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the archive(s):
issue no. 6:
Neutiquam Erro/ Cantlin Ashrowan
The pale world was long yet to wake. The light was cold: grey like softer shades of pigeon's wings, which fluttered at intervals across the tiled roofs; across the lawns, wet with morning tears, and the humble shadows of chimneys against the early dawn. Through bricked up windows, in plaster and stone, there lay the silent breathing of the bedside, and the quiet ticking of clocks, making their way through each voiceless moment toward the second of waking. I inhaled. The windowsill was of a paint façade, cracking over poor timber bones. An hour past, I had lifted the pane that curtailed my vision, and I felt the morning air keenly upon my cheeks. It drifted down through my collar, loosened and disregarded, into the warmth of my body, and brought the shuddering chill of Earthly reawakening to my chest. A gust of wind swirled a school of leaves far distant, sweeping a dozen up for a moment, and resettling them in their nest as birds not yet ready to fly. I exhaled. I watched my hand's descent from my mouth to its resting place on my knee, perched in stillness upon the window ledge, and felt again the caress of the morning air. My eyes flickered to the clouds, only now finding the courage to form amidst the great expanse of pale blue-grey. I knew the slight wet which coated the knee patch of my corduroy trousers, amplifying the cold. I knew my foot's coldness against the cheeks of my buttocks, crouched as I was upon one leg's doubled form; I knew the chill embrace of the window's right extremity on my shoulder, and of my sockless foot, dangling down into the relative warmth inside the sky. I inhaled. I considered the window blinds, which had been dangling above my head for the entire night. I loathed them, in so much as I loathed anything. Their grey, speckled shafts precariously held by misbalanced string ropes, disgustingly perched above me, rattling to disturb the stillness. Somehow, I couldn't summon the will to remove them. I inhaled once more rather quicker than was my wont. Thoughts of the window blinds always provoked a strong reaction in me. Considering that my smoke was almost finished, I thought on my desire to smoke further.
***
Unconsciously finding myself casting a glance above me to the blinds, I searched my pockets for my tobacco and papers. Not in my left pocket. Not in my right pocket. I inhaled. There was a possibility, I supposed that I had left them behind me, on the bed, or the floor. I sighed, and, shifting my posture for the first time in an eternity of sitting, scanned the room. Not on the bed. Not on the floor. I wouldn't have put them somewhere else. I looked anyway. Then came a minute flutter, which recalled to me the pigeons I had watched moving through the air. A letter lay on the doormat, obscuring its contemptuous message. The letters 'W' and 'e' were clearly visible, then came the block of the envelope, and after that half of the letter 'c' and the final 'o', 'm' and 'e'. I opened the letter. It was a recitation of a poem by Byron, 'Bright be the Place of Thy Soul'. I recalled I had introduced her to the poem some years ago. Taking my scarf from the floor next to the door, I took hold of the knob and busied myself with wondering whether the off license would yet be open.
In the sky, the clouds were gathering momentum. The spotlight of the sun woke them from night, and they felt eyes upon them. They spoke softly with each other, drifting in the wind. They talked the same talk as on each dawn of every day, and spoke it in words formed from eddies of white. They exchanged greetings like passengers on a long road, glancing out their window panes and waving to each other as they moved steadily along on engines of wind. The great mind that was all of them debated slowly on the coming day. I stopped for a moment to give them a mental wave, and steadied my gaze forward. The clouds reached their verdict. High above the tiled roofs, in a body of thick grey white, liquid emerged from the vapour. Bidding goodbye to its mothers, it allowed gravity to take it. And as before, and as it will be again, it gathered speed, embraced a torrent of force, and accumulated gifts of water all around. A pinhead became a droplet, rejoicing. Knowing its fate, but knowing nothing of it, it felt the sun, and the air, and all that surrounded it. I didn't see the first raindrop fall, nor the second, nor the third; I did not see the clouds turn like the cogs of some great machinery. I thought of the grey of the pavement, and the tarmac of the roads. I observed tiny holes in the road like blemishes of a long endured disease. And then, when it had started to rain in earnest, I sent my eyes upward, and felt drop upon tiny drop disperse on my forehead. Irritated at the prospect of my scarf becoming damp, I hastened my pace. Knowing the futility of this, feeling the cascade of water become a heavenly waterfall, I slowed down again. What good is running from the weather? Why bother being dry? What good is dryness to my consciousness? A smile twitched the sides of my mouth as the downpour started to permeate my coat. It was a good coat, fashioned in black and travelling down to my knees, with buttons of black and a firm resistance to the wind. It was no good in rain, though. I at once hated and loved the rain: it always inspired that irritation, and then that pointlessness, and now this rejoicing. Let the rain come! Let it drench me, and let the wind rap upon me in endless gusts! The door of my mind is open to you, Earth, will you not drench me, will you not blast me empty of all that I am? It could not, and I had to restrain myself from pushing my arms out from my sides to embrace it. So cold and emotionless, yet so glorious and momentous. "I'm singing in the rain," I said, "Just singin in the rain, what a glorious feeling..." I trailed off, and then murmured quietly to myself, "I'm happy again." Irritated by the words, I was utterly annoyed by the unwanted presence of someone else on the street. An old woman was walking with her raincoat snugly around here, with an umbrella and hat to match, looking firmly at the ground in front of her. I smiled as she passed, and instantly hated myself for it. Why smile? I consoled myself in the rain, which seemed to be reaching its climax. This didn't last long. It appeared to have already spent itself too early in the day. Sighing inwardly, I walked into the off license.
"Baccy and skins." I said. "Drum," I replied to his questioning look. "Rizlas, blue. Normal size." Feeling I'd let the conversation get out of hand, I hastened to clarify myself. "25 grams. Thank you. Here is your money." He started smiling at me, as was obviously his habit after serving a customer, but evidently realizing he didn't like me, quickly stopped and attempted to assume the cold glance which he observed on my face. As is the case with people attempting to appear contrary to their mood, the look was ill-placed on his face. I picked up my things, realized I'd forgotten to buy any matches, and went to the door. For some reason I waved to him on my way out. Irritated again, I walked out into the wet but no longer glorious street.
The blue outside was unrelenting. The pale light of the morning, which had so caressed my mind, had given way to a painful blue. The scene was all ajar with my thoughts. Pigeons, once so grey and beautiful, sparkled now like fools gold in the tapestry of the sky. Light caught the imperfections of the world with a stark malice. The sun gleamed mockingly. I cursed it in my mind: "Burn on," I accidentally said out loud. I inhaled. I wonder why I said that. Why did I say that? The landlord came to ask for the rent. I pulled out a draw, took seventy pounds from within, and gave it to him. He nodded, and I closed the door. I hated him. He quietly came every week, with barely a word, and I handed him money, and he left me again. He thought he knew something. Thought I liked my solitude. I inhaled. Thought I didn't want to be disturbed. Thought I didn't like talking. Thought I was enigmatic, mysterious. I exhaled. I hated him. The pleasant damp of the morning was gone. The windowsill was properly wet now. It soaked the lower parts of my trousers as I sat in my usual posture. I put out my smoke. "Bright be the place of my soul," I mused. My cat ventured out of from under my bed. I thought for a moment, and decided at length to give it a stroke. I did so, and it went back under the bed. I glanced at the day outside, repulsive as it was. I couldn't find the will to sit back on the ledge, nor to lie upon the bed. Habit was the only thing that ever made do anything these days. It wasn't my habit to stroke the cat, and I was foiled. My habit was to feed it occasionally, when it seemed proper, and to rarely notice it. I stood there for a while. It might have been five minutes, or an hour. A shadow of complete pointlessness reared out from the wall, covering my feet, my face, my arms, hands and everything around me in a dullness that, obscuring as it did the finer details, came to illuminate all the absurdity, all the uselessness of everything. At length, I gave up thought and collapsed on my bed. I instantly felt annoyed at it. Burn, I thought. Fine. Fine. Fucking fine.
I pulled out my second draw. I had three. I took out my bag, and sat back down on my bed. Slipping into that state of performing a ritual practiced a thousand times, I joined two papers, and placed them on a hardback poetry volume. It was meditative to do something, and I was glad I had taken action. I plucked the faded green buds from the bag, and crumbled them with my fingers into the centre of the papers. I rolled it, licked it and tapped it. Driven again by habit and instinct, I resumed my habitual position at the window. I lit up, and inhaled with particular care. Feeling the strange sensation of my throat, then the warming of my lungs, I permitted myself a few seconds to close my eyes. The world was blanked out by the darkness of my eyelids. How simple it is, to turn off vision. I exhaled, and found myself inhaling again without opening my eyes. I cautiously leaned back, till my back touched the right hand side of the window, and my body came to be at rest. Through my eyelids, the day was largely obscured, though I saw glimpses and shades of dark. Even blackness has tones. As is the way, my higher thought processes slowly ground to a halt. I was consumed over time by the reality and unreality that cannabis brings. No pills, I thought. I couldn't take euphoria. This I feel: this numbing I know. At some time, I opened my eyes, and the day was not so terrible to me. The blue seemed observed through a haze, which pleasantly blunted its painful gleam. I went back to my bed, and picked up my bag. Sitting down once more with my book, I rolled. Once the ritual was complete, I located a lighter, a disgusting plastic affair, and lit up. I opened the book of poetry, and turned to "Bright be the place of thy soul."
There was a rapping at the door. An insistent knock knock knock. I squeezed, then opened, sleep-sealed eyelids, and restrained the impulse to rub my eyes. The ceiling above me was like a map of the universe at a scale so magnificent in size that all the landmarks were lost in a sea of white desert. Here a patch of stained yellow white, our galaxy, here a grimy smudge, the Earth. I wasn't sure if this was the first time I'd heard the door. It was unlikely. I pondered on the act of getting up: I will need to move my legs, and prepare my feet, to relinquish the sticky warmth of the sheets and touch cold ground. I will need to utilize my back muscles in conjunction with a gentle rocking motion in order to assume a right-angled sitting posture. I believe I am fully dressed, so the cold of the air shouldn't be too difficult to bear. Sighing out loud, I touched my feet to the floor, and watched them move slowly across the carpet. Apparently I had removed my socks at some point, as the fibres felt painfully acute. I spent a few moments gazing at the rough wood of the door, and the vehement 'Welcome' message of my doormat, then, like a blind man crossing a road, I opened the door.
A fat women walked by. Her garment made her look worse. Her bald husband pitifully attached himself to her, round himself, but barely half her size. A man in black with a leather jacket, smoking a cigarette, was walking next to them. He had death in his eyes. I inhaled. A girl with beautiful hazel hair was walking down the pavement opposite. She stopped, seemed to decide something and turned around. She went into a shop, where I could see her pick up a jumper or something. She didn't really want it, I immediately saw, and she put it back after a while. A different girl wearing a similar garment walked out. A grotesque metallic silver car blocked my line of vision. Inside sat three old women, eyes blank, expressions bare. A man on a bike passed them by, smiling contemptuously. A woman walked directly in front of me, eyes firmly glued directly downwards. As she walked away, I saw her hands clenched inside the sleeves of her sweatshirt, pulling the tattered, damp material taught around her coiled fingers. Some people walked by with a child in a pram. The boy, blonde hair glistening, smiled, and I smiled back. He seemed to nod to me as he passed. I inhaled, and grimaced. A pigeon landed nearby, cooing barely audibly. I liked this pigeon. I understood it well enough; there was kinship between us. The bench was unwelcomingly cold. It resentfully accommodated my weight, all the time giving me silent pushes. "Leave!" It said. "Why stay here?" My head dropped slightly, and I put down my unread book. The wind attacked my hands. People were everywhere. On the other side of the road, they looked better. Faces dimmed by distance, they seemed happy. Here on my side, I picked out imperfection unceasingly. Imperfection was everything; the whole scene was a collage of it. Inhale. Exhale. This is reality. Inhale. Exhale. This is reality.
I went to the park. The trees stood like stalagmites, formed from the slow sediment of time. The grass was absolutely still, despite the chill wind. There was no movement. Few people could be found. In quiet corners sat gentlemen with black holes as eyes, emptied completely by the drain of loneliness. Frost iced the world. There was no time here, no movement, no sound but for the shifting disturbance of dead leaves. I couldn't get the words of some song out of my mind. The lines churned backwards and forwards, left to right, up and down in endless circles that came back and back again. Thoughts stopped. I slumped. I fetched things from my pockets, and forced my hands into the motion of placing tobacco in paper. My hands started to tremble. The song started again, and the first words came through me again and again like physical pain. My hands trembled. I fought myself, fought to stop my hands closing, fought for control. Reality was overwhelming. I was overcome. I trembled, and could not think. A hundred heard melody spun my mind. Could not go back to the room. Cannot sit. Cannot eat. Never sleep. Never dream.
I inhaled. Suicide is too cowardly, I reflected, opening the window. I exhaled. I sat for a second in my habitual place, and inhaled. I flipped a leg outside the window, dangling off the ledge. Too cowardly, I thought, and flipped the other over. I inhaled. I steadied myself, and looked into my room. Nothing to do, I thought. Nothing to do. I inhaled. I thought on my desire to smoke more. Tenderly, I took out my tobacco and papers and placed them on the ledge behind me. Smiling, I turned out again to the world. No, no suicide, I thought, preparing to loose my grip. In the street some distance below no one walked. There was emptiness, and I studied intently the place where my body would land. Too cowardly for whom? No fucking reality. I inhaled, and wished a silent goodbye.
Knock knock, went the door. Knock knock knock. There was some shouting. Some screaming. "For God's sake open the door," could be heard above the banging. Knock knock knock. Knock knock knock. "Please, let me in. Please. Let me in. Please let me in." Knock knock knock.
"What's all this shouting?"
"I..."
"He's a quiet fellow. Leave him be."
"But..."
"Leave him be."
Knock knock knock. Quieter now. Knock knock. "Please. Let me in. Please." Quieter still. Scrape. Knock. Silence. An infinite moment touched the doorway. It extended out like the black of space, paved with stars. Sobs reverberated, moving at angles, twisting and fading torturously. Time convulsed as a being in haste, stopped suddenly by a rack of pain. In the sky, the clouds opened into swirls and eddies which voiced strange, new, alien words. Moments gathered atop each other in a mountain that consumed but one of their sum. Tears sprang as capsules of mourning. Outside, the sky spilled tears of its own, beating with the strength of millions. Time toppled. The doorknob turned. The wood gave a stretched creak. The air, untrapped, gave a sudden jolt of awakening, and the world heaved a sigh. A man stood inside the doorway, slightly taller than average, his corduroy trousers stained, his jumper worn and faded. His eyes spoke like solar flares, in jolting unutterables. In the hallway, a woman's tears halted abruptly, and her gaze flamed. Falling moments cascaded, shattering into a thousand breaths in the space of one. Two bodies embraced. Life split, and reformed. It spun, shattered, fled into an infinity and was reforged. Kisses fell in torrents with the rain. And in inexorable embrace, flood banks fell. Brick crashed upon brick, split again and again ceaselessly. It was as if all flowers bloomed in a second, and forests sprang in moments. Echoes of passion set blaze to tinder a lifetime drying, and sparks lit the air in a brazen fury. Words flickered like the Northern Lights, dancing in myriad shades of colour and form, fired by the fireworks that flew amidst them. And as they fell upon the bed, the rain paid homage.
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