All entries for Sunday 08 February 2009
February 08, 2009
The piece based on the flash fiction "the girl" on what advice we have been given. Based on what my mum says to me, though these moments don't happen very often at all and have all been condensed to form this piece; my mum isn't a nag.
What have I said about this room of yours? What have I told you about how you should clean the bathroom? You use a quitip on the tiles, the cilit bang is in the airing cupboard, and polish all the chrome. When are you going to listen to me? Don't put that there, take it upstairs. Look at that bedroom of yours, its a tip, a pigsty! Do you know what my father used to say? "Everything in its place and a place for everything." Now will you nip down the shops for me? Take the car or if not walk Bronny there, she could do with some exercise. If you don't tidy that room of yours soon you and I will be having words. Have you done the bathroom yet? Good, thanks love it looks much better. What about that bedroom? But I like it that way. No you don't you're just lazy! Nobody likes a messy room, it shows a lack of care for yourself and your things, it shows a messy mind. Sorry, I don't mean to nag, it's just that bedroom stresses me out so much. But why? it's not like its your room. Sorry Mum, I'll clean it tomorrow. Thanks love. Isn't it time you went to bed? You'll be tired in the morning or won't get up til midday. Feeling unwell? Take a paracetamol, I'll bring you up a cup of tea. How's the job hunt going? Keep trying, don't give up, I used to go everyday and say "Give us a job. Give us a job" That's what you need to do. I went everyday and asked until they gave me a job. You need to show interest and dedication, that's what you have to do. What have I told you about that bedroom of yours!
This is my creative non-fiction of the interview which had to take place in another "world" that was inspired either by the house or the copse around it near the Capital Centre. I have modified it a bit though now for dramatic effect lol.
I sit in the dark kitchen on a tiled floor with glass shards sprawled out across its surface. I can feel them beneath my legs but I am safely cushioned by my coat, though understandably I am put on edge and a nervousness permeates my line of questioning.
I face the cupboard, the memory vault of his mind; its dark and scarred; and I'm enveloped by the scents of a thousand badly smoked cigarettes and spilled drinks. A light glows dimly from the broken cupboard; a memory glinting on the slanted shelf.
"Where have you been?" I asked, off-hand.
"What do you mean? Like, on holiday?"
"Yeah, I mean have you ever been overseas, been to the continent, or Africa or something?"
The memory glimmers brighter, shining with greater intensity and gleaming off the glass pieces. "Ah, yes, the last time I went on holiday was probs to Amsterdam. Few years ago now though."
"Amsterdam? Cool, I've been there, city of freedom," I shift my body and feel the shards slide and hear a crunch as the move against the tiles "What did you get up to?"
The light flickers, struggling, then splutters out in a disjointed stutter of words "Um...to be honest...I can't really remember."
I sit in the suddenly pitch black kitchen, lost as to where to go or what to say, and unsure of what to ask except for the obvious "Why?"
The light shines again, this time behind the glass paned kitchen door; its a deeper darker glow, yet it penetrates the gloom and catches my eye. A harder memory to access, perhaps, but still possible to catch. Its only half remembered and hidden half in shame. "All I can remember, if I think hard, is that I went into a coffee shop when I first got there...the next two days are kinda a blur."
"You were stoned for two whole days!"
"Yeah," he gives a laugh "Crazy times."
"And you truly don't remember anything?"
The light at the door flickers out and I'm left in pitch blackness again. Suddenly it burns again in the cupboard, right before my eyes, as he illuminates a further detail, a piece he thought was forgotten. I watch the light flicker, his struggle to decide what to reveal, and patiently sit in the cold kitchen world surrounded by glass and polite barriers. "Well I don't remember it as such," he pulls up his sleeve "All I knowis that at some point during those two days I got this done," he shows me a swirling tatoo "though to this day I don't know where or when." He gave a grin.
"Pretty crazy times indeed."
"Two of the best days of my life most probably," he adds "Just wish I could remember them!"
The light dies down and I stumble to my feet, careful not to get injured or rip my clothes on the glass. "Thanks for the chat."
"Anytime." he replies with a smile, and once again his mind is dark, littered with scars of time; littered with glass and full of broken cupboards where on the shelves his memories glitter dimly; faint beautiful lights in a forgotten landscape brutally destroyed by misbehaviour and abuse.