Down In Me

nce upon a time there lived a princess who pouted constantly and obscenely. Her mother routinely warned her that if she continued to pout, her mouth would stay that shape forever but the princess did not listen. She was perennially pouting for she was perennially misunderstood.

The princess was not happy being a mere princess, oh no. She wanted to see the world and experience everything it had to offer. She did not want to marry any old, dull prince and live in the castle and have perfect babies. She wanted to listen to punk rock music and try dangerous drugs and have unprotected sex with boys named ‘Spike’ or girls named ‘Sid’.

So the princess ran away to Big City. She thought to herself, surely with so many people there, she would have to find someone to understand her deepest desires and her darkest dreams; someone to see through her regal exterior and her virginal veil to the core of her soul.

The first thing the princess did when she arrived in Big City was to cut off her flowing locks of golden curls and dye her short new crop the colour of candied apples. She felt more like herself already, as she gazed into the mirror that gazed back at her with such kindness.

Next, the princess went to a charity shop and with a bit of money she had stolen from the queen’s handbag, she acquired a man’s pinstripe suit. It must have been a small man because the suit felt tailor-made for the princess’s lithe body, save perhaps, for being a smidgen too tight over the curve of her hips. She had to hold some of the ripped apart seams together with safety pins but otherwise, her new suit was good as new.

Then the princess found black leather, steel-toe boots in her size and donned those, too. With every small adjustment, she was beginning to feel less like a princess and more like the hardcore rebel she longed to be, flouting every rule of conventional attire for princesses.

So dressed, the princess set off to walk around the city and take in the overwhelming sights and sounds. She felt very good in her new clothes and idly wondered whether the other city people could tell that she was really a princess.

As the princess walked and walked, her senses were attacked by the powerful smells of food and sewage, the loud car horns and speeding tires skidding, and the bright neon signs and glowing phosphorous street lamps. She marvelled at everything around her and sighed.

The princess had never seen so many things crammed together into such a small space before! Especially people! Tons and tons of hurried-harried people of all persuasions, scurrying this way and that and paying the princess no notice whatever. This was very unlike the people the princess was accustomed to, the humble servants in the castle whose entire lives consisted of caring for her and attending to her every whim.

The princess thought that Big City anonymity was a truly remarkable gift. At that moment she was quite content to pout in the shadows and think her own thoughts in the midst of the bustling city life.

Curiously and very much accidentally, she happened upon a little record shop at the very far end of a main road. As she strolled near the storefront window she was lured by a siren call. A thick, lovely, dark sound emanated from within the shop and wrapped itself around her like a friendly feline. Obediently and without hesitation, she stepped into the shop.

“What is this?! Who is this?!” she exclaimed to no one in particular, her mouth agape and her large honey-almond eyes wide. The leather-clad shopkeeper sauntered towards her with the effortless and disinterested manner of record shop workers everywhere and casually replied, “Why it’s Bauhaus of course, luv. Ain’t you ever heard Bela Lugosi before?”

“No,” exclaimed the princess, “No, I haven’t! This is… it’s…” the princess seemed to be at a loss for words, likely for the first time in all of her short and tormented life. She simply stood there listening intently, absorbing every musical note through her pores and feeling each one take the form of shivers that rushed up and down her spine and crawled outwards, to the tips of her delicate fingers and toes.

As the gloriously gloomy sounds filled her ears, she felt a strange tug at the corners of her mouth. Why should that be, she thought awkwardly, when suddenly and without due warning, her face lit up like a firecracker and her perennially pouty lips stretched into the widest of shiny bright smiles.

The shopkeeper smiled back at the princess. He could instantly tell that he was witnessing a moment of great importance and beauty in the young girl’s life. He was very grateful that after all these years he was honoured with the experience of this familiar moment through her new eyes.

Alive with a sense of duty and responsibility to this nubile creature, the shopkeeper put his arm around the princess and ushered her to the back of the till where the records spin. With a knowing smile he said, “Well if you like that, you must listen to this other record…”

And so it was that the beautiful pouting princess at long last found the place to which she rightfully belonged. It was nothing like the place she’d come from and that was absolutely fine with her. In the cacophony of Big City, amidst ageing punks, street-corner hookers and lying-cheating business men, the pouting princess lived happily ever after.

Probably.

I am special. Unique. Yes I am, don’t argue the facts. I am the only — not the first but the ONLY — person who has ever felt this feeling at this time in this way ever.

Only I’m not. How can I be? Can I be? Yes, yes, you hold water. Stick to the original stick-to-itiveness. Be confident, isn’t that what they advise? Unique and special people are confident in their originality. They don’t think they are, they just are.

Why do the words unique and special look so sad? They are tacky sweet nothings, having lost all meaning through overuse. They remind me of the one whore in that small town passed around from cock to cock. Lost all meaning but kept living. Kept thinking.

I can’t stop thinking. I can’t stop thinking that I’m not. I can’t stop thinking that this apologetic life is going to rush through me and dissipate without trace. That I’ll come to my anti-climactic end — and fuck knows I adore a good climax — regretful, morose, having lived a life of alienation, surrounded by death and never fully immersed. So I once played the dummy whore to keep living. To taste life.

Switch tactics. Something. Anything to direct this mind in the direction of more directive thoughts. Think, think, think. That’s the problem, that’s the fucking problem. Too much fucking thinking. Endless streaming conscious analysis that ultimately leads to that familiar cottage at the end of a dirt road in the middle of nowhere. The one with depression, hopelessness, anxiety, fear, shame, ridicule and their faithful companions in dripping heavy black spray paint all over the weathered façade. The one that’s empty inside save for a cold, rusty iron chair near where the hearth used to be.

But that’s where I do my best work. Sitting in that chair thinking thumping exhaling laboured breath aching, expelling hard chemical sweat from fevered pores, bloody palms gripping the chairs’ arms for dear sweet life and recoiling in horror from the frightful monster that aims to grab me, shit on me, kill me or worse: enslave me in a completely non-sexual fashion; he makes me pay the bills and do the housework. But there’s no one there. No one but me. I need solitude for my worst best work. Right now, though? I need a fucking cigarette.

I grow restless. Just shut the fuck up with your monsters and your housework and your whores. I can’t hear my especially unique thoughts over your incessant whining drone.

It all comes down to this. Did you change me or did I mean to change? Who’s doing the talking? And to what end? Am I a wellspring of creativity or a sublime candidate for therapy? I know you have all the answers but that knowledge doesn’t keep me from feeling the questions.

I have beauty marks.

No, really, it’s true. Well okay, maybe it’s only half true. You see, I have three small, latte-coloured spots on my chest which an old lover called my ‘Bermuda Triangle’. I also have one on my shoulder. Sometimes I catch sight of this one out of the corner of my eye and for a half a second I think it’s a bug. It used to soothe me to remember that it is a beauty mark because, as the name implies, it must mean I’m beautiful.

Then I decided to research beauty marks on Wikipedia (as you do) and had the misfortune of learning that only facial moles can be called beauty marks and that my beauty marks are just plain old moles.

I am going to edit that stupid article.

No one steals a glance. I don’t. 

Spend the day in that woolen haze, where time passes us by, as it forever has; our awareness wading through this thickly muddled murk. Our vanity, idle fancies that fancy themselves.
 
Woolgathering, comatose, serene, in waiting. Surrounded by tall grass. Feigning alertness while waving away the smoke. Worlds away, flickering the stars, bouncing in the clouds or hovering somewhere just below the leafy canopy. Anywhere but here. Anywhere above. Anywhere beyond. Anywhere away.

Survey my fanciful dreamscape and pluck an idea from within the folds. Cold hands, finger probes; shapely shapes. Misshapen. Everything exits through the door opposite, makes a wrong move and never stops for direction.

That clean and simple touch.

Where are we going? Which way are we headed? Feet shuffles that mirror each other. We reach out to hold before we scurry away to pretend we’re deaf. We couldn’t hear. That sound? It wasn’t us. No. It definitely wasn’t us. It couldn’t have been us, no. We were out at the time. Away.

Home to hug the radiator, all alone where no one can see. Mired in melancholy for those unexplained absences. Many, varied, self-imposed. Your existence breaks my concentration so I think you’d better go. I’m back to the field, then. To gather more wool for my vaporous collection.

Sometimes, it seems like the whole world is out to get me.

Leaving the office I pass a small, quiet car. As I turn my back to it, the engine switches on. It could follow me. Does it want to? That van, the one with the emergency lights flashing? It’s coming towards me. No, no. It is parked off to the side, I’m the one walking towards it. Those lights. Flashing. What could they be trying to tell me? I pass two men. One chortles in the direction of the other. I check myself because I know. These three, they’re laughing, too. They’re all laughing. My mere existence is a cruelly embarrassing joke.

Stand, just stand towards the back, out of everyone’s way. Don’t think I’m not catching you catching sight of me in the periphery. You’re staring. What are you thinking about, though? I can’t bring myself to look at you directly but I know you’re staring at me.

The bus. Finally. You know the score, stick your hand out self-consciously. Stop. Stop, motherfucker, STOP. I’ll take it very personally, if for one of those big city reasons, you leave me standing in the cold. I couldn’t take another ten minutes. I couldn’t take another second.

I reach for my notebook to jot down these meanderings. Feign productivity to take my mind off. But my notebook isn’t there, where it should be. Everything has its place. Okay, fuck it, find something else. Sometimes it feels like the whole world is out to get me. This will do, though: an old envelope and a lucky pen that normally swims at the bottom of my security blanket/canvas bag. The bag that will die for me. It’s true. The inside flap says, THIS BAG WILL DIE FOR YOU. It hasn’t let me down yet.

The fucker behind me is looking over my shoulder. I don’t know who he is, but I know he is. Self-referential hand over the envelope. Protecting my thoughts like that kid in math class protecting his exam answers from prying eyes. This isn’t for you, motherfucker. This isn’t for you. This is for anyone who can’t see me and the one or few who can.In a dull, woolen haze, everything is delayed. Better slip the envelope away before backseat fucker gets a taste for so many implications.

Hop off undetected and walk purposefully up that way, the way you know. Your way. Keep your head up, your chin up. Don’t let them see you sweat, never let them see you bleed. You’ve got a right to this life. Butch. Up. Some of the mantras I sing to soothe.

At that little road now. My little road. Remember the script? Up the pavement on the right, until about halfway, just before the first working street lamp. Then, cross to the other side, nonchalantly through the cars, up a few paces and presto. We’re home.

People. Fucking strangers on my road. Fuck. Fuck fuck. Improvise. Straight ahead. Quickened pace through the burning yellow spotlight. Everyone walks, remember? Everyone walks. Almost home free, just turn the key quietly. Don’t let them hear you coming, don’t even let them feel you breathe.

Stealthy up the landing. Retaining the element to surprise the burglars. But all’s quiet. Once inside, first things first. Is the ringer off? Not today, real world, not today. Maybe not tomorrow either, but you never know. Keep hope alive, these things turn cyclical. In cycles. I haven’t figured out the average length to each revolution, but they tell me all things come to an end, even circles.

Sometimes, it seems like the whole of myself is out to get me.

How do you change from one minute to the next?
Why do you constantly question your emotions to that point?
Why do you share them with others, knowing the outcome only varies with your feeling of them in this particular corner of your mind?
Why do you continue to live in this space, the one that makes you question the core of every last occurrence?
Why do you continually make yourself vulnerable to those perceptions you create?
When do you expect to be able to let go and just breathe?
When does time start to matter less?
When does the internal dialogue cease?
When do you give yourself a minute to exist, unfettered by your self-imposed constraints?
How do you move from this to something more fitting?
Where is the point at which you become the ideal version of you?
Not the pretense, but an actual, with flaws all your own, those with which you’re able to coexist?
Are you just following that prescribed path to nowhere?
Has it all been preordained and if so, why go to the trouble of feigning free will?
Can you ever give yourself and give of yourself and give enough, and not feel the emptiness of that old vessel?
When do you just stop?
How do you stop? How do you stop.

This is ground control to Major Smith. Major Smith, can you hear me, Major Smith?

“Yes, yes I’m reading you loud and clear. Over.”

“No, no. That’s not how the story goes. You can’t hear them and they can’t hear you.”

“Oh. Oh right. But, I need them to hear me. I need to tell them about all this, you know? Everything I’ve discovered. It’s important.”

“No, it’s okay, really. You can stay with us up here. You don’t need them anymore.”

“No, you don’t understand. I’m on a crucially vital mission. The fate of my planet and my entire race rests squarely on my shoulders. I have to report my findings at once.”

“The fate of your entire race? You do realise we can read your thoughts, yes?”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot about that. Okay, maybe the whole fate of the planet doesn’t rest entirely on my shoulders, but it is very important that I report back nonetheless.”

“Yes. Yes I can see you actually believe that to be the case.”

“I do.”

“Very well. We’ll give you one chance to report back. Take a look out the window.”

“Oh my god… It’s full of stars!”

“Christ. She fancies herself some sort of Dave Bowman.”

“You’re not going to turn me into a weird star baby, are you? I don’t think I’d look good in that.”

“No, no, of course not. Anyway, come along dear. We have much greater things in store for you. For now, I’ll show you to your living quarters.”

“But wait, what about my report?”

“That was it. We gave you a chance and all you said was that it was full of stars. Not our problem.”

“Oh. Okay then. So ummm, do you boys have a queen or something up here?”

“Don’t even think about it.”

“I’m a kind and generous ruler, you know… okay, princess, I’ll settle for princess but nothing less… duchesses are so frumpy…”

I have decided to love you.

No, really, I have. I have decided to love you and no one - least of all myself - can stop me. Your only duty now is to make yourself completely available to me between the hours of twenty-four and seven, Monday through Monday for deep emotional, intellectual, spiritual and physical connection. That’s not much to ask in return for love, is it? According to everyone from The Beatles to His Holiness The Dalai Lama, love is paramount. You should consider yourself lucky and if you were religious you might even say you’re blessed.

People take their lives into their own hands all the time. Risky propositions are a matter of course for some. I’m not a thrill-seeker, though, I’m a comfort-courter. Sleeping in your presence? The ultimate show of limitless trust, like a feline offering you its tender, soft underbelly. Vaguely aware of the consequences, I clumsily hoisted myself onto the ledge, seduced by the deepest darkest blue shroud. That one that envelops you in infinity. Two seconds of that elusive child-like wonder? That’s well worth the price of admission.

“He’s dead.”

“What?”

“He’s dead, he’s fucking dead.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“I’m not shitting you. He’s fucking dead.”

On this ledge just wide enough to nestle my body like a cement cradle, I’m not looking down. For the first time in forever, I’m not looking down. It could be said that nothing separates me from death. For the first time in forever, however, I sit in calm acceptance. Not in wonder or pain or shock or disillusionment and definitely not the usual morbid fascination with its mechanics. No, we simply sit for once, side by side, in acceptance of each other and the way things are. The way things are.

“No, he can’t be. You’re fucking with me, I know you are.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not. They’re saying it was an accident but you know…”

“Know what? Know what the fuck what?”

I’m not looking down. This being the only time when up holds my gazing attention more efficiently than down. It’s cold in this night sea breeze but I’m more interested in the silver-lit expanse all around me. How it crackles in its nature, ebbs and flows, how it exists so effortlessly harmonious with itself. Why is it that such openness can only be experienced alone and at night? The water washes in and out and over me on the shore to my left. The night moves near imperceptibly above me, trickling towards dawn. But not yet. It’s not time yet. It’s not time.

Why? Why did you do this to me? Why couldn’t you wait just that much longer? I have to, why shouldn’t you? What makes you so fucking special, your hurt so much fucking worse than mine?

I slept. Five stories up on the edge of the earth. Under the bare glow, I was fearless. Really fearless, not the usual false pretense. The deep darkness, undulating waves, the twinkling lights and me. Alive. So close to senselessness yet so fucking alive.