Saturday, 17 January 2015

The Lay-Lady

 A large, old house. Melancholy, eternally reminiscent of times past. Although perhaps there were never any times present to stimulate such entangled nostalgia. Perhaps it had always been in a state of perpetual yearning for distant dreams. A grey house, the colour of stone that dominates the Northern landscape. There was a proud front door, elevated by high steps- decorated by ivy and disconsolate branches. However, as is usual, such dramatics weren't often used and round to the right of the front there was a small picnic area (lathered in dripping grey of course) which led to a heavy oak door with a large wrought iron handle- used by everyone to access the house.

Upon opening this door and entering there was instantly discerned a faint smell of damp- and often it took a while to find the light switch in the darkness. Once found, an electric bulb burst out of it's cocoon and dazzled with it's merciless light. It felt completely out of place in this old Victorian house that was much more suited to an oil lamp or flickering candle. On the left were various coats and boots, on the right piles of forgotten magazines and assorted debris arranged on ascending shelves. Further along, a small, white room complete with ceramic toilet. Updated and brought into the modern world by a singing, rubber fish that couldn't help but tell you to always look on the bright side of life. A song that is apparently exceptionally popular at funerals.

Back out into the illuminated corridor and round to the left led into another, bigger hallway. This, in turn, led into a small, cosy kitchen that dwelt side by side with a dining room. The kitchen was always warm- a contrast to it's surrounding habitat. It had a large window that viewed the picnic area and a small lawn adjoining a vegetable garden. A gravel path provided access to cars around the lawn- halted progress by a red, brick wall about 20 metres away. The kitchen was filled with far too many cupboards to count- everlasting storage. It had an orange tile floor, cream walls and a round, wooden table. The adjacent dining room had a blue carpet and a dark wooden table. It's white ceiling was completely covered in stamps. A party trick invented by a forgotten author and continued henceforth. It was achieved by either putting the licked stamp on a coin which was then flicked to the ceiling, or put on the end of a pool cue and stuck onto the ceiling.

From the window in the dining room you could see a much larger lawn which disappeared into a multitude of elegant trees, shiny bushes festooned with plump flowers that had broken forth from the bounds of their society. Leaves carpeted the ground under the trees and easily hid small creatures who wished to pass unseen through the world.

Opposite the dining room was a small study. A 1970s TV in the corner, and many photographs neatly arranged on tables and the walls depicting grimacing family members. There was a fire place surrounded by smooth, comfy chairs and sofas. In one corner a desk with a fold down lid complimented by a carved, red chair- very much used. Again, this room led a life that was not evident in the rest of the house.

Back out and around the staircase led to a much more dominant hall. Most likely would have been used as the main entrance to the house in years long forgotten. There was a large staircase with a winding banister. The walls were papered with a cold yellow, and there were cabinets filled with ceramic animals amongst other things that stood guard over the front door previously mentioned. To the left of this hallway, when facing the door, was a long, green room. It's walls filled with cabinets that hosted endless crockery. Plate decorated in pinks and blues and gold detail- but never used. Doomed to a life of dust due to their supposed beauty. This room would have been the main dining room had the whole house been used and was still filled with a dark, oak table that could have seated 20. However, it had ended up being used as a storeroom and a playroom for children.

Across the hallway was a sitting room- much bigger than the study but much less inhabited. The furniture covered in silk and other pointlessly expensive fabrics. Far too lovely (in certain people's minds at least) to be used on a day to day basis. Except due to this it's cream walls started to look forlorn and it's carpet lonely.

Up the staircase led to more hallway, more cabinets and then along to bedrooms. A blue twin room complete with flowered eiderdowns and a tea making kit. Next door was a magenta 1960's bathroom that echoed any sound made by an inhabitant. Neighbour to this was a small singular room that was filled with a whole bookcase of fairy tales. Grimm brothers, the Knights of the Round table, fairies of all colours of the rainbow- the kind of room a child with a passion for reading and a limitless imagination could easily get lost in.

Alongside this was a very large, white room that could have fitted 5 beds in. It had the biggest window in the whole house from which you could see most of the winding and wild garden. Beside the garden there was a cow-filled field that itself bordered upon a farm.

Sonia didn't know what to make of this house, with it's dusty, cold rooms and big windows- but she did like the cows. Somehow they seemed happy in their field- eating grass and licking each other's ears. Sometimes she went and sat on the mound of grass next to the ditch and barbed wire fence that stopped the cows from investigating the garden. She would remain still for hours and talk to them, while they gathered round to listen to what she had to say. At least, she thought that was the case. They could easily have just been curious as to what this small, hair-less, 2 legged creature was doing. It's difficult to tell with cows. Sonia would tell them endless stories and entertain them with cartwheel practise- not that she was very good at either. Maybe Sonia sounds like a lonely little girl, but I'm not sure if she was. There's a certain line between alone and lonely, ever prevalent and not always crossed. Anyway, cows can often be better companions than humans.

Sonia wasn't really sure how she had ended up in this house. Her Mother had bought her here for company- although whenever she tried to perform this service she got lethargically bored. Her mother was going through file after file from a hoard crammed into a cupboard in the study, creating small mountains with sheets of paper. Sonia didn't know what it was her Mother was looking for. She did ask a few times but always got the same reply,

“Sonia, if you're going to ask so many questions why don't you go and ask the cat. You're distracting me.”

Sonia didn't think the cat really knew what was going on either, but thought it might be more interesting to talk to so she went on an expedition round the house to find it.

She softly crept up the stairs, having had the idea that if she pretended to be a cat it might be easier to find one. She paused to look at her reflection in one of the glass cabinets. A short, pale girl looked back at her. Her white blonde hair hung limply around her face (her Mother having made her cut it short as it never seemed to stay neat and brushed), slightly covered the large mole just below her eye. Sonia thought it was a magic wish spot, but the children she had played with at school had called it ugly. However, witches were often ugly in stories so Sonia concluded she might be a witch. She wasn't sure yet though. Witches were supposed to have magic powers, and Sonia didn't think she had those. Although, sometimes, if she looked out of the corner of her eye she thought she could see slight glimmers and dancing from things that shouldn't be moving. Especially in this house. Sonia shivered a little and continued on.

“Now, if I was a cat (which I am),” she reminded herself, “where would I be?”

She searched through the bedrooms she was allowed into, looking under beds, in cupboards and anywhere that she could think of. She returned back into the landing, when she heard the muffled but distinct sound of paws. A ginger head peeked round the side of a door. It was one of the doors she wasn't allowed through. There was a section of the house that had been where Sonia's grandparents had slept when they were alive- and her Mum had said Sonia wasn't to go in there.

“Kitty! Come here!”

This came out in a whisper but Sonia's foot also managed to stamp in slight impatience.

Kitty, however, didn't seem to hear what she said and instead went back hence it came.

“Kitty!” said Sonia in exasperation, but curiosity getting the better of her, she followed the cat through the door.

Although it was the middle of the day, the room was dimly lit due to the heavy, dark curtains that were drawn almost shut. What light had escaped into the room displayed a large, low, four posted bed covered with layers of thick blankets and pillows. A dressing table with an oval mirror placed upon it as well as some perfume pots and old, horse hair brushes. The light from the window reflected upon the mirror and showed thousands of particles of dust drifting dreamily through the air. The carpet was a deep red, also covered with a layer of dust- though slightly exacerbated by the movement of the cat.

“Kitty.” Again thought Sonia- having been momentarily distracted by her perusing of the room. She looked around, noticing more objects on the walls- paintings in fact. Also, in the corner, a large, intimidating wardrobe.

Having got over her initial negative pre-disposition, Sonia walked more confidently into the room- telling herself she was still looking for the cat but really just wanting to see what the paintings depicted. She stopped in front of the first one. Even though it was covered in a thin film of dust still very visible was a portrait of a mouse aboard a large 18th century ship. The sea was stormy and virulent, and seemed to be vomiting hoards of eels into the boat. Lightening echoed all over the scene, tumultuous and enthralling- Sonia was hypnotised.

“I'd rather be an eel than the mouse.” she decided.

Thinking of mice she remembered the cat, but upon looking around again and being unable to see him she moved along to the next painting.

In this one beams of a house seemed to be bleeding- the thick blood changing from deep red to incandescent silver as it highlighted the characters in the painting. There, cavorting, bird- like demons appeared to be making merry at the expense of a tortured crab lying on the ground- his shell a cup for their liquor. In the dark gloom surrounding these creatures other less discernible forms seemed to leer out, with claws that attempted to try and scratch their way out of the picture. This painting Sonia liked even less- although strangely it did jog something in the back of her mind as if it reminded her of something.

She moved right, this next round painting was a portrait of a very austere looking lady. She was wearing a dark green Victorian style dress with a pale collar. It looked itchy and unflattering. Her brown hair was parted in the middle and pulled tightly back from her face into a bun. In the background Sonia could make out what looked like a dressing table- similar to the one in the room- and a life-size mannequin. The lady's blue eyes watched Sonia as she moved away. She surveyed the room again- more paintings, the wardrobe, no cat.

“Maybe he's in the wardrobe,” said Sonia to herself, and softly walked over. She placed her hand on the handle, it felt ice cold. She opened the door- nothing. Except for a mannequin.

“Odd, it looks just like the one in the painting,” said Sonia.

Actually, it looked more like a lay-figure than a mannequin. Sonia remembered being told they were used by artists to see how fictional figures would look. Lay figures had joints and faces, whereas mannequins modelled clothing. This lay-figure had a painted face with beady eyes, a tiny nose and rosebud lips. It had little, pointy ears and a few lines painted on it's crown to represent hair. It didn't exactly scare Sonia, but when she touched it's porcelain hands a small electric spark shot up her arm, making her jump. Sonia wondered what it would say if it was alive.

“It?” thought Sonia, “would it be a he or a she?”

Sonia thought it was probably a lady.

“You can be my lady friend!” said Sonia.

However, as she looked at her lay-lady it's painted eyes started to seem a bit too real and Sonia felt as though they had eye contact.

“What could you be thinking?”, but the more and more that Sonia wondered what the lay-lady was thinking the more she decided she didn't really want to know. In fact, she began to feel frightened- an alarming cold tingle was gently winding it's way down the back of her neck. She stepped backwards and nearly fell over. The cat that had tripped her up yowled and ran out of the door. Sonia looked back at the lay lady and, although it might have been her imagination, she thought she was slowly moving toward her. Her voice caught in her throat and she managed to scramble up, turn around and run out of the door as quickly as she was able. Without looking to see whether she was actually following her she shut the door and ran down the stairs, almost knocking over her Mother.

“Sonia! What are you doing? You almost made me drop all this paper!”

Sonia wondered if she could tell her Mother what had happened, but decided that her Mother would probably just tell her off.

“Nothing, just chasing the cat. What are you doing with all those papers anyway?” she asked.

“Don't worry about that. Now go and make us some sandwiches for lunch. And look where you're going this time!”

As Sonia wandered to the kitchen she thought about what her Mother could be doing. Why they had come from their lovely house in Kilmorack just so that her Mother could look through a bunch of silly bits of paper. Sonia knew that in the adult world bits of paper were more powerful than magic spells- but she wasn't sure why. In school they'd used paper to write things down upon, and draw pictures on- but she was sure that her magic mole was more powerful than them.

“Maybe if Mother had a magic mole she wouldn't need to look at all that paper!” thought Sonia, “and we could go home!”

Although, in some part of her mind, the house was growing on Sonia. There was far more space for her dreams to play in these big, empty, unloved rooms- and the garden was a magical kingdom filled with wild characters always just out of sight. Then she shivered and thought of the lay-lady in the wardrobe. Maybe dreams shouldn't be allowed to play for too long. Why was it in the painting too? Had the lady felt an especial affinity for her?

Whilst buttering bread for the sandwiches Sonia thought that she should try and find out who the lady was.

“Like Miss Marple in a detective story!”

So after lunch, where her and her Mother slowly ate cheese and pickle sandwiches quietly- each immersed in their own thoughts, Sonia went and sat on the bottom step of the large staircase and thought about where she could discover more about the lady.

“Well, there's quite a lot of books here. I've read all the fairy tales but there's lots more. Maybe if I look in them I'll find a clue!”

The majority of the books were stored in the bigger dining room so Sonia began there. She sat at the table on one of the satin covered chairs, after pulling down a big pile of dusty volumes and placing them in front of herself.

Each one laid bare entirely new worlds to Sonia. She was transfixed as she perused them one by one. The first was an atlas of the world as recorded in the 19th century. The maps were framed with interlacing leaves and flowers, and little pictures of ships were placed sporadically around the page. She day dreamed of riding atop camels walking through the deserts of Niger, of watching crocodiles and snakes fight in the groves of Mango trees, of all the different, colourful people that existed around the world.

“So many people!” she thought, with a slight pang of loneliness. The pang didn't last long though.

Another book was filled with pictures of illuminated letters drawn exquisitely onto goat skin. Sonia had learnt about these in history. She liked how someone had spent so long making the words elegant and pretty.

Book after book filled her head with new ideas, places, fantasies. She thought that she still liked the storybooks best- but these ones were pretty good too. After sifting through about 10 thick volumes Sonia came to a slimmer book. It was covered in red leather and had no words on the outside. Upon opening it Sonia discovered that it was another kind of storybook. The stories didn't seem like any ones she had read before- but that didn't matter. After flicking through a few pages she came to one about a mannequin. When she spied the title Sonia felt a little cold, but without a doubt that it was a clue she began to read.

Once upon a time there was a little boy called Arnold. Arnold had ginger hair, brown eyes and an upturned nose. He was tall for his age and he liked to think he was big and strong. He wasn't a very nice little boy- and took pleasure in bullying the other children at his school- pulling the girls arms and the boys hair. Dropping bricks off the roof and leaving dog poo in corners. His mother loved him very much and it made her very sad that he had become so mean. However, she didn't know how to stop him. She tried to talk to him, to punish him, to bribe him- nothing would work.

One day Arnold was alone at home- bored. He had done everything he could think of doing- he had made a chocolate sandwich, switched the salt for the sugar, played video games and gone through his Mother's desk. Arnold was not a very imaginative little boy. So he decided to explore the house. He tried, and failed, to get in the attic, so next he thought he'd try the basement. It was dark when he went down the steps- he groped around for the light and found a switch. However when he switched it on it just flickered dimly- casting long, dancing shadows everywhere. There wasn't much in the basement. An old trunk his Grandmother had used for transporting things, and some heaps of moth-bitten clothes in-cased in black bin bags. Arnold thought he'd try looking in the trunk for entertainment. There was a lock, but it was weak after having been left so long in the dark and damp, and broke easily. Arnold opened it slowly, but soon realised that all there was was an old mannequin. Although it looked more realistic than the small wooden ones he had seen in shops. It had a ceramic face and hand. Eyes, rosebud lips and small ears had been painted on.

Arnold pulled one of it's hands up (almost as big as his) and shook it, saying gruffly,

Nice to meet you Sir!”

Nice to meet you too.”

He burst into a snorting laugh, this laugh faded quickly though, leaving a tense silence. Arnold could hear someone mowing their lawn two doors down. A dog barking on the other side.

Probably Frank,” thought Arnold.

Suddenly he had a feeling that the mannequin was watching him and could hear his thoughts.

Don't be silly,” said Arnold, growing steadily more scared. “You can't hear me!”

There was another silence, and Arnold was on the brink of running back upstairs when he thought he heard something. Something that sounded suspiciously like syllables. It was very quiet, so quiet that he almost couldn't hear it. He looked frantically around the room, hoping with wild eyes that it was his Mother come home or some other reasonable explanation. He heard the sound, the voice, again. This time he was certain it had come from in front of him. From the mannequin. He looked at it for a while, then slowly rotated, bent down and put his ear near it's painted mouth. This time he heard it clearly.

I can hear your thoughts. I can hear all of you. I can hear the beat of your heart, the throb of your blood, your lungs expanding, the friction between your bones as they softly grind together. I can hear your eyelids blinking, your nostrils flaring. Most of all I can hear your obnoxiously loud, booming thoughts. I make no sound at all, so I can hear everything else so vividly. You wouldn't understand. Maybe you will though.”

Arnold's heart started racing. His palms were clammy. It was freezing down in the basement, yet he could feel beads of sweat begin to form on the back of his neck. What did it mean?

Arnold tried to stand up, to work out what was going on, but he found he was stuck- unable to move. In fact, moving slowly into the mannequin's arms. An electric embrace.

Arnold tried to scream but could only gasp, drool dripping onto his chin. He tried to grab something to pull himself away only found his arms disobeying him and welcoming the grip of the ceramic fingers. The world seemed to slow down, Arnold's mind delirious. He didn't understand what was going on, but he knew that if he touched the mannequin everything would change. Closer and closer he went. Until he fell, and lost all consciousness.

When he came to Arnold could see himself slowly standing up. Stretching his arms, rolling his wrists, his head. The other Arnold caught his eye, and winked. He said in a wonky voice,

Told you I could hear you.”

He walked away, up the stairs. He switched off the light leaving Arnold in complete darkness. Arnold was confused. Scared. What did the other Arnold mean? He tried to move, to switch on the light- but found he was paralysed. The terror started to rise up in him, wave upon wave of piercing ice-cold horror as he tried again and again to move- but to no avail. After remaining in this hell for a long time, the fear slowly returned whence it came, bit by bit. He thought about what could have happened. Soon it dawned on him that he had become the mannequin, and the mannequin had become him.

Who was the mannequin? Who or what was it that was now residing in his body? Arnold was left to ponder these mysteries by himself, in the dark.

Arnold's Mother couldn't understand the change in her son. He no longer looked at her with the eyes she knew so well. Nor did he show her the random bouts of affection that he had done before. But neither did he bully and torment the other children, or mess up the house. So she decided not to question it, and left the explanation to Arnold 'growing up'. Never knowing that her real son was left trapped in the body of a doll, in the basement. Nor did she think, a few years later, when she decided to give the mannequin to a junk shop, that she might be giving away her son.

Sonia finished the story with a racing heart. It had been so vivid, so intense. She had felt the pain of Arnold trapped in the mannequin so clearly. She was no closer to finding any information on the lady- but her fear of the mannequin had certainly be re-kindled. She decided she had had enough of books and the green striped dining room. She decided to go outside, even though it was raining.

She stepped out into the rain, the water cooling the fire in her heart that the book had stoked. She was only wearing a thin dress but Sonia didn't feel that she needed anything else. There was something completely exhilarating to surrender herself to the weather. Most people in this world try to fight against it- huddling inside their coats and hoods, under umbrellas and hats. There is nothing more chilling than waiting for the cold to seep in through cracks and crevices while standing around shivering.

Sonia was learning to face the rain and wind head on. She giggled when the raindrops tickled her skin and kissed her face. She let the wind throw her about- became part of the dance that lifted her hair and her dress. She stood tall and strong and took in the entirety of the sky above her. The terror of the story was still in her- but the elements reminded her of how resilient she was. More than capable to stop fighting as she felt it's power course through her whole being.

“Sonia! Sonia!” her Mother called. The spell was broken. Sonia felt a shiver and ran inside. Her mother was standing there with a towel to wrap her up in.

“What on earth were you doing?” Her face depicted complete confusion with more than a pinch of worry.

Sonia just shrugged. How could she explain?

As they sat silently through a supper of ham, egg, peas and chips Sonia felt the fear creeping back into her. She wrapped her woolly cardigan tighter round her and wondered whether she should tell her Mother everything.

“No, she wouldn't understand and she'd just tell me off.”

Besides her Mother was still totally wrapped up in thinking about the content of the paper.

“Mum, when are we going home?”

“Huh? Oh, soon. I've just got a few more things to look through. I know this has been long. When we get back I'll buy you a new book for being so good. How does that sound?”

Sonia shrugged.

“Mum, do you know who an old lady with tight hair and a mannequin would be?”

“Old lady? Mannequin? No. Why?”

Sonia shrugged again.

That night Sonia felt the fear overwhelming her. Curdling inside from the tip of her toes to the crown of her head. She tried desperately to get to sleep. Now the sound of the wind outside and the rain against the window scared rather than strengthened- but eventually she surrendered to the realms of sleep.

Suddenly her eyes snapped open. She was wide awake. She sat up and looked around. Everything was quiet, the weather had calmed and Sonia could see the moon bathing everything in a menacing light. For no explainable reason Sonia felt the urge to get up, put on a jumper and slippers and walk out the room. At first she wasn't sure where she was going- but soon it became obvious. Her body was taking her to the room. Panic bubbled inside of Sonia, white hot and tempestuous, but there was no stopping herself. She walked up the short flight of steps and turned the handle. She stepped into the room. It too was all stroked by the light of the moon. She walked past the paintings again, looking in the mirror briefly. A pale, frightened girl looked back at her. She paused before the painting of the lady. Sonia wasn't sure but she thought she might've changed position, and the mannequin. The mannequin was closer. Almost touching the lady.

Sonia continued on, her hand reached out to open the door to the wardrobe. The door swung open with a creak that echoed throughout the entire room. Sonia stood and faced the lay-lady. She remained thus for a long while. Both watching the other. The lay-lady's lips smiled mockingly.

Slowly, the lay-lady reached out her hand. Sonia could feel her heart beating so fast it could have exploded out of her body and begun it's own adventure around the world. However, not through any will of her own- Sonia began to reach out her own hand to match the lay-lady's. Not only that but her body was walking toward the lady- as if to embrace each other. All Sonia could think about was the little boy in the story, who became trapped in the mannequin after touching it. She tried with all her might to pull away, to leave the room, but somehow she wasn't able to. She moved closer and closer, the lay- lady's face looming pale above hers. Closer and closer until Sonia's shivering body was wrapped around the lay-lady. Engulfed in her material arms.

With a sharp movement Sonia felt the weight of the lay-lady falling on top of her, knocking her to the ground. Unable to move. She screamed and screamed, twisting and scrabbling- she realised that she was in her own bed, but the lay lady was still on top of her, heavy on her chest. She kept waking up to then realise she was still lost in the unrelenting nightmare- the lay-lady's white ceramic face ever present. Sonia's eyes rolled in absolute terror, her tongue lolling, her arms twitching- until just as quickly as it all had happened, she woke up.

Sweating and panting, Sonia looked around. She was still in her own room. Nothing was on top of her, although her entire bed was drenched and the sheets in complete disarray. She was fine. She could see the moonlight gently drifting in through the window- no longer menacing.

The terror was mostly gone- although Sonia could feel it effervescing in her stomach. She wanted to go back to sleep however she was scared of returning to the dream. Besides, there was something she knew she had to do.

She sat up, for a second time that night, and again pulled on a jumper and slippers. Sonia felt the fear begin to build again as she stepped towards the door- but she had been calmed and empowered by the moonlight- so she managed to keep it under control. She opened the door. Just like in the dream the room was visible by moon light. This time Sonia drank it in, using it to fortify herself. She walked toward the wardrobe. Again, she looked at the paintings, the lady and the mannequin were back to how they had been before. She hesitated when she reached the wardrobe, took a deep breath, then confidently opened the wardrobe door.

The lay-lady looked at her with her rosebud lips still smiling. Sonia looked at the lay-lady. The lay-lady had such magnetism, the terror began to fizz again in Sonia's stomach.

Then Sonia smiled. She reached out and stroked the lay lady's cheek. The lay-lady smiled back at her. A tear dripped down Sonia's cheek.

“You're just lonely, aren't you.”

She stood there for a few minutes, holding the lay-lady's hand. She realised that she hadn't been foolish, she just hadn't understood. All at once the shadows took on another meaning. What had once been dark holes that could hide vindictive creatures became pockets of comfort and calm. Sonia felt peaceful. She listened to the wind outside, finding harmony within it.

“Sonia, what are you doing?”

A bright, electric light switched on and her Mother stood in the room. The look of confusion from earlier amplified to the extreme. Sonia thought for a second, then decided to tell her Mother everything. Her Mother hugged her and stroked her hair as she cried her way through the story.

“I'm sorry, I didn't realise. Anyway, I'm pretty much done now so we can leave tomorrow.”

Sonia cried more than she ever had before- until she had no more tears to shed but her body still shook from the sobs. Finally, she looked around the room with swollen, red eyes. Now everything just looked dusty and neglected. The lay-lady limp and inanimate.

“All the magic has gone too.” thought Sonia.

“You know, I'd completely forgotten about this room. God, look at those paintings- pretty horrible. Though might be able to make some money from them. I see how you were asking about the lady and the mannequin. I think that's your Great Aunt Rebecca. She was an artist which would be why she had the mannequin. No idea why it would be in here though- your Grandmother did like to hoard things.”

“Mum, I think we should give her to someone, or sell her. I think she's lonely.”

Sonia's Mother smiled at his, but shrugged her shoulders.

“Yes, probably a good idea. Now shall we go back to bed?”

They walked out of the room, and switched off the light. Sonia paused for a second to look at the lay-lady. They smiled at each other. Sonia's Mum then closed the door.

The next day they packed their things- ready to go, placing them neatly in the car. A thought occurred to Sonia.

“Mum, what were you looking for in all those bits of paper?”

“Oh, I wasn't. Sometimes you don't need to look for anything. You just need to sort through things, see what's what, who's who. Don't worry, we won't come back again.”

“No, I think I'd like to come back again. It's a beautiful house. I just needed to make friends.”

“Hmm. Well, if you want. There is more stuff to sort through here. You can come with next time.”

Sonia smiled. She looked up at the house. The never ending grey seemed to sparkle now, the ivy elegant rather than confining. The wind gently caressed the grass, the trees and Sonia's hair- Sonia knew she would definitely return. She turned and looked at her Mother.

“Mum, can we go to Loch Bruicheach on the way back?”


Saturday, 1 November 2014

XYZ

I don't know about you complicated cake mix of personnel, but I often get this feeling that I'm not where my body says I am. That my mind thinks my body is somewhere but in reality it's somewhere entirely different. Like when I'm on the toilet (as awareness of body location is quite important when on the toilet) I wonder whether perhaps I'm actually somewhere else entirely- pissing along happily unaware of what is really going on. How do you know whether your mind is accurate on the physical state? How do you know that there is a state? The mind is a powerful master, all we know is through it, can we know anything outside of our mind? I know sensory channels supposedly do this job, but they're just nerve endings and reactions that connect back to our brain. Can we trust them?

Monday, 22 September 2014

Nothing

Nothing. I open my eyes and breath in a massive lung-full of Nothing. All around me, from top to tail, bum to tum, nose to toes. Nothing. I have to steady myself as the enormity of this discovery overwhelms me and surrenders me giddy. Although what to steady upon? A surface of sorts, but the texture and consistency are completely undecipherable. From bending down and brushing my fingers along it, the signals the nerves in my fingers are giving read 'Nothing'. However, based upon deduction, I am standing, therefore there must be something to stand upon. I am also breathing. Again, with my trusty sidekick, Logic: my body needs to breath in oxygen to live, there must be oxygen. No trees though. No plants to turn carbon dioxide into oxygen. What if there is a limited supply? I take another deep breath and hold it for as long as possible. My head starts to swim while my eyes stream tears, and finally my mouth bursts open of it's own desperate accord. I pant for awhile and decide that was not the best plan of action.

I look around, my body following the direction of my eyes, wishing to learn more. I turn, slowly, my mind searching for more clues. I can see. Of things to see, this place is distinctly lacking, but there if a dim light colouring the world around me a pale, yellowy grey. Similar to the colour of flint. However, there doesn't seem to be a particular source that I can deduce. It reminds me of mist that has been illuminated, but from a substance contained in the mist itself rather than an external origin. Perhaps carried by the water particles and spread evenly throughout it's whole. Sadly, there is no mist in this reality, and I am no closer to defining and understanding anything. Having reached the end of my present list of things-to-think-about, my body begins to feel tired with confusion. I sit down, cross-legged, on the surface-that-is-not. I place my head in my palm, fingers covering my mouth. The other hand crossing my body to hold the opposite upper arm. Where am I?

With my rational sidekick at hand I have reason to believe that I am in a place, but it's hardly much of a place. At least, not the kind of place that I've ever heard of before. The ultra-consistent grey light dances in front of my eyes, twisting, pulsating and unfurling it's effervescent bouquet of Nothing. Nothing- the anti-matter. Does that mean it does not matter? Or is it the opposite of matter?

“Does not matter,” is usually used to mean that something is not of relevance. This expression was probably coined by someone who equated matter- all that is made of particles- with all meaning in life. If we cannot sense it, cannot measure it, it is not worth thinking about.
Perhaps I'm in the realm of the evil twin of matter- snarling, biting, wild in it's complete lack of. If I lower my eyelids, the Nothing almost seems to to be arranging itself into scenes beyond imagination. Creatures with the faintest resemblance to elephants, but with echoes for eyes, the texture of what looks like butter and what is most easily described as the bodies are covered in billowing layers of static. They dance to a repetitive, incandescent beat before morphing into waves of agitation that shiver and float across a highway of grasping bone. Sharp, with a spiky sheen, the bone marrow escapes out and descends into a waterfall of disappointment- joining the waves. All is one, all becomes each and the rest.

I close my eyes, my sidekick is utterly stupefied. He snuggles close and whispers,

“Don't listen, don't watch. That's not real. None of this is real, it's all just Nothing,”

I strain, I want to believe, more than anything, but then something in my mind is hooked by another clue- Nothing, just like matter is all made of the same thing. This world around me, filled to the brim with Nothing, conjured up that strange pantomime I just witnessed. From the be all and end all of Nothing. Our world, (at least, your world. I don't seem to be part of it any more) according to Scientists is entirely composed of particles. Although often very different in their look to us, everything is made of the same thing. So many things, all so alike, but treated so differently. Another thing drifts into my mind and knocks, trembling, at the door of conscious thought. The door handle's luminous, burning eyes swivel to face this sniveling thought that dares to tread the winding path all the way from the unconscious just to make itself heard.

“Please,” it whispers, “I am a memory.”

The door handle raises an eyebrow.

“A memory of a book, an author describing Bell's Theorem.”

Something jogs- practically kicks me in the back of my mind. The door handle becomes more enthusiastic.

“Yes, go on?”

“Well, you may remember Miss Baker. With her thin, dark hair cropped into a sharp bob, looking down upon us through her square glasses perched on the end of her nose...”

More memories flood through the door in a fierce gush. Of whiteboards, of chewing gum stuck the bottom of wooden desks. Of dirty, white classrooms. Of grey floors. Of Jon sat to my left, always sucking his pencil and glancing around with big eyes. Of Robin to my right, bright blonde hair, wearing a baggy shirt instead of a fitted one- supposedly 'cool'. Of asking to go to the toilet as a way of breaking up the monotony of the lessons. Of notes, endless, unrelenting, forgettable notes. Of a book chosen to distract myself. Of a book called Prometheus Rising. Of something that suddenly grabbed my attention.

“There are no isolated systems: every particle in the universe is in 'instantaneous' communication with every other particle. The whole system, even the parts that are separated by cosmic distances functions as a whole system.”

Yes.

Everything is linked, is the same. Just as in this world. Except in your world everything looks different, has different ideas associated with each object, each person. An ink bottle being related to an Indian man on the other side of the world?

“Crazy!” they would call you.

But if everything is made of the same thing is it so crazy? Craze is a word that usually describes fashions, ideas that get latched onto by the general modern society and followed. Sometimes though, ideas last. In this world, nothing seems different, all seems the same. Seems. Nothing is not as it seems. Double negative, at least, when I considered Nothing to be a negative. My views are being coerced into new and unfamiliar lands. My sidekick is also becoming enthused.

“Test it! Experiments! Try it again! Let's see what happens.”

I lower my eye lids again. This time, what I could only describe as coconuts with spider legs are using a vacuum to suck their way into a shape similar to a totem pole. This elaborate construction rises higher and higher, swaying and swishing, I can almost hear the creatures singing their melodious mulch. They begin to plateau, spreading along an invisible line, whilst more and more join in. Suddenly, they stop, and the whole contraption begins to float upwards, slowly, softly- then stops. I wait, they wait. The atmosphere is tense and succulent. The last creature explodes in a collision of what looks like globules of dream and coiled springs, the others swiftly following suit. Envy. I feel envy. I want their carefree, joyful ease of just being able to let go. To join the throng of simple satisfaction and elegant energy. A tear drips down my cheek.

I open my eyes wide in surprise. It has been such a long time since I cried. I can't even, remember.
Where is this world taking me? Places I never even knew about. Places I thought I had forgotten. Do we ever really forget anything? Or maybe it's stored somewhere, out of reach, ready for when it's needed.

“Again!” my sidekick urges. I lower my lids.

A tree. A tree made of piano. Softly rippling notes speeding up and down, played by tongues that dip and lick in a perverted way. Leaving a trail of lustful symphony. The keys rise into soft branches that brush and trace diamonds into the sky. A sky coloured with shades that I never knew existed and I never could describe. I wish I could. Shades that move and excite me. That warm and fill me, leaving me wanting so much more, but full of melody and starlight. Another tear. It has been a while since that warmth has been akin to my body. I have been so lost in numbers, in decimal places, in what is right, what is left, up, down. All. Not for lack of trying, but my attempts are always filled with this rigid, formatted insincere longing, all the while the return to my words being far more attractive and comfortable. I open my eyes.

How can such Nothing hold so much? The absolute Anti has brought forth more than I have ever been able to imagine my entire life. Or perhaps I'm wrong. Perhaps I've always been able to imagine it, I just never let myself. Or never knew how. This rush of absolute emotion is wearing me out, I feel sleep overcoming and seducing me. Unable to stop, and utterly addicted to these images, I lower my lids one more time.

Fireworks. Fireworks made of onions, tomatoes, carrots, pumpkins, courgettes, potatoes, vegetables that I've never even seen before, all appear to be dappled in a rose-tinted smile, but when these objects fall they transform into drops of moon that hop around clashing and chattering in infinite glory. They smile at me. In the distance I see a mountain. It's calling me. I have no idea how I know this, but it's true. It's beckoning me. I stand up. I step forward, one, two, three, four, each foot firm and steady compared to my racing heart. The mountain is further than I thought, but I have so much time. All the time in the world. In this world.

I open my eyes, but I'm still there, still walking towards that mountain. Slowly. One day I will reach it, reach the Nothing. Is the Nothing really nothing any more? Has it ever been? This continent of thoughts have arrived with the Nothing, enveloping me, overwhelming me with a unanalysable passion. There is so much beauty in the Nothing. Except that it's not really nothing. I've known that for a while, just haven't admitted it until now. The Nothing is Something. But it's not that either. If the Nothing became Something it would be to bring it back to your world, back to the world of objects and measuring and particles. It doesn't belong in your world, it belongs in this world. It is not Something. It is itself, the Nothing. It always has been and always will be.

With this final thought in mind my eyes finally snap shut, giving in to the endless bliss of sleep. My drained body falls, gently, to the surface that-is-not and I listen to my dreams.




Sunday, 17 August 2014

Poetry Shmoetry

A few poems regurgitated whilst invigilating at Kettle's Yard via twisted emotional disturbance.....

to Dance.

So much time has been spent trying to achieve the perfect point
where self awareness and conscious thought leave,
and set me free- to stomp, sway, stretch and tap,
tapping away
far far away,
to dream without meaning
for which I am always constantly gleaning, without seeming
to understand more or less.
The rhythm, the rage, recall
your rambunctious reality of sense and sensual action to me, to all,
to yourself.
So much joy, which can never be stopped short, forget
about should and meant and ought and will,
only movement, clarity,
the uncontrollable whirl of peace.


Ode to Alcohol 

O, alcohol, my sublime slippery friend,
the juxtaposition of thirst.
Always making irrelevant the end,
all people at their best and worst.
The jovial smiles that eternally inspire
laughter- comrades - the epitome of sensual delight.
The fuel that feeds the endless fire,
that deepens and warms the unrelenting night.

Contrast this, to the swollen faced wretch,
whose excruciating cares disappear,
as soon as they manage to fetch
their early morning can of beer.

O, alcohol, always privy to my woes,
acceptable, established,
true fashion to hoard.
My interest grows and my inhibitions slow,
with this true double edged sword.


Jealousy

Jealousy, a rude awakening,
comes in a wash of complete distortion.

Which way is up?

Shudders, that separate limb from limb from limb from sin,
without being able to tell where you have been,
or which bean have you.

Malevolent wishes to be cruel and transfer the heat,
but always,
to no avail.
Who would want to drink poison?

Bring forth the antidote- Perspective.


Dirt or Gravel?

A decision have I, have you, you see,
the priority: peace of mind,
but what be the key?

I have reached a fork on my path less travelled,
which way, which way,
dirt or gravel?

Everytime liquor suffocates my normal state of mind,
I lose all sense of reality and my lust for rhyme.
A waterfall of twisted emotion scours my sense,
and a cascade of self-inflicted hurt that refuses to relent.

So to restore,
the calm that was there before,
dirt or gravel?

Gravel is the separation-
a sharp sudden slice,
the consequences of which will depend on the dice.

Or dirt, the acceptance-
of all calamity,
and a mission to restore my faith in humanity.

Bold or true- what should I do?

Strength of mind- a good perception of time.
What will benefit?
What will create?
I think it's time to swallow my hate.





TEKNO SLAG

Drawing I did for Tekno Slag's Intergalactic Junglecore Smashup..... Used for the poster :)
A3 Biro and Felt Tip




Tuesday, 18 February 2014

THE HAT BOOK part 1

So as many people have probably already guessed, I have a lot of hats. Here is an obscene selection for your viewing pleasure!
















Saturday, 15 February 2014

UNICORN SPUNK

Just be. Please be who you want to be. It's to tiring trying to persuade you that how you are and how you feel is not only acceptable, on this goddam table, but its fate, it's time, it's as integral as the fibres in my CD player, and, my, doesn’t that expand and quantify my pleasure.
Not that I don't understand, I'm not in no mans land waiting to be the dam, be the rock, be some kind of all-knowledgable cock. COCK A DOODLE DOO! Cluck You.
Shiver me timbers Pirating man, Yo ho ho and a bottle of fun? Fun for someone. One some, One at all, None at all. Scratch and fall.

People say, what do they say? What are they really saying? Ooh, look who’s on Britain’s got talent, or something equally as passive. Fed through a tube, 1,2,3,4,5, why do you bother being surprised?

I don't want to open the curtain, I don't want to infect the bubble with unfamiliar and utterly affected aspirations. Aspirations to give the nation sensation, confounded within some sort of inebriation station. Hey, would you like to play? Big blue eyes, a smiling, sinister mind... a wink, can you resist? Do you really want to resist? Would you prefer to persist in slowly traversing down the never-ending steps towards a predictable show?

Swaying within an inevitable conclusion, my skins crawls, the nails itching to rip themselves from their hand-like masters and crawl to an unfathomable deep, dark, destitute HOLE... oh how holy. The purity overwhelms me.

Reggae gages the regular rhythm and pisses over it with a disgustingly cheerful vocal voice, maybe it's just that time of the morning. I think I should have had some warning. Eyelashes a flutter, one eye slowly cringes, the mouth twisted simply to provide reassurance to my poor withered nose. You nose it. It knows you. It most fucking definitely knows me. The bottle is growing slowly more despicable, but still it crawls down my throat in an animated reverie. Very very real and wrinkled.

I hope you will enjoy this show, the actors have been rehearsing themselves into some purification of insinuation. If not their entrails will be gift wrapped around their smallest toes and presented to you as some kind of honey-glazed fantasia.

Are you ready? Will you ever be ready?

Either way, I now introduce the mangled monopoly of midgets.....

Midget 1 : Say, golly gosh, my teeny little toesy woesy are tingling with anticipation at our preparations for the annual Jurassic gigolo group's meet.

Midget 2 : Oh Oh same here compadre, i get a little electric shock at the very though at such esteemed personnel being present within our meagre compound. But oh my, they did choose us, and I think we should truly give as good as we got in this stupendous situation.

Midget 1: I couldn't agree more. Let us open the last bottle of unicorn spunk to celebrate!

Midget 2 : Oh yes, lets! Hee Hee Hee

FANFARE: YONKERS BONKERS

Midget 2 : Ooh, there they are! Quick..places places...

ALL MIDGETS ASSEMBLE A MINITURE FORMATION BASED ON ALL THEY HAVE SEEN OF DIRECTION NUMBERO 1. IT LOOKS LIKE A LACTATING PENIS. THEY ARE PROUD. GIGGLES AND HIGH FIVES ABUNDANT.

Midget 1 : (whispers) Ooooh look at number 2 gigolo, he certainly has a prance and a half. Wouldn't a bit o' that decorating my cabbages, if you know what I mean.... WINKS UNSUBTLEY

PAUSE-INTERVAL-TIME TO JACK UP SOME BLU TACK-TRUST


more cumming soon, maybe, depends how stimulated the Midgets are feeling...