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!”
Monday, 7 December 2009
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.
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