The Depression of Surya (and Stories from this Era)
G. Haritharan
Copyright © 2011 G. Haritharan and s4mT
First published by s4mT in 2009 ISBN 978-0-9552958-3-6
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
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1. Apart (1 of 2), Circular Times, Kieran Jones, $500, Lower, Politics, Ultra-Violet, Patrick Cheung-Pattel, Under Violet, Uterus Theory, Annie Mofat
2. Apart (2 of 2), The Man God, Theenu, and the Sun, A Town Called Eriverdi, Ultraviolet Bending
3. Together, Johnny Torino-Guptta, The Fusion of Patterns, Ironing, West Side Americas, Katpakum, Hut Politics, Loops, The Death of… (1 of 2), Mantra, The Death of… (2 of 2), Fuel, The Sun, Humanity, Energy of Paradox
Verses To The Depression of Surya
The Stories Through His Depression
V.O.M: How Do You Spell S-T-E-R-E-O-T-Y-P-E?
V.O.M: A Winner’s Tall Tale to the Virtual World of the very Commercial Female Orgasm
Dedicated to Krisa - my most wonderful niece :)
Note
Welcome to the independent publishing world! It is not as fancy as most of the other types but as thoroughly enjoyable. So please remember; throughout the commercial marketing, big brands, facelessness… or the over enthusiasm, typos and general cheapness… it’s the words that count!
This book is both a long story (The Story of His Depression ) and a short story compilation (The Stories Through His Depression). The way you read it, is up to you!
Foreword
Yes – far too many words to cram into such a small space. Imagine that – many things into a space. A space that we believe is infinite, but really the space is limited to how we know it; and what we know of it
[Pause – what is a foreword doing in the novel? What type of novel is this? Does it all collate into a ball of excitement like, well, we expect it to?]
tut tut – let me continue with my task; to write a foreword that will add to the delicacy and intricacy of this work (this final instalment, not to mention the others). To do this I will need a tale of my own; not too long and laborious but something that will let the reader know of the author’s intention.
Forget the tale! In fact. Let me, instead, tell you about an old myth that I have heard about. To your present day, it isn’t that old, but in relation to where this book is set… or should I re-phrase, when this book is set, it is very old. Very is a big word.
Psycho-analysis does not exist in ’the future’, but it did in 1974, where analyst Helena Earl came across a patient who had an interesting proposal for her. The patient, Ludwig Bowes, wanted areas of his memory erased. No, not incidence of his father abusing him at childhood, or school bullying; seeing awful sights like familiar being raped/killed/subjected to torture. But simply memories that have been with him for (and I quote from my source, who quoted from hers, who quoted from his…) ‘a long time’.
So Earl said the usual in that memories can be uncovered but never erased. Perhaps even hidden by psycho/hypnotherapy (for evil purposes) but never erased. Ludwig grew worried and asked Earl if there were people who knew how to erase rather than hide or uncover. Earl spoke back saying how ludicrous this all sounded and demanded to know why he would want to get rid of memories held in his mind for ‘a long time’.
Now Bowes had been to plenty of therapists before this one and at ends tether decided to reveal what he had not told many during the course of his life. Ludwig Bowes had the spirit of an angel residing within his system who had been alive for the best part of 290 odd years. Over this period, the angel had a massed many memories and was slowly filtering each through and using Ludwig’s brain for long term memory storage with organisation.
(Ah! So nonchalant!)
During research, Bowes had discovered that episodes of catatonia (frequent symptoms of such disorders as schizophrenia and Parkinson’s Disease) happen to human beings whom have angel spirits transported within them. You see, the movies are where angels exist, also the imaginations of children. In truth, they do exist, but through spirit alone. They do not have biological bodies; their memories float between Dharmic Heaven and earth and are retrieved by the code sent via despair. Schizophrenia and all other disorders with catatonic references are not actual (purely) psychological problems; it’s caused by angels trying to take over one’s body and mind. A by-product is, the human brain does not have the capacity to store over three hundred years (give or take) of memory – hence, a catatonic state is induced.
Another by-product is people think you are mad. Which is what Earl thought of Bowes and sent him away (‘I can only help you in a professional sense, I’m not a designer therapist – there are rules about these things’).
And so to cut a long story short, the curiosity of Earl got to her; she visited a ward at an asylum and assessed catatonia, discovering that using techniques in hypnotherapy she could reduce reoccurrence rates rather successfully. She worked research into her findings but before publishing, she died of ill cause. Her fellows did not wish to pursue the work, Helena was verging on witchcraft and ranting about types of Hindu heaven and maybe even hell. Which is why these days (twenty - twenty-first century) catatonic symptoms are still treated with drug therapy and ECT mainly. However, there does remain the remnants of Doctor Earl’s study in the would be ‘designer therapy’…
Don’t believe me? I wouldn’t. Belief is a big word.
The Depression of Surya
[Theenuvatharam: Chapter 5 of 5]
(Through His melancholic-era stood a time of stories and verses. These offer explanations to the fleeting memories of those who have died/live but have one aspect in common – a depressed Surya, the God of the Sun, looked within them at stages in each life to collect a grasp on what it would be like to be human.)
When I rose for the first time I wept. There was one in my heart who kept from me. The man who dropped before me. Dead. Who turned me. I am.
Death when considered at this point of life is false. Forever is all. No end, no beginning. Just the same words over and over – either by the fool who is I or another idiot out there.
These are all not my words.
Angels and demons fight for or against me at times. I’m not sure who is a side. Considering is all a tomb does. Memories don’t fade.
I want to know about it all but I am stuck reflecting upon mere glimpses of insight into the after world. I know that my death is the way forward. Ultimate freedom is a pass from the addiction of one plane.
But how to die if we live forever?
1. Apart (1 of 2)
1Circular Times
“In such cold times one is reminded of stories and the single decision in tall tale telling is that of the Afghanistan boy and the Pinkish woman from Germany.
At a train station in Buchholz, which is a town in Hamburg, a Pinkish woman sat patiently but nervously awaiting a certain somebody. People passed her as they would any soul sitting upon a bench looking out for a train to Nurnberg (ha! I really do not know to where, that was a Germany city that has popped up in my story telling head). She sat slightly frowned wearing a pink and raspberry blouse with a white skirt that covered her legs fully revealing only ankles at hitch up. Her footwear were lightly gold colour sandals with thin straps and equally slender brass buckle. It was summer, where unlike these last few years, it was hot and she could afford to wear such frivolity.
Fifteen minutes had passed from the moment she had sat down from the five minute journey from her house in Kochweg when the man she had invested time in rendezvous arrived with a single orange rose. Her face distorted on seeing the boy’s eyes and then reciprocally crushed on gazing the flower. She had news for the gentleman that would not be to his utter liking. The Pinkish lady explained herself and the situation she was in. My tale is not privy to this particular conversation merely the plot: she intended to oust the Afghanistan boy, the man she had requited to see at a train station in Buchholz, Germany. I can, however, make guestimates: her legions with one or two of the then strong Russian Mafia fellows could have been an intervened grace; a movement to afar, since in those days of primation there existed not the motivation for the long distance couple. I do know this: it was the break-up information kind. But not kind.
They fussed they hurried but ultimately the cotton dress soul hugged light brown eyed boy (with the face of Afghan). It was at this point at which this boy’s mother runs in stressed denomination. It was not a wonder why all did not grow heightened in anticipation of the non-due-now train. She acted as if it were her last moment in Hamburg before her carriage pulled her to town over. Instead she approached the interlocking couple and screamed blau töten (approximate; pardon my old time German!).
Now here is the issue; it was not what she was screaming that was of interest it was the interpretation of what was being said. Not a politically correct German in sight. Just a bunch of Hamburgian/Kockweghian youths looking to skip town, away from the overbearing policing from such adults as; parents, officers… the point is, they were looking, they were hearing/listening but not intently. At least, those quizzed (by life in grande) bespoke what the most cocky/brass young Aryan thick blooded/butch feature of the collection had to say. Or rather shout: one digi doo!
In following events at the transport palais, these German youths from this area tend to associate one digi doo with an exclamation of delight. If it’s good or great – it’s one digi doo. If it’s funny; it’s one digi doo. You really want to be cool about things? Shout one digi with a pumped fist. My word, the origin of a phenomenon is a wonderful thing.”
The children sat idle-by as Loretta spoke these words. Loretta was a him and not a her (though not in the sense we all know, she was female). Of course, he had a feminine name but nobody really minded due to the climate. Pun, intended! (Is what Loro would say…)
***
Some of this time:
Lands were covered in darkness mainly. Places like Chile, Brazil and Argentina. But not all South America (and example of Colombia comes to mind for that was not covered). Half of the northern continent of America; lots of Europe (Spain, the entire United Kingdom, France and Germany being the richest nations) and then there are other places considered unimportant.
The question remains exactly why. It’s simple. 2Peace. The peace of the world created the ultimate destruction of mankind’s greatest friend – the sun. A few years ago there was a great war. Very big, lots of people died. Years before that was similar and preceding even more Shivaran signs. Then the world got as smart as it ever got.
(Except, if the belief is with this thinking, the asking of why men with greed would let go of their hold on funds. Never in the un-depressed world. And all it takes is for one God to be so.)
So there was a definition in vice and the start of the lost world. This was a world without wars. Nobody dying. Can you believe that? Events and situations where men, women and innocent creatures were not slain mindlessly. You may not believe it but it happened! Hordes of barbarians, brutes, the meek and the wicked all lived as happily as could be side by side next to one and other and another. The price? Yes, a price as wealthy as a contractor of evil, a slave trader for the free. The price was the sun.
It started to burn out around the time of the Insipid Rule of Prophecy (all will be explained). Unfortunately, in times of such stark abilities of nations not to collide individuals and groups tend to organise other activities… these brought planes of interest and insurgence. There are mythical examples and some not so. All we know is, is that the sun is fading and light is of scarcity. Natural light, of course.
Twas rather brief but onwards and on; as this ana/dia/mono-logue continues I am well sure to the explanations as would will and vehement. For now what is known is the time of the end. Now meteorologists believe this would be merely a matter of days. Now those religious believe in an auspicious day of reckoning when Mara/Shaitan and the All Mighty do battle in either ten, 30 or 100 days (the latter optimists).
So where did the specifics hail? The usual. With science it was pre-planning and then the first to be first granting sponsorship from such as… oh I don’t know, torchlight manufacturers? Religious, again the usual, fall of states in rudimentary order, certain (respective) ‘biblical references’ (this rising, that was spoken of/predicted). Of course, moon hailers (known as the Likely Likens on account of the obvious) did this and that also in the encouragement of times like this (no they are not responsible).
What would anybody know of responsibility? Let me just continue the tale as, the obvious, all stories end somewhere…
*Sympathy
The train was slightly hell. The words approached him laying back thinking of the next short story he was going to write. With the crux of his bottom near the edge of the seat each collection of letters crawled up from around his toes and plopped suicidal into his head, most probably via his ears. He had many stories half written, so he thought why not finish them? Ideas. Too many ideas, to start and never to finish. ‘Slightly’.
The man to his left spoke on his mobile phone with an Indian accent. It was quite distinct. Would he write about that? No. There was no story in the Gujurat variation of pronunciation except poor tales of stupidity and character assassination. Cheap humour and masked marketing.
Animals? There are stories in animals.
The fast train allowed for reflection but not at a depth he preferred. Not enough time to wallow in self pity that always consumed him. Only enough time to slightly excite himself with ideas for words that would attempt unsuccessfully to take him away from misery. He did believe in himself (somewhere) but not in others to believe in himself.
He thought of the girl he worked with whom he accidentally encountered on the bus to the station. She was an amusing woman. He reminisced about the way he attracted her attention: she was to place her radio headphones in her ears while holding her phone. He pulled at her finger (like had done to him by a train conductor once on a journey to Manchester). She initially jolted thinking he was a thief in progress.
The book he was reading wasn’t as interesting as his thoughts. He kept wondering without sticking to the one process. What would he do if he was sorted in life? Travel again via train or bus? It was interesting and there was time to look as if one is reading.
Marriage was a way out; though he needed the security of income. His present part-time affiliation was not a long term involvement. He thought this much at least. There was no reason why he thought of marriage though the characters in the book were getting hitched.
The stop grew nearer now, he could tell by the pages he had ‘read’. The fast train did not stop at any other stop but his destination. Was this a good reason to get another book?
The ticket staff were unusually small – particularly the one on his right. He showed his ticket to the left hand woman; to emphasises his lack of fear for authority. The bus stop was close by and only needed about 5 minutes of his energy. Was he to visit the smaller Sainsbury’s here or the larger Sainsbury’s next to his house? The bus is here, now; Sainsbury later it was.
The man who sat next to him on the bus did not seem like the type to out last. The seating game began. He predicted: Man would stay on for around 7 stops – the Tesco. A woman on the street looked up to the top deck of the bus but she would not look him in the eye. Though their peering was brief perhaps it did warrant a stare. It’s a shame they did not.
Tesco and no sign of movement.
Is it hard to keep your mind blank? He couldn’t. Though on reflection what could he remember of his thoughts on the bus? Not everything. The man, one woman looking up (though he knew that there were more). In this knowledge. There must have been more thoughts. Though if the women did not exist then so his thoughts would not have. The principle is only alive, however, if we assume that they influence each other. They do not. The complexity was just a little too much so the assumption must stay… Yes, he thought, it must.
As he walked towards the larger Sainsbury’s he murmured a pathetic loss vibe: the man had out stayed Tesco and Large Simsbury’s. This was not the sign of knowledge.
The supermarket was a quiet affair. What was needed was acquired within minutes. A brother of a R ‘n’ B singer he used to know would have served him had he shopped at the deli counter. He looked uncannily like the man who once told him that he had acquired a float at the Notting Hill Carnival of a few years back. It was his birthday and the singer had invitation to his birthday party at the Ministry of Sound the same day... There were nods and interested looks but never a chance of him attending. He never thought he would see the deli counter guy’s brother for a while. Big pop star he could have been. Would have been. Would be. (As applicable.)
(The steps home led him further to the truth. Unsuspecting of course. How could he know? He would constantly observe his shoes and believe that they may take off at any moment. Home in a minute though it should take ten. It took eleven.)
Two letters. One bill. One other. A card: he knew what this was though he did not know why it was addressed to him. He was to open it while walking to his slumber area – hold on. Third letter - addressed to his mother. He was slightly curious to its content due to the fact that the writing looked like his mothers. The post mark read overseas. Sri Lanka. Probably an aunt – hand writing is surely hereditary.
The card opened easily as he placed the letter addressed to his mother where it stood previously. A flower of sympathy on the front. ‘Deepest’ type of sympathy… it read:
Dear Suresh
I want you to know that I am thinking of you during this time.
With love
Nishma
He stood for a moment. Via French windows intercepting the living room and outside, he realised a flower his mother had planted in the back garden had blossomed – which was unusual for this time of year. He moved his head back to the card.
There were no words that could have re-assured him more than the words Nishma had used. It was never the situation she had intended; it was the fact that he heard her voice, if for a moment. The voice with which he read her words was her own. Those of Nishma. Her world would exist simultaneously with his – for the first time in over a year.
He thought about this year. At times he would not know where he was. No. Where he was, he knew, he just was not experiencing where he was. He thought back to a winter night walking down some backstreets of Victoria in order to get the Tube home from work (then work). He could only visualise sharing this walk with Nishma. It must have been six in the evening though it felt later due to the earlier darkness setting. London was beautiful at night and Suresh could only believe in sharing such beauty with Nishma. Perhaps, her beauty could be London’s compliment. Or vice versa.
The contemplation of his sorrow began while he inspected the card. He remembered how she would draw an ‘N’. The central ‘slash’ would be curved. The purposed coincidence was that he would never write similarly, though the one time he drew an ‘N’ with his finger playfully across her back, A squeamish movement brought about an exact replication. He could see her back transfixed around the letter at the bottom of the card. The footnote read
If you need to talk about anything, give me a ring
my number is 0793021546
N x
He lost himself within this. One character was all it took to bring Suresh to a point of loneliness. The separation from his sense of self and where the position of body had multiplied without asking permission. The belief he was routed to the ground had been confiscated from his mind. This was where he was but knew that he was far from it. A woman so deep in history was the only entity that could further the feeling of the lost-ness he had suffered.
He thought back to confusion. She had been to the cinema with her sister and was eager to relay her review. A film that made her feel distinctly female, as it intended to do. Her vocal femininity brought forward uninhibited enthusiasm. At the time he thought this ugly; in retrospect he realised the beauty that we could never re-visit ever again.
***
Another day; a not working day. Life was passing the laying man. He rolled over and back again. It was as silent as New Cross could be, it was early and New Cross can be so silent at this time. The early birds did catch up with the late mingle. Closing his eyes could not force himself to sleep. Up and down the stairs, no sleep would mean movement.
“Are you ok?”
Mothers. They would ask, in response, reply. Yes he was ‘Ok’.
“I received this letter. It’s my letter, do you know who sent it?”
It’s a blur in the morning. Tiredness; and all he wanted to do was stare and eat an apple. No speech, no talk.
“The letter from Sri Lanka, that’s my letter, my sister not send it.”
Yesterday’s Par Avion arrival. He suspected it was an aunt but now he did not. Then who? It was his mother’s writing – the irony; she said it was her letter. If she did not write it, her aunts ‘not’, then who? It was too much for a morning.
At lunch a sandwich. He needed something light to write the sympathy note. He addressed the top with his details and picked on a scrap of paper to plan. What to write to a man who had lost his father? Poetry? He felt that it all could be lame with his rhyming. What was poetry other than tacky lines anyway?
No. Simple notes of sympathy from the heart and from his heart. If he could convey half of Nishma’s tone then he had succeeded. Half a tone from the woman he had loved; if he could not love and appreciate her then how was he to understand her tone? By reading it and feeling those feelings that sunk him, for almost every aware moment?
Dear Suresh
I want you to know that I am thinking of you during this time.
With love
Nishma
If you need to take about anything, give me a ring
my number is 07930221546
N x
The words that stopped him must work in tact to the next. So simple and fairly coined. The ‘N’. The cross at the end, it symbolised what? She still loved or only still cared? The latter.
Suresh Nagath
211 Titan Close
Baasem St
New Cross
SE145GT
Suresh Nagath
211 Titan Close
Baasem St
New Cross
SE14 5GT
6th May 2004
Dearest Suresh
My deepest regrets go out to you. I am thinking of you in your time of need. If there is anything that you require, call me.
With Love
He paused on the signature. It just necessitated a written name; no signature. This was like consideration of the etiquette for the countless covering letters he sent many prospective employees in want of a job. He got one, so it worked. Like this letter will work. In the envelope, address on front, stamp with customary ink stain. Raised was the paper in writing, raised – smudge. Not for sympathy.
On the road. How many of the people he had passed could feel sympathy? Everyone of them. The woman with the pram, the boy with the shopping bags the old couple standing a width apart more than a couple’s distance should be. Whomever died first, the other would feel the pain, as a dragging motion, within themselves. Not the dragging feeling the man was experiencing in his wife (?) lagging behind.
Posted.
Two days now until the letter was received. Peace of postal mind. To home return.
***
“Another one!”
It is hard to take a woman who has lost her husband as serious and together.
“Who sent me these letter? Is it him. Suri, is it him?”
Handwriting. Hereditary, not inter-marriage. It was not from ‘him’.
“It must be? Then why? Sri Lanka is far away… this is my letter…”
Those words again.
“…Somebody is calling me from Sri Lanka and not telling me who they are. It is my husband. He is calling me.”
If the air gram she had received was a tissue it was being used as one, whether or not. It is hard to see a mother cry. A mother is beautiful but in tears and accentuated wrinkles, she is not. The person is lost and the behaviour discovered. Ugly is the action and beauty is the depth to the action. Eyes only see the action.
***
Morning. Early morning. The ceiling is as calm as it was left the night before – it would not change. Sunday early hours are only a blessing if he had the energy to continue into an exploration of activity. He did not. Merely mind activity.
Covent Garden. Wine and Italian. Pizza Italian. Holding hands over the table – the bill comes and the waitress has nowhere to place it, so she forces the lovers to break apart.
St James’s Park. Walking to Piccadilly Circus, taking the wrong turn but before stumbling on to Westminster, kissing passionately, shivering in rain. Cary Grant / Ingrid Bergman.
The day is complete for writing letters. He writes and writes. What else but to write? Letters of thank you – for the sympathy. It borders upon the boredom of unfinished business so he escapes to the outside. Garden, no further. The joys of life are easier to accept when outside; the sound of the movement of the air. He found it simpler to concentrate from – a meditation trick of listening to the sound of breathing. It is peacefully one sided in attention. He could look out to the small field of grass and imagine very little if he could keep his focus on the wind. No letters, no stress. No holding Nishma, back against a concrete wall in St James’s Park. She is crying leaving a tear drop water stain on his grey t-shirt. She is wearing a red top like the woman he sat staring at from the top deck of a bus the other day. She did not look back up at him.
Why is it still difficult to sleep, even when the night before but a few hours were caught?
***
Morning:
Work; the bus. Monday. A pain in travelling, so many people wanted to go somewhere. Motorised slave ships propelling the dead to their mindlessness. He thought that was profound. The man ahead of him was reading a newspaper. How could anybody read on a moving road vehicle? Sick to the pits of his stomach he will be – or maybe he is lucky enough not be so problemed. If only.
The train to stop for then work. The journey is cumbersome but necessary in preparation of thought. It is morning and all that it needed is thought. Think once on a found empty space – easy, though come Clapham Junction, no more. The Metro readers will pour on to take even the spaces that he would rather stand if offered.
Penultimate station: Norbiton. He kissed Nishma’s nose here, trying to catch her lips whilst she turned to walk home.
To work through lunch is almost criminal. Desperation may necessitate the realisation. He worked. Not on what his manger needed; sympathy returns.
Thank; kind; appreciate; your; you; he; so; for; fond; kindness; and; blessings; would; and; of; very; of; was; your; words.
Many times, different pieces of paper, envelopes. White paper, envelopes: some grey, white and blue (airmail). He was organised only in the physical approach to writing. Emotions were not printed via a pen. One hour, it’s over.
Four letters. Two bills. One other. Fourth letter - addressed to his mother. The post mark read overseas. Sri Lanka. He takes it to the bin.
The third letter is for him. Ink stained – the paper must have been raised at the time of it’s creation.
Kieran Jones
3Detective Jones once believed that the path to true criminal investigation and solution lies deep within the mind. There is no need to play around with evidence or what can be seen. The new age brings to light the example of our existences being a fusion of a surreal land. A non-existence. The lives of a mind. All a generation of energies.
Really, if one takes to this notion (and has the ability to work with it), one can be such the God of a planet of unknowingness.
Still, Jones had to attend the crime scene for his widely universal and diverse view were unaccepted. The man walked around physically airing the degrees of mustiness; in no real description of such a scene. The experience of description fused with creation causes this. Jones smelled, looked and generally pretended to intake the scene. Comments and passes from others flickered in and then out of the detective’s moodwind. “Captain, they found her like this and said she wasn’t moved whatsoever.” The obvious in association with idiocy. “Boss, I have this, this and this.” A new voice speaking the facts without conjuncture.
The room emptied so that Jones could embark upon his realisation. Within a few short minutes the caper was solved: How, who, and why. Existentialism in explanation. It’s been through the various systems and realms that life calls upon in construction. Det. Jones is versed in the ability to travel through such.
How? Let us examine the case of the $500.
$500
$500 underneath his pillow. Kieran found it. Nobody had put it there well obviously somebody… (but under mysterious circumstances). It was a joke. A cruel joke. Whomever did this was not thinking ethically (if that’s the term).
Delusions of grandeur. Makes you think that you are bigger than you really are. No, not bigger bigger; bigger. You know what I mean, or should I say, what Kieran means because that’s how he would explain it.
Jesper was fourteen when he started to believe in things erupting. Explosions happened around him like people were walking by setting off landmines buried, hidden next to his person. He never died (nor got injured) but he knew it was all out there. Explosions to the left; these would have orangey kind of mushrooms, big and bold. Orange was incidence as it were the explosions to the right; these were fiery, hot kinds. Flame bursts. If both types occurred at once, Jesper would cower in a bit to avoid the epicentre of a blast. Panic.
Not the word panic. Note the word; panic. Not (e) correct. He (Jesper) was as calm as could be. Cowering is an art that if you get used to, you can do it without panic. Panic on the other hands (if the explosions blew up in the company of any) was hard to dissipate. Cowering man, everybody cower.
Grand delusions. These were delusions – the explosions. These were not grand in the sense, Jesper did not think he grand for exploding. It was his talk of the after life that got him quitted. That’s not A.
The Quote:
“I bet you $500 that I can find you in my next life time.”
He was either serious or not. This was the obvious. The boy was not so much the mystery to Kieran Jones as he was to others. He was serious; Jesper was a serious child. There was passion in the solace that he sought. Unintentionally. If it was not explosions it were worlds. Imaginative worlds that kept him from the shared reality of most others within his jurisdiction.
***
Kieran noted the time. He imagined elevation, a trip to another room and a collection of everyday activities. He needed to awake and be gone; investigation would take him to the week as this was the time he had in lieu. $500 was no joke. Not to a fourteen year old boy; just fresh from high school. Not a studious mind though now he had to be. For the years that passed as easily to the others, though not remotely to the boy Kieran. Between 3114 and 3116 Kieran wondered why he had been the recipient of such a large amount of money. As stated the original reasoning was in the region of humour. But nobody knew of the wager. It was firmly between a madman and his friend. A madboy – pardon.
In the end Kieran had believed that $500 had magically appeared – no. Sorry, been placed magically. By… well, Jesper of course. Though, there lay the problem; if it was Jesper, he would not have given Kieran the money, he would have taken it. Yes, the paradox, but still; if it was Jesper, a bet is a bet.
In mentioning the boy’s non-studious mind it became of great difficulty for he to stop the ball playing. The jock meeting. The generalness associated with popularity. He engrossed book detail. Libraries; both regular and specialist. In that sense he was looking into the covenant of things like witchcraft and such. So he did and did it well, discovered many issue connected with the connectivity of balance and existence.
4Not alone. He teamed up with mechanical thinking ‘nerds’ including Patrick Cheung-Pattel (mathematics/physics etc.), Annie Mofat (hippy/Goth specialist) and Johnny Torino-Guptta (X-Games enthusiast, little else in common except for his liking of Annie). The four of them were inseparable until the ages of 16-17.
It was at this point that they delved too deep into a subject that should have been bounded. Especially to ones of their young age. The group of finding, they called upon themselves. Finders of information related to the relation of beings (human of course) . The abilities of such entities/biological masses to abide with rules such as time/gravity etc. etc. Whereas all before were either in one camp of the two; these four were the perfect blend of the purity of science and faith. The science of knowledge in feat; the faith of belief and extremity.
[Though God exists, what God is as debatable a human subject through all cohorts. However, the belief in a God/s (and American concept) without image corruption is a necessity in the pure faith. As is the want of true knowledge to science. These four between them (and yes, humanity and thinking can work in community) had the exact blend of all to complete tasks of information handling that many others could only dream of – stunted by false memories implanted through education that can only be hypnotised into no-existence.]
Such faith propels knowledge learnt correctly. Information filters through organic pores in ways that only allow for recipients to gather only if they are correct in belief. The structure within the mind of belief and thinking are so alike that belief is almost a guardian of thinking. He lets through concepts/schema/ideology that the mind can encompass correctly, incorrectly or a mixture of the two. Using such filtration, belief (if correct herself) will be perfect to reception; pushing correct knowledge in use where correct knowledge will be best thought.
The quartet examined faiths in ways that drew all closer to the true beginnings of man (not time, the beginnings of man; the two should not be confused). Each delved into pasts that did not truly concern them, but the fusion of belief and science coupled with the enthusiasm of youth brought them to not only items to jot on pads of paper; tools to use in real world setting. Such, that in hindsight (with maturity) were tools that young minds may not so readily be able to mess with. Some sense in the archaeology of thinking but some also residing with the facts of knowing and what responsibility this brings. With responsibility is not only power; but covered jealousy.
…But before all that, the four discovered things and went separate ways.
*The Great White Walls
1
White as a colour scheme. It’s nice, easy and all that. A little bit depressing but then who is going to foot the bill for painting it all different? White will have to do.
Still there are new things – like these extendable televisions. They’re ok, alleviates the boredom. Lots of boredom. I mean I have the freedom to roam around but then what else is there. Television is the world brought to you before your eyes. Sit back and you do not need a passport. Easy.
If you could wait for bad news how long would you do so? It’ll always be bad no matter how long. A friend’s brother along time ago was discussing his ideas on getting tested for HIV. He said that he would rather be ignorant to the fact and that ignorance was bliss. At the time and I was older than him by a fair few year, I thought how irresponsible. Now, on a hospital bed, I cant help but to wonder whether I would rather know about my condition or just… well, just not want to know. Live my life with the precious moments I have left. What do I know about how much time I have and then what will a doctor know? Nothing. He can only tell me that I have this thing in my heart that causes it not to function properly. That it’s not easy for my pump to pump blood. They say it’s a hole.
I’ve had it since birth and now it is causing me problems at thirty-six years of age. I’m really quite fit as well. I’ve run marathons, go to the gym – you know, the same old shit that everybody does. To cut a long and arduous story short, I should not be here. It is easy to say that because it is easily true. Still, the luck does not favour me and I sit on this tough mattress awaiting Dr Singh.
“Are you comfortable, honey?” My wife, Katie, says with the look of a concerned lady. The whole scenario has myself annoyed but her worried. Bless her. I was in here for observation overnight and she was actually still sitting in the green armchairs that this far cry from a better hospital provides. I’m annoyed because we have almost never seen eye to eye. Almost always been at each other’s throats. She was never for me; fate wise. I am a believer in fate. In a twisted way we were meant to be but even Kate would agree that we’re together for the sake of Joey, our son.
Low and behold, a little while into our conversation we burst into argument and she leaves. I push her away. I know this.
2
The man who lies next to me… no, not what you think. Pervert. He is in a hospital bed. I think he is really ill. He has got lots of family coming around to see him. I have also but I’m Indian so my fucking family is huge.
I’m only in here because of a cold. Ok, its pneumonia blah blah but I’m really feeling fine. My mum mothers me too much. She has a right to, I guess. This is because of my past. I’ve forgotten most of it but there are images of it in my head.
I’ll talk about that later because there goes the cute med student! Hee hee! Really short blonde hair. His eyes are weird because one is green and the other is grey I think. He’s always seeing this old man who is always sleeping. Depressed I think. They keep threatening to move him but they taking their time. I reckon they should because this is a recovery ward. Duno what he’s recovering from… oh no! Maybe its an overdose?
“Why don’t you go over there and pull down your pyjamas?” That’s my friend Uhbina. She’s just woken up from her position in the green leather arm chair next to me. She’s so embarrassing. “Don’t look at me like that, you obviously fancy him.” To which I told her to fuck off and gave her the cold shoulder. “Whatever. I saw you look at him last week. Just fucking ask him out.” Oh please, like he’s going to go out with some bitch with a flat chest and a disease. Yet to my really utter dismay, you never guess what she did? She went up to him! Argh!
I don’t know what she said at the time but they both looked back and laughed a giggle. I died of embarrassment – I wonder if there is a doctor in this place to cure embarrassment. ‘Paging Dr Mortification to Ward 123; high alert on risk.’
3
On the way to the toilet with my dodgy night gown thingy, I’m only just getting better and I just about make it I bump into… yep, you know who. Blonde doctor. He’s looking cuter than ever and he smiles. He says “Your friend is weird.” I’ll say she is. Fucking insane. We strike up a convo; he’s there at the hospital doing something intern or something – psychiatry though, like I guessed. Not only is he good looking but bloody interesting. I tell him about my pneumonia and he’s all sympathetic. Please, he just thinks I’m like total loser! But he isn’t – he’s like into Freud stuff and hypnosis. How cool huh?
Oh well, he’ll never be interested in a dudette like me so no point dwindling over it.
4
I have only just got used to not smoking with my morning coffee. I sit and read the newspaper and stir instead. Cools down the coffee quicker. I get out of the flat earlier to be by my coffee and I. Sometimes it’s the traditional newspaper or if I should be so relaxed I’ll use the Wi-Fi of the shop to read about world wide matters more readily. On these days I smirk about the happenings of the planet. Earthquakes and carbon footprints. Too many contrasting variables.
At couples therapy I tried to explain the emptiness. I actually felt the night before that I should and so I did try. I was told that this is a normal thing. Most people go through this. The trouble was, as I looked around at the walls – painted white, I did not want to be normal. I suddenly felt, in that white room (give or take a painting) that perhaps I was not normal. I was different. A hole in the heart is different.
We walked out of the room and down towards the exit when I saw her for the first time outside of the coffee shop. She looked like she worked there.
5
My mum like all holds me and tries to protect me as I get into the car. Like I need that. I got a cough but that’s about it. It was sweet of Uhbina to come with me and not so sweet of my younger bro Haresh not to. Suppose there was no space in the car and when I wondered where Ubs had got to she pops in flustered. As soon as she whispers and hands me the card I realise that I’m not so pissed off that little bro offended me. “He gave me your number.” She whispered. “The cute fucking doctor. I told you bitch.” She jabbed my ribs.
6
The days passed by when I saw her walk through the doors of the coffee shop. I was drawn to her. It was like a previous episode of my life; a time I’d rather forget. An uncharacteristic time but… well, as I found out – I was in the right.
When she got her beverage she sat down. I wondered over to speak to her. Indeed, she was a therapist – a hypno and psychotherapist by the name of Brenda Tries. She was interesting and I mentioned my wife and the fact that we engage her building. I explained that after an incident, around seven years ago, I wanted to embark on more private, one-to-one sessions. She gave me her card and after small talk, left.
7
Talking about my life with somebody strange is a novelty. Again, talking enclosed in four white walls can be just as missing as the link between us. What happens between happenings? Why have some people born with a hole in the heart and others without? Silly philosophical questions which Brenda doesn’t find so silly.
I had to wait an age to get in, up the stairs for this session. I couldn’t wait so I booked an emergency appointment – no emergency. Though the eyes of young Asian woman who walked by before me were heaven sent. As tacky as this sounds but I have seen those eyes before. In a woman I loved. Perhaps my wife? I doubt that actually.
Brenda tells me that I may be bitter – a growing outward hatred towards the end. I have very little time remaining until my condition leads to an arrest of my pumping organ. I have officially entered a phase of the illness which no individual has lasted a month. I had handed in my notice to my job and everything. I’m almost on the way out and I’m on a psychiatrists couch talking about my feelings. I should be in Rome.
8
“Miss Patel, the doctor will see you.” I always hate it when White people use my last name. I always think they’d rank me with the other Patels. On the way in my nerves were a little bit eased as I passed this guy who smiled an old, really nice smile. He shrugged his shoulders and pretended to check his watch. The guy came in before me and loads of people went in and he hadn’t been seen yet. But he didn’t blame me I guess. The smile… and his eyes… were so warm.
“Hey there, please sit down.” Said Dr Bulrd. Green and grey eyes looking all cute. I should really tell him about the fact that I had been working up the courage to call and only made the appointment to see him. I’m not really one for rejection but still, Ubs had convinced me to really go for it and I’m thinking – I haven’t had a guy in years, I keep pushing them away because… well, because of the… sex thing. So who better than to date a shrink?
We sit there for a while and I’m talking about home life, he’s saying very little. Then he pops up with childhood. I was a bit stunned. Don’t know why because he was a therapist and I was booked in for an appointment. I decided to chat a little, but a bit hesitant. But, when I started, man did I go on! I told him about silly things. Embarrassing things and then even towards the end of the session… well, the hard thing. The parts I forget. The bits that I block out. Men type stuff. Private places. I’m sure you get the picture and I’ll leave it at that.
He suggested a follow up and when I left I realised that I had ruined the only chance I had had with this guy. A really sexy, intelligent bloke and I go in and confess my dirty past. Like any guy would want to go out with a ho like me? It was hard not to speak; I guess these guys are trained listeners. Asking the right questions.
9
My mum seems to think that this is such a positive step. The therapy that is. All because of some guy. I guess it is a good thing. Maybe she feels responsible. Maybe she didn’t see him coming. All those years ago, she kind of ignored it until we eventually moved and my dad got another job. We moved far enough away for the visits to never happen unless on birthdays. But then there were so many people around… So long ago but these are the things that really closed me up. I’m like a frigid bitch. I really can’t… you know. It’s so fucking hard and I feel gutted all the time.
I always wanted big parties with all my school friends and the neighbours kids and all the parents - kind of diluted the chances. All up until I was fifteen. I never saw him after that.
10
I stared long and hard at the brand coffee cup. Black devil type figure on it with pointy ears. It was the therapist’s coffee not mine. I hate coffee. Just about can stand a tea whenever I go to a relatives house or something. My man Dr Bulrd referred me to this Dr Tries who is a woman. I’m guessing it’s the woman thing and the abuse as a child crap. To be honest I’m not too bothered. He was way out of my league and I’m feeling this woman. She sort of knows how to get me talking. I hate talking about stuff – the stuff that happened. It’s too… well, I said before – dirty. I just want the miracle of forgetting and moving on. I’m in the second year of uni and I just want to have a normal relationship. With sex and all that. I really want to but damn it’s hard. She suggests hypnosis at a later date. I like the idea.
11
I tell Brenda that I’m finding it difficult to breathe and she gets me out of the trance state. Its very relaxing – up until the breathless part. We discuss what’s on my mind as she tells me of my ‘subconscious variation of the truth’ – I killed someone; this someone is me, though I was not responsible because it was fate that gave me the hole in my heart.
I broke down and wept…
I broke down and confessed.
I did kill someone.
I killed a man. I was possessed with his eyes when I saw him – like Brenda’s when I saw her for the first time. Even like that Asian girl in here the other day. It was automatic. I knew he had done wrong and I killed him with a kitchen knife in the alley of the store he either worked in or owned. Owned I think, because it was in the news the next couple of weeks that the guy had kiddie porn all over his computer. Websites. Everything. I had never met the man but I knew he was evil and I killed him and I’m a man who has never even been in a proper fight before.
The thing is, I did it for something else. Not the paedophile bit. Yes, that was satisfaction that I had been right, in a way. But I didn’t know of his disgusting ways – I had killed him because of something he did to me. A long time ago… That doesn’t make sense.
12
So it’s like the tenth session of something and Brenda is ready to start me on the hypnosis. And I’m like a little weird about it on the day… but hey; it’s quite interesting and fun in a way!
Except she tells me about it afterwards in a funny way. She was well excited – like Ubs telling me bout a guy she’s pulled after a club night. Apparently I was mumbling about a guy and my love for him and a town lord or something. Seriously! Proper weird but when she played the sound back on the laptop it was my voice. Sort of. Talking in a funny accent; English though. Me in love with a guy. I was thinking it was the doc I was in love with but I’m not in love with him! Maybe this guy I fancied when I was like thirteen or something. Whatever it was it was weird and Brenda was so excited. She reckoned it was from a past life. You never know.
13
I received the phone call in two days and returned to Brenda who really wanted to explore the situation further with me. She had confessed to delving into phenomenon that I could laugh at. But given what I believe in fate, I believed in her. She wanted to use hypnosis to regress me back to a past life… I wasn’t entirely sure she was correct about the theory, but a dying man in the arms of a woman who held a key to my past; my emptiness, I could not refuse.
I awoke later listening to a recording of myself.
I told Brenda about my one true love, in a town in Anglia. A towns leader, an evil guy tried to part us – he wanted my Patricia. He used his powers to take her, do God knows what to her and I was helpless, stricken by the beating I had received by henchmen.
I found her dead on my doorstep after I had recovered and went to seek revenge.
My grief consumed me and led to a witchdoctor, of sorts, on the hill by the Great White Wall. He could not do anything for my dead beloved, but told me about an ancient trick of the Gods – to help keep me near her through lifetimes.
Once I had agreed and would take no no for an answer, the man laid me on his table, opened my chest, flesh and ribs – inscribed, tattooed if you will, the initials of my Patricia on my still beating heart.
The moment it stopped then; though ever to beat again.
*Innocent Eyes
Fully frustrated he fell back onto his bed and brought his hands to his head. His fingers went through his hair and ended holding the back of his head. How can women be so non-empathetic?
Why did she meet with her ex-boyfriend? She knew that it would annoy him greatly as he knew about their history; this ex was her first love and she had had all her first experiences with him.
(a repetition) So why would she meet up with him?
To discuss these experiences? To merely hang out? Knowing about the bad terms they ended on, he knew that the latter could not be the case.
Her ideas on the answer did not appeal to him. She said it was to prove to herself that she was over him or in her exact words ‘…to prove to herself that she could have the strength to face him and say no to his demands…’ If this was the case then why was she dating somebody else? Of a single female and logic. And what of trying to get over him without stringing some new idiot along; was he now just a peripheral figure.
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