Everything is Like Dusty Books

A strange monologue in prose.

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1. Everything is Like Dusty Books

Everything is like dusty books.  Just like too many unread books just talking to each other. Something here now gone.  Faded paint. Broken wall border.  Dirty white.  And the day came when I knew that I was mad.  Until today I had never really grasped the full meaning of it.  Madness that is.  A serene realisation that one is not well enough for the world. It’s not just about being incompetent, it’s far more complex than mere blunt mustard cutter and mustard, more in the way of never been good enough, having had always something to haunt him. Something wrong so to speak. Playing briefly with the uncertainty of God.   Volumes of time and a little him-thing, not quite meeting the standard but stuck all the same here with the rest of them who know he is whatever it is when you are not complete in some way or other. Mingling sounds in the water of his time and suddenly he is in the bath.   For months now he has lost grip of matter and mattering. Here in the water, ripples waving the form of the plug into a jelly like stuttering shuddering thing. The clear sound of water on water as from the taps is and he is vexed and already a memory. You read about them and hear about them but never really plan He liked to think that his brand of psycho-active drug had nothing to do with insanity or losing grip on things or sinking down into it all and nothing there to stop him except the sorrowful sorriness of everything fathomed in him, hidden like bad photographs and his wife, why would she or even want to anymore except for the kids?  Such as it is no more the velocity of his love, the gargantuan passion of it, the fat sea making waves everywhere like dusty books in the mind waking old thoughts and smells and time and and.  This time, this life did not quite pan out did it? In the bath wishing he had the guts or the inclination to slit his own – and then in the morning a thought, I am undone. With all this music and sadness and anti-Christ to the highest hallelujah.  In his stupid bath with his stupid, insipid little thoughts whirling up in the wind like bad animals burned. In the still unbroken inertia of the surface of the bath he once looks for a glinting, glittering second where and within which the world appeared liveable, almost possible, but what has gone and passed and come to be.  We cannot move back, a fact observed frequently so to speak and suchlike or one after the other in quick succession or regular in quick succession, and yet the stitch work is coming apart in my head, his head. Ready to malform and burst.  Sinking like dead like dead pre-fossil head bone strata, the brain, the brain is where and it is the then and it and all the wide wide smiling soothing in and out the breathing utter and deep in abjectivity like the final wince at the world rolling behind, into the fast relinquishing envelope of moment one and two and three and four and so on and so on ad infinitum.  To subtract the. To initiate the.  Now dripping in the bathroom in the cold observing himself, his body, animated carcass, complicated fish with land legs, land lubber, the full length mirror, water like small marbles on his tarpaulin, posited as he is in two small ponds of said marbles following gravity and finally coalescing somewhat from the feet outwards, towards the rest of things and now his breathing in amongst the Bedlam.  I have seen a dog puke in a shitty winter morning, tied to itself and gagging for another tail.  He thinks, When the time runs out and the pockets are full of rocks and I don’t know how many rocks, stones, pebbles, whatever is sufficiently small, correctly sized to fit into the mouth of the pockets and I will not know how many, cannot quantify or calculate the very vehicle of my ignominious suicide, blind as the day I was torn yelping like a pup and the thinking stops. Silent synapses pause. The little more than slight air moves fast enough to disturb his curtain, and he wonders, in a fraction of a fraction why. How did everything meet today in such a way as to and why the window here and the curtain here and me – him here to stand in foot-puddles of a dead bath to see it undulate along roads and valleys of atoms and gaps? And back to the helter-skelter diminishing ankles, sprayed with hair, light hair, not like at all the missing link, like nice guy Eddie the hairy man and house-fellow of scholar days who would make tea in a kettle twice in a year. Pushing down into the bathroom. Holds his hand up against the frosted window with white morning sun painted equally on, a sedate glaze, photons dancing, accruing time into the ageless scheme. Je suis your lens through which to. Uneven. and he wonders, in a fraction of a fraction why. How did everything meet today? Pushing down into the photons in the bathroom and to disturb a curtain when time runs out in the heat death, puddles of heat. Cold.  Observing.  Cold. Observing himself, biped now, upright now, brain so ever like a deity now, the paragon of subtraction from the total wound up tied up finished with the I s crossed and the dots on the t.  He had once heard old Magonnygonnygoonican don’t you know pontificate as if Beckett had risen up to voice him, I will dot the t s and cross the eyes and then, even as a young man he understood the subversion, like wine, the double meaning, meaning eyes crossed the kind in your head because they are bureaucratting in his toilet, not trained to leave their filing cabinets and bullying disappointed fathers behind.  This target Wilson must be met. Despite and perhaps because of the inherent impossible implausible utterly already reduced to mere sheen of meaning and certainly once it is applied to the world out there, its realnesses. And back to the helter-skelter diminishing ankles, sprayed with hair, all of a sudden awake and afraid.  Naked. Alone.  Just nothing in a whole population receding into – and how did everything meet today to blow this curtain, one among millions perhaps billions subject to wind, to move this thin part, to billow it, to insert a verb into its inert elemental thereness and then again the animated carcass breathing in the locked bathroom, having had the guts to do what he said without the stones, to slice and really put in a lot of effort, ah to finish the pontificating zeal of Magonnygonnygoonican the lepracorn don’t you know and top of the dawn and a feint in a fraction of a fraction.  Why? Everything in movement while he stands regarding the flawed human being in the mirror.  The blood, who would have thought the man to have had so much love in him.

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