the things you say part 7

the things you say   part 7

Some weeks have gone by. There has been silence. No sound in this small world of you and I. I have lain head upon the grey white of this unwashed pillow and considered the uneven surface of the flat white ceiling. I have located its flaws. They are many.
 

It has been monumental, that task, lifting my head. I strain my ears until they want to bleed in the listening for a whisper a movement from you. There is nothing. Just the stillness of air unruffled by hope or possibility.  Just the bland scent of nothing but tedium, the inner walls of standard cardboard boxes, the hard to fathom colour, the jolt of disappointment, empty, uniform, recognised nothingness. Not even a twinge of leaf mould to make the heart move faster, no concrete, no acrid heat on dirt. No scent of rat. 

This then is where I find myself. Lying in a pit. Mattress shaped below me. Pillow damp with the uncontained dribble, spilling from the corner of this hanging mouth, slipping, sliding slowly across my cheek to pool on the cotton beneath me, to moisten then dry, moisten then dry, layers upon layers.  I am looking, eyes open, but the looking is inward. What is this? What is it? I have heard the things you say. I know them. I hear them, I read them. I am quieted by the tangible mutual desire we feel when nearby. i sense you as you sense me. We talk across crowds with words said to all and speak to each other. We do. I do not think it. I know it. In our presence the world becomes clearer. There is hysteria. There is laughter. There is intimacy.  A blurt of telling, a burst of excitement, stilted in shyness, in distance, in recognising and maintaining the required space between us. It ends too soon. And when there is no formal reason to come together we are held, like this, apart. There can be no step forward, not from you. You are not allowed to say, cannot say, there, under such scrutiny. I can, I can say for I am freer, but I, i am afraid. The fear of this, my imagination. 

 

In this place, this state, this pit, where I know all the things no one wants to, I catch a gust of you. A net cast wide, my net cast so wide, happy to snare an imagining. Come and find me, you say. Come and look. I am not even sure if the words are yours, are meant for me. They are so wrapped in formality. But it becomes enough to bring me back to the world of chance, of hope, of some small offering of possibility. I know the distance is vast, untraveled, uneven. I will take hold of your words and make them mine, stitch them into my hem, hidden in weight and fabric. I will keep extending this hand and soon I think you may see it, hope you may catch hold of a fingertip, a palm, a wrist and know that it is solid.

the things you say...

the things you say...

i have fallen out of footfall with myself. there is mean-ness in my heart, hard and round. loving kindness is lost to me. long gone. i am startled, still, by the normal. the functioning everyday. discussions about cook ware, furnishings, aquisitions, leave me cold, head numb with the tedium. but i do recall that easy living. that shady entry into the arena of the ordinary, where we do as we're told, buy as instructed, toil, earn to spend and spend on objects made to break within months, objects, plastic cast in moulds with the specific aim, so it seems of travelling, hurtling, to the dump. land fill. buying stuff that is, as it is purchased, recognised as shit, shit for the landfill. see, i do not care. cannot distinguish, have no hankering, want nothing. nothing that i can buy. it makes no odds. i can buy and not care, i can not buy and not care, where's the difference?

oh to discuss and mean it. to see and desire. to want. to care. my eyes are glazed over. there is no room in me for such trivialities. i hate the people who can laugh and be trivial, can enjoy the throw away, can sit and waste hours, days, in prescriptive reveries. don't they know about time? is it just me?

you, i cannot buy you and  have an imagining that you will be mine. you. i want you and cannot decipher my reasoning. i try. is it love that i want? it's not that. it is what? you, so impartial, so far away, hard to reach, hard to fathom. you know about time, i know it. you know about me, i know it. are you the piece that will slot right in?

so far away with your notion of distance. i stretch out my hand, again and again, try to pull you across the chasm, bring you closer. you resist, ignoring the palpable warmth of these extended fingers, snaffling to grab and hang on to your cold, red, bony-ness.

the things you say part 5

the things you say part 5

the feeding room is long and bright. bright when you look upwards anyway, towards the ground it is darker, cast in shadow from the lines and rows of plastic coated tables, providing plate resting places for the hoardes. there are hoardes in here. the silence shattered by sounds of eating, ingestion, biting, slurping, sucking, chewing. a chant, now and then, one solitary voice, sing song, hot food hot food hot food. no-one takes a blind piece of notice. heads down. scoffing by the shadows at the floor, to the knee.
 
there is a queue. of course there is a queue. i join it at the end. of course i do. i wait. crane my neck now and then hoping to get a sight of todays delights. will there be custard. it's all i want to know. will there be custard.
 
i left the other place, grey room sparse, one bright light flickering against a wall. I left there and wandered along the corridors, a moment of outside, rain lashing, cold, denting skin to get here. i left you, behind, back there, maybe still sitting on my chair. i wanted to stay and talk and laugh and poke and prod and find and know and hear and share and laugh and laugh and listen and speak. but i cannot do that, can i. i can't let you know this about me. can i? so, watch me, careless, carefree, as unconstrained as i imagine i can be, i, nonchalent walk out of the door. i don't care. do you see? not at all. it's as though there were all the time in the world, and we know, do we not, that there surely is not.
 
as i leave, carefree me, i throw a tiny remark out into the air, a puff, dandelion kiss, stating where i will be. as i walk, slowly away, i see you look towards me. i want to beckon. wink. lift my skirt. i walk and drink in the fading tones of your voice, i hold it as long as i can, i hear it still in the silence, such loud silence, i hold it and then know that the quiet is just that and silence is booming with wanting, nothing more, anymore. the fading tail of your sound, you in my world is gone.
 
fuck it i think. and fuck you. fuck you you fucker. chase me. go on do a bit of work yourself. me, i do it all, put it out there, give you bits and you see, and give nothing to me, nothing real, nothing i can put my hands on, so fuck you matey. fuck off.
 
fuck you
 
the doors open. they are double doors, sealed in their midst with rubber, air filled rubber, that shushes and squeaks when it catches, it touches. i hear it. i want to turn my head but do not. i see you, corner of my eye. there you are, you, come to join us here in the feeding room. such a surprise. so unusual. was it my dandelion kiss that drew you here. i'll say it was. i will not look at you, alone, just behind me, there in the queue. i will pretend i can not see you. you say, i overhear, you say 'pasta's good'. i pick up brown plastic curved edged tray. pasta please, i say, to the masked man in white with blue gloves on his hands, surgical procedures anyone? he's ready as he'll ever be to slit me open, take out my heart, sew me back up. he ladles pasta, ladles like it's soup, i can't drink it, onto my plate. i finger the plastic cutlery until i find some clean, untouched so i hope at the bottom of the grey moulded plastic pot. 
 
i sit. head bowed waiting for the sound and scent of you passing by. damp sand crushed underfoot against a hot concrete path in summer, that is how you smell today. it is an arid scent. a scent that tags like clothing against bramble. i love it.
 
there you go. you sit close by. just close enough for occasional tangs to reach me. you know i am here. i know you are there. you say to someone, loudly, you say something about a man that lost the lot, lost it all. that man, i know is you, and you are telling me.
 
i eat the pasta. it is unbelievably good. it is great. a darkness falls across me, i look up. you have left your plate, food half eaten, are standing still chewing, looking at me. close. you have something to say to me. it's pretty important, i can see that. there are small flecks of green sitting on your teeth, is it cabbage, is it lettuce. i don't care. i love those flecks of green in your teeth. i wish that i were one. that close to you.

the things you say part 4

the things you say part 4

I hang my coat onto the back of my chair. it has parts of me intricately, intimately woven into it. my moisture, tiny flakes of skin, sweat, scent, bits of me. i am hot. i remove the layers, three maybe four and i hang the coat, well worn, well loved, never cleaned, moulded almost to the shape of me, i hang it on the back of my chair. it is my chair. i sat in it first. i placed my bag by the side of me and plonked arse first, down, nestled into the moulded plastic, rested weary into it. mine. i brought my bad mood with me, my lack of integrity, my misery. my coat, hung on its back named it. it named it, mine. i supped coffee from a cardboard cup, through the slit hole at the top, in the white plastic lid, as i sat. i sat and sipped in a chair made mine by my coat.

it is busy in the room, can you see? it is full of us. us lot. we are looking, we are talking. it is quiet, then we speak, mostly one at a time, an interjection, possibility, thought.

all the chairs are taken, occupied, on the right side, which is my side, where my chair is. there are some over the way, not too far, just over there, under the window.

i say, to you, cow eyes, brown eyes, i say, i have to go for a bit, a short bit. I'll be 5, maybe 10, yeah, 10 at the very most. i slide the door open. i take my leave. i don't look back. i want to. i want to see if your eyes have lingered upon me, for a wisp of time, for longer than they should, for longer than eyes that are not interested would. but i find a resolve not to and walk swiftly away.

i am hot. i leave my coat, the marker of my territory, i leave it behind. i head off. i do what i must and after a belated amount of time, i return. i open the door and there you are. sitting there, sat there, sat in my chair. my chair. you rest back against my coat and i know bits of you, bits of me pool together and make bits of us. i wonder at the scent of you, mixed with me, there in one place. i want to lean past you and inhale, but resist. i am inside the door, you are sat in my chair and there is no where for me to go, not now. the show is on the road. i cannot walk across it.

you are sitting in my chair. do you see? chosen to sit there, where i was. it is lovely. i slide onto the table just there at your right. we are close. so close. is it intimate? did you choose this? i can breathe you in. and i do. i lean, lurch forwards and let myself rest in the warmth that rises from you. i suck you in silently, and then you are of me. For a minute or two it is just as though i am at school, brushing in passing against a boy that i like, that likes me. So close, so accidentally close to one another, both ignoring, both knowing. I breathe and know that when i next pull on my coat particles of you, scent of you, skin falling from you will be invisibly close to me. Lucky me.

the things you say 3

The things you say part 3
 
Oh it is very soon, I barely know you and now we must all bare our souls, some of our souls as much as we are willing, are able. I am able. Caring what others may think feels a long way away.
 
Across the borders of respectable and professional distance I sense a whiskers quiver of interest from your direction. Oh it is less than the change in the weight of the air from a spillage of salt thrown over a shoulder, is it left, is it right, lets do both to be on the safe side. It is a quiver. No more. A wrinkling of a nose, a half turn of the head. It is there. I am certain that it is there.  Like those games people play, we all know them. The smile belies the malicious intent and no one else sees it, they just see the smile. The more you explain the malevolence, the more fucked up they all think you are. And it is not you, not at all, it is him. Or her. Smiling and fucking you over, seducing all those around you, smiling, beguiling and sticking the knife in your back. Twisting and at the same time explaining that this is the only way, and explaining it so reasonably, that you almost believe him yourself, and all those around you, they fall for it. Fall. It's the same sort of thing, don't you think. The unspoken link that you sense that says 'i know you', 'you are one like me', 'i am excited by your presence and want a little more of your time'. We sense it, we do. That bated excitement, finding ways to catch a moment, speak for a moment in a rush of babbling words, trying to fit it all in, this is me, who I am, that is you, do we fit, just a bit, is it a hit. 
 
Ah. And the wondering. I walk by and behind me in a room to the left you are there and i catch a glimpse of you, how could i ever see you tucked away over there? and then, without making eye contact or acknowledging your presence i know hands down that your gaze catches me. We catch one another and do not look at each other. I know where you are. You know, but less well, but you do know, most of the time, when I am nearby, i'd say, yes, you know where i am. How to cross that boundary that line of defence. it is tricky.
 
so we are to bare all. to show ourselves one and all. the space is clean pristine, mental institution bland. no fidgeting colours or patterns to divert our attention from the truth. it is disclosure time, for the first time. I am bold and brazen. it goes without saying, that is me, i care not any longer for this or for that. it is bollocks, i know it and i am beyond here, in a holding cell of my making, looking backwards with envy at the energy and joy of naivety. that's how i see it.
 
on a screen on a block i show the room a recording of my thoughts. they are dark, but insightful. papers declaring loneliness hang in unending regimented lines and flutter occasionally as though caught in a back draught. a shrill pitched laughter escapes from me randomly. i talk without stopping, trying to get to the nub, the kernal, the stone, the seed, the core, and i feel blank eyes upon me. i try again, and again. the words erupt from me, almost stream of consciousness. i am determined to put value on me, so then, i note as i nod to myself, i care a bit. i care for you. i care what you think. i talk on and look at you. i know you want to show me, to hear me. i feel that, your interest. i like it, so i do. there is a laughter in your eyes, tiny, a glimmer. i see it.
 
someone speaks out, asks me about my life, my home. you say, we would need to be invited to her parlour to know that, wouldn't we? i smile. shall i invite you? of course not. that would be mad. insane. that is not what you meant, not at all. you are not asking for an invite i tell myself, just stating a simple straightforward fact. a simple, obvious, clear, straightforward fact. and why would you want to come anyway? you. look at you.
 
phew. it is done. my turn is over it is done i think i was open and honest and declaring. i think i passed the test, whatever test it was, whatever it may have been. i am here, still here. i am in.
 
i watch as another bares their soul, it is hard for her as she cares, so much, so deeply. her voice wavers, i can perhaps see the glint of a tear, a diamond caught in the intense bright light, sliding and slicing as it rolls, full of weight downwards. she has cut the marks from her soul into shining silver, harsh marks and abrasions into silver. she talks of food and change, and she cares. i hear you say, oh so throw away, that you are free from the chains that had you bound and catching life back open armed. you said it to no one, no one heard, except me. you said it, i know it, just for me.
 
later, all done. the screens need returning to the locked storage space along the corridor. look at you, long, lean, strong. you bend to move the item. can i help? i ask. no, no, i'm fine, you say. you have done this so very many other times before now, for sure. and you cannot manage see, you struggle terribly. can i help? i ask once again, wanting the intimacy of sharing a task, any task at all with you. i think you want that to. yes please you say as you struggle. it is light, it is easy, we laugh and struggle together, really struggle because it does not need two. not at all. then bang, the base falls away. naughty children you and i, caught scrumping in our own orchard, lines crossed and discarded, forgotten, for a second or two we are lost in old behaviours, freedom of youth, gaiety. ah. see. just for a moment. you and me.

the things you say 2

20111128 The things you say 2

You say, come. Come on then.
 
I am there.
 
We sit, a seeming motley crew around a farmhouse table.  We do not know one another, may have met once or twice, may not.  It feels like a kitchen, big table there in the middle of the room, but the edges do not house sinks, cookers, dryers, dollies or pans, black bottomed hanging from hooks on the walls, from the ceiling.  There is no scent of cooking.  No homely feel. No feel at all, not really.
 
You sit to the side, away from the table. We all have eyes upon you.  You are late, you are scruffy, you chew gum like you're deep in anphetamine heaven, cocaine, crack pipe, furious chewing.  You roll the gum around in your mouth.  You chew as you speak, half chew half words tumbling out, hasty, still so hasty.  I think, he is pissed.  He has recently been pissed.  He is melting. Pissed porous.  It is assumption, conjecture, bollocks.  I build a fandango around you.  Up eh? Up late eh? Partying? Talking? Learning and sharing with wine? Deep into the night? Which ends where?  Haphazard fallen, entwined, you and who? Sheet wrapped around a leg, across an abdomen, cranky discomfort of the mis fit.  Fumbled fuck. Hasty fuck. Cocaine come down fuelled fuck. Heave to hammer out those hovering demons. Salt spunk sweat sheets. Wet sheets. Warped sheets. Did you take out your gum?
 
You are speaking, mouth moving.  Gum rolling around, out it falls, one miscalculation and out it falls, slipping through your lips, to the side, plop, it drops down and I swear that your hand moves to meet it, eyes unflinching, you grasp and return it, barely moving, hardly noticing, back whence it came. As though it never happened. 
 
Cow eyes lure me in. You have no idea. 
 
I raise my nose a tad, like a hare, catching the air, breathing in sharp scent of you. Leaf mould, hot skin gone cold, metallic filings and sand ground into denim. 
 
You skip as you walk. It is not obvious, but I see it.
 
You rush and race.
 
I want to say, stop.
 
We leave the room.  You are gone. I search the vicinity for a glimpse of you. But you are gone.
 
The sun is burning down on us all.  It is late in the year, but the sun harbours deep fury and pours it out, unrelenting.  I sit with one other on a bench in the square. I long for the shadows, but can't move to them.  It is too complex.  I feel sweat run in streams down my back. My skin is wet to touch. I am clammy.  I want water. I want shade. It is all too complex. I sit, hatless and let the sun do its worst.
 
You come by, stand in front of me, shade apparent.  I have dark glasses on my eyes. They could melt in this heat if left unprotected. You stop, still. No skip, no haste, but a posture even in stopped mode that says 'I am on my way'. I look at you. You speak to me. I am unclear what you have said. I want to be funny and vibrant and clever.  I want to be witty, appealing, alluring. I want you to like me, to want me, to love me.  'Yes' I say in response to a question.  And then you are gone.
 
Later, a place becomes vacant at a table and I move myself langourously from here to there.  The table is deep in the shadow. My dress is damp. The alluminium chair is cold on my legs on my arse. Damp cold dress. I want to ask questions about you, to you, of you, but you are gone.

the things you say 1

The things you say

I don't know you, not at all, but I am interested in you. 



I have seen you around, stood next to you 8 years ago in a studio, somewhere, always rushing here and there.

I heard then that you were dating.  I didn't care. You sounded grand, posh, stuck up your own arse, and I hate that.  I had no interest in you then, none at all and I will be damned if you even gave me a glance.

I have surely seen you around, around quite a lot, so I feel in some way that I know you. I do not.

You have no idea who I am, never seen me, noticed me, heard me, before.

We met early this year. Sat in a bar as I ranted at you, waving my black book full to brim with ideas that gushed out of me unstoppable improbable unbelieveable ranting.  That old sweet release feeling when someone is listening.  I am asking questions with my noise.  Is it valid I am asking, do you like it, does it work, is it worth anything, can you see it, it is real and i need it to be in the world and i need you to agree. do you agree.

I am interested in you.  Cow eyes.

You give nothing away, so proper, so formal so grand, so up your own arse. I leave the bar.  I am sweaty, dry mouthed, ashamed.  You have no fucking idea.  I walk to the train.  I see you with a girl, you may see me, I think you see me, I think you say to the girl, look at her, silly tart. foolish twat. hopeless hag. what a load of shit she is. what shit. I watch you go together into a bar or hotel or bar cum hotel.  Will they fuck, I think.  Will they drink? Will they fuck and drink?

I find my car from the train and drive in a fury of rage and self loathing.  I am shit.

Your email comes late the following afternoon. I have been sitting in a tiny, too hot room with a thin woman whose face is pointy.  She nods at me her eyes filled with sincerity behind her glasses lens.  She is colour coordinated and stiff at the waist.  She is understanding me so well that I forget she knows nothing at all. She is nice.  Her lipstick and her earrings and her belt match her shoes.  She wears a lot of purple.  I have never trusted purple.  It looks like lame pseudo new age shit crushed velvet curtaining.  Where's the sun burst I think.  Where ever you see purple there has to be a sun burst. Right? She is really really nice.  I hate nice.  It is sickening.  Stop fucking nodding I think to myself.  Week 6 or what ever it is.  I am fine, I come here, you want something from me, I dig about and find it.  Here you are I say.  Oh more? You want more. Hang on I'll see what I can do, look have this, I'll shift the carefully placed layers of concrete and steel the mire on top to put me off looking, ok, is that better.  Great.  For the next week I will be lost once more but at least you are happy that you had a good look. Great.



I escape down the stairs finally, burst into the sunshine, breath deeply, put on my smile. Plastic smile, frozen smile. Ha ha. 

Look at me check my phone. It has email.  I have a mobile telephone, who ever would have thought such a thing could exist, and on this device, this hand held device I can check my electronic post.  Yowzah.  What a world. I have mail. It is you. I am not shit.  Or not that shit because you want me. I am validated already. Thank you.