1. Now listen well, listen well. Ah, ah, wait, ah, yes closer.
And listen well. The man laughed, squawking and convulsing in
amusement, at his own apparent wit.We had met in passing. Both of
us had been wandering through the house which we occupied. Hed
hailed me down with a persistent and curious glare. He asked me
whether I had any change, thus pinning me down by etiquette. He
began speaking to me;As an episodic man, oh, Jim yes Jim, His gruff
voice didnt follow a conventional melody as ones does, rather it
took angular leaps in pitch and volume. When he spoke; each word
had been taken from another context to form a patchwork quilt that
was, in essence, him.I had stood silent, in this narrow hallway,
small frames of pictures, hung with white frames which dwarfed the
images themselves. Cream wallpaper, dim lighting and dormitory
doors at regular intervals.Are you even listening to me? He asked,
regaining my attention, No matter, the amphetamines are kicking in,
and the state of my brain is thus; alcohol slowing my mind down
enough for me to reach the state of relaxation. But when drunk Im
too slow, you see. So, what I do is take amphetamines with it. Its
assumed to be paracetamol.I stare back at him blankly, what is
actually being said is hard to grasp. The sentiments expressed are
not understood even by the speaker himself. If I were become
familiar with this man, which is not something I will be doing,
then Id start to peel away the layers of meaning of what exactly is
being conveyed here. You see this man is not at all consigned to an
objective reality, he wants to express himself to a pair of eyes
which resemble a mirror. He sees a silent self-image standing
opposite him. What he says to me he will construe as being
perfectly well understood. What is happening here is his own
self-service.What you thinking about? Youre not even listening. He
shakes his head and tutts, I assume Im below you. Bastard. Anyway,
I feel strangely eloquent presently, so let me proceed. They pulled
me out of school and put me into the program.He wants talk so he
will. I idly consider why its my eyes that comfort him, why mine
and not anothers. Perhaps I have the eyes of his mother. Or perhaps
he knew that I would politely stand idle and listen to such inane
chatter. I knew they couldnt hit me, no-one could touch me! So I
got all the fun I needed. I was never unkind, I was never actively
disruptive. And do you know what Jim? The problem was that I
couldnt keep my head out of the clouds, so when I engaged with what
was below, more often than not it was overcast weather.My father
used to beat me, taunt me, my name was dream boy. Oh god, the
intonation of his voice when did it.For a moment I thought he may
break down, but no. He had retained his composure.Ah, well, I wasnt
built for the army. Constant vigilance, engaging with the world
around me, not my deal. But I do not want to discuss this; its too
real in my mind still, perhaps later in the day, eh? This mans
patchwork voice had taken on a more coherently characterful tone,
less fractured.After my five years of service, upon which I
discovered my dad had moved away to a place unknown, I stayed with
my sister whilst I was shovelling shit all day and every day. I
took on nine jobs in twelve years, all meant the same thing,
shovelling shit. Shovelling stinking and stagnating shit. His voice
had changed utterly, it was whole now, something tangible.See? This
man says, he had noticed his own newfound vitality, Im a perfectly
together person like this, remember what I said? This man opened up
one of the small single panel windows that lined the hallway. This
man spat into a courtyard below.Gah, Im being patronising. Nought
but your politeness is keeping you here, neither my words nor my
showmanship. But when I get it together, I imagine that what I am
saying is being recorded, somewhere in a rich archive of
transcription.But this here isnt so bad, I mean Im standing more
upright now than I used to. See, right now, Im presented with a
different challenge; Im free to exist as a larger cat here, Im left
in peace with my own apprehensions. You know what? This is a
hotel!The man gasped for air, a typical feature of people here is
that their function for enthusiasm is such that it inhibits
personal safety.But still, friend, the conduit to my subconscious
is flappy and torn, like an orifice taken by force. This is,
incidentally, why I aim to spout poetry which is only worth
recording in some subterranean caveFeeling a resolution, I respond;
Goodnight.We both resume our wanderings, crossing each others
paths, I could describe where he is about to go, he could describe
where I am about to go. I suspect neither of us will do so.
2. Given the intoxicated state of my encounter, intuition would
dictate the time of day being evening, but this is not the case. In
fact it was ten in the morning, the birds sung freely in the
courtyards of the labyrinthine building.Where I am exactly, is
inadequate to simply name, but I shall start down that avenue:Saint
De Pazzi Halfway House.Residents aim to have their mental and
behavioural bumps ironed out before they reintegrate themselves
back into society. They heal in dear De Pazzi.The feeder
institutions to De Pazzi are of broad variety. Some are brought in
on account of alcoholism and addiction, others from higher security
systems whove demonstrated their own relative co-operation, the
workshy, the depressed, those with minor personality defects and
most types of schizophrenia.I have been walking along the corridors
aimlessly for an hour now. I felt restless when the sun came up and
got this idea in my head that I was suddenly very stuffy and hot. I
needed to get out of my dorm and into low-level activity.The house
itself caters for two-hundred patients and fifty night staff.In
terms of broad description, imagine a middle of the road hotel
which hasnt been refurbished since the eighties. Of all the
facilities I have visited, this is by far the most spacious, homely
and comfortable Ive known.The homeliness of De Pazzi definitely
reflects itself upon its inhabitants. Although you will frequently
pass your friends crying the corridors, as is natural in such a
place, the evenings of celebration held here are invaluable.I look
out of a nearby window and note that even the weather is better
here than in other places.Average inmate turnover is around three
months. The longest serving inmate I know is an old man called
Dave, who heavily exaggerates his conditions, he has been here for
eleven years. As far as anyone can tell, Dave is as only as skewed
as any other old person.The residential rooms are lined along these
narrow corridors. The doors cant be locked and we are instructed to
keep them slightly ajar. I hear music coming from the room of my
friend James. James likes playing guitar and crying, I wrote so in
my journal some time ago. My journal is episodically checked by my
social worker.I go into James room, and aside from a smattering of
personal flourishes it represents all other rooms in the
building.There is a whiteboard in each room for our carers to write
on, as we have many of our sessions in our rooms. There is
generally one bed in the middle of the room, some have two or three
beds if shared accommodation is preferred. No en suite, too
hazardous. In one corner, where space allows, there is a chest of
drawers for clothing and some shelves on top for a minimal number
of approved possessions.James room has two beds, for much of the
time his girlfriend, who isnt a resident, will be staying over. She
is here now, as I come in I see them both sitting on their
respective beds looking across at each other. James improvises
melodies on his guitar.I remember in an evening of confusion past I
told James in jest that he was tall and stoic in the daytime but a
big flamboyant baby when the sun went down. There is an element of
truth in this. James is very handsome, with an elegant face and
slim hips, he is tall.James girlfriend is small and far too skinny,
it makes her face look ratty.They both like wearing fashionable
vests.James greets me with his amicable smile, he has no trouble
being James when the suns up, its when it goes down that he either
sings beautiful ballads to anyone who will listen or he will cry
and cry and cry.Hi James, I say, in my stumbling Yorkshire
accent.Ah, hi, James says, hes from Newcastle and has a very nice
and gentle voice, I have something I want to show you. Okay?In
fact, James has so little trouble being James sometimes he appears
intense.Okay, I reply.I did some research on Saint De Pazzi for
Dourines homework, I will read some of it to you.This is really
interesting, James girlfriend chips in, I do not care for her name.
It is not like she is De Pazzi herself or anything like that.James
gets up off the bed and puts his guitar aside. He goes over to his
whiteboard where there is a sheet of paper stuck onto it.He sits
down on the bed again and crosses his legs, I do the same but I am
standing in the doorway, either way my imitation goes
unnoticed.James begins;Saint Maria Maddalena De Pazzi was born in
Florence. She tortured herself from childhood and died when she was
thirty-three. She slept on the floor and rolled in nettles and
thorns. She had healing powers and could float in mid-air. She was
stigmatised at nineteen.Whats stigmatised? Ratty asked James.I
suppose it is when someone is disgraced and disapproved of. But in
a Catholic context is shown by way of physical branding. He
replied, before continuing;Her penances have been described as
unbelievable. Breaking the world record for self-abuse, her intact
body reposes in a glass case in the Carmelite Church of Florence.
There is no scientific explanation for why she has not decayed
simply because science has not been given a chance to examine her
correctly. It would be an evil miracle for that lady fasted
continuously and miraculously for years on bread and water and
claimed she ate nothing else. Is this a dangerous example for
anorexics? She used to be found with food presses open but her
excuse was that demons did it to tempt her to break her holy
fast.Ratty looked at James funnily. None of us spoke for an
indefinite period, for really quite a long time.Finally, Ratty
said;Well she doesnt sound like a very suitable choice of a Saint.
Although I suppose its similar to that whole Virgin Mary thing.Dont
you dare say that about Maria! I found myself retorting in poor
judgement, I laughed that laugh of self-deprecation a couple of
seconds later, I think I covered up the cracks with humour.Either
way it went unnoticed, I quietly stepped back out through the
doorway. Leaving Ratty and James, knowing they were both having a
fine time together as one.In this environment there are no
upstanding young gentlemen to compare ones self to. So whenever
some variable is tweaked without my knowledge, I cant remember how
to reset myself at all.
3. Lets not get too cosmic about all this; but one common belief
that floats around the halls of De Pazzi is that all life means is
a simply period of experience. It takes a certain kind of
acceptance to really believe something like that.At least I believe
that we do not die in the conventional sense, we are changed into
something unrecognisable. We might even forget all which has been
before at this point of change.I was confronted by old man Dave,
the long-term resident, who asked me this;News is scarier these
days, but were not threatened by sudden nuclear holocaust anymore.
Its all anti-foreigner stuff now. I say fuck them, I cant get on
with them, they dont amuse me, and they dont speak my language.
Without the language, foreigners dont carry sufficient familiarity
for my taste. Before news, there was religion, before that there
was no sentience to be exploited. The lust for feeling alone, and
the anger at the rest of the world; is exploited. Unfortunately, an
irritating by-product of the news, which fuels our desire to kill
and be killed, is that it muddies my clarity.I reply; Indeed, Dave,
the distractions to clarity are very well recognised.I currently
sat in my wards canteen hall, which at peak times can house sixty
of us. It is currently twenty to eleven, and I am increasingly
feeling the day getting away from me, as it so easily does.I wake
up on a day to day basis feeling stodgy, and as the day goes on,
stodginess becomes swimming through gradually ripening honey.
Comprehension of how long it is until I can rest myself will soon
get away from me. I must do my best to find alternatives at this
point in the day or things get away from me.The realisation that
the hippocampus never truly rests makes me laugh. Deep down I know
that Im not true enough to myself to really transcend the human
instinct of self-preservation to do the done thing.Dave and I are
sitting on those pseudo-wooden benches you find in schools. Always
was my favourite part of school; lunch. The part where the primary
function of school wasnt present.They say the elderly revert to
childhood, Dave was having no trouble proving this currently. Im
loading his soup spoon with my unwanted peas before he flings them
at an equally childish conspirator across the room. Our equally
childish conspirator is responding by flinging baked beans with his
bare hands back at us, from a tray of them he found. Trouble is,
and I try to push it out of my mind, a plump woman has descended
into crying fits in our crossfire. Unfortunately for her, her
wailing encourages us even more to escalate the carnage. Ive never
really laughed at these kinds of events but simply worn a faint
smile of amusement on my face. This lack of laughter often provokes
people to look round at me, checking whether Im actually having a
good time. I enjoy this attention I inadvertently gain.Eventually
one of the nurses comes along and gives us a knowing look, we
grudgingly stop our antics but I notice a sly smirk on the nurses
face.As things settle down and the nurse comforts the plump woman,
Dave strikes up a more relaxed conversation with me and our
beans-flinging nemesis, who has joined us. We sit down, all with
knowing glances upon each other.So lad, Dave begins in his alcohol
ridden voice, a gargling quality, wearing a moorish grin behind his
beard. So. He reiterates.Baked Beans replies; You got a baked bean
He points to his left ear, Just thereOh, Dave laughs to himself, a
childish, childish laugh. He takes the baked bean and flicks it
across the hall, I cant bring myself to look around to where it
landed.We are all facing each other, in a place where we could
easily be roaming free. Free of attachment. Were now all locked in
engagement, we cant look away from each other, never again. We came
from different corners of the room and converged.I am brought from
my trance by Baked Beans,What about you then ey? Names?James, yes,
Jim. I stutter thoughtlessly, at this point unsure of the
question.Baked beans laughs; Feeling a bit excited then? A baked
bean says jovially. A baked bean seemed to have transformed his
persona of sectioned to middle-class man with a sense of humour.
However transformations here tend to be so convincing that one can
never be sure exactly where people hail from.So James, or Jim I
hear in my ear. I internally tut at a baked bean, hes forgotten
Daves name already. I notice out of the corner of my eye that the
crying plump old girl has vanished from here.As an orphan, a
bakened bean began, It was always the practical stuff I had trouble
with. Dont forget to brush your teeth, clean out your cuts and
bruises, and remember to buy lunch at lunchtime. Never have I been
able to look after myself properly. The will is there but not the
means, even now, I have a list, a daily routine. I may be able to
stick to this routine for months at a time, but always, always I
completely refute it in an instant. I have refuted such a routine
just moments ago. For the past four months I have brushed my teeth
immediately after getting up at seven in the morning before getting
on with a daily run, reading, self-bettering exercises. But I was
bored, and no voice in my head is geared to tell me, but wait a
minute, think of the long term benefits of not refuting the
routine. Im aware of the absence of such long term benefits. My
whole life has been absent of long-term benefit.Dave sniffed
impatiently in response to pasta bakes monologue. Everyone jostled
for expression here, no different from anywhere else really, but
the nature of it all was very different. Most people here fancied
themselves as poets in some way, those who performed for others
were the revered, not those who indulged in monologue like stir fry
pasta.Id prefer to wait until the time is right for all concerned;
before I announce what is on my mind.
4. In my room; where I have retreated to now, the energy-saving
lights have switched off automatically. The laptop is winking at me
in the dark. On a night maybe seven weeks ago, during an evening
where everything became very abstract indeed, I set my screen-saver
to a continuous countdown from nine to zero, cast against a black
background. The numbers changed silently, the crescendo of
intensity building to zero, each time immediately dropping back to
nine again.After several repetitions of the countdown, the numbers
become meaningless, there is no longer the narrative of a countdown
but just flashes on a screen. What I like about my countdown
screensaver is that whenever I return to it I am initially
sensitive to its effects, but I can never keep my tolerance down
for long, when my mind is confronted by such a thing it goes
through the same motions each time. It is merely something I cant
learn.I showed Ratty, James girlfriend, the screensaver a couple of
weeks ago. I had written in shorthand on a notepad convey
screensaver is always a first encounter, and all that changes is
our familiarity with encounters, thus screen saver underlines
stability of reality but the instability of perspective.All Ratty
said upon reaction to this was; Are you sure thats
healthy?Something Ive always noticed is that when someone is
confronted with the initially confusing, they dismiss it as
unhealthy. Other terms for unhealthy in this case include;
unpleasant, strange, bitter, autistic, incorrect, or trippy. Of
course there are other words for such a situation, but the essence
of such a reaction is; I do not immediately understand the
substance of what I am confronted by so I shall instead assess it
on its superficial connotations.We all get so used to doing this
that it can become hard to discern whether one is actually making a
judgement or being utterly arrogant.I have found that as peoples
regard for my intelligence has faltered, I have stopped being
dismissive of what encounters I dont see meaning in, instead Ive
spent a little more time trying to get my head around it all. It is
really not that hard.This is what I told Ratty completely out of
context, after I showed her the repeating countdown; It really isnt
that hard,My room is similar to James apart from it having only one
bed and no real personal ornaments, my laptop sits on my bed. My
suitcase lies in the corner, closed, containing minimal
possessions. In fact the only expression of my passions is the
collection of books and DVDs gathered on the chest of drawers. I am
a fan of anything good, as most would say. However, two genres that
shine for me are childish adventures, I have Tintin DVDs and the
complete Harry Potter, and the real bleak introspective fiction
written by famously pained people, mostly men.I lie on my bed,
laptop perched atop me, feeling tired but not absolutely wiped out,
I turn on one of those semi-intellectual aspirational videos which
Id bookmarked earlier. It only takes me a couple of minutes to make
a face at the screen and turn it off.The poet in me came up with
one of those phrases, similar to it really isnt that hard, out of
context but to my mind so fitting; I want to watch something about
a girl with razor blades in her Bridget Jones novels.I do not scour
the vast banks of the internet for such a thing however, there is a
network filter on such Bridget Jones novels in De Pazzi.I lie on my
bed, feeling defeated, and the irrational stress that plagues us
all, even in our most idle states, is making itself present to my
experiencing self. Whether stress is over or under-riding it
plagues us all the same, all that changes is attempting to second
guess it.I Google who came up with the Fine line between Genius and
Madness quote. This is the trouble with Google, It can ruin vague
curiosities with its unapologetic knowledge.The quote was a line
delivered by American composer, author, comedian, and actor Oscar
Levant, who was around in the first half of the 20th Century. He
was famous for hismordantcharacter and witticisms. How I can be
contemplating such a statement if only to indulge in my own ego.The
full line in fact follow: There's a fine line between genius and
insanity. I have erased this line.Like I said, how is this at all
relevant to me?I sigh; maybe Mr Levant thought precisely the same
when devising the line, Oh how I stroke myself he will have
thought, only to proceed to pencil the line in his script
regardless.I find a picture of Mr Levant, leaning against a piano,
smoking a cigarette, and glaring at the camera. He is the kind of
man who would proceed regardless.Onward! He may shout to a room,
fist pumping the air, not caring that the people diagnosed him as
quaint. At this point I would care about such a thing, I would not
wish to be judged in such a way from a young age, whereas Levant
would laugh the observers stupidity off.What defines such
fundamental traits? Where Levant laughs off those who disapproved
and misunderstood, I would let them shun me and shrink into a
corner as they towered over me, evermore tall.
5. I walk past a shouting bigoted lady in her early thirties,
whom I have over time become familiar with as the town crier of my
De Pazzi peninsular.I abhor the sanctity of marriage! She cries,
and my dismissive impulse kicks, I abhor an arrangement where some
women in the corners of this Earth are considered fortunate if they
can revert into house cats!I have always been a girlish romantic.
Now my initial response has subsided, I try understanding, but
still nothing persuades me into believing this isnt just a woman
with mild mania and an oppressive way of channelling her
sorrows.Were all house cats here, I state firmly as I walk past.And
it is not a blessing! She shouts after me, even more enraged than
ever.Its easy to feel heard in such a quiet world. I suppose thats
why she went into the hallway to do her piece. Where everyone is
coming and going and wont properly engage but rather just exist
passively.This is why I retorted; its one thing to be potty, but to
be a little Hitler is just detestable.She pursues me down the hall,
her head props onto my shoulder and I come to a halt. There we
stand, me looking dead ahead and her proper against my side.I hate
these energy saving bulbs, She says quietly to me, intimately, Im
entitled to the faster snappier ones that they had a couple of
months ago.I come to realise this woman has been here far too long.
She shifts from her perch on my shoulder and we turn to face each
other, the change of tone has crept up on me. We tentatively look
into each others eyes, no longer bearing any physical contact.I
come up for air, I am breathing heavily, starved of oxygen. I run,
whilst shouting in a voice that is far more reflective of my
insides than my own. I regain my breath after running for a period
and a distance than I cannot comprehend. I am alone. The lighting
is far too dim to provide a stable state of mind.Then another
imperceptible blip in my episodic memory and I am crying. Not
crying in an appalling way, I am walking still, I am not blubbing.
Tears just run down my cheeks, no more. A feeling of neither
despair nor relief, what you see is what you get.But yes,
consistent with my recent past, I cant comprehend to what extent
today will get away from me. All I can presume is that it will be
to an extent where I am reduced to the little idiot in the room,
not knowing when to feed herself or how to pass the time. Not
knowing how the arrangements of the situation were ever
conceived.If Id possessed self-awareness at that moment. The last
episode to the point I can recall. With that lady. I may have been
able to kiss her. To rest with her.But deep down I know,
companionship becomes harder with time, the longer you are isolated
in the world with only your own perspective for company. Finding
kinship is swimming for a sinking stone.Michael Blumenthal said;You
are holding up a ceilingwith both arms. It is very heavy,but you
must hold it up, or elseit will fall down on you. Your armsare
tired, terribly tired,and, as the day goes on, it feelsas if either
your arms or the ceilingwill soon collapse.
But then,unexpectedly,something wonderful happens:Someone,a man
or a woman,walks into the roomand holds their arms upto the ceiling
beside you.
So you finally getto take down your arms.You feel the relief of
respite,the blood flowing backto your fingers and arms.And when
your partner's arms tire,you hold up your ownto relieve him
again.
And it can go on like thisfor many yearswithout the house
falling.
I do not wish to say anything profound, directly after words of
actual substance, but what I will ask is this: Can I safely go
seeking simple human comforts? Marriage?Similar to being drunk;
after particularly distressing events my memory presents itself to
me as if none of what transpired ever really happened. It is a
useful distancing mechanism which reduces immediate post-trauma
stress, I am informed. Conversely, to deny reality in such a way
is, Im informed, unhealthy.6. The intervening period was filled
with what I can impress as white noise. Not a sensation in the
ears, but the sensation of thick nothingness which drowns any
details of surroundings out. As if I was tremendously tired.A
snappy voice twitched me out of my trance.I dont like being twodden
on, you know I dont like being twodden on! A voice pestered in
childish and grotesquely posh tones.You alright? I ask, admittedly
I am condescending but seeing vulnerability here presents an
opportunity to cover my own tracks and cracks.I become aware that I
am in one of the Hotels many non-descript hallways, there are
lights buzzing in isolated spots around me, nothing betrays the
norm.Im the Eton fag and I hate being twodden, do you understand
me? The mousy man asks me, he stand several inches under me and has
a pathetic attempt for a stylish haircut. The hair itself clearly
neither washed nor cut for months. He is wearing a damp suit and
strikes a humorous mix of tramp and hung-over student.Why are you
the Eton fag? I ask, trying to mask my contempt.Because Im the
youngest, its not fair, age is a bloody arbitrary number. Do you
understand me mortal?Are you okay? I ask, maintaining my paternal
front but sincere in my concern.No, everyone always tweds on me, He
frowns, pauses for contemplation, Am in Eton. Fag?Fag I reply
flatly, thrown back into echoes of my panic state.He sneers, Tweddy
smells blood.Fag! He shouts, giggly in a high pitched squeal, You
silly, silly fag! Pick up briefs immediately or I will be forced to
contact those who may or may not be! He squeaks in glee.Stephen
Fry. I state having regained some composure.This delights little
Tweddy, who begins jumping from foot to foot in increasing
excitement. He trots down the hallway away from me. Screaming:MOAB
IS MY WASHPOT FAGGY TWEDDY TWODDY! BLONDES WITH OR WITHOUT BLUE
EYES! IM NOT GOLLUM FOR I HAVE NO ADDICTION THOUGH IM A BIT OF ALKY
BUT NOT MUCH OF AN ALKY! I pursue Tweddy. He unexpectedly stops
dead in his tracks. He turns around slowly to face me, and raises
his cupped hand to my ear, without intent to assault or anything.I
am a bit of an alky. He whispers, in his true voice.*I have been
asked to kill before, but only ever by the person who requested the
act itself. It has only happened once, James had sung Hallelujah to
me and I had cried, after he posed the question;Kill me James or
Jim, I recall him saying. I could only decline, retreat to my room,
and scrawl these words on my bedroom wall. I was instructed to
paint them over the next day.*On this occasion Twoddy shrieked it
as he ran along the hallway out my sight, he shrieked it all along
on his merry way, with such an aura of euphoria around him.He
shrieked it wherever he went; Kill Me!I then realised how fortunate
I was to even be able to conceive that the day was getting away
from me, unlike poor old Tweddy over here.Diddy.A jolt to my ears,
I looked around for any transmitter of the stimuli; none to be
found.Diddy.But there it was again.Then I remembered an after-image
of such a word being spoken to me once before, a very long time
ago.Its cold outside Diddy.Its okay, we can get some honey soap and
melons water on that bump, and then, oh well then; you will be the
belle of the ball.Huh, at least Im still aware of the flaws which
are developing, all as fragments around me, the determined child
inside my womb curls up in defiance.
7. It is four thirty, I have switched on my laptop, and out of
the tinny speaker: Rod Stewart,I think I know now what's making me
sadIt's a yearnin' for my own back yardI realize maybe I was wrong
to leaveBetter swallow up my silly country prideWhat can I say,
when things hit such a familiar discord I cant poeticise boring
existence anymore. What is left is bland, predictable, and varying
only inside inconsequential details. I quote these lyrics with no
thought, but purely because I cant conjure anything. I can only
quote what is currently right in front of me.Take me back, carry me
backDown to Gasoline Alley where I started fromI remember being
seventeen, worrying how all my friends were dancing off down the
ever narrowing path. I dimly recall such a mood as this being
described as writers block. But it is just life without the
baggage, without the emotional content, without the romanticising
of ambiguity.I remember laughing at what were all these idiots. But
now Im in De Pazzi, and I dont drink or smoke. But what keeps
swinging in my head is this:Im not much of an alky but Im a bit of
an alky.To meddle with the aesthetic:I saw Jesus!I arise from my
bed; resentful of my own inconsistencies. I pick up a birthday card
James made for me a number of months ago. It has of front cover of
a spiral which is covered in glitter, the kind you can buy from
stationery stores. I notice the glitter float to the floor, the
open card a tiny rain cloud.
8. The general philosophical consensus in De Pazzi, I gather, is
that of Solipsism: this being the belief that only ones mind is
sure to exist. Therefore nothing which occurs can be seen as
definitely consequential. It is all only possible to exist, many
see it functional to decide it doesnt exist, that it is
construction of perspective.If you look outside De Pazzi, amongst
the general populous, the majority of people are realists, this
being a belief in reality as an external system somewhat
independent of perspective. It is the current cultural default to
believe this. It is also logical to my mind.Here I think it is
important to comment upon what the two kinds of madness are:One can
suffer from too much objectivity, where no physiological chemical
boosts can affect how things are perceived, as with one of regular
health. You are left to stagnate. No relief in the form of variety
will be taken, which is a constant hum of boredom for others. A
more extreme case of this leads to depression, where one cannot
find any motivation to even push their brain forward in the
smallest of ways.One can also suffer from too much subjectivity,
where physiological chemical boosts in the body are skewed terribly
to the point of mania, paranoia, ecstasy, despair. Moods like the
weather.I find, as do many others, that my life has boiled down to
bouncing from being too objective to too subjective back to too
objective.These factors, although they may influence, do not
account for humanitys evils.
9. The trouble with my girlfriend is that we never reach the
resolution of sincerity. The silences we share are convenient, when
there is nothing for her to comment on anymore.James said these
words to me on the ledge of the roof of De Pazzi, at a relatively
early time of nine o clock. It was raining Conveniently. I remember
the events that followed with undiminished clarity.I dont know if I
can do it you know. James admits to me.After a time I suggest he
should toss a coin, I hand him one.What should I do? He asks
me.Assign living or jumping to head and tails respectively. But
dont move until you tell me what it has landed on. I tell him.He
flicks it up into the air, it falls down into the earth below. I
hand him another coin.Again, I instruct.He repeats, successfully
this time.Heads, He says.Meaning?I live. He bursts into fresh
tears, James steps down from the ledge, collapsing into my arms.
This has clearly been an exhausting ordeal for him.But why? Because
of a coin toss, James?I couldnt make that decision for myself.So
what would you have done had it landed on tails? Would you have
taken control of your own actions in that case?At this point we
ducked through the window that led us back to De Pazzis
interior.Once we were back into a non-descript hallway, far enough
into the building that we wouldnt be able to retrace our steps to
the roof again; James spoke:Kill me James or Jim, I recall him
saying. I could only decline, retreat to my room, and scrawl these
words on my bedroom wall. I was instructed to paint them over the
next day.
10. I am staring at myself in the mirror in my room at ten
oclock, it is not a part of my routine. I say only this;Nah, I yawn
for effect, Im going to see James. I would say that youve
lubricated my condition, but in truth youve simply distracted me
from it. Which is usually bad news, I have to catch up with myself
even more now. Something I never do, but it is not nice to lose
sight of my running shadow so early in the day.
11. So I leave my room and begin my lone walk to James room, as
I do every evening. What thoughts are going through my mind at
present? Nothing which goes beyond what we really feel all the
time. So then what are these words? If I am only thinking to feel,
from where do these words spawn?Is it the voice of my narrator? My
suppressed? My guiding hand?Is it that of my carer? My lover? My
brother?Ah, no. To be most concise, as I it is every evening at a
time like this, it is the voice of my father.That eternal example
of living which is dangled in front of you from birth to grave.
That which tells you things at three of o clock in the morning.
Which cries out at the most intimate moments of what you dared to
call before; freedom.I say father for that is the voice for me. For
others it is most commonly God, it is he who you have always leered
over the ledge to peek at.
12. I softly knock upon his darkened door at the end of the
hall. A grunt responds, wrought with a pain familiar to me.I enter
as unthreateningly as possible, shutting the door behind myself.
Sometimes James is in the corner, but today he is under the bed. I
hear him softly sobbing.Can you hear the cats, James? I call out to
him.An indistinct whimper of true terror responds. I goad him
further.I can hear the cats James! I whisper with a whiff of
excitement. Theyre calling to you James!I wait for an indistinct
moment of time.Meow? He asks me.They say, James, they say that
theyre going to get you! I raise my voice a little, dancing between
threatening and humorous.James hisses from under the bed, I hear a
thud on the mattresses underside as he arches his back.They say you
need to catch Ratty, James. They say a mousetrap wont do.Naughty
cat, He replies to me, in a voice so regular. This part always take
me aback.Jimmywimmy? I call out tentatively.Yes dad? Jimmy calls
out to me. Verging on tears again, the silly boy.Mummys leaving
tomorrow, I want you to go and buy vegetable oil this instant. I
hope Jimmywimmy wont hate himself like I always have. I think this
to myself and no-one else. No-one else could ever hope to grasp the
meaning of these words. Only two people ever shared this exchange.A
vial of vegetable oil is produced from under the bed, the very
same. I know as I can hear the clink of it rolling across the
wooden floor. The clink is different though, weve never been able
to consistently reproduce the clink.
13. It is I crying now. We are sitting upon the bed, not
interacting, but trying to converge nevertheless.We both know that
when we are able we shall adopt the third position.After an
indistinct moment of time I curl up at the foot of the bed whilst
James lies in missionary feigning sleep. We must both wait seven
minutes for James to slowly rise. He got little sleep he recalls.He
prods me like he would any other morning.Jim? He calls me happily.
I always made the prospect of waking and dressing a little easier
for him.James frowns, I have never seen him frown, but he tells me
this is what he does. He prods me again.Jimmy? He says more loudly,
more desperately. He feels my neck, Ive made sure to slow my pulse
down and apply the furry neck brace.Then the pause, the seventeen
second pause, he tells me.Mum! He shrieks. Mum! Mum! Mum! So
genuine is his cry, he flips off his covers and I fall to the
floor, uncaring of how I land. James runs out of the room, slamming
the door open.I will not be seeing James again tonight by mutual
consent.
14. There I lie, on the floor by the bed, splayed. I feel the
light on the lids of my eyes. I must lie here for another twelve
minutes. The time it takes for James to scramble out of De Pazzi as
fast as he can.Sometimes James and I laugh, how its as if were
designed to meet at nine oclock.The following sequence of internal
events corresponds to a mental list I prepare for these
evenings.Detach indexed locations. Unwire network of
self-preservation. Unhinge impulse for articulation. Decline
communication. Redirect resistance to plague.
15. Sit down Mr Fernham. A nurse informs me. I have requested to
be referred to by my surname only. Jen will be here in a moment.Jen
walks through the door into the office where I am sat. It is nine
oclock in the morning.Hi, Mr. Fernham. Jen smiles at me. I smile
back, perfectly emulating sincerity.How are you? I ask,Oh, Im fine.
She smiles.Can you ask me the questions please? I dont mean to be
rude but I am little eager.The depression questions? She
asks,Yes,But I doubt youre depressed, I have to ask you these every
day Mr Fernham.It would improve my mood. I tell her.She sighs, Fine
silly.I twitch.Are you doing everything slowly? She asks me
exasperatedly, knowing my answers already. I nod every time.Does
your future seem hopeless? Do you find it hard it hard to
concentrate when you read? Has all joy and pleasure disappeared
from your life? Do you find it hard to make decisions? Have you
lost interest in that which used to mean a lot to you? Do you feel
sad depressed and unhappy feel restless cant relax tired struggle
with even trivial things. She inhales for breath.Do you feel guilty
like you deserve to be punished? Failure? Empty? Disturbed sleep?
Wonder about practical methods of suicide? Confined? When bad when
you should feel good? Fat? Anorexic? Black? Hairy? Without a
haircut within the last six months? No claims in the last four
years?Jen looks at me with an amused disbelief. She is not at all
an unkind woman, she tolerates all of my eccentricities.Must we
commit this ritual every day, Mr Fernham?Im afraid we must, for the
system to continue how we practice it, I reply curtly.So I suppose
you want the hypnotherapy debriefing questions now? I know I do not
need to reply.What is your name?Jim Fernham,What is your fathers
name?James Fernham,What is your mothers name?Missus Fernham,What is
your mothers maiden name?Missus Fernham,Where are you currently?De
Pazzi, madam,Where do you take residency?De Pazzi, madam,For how
long?De Pazzi, madam,How long, Mr Fernham, Jen makes an audible
groan of impatience.Ah, that would be the last three quarterly
terming semesters in the terms of Floridas sequential system.I see,
Jen says with resolution, she stands and gestures me to the door,
That will be all for today,
16. I will not resolve to life being strictly cyclical, but
merely reproducible. It requires a certain reset. Why do we hide
from the monsters as children when we go to sleep? It is the
process of rejecting the monsters for another day, putting them
back into their box until they start leaking out again the
following evening. This is the function of sleep, and furthermore,
of balance.I will not resolve life to be cyclical, for if it were
the case; right after I got out of bed, as I have at the exact same
time for the last week, surely I would have encountered that very
same rough looking stranger in the hallway again.However the
sameness of it all is damning. For as I find myself walking down
the corridor on the way to breakfast at ten o clock this morning I
find myself tipping an imaginary cap to a passer-by, commenting;You
know what? This is a hotel!? Im laughing heartily to myself.