There is something to be said for the solitary life. It affords time for quiet reflection, contemplation and languid stretching of the toes. It makes few external demands and requires little by way of conformity. It delivers both freedom and loneliness; freedom from those who would thrust you into the mainstream of reality and loneliness when you lie awake at night knowing there is no one else there. I inhabit this peculiar twilight life away from the world which makes men mad and now there is a subtle rapport with time. A love, hate, fear affair – but most quintessentially my affair. It is the hourglass of my existence, my comrade at arms and my warm blanket. It is the suffocation of days spent communing with no other living soul and the thick, heavy blackness of silence; it is both my liberator and my captor.
Inside the dungeon of days I am allowed to wander where ever my body is willing to be dragged, where ever my head has the fortitude to roam. When the pain is bad I can sit hunched and listless waiting for it to pass or I can enter into combat twisting the knife further – I will endure more and yet more because I am perversely strong. When the pain is moderate there is the astonishment of idleness without punishment – I curl guiltily into the arms of time, seemingly endless and eternal. No telephone to ring, no letter to be answered, no work to be done. Give me the agony of pain in exchange for this chance and the gift of time that must not be filled. Give me the empty, desert days; give me minutes, hours, days, weeks, months and years of empty and let it remain so until I have remade myself – let me be giddy and drunk on each intoxicating second. I will know time more than time knows me; I will give birth to myself but no one will know it – I will be unrecognizable, unknown, untouched and new.
I am locked in a dangerous embrace with my dungeons for they lead to passages of thought once kept at bay with alarm clocks and bells. Now there is the piercing shriek of nothing – the internal meltdown of my own timeless chaos. There are no bells here in this out of time space; ticking things signify only that a hand has moved from one place to the next. I hear and see them but I don’t jump or run or dart from this room to that, up those stairs and down the next. When am I late? I am never late because I cannot be early or even precisely punctual – time’s beckoning finger never gestures to me and so, for the world, I have ceased. Having walked in the shadow of Alice’s white rabbit, forever looking at the watch and nattering, I cannot fall into the bottomless pit of lateness, or sail off the edge of the sea, or disappear into a cloud because the world has forgotten I am here. I lie in someone’s file conveniently signed off on a dotted line. They will never unfile me because they know I have fallen out of step and forgotten how to count; how many minutes to the end of an hour, how many hours to the end of the week, how many weeks to the end of a month. Without a label I have lost the need to count but without a label I do not count and thus both time and I are invisible. All those who are lost in the pressure of a parcelled hour, a day in units, a week in numbers can no longer see me, I am as vapour in the slipstream of their rushed importance, colourless and without form – and just as I have ceased for them so now must I cease for me.
* * * * *
Yesterday, I think it was yesterday but it may have been much further back in time, I considered the possibility of going out into the world to see if anything had changed. Someone was meant to be calling on me but I don’t recall the meeting so perhaps no one came – it hardly matters, maybe we had all got confused with the date. I remember thinking that it would be interesting to walk to the garden gate, to touch the rotting wood and look out further into the street beyond. At the side of the path there were tubs of late geraniums and a cracked strawberry pot, I had no idea why the pot was cracked but I did see that pieces of it had broken away and the soil had spilled out. I meant to go much further than the gate, I intended to go as far as the post box and then up the hill and onto the main street. I did not get any further than the gate. When I saw that the pot was broken it seemed that someone had invaded my little area during the night, or during the day when I wasn’t looking, or when I was looking but couldn’t see. At any rate they had invaded my area and the knowledge of their intrusion was vast and inexplicable. My head fretted at the truth but there were no messages or tell-tale clues, the intruders had left no note to say why they had felt the need to smash the pot. I could only sit on the garden bench and consider the enormity of their offence; how could I have failed to see that outsiders had been into my area? Why had I not learned better and more complete vigilance? What was the point of staying awake if I could not keep the world out? With such terrors poking their shrivelled little tongues at me the trip beyond the gate had to be postponed and the world left to its own devices. It is far too complex a place when those outside the gate have gone beyond control, especially when they have intentions which are entirely incomprehensible to those of us who are waiting to see what will happen next should we have the temerity to move. I decided to go back inside the house and be very still. In stillness it is possible to combine existence with a degree of safety knowing all the while that the time it takes will never matter.
* * * * *
She knows that she cannot hide behind the rotting garden gate and the heavy wooden doors. She knows even as she reads her Alice that the walls must crumble and she will be entirely unprotected. There is no real hiding place even when you think you are beyond time. Even as dreams twist and turn into nightmares, the rabbit-holes-cum-tunnels must lead to the mad and ranting queen. White rabbit cannot be white enough, red soldier cards will fold before her gaze and no amount of fussing over time will hide the ghastly stains she sees. Who thinks to placate her with tarts? Who imagines that an abundance of offerings could ever quell the rage that she will spill into the palace gardens? In sweat soaked sleep the merciless refrain will echo and where will there be to run? “Off with her head! Off with her head!” It resounds through time and space, it never stops and whose head does she mean and does she really mean your head? “Off with…” Off with what and how? With an axe or a hammer or a huge carving knife? In a guillotine with the head later staring from a basket? With people knitting and the lady round the corner who pops up from no where to ask if anything is wrong? Are they all in the dream together to see if someone will summon up the nerve to ask the raging queen what on earth she means and what it is they have done? Will towering queen stop at the one head or ask for more? Will the head be yours…? No one comes to wake her. She is not asleep so she cannot be wakened. She is simply experimenting with time and in doing so it seems she that she sleeps but she does not sleep. If the world likes to think she is peaceful, sitting comfortably and taking her medicine then they must think it. She will not draw attention to herself. She will wait for the pictures to subside, for the noises to cease and then perhaps it will be safe to close her eyes…or open them…who can be sure?
* * * * *
I kept extremely still; indeed I played dead which has long been one of my favourite and most uniquely secretive pastimes. I have seen animals adopt the ‘dead’ pose as one of their best lines of defence and by and large it seems to work. I have spent many hours of darkness practising the complete non-being of death. It does not work unless you can purge your mind of everything that links you to the consciousness of life. Playing dead is an art form and if you truly aspire to it you must use up much life in order to perfect the complete purity of ceasing to be. It is a bizarre and yet compelling mode of self-defence because once perfected it is the ultimate barricade, a giving up of life in order to stay alive. I was etremely still and waited for the horror to pass.
The failure of my visit to the gate required much time to slip by before I could reconcile myself to the knowledge of the world’s intrusion. I will not grow fuchsias again if the process is to be fraught with danger. In truth I do not recollect planting them in the first place but they will not be allowed back now that I know that the lurid garish pinks and purples are magnets to those beyond the gates. In the main I aim for that state of being which will most successfully attract least attention. My clothes are black, brown and grey; my face is nondescript and my hair lank and lifeless. I do not wear jewellery or make-up and when I am walking I keep my head down and look at the floor. If it is at all possible I do not make eye contact even with the people who come to the house with their appointment books and their mobile phones and their needles – especially the ones who come with their needles. I watch for them sometimes but they don’t know that I’ve been watching; I sit by the window and see them park their fancy cars against my house. They have much confidence and sometimes they talk into the phone and I can see them laughing before they arrive at the door with their serious face. I do not like it when they come in pairs and I will not answer the door unless one of them goes away. They never come in pairs now unless they are taking me somewhere but I have not been anywhere with them for a long time – I think it is a long time. I am never too sure how I get from one time to another because I have forgotten how to measure the gaps.
The clock ticktocked and the sand trickled on its relentless journey through the hourglass; ticktock never stopped but with each movement forward the fear released me until, quite incredibly, I was finally calm and almost peaceful. It was extremely pleasant; it was no trembling or hands shaking or night terrors – it was, simply, peace. Sometimes there are flashes of this peace feeling and when it comes I almost do not what to do with it; I have only just learned to recognise it. It is not like my ‘death’ pose and it is not the same as when I an hunched in a corner trying to annihilate myself. It is plain, uncomplicated peace and as such when it does come I fall in love with it straight off. We are trying to make it stay with me so I will have some of the confidence that the needle people have and be able to talk into a phone. It is very elusive and I have found that there is little point in searching it out as though to make it appear on demand, it comes when it has a mind to come and otherwise it stays away – perhaps there is little room as yet. I have also found when it comes that for a while I see everything in colour but normal colour, not the rioting fiasco of my nightmares. Not the bold and terrifying colour that leads to blindness and then to brown and grey. I recommend this peace to you if you do not have it already. I wish it would stay when it comes but it seems only to pop in for a visit, as if to taunt me a little with what I am missing.
* * * * *
There is no escape no matter how many people turn up at the house, she knows full well that there never has been any real escape. The queen marches on in all her power and glory and she sees everything. The cat in the tree only pretends not to be in on the act, if you look closely you will see the smile that lingers long after the body has disappeared into the corridors of power. There is much to be done and so little time to do it. Everything must be perfect for the arrival of the queen, everything dusted and polished, germ free and sparkling in the sunlight. There can be no excuse for being slipshod and it is well understood that failure to achieve perfection is punishable by…. by what? Surely nothing too extreme; since when has a little dust been a hanging offence? A simple beating will suffice for just a speck of dust with a prolonged and public flogging for more serious deficiencies. Of course the queen must have her fun so who is to say from one day to the next or from one hour to the other how much dust is a little dust. The matriarch is monarch of all she surveys and the rules were set down long ago, they are not open to question or debate and they must be internalised. She knows all this and she has known it forever so why does she look now to challenge the unalterable laws of time? Who has put into her head the very idea that what has been learned in fear must be in some way overthrown? Why struggle with it now when it would be so much easier to accept the immutable laws of pain – pain is pain and it must be suffered. Who is she to suggest that there is another way to be, a better way to live? Who is she indeed? She is the helpless rocking one with the eyes that plead silently because she dare not ask too openly to be reprieved. She is throwing all the pepper she can find into the large cooking pot because that is what she has to do; mix the stew and warm the plates and clear the dishes and sweep the floor. And who is this now working beside her, giving advice and juggling the cups, wiping the sweat from her brow – none other than the queen herself who seems to forget her own lofty position and thinks for a while that she is the scullery maid. They work together and between them prepare a banquet for the soldier cards. When the cards have eaten their fill and left the kitchen she stands quietly by her companion and waits patiently for what ever will come next. The blows rain down; the queen is lost deep within the spell of her own fury, all camaraderie fast flown away.
* * * * *
I can hear them knocking at the door, there are two of them this time because they want to review my situation. I know that I must let them in or it will be a black mark against my name and on their report they will say I am difficult and not prepared to co-operate. I have seen them both before and they are all right when they come alone but when they come together they glance at each other and make signals. They are knocking and calling my name so I must let them enter, there is no chance that they will go away and if they do they will come back later with the police so I know I must give way. As a child it never occurred to me that if you had the wrong type of head it could turn you into a criminal.The police do not come for good girls just for bad ones so I must open the door to the needle people even though there are two of them which is never a good sign. They will want me to talk and I am never sure if I get the answers right; sometimes I am not even sure if they have asked me a question, they sort of stare and smile and make notes. The tall dark-haired one makes the most notes and the young blonde one watches my face but they are not the ones who really count – it is the slight grey-haired one back at the hospital who really counts – she is the one who makes all the big decisions and ultimately she is the one I must please. They tumble into the kitchen eager to get started, desperate to wrap their mission in the usual cloak of polite euphemisms.
“Hello, hello, nice to see you, isn’t it lovely weather, have you been outside in the sunshine? Let’s go and sit down shall we and have a chat. Oh what a pretty plant, it’s striking, now then, let’s have a talk.” They arrive, they decide, they comment – we sit down.
“Now Izzy Doctor has asked us to call today because she’s a bit concerned that you may not be so well.”
They flip through files and click pens, slick, hustle bustle, professional –friendly fire.
“What have I done? What have I done wrong? Does it take two of you to deliver a message? Haven’t you got other people to visit who actually want you to drop in?”
“You haven’t done anything wrong and we haven’t come to have a go at you…come on, we’ve talked about this before… Doctor’s concerned, we’re concerned.You missed your last appointment and she’s asked us to call in and see if there’s a problem. You know that you have to keep those appointments so that she can make sure you’re well…but she’s not cross with you, not at all. We just need to check that you’re managing.” They pause to gaze at me in that vaguely patronising manner generally reserved for toddlers, people over ninety and the mentally ill. My body, rigid with tension cannot stop the involuntary spasms of its agitated hands.
“You seem to be quite angry today. Are you angry with us for coming or is this another angry week?” The young blonde one says very little but watches my hands and facial expressions, makes observations which I know she’ll report to the grey God……
………….for a second she appears in front of me, a vivid image in my mind’s eye. She sees almost everything and in my head I have already decided she will not be pleased, not happy with the situation, not keen to keep her distance and leave me be. When she speaks I know I won’t want to hear her, I sense mounting trouble and she makes me panic. She is a volcano waiting to erupt, the heat from her decisions will spread out until there is no room to breathe. I have to think fast, summon up all my energies and power so that there will be a decision in my favour. I have to change my demeanour and sound calm, steady the rocking boat, rob her of ammunition. Most of all I have to keep her away from the room where they hide the lightning, the electric horror box that sits next to the bed with its taut white sheets and its tidy space for your shoes. The place where they all take you in the end…..
………the vision disappears and the tall dark-haired one is back in view, inviting me to sit comfortably in my own home, clucking and cooing and making cups of tea – aren’t they nice people, isn’t that sweet.
Jan
