This Is All (30 page)

in the artificial sky

you had stencilled there

two years or more before.

Moon and stars in the heavens

Staring back at you. Till the sky fell.

‘How could you do this to me?’

Self pity is a disease

which doesn’t kill but

corrodes.

Your mind played imaginary

conversations. Dramatic dialogues,

all of which went your way. Wish

fulfilment achieved in the theatre

of your imagination.

You lashed Doris then,

loved her, chastised her

with remembrance of times past,

when she tended your days and

soothed your nights.

But what’s the point of

talking to yourself?

I think, therefore I am
.

I am, therefore I am observed
.

Being observed,

you exist.

Without the Other,

who are you?

Every I is a You
.

Every You is an I
.

You looked at Will for rescue,

Blacklin, using all his professional skill drawn from years of experience of such untoward incidents, to calm everyone down and restore the by now hysterical young minister to sanity before matters could be put right, the coffin recalled from the nether regions, and everybody was sufficiently recovered for the service to be concluded with proper dignity and decorum.

The Ship of Death

D. H. Lawrence

Have you built your ship of death, oh have you?

Oh build your ship of death, for you will need it.

Now in the twilight, sit by the invisible sea

Of peace, and build your little ship

Of death, that will carry the soul

On its last journey, on and on, so still

So beautiful, over the last of seas.

When the day comes, that will come.

Oh think of it in the twilight peacefully!

The last day, and the setting forth

On the longest journey, over the hidden sea

To the last wonder of oblivion.

Oblivion, the last wonder!

When we have trusted ourselves entirely

To the unknown, and are taken up

Out of our little ships of death

Into pure oblivion.

Oh build your ship of death, be building it now

With dim, calm thoughts and quiet hands

Putting its timbers together in the dusk,

hoping his still-life image

would distil through your fingers

a touch of comfort.

But it was

no use without his hand

to perform the magic.

Fantasy is no substitute

for flesh and blood.

Fantasy cannot replace

skin and bone, the real presence

of another body.

How alone,

how much more alone

that solitary failure made you feel,

plumbing the depths of alone.

Alone, alone, all all alone
,

Alone on a wide, wide sea
.

Unable to sort yourself out,

You were out of sorts.

You slept.

Easiest escape

– the innocent sleep
,

Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care
,

The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath
,

Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course
,

Chief nourisher in life’s feast
.

And woke,

precisely at six.

The house

silent as the grave.

A note

on the kitchen table.

Cordelia
,

Rigging its mast with the silent, invisible sail

That will spread in death to the breeze

Of the kindness of the cosmos, that will waft

The little ship with its soul to the wonder-goal.

Ah, if you want to live in peace on the face of the earth

Then build your ship of death, in readiness

For the longest journey, over the last of seas.

Boring things

Waiting for trains, buses, planes.

Waiting for people who are late. (This also belongs to my list of Annoying things.)

Waiting for anything or anybody at any time.

Waiting.

Drinks parties which I am dragged to by Dad, where there is no proper conversation even if I can hear what anyone says because of all the noise, and I have to wear clothes I don’t like and stand up all the time and be polite to everyone, most of whom I do not know.

Being made to play sport when it’s cold and wet.

Filling in forms. Every, all and any forms.

Lessons on Friday afternoon.

Getting up for school
every
morning.

McDonald’s junk and the nasty little boxes it’s served in.

Top of the
boring
Pops
on tv.

Sparky-chirpy female weather forecasters on tv who think they are
celebrities
and flick their fingers across the map as if they are hand dancers.

Science fiction in books.

Science fiction on tv in which the aliens all have disgustingly deformed faces and the humans wear tops that are hideous colours and are too tight, as if designed by someone with a grudge against the human body.

Please don’t fret. All will be well
.

Gone to Dad’s. Supper at seven
.

See you then? We love you. Doris
.

Not
I
, but
We
.

I includes You.

We excludes I.

Love is one-to-one,

eye-to-eye.

You felt rejected

by that newly

combined
We
.

The place where you began

was a dead end now.

The place where you were

was no longer yours.

Where could you belong,

and who to?

Will

was nowhere yet

being everywhere was

too knowing yet

too young to know.

Your mind was a blocked-up sink.

Where could you find a plumber?

Your heart had seized up.

Who could doctor you?

That evening, unable to be in Doris’s house a minute longer, I’d meant to go to Dad’s. But I couldn’t face the sight of Doris and Dad together as D&D in their new mode as lovey-doveys, however blasé and low key, nor their double act as ‘Mum and Dad’. So I got on my bike and pedalled past as

Revision, when you have to write out chunks of information over and over again and learn it off by heart.

Putting out the rubbish. Especially if the bag bursts (as it did this morning) and you have to clear up the mess.

Answering the phone when it isn’t for you.

Answering the phone when it’s people trying to sell things.

People trying to sell things.

Giving presents when you
have
to and not because you want to.

Receiving presents that are nothing you want or would ever want.

Practical jokes. They are played by people who are so inadequate that the only way they can feel good and get their rocks off is to humiliate someone else who can’t do anything about it because they don’t know the joke is being played until it happens. In fact, practical jokes are not jokes at all. They are forms of bullying and therefore abuse.

Not having a good book to read when you need one.

Boredom. Whenever I’m bored I feel a failure. Feeling a failure is
very
boring.

Being told to cheer up – or to snap out of it or to look on the bright side or to count your blessings or to think how much better off you are than most people or to stop being such a pain in the neck or to go and boil your head or to be told you are just suffering from teenage growing pains (so aren’t grownups ever bored?) or to be told anything that is supposed to help or cure you – is boring when you are bored.

Being told you will feel better if you go and do something. Doing anything when you’re bored is very
very
boring. Anyway,
doing nothing
is
the point
of being bored. The
pleasure
of being bored is
mooning about
and
doing nothing
.

fast as I could in case I was spotted, and unthinkingly followed the familiar route to Will’s house. Even the cool of the evening, fanning by, didn’t prevent me breaking out in a sweat of anxiety. How could I explain to him? What if he didn’t understand? But at least he would calm me down with his kisses.

Three cars I hadn’t seen before were parked in the Blacklins’ drive, one of them blocking the entrance. Visitors. The downstairs windows were open, exhaling the noise of party chatter and incidental music. No way was I in any shape to make an appearance and ask for Will. I looked for my mobile in my backpack, thinking I’d phone and ask him to come out. Only to find I’d left it behind. I cursed myself. When you’re already low, every stupid little mistake, every silly little mishap sends you farther down the spiral into the slough of despond, the slurry of self-abuse.

There wasn’t a public phone anywhere nearby. I took this as an omen. I wasn’t meant to see Will. But where to go now?