Estella writes of the items that can only be found in a lovers’s story, ceramic clouds, and silver statues places in the gardens after the marching of the soldiers on the green. He told her he was leaving in the autumn but he left the following Sunday, following the flowers east for the summer’s swan song, oh what a burden bearings are, for had her guest been lost he’d still be there with her.
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Now her guest has gone and for her it’s nothing short of late night walks past creeks of self-served sympathy through shadowed days, months and seasons. She decides to open her window to the autumn night and let some of the dust out.
She loved the man who helped her build her garden, if only he knew how to make rivers because then she could float down into the sea past the cities of Buddha and mists of Asia, singing ancient songs of Gipsies, good years, and the broken objects between the lines. The Indian girl told her, on her last birthday, to beware the moving hands, had Estella known she meant time, she’d still smell that Spanish summer, shrouded in Tomato pollen and Japanese orchards full of showgirls and circus folk. Oh what a thing blasphemous thing youth can be.
The broken blisters and scars along her youthful guru’s arms teach her to be honest with her foots path and one day follow it east toward the lovers songs and the Jazz singers tears found amongst the wisdom in the teaching of that spider web phlegm. So she continues to write and she writes a five-minute story of the history of the earth and the ceramic clouds and the tragic beauty of those silver statues and of lovers going to bed at night and waking before dawn. As she writes this, she pauses to wipe a tear from her cheek.
She remembers when the hollowness of his voice came through those skinny walls, telling her what his dreams meant. Dreams of brand new flags, dreams of living off his sleeve. She didn’t believe all that he said, but she knew it was good to listen for a change. Together they watched the skeletons slip on the bottom of their bubbles, and it was amusing watching them try to gain composure. Estella stopped laughing when she realised that she was staring at their reflections.
Sometimes her apartment fades to black and she likes living there when it does. It makes her feel part of something, part of a shadow, she’s not to sure, he once tried to talk to her when the darkness enveloped but she just gave him her book to read. The book of Sunday sorrows and depressed sparrows, it’s not her fault that no-one checks on her, she blames it on the worlds view, one big cycloptic eye staring straight into hers. Oh hell. Sunday Sorrow.
She writes that if there is a doctor in the theatre, lynch him, scratch that itch that he stole off you. Yesterday remembers, it’s just a shame that yesterday has gone and left Estella’s performance. The play has almost finished with the sunlight fading away into earth’s shadow, what a view, what a sight, what a feeling.
She owes him nothing, nothing but her life, but her life is nothing, she owes him nothing. The speck of dust upon that tree’s waxy leaf, all tied together with her sweet anarchic poetry. She loved it when he told her about his dreams. She knew it was good to listen for a change and that in a Sunday sorrow nothing was ever safe.
The heat from her temples spread across to her frontal features, giving her a burnt, flustered look, making her heart and head throb with what felt like giant tubular bells ringing in her being. This she thought to herself as she watched the grimy paint move and shudder, is what Van Gough must have felt like when he lay there in that field feeling his intestinal juices poison his own blood staring up at that wide Italian starry starry night. But not as toxic. She smiles to herself after realising this factor. Who dies a worse death? The man dieing of his own broken dreams, or the man who suffers bacterial poisoning due to the holes in his abdomen?
She wishes that she could say that she knew, but it is quiet obvious that she doesn’t.
Like a record that skips silently in time like an army marching forward through provincial France, her paint turns greyer and continues to shudder, Oh turn this aeroplane around! Cruel fate has no emotions only grey shuddering roads. Lately she’s been waking in the midnight hours drenched in sickly sweet sweat like some archangel crucified for crimes unexplained, hanging there by his appendages under the April sun in Jerusalem, post Roman occupation of course.
She bets all that are crucified wish they were in front of a grimy grey paint covered wall in November. Listening to ancient gramophone records of opera singers, crying at the noises heard through the barriers of self-occupation. She needs no poems, odes; songs of misfortune sung at her epitaph’s funeral, nothing to return to, and nothing to deliver or refer to, only the rhythmic pages of life’s information. For what is worse? Staring at drunken scrawls on swarming, shuddering, peeling, grey paint or staring at a dark wild, and starry, starry, Italian night, feeling no regrets for the actions performed 40 hours earlier. Estella is hoping the former.
It is now an hour past darkness and Estella writes her disease onto page after page. She has forgotten to stoke the fire, forgotten to fold her washing, she’s forgotten to straighten the paintings, to blow the dust off the records, to fold the plastic bags, feed the cat, pat the diamond dog, watch the TV, complain about what she watched, recharge the batteries, blink, inhale, exhale, wipe the chalk of the board, wash the effluence off her limbs, shave the whiskers off her legs, set the alarms, listen to the new DJ on the plastic radio, wash her car, pat the diamond dog again, cook something to have with ice-cream and walnuts, have sex, kiss hello, kiss goodbye, say goodnight, write a sonnet, meditate on her shadow, ring a lost friend, complain about the friend that she just rang, watch some more TV write an essay, throw it out, buy some groceries, eat the groceries, wave to a passing truck, plant a tree, kick the dirt, look at jeans, have a beer and a smoke, acknowledge her mother, curse the year, have another smoke, she has forgotten to tell everyone how beautiful they are and put her hand obnoxiously on their thighs, she has forgotten to do the washing up, dust the diamond dog, discuss Nietzsche with a wall, play the piano, write about what she has forgotten, close her window, walk out a door, shake her head, look at a dead spider, dance the waltz, stomp naked on the ground, she has forgotten her diet, to hope she’s not infertile, to pray to god, to salute her flag, to sleep for exactly eight hours, she has forgotten to splash her face with the cities water.
Exactly One hour after Hamlet, the prince of Denmark, she loves her life. She stinks of Grass fire and failure and wishes he was with her showing her how to make love just the way he likes it, but instead he is in his ratio, trapped forever, she tries to remember it; Five to Three, wasn’t it? It sounds like a fucking horse race to Estella.
The dog, a wolf like dog is barking at an intruder planning to kidnap her and sit her on the throne of Alexander the Great next to Achilles himself. But she wont open the door because she doesn’t want to go quiet yet, and now her boots kick hard on her hardwood floor and she sits at her stolen desk containing lots of cracked marbles and unused condoms that she is now saving for her new squeeze, his substitute. She wonders about who’s free but then realises, like Tracey Emin, everyone is far to systematic and coarse for her.
She then wonders if Tracey has as many problems as her, but Tracey Emin has more.
The soup of winter remained only 3 days away, grasping at her with Lewis type fingers, that is the year of the witch, next year she’ll leave it all- her family, friends, her throne, her name, and she’ll leave it all for the warmth of Spain, the price you must pay for humility and humidity. She was spending another weekend achieving the unattainable, listening to horn sections and stolen records, if she didn’t have an electric clock, she could pretend she was someone else, someone different, someone amazing. Electricity tells her apart, it identifies her, gives her a sense of identity, but still makes her as scared as anyone else.
The last song always takes her back to nothings but somewhere different, telling her it’s almost time to leave and to wash the smell of detergent off her form. He promised her to never again wash if she promised to stay with him forever. She said it was too much to ask. He said never mind. Estella could never understand how time continued when her life hero disappeared slowly into God’s hands taking her future, past and immediate feelings with him. Leaving her with the eternity and a vague atmospheric power over shadowed with a metaphor for what is new in her chaotic re-hash. She would let her fingers trail and slide the railings towards the sickly sweet muffled sound of a beat in steady four/four time with a heavy disregard for that which is only sometimes all right. That is when she feels out of place trying to write something that justifies her Zen-Pen and its writings, at times she wished she could just stop and watch TV with the grating Chinese diseases embedded in a candles warmth underneath her beautiful coverings with educated rhyme and the edge of a blink of an eye. Nowhere is somewhere she is, even if it is only seven letters mimicking the English people with all their brilliant shine and dull beginnings. Who are they to think of such heroic deeds? Let alone whole books and songs in their honour. And who’s life is she living? Trying to pretend that she was just another solo Beatles song. One day, she wrote, that sentence will be published and thousands of people will ask them selves that very same question. She knows its true and real if she knows anything at all, and understands just what it’s going to take to let so many public servants out of their own little atmospheric bliss. She is glad that she does because very few people understand such business.
(If you liked this please read parts one and two, and part 4 is on its way)