VOICE & VISION

The autumn chill penetrated the thin material of her summer dress. She didn’t remember what had happened the night before, didn’t want to. She looked into the sky and saw that it was not grey at all, but a brilliant blue. The branches of the elms were stark against the light. She walked further down the drive, away from the house. She didn’t remember what had happened the night before. No.

The stones of the metal road were hard through her sandals, kept shifting underfoot. A car rumbled past, throwing dust up into her face. It went into her eyes, her throat. She started to walk faster, then to run. The road continued to move and slip. Dust was between her sandals and her feet, the plastic sliding after every stride. Her body began to heat up. Perhaps if she kept running. One leg slid down the slope of the roadside. Her other knee buckled. She landed hard on her hand and bum, pulled herself up, kept running. Another car rushed past. She closed her eyes, clamped her mouth shut against the dust. She couldn’t close all the openings to her body, couldn’t stop the unwanted penetration of forign objects, unwanted substances.

She heard the call of a morepork, still awake, although it was past sunrise. The call that signaled a warning. The bird should be sleeping, now.

He would be. A drunken sleep. His body would still be coated in sweat from the previous day’s work, would still smell of alcohol. She thought of Him in the mussed up bed, his dark skin against the white sheets; saw An image of dirty fingernails around a coffee cup. She wondered if he’d come after her; thought of the old blue holden, bolts and bits of rusted metal rattling in it’s boddy.

She stopped, walked for a while, felt the sweat on her back. Her lungs were rasping hot coals. Light flooded the fields, the shadows long. A cow was gazing at her, chewing, it’s tail swishing rhythmically. The movement reminded her of something, made her shudder.

Un.

At one with yourself, but you are alone. Learning the song about a guinea pig that dies. A sad song sung by one boy on a record because that was what was used in those days. A memory of a garden and trying to get down.

Deux.

Two turtle doves. But they hate each other. Resentment snakes through them devouring their tenderflesh. Two many promises, without delivery. Like politicians on opposing parties. Two birds dying in the bottom of a cage, dying of thirst. Searching for containers to fill. You find some Tupperware, but perhaps it’s too late. Your parents are old, now.
Trois.

Three little pigs, the three bears, the three Billy Goats Gruff. The bridge from the road to your house makes you think of the troll underneath. You like to pretend that you are combating dangerous unseen forces. Perhaps you are. Three French songs, the one about guinea pigs, the one about the windmill. The guinea pig dies, the windmill falls down, you can’t remember the third song.
Quatre.

Four legs good, two legs better. That’s what the sheep say, but then, they’ve been brain-washed. Just like you. The television isn’t your friend, even though it seems to be. A soldier boy is stuck in a cramped position, his uniform making him look older. You bring him a glass of milk. He says he can’t breathe in here. Sobbing in the arms of your mother. Sobbing because you can’t see your lover. Endangered species. The moa, the huia, the something eagle. You can’t remember the fourth one. It was too long ago.
“Lacey O’Brian”

10/06/2011

Why?
so you can’t think. so you can’t judge. so you can say what you need to say. so you can be authenticand not tell lies. so that if a lie comes out it doesn’t matter. No time to change it. to write about abuse.to write about being at the disability resource center and being scared. so you can write about what it’slike to have a fire alarm go off at ten thirty at night when you’re in your night-dress and you can’t seeand you are afraid of being deaf-blind if you don’t get out of the house. It never occurred to you thatthere might be a fire, and sure enough, there wasn’t one. No fire, and yet the fire alarm refused to stop.You even started to worry about the cat’s hearing. to write about lieing in bed with your father beforepuberty. to write about pretending to be older than you are and what that felt like and how you wantedto go to school in the morning, even though the teacher picked on you because you forgot your pencilsharpener and your rubber and your pen and had to ask Rachel Hale, who was very organized and nowtakes photo’s of baby animals for a living and of course, she would, because she was always neat andtidy and proper and one day said, I think you should bring your own rubber to school, and she was right,but you thought she was just plain mean. so you can tell of how the blood started and the nightly visitsto your father stopped. so you can tell of the time you went to see your friend charlotte and she saidit was not really a good idea for you to come around any more. so that you can go to the beach in yourmind and swim in the cool cleansing water. so you can tell about smoking in the bath. so you can writeabout what it was like at the night-club. so that you don’t have to tell. to get away from yourself. to tellof your mothers tired hands. to tell of the television programmes that made promises that were notfair. The happiness quotient. Reality divided by expectation. There are two paths to happiness. Loweryour expectations or improve your reality. Which are you going to choose? to tell of the escape. to tryand remember what it felt like to be alone. to tell what it is like to feel as if you are a kitten that has lostit’s litter. The one that your mother forgot. because if you stopped to think you wouldn’t say anythingat all. because you have been thinking about your options.

Lacey O’Brian

3 May 2011