inkfilledmind

or, One Last Frantic Dialogue With My Hair Before We Parted Ways

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Why, hello Nathan.

Afternoon, hair.

Do you mind telling me why there are a pair of scissors hovering in rather frightening proximity?

Ah, it has come to this, has it?

Come to what?

Well, we’re very soon to go our separate paths. Pursue different fates, if you will.

And when, pray tell, were you going to inform me of such?

I have been fundraising for your departure for at least a week now, you know.

This is the first I’ve heard of it. I’m terribly busy these days.

Just what, precisely, does a mop of hair perform to alleviate itself of spare time?

Oh, nothing really important. Preventing your ears from dropping off due to frostbite, sparing you of dangerous skin cancers, that sort of thing.

That’s wonderful, no, really, it is, but I’m sure I’ll survive.

Ha! You aren’t you without me. Once I’m gone you’ll be forced to forge some new, lesser identity, to strike out as a different person with something missing, a vast gulf where deep waters once surged. Something dark and long and hair-like. Me.

Hold on. Why am I arguing with my hair? Is this a daydream?

If only it was! If only! I can hardly bear this betrayal. The thought that you would entertain–

It’s far too late for such talk now; here she is. I’ll miss you, a little.

No! Make her stop! Oh, hair number forty seven thousand and three, you were my favourite piece of me! Lo! Not another snip! Ahh! Six thousand three hundred and fifty nine, you survived seventeen low-hanging branches and a vicious car door for this–the clippers, the clippers! My soul, my being, delivered to the floor like descent unto Hades! I’ll be back, mark my words; back, and long enough to strangle you, just wait–

“–been put behind bars for contempt of court, but this morning the defending party claimed the legal situation had been misconstrued–”

Reuben flicked the television off.

“More of the bullshit which drove me to stop practicing law.”

Soft laughter floated through the office. “You think you’re making lives better by working here instead?” said Owen, fingers hovering over a dirty keyboard. He looked up from the monitor to scrutinise Reuben, who glanced at the floor to hide the play of emotions which flickered across his face: confusion, unhappiness, annoyance.

“Why are you here if you don’t believe in what we’re doing?” he replied. “The chemicals we manufacture, they… they’re not real.I mean, what is and isn’t real?” Faint notes of desperation, of guilt, modifying his voice and charging his words. “When my football team wins, is that happiness diminished by the time and money I invested to make it significant? When I watch a movie, are even those feelings real? Manipulated? What does a genuine feeling feel like?”

It was Owen’s turn to examine the carpet, head down in contemplation as he took a fragment of paper from inside his jacket and turned it over carefully in his hands. It was blank, the ink rubbed off, but the words were left with him.

“All we need is a little more hope, a little more joy…” he murmured. Then his teeth clenched. He looked up. “The emotions made here can be bought. They can be… measured… bottled. Taken daily before breakfast. They help people, they do help people. But not for long.” He was biting off his sentences, his voice wavered. “Never think of them as real.”

A momentary silence. Reuben rubbed his arms against an imaginary chill. “I don’t think they’re real, Owen. I’ve just begun questioning whether it matters.”

here I am sitting under a tree and it is warm and sunlight filters through rustling leaves so the skin of my hand is dappled with shadows that ripple across my fingers and down through the pencil across rough yellow paper detailing transpirations such as when I was walking bright pavement and weaving between masses of people who I imagined were running shiny delicate threads behind them and participating in a vast phantom birds-eye tapestry with bursts of rainbow at intersections and nonsense braille patterns of human confusion and conglomeration from vacant statelessness I moved into a hypercondition whereby my inner eye was assaulted with explosions of pure Vision unmuddied by usual modes of normality and nonrevelation it came unannounced the universe suddenly slowed like I had stepped through a surreal wall of water for is not everything so dreamlike under the surface where sounds and thoughts are distant and your eyes can behold your floating arm in detached wonder a weary man leans against a statue and twirls a lighter in his hand and holds a bright blue demon to his mouth that gives one last flick of its forked tail before diving down his throat do thoughts rush and queue in simultaneity or are they part of one long snaking thought-ribbon which divulges in folds past our mind I have been holding the corner of these loose sheets to keep the wind from disturbing my writing but now my hands are shaking with such excitement that my letters stretch into an indecipherable scrawl a messy lead lifeline which keeps me tied to reality an existence dimmed by the intense burn of Vision have you ever been having a conversation and a thought pops into your head followed by an eerie feeling that they are thinking the exact same thought at the same moment these are not separate thoughts but one which hangs between you like a balloon made of cloud that dissipates instantly and reforms in raindrops over the rest of your lives which hurtle and spin crazily along in an effort to regain what was lost my mind reels half-formed letters splash across the page in an attempt to transform what I had seen felt been as internal brushstrokes projected across an external canvas back into words which could set it off again a bird wheels across the sky and a fallen star picks herself up from the ground twinkle twinkle little star I gaze upon you from afar the world is a beautiful place if you take away the devastation of our lakes and forests the travesty of humanity decorating our screens and papers it is even more beautiful if you keep these things there even murderers sleep gentle sleep

FADE IN:

EXT. COUNTRYSIDE – DUSK

Gentle but deep river with dying sun in view. Remain stationary for five seconds as the title fades out, then slowly dolly up the river until a dead tree which has rolled into the water comes into view. Pause and remain stationary for a few seconds as it becomes apparent a girl is hanging limply onto it.

CUT TO:

Underwater shot with underside of dead tree in view and hand of girl outstretched and trailing, her bracelet visible. Streamers of blood curl through the water.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. COUNTRYSIDE – EARLIER

Same shot as before previous cut but no tree in the river and the sun is higher in the sky. Slow dolly up the riverbank. The camera reveals the girl lying in the long grass but continues on smoothly.

SERIES OF CLOSE-UP SHOTS INTERRUPT TRACKING SHOT AT EVEN INTERVALS:

A) Her fist clenching, bracelet visible.

B) Dirt-smudged throat gulping.

C) Tears running down a cheek.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. COUNTRYSIDE – DUSK

Same underwater shot as previously. Rise up from water to see the girl’s arm wrapped around the tree trunk and her head barely above the surface, and in the background a man standing on the shore.

CUT TO:

Tight close-up of the man’s watching face.

CUT TO:

Previous shot, to see her lose grip and slip under the water.

The river that runs outside of town turned red. Just briefly, as the murmuring current gently pulled streamers of blood from crusted wounds until the flesh was soft and pale. I saw this happen by the uncertain light of a dying sun. I watched in detachment as my hands loosened their grip on the dead body until it slipped under the waters.

Ever since my younger years I had come to lie on the grassed banks of the same ageless river, spreadeagled on compressed dark soil as long fingers of yellow-green danced over half-closed eyes which watched sunbeams pierce the shivering willow canopy. I would retreat here when I felt on the verge of losing control.

Some time ago, in fact it must have been recently, as the memory is still vivid within my mind, I ran, withdrew to the riverside, and found that the largest of the trees had finally freed its rainfall-exposed roots and fallen, all stripped slivers of brown cast across the slopes. Without knowing quite what to do, I curled up in a damp hollow beneath the horizontal trunk so that my bare skin rubbed comfortably against warm bark.

As it happened, I fell asleep. I awoke to darkness, despite still feeling the burn of early afternoon; another tree had fallen and trapped me. These were old, strong trees, too heavy to move. I had a fervent desire to stay within my hideaway. There was abundant dew runoff to drink, but when the teeming supply of insects still living within the trunk dwindled and I started scraping my tongue in desperation, escape became an unavoidable necessity.

It felt like each part of me which could be damaged was damaged. Hoarse cries for hours came to naught. Fingernails were torn with frenzied scrabbling. Hands and limbs were bruised and bloodied from space-deprived convulsions of furious movement. It was a wonderous surprise when apropos of nothing the tree covering me groaned and began rolling down the bank. I clasped my arms around it and had my broken body dragged to the blissfully cool river, and moments of cleansing later I let go and followed the tree down into the deep, peaceful waters.