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.

Margarita and the Moon

Have you ever looked in the mirror?

I mean really, really looked?

And do you know who looks back at you? 'Obviously it's me!' you say. 'Don't be ridiculous'!

But who is 'you'?

Something that is here, right now. Something that exists in a 'world' which flickers.

A beautiful world, so fragmented. Why fragmented?

Because people think they exist!

We have the choice how to respond. We create our own existence. Only two emotions exist. Fear and love.

I stood there, looking at myself (like a demented old woman with cats) And 'When Under Ether' came on. There was a flash. I knew that it was going to come on at this point. It was part of the script.

I walked into the bathroom to have a piss, saying to myself not to listen to subliminal meditation CDs again. I had the vision of the crazy cat woman being escorted off the the loony bin.

And then I saw through the foggy glass a huge white ball. And I realised that tonight was the night of the full moon. So I got my fags, put on my dressing gown and went out for a smoke.

And there it was. Hanging over the field like an image from a dream. So bright, so glorious. And my conciousness was filled with it -  with its light, with its mystery. The wind then blew up around me and I inhaled it with the smoke.

It was so beautiful. So beautiful to be standing in this dark silence with the moon's white light raining down upon me.

I wanted to get lost in it - like Margarita in that book by Bulgakov. Margherita putting the lotion on her body and jumping out the window, leaving her depression behind in a nano-second. Flying over the city on her broomstick, looking down and laughing.

The power of laughing! Laughing at whatever is thrown up on your screen. Laughing with the others, because really, who wants to fight with their self?

That dream with all those people attacking me for no reason. The energy I used fighting those people! I couldn't understand - what had I done to deserve this? So I fought. And then I woke up, exhausted, and realised it had all just been a dream.

The people I was fighting only existed in my head! If only I'd realised that the only person I was fighting with was me!

I get it all now. I finally understand. Nearly a year and I realise the truth. And it's wonderful!

I remember W asked it what was the purpose of life. And she saw it all! Her life in all its glory - the people, the experiences that had made her who she was. The purpose of life ...

(drumroll please)...................................................

The purpose of life is simply - to live life!

And to have fun. Because it's all just an enormous joke!


Everything exists
Everything is true
And the earth is only a little dust under our feet

Masks

Fish jumping out of the river - salmon, going up to the sky.
It's lonely, like that village in Austria with the hill walkers and the river and the mountains with snow.

The water was refreshing and cold. That strange child's room with the doll looking out. The window with view and the goat with the bell walking around, lost.

But it all went, just like that woman who came to my mind earlier with the black hair and the glasses and the children, who always gave me a lift.

He's coming apparently. It doesn't interest me, after Shanghai and all the uproar about it, and then what.

Only so much reading before you go mad.

That little cottage by the foot of the mountains with the sea and the old man - was it Carlingford? Sitting by the fire and reading Gide and remembering the other farmhouse.

The one in Donegal with the woman and the stove and that goat that could open the gate. That picture in the hall of him when he was a boy, with the lovely teeth and the smile. But the model thing didn't really stick.

Remember N saw him with his yellow teeth and yellow skin? Well I guess that's what smoking does.

That creepy woman with the grey hair on the bus, standing over me, reading the advert. And her friend, with the long glossy hair and the lipstick who looked like a witch.

I saw her in forestside last week.She looked straight at me.

But Belfast isn't the same anymore, looking back. It's always looking back to when I was here before because its all gone. Maybe there's an alternative Belfast with yellow sunshine, and churches, and bells, and swifts.

I mean that group, alway pretending, always pretending.

The A--. spinning around and round. The forest, the dream with the singing and the dancing and the light. When the clock disappeared and she said "My ego has been completely shattered" on that morning train, in white, looking at all the people.

Coming back to W's on that sunny afternoon, nearly a year ago. And I had thought about them and their family and how sad it must be.

That little boy with the cheeky smile who ran and hugged me when I came back but I felt awkward because I didn't know the protocool. Following J about the sports hall. The boy with severe autism who used to cover his ears and scream. He would run up to you and clasp and look into your eyes, and laugh like he was possessed.

And that time I saw him in the graveyard with the old man and A, running out from behind a tombstone.

Brighton. That house with the music and the cooking and the screaming child. The bookcases with the faces looking out.

She was on fire all the time, every moment exaggerated. Brimming energy and happiness, despite the child, and the screaming. T. slinking about like a mouse and the chats in the kitchen that went on all night.

But yet I never cooked, or finished that monopoly game.

And now being back here, even if they are smiling.

 That room with the photos and all the memories, sitting in the conservatory as if it never went away.

Whitehead train station today with the sun beaming down and the gulls floating about. My eyes closed behind sunglasses.

Sitting on the steps of the School of Education it was so cold and bright in the evening sun. Those people in Dukes with the sunglasses laughing and I sat there and saw those days standing out with them smoking, and that 'Out Out' poem by Robert Frost came up on my phone.

And I thought about playing on the steps with R. when I was a child. The bouncer told us that story about how the stone was haunted and we freaked out and couldn't sleep.

But his house was weird anyway with the floor boards creaking and that picture on the shelf.  I stood on the tail of his cat and it screeched and yelled and I nearly died.

Remember the dream in that hotel in Perth with the taxi driver? "You're tripping mate".

The heat and the bike, cycling along the sea in the morning. The vantage point looking out over the bay and those markets with the lights, the insence and the tarot cards. The palm trees and the beach with the stars gazing up. The tropical smell floating through the warm night air.

Then that street in Singapore with the swells of coloured tapestry. And I was looking at the model of Ganesh and she said, "Don't go home, stay".

And I woke up, back where I had started.

Some Sentimental Tosh About The Moon

The sky is beautifully clear tonight. Dark blue and pink. The city lights spread out before the window, like the images in my head.

Days, trees bursting with green, bees floating, seagulls whirling like paper.

The distant hum of traffic in the background.

The world spins.

On Sunday morning I woke up in a dream, and realised I was dreaming.

I climbed out of my window, and jumped - because I knew I could fly. And I could! And the feeling of freedom, of immensity, the mystery was all-encompassing.

The world outside was the same, but orange and flickering, like I had walked into a painting.

And life was there, and life was a dream. The scene changed, and I walked through another, and another.

But part of me knew I was asleep, which made the colours all that more vibrant.

It all faded when I woke, like smoke on the wind.

But it spread out all around me in my bed as I heard the car disappearing down the hill. And I felt, a feeling of awe, I guess.

Awe at the fact that I'd been lucid dreaming.

Awe at the fact that it was another day, and I, Josh Hawthorne, was alive.

But we can't fly here. Here we stay still. Cut off from reality in our little boxes. Dreaming that we are characters in a play.

What are we really?

My back garden looks out onto a field. Sometimes, being unemployed and an insomniac, I go out in the middle of the night and I sit.

I look up at the sky. The silent field where the stars spread out like perfume.

And the moon oversees it all, painting it silver. And I look up and feel so small.

Who am I?

It's funny. So sentimental. How many crap writers have written about the moon?

So I go inside, and see what's on sky movies, and go to bed.

Because the gap can never be bridged - between ourselves and others, between our dreams and reality.

Reality is so boring, so humdrum, so normal, that we simply take it for granted. Pulling back the curtain's a bit too scary.

So let's block it out, and earn money, and work in jobs which we hate, and go out and get drunk at the weekend, and have sex, and talk shit about nothing.

Because if we tried to jump out the window in real life, we'd break our legs.