Are thoughts like these wrong? Is it wrong to feel this way about you? To be honest, I don’t know how I feel about you, but I know how I look at you and I know what I think when I do.
And you have no idea, you don’t see me looking at you the way I do.
Is it wrong to look at you like that?
You don’t realise it, you sense nothing. Even when our eyes meet you have no idea. You don't suspect for an instant just how amazed I am by your skin alone – so smooth, pale and unblemished. Skin yet untouched by time and unmarked by the hurt of years, without the scars left behind from wounds of heartbreak or disappointment.
As I look at you I know instantly what your skin would feel like to touch. I know, even though I would never dare to...
I lie. I did dare. Once.
You slept; the dead weight of your arm lay across my side, the warmth of your body against mine. I could feel the slow beat of your heart ever so slightly against my back.
I watched you while you slept. You looked so beautiful. And I couldn’t help myself.
I knew I shouldn’t, more than that I knew that you wouldn’t know if I did because you were so fast asleep. Or so I hoped.
I reached out carefully and touched you, ran my fingers along your neck and down to your ribs, to the place I have always thought is the most achingly vulnerable part of the body, the curve of the waist, the space between the end of the ribs and the beginning of the hip bone. I can hardly stand to look at it, let alone run my fingers along it. But I did. And it was almost unbearable.
You didn’t notice, or if you did you pretended not to. Either way, I’m thankful. I wouldn’t have been able to deal with it if you had woken or indicated you felt my touch. I would have been too vulnerable then, too exposed, my insides cut open and spread out for inspection. No, I wouldn’t have been able to ever look at you again if that had happened.
As I did this, watching you sleep, running my fingertips along your skin, I thought about how when you talk to me – always about nothing in particular – I am stunned by the tiny, tiny lines that appear on your face, like markings on a blank canvas. And then they disappear again, a mere hint of years to come. Seeing them makes me feel like I’ve suddenly burst out laughing in aloud in public, a loud squawk bursting out of me and then disappearing.
I’m not sure if it’s you exactly, I am certainly not ‘in love’ with you in any way. I’m beyond such thoughts, I’m too far down the road already to pass time with such naïve sentiments, or more accurately you could say I’m too jaded and cynical. I think it’s more of an infatuation...with these characteristics of yours that I am all too aware we do not share.
Then a small tight hand of fear grabs my heart and squeezes it. Sharply and quickly like an ant bite – what if I’m wrong? What if I actually do like you? What then? Would that be wrong? If I know that looking at you the way I do is wrong, then to actually like you...
But I don’t even know you. You are practically a stranger to me. No, not practically, literally. So even if my fear was true, then any affection for you would be based on my own little idea of you and my collection of assumptions I have linked together in my mind.
And yet.
The moment, which did not actually exist beyond the twirling of my own thoughts, fled from my grasp.
And I had been right. I really had known all along – what it would feel like to touch your skin. It hurt my fingertips. And I loved it.
I stopped.
I got up and walked away, and I didn’t look back.
Even if I had stayed a little longer, even if you had looked at me and reciprocated my childish sentiments, eventually reality would have conspired, schemed and plotted to destroy everything. It always does.
So I walked away and I didn’t look back. And I’ll keep walking away, over and over again, because it’s the only thing that makes sense.
...
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Sickened
Even though it’s early, the sun is shining recklessly in the freezing winter air, teasingly hinting at a spring that’s still so far away. Everything looks hard and fresh, the concrete a mean grey, the grass a little too green with morning dew.
I know I’m getting closer to the city now because the number of people joining me grows with each step, all of us bustling along in the same direction, like worker bees filing back to the hive, marching together but completely alone.
The buildings are like closed, silent faces towering above, blocking out the sun, the windows huge staring eyes watching us enter the streets and alleys that divide them.
I'm in the thick of it now.
The sun doesn’t shine here anymore.
All backs straight, faces grim, stares focussed ahead.
Little by little the noise around me begins to change. I continue to make my way, pretending not to notice, thinking maybe there's something wrong with my hearing, maybe I'm just a little tired. The sounds thicken and dull, as though I’ve put earplugs in without realising it. I look from side to side to make sure there isn’t a squirrel on each of my shoulders stuffing cotton wool into my ears. Nope, didn’t think so.
I keep walking. The music from clothing stores fades away. People’s voices subside until they are no more. The beeping of cashier’s registers wanes, each beep shrinking until it sounds like a cartoon mouse in the corner squeaking at me from far away...and then all noise is gone.
Nothing.
No sound.
Not one peep from anything or anyone. I stop and look around. A few other people slow and for a second I think it has happened to them too, that perhaps a huge vacuum cleaner was just switched on at the city’s edge that has slowly sucked all the sound from the air. But they continue walking, after throwing me an odd look, and I realise I am the only one with this apparent hearing difficulty.
A noise begins to reach my ears. I start walking again and slowly but surely it gets louder. I’m trying to pinpoint the sound but it seems to be all around me, with no one definite source.
Then I start to feel ill, really ill. My stomach clenches and my throat seizes tight. I realise it is the sound – no, sounds for I notice now that there is more than one – that are making me sick. I look around and it doesn’t take long to figure out where the sound is coming from. They make it together. All of them. Alone it most likely wouldn’t be so horrifying, but united they march and prance and stampede all around me, beside me and past me. The din is incredible.
It is the sound of men in their suits that sickens me, as they swish past me in these city streets, in a hurry to get somewhere, desperate to exude importance. The flapping of their jackets between their arms and sides, like the wings of birds taking flight, the whooshing of their pants as the material crushes between their thighs, the slapping and clacking of their heeled, shiny polished shoes that announce their arrival behind me and are just loud enough to ensure I don’t fail to notice the magnitude of their significance as they pass me.
There is a grotesqueness to these sounds that makes me feel more than a little ill. It breeds queasiness in my stomach and leaves me feeling so faint, so lightheaded.
Moving in packs or even alone, they present a front; a grey, black and blue front. Like a lingering bruise on the face of a woman passing you on the street, faded in colour so you know it no longer hurts, but impossible for you to forget once you have seen it.
I make my way through their midst. We do not make physical contact and do not look each other in the eye. And yet even as I move among them in my isolated bubble, their sounds pollute the air around me, piercing holes in my bubble, allowing their smells of hair product and cologne and leather to flood in, making it harder and harder for me to breathe.
I can’t believe this is happening. Is no one else aware of what is going on? Am I the only one?
The sounds made by these men, the whooshing and swishing and clacking makes me want to regurgitate my breakfast, to heave and churn it out onto the pavement, to hear the chunks of chewed up toast and mouthfuls of coffee splat and splash on the floor.
The urge to do this becomes so strong I feel the bile rise in my throat. My eyes begin to tear. But I know it would make no difference. There would be no united façade of disgust at my rebellion against acceptable behaviour; at my vomit that would embody a personal assault on their cleanliness and tidiness, on the sterility of their existence. They would merely continue on their way, perhaps deigning to break their masks of über-worth for a few seconds to wrinkle their faces in repulsion, before very quickly resuming their previous cold-eyed expressions.
If I can just get inside a small space, I think, somewhere small and enclosed where I can lock myself in until they are all indoors, I will survive this. I begin to search madly for a place, any place, that I could escape to.
It only takes a few seconds before I spot it – what looks like a tiny door, the size of a child – and I know this is the place that will save me. I rush over to it, bumping and jostling people on the way, mumbling apologies but not getting any response.
I reach the door and find it is covered in black velvet, so plush, so new and clean-looking. What is a door like this doing on a main city street, I wonder. I have no idea. I have even less of an idea as to what could be beyond it.
As the bile rises in my throat I realise I don’t care and I push it open. It is dark inside, but I can see the inside is also lined in velvet, red this time. I climb in and close the door behind me. The sounds disappear instantly.
Total silence.
Well no, not total silence, there is the sound of velvet but if you know what velvet sounds like you will know also that it is a sound of softness and comfort, like the sighing and snoring of a kitten as it sleeps.
The door has led me into a small room, a space bigger than the door itself, which is a relief as the door was a tight fit, me not being child-size and all, but aside from one large cushion and the velvet lining, there is nothing else I can describe.
It is silent. Not one sound penetrates the room’s interior. I lie down against the cushion, in this red velvet room. I begin to breathe more deeply and the feelings of sickness dissipate. And so I calm myself, and I try to pretend the swishing and whooshing and clacking didn’t make part of me want to die.
...
I know I’m getting closer to the city now because the number of people joining me grows with each step, all of us bustling along in the same direction, like worker bees filing back to the hive, marching together but completely alone.
The buildings are like closed, silent faces towering above, blocking out the sun, the windows huge staring eyes watching us enter the streets and alleys that divide them.
I'm in the thick of it now.
The sun doesn’t shine here anymore.
All backs straight, faces grim, stares focussed ahead.
Little by little the noise around me begins to change. I continue to make my way, pretending not to notice, thinking maybe there's something wrong with my hearing, maybe I'm just a little tired. The sounds thicken and dull, as though I’ve put earplugs in without realising it. I look from side to side to make sure there isn’t a squirrel on each of my shoulders stuffing cotton wool into my ears. Nope, didn’t think so.
I keep walking. The music from clothing stores fades away. People’s voices subside until they are no more. The beeping of cashier’s registers wanes, each beep shrinking until it sounds like a cartoon mouse in the corner squeaking at me from far away...and then all noise is gone.
Nothing.
No sound.
Not one peep from anything or anyone. I stop and look around. A few other people slow and for a second I think it has happened to them too, that perhaps a huge vacuum cleaner was just switched on at the city’s edge that has slowly sucked all the sound from the air. But they continue walking, after throwing me an odd look, and I realise I am the only one with this apparent hearing difficulty.
A noise begins to reach my ears. I start walking again and slowly but surely it gets louder. I’m trying to pinpoint the sound but it seems to be all around me, with no one definite source.
Then I start to feel ill, really ill. My stomach clenches and my throat seizes tight. I realise it is the sound – no, sounds for I notice now that there is more than one – that are making me sick. I look around and it doesn’t take long to figure out where the sound is coming from. They make it together. All of them. Alone it most likely wouldn’t be so horrifying, but united they march and prance and stampede all around me, beside me and past me. The din is incredible.
It is the sound of men in their suits that sickens me, as they swish past me in these city streets, in a hurry to get somewhere, desperate to exude importance. The flapping of their jackets between their arms and sides, like the wings of birds taking flight, the whooshing of their pants as the material crushes between their thighs, the slapping and clacking of their heeled, shiny polished shoes that announce their arrival behind me and are just loud enough to ensure I don’t fail to notice the magnitude of their significance as they pass me.
There is a grotesqueness to these sounds that makes me feel more than a little ill. It breeds queasiness in my stomach and leaves me feeling so faint, so lightheaded.
Moving in packs or even alone, they present a front; a grey, black and blue front. Like a lingering bruise on the face of a woman passing you on the street, faded in colour so you know it no longer hurts, but impossible for you to forget once you have seen it.
I make my way through their midst. We do not make physical contact and do not look each other in the eye. And yet even as I move among them in my isolated bubble, their sounds pollute the air around me, piercing holes in my bubble, allowing their smells of hair product and cologne and leather to flood in, making it harder and harder for me to breathe.
I can’t believe this is happening. Is no one else aware of what is going on? Am I the only one?
The sounds made by these men, the whooshing and swishing and clacking makes me want to regurgitate my breakfast, to heave and churn it out onto the pavement, to hear the chunks of chewed up toast and mouthfuls of coffee splat and splash on the floor.
The urge to do this becomes so strong I feel the bile rise in my throat. My eyes begin to tear. But I know it would make no difference. There would be no united façade of disgust at my rebellion against acceptable behaviour; at my vomit that would embody a personal assault on their cleanliness and tidiness, on the sterility of their existence. They would merely continue on their way, perhaps deigning to break their masks of über-worth for a few seconds to wrinkle their faces in repulsion, before very quickly resuming their previous cold-eyed expressions.
If I can just get inside a small space, I think, somewhere small and enclosed where I can lock myself in until they are all indoors, I will survive this. I begin to search madly for a place, any place, that I could escape to.
It only takes a few seconds before I spot it – what looks like a tiny door, the size of a child – and I know this is the place that will save me. I rush over to it, bumping and jostling people on the way, mumbling apologies but not getting any response.
I reach the door and find it is covered in black velvet, so plush, so new and clean-looking. What is a door like this doing on a main city street, I wonder. I have no idea. I have even less of an idea as to what could be beyond it.
As the bile rises in my throat I realise I don’t care and I push it open. It is dark inside, but I can see the inside is also lined in velvet, red this time. I climb in and close the door behind me. The sounds disappear instantly.
Total silence.
Well no, not total silence, there is the sound of velvet but if you know what velvet sounds like you will know also that it is a sound of softness and comfort, like the sighing and snoring of a kitten as it sleeps.
The door has led me into a small room, a space bigger than the door itself, which is a relief as the door was a tight fit, me not being child-size and all, but aside from one large cushion and the velvet lining, there is nothing else I can describe.
It is silent. Not one sound penetrates the room’s interior. I lie down against the cushion, in this red velvet room. I begin to breathe more deeply and the feelings of sickness dissipate. And so I calm myself, and I try to pretend the swishing and whooshing and clacking didn’t make part of me want to die.
...
Friday, November 20, 2009
One single moment
There was a time I honestly thought I would shatter into a million little pieces. A moment so sudden and unexpected that I didn’t see it coming, like crossing train tracks and not checking for oncoming trains, looking up and seeing the lights in my eyes just before impact, realising far too late that oblivion is upon me.
It was late at night and we were in bed. Our breathing had slowed and the intensity of our heartbeats, so fast and hard just before, quietened bit by bit. You lay behind me, my body folded into yours so perfectly, as though our two shapes were created with each other in mind.
After a while I know you thought I was asleep. I wasn’t. I was only pretending. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t stop my mind running around thinking about you. The curve of muscle between your neck and shoulder, the line your collar bones made that I loved to trace with my fingers, the way your skin always had a hint of tan despite it being winter and the insane softness of it – softer than a man’s skin should be, making me insecure about my own.
I don’t know why I pretended to sleep. It was as though I believed that if you thought I was asleep things would be different between us. It’s something I would do often, lie in bed and go through the motions of pretending to fall asleep next to you. I know you thought I was sleeping. It isn’t just that I’m an expert sleep-faker, it’s that I know you would never have done what you did, had you known I was awake.
We lay there entwined and you moved slightly, lifting yourself up a little. I didn’t move. You didn’t make a sound at first and I wondered what you were doing. I realised then that I could feel your eyes on me. You were watching me sleep. My breath caught in my throat and I had to focus on continuing to breathe deeply. Lightly your fingers touched my shoulder, ran up and down the side of my throat. So lightly I almost didn’t feel it at first. You stroked my skin so gently I was terrified you would feel how fast my heart was beating, thumping against the side of my neck. I was so frightened that you would feel it and stop touching me.
But you didn’t. You leaned forward and whispered “I think you’re gorgeous” and I could feel the words as well as hear them, they made little shapes in the air and collided with back of my neck, each one tingling more than the last, landing on my skin and resting there, slowly burning into the surface, leaving warmth behind like day old sunburn. Then you kissed me on the back of my neck and shoulder, so softly I thought I was dreaming and each kiss sent small shocks through my bloodstream, again and again and again.
I wanted to cry. I thought my heart would explode. I felt like at that point in time I wasn’t really there anymore, that I had shattered into a million pieces, like a mirror dropped from high in the air, tiny shards flickering and scattering the light, as though someone had opened a bottle of glitter and thrown it up into the air. I thought I would die right then. But I didn’t. You lay back down, kissed my neck one more time, and then I listened as you fell asleep. Your breathing became heavy and slow, your body twitching a little every now and then as you fell into deep sleep.
I lay there for a little while longer, calming myself, coming back into my own body and realising I was still there, in bed with you. The moment was gone, it became a memory so fast that it seemed as though it had never happened and I had dreamed the whole thing.
You never kissed me like that again. You never said words like that to me again. I have never felt like that since and I’m not sure if I ever will.
…
It was late at night and we were in bed. Our breathing had slowed and the intensity of our heartbeats, so fast and hard just before, quietened bit by bit. You lay behind me, my body folded into yours so perfectly, as though our two shapes were created with each other in mind.
After a while I know you thought I was asleep. I wasn’t. I was only pretending. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t stop my mind running around thinking about you. The curve of muscle between your neck and shoulder, the line your collar bones made that I loved to trace with my fingers, the way your skin always had a hint of tan despite it being winter and the insane softness of it – softer than a man’s skin should be, making me insecure about my own.
I don’t know why I pretended to sleep. It was as though I believed that if you thought I was asleep things would be different between us. It’s something I would do often, lie in bed and go through the motions of pretending to fall asleep next to you. I know you thought I was sleeping. It isn’t just that I’m an expert sleep-faker, it’s that I know you would never have done what you did, had you known I was awake.
We lay there entwined and you moved slightly, lifting yourself up a little. I didn’t move. You didn’t make a sound at first and I wondered what you were doing. I realised then that I could feel your eyes on me. You were watching me sleep. My breath caught in my throat and I had to focus on continuing to breathe deeply. Lightly your fingers touched my shoulder, ran up and down the side of my throat. So lightly I almost didn’t feel it at first. You stroked my skin so gently I was terrified you would feel how fast my heart was beating, thumping against the side of my neck. I was so frightened that you would feel it and stop touching me.
But you didn’t. You leaned forward and whispered “I think you’re gorgeous” and I could feel the words as well as hear them, they made little shapes in the air and collided with back of my neck, each one tingling more than the last, landing on my skin and resting there, slowly burning into the surface, leaving warmth behind like day old sunburn. Then you kissed me on the back of my neck and shoulder, so softly I thought I was dreaming and each kiss sent small shocks through my bloodstream, again and again and again.
I wanted to cry. I thought my heart would explode. I felt like at that point in time I wasn’t really there anymore, that I had shattered into a million pieces, like a mirror dropped from high in the air, tiny shards flickering and scattering the light, as though someone had opened a bottle of glitter and thrown it up into the air. I thought I would die right then. But I didn’t. You lay back down, kissed my neck one more time, and then I listened as you fell asleep. Your breathing became heavy and slow, your body twitching a little every now and then as you fell into deep sleep.
I lay there for a little while longer, calming myself, coming back into my own body and realising I was still there, in bed with you. The moment was gone, it became a memory so fast that it seemed as though it had never happened and I had dreamed the whole thing.
You never kissed me like that again. You never said words like that to me again. I have never felt like that since and I’m not sure if I ever will.
…
Friday, October 30, 2009
Bathroom company
There were two green frogs, flat against the rotting wood of our bathroom wall. One with legs outstretched, the other with his folded underneath. Their bodies looked cold, damp and so small, quickly breathing, their slimy skins rising and falling in time to an inaudible beat.
Then there was a brown spider, long legged, big-fanged and furry. Its bulbous body rested on the wood, seeming deflated, depleted, unmoving. It was missing a leg.
The frogs disappeared. The spider went missing. No small damp bodies. No fur covered legs. The walls remained bare. It felt so wrong without them.
….
Then there was a brown spider, long legged, big-fanged and furry. Its bulbous body rested on the wood, seeming deflated, depleted, unmoving. It was missing a leg.
The frogs disappeared. The spider went missing. No small damp bodies. No fur covered legs. The walls remained bare. It felt so wrong without them.
….
Deceiving lines
Sometimes there really isn’t anything to write.
The lines on the page become heavier with every second that they remain empty, lines that wait for the solid round point of my pen to glide over them, touching, crossing and dotting them, but never erasing them.
They are the lines that came before the pen. They insinuate that they will support the words that are written, that they might welcome and comfort them, give them shelter even.
But these lines are liars. They provide no inspiration. They contribute no content. They stare at me accusingly, creating obligation and arguing that there is a necessity that exists based merely on their existence.
Sometimes there really isn’t anything to write.
.…
The lines on the page become heavier with every second that they remain empty, lines that wait for the solid round point of my pen to glide over them, touching, crossing and dotting them, but never erasing them.
They are the lines that came before the pen. They insinuate that they will support the words that are written, that they might welcome and comfort them, give them shelter even.
But these lines are liars. They provide no inspiration. They contribute no content. They stare at me accusingly, creating obligation and arguing that there is a necessity that exists based merely on their existence.
Sometimes there really isn’t anything to write.
.…
Purple orchid
Grey sky heavy with cloud
The day looks cold but is not
Heavy air
Trapping stale heat
A purple orchid twists
Moving this way and that
Turned
By an invisible wind
....
The day looks cold but is not
Heavy air
Trapping stale heat
A purple orchid twists
Moving this way and that
Turned
By an invisible wind
....
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
A nice walk home
I was walking home when I saw a broken bottle on the road. It was lying in the gutter, a beer bottle of brownish gold glass. The neck of it was broken off. I couldn’t see the missing part lying anywhere nearby. Whoever broke the bottle must have taken it with them. All that remained of its mouth was jagged sections of glass. Someone wrapped their lips around that mouth once, swallowing what was probably cold beer, maybe at the end of a hard day, maybe while walking home just like me.
I stopped for a few seconds and looked at it. I thought about picking it up and using it to slit my throat. Not really, but, what would it be like if I did? I had a cartoon-like image of what it might look like. I wondered whether someone smashed it on purpose after drinking it empty and walked away with the neck of it in their hands. Perhaps that person used it to slit someone else’s throat. You never know these days.
A short while later I saw a dead animal on the side of the road. I stopped and looked at that for a while too. I couldn’t tell what kind of animal it was, all that remained of its body was mangled black fur with splotches of red and innards that had hardened and started to turn brown.
I’ve always loved road-kill. I used to take pictures of it, back in the days when I used to carry my camera with me all the time on the off chance that I would come across something I wanted to immortalise on film.
Although, film doesn’t really exist anymore in this digital age, but you know, it’s the thought that counts. And anyway, you can’t immortalise something that is already dead.
…..
I stopped for a few seconds and looked at it. I thought about picking it up and using it to slit my throat. Not really, but, what would it be like if I did? I had a cartoon-like image of what it might look like. I wondered whether someone smashed it on purpose after drinking it empty and walked away with the neck of it in their hands. Perhaps that person used it to slit someone else’s throat. You never know these days.
A short while later I saw a dead animal on the side of the road. I stopped and looked at that for a while too. I couldn’t tell what kind of animal it was, all that remained of its body was mangled black fur with splotches of red and innards that had hardened and started to turn brown.
I’ve always loved road-kill. I used to take pictures of it, back in the days when I used to carry my camera with me all the time on the off chance that I would come across something I wanted to immortalise on film.
Although, film doesn’t really exist anymore in this digital age, but you know, it’s the thought that counts. And anyway, you can’t immortalise something that is already dead.
…..
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Tread carefully
The plumes of smoke
Were not a hoax
Curling up towards the black sky
There was fire here not so long ago
And so much heat
If you listen carefully
The sounds still reach you
Crackling and splintering
Breaking and splitting
Pieces of wood glowing red then white from the heat
Crumbling and turning to ash
Everything turns black then red then white then grey
There are coals here that can burn tender feet
...
Were not a hoax
Curling up towards the black sky
There was fire here not so long ago
And so much heat
If you listen carefully
The sounds still reach you
Crackling and splintering
Breaking and splitting
Pieces of wood glowing red then white from the heat
Crumbling and turning to ash
Everything turns black then red then white then grey
There are coals here that can burn tender feet
...
Grubby fingers
My fingernails are dirty. Really dirty. If I’m honest about it, they’ve been dirty for over a month. I tap them on the table. They aren’t exactly short either and make a hard clacking sound on the cheap and nasty plastic tabletop. Who am I kidding? These nails of mine are nastier than the table could ever be. What is it that I keep touching to make them so dirty for so long? The frequency and consistency of the dirt amazes me, I might add.
After a good cleaning, an under-the-nail-bed scraping and thorough scrubbing with soap – either before or after a shower, although the results appear to be better when this process is followed by a shower – a superior level of cleanliness is achieved. I think so anyway.
And then, without fail, two hours later (again, if I’m forced to tell the truth, I can recreate the pre-scrubbing muck in a swift 20 minutes) they are filthy all over again. The familiar dark coloured scum reappears, gathering predominantly towards the centre of the nail at first, but when left unchecked and unmonitored quickly and rampantly spreading across the entire surface. Yes I watch it, study it even.
Various shades of “dirty” are achieved. Who knew that “dirty” had so many different faces; a chameleon of sorts indeed. Sometimes it hints of gardening activities, gleaming a dark earthy brown. Other times, my nails whisper that I’ve been digging for treasure in an ashtray and show a dusty shade of grey. Finally, a disturbingly bright green suggests that I like to cut the grass using nothing but my bare hands on a rainy day. On the most interesting days a combination of all three is layered carefully, almost like a rainbow.
Whether the dirt is a cause for concern has not been determined by me yet. Sometimes I worry people might be staring, but I convince myself they couldn’t possibly be close enough to see what’s going on beneath my nails. The nature of the dirt and its origin remains uncertain, so I’m not going to make a decision on the level of threat. For now I’ll continue showering, cleaning and scrubbing, and I know for a fact that it will be met with unyielding stubbornness by this dirt that resides so lovingly under my nails.
...
After a good cleaning, an under-the-nail-bed scraping and thorough scrubbing with soap – either before or after a shower, although the results appear to be better when this process is followed by a shower – a superior level of cleanliness is achieved. I think so anyway.
And then, without fail, two hours later (again, if I’m forced to tell the truth, I can recreate the pre-scrubbing muck in a swift 20 minutes) they are filthy all over again. The familiar dark coloured scum reappears, gathering predominantly towards the centre of the nail at first, but when left unchecked and unmonitored quickly and rampantly spreading across the entire surface. Yes I watch it, study it even.
Various shades of “dirty” are achieved. Who knew that “dirty” had so many different faces; a chameleon of sorts indeed. Sometimes it hints of gardening activities, gleaming a dark earthy brown. Other times, my nails whisper that I’ve been digging for treasure in an ashtray and show a dusty shade of grey. Finally, a disturbingly bright green suggests that I like to cut the grass using nothing but my bare hands on a rainy day. On the most interesting days a combination of all three is layered carefully, almost like a rainbow.
Whether the dirt is a cause for concern has not been determined by me yet. Sometimes I worry people might be staring, but I convince myself they couldn’t possibly be close enough to see what’s going on beneath my nails. The nature of the dirt and its origin remains uncertain, so I’m not going to make a decision on the level of threat. For now I’ll continue showering, cleaning and scrubbing, and I know for a fact that it will be met with unyielding stubbornness by this dirt that resides so lovingly under my nails.
...
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Dark wood
I make my way upstairs, one step at a time. The staircase is built of wood, it’s wide and unlit. Each step makes a section of wood somewhere creak. It’s not creepy, just odd. Every little sound is a word uttered by the stairs, just for me. A light bulb hangs at the landing, casting a small yellow circle of light just beneath it but throwing everything else in shadow.
From the landing, there is a massive hallway that I walk down to get to my room. Mine is the last on the left, one of four, and it looks out onto the street. The hallway too is made entirely of wood. The doors to the rooms are shut by a small iron hook through which a padlock is looped.
The wood here, like on the stairs, is very dark brown. It has grooves and holes and shiny areas that have been worn away by repeated contact over time. The place must be hundreds of years old and yet the wood is so solid that it feels like it isn’t just holding the building together but it’s holding me together too. I feel a sudden certainty that if someone were to cut the walls, I would bleed, just a little.
The noises from the floor below me, where I had just eaten my dinner, are fading. I can still hear the people talking, laughing and eating, glasses chinking and cutlery scraping plates. There is music too, softly, from the television that plays in the corner. But with each step I take the wood steals the sounds away, absorbing them, slowly inhaling them from the air around me and hiding them in the walls and floor.
The growing silence gathers weight. A feeling of hollow emptiness resonates behind my ribs, little by little. As my feet pad across the wooden floor to my room a round space opens up right in the centre of my chest and every step opens it a little more. I imagine a tiny man inside my ribcage, a dirty-faced miner deep within the earth, working away with his pick and shovel, expanding the empty space around him bit by bit.
I insert the key into the padlock on my door, and it makes the smoothest sound, each section of the key fitting perfectly with the insides of the lock. I turn the key, click.
All the windows in my room are open and the thin curtains are flapping, letting the air in. The night is hot, the air is thick and I’m sweating just from this short walk to my room. I sit down on the edge of my bed and listen to the noises that come into the room, floating in the windows on the breeze and hovering around me like ghosts.
Despite these noises coming up from the street below, I am silent and empty. The miner continues to work away, happily oblivious and absorbed in his work. The sounds fade away and I’m left with nothing. And yet, this nothingness has sound, it's like a rushing vacuum in my ears, in my head.
I know the sound well. It only takes a second or two. Like spotting an old lover on the street, for a split second unsure if you know the face in front of you, then realising there's no doubt; not only do you know the face, you know it almost as well as you know your own. I know this sound, this silence. It is the sound of loneliness.
...
From the landing, there is a massive hallway that I walk down to get to my room. Mine is the last on the left, one of four, and it looks out onto the street. The hallway too is made entirely of wood. The doors to the rooms are shut by a small iron hook through which a padlock is looped.
The wood here, like on the stairs, is very dark brown. It has grooves and holes and shiny areas that have been worn away by repeated contact over time. The place must be hundreds of years old and yet the wood is so solid that it feels like it isn’t just holding the building together but it’s holding me together too. I feel a sudden certainty that if someone were to cut the walls, I would bleed, just a little.
The noises from the floor below me, where I had just eaten my dinner, are fading. I can still hear the people talking, laughing and eating, glasses chinking and cutlery scraping plates. There is music too, softly, from the television that plays in the corner. But with each step I take the wood steals the sounds away, absorbing them, slowly inhaling them from the air around me and hiding them in the walls and floor.
The growing silence gathers weight. A feeling of hollow emptiness resonates behind my ribs, little by little. As my feet pad across the wooden floor to my room a round space opens up right in the centre of my chest and every step opens it a little more. I imagine a tiny man inside my ribcage, a dirty-faced miner deep within the earth, working away with his pick and shovel, expanding the empty space around him bit by bit.
I insert the key into the padlock on my door, and it makes the smoothest sound, each section of the key fitting perfectly with the insides of the lock. I turn the key, click.
All the windows in my room are open and the thin curtains are flapping, letting the air in. The night is hot, the air is thick and I’m sweating just from this short walk to my room. I sit down on the edge of my bed and listen to the noises that come into the room, floating in the windows on the breeze and hovering around me like ghosts.
Despite these noises coming up from the street below, I am silent and empty. The miner continues to work away, happily oblivious and absorbed in his work. The sounds fade away and I’m left with nothing. And yet, this nothingness has sound, it's like a rushing vacuum in my ears, in my head.
I know the sound well. It only takes a second or two. Like spotting an old lover on the street, for a split second unsure if you know the face in front of you, then realising there's no doubt; not only do you know the face, you know it almost as well as you know your own. I know this sound, this silence. It is the sound of loneliness.
...
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Small pieces
Drops of water
Pieces of rain
Collide with the glass
Trickle down
More drops fall
Join one another
A small stream is born
More drops fall
Splat on the window
Each time
I find a new memory
Each drop
Hurts me more than the last
Memories trickle through my mind
Joining one another
Forming a small stream
Trickling down
Pieces of rain
Collide with the glass
Trickle down
More drops fall
Join one another
A small stream is born
More drops fall
Splat on the window
Each time
I find a new memory
Each drop
Hurts me more than the last
Memories trickle through my mind
Joining one another
Forming a small stream
Trickling down
Friday, October 16, 2009
Like spoiled milk
It’s so typical you know. Almost pathetically predictable. Feeling scared of being judged, ridiculed or disliked. The likelihood that I am at best mediocre, dull or without ability. I really want to say talent, but I don’t dare, for fear that someone might actually think that I think that I have any. I really wish I did. Have talent. For anything.
I digress.
Funny that I wrote “that I am at best mediocre”, when what I plan to post in this blog is my writing. And yet. I refer to it as thought it is me. Maybe it is. It could be one of the pieces of asphalt that form the road, stuck together bit by bit, on which I find myself.
Word on the street is that I’m trying to take a new approach to my life. One where I don’t care about the opinions and judgements of others, where I stop doing things because other people think I should, or that make up the ‘smart’ path to take in this occasional joke we call life, and instead live for myself. What a wanker. I may as well start spouting about how we can all change the world, if we only change ourselves first.
Anyway.
There is another, in my opinion more overwhelming, reason that has held me back from starting this blog; there is something incredibly conceited and self obsessed in blogging. As though I honestly think that the shit that spews forth from my mind and onto the page is worth anyone’s time or would hold anyone’s interest.
I would like to believe that my writing would flow onto the page with the smoothness of a hot knife cutting through butter, but in reality I think it would be more like spoiled milk escaping from a carton, rotten stinking clumps plopping out one by one, each more grotesque than the last, forcing their way from captivity into the open for all to see.
The stench of my attempted writing would permeate the air and anyone exposed would wrinkle their nose in distaste, wishing that the milk carton had never been opened but discarded and left to fester alone.
But the last twelve months have taught me something. It’s a lesson I’m still learning and one I sometimes forget. Life is so short and most of the time so pointless. There are so few things I truly care about, and I don’t mean family or friends, those are obvious; I mean things I can do with my time that are utterly for me. One of these things is writing. I love it with all that I am, it is part of me.
I may not have any talent, my writing may be like a bad dancer at the disco that has all the wrong moves and dances to a beat that no one else can hear, embarrassing himself while the cool kids avoid eye contact and laugh. But you know what? Fuck it. Life is fleeting so I’m going to head out onto the dance floor and wiggle around a bit and see what happens. There might be laughter, I may end up in tears, but it’s all part of the ride.
…
I digress.
Funny that I wrote “that I am at best mediocre”, when what I plan to post in this blog is my writing. And yet. I refer to it as thought it is me. Maybe it is. It could be one of the pieces of asphalt that form the road, stuck together bit by bit, on which I find myself.
Word on the street is that I’m trying to take a new approach to my life. One where I don’t care about the opinions and judgements of others, where I stop doing things because other people think I should, or that make up the ‘smart’ path to take in this occasional joke we call life, and instead live for myself. What a wanker. I may as well start spouting about how we can all change the world, if we only change ourselves first.
Anyway.
There is another, in my opinion more overwhelming, reason that has held me back from starting this blog; there is something incredibly conceited and self obsessed in blogging. As though I honestly think that the shit that spews forth from my mind and onto the page is worth anyone’s time or would hold anyone’s interest.
I would like to believe that my writing would flow onto the page with the smoothness of a hot knife cutting through butter, but in reality I think it would be more like spoiled milk escaping from a carton, rotten stinking clumps plopping out one by one, each more grotesque than the last, forcing their way from captivity into the open for all to see.
The stench of my attempted writing would permeate the air and anyone exposed would wrinkle their nose in distaste, wishing that the milk carton had never been opened but discarded and left to fester alone.
But the last twelve months have taught me something. It’s a lesson I’m still learning and one I sometimes forget. Life is so short and most of the time so pointless. There are so few things I truly care about, and I don’t mean family or friends, those are obvious; I mean things I can do with my time that are utterly for me. One of these things is writing. I love it with all that I am, it is part of me.
I may not have any talent, my writing may be like a bad dancer at the disco that has all the wrong moves and dances to a beat that no one else can hear, embarrassing himself while the cool kids avoid eye contact and laugh. But you know what? Fuck it. Life is fleeting so I’m going to head out onto the dance floor and wiggle around a bit and see what happens. There might be laughter, I may end up in tears, but it’s all part of the ride.
…
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