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Samples from Dancing on the Doorstep
What do you do, when someone sticks a gun at your head? Think. Think fast. And talk. That goes on automatic being a taxi driver. You always talk. So this dude comes along and he has a gun. Then what. 'Fraid?' he asks. 'Nah, not really'. I try to shrug without moving my head. Or mess up the traffic. He seems bewildered. 'Why?' 'Cause of quantum' I say. Sounds weird when you say it out loud. 'Quantum what?' Now he's so confused he even lowers the gun a bit. 'Call me a quantum Buddhist' I say, 'you never heard of the trousers of time?' The guy almost gapes at me. 'You know – in some universe you shoot me, in one you don't, in a thousand ones we never even meet. So whatever you do, it will happen somewhere, and not happen somewhere else. Everything happens, see?' He looks at the gun. He looks at me. 'Ok, so if this is the one I shoot you, how about that?' 'It'll be hot – and sticky'. I shrugged. 'It'll be a pain in the neck' he said with the customary 'hur hur' to go with rampant wit. Bad with a gun. Bad with a joke. Good grief. 'No' I said. I'll be hot. Feels like heat – not pain' Tried it before'. Now he looks at me like I'm some kind of freak show. 'How's that again?' 'Heat' I said. 'Feels like heat. And sticky. Blood's damned sticky.' 'I meant the bit about before' he said. 'Yeah, tried it before. Died ok. Some 3 lives back, I guess'. I got a bit contemplational on that one. Hadn't been thinking about it for a long time. '3 lives back?' Seemed he couldn't quite get the voice right. I mean – to be sarcastic or threatening. Combined it just… well… 'Yeah, some war or other' I said. 'Only remember the feeling. The pressure of the gun, the bang that wasn't really a noise as much as a vibration – and then the feeling of intense heat. And stickiness. And then… goodbye… Bliss.' 'You're nuts' he said. 'Totally bonkers'. 'I know'. I shrugged. 'I like weird. Feels like home to me'. I gave him a megawatt smile via the mirror. 'you just stop'. He waved the gun around. I pulled in. He looked at me and seemed to consider whether it'd be the most humane to kill me or not. I mean – being insane and everything. He went for safe and ran. Just ran. I sat there a while. So much for philosophy. At least he had chosen a path. And out there another me got shot and another him chose another taxi. Strange guy, really, but I mean, honestly … he didn't have to run.
He came to me with a heart of sorrow. 'It's over', he said. 'Over'. He looked up at me with pleading eyes. 'Why? Why did you let this happen? Why does things have to come to an end?'
They sat on the front porch looking out in the growing darkness. She leaned her head on her mother's arm and sighed. Touch Why do you do this? he asked. 'You don't need to, do you?' 'It's like playing music', she said. 'And your body is my instrument'. He looked puzzled. 'Bodies are alive', she explained. 'Only most people don't know. Until you touch them.' There was a flicker of understanding in his face. 'Bodies are like instruments - some are high pitched like violins, some have deep tones like a oboe. Some resonate with you - some don't. But they all respond. They all answer to my touch.' She spoke with quiet confidence. 'Tell me more' he said. 'Don't you look? she asked. 'Have you never seen the skin ripple? Never watched little patches of heat grow larger and merge?' He looked down, 'No' he admitted. She smiled. 'It's not hard; you only need to pay attention. Of course - not all people do.' Pictures formed in his head - of him patting his son on the head, kissing his wife, of hugging his daughter. And when he looked closer, he realised he wasn't even looking at them. She looked closely at his face, like she was reading his memories. 'You pat you child on the head and sometimes the scalp twitches, and sometimes he get shivers down his spine. Did you know?' The question wasn't rhetorical. Maybe once, he knew. He tried picture himself as a child and found she was right. Just a pat on the head did things. 'You make love to your wife? she asked. He blushed. 'Of course I do' he said. 'You pay attention?' Well, there it was again. Did he now? Not really. 'I don't think you do - you don't to me.' She winked at him. 'But I do,' he said, 'I listen like mad'. 'Yes now, sweetie, now you do. Funny really to have to talk to get your attention.' She laughed. She ran a finger down his arm, and he watched with astonishment how the skin rippled and all the hairs stood on end, and finally he got goose bumps. 'See?' And memories came flooding into his head from years ago and other times, when he had goose bumps on the arms from girls or cold or fear. And all the while, the feeling in his arm changed, and the hairs moved like in a slow wind, and he could see the memory of the body written in skin and wired to his mind. She took his hand and blew on his palm. Again memories surged in, and his legs wanted to move, and he could feel the wind in his face, and he was running on the moors with his dog and… She waited a bit till she could see the memories fade, took his hand again and kissed his fingertips. He looked at his fingers coming alive and tingle, and realized that he could reach out and feel the texture of air. It scared him slightly. 'Why do you do that?' he asked. 'Just waking you up' she said grinning. 'Just waking you up'. And she reached out and touched him once more, and this time his whole body ignited... She was looking for her mind again. It just kept escaping. Always, always on the run. She grew impatient. She really had no time for this. She was busy, you know. Honestly it could be more considerate. But - yet again - she had to go look. Not that she wouldn't know where - it was probably in the past again. Straying somewhere in her mid teens. It usually was. Or it could be somewhere next week. Rarely any further. She gave a sigh and took off. The past first. All familiar ground and becoming routine. She went to the school - not there. She tried hanging out at the diner. Nope. She took to the meadows behind the village. Lingered there for a while. It was always a nice place to be. But it wasn't there. She got slightly anxious. There were times back then she didn't want to see again, but somehow that mind of hers had this rather unfortunate habit of going back to visit. It had even become more frequent over the years. Like there was something it wanted to do. Or had to do. She didn't know. She didn't want to know. She left the meadow and went for dinner. She sat there again, dad yelling and mom crying and china in danger of getting airborne. But it wasn't there either. Not this time. She roamed around a bit more, but to no avail. Damn. She had to try the future, then. She took off in a straight line for next Wednesday. These meetings were like sticky tape to the mind. She sat in the board room, everyone staring into their coffee cups but no mind there. She went to the minutes just before - still not there. What else to come? Laundry? She took a glance but no… not there either. She went as far as the weekend but still no luck. Where had it gone? She got a bit upset. She was used to her mind straying but not so far. Not to unfamiliar places. It was normally somewhere to be found - tomorrow, yesterday - last week - somewhere close. She went to the kitchen. The kids were there so maybe… no. She went to the bedroom, the bathroom, the broom closet… still gone. She went back to the sofa, picked up the magazine again and let her eyes wander the words and pictures. People wondered what he was doing. They came - walking their dogs or their children - and always he would be sitting there. He never talked to anyone - and noone ever talked to him. He sat, every day, on the beach, touching the stones, maybe picking them up one or turning them around. A bit further down each day but only by inches. He never took one home. If he had a home. They didn't know. He was old, they knew that. He's face was all wrinkled and deeply tanned. He wore old clothes, things that had probably never been in fashion at any time and now worn to a sheen. And then one day someone spoke to him. She was maybe 6. A small girl with curly hair and curious eyes. 'What are you doing?' she asked. 'What do you do with the stones?' He slowly turned to look at her. 'I appreciate' he said quietly, almost in a whisper. 'I look at all the stones, notice the colour, feel how smooth they are.' He took another one and caressed it gently. 'Why?' she said. 'Aren't they pretty?' he asked. They were. 'And look, they're all different' he pointed at a few of them. 'All different'. Still, she didn't understand. He turned to her again, 'I promised God that I would look at his creation and truly appreciate' he said. 'And these stones are all beautiful'. He paused. 'I have looked at trees, too. They're even more different. Only, that was a long time ago'. He looked to the sea. 'Maybe I'll watch the waves one day'. 'Are the waves different too?' she asked. He smiled for the first time in .. ages probably. 'Yes' he said. 'All different'. And the girl laughed happily and ran off. He sat still for a while, the surprise of hearing his own voice settling slowly. He had promised God all those years ago. Promised that at least he, if noone else, would appreciate creation, take the care to notice, the time to wonder. And he went on, turning the stones, seeing that they were all different, all beautiful. She entered the Hall of Scripts and it wasn't the first time. It was a rather important one, though. She went the familiar route to the great cabinets and found the first card with ease. She remembered, how she had pondered the first time, she was here. Was she upper or lower middle class? Neither, she had thought. Neither snobbish nor a wanna-be. So she had looked for middle middle class. And found it. Then she followed the lead at the bottom to the 'banking' file and from there to 'lower management', and double checked that it still said 'female' and 'late twenties' at the top. She followed the cards till she reached the 'event' section. From here it would be new. It was the first time she would come because of an engagement. She found the right cabinet and wondered for a while if you could go backwards to see if he had proposed the right way. She decided she hadn't the time to find out. She took the card and followed the leads through the 'significant other' section: age, social class, job, salary, looks, family… and finally arrived at her destination: The Scripts. She rummaged around a bit - what to look for - yes, here we are, arguments, home refurbishing, family dinners, sex, holidays… it was all there. Remembering her parents she went for the 'arguments' file first. There were a lot. Several versions to cover all the other issues and - she found with relief - quite a big drawer on 'making up'. She went through the scripts and picked one she liked. The one that didn't involve sex. She thought about it and decided that she had to be fair and picked one of the sex ones, too. Checked the script was complete. You couldn't bee to careful. Just imagine standing there and suddenly a page or two would be missing. Divorces could come from that. She went through all the drawers and found what she needed to prepare for life as a fiancée. And she knew, with a warm reassurance, that she could go back about the wedding and 'married woman' and then - she hoped - 'married, with two children'. The scripts were all there. He was doing his duty, too. He went through files rather much like hers for a start, but when he came to 'significant other' the lead lines were slightly different. And he, too, picked up what he felt necessary as a pre-nup and was content, that later he could go back for the 'married' and then - hopefully - 'married, with two cars'. When someone went out, it would only be a fraction of a second before the next person came looking for scripts, and sometimes the Hall would even have to multiply itself to meet demands. All he knew was, that breathing was no longer an option. Then what do you do? Well, stop trying. He did. And then he waited. He lay still waiting for… well, something. Or maybe rather - nothing. He was sort of expecting to kind of switch off. But he didn't. He double-checked. No - he certainly wasn't breathing. But he hadn't stopped thinking, which did come as something of a surprise. When you're alone and in pain, thoughts stir. They come - first in trickles - then in droves. They prey on your mind till you give them proper attention. Then they sort of form themselves into regiments, and you can line them up and call each forward in its due time. He came home. And they sat at the kitchen table - first in silence - later they talked. They talked at length and quietly, with long pauses and careful words. And she watched him with the eyes of a mother and saw in his face questions not to be asked and shadows of a darkness to be ever avoided. She wanted to help. Wanted to appease. Wanted to ease the words out, to calm and soothe and be ever so cautious not to stir the depths that are to be left untouched. It was not easy, but she had done it before. Years ago her father had come home just the same, and had sat with her mother talking quietly and hesitantly, and she had made an effort to be there making herself invisible - wanting desperately to know. And years later her husband had come home one day, and she had been prepared. She had remembered her mother's words - not just those to her father but those to herself afterwards, too. Her mother's warnings of what not to ask, what not to say .. and… to her surprise… what not to do. Movements or noises not to be made. Words or names never to be uttered. And she made her memories her actions, and her husband talked and was quiet just like her father had been, and slowly he came back in the mind, too, though you could still see the shadows in his eyes, and just like her father, he was never quite the same, and caution had come into their lives. And now… now her son was back. And once again she turned her memories into words, and knowledge into the just right silences, and her son was grateful and appeased, and the darkness in his eyes softened and waned but never quite disappeared. And though he was still young, he had changed like his father before him and there was a before and after in his life, dividing it in two with a border of pain, and caution was once more hovering in the air. And like her mother, his sister was there too, quietly listening, learning what to do, when men came back from war and questions were on your mind but could never be spoken. What do you do with people so afraid of pain they dare not love? He was pondering the next sermon and had decided on the subject of love. And he had found … pain. Absence. He had even realised that he, too, was afraid. He had watched his congregation for a year now. Nice village people, going about their business, every man to his own – and yet not unaware of the trials of his neighbours. Not naturally giving people but not exactly misers either. They paid their tides and whoever could even put in a little extra for the poor. But they didn't share easily. First he had thought they might be afraid of the harvest or the weather or poverty as such, but he had realised – just now, trying to find the right words, that that kind of fear had nothing to do with it. They were not afraid of the pain of starvation but of the pain of the heart. The pain from getting involved in other people. The pain of love. They cared for their families, their children and their old, and they grieved as sickness or age took their toll on the living. There was no room for more pain. And yet – how could he explain? How could he explain to them that love makes space? They only knew, that if you love, losing is all the harder and that the pain of the sword is nothing compared to the pain of the heart. They were strong – he had seen them after the war – having legs cut off – or arrows removed – and not a whimper would pass their lips. They didn't even need drink as was usual. And yet – they feared more than any other folk he had ever met. How would he ever make them understand? He thought of his own life. Of his wife and two children, who were no more. Of the friends he had embraced as they left for the war never to come back. Of his parents long since dead. He knew pain all right. But he also knew – that pain has a limit and that loving the more cannot make you suffer the more. He knew, that the pain of loss would be with him always, but also that it would never increase however many he would come to love for the rest of his life. It only seemed like it in the beginning. How he had suffered. Agonized. Till he realised that pain can be contained in wisdom and that suffering is eased by love – not increased. Was he the only one to realise? Why do people think in numbers? Why do they count so much? If I love 7 people I shall suffer 7 losses and my pain be multiplied by seven? How people always tally… how they economize... But love is not butter or eggs and cannot be counted nor stored for the winter. It you bury it – it is lost. If you postpone it –it is gone. He looked out the window. Love is like sunlight, he thought. It is there –warming you, shining brightness in your eyes – and then - sometimes it is not there. But you cannot store it. You cannot save it for another time. And if you do not enjoy it when it is there – it is too late. The sun will be back – but it will be another time – a different sunlight on another day. Why draw the curtains or hide in the shade just because the sun will go down in the evening? Will not the light warm you while it's there? Is the sun evil because it leaves you when night falls? Is it to be avoided because some days are grey? And he wrote about the grace of God that he has given us love just as he has given us sunlight - in limitless abundance, and without which, nothing grows – least of all people. Hare Krishna Hare Krishna Krishna Krishna Hare Hare…. There were a bunch of them. Kids in orange garb. Glass beads and no hair. They came down the street singing and banging drums as if their very lives depended on it. He had always thought they were doped or something. Now that he could see some close up, he realised they weren't. They looked rather healthy, if silly. And happy. He looked closer. Yes, they did look happy. Happy and silly. They had to be freezing in those robes. And yet… well, of course you might get a bit of warmth from banging drums, but… he looked as they went further along the street and the noise subsided. Strange people. How do you do Voyage Don't change the curtains - change your life. Freya Pernille Anduin © Nothing retains its own form; but Nature, the great renewer, ever makes up forms from forms. Be sure nothing perishes in the whole universe; it does not but vary and renew it's form.
Ovid (Metamorphoses XV) Them as can must speak up for them as has no voices. Granny Aching (Wee Free Men by Terry Pratchett) |