the day of the vacuums

Reads: 662  | Likes: 1  | Shelves: 1  | Comments: 0

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

the day of the vacuums.

1st May 2013


Everybody expects to get out of here as it’s short term only, but no one expects to get out of here. Not knowing creates more hysteria than knowing. Acceptance is a funny thing without humour. I can get out of here but I can’t get out of here. Time slows down in accord with my struggling stumbling heart. I said perhaps there is only so much grief one can bear I will say it again as a question. Perhaps, there is only so much grief one can bear? The unreliability of rhetoric. Perhaps the only solution is for me to fly far far away. Somewhere I’m blonde and busy and my anger distracted and focused elsewhere. Somewhere useful. It burns, this anger. I wish I were cold but I am hot all over. As if my thoughts about him were running crawling black ants and my anger a magnifying glass chasing them with the sun. My body withers. The only thing to heal me is touch, but I am out of reach, reachless. 


I could, I could go and find a man, any man, every man. I could go to a bar by myself and just sit there quietly until some man any man every man approached me and dragged me back to his cave. I don’t care what would be done to me, only that something be done to me. I asked for my pain to be corporeal and not emotional and I got it, a week later. The quick turn around of the universe these days. It is heavy this hurt. Like a rough hot brick. Utterly the wrong shape for my chest. I look at the world now with hollow eyes. Brought back to life in a way not resuscitating but rudely. I have not spoken of these things, I speak of these things. Only touch can heal me. But now my defiances are up like boxing gloves, hackles, hatred in an innocent box with a pretty red ribbon. Hate is as heavy as hurt, only hotter. It doesn’t hone my mind or make it clear, only gives me the inability to get out of bed.


Let me move within this hurt, please lord. People ask me how I’m going I say good thank you meaning leave me well alone. I fight with my sister, I say. We fought. I feel confused about tenses. I feel most free when I am trying to die. Perhaps…tomorrow night I shall go to the casino. Perhaps when I am out of here I shall walk across the road to the mysterious rounded building as if an alien mothership. Perhaps I shall not. Perhaps I shall go for a swim instead, or just lie in bed. This is not really planning. Nothing like a plan. Planning is for people with futures. I see the future and it is blank as blank as the piece of paper he says I need to be.


People want me to organize things but I can only organize death. My agency is limited to destruction. I cannot create or construct my mind, cannot build any mental edifices to keep me upright. I’m not even mad enough to be mad. There is a freedom in madness, in modes and machines covered by tea towels. Yes. Even though the old lady cannot stay in one or the other. Even madness sets up its own restraints, when she says she wants to go back to the mode now, even though when she’s in it she just wants out. 


I know I must keep moving, I know if I sink this deeply within myself I may never come out. It is curious to think what this hole physically might look like. I hate the immobility of this place, the pens, the tables I have to wipe down every time I sit down after some other mad man or woman has dropped crumbs, or drooled, or choked on twisties. How trapped I am within myself. I hate the concern of people. It offends me, as if I’m not capable of looking after my own misery. I think of the gin I poured down the sink not one bottle but two and it feels wasteful, while at the same time I know now it feels wasteful but later I will feel grateful. The sharp wood of juniper and the sting of lemons. People say look after yourself. Well what exactly does that mean. I am not as sick as some. The hot brick hurt in my heart is all I am right now. Not even a building proper. Standing up is hard. None of it authentic. I am handcuffed by my own hands and lack of voice. Although, when I take this thought out and examine it in the light I see it is as lacking in authenticity as anything else. What good does a voice do. I am so quiet they think nothing is going on. I am so contained people think I am self contained, nothing is going on, I need nothing. All these people get on television and talk talk talk talk about things everyone must think are so important. Perhaps things like football, superannuation, game show host performing badly are, but I seem to miss the connection. 


The rat faced man sniffles, he is not a narc. He’s too genuinely mad to be monitoring more than all those invisible voices he has to manage in addition to all of ours. Crime is the new freedom. Oh yes. Read the headlines lord. 


Benji who I imagine to be so organized, his web is not complex and chaotic but perfectly stranded, as if measured with the most impossibly fine instruments. I hate the men I allow in my life. I want to go downstairs to the bar and wait for the police to arrest me from myself. 


Oh numbing agents are hard to find and I am clumsy in my plans. They are not plans really, just ideas never taken to their full articulation. Yes, more like sighs than moans of pleasure. I’m not sure if it’s the weariness or the drugs which stop me from doing things properly. The thought of strangers repels me but all I can see ahead are streams and streams of men empty hard useless men who all want the same thing.


I can hate with a hatred known only to beasts. Blindly and sharp toothed. I can love with a love known only to angels, winged, heaven bound without concept of my own earthly condition. 


I’ve lost the cause I didn’t know I had. Far worse than never having one in the first place. 


All those internal examinations. The hummingbird heart.


People say happiness is an internal thing -  this is a lie, happiness is the love and love of others.

So my temperature is ok. But I don’t know what day it is. I was afraid of infection but the infection is emotional perhaps. Sarah looks glossy. Everything about her shines. How wonderful to have someone who walks through the world so refined. The magnificent red hair she let fade to grey in jail is now restored to the impossible shade of red god couldn’t have possibly created but did anyway, just for her.


I am unused to choice and responsibility. There has only been moment to moment movement to movement one hot mouth to hot mouth. Now it is as if the grey leopard top I wear tonight is more me than me myself.


My face is pale not wan but waned as if my moon is receding for now. Nothing stays the same. My apartment and the unopened air still smell fresh, of herbs, and lavender, even though there is nothing like that here. I have always been pregnant, I have always been pregnant with dead babies. Always pregnant only with a thousand impossible possibilities. 


The RPA with in inlay of Mary and Child leaves no imprint any more. Despair fills me, as if were a flower after the rain and my green veins swelling and terrifying. 


Look at you, says Peter, if his name is Peter. With my high two tone boots and light grey jeans to match the leopard and eyes as black rimmed as an eclipse of the sun. Look at youuoo.


The quiet quiet boy with the unbearable crooked nose and the odd number of people. Like I’m made of such rough architecture, before architecture was understood as anything other than sticks or mud. Like I’m a mud hut the American Indians and their red skins smoked wet wood and leather drums are drummed. Gutteral songs are sung and rattle snakes rattle as if they have more power than I do.


Don’t tell me the time. Time is all we have but never have had. 

















Submitted: September 13, 2018

© Copyright 2022 Maya Lucy. All rights reserved.

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Add Your Comments:

Facebook Comments

More Non-Fiction Short Stories

Other Content by Maya Lucy

Short Story / Non-Fiction