365 Ways With Words

Rain Hammer

                                                        Tap tap tap

 

                                        Rain hammer

                                        Hits hardest

                                        On the softest heads

                                        Dropping misery

                                        Aching falls

 

                                                        Tap tap tap

 

                                        Drenching the spirit

                                        Chilling heat

                                        Sapping blood

                                        Stealing the voice

                                        Drowning from the feet up

 

                                                        Tap tap tap

 

                                        Untenable

                                        Unbeatable

                                        Unsustainable

                                        Rain hammer

                                        Pours in and devours

                                        Liquifies the soul

 

                                                        Tap tap tap

 

                                        Puddles remain

                                        Unevaporated sluice

                                        Pounded fleshmix

                                        Drip-dribble bones

                                        Evicerated hull

                                        Non-stop

                                        Rain hammer

 

                                                        Tap tap tap

Negativity

                            I walk in the shadows

                            I watch you go

 

                            I live with the weeds,

                                On damp discomfort

                                    Blessed by a stock of darkness

 

                            My eyes in nearness

                                Are your constant accompaniment

                                    Driven by the necessity to overcome

                                        To overwhelm

                                        To subdue

                                        To drown

 

                            I sink the soul

                                Divide the heart

                                    Cloud the mind

                                        Smother the spirit

 

                            I am here always, behind the door;

                                It takes a second

                                    To plough through defences

                                        Carve up your shields

 

                            You are defenceless –

                                You are a determined solitary;

                                        I am power beyond your skill

                                You bring out the sun;

                                        I send the snow filled cloud

                                You spend your way to a smile;

                                        I sing out the price tags to the whole world

                                You nestle in comforting arms;

                                        I pronounce dishonesty at the highest levels

 

In the festering pit –in the mask of command–

I love the nuance of derision

Without lift I sit breathless for the fall

For there’s always a fall

Depression is my middle name

Come on, let go;

My emptiness is so filling

 

                            Sounded, I drop the charge, and scoot –

                                But not far, not ever, no-no

                                    For as there are gentle rains, there are swollen rivers

                                        As there is a little heat, there is raging bushfire

 

                            Detach as much as you like

                                Flee and take cover again and again

                                    But I’ll be a-nippin’ at your heels

                                        Nip-nip, nip-nip, nip-nip – bite!

                                            And down you'll go

 

                            From the shadows…

                            Watching…

The Strength of Reason

Too often he awoke to misery. Alone. Tired. Depressed. Pained.

If there was one thing to learn from late-night drinking, it was that life the next day always got worse. And here was living proof. Not only was his mind in a mess, his body was too. He knew it: a run was beckoning, with its rosy glow, clearer head, the very physicality of life. Turning over, he weighed.

*

She held his hand with a firmness that betrayed her emotions. She needed him. Like the air, the sunshine, the blood in her veins. Without him she would be lost, like the walking dead. She enjoyed all of these metaphors – all the like a and like the's. If a cloud raced across the sun, it would be a momentary occlusion of his radiance. If the bus was late, she was waiting for his words.

But inside was a voice. It was her very self-worth. It was trapped under a mountain of heart – her fatty deposits of cloying devotion that threatened to overwhelm her entire system. She ignored the little words, the denial being part of a deeper love on the long-term path. But her arm involuntarily flexed, making her hand flinch.

*

 

On a motorway overpass she stood for the briefest of seconds, then jumped. It was a peculiar sensation, this free-falling: wind, weightlessness under her feet, exhilaration – a novelty.

 

How many times she had gone through the motions she could not imagine. She would leave the house, still not sure about a note, and walk the three hundred yards up the slipway towards the M6 proper, turn right and walk the same distance back to be above the roundabout. Then, clambering over the crash barrier and railing, would leap to her death. And if anyone found her she would be able to call out his name: "Jack! Jack! Oh, I'm sorry, Jack!" Except of course, by then, in her crushed body, blood oozing from her mouth and nose, arms and legs and back broken, it would be too late.

 

*

 

It was only another two hundred metres, perhaps less. The sun was about to touch the horizon and beneath them they could see the shadow of the mountains on the other side of the col rise up the snow fields towards them as an incessant demonic presence – inch-by-inch, foot-by-foot.

 

If they had stopped and turned down a mere hour previously, they could have made for the tents on the ridge by darkness. An early start could have meant sunrise at the peak, or at least near their present location. But no, they had all agreed to press on regardless, determined to reach their goal early. And now, with perhaps another fifty or sixty steps ahead of them, the oncoming cloud of chilled sunlessness consumed them. Conversation desiccated, and taking immense laboured breaths, they switched on their helmet lights one-by-one, but the sapping effects of fatigue and oxygen privation added to their disorientation. Unwittingly, they had all ground to a halt, the frozen air scouring their lungs to remove even more heat. Above them the peak's golden wick of heavenly light finally snuffed, with a wind-whipped flurry. In the wide-open indigo above, wicked white starlight pierced them with pinioned night lances – anchored, they could not progress, nor return.

 

*

 

If he liked to get away with it, he also liked to tell. The final accounts filed, he had been careful to lay no trail, to put each step within different press releases so that only those with access to his very soul would be able to trace his direction. Information asymmetry, they called it, but only if it was exposed. Careful attention to the logistical psychology of an investigative mind, the sort he had witnessed when under investigation as a younger partner a full ten years before, meant that he was now as fore-armed as any general or commander in the field. He knew what to move where, and the effects each would have on the company's positive image, its various share prices in the forthcoming weeks, and then, when he had skilfully withdrawn all indicators towards him, the right time to resign and sell.

 

The final devilish act of the final devilish plan was to set the dates on the future meetings. Suspicions would be magnificently diverted. Picking up his jacket from his leather chair, he'd be out and be home before his beloved cleaning lady had finished emptying the bins. Ah, dear Sharon; she'd be able to find another job. Surely.

 

*

 

They'd walk him towards the pier. It was his expressed wish to see the town again from the end. The cliffs, ruddy and rude, had always seemed fragile – as if one night a winter's wave would remove it and leave a gaping hole in the landscape. Then the caravan sites and little boxy bungalows led down towards the town proper, the big fat hotels along the prom. On the other side the coast stretched away in a languishing flatness and fields ready for development. His town.

 

And here he was: dying. His achievements? A lovely suburban house, forty-five years at the bank, a will that accounted for everyone, a loving family, memories of happiness and holidays. Surely he should die happy. The doubt, his one and only, was the meaning of it all; for it had none.

 

*

 

Down, the foot went through the skull of his opponent. Not a pretty sight. But it could not be helped. He was to go, and go he went.

 

His twenty-third cigarette, he realised he had to come to final terms with this thing. For if his life was to provide any comfort then it must not be entered into lightly. It would kill him. It was killing him. And that was it! The last cigarette, the last one ever, the last. He exhaled and stubbed, coughed and spat. Holding up the pack containing the remainders, he crushed it. Into the gutter it went, and he felt... strangely exhilarated. Yes! Putting his rough hands in his jacket pocket, his fingertips fell onto the cheap plastic lighter. He pulled it out: this cheap, plastic lighter, half-empty, holding only one function. It should also go, but after one second's stare he replaced it. For next time.

Death of the Hypochondriac

She closed the door behind her and viewed the waiting room. The disappointed faces returned to their dog-eared magazines and iPhone screens. She was also disappointed – disappointed that he had yet again not diagnosed her illness. She knew it was there; festering, lurking, waiting to spring out and cut her down. She knew this and inwardly died with each clear symptom that renewed her awful realisation.

The road home was strewn with autumnal leaves and lunchtime cigarette butts. She wasn't sure if she could cope with another winter and she could feel the tears well. Last year's miserable cold compromised her immune system: she'd had three colds in a row. And then she took the fall just before Christmas that meant having to stay at home with only the TV and Facebook for company. No one visited – her news and posts seemed to be ignored. No, another winter would be a cruel torment. A lonely tear rolled down her face.

The stairs to her apartment had just been washed, giving the whole block an antiseptic twang – like a hospital. That's where she really needed to be: at least until they diagnosed the worst. It was inevitable, really. Death would come as surely as winter and she began to realise that the only way to avoid it was to preempt the unavoidable. Then, at the autopsy and the inquest, they would realise just what was wrong. They would understand her note written weeks, if not months ago – it said it all.

The dark flat welcomed her to its secluded prison. As usual it smelt of leaking gas and bathroom cleaning fluid. She took her scarf and coat off, but instead of hanging them up she put them over the back of the battered sofa. Out of the pocket tumbled tissues and the new packet of Nurofen. For period pain, she nevertheless wondered if she could overdose on the whole packet. Would she need the entire bottle of vodka to combine the customary cocktail? She had a small bottle in the cupboard left over from a party from, oh – years ago, but didn't like it. She didn't like alcohol at all really. But then again, that wouldn't really matter, would it.

Over the flame's light under the kettle, she stared at the near-full bottle. Funny stuff to drink. Why anyone would make it in the first place was beyond her. And yet so many of her friends at college went to pubs and ordered a 'vodkatonic' or vodkanorange': ruined perfectly good tonic or orange juice as far as she was concerned. Would they still be drinking it now all these years on?

Her tea over, she once again picked up the purple box of 16 tablets and read the info. She was unhappy they were not suitable for vegetarians. Why? What animal product was included in painkillers? And did animals have to be killed, suffer pain, in order that we should stop feeling pain. It was another woeful example of the twisted world that humans had constructed for themselves. It was another reason to leave.

Without realising, she had pushed each blister and had a little pile of white pill-shaped pills before her. Could she? Could she? Really?

Without realising, she had popped one in, tasting the sugary-then-bitter pill flavour. Then another, then another filled her mouth. The taste was now most unappealing.

She looked again at the cheap old vodka. Without realising, she had twisted the cap off and put her lips to the bottle top. The rank fumes filled her nostrils. Almost gagging, she swiftly took a mouthful, as if a bearded wino or full-time park alcoholic. The taste was indescribably awful – as she swallowed her throat burned as if with acid. Her eyes watered and there followed 30 seconds of intense coughing. She cried. It was just too difficult this way.

She couldn't do it. It was too much. The cap was returned and firmly screwed down. She looked around. Her scarf. Knotting it firmly around her neck, she looked for a suitable place to tie. The overhead lights were undoubtedly too weak to hold her. Besides, there just wasn't enough height for a decent drop. She tiptoed outside in her slippers. There was the railing over the stairwell: that would surely hold. She took both ends of the scarf and tied a tight granny knot. Without realising it she had hoisted her leg over. She stopped for a moment: would the scarf really hold or would it snap? If it did, she'd fall onto the lower stairs and break one or both of her legs for sure. And what if the scarf was too loose – wouldn't that mean her head would come right off? Like Saddam Hussein?

She cried again in deep effusive sobs and pulled back her leg and untied the tightly knotted scarf. Outside the rain was falling. If ever there was a meteorological metaphor it was rain – he mood darkened like the rainclouds and each self-obsessed tear she shed upon the newly-cleaned landing was the gloomy rain. Except, of course, it was a simile and not a metaphor.

If she was to really jump then she'd have to get onto the roof. That bit was simple: she climbed the last flight and drew back the squeaky bolt that kept the metal door closed. There, on the other side of the rooftop, were the buckets and planks of the last work detail who fixed up the leak last January, and all but two of the disused washing lines hung dirty and limp from their poles. It was a scene of loneliness and the past. She wandered over to the edge. Even three floors up seemed a long way from the ground. Vertigo grasped her, causing a sharp intake of breath. She found herself gripping the very brickwork around the edge. Could she do it? Could she?

Without realising it she was standing on the edge looking straight down where the paving slabs and grass met. If she hit the slabs she'd most likely die instantly, but if she hit the grass she might survive – injured. Again, the dilemma rocked her and her knees began to quiver with the effects of the vertigo. Backing down she buried her face in her cold hands as a cascade of anguished tears burst from her squirty eyes.

Sniffling as she retreating down the stairs, she turned to bolt the door and was immediately aware of the smell of gas. It increased as she neared the flat: she closed the flat door. Realising she had accidentally left the gas on, she instinctively ran to turn it off before it got to a critical level. Opening the kitchen door the smell was heavier, more intense, than ever before; strong unpleasant, overpowering, its breath was exhaling in one continuous loud gasp. In the late afternoon dimness she had to see what was going on and flicked the overhead kitchen light switch.

The spark-lit explosion took out every window of the flat. It took three fire crews to bring it fully under control, by which time the note was nothing more than a blackened damp paper cinder.

Suddenly Filled With Cement

It was the same yesterday – a thick nebula of opaque suffocation, a darkness beyond the panic of drowning, a flat-line dumping of experience un-piqued by the usual high-voltage shocks of an exciting daily life. Opening the curtains, the sun was about to cross the mountainous horizon, breaking through the light mist of cloying clouds that nightly settle over Hong Kong. He saw the beauty, but it did nothing to raise spirits, to lift the mind, to arouse excitement. All he wanted to do today, like yesterday, was have his mind taken up with something that would mean escape from the intense heaviness of the overwhelming feelings that occupied existence from hour-to-hour.

But the children needed to go to school, there were breakfasts to make and homework to be packed before the bus – who else would do it? The shower was hot. Each rivulet ran down to the plug encouraging the shedding of grease and skin, of sweats of 3 a.m. when eyes wide open he had dived through the silence again. Getting up to check mail, watch TV or just sit reminded him how futile everything was: if he fell, to ease the way beyond, to remove the rock-hard heavy heart, would anyone really care?

Through the day he tried to present the right angle to left and right: "Morning! About that meeting... Call me. What do you think? No, you go to lunch; I'm fine. What are you doing for Christmas? Yes, I know we need to do it. See you tomorrow." With each exchange someone inside, something greater than him, scrunched up his heart into a paper ball ready to be kicked into the bin and left his head stuffed full of nothing. Thinking about what happens next was the greatest, Herculean challenge. He was useless in meetings and merely agreed to whatever was being said.

It had been like this for about a year, as if he was 'suddenly filled with cement'. Movement beyond breathing was tired. Walking, exercising, cycling, swimming and even sitting still was too much. He'd involuntarily given up. He even tried not breathing to see if the body would also give up on that too. Each time his chest refilled he had mixed feelings – perhaps death would have been a welcome release, but perhaps also the end was not downward to the yawning dark chasm of oblivion. Nonetheless, forever hidden behind the never-ending fog sat the light on the peaks. He knew it was there, because he remembered it. All the same, the way there was hidden in a deserted emptiness, let alone signposted.

Days off work cropped up now and again, but the hours sat alone only increased the melancholia. They made it chronic, beyond leaden where an ounce more would have him crashing through the floor, down into the earth, passing right through to the other side of the world. He passed his indolent solitary days in patience, with cards or with the stupid Microsoft version that took up hour after hour after hour. Resolutions to quit came and went, and with each failed deadline another fibre of his spine pinged until the jelly of impotent existence submerged mind, body and soul. Yet he sighed when the kids came home, their cheerful little faces appearing round the door, animated like the cartoons about to blare from Nickelodeon. Epic spousal support helped through the narrowest, darkest times. The ever-pouring love, however, made him ashamed. Why wasn't it enough? Sex was nice, when it could be achieved, eating until beyond-sated dulled the thickness of thoughtless thoughts, even alcohol, beautiful mind-numbing alcohol, transported towards the open sea of calm, but all of these weren't lasting solutions.

Finally, he obtained Prozac. It took a while to dig in, causing further weight gain in the process. It may have enabled a clearer head but also animated the desire for an end. It had to be stopped. St John's Wort helped a little, though it also caused intense reaction to sunlight. Reading Climbing Out of Depression worked, a tiny little book within which the most significant advice was that each day one thing should be attempted. Gradually, after weeks of daily accomplishments of one thing, an arsenal of one thing achievements lay like a buoyant raft beneath his feet, daily lifting. But to where – normalcy? What was that?

For him it was all about feelings. Keeping the spirits up took courage in itself. Sudden crashes of the most simple sort would deflate that raft – missing the bus, not remembering to do something, over-remembering mistakes. It would take days to re-float and move on. Even this stop-start existnace, however, was better than the terrible anchoring to the deep sea bed of before.

Did he see it as it a cure? Was it gone forever? No. It remained a shadow that shortened and lengthened across the landscape according to factors beyond control. Churchill's black dog would insolently creep out of the shadows ever-seeking to nudge him towards the edge of the platform. In the end, he would have to live with it resting on the street between the cars, sitting with the church's gargoyles, staring out from the forest edge, all the time watching him and waiting. Keeping it at bay would involve elaborate scams, motivational distractions, daily walks and lots and lots of friendly help.