sometimes i feel as if life is one big tranparent wave of emotion that would be impossible for us to outface. Because if it was, then what would be the point? The meaning? There would be nothing. The whole meaning to learn and progress as well as just BE would be gone. Nothing would be enjoyed, for it would not be seen through the windows of any other circumstance. No other option, no opposite diversion, just the same minimal track of depthless simplicity, no guide or point because their would be nothing to attatch it to. Just emptiness. It echo's within me to think how that would be. To imagine being nothing inside, meaning nothing. To be is to mean, and to mean is to be. And to be nothing, would be my ideal hell. To dispose of the something vreates a physical nothing and you see, how that so perfectly creates room for a mental somethig, and for that to be meaning the phsycological something was there all along. But then that would be impossible to, because after all, how can we create a physical nothing?
Today was so different. It was one of those days were you end up dwelling on the real matters in your heart a little more. Not much like how i do everyday, where i think about it all the time at the back of my mind and at certain times of the day depending on the thing i am doing it becomes a little more vivid and interesting and at other times boring and unecassary. I actually try my hardest to avoid them to be honest, because no matter how emotionally beneficial they can become, there is always some part of them that suffers because of it. Maybe it's the last remaining shreds of innocence. Of my mind stretching to a little further experience of thinking it each time i do.Perhaps it's the conscience, for some related matter. Perhaps i believe i've done something to deserve all the bad thing's that happen to me and i shouldn't dare to want anymore or hope or contemplate the possibility of it, because maybe i think a certain way that is wrong or i do thing's differently to others and that is wrong. And perhaps i just don't want to believe what the future holds. What future holds, beyond life, even. Perhaps something i don't understand is not something i am worthy of having. Isn't that what is said in the Bible or something to that notion? About how heaven is only deserved to the who believe in it. And God and everything relating to him.
I don't want to go to heaven, not neccasserily in the strict afterlife order that people talk of. I want to feel heaven. I don't even know if it's the same heaven everyone else thinks of. And i don't know why but a tiny part of me feels ever so wicked for feeling that. Like it's expecting more than i deserve or it's not right. Or it's a sickly alluring trap that appears attractive like the harpies in Jason and The arganoughts who drew sailors to their island with their angelic voices before feeding on them alive.
So this is why i get nervous thinking about such intensities to which the heart is curious. As much as it enthralls me to explore the idea of that unknown, it silently punishes me to. An overcome of hollow dryness.
When i woke there was nothing to it. It was just another casual day where i had nothing to do and no one to do it with. The Goldfish barely ceases to entertain after the first few months of owning him, no matter how much you tell yourself he is. The pasta in the cupboard becomes very common. It only just occurs to me how much i dispise artificial light. The Sun is probably the biggest object created by nature within our sight. Man has recreated the resource of the largest object of nature with disgusting lamposts flickering yellow rays and huge built in bulbs raging at 150 watts in your eyes every Monday morning at 7:30 when you feel half dead and your mum is bellowing the school song in your ear. Oh dear, bad memories. Thank God the times that created them over. At least all this free time isnt being packed with intruding school hours that were never of much point to my education given the lack of PASSION the teachers applied to their job. Because at the end of the day, that's what makes a job well done. Determination means it get's complete, passion means it already is. That's if the intention to which it is invested is not planned on being savotaged by jelous downsiders.
Lifting up my phone at the side of my art desk, i checked my messeges half hopefully, imagining an amazing beautiful text of Jack describing how much he wanted to see me again and kill my emptiness with vibrant sex. I giggled, and then sighed doubtfully as i saw their was only one messege from someone i didnt even like which was of no importance or at least not a spark to my interest like i needed to satisfy my craving for a buzz. All hope was lost, when i realised how sick i felt when i thought of the pasta in the cupboard.
I arised from my pit, which was the sofa as well as mine and Antony's bed, and scarpered to the kitchen gleefully in the hope of something of which i did not know just quite yet. There really truly was fuck all that was so needed to be done that i could do it. Why did i want to anyway? I'm usually lazy. When i'm not deadly set on completing something that no doubt will gain me some rewarding of some type.
I notice how dad doesn't line up all the recipe essentials on the chopping board the way Sean did when mum and him were married. Nor does he have everything arranged perfectly in precise order in the fridge the way Sean did. Or in the cupboards. I'm not used to it being so different in these little ways. It's different because their are crumbs on the table. Sean always had everything tightened up and locked back away the minute he had finished using it. Every last crumb was disposed of after cooking, and i found myself in an inevitable habbit of making sure that job was checked. Dad has different habbits entirely. Half of everything he used last night is still hanging about on the side boards. Stuff like biscuits and butter. Crumbs galore. Not a cloth in sight. I feel glad that i now live with my dad again, and i mean that. The gut instinct i sometimes become aware of tells me that, for some reason that has nothing to do with the kitchen or anything, that i am, perhaps, just now, safe?
Wow, it's only now that i notice how different everything else is. If you compared the house to a person, the person would be a reformed character that no one would believe. Dad has papers on the floor, of which some are from last week. I counted a short number of small marks on the wall which hadn't been painted over. Totally unrecognisable marks, but still, i could not imagine them in Seans and Mums former house. Neither could i imagine these interesting looking tools lying around or the few shavings from the wood dad had been drilling a whole through last night, keeping me awake. I definitely couldn't imagine a goldfish. And oh my goodness, no way in hell could i imagine a dog in their home! Mum had always fluttered on childishly about how she'd always 'fancied a dog'. I would often joke and reply that that had been dad not her, to which she would correct me that it was his former girlfriend, rather than herself. Hence the woman he dated post divorce. Anyhow, mum arised the notion to Sean one day, and that was the last time she ever spoke of it. i don't know where mum is right now. i feel sorry for her. I want her here with me. she doesn't seem like herself. i hate it when people change, it confuses me. It frightens me because i know there is always a reason for change, even though change is inevitable.
The home phone rang midway thought. It would have startled me or something being in a mass of pause at that particular moment but it didn't. It was Elena, from my course. She needed to see me urgently about filework concerning our essay on light, which seems to be all we ever spoke about in Photography now. I felt a little displeased and unsettled at this sudden preasure out of my cosy little settlement i had for myself right now, but only in that small way you naturally do. I was obliged to take a shower and apply a cake of make up to see how good i could look, even if it was for nothing. I often find that the more appealing i look the more sppealing i feel. That way at least if there's nothing to do then there's something to do it with. To elaborate physical talent, the type that doesnt require action. Becoming your own project, almost. Must be quite how those lifeless models live. Hollow would be a better word, for that is the word i use for mental emptiness that means nothing but aquires (with respect) shallow forms of occupance to make it barable.
As a walked to the bus, dad messaged me to bring down a shirt in a bag with a receipt that he needed to take back to a shop. He'd forgotten to take it to school with him to return on the way back for a smaller size, and asked me to drop it in at aunty Charbonnet's resturant on the way back for her to do it. Tutting, i slumbered back to the house and searched amongst piles of newly bought prizes for the forgotten shirt. It was nice, but i hated the idea of going into aunty Charbonnet's resurant and embarassing myself by hanging around for her. It was a very explusive place invested by her boyfriend and she and him ran the 'Pizzeria' with the help of z ton of elaborately dressed waiters and waitresses quite obliged to do whatever they were told at the wages they were paid, or so i am told. It's very expensive, and is the sort of place people take you for a treat and where you wouldn't usually see your friends. I have to say the wine i've tried made me very very happy last time i dined there. Dads welcome home treat.
Oh and how different is aunty Charbonnet to dad? So much more sophistiocated and preserved within herself and her actions. Dad doesn't much care what he does or how he looks doing it, which i suppose in a light is a positive way to behave but in others it can be extremely risky. He does, however, care an awful lot about how he looks to his pupils at shitty Grayrigg, which is pointless in my eyes because those kids shall never change and have no hope at wanting to stand out and become something. But i can tell by the way he talks about it that he takes his job very seriously and is intent on giving something back to those kids. Something tells me that that isnt exactly the way the cookie crumbles with aunty Charbonnet, who i think perhaps tries her hardest to look commited but is actually sitting nervously basked within a whirlwind of idea's taking form of life around her that she is possibly in the long run incapable of handling with great success. It's a bit like that. All unsensemaking and ironic. Dad looks like he isnt bothered, but is actually very comitted about his work, where as aunty Charbonnet is all front with certainty and determination but doesn't withold the correct tools (passion) to match.
I handed it to her as soon as i saw her. It was a little abrupt, charging through rows of tables and prodding it in her face in a hurry, to which she looked most uncomfortable and unenthuesed.
''Ah yes'' She concluded, taking hold of it awkwardly, ''Steves shirt? He rang''
I smiled uncomfortably and raised my eyebrows, scarpouring my hands to my back pockets ''Must mean a lot to him then''
''Mm'' She mumbled, briefly glancing it over in the bag. She refaced me. ''I'll see to it. Are you okay chick? You look sweated''
''Erm. Yes'' I hesistated, before realising i was meant to be in a hurry at this point
''Shit i gotta go, Smelenor's waiting at cafe in town'' I babbled, pulling an odd expression
''Not that rude girl who keeps ringing up and asking for tips, surely'' Charbonnet questioned before i found the second to dash
I rehesitated, then laughed.
''Does she? She seemed like a bit of a kiss ass'' I smiled, amused
''Yeah. I was trying to finish that dam paintwork in your dads stting room the other day and all i could hear every five minutes was this 'Elenor' girl on the answer phone going on about God knows what about light''
A couple of waiters tried to slip around us while we spoke. Charbonnet didn't do anything about it. I suddenly realised that i needed to get straight to the bus right that very second.
''Yeah okay. That's what i have to see her about now probably. Anyhow i have to get off, i'll see you later''
''Okay sweetheart, enjoy yourself''
She said it so distinctly as if i was having a day out and i was curious to know what she had meant, and as i was turning to leave i quickly spun round again for a minute, ''Enjoy myself?''
''Yeah'' She replied birghtly, ''Your obviously off out somewhere nice dressed like that. Or hoping to bump into someone special perhaps?''
I wanted to cower away right there and then but common sense resorted me to a look off confusion before nodding awkwardly and running out with the waiting bus being my very exuse. The nodding was totally pointless and i don't know why i did it just to please her. I hate doing thing's to please other people. It's just she sounded so sure that she was right that i almost felt trapped, within that particular second, of believing it myself.
I missed the bus. Or more embarassingly i took the wrong one, which has only ever happened once when i was a child and which i cried over and left me traumatized with embarassment. It was just the abselout worst thing that could have happened to me there and then, and finding that when i managed to get off at the first place possible i had a long way to walk before i could find my way back to the village. Not only that, but during my brief encounter on the bus, it had began to rain quite heavily. It was a very bleak day, and i should have expected it, i just didn't expect it to come down so hard. But what am i saying? I love rain. It's water, and water is a good thing. The only thing that makes raining seem negative, really, is the cold and the generally cloudy skies (plus other obvious annoyances such as hair/make up/paper related objects). Ultimately rain with sunshine is always beautiful, and can be the creation of something beautiful. Hence rainbows. And you never ever are that upset about it when it happens. But somehow, just now, at this point in these clothes with this make up and with skies so grey yes, it was not so marvellous. All i could do was fantasise about my cosy messy house which felt lightyears away at that stage.
As i trodged through the continuous cicle of puddles i managed to get a rough recolection of my reflection. I bagen to see and fake believe like an intoxicated person, remembering how it felt to be intoxicated with alcoholor a drug of some sort. Not anything major, i never did that, but the lighter enhancers, enhancing my moods a nd adjusting my personality to substance of the dose. I often like my senses to become out of control, but only when i am in the calming knowledge of a secure surrounding, with people who will divert me if i turn toward a downward spiral that will lead to no good. I love the feeling of a negative mood being devoured by an immense sense of oblivion which will dissolve the doubt and the worry burdening on the mind. I'm not naive. I know it is a danger and a threat to me and many others to believe and act upon this. Sometimes, i convince myself that i do not care, telling myself there is nothing now that i cannot overcome and detatch myself from once it tries to melt me into it's demands. Perhaps it is my aspirment to give into temptation that makes excuses. Perhaps i simply believe that a darkness worth writhing throughout is a darkness worth believing in.
I began to imagine my reflection more and more, as i walked through the graveyard, past the old church, rain becoming thicker and faster. Rain that blurred the scenery, my open outward view of the world, so that i had barely much option than to rcollect over the most frequent mental image, my reflection. The one in the puddles, the water, the rain. I love it. Thats a darkness in itself, the water. It is dark in it's ability to kill.
What captures my interests
The ability to divert my attentions, in comparison to the desires of my heart. Completely opposite thing's in so many ways. Diverted attention is what attracts your general awareness by being something one would aughtomatically look at if it were there, happening, like an eye opener, something different. An occurance or object of unusual disposition, of somewhat unfamiliarity to general seeings, to which is why it is not dismissed into the ruitine cycal of which we are familair with and there for lack specific notice of. For so used to everything we generally experience on a daily basis that we cease to be captivated by it. What does it take to divert my attentions, well, even i cannoy describe in full listed immaculate detail of what such a capability must withold for i do not know. If i knew of these thing's then they would not be so much of an unusuality to me, for i would be plainly familiar with them and there for have grown accustom to the knowledge and awareness of them which would fastly disintigrate my draw to them, there for making them unworthy aspects of diverting my attentions. Of course i know of the general things that everybody would easily be distracted by, such as corruptive happening in the middle of the process of an orderly daily activity, but such thing's of personal meaning that for a particular reason, regarding my experience, resorted a tremmer in my mental energy, an aughtomatic curiosity in my thoughts, such as something being brought up relating to a situation or name from the past. An object or even a mere presence of which i could not physically see. Subconsciouse awareness can be just as empowering as conscious.
A total stranger could easily tamper with what felt like a world of unsettling bittersweet history with even a mention of something that was in any way related to a minor something Jack could have been saying or doing at any time we were together.
One evening i sat in violin class. A fully attended group of adults and college graduates surrounding me, all sophisticatedly proportioned and expressed in appearance and preservation. I still falt like the child of the group, despite having very much settled and welcomed into it by now by all members and despite the one boy attending that was a year younger than me. In my personal opinion he was even a step or two more skilled, although nobody else seemed to think so and i never said anything of it.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment