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The
Room
She left him alone in a one-room
apartment, with huge old shutter windows that tried to block out the noise.
The light was steady overcast. Perfect for him as he lay down on his back
in the centre of the floor and stared up at the plaster work. He exercised
his jaw from side to side and shuffled his feet. Four white walls just
painted over and a big brown door with a grate over the frosted window.
Now is a time to recite, he thought, to liven up this place with ringing
words. To scrape away the wash with penetrating inquiries. To blow away
the dust on the floor with sweeping giganticness, the epic. But to resuscitate
the ceiling by tapping a rhythm through the noggins. To start with his
fingers then slap his hands before stomping his feet and pulsating like
a starfish in a strong current. And sing the last tune he had heard like
a child so as to immortalise it for the future dwellers or victims of this
geometry. Let him roll his eyeballs as he reconstructed the lines against
blackness in his sedation. Give him something if only a bottle of wine
and a record player with one piece of music that can set him astride, so
that he can pick up enough speed to jumpkick the nothingness and cause
some damage. So that he can shrivel up his entire body and laugh in the
mirror, and fear nothing. And then his upper muscles seize up and his torso
is frozen. His elbow is bent upwards so that his hand is trapped twitching
by his ear, and in it a quill, black at the nib. His eyes are fixed in
his sockets, and he marches toward that wall one two three...yes, this
is the spot, Lord forgive me, he pricks the surface. Just a little ink
fills the crevices of the paper and it runs down rapidly as he spreads
his palms around it. He sucks in his stomach, made sick with love, and
bends down to catch it with his tongue.
That’s when he started writing
on the walls. Every thought and process was scribbled there so childishly
in black. The sum of his genealogy, the conflict of his anonymity, the
void of his dutiful being was made into a disorganised mural, or a manuscript
perhaps. Different angles and styles of handwriting all comprising a great
testimony to the demons of his deluded reason. But is that not our greatest
weapon? And he wrote and wrote until there was no room left. Then he went
to the windows and opened the shutters so that the noise could be heard,
seen and drunk. Then he retired to his position, and awaited her return.
©
1999
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