He is home.
The sense of falling, of light-headedness, of darkness in a land of light. The softest of landings this time, maybe last time, but not next time, not with new shapes and new memories. Clutching at a world that no longer exists. The image is vibrant, clear, as if he never left. It's a stage, but where does he start, where does he begin? For anything before now is back story, it does not belong in the play proper, it would break away from traditional structure. But something of the natural world, a pain at the top of the neck, the lower head, an old pain, something felt a few lives ago, especially common, or not especially common, it can be hard to judge these things.
But that's getting ahead of ourselves.
What's it called when a memory looks exactly the same as what you see? A low sun in the sky, quite low for this time of day, above a mouldy green house, or maybe not so green, maybe a light blue, pale with such a powerful back light, and an extra level for ostentation, all covered with a twinkling silver roof. And whose fault is that? His fault? Why are we assigning blame? Who's to say, these days, what is right and wrong? Questions, already so many questions, but he's here for answers, he understands, he does, he really does, let him speak so that you may learn. He is smarter than he seems, oh yes, much smarter than many others you could mention, so just give him time and let him speak.
The wind opens up the world to others in an unsettling way, tearing away the grappling selfishness and forcing itself deeply inside, only to expose the small points, the minor foibles, accentuating tiny questions into volcanoes that almost explode. The scent of fresh cut grass always reminds him of summer. And why wouldn't it? The dry air mixes with lavender and eucalyptus and caries itself along the great expansive redness, touching only his hair, whatever is left of it, and tickling his mind.
He recognises the house despite his world, your world, being filled with replicas, all inexact copies of a flawed master, with just enough similarity to avert unease. That's why it's done this way, yes? Relaxing those who would otherwise revolt is a sure sign of a modern society, not like those barbarians of the past, with their wars of weapons, of sticks and clubs; not when we can placate the anger with fear, by giving them property, by threatening their property, in a subtle way of course, since we are civilised. But his house it is, and also his driveway, since we must be locked into roads, with their set paths and regulations and fines, all controlled, describable, a tapering over of the randomness beneath, a smooth surface so that the explosions of creativity are kept hidden from prying eyes.
No, no, don't interrupt him, he is talking. Do you want him to answer or don't you? He is doing as you ask. If you want to be the one answering questions then perhaps you should switch places with him. But that wouldn't do, would it? You would then see the world through his eyes and you couldn't bear the contradictions that evade your daily perception. He will think lesser of you and maybe even cease the charade. Though reputation from the likes of him may not mean much to you, it should, and you should remember that.
Corrugated fences suggest an uneasiness, a wavering, as if we are meant to question. Or maybe to not question, and instead to accept the structure that crushes us further every day. I don't know why he mentions this. No wait, perhaps I do, for there is a neighbour above the fence, with pruning shears and gardening gloves. Or perhaps she is the manifestation of stereotypes, of foreign motives, to again shield us from truth. Regardless, we should play along, for what he says of this woman may be important. Yes, yes, he will get to it, it is coming, please don't rush. This may be the most important part, who knows?
The neighbour, standing, or kneeling, but over a high fence, or a low fence, focused at once on both the rose bushes and of him as he traipses up the artificial path. But who's to say what's genuine and what is artificial? Everything we make could be said to be natural, as we are natural and real. An image of a rainforest in his mind, the image itself, not the object it represents, seems to claim more rights to being natural than the physical concrete driveway he walks on. It is all a matter of perspective, surely.
So where was he? The neighbour was talking, or perhaps wasn't, but she is now, her screeching inviting tingles down the spine, encouraging dimples to lightly brush skin. “Is that you, dear?” she squawks, the fat on her wings, wrinkled like a turkey's wattle, swinging in delayed movements, always playing catching up, even after rest, which isn't long, not when there's gesticulating to perform, an ever-present desire to communicate without speech. If only she listened to her body and gave the world the gift of silence, but no, not her, not with an ear to chew, not with a life revolving around excursions into more exciting lives, of close neighbours, or perhaps far from the suburbs, in exotic locations, dripping with glitz and celebrity, the heat of attention melting onto footpaths and roads, cavernous underground tunnels funnelling drool to middle-class shanties, protecting the pretty people from exposure, and all without a need for a cover that messes up the hair, the kind they spruik before an audience, the very same people, whose interests pervade our own psyche, whose words we listen to and even take seriously, whose messages we lap up like obedient dogs, and yet who's force-fed verbiage is not quite so banal as that spoken by his neighbour: “You're late today.”
Yes, late, that's what he says. Ah, see, I told you it might be important. You need to listen to him, listen closely, and the truth will emerge. You are like a rescue team in search of a small girl trapped in a hedge maze, trying to cut through the foliage with chainsaws and axes rather than follow the existing path, slow and steady, listening for the clues, finding answers, for you may find your girl but destroy the world in the process. The neighbour's name? Margaret perhaps. Or Gladys. Yes, definitely Gladys. Or at least he thinks so. Does it matter? Will the story hinge on the identity of the neighbour? You're probably barking up the wrong tree to think so, barking mad, chewing at the wrong bone, flopping your ears back when they should be forward, snarling when you should be holding a paw out to shake. OK, fine, let her be Gladys, if it makes your job easier. “Oh, hi Gladys,” he says, sans enthusiasm, clearing his throat, using the name you like, hoping to appease, beholden to propriety due to upbringing, the worst kind of manners, the ones learnt and used simply because, not for reason or respect for others.
No, no, please don't make him try to describe, to realise a physical manifestation of red lipstick and blue eye-liner, to force the clichés to meld into memory, to make him mention hair curlers and coloured dye and gaudy blouses and thick white stockings and high heels or plain flats or no shoes at all and instead green toenails for some reason, a connection to the garden, of gloves and clippers, of a wide-brimmed hat, flowery and loosely connected with speckles of light attacking through the weave, hitting bare scalp where once strong follicles grew and protected skin. You see, it is useless. We all close our eyes to nightmares. Don't presume to cast the first stone. Yes, yes, he's aware of hardened glass, and of other lies, but he is also cognisant of physics and ricochets and how a large stone can make a big dent on an uncovered foot. But wait, perhaps there is something he can describe, and that is his own shoes, neat, clean, polished black, simple but stylish enough that no ghost of a real person, no mist in the shape of man, would attack the integrity of his manhood and ability to generate the one commodity that matters most to the disappearing majority. He clicks his shoes together, perhaps like Dorothy, to escape to the real world, or maybe to bring himself back into the real world, for sensory perception to ground him in life, and to ground him now for much the same reasons, though this time in the present, instead of the reality of the past, unless that wasn't real either. No matter. It all seems so distant regardless.
Why did he engage with Gladys or Mavis or the other name, then, when he must have wanted to avoid her if possible? You are clearly from a different society if you see that as a viable alternative to sneaking in, head down, eyes fixed on the ground ahead, for that only invites more questions, generates more discussion, sends out more pigeons with not so secret messages, a flock of birds flinging mud with disregard to facts. No, engage he must for the alternative is a life of constant cleaning. “How is Abner these days?” he says, “I never see him attending to his garden any more.” But again, these names are not important. Sure, her husband or son or dog could really be called Abner, or not.
The fence – ah yes, it is a fence; perhaps corrugated or white picket or hedge or wire – the fence is complete apart from a persistent and long-lasting hole, poking through the facade as if drawing attention to itself, the absence of substance more important than the substance itself, a kind of inverted white space in a world that craves complexity. He wonders, now, why the hole still exists, given the time that must have passed.
“No,” says Gladys, her voice visiting a distant land, whose past is our present and upon which this Abner must reside, the real Abner, the one in her mind, who she perceives him to be, mixed with how others perceive him, as this is all we truly are, especially when we aren't nearby, when they think of us and talk of us, and have in their minds a picture of us, let alone when we die and they are all we have to exist any more. A stronger, stouter, brazen Gladys adds an addendum, saying, “You could do with his help, too. Look at all your rotten fruit.”
The nerve of the creature, shrilly parroting the demanding and vicious beaks of her past, as if burdened to repeat the same mistakes, again and again, or else lose the ability to judge. However, despite indignation, the apples dangling from the thin, wretched branches are indeed rotten, almost steaming in the warm afternoon sun or the cold evening air, many having found themselves fallen like Man and cast out, blanketing the patchy grass with browns and reds and yellows, ready to continue the circular journey, proving that nature does not thankfully listen to our biases of beauty and desires.
“Quite,” he says, occupying his own distant world, one without emotion or compassion, adding a quick “Must run” while already nearing paradise, passing it, and, with counsel from Egill, landing at the doors of Sessrúmnir.
Chosen? Perhaps he was chosen, it certainly suggests he was, but perhaps he is embellishing now, brave that he is, having withstood your batterings for an eternity, thinking himself a warrior. One can only cower in humility for so long before a fork forces ones hand and leaves two options, neither of which are satisfactory to those who stare and whisper and chide. Oh, but he's getting sidetracked. Let him progress. I'm sure he didn't mean to imply an afterlife when he is here, now, living and breathing, at least for now, just as you are, or perhaps not just as you, with the way you move, the periods between coughs, the languid attention to detail. Sorry, sorry, you are quite correct, it is he who should have the focus, and only he.
Either with a key or without, he opens the large door; that or with brute force, a kick and a push, hard enough to knock the door off its hinges. One of those at any rate, one of those methods and he stands before the darkened hallway, a mist floating in the air, shafts of light pounding against frilled rugs, bouncing onto drab carpet, illuminating from below as much as any direction, a strange upside down world, or perhaps the right way up and he, instead, is upside down, topsy turvy, facing the wrong kind of way, not just the wrong way, about to travel in reverse. Excitement, buzzing, a nervous high, for he is home early, yes, earlier than expected, or maybe later, but not on time, and so his wife would not know, be unaware, be not expecting him, especially not anticipating the surprise he brings home.
A girl, a small one, his child, standing along the corridor, nonchalantly biting an apple, a bright red one, the loud crispness as her teeth crunch through the skin and into the juicy interior, piercing through the bitter Stygian barrier and on to the sweetness beyond, rousing enough innocence to make the youngest feel bitter and cynical, dribbling down a hand, an arm, perilously close to staining the pale blue dress with white frills or the maroon tshirt and blue denim jeans or the pink one-piece bathing suit with flotation devices surrounding her waist and arms. Surely one of those, whichever fits the story better.
Her name, too? Why do you enjoy facts so? They are not as incontrovertible or immutable as you think, yet you rely on them religiously. Emma, then. Her name is Emma. What? Of course it's true. He hasn't lied to you yet. Oh, here we go, concentrating on one word as if it is a gateway, as if the word yet is like the skin of the apple, and piercing it will let you swoosh around inside his mind. It is one of those throw-away things, the kind of which you'd be used to in your culture, where the easiest course of action is often to discard at a moments notice, to quietly creep away and never look back, to end without effort because effort is hard, and we can't have hard things, that's the antithesis of modernity, and why have hard things when we can have easy things? But he sees that these words mean nothing to you, that you are down to business, always focussed on the job at hand, never to enjoy an aside, but by doing so it is clear you will never see the real truth of any event, certainly never get inside another's mind as you put it so pedestrianly, and will become more specialised within a single area in equal proportion to a lack of wisdom in every area.
“What have you got there?” he says, head nodding toward the orange in her hand, the one she devours so ravenously. As if we don't feed her! But the smile on a child's face is enough to banish such trivial thoughts, with its message of hope and other inbuilt biological rationale, enough to feel the weight slip off the shoulders and onto a nebulous existence outside of the body. Alas, the smile takes no time to flicker and fall, crashing like waves against a shore, spraying salt water across the grimy walls, against the paintings and windows, even up to the high ceilings, in a kind of cleansing that hurts in the moment but becomes, in hindsight, the beginning of a new life, free of false perceptions and dull memories. Her undulating lips and quivering eyelids a precursor to a game of hide and seek, but who is the one hiding and who is the one closing their eyes? Are they the same? Does the water begin where the land ends, or vice versa? Either she moves from him, or him from her, does it really matter which is which?
The stairs that sit at the end of the corridor create a fork, with one direction heading up and the other to the side, level, on to the kitchen, the sparkling new tiled floors and shiny kitchen tops awaiting the wandering Jew, an easy decision to make, the road more travelled, the safe route. Toward the stairs he steps, waiting at the foot. No. Wait. No. He doesn't go up the stairs. Why does he say this? Why does he lie? He goes to the kitchen, remaining in ignorance, not rising and seeking, simply content to view the familiar. There is no reason to go up the stairs.
He goes to the kitchen to see Alexandra, knowing she would be hard at work, baking or cooking or preparing a meal, for him or someone else, but who else? If he goes to the kitchen, which he does, then it must be me who moves up the stairs. No, please, don't listen to him, he doesn't understand what he's saying. That's why I'm here, to protect him, to make sure he tells you the truth from his perspective, for there are many truths, one no better than another, and his will explain everything, such that you won't need further investigation into incidents or background information from those who know him.
So he went left, to the kitchen, and I the right, up the stairs. Or was it the other way around? One of these, definitely one of these, but always to the kitchen, never upstairs. They creak, the stairs, with the slightest pressure, like a snitch in an interrogation, no offence, the tiniest weight and they speak to the world in squeaks and moans. Up further he travels – I mean me; I travel, for he is downstairs – without emotion for I am devoid of those human traits, clearly, can you not see? Now you are being rude and accusatory for the sake of it. The windows are being washed, sun light shining through, you can see inside if you press your face against the glass and cup your hands, reducing the reflection from the bouncing rays, while avoiding the soapy suds that stream down. So why would he travel up the stairs when he had no need? Answer me that! He had no business up there, not until later – no, not even later, I tell a lie. Yes, it is me lying now, forgive me, I'm nervous, this has all changed, I can feel it, everything so exposed.
At the top of the stairs a door, white, formerly white, dirt and smudges and cobwebs creating a new pattern of strange shapes, a design un-designed, like a mind in free fall, clutching at the pieces of structure that press in from the outside world, struggling to form pathways that aid in rationality or normalcy, if it even exists, a far cry from the methodical processes we value and pretend to see, let alone create. I pat my suit jacket for an emblem of irrationality and then knock on the door. You see! I knock. Why would he need knock on his own door? He wouldn't. It makes no sense. And yet you try to tell me it was he atop the stairs and he that knocked on his own door. Clearly I did these things. And don't try to tell me anything different. He can sense your mouth opening and expects lies to follow, like obedient soldiers with orders from their commanding officer to perform their duties with prejudice, without explaining why they are there or what they hope to accomplish, without even explicating their duties at all, less they question the legality of their orders. Before they make their charge he will continue the story, to not give them the chance, because a story is what it is, to stop your attacks before they happen, whether or not it is true.
Hearing no response at the door, hearing no response at the top of the stairs, hearing no response in his home, he steps back and kicks the door down, or opens it quietly, or knocks again and waits for a response. Why is Alexandra here, in the bedroom, frittering her movements, covering up indecencies, red faced, pattering back toward the window, when she should be down stairs in the kitchen, where he is, where they both are right now? This is not the right story. This is a fabrication. What have you done to him? Have you treated him badly, tortured him so that you hear what you want to hear? Huh? What man? You see, you elude to concepts, imply locations and animals and people, and soon enough they slip into the story, as if they were always there, and a logical basis has to be invented that takes them into account, makes them right, where they become central to everything, like a light sleeper in a vivid dream. He knows your little tricks. This is what you want to hear? Fine, then you will hear it. The man, frazzled black hair, with slightly greying chest hair beneath an unbuttoned shirt, white underwear to match, holds a metal pole menacingly, or timidly, like a frightened mouse whose cheese has just been discovered, if that really happens in real life and is not just a vision from cartoons, from the propaganda infiltrating children's minds about ownership and a kind of grappling selfishness, the capitalistic hegemony shaping a compliant and ideologically ignorant lower-middle-class who will be exuberant and thankful for their squalor, learning of false opportunities, indoctrinated to believe in an impossible dream.
“How is your apple crumble?” says Alexandra, in the sparkly clean kitchen, the reflected brightness blinding to invaders, to all those whose natural proclivity excludes domestic chores, but which is invisible or even dull to the household class, who incessantly natter away at the banalities you no doubt find fascinating. Oh come, there's no need to get upset, no need to take offence, it is only a small joke, a tiny broadside across a rather large hull. Ah yes, OK, so that one may have hit home with more vigour, smacked over the head with a cricket bat perhaps, or excreted on by a bird in a tree high above, for that far better represents his position in relation to you, but not in the way you probably interpret, which is your own fault, not his, certainly not his.
Martin? No, she doesn't mention Martin. Not at all. Only when she says “What are you doing here, Martin?”, but that's the only time, certainly, that's all. But the man - yes the man, he's incorporating the man, don't worry – drops the pole and raises his hands, becomes white, just like his clothing, shakes a little, like a tree in the breeze, branches swaying at random intervals, leaves twinkling in front of a bright sun that shoots through the large window, forming moving shapes and patterns on his own suit jacket, on his hand, the one that holds the pistol. It's hard to say where it came from, especially these days, in the age of convenience, where procuring our desires is easier than formulating them, and where substance and truth are nothing compared to being the first to say something, the wrong something, the right something, as long as it is something and it is raised first, then you are the champion, you win the game, you get to celebrate with the other liars you pretend to disagree with and come up with new games, in an us-versus-them scenario that pits you and your enemies against the plebs, who blindly admire self-interest and use financial ladders as a measurement of success.
Enough of your wretched implications, your wily tricks, it is I who hold the pistol, not him, for he is downstairs in the kitchen, eating his apple crumble, enjoying his meal, devouring any thoughts of a bedroom and a woman and a man and a pistol, safe and secure, away from botherers and hypocrites, beholden to none but his own moral compass, in a hideaway that never really existed, neither in his mind or the less real world, that instantiation of corruptness which permeates the consciousness of supposedly living creatures, each carrying out the lie with vigour and determination. How she looks in her white fluffy top or black skirt & stockings or yellow summery floral dress! Alexandra, Alexandra, a name as pure and nice as the being herself, almost, though not quite, for how do you match perfection when all you have in comparison are the inaccuracies of language, hamstrung by imagination itself, betraying the results of the fall, all dirty and unclean, which is of course the same thing and only serves to emphasise my point, whatever it is, or was, or perhaps never will be.
The gun, the gun, the gun, yes, the gun. He must focus or you will play more nasty tricks, I know, I see it now, more implications and hints, like a torturer who knows the answers already. So perhaps he walks over to the man, this other man, a Walter or a Gene or a Robert, pointing the pistol at him, which Walter is aware of, painfully aware of, you can see it in his face, but which doesn't hold his complete attention for he is motioning to something or someone, with a fear in his eyes more concrete than if it were his own life that was flashing before his eyes and hearing the trumpets play, yet in my vision, my blurry myopic view, filled with dark borders and hazy centres, I see Alexandra hiding behind Gene, the softness of her skin and exposure of her body arousing the same sensations I have felt in the past, he felt in the past, a strange smell filling his nostrils, almost making him gag, pheromones spreading throughout the room as if this were an orgy, a disgusting sweat-induced cacophony of emotions filling his mind and body, confusingly obtuse and contradictory, bringing up the past in one violent heave that deposits vomit on the carpet or wooden floor and onto his hands and pistol, which still points at Robert, the enemy, the second enemy, the lesser one, who's gesticulations make me turn and follow a scampering rat who melts into Walter's arms, seeking protection, when it is really he that should be cowering in a corner, that piece of shit, hiding away and praying for his life instead of protecting, performing my role far better than I ever could, except now he'll get what he deserves with the lightest pull of a finger...
The haze is back, or it never really left, and everything is toneless and hue-less, all fading and rising once more like the flicker of an old projector, muffled screams and a heart beating loudly, with a view obscured by society, except for the red, the red on Walter's arms, the red on Walter's hands, the red on Emma's dress, the red on Emma's neck, the red on Emma's face, the red on Emma's chest, the red of her body, the red of the future, the red of danger, the red of passion, the red of love, the red of vitality, especially the red of vitality, in a morbid and sickening way, in a hauntingly poetic way, which is what you wanted to hear, which is why I'm here, and the reason you are taking notes and recording and giving me the breath to speak, before it's too late and there is no chance to do any of those things. But it's OK. Do your worst. For I am not here. I'm at home. In the kitchen. Emma scurries about, full of movement, a little pocket of energy, as Alexandra laughs and feeds me one last slice of her sweet apple crumble.
© 2014 Ben Safta
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.
