It is not my place, if I must be true to myself. It is someone else’s playground; in fact it is a place for most of the other children, but not me and my disorder. I can play along to their games. I can keep up and dance and sing with the other children. I can look the part, but I cannot feel it.
At sunrise I sat up and smiled. The smell of a far off fireplace still tainted the air. The morning song of the magpie mixed with the gentle cool breeze. A lizard, noticing my sudden change in state, quickly swagged off of my tummy and into the long grass – causing me to giggle. I could taste honey.
By mid morning I could talk, but my smile had gone. I can’t remember if I left it by the little creek where I tried to catch that yabbie or if it slipped and fell under a rock while I chased centipedes on that hill face. I wonder if it is the hill or the creek or maybe if it’s the other boys and girls that are laughing at me now. Maybe it is all of them or maybe none. That would be a question regarding my importance.
Lunch time was a promise, but came too late. Hunger turned into sickness and I ate until I got a tummy ache. Nobody noticed because I only had a grimace left in my smile’s absence. One expression to explain everything. No-one understood me at lunch. But they never understood me at mid morning.
“How could you lose your smile?” they laughed, “And why would you do silly things like climb the farmer’s fence to get down the creek or risk the pinch of a centipede? Are you crazy?”
And they would continue and continue until I sat in the playground and danced and sung and would do what it was to look the part. But it is not my place. My place doesn’t have posts and swing and slides and monkey-bars and chatter and chatter and pointing and laughing children. My place has old things and smells like sunrise. My place stole my smile.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Psychosis of the South
I suppose it really is absurd to assume that one is anymore than a single voice in an otherwise sterile hallway.
Consciousness occurs at some point along the conveyor belt and fades out again at some later point. The interim is haunted by the echo of one’s voice, a far off whisper and a sense of pointlessness. No-one can pause the conveyor belt. It’ll continue to sweep the body and soul through the cycle. There is no way to avoid fate.
How can the fire held in hand be shared with another when the walls are too thick to feel anything beyond?
It seems such a waste to have fought so vigorously to obtain what had been branded as lacking and then to hold such efforts up to barren and unamused walls. Effort spent, the belt keeps moving, things acquired and nothing changed, but for the fleeting time remaining; that is the lament and grotesque joke.
When the echo is more terrifying than the original, when the support is merely one’s own bones, where is the lesson, purpose or improvement in the conscious mind?
An infant cannot teach itself advanced mathematics, question the universe with eloquence and discerned tongue or develop meaning in itself without guidance and leadership. Indeed, being labelled, locked up and assumed a condemned soul tends to induce a stagnation of oneself. This is in play at large!
And yet the whisper is louder yet and louder even still.
For my voice is sore and lost, the belt is of wonderful, unworldly properties; too silent to be heard over one’s breath, and the hallway is as complete as the universe itself. There is but the whisper. It comes in tongues long passed, in song yet unwritten and in a tone too subtle for the ear. It is like the smell of food to a starving man. It is a tease of more. It is fruitless.
Consciousness occurs at some point along the conveyor belt and fades out again at some later point. The interim is haunted by the echo of one’s voice, a far off whisper and a sense of pointlessness. No-one can pause the conveyor belt. It’ll continue to sweep the body and soul through the cycle. There is no way to avoid fate.
How can the fire held in hand be shared with another when the walls are too thick to feel anything beyond?
It seems such a waste to have fought so vigorously to obtain what had been branded as lacking and then to hold such efforts up to barren and unamused walls. Effort spent, the belt keeps moving, things acquired and nothing changed, but for the fleeting time remaining; that is the lament and grotesque joke.
When the echo is more terrifying than the original, when the support is merely one’s own bones, where is the lesson, purpose or improvement in the conscious mind?
An infant cannot teach itself advanced mathematics, question the universe with eloquence and discerned tongue or develop meaning in itself without guidance and leadership. Indeed, being labelled, locked up and assumed a condemned soul tends to induce a stagnation of oneself. This is in play at large!
And yet the whisper is louder yet and louder even still.
For my voice is sore and lost, the belt is of wonderful, unworldly properties; too silent to be heard over one’s breath, and the hallway is as complete as the universe itself. There is but the whisper. It comes in tongues long passed, in song yet unwritten and in a tone too subtle for the ear. It is like the smell of food to a starving man. It is a tease of more. It is fruitless.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Psychosis of the East
A long time ago, he had been an artist. Selecting any given device, he would take it up and create. The movement of his hands were as clear as a tongue in speech. He was an artist, pure and simple.
More recently, he had become a lover; at least in world he had created within himself. As the seasons changed and the frost came in, he had hidden his hands in woollen gloves and his mind in the internal summer his imagination could paint.
“The Lover”
Yes, a term he had coined late one night after meditation. Love, as he imagined the idea to be, would require another. Someone with whom he could converse. Someone he would desire to touch and also long to be touched by. It would be energetic and enriching.
‘Love; such a fascinating idea’, he chuckled to himself by fireside.
The ‘other’, he suggested to himself, would look somewhat like himself, yet would be different enough to inspire wonder as he explored. Seeing no other – ever – in his life, it was difficult to image the look of Love. He gave Love arms and legs and warm eyes and a nice smile. However, the oddness of its incomplete form scared him a little and so he suggested to Love that they should lay in the shadow of the oak, watch the fidgeting leaves – instead of each other – and talk of all things.
Love agreed with a nod and they moved, hand in hand, to the oak to do as he had suggested.
Beneath the oak, he imagined a gentle touch of wind to make the branches dance just as he could remember from many months before. The sun was near its zenith and glittered splashes of light through the chaos of leaves.
“Isn’t it beautiful here?” he asked his love.
Love responded by squeezing his hand slightly. Love had tried to speak, but the voice was wrong and so Love had stopped. Thus conversation too, would be impossible.
He let his hand wonder across the skin of Love. It was as soft as the skin on the small of his back, but did not crease in the right way along the fingers and palm. He let go and simply lay there alongside Love. The sense of having another there was enough for him.
However, before long he felt uneasy. His unease came in the sudden chill of the breeze. Yet he did not look for the reason of his unease, because the act of looking would provide nothing he did not already know. Love was no longer beside him. Love had never been beside him.
More recently, he had become a lover; at least in world he had created within himself. As the seasons changed and the frost came in, he had hidden his hands in woollen gloves and his mind in the internal summer his imagination could paint.
“The Lover”
Yes, a term he had coined late one night after meditation. Love, as he imagined the idea to be, would require another. Someone with whom he could converse. Someone he would desire to touch and also long to be touched by. It would be energetic and enriching.
‘Love; such a fascinating idea’, he chuckled to himself by fireside.
The ‘other’, he suggested to himself, would look somewhat like himself, yet would be different enough to inspire wonder as he explored. Seeing no other – ever – in his life, it was difficult to image the look of Love. He gave Love arms and legs and warm eyes and a nice smile. However, the oddness of its incomplete form scared him a little and so he suggested to Love that they should lay in the shadow of the oak, watch the fidgeting leaves – instead of each other – and talk of all things.
Love agreed with a nod and they moved, hand in hand, to the oak to do as he had suggested.
Beneath the oak, he imagined a gentle touch of wind to make the branches dance just as he could remember from many months before. The sun was near its zenith and glittered splashes of light through the chaos of leaves.
“Isn’t it beautiful here?” he asked his love.
Love responded by squeezing his hand slightly. Love had tried to speak, but the voice was wrong and so Love had stopped. Thus conversation too, would be impossible.
He let his hand wonder across the skin of Love. It was as soft as the skin on the small of his back, but did not crease in the right way along the fingers and palm. He let go and simply lay there alongside Love. The sense of having another there was enough for him.
However, before long he felt uneasy. His unease came in the sudden chill of the breeze. Yet he did not look for the reason of his unease, because the act of looking would provide nothing he did not already know. Love was no longer beside him. Love had never been beside him.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Psychosis of the North
The sun rose as it had for billions of years previously. Yet on this particular dawn, one random beam kissed a water drop; the accumulation of night dew on a window face. The result was a dancing rainbow of colour splashed across the opposite wall of the child’s room.
What did not matter was whether this had occurred before or if such a scene would occur again. All that mattered was that the child noticed this show on that special morning. The child smiled.
So the child thought and climb out of its bed. A simple piece of standard A4 was on the child’s desk. This smiling child knew what to do.
A couple of folds here, one there, another here and then a complete fold there… Eventually it took meaningful form. Nothing special mind you, but meaningful there; in the room, under the dancing rainbow. The child went on to add more by taking out the pencil case and drawing the rainbow on the sail.
The paper sail boat was complete.
It was too early for Mum or Dad or the breakfast they would make. However the child slipped out through the back door. The child only thought of the creek by the back fence of the property.
Through the cool morning air, the child tip-toed over the dew blistered grass. Avoiding the hidden rocks, the child made it to the little creek. As cool as the dawn was, the creek water was closer to ice. Not that the child need know this. The touch of the water was not the goal of this early morning exercise.
The child bent down. The boat is in hand. The paper touched the cold water. The hand released the sail. A new, unchristened ship set sail!
The child giggled as the paper boat gripped the current and began its navigation of the pebble islands. Dancing through the shadow light show. Such a beautiful rainbow sail on a creek of crystal dreams…
“Breakfast!” cries mum up the hill.
Without a momentary thought, the child turned, run up to the farm house and forgot the morning rainbow. But the paper boat continued. It was caught by the icy current and slave to the movement.
One can’t help but wonder about the boat. Why does it now exist, now that it slowly dissolves on that icy creek? All the love in creation lost in the moment of being forgotten. All the purpose made meaningless in the death of the rainbow.
The sticks poke. The rocks bash. The icy current pulls. Nothing cares – not even for a second. The child has head off to be fed and to live its life, but now the boat exists and ages and fades and dissolves and all of this happens because it happens. There is no point, no reason, no goal; nothing. There is no point in being.
What did not matter was whether this had occurred before or if such a scene would occur again. All that mattered was that the child noticed this show on that special morning. The child smiled.
So the child thought and climb out of its bed. A simple piece of standard A4 was on the child’s desk. This smiling child knew what to do.
A couple of folds here, one there, another here and then a complete fold there… Eventually it took meaningful form. Nothing special mind you, but meaningful there; in the room, under the dancing rainbow. The child went on to add more by taking out the pencil case and drawing the rainbow on the sail.
The paper sail boat was complete.
It was too early for Mum or Dad or the breakfast they would make. However the child slipped out through the back door. The child only thought of the creek by the back fence of the property.
Through the cool morning air, the child tip-toed over the dew blistered grass. Avoiding the hidden rocks, the child made it to the little creek. As cool as the dawn was, the creek water was closer to ice. Not that the child need know this. The touch of the water was not the goal of this early morning exercise.
The child bent down. The boat is in hand. The paper touched the cold water. The hand released the sail. A new, unchristened ship set sail!
The child giggled as the paper boat gripped the current and began its navigation of the pebble islands. Dancing through the shadow light show. Such a beautiful rainbow sail on a creek of crystal dreams…
“Breakfast!” cries mum up the hill.
Without a momentary thought, the child turned, run up to the farm house and forgot the morning rainbow. But the paper boat continued. It was caught by the icy current and slave to the movement.
One can’t help but wonder about the boat. Why does it now exist, now that it slowly dissolves on that icy creek? All the love in creation lost in the moment of being forgotten. All the purpose made meaningless in the death of the rainbow.
The sticks poke. The rocks bash. The icy current pulls. Nothing cares – not even for a second. The child has head off to be fed and to live its life, but now the boat exists and ages and fades and dissolves and all of this happens because it happens. There is no point, no reason, no goal; nothing. There is no point in being.
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