The Other Self
1 But no. She wouldn’t fall for that kind of bullshit, of bed-bound fallacy and intuitive promiscuity. Post cultural shock and marital demands, she realised she was only just his toy. Not because she loved him but because she wanted control. Grabbing her neck in the dark she deliberately closed her eyes. she could feel the freedom of falling forward and being caught by a clear, fine, moist net. Her lips would be pressed, her breasts were held back and her thighs would ache. Three days had to pass. Living had merely become a form of art.
2 A baby cried in the background. His mother, immune to the noise, looked out the window. Her feelings were express. She sat on the couch taking notes, following a mental map. Too many conversations were being held at the same time. Her coffee smelled of fish. The scent reminded her of home, of her mouldy bed, of her wet sheets and of her tired legs. Her eyes glanced in distress, she couldn’t wait for the rain to be over. She turned around and saw a border line work of glass art. She closed her eyes. She had to go.
3 Her lip bled, and then she tasted it. Her eyes were tired and the skin in her face felt tight. She hadn’t slept in months and didn’t particularly care for time. She felt her hair and pulled it up. It was suspended in the air. Her eyes once shut were now struck with light. She felt the wind, she felt the sand, she sucked the salt into her mouth. Her memories had been torn apart. Her hair was now a lighter shade, it floated in her hands.
4 She slowly headed for the station. It rained outside like the heavens were trying to portray broken waters. She sat down on the edge of a trolley and hoped to slip back. She closed her eyes and thought of a time when she found it easier to speak. She:d met a train guard who liked her face and let her in the lift so they could have a quick fag. He obviously wanted more, and she always found it difficult to say no.
5 The small cut in her chest kept bleeding. It was a hole into skylight that also let the rain and the damp in. Twenty ideas had gone through her head, she kicked herself in the mirror and considered snorting shattered glass. Her body was hot but the air was getting colder, a long night was ahead. Her hands ached and her lips itched and she felt a familiar sensation in her hips. The night clouds were floating voluptuous and the graffiti kept teasing her, yet nothing could keep her from staring out the window. Outside laid a city that liked to see her crawl. It slept tender under the fog. She leaned back and lit a cigarette. Later that night she would pull her hair out
6 When she woke up she could only think about finding the door. Her senses had been knocked out during the night. Her nose was bleeding so were her insides. She pulled her hand out and brought it to her forehead. There it was: a small lump resting on her forehead, like mount Venus acting accounting for mythical deities and beasts. Her eyecups hurt and she could hardly workout the age of the day. There was a gap between the curtains, a thread of light had found its way in. She wanted to worry about time, she wanted to worry about things. She desisted, then let her hand fall on her head; yet another mistake she didn:t care about. She closed her eyes and tried to think back. Of the previous day or week she had no recollection, only just a bruise to remember it by. Her breath felt dense like heavy vapour so she used her shirt to cover her mouth; the un/missable taste of stale alcohol was all she found.
7 Her eyes were bloodshed, there was an artist trapped inside her. The muscle kept beating. She felt the Universe conspire against her, on her skin: tall, proud and a little too powerful. Her heavy legs had given up on her. Just like the rest, even herself. She hated him for who she now was. Once a woman, now she stood a girl, thinking in the dark. Her eyes were motionless and felt the dust against them. Her hands had hurt, but no one knew about it. Other women could sometimes sense it; it drove her crazy. For her, a woman who never believed in editing, now found herself chopping up her skeleton. Her skull now hurt, so did her bones‌ and her, always loyal to the pain would never part with it.
8 Such was the power he had once had over:above her head, her life, her mouth, her grain. She took her future and held it in her hands. She struck it and then strangled it. She must have liked to live on the edge, to torture herself and to think she liked to be alone. She screamed her life in a hole, the afternoon kept bleeding. Three witches across the room were looking over. Her dreams were stuck to the window, they were a gentle warning. Twelve apostles could have guarded them, instead her steady hair and a pearl of sweat gave the right image away. Her heart was feeling hollow but the bush of her head kept fertile. She drowned herself in deeper glasses, she damped her hair. Covering her back with her skin, she felt the trace left behind her.
9 Her chest and her belly had been milked, though she had no direction. She stood in the dark; the moon consequently pouring over her skull. She reached for her dignity and found her hips instead, and her mouth. She pushed her hands down and met the fabric that melted over her skin, she pulled the elastane and snuck out of it. Half the crime had already been done, the other half was about to be committed. He stared at her, her oily skin and dirty hair. Her smile was blurred. She had completely forgotten herself. The needle of her heart was now to be trusted, only just partially like her books, and her news, and her thoughts and her eyes.
10 Sooner or later she would have to spread herself across the room, sadly, she didn’t have that talent. She forced her eyes wide open and let her ghosts come in through them. Until they hurt, until she weeped, until she finally was ready to let go. Then she looked down, her life was a puddle. She reached out with her hand until she found her shadow. She touched the wall and let her senses fall, then she found all of her belongings. She let her hand in, as in the dark until she found a little pack of pleasures. She followed the outline of a tin and opened it up far away from her, letting its contents spill towards her. Then in her pocket she found a sheet and took it out, she licked it's fringe for she had a tendency to do things backwards. She found some leafs and rolled them carefully. She lit her time and quietly inhaled. Perhaps she "had" to be ready to let go.
11 She hardly knew where to start. So she started looking for an answer, learning the way her body spread out. She:d tried this exercise in stage once and the audience couldn:t really understand. They thought she was just trying to be bad, daring to dare in front of their eyes, their edge and their wildest expectations. She had found nothing then, but her fingers became sore and between her nails accumulated the cells: no memories came back. She:d touched the bones of her hips and found them rough, but thought she probably had a reason or two. Her lips had moved without her consent but no one caught the slightest trace of sound, then when she opened her eyes she had to face the judgement of her audience, her peers, people of the world and from the arts. She nodded: yes I was just trying to be bad.
12 There was a red wave inside her. It parted her lower lips into two, into four, into six, into a hundred. With each stroke she found herself forced to exhale, her soul came out and had a quick peek at the world she had created around her. Her ankles were steady because she had been scarred, though now she could guess the ending a little too well. Sometimes her thorax felt forced to expand and a little cry would populate the heavy air and warm stupor from the fight. Something was missing from her abdomen, something was missing from her chest, something was missing from her hand. A heaving prickle had taken over her bust. Her back was now shaped in a perfect arch and her eyes were out of focus. She reached out with her hand trying to hold onto something. She found nothing. Her lip was starting to run down, she closed her eyes and then she briefly screamed.
13 Her hands were cold and her most intimate secrets had been thrown across the floor. Now there was no way back. She popped a pill, then two more and swallowed the rest of her cold coffee. The rim of the cup had lipstick marks all over it, they sat in silence like the discreet kisses that sealed her mouth. Her life once filled with secrets was increasingly public beyond the the dirty pages she quickly wrote and forgot. That’s when it hit her: She liked the power of being in control, and in this era, of course, knowledge is power. Like gold, the more common it became, the less precious it was. She knew everything about supply and demand and liked to keep herself to herself. She feared the game might be over.
14 It didn’t matter how many people knew, all that mattered was that in the eyes of some she had been marked, with an invisible brand, with her past, her beliefs, and that she now was that person she had never wanted to be but had somehow become. From that point onwards she knew she was her own disease, the question remained still how to fight it. Of course she had to improve her knowledge of her own thought patterns. She needed to have a look from the outside. She felt observed from a thousand miles by a woman who looked like an ungraceful bird. She felt touched, invaded, scrutinised; but had to face the music, then she had to lie. It didn’t matter though, she was used to it.
15 From her he deserved nothing. She felt her hand shaking, she felt a little nervous , she felt a little empty, something had to give, somewhere she’d be pulled. Driven by the certainty of her own paranoia she shut her eyes and pressed her head with her hands. She knew she was delusional because she was speaking and such was her conviction. She felt alert, surrounded by the air, trapped in a cloud. Her vision, was sharp, even through the mist was eager to rest in peace, but her hands: they were out of control. She felt her face, she touched her bones, she scratched her lips and tried to concentrate. The time had come. Covered in rage, wrapped in a sheet her forehead bled once more, so did her hips. Untouchable she raised her stare and felt her noble duty rest upon her head. She stood high on her bed and couldn’t wait to collapse.
16 Her tongue felt numb. Although she couldn’t remember the previous night she knew the events that had taken place inside out: by heart, by mind, by day, by night. Some memories were carved to the back of her hand or the end of her wrists. When she looked back she knew something was missing. There was the smell of fear, there was shame, there was a sense of emptiness and a strange animal enjoyment, there were the exceptional times when she felt pity, there was the expected sense of the absurd; but there was no rage. Subsequently there were intense fits that in the darkness of her silences seemed to be random and unnecessary, there were panic attacks completely out of context, there were bursts of empty emotions, and murderous fears projected in all senses. And then there was rage.
17 It was a Sunday night like no other. She wasn’t even aware of time. She had only had a panic and was now starting to feel its toll. It wasn’t everyday that she felt in danger. She kept calling Albert Einstein looking for an answer. She had high standards and was now sick of the silence. She turned up the volume in the hope of melting her cage but the empty telephone was still there. She shook her head in slow motion as if trying to understand. She couldn’t remember what she was trying to forget. She walked to the kitchen and poured herself a drink, then she sat back. She knew her other self too well, what she didn’t get was what called her awake
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