Stepping In The Salad (13)

STEPPING IN THE SALAD (13)

'Had 'e?' asked the Priestess as she wielded brand new tweezers, as she plucked another insect from her arm.

'It's a shame to die intestate but I say the good and the great would do well to pen their obit. What's the harm?'

I said: 'he was silent on the subject, and, I felt I couldn't object; it's a difficult and dreadful thing to do. For the most part, one is wary to consider death. It's scary.

'But, it's something I rely on to get through.'

'Yes, of course,' replied the Priestess. 

'In a world of meritocracy and something like democracy, I can see I haven't really fared that well. . . '

'Indeed,' she nodded.

'Fate and Bad Luck called the shots. It was they who chose my lot.

'As for headstones, I'd say: Damn It, Gone To Hell.'

Stepping In The Salad (4)

STEPPING IN THE SALAD (4)

So.

We discussed REF for a brief little while; my forehead was sweating, my mouth full of bile.

Then, the Priestess opined (cracking open some wine) 'there are more better things you can do with your time. I see that you're sad but I don't know quite why. Speak out - sixty seconds - just what makes you cry?'

'I'm in love.'

The woman eased out a sigh.

'Well.

'Let the bells ring; what a wonderful thing. I presume those are tears of joy. . . Now, tell all from the start (and quit acting smart).

'Is your lover a girl or a boy?'

Stepping In The Salad (3)

STEPPING IN THE SALAD (3)

'Well . . .

'I can see why it is that you get so pissed off; I am sad to admit that this sham - this chaos - might be borne from an output of mine.'

'It's hardly divine, is it?' I interjected.

'But, when all's said and done, it is impact that counts. And, my dear, I've had impact despite it amounts to - well . . .  I must say what I see makes me sick.

'In defence, I did have to act quick.

'Seven days to create - from conception to birth (that doesn't leave time for reflection, research). Seven days to invent and to bring to fruition a half-baked idea fed from ruthless ambition . . .'

The Priestess paused to light her pipe.

'Can we talk about death?' I said, bored with her hype.

'Now, that's quite a request,' she puffed (out of breath). 'My intention, my sweet, was to talk REF.'

Broom (12)

BROOM (12)

I was trying to construct a kind of prayer as I brushed off the dandruff from the back of my chair. (Is it art or love that I strive for, I thought. Or, am I more interested in the bike I just bought?) Who cares, I'm most sad that I'm losing my hair. At this rate, just two years and my pate will be bare.

So, I turned to my girls (who know much of this world). I said, 'tell me, my dears, what's it mean to get old?'

The one with the hoola-hoop winced as she said, 'your skin starts to sag and your face gets all red.'

The one from Exotica was somewhat oblique: 'Enlightenment; that's the thing we all seek.'

The artist who always remains on the train, was slow to reply (no signal again). The one who is always delayed on the track said, 'you get old and the world wants to give you the sack; it will never forgive you the youth that you lack.'

And, I suddenly thought, what becomes of the dead (and I felt myself miserably consumed with a dread). Do we know if we've landed in heaven or hell? If only the dead could come back and re-tell of what happens to them when they croak their last breath. (God, I'm scared to death of dying.)

Broom (6)

BROOM (6)

The other, she said, as she hoola-hooped:

'The problem, dear Broom, is that we've all been duped. I can't help but thinking our raison-d'etre's sinking; we were promised a lie - that's the truth. Our professional life is a spoof.'

I was cleaning the windows with Windolene. (The desktops, already, gave off a good sheen - thanks to beeswax and elbow-grease. Such hard work: I took off my fleece.)

She continued:

'You see, I had an epiphany. We were bagging some routes, my boyfriend and me. The sun was shining, the grit was dry. As we belayed some classics I thought I might cry. I was happy enough to die.'

She stared out the window and sighed.

'And, as for the future, I don't give a toss. (I've experienced too much and suffered such loss.) I have nothing I wish for, and no expectation. But, when I'm out with my partner my only sensation is something akin to a sense of elation.

'I'm afraid I need nothing more. As a consequence, work seems like a bore.'

Nescio (27)

NESCIO (27)

The sister disappeared underground.

Though her body appeared to walk the earth, her mind was forsaken; lost hell-bound.

Twenty-four/seven, over thousands of miles, she called for the man who'd made her life worth-while.

Twenty-four/seven, over thousands of miles, she searched for the boy who'd made her laugh and smile.

She stumbled through shadows, bruised black and blue.

Heart aching crushed and out of breath, she longed for reprieve amd willed her own death.

In the end, in misery, she made a pact with the gods: give my brother and lover back; I'll trade in my lot.

Nescio (26)

NESCIO (26)

And, then, suddenly inexplicably and without warning (no reason significance or valuable meaning) the sister's gentle man stopped breathing.

She fell to her knees. She hollered and howled and screamed and cried.

'When you're sick of all this repetition

Won't you come see me, Queen Jane?'

Those were the last words the gentle man uttered before he died.  (Or, would've done if he hadn't known he was dying alone.)

(after Bob Dylan Queen Jane, Approximately.)

Nescio (25)

NESCIO (25)

And, then, suddenly inexplicably and without warning (no reason significance or valuable meaning) the sister's brother stopped breathing.

She fell to her knees. She hollered and howled and screamed and cried.

(Quite a list.)

'But there's one thing you missed.
You missed my heart.'

Those were the last words the brother uttered before he died. (Or, would've if he'd been given to saying how he felt.)

(after Mark Kozelek and Jimmy Lavalle You Missed My Heart.)

Nescio (6)

NESCIO (6)

The sister and brother, once close to another, were now separated by geography and time. Politely brought up, if stuck in a corner, they'd both say they felt fine.

But, the prickly priestess,
Though partially blind,
Saw through their facade
And it troubled her mind.

Her home was a mess: full of clutter and memories. She housed millions of testimonies of those who had visited her and begged know of their fate, then bequeathed her their property when they found it too late to atone for their past and recover their future.

She hitched up her knickers and located the step-ladder.

In the attic she found what she'd been searching for: she crept down the step-ladder and closed the loft door.

Well. As far as she could see (limited, certainly) the brother was settled: sort of happily. But the sister, she continued to roam, always alone and in search of a home.

'The child needs love', the priestess decreed. Then she got out her culdren, began cooking with speed.

I give you the gift
Of a love unconditional.
The caveat:
It can't be eternal.

She decided she deserved a bottle of wine to celebrate her act of good will.

Fractional Posts - Arret (Stop)

ARRET (STOP)

Last year, a fractional colleague and friend of mine died.

When diagnosed with lung cancer, she was given six months to live.

You'd think, given the deadline, her friends would have dedicated their free time to her remaining time.

But, it seems, the full-on full-time nature of our lives prevented this from happening.

When she died, I hadn't seen her in months.

Semiotics Of Photography: Z

Z is for Zero

(Or, Where On Earth Do The Dead Go When They Die?)