Fade to grey

I live at the intersection of The World and My Brain. It’s a really horrible area and I often dream of moving. Anywhere. But I can’t. It seems that by the time the world reaches me it has already been shredded and reassembled as pastiche. I reach myself along a similar route. Is there any other way?

Recently I fell off the production line. I thought, hey don’t stress, I’m a good product. That nice lady with the pink hair and brown teeth will pick me up, put me back in a free slot, and things will be as right as rain in no time at all. But she didn’t, did she? She deemed me faulty, broken, scrap. And next thing I know I’m down the chute, through the flap and landing unceremoniously in the garbage ready to be taken to the dump. Down in the dumps am I now. It’s shocking. How it happened so quickly. And finally. An obedient and productive product with satellite TV and beer in the fridge one day and an obsolete extraneous shadow the next.

I carried a couch down to the intersection. It was once a proud new couch that lived in a suburban duplex. It’s become a bit tatty. Frayed around the edges. Is coated in a layer that was once dust but has now fused with the fabric of the couch. There are years of dust and dirt that have fused with the fabric of my mind so I feel a certain tenderness towards the silly old couch. And in any case it’s my bed now. Which I made and now lie in it. The artist formally known as Dave on the dusty couch just a few feet from a very busy intersection. Bowie and now Prince. Fuck. That’s a lot of unsayable stuff for me right there.

I told my Doctor that I don’t do much punctuation these days. Just tumble down the stream of consciousness with no time for semicolons. She has a couch with lots of fluffy pillows and some really neat plastic at the foot end so I don’t even need to take off my shoes. She has a room that has no dust. I think it’s a holy room so the dust just kinda stays away. Out of respect. I sometimes cut fromย her wooly dentist’s couch to my sad entropically compromised couch at the intersection. This is called a hard cut in the trade. And it is. Like when a soft pink finger meets a sullen rusty blade.

When I’m on her couch I don’t feel like a product. I know I’m there for a serious operation but I feel so ….. human, perhaps. She cuts into me so slowly, so tenderly, as if her scalpels are made of silk. And she doesn’t even mind the blood. It’s literal blood. I mean a stream of bloody words, that she collects and studies. I think she’s investigating antidotes. Or perhaps making a huge installation that needs lots of different shades and types of blood. There is nothing even vaguely vampirical about her though. She has a transcendental beauty about her. It’s a beauty that soothes while she cuts. There is something the opposite of beauty that cuts when it soothes but I haven’t given it a name.

Hush now baby, baby, don’t you cry.
Mother’s gonna make all of your nightmares come true.
Mother’s gonna put all of her fears into you.

Next to my couch, at the intersection, I have an old compact disc player stereo cassette recorder. That’s actually what you will see when the camera zooms in. Sometimes the music supervisor likes to combine sound and visuals in evocative ways. I’ll be thinking about S…..n but hearing So long Marianne. Or you’ll see me on the couch in the rain being covered slowly by a layer of soot and dust and hear There was joy there was fun. The music director trades in Blasphemous rumours and, yes, does have a sick sense of humour.

I told the Doctor that I regress at the drop of a hat. She wanted to know if my father wore a hat. I do love her but she has the silliest notions. She suffers from Pareidolia. A particularly nasty Freudian strain of the bug. I think she knows this but bears her burden with dignity. Being a spiritual burden it does not affect her posture. The editor removes thoughts that are bad for my blood but sometimes a saucy allusion gets through. He, the editor, trades in allusions. Arranges them rhythmically and sometimes allows them to copulate but only just under the surface.

I have several conflicting operating systems and they’re all full of bugs. Not just bugs but years of malicious code too. Sometimes when I get to temporally or psychologically close to saying the unsayable my system crashes or freezes. At times like these I console myself with knowing that one day I will be able to leave. There is an Urban Security Specialist who walks the beat past my couch everyday. He reminds me that No one here gets out alive. I call him Jim. I say, ok Jim, but the sweet water of death will take me to the sea. I dream of returning to the sea. Mother gave me sugar water when I bumped my head but that’s not pertinent here at all.

The Producer wants me to wrap this up. It’s a pity because I don’t have much to do today besides talking to pigeons and picking at scabs. There was something I wanted to say though. An unsayable thing become horribly important. Fuck. It’s gone. It’s hiding under an endless accretion of dusty words. I see people everywhere and I sometimes sob because I fear that some of them may be as lost as me. As scared and confused and lonely and cold as me. And I’m worried that the movie will end on this sour note and will be a flop. Will be unwatchable. That’s is a very real fear – that the movie of my life will be unwatchable, book unreadable, series cancelled.

Fade to grey….

Couch-on-Street

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When Sipho met Molly

Regarding the heartwarming repost from Twitter below;

(https://tzadiknistar.wordpress.com/2015/01/04/metro-cops-caught-on-camera-soliciting-bribes-youtube/)

I was, quite unavoidably, led to a vivid recollection of the event I’m about to relate – which may or may not actually have happened.

Ecstasy_monogram
“All we are saying …… Is Give Peace a Chance”

It was a few weeks ago, at the beginning of the silly season. I was gliding home from a date in my Ford Bantam when she drifted into the mother of all roadblocks.

Now having ingested more than my fair share of beer, wine and other happy making stuff I should have been a bit nervous. But for pretty much the same reasons I was not nervous at all. It was more of a feeling of ‘awwww cute – highway robbers – let’s have a lovely little chat with them’.

I wasn’t really thinking about the 27 empty beer cans behind my seats or the interesting bags of other stuff in my cubbyhole. Sipho shines his torch in my direction and jiggles it to the left where he wants me to park. The jiggling torch light is soooo pretty ๐Ÿ™‚

Sipho: “Are you alright?”
Me (and Molly): “I’m fine.”
Have you been drinking?
I shared a bottle of wine with my girlfriend
Please get out of your car

It’s such a lovely night. I can smell the tar and the trees and the moon. It’s nice being here with Sipho.

We’ll have to test you
OK
Half a bottle of wine will be too much
Mmmmmm ok
If you are over the limit we will have to arrest you
Yes?
You will spend the weekend in the cells until the court case
I understand
What do you say?
That sounds quite bad.
What do you want to do?

(This is South African for bribes accepted here)

You can test me
But you will fail
OK
If I call my superior it’s too late
Sorry I’m not really here – I said goodbye to my girlfriend tonight
Yes?
I’m leaving town – going to Cape Town
In this Bakkie?
Yes – it’s a very good bakkie. But I’m sad. About leaving my girl.
Can’t you ask her to go with you?
I did
What did she say?
Sipho I want to go home – I’m sorry I’m not really here
OK
Enjoy the evening

Bantam resumes gliding home. That was nice. I was sad but I’m happy now. The stars are so pretty. That was some lovely hippy trippy Jedi Knight stuff. Poor Sipho, I forgive him, I will send loving thoughts. Everyone should hang out more with Molly ๐Ÿ™‚ ๐Ÿ™‚ ๐Ÿ™‚