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Thursday, July 20, 2006

Sleepless 4 - Hours and minutes...

‘God does not play dice…'

'God does not flay rice, God does not slay mice, God does not weigh lice, God does not sleigh ice, God does not clay slice, God does not delay twice, God does not take advice, God does not play nice...' He returned to find the last entry had not been pulblished and sighed gratefully.

He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting in the toilet. Urine had kept on dripping or at least it felt like it had , so he stayed there listening to each drop resonate in the white bowl, until eventually he’d stumbled out, desperate for air and the ache of hunger twanging in his stomach. He slumped back down by the study desk.

In his hand was a fork, briefly it was a compass making a smooth arc on a scroll of ancient paper, and then it was a fork again stabbing at an empty plate. Objects moved more and more of their own volition and he felt reluctant to intervene. Why should he? It was up to them to make their own mistakes. In the act of blinking: undiscovered mountain ranges were revealed to him, he walked happily through torrid, snap-dry forests and swam in sterile-icy lakes surrounded by snow capped ranges that loomed at impossible angles. Always the visions were interrupted by the ECG’s alarm in response to the changes in his cortical activity.

He slid the media player volume up and Holst swung around the office – and he, a shackled loon, snapped at heavenly bodies. Back in his chair he shifted his weight with increasing difficulty, the frightening mass of his sweating arse crushed entire planetary systems under him. He motioned violently toward the string section and pizzicato words began to appear on the screen in front of him.

‘Is - it - for - you? Is - this – en – ough - for - you? When – do - you – be - gin - to – re- a – lies - that - this - is – en - uff - for - you?’

He raised his hands to his temples and felt his swollen fingers fuse with his skull. Massaging the raw temples he could feel the frontal lobes twitching as if physically absorbing Holst’s astrological suite. His confused and withered grey matter, now caught between the instinct to process the music and to reject it for it’s endless questions.

‘Surely I am ready?’ He looked at the words typed in front of him and they immediately lost any meaningful connection. So he looked to the timer for an answer forgetting the question, but it was just a mute metronome in a silent and empty space. He held up a stained data sheet and looked for answers, but all he saw were unintelligible signs that had once apparently intended something. He was lost.

He turned to the window and as the copper sheet of summer night slowly draped about the room, an eclipsing red moon formed before him and he remembered something. The time of 'Moon Blood': the new creation of time, from a forgotten tribe.

‘It is enough if I believe it to be.’

He smiled a chipped line of coffee stained teeth and dried mucus. His eyes closed and he breathed in the thick scent of the room he would soon leave behind him. The ECG sang a sweet arcing tune, lulling him into deeper sleep and there he dreamed.

TBC

2 Comments:

Blogger Louis Berceli said...

Have you actually tried sleep deprivation before? I did a while ago, a whole week actually, and this (hopefully still continuing) story is spot on.

Friday, July 21, 2006  
Blogger Mark W said...

Am hitching around France at the moment and sleep deprivation is a recurrent experience although I´m nowhere near the week. Shit!

Friday, August 04, 2006  

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