Writer’s
block:
She
stands on a craggy mountain ridge of her own creation. She knows the slope
well. The feel of the clay, the exact shade of red, the way the foot prints
follow a different path than originally intended, all are there because she is
there.
She
spun this world with no end in sight, as she has done with every world before
it. There is no map and darkness begins to draw in.
The
people below walk the same road, up and down, up and down. It is not long but
it has many slopes and blind turns; it is not a safe road, the ground is not
steady, the trees are not kind. The road goes nowhere, blocked on both sides by
a giant iron wall that knows no limits, refusing exit or entrance; it stands
completely mute, waiting for her order. The longer she waits, the more lost to
their purpose those people become. She sees some who were originally unknown to
each other speaking on the road, realising things intended for oblivion.
She
wonders if she will ever get back to those distant wanderers. She gave them
life but cannot remove that which has already been created. She has no power to
extract them from that dark, half-lost corner. She turns from the valley, now
encompassed by the shadow of the mountain on which she stands. There they will
remain; haunting the place where she dreams.
Climbing
Soap:
“My thought is me: that is why I cannot stop
thinking. I exist I think because I
cannot keep from thinking.”
~ Jean
Paul Sartre ~
He sat
looking out of the window at the rain. The small gold clock that ticked the
sound track to his life belonged to his mother. He thought of belongings. He
had several in his tiny flat: there was the war memorabilia, ten medals laid
out proudly in a perfect line on his dresser, other items stashed carefully in
a locked suitcase under his bed. There was also the sofa with the colourful
patch work quilt that had been here when he arrived and the shot gun mounted to
the wall over the television that didn’t work properly. There was the kettle,
the cups: three of them, with blue stripes; eleven stripes on two but thirteen
on the third. There was a chip in the third cup, it was his least favourite and
he refused to use it. There were spoons, five of them arranged in a neat row on
the kitchen counter, their handles tilted left at 30 degree angles. Three of
them were the only things remaining from a wedding set, he couldn’t recall
which, or where the rest of it had gone to. The other two were likely picked up
along the route of his life; he only ever used the second to the left. Used it,
washed and dried it and put it back where it belonged. He had a fridge; inside
the fridge were some milk and two meals on wheels meals brought in by his carer
that morning.
He had
a carer; he almost thought of her as his possession, like a pet but with
slightly more independence. She came every day at the same time, purred around
his foot a while, asked him, ‘are you alright’ or ‘ok’ or ‘how you doing love?’
Her name was Annie, it suited her jovial disposition. She knew his routine now
and so she was fine, a minor annoyance sometimes with her questions and smiles
on rainy Sundays, but usually she entertained him somewhat and he was glad of
the company. It was when she was off sick or on holiday or doing something else
that there was a problem. It was a big problem and an impending one, the cause
of much anxiety and frustration over a series of consecutive weeks. He had
calculated it: it was exactly 30 days since she’d told him that she would be in
France for two weeks and that he would have someone else encroaching on his space,
‘She’s
really lovely, honest. I’m sure you’ll get on great!’
The
hour of her last dinner time visit was fast approaching and then in front of
that lay 336 hours, maybe more if she was late back from the airport. He had
calculated around 20160 ticks of his mother’s golden clock.
He went
back to counting the rain drops that were falling over the streets of Brixton.
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