Words sting and comfort. Unguarded presence, his text to my yearning in a moments sigh. Am I unloved or is now? Can I comfort the then of him in my tomorrow, or is there no tomorrow? I taste love, pain, desire and turn again to read.
I'm tired; haven't slept properly for days. But I want to capture this feeling, to remember it when it's gone away. I ache. I really almost physically ache. It comes and gos, and at its ebb I just want the pain to go away, and in the floes I forget that its there, and smile and laugh and listen and try to help other people to take away their own pain. But I hold it, because for now, until I let it all go away, the pain contains hope. And there is nothing more exquisite, more beautiful, than the hope of love. And now I've put my pain onto the page and the sensible part of me returns to tell me that I'm a soppy git who ought to be watching my cooking. It's like... it's like the water coming into a harbour that's slowly silting up and becoming land: the transient waves on top of the waves of tides on top of the slow movement to there being no tides there anymore, just the flat calm of drying mud, the first sprinklings of growing seeds and the first birds drifting singing above them, claiming new territory with their songs.
Wednesday, 20 February 2008
Saturday, 16 February 2008
the Grief Cycle
I always have so much to learn about life. I've been watching someone precious go through parts of the Kubler-Ross grief cycle. Which I thought I understood: y'know, denial, anger, negotiation, depression, acceptance, ta-da and some forward rolls to end. But it's more complex than that.The notes in changing minds describe an 8-stage process, not the 5-stage one I thought I knew. And it has a lovely (clickable) graph of this, which I've unceremoniously copied onto here. So, the 8 stages are (I've pegged these to an event, but it could be a state of being, e.g. illness instead):
* Stability: the status quo before the event
* Shock: immediate, apparent disbelief that the event has happened; emotional paralysis often with no outward reaction, twinned with classic physical shock symptoms
* Denial: longer-term evasion, pretending the event hasn't happened, regardless of evidence.
* Anger: the big explosion (or more usually the series of explosions) about the event or even vaguely-related events or circumstances, often with blame (of self, others etc), sometimes with classic grief
* Bargaining: trying (through actions etc) to make the event or its consequences go away... false hope, if you will.
* Depression: accepting the event has happened, but not having the resources (yet) to deal with it. Often desperate loneliness twinned with refusal to be helped.
* Testing: first tentative steps towards resolving responses to the event; trying small parts of possible solutions and accepting that they might help.
* Acceptance: knowing and accepting that the event has happened, and moving on from it.
Changing minds is good in that its pages contain notes not only on the cycle, but also on how to support people going through the cycle. The cycle itself is a construct to help understand the processes of grief. Everyone goes through it differently, but the stages are broadly right; some people go through some of them very quickly, others slowly; some people get stuck in cycles (e.g. anger-denial-anger); others get stuck at single stages (e.g. anger), but mostly, 99% of the time, the stages above are how it happens.
Other useful posts on the grief cycle include businessballs. The post on gettingpastyourpast is a real cracker on relationship breakdown, in language we can probably all associate with.
Friday, 1 February 2008
Degas' Dancers
Posted from JFK airport, autumn 2007.
I've seen a lot of art this vacation (big hint: if you want to see modern art in NY, go direct to the Met or the small galleries; the other museums just aren't worth it), and the more I see, the more I imagine the stories that go with it. I know there are in fact real stories, and already there are made-up stories (the girl with a pearl earring for instance), but it is so tempting to add just one, to go with Matisse's dancers (in the Met; 2nd floor, modern art section).
George was getting thoroughly fed up. He had Ann holding his left hand, which was normal, them being married, and Mary holding his right, which was also normal but unusual behaviour in front of Ann. Ann's hand was clasped firmly above his; a possessive hand, pulling him around across the dance. Mary; now, Mary's hand was warm and soft, promising later tendernesses with the subtle shifts as he led her round, her light step leaping to his. And Fred; well, Fred was his normal self; comforting and jolly and unbothered with his status as person added to make the circle large enough to paint properly. Fred could be pretty dumb; a big labrador of a man, all happiness and no brains, but always pleased to see you, sometimes so much so that he knocked over the furniture and drooled on the carpet. George retracted that thought immediately; it wasn't so much that he couldn't imagine Fred drooling, more that the thought of Mary's husband spilling bodily fluids, and especially spilling them anywhere near Mary both disgusted and spurned him, although he couldn't resist staring at the corner of Fred's mouth (open slightly with the sheer concentration of the dance) just to check.
No drool. George wondered how the painter was getting on. They'd all been switching this way and that on-and-off for hours now, letting the great man (Mary's friend, of course) catch the right angles and feel for the right shadows. Or shades. Or shapes. Or something anyway; George knew nothing about art apart from: it was a good way to interest women, and all artists were randy bastards who really ought to be contained when they weren't doing their other essential job of livening up parties (noticably never thrown by themselves) and making everyone else feel more sensible. They were probably due a break soon. George had noticed during the dance that the painter only really used yellow at the start of the dance, and switched to other colours pretty quickly. This fact was only really important if you had seen the painting, even for the second before the painter distracted you away and talked about flowers. Fred's chair (blue) was there; the garden (not yellow), the sky.
George wondered about the painter and Fred. The large yellow streak to the left of the painting had more than a hint of Fred the labrador. And then the chair. Fred had sat chatting to the painter; lounging in that added-gravity way that large men do on vacation, as though the effort of staying upright for so many months had to be balanced by an equal effort of stillness once sat down. But why, once gravity had been overcome, had the painter left the chair? It wasn't a photograph, there was no effort in calling a maid to move it: why the chair? One-two-hop; one-two-hop; George started to feel a little better about the possibilities of Fred. Perhaps, just perhaps there was something more here; maybe a reason to talk long and deep into the night with Mary; possibly an excuse to console her tearful nights with a manly shoulder (as he would gently explain to Ann before shouldering that terrible duty). George moved his right fingers a little, flexing them gently against Mary's wrist. She responded in kind, and he gave a little hop, a spring of joy. The painter picked up his yellow brush.
I've seen a lot of art this vacation (big hint: if you want to see modern art in NY, go direct to the Met or the small galleries; the other museums just aren't worth it), and the more I see, the more I imagine the stories that go with it. I know there are in fact real stories, and already there are made-up stories (the girl with a pearl earring for instance), but it is so tempting to add just one, to go with Matisse's dancers (in the Met; 2nd floor, modern art section).
George was getting thoroughly fed up. He had Ann holding his left hand, which was normal, them being married, and Mary holding his right, which was also normal but unusual behaviour in front of Ann. Ann's hand was clasped firmly above his; a possessive hand, pulling him around across the dance. Mary; now, Mary's hand was warm and soft, promising later tendernesses with the subtle shifts as he led her round, her light step leaping to his. And Fred; well, Fred was his normal self; comforting and jolly and unbothered with his status as person added to make the circle large enough to paint properly. Fred could be pretty dumb; a big labrador of a man, all happiness and no brains, but always pleased to see you, sometimes so much so that he knocked over the furniture and drooled on the carpet. George retracted that thought immediately; it wasn't so much that he couldn't imagine Fred drooling, more that the thought of Mary's husband spilling bodily fluids, and especially spilling them anywhere near Mary both disgusted and spurned him, although he couldn't resist staring at the corner of Fred's mouth (open slightly with the sheer concentration of the dance) just to check.
No drool. George wondered how the painter was getting on. They'd all been switching this way and that on-and-off for hours now, letting the great man (Mary's friend, of course) catch the right angles and feel for the right shadows. Or shades. Or shapes. Or something anyway; George knew nothing about art apart from: it was a good way to interest women, and all artists were randy bastards who really ought to be contained when they weren't doing their other essential job of livening up parties (noticably never thrown by themselves) and making everyone else feel more sensible. They were probably due a break soon. George had noticed during the dance that the painter only really used yellow at the start of the dance, and switched to other colours pretty quickly. This fact was only really important if you had seen the painting, even for the second before the painter distracted you away and talked about flowers. Fred's chair (blue) was there; the garden (not yellow), the sky.
George wondered about the painter and Fred. The large yellow streak to the left of the painting had more than a hint of Fred the labrador. And then the chair. Fred had sat chatting to the painter; lounging in that added-gravity way that large men do on vacation, as though the effort of staying upright for so many months had to be balanced by an equal effort of stillness once sat down. But why, once gravity had been overcome, had the painter left the chair? It wasn't a photograph, there was no effort in calling a maid to move it: why the chair? One-two-hop; one-two-hop; George started to feel a little better about the possibilities of Fred. Perhaps, just perhaps there was something more here; maybe a reason to talk long and deep into the night with Mary; possibly an excuse to console her tearful nights with a manly shoulder (as he would gently explain to Ann before shouldering that terrible duty). George moved his right fingers a little, flexing them gently against Mary's wrist. She responded in kind, and he gave a little hop, a spring of joy. The painter picked up his yellow brush.
Found poem
I found this on my PC, dated 10th September 2007. Thought I'd leave it here for posterity.
Us, a we, unity. Together.
Apart alone, a lone one twice apart.
From held arms round a willing neck.
Twisted lust, straight love.
Dark black hearts, bright red souls.
Burning up, deep black hot, pyrometric.
Beyond sanity, beyond life,
beyond the boundaries of right, wrong, now, then.
Til reality brings us back apart.
Again the wait. Again the pain of no pain yet.
Again the sharp tenderness of you not you, me not me.
Again the sweet smell of melting rubber sex.
and the soft warmth of trust.
Yours, ours, our own, my own.
The first drops of a life's ocean.
The first swirls of fumbling mixture, from black to white to infinite greys.
I am yours; you are mine. We will learn what that means.
Us, a we, unity. Together.
Apart alone, a lone one twice apart.
From held arms round a willing neck.
Twisted lust, straight love.
Dark black hearts, bright red souls.
Burning up, deep black hot, pyrometric.
Beyond sanity, beyond life,
beyond the boundaries of right, wrong, now, then.
Til reality brings us back apart.
Again the wait. Again the pain of no pain yet.
Again the sharp tenderness of you not you, me not me.
Again the sweet smell of melting rubber sex.
and the soft warmth of trust.
Yours, ours, our own, my own.
The first drops of a life's ocean.
The first swirls of fumbling mixture, from black to white to infinite greys.
I am yours; you are mine. We will learn what that means.
More found words
Dated 6am, 3rd August 1994
Chapter 1
It’s a fact of life that there have always been nameless wars, with heroes forgotten by all except their enemies and a select band of controllers and comrades, hidden from the disapproval of the masses they protect. Each has, each is, a story. Stories come in many forms: some, condensed lives, miniatures with beginnings and ends. Some stories are just continuations, chapters in larger novels, each leading neatly onto the next. Such are these lives.
Rain slithered across her face, snaking its way to stop gingerly at her clothes, the touch of an inexpert lover. She felt the darkness around her, not seeing anything but the lights of the grey stone cottage, not hearing anything but the hum of wet pylons and the ticking of her watch counting away his life second by insistent second. She felt her head swim with the fear, felt the familiar aura take hold, fought against the weakness as she willed, pushed herself towards the cottage and away from the dark taking hold of her, creeping into her soul.
All my life, I’ve been waiting for something to happen. All my life, there’s been a pattern in the background, the subtle electricity of a storm yet to break. I try to break away from the pattern, but whatever I do is part of it, woven into my self as surely as if my destiny had created me. Here, now, as I sit is part of that destiny. Here, as I write, I can feel the threads of my present weave into the spiders’ web of my future, and sat at the centre of that web lies my controller, pulling a thread here, lengthening another there, creating me to its own perfection. There are three constants in my life: an overwhelming sadness, the controller and the trains that I pass through life on, each journey measuring part of my own. At least now I know why I am sad. I cannot explain the trains.
Sometimes in life, you meet someone so heart-wrenchingly special, so wonderful that you’d exchange your own life just to be with them. Sometimes two people feel that way together. And then the trouble starts.
It’s human nature to feel incomplete. It drives us: the all-compelling need to find a part of ourselves that is hidden, that is not quite there but always, tantalising, on the tip of our conciousness- a word, no, the mere sound of a word to describe all that we are not, giving us the self we desire if only we could remember its name. Perhaps that’s why opposites attract - because we have a better chance of finding that missing gene, that missing link: call it what you will, but it’s there, that nagging sense of loss, of the drifting, shapeless part of our being. It is as though we need only one more mental lens to make us see clearly; to understand; to be our own Renoir, Einstein, Da vinci and self at once. But woe betide us when we find that last syllable in our nameless name, because then alone we are dead, for that is the point when need, form and the relentless desire for love become only self and the nullness of truth. We need to have lost that part, need to know our own incomplete humanity, for without this we may join the suburban accountants and collectors of taxes, the dead souls waiting at East Croyden at 7am, for we should have no more passion, no love, no hate - only the tedium of eternal perfection or the mindlessness of ignorance. Pity those who have found their missing self, for their path can only be downwards, and their bliss only temporary. But do not pity me, for I have lost, and can still remember the joy of being whole with the passion of grief, and the conviction of a truth half-known.
At first glance, we were opposites: the extrovert politician, the quiet writer. The mothers’ son, and the girl with no roots, save the temporary stays put out at each new temporary port, each temporary life. Perhaps that was the attraction. But sometimes God in his infinite humour creates doppelganger souls, and sprinkles each with its own little facets, each with its own hidden flaws. There’s a nice theory to expain creation: you can create two identical particles out of nothing, but only for a very short time before they find each other again and remember together that they’re supposed to be a void- but if you lose one of them in that brief period of existence, if by some quirk fate forgets to pair them off again, then reality can’t catch up and you’ve got something big, in fact something universe-sized on your hands. Those occasional special people who are let loose on the world tend to be cancelled out quickly in case fate gets embarrassed, or go mad trying to understand, so I suppose it’s amazing we lasted as long as we did. I blame the trains: British Rail can even make the grim reaper late. It made me too late to save you.
Not that I’ve stopped taking trains: I’m writing this from yet another carriage in yet another landscape. There’s something about travelling up the East Coast that makes you think it’s all a big British Rail joke, that you’re cruising round in a huge circle, past the same wood and the same flat fields (run-down barns optional) and the same bloody great big power station until the music stops and all the trains have to find themselves a station. That’s why some of their super-efficient trains still break down - they can’t admit they’re the odd-train-out, and they’re sulking until the next game of musical stations starts (and Waterloo station plays music in the mornings just to keep the trains running). Aha! a Tesco’s: could this be a stop? No- it’s the same flat redbrick town we passed twenty minutes ago- I recognise the churches. Da-dur-te-ta, Da-dur-te-ta, and the train music goes on, and my search for you across the rail-routes of my world continues.
Medaeval knights had chargers, the Spanish ships, Hannibal was different and used elephants - I have my trains. My quest? To find that part of myself that once had your name, your form, your life, and now does not, except as a memory here, a cutting there. I need to understand you, to understand you by being, to become that part of me that was you, to become you, to risk my own soul if that is what I must do to find you. And I desire- oh, how I desire and love and hate. Loss is measured by what you have loved, and I have lost a world- yours and mine both. Hate is measured by the revenge you are prepared to take, and my hate for the man who took you is equal only to my love. Always just one more train ride, one more piece of you, one more contact, and he too shall die the long slow death that I have these past two years, these long, lonely years. And so it goes on.
Monday
Clean cat-tray
Tidy kitchen
Pay window-cleaner
Meet I.
Warts have very deep roots: deep into the skin, tracing the history of where a blemish came from, forcing the surface to return to being a wart, whatever is done to it alone. Trace the roots and you understand the wart, give or take the odd freckle. Of course, some people call them beauty-spots. Meet I. Another piece of the puzzle. Another piece of your past. Another step closer to you. Child of your father, father of our unborn children, it is not natural that life should be this way. Your father would...but you can explain to him yourself, you’re together now. Just don’t tell him he knows nothing about inheritance - it’s too late for that now.
Train game number 1: reverse blinking. Close your eyes then blink them open 1 2 3 4 5 6 blink: a little red chapel tower, complete with bell 1 2 3 4 5 6 blink: a lilac bush breaking up the green 1 2 3 4 5 6 my god! a station! A real station, with real railings and real clocks: the music must have stopped!
Chapter 2
This story begins a long time before you and I, but I begin with you and I, so that’s where I should start. Another train, another destination, another lifetime ago. A pair of green eyes, green with the ageless knowledge of Jade, sparkling with the cold of Arctic snow. I close my eyes and see them now, not as then, but with the warmth of love, and the colour of summer’s turquoise sea.
Sleeping Over
Another thing lying around: a play, dated 7th September 2000. I know it's not good literature, but it's mine, I'm clearing out my drives, and I want to leave this somewhere it can be found in, ooh, maybe 30 years when I'm too old to remember what it feels like to be young and foolish. Onwards...
Sleeping Over
Cast
David
Sam - David's fiancee
Fudge - David's best friend
Justin - David and Fudge's other friend
Waiter
Nurse
Synopsis
Scene 1: everyone arrives at the cottage
[Friday night. Justin's holiday cottage. Two big sofas. Posters of guns and tanks round the walls. Papers littered on the floor. An opened box of beercans in the corner. David, Sam and Fudge sat on one of the sofas, sitting very close together and chatting. Their heads are together as they do so. David and Sam are cuddled up together, holding hands. Sam's legs are draped across Fudge.]
D And then he gave you back her knickers and offered you a bottle of whisky.
F Well, it was a good whisky. And anyway, he's fucked every other woman who's come through that door. Why should Jenny be any different?
S Language, Fudge.
F Sorry Sam. Screwed.
S Forgiven. For the moment. So what happened to 'one for all and all for one', David?
D That was never meant for girlfriends. [pauses] Except you, D'Artagnan. [Pauses again] You didn't, did you?
[S looks at F.]
D With him?
S Don't be so bloody silly darling. [She gets up and goes through the kitchen door]
D You're my best man. But I don't want Justin to feel left out. Do you mind if I ask him too?
F Well, it's a little unusual, but you always were a bit different. Okay, good by me as long as he gets to do the speech. Has Sam forgiven you for asking me first yet?
D Shhh. She's only next door. Ask me about something safe. Like sex.
[Sam returns with a drink and two glasses. She hands one each to the boys]
S I heard that. Any trouble and I marry one of the best men. So Fudge, what are you planning to do this weekend?
F Walk. Drink. Do a bit of thinking. Decide which job to take. And you?
D Stand for election. [Fudge makes a face] No, seriously; I've got the forms in my case. It's time. I'm settled now, nothing should stop me.
[Justin walks through the doorway. Everyone sits up and shuffles a little further apart on the sofa.]
J Typical. I'm the last one in and it's my bloody cottage.
H [to J] Shouldn't work so hard then [quietly, to F and S] Probably trying to get away from Emma. [They nod]
J Glad you made it though. Sorry I'm so late.
F We started the beer. Thought we'd have to drink it all for you.
D Remember the time we locked Justin out and drank his whisky?
J You told me you'd lost the key!
D You didn't expect me to tell the truth did you? We left some beer on the doorstep for you.
J So what did you put in the bottle? No, don't tell me.
S Boys, boys, let's stop fighting and start celebrating shall we?
J Celebrate? What? You're running away with Fudge?
F You're pregnant?
D No, I'm not pregnant. Honest [pats belly, rounding it out as he does so]. We're getting married.
F Oh, wow! [Hugs David then Sam] Can I borrow your fi-an-cee for a bit? I'll give her back, honest!
[F leads S to a sofa, J,D sit down on the other. They all start to drink.]
F So how's little Sammie then?
S Hey, less of the little...
F Big, then?
S Stop it you rat: you know what I mean...
F Okay, okay. So how's the blushing bride to be? How's David?
S Swap you for telling me about your latest girlfriends.
[They sit giggling and drinking together on the sofa]
F Do you ever miss it then?
S Oh. Sometimes. We tried it a bit, but I don't think David sees the point.
F No, for him sex is just something plain.
J [looking at Sam and Fudge] Do you think there's something going on there then?
D I don't think so, he's my best friend. [Embarassed] Well, apart from you anyway.
J That's okay. I can cope with being second place. For a while, anyway. Don't you ever worry about how close they seem?
D He's her best friend too - why shouldn't they be close?
J But they're alone together - doesn't it worry you? Look mate, I know you want to marry her, but think about it: how many times has he stayed over when you were away? Don't you ever wonder what they do when you're not there?
D But he's gay. Everyone knows he's gay: he hasn't been out with a woman for almost as long as I've known him.
J Would that be as long as she's known him? Think about it...
[D sits looking at his beer. J opens up another can and settles into the sofa]
[S and F are sat heads together, whispering]
S Look, about the announcement. There's something else, but I want to surprise David tomorrow... swear to secrecy? Girls' honour?
F Do I get to wear a dress? Oh go on, please! Oh all right... girls' honour, scouts' honour and any other excuse I get to dress up honour: okay?
S Cross your heart and hope to...
F Yes, yes, the bra too... so what is this amazing secret? You're not pregnant are you?
S You've spoilt it now: I wanted to be really dramatic when I announced you were going to be an uncle.
F Oh please - an aunt, or I won't be able to wear the big hat at the christening. I'm sure David made me best man so I wouldn't wear a dress to your wedding.
S You are awful
[They hugtightly]
S Love you, Fudge
F Love you too Sammikins
[They are all very drunk by now. David rises from his seat and stares at S and F]
D What the hell do you think you're doing? Groping my own bride in front of me? Do you think I'm really stupid? Do you think I haven't noticed?
F What the...
D Pretending you were gay, you bastard? Well, I'll show you...
[D rises to hit F. J stands behind, and restrains him]
J Don't get upset about it - I'm sure there's nothing doing [whispers] don't let him see you get upset...
F You're pissed as a fart. Yes, I love your wife, and I don't know what the hell's upset you but we can sort it out when you sober up.
D [struggling] You bastard...
F Okay, okay, I'm going now. [Picks up his coat, opens the door and leaves, walking backwards through it]
S What the hell did you do that for? I haven't seen him for months, we were having a lovely time: what the hell did you do?
D [Tears starting to run down cheeks] I don't want to talk to you. Just leave me alone. Just go...
S But...
D Go!
[S leaves via an internal door, starting to cry.]
J Come on, mate. [Moves D over to the sofa and slumps him down against it. D starts to cry, holding onto J. A clock ticks in the backgroud. Blackout]
Scene 2: Justin takes David
[Same place, an hour or two later. Is lit only by the blue of the tv screen]
S David? David?
[S opens the door and puts on the light. J is sat naked on the floor behind D, arms around him and one hand holding his penis]
S [Screams] David?
D [Very slurred voice] It's okay. I can handle this.
S David?
D It's okay. Go back to bed.
[J smiles victoriously at S. She turns around and walks slowly back through the door. Blackout]
Scene 3: Breakfast at the cottage
[Sunday morning. Justin's cottage again. Sam and David wander into the room, together but not touching each oter.
Scene 4: Breakfast at the cafe
[Climbers' cafe. Sam and Fudge are sitting watching the waiters wandering past]
S It should be such an insignificant act. You put this bit [holds up finger] in that bit [holds up thumb and finger to make a ring, and slides the first finger into it]. So what? Why does it matter so much?
F You know that's not the point. Well [slightly dirty grin]. But seriously, it's never been about sex.
S Power?
F He didn't have a choice. It's a shame they didn't do it before you appeared. But then, you never screw your mates.
S You don't think David meant to?
F No, he's too screwed up by it. Even if yo'd caught him at it, he'd never be this upset. You'd have dealt with it between you.
S So why did Justin do it?
F Nobody comes out and says 'I'm bisexual'. It's ridiculous. You mum will say 'yes dear' and your best friends will ignore it til you've decided. He doesn't exist outside porn films and a little letter in LGB.
S It's never bothered David. David never raped anyone.
F David isn't a big macho army officer with a girlfriend who'd kill him if he looked at another woman. Except he isn't. And he idolises David. Everything he's had has always been newer or faster or better than David's, but David's always had what he wanted.
S Like hair, you mean?
Act II. Later that month.
Scene 1: Sam and David talk
[Sunday lunchtime. Sam and David are walking alone on the hills.]
S Someone tried to rape me once.
D Oh for Christ's
S No David, please listen. I need you to hear this
[D nods]
S I was at the blues bar. Was chatting to the bouncers as I left, knew them all from the gym. Bill offered me a lift home. He was the quiet one. Sweet guy, with a lovely Welsh accent and a steady family at home. We chatted about the weather, and the guys he saw me at the bar with me. It was a while before we stopped and I realised I was lost. Somewhere out in the countryside, I think. I was tired, slightly drunk, confused and then he was on top of me. Holding me down and pulling at my jeans. It wasn't a request. He didn't even try to kiss me, and that probably saved me. I talked. It had happened before and I'd always thought it was my own fault. And now I had a chance to find out. So I looked up and asked him why he was doing it. And he started to cry. Was terribly upset about his baby dying and his wife just turned her back on him and he was desparate for some contact, any contact with someone. And I was there, being friendly. And bringing so many blokes to the club that I must have been a tart, right. Wouldn't have minded a bit of extra that night. The strangest thing about rape is that it's often so non-violent. You know the person doing it, and you're transfixed. You don't do anything about it because you don't believe it's happening.
D I'm scared. That I wanted it. That I encouraged it. Scared of aids, scared of cancer, scared of losing you.
Scene 2: Sam and Fudge slip away
S A small flat somewhere. A job I believe in. Somewhere to write and listen to music. I'm not sure I want to be loved. Not sure I need to. I don't know.
F That's rubbish and you know it. Do you know how lonely you'd be without David. Even in this mood? Give him a chance.
S I've been giving him a chance for months. That bastard has taken over our lives. I want my life back. I want my husband back. [Starts to cry]
F How's it going?
S Fine, fine... two more big orders, some more stuff in the pipeline.
F Busy at work then? Lots to do?
S Yeah. Yeah. [Looks distractedly about her] That waiter's taking his time
F Sam, it's me. You know, the person you told about your abortion. The one who stood beside you all night when your dress split on the side. The only person in the world who knows how he ticks. Don't hold out on me now.
S [sits up straight] You have no right to...
F Please?
S [sagging a little] He won't let me near him anymore. We're sleeping in the same bed, but he's always somewhere else. All I want to do is just hold him and make it better, and he can't even bear to be near me. And the worst thing is when he forgets: sometimes we'll be giggling on the sofa, just like it was before, and he's round me and stroking me, and something stops: the shutters come down and he's not there anymore, and he's off making tea before I can even hold his hand and talk to him. He won't even let me listen, can't see any problems. And everyone tells me how perfect we are, and how lovely we seem, and I have to face that bastard Justin tomorrow and it's my appointment and [starts to sob. Fudge pulls her head over to his chest]
F Whoa there little sister... [lets her cry for a little]...
Scene 3: The stagnight. David goes back to Justin.
[Fudge and David cuddle up on the floor together, still wearing all their clothes. Blackout.]
Scene 4: The morning after
[Sun's coming up. Fudge and David are still cuddled up on the floor together, except they're now head-to-foot with each other. Fudge stirs and wakes David with a pillow round the ear]
F Wake up lazy. [Comes to a bit more and pushes David's feet away from his face] God, your feet smell.
D [grinning] At least I wasn't farting all night. Do you want coffee?
F You okay? [David nods]. You did know about Sam, didn't you?
D I'd guessed. That's why we were still getting married.
F I think you'd better go and talk to her. You've got a lot of ground to make up. And some ceremonies to arrange. Go on, shoo.
D [pulling on his shoes] Justin?
F I'll tell him when he wakes up. Shoo.
[David walks out quickly. Fudge picks up two mugs and wanders off towards the kitchen].
The end.
Sleeping Over
Cast
David
Sam - David's fiancee
Fudge - David's best friend
Justin - David and Fudge's other friend
Waiter
Nurse
Synopsis
Scene 1: everyone arrives at the cottage
[Friday night. Justin's holiday cottage. Two big sofas. Posters of guns and tanks round the walls. Papers littered on the floor. An opened box of beercans in the corner. David, Sam and Fudge sat on one of the sofas, sitting very close together and chatting. Their heads are together as they do so. David and Sam are cuddled up together, holding hands. Sam's legs are draped across Fudge.]
D And then he gave you back her knickers and offered you a bottle of whisky.
F Well, it was a good whisky. And anyway, he's fucked every other woman who's come through that door. Why should Jenny be any different?
S Language, Fudge.
F Sorry Sam. Screwed.
S Forgiven. For the moment. So what happened to 'one for all and all for one', David?
D That was never meant for girlfriends. [pauses] Except you, D'Artagnan. [Pauses again] You didn't, did you?
[S looks at F.]
D With him?
S Don't be so bloody silly darling. [She gets up and goes through the kitchen door]
D You're my best man. But I don't want Justin to feel left out. Do you mind if I ask him too?
F Well, it's a little unusual, but you always were a bit different. Okay, good by me as long as he gets to do the speech. Has Sam forgiven you for asking me first yet?
D Shhh. She's only next door. Ask me about something safe. Like sex.
[Sam returns with a drink and two glasses. She hands one each to the boys]
S I heard that. Any trouble and I marry one of the best men. So Fudge, what are you planning to do this weekend?
F Walk. Drink. Do a bit of thinking. Decide which job to take. And you?
D Stand for election. [Fudge makes a face] No, seriously; I've got the forms in my case. It's time. I'm settled now, nothing should stop me.
[Justin walks through the doorway. Everyone sits up and shuffles a little further apart on the sofa.]
J Typical. I'm the last one in and it's my bloody cottage.
H [to J] Shouldn't work so hard then [quietly, to F and S] Probably trying to get away from Emma. [They nod]
J Glad you made it though. Sorry I'm so late.
F We started the beer. Thought we'd have to drink it all for you.
D Remember the time we locked Justin out and drank his whisky?
J You told me you'd lost the key!
D You didn't expect me to tell the truth did you? We left some beer on the doorstep for you.
J So what did you put in the bottle? No, don't tell me.
S Boys, boys, let's stop fighting and start celebrating shall we?
J Celebrate? What? You're running away with Fudge?
F You're pregnant?
D No, I'm not pregnant. Honest [pats belly, rounding it out as he does so]. We're getting married.
F Oh, wow! [Hugs David then Sam] Can I borrow your fi-an-cee for a bit? I'll give her back, honest!
[F leads S to a sofa, J,D sit down on the other. They all start to drink.]
F So how's little Sammie then?
S Hey, less of the little...
F Big, then?
S Stop it you rat: you know what I mean...
F Okay, okay. So how's the blushing bride to be? How's David?
S Swap you for telling me about your latest girlfriends.
[They sit giggling and drinking together on the sofa]
F Do you ever miss it then?
S Oh. Sometimes. We tried it a bit, but I don't think David sees the point.
F No, for him sex is just something plain.
J [looking at Sam and Fudge] Do you think there's something going on there then?
D I don't think so, he's my best friend. [Embarassed] Well, apart from you anyway.
J That's okay. I can cope with being second place. For a while, anyway. Don't you ever worry about how close they seem?
D He's her best friend too - why shouldn't they be close?
J But they're alone together - doesn't it worry you? Look mate, I know you want to marry her, but think about it: how many times has he stayed over when you were away? Don't you ever wonder what they do when you're not there?
D But he's gay. Everyone knows he's gay: he hasn't been out with a woman for almost as long as I've known him.
J Would that be as long as she's known him? Think about it...
[D sits looking at his beer. J opens up another can and settles into the sofa]
[S and F are sat heads together, whispering]
S Look, about the announcement. There's something else, but I want to surprise David tomorrow... swear to secrecy? Girls' honour?
F Do I get to wear a dress? Oh go on, please! Oh all right... girls' honour, scouts' honour and any other excuse I get to dress up honour: okay?
S Cross your heart and hope to...
F Yes, yes, the bra too... so what is this amazing secret? You're not pregnant are you?
S You've spoilt it now: I wanted to be really dramatic when I announced you were going to be an uncle.
F Oh please - an aunt, or I won't be able to wear the big hat at the christening. I'm sure David made me best man so I wouldn't wear a dress to your wedding.
S You are awful
[They hugtightly]
S Love you, Fudge
F Love you too Sammikins
[They are all very drunk by now. David rises from his seat and stares at S and F]
D What the hell do you think you're doing? Groping my own bride in front of me? Do you think I'm really stupid? Do you think I haven't noticed?
F What the...
D Pretending you were gay, you bastard? Well, I'll show you...
[D rises to hit F. J stands behind, and restrains him]
J Don't get upset about it - I'm sure there's nothing doing [whispers] don't let him see you get upset...
F You're pissed as a fart. Yes, I love your wife, and I don't know what the hell's upset you but we can sort it out when you sober up.
D [struggling] You bastard...
F Okay, okay, I'm going now. [Picks up his coat, opens the door and leaves, walking backwards through it]
S What the hell did you do that for? I haven't seen him for months, we were having a lovely time: what the hell did you do?
D [Tears starting to run down cheeks] I don't want to talk to you. Just leave me alone. Just go...
S But...
D Go!
[S leaves via an internal door, starting to cry.]
J Come on, mate. [Moves D over to the sofa and slumps him down against it. D starts to cry, holding onto J. A clock ticks in the backgroud. Blackout]
Scene 2: Justin takes David
[Same place, an hour or two later. Is lit only by the blue of the tv screen]
S David? David?
[S opens the door and puts on the light. J is sat naked on the floor behind D, arms around him and one hand holding his penis]
S [Screams] David?
D [Very slurred voice] It's okay. I can handle this.
S David?
D It's okay. Go back to bed.
[J smiles victoriously at S. She turns around and walks slowly back through the door. Blackout]
Scene 3: Breakfast at the cottage
[Sunday morning. Justin's cottage again. Sam and David wander into the room, together but not touching each oter.
Scene 4: Breakfast at the cafe
[Climbers' cafe. Sam and Fudge are sitting watching the waiters wandering past]
S It should be such an insignificant act. You put this bit [holds up finger] in that bit [holds up thumb and finger to make a ring, and slides the first finger into it]. So what? Why does it matter so much?
F You know that's not the point. Well [slightly dirty grin]. But seriously, it's never been about sex.
S Power?
F He didn't have a choice. It's a shame they didn't do it before you appeared. But then, you never screw your mates.
S You don't think David meant to?
F No, he's too screwed up by it. Even if yo'd caught him at it, he'd never be this upset. You'd have dealt with it between you.
S So why did Justin do it?
F Nobody comes out and says 'I'm bisexual'. It's ridiculous. You mum will say 'yes dear' and your best friends will ignore it til you've decided. He doesn't exist outside porn films and a little letter in LGB.
S It's never bothered David. David never raped anyone.
F David isn't a big macho army officer with a girlfriend who'd kill him if he looked at another woman. Except he isn't. And he idolises David. Everything he's had has always been newer or faster or better than David's, but David's always had what he wanted.
S Like hair, you mean?
Act II. Later that month.
Scene 1: Sam and David talk
[Sunday lunchtime. Sam and David are walking alone on the hills.]
S Someone tried to rape me once.
D Oh for Christ's
S No David, please listen. I need you to hear this
[D nods]
S I was at the blues bar. Was chatting to the bouncers as I left, knew them all from the gym. Bill offered me a lift home. He was the quiet one. Sweet guy, with a lovely Welsh accent and a steady family at home. We chatted about the weather, and the guys he saw me at the bar with me. It was a while before we stopped and I realised I was lost. Somewhere out in the countryside, I think. I was tired, slightly drunk, confused and then he was on top of me. Holding me down and pulling at my jeans. It wasn't a request. He didn't even try to kiss me, and that probably saved me. I talked. It had happened before and I'd always thought it was my own fault. And now I had a chance to find out. So I looked up and asked him why he was doing it. And he started to cry. Was terribly upset about his baby dying and his wife just turned her back on him and he was desparate for some contact, any contact with someone. And I was there, being friendly. And bringing so many blokes to the club that I must have been a tart, right. Wouldn't have minded a bit of extra that night. The strangest thing about rape is that it's often so non-violent. You know the person doing it, and you're transfixed. You don't do anything about it because you don't believe it's happening.
D I'm scared. That I wanted it. That I encouraged it. Scared of aids, scared of cancer, scared of losing you.
Scene 2: Sam and Fudge slip away
S A small flat somewhere. A job I believe in. Somewhere to write and listen to music. I'm not sure I want to be loved. Not sure I need to. I don't know.
F That's rubbish and you know it. Do you know how lonely you'd be without David. Even in this mood? Give him a chance.
S I've been giving him a chance for months. That bastard has taken over our lives. I want my life back. I want my husband back. [Starts to cry]
F How's it going?
S Fine, fine... two more big orders, some more stuff in the pipeline.
F Busy at work then? Lots to do?
S Yeah. Yeah. [Looks distractedly about her] That waiter's taking his time
F Sam, it's me. You know, the person you told about your abortion. The one who stood beside you all night when your dress split on the side. The only person in the world who knows how he ticks. Don't hold out on me now.
S [sits up straight] You have no right to...
F Please?
S [sagging a little] He won't let me near him anymore. We're sleeping in the same bed, but he's always somewhere else. All I want to do is just hold him and make it better, and he can't even bear to be near me. And the worst thing is when he forgets: sometimes we'll be giggling on the sofa, just like it was before, and he's round me and stroking me, and something stops: the shutters come down and he's not there anymore, and he's off making tea before I can even hold his hand and talk to him. He won't even let me listen, can't see any problems. And everyone tells me how perfect we are, and how lovely we seem, and I have to face that bastard Justin tomorrow and it's my appointment and [starts to sob. Fudge pulls her head over to his chest]
F Whoa there little sister... [lets her cry for a little]...
Scene 3: The stagnight. David goes back to Justin.
[Fudge and David cuddle up on the floor together, still wearing all their clothes. Blackout.]
Scene 4: The morning after
[Sun's coming up. Fudge and David are still cuddled up on the floor together, except they're now head-to-foot with each other. Fudge stirs and wakes David with a pillow round the ear]
F Wake up lazy. [Comes to a bit more and pushes David's feet away from his face] God, your feet smell.
D [grinning] At least I wasn't farting all night. Do you want coffee?
F You okay? [David nods]. You did know about Sam, didn't you?
D I'd guessed. That's why we were still getting married.
F I think you'd better go and talk to her. You've got a lot of ground to make up. And some ceremonies to arrange. Go on, shoo.
D [pulling on his shoes] Justin?
F I'll tell him when he wakes up. Shoo.
[David walks out quickly. Fudge picks up two mugs and wanders off towards the kitchen].
The end.
Tears in the Rain
Another foundling, this time from 26th August 2000.
Like tears in the rain
I'm not bitter. I'm depressed, confused, scared and angry, but I'm not bitter.
Shit. I am bitter. Since I found out I've hardly slept. To sleep and lose consciousness would be too close for comfort. I don't know what to do. There is nothing to do. I can only wait.
I can only wait.
I've decided to get my thoughts on record. As far as I know, nooone else in the world is going to do what I'm going to do. Nobody has done it for over four hundred years. I'll be the first. Hopefully I'll be the only one. Or one of the very few.
I'm going to die.
That isn't so exciting these days. Nearly everyone dies sometime. Illness, accident, it still happens. But it's easy to recover, a week or so and they're back in the land of the living.
I'm going to die permanently.
My doctor told me a week ago. It's taken that long for it to sink in. I knew I had cancer - it showed up in my annual med-scan. I was't too worried about it. I decided not to get it treated. Well, why go through the difficulties of treatment when I could regenerate if it got bad enough to be a problem. My friends said I should deal with it; not to let it get out of hand. But I believed in the great miracle.
I believed.
And I think I wanted to know what it felt like to come close to death. I've always wondered if it would be different. Well, I'm going to find out now. Big time.
Eventually the pain started. I booked myself into a regen unit: in for a few days, then back to my life. All the standard checks, my brain scan recorded, DNA extracted, personality saved as a backup on the mainframe, everything as normal in the assumption? The hope? That I might have changed slightly in the last year.
And so I went into the unit.
Lowered into the tank. Naked and slightly cold. Green gel surrounding me, starting to fill my nostrils as it washed above my upturned chin. I panicked, tried to hold my breath as it invaded me.
"Relax and breathe normally. The gel is oxygen rich. You will be able to breathe perfectly well. Relax and breathe normally".
The slightly metallic voice with a slight edge of brogue washed across my brain.
"Relax and breathe normally".
I tried to relax, opened my mouth to swallow the gel. I choked as the jelly substance filled my lungs. Fought the panic reflex as the anaesthetic worked and I slowly lost consciousness. I'd like to know why they don't put you to sleep before you're immersed. Must be some reason. I made a mental note not to die too often as I went under.
I should be more careful what I wish for. I'll remember that in future. Ha bloody ha.
I woke up in a plain white room. Sterile. Gentle hum of machines monitoring my body functions. Lungs breathing in perfectly-balanced air. I slowly opened my eyes, letting flourescent lights flood my senses. I was alive and well. The cancer was gone. My existence ongoing.
A soft voice murmured my name.
Something wrong. Something trickling into my conscience. It didn't sound right. The voice again.
"Are you awake?"
Still something wrong. I thought I was dreaming. The same brogue as before, the same soft reassurance. But no metallic edge. I was listening to a human. What was a human doing in a hospital? I was in regen. I always thought that you didn't dream during the process. But I must be dreaming. I tried to ignore the voice but it was insistent. Getting louder. I turned my head away from the lights and there she was. A doctor. A human doctor.
"Mr Phillips".
She smiled slightly, the reassuring smile that the robots used when you visited hospital. I wondered briefly if she was just a better robot, but then that voice came again.
"There's no cause for alarm".
What an understatement. I'd never met a human doctor. I knew they existed. The last bastion of human control. They didn't often see patients themselves: they oversaw the robots, did research, sorted out problems.
It was the sort out problems bit that stood out in my mind.
I tried to force the words out of my mouth. They sounded like an unoiled cog in an old motor. Grinding and squeaky at the same time. She held a glass of water out to me and I took it, allowing the fluid to lubricate my throat before trying to talk again. Words gushed out in a torrent of questions that needed to be answered.
"Who are you? Why are you here? Where's the robodoctor?"
She did that smile again, smoothly, automatically, but just a little too lopsided at the edges to be believable.
"Relax. I'm your doctor. Doctor Price. I'll be dealing with your case from now on. There's been a"
She paused as if trying to find the correct word.
"A complication".
I closed my eyes and a series of images passed before them. Not nice images, but I didn't panic. With the medical expertise we have we could deal with everything. Even death. So at worst I would have to stay in hospital a little while longer before going back to normal. But that didn't explain why I suddenly had a human doctor.
So I wasn't worried when I asked the question. Just curious.
"What's wrong?"
I wasn't expecting the answer I got.
"We're not exactly sure. In simple terms, you're allergic to regel. Your body wasn't affected by the treatment."
A sense of dread started to creep through my body. Toe to head, just like the gel. Did this mean?
"The cancer? Was it removed?"
Her eyes broke contact with mine. Bad news when the doctor forgets to reassure you.
"No. The generation didn't deal with it. We considered the old-fashioned cures, but it's too advanced. If you'd had it treated earlier, we might have been able to help you."
Even her smile had faded. She looked terribly young. But I still didn't want to believe the truth.
"What's going to happen?"
Simply, plainly, a small helpless voice.
"You're going to die".
I laughed.
--------------------------------
And that was a week ago. Since when I've had my examinations re-examined, my body re-examined, my cells re-examined, the gel re-examined, my parents re-examined and still nobody understands the truth.
I'm going to die.
Permanently.
I can't swim. The silly, hopeless thought. I can't swim, I don't swim, I'm never going to learn to swim. I thought I had eternity, forever, an infinite lifetime of sometimes when I could do whatever I wanted to. And now I'm never going to learn to swim. Ever. Someone once said that man is huge compared to zero but tiny compared to infinity and now I'm going to learn what it is to be human. He's dead. And so, soon, am I.
Pascal. We learnt about him in school. Silly sod who believed in gods and spent time worrying about what happened if you did things for eternity. Started the Triangulars - no, was made honourary president of the Triangulars. Posthumously, of course.
The Triangulars. Strange bunch of people. Wierd sect that started in the Jupiter fields near Earth. Kept trying to kill themselves. Went on about how infinitely breeding people would eventually populate an infinite universe, or something like that. Called themselves after Pascal's triangle, but they couldn't even get that right: any mathematician could tell them it was a Fibonacci sequence they were talking about. They'd find some way to kill themselves, leave a big red triangle behind and then get pissed off when the councils regenned them. Stupid bastards don't have a clue about what death's really like. But I will.
I'm going to die permanently. I'm going to die.
It doesn't matter how many times I say it, it still doesn't make any sense. I'm going to die. But then what? I just stop existing? Hang around the databases until someone works out how to regen from my DNA and pops my personality back in? How do I know when I'm dead? Is it when someone stops trying to regen me? When they forget about me? If someone accidently deletes my records? I don't know what happens.
Maybe I should look up some dead people. Access the library. Hope that there's something amongst the geniuses in funny clothes to tell me about how to die. What to wear when I do it. What I ought to be doing. I wish I'd paid more attention to history class now. Hadn't scribbled notes to the girls while I was supposed to be listening to facts about fighting. And colonisation dates. And mining rights. And air-mixing systems. I don't even know if I get a choice about what to be doing. I'd listen harder in my re-school. Except I'm not going to live to be there. Or join the breeding program.
Ah well, one small chink of daylight in the darkness then.
Like tears in the rain
I'm not bitter. I'm depressed, confused, scared and angry, but I'm not bitter.
Shit. I am bitter. Since I found out I've hardly slept. To sleep and lose consciousness would be too close for comfort. I don't know what to do. There is nothing to do. I can only wait.
I can only wait.
I've decided to get my thoughts on record. As far as I know, nooone else in the world is going to do what I'm going to do. Nobody has done it for over four hundred years. I'll be the first. Hopefully I'll be the only one. Or one of the very few.
I'm going to die.
That isn't so exciting these days. Nearly everyone dies sometime. Illness, accident, it still happens. But it's easy to recover, a week or so and they're back in the land of the living.
I'm going to die permanently.
My doctor told me a week ago. It's taken that long for it to sink in. I knew I had cancer - it showed up in my annual med-scan. I was't too worried about it. I decided not to get it treated. Well, why go through the difficulties of treatment when I could regenerate if it got bad enough to be a problem. My friends said I should deal with it; not to let it get out of hand. But I believed in the great miracle.
I believed.
And I think I wanted to know what it felt like to come close to death. I've always wondered if it would be different. Well, I'm going to find out now. Big time.
Eventually the pain started. I booked myself into a regen unit: in for a few days, then back to my life. All the standard checks, my brain scan recorded, DNA extracted, personality saved as a backup on the mainframe, everything as normal in the assumption? The hope? That I might have changed slightly in the last year.
And so I went into the unit.
Lowered into the tank. Naked and slightly cold. Green gel surrounding me, starting to fill my nostrils as it washed above my upturned chin. I panicked, tried to hold my breath as it invaded me.
"Relax and breathe normally. The gel is oxygen rich. You will be able to breathe perfectly well. Relax and breathe normally".
The slightly metallic voice with a slight edge of brogue washed across my brain.
"Relax and breathe normally".
I tried to relax, opened my mouth to swallow the gel. I choked as the jelly substance filled my lungs. Fought the panic reflex as the anaesthetic worked and I slowly lost consciousness. I'd like to know why they don't put you to sleep before you're immersed. Must be some reason. I made a mental note not to die too often as I went under.
I should be more careful what I wish for. I'll remember that in future. Ha bloody ha.
I woke up in a plain white room. Sterile. Gentle hum of machines monitoring my body functions. Lungs breathing in perfectly-balanced air. I slowly opened my eyes, letting flourescent lights flood my senses. I was alive and well. The cancer was gone. My existence ongoing.
A soft voice murmured my name.
Something wrong. Something trickling into my conscience. It didn't sound right. The voice again.
"Are you awake?"
Still something wrong. I thought I was dreaming. The same brogue as before, the same soft reassurance. But no metallic edge. I was listening to a human. What was a human doing in a hospital? I was in regen. I always thought that you didn't dream during the process. But I must be dreaming. I tried to ignore the voice but it was insistent. Getting louder. I turned my head away from the lights and there she was. A doctor. A human doctor.
"Mr Phillips".
She smiled slightly, the reassuring smile that the robots used when you visited hospital. I wondered briefly if she was just a better robot, but then that voice came again.
"There's no cause for alarm".
What an understatement. I'd never met a human doctor. I knew they existed. The last bastion of human control. They didn't often see patients themselves: they oversaw the robots, did research, sorted out problems.
It was the sort out problems bit that stood out in my mind.
I tried to force the words out of my mouth. They sounded like an unoiled cog in an old motor. Grinding and squeaky at the same time. She held a glass of water out to me and I took it, allowing the fluid to lubricate my throat before trying to talk again. Words gushed out in a torrent of questions that needed to be answered.
"Who are you? Why are you here? Where's the robodoctor?"
She did that smile again, smoothly, automatically, but just a little too lopsided at the edges to be believable.
"Relax. I'm your doctor. Doctor Price. I'll be dealing with your case from now on. There's been a"
She paused as if trying to find the correct word.
"A complication".
I closed my eyes and a series of images passed before them. Not nice images, but I didn't panic. With the medical expertise we have we could deal with everything. Even death. So at worst I would have to stay in hospital a little while longer before going back to normal. But that didn't explain why I suddenly had a human doctor.
So I wasn't worried when I asked the question. Just curious.
"What's wrong?"
I wasn't expecting the answer I got.
"We're not exactly sure. In simple terms, you're allergic to regel. Your body wasn't affected by the treatment."
A sense of dread started to creep through my body. Toe to head, just like the gel. Did this mean?
"The cancer? Was it removed?"
Her eyes broke contact with mine. Bad news when the doctor forgets to reassure you.
"No. The generation didn't deal with it. We considered the old-fashioned cures, but it's too advanced. If you'd had it treated earlier, we might have been able to help you."
Even her smile had faded. She looked terribly young. But I still didn't want to believe the truth.
"What's going to happen?"
Simply, plainly, a small helpless voice.
"You're going to die".
I laughed.
--------------------------------
And that was a week ago. Since when I've had my examinations re-examined, my body re-examined, my cells re-examined, the gel re-examined, my parents re-examined and still nobody understands the truth.
I'm going to die.
Permanently.
I can't swim. The silly, hopeless thought. I can't swim, I don't swim, I'm never going to learn to swim. I thought I had eternity, forever, an infinite lifetime of sometimes when I could do whatever I wanted to. And now I'm never going to learn to swim. Ever. Someone once said that man is huge compared to zero but tiny compared to infinity and now I'm going to learn what it is to be human. He's dead. And so, soon, am I.
Pascal. We learnt about him in school. Silly sod who believed in gods and spent time worrying about what happened if you did things for eternity. Started the Triangulars - no, was made honourary president of the Triangulars. Posthumously, of course.
The Triangulars. Strange bunch of people. Wierd sect that started in the Jupiter fields near Earth. Kept trying to kill themselves. Went on about how infinitely breeding people would eventually populate an infinite universe, or something like that. Called themselves after Pascal's triangle, but they couldn't even get that right: any mathematician could tell them it was a Fibonacci sequence they were talking about. They'd find some way to kill themselves, leave a big red triangle behind and then get pissed off when the councils regenned them. Stupid bastards don't have a clue about what death's really like. But I will.
I'm going to die permanently. I'm going to die.
It doesn't matter how many times I say it, it still doesn't make any sense. I'm going to die. But then what? I just stop existing? Hang around the databases until someone works out how to regen from my DNA and pops my personality back in? How do I know when I'm dead? Is it when someone stops trying to regen me? When they forget about me? If someone accidently deletes my records? I don't know what happens.
Maybe I should look up some dead people. Access the library. Hope that there's something amongst the geniuses in funny clothes to tell me about how to die. What to wear when I do it. What I ought to be doing. I wish I'd paid more attention to history class now. Hadn't scribbled notes to the girls while I was supposed to be listening to facts about fighting. And colonisation dates. And mining rights. And air-mixing systems. I don't even know if I get a choice about what to be doing. I'd listen harder in my re-school. Except I'm not going to live to be there. Or join the breeding program.
Ah well, one small chink of daylight in the darkness then.
Horatio's Big Day
This one was written 6th July 2005 for my eldest nephew. It has pictures, even...
Horatio’s Big Day
Everyone was busy on the Sloop family mooring. Horatio’s Mum was tidying the jetty, and Horatio’s Dad was cutting the weed from the piles and wiping some oil smudges off his hull, because Horatio’s Grandma Yawl and Grandad Ketch were coming to visit.
Horatio was excited because today he was allowed to go out as far as the old brick fort to meet them. ‘Bye Mum’, ‘Bye Dad’ he called, and sailed off down the creek.
…and saw his friend Sam and Sam’s mum coming towards him very very slowly. ‘Hi Sam’ shouted Horatio, and Sam went a little bit red, then a little bit redder, then something very very red and wobbly slid across his cockpit and Sam keeled over and almost capsized…
… but Horatio hauled in his sheets to make himself go faster, dashed forwards and caught Sam by his rigging just in time. ‘Close thing’ said Horatio as he helped Sam’s mum put him upright again. ‘What are you doing with that jelly on your deck?’. Sam went red again and muttered ‘learning to sail very slowly and carefully’ before concentrating so hard on the jelly that Horatio couldn’t talk to him again before they passed each other (port side to port side, of course).
Horatio carried on sailing out towards the entrance to Cow Creek, carefully keeping out of the shipping lane so the big boats didn’t collide with him. ‘That’s funny’ he thought. ‘Why are all the happy boats wearing hats and blowing whistles?’ The happy boats were the little boats that weren’t quite big enough to go out without a grown-up yet. ‘Maybe they’re having a play day at the nursery’ thought Horatio as he rounded the harbour wall…
…and nearly bumped into his Grandma Schooner. ‘Good afternoon Horatio’ said his Grandma. ‘And how are we today?’ ‘Why are all the happy boats wearing hats?’ asked Horatio, who hadn’t quite got the hang of answering grown-up questions yet. Grandma paused for a second. ‘Because it’s hot and they don’t want to get sunburnt’ she answered. ‘And blowing whistles?’ ‘Because they might get lost, and the whistles help the grownups to find them’. Grandma made a very strange clinking sound. ‘Oh, my stays’ she said ‘I must get my baggywrinkes replaced’ and dashed off towards the harbour.
Horatio had reached the old brick fort, so he let his sails fly and waited for Grandad and Grandma Ketch to arrive. But the day was just getting stranger and stranger. Something pink and yellow and purple was heading towards Horatio along the coast of White Island. It came closer… and closer… and closer… until it turned into George and Sally Jetski, each towing a big big bunch of pink and yellow and purple balloons. ‘Hello’ brmmed Sally. ‘Helllo’ brmmed George. ‘Hello’ flapped Horatio, who was starting to get a little suspicious about this very strange day. ‘Where are you going with those balloons?’
‘Errrrm…. We’re just playyyinggg’ brmmed George. ‘Yes, playing’ brrred Sally, and she went round and round and round in circles to show Horatio how close to the water she could get the balloons.
… and got so excited that she let go of the string! “Eeek!” cried Sally. “Whoops” went George, and “Oh dear” said Horatio…
…and caught the runaway balloons in his big billowing jib. ‘Thank you’ brmmmed George and Sally together (because they were twins, you know), and ‘Oh, there’s Grandad’, and off they went at a slightly more cautious pace. Brmmmm… brmmmm… brmmm… Horatio filled his jib again, went about to watch Bryan the Ferry hoot hello as he went into the harbour, and thought that since it was such a strange day, he wouldn’t even think about why Brian had a big white box tied across his stern.
‘Hello Tacker’ said a friendly voice. Horatio went about again and saw his Grandad Ketch and Grandma Yawl sailing towards him. Grandma Yawl had the biggest cake Horatio had ever seen on her aft deck, and Grandad Ketch was letting off little things that threw lots of paper streamers all over the water. ‘Have you guessed why we’re here yet?’ said Grandma. ‘Well’, said Horatio. ‘Jelly, and hats, and whistles, and balloons, and cakes and streamers. Is it a party? Am I invited?’
‘I hope so’, laughed Grandma Yawl, ‘it’s your birthday party’. ‘Happy Birthday Horatio’ shouted Grandpa, who was very excited. And they all sailed back to the visitor’s moorings by the ferry terminal, and everyone ate sandwiches, and Sam’s big red jelly, and Grandma Yawl’s cake, and Bryan the Ferry’s ice cream, and drank Grandma Schooner’s lemonade, and wore silly hats and blew whistles, and held balloons (except Sally, who lost hers again), and let off streamers all over the water, and everyone had a thoroughly joyful time and went to bed tired but happy that evening.
Happy Birthday Horatio!
Horatio’s Big Day
Everyone was busy on the Sloop family mooring. Horatio’s Mum was tidying the jetty, and Horatio’s Dad was cutting the weed from the piles and wiping some oil smudges off his hull, because Horatio’s Grandma Yawl and Grandad Ketch were coming to visit.
Horatio was excited because today he was allowed to go out as far as the old brick fort to meet them. ‘Bye Mum’, ‘Bye Dad’ he called, and sailed off down the creek.
…and saw his friend Sam and Sam’s mum coming towards him very very slowly. ‘Hi Sam’ shouted Horatio, and Sam went a little bit red, then a little bit redder, then something very very red and wobbly slid across his cockpit and Sam keeled over and almost capsized…
… but Horatio hauled in his sheets to make himself go faster, dashed forwards and caught Sam by his rigging just in time. ‘Close thing’ said Horatio as he helped Sam’s mum put him upright again. ‘What are you doing with that jelly on your deck?’. Sam went red again and muttered ‘learning to sail very slowly and carefully’ before concentrating so hard on the jelly that Horatio couldn’t talk to him again before they passed each other (port side to port side, of course).
Horatio carried on sailing out towards the entrance to Cow Creek, carefully keeping out of the shipping lane so the big boats didn’t collide with him. ‘That’s funny’ he thought. ‘Why are all the happy boats wearing hats and blowing whistles?’ The happy boats were the little boats that weren’t quite big enough to go out without a grown-up yet. ‘Maybe they’re having a play day at the nursery’ thought Horatio as he rounded the harbour wall…
…and nearly bumped into his Grandma Schooner. ‘Good afternoon Horatio’ said his Grandma. ‘And how are we today?’ ‘Why are all the happy boats wearing hats?’ asked Horatio, who hadn’t quite got the hang of answering grown-up questions yet. Grandma paused for a second. ‘Because it’s hot and they don’t want to get sunburnt’ she answered. ‘And blowing whistles?’ ‘Because they might get lost, and the whistles help the grownups to find them’. Grandma made a very strange clinking sound. ‘Oh, my stays’ she said ‘I must get my baggywrinkes replaced’ and dashed off towards the harbour.
Horatio had reached the old brick fort, so he let his sails fly and waited for Grandad and Grandma Ketch to arrive. But the day was just getting stranger and stranger. Something pink and yellow and purple was heading towards Horatio along the coast of White Island. It came closer… and closer… and closer… until it turned into George and Sally Jetski, each towing a big big bunch of pink and yellow and purple balloons. ‘Hello’ brmmed Sally. ‘Helllo’ brmmed George. ‘Hello’ flapped Horatio, who was starting to get a little suspicious about this very strange day. ‘Where are you going with those balloons?’
‘Errrrm…. We’re just playyyinggg’ brmmed George. ‘Yes, playing’ brrred Sally, and she went round and round and round in circles to show Horatio how close to the water she could get the balloons.
… and got so excited that she let go of the string! “Eeek!” cried Sally. “Whoops” went George, and “Oh dear” said Horatio…
…and caught the runaway balloons in his big billowing jib. ‘Thank you’ brmmmed George and Sally together (because they were twins, you know), and ‘Oh, there’s Grandad’, and off they went at a slightly more cautious pace. Brmmmm… brmmmm… brmmm… Horatio filled his jib again, went about to watch Bryan the Ferry hoot hello as he went into the harbour, and thought that since it was such a strange day, he wouldn’t even think about why Brian had a big white box tied across his stern.
‘Hello Tacker’ said a friendly voice. Horatio went about again and saw his Grandad Ketch and Grandma Yawl sailing towards him. Grandma Yawl had the biggest cake Horatio had ever seen on her aft deck, and Grandad Ketch was letting off little things that threw lots of paper streamers all over the water. ‘Have you guessed why we’re here yet?’ said Grandma. ‘Well’, said Horatio. ‘Jelly, and hats, and whistles, and balloons, and cakes and streamers. Is it a party? Am I invited?’
‘I hope so’, laughed Grandma Yawl, ‘it’s your birthday party’. ‘Happy Birthday Horatio’ shouted Grandpa, who was very excited. And they all sailed back to the visitor’s moorings by the ferry terminal, and everyone ate sandwiches, and Sam’s big red jelly, and Grandma Yawl’s cake, and Bryan the Ferry’s ice cream, and drank Grandma Schooner’s lemonade, and wore silly hats and blew whistles, and held balloons (except Sally, who lost hers again), and let off streamers all over the water, and everyone had a thoroughly joyful time and went to bed tired but happy that evening.
Happy Birthday Horatio!
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