Faith

The old writer lived in a boxcar by the river. This was fill land that had once been a dump heap, but it was not used anymore.

He lived on a small welfare check and he walked a mile to the grocery store once a week to buy lard and canned beans and tomatoes and vegetables and cheap whiskey..

Uncle Bill walked back up the steps to his porch. Blew the smoke off the tip of his rifle and muttered under his breath ‘love your neighbour’. All he wanted to do was sit at his beat up desk with the old typewriter and a glass of Jack. I can see you Uncle Bill. From the beige world: the place where you smile at me every time I go to the fridge for a swig. The cut pinky in the waistcoat a reminder. The neat suit of deception. Uncle Bill may seem like a gentleman. Old, wise, benign. But he’d say don't kid yourself kid. Be aware of the old. They talk shit and lies.

We laugh over our glasses. Are these my words or his? Uncle Bill’s hands never shake. Not even in the morning. He knows what he has to do. Sit at the desk. Shut the door to the world. Fire off a round when someone comes knocking. Find that real world. The one you can believe in. The place in your head. The dream. The intoxication. The black line. Write it out no matter what. And keep writing until your hand can’t move anymore. Until the good Lord steals your last breath.

One more question. What does life teach you Uncle Bill? Life teaches you nothing kid. Words teach you all.

The old writer can’t write anymore because he had reached the end of words, the end of what can be done with words. And then?

I pick up the whiskey and the rifle and the pen.



(Thanks to William S.Burroughs for the borrowed words..)

Dangerous

We awoke and had toast. He ate around the edges making the bread smaller bite by bite. He was contemplating. Looking at the street below. The cat was stretched out on the open window sill. I think you should do it he said. There’s no point hanging onto something which is dead. I told him it was part of him. That things would change if his locks were shorn. He swallowed his toast and licked his fingers. Resolute. Do it he said and he turned his chair towards the window and looked out. I stood behind him. Lined the scissors up along the bottom of his hairline. I was unsure. Sick with the danger of change. I had to grip the scissors because my fingers were slick with sweat. The sun bounced off the metallic blades. I set my mouth and focussed my eyes. With a crisp shearing sound the scissors cut though his hair. With a sigh I watched his curls fall to my feet. The last memory of summer falling. The last part of him I could touch passing through my fingers. Samson swept up and thrown away.

View

I see your home from my window.

The place where you live.

Your home.

At least I think that's what I see. What is real is not all that I see.

The view makes my stomach turn. Three o 'clock in the afternoon concentrating on the hands going around. The thought of you almost walking through the door. The light of your home spilling out. Reaching out to me sat here in my darkness.

I remember lying on the floor. Toes turned up. Face turned down.

I am always there. Falling below the surface. Below the lips of the window. Just out of reach of the footsteps passing by. Your boots. Black leather. Sharp toe. I imagine. I hear you coming up the stairs. I wait for your hand to touch the glass of my front door. I wait and I wait.

I was unreachable to you. Driftwood in the filth.

I watched your stray hairs gathering on the linoleum. Falling like fairy dust. But filth. Filthy dust. They made me writhe in discomfort. Just thinking of raising my hand to wipe them away made me cry. So they stayed. They are still there. They disappear when my eyes close. Everything disappears when my eyes close. You go too. Just for a moment.

It is not by chance that I sit rigid behind glass and curtain watching you. No lights to betray me. No noise to identify my presence.

You have become my focus point. My panorama. My one vision.

Every face is your face. Every voice you calling to me.

You trap me yet keep me alive.

Just the wish to see you keeps me safe on the floor. Unmoving. Unmovable.

But still dreaming of a better view.

Half Way

I would like to meet the world halfway. But instead I am half in. Half out. Not quite awake. Not quite asleep. Half-hearted. Half-meaning. Half a person (at most).

I sleep to avoid waking. I remain in noise to forget the silence. I make last night last and morning disappear. It is easier than deciding on jam or marmalade. Socks or no socks. Tea or coffee. Closed eyes are my shield. My pause button.

I lie in water. Half-breathing.

I think about the fire. Half-believing.

She has the excuse of being a half-person. Not quite accountable. Not quite responsible. But she was entirely in it. The hand raised. The fist clenched. The words spat out. The match lit. She knew what she was doing. She knew. She still knows. Entirely. She watched. She smiled. She enjoyed what she was doing. It made her feel big. It made her feel stronger than us.

I can only half forget her. Forget that place. Those times.

Now it seems I have been trapped in this half place forever. The darkness. The chaos. It has become all of me. It has become everything. I am stuck down this rabbit hole half shouting for someone to come. My fading voice knows that everyone has long since gone. Pushed away fully by my hands. Rejected. Tired. Bored. Sick of it. Sick of me.

I am left behind. Half thinking. This is not me. This is not me.

I sit on the wall. Half hoping you will see me. My feet hurt. My arms hurt. My head hurts. It will be like this forever. But forever won't be for long. You said that. I will die before you leave. I half want time to pass for it to be done. I half want time to stop so I won't see the end. Won't write the final chapter. I sit back confused. I am writing this but the hand that moves across the paper is no longer mine.

You can make anything a reality. That's what I say. Before I take the shower. Before I pour the drink. Before I shout at you. Punch my fist against the wall. Hold my nose and go under. Walk the fine line. The yellow line. The high line. The half line.

There is a distant dream of being whole. Of getting myself back. To be entirely J. One. All. But half is the portion I am served. Half is the limit of my being. Half is all. Half full. Half empty. Half arsed.

Thank You

I'd like to thank you. Thank you for waking me up. For coming into the kitchen and shaking me. For emptying the containers and leaving me with hollow drawers which smell faintly of the last flat. Damp. Cold. Grey. How I miss that place.

I think I saw you. Waiting at the traffic lights a few days after. I was walking as I always do. Walk until I can't stand any more. I think you saw me but couldn't look. I was looking for another place to get them. I think you knew.

I would like to thank you. Thank you for rubbing my chest so hard there was a bruise in the shape of your fingers. I lie in the bath wondering what my body looked like shaking under the weight of you. I close my eyes not wishing to imagine any more.

I hunt around the flat. Beige. Beige place. There are new things that I notice are missing everyday. I go around the shops slipping things into my pockets. Trying to replace. Trying to re-create the time before. The time before you stood in my kitchen with your green bag. Wearing those big black boots.

I thank you. Thank you for making me cough. Making me breathe. That's enough.

Thank you for saying I was the sickest person you'd ever seen. That makes me feel I don't have to do any more to convince you of who I am. If you are reading. I am not the sickest. I am amalgam of all the sick people who have been in my life and shaped me. I am a copier. An assimilator. A fraud. Or I was. Now I don't know how to stop any more. But I am still here so maybe it isn't real after all?

Still here. Wherever that might be. Certainly not in the mirror. In my face. In these clothes I hang upon me with pins and needles and threads.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

For leaving me in this empty place. For leaving me looking out the window wondering what I will do for the next twenty years. Watch me cry. Watch me be sobbing and contrite as your life passes without sticking to all this empty time. You took away everything. Left me with nothing but a dusty bag of words. Words which don't quite plug the hole. Stories which don't quite tell.

You stood in my kitchen and took me away. Or maybe I gave myself to you. Whatever, the emptiness is making my shoulders ache. Makes me huddle under the blankets whilst the sun is shining outside. Makes every muscle shiver. Makes me gag at the merest sip of water. Makes me remember but forget. Leaves me feeling cheated.

How many times is it now?

Before the next time. I need to say

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.