stare up at me, waiting patiently for the storm to clear; it is turbulent weather they know they don't belong in. Too bright, too nice, too studious. It is them that finally force my hand. If they could ever force anything that is. With a careful consideration they have their pans raised, ready for the first instruction, ears pricked to do exactly what I ask. The pressure is almost too much for me; I can't teach them with all these others around! They don't deserve it! But boiling point is just avoided and I sigh again.
By this point I don't care about Romeo and Juliet anymore, only about lunchtime and the bell that will finally signal the end of another painful hour. The passion I had is slowly dying as I talk about the language of the play and the best way to write a formal paragraph. Still they stare with defiant eyes, stony and dead. It is as if they really have mastered the art of switching off to the point just before no return - they will be able to do the task when I ask it of them, but until then they are noncommittal, stand-offish and scornful. Staring at those thirty pairs of eyes squarely is a hard task. Set them the activity as quickly as possible. The eys are burning holes in my skin.
Fickle as ever they are infinitely needy in their work: can you look at this Miss? Is it alright Miss? What shold I do next Miss? So I help them again, repeat the advice again, slowly fry my brain, again. The bustle of work for a few minutes eases the pressure and I begin to smile and joke with them. I actually begin to believe they aren't all that bad. I'm getting somewhere, I'm really making a difference to these kids.
The bell rings loud and chaos ensues. I let them go all at once, too exhausted to keep the terrors behind. As they dump their books in a mess on the desk I realise that really I was just fooling myself; I'm not making a difference and these kids don't care about any of this. Times have changed and we don't know how to keep up.
They whoop and spit down the corridor, intimidating with their hoods and stony stares. I tidy my papers and collect in the books. Ready for the next hour to begin.
Wednesday, 18 November 2009
The Capitalist Trap
Boxed in by our own walls we tremble at the pressure we put on ourselves. Trapped inside objects we can never really own, money that never really exists. The others smile in at us from the outside; those with enough to get by in this capitalist world. The divide is only there if you're on the inside - mounting debts, pointless symbols and too many toys.
Why did I want all of this crap?
Becuase it's so beautiful! They shout from the outside. It makes you who you are!
Smart enough finally to see their trick, we bang our fists on the walls, to no avail. They only smile placidly in, they know there is nothing we can do. The spiral closes in and we know what happens when we reach the centre - madness; diminished responsibility - it almost appeals to the panicked mind. Hypnotised by the shiny baubles and flashing lights we we have dug our own graves in the metropolis cemetery of plastic and LED.
I don't want it anymore! I changed my mind! We scream.
But they wave their contracts at us like a wagging finger at a sulking child.
Legally binding, they sing smugly as the next ten years pan out in front of us - work, bills, work, bills - GET ME OUT!
We created the trap for ourselves. Or at the very least we allowed ourselves to be lead into it. An animal lead to the cage by treats, our ingorance has allowed them to treat us like animals.
So like animals we should break free. Tear down the walls. Screw their responsibility that holds us back. Fight them with our claws and teeth, gnashing and slashing until they let us go, wild into the wilderness. Where we will never sign another contract, agree to pay on finance or allow them to tell us the world is not worth being in unless you're rich. We will live like kings on our freedom, do jobs that we love, spend time being awake and alive instead of exhausted and stressed.
Let the system work for us for a change!
Why did I want all of this crap?
Becuase it's so beautiful! They shout from the outside. It makes you who you are!
Smart enough finally to see their trick, we bang our fists on the walls, to no avail. They only smile placidly in, they know there is nothing we can do. The spiral closes in and we know what happens when we reach the centre - madness; diminished responsibility - it almost appeals to the panicked mind. Hypnotised by the shiny baubles and flashing lights we we have dug our own graves in the metropolis cemetery of plastic and LED.
I don't want it anymore! I changed my mind! We scream.
But they wave their contracts at us like a wagging finger at a sulking child.
Legally binding, they sing smugly as the next ten years pan out in front of us - work, bills, work, bills - GET ME OUT!
We created the trap for ourselves. Or at the very least we allowed ourselves to be lead into it. An animal lead to the cage by treats, our ingorance has allowed them to treat us like animals.
So like animals we should break free. Tear down the walls. Screw their responsibility that holds us back. Fight them with our claws and teeth, gnashing and slashing until they let us go, wild into the wilderness. Where we will never sign another contract, agree to pay on finance or allow them to tell us the world is not worth being in unless you're rich. We will live like kings on our freedom, do jobs that we love, spend time being awake and alive instead of exhausted and stressed.
Let the system work for us for a change!
Monday, 16 November 2009
The Puppeteer
WHIRR, CLICK.
WHIRR, CLICK.
Solid gold bar face.
Still. Silent. Straight.
Tin foil ruffled dress.
Crushing, crumbling, crinkling.
WHIRR, CLICK.
WHIRR, CLICK.
The people stare strangely at the figure,
Hypnotised by the jerks of arm and head.
He is one time puppeteer, one time puppet
Pulling the strings of his audience
Making them squeal,
Just as they pull on his strings, to help him sleep safe at night.
It is the ultimate relationship.
The interchangeable master and toy,
No Pinocchio here my boy.
He views it all with his eyes wide open
Though on the other side are eyes wide in fear,
Without the sense to understand the concept of the dichotomy
His audience are simply lambs to the slaughter,
Torm limb from limb into a world of steel.
WHIRR, CLICK.
WHIRR, CLICK.
He pulls their strings until they tire of him,
When they yawn and lazily retreat behind doors of red, blue and green,
And they ask each other:
'What can he want to do that for?'
WHIRR, CLICK.
Solid gold bar face.
Still. Silent. Straight.
Tin foil ruffled dress.
Crushing, crumbling, crinkling.
WHIRR, CLICK.
WHIRR, CLICK.
The people stare strangely at the figure,
Hypnotised by the jerks of arm and head.
He is one time puppeteer, one time puppet
Pulling the strings of his audience
Making them squeal,
Just as they pull on his strings, to help him sleep safe at night.
It is the ultimate relationship.
The interchangeable master and toy,
No Pinocchio here my boy.
He views it all with his eyes wide open
Though on the other side are eyes wide in fear,
Without the sense to understand the concept of the dichotomy
His audience are simply lambs to the slaughter,
Torm limb from limb into a world of steel.
WHIRR, CLICK.
WHIRR, CLICK.
He pulls their strings until they tire of him,
When they yawn and lazily retreat behind doors of red, blue and green,
And they ask each other:
'What can he want to do that for?'
That's what friends are for
I stood in the throbbing room full of jumping, swirling bodies; arms flying, laughter rising over the tin beat of the vibrating bass. Lights flashed like a plethora of emotions spinning around the room - rage, joy, elation, peace. The walls pulsed and sang as the music faded not so perfectly from one track to the next. Disco balls rotated, shattering the emotions into timy fragments of light that hit the crowd like a snow storm.
I felt the chaos freeze as my mind became an open space. The silence overwhelmed me with its unexpected screaming and the people became statues in some surreal modern artistry. Suddenly the world was different, just for a moment, the world was mine.
I smiled a rare smile; the smile of one utterly at peace, utterly proud and satisfied; utterly complete.
The moment was as perfect as a carpet of newly fallen snow; mine was an untainted, childlike happiness.
I am in the world. The world is mine to conquer. I can do anything, be anything. I will never run from the world, the world loves me. I am in it and I am of it, devoid of faults, removed of all worry and shame. I can leap from the shadows and grab all worldly offerings. No one can stop me. I am the world.
And for that moment I was whole; a being with worth, a being with pride. The One and Only. I wanted nothing, I needed nothing. Only my heart and my mind.
I felt I could burst into a million shining stars and float down, covering the room with the intensity of my emotion. I wanted to throw my arms in the air to catch the lightening bolt charging down to meet me from above; I knew I would be saved. Nothing would defeat me, I was The Almighty, the power holding the room in snapshot of living finality. I had control. My breath would shatter mirrors; my touch would singe the wood from the dance floor. I was everything.
In that split second I realised: all that I am, all that I ever was, all that I will be, is here with me now. A humming of pent up possibility vibrating inside of me. I was completely in love, besotted with my own being, my past, my present, my future.
I felt a touch and the spell was broken, torn from me and snatched away to smash into the wall in a million mirrored stars of colourful emotion. I looked around as if for the first time and my rebirth was complete. I saw smiling faces, eyes full of adoration and life as I had never seen them before. I gasped and jumped into the group of jumping pushing hugging limbs and I found that the moment had not passed. I was The Almighty, I was powerful and wonderful. I belonged in the world. I deserved to be there.
I felt pride swell in my chest as my heart thumped in time with the world's rhythm. Never would I look back to the person I was, never would I be that person again. I was in the world. I was a part of something miraculous and magical. The wonder of life was right there in front of me, working its power on the dance floor of Reckless...and I was a part of it. I felt that I was it, that we all were. That we were drowning in the most perfect sea of diamond love, pulled this way and that by the current; always drifting but never lost, always drowning but never breathless.
It has never left me, the feeling of weightlessness from that blissful night. And although the mirror ball isn't always a lighthouse, like the moon it waxes and wanes, a constant in the tumultuous ocean of life.
I felt the chaos freeze as my mind became an open space. The silence overwhelmed me with its unexpected screaming and the people became statues in some surreal modern artistry. Suddenly the world was different, just for a moment, the world was mine.
I smiled a rare smile; the smile of one utterly at peace, utterly proud and satisfied; utterly complete.
The moment was as perfect as a carpet of newly fallen snow; mine was an untainted, childlike happiness.
I am in the world. The world is mine to conquer. I can do anything, be anything. I will never run from the world, the world loves me. I am in it and I am of it, devoid of faults, removed of all worry and shame. I can leap from the shadows and grab all worldly offerings. No one can stop me. I am the world.
And for that moment I was whole; a being with worth, a being with pride. The One and Only. I wanted nothing, I needed nothing. Only my heart and my mind.
I felt I could burst into a million shining stars and float down, covering the room with the intensity of my emotion. I wanted to throw my arms in the air to catch the lightening bolt charging down to meet me from above; I knew I would be saved. Nothing would defeat me, I was The Almighty, the power holding the room in snapshot of living finality. I had control. My breath would shatter mirrors; my touch would singe the wood from the dance floor. I was everything.
In that split second I realised: all that I am, all that I ever was, all that I will be, is here with me now. A humming of pent up possibility vibrating inside of me. I was completely in love, besotted with my own being, my past, my present, my future.
I felt a touch and the spell was broken, torn from me and snatched away to smash into the wall in a million mirrored stars of colourful emotion. I looked around as if for the first time and my rebirth was complete. I saw smiling faces, eyes full of adoration and life as I had never seen them before. I gasped and jumped into the group of jumping pushing hugging limbs and I found that the moment had not passed. I was The Almighty, I was powerful and wonderful. I belonged in the world. I deserved to be there.
I felt pride swell in my chest as my heart thumped in time with the world's rhythm. Never would I look back to the person I was, never would I be that person again. I was in the world. I was a part of something miraculous and magical. The wonder of life was right there in front of me, working its power on the dance floor of Reckless...and I was a part of it. I felt that I was it, that we all were. That we were drowning in the most perfect sea of diamond love, pulled this way and that by the current; always drifting but never lost, always drowning but never breathless.
It has never left me, the feeling of weightlessness from that blissful night. And although the mirror ball isn't always a lighthouse, like the moon it waxes and wanes, a constant in the tumultuous ocean of life.
Saturday, 14 November 2009
The Vampire Lestat - An Honest Review
When I bought The Vampire Lestat I was so excited about the prospect of reading it, I rushed through the 8 or so books I still had waiting in line to read. I shouldn't have bothered. I spent more time trying to get the book finished than I did enjoying what I was reading.
Having adored Interview with the Vampire on many occasions, I was surprised to find the second novel in The Vampure Chronicles dry and full of uninteresting history.
It began promisingly enough, Lestat risen after many years in the earth to find a new technological age that brought an interesting twist to the blood sucking tradition, but as I journeyed back to the very beginning of Lestat's vampiric life I began to have my suspicions. This did not seem at all like the Lestat I had known in IWTV! Now being fully aware that Louis' version of the story may have sounded very different to the real Lestat, I gave him the benefit of the doubt - I tried, I really did.
Unfortunately after the fifth digression into someone elses history - history spanning the entire existence of vampires on the earth - I began to feel a little weary. Anne Rice was dragging me around centuries and continents in a desperate attempt to tell the story of a life that had not in fact beeen all that interesting. It seems she began by telling a life story and proceeded to let the story take her over; no sooner had Lestat met his oldest vampire, than it seemed Rice was possessed by the desire to tell the complete and unabridged story of vampires in 200 or so pages.
I wanted the story of Lestat's life, what I got was a potted history of vampires in a fiction novel. The novel should have called itself 'Where Vampires Began' and it possibly would have sold more copies; it might even have had a film made of it.
I found the characters so two dimensional that I could have pushed them over with my little finger. Much as I wanted - and believe me I did - to believe in the world Rice was creating for me, I couldn't quite allow myself to enter into it without losing my grip on reality as we know it. The leap was too large, from my comfy sofa to blood suckers that transform their mothers and take her as a lover because apparently 'that's ok now.'.
To top it all off, Marius destroying vampires in balls of flame? Well really! I like my vampires to be believable. Often we read vampiric stories to allay the fears we all have of the unknown, the alien, the uncanny and the sublime; in this novel all my worst fears were realised when I couldn't even trust in what I was reading!
Anne Rice has started a novel and allowed it to turn in to an epic dynasty that eventually got out of control. A bitterly disappointing couple of weeks and I finish it with my faith in all things strange dangerously shaken.
Bring on Queen of the Dammned!
Having adored Interview with the Vampire on many occasions, I was surprised to find the second novel in The Vampure Chronicles dry and full of uninteresting history.
It began promisingly enough, Lestat risen after many years in the earth to find a new technological age that brought an interesting twist to the blood sucking tradition, but as I journeyed back to the very beginning of Lestat's vampiric life I began to have my suspicions. This did not seem at all like the Lestat I had known in IWTV! Now being fully aware that Louis' version of the story may have sounded very different to the real Lestat, I gave him the benefit of the doubt - I tried, I really did.
Unfortunately after the fifth digression into someone elses history - history spanning the entire existence of vampires on the earth - I began to feel a little weary. Anne Rice was dragging me around centuries and continents in a desperate attempt to tell the story of a life that had not in fact beeen all that interesting. It seems she began by telling a life story and proceeded to let the story take her over; no sooner had Lestat met his oldest vampire, than it seemed Rice was possessed by the desire to tell the complete and unabridged story of vampires in 200 or so pages.
I wanted the story of Lestat's life, what I got was a potted history of vampires in a fiction novel. The novel should have called itself 'Where Vampires Began' and it possibly would have sold more copies; it might even have had a film made of it.
I found the characters so two dimensional that I could have pushed them over with my little finger. Much as I wanted - and believe me I did - to believe in the world Rice was creating for me, I couldn't quite allow myself to enter into it without losing my grip on reality as we know it. The leap was too large, from my comfy sofa to blood suckers that transform their mothers and take her as a lover because apparently 'that's ok now.'.
To top it all off, Marius destroying vampires in balls of flame? Well really! I like my vampires to be believable. Often we read vampiric stories to allay the fears we all have of the unknown, the alien, the uncanny and the sublime; in this novel all my worst fears were realised when I couldn't even trust in what I was reading!
Anne Rice has started a novel and allowed it to turn in to an epic dynasty that eventually got out of control. A bitterly disappointing couple of weeks and I finish it with my faith in all things strange dangerously shaken.
Bring on Queen of the Dammned!
Wednesday, 11 November 2009
When I Grow Up
When I grow up
I want to be a writer,
of big and important things.
I will change the world, with what I have to say.
When I grow up
I will make the world a better place,
with my metaphors about the human race.
I will challenge the world, with what I have to say.
When I grow up
I will give the nation a second chance,
to make things better than ever before.
I will embrace the world, with what I have to say.
But until I grow up
there's nothing much I can do,
about all the problems the world has to face.
So I will sit just outside the world, saying nothing at all.
A 28 year old apathetic
I want to be a writer,
of big and important things.
I will change the world, with what I have to say.
When I grow up
I will make the world a better place,
with my metaphors about the human race.
I will challenge the world, with what I have to say.
When I grow up
I will give the nation a second chance,
to make things better than ever before.
I will embrace the world, with what I have to say.
But until I grow up
there's nothing much I can do,
about all the problems the world has to face.
So I will sit just outside the world, saying nothing at all.
A 28 year old apathetic
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