Strange Days #1 - Strange Days are here... | Page 7

Brains and bathrooms

off into a new land, a new future, a new love. I looked at the
ground, and began tapping my foot against the cold paveToday I plucked a hair from my head and my skull collapsed ment. The sun was gone, and so was she.
in on itself. All of the contents of my head spilled out onto the
--bathroom floor. It was brown and red and pink. It was ugly.
With my deflated and collapsed face, I danced around. I
jumped into the bath tub and started to kick my legs frantiJar of (piss) water
cally. The pile of mess on the floor certainly seemed strange.
That is what Fante’s brain would look like on the floor too. I
There is a jar behind my eyes which is full to the brim with
felt at one with the immortals. Its beautiful inside, but its a a pale liquid. This liquid does not look or smell particularpile of shit on the bathroom floor before too long.
ly pleasant, and it often leaks out of my skull. It pours forth
from my mouth often. It even drips onto pages. It drips down
onto the white sheet paper and runs down its surface, barely
leaving a mark. This liquid does not stick on page, in time or
in memory. It simply runs onto the floor and forms a dirty
little puddle at my feet.

---

My Life as a Moron
I stood on the corner, tapping my foot on the cold pavement.
Killing time. I had been outside for several hours, wandering about the streets in search of myself and of someone who
would love me. All I found was a pornographic magazine and
an empty can of lager. Sure, there were people about, every
now and then, but they were so far away I could barely recognise their human features. I did see a cat, but she mugged me
and spat in my eye. I hate that.

Sometimes, I soak people with it. I spit this liquid at them
with intensity. It hits their ears and they recoil at best, shrug
it off at worst. They should bring umbrellas when they meet
me, because the rain becomes torrential, to the point where it
is most difficult to ignore.

I often top up the jar. I spend all day and night trying to
pour more into it. Often the jar will not hold all the liquid and
The corner had become my resting place, a fine place to it will wash over me, evaporating into the heated air. Somewatch the hours tumble away. By this point I had resigned times I find residue on the windows and on my clothes. I can
myself to the emptiness of the fading day. The sun was fuck- smell it always, and it stinks.
ing off to her next gig, and I was glad for it, the night would
promise adventure. I was scuffing my shoes against the wall
One day the jar will smash and the waves will spread for a
when I heard the ring of a bicycle bell sound off from behind moment before dissipating into the absolute of nothing. The
me. I turned, in a weary fashion, expecting some tosser to stench will vanish, and all that will be left is the broken shards
be belting towards me with unacceptable haste. I was ready of glass rotting in a hole, and perhaps a puddle somewhere, or
for some sort of altercation. Instead, there was a single bike, some condensation on a mirror.
weaving along the street, and wobbling ever so slightly. The
person atop the bicycle was a beauty, perched delicately upon
--the saddle like a bird who was just about to take flight. She was
clearly foreign, she eluded categorisation but was most defiBecoming re-active
nitely not English. Her hair was shoulder length, blowing in
the breeze. Her skirt, knee length and blue, which was clingI have the desire to delete. The need to reset the world and
ing to her knees as they rose and fell with the pedals. She was start again. Year Zero. Catastrophe often enough, but neceswearing a sweater, tight fitting and warm-looking. Her scarf sary at times. Nothing I have written is worth keeping. All my
was draped wonderfully around her neck. She was wonderful. words ring with the melodies of a dirge, and I want nothing
Her eyes pierced me, nailed me to where I stood. I stopped to do with funeral songs. I sought to write in a mature manmy movements and stared at her. For a moment our eyes met. ner, but all I have achieved is the scribbling of a fool obsessed
with their own reflection. I have not succeeded in writing
meaningful words. I have sobbed onto the keyboard of my
computer in the most pathetic display of outpouring. There
is a desire to delete, that I will not deny. However, to scrunch
up the paper and throw it in the bin would simply be another
act of ignorance. I will leave all as it stands as testament to
my failures. Ugly words compiled by an ugly typist with ugly
sensibilities. They are going nowhere, but I will hopefully go
somewhere. It is time I stopped jumping up and down on the
spot. The writings of the desert camel will remain as traces
to be forgotten. The time now is of the lion. I will craft new
spaces amidst the traces of the past, and I will make the active
object the site of my reaction. I will, whence all is said and
done, become a child once again. The three metamorphoses
will be completed. This I promise.

That moment, we lived a year with eachother. We awoke
with eachother, embraced, copulated, kissed, skipped and ate.
We saw films, we danced in the n ight, we snuck away from
parties. We loved and we lived and we cried. She changed me,
for the better. I was a man with purpose, with pulse, with life.
I began to have fun, I let myself go, I found myself and someone who loved me for being me. I dressed well, and I slept with
her every night, with undisturbable satisfaction. My fingers
ran along the contours of her body; her skin was like snow.
Her bell rang, her smile faded, her eyes glazed over. We
parted. She looked away from me, cycled down the street and
around the corner. I stood rooted to the spot, a smile across
my face, a rising hatred. Undefinable rage. She was gone, and
I was left in the street with me, myself and I for company. I
resented this. I heard her bell once more before she cycled

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