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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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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.

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!”