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She
sat up in bed to watch the morning sunlight stream in through
the window. The piles of clothes and towers of books across
the floor of the room were lit up, forming a scene like the
Grand Canyon in the morning, but this one was concealed behind
four walls. That made Maureen a giant presiding over the landscape--the
room as a world as a refuge. When she realized the time, she
shut her eyes once again and pulled the blanket over her head.
Under the influence of cats, Maureen knew to sleep whenever
possible.
When she woke again, the sunlight had been replaced by a slow
grey drizzle. She set one foot down, then the other, destroying
the landscape on the floor of the room as she stumbled into
the bathroom. Maureen made a point to shower every day, even
when she knew she was not to leave the apartment. It helped
keep her days from falling into one another; she had a fear
of turning around only to realize the week had already passed
without notice or recollection. Pulling up a mountain from the
floor with the accompanying ease that her giant status permitted,
she put on some clothes nearest at hand. Underneath the rubble
(socks really) were letters waiting to be sent--bills, love
notes, etc. Maureen walked to the corner to post her letters
and back to her apartment in the rain; the letters were late
so she did not mind that the ink ran from the wet. Colin had
said he liked to walk in the rain, to remind himself that he
was alive, but Maureen found it rather wet and cold. Her thoughts
always turned back to the act of living, with pencils, tea,
and Caffrey's forming the means to that. And love doesn't count
unless your heart is in it, or so she told herself in the mornings.
Back in bed and back asleep minutes after her return.
The third time she woke that day, the rain had ended and left
only the grey light and bitter chill in the air. At her desk
Maureen surveyed the reasons why she was tired. Into the early
hours of the morning she had sat, sketching, drawing, and shading,
or writing stories about those who were a bit lost in the world.
She was not necessarily trying to suffer for her art; the virtue
of suffering had never made much of an impression on her. If
her art were to sell, or even be completed, she might learn
to suffer more, with the money in hand.
Her mission for (what remained of) the day was simple: tea and
a scone at the coffeehouse, and a visit to the secondhand shop
in hopes of a guitar. Her dream was to play like Maurice Deebank
on records with dolphins on the sleeves. Actual songs would
of course be written after the record sleeves designed; other
band members existed if only in her daydreams. Maureen was a
star, yet no one recognized her on the street. The price of
fame is hard, she told herself.
Maureen took a jump from the steps of the apartment to the pavement.
Running down the hill the street was on was what seemed a ten
legged beast with ten arms flailing and screaming about a runaway
red ball. This ball rolled directly into the back of her legs
and its getaway thus ended. The beast, which as it stopped moving
more closely resembled five children, gathered around Maureen
until she realized they were after the ball. With their ball
returned, the children reformed as the beast and ran back up
the hill. Maureen walked down the street, past the postbox with
her smeared ink letters, and turned the corner to town. She
heard the children calling out again and the echo of their footsteps
against the terraced buildings; she heard the shrill of a breaking
car on a wet street and an exploding sound. She would have looked
back to the children gathered around the remains of the ball
at the bottom of the hill and the upset motorist, but she was
slightly afraid of them. Unoccupied children led to social ills,
she thought. She knew this excluded herself as she had given
up being a child years ago, and she was quite busy with her
important and serious plans.
In the town the shopkeepers were glancing out the front windows,
up to the sky in the hope that the sun might not set, and the
day would stretch into the night. Then everything that is pushed
to the wayside whilst at work could be accomplished with a few
hours to spare for a picnic. In winter shops and businesses
opened before light and closed after dark, and the sun became
a figment of the worker's mind. Maureen thought those in their
jobs had lost the fire in their eyes. Don't shoot until you
see the whites of the eyes, but their eyes were kept to the
ground and grey. Maureen was planning to avoid this fate after
she finished university. She tripped on the curb crossing the
street, spilling her tea on the pavement and dropping her scone
in the gutter. She thought she heard a laugh at her expense,
but the high street was empty.
Six-string salvation, her new used guitar bore the scratch marks
of soul from its previous owner. It stretched the limits of
her wallet; odd jobs could be picked up. It doesn't count if
your heart isn't in it, she reminded herself. She cradled the
guitar in a sheet like a newborn on the walk back to the apartment
from the secondhand shop. The pack of children could be heard
from the street over; the pieces of the red ball still in the
street. In the room she sat on the bed with the guitar in hand.
Maureen manipulated her fingers into position on the strings,
and with her other hand grasped the pick. She played the chord,
and carefully placed her fingers onto another chord. She told
herself, this might require some practice.
| Matthew
Patrick, December 1998 |
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