Chiaroscuro

The pleasantries have evaporated, and once again I am twelve.

I am sprawled across the bed. My neck is heavy and my back is twisted. I am not ready to sink, so I hold my position.

I feel placeless and formless, like an amoeba.

I see an empty apartment with a broken light. Copper wires protrude out of the ground like tentacles. The light booms in from outside.

Chiaroscuro, that’s what they called it. The contrast between light and dark. My little cell.

Better than this, better than the heat in that stuffy room watching television. Miss Havisham and her cruel mind games a bit close to the bone.

And then the row over the wine. Those sulking eyes. Guilt tripping me about not going to Carryduff. Nothing to say anyway. It is absent, it has floated off somewhere and I cannot get it to return.

Same with them. Looking at the pictures, reading the comments. I have nothing to say. I am not who I was before. I cannot relate. Who are you, why should I bother?

I am not better than you, I am just not one of you.

I want to run off, to Dublin, to Cavan, to Galway. Somewhere else. A little room. Space. Not this echoey house where I hear every step, ever creak, every breath.

I forget every time and then I return and I remember. I remember everything. But I forgave did I not, in the ceremony? I forgave and I returned and we re-bonded. So what is wrong?

It is the absence that is hardest to deal with. The absence of the person I was before, when I was not watching. Now I am watching all the time. Watching and remembering. Remember? It haunts me every day. I remember, I remember.

And it is all back and they are all here. It is all back and they are all here. But I am not. I am floating. I am reading a script. Who are these people?

If she was here. Her skin beside me in the bed. Meditating like a goddess when I returned from the shower. That was real. Or was it? Am I just not making up another narrative?

A labyrinth of webs. I am creating the webs that I am stuck in. I strike out and strike out and only get more tangled. This town is dead for me now. I am no longer here. I was here once, but I am not here anymore.

But the other place, I want to be there even less. The routine, the paper work, the robots, the humdrum endless pointlessness. But what else would I be doing? Where else would I be? Where else can I go?

What would I do if it all vanished again? If the curtain was ripped and the void rose up all around me?

White space, nothingness. Nowhere to go, nothing to do. Back into the simulacrum.

If I saw it again I wouldn’t be lugging this about with me, this heaviness. I am a person in the world! Why can’t I remember, what it felt like to be back? To see the green. To be in that forest.

Why can't I bring it back with me to this place? Why can't I remember that I'm still there, dreaming this all up?

The Train (part 2)

 

That child spins around and around. I want to light a firework and shoot her out over the city, exploding into a million stars, falling down outside my window.

But this music is so soothing. I see myself swimming, indigo blue. No pressure, no time,  just motion.

Free-flowing aliveness pulsating through my body while I sit in front of this room, talking. Not knowing how or why just talking, about light and love and space and freedom. 


But it never works does it?, because freedom becomes routine which becomes boredom. I might as well be dead.

So much coffee spilt on this hallway, but nobody said anything.  They just walked on past the broken razor. I asked “how did I get here”?,  but she didn’t reply.

So I followed her through the wood which was yellow and coldand full of crows spiraling and circling in the sky like paper. I went deeper and deeper until I was covered with green rushes which led to a river. It was so still and peaceful. The sun had just risen and the mist was hanging over it like a painting. I breathed in the space.

A heron sat still motionless, balancing on the edge,  as if I had created him in my picture. I sat and waited.

She came out beating her drum and spinning her rattle.  Thousands of dancers appeared in veils beside the fire. It was dark and the stars were shining like my eyes. They went spinning round and round, floating on the smoke which came out from the forest.

The rattle sounded like it was speaking to me. Suddenly I heard the gong and woke up,  but she came out of the smoke towards me,  behind the veil.

She beckoned me over and I went back and remembered.  We were all gods skipping and floating and creating our reality. All was open and all was endless and all was free.

Spinning and spiraling, the smoke and I disappeared.  I couldn’t recognize my face. It was blank. There was nothing there.  I was empty and I was filled with everything.  It filled me up and I forgot about this room, and this drudgery, and these endless words that go on and on.  This person that I am possessed by. In this world, with all the faces, and the trains, and the dead people walking about like zombies in the dark morning while the ice glistens in the moonlight.

The Train

Fuck fuck fuck fuck I cant write where is my creative outlet I am drowning in this world endless routine and candles flickering in my dark room surrounded by these people who cant speak and stare out at me from the fridge that child spins around and around I want to light a firework and shoot her out the window over the city exploding into a million stars falling down outside my window but this music is so soothing I see myself swimming indigo blue no pressure no time just motion freeflowing aliveness pulsating through my body while I sit in front of this room talking not knowing how or why just  talking about light and love and space and freedom but it never works does it because freedom becomes routine which becomes boredom I might as well be dead. 


so much coffee spilt on this hallway but nobody said anything they just walked on past the broken razor and I asked how did I get here but she didn’t reply so I followed her through the wood which was yellow and cold and full of crows spiraling and circling in the sky like paper and I went deeper and deeper until I was covered with green rushes which led to a river which was so still and peaceful the sun had just risen and the mist was hanging over it like a painting and I breathed in the space a heron sat still motionless balancing on the edge as if I had created him in my picture and I sat and waited and she came out beating her drum and spinning her rattle thousands of dancers in veils beside the fire it was dark and the stars were shining like my eyes in the darkness and they went spinning round and round floating on the smoke which came out from the forest and the rattle sounded like it was speaking to me and suddenly I heard the gong and woke up but she came out of the smoke towards me behind the veil and she beckoned me over and I went back and remembered and we were all gods skipping and floating and creating our reality and all was open and all was endless and all was free.


Spinning and spiraling and the smoke and I disappeared and I couldn’t recognize my face it was blank there was nothing there I was empty and I was filled with everything and it filled me up and I forgot about this room and this drudgery and these endless words that go on and on and this person that I am possessed by in this world with all the faces and the trains and the dead people walking about like zombies in the dark morning while the ice glistens in the moonlight 

Cupcakes

”Weren’t those cupcakes delightful?”

”Simply divine” I replied.

I was sitting with a plump, middle-aged woman. She had a bright round face and grey hair which was tied back in a bun. She was wearing a pink cardigan and green wellington boots. On her head she wore a yellow bonnet. She smelt like bacon.

We were sitting around an antiquated white table which was placed in the middle of her garden.  We had just been having some supper and enjoying the evening sunshine. It had been delicious despite all the twitching and scratching. 

“Let’s go for a walk” she said, getting up briskly. I followed.

We walked around the garden until we came to a tree. There was a waiter standing underneath it holding silverware and a glass of red wine. His noise was pointed up to the sky.

“This is my butler, Maurice” she said. He suddenly opened his eyes and gave me a lecherous grin. 

“Maurice tells me that you are into…’skiing’?” She said, pausing and giving me a suggestive look.

Maurice began panting and clapping his hands. His tongue hung out of his mouth and saliva dripped down his chin.

“I used to be” I said, gravely.

Silence.

Suddenly she was right beside me. Her blue eyes bored into mine.

“But everyone tries it in the end. Don’t they? Did you like how it felt… inside?” She spat out the word ‘inside’ like it was acid. She leered at me.

She then squeezed my hand with her plump, jelly-like fingers.

There were a few more minutes of silence. The sun had just faded under the horizon and the sky was that vibrant pink that you see sometimes at funerals.

“I know, you see. Because I was watching.” She laughed again. A jangling, drawn out sound which made her sound like a woodpecker jumping up and down on a tree.

I looked behind, and Maurice had disappeared.  Two children were suddenly beside her, staring up at me with big white eyes, pointing.