Bali 2002

 

Starlight deep on dusty sidewalk, People call me God, but my real name is Joy, I say to the virgin standing on the other side of a severed leg.

Waiting for her to open tightly shut eyes, feeling saltwater trickle down the back of my throat, my breath fast from running, cool sand stuck to my bare feet.

Wiggling my toes, licking my salty lips, starlight splashes a sheen over my jet-black skin bouncing to her small brown face, eyes fluttering. 

Allah, her timid voice begs, eyelids flashing open, pupils circling under the growing rain of light, eyes expanding to reveal the street, her head twitching, huh, she says, I’m still in Bali, a small face moving from side to side, I’m supposed to be in, ummm… p, p, paradise, her hands quickly sliding down a new body in rapidly increasing light, I’m… I’m wearing a DRESS, I’m a… I’m a KID, and I’m a… GIRL, the sweet young voice coming from her mouth is deeply confusing to the ears on each side of her new, smaller head.

Smiling, We both look, forever young, I say calmly, taking a breath of air and starlight, my name is Joy, and your name is, ‘India,’ offering my oasis scented palms to the night-sky.

Her face narrows, cautiously looking down at the severed leg on the ground between us, That’s, that’s… her voice thinner.

Yes India, that… was your leg, waiting a moment, a young man’s leg, the man that you were, sitting in a minivan, with a bomb, moments ago, my words pumping sticky emotions inside her blood rising to choke her neck.

India, wiggling my toes faster, look at your old, severed leg, it’s bent at the knee, speaking as gently as I can, even in death, it looks like it’s trying to run, I lean forward, trying to get somewhere, yes, in a big, BIG hurry, my shoulders, my neck and breath relaxing, drying sand falling from my feet.

Looking up under starlight shimmering, frustrated and confused in the dust, her new, young chest puffs in and out, I thought, I thought I was getting… 72 virgins.

Ahhh, I reply softly, you… you are one, one of the virgins.

 Stunned ears prickle, spinning her face towards thumping footsteps, stomping from a quiet chaos of flickering flames further up the street, a red shadowy outline reaching us quickly.

“YES, IT IS,” words rumble from the red-blur thundering past us. 

No… it isn’t, I reply.

“Freedom IS doing ANYTHING I DESIRE,” the red-shadow growls, spitting, walking towards a deeper darkness.

What, who, was, THAT, India bites at her own breath with wet teeth, why did it say that, huh, it, it looked just like you, Allah, but with red skin, and, and, her lips spun with spiderwebbed spit, and rrrrrrred eyes.

My white shirt glows softly, India, that is, well, that is a part of creation, that is, ‘Testosteroni,’ well, that is YOUR version of, ‘Testosteroni.’

Mmmm, Testosteroni huh, that’s a dumb name, breathing, easing into these difficult seconds, gaining strength with each heartbeat, mouth hanging while watching Testosteroni walk further away from the quiet chaos, was that… Setan, words drip.

No.

India’s small face stares up at me, drilling eyes wanting to know more, more and more.

Setan, or Satan, the Devil, my neck twitches, is mmmuch harder to reveal.

Judging herself, power pushing through those eyes, looking down at her old, severed leg… heavy wet eyes rise slowly to meet mine, I murdered, to get virgins… I should be in hell… I’m not in hell… WHY, rocks grate inside of every word.

Hell, offering her a simple truth, hell only exists inside a heavy chest, powered by a mind full of, I shrug, bees and wasps.

 Lungs puffing, India’s rapidly expanding mind twirling, big eyes looking up the street towards the quiet chaos of flames, her fists clenching, water and starlit eyes rolling slowly to glare at me, Do you hate me, face begging, I caused all that, shaking deeply from the spine, stuff… up there, the quiet chaos, still quiet, I am a murderer, her head losing strength, hanging low.

I’m God, and India, my real name is Joy, glowing softly in the starlight.

India’s heavy breath fills these moments of silence, flames from the quiet chaos peak skyward, hot shadows from afar brush and dance on India’s cheek, her new, astute eyes breaking under the gravity of a rock-heavy chest.

Looking up at me, a metal-heavy neck groaning, Can I, can I please call you… Allah, she asks.

You can call me Allah, yes, of course you can.

Jumping between flashing fast thoughts, her muddled tongue snaps, If your name is God, and Allah, and

I have many names.

Her head shakes, wet, intelligent eyes roll, THEN… THEN… what’s the REAL agama, the rrrreal one, HUH, her newborn eyes demand, WHAT’S the real religion, all ten fingernails scratch the air.

Lowering my head to a gentle nod, yellow and orange drops vibrate all over my skin, Pure Joy… I reply, smiling.

Erupting into a quickly-closer panic, the quiet chaos up the street breaks, hundreds of voices finding breath, shaking in shock and pain with each new lick of fire and sharp stick of sound. 

Her ears filling with their awful ache, India’s head tilts backwards, chest surging, hot-heart-stones drip and drop, slicing soul, thrashing a rush of blood, flooding her face, gritty tears streaming down her sweet face, looking up to the stars, pupils burning, her mouth open, and silent.

India. India……

Finding a shred of strength, she straightens, turns to glimpse the crimson outline of Testosteroni’s back walking away into darkness, I’m, I’M SO, her face becoming firmer, shifting to resolute, ANGRY.

Feeling India’s eyes burn his back, Testosteroni’s shoulders stiffen, neck rising, “This heat… it is not from the flames, the flames are too far away,” Testosteroni says to himself, stopping, “ahhh,” a growl, “I understand,” lips dribbling, “someone wants to challenge me,” his skin glowing a brighter red, “challenge ME,” gravel grates beneath his feet, turning around, facing us, waiting with a face-flame silhouette of dirty desire.

I’m scared, India looks at me.

Relax, for now, just relax, I smile. Walk with me India, for now, let’s walk.

Her mouth closes with a gulp.

Relax… sliding my hands, from my chest all the way down the middle of my white shirt to my hips, Bali disappears, white light surrounds us, in the new haze I watch India’s shoulders trying to relax, Welcome to heaven, India.

Stepping backwards, taking a dozen deep breaths, maybe more. Looking around with busy eyes, This is a… a kleeKay. 

Do you mean, a cliché, I grin.

Yes, a kleeKay, that’s what I JUST SAID, her eyes brighter, I mean, c’mon, rrreally… all this white light, and what’s that sound… wwwind chimes, she asks.

I smile, impressed, Correct, it’s a cliché, I agree, come on, walk with me.

We walk. 

We walk.

We walk, and we walk.

In a heavy silence, slowly, step, by step, by step, white light tints itself into a yellow-orange haze. The first thing to appear in the haze is an old-fashioned, huge, curvy, bright-orange radio sitting on some green grass, I smile at the adventure laying ahead, Go on, switch the radio on, India, go on, turn the dial.

Leaning over, grabbing the oversized knob, she turns the radio’s dial ‘click click click, click click click’ until a fuzzy display reads ‘Svanur.’ Music plays, mist clears, a swan flies out of a lake, flapping wings and feathers up, up and away. We move, we walk, powered by radio-breaths of stunning clarity from music. Our walk feels softer, we walk and we walk, cruising, we see a vast ocean, clouds touching, dipping, reaching down to lick a lake, wisps of water massaging mountain peaks, we walk, and we walk. Clouds roll over mountains, mountains roll with the music, holding India’s hand, clouds speed up overhead, faster, faster, while waterfalls cascade in slow motion, or fast, or faster. There is no time. Ocean tides rush in, wet sand, dry sand, little crabs scurry, tides rush out, sand dries, mountains, lakes drifting across our eyes. The color of my existence is everywhere, it’s energy brushing the sky from a city, far, far on the horizon. Walking past an old plane, a very old plane, resting-rusted on the ground, no engines, no propellers, wings gone, mission complete, The Pirates who flew that plane to heaven, they were very brave.

Pirates… India looks up at me, smiling with wonder, her busy mind thinking and thinking while we walk and we walk, the insects inside of her head trying desperately to reluctantly roost on hot mind-sticks.

Taking a rest, sitting on a mossy rock for a second, a month maybe, maybe more, there is no time, years, months, or seconds later, India is restless. 

Eyes darting left and right, Allah… paradise, it’s wonderful, staring at me completely unafraid, but I’d rather be drinking beer and DANCING, her face shocked, ummm, wait, why did I say that, I never did those things before, her  eyes glow with deep concern, I hated people, who… did… that…

Silence is the current time, cool and firm, ears open.

ALLAH, the hot sticks in her mind rattle, clearly too hot for roosting thoughts, ummm, lips wet, I’m not ready for… your paradise, nose wiggling, shifting her bottom on the rock, surprised by the heaviness of stones clunking around in her chest. Unable to admire the view, Allah, why did you let me do such a friggin horrible thing, a bombing, in Bali, why, her voice grating, the beauty of SkyTowers glowing brighter in the distance.

Free will.

Bu

Free will, I interrupt, free will is ‘the space between your thoughts,’ a space that is yours, and yours alone, smiling, without free will, there is nothing new… ever.

Listening to me with a tilted head, But you are

Do you want ME, to write every song, and every poem and EVERY story, breathing the purest air.

Well… nnnnnope, but, but you should… fff, fffffriggin help people, neck trembling, help people wh

I help those who help themselves, studying her face, watching my words silently circle around inside of her eyes.

Failing to shake those hot thoughts from branches in her brain, feeling awkward on the mossy rock, breathing hard, standing up straight, strong hands, little fists on hips, I want to go back to Earth, Allah, and defeat that, that Testosteroni, and, yeah, Setan as well, taking a big breath, I am a Muslim, I wanted to kill Kristens… and, well, I did… I, I did kill Kristens… her voice an ocean of determination.

Perhaps, now you have a 

I do, she interrupts, thinking ahead, all of that walking was good, really good… so, mmm, my misi, then, new light forms rapidly in her eyes, it’s gonna be about… ummmmmm, HELPING, a Kristen person, face strengthening, blood rising from her chest, shadows of the distant SkyCity firmly shining on one, pretty pink cheek.

Smiling, If that’s your feeling, India, then yes, sure, your misi, your mission, it is to help a Christian person.

Chest pounding, I’ll STOP terrorist wannabe’s from doing what I did. I’ll find a way. I’ll fix what I did… I’ll find, and defeat, the real Setan, her body vibrating as strongly as the words, by making, ummmm, the dream of a KRISTEN come true, her heart connecting to a moment of bliss.

Your optimism, your power, my black face beaming, you’ll be a real girl back on Earth, with a click of magic, you’ll

HHMMM, she interrupts, how will I survive on Earth… friggers, I’ll be a homeless, 10-year-old girl, eyes unsure.

Well… you could get a job as a, ‘don’t-touch-me-there-doll.’

Lines lightening across her brow, How, how can you, Allah, how, how can you make a joke, NOW, standing statue still, stuck.

Looking out and over heaven, breathing deeply, Without jokes, India, the Universe is… joyless, my shirt shines, but she’s not convinced, not moving, lines still cramp and camp on her forehead, India, my angel, these are important words for your mission, a call-to-prayer wails in the distance from a thousand towers, beautiful music filling the sky, rainbowing the land. A sudden roar in the sky, I look up,  smiling, waving a hand vigorously to a plane that’s flying overhead us, and through the colors. The planes wings tilt left, and right, the Pirates acknowledging my wave. Looking down fast at India, My angel, if we don’t throw light at darkness, darkness wins… my feet firmer, my words concrete, INDIA, if we don’t throw light at darkness, darkness wins… my eyes glowing, hey… India, it doesn’t seem like it now, but, ultimately… trauma has no value.

Spinning emotions in her determined eyes, a late hand waving goodbye to the plane disappearing in the horizon above, complex feelings drop through her body, shaking all of the way down to her plain, sandaled and frozen feet.

Reaching out, touching her small cheeks, The misi you have chosen, a mission of… adventure, my suit sparkles, you already know, you already remember that there is a man on Earth who will look after you.

Her eyes warming, turning, squinting towards the distant SkyCity, a faint look of remembrance washing across her almost overloaded eyes.

India, you will recognize a man’s broken spirit, a man who shone his flashlight on something terrible, you will knock on his chest, and knock hard when he is ready, when he is… READY… to listen.

Staring me in the eyes, Trauma has no value, huh, that idea, it’s lit a cracker on the tip of her tongue, on Earth, Allah, I listened to friggin morons… and liars… so watch this… ALLAH, she takes a furious step, one brash foot landing deep in dust, almost taking her out of heaven, back towards Bali, yellow and orange dust falling from her plain, brown, calico dress.

Wait, wait India, I call out, on Earth, you will need a personal pronoun.

Penguin, she shrugs, beginning another bold step out of heaven, oh… any seabird will do.

Smiling, knowing that she will be ok, watching her take a bigger step, and another, sandals slapping into and up the dark street in Bali, two firm feet walk towards, and rest, stopping in front of her dead, severed leg, laying in the dust. 

Breathing deeply, pupils expanding, adjusting to the dim light, her jaw tightening as she turns, scanning, squinting, finding Testosteroni deeper in the dark.

 Walking away from her old leg, slap-slap-slap sandals down the street covering distance quickly. Entering deeper darkness, stopping in front of Testosteroni, small nostrils flaring, face strong, I’m going to defeat you… hey, what are ya, really, hmmmm.

Testosteroni smiles, grins and salivates, “I AM the blood I AM the… FUCKING,” his sweat rains, “that little faggot, Joy, he’s just a shimmer of pretend gold, FOOLS GOLD, the shine of… BULLSHIT,” delighted to feel an argument brewing while shaking with desire, “I AM THE REAL GOD,” his vibrating voice sniggers, relishing the moment, mouth drooling, “you wanted seventy-two virgins in heaven, but,” leaning towards India, “now that we are, ssssss,” eyes rolling with delight, “sssssseparate… you must know what I am going to do, to YOU,” hips thrusting.

Shocked, but strong, Rape me, India’s head wobbles, eyes spinning… but I’m only

“SHUTUP… this is MY domain, the ice and the rock and the blood of the Earth,” his arms out wide, his timber pointing skywards, “Joy, his spiritual fairy floss NONSENSE, DOES NOT BELONG HERE,” breath hot, “THIS IS MY DOMAIN, I fuck, FUCK to make everyone and EVERYTHING,” fingers closing and clicking, “trying to control me would kill evolution, I must have the FRESHEST,” hands move onto roasting hot hips, “that pussy called Joy doesn’t fuck… hmmmm… if I wasn’t here, this planet would be just, sssssssoup… without life, boring, useless, elemental, sssoup,” he spits.

India holds her ground, knowing that he’s right, thinking.

Pointing between his legs, “LOOK at this thing,” stiff, oak, hard, red danger hardly hidden by shadows.

HUH, gasping, losing some strength, squeezing her 10-year-old legs together-tight.

Laughing at her, glowing red-hot, “What a high-time I’d be having if females weren’t so precious about… all these,” drool drops, raining below, “vaginas,” 

Teeth clench tight, You SOUND like a DRUG.

“I AM A DRUG,” eyes circling, “I. AM. JUST. A. DRUG.”

India straightens, stepping backwards, steady, unsteady again, rubbing her chin, taking time to gain some composure, Hmmmmm, something, mmm, fishy, something is wrong, you seem kinda smart for, just a drug, thinking carefully, rubbing, Allah said, hand on chin, hmmmmmmm, Allah said you’re a PART of creation, thinking very, very carefully, so you’re NOT JUST a drug… AHHHHHHHHH, I know what’s wrong, if you were ‘just-a-drug,’ a drug woulda raped me BOOM BOOM BOOM, legs trying to find full strength, you lied, and, thinking clearly, you WERE A PART of me, so, so, eyes screaming, I, ummm, I MADE you this way, stepping backwards, a knee bending, legs struggling to keep up with thoughts.

Testosteroni glares.

You’re smart, and… you tried to trick me, ummmm… I know I’m right… TT. 

“A nickname, hahahaha, it won’t make me less… red,” TT shimmers, accepting that the argument will continue, oozing salty pre-life with an arching back, dripping salt on the ground.

Annnnnd, legs catching up with her mind, stepping strong, a hand on hip, I’ll find a way to defeat you, AAAANNNNDD, raising the other hand, pointing a finger, not letting TT speak, unfazed by juice slathering the dust before her, two almond-eyes cutting through the night, I’ll fix my mistakes… I, I, I can still change the world, pushing dirty knees together, a quick glimpse up at the sky, stars shine for a reason, she whispers, chest stones rattling, looking down, my defeat of you, smiling, glowing, my VICTORY, it will be, it will be, ummmmmm… her pointy finger, still pointing straight, pulling backwards, curling, forming, crushing into a firm fist wrapped in the never-ending bake of SkyCity’s yellow and orange, it will be… hilarious, surprised by her own words, she smiles.

Outside of Time – The SkyCity

 

I’m God, but my real name is Joy.

Happy on my beach, ocean waves sloshing, infinite warm sand, bubbles rushing to tickle between my toes. That feeling, that warmth.

Looking up at an orange-yellow blended sky, endless and exciting, I yell, Let’s dance, let’s dance for a smile, my slim body twists, blue ocean waves crash and smash, with plenty of spare breath to yell again, I’m JOY, painting the sky with my voice.

I need to run.

Legs jumping, sand spraying, running up the beach, fresh salty air in a crisp throat wanting to yell again, my stylish white suit, no shirt underneath, the top button always, always undone, my black chest brushed by smashing blue waves coated in apricot light.

Ouch, saltwater shoots straight up and deep into my nostrils, owwwwww, wincing and smiling, running faster, salt sliding down my throat clearing and calming my voice, Joy, my flashy white teeth glow from the bake of a mandarin sun, yes, I said JOY, rapid, dark shadows brush down the beach shadowing the sky one cloud after after another. My happiness, too tempting for some, pushes clouds faster across the sky. My eyes flick left, up at a speeding cloud. Eyes flick right, then left, right again, watching shadows and sunlight wrestle in the air fighting for space. Running under a cloud, soft rain, more running, sun, rain, sun, bare feet running in wet sand, Joy, JOY, oh, laughing, my name sounds so gay.

Eyes flicking straight up, running under an older, thicker cloud, much more dense than usual, black sky-syrup slipping, lurking above, trying to hide the brilliance of the beach.

My ears tingle, far away and far below the SkyCity, an Orange Lion roars, engines screaming from metal wings, flying, bending time. My legs keep running. A large raindrop falls from the dark syrup-cloud above, thick as thick, a raindrop with no light sneaks in behind the collar of my crisp, white suit. A trickle, trickle, trickle down my ebony spine, back arching forwards as I run, skin glowing darker, boldly brighter from the polish of this stubborn water born from big drops of a very… very thick cloud.

Legs run, run, and run, eyes circling the beach and the ocean. To my left, tall buildings, SkyTowers of sky glass wonderfully high, carrot colors and clouds. Running harder, the outside edge of my left eye rolling slowly, focusing on the top floor of a SkyTower. Shadows creep over my eyeball, slow, slower, lake-ripple reflecting the image of two naked people, a man, and a woman sitting on chairs enjoying a top-floor balcony.

Crashing beach waves fill my ears, straining, struggling to hear a distant noise. Far below, roaring even louder, I hear the Orange Lion’s determination. A Lion made from steel roooaarrrrrr fighting the rage of humiliation, winning its fight against time, pop-pop-pop metal wings under stress, rivets pop-pop-pop-POP-out, sssstretching metal, jet engines screaming, hot metal fast in the air sweeping the sky, fighting for success. A long and hairy mane, thick strands of rusty orange hair flow elegantly in the sky, adjusting its wings, finishing its giant swoop against time, vibrating comfortably, metal singing, flying to an island of gold and bold, tears flowing from its front window-eyes, in the cabin, two Pirates smile and wave.

Still running, I look up at the top floor of a SkyTower, calling out to the naked people, C’mon, show ME paradise, show me JOY, a giant shadow of coolness creeping across my skin. That thickest of clouds parks itself above me, time in the SkyCity stops. My body, my skinny black legs frozen in time on sticky, unmovable sand. My left eye, with effort, slowly rolling, focusing on the top floor of the SkyTower.

Silence.

Complete silence, no movement, an ocean of wave-ice beside me.

Up on the top floor of plain-air cement and salmon glass, two naked people sitting on chairs are waiting, sunlight sheds its bake and glow, the thick syrup cloud spreads out to cover their SkyTower. Rays of light turn to a shade of orange so deep, it’s purple. Two people say nothing, no shine, no sparkle, the thick dark cloud from the past rests in dull and heavy air. Sitting delicately on the noiseless, top floor, prim and proper on a thin, minimalist steel chair, a small silver cross hangs from her neck sticking softly to deep brown skin, dangling from a string of black, wet, tightly twisted girl-leather, smell, salt and sweat.

Next to her a man gently stares, enjoying her skin glowing gloriously gold, fascinated by her eyes, deep, dangerous and bold in the almost lack of sunlight, lit only by the plum-shadow of the big, suffocating cloud.

My left eye, stuck, staring at them, barely glowing, providing them with just enough energy to warm their blood and throats, “Hearrrt,” the woman says to the man, a bubble of time appearing with the simple word, “Hearrrt,” she repeats, frustrated by the lack of sunlight, she’s trying to read her book.

“Yes, Very,” he replies, tension dropping from his shoulders, the sound of screaming jet engines below the SkyCity fading away.

Lips curling, twisting, she’s about to start speaking in a language that’s not her native tongue, “Hearrrrt, LOOK, LOOK, down on the beach, Hearrrrt,” lips curling more at the edge preparing to roll the letter ‘r’ to the absolute extreme, “Hearrrrrrrrrt, there’s a black kid, dressed in a white suit, without, ummm, shoooss, ummm, no, how do I say it… SHOES,” taking a breath, “look at the kid, a kid stuck in time,” the reflection of my white suit and an ocean-stuck rolls slowly over her almond eyes of wonder. “The kid is really… really frozen,” her face ponders, deciding to look up and over the ocean stuck in time, waves and deep dark raindrops stuck inside stale air.

Lowering her enormous book carefully, almost to her nude lap, fascinated by the lack of time on the horizon. Gripping the book tightly, a book that she has almost finished reading, a book that she’s been reading for most of her life. Dropping it to her bare legs, eyes and hands caressing the cover, “Is it a boy, Hearrrrt, or is it a girl,” eyes ask, pushed by purple.

“The frozen-in-time kid, or your book,” he replies with no accent.

“Ha. Haa. Haaaaa,” her smile fades fast, “I’ve almost finished my book. Only. One. More. Page,” her ‘one-word-at-a-time’ speech making the man smile, as always.

Her brown hands looking older than her lips and legs gently caress the enormous book, drawing it closer to her face,  a hand adjusts her owl-size reading glasses, eyes and eyebrows focus, “It’s a bit dark with that cloud in the way,” she complains, turning to the last page.

Her small face, line by line, saddening, the eyes nutty-shell emotions filling with feathers, black pupils caged by brown wonder drifting across the words, words, words, and more words. Swinging left, slower to the right, absorbing a sentence, a paragraph, another and another, fluffing to the final words.

The End.

Closing the book carefully, her frown grows, painted by the deep ache of an interesting book that has run out of pages, or promises. Knowing that the man beside her is watching, she breathes in.

His bright blue eyes peer at her from the bruised semi-darkness, “Did you, did you like the book,” eyes intense.

Shoulders straighten, her spine an arrow, “Hmmmm, this book,” she offers, “in this book, well, there’s much drama, hate, lessons-book, no, lessons IN this book,” correcting her tongue, empty lips curl slowly in impossible seconds, eyes sadder, wetter, teardrops don’t run down her face, they stick to the almond, “But.”

“But” the man repeats.

“But…” taking her time, “this book, this book can’t be true,” eyebrows rising, a soft reply, a breath with no air pumped from an empty chest, “it can’t be true.”

The man points to her book, “Because,” pointing more strongly with one finger, “that book has no jokes in it.”

Looking up at the frozen endlessness, “Ha. Haa. Haaaaa,” her throat deep, dry and polite, “true, true, true though, there are no jokes in this book,” tapping it with five fingers, “no jokes in it, none at all, in-actually.”

Smiling at the words, ‘in-actually,’ he keeps listening.

Holding her book tightly to her breasts, taking another deep breath, “It had nothing, umm, nothing in-actually, nothing pushing through, desperate, yes, desperate, to

“Desperate to… what, Very,” he interrupts, circular frustration in his mouth.

“To,” she thinks, placing the book back on her lap, fingers webbing out to flat palms rubbing on the big book, “to really,” thinking carefully, “to PROPERLY, ummm, HEAL,” a deep breath, “TO HEAL ME,” quickly pulling the big book back to cover the sweet triangle of her privacy.

A soft face, “Very… do you think

“Hearrrrrrt,” she interrupts, looking up, staring at the frozen ocean, pure emotion trembling inside her hand, the outer two fingers shake, “so, so much, dramatis in this book,” talking slower, “in this book, so much violent, no,” the outer fingers trembling more, “so much VIOLENCE in this book.” Taking her time, “Hearrrrrt, I thought it was going to be a book about,” trying to find the right words, “a book about,” the warm, salty water that was stuck on the almond of her eyes melts, “a book about… joy.”

Sword thin, ignoring frozen time, a stab of golden sunlight racing through the bruised darkness, slicing through the syrup of the thick cloud above,  light expanding over the beach, the SkyTower and time.

Facing the man sitting under their single leaf of golden sun, “HEARRRRT,” picking up the book and SLAPPING it back down on her lap, waves crash and smash on the beach below, my skinny black legs run, thrilled to be back inside of time, my ears dancing with the music of waves and wind.

Smiling, his eyes glowing blue, watching the thick syrup-cloud dissolve, “You wanted to read a book about joy,” shifting his body to face her.

She says nothing, forcing the big book closer to her triangle.

No reply.

“Well then, Very,” smiling with wet lips, eyes flaring ready to rush, “I’ll write one for you.”

No reply.

Sucking air through his teeth, closing his eyes to a desperate darkness, opening his eyes, “Your trauma, this circle, it has to heal,” breathing out, “it must heal, eventually.”

No reply.

With a chest full of orange glow, slowly looking away from the long-abandoned chair beside him, easing, relaxing into the fresh warmth of the top floor, bittersweet acceptance filling his face, “Ahhhh,” talking to himself, “look at the blue sky above, and the blue ocean below,” he sighs, “and we waste it all by arguing about everything in between,” eyes stubbornly blue.

My white suit flaps as I run and run and run.

“Whatever I’m doing to her, I know it’s bad. Really bad, or good,” trying to keep his voice calm, “perhaps she has to decide if its good or bad,” reaching out and pushing her empty chair away with one arm blindly, “no, empty chairs don’t decide anything.”

Lost in a mandarin haze, eyes open and close looking for answers, eyeballs rolling under eyelids, veins alive, an easy thought floats up from the back of his mind, “India,” asking the space directly in front of him, “India,” “India,” asking again, “can you hear me India,” wet smiling lips wonder, sensing a plain white shirt wrapping his torso and arms, rough black denim shorts with a heavy black-leather  silver-buckle belt slipping easily to his body.

Sitting upright, blood warm from the shimmering chair, “India, do you realize that you forgot to say one word, just ONE,” opening his eyes to see his 10-year-old angel swirling her plain, brown calico dress, Empty chair again huh, she asks with a smirk, mischief inside those always busy eyes.

Looking at the empty chair, “Ahhh, yeah… again,” with a shrug, “oh well, Very is a Christian girl… rrrreally, what was I thinking,” eyes rolling along with his tongue.

India’s nose scrunches, to wiggles the answer.

“Hey… I like my partners to be trashy,” quickly licking his bottom lip, “so trashy that I can barely see them on a steamy day through the haze of black-tattoo-ink, and disease.”

Hahahahahaha, India chuckles, that’s a great line, taking her time, leaning on the top floor railing, looking over the ocean, smiling, moods beating along with the sound of the waves below, I can feel your thoughts, sniffling, sticking a finger deep up a dirty nostril and digging away.

“Urghhhh, India, gross.”

I forgot to say ONE word, huh, inspecting her pointy finger for the freshly dug-out ball of snot, rolling it between her fingers, well, shrugging, the salty air has cleaned me nose, turning to the ocean, grinning, happy with the size and consistency of the snot-ball, finger flicking it off the balcony, watching it drift and fly away in a multi-story arc. Bored quickly, deeper thoughts land on her fresh, Indian face, Hmmm, spinning to look at him, if I forgot to say ONE word, a cheeky smile growing with shiny, happy teeth, then we should go back and I say that word, duh.

‘Here we go, always the villains,’ his eyes say to her, “Always the villains, in our own adventure, because, because

Baahhhhhhh… NO more thinking, we go back and we follow my, thinking carefully, freshly cleaned nostril, a large wave rises on the beach below, curling to its maximum height, a shadow of the same wave forms a larger wave, far away in Torndirrup, there is no time, the wave before their eyes dumping its enormous weight onto the sand, crashing, rolling, thumping thumping thumping, filling their ears, the weight of water winning, knowing that they will return to Earth, looking directly into each other’s eyes, remembering the strength of eternity, feeling it growing inside of their legs, ready to run.

My feet are a blur on the beach.

Adventure stirring, India hurries to the man’s chair, he stands, opening himself, wrapping her arms around him, hugging each other as tight as tight can be, four arms determined to heal, his eyes, so many dreams swinging out of the blue, her eyes reflecting people, places, smells and surprises, burying her face into his body, smiling from within his tanned arms, I’m so happy you forgive me, holding him tighter, strength shaking and stretching her fingers, for trying to kill you. 

His blond hair, her dark hair, a thunderclap of sunlight, a spent beach wave peels across the sand, heading back into the ocean, a bubbling sand-sizzle.

If I remember to say ONE word, she weeps, and sukses…

“Yes, India, success.”

Sukses, she whispers.

Far below them on saturated sand, wild waves crashing and smashing as I run, in tears, forever young.

 

1880 – Greater Washington – Clip-Clop Winter

Horses clip-clop, clip clop, heavy and hard, steel lined wagon wheels sccccrape on cobblestones, two girls enjoy their usual morning chat on stinging, nasty, cold sidewalk, “How’s be your vagina today,” she asks her best friend.

“Sore,” words push through the cold air, “me future-usband, he be appy-n-all, and food be in me belly, why complain eh,” struggling to warm her ruddy face, rubbing her hands so fast they blur, bitter air biting, “how’s be YOUR quinny today,” she sniffles.

“It’s be a quinny,” her friend asks, “I thought it become a quinny when it grows sum-hair,” she continues, “I’m the same age as you ya know, 10.”

“I dinna ask if ya quinny was be a sprouting bushes,” she argues, “I was asking if ya been… errrr, fadoodling,” horses clip-clop past, hooves spitting flecks of shit up and around clouding the air.

“Ohhhhh we been a-fadoodling,” rubbing shit off her old, thick leather shoes with a filthy cloth, “by the time we can be, legal-married, at 12, me quinny gonna be tired, worn out prolly, same as a bakehouse donkey,” she yawns.

“Nahhhh, me mother, she says, ‘the quinny never tires, never, never, never.'”

“Great news,” her friend replies, wearing an impossible-to-describe smile, “strange how we can, legal-ways, be fadoodled at 10, but canna-not be married until we be, umm, 12.”

More horses clip-clop dragging a wagon, wind slicing slivers of straw high into the air, “Ya-know, the quinny in the state-oh-Delaware, it can be legal-fadoodled, at seven.”

““Seems too young,”” they say with fresh, cold blustery faces.

A stronger gust of icy wind blows down the lane forcing them to huddle, “Really, fadoodle at seven, nahhhh,” her friends cold face shivers, “ya-feelin poorly, ya-musta been drinkin old-froth from ya father’s warm mug… again, ayyy.”

“Nahhhh, I got the newspaper page right ere in me-pocket. Me teacher, you know errr, always in troubles about something, usually about the voting, wanting womens to be ah-voting… anyways, she gave me this,” pulling out a well-worn newspaper clipping, her eyes focus, “here be, in 1880, in Great-a Wash-n-ton, the most common age of consent be 10 years oh-age, and Dela-ware,” studying the next word carefully, “main-tain-ed, its age of consent,” looking at her friend, “consent means fadoodle,” looking back to the clipping, “at 7, after,” coughing deeply, “having lowered the age, FROM 10, in the year oh-the-lord, 1871,” sniffing chilly air, a rush of laneway manure-oxygen choking her lungs.

“The year,” her friend says, “oh-the-lord” the other girl repeating part of her sentence.

Clip-clop. Clip-clop. Clip-clop.

“Umm,” one girl asks, “if they be a changing the fadoodle age, to, hmmm, sayyy 14, in future times, does that mean,” rubbing her nose, “that the mans of today who fadoodle us, will eventually be taken out of heaven, and sent to hell,” adjusting her underwear, trying to get comfortable, ice biting through rawness.

“No idea, ya think too much,” rolling her eyes with a giggle, “anyways, my history teacher told me, that, in the very, very olden days of ago, they be sacrificing virgins… to make it rain,” she coughs, “canna-not-be-doin that now-a-days, so there goin-ta-be a lot of horses a-galloping between heaven-an-ell, transporting souls if the lord listens to the laws ehhh.”

“Sacrificing virgins, to make it rain… eh.”

 “”Seems harsh,”” both nodding slowly, moving hips around on the uncomfortable rock.

More horses pass on the cobbled street, “Mmmm, ya know, maybe it’s okay that the Lord seems ta-want us to fadoodle early, people drop dead round-ere, in the laneway an-all, easy as pie, and young.”

“Oh blimey,” she replies, a smile of the ages on her dirt-patch face, sunlight peeking through a gap in grey sky to blush her cheek and soften the mood. 

Giving her friend a quick elbow-nudge, “Some people, now-a-days, many, many, they-be-a-livin, all the way to,” scratching her chin, “thirty,” she thinks, “ya know, one hundred thousand soldiers in the Wash-n-ton civil war, not long ago, they were alls 14 year-ole, or younger… I s-pose some of-em never got to have a fadoodle in the hay… sad huh.”

Looking with huge eyes at the strength, the strain inside of a horse pulling a much-too-heavy cart up the street, wooden wheels, metal tread squeaking and scraping on cold cobblestone, “Great-a Wash-n-ton, it sure be a-needin better streets for thems poor ole-horses.”

Her friends face turns, a cheek warmed by that barest ray of yellow-orange sunlight, “I rememba from Sunday school, taming the wild animals, the animal-animal within us-all, that’s be the true mission, this mission livin inside of every sermon, every song, n-every story that’s ever been spoke.”

“Ahhhh,” her friend replies, smiling, looking to the sky.

1972 – SouthernC – Story Books

 

Green glass glare pushing through his bedroom window, 5-year-old blue eyes wince from the harshness.

Sitting in his bunk bed, dropping his book, lips wet and tight, “Stupid book,” soft lips spit, small hands lift the book, eyes burrow, “what are little boys made of,” he frowns, reading the words, “snips and snails and puppy dogs tails,” face tighter, “that’s what little boys are made of,” reading on, “what are little girls made of,” his eyes widen, “sugar and spice and all things nice, that’s what little girls are made of,” small hands twirl, the book flies and spins to the floor.

Looking down at the book, thinking for a few seconds, his face softer, “The person who wrote that book, they musta been really, really angry to write those… horrible words,” his head tilts, “but, but, hey, I didn’t make that person angry,” speaking to the book on the floor, “why do I have to read YOUR, ummm, stuff, in a book, a book for KIDS,” shaking his head and turning to look out the window, forgetting the book, ignoring its words, eyes squinting at the power of light bouncing off the lawn outside, “What is all of… this, stuff, anyway,” frowning, reality hitting hard, “this… this… all of this, ummmm,” quickly giving up on trying to remember a word, or phrase, or an idea that he simply hasn’t learned yet, “ummm, maybe I forgot summmmm-thing,” he wonders.

Mind wandering, a flopping head dropping deep into a pillow, “What did my teacher say, hmmm,” rolling away from the green grass glow, slowly remembering his favorite teacher’s words with a thoughtful, happy face, “yeah, she said, she said ‘people should sing their own hymn,’” smiling lips relax, “that’s it,” eyes closing for sleep, “…sing their own hymn,” rolling over deeper in comfort, “I wonder what that means,”  whispering one last sentence for the day, “I think I forgot someone… or something…”

1973 – Remember the Days of the Old School Yard

 

Boredom clouds barely bother to drift across blue eyes, sitting alone on his tiny kids chair in an empty classroom, preferring to read books during the lunch break, screams and laughter from outside fill the room, never reaching his ears.

Behind him, stuck to the back wall a paper map of the whole wide world radiates warmth to his shoulders. A world map, white paper with black outlines, black words representing rivers, cities, streets, “Mountains maybe,” he mumbles, feeling heat.

“I’ve already read this book,” his hands open, a children’s book drops to the desk with no sound. Rolling an eye to the bookshelf on the wall, “I’ve read all of them, those storybooks, every book, over and over,” remembering how his eyes have sucked out the meaning of words, somehow magically printed in plain black ink, but still full of life.

The map’s heat behind him is stuck and sticky in silence.

Shoulders rolling, sweaty, frustrated, “I need a new story,” blue eyes roll and roll, face squeezing tight, forcing the blue in his eyes higher and higher trying to reach the top of his mind. Tap tap tap, empty fingers on his tiny desk. No sound. Eyes stare at the ceiling of the classroom, “Come on then, do it, ummm, I need… what’s the word, that word,” he wonders, “that word, with light inside of it.”

Smiling, he half remembers the word.

Water rushes into the classroom, flowing across the floor from every direction, happy, busy, noisy water swirling all around, “Hahahaaaa,” he laughs, salt smells crisp in the air, laughing more, delighted at the pure silliness of ankle-deep water tickling his feet in a classroom, water swirling around little desks and little chairs.

His cooler feet increase awareness of the growing prickly heat on his back, stubbornly clammy from the map’s heat. He shrugs, lips squeezing tight, wet shoes and socks kick off, fresh feet and happy toes enjoy the coolness, brain tingling from the sharp escape of an ocean flowing through a classroom, “Ok, then, mmmmmap.”

Dragging his empty chair, sloshing it over to the back-wall-map, smells of ocean rushing, cleansing, loosening his mind. Standing on the chair, legs stretching, pushing his body up, up and up, a pointy finger reaches out, touching the middle of the map, on an island. His smooth triangle of concentration, devouring crisp-map-paper, two blue eyes, one finger, one island, an island in the middle of the map, “An island in the middle of the whole, wide world,” he says, “an island,” lips whispering wet, “in the middle-centre of everything,” pushing his finger harder on the island, leaning in, smelling the paper for hints, “I’ve forgotten something,” looking down at the swirling water.

Eyes back to the map, “Why,” enjoying talking to himself with water below, “why does this island have no rivers, or cities,” an inquiring nose crinkles, “all of the other, umm, places on this map, they ALL, they ALL have lots of words for the cities, and rivers n-stuff,” a soft, interested voice, a puffy little chest, “but THIS island, this island is… empty,” frowning, water slopping on the legs of his chair.

Sliding his finger across the mystery of this almost virgin island, “Is there a jungle here, or a desert,” he ponders, a finger still sliding, “why is THIS part of the big map, SO empty,” leaning in, “does anybody live here,” a whispering, wondering mouth getting closer to the paper thanks to stretching young legs, “do people here, do they live in houses, or…” delicately touching, “hey,” wet lips lean right in, blue eyes big, desperate to see if anyone is somehow inside of the paper, “do girls live here,” he asks.

No reply.

Pulling back from the paper, eyes looking left and right scanning the map of the world, and back to the island, sliding his finger to the only word, the only detail, the only thing printed on this strange, strange island, “Is this word, hmmmmm, is THIS word the NAME of the island,” captivated by the way the word is printed SERIOUSLY and in BOLD.

Touching the first letter written across the island of nearly nothing, pressing harder, he slowly traces out the letter B with one finger, and the letter O, the letter R, the letter N, E and O, “Bor-nee-OHH,” he guesses, smiling, “BORNEO,” delighted salty water swirls sloshing and slapping.

1975 – Maslin Beach

 

Red, green, blue, orange, a multi-colored wonderland of huge beach umbrellas jazz up and down the beach.

Naked people of all ages, nude except for hats and stripes of sunblock slathered on noses. Babies coo-coo-coo deep inside wide umbrella shade, elderly and young, teens, everyone running, walking, swimming naked, fresh and free.

Sunscreen smells bite the back of his nose, breezes crisping blue eyes focusing on digging a hole in the sand with a furious yellow spade.  Adults sit on fold out chairs under umbrellas, enjoying beers, talking to their friends and neighbors, “Here we all are, at the first LEGAL nude beach in the whole of SouthernC,” says a man.

“Some newspapers say we’re perverts,” a woman says smiling. 

The group laughs, “Ahhhhh, blooooody newspapers, bloooody mainstream media, fools fools and more fools,” another man wipes his forehead, “nude beach-ing has nothing to do with,” the man lowers his chin preparing a quieter voice, “s.e.x,” lifting his face, “the nudist beach is a place of… of

“Freedom,” a woman interrupts, raising her beer high, firm young breasts and nipples glowing. The group nods in agreement, “When you’re NOT ACTUALLY AT a nude beach, it’s impossible to describe the feeling, but, ohhhhhhh, once you are here with the wind and the sun and the smell of the ocean,” she shrugs, “perhaps it’s something the world has forgotten,” her words sending the whole group into deeper thoughts, “maybe the world is full of perverts… because they never get to run down a beach feeling free, for just a minute or two…”

The boy with blue eyes looks up, tired from digging sand, taking a rest and listening to the adults.

A man breaks the silence, “The Ancient Greeks exalted, PURE worshipped the natural, the beauty of nakedness, those statues, their lifestyle, it was a time when people and nature weren’t contradicting each other… the Hellenic nudes, beautifully noble, harmonizing the natural and the spiritual,” he continues, “now, in modern times,” a scoffing breath, “we need a law to ALLOW us to be naked, on a BEACH,” his head shaking, “something has gone very, very wrong.”

“Whoaaaa,” says another woman holding her wine, her mature body decorated with copper bangles in sunshine-sparkling, “when did YOU get so clever,” the group laughs loudly while enjoying their drinks, the sun and the wind kissing their skin.

Nude under the sun, neck stretched, trying to feel more paradise, young blue eyes sparkle, “I’ve forgotten something.”