“I do not know how much of my writing is true, or which parts (if any) are true. This is a potentially lethal situation. We have fiction mimicking truth, and truth mimicking fiction. We have a dangerous overlap, a dangerous blur. And in all probability it is not deliberate. In fact, that is part of the problem. You cannot legislate an author into correctly labelling his product. You cannot compel him to declare what part is true and what isn't if he himself does not know.” – Philip K. Dick
"...whatever you write down it's not the truth, it's just a story. Stories are all we're ever left with in our head or on paper." – Eric Sanderson (‘The Raw Shark Texts’ by Steven Hall)
As I am writing this, my throat is dry, my fingers are trembling and I feel like I have rewound back to the day where I had spent six hours cleaning and lubricating my eyes.
I’ve been having lots of arguments with Father Time about the approaching season which is dying to visit me. Father Time, in other words, Cronos – the effigy of the grim reaper. The prick has been speeding time up without me even realising it. Every time I blink, he seizes his chance to hit the accelerator. Yes, this is the man who wears the hour glass around his neck, carries the sickle and rules over planet Saturn. I am a child of his because I was born on a Saturday. I am one of the titans. I even have the planet of death and destruction inked on my back.
Time – I’m not ready for spring, yet.
Our group therapist, Mr. Johnson, is calling me, I’m afraid I have to switch to the mental notebook, if you don’t mind.
“Miss P, I hope you are making useful notes of today’s session!”
“Yessir,” I say and this very moment Bennett Renstrom enters the class and apologises for being late. As usual the air goes out when he comes in. It’s not the first time that he chooses to sit behind me. Each time I just wait for those Arctic eyes to freeze me from behind, so I’m released from all this misery. Anger has become a clot in my mentality, except that I don’t initiate fights or torture animals – I write. Excessively.
But I hate writing. I hate it from the bottom of my heart. Writing – with the result of ending up in an empire of rubbish dump of a thousand wasted days. The moment I put the pen down another year has passed. I forget how to speak. I forget how sex works. And the worst of all, I grab the pen again, as I don’t know what else to do.
I have come to the conclusion that Bennett, the Swede, is Prince Charming. If he doesn’t save me, no one will. He doesn’t talk much in class and the only thing we know is that he writes poetry.
The back of my head is itchy and my heart is racing. Can he hear my heartbeat?
“It’s all about expressing ourselves, isn’t it?” Mr Johnson starts. “The rush of anger that comes along with the desire of self-expression is often pointless. So, who would like to share a positive experience today?”
Last week no one’s experience was anywhere near positive. This is the third week. I am the only female in this group of thirteen people and the only student. The ages vary from 16-66. The 16 year old kid is Stephan Jenkins, an easily provoked Sixth former learning from Sid Vicious’s notion ‘To provoke a reaction is better than to react to provocation.’ During school breaks he hides in the toilet and beats everyone up that enters.
Mr Voglein is the oldest and most easily aggravated one. If there is a trace of irritation, such as having forgotten his reading glasses, he will find reason to fuel this irritation by throwing papers into the air and pushing the table over. If I were him I’d have killed myself before ever getting Alzheimer.
“Anyone?” Mr Johnson looks slightly anxious. “Come on, people.”
He lowers his head in resignation and starts scratching his head loudly.
I hesitantly raise my hand and a sudden smile appears on his face.
“Ah, Miss P., thank you! Please proceed.”
All eyes are fixed on me and the ones behind me are poking me.
“Well, I’m not sure if you can call it progress, but I wrote a letter.”
“Wonderful! This also reminds me of last week’s homework!”
Last week I inspired him to have everyone keep a diary aiming to help them analyse their anger and to retrace its roots.
If they only knew that I keep a diary hourly, even if it’s just one sentence.
“I’ve been keeping a diary,” says Mr Kirkpatrick, someone who is close to becoming the victim of alcoholism and violence. I tell him to go first.
“What do ye wanna hear? The bright stuff?”
“Bright, please,” Mr Johnson begs.
Mr Kirkpatrick clears his throat. “Saturday, March 2, Alone again. The days have become repetitive. One beer in the morning, two in the afternoon and countless ones at Frankie’s Bar in the evening. I figured that all this serves as a warm up for my fight with Carl outside the bar – the only thing I look forward to nowadays. The days may continue to repeat, but please, God let me keep this daily fight. It’s the only thing that keeps me alive...”
That is the most beautiful thing I’ve heard today. There is silence and I notice certain faces looking puzzled, as if not sure what results to draw from that.
“That’s very poetic, Miles,” says Mr Johnson. “But I think you’re not quite there yet. Remember we were talking about reaching the core of the anger. ”
“Yes, I know and I think I’m getting there. Thanks to Miss P for the diary idea.”
I may have extended his miserable life. I feel embarrassed.
“What’s this?” Mr Voglein blurts out. “A bloody poetry class?”
“Well, let’s see what you’ve got then, Mr Voglein” says Mr Johnson.
“I ain’t got my reading glasses, dammit!”
He is the only person in the group that fills the room with more negative energy than already palpable. For the love of Cronos, I can sense almost all these suckers’ auras. The terrible electric cloud that Mr Voglein spreads can easily be detected from the other corner of the room. Call it energy or electric field, but your heart, muscles and brain beam electrical impulses. Everything in this room is messed up, except for Mr Johnson’s electric signals which are in synch. This is why I love him – my fairytale godfather. I could do with a hug from someone whose mind and heart are in harmony. But the only way for me to sustain harmony is to fictionalise everything that I can’t mentally and physically obtain.
“I’m sorry, I forgot.” Mr Johnson rubs his face, tired, but his eyes brighten up as he looks at me. “Miss P, how about reading your letter?”
“Read?” I suddenly feel very uneasy. I can’t help believing that I will disappoint him with the letter, as he has been wondering why I’ve joined this group in first place. He nods with an encouraging smile. I think I can feel Bennett’s breath stroking my neck. I hope he can’t hear my heartbeat.
I take a deep breath: “Dear Nothing, it’s once again time like every year where this particular low point has reached the surface again. I can’t bury something that’s undead. How can I eventually have it killed for good? How long can I keep my head above water? The monster of the past is still there and ever-lurking in my nightmares in which I’d rather chop my hand off than have it hold me. It’s in my dreams that I am scared and when I’m awake; I feel rage...” I can’t carry on.
“I’m sorry. I do not wish to continue.”
“Why not?” Mr Johnson asks.
“I think me fantasising about fist fights and manslaughter is not appropriate.”
People laugh, except Mr Johnson. This is where I start to feel bad. I have disappointed him.
At the end of the session, Mr Johnson gives me an empathetic smile suggesting something fatherly.
“I’m sorry, Mr Johnson.”
“What for, P?” he laughs. “Keep up the good work.”
I want to ask him what good work, but I can’t.
As I approach the exit, I see Bennett lighting a cigarette outside. He sees me and instantly smiles. I take a deep breath. The alternative world can only be found on a blank page on which I build a kingdom; a kingdom over which I rule.
He offers me a fag. Our faces are close as he lights it for me. Menthol – my favourite.
“There is no point in sharing your anger, you know,” he says.
“Why do you think I interrupted myself?”
We walk through the park. It’s almost dinner time. I must say my favourite time of the day is twilight or any day at five in the morning (especially during autumn). That’s the sort of darkness that smells best – cold particles mixed with wet leaves. The smell of spring symbolises Hemingway’s new beginning for which I am not ready.
“Can I ask you something?” Bennett says.
“Sure.”
“Are you here to help or to get help?”
There’s something very attractive about his Swedish accent which sounds slightly American at the same time. Many foreigners, me included, have an American accent, because the first thing foreign school kids learn about the English language is to emphasise the ‘R’ the way they do in pop songs or Hollywood movies.
“Well, if I can help others – that’s fine by me.”
“Bullshit. Come on, why are you really in the group?”
My pace has decelerated, so that I am a few steps behind now. He stops walking and looks at me.
“All right, why are you there?” I ask.
“Same reason as you, except that I’m not in self-denial.”
“Right. What makes you think you know me?”
He flicks his cigarette away and starts walking. “Fancy a drink?” he asks.
As we reach the end of the park, we enter a bar nearby. The good thing is it’s in the middle of the week, which means no juvenile delinquents with fake IDs.
“What would you like?”
“Tap water, please,” I say and he raises an eyebrow.
“I think you need something stronger...”
“Well, tough, I don’t do alcohol.”
He chuckles as he gets his wallet out. “I’m not surprised then...” he mumbles to himself.
I get my notebook out and start to scribble.
“Are you writing what a dick I am?”
I smile as I’m writing this. If only he knows how he is making me feel right now. Talking to him reminds me of the conversations I have with my I.R.
The barmaid comes to take his order.
“Can I have a Daiquiri please? And a Strawberry Surprise for the lady, alcohol free.”
I instantly put my pen down. Sometimes fiction takes over and you forget you have the upper hand.
“I have this feeling that you look cute when drinking that stuff,” he says.
I roll my eyes in shame. Suddenly he places his lips on my ear and whispers “I can feel your heat, P. It keeps me warm in class, but I think you’re doing yourself no good.”
He turns back to the barmaid who hands him his change. No matter how captivating Bennett’s aura is, I don’t seem to be able to break through his shell.
“I can’t help believing that your naked soul is just as hot,” I say with such confidence that even he is surprised.
The barmaid approaches us with our drinks; mine is bright pink decorated with fancy picks, a slice of pineapple and a cherry. His Daiquiri looks just as feminine as mine – a red drink with strawberries attached to the glass.
“I know it looks girly and I wouldn’t order it if you weren’t here. But it tastes so good!”
We both raise our glasses.
“Skål!”
“Prost!”
He watches me suck at the straw and I can’t help feeling like a kid drinking milkshake. The Strawberry Surprise is the most delicious drink I’ve ever had. It reminds me of Johannes Brahms’s last words before his death: “Ah that tastes nice. Thank you.”
The day I die is the day I am unable to finish a written sentence.
Bennett’s still looking at me, now grinning.
He says “I know what it looks like beneath your surface. And sorry, you don’t look cute.”
His compliments are very ambivalent, but it’s not the first time that I experience a man sending out mixed signals. It’s always best not to react to them. Whatever reaction I show, he’ll triumph on the inside.
“Would you show me some of your poetry?” I ask.
“Ha, no.”
My notebook’s still on the table and I carefully move it toward him. He looks at me like he can’t believe his eyes.
“In return I’ll let you find out whether you’re a dick.”
The astonishment in his eyes has turned into a pleasant smile indicating a slight trace of feeling honoured that I let him read.
Finally he grabs deeply into his pocket and presents his small Moleskine notebook – half the size of mine. Carefully he places it in front of me and says “Pick a random page. Just one page.”
I, too, am interested in what he has last written, so I pick the page where he has placed his string bookmark.
“And I wonder how she touches herself
When the heinous heat in her blood rises
The delicate way it effervesces
If I could taste the wound and wistful wealth
Of her anger she has kept for so late
An effusive eruption
Furthermore
And molten lava – the suspicious core
Watching her straight back and tilting of head
Staring peeping holes through her soft body
She reads a letter of regretful hate”
For the love of Cronos! From the side of my eyes I see him observing me while I’m reading it for the third time.
“Are you done?”
I hand him back his notebook whereas I’m not asking for mine. Instead I finish drinking the sweet Strawberry Surprise. Then I place the cherry into my mouth. It is now that I realise that our legs are touching and neither of us feel unfamiliar about it.
“Would you like another?” he asks.
I shake my head and slowly start rubbing my cocktail glass. Apparently when a guy sees that, he’ll go all funny inside.
“I think you do...” He calls the barmaid and orders another Strawberry Surprise. She takes my empty cocktail glass away. I wonder whether he is Taurean. There is something about Taurus’s stubbornness that draws me to them all the time.
I keep both of my hands busy with a piece of string and bits of paper from a beer mat.
“Do you ever feel alone?” I ask. “I mean really alone? It doesn’t matter how many people are around you or if you’ve just told your best friend how you feel. No one’s ever going to understand you the way you do, because they are not you. Even when lying in bed with someone...the moment you fall asleep you’re alone in your head. You’re alone in your dreams. What you see is what you wish was there.”
Whilst deep in thought, he puts his notebook away into his pocket.
“What has he done to make you feel this way?”
After a long pause I say, “He gave me a rough idea of what love might be.”
My pink drink arrives and this time I eat the cherry first before drinking. He slowly moves my notebook toward me and then finishes his drink.
“So you think we all pretend we’re not alone?” he asks.
“How else do we fall in love?”
“So love’s an illusion?”
I suck at the straw and Bennett is looking at me with nervous eyes. I wonder whether I look cute now or not. Evil would be another option.
“Please don’t take everything I say so seriously,” I say. “Don’t you ever look for alternative exits to reduce cognitive dissonance?”
Finally there is a smile. “You mean like the fox and the grapes?”
I answer with a smile less strong than his. Suddenly I don’t feel like drinking up that cocktail anymore. I don’t deserve its sweetness and I surely shouldn’t devour its innocent appearance.
“I joined that group because I needed to see how much I am still in control. And I needed a confirmation of what’s still real.”
Do you see the beauty of fictionalisation? We all know the significance of expressing one’s feelings and only on paper you’ll realise that the beauty and accuracy are in synch; the words succinct and straight to the point.
After our drinks, Bennett and I go back to the park where he offers me another menthol cigarette. We sit on the lawn. The darkness still smells alluring so does the scent of Bennett’s body. It’s the darkness that gives me the confidence to lay my head on his shoulder. Is this how Hades will make me feel when it’s time?
“Do you still feel alone?”
“It depends,” I say “it depends on whether you’re real or not.”
“You’re strange,” he says and I hear him blow out the smoke.
“I suffer from chronic delirium...”
I’m not even sure if I am really holding a cigarette. My head is as hollow as a vacuum; whereas my heart is gradually filling with...I don’t know what. I can’t hold the pen any longer.
I drop the cigarette. There’s someone else with a pen.
“Come back,” I hear him say as he snaps his fingers.
“I’m still here. Are you?”
He laughs and presses me harder against him. I feel my spine tingle. Liquid gather in the lacrimal lake, filling the sac and I squeeze the first drops out of my eyes. I’m finally alone with him on a creased page – a lonely island of nothing but puddles of salty water and ugly handwriting.
“Are you all right?”
“It depends,” I say “it depends...”
A kiss – warm and vivid like the retrievable images from last night’s Shakespeare play. The sense of unrequited love, however, is brewing in the core of my entire being, triggering dissociation.
“I have to tell you the truth, P” he says out of the blue. This doesn’t scare me the slightest, I shall welcome any truth that anyone can offer me. Truths that will drag me out of the vicious circle and help me fathom the purpose of the written word. No more secrets and all the thousand pieces of the mystery will finally come together.
“I’ll be gone once I’ve helped you to open your eyes,” he says.
I release myself from the embrace, becoming clear-headed again. The darkness smells of duck poo. I hear the speeding cars on the streets and the moment Bennett grabs for my hand, I feel a couple of calluses on the tip of his fore and middle finger; probably from playing the guitar or bass or double bass. How ridiculous he’d look playing the double bass!
“Help me, eh?” I pull my hand back and try to get back on my feet. My first attempt fails as I have pins and needles in my leg. I start hitting myself violently in the leg whilst forcing myself to stand properly.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“...showing you my competence!”
There are people in this world who are too bored to care or they are too ignorant to find out more, too oblivious to break the ice – scared! Never will I ever want to be one of them. And never will I ever be the one who needs help from anyone, especially if they are not here to stay.
I sense negative electrical impulses within myself, but I feel nothing coming from Bennett like there was a thick piece of glass between us. I fall back on my bum. I need to write in my notebook, but it’s too dark.
No, something else needs to be done first. Short-term happiness is happiness at stake.
See Ophelia, see Juliet. Fools.
It is now that I notice the waxing crescent moon causing this entire madness. I wear the waning crescent moon on my left shoulder blade, representing every stupid thing that I do.
“Get up,” he says.
I do and I walk away. The ugly neon street lights hurt my eyes, but it doesn’t stop me from grabbing my notebook to scribble shit. Bennett’s following me – his steps quiet and delicate like those of an angel or Eurydice. Orpheus did the mistake and looked back. Do I really want to end up singing songs to Hades?
As I enter the petrol station I see J staring at me from the counter – probably wondering why my phone has been off for months. There are no current customers evident, except for one guy filling up outside. J leaves the counter and I count his steps until he’s two metres away from me.
“One step closer,” I say without looking at the demon.
“Then what?” he says.
My breathing has become irregular since the moment I’ve stepped into the petrol station. I haven’t suffered from respiratory disorders since my last job.
“I miss you,” he mutters.
I close my eyes, as I clench both fists. I have trouble breathing, trouble holding back; trouble swallowing this lump in my throat. For the love of Cronos, I can taste the remaining flavour of the Strawberry Surprise intermingling with Bennett’s Daiquiri. This moment is for real.
I hear J take another step and the next thing I feel is my fist against his face. My eyes now wide open, I see him trip over a stack of Cola cans. He falls over and props his body with one hand. I kick him hard in the stomach whilst shouting “§$%*§$&%?*#$%##!”
Suddenly I feel two arms under my armpits curling to hold me back.
“That’s enough,” I hear Bennett say and his voice is reason enough for me to succumb to this cool breeze which I thought I have lost.
Bennett and I are on the night bus. I put my head on his shoulder again. I feel how our body heat is becoming one.
Where is my pen?
I want to write that wishful thinking has nothing to do with invention. It’s just playing hide and seek with illusion and reality. And if you can’t distinguish the two, you are fucked. Hint: The prettier one is illusion. Sometimes wishful thinking reflects your worst intentions, but it’s not necessarily a bad thing. It’s just a waving figure in silhouette reminding you of who you are. Control is an illusion. You can’t escape the dark forebodings looming over you. This doesn’t concern anyone, except you.
The past is a distant memory and not yet over.
What a long day. I blame Father Time. But spring may come.
“Are you the grapes beyond reach?” I whisper deliriously.
“I’m closer than you think.”
-
“Miss P, I hope you are making useful notes of today’s session!” Mr Johnson says.
I twitch and lose my pen.
“Yessir,” I say and look at my notebook. Then I turn around and only see an empty chair. I start packing my stuff together.
“Miss P...you’re going?”
I smile at him and then at everybody else. Mr Voglein looks grumpy, whereas Stephan Jenkins looks like he will miss me and Mr Kirkpatrick will also.
“I have some work to do,” I say and pick up my pen.
Judging by Mr Johnson’s smile, he knows I won’t come back.
As I leave the room, I walk past Mr Johnson’s office. He has forgotten to close the door and there’s something on his desk that catches my attention. I slowly enter the office and kneel before his desk to marvel at his beautiful grape bonsai tree.
Decades ago Dick explained to us: “Reality is that which, when one stops believing in it, doesn’t go away.”
After all, the only thing we care about is our own
perception.
FürHerrnW
Paula Cheung, February 2011
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