Tuesday, 9 September 2008

My Little Sister's Story And Then Mine, As Always Try The Ending. Thursday, May 04, 2006

Thursday, May 04, 2006
My Little Sister's Story And Then Mine, As Always Try The Ending.


Neo Gray has a darkened almost burnt complexion, his hair was once the colour of a ginger root, but he dyed his hair in a fit of passion or with his own sullied thoughts of unattainable love, his hair turned black. One of his legs was half chopped, an injury which occurred during an African war. He sits in a pale, though unnoticeable because of the effect of his skin colouring, pallor, often he sits, staring into space, on a brown leather chair at our dining table. His other leg was also buried in the deserts. He has only one arm. Some people call him Norogey, we look behind ourselves at his constant presence, he has a way with talking to pet cats. And he is also in love, with a girl that he once saw walking along the street. He has a large family but does not see them a lot because now he has moved to England thinking of his hardships and memories, and the girl he left behind in Africa. I let him sleep in the living room and often sleeps sitting upright on the brown leather chair. He talks to me about strange stuff, what those things are I hope not to imagine, and he also reads lots of strange books. He stays in the living room, whilst we live our everyday lives, walk in and out of the house. He gazes up into the ceiling. He thinks of very strange things.


I find it hard to write of her. Sometimes I begin to act in a manner which brings her to call me a vicious dog, a dead dog, drawing pictures of me, which I envision as another break into the Other side, but only babies pictures or perhaps the pictures of those that have been lost or needed, doves, and father Christmas and an American eagle, for the way I have been acting is more foolish than any madman, I break swords in half, I drag daggers across walls, I scream when I feel I have lost her and God tells me no for the words I abruptly fight flying men with, and I turn in my bed, as at that moment I cannot reach her though she sits in her garden and watches me patiently and calmly, I scream when I believe all is lost, ‘but you’re my wife!!’ and perhaps when I walk alone amongst many different sorts of opinion I feel her tears flow through my eyes. I fight, but I do not fight with her, there are many encounters that come between us.

We sit together in this room, I hear her voice, as I study or what I call study, Buddhism, she quietly tells me she is practising her Yoga, and I never knew she did Yoga, I always have an opinion that Yoga is not something I am interested in, and I miserably tell her so, though at that moment we are relaxed, and listening quietly to music, electro acoustic pop avante garde. Finally I feel quiet in our own moment together. My movements are strange, just like the way Noreegey has no movement, I pull fear out through my leg when the men in the planes fly with hate words, or dumb words, or good sorry words, or uncareful words, or such careful words that when I hear men, I cry ruinous words, at times, and I fear that though we have been put in the middle of these bad souls I cannot fight them away.

But this is not bright; this is half the story of Uchal, almost a man like Neogray, yet in fear of becoming such a man. If I could write all the ways we have forgiveness, how we have started a family, how we triumph in Love, yet not as I live through two worlds and forget that I too often break her heart, when I do nothing in this life and give up on so many opportunities which I sometimes feel are there, but hard to accomplish, from lack of gateways and my mistaken conversations with so many people I will never see, and around me strangers become a responsibility though they always remind us we are free. And the Maid laughs and the maidens cry.

This is not bright, this was supposed to be a different light to Neogray's darkness, this story is written with no help…. A dark excuse, that I will try to change tomorrow. I wonder now what she thinks of this story, I hear her through the trees, that she likes it, perhaps that is the maid talking for her.

Perhaps, when I sit at the train station waiting for a friend to arrive, we should not discuss the possibilities of her coming back to me, as though we are estranged even when I lay next to her in bed watching her tip her head off the side of the mattress, her hair tied up in flowing ribbons, laughing with her, in all my agony of hearing more and more cars pass by us and evil men surround, or, just men, and I think I almost lash out with my hand towards trying to touch her again or to flee the men away, an outburst stuck in too many onlookers no privacy, though our bilingual conversations, we turn the same age, but I must hold my tongue and whisper if they hear us, and this makes my limbs turn monstrous in their movements. And objects like slamming doors still crack my heart. Only piece in our night-time home, yet she is sometimes and is always with me as much as possible despite the way I try to ignore her sometimes when I need to think or live with other people during the day. At this train station, I pray and pray, aloud, a little heady on one glass of wine after visiting my grandmother and trying to tell her that I can hear her dead father (who isn’t dead, they remind me) laugh at her story about him, coming home drunk to drink bicarbonate soda in his cup of tea.

At the train station she wants to come back to me, I walk in and out into the street, smoking countless cigarettes, talking out loud at times, repeating what she says though she warns me not, a Hebrew Anglo conversation, how would she come back? She says she would be a bright-eyed man, perhaps with that baby in her arms? I ask, and we are both beating stronger and lighter and darker than any of the people around us, lost in the middle of everyday reality which somehow has become part of my private inner world. How already I can spy dangerous men, their thoughts threaten action if she arrived here, she tells me she would have money, that we would meet if I left this place and arrived in the countryside, I plead with her not to be so hopeful, surely there are rules about this, how could we live an earthly life, and go through suffering and death, though I would know if she was here, and if she was, the only possibility we agree, would be if she were a man my own age. But then I ask her, what if I go mad from this, already I look at someone without my glasses on and wonder if it is her walking through the train station gates, sometimes I look around too often, but SHE would know how to find me, and I imagine waiting around in bookshops, and as she walks up to me, collapsing and crying on the floor, I already know, can envision what she would look like as a man. I hear her, as I lay on the ground outside a church as the church bell tolls, telling her Daddy that she wants to go back. And I groan out loud.

I pray and pray, I mutter loudly, I walk back into the station, chanting,

‘Please don’t come back, please don’t come back’. And thinking why??!! On your own, when they all pray the opposite?

I lay down on the metal bench inside and strongly say, though it may almsot have been a whimper; ‘pleaseeeeeee, don’t come back.’

And then everything is quiet. I calm down, though I can still remember the last words of that day…

And my phone rings, and my friend arrives.

And now we sit here, having read a Sufi book earlier, about lovers, and unity and how we both became one, and I tell her shush, in case they might hear.

Not ready yet. Please don't say that again.

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