Monday, 30 May 2016

Parting Shot - pt1


Everything seems slower, thicker.

It's as if the air has some sort of. . . resistance.

I move across rooms, cautious.  My whole body in some sort of protective bubble and if it were to burst, my body would explode.  Flesh turning in on itself.  Bones shattering.

I find myself in the kitchen looking down onto the hedge full of birds.  I slowly become aware of the empty plate I'm holding in my hands and I start thinking to myself, "why isn't this breaking against the wall, bursting into a million needle sharp pieces".

I place it down gently onto the work surface in case it decides to do exactly that.

I can feel a howl of anguish building up inside me.  I swallow down hard and put my hands to my mouth.

It doesn't help.




"My hurt  came out in anger and aggression and nastiness.  When that goes away, all that's left is the love" - Robbie Williams.

Image title Abyss

Thursday, 13 August 2015

Pillory of the Sleepless

Wet branches and twigs slap against my face unseen.  Darkness starts to form at my periphery.  Fear.  I can taste it in my. . . No, not my, his.  This is where I was last night!  Running, blindly running through the trees in the dark.  But not just running, pursued!

Chest aching, I can feel his legs failing, arms weak at his sides.  But my chest is rising and falling in tandem with his and aching so, so much.  My heart is racing, almost bursting.  We are one, him and me,

Stumbling, we fall and start screaming.  As he lands, I wake, same as before, screaming, propelling myself upright, sweat covered, alone.  But this time elsewhere, not at home, the other occupant gone before the dawn.

I feel used, spent.

I wonder that when my consciousness leaves him, is it replaced by another, or whether he is aware.  Maybe I should question my own judgement.

5 a.m. again.  Well, nothing like being consistent I guess.


"Which is worse - the sleep which never ends or that which never comes?"


Image and quote copyright Wizards of the Coast

Wednesday, 12 August 2015

Night Terrors

I sit bolt upright.  The scream reverberates from the walls of my room, and as the ringing in my ears starts to fade, it is replaced by the sound of my beleaguered heart labouring in its cage.

I can feel the feverish perspiration start to chill my skin as it evaporates into the early morning gloom, but the strangest thing is that it smells of strawberry and cinnamon, and for the briefest of moments this almost makes me forget the terrors I've just witnessed.

I reach for comfort of my companion, but that side of the bed is cold and empty and the scream that brought me back to this world from that other place starts to take form somewhere deep in my chest, this time the ingredients of its making are sadness and despair.  But it's just as trapped as my heart, now hammering even harder against the walls of it's prison.

It's 5 a.m. and as one world starts its slumber, another goes to work. .

"Innistrad is a place where dreams invade the mind and mere shadows exact a terrible toil"

Image and quote copyright Wizards of the Coast

Tuesday, 9 September 2014

Counting Time. . .

I've recently been employed to assist with a mailing campaign for a UK university, and now it's complete I find myself musing about where the mind wanders during those tedious. mundane or simply repetitious tasks, and what type of person it takes to actually do that type of work.

To pick up on the last point first, in my career I've worked with a vast array of people, from hard workers to shirkers, from educators to pontificators.  Thankfully the work I've always been a part of has been as varied on a day-to-day basis as the colours in a bag of skittles, but the last few days meant working solidly in the same manner for seven straight days, eight hours a day, tedious, mundane, repetitive work.  Surprisingly, the time just seemed to evaporate, my co-workers remained chirpy and upbeat, and the everything completed before the deadline raised it's head.  I wondered about some of the other people who've worked for me and with me, and how many of them would have endured those seven days, or would have contributed with the levels of enthusiasm I saw around that room.

It's was a strange experience completing the work.  There were times when I felt that I was looking down on the whole thing almost out of body, while I watched the mechanised automaton completing the same action, over and over.  Because the job also included counting while carrying the tasks, I also found myself recounting experiences, stories or repeating lyrics from songs endlessly - at one point I was reminded of Patti Smith's 'Piss Factory'

"I was moral school girl 
hard-working asshole
I figured I was speedo motorcycle
I had to earn my dough, had to earn my dough
But no you gotta, you gotta relate, right?
You gotta find the rhythm within

Floor boss slides up to me and he says
Hey sister, you're just movin' too fast,
You're screwin up the quota,
You're doin your piece work too fast,
Now you get off your mustang Sally
You ain't goin nowhere, you ain't goin nowhere.

I lay back. I get my nerve up. I take a swig of Romilar
And walk up to hot shit Dot Hook and I say
Hey, hey sister it don't matter whether I do labor fast or slow,
There's always more labor after.
She's real Catholic, see. She fingers her cross and she says
Theres one reason. Theres one reason.
You do it my way or I push your face in.
We knee you in the john if you dont get off your get off your mustang Sally,
If you dont shake it up baby. Shake it up, baby. 

Twist and shout

Oh that I could will a radio here. James Brown singing
I Lost Someone or the Jesters and the Paragons
And Georgie Woods the guy with the goods and Guided Missiles...
But no, I got nothin', no diversion, no window,
Nothing here but a porthole in the plaster, in the plaster. . ."

In other moments I wondered what space in their minds my fellow workers had found.  I wondered if they were, like me, also singing along to some tune or whether they had found some other place that escaped me totally.  Well, I hope they did, but whatever or wherever they have my thanks and gratitude, and I dedicate all the songs I sung to them... but none more than this one, I lost track how many times I sang it over...


Picture Counting The Time by Sharon Lynn Williams, lyrics from 'Piss Factory' by Patti Smith.

Tuesday, 26 August 2014

The Calm Before the Storm

He was walking up to me, meaningfully, with pace, a kind of eagerness in his expression.  The crease on his suit trousers splitting the air before him with every stride.  He wasn't necessarily a tall man, although, he wasn't short either, but he was a small man, trying to make himself bigger.  Everyone else around us was dancing a waltz, off-beat, to a tune I couldn't hear.  We were in the spotlight, and they were veiled by the light of normality, the light of the day.

Moments before, I was smiling gently to myself, thinking about where I was and the last time I was here.  How everyone attending were all on the same level.  Gender, age, race, sexuality - it was all accepted without question. Our Humanity made us the same.  What made us exceptional to one another were our experiences, our passions.  It was nice to be here again. 

Judging by the demeanor of the approaching man, someone had realized that I shouldn't be back here again though.  It wasn't that I couldn't be here.  A blind eye turned wouldn't have brought the institution crashing to it's foundations - well, not immediately at least.  It was more that someone had noticed, and they wanted to make a point.

She had shocking pink denim jeans, shoulder-length blonde hair, some papers in her hands, and the air of youthful indifference to the woman sat next to her, who on appearances I guessed was her mother.  She was sat next to me.  On a three seated sofa, she came and sat next to me.  It was the strangest thing, until I remembered where I was, and I smiled.  About a minute or two later, the woman who I guessed was her mother approached the sofa, her shocking pink lipstick, matching that of her daughter's denim, took the remaining seat at the opposite end of the sofa.  My smile widened.  We sat there and the man approached.

When the man stood in front of me, our shoes toe-to-toe, he erupted with a torrent of words so brutal as only a person making a point to some higher authority can.  I looked in to his face as his words washed over me, the sounds stabbing in to my flesh, tearing at my ears, being inhaled by my breath, into my lungs.  I sat and I looked.  I can't remember when he stopped or what he said, but I noticed him take a step back.  I picked my umbrella up and stood.  "I'll go then," I said, and walked out of the gates.

Tonight I heard someone say "[they had] the willingness to remain silent until it was time to speak".  It made me remember what the man had said to me, and I cried for all concerned.