Should I rather enjoy a pleasant slumber while being thoroughly aware of sleeping
or choose painless insomnia with its constant watching and waiting? There are also
heavenly bribes to virtue offered by religion, with its promise of happiness always
expressed in odd numbers. Perhaps if I ever envied someone’s moral high ground,
even if it was nothing but a long-forgotten echo of casual snobbery, I could simply
follow the lead instead of dwelling upon all this froth.
In Dollhouse Land, a world without kitchens, bathrooms, nurseries, or families, there is no place
for Chucky, Brahms, Billy, Hugo, or Slappy. It is true that Ken is allowed, but only conditionally
and not before the vasectomy, and even after that, his every step is watched. In Dollhouse Land,
Barbie, Bratz, and Polly Pocket run the business. They are the ones who turned a beach lounger
into a throne—only no one bothers to shout, ‘The king is dead, long live the king!’ anymore.
Too many words, too few hours of sleep with music imitating the lasting sounds of the street,
or the other way around, and breakfast like the last supper rehearsal, goaded by the mere fact
of my undeniable mortality—all of that made me feel as if I had forgotten someone’s birthday,
when in fact it was the birthday one who sabotaged my every effort at making birthday wishes.
Who would have thought cruelty could be effortless?
I am not good at reading people. Perhaps this is why I focus on language—machine language,
to be precise—and would rather spend a lifetime with Turing than a moment with Shakespeare.
But if you decide to pity me, do not. Remember, you would not have read these words if it were
not for us.
Why can I not be C.C. Baxter, Paul Varjak, or even Harry Burns
(but not Phil Connors—I find Rita annoying)? Where is my turn
for a game of gin rummy and Moon River listened to on the fire
escape? I guess it all boils down to managing one’s expectations
since life is not a romcom; you could hardly call it drama, either.
It is more like a whole slew of footage that did not make the cut.
CCTV footage, I mean. But you know what? At least this time
it is you who holds the scissors.
For Stacey
A sudden rain washed the life out of a tree outside my window and stopped as soon as it started
mocking the rainbow. Separated by thick glass, I thought that even if I had no inclination to spit
from a height into the dirty current in the street, unable to reflect any of the ephemeral colours,
I would go rafting to mourn the will-o’-the-wisp and all my fallen brethren, weakened by a lack
of viands, only to discover that a spoonful of breadcrumbs from a percipient baker can nourish
better than a whole cake.
If you roam around your place in nothing but an oversized white tuxedo sleep shirt
while holding a crystal goblet full of milk, you are my kind of girl—or everyone’s,
I suppose. I may even skip a ‘decorator’ as an excuse to meet you. Also, I am a writer,
just so you know—well, a poet, but a real one, and fortunately, not having a ribbon
in a typewriter is no longer an issue. Just please do not water my plants with whisky.
And yes, we are friends. We will be, even when one day, long after we find a ring
in a box of Cracker Jack and a name for the cat, instead of Fred, you start calling me
Doc.
With my mouth open, I doze in a garden chair, trying to warm my bones
in the Sunday morning sun. Is this the first sign of ageing—the chilling
fact that I am freezing in August? I know that this is the north of Scotland,
but still. And with all due respect, I am only slowly approaching my fifties,
not my nineties. I am nothing like all the elderly folks passing by my place
on the way to the nearby church. To be honest, they somehow seem more
alive.
Sometimes I wonder, Who am I writing for? If for myself, why would I bother
showing these words to the public in the first place? However, if all the hassle
is for your sake, then I crave nothing but to meet you in the comments section,
or better yet, to revive the long-forgotten art of letter writing. On second thought,
perhaps I should watch what I wish for, because if the old tease Socrates was right
about me, once engaged in such an endeavour, I will most likely reveal how much
out of my depth I am. Thus, I am asking you, my devoted reader, are you ready
to be disappointed?
hidden pilcrow 