Day 4: Arse of Darkness (not much time to write today..)

Looking at the ecstatic, dancing, fighting & crying kids (ah, a merry pageant of life) at kindergarten today, I began to romantically reflect on the misery of my own childhood. Of course there were the blissful, bewildered and dare I say happy times too, but now wondering if I`m wearing rose-tinted glasses from a 100yen shop.. I suppose it was a fairly mundane if uneventful affair but at least I`ve stopped soiling myself on a regular basis. Well this week, anyway. I suppose it`s hard to say at what point people`s core identity really starts to solidify, but it could be from a much earlier point that I initially thought. Even at this cute eden stage in the kids` development certain distinguishable traits come through: the bright, talkative ones with leadership qualilities tend to sliiiightly contrast with others in the same class, of the same age who sit with their fingers jammed into their mouth and prefer to roll helplessly on the ground like fish instead of trying to listen to the game explanations in Japanese or even participate. More often than not the strong ones will stay strong so those traits tend to continue into one`s teens and potentially beyond. Without wanting to tread the well-worn road of nature/nurture debates, I`d rather talk about the nature of disgust & desire since I found an inspirational, colourful book all about poo in the 6 year olds` classroom the other day. But that`ll have to be tomorrow.. Perhaps the human gene base really is thinning out and maybe not just in this country - then again, it`s a process that could have started a long time back. Is the Age of Reason dead? Did it ever start? Maybe it was just a name given to a certain historical period by scholars (periodification is apparently the word to use here) who try to organise the past by cutting it up into phases and decades, as if certain 10 year blocks have their own distinct flavour/Zeitgeist. Just like the 80s carries its sack-cloth bag on its shoulders containing silly hair styles, goths and waay too many keyboards. Or perhaps that too is just a fabrication coming from pop-culture stereotyping and what we automatically associate with a period. What`s the current mood of our times? Fear and loathing? Maybe it depends where you`re living. Personally, I`d rather be in Japan where there`s no danger of someone hitting the Big Red Button in the war room (which obviously all countries have, even Wales) without at least months of meetings beforehand. Buys me all the time I need...

..and, below, the last part of my surreal little story that I finished typing yesterday; what`s it all about then? answers on a postcard. have 2 theories, one much darker than the other. well, anyway.

Recur (iii)

The hotel room turns on its axis and seems to point in a totally different direction. You can sense the organic throb of the walls, the bed, the photo and the woman who you think you know. Outside the four walls, the sound of wind and rain is scratching outside and your thoughts have streaked away to hide in the unlit corners. You get up and her hand intercepts to touch your hand, fingers interlock, her heartbeat palpable through her cool skin. At last you see her as she inches into the silvery moonlight. You stop.
Opens wide her lime-green eyes.
- I know, she says. It`s been eight years, hasn`t it.
Finding some semblance of order, you drag some words together and speak them like a foreign language. It`s not supposed to be like this.
- Yes. But you look so much younger. I`d almost forgotten.
- Well, you always did prefer me this way. But this meeting can`t last long. We should leave this room. And you..
Too late for that. The room folds up, dissolves, reforms and shakes itself to pieces as the light comes back. However, you realize you`re watching from a distance now and know somehow that you`re safe.
Your eyes adjust to the glow of the bedroom. Rolling over, you feel a sharp stabbing pain in your exposed chest. So you retrieve the photo of her and replace it by the bed. An emerald glade behind the garden, sitting in a chain of flowers. About eight years ago; the scorched beach, that hotel, that time. The other hand, as if detached, fumbles around to pick up the breath-warm glass of Jameson whiskey and you drain the glass. This bed`s too big for one. The clock hanging crooked on the wall has stopped again. Morning or afternoon? The wedding ring on your finger feels heavy, you unconsciously tug at it.
Turning over, you think of the familiar room and its blood-brown carpet. And all the chaos wrapped up inside and outside it. An autumnal wind stirs all the neatly hanging dresses in the neatly standing wardrobe, at the foot of the bed.
Everything`s in its place. She`s really gone. You glance at the photo, the cat-like green eyes seem to be staring back. Of course she`s gone (and I know why). As you lie on the bed, you watch dark shapes form on the ceiling. Stare at the deep lines on the stranger`s hands before your eyes. Pain, pain. Time passes.