Story H
Posted: Tue Oct 18, 2005 8:40 pm
STORY H
Living next door to Leonard Cohen
Simon hit the face of the statue at 30 mph. An early tingling of ‘gravel rash’ began its slow march along Simon’s arm and leg, with a promise of agonies yet to come. Adrenaline worked its temporary magic without Simon noticing.
The sky, pale grey with red streaks, smothered his vision; blurring this street in Krakow. “Polish tarmac is surprisingly cool for such a warm autumn day,” he thought. Cold hands and legs too, were an equal surprise, yet his tingling arm had a slow, crawling warmth, snaking over his flesh.
“I’m in trouble,” continued his disjointed thoughts, within the confines of the crash helmet. Then nothing.
A man was singing, (or was it talking?) in a rhythmic bass next to him.
“What the hell is that?” spoke part of Simon’s mind.
“I don’t bloody know!” exclaimed another, as Simon surrendered to the warmth and comfort of his bedcovers.
“Alive?” He needed proof. “Saved for eternity, or just for now?” It was one or the other, for Simon had no doubt about that.
The sky’s greyness, was now powder blue, from which red streaks had withdrawn.
“Lovely shade of blue with a hint of pain and detergent thrown in.”
Simon tried desperately to wonder why he thought that. Then nothing.
The Voice was talking again. Not singing, talking. “..women have been very kind to me.” Nothingness, returned, but with a hint of something like dreams. Flying solo on an updraft of petrol fumes and fear.
The Voice returned, and it had friends with it, lady friends. “..time’s gonna heal this wound, rocket ships are climbing,” but Simon couldn’t see any rockets. “..there ain’t no cure,” sent Simon into a powder blue panic.
“Where are the rockets?” Simon looked for them with just one eye, for a long, long time, but The Voice spoke his thoughts for him,
“I need you, I don’t need you,” and Simon smelled his own sweat, blood and fear. “Where are the bloody rockets?” Pain he’d forgotten existed, returned, to remind him, and once more, Nothing swept through him.
He could sense the man next to him, even before the deepest of voices asked him, “..you who wish to conquer pain?”
“Oh yes please, and make it soon,” thought Simon,
“..learn what makes me kind, your pain is no credential here,” and Simon wanted to smash the voice, hard.
“No credential? Who the hell do you think you are? Pain is all I am right now brother!”
“I know you are not poor,” breathed The Voice, and Simon knew he was being set up for cash.
“Bloodsucking leech,” became his mantra as Simon was slowly swallowed into Nothing again, as he faintly heard the man singing, “..everybody knows the deal is rotten,” and he sounded cheerful!
Petrol-fumed flight, faded into an acrid, metallic, swamp of glue, which ‘leeched’ through nostril and burning leg, under a powder blue sky. “Oh God, where am I?” cried part of his mind. “Not dead,” answered a voice deep from within.
Simon’s thoughts were sluggish and confused. “I must be drugged!” Powder blue appeared in both eyes with a hint of custard off to the right. Simon was hungry, very hungry, “Custard’ll do,” he thought.
The Voice called to him, “..my swollen appetite,” and Simon hated it again. “Why, what, what do you want?” he thought and The Voice answered, “I showed my heart to the doctor.”
“Hospital! Of course, hospital, not sky, ceiling, powder blues and pills,” thought Simon, sinking into warmth and numbness, hating The Voice, but puzzled.
The swamp of dreams faded in its turn, and Simon squinted through a blue haze, searching for rockets, but giving up when The Voice declared, “they’ll never, ever reach the moon.”
A statue emerged from the floor at the foot of his bed and appeared to be bandaged around its face. “Mr Smith? Can you eat anything today?” she asked. “Custard,” he whispered, and “tartly” drifted across his mind, smiling.
“Am I whole?” he asked, but wondering, “is it her?”
“Yes Simon, you’re whole,” smiled the bandage on the statue’s face. Simon sighed, wept, dribbled and let Nothing take him peacefully, this time.
He stirred, recognising a strangely worrying sensation.
“Wake up, Simon,” called his mind. The drifting presence of drugs faded, as Simon woke properly.
The statue moved. A hand held his wrist. Alcohol fumes filled his nose.
Simon looked hard, to complete the picture. The nurse returned his gaze. The eyes above the bandage smiled again, as antiseptic wafted through his nose. Simon remembered being told he’d “go clear,” yet couldn’t remember. Was this ‘clear’?
It took hours, possibly, to turn his head.
The Voice was chatting next to him, saying, “..and I said I am Kris Kristofferson,” and a crowd of people burst out laughing. Simon couldn’t lift his head to see how many were there, but it must have been a lot.
“Good afternoon Mr Smith,” said a woman’s voice and Simon noticed her next to him. “We’ve had to keep you sedated for some time I’m afraid, and the past six weeks will be lost to you. I hope Mr Stiller’s music hasn’t been a nuisance while you and he have been next to each other in here?”
“Hi,” said a man’s voice, with an unfamiliar accent. “Glad to see you’re back with us.” Simon couldn’t place the voice. Where was the other man?
“Hello,” replied Simon, “have you been in here long?” he asked.
“About two months. I was attending a concert and during an open-mic session, I fell off the stage. Too much Red Needle I’m afraid,” laughed the man.
“Is there anyone else here?” asked Simon, “only, I kept hearing a man singing.”
“Oh I’m sorry,” said Mr Stiller, “that’ll be my Leonard Cohen tapes, I hope you didn’t mind?”
“Mind?” said Simon; “I feel I’ve been living next door to Leonard Cohen for the last six weeks!”
“D’you know what Simon, that’s just what these Sisters of Mercy said.”
Living next door to Leonard Cohen
Simon hit the face of the statue at 30 mph. An early tingling of ‘gravel rash’ began its slow march along Simon’s arm and leg, with a promise of agonies yet to come. Adrenaline worked its temporary magic without Simon noticing.
The sky, pale grey with red streaks, smothered his vision; blurring this street in Krakow. “Polish tarmac is surprisingly cool for such a warm autumn day,” he thought. Cold hands and legs too, were an equal surprise, yet his tingling arm had a slow, crawling warmth, snaking over his flesh.
“I’m in trouble,” continued his disjointed thoughts, within the confines of the crash helmet. Then nothing.
A man was singing, (or was it talking?) in a rhythmic bass next to him.
“What the hell is that?” spoke part of Simon’s mind.
“I don’t bloody know!” exclaimed another, as Simon surrendered to the warmth and comfort of his bedcovers.
“Alive?” He needed proof. “Saved for eternity, or just for now?” It was one or the other, for Simon had no doubt about that.
The sky’s greyness, was now powder blue, from which red streaks had withdrawn.
“Lovely shade of blue with a hint of pain and detergent thrown in.”
Simon tried desperately to wonder why he thought that. Then nothing.
The Voice was talking again. Not singing, talking. “..women have been very kind to me.” Nothingness, returned, but with a hint of something like dreams. Flying solo on an updraft of petrol fumes and fear.
The Voice returned, and it had friends with it, lady friends. “..time’s gonna heal this wound, rocket ships are climbing,” but Simon couldn’t see any rockets. “..there ain’t no cure,” sent Simon into a powder blue panic.
“Where are the rockets?” Simon looked for them with just one eye, for a long, long time, but The Voice spoke his thoughts for him,
“I need you, I don’t need you,” and Simon smelled his own sweat, blood and fear. “Where are the bloody rockets?” Pain he’d forgotten existed, returned, to remind him, and once more, Nothing swept through him.
He could sense the man next to him, even before the deepest of voices asked him, “..you who wish to conquer pain?”
“Oh yes please, and make it soon,” thought Simon,
“..learn what makes me kind, your pain is no credential here,” and Simon wanted to smash the voice, hard.
“No credential? Who the hell do you think you are? Pain is all I am right now brother!”
“I know you are not poor,” breathed The Voice, and Simon knew he was being set up for cash.
“Bloodsucking leech,” became his mantra as Simon was slowly swallowed into Nothing again, as he faintly heard the man singing, “..everybody knows the deal is rotten,” and he sounded cheerful!
Petrol-fumed flight, faded into an acrid, metallic, swamp of glue, which ‘leeched’ through nostril and burning leg, under a powder blue sky. “Oh God, where am I?” cried part of his mind. “Not dead,” answered a voice deep from within.
Simon’s thoughts were sluggish and confused. “I must be drugged!” Powder blue appeared in both eyes with a hint of custard off to the right. Simon was hungry, very hungry, “Custard’ll do,” he thought.
The Voice called to him, “..my swollen appetite,” and Simon hated it again. “Why, what, what do you want?” he thought and The Voice answered, “I showed my heart to the doctor.”
“Hospital! Of course, hospital, not sky, ceiling, powder blues and pills,” thought Simon, sinking into warmth and numbness, hating The Voice, but puzzled.
The swamp of dreams faded in its turn, and Simon squinted through a blue haze, searching for rockets, but giving up when The Voice declared, “they’ll never, ever reach the moon.”
A statue emerged from the floor at the foot of his bed and appeared to be bandaged around its face. “Mr Smith? Can you eat anything today?” she asked. “Custard,” he whispered, and “tartly” drifted across his mind, smiling.
“Am I whole?” he asked, but wondering, “is it her?”
“Yes Simon, you’re whole,” smiled the bandage on the statue’s face. Simon sighed, wept, dribbled and let Nothing take him peacefully, this time.
He stirred, recognising a strangely worrying sensation.
“Wake up, Simon,” called his mind. The drifting presence of drugs faded, as Simon woke properly.
The statue moved. A hand held his wrist. Alcohol fumes filled his nose.
Simon looked hard, to complete the picture. The nurse returned his gaze. The eyes above the bandage smiled again, as antiseptic wafted through his nose. Simon remembered being told he’d “go clear,” yet couldn’t remember. Was this ‘clear’?
It took hours, possibly, to turn his head.
The Voice was chatting next to him, saying, “..and I said I am Kris Kristofferson,” and a crowd of people burst out laughing. Simon couldn’t lift his head to see how many were there, but it must have been a lot.
“Good afternoon Mr Smith,” said a woman’s voice and Simon noticed her next to him. “We’ve had to keep you sedated for some time I’m afraid, and the past six weeks will be lost to you. I hope Mr Stiller’s music hasn’t been a nuisance while you and he have been next to each other in here?”
“Hi,” said a man’s voice, with an unfamiliar accent. “Glad to see you’re back with us.” Simon couldn’t place the voice. Where was the other man?
“Hello,” replied Simon, “have you been in here long?” he asked.
“About two months. I was attending a concert and during an open-mic session, I fell off the stage. Too much Red Needle I’m afraid,” laughed the man.
“Is there anyone else here?” asked Simon, “only, I kept hearing a man singing.”
“Oh I’m sorry,” said Mr Stiller, “that’ll be my Leonard Cohen tapes, I hope you didn’t mind?”
“Mind?” said Simon; “I feel I’ve been living next door to Leonard Cohen for the last six weeks!”
“D’you know what Simon, that’s just what these Sisters of Mercy said.”
