Down In Me

I saw Ian Curtis crossing the street. I was on the bus to work and he crossed in front of it. It was a rainy-grey morning and he was wearing grey trousers and a black jacket with an upturned collar. His hair was shiny and dark and his skin was pale. He stared at the bus out of the corner of his eye. Ian Curtis was a little angry that the bus driver did not decelerate. The bus driver was a little angry that Ian Curtis was jaywalking. Ian Curtis should not have been crossing in the middle of the street, but he is Ian Curtis so you forgive him his indiscretions. The bus driver does not know who Ian Curtis is. The passengers in the first four seats on the bus do not know who Ian Curtis is. Two men at the back know who Ian Curtis is, but they were talking about girls so they didn’t see Ian Curtis cross the street. Ian Curtis stepped onto the pavement, but the hair of the lady in front of me blocked me from seeing what kind of shoes he was wearing. Ian Curtis continued to sideways-stare at the bus long after we passed him. I wanted to kiss Ian Curtis. I wanted to stop the bus and jump off. I wanted to run towards Ian Curtis and not look stupid. I wanted to throw my arms around his neck. I wanted to kiss him. I wanted Ian Curtis to kiss me back. I wanted his head to be intact. I wanted his body to be warm. I wanted the part of his brain that sang to know me. I wanted his hands to snake down my back. I wanted Ian Curtis to pull me close. I stayed in my seat on the bus. Ian Curtis walked into the pound shop and disappeared from view.

ecause he’s big and strong, but not that kind of big and strong. He’s much too big to start fights with the local fishermen, for example. In fact, most of the villagers would run away when they heard his footsteps approaching the town square. Now that they know him, they greet him with the same disinterest they reserve for everyone.

But his hands are enormous. His fingers easily wrap themselves around my shoulders like a coat to hold me in their warmth. I grab one of his fingers with both my hands and it’s rough, but not so rough. Rough in a funny way, an attractive way, a way my soft skin longs to touch. A calloused rub of the cheek and I’m plasticine in his hand; not quite jelly, but supple and giving enough to mould with dedication.

When I hear him stomping heavily through the narrow alleys of town, I perch dramatically on a chaise longue, put on my most beguiling pout and wait: to see that large, green eye, peer through the window and with its fluffy, light-brown lashes, wink the first of our many morning hellos.

“Hello!” he booms.

“Hello to you!” I reply, most jovially of my own accord.

“May the day treat you most kindly, that is to say, slow through what you want, quickly through what you don’t.” He speaks in riddles, of course. Plainly hidden, much the same way he camouflages himself amongst the mountains, pretending to be at least a very large hill.

He plucks a rose bush and attempts to hand it to me before he realises the error of his ways. With a fingernail, he digs a hole and plants the poor creature in my garden and grins.

“Good morning!” he booms again, as I sip my juniper tea.

“Indeed it is!” I wink at his massive smile and nearly offer him a cup before I realise the error of my ways. He laughs heartily and I wince and scrunch my shoulders at this powerful belly rumble from deep. The immediate earth winces, too, and shakes with us.

“I’ve brought my own, thanks.”

We sit side by side on the humid grasses behind my house. Well, it feels side by side. In reality, he sits on the grass and I sit on his knee, only because I don’t wish to sully my dress and his knee is rather more comfortable than the ground, unless I make him laugh again. Languidly, we sip our teas and commiserate on the state of all things known and unknown.

I sometimes pinch the meat on his thigh between my thumb and forefinger just to see if he can feel it (he can). And when he feels a belly laugh coming on (which is far too frequent) he pinches my waist in the same manner, to keep me from falling off. Unfortunately, the pinch doesn’t discourage the violent rumbling from mussing my hair.

We have many rituals with which we conspire to escape. I bring him honey, he feeds me cheese. We talk about the pointless cycles of flowers, or the existentialist notions of bees (they have them). We read many things (a more laborious endeavour than one might imagine, owing to the generally accepted sizes of letters) and sometimes he implores me to sing. Or at least, he doesn’t implore me not to sing, which I think is the same.

And in the late afternoon to early evening, by the last dying light of a fast fading sun, we catch fireflies for minutes and bask in their nature’s warmth. Because he’s big and strong, but not that kind of big and strong.

9:45 pm - She arrives at her flat and kisses the man on the cheek to say goodnight. She fumbles with her keys and stumbles into the bathroom. She urinates heavily, then washes her face and rinses her mouth out. She brushes the bottom sides, then the front, then the top sides, then the top front, then the outsides, then the insides of all her teeth. She rinses her mouth again and examines her teeth in the mirror. She dries her face roughly with a hand towel. She gets a bottle of water from the kitchen. She places her lips around the plastic spout and drinks a quarter of the bottle in one, long gulp. She feels the cold water rush through her mouth and quickly down her throat, sloshing straight into the pool of wine in her stomach.

11:15 pm - She crawls into bed with her clothes still on. She yawns audibly, exercising the muscles of her cheeks and jaw. She stretches a lanky, 40-year old arm and shuffles into the duvet. She goes to sleep and dreams a dream of mouths upon mouths. She dreams of a mouth which is not her own that babbles on excessively. She struggles to understand what it is trying to convey. She drifts in and out of the dark, but the shiny lips never leave her. She feels she’s lost something on the tip of that babbling mouth’s tongue. She stares intently and then tries to look away. She’s both horrified and attracted by this mouth. She can see nothing but this mouth’s gleaming teeth. She drifts aloft on this dream that she will never recall.

Not I, Samuel Beckett

7:45 pm - She meets a man at an Italian restaurant for supper. She sits across from him at an uncomfortable table and sips red wine. She looks around at people, everyone is filling their mouths with assorted tomato-based pasta dishes. She takes a large sip of wine and swirls it around in her mouth. She feels the wine is cooler than it should be and it tickles her tongue. She takes another sip and orders the penne. She watches the man chew a piece of garlic bread. She takes a lot of small sips of wine and the server refills her glass. She takes more sips of wine and the man refills her glass. She takes more sips of wine and the man orders another bottle. She rests the wine glass on her lips for a while before setting it down. She takes her first bite of pasta and decides she’s not hungry. She drinks more wine and it no longer feels too cold. She takes another bite of pasta, but it’s mostly bland milky sauce and cheese. She soon forgets the pasta and remains attuned to the ants crawling across her lips.

9:00 pm - She feels nauseous as the man drives her home. She stares at his lap while he manoeuvres the wheel. She glances at his mouth when he’s distracted with other cars. She remembers they didn’t wash their hands after eating. She tastes the acidic wine flavour still on her lips. She mistakes the need to urinate for arousal. She thinks about taking the man’s cock in her mouth as he drives. She pretends to listen to him talk. She thinks about gagging him and giving him head. She imagines him drooling around a red ball gag. She imagines it will stop him from talking, but won’t keep him quiet. She imagines his glossy lips stretching around the gag and her glossy lips stretching around him. She mistakes her arousal for the need to urinate.

1:45 pm - She goes to the toilet and relieves herself. She washes her hands and splashes water on her mouth. She does not put soap on her mouth, but dries it with a paper towel. She applies red lipstick to her top lip, from left to right. She applies red lipstick to her bottom lip, from right to left. She rubs her lips together and smacks them lightly. She puckers her lips and then stretches them into a smile, but her eyes don’t follow suit. She pops a mint Tic Tac into her mouth as she walks back to her desk. The minty taste refreshes part of her tongue and the roof of her mouth. The rest of her mouth feels left out.

3:00 pm - She attends a meeting with several colleagues. She stares at their mouths as they talk. She feels tense and grinds her teeth. She pushes her tongue against the back of her front teeth until they hurt. She clenches her jaw tightly and then sighs with her mouth closed. She looks at the man across from her as he sips his coffee and wishes she’d remembered to bring her own. She pours herself a glass of water and takes a drink that makes her teeth hurt with cold. She swallows hard. She brings a paper clip to her lip and hooks it onto her lower-right canine. She briefly smiles at someone who made a joke.

5:00 pm - She leaves the office. She sucks in the inside of her bottom lip and bites it as she walks hurriedly by some people she knows. She takes a hard candy from her bag and unwraps it. She sucks the sweet juice while the candy sits between her tongue and the roof of her mouth. She swishes it around her mouth with her tongue. She feels its sweetness on her gums and the inside of her lips. She pushes it around her mouth in counter-clockwise circles until it gets smaller. She shatters it with her teeth, crunching the shards until she can swallow them as sweet dust. She lights a cigarette by inhaling very deeply. She feels the menthol smoke lightly cooling her warm, sweet mouth as she makes her way home.

11:45 am - She removes her glasses, goes outside and lights a menthol cigarette. She places it between her lips and inhales deeply. She softly bites the spongy filter between her front teeth. She moistens her lips and takes another languorous drag. She puckers her lips to exhale slowly as her chest drops. She talks to a woman that just walked up to her. She feels the woman staring at her lips as she talks. She feels self-conscious and wonders if she has banana stuck to her lip or at the corners of her mouth. She takes another nicotine pull and feels her body begin to relax. She takes a last, long drag and the filter presses hot against her lips; she’s smoked too close to it. She stubs out the cigarette and walks back inside.

1:00 pm - She goes to a cafe for lunch. She orders tuna with baked potato and a salad. She sits by the window and contemplates her lunch. She crunches some lettuce between her teeth and it tastes like water. She mushes some tuna and potato against her fork and mushes that against her tongue. She repeats this process, three or four times. She takes a tiny sip of water and it tastes like tuna. She takes a large mouthful of lettuce as she looks out the window. She mushes more tuna and potato into her mouth, but does not eat the potato skin. She crunches on a slice of cucumber, which releases it’s juice between her teeth. She puts a tomato wedge into her mouth. She thinks this tomato is old. She pushes the other tomato wedges to the side of the plate. She mushes more tuna potato into her mouth, then wipes it clean with a paper napkin. She wipes off all her lipstick and her lips feel raw. She takes a big gulp of water and leaves.

8:15 am - She washes her hands thoroughly and rubs soap on and around her mouth. She washes the soap off and rinses her mouth out. She brushes her large, slightly smoke-stained teeth. She brushes the bottom sides, then the front, then the top sides, then the top front, then the outsides, then the insides of all her teeth. She rinses her mouth again and examines her teeth in the mirror. She dries her mouth roughly with a hand towel. She stares at her mouth in the mirror for seconds that pass like hours. She applies red lipstick to her top lip, from left to right. She applies red lipstick to her bottom lip, from right to left. She rubs her lips together and smacks them lightly. She puckers her lips and then stretches them out into a smile, but her eyes don’t follow suit.

8:45 am - She arrives at the large corporation where she works. She pours herself a cup of black coffee on the way to her desk. She says good morning to someone and her voice sounds hoarse. She clears her throat. She sits at her computer, takes a sip of coffee and frowns slightly. She picks up her hair and puts on her thick, black plastic frame glasses. She grabs a pen and chews on the cap as she writes. She puts the pen down and stares at the computer screen as she nibbles a few fingernails. She reads intently and tastes the salt from the fingers on her lips. She takes a large drink of coffee and makes a bitter face. She half-smiles at an email, then takes three large gulps to finish off her coffee. She licks her lips and pushes the lipstick-stained coffee cup away from the computer screen.

10:00 am - She types an email and pauses every few sentences to tap her bottom lip with her right index finger while thinking. She reads a few documents, then peels a banana that’s been sitting on her desk. She bites a large piece from the top of the banana. She reads a paper and makes notes in the margin with a pen in her left hand and the banana in her right. She brings the banana to her mouth and takes a soft, slow bite. She chews the mush of banana filling her mouth. She throws away the last banana quarter along with the peel.

7:00 am - She opens her eyes and wipes a bit of drool from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand. She yawns audibly, exercising the muscles of her cheeks and jaw. She stretches a lanky, 40-year old arm and shuffles off to the shower. She urinates into the bowl for a long time before stepping into the bath. She lathers up and rinses off, letting shower water into her wide, pink mouth. She gently expels the water past her lips using her tongue. She dries herself and applies deodorant and body lotion. She moisturises her face, paying close attention to the pronounced laugh lines on either side of her mouth. She brushes her hair, pushing her long, flaxen fringe into her weathered, frowning face. She slips on a large button-down shirt and baggy trousers that camouflage her sturdy, bone frame.

7:45 am - She watches the morning news and takes a gulp of room-temperature orange juice with bits. She rips white buttered toast with strawberry jam in tiny pieces. She chews a piece slowly and takes a sip of bitter, black coffee. She chews another piece of toast and gulps more orange juice. She chews more toast pieces and her lips become smeared with jam. She sips more coffee and alternates coffee, toast and juice methodically. She licks greasy bread crumbs from her lips and wipes the corners of her mouth. She leaves sticky lip marks on the coffee cup and juice glass rims.

The day it was supposed to snow but didn’t began much like any other day: shiver sleep walk, steamy shower, toothpaste gag, rush coat grab and run.

The day it was supposed to snow but didn’t, I peered out the window expecting the unexpected: gleaming white ground cover, like the day it was supposed to snow and did. But this day, the day it was supposed to snow but didn’t, there was only the usual ho-hum misty grey of always.

So the day it was supposed to snow but didn’t was much like any other day: hopeful anticipation turned bitter disappointment as quickly as the “snow flurry” she witnessed through the third-floor windows had melted by the time it reached me on the first.

The day it was supposed to snow but didn’t progressed like any other day, too: with very little progress and very many progressive but ultimately useless swishing thoughts. The day it was supposed to snow but didn’t was spent inside my head where it snows whenever I want like the day it was supposed to snow and did.

The day it was supposed to snow but didn’t ended much like any other day: with dreamy hopes and hopeful dreams that return time and again, regardless of the many times it’s supposed to snow but doesn’t.

No childhood memories of a truly well-spent youth. When I emerged from my forge it in their own image. Did it really happen that way, I spent a few years to take back were the bad memories, not realising - okay, not caring - that I was not only wiping choose my remembrance and bend it the slate clean but wiping away. Years of raging angst pounded out in earnest self-imposed haze, few things were left. Those honour and courage and youth, for were kept alive through repetition and reinforcement. Pictures, oft-told stories. I let others to their will, perhaps I don’t know but first toke, first cut, first fuck (no not that one, none of that matters and I’ve forgotten the real one) is the way I recall the YOUTH! on my well-worn lapel. What? What’s wrong with that? Telling of it so that is the only possibility I handpicked systematically hacking away at what I thought my wasteland of unfulfilled longing finest early adulthood moments for myself, though. On many and now I can barely bring affairs any recall of said slate with nearly post-teen ex-convicts, brainless at all those stumbling fumbles and foibles. And firsts: first drink, first smoke, first trip, first fall. Tiny merit badges of fuck’s sake, those who escape relatively unscathed on which future memories are forged. I’m afraid, though. I’m afraid that a detail of actual importance, something vital to my overall well-being, my survival. Because once I’d stopped the hacking didn’t stop. Phone numbers I’ve dialed twice within my current tell the stories reach. It took on a life of back what I said yesterday. I’m great with trivialities. Never a questioning purposefully hacking glance song lyrics I’ve read while singing along. Beyond that, memory is just a pretty face, pre-teen love its own.

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.

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…”