OK THIS WAS A LOOOOOONG TIME AGO..THE ITALICS SHITE WAS PROB WRITTEN AROUND OCT 2004..SO ABOUT A YEAR OLD...WHEN I FIND SOMETHING MORE FUN TO PUT ON THIS PAGE I WILL!!
I was searching in my desk drawers the other day and found this story that I wrote about six months ago while at home...it wasn't actually supposed to be a story - it was more of a stream-of-consciousness piece of writing that we use as a technique for developing ideas in Interdisciplinary Performance. In class they are strictly five minutes long but this one went on quite a bit...I thought I'd present it here because it seems to have some relevance with life at the moment...thought at the same time none at all...
How they marched...and how no one noticed. It was not so much that they needed the attention, it was more to do with elsewhere activities and elsewhere goals...
Never had they seemed so slow as they did now...and never...
Never had the tide crept in so slowly. They could see it and hear it. The rushing in their ears, it wouldn't go away. They could taste it although they felt too much for it to be this simple.
It was not.
It never was.
Never is this word that forver creeps in. Unknowingly but there. Very much there...and very much never...there...
Help is needed. We can see them drowning. We can feel them grasp us - clutching for dear life and no purpose to their clawing except avoidance and encumberance. What? Please explain...
No this could never, as always, explain a thing. What those men could see overpowered any waterfall they might have drowned in. It was the pain of not knowing that almost killed. Killed in itself...No labels are permitted here, for want of a better word.
My mind has gone. Gone not far but they can see but don't look. That's what I see. I can see and watch them not look. Don't they feel it? I could be swallowed by the emptiness and absense of feeling. Their's could never seem as deep but mine probably doesn't either.
False perception. Needless rejection. Hopeless redemption. Open collection, unreal migration, unworthy portray - shon...???
I won't look. Not yet.
A grassy verge. Waiting for those steps. Impressions in its face. A face of wanting. Hunger. But no food...nothing to satisfy...except the night.
A sort of...calm...appears. It doesn't stay long but when it's there it is felt by those with feeling. Not without choice - perception, reaching, holding, pulling, needing a way out. They choose their own.
A whole in the ground. Through which to pore oneself. Hopelessly clawing at any signs of life. Frayed and empty but full with persistance. Perpetual motion, pulling, peeling, prising out of the hands of God and never seeing the way they were facing or pointing.
No persuasion, influence or rejection. Too much reliance on the water. It runs and never stops. Always the same and always different. Friends see it, enemies see it, the here and now feel it...once...only once. But it is never gone.
Nothing is ever gone. Something is never gone. Everything.
Forthright and forgiving they were described as being once. At the forefront of her mind she knew that was the answer but could not bring herself to ask for what purpose it was intended. Another answer was the life and the leaf. But only one could hold the key. She was certain it was one of them and she was certain it was would feel right when one was chosen. However, she did not have the power - or even the inclination to make that decision, so other forces were called upon.
Not that that mattered. All that mattered was the here and now but that seemed to be forever changing...and that made for a confusing time. Was it all for that and all for nothing? As here sitting on a bed cannot be all there is...
She sighed, fascinated by the shape the moon made on her bedroom wall as the night time appeared and swamped the enclosed space. A chill ran down her spine. Never had the winter felt so cold. Maybe it was the not knowing. And the not being. That did seem unnerving.
But on the streets was a different story. Relief. The cardboard Asda box...mmm..scotch whisky...had enough sides left to almost enclose a whole upper body. Without the right arm of course. But the shop wll sorted that problem. Spaces were always warmer when air could circulate. That's why the holy jumper kept out the cold, he knew - and with that knowledge and those comforting words some sleep could probably be achieved before morning. Even soon.
A dog scurried. A person hurried. A mouse buried...into the trousers. Some holes could be done without. And it would help if that dog did not use the hat with the coins in it to pee into.
Felt wasps and iron butterflies greeted the eyes but did not wave or say hello. He turned over.
A falling tomato must have been the work of a yob. Juvenile delinquent. But take it as a meal. Vitamin A...is that what helps the eyesight? I'm sure those felt wasps are really bees...harmless of course.
Never again is the sky (but is slightly). That is the comfort. NO.
Some things never change - THAT is the comfort. Confusion doesn't hold any hold over me. Shut up.
You don't know what to do, you don't know what to say, you think it's better to just get away. And maybe it is - you might catch something...some compassion maybe. That would be nice.
Delerism. Masicism. Can't spell. What the hell.
Fight over the drink, fight over the food and plant it wherever would seem right...for this might...and every other needs a plight...of forgiveness...rendered senseless, like the leaves that brought him here.
Goodnight.
