Experience lies on the other side of the bubble

 

or

(Awareness, Assumptions and Projections)

Chapter 1: Breathe

I can see so much, and yet so little from my position on the open air terrace. I gaze into the perpetuation of the same view stretching ahead and behind me, in what I can only describe in the moment as ‘the optical equivalent of an echo chamber’.

It all gives me a strong sense of déjà vu, and a connection to a reoccurring dream I’ve been having. It’s refreshingly surreal and disorientating, a brief correspondence between my conscious and subconscious self.

The displacement doesn’t end there. I’m struck by the strange sense of being enclosed outside, away in a world detached from my own. A world of cavernous green and grey walls, streaked with white highlights, dotted with florescent yellows and oranges disappearing only at the limit of my perception.

Above, a crisp pale blue lid perfectly offsets the tertiary structures flanking me. It brings the detail out in the way high contrast brings out the beauty in a black-and-white photograph. It’s stark, and causes me to re-examine how I use the phrase ‘breath-taking’ in the future.

Then theres the sunlight is glaring, and it’s almost as if there are two. One beaming from the cloudless sky, and another springing up from the verge of the vessel. Two incredible sources of light and neither lending any warmth to the narrative.

The significance of my surroundings is so immense that I’m silenced by its beauty. Not only am I lost for words, but so lost in the scenery, and so present in my imbibing of it all, that thoughts and worries have been stilled and only our silent acknowledgement of each other is real.

There’s a boisterousness about the breeze, it’s no more than 12 degrees and feels cooler. It grips me coarsely and I submit to its whims as it interacts with me in a deeply sensual way; tracing my contours and caressing my curves. Todays a no underwear day and it takes very little effort to focus sensitivity on the channelling of the air between my thighs. I inhale slowly, filling my lungs, indulging my senses, savouring the taste and smell of the air, more releasing it slowly.

Caught betwixt the discourse between the sea and the sky I become attuned to the commingled roar effervescing in the realm of sound. It’s not just the wind blowing and whipping between these young Fjords of ancient rock, or the sound of the waves heaving together upstream as a team, but the transcendent buzz the two creates.

Before the cruise, I read about how the Fjords were created. Travelling down this ‘Sogn’ stretch, the longest and deepest on the continent, the description of a glacier as natures bulldozer felt understated. I can’t help but create a psychological analogy of the phenomena.

Over time, a glacier pressures and compacts itself on a landscape. Like a bad parent, toxic partner or traumatic memory. The glacier/stressor chips, carves and erodes parts of what it is impressed upon. What’s incredible is that it can leave behind disjointed messes, scarred surfaces and solitary cirques.

On the over hand it can leave behind valleys of great depths and interconnected beauty and when the right element is added to this, i.e., an oceanic invasion, or a soulmate, you can be greeted with a natural wonder and a reformed character; landscape.

I won’t say it made me emotional, but I had a moment akin to what I image it would be like to be in a ‘Zen’ state.

As we close in to the Bergen docking point I head to my cabin to change into evening attire, something sexy but comfortable. I’m strongly considering my high waisted frilly lace mauve shorts, which give the impression I’m wearing a serious mini skirt but without the vulnerability of it actually being one. I’d accompany that with a white blouse with with ¾ length frilly sleeves. Regardless, it’ll be something covering all bases, and prepared for all scenarios.

I feel compelled to jot in my note book about my ‘moment’ earlier, and I decide I need to get comfy before committing the memories to writing. I set my luggage bag on the floor, open the side compartment, slip out my gold cross classic ballpoint pen, and my journal aptly named ‘the red book’.

 

May 2nd:

“If only there were a way to capture feelings in the same way that we can capture a moment in a photograph, or a mood in words. A faithful method so one could return to the psychological and physiological nuance of an experience”.

“The Fjords are not merely a geological wonder; they’re an experience that has been crafted over centuries by a “Tilting Element” (Time Indifferent Long Term Impact causiNG element). Ravaged by what I will now describe as “Tidetere” which should only be used in terms of an initial detriment, outcome irrelevant. (Tide  – time/ Detere – rub off; cause trauma to) just like each and everyone…”

I rip the page out before I finish the sentence.

As much as it is what I felt and was thinking there’s a place between our feelings and our persona where expression can me mismanaged, and in this instance it just didn’t feel like, me.

It’s not that I take issue with what others label ‘pretension’, but it was a little disconnected from the immediacy and impact, and too wordy for me. I smile to myself, something akin to what Klay would write.

I stop to imagine what it’d be like if he were here. How much he’d appreciate the remote and natural beauty of it all. His name resonates aloud in my head a few times, and then I remember I’m going out this evening. I throw a packet of cigarettes on the bed so I don’t forget them (anxiety and hunger suppressants) and get a quick shower before changing. I think about polishing my pearl in the shower to ensure clearer judgement if the wind blows my way, but I’ve spent enough time in my head this evening already.

“The Bergen Fjords blew me away, I was drawn to coming as soon as I saw the images, but I had no idea they’d make such an impression on arrival”.

I tuck my note pad and pen under my pillow, and disembark.

 

Chapter 2: Conversation lubrication

The contrast is incredible; it’s ever so dainty and quaint. In comparison to the size and imposing weight of the landscape, the town feels suitably small. A snapshot of how fragile man is, in comparison to the magnificence of ‘Mother Nature’.

I take it all in with a spot of shopping until I bump into one of the crew members. We’ve exchanged glances, fuck me eyes, greeted by I have the goods stances. Small talk sends me reaching for a cigarette, the distraction and control lent by the familiarity of holding a burning stick is incredibly reassuring.

“You remind me of someone”, he says casually.

“Not just your demeanour and the air of authority and elegance you effuse, but you look so much like her it’s uncanny”.

I’m not sure how to respond, I’m half expecting a punchline and semi intrigued as to who he could be alluding to. It’s anticlimactic in the end, he can’t remember, “I’ll let you know before we get back to England” he promises.

I wasn’t expecting anything as charming as a comparison with a ‘Botticelli painting’, chances are it’s a z list reality TV personality or a news presenter. All the same the rush of anticipation that has dropped needs attention, and I ask him if he’s going to get me a drink somewhere.

We finding a place to drink, and the conversation steadily picks up momentum.

Bergen seems so, ‘uniform’, and the bar is very traditional; from the architecture to the furnishings, and as I was later told, the “regional music”.  I start with a ‘Corona and lime thanks’. I get comfortable at a table by a window. The neon lights in the town and starting to come on, and familiar hum of vibrant nightlife is beginning to rise.

Across from where I’m sitting, a girl places a sash around her neck. It drapes to just above her knee. I can’t help but think it’s far too long, and it’s only going to be an impediment on a good night.

I point it out to Pete as he returns with our drinks. He’s brought me back two bottles, which is a plus point in his column.

He laughs, “it’s a hen night, I’m sure she won’t be wearing much soon”.

I almost spill my drink laughing mid sip, “Your probably right” I say recalling less reasons for celebration than a wedding were I’ve wound up semi clothed, but I don’t say as much and the smile cautiously melts from my lips.

He stares at me, the silence has gone on a little longer than he likes and so he starts.

“So, what do you think of the town”? “Would you visit again”?

I’m halfway between listening to what he has to say and wondering how far I’m going to let this go. The evening’s interaction that is. He’s got a brawn about him that I like, and I appreciate the stagnant early throes of small talk. He’s older than I am, which is also always a turn on, but for the strangest reason his ears seems particularly small to me, and so I keep focusing on them.

“Another Corona, or something a little bit stronger”, he asks as I start absently picking at the label on what was the second bottle. I reach for the drinks list, “G&T sounds good”, I say, “and a few shots”? He suggests with a shrug.

I know I’m the stop after tipsy when I look up and glimpse myself in a reflection on the mirror and think for a moment that it’s my dad. I look just like him, I realise I’ve whispered to myself. I adjust my stool, and then tell Pete I’m going for a cigarette.

I lose track of both the time and how many cigarettes I’ve had, the gins gone to my head so I switch to vodka. The logic lets me down…

 

Chapter 3: Consolidation

Arundel is the final stop of the cruise before we head back to Newcastle. I flick through my diary, May promises to be busy month. I’ve daisy chained one event after another to maintain the buzz this break has given me. There’s something dreamy about the Norwegian landscape and it’s given me a different perspective on everything. The depth of beauty apparent in simplicity, as you glide past one remote spot to another you notice something unique about each.

The removed quality of a lake surrounded by evergreens, overlooked by stark grey peaks. So different from the residential suburb I call home. I’ve breathed the bliss in and I have no desire to let it go. I had my reservations about this trip, the destination and going having gone with a relative. But I’ve learnt something about myself, and restablished an understanding of my threshold.

Just like this trip, I have something coming up in mid-May, something I haven’t completely committed to, but that this trip has garnered strength to want to give it a go. My finger pressed on the date in my diary as I drift off into a fantasy, I fast forward through a worst case scenario, before taking my time through the best case.

“Hi there”, I’m shaken from my daydreaming by a familiar voice, a crew member that’s provided my journey the warm blooded attention that dissolves negative musing. Reassurance can be such a gift, especially when you believe the giver.

“I remember who you remind me of”, the voice says between puffs, passes the cigarette to me. I take a puff, the break has relaxed me, and my resolve, i.e. relapse. Exhales and continues breathily into “Rita Hayworth”.

I know the name, I can’t picture the face, but her reputation precedes her and so I smile. I’ll google her later, I think to myself, but decide not to say as much. Prime facie it’s a complement, and I leave it at that.

I flash back to the fantasy, to the upcoming event during a quiet period as we head toward to bar. I’m fall behind ever so slightly, which sparks an ignition of conversation.

“Heading to Sicily in 2 weeks, working from Southampton which means closer to home and sunnier climes”. He reaches behind the bar, looks back at me and stares intently and with purpose. Any eye contact held for longer than 6 seconds is said to be systematic of 2 things, homicide or lascivity and context discounts the former. Again, I don’t say this to him, and he saves me from my inner monologue when he suggests casually with a cheeky smile “G&T fan right”?

It’s the last night and I’m in a strange place between wishing it wasn’t and looking forward to home comforts. When I consciously decide I don’t want to think about it anymore, I silence my inner mediator.

“Another gin, then surprise me with the follow up” I say returning the smile.

I know it’s going to be a messy night, but experiences are what life’s made of, right.

 

Chapter 4: The home and the head

Ideally, a home is a place that both reflects your mind, and relaxes your mind. It should represent you, one room for the chaotic side, another for the creative, and another for the serene. All the while there will be places you can change and colour depending on your mood, for example a shelf you can place your favourite tea cup, or place the novel your currently reading resides to remind yourself to go back to it. Or simply because the front cover warms you.

At first I wasn’t aware of why I was drawing a correlation between what a home is and how much it should or could coincide with someone’s mind. But one of my May plans is a visit, a film night, at the home of a friend whose home I’d never seen before. Now it sounds melodramatic to the uninitiated, but he tells stories with everything he does. His dress senses for example, his ensembles giving a glimpse into his mood on a daily basis, even within the confines of work acceptable attire. What possesses someone to commit to any combination of items?

Then there’s his work space, an organised mess of pens, and tea bags, pictures and trinkets. Densely arranged around a metre cubed space, and even within those confines, he tells an eerie story, and without him the space is a silent portrait.

So, his home, I can only imagine what it’s like, and the thought of going alone… its ‘anxciting’ as my girlfriend would say.

The phone goes, its Pete, I smell his smell and feel his beard.

“Not the same working without you on board”. I smile, Ill fuck him if he doesn’t pursue such a sentimental course of comm’s. Naturally I don’t say as much though.

 

 

Chapter 5: The Dream

I feel myself drifting and so I start speed reading to a good place in the erotic thriller I’m reading to stop off. It’s readable but not one of the best I’ve indulged. Its 2:13 AM, I place my book mark, and then my finger in between the pages I left off at. With the pages closed against my finger I preface the last paragraph to myself before leaning over to switch off the light on my bed side table. I feel my body shrink under the blanket as I tuck myself up to my neck. It starts with a tingle in my toes, I find it so comforting and it’s usually a precursor to a great night. I recede into the comfy state of being a head on a fluffy pillow. It’s as if my body has disappeared in to the dimension of dreams before my head. But then I close my eyes and…

…The front door closes behind me, I’m in an entrance heavily draped with crimson netting. I’m in a black evening dress, and elbow length gloves. Klays voice speaks to me but I can’t see him. He invites me in and so I step forward and find myself in the gallery. I look around nervously and so my bestie steps in behind me to hold my hand. We giggle to each other, and quietly look around.

The gallery is space of magnificent depth unfolding ahead of us. The flooring is marble, pristine white and pale blue. I feel uneasy as I step onto it. It’s a disorientating ocean of cracks and details which disrupts my vestibular sense.

The walls stretch up into high ceilings covered in pictures.  Ornate frames housing every type of image you could imagine. Portraits, landscapes, surreal, photorealism, erotic, religious; I could go on.

“We have Bakewell tarts, Japanese tuna steak, and wild salmon”, he announces, before whispering into the tannoy, “come find me”.

I turn to my bestie, she looks back at me. She’s unusually quiet but I can hear her saying “we should go home” to herself.

As we tentatively make our way down the endless gallery I squeeze her hand in a silent gesture that says thanks for being here. All the same she responds verbally, “Well I don’t this place is very us and I don’t feel like having fish”.

Music seems to be coming from a particular direction and so I head toward it.  On our left hand side is an arch, and on passing through it the sounds I can’t decipher or label with a genre become louder and slightly clearer.

The hall leads to a stairway which is candle lit. Vanilla scented incense add an ethereal feeling to it, I feel immediately at home with myself as my sense of dread defuses in the mist effervescing from the sticks.

We continue down the stairway for an inordinate amount of time. The lower and deeper into the mansion we descend the thicker the smoke from the incense becomes. I beginning to fight my way through it and in the effort lose my bestie.

Eventually I find myself at the top of a stairwell, opposite where we had begun.

“Where are you”? he asks, “Just follow the ‘Dark Melody’”.

I’d explored the majority of the mansion by this point, but again I head toward the left hand stairwell through the smoke. This time a door transpires. I try to open it but it’s locked.  A key pad appears and asks for a password. The answer comes to me immediately; a name only he calls me. I type it in, the door opens and the sound that drew me toward the door became a song that I know well. Klay greets me with an embrace, licks my earlobe and whispers “a kiss is the beginning of cannibalism”. He steps back and hands me a champagne flute and says “virgins”, and I…

 

Chapter 6: Analysis

…Wake giggling to myself.

Butterflies, swimming against the currents which were awash in my subconscious. In dreams the pre conscious appreciation of your mental projection of the present is taken as fact. So basically fish can fly and up can be down. Awake, the queer elements of the dream now reveal themselves as queer and I establish them as being ‘Klay’ in abstract form. Whilst the covert and literal elements where clearly suggestive of ‘something else’.

There are so many beliefs about dreams, and a general belief that a universal reason can be given for an aspect of a dream. Like money coming to you if your teeth fall out in a dream, or a snake being something to do with an enemy in your path.

Like all things, it far more nuanced and subjective and so I take to deducing what the main elements of the dream mean to me. That is the mystery. I grab my red book, sit cross legged on my bed, and write the 5 most vivid symbols out:

The fish, the smoke, music, the mansion, and the feeling of being lost.

Aloud, I then undertake a two tiered free association task. Again jotting down the first things that come to mind in an unadulterated manner.

Fish: plenty, freedom.

Smoke: Obscure, mystery.

Music: being caught up in the moment, hedonism.

Being Lost: Out of comfort zone, confusion.

Mansion: Grandiosity, Class.

It paints a vague picture, and I jot it down.

06:00 am, had the mansion dream again, decided to unpick it.

The lure of class brought me to a mysterious place, where freedom was being offered, but I was uncertain how I felt about it. Maybe in this dream music was the third free associated word, rhythm, I had to find my rhythm on my own and go with the flow.

Sometimes it makes sense to me; sometimes it makes it harder to understand. The meaning didn’t really matter though, it was all secondary to what I was feeling; anticipation.

I lay back down and scheduled a moment for myself.

 

Chapter 7: Practical Sublimation/Self Efficacy

The party’s tomorrow, I send a suggestive message to Pete. He responds with a smiley and a question mark.

This will go where I want it to, guys are easy like that. Stroke ego, suggest a vulnerability I need him to doctor I’ll be in line to get my cake and eat it.

Movie night starts at 18:00; I arrange to meet him at 11:00. I tell him I have somewhere to be in the evening, a finite time helps direct the time. My target is to fuck by 3, if I tell him I’m leaving at 3;30, I’m sure he’ll have a similar target.

Why, well Klay and I are friends, friends and colleagues. There’s a mutual interest, a chemistry, tension and dare I say cerebral similarity. Don’t ask me why but untemper it could lead to trouble.

Anyway, taking into consideration the theme of tonight’s fair, I know I need to ensure I’m thinking clearly before I go to his house. Plus, I know what I don’t want to be hankering for before I leave his place and see the night sky and imagine what could be instore if I stayed.

Self-awareness and how to stay in control of variables you can’t control. Another facet women evolved that men haven’t. Know yourself, know your triggers, succumb to someone you more or less know, and won’t have to see every day at work… most of the time anyway.

 

Chapter 8:“The Evening”

Ok, its 18:10, I’m a little nervous but I’m feeling good. Everything else has gone as planned today down to the t and I’m certain it’ll be a great anecdote later.

I ring the bell, and take a short sharp breathe.

I whisper to myself, “Experience lies on the other side of the bubble”.

Klay answers, greets me with a kiss on each cheek (I knew he would) and comments on how fabulous I look in me jeans.

Make yourself at home, he says with an air of authority. Hi register deeper than he commits to at work. He introduces me to one of his guests, and offers me a “drink”? Pointing to an array of bottles.

He smiles; I’ve seen that inclination in a gesture before.

I smile back, “Oh go on then…”

I’ll leave you to imagine what I imagined he was imagining.

Symptomatic of something else

I fold the blade back, and squeeze the instrument in my fist. My finger tips fizz with ecstasy. Done
with it I drop the razor; it bounces before settling on the ground by my feet. I had no intention of
cutting so long and deep into her flesh. All the same, I bring her porcelain wrist up to my lips, the
moment untainted.
Savouring the subtle nuances of her fear and her scent in this emotionally elevated state, I gaze
longingly at the pearl shaped droplets beading off of her arm; and I’m mystified by the way her blood
seemed to repel light.
Her body warmed by sex and alcohol now shivered in my grasp. Her taste – divine, thicker, richer, and
sweeter than expected.
“You will be the death of me ‘darkling”, I crow before pressing my tongue into what will be a scar, the
remnant of an evening to remember.
“How so”? She retorts with all the cunning and sensuality of a goddess.
I pause, look up into her eyes, and start in humbled sincerity.
“I know I’ll need this elixir again, and again, and again”!
The confession pains me, I’m addicted!
I imbibe hungrily and forcefully in spite of her flinching. Throwing her head back in the throes of
agony and pleasure she emits a tremendous moan which echoes around the room and then…
…I hear my name and my eyes open.
“Dreaming darling”?
“Thank God for dreams”, I mutter to myself.
I sink back into my seat having jolted myself from comfort on hearing my name. I circle my ankles,
my wrists, and stretch in an attempt to shake off the fatigue.
Am I living vicariously through my dreams, or are my dreams the dangerous projections of the
repression that will eventually fell me?
I can’t have her, keep her, or even fuck her, and so I dream of drinking her; In – dreams.
Pre-empting the events of tomorrow has wearied us, and that’s before factioning in the preparation.
An understatement could appear hyperbolised in such events, one being that our mental and
physical reservoirs had been completely drained. Fucked and cannibalised would make for less
equivocal wording.
For me the biggest deal is a combination of agitations borne out of the need to communicate. One
being the faces I have to see, the falsifying of affection and compatriotism, contrived congeniality
and two, the bottling of contempt and boredom. Positive note, there will be alcohol, and at least one
‘reveller’ smart enough to be armed with narcotics.

I can see the life draining from her too, her deciduous youthfulness and cherubim cuteness enough
to deceive most, but her pallor ceased to glow and that was her tell. Sat cradling a banana milkshake
she stared placidly at the paused screen, patiently waiting for tomorrow to be other. The milkshake
was her own concoction, a recipe she wiped up to comfort herself and remind her of when she made
them as a girl with her grandfather.
As such, I head to the kitchen to grab myself a little something to settle my demons.
“Would you like anything from the kitchen dearest”?
She looks up at me wearing a brave smile. I return the soft gaze, and lean over to give her a kiss. I
caress her forehead and remove the hair from her brow. I don’t linger long enough to express my
silent empathy without inviting the tears I could tell she was holding back.
“I had the last of the crisps earlier…” she bemoans with a carefree jaunt in her voice after clearing her
throat.
“…So unless you have a hidden pack and can whip up some chive dip from scratch, then just bring
yourself”.
“Easier said than done”, I say flicking the lamp on.
My inflection suggestive of jest, but inside, deep down I wasn’t sure.
Was I going to return with a drink? Or would my mind venture further than the kitchen, lock itself in
the bathroom in a paradoxical petulant act of seeking solitude and attention. Sulking there until I
considered it, babied it and took action to relieve it.
A dream is not just a dream, I think aloud whilst pouring myself a glass of whiskey. I feel myself
descending into a trance as I watch the 15 year deep amber oak tanned liquid amend the colour of
the glass and shadow it was casting.
The whiskey splashes back from the base of the shallow tumbler. I lose track of my train and thought
and sink into the insignificance of the spillage.
I won’t miss it, the glass would seem no fuller with it, no lighter without it, my journey into the lucid
clutches of the great masseuse inebriation will be unaffected by the insignificance of the lost quota;
And yet, I have to wipe it, I can’t leave it there.
For all the gravitas of reality, this insignificance excites agitation in me. Furthermore this is not merely
a subjective neurosis, this is objective, she wouldn’t tolerate it either, should I neglect to eradicate
the existence of this ‘insignificance’ an aggressive accosting and procession of questioning would
follow from the lips of that gentle creature next door.
This irrevocably shatters the notion of its insignificance. Significance is considered as dependent on
how large a shadow the obstacle casts, and threat regarded where the shadow cast is larger than our
own. Well, this spill for all intents and purposes, possesses metamorphic qualities.
“You coming honey”? She calls no sooner had she come to mind.
Again, thrown from my train of thought, but this time it comes as a relief.

I down the contents of my glass, take a sharp intake of breathe and fill the glass up gently, recalling
my days a badminton player; ‘All in the wrist’ and ‘accuracy over force’.
These pointless phrases that dance through my memory into inexplicable significance at the behest
of the loosest connection.
“You can brain wash a man by repeating anything, no matter how ludicrous”, I offer as I head back to
my seat (the one most central and best placed amongst the speakers).
“I’m sure I could”. She chuckles.
“Are you familiar with the notion of ‘frame work of meaning’”? I ask.
“In what context”, she replies.
“Doesn’t matter” I say, my words trailing off into a mumble. “I’m talking to myself, something,
arbitrary, phenomenology…”
I set a bowl of dry roasted peanuts I have no recollection of obtaining down by the remote control.
Switching off the lamp I feel myself slip into a receptive state conducive to cinematic imbibement. My
shoulders unknot; I feel my pulse throb in my right arm.
“Cheers honey”. I say raising my glass.
“Cheers sweetie”. She retorts.
I watch for a moment as she rests her head back against the sofa, before switching off completely.
Post.
“Beautiful” I sigh, “Maddeningly astute…”- “and audacious” I hark at its conclusion.
“Psychologically surgical, wouldn’t you agree”?
A pained sense of confusion overawes me, confusion greater than I’m accustomed to, and greater
than literature or film alone can ever cast me into.
So many elements within the overt context sprang beyond the screen to asphyxiate me, as the
subtext insidiously filled the room with an undetectable noxious substance which burdened my
subconscious.
“The strangest thing about it all is the proximity I felt with the protagonist and the familiarity I
experienced toward the antagonist, and yet I’m uncertain of what I have just ingested”.
Hands on head, I give myself a brief moment before allowing the penny to drop.
“That was like looking into a godforsaken mirror”. I express with as much appreciation as contempt.
“Pardon my crudeness, but it was like finally reaching the lavatory and evacuating your bowels
having been sat in traffic, only then to have the offending materials jump out at you instead of
flushing. The dichotomy being that it would have been so much worse in your pants sat in a car,
leaving you to wonder if you could appreciate shit in your face whilst you’re stood in the privacy of
your own bathroom”.
She nods, her hand moves innocuously down to her thigh. I assume for a moment it was the starting
point to a thought but nothing follows.

Is this what I needed to see to make sense of what I was refusing to accept?
It’s as though Bergman theatricalised my situation for me to witness the pathetic futility of it all; the
absurd peskiness of the human condition inducing hope beyond hope.
“But then again, it may simply be a take on the universality of such a struggle, plotting the pitfalls,
and highlighting where there exists sturdier ground”.
I assume she’s enthralled by it all, silently making her own subjective connections with the stimulus.
I feel alert, more so that I have done fore months, electrified and edified, understood and instructed;
my mind in the midst of a frenzied flow.
“Maybe I can take what I’ve learnt and translate it all into a contemporary landscape and create a
psychological come philosophical didactic template”.
I hear myself, roll my eyes.
“A self professed misanthrope wishing to instruct others for their benefit”, I snigger with contempt.
Could I be more philanthropic in the haze of this drunken malaise. Then again, misanthropy is
complex, with the crux of the affliction dependant on the experiences that conjured the cloud.
My hatred stems from self realisation, recognising myself as being foul and disdainful, and yet more
capable of honesty and compassion than any other.
A worm amongst lice am I.
Then again, maybe an intense session of sermons fed on 5 philosophical tales, and 2 psychological
treatise I can mould them into being trust worthy”.
I laugh at my naivety again, how can I trust them to heed, understand, and follow through?
I almost bypasser how Dahmer esc my plan was as I dissected the futility of dealing with the
seemingly freethinking. They painfully assume they can forge an alternate truth, ego doesn’t allow
for cooperation, that is the error of the world we live in, bolster than sense of ego and image and
then wonder why one man can not stand aside another.
“Waste of time right honey, right… honey”?
I tune back into the room, reality, and its tangible atmosphere. It’s cold now, and the light nasal
sound of her breathing lets me know she’s asleep. So peaceful, so serene, I wonder how she
manages to maintain it with me. I feel like my unease has the capacity to dislodge anything, but
there, her hair covering her left eye, a faint glistening of a tear under the right, her hands clasped
tenderly atop her midriff, toes ever so slightly curled to draw in warmth.
I reach for my journal:
01:19 – Beethoven’s 7th
on in the background…
Persona just dislodged a portion of my mind, I need time to set it straight but I have this
inconvenience later to deal with. Speaking of which, I’m seeing my shrink at 10 as per usual and I
haven’t run through with my inner monologue what I’m going to say yet… aside from the fact that
I’m more concerned about how the event will affect her, and how her behaviour will in turn affect
me.

01:22, (In capital letters) WHAT’S To Come When The Sunrises?!
Shirts ironed, black tie is always a pleasure to wear.
I’ll pull out the floral one I bought for that anniversary dinner we had 3 years ago.
Ready to retire to bed.
Closing thoughts – I haven’t had the intrusive thoughts about cutting my penis off for a while, and I fucking hate funerals.

Misancholia

. Internal
…And no sooner had I detached from the pressing gloom of my existential crisis, did
two words swarm into my mind. Like plagues they took hold, systematically shutting
down my abilities to focus on anything else.
The two designations that initially threatened to re-submerge me, came to me
exclusively on the merits of their sonic aesthetic. Sans-context, the phonetic
relationship the two words had to one another gained new significance to me and
struck me as being overtly arousing in nature on this unusually wintery afternoon in
August.
I am anything but estranged from the words; on the contrary, in pathos imbued
literature and within the oppressive ambience of life, I am intimately acquainted with
the two lyrically harmonious adjectives. In fact, it would not be hyperbolic to suggest I
wrestled with the notions the words in question extolled and exhibited, on a daily
basis. Yet – today – upon their visit came a haunting necessity to need to construct
these words into the arbitrary realm of tangibility.
How, and via what means I would ingrain the two notions into atomic bodies I was not
certain. Would they be twin items, arbitrarily differing or opposites? In trying to make
sense of it all, I over think and lose my way. With my mind far too scattered to
dedicate analysis to a single ends, I burden myself with a headache whilst submerging
myself in nonsensical ideas.
Visualising myself holding a cranium in my left hand and a mandible in my right, I stop
short of bursting into that famous Shakespearean monologue and swap that thought
for a pair of emerald bejeweled rings.
Still in the mindset of antiquity, I imagine goblets that I would only fill with the most
bitter of beverages before deciding paintings would be more decadent.
My mind shifts gear, I move on wondering if my previous possibilities were too
derivative. I divert to relatively esoteric paraphernalia; ritualistic candles, voodoo dolls
or better yet, more suitable to their ravenous natures, a pair of vultures of the
taxidermic variety.
A significant time passes before I’m released from the catatonic state which had taken
me prisoner. Devoid of the willpower to return to an issue to resolve it, I have become
what I describe as inversely neurotic as I sicken myself with stoic poise. In my most
severe attacks, my mind races in an attempt to solve the puzzle time and
circumstance places before me, and in doing so ceases to send signals to animate my
celestial shell.
I continue to wade through a host of ideas, and weigh numerous options aided by a
glass of red wine for the sake of my health. Pharmaceutically relaxed whilst gripped
under the spell of this craven torment, I dreamily muse upon a number of pertinences:
Which of the two words has the most significant hold on me?
Which am I most pressed by, a victim to?
Which of the two speaks to me loudest and defines me most prominently?
And are the words really were divisible enough from one another to warrant
independent incarnations?
I allow the latter thought to dissolve, as I recall a philosophical symposium where Alan
Watts discussed in part, the error of using the word ‘is’. Ruminating on the crux of that
portion of the conversation I remember being struck by the simplicity of the profound
advocacy.
Nothing is the same as anything else, as everything ‘is’ its own unique entity.
The importance of the notion inexplicably ground in to me by the veracious tone of the
statement that, ‘every time you use the word ‘is’ you do injustice to the thing you’re
making comparison to’.
I take a breath. Reabsorb the nuance of the lesson whilst allowing the final sip of
merlot to sit on my tongue. Satisfied, I release the last of the full bodied splendour into
my throat. It trickles warm and soothing into my emptiness disappearing forever much
like the loving kiss of a woman. I look pleadingly to the heavens and breathe again.
I gaze around the bleak decadence of my surroundings (grey walls, medical
ornaments, and monochrome photographs) searching for a sign, answers in the air,
writings on the wall, inspiration in the ether.
An imbalance hung distilled in the air. Subconsciously sensitive to it, I found myself
choked by its presence the moment I woke. Duelling depressive and self destructive
inclinations, my mind recoils in incoherency. Heavy footed I make for my balcony but
find even my hill top view insufficient to provide solace. Forlorn I stand hand in pocket
and watch as a subtle green glow flirtatiously clings to the smog over the city; the
thought of presiding over choking constituents would usually ease the ache in my soul,
and bring a smile to my bitter lips, but today…
…today it just throws me into fraught thoughts as I disappear into my own
philosophies.
I’m tapped on the shoulder by my ‘Law Paradox’, the hypothesis that suggests
‘without law justice would prevail’. Imagine a world where the laws implicit rigidity
didn’t allow for miscarriages, and where people were kept in line by the possibility of
those they slighted taking up arms against them and obtaining what is now
colloquially termed ‘street justice’. Would you risk taking an inch from your neighbour,
if there were no leash to prevent him in turn taking a mile?
The improprieties of the human race disgusts me to no end discolouring my mood and
view on even minutiae, my arms tense up and my hands recede into fists. My
‘Religion counter offer’ comes to mind.
“Those who believe that the eradication of a belief in God would cure the ills of the
world”, I start mumbling under my breath, “are equally as naive as those who believe
solely in God”.
“For they – by proxy believe in people”!
I feel the agitation rise with the volume of my voice.
“Over 50% of the world’s population is religious, and a great many of them for better
or for worse, are fiercely so. In this they believe the figure of their adoration is
flawless.
Should these ‘personalities’ not have a flawless entity to believe in they would simply
turn that affection in on themselves or on to another leader, that of the human
persuasion.
If they cease to realise the error of their way, they will be slaves to madness. Whether
it be their own or their new found leader, and thus they are back in the mold of
pathological liabilities.
If they recognise the error of their way, and recognise themselves or their chosen
leader as flawed flesh, madness and disappointment would ensue and thus they
become a liability.
The truth of the matter is that everything and anything has the potential to be a
travesty. Everything we do or negate will eventually give rise to a natural disaster, it’s
as simple and unavoidable as that.
Thankfully, the majority of religious doctrines instill passivity, and provide four solid
walls for their practioners to enclose themselves within”. Ha, Thank God?
Wound up by the futility of wishing for an anarchistic utopia, the stupidity of the
majority, and the tyranny of the masses, I retreat to where I can focus in lieu of being
able to clear my mind and continue my contemplation of ‘the two words’ in a bath.
Upon submergence into the warm waters I close my eyes, and no sooner had I done so
two independent sculptures of women, in the vein of the thinker coalesced, prompting
me to manually placate the lascivious hunger they sewed in me.
I masturbated in the bubbles and effervescent scent of the licorice candles.
Their brilliant porcelain hue, and smooth marble bodies deceptively plush and silky to
the eye, yet femininely cold, hard and unforgiving on intimate inspection.
Their ever erect nipples sat on puffy areoles, and perky pixie-esc breasts fitting my
every aesthetic desire. Natural waistlines curve out into Amazonian hips, dripping with
the fervour of fertility and rife with my fetishistic aesthetic.
I come again just weaving my gaze around their heavenly curves in my minds eye, an
amalgamation of women I have known, loved, despised and lost, these twins will be
my making and my downfall.

It came as no surprise to me that my most significant idea was the one that presented
itself to me weightless in water in the din of a darkened room. Momentarily free from
inner turmoil, I ready myself for a self congratulatory jog to continue considering the
ontological designs of my idea, and indulge the introspection that had initiated this
journey without the distractions the abode holds.
I grab my shades, and my cap to create an illusion of insulation, and close the front
door behind me.
. External

Paradoxical axioms of self-adoration and self-loathing bend and modulate the features
of my muses and continually warped my expectation of my relationship with them.
All the while I absently retrace my usual route which takes me from the built up
affluence of my residential trappings through to rural pathways that circumvent the
area. I manage to attune myself to the change in the air as the dry scent of brick and
tarmac makes way to the comparatively moist redolence of forestry and fauna; this
aside I am externally muted.
This externality aside I proceeded on a level of sensory autopilot that didn’t facilitate
for me noticing much more than what I had usually perceived on said trek, and so I am
as shocked as I am unsurprised at finding myself prone on the ground with my nose
but an inch from the dirt trail. The scent from down here significantly different. The
smell of wet dog and coyote excretions cling to the ground where the high winds are
not present.
On rolling over into an upright sitting position, I first notice the blemishes to my
garments, and knees before my gaze wanders and I clap eyes on the obstruction that
felled me.
A tan briefcase which may I say had the tonal qualities suited for allowing it to blend
into its surroundings.
The briefcase is completely unremarkable, tan with black chrome buckles, but on the
top left corner of the opening side an embroidered eyeball branding. Inexplicably, a
branding I have no familiarity with.
Once the pain suitably subsides I rise to my feet, and with renewed clarity of thought
collected the briefcase into my possession.
I instinctively bring the case to my nose to ascertain the authenticity of the leather, its
real, the potency of the aroma triggers a tick, I feel a nerve pull in my neck, erotic
thoughts of bondage attempt to distract before my priority turns to immediately
returning home.
Every sense alive and alert, I attempted to remain as inconspicuous as possible, and
at pains to remain calm as a number of extreme possibilities plague my mind.
I consider whether the briefcase contains the payoff for handover to a kidnapper;
would leaver or collector be more peeved?
The inconvenience of arriving to find nothing, the appropriation of contents, the
wasted time and in vein planning, all feasible grounds for seeking reprisal.
Maybe the case is a plant by the C.I.A, traceable and bugged?
At best I’m walking with an urgent skip in my step, yet I hyperventilate with the
breathy pants of a victim of cancerous lungs.
It’s not until I’m home, gin in hand, slicing an accompanying shard of cucumber whilst
contemplatively massaging two rocks around the beaker that I’m able to reach the
conclusion that maybe, it was simply just my lucky day.
The spontaneous pained cracking of the ice draws my attention from my anxiety. I
watch as the audible fades to inaudible, subtly and unheard a ridge permanently alters
the once flawless landscape, and it comforts me to know that something so
quintessential and solid can crack on contact with something as un-oppressive as a
still fluid.
I fade back into the illusory present.
Maybe the case contained drugs, or drug money, an organ awaiting sale on the black
market, and the owner was found in a compromising position where in order to
conceal or avoid apprehension, they swiftly discarded of the case and in doing so
completely lost sight of where they had thrown it.
“Inconsequential”, I exclaim aloud in a huff, annoyed by my seemingly persistent
endeavour to
insist upon a negative. I bite down on my tongue, it offers me an immediate focus, as I
attempt to re-balance my mind.
Chopin’s Mazurka No.6 in tow, I manage to quiet my mind to a comfortable buzz. A
hum I have grown to accept, and my next agenda is to reveal, in the confined privacy
of my office space, the contents of the case.
. Final
The combination, 528 491, that I found the brief case set upon failed to open the case,
alongside a number of further futile attempts at slight alterations. I cycled through the
usual preset combinations before attempting an arbitrary range of creative
possibilities. I considered ‘Googling’ the probability rate of happening upon the right
combination but decided against it, I wasn’t too concerned about having to break into
the case and so I tried one last combination.
150 192, a series personal to myself, and simply a final civil attempt before the
negotiation changed tone; and to my perplexed amazement, the case opened.
“Coincidence is the sceptics providence”, I exclaim, a maxim I have long used.
Inside the case I find a box, ‘Machiavellian’ etched into it, clearly made to fit, the
ashen box, matte and dull in colour fit the dimensions of the case exactly. Attached
with electrical tape I find a small key, I remove it and once again find the eye brand, in
the middle of which sat the key hole.
I run my finger over the grooves, the hairs on my arm stand to attention as the
exhilaration of the moment became awash with sensuality.
Serendipity struck a third time as my favourite, and most tristful of the Mazurkas,
lugubriously filled the room with an air of mystery, I proceed to unlocking the box,
placing and turning the key in the key hole at the top left of the box.
A clicking of a loosening latch followed and the box ever so slightly slid open revealing
a felt lining, magenta in colour. I slide the lid aside and gasp at the sight of ‘twins’.
Prior intrigue answered I wonder, has my entire ordeal been a venture of divine
conception?
Ornate yet contemporary, I marvel at both the presentation and the craftsmanship of
what I beheld.
9mm pistols with transparent handles and clips, filled with chrome bullets and adorned
by the phrase, ‘Eloquentia sagitta’ across both shafts. Trite, and ironic I chuckle at
the juxtaposition it poses. Custom made by someone with impeccable taste, every
feature lovingly sculpted to represent the owners taste, and all seemingly done for me.
“What beauties you are to behold”, I say to them, expressing my love, so they were
aware of the appreciation I’d garnered in them.
“What majesty in tools of destruction”, I continued as pangs of emotion strike moving
me to involuntary silence. My lip trembles before my truest friends spring forth to
comfort me.
Tears, my oldest allies free me, accompanying the feeling of overwhelming
appreciation that overawed me, soothing the sudden awareness of loneliness which
begat me in my moment of wanting to share my feelings of pleasure about my new
found possessions.
Tools that could be used to end pain or inflict pain, out of hatred or mercy, malice or
misery, and most pertinently out of the result of the two locutions that came to me
this morning, Misanthropy and Melancholy.
I grip them with an urgent necessity which sat upon, as I conclude that these are and
always have been ‘Melancholy and Misanthropy’; I gulp, swallowing hard on the excess
saliva that had built up in my mouth drowning my tongue.
Humbled yet overwhelmed by an excitation that staggered my breathing, I turn to the
mirror above my desk to view myself as the empowered embodiment I envisioned
myself being with these beauties at each arm.
I turn with the strict intention of looking myself in the eyes, to gaze into the abyss in
the hope that it would gaze back, but I find that my anticipated reciprocated gaze is
obstructed.

I find that pressed against my temple, is the ‘entity’ I am holding in my left hand,
whilst the other points directly at my reflection in the mirror.
I smirk; I see the expression on my face alter from staged power to fear. I notice this,
and that I’m no longer wearing my cap and this throws me into a fit of wild laughter.
“Of course”, I chuckle aloud, “The joke is on me”.
Melancholy feels cold yet comforting against my skin, she whispers in my ear that she
can free me instantaneously from my earthly woes and worries, that she can take me
to a theatre where I would be the main attraction, and exquisitely entertained.
Misanthropy harps in, pointing aggressively, prodding and shouting words of disgust as
it obstructed my face. Pointing out my hubris and cubidity, my narcissism and
maladaptivity, my folly and pointlessness, I drowned in a self realisation I was unable
to deny.
Misanthropy calls me up on my flaws and patheticness, but insists I’m not alone. There
are many less worthy than you, an infinite number, end them and then yourself it
hisses.
“Cease your introspection”, Melancholy coerces, “Listen no more to
the venom of my brother, and heed the nectar of my words”. Her
demure charm reacquainting me with my tears.

“Trust in me, you’ve felt me, you’ve seen me, now finally you must
hear me”.
She kisses my temple again.
This time deeper, and with more intent than before.
She whispers words that replace the cold in my heart, and pain in my soul with an
indescribable lightness which opens my eyes.
I Pause.
I pull the trigger.
I hear nothing.
…and in the moment before the light fades to black, I wonder, ‘which entity was really
which’.

Imagine if you can…

“But it never happened”, she said. “So how can it be relevant”?!

I stopped to consider for a moment.

Not her stance, nor mine, but how to make her understand the ‘relevance’ as opposed to simply asserting it.

“Imagine if you can”, I began, “that someone kidnapped your son and you believe him to be dead”.

I’d taken the scenario to a dark and tangible place, tangible being the operative, and as of now missing element.

“You couldn’t find him, you couldn’t see him, and with every day that passed circumstance and catastrophic thinking asphyxiated hope and left you with your prominent assumption”.

A snap shot of my predominate cerebral process.

“Imagine then that the kidnapper was spotted on CCTV. The suspect was then named as he was known to the authorities. With this, his history of suspected child abduction and killing mooted”.

The knowledge of a long standing proclivity, underlining the basis, for the strength of later assumptions.

“Then imagine the kidnapper had a type, a fancy attached to said proclivity, young boys, fair-haired, rosy-cheeked. You look at the portrait of your son and his rosy cheeks and fair hair breaks your heart”.

“Where would your mind go from there”?

Cause, reason, and outcome.

“And then imagine you spoke to the kidnapper, and he laughed and denied he ever took a fancy to boys, assured you he’d never been turned on by prepubescent rosy cheeks, and never masturbated at the thought of running his fingers through the fair hair of a child and then with a cold earnestness told you your son was alive”.

“What would incline you to believe his closing statement considering the calculated lies told before”?

Do you see how destructive diluting truth with lies can be. The human attraction to morbidity and inclination toward the negative voids every word.

“Tell me then, would the truth comfort you, the fact that your son was alive, would it render all things irrelevant or would you still be suffering the mourning ache of loss in lieu of having uncovered the truth for yourself”?!

Now let me tell you. The mind makes everything real, and what it believe is real until it no longer believes it irrespective of whether it is true or not!

Crush #

Variances in equilibrium can be fatal.

The slightest excess tipping the balance will throw the weight bearer to the sharks.

I sunk once and now speak from the pit of experience.

A place where rain ascends and pain transcends.

It was her eyes, and I drowned at first sight.

I’d occupied depths so desperate light shied from its corners, yet she managed to pull me deeper than I’d ever been.

And as I sunk deeper in her, and the pressure built to a critical point
I found myself in a soothing environment.

Yet, what once nurtured me was now killing me, and I found myself below the collapse depth, crushed in a place from which I was no longer in a position to recover from.