Elephant Words

Christmas in February

Bridgeen Gillespie — Tue, 09 Mar 2010 22:35:56 +0000

I woke at 6 in the morning, for nothing serious, just a toilet trip. But the stillness was palpable, and there was more light coming though my curtains than I would have expected for this time of year. I needed to get back to sleep, only one hour left to get as much shut eye as possible before it was time to get up for another busy work day, even so I felt compelled to look out the window. Peeking out behind the curtains, from my fourth floor flat I could see that it was snowing, big fluffy drops, almost falling upwards in their weightlessness. For a moment I was in a snow globe. The blue light reflecting on the fallen snow contrasted with the orange street lamps, the artificial lighting making outdoors look indoors, still and silent like a studio set. The early morning half light and the unexpected snow still playing tricks on me after all these years. I felt a little excited, like a child a Christmas, (if Christmas were in February). Snow somehow has the ability to make everything seem new again, and I was newly single with a brand new year of the unexpected opening up in front of me. I couldn’t resist the urge to take a photograph before climbing back into bed.

Two hours later I’m washed and dressed, wrapped up against the cold. I almost don’t know what to wear, it seems so unusual for it to snow these days. So I’m all boots and thick tights and hats and scarves and the like. This is kind of fun. I remember to pack my camera. Who knows when this might happen again?

I photograph snow laden trees and a crow, stark black against white ground. Blackheath is beautiful, and treacherous. The heath is carpeted white as far as I can see, and the footpaths are obscured by snow. It’s a little tricky. I want to rush but I can’t. The pavement is an ice-rink and I will have to slide – walk down Lewisham hill in a vain attempt not to land on my face. Or arse. Older kids have been busy despite the early hour. I pass a fully formed snowman on the heath, and there are school children at bus stops pegging snowballs at passers by. Everything goes on as normal here, snow does not stop London.

“The wrong kind of snow on the tracks”… I think that was the announcement. Lewisham train station had ground to a halt. Now the queues for the bus were impossible. Commuters, manic and driven, willing to sell their own mothers for the opportunity to stand face to armpit for 40mins to an hour just to get anywhere close to the centre of town. It’s times like these that I was glad that my boss had reasonable sense of a work/life ratio. I phoned the office and was advised not to rush in, they wouldn’t need me till the afternoon.

The Tracks

Nina Perez — Mon, 08 Mar 2010 10:05:50 +0000

There were times when Gladys would go to the tracks and think about Michael. This made her feel guilty. She couldn’t help herself. For twenty-five years it had been a place of fond memories. It had only been a place of mourning for one. If she closed her eyes it was twenty-five years ago and they were kids hanging out after school when they were supposed to be at the library. Their lives were simple, innocent, and not yet touched by tragedy. The tracks provided adventure and privacy – a train hadn’t passed through in more than a decade.

Back then, Gladys’ favorite game was the one where she’d pretend to be the damsel-in-distress in a silent movie and Michael the villain. She’d lie across the tracks and he’d pretend to tie her down. Their facial expressions and hand gestures were exaggerated to make up for the lack of sound. They were twelve and Michael didn’t have a mustache yet, but he’d twirl his imaginary one with glee. He also played the hero that would swoop in and cut the ropes with his sword just before the train’s arrival. He had to because a third was never invited. They were outcasts that preferred the company of each other.

The moment she walked through the door with dried leaves in her brown curls and dirt on her jeans, Gladys’ mother knew she’d been at the tracks with Michael.

“You’re asking for trouble, miss. You shouldn’t be alone with a boy in the woods. Bad things can happen. People will talk. But you don’t listen. A hard head makes a soft ass.”

Lauren didn’t listen either. She was hard-headed like her mother. No matter how many times Gladys told her to call if she were going to be late, Lauren wouldn’t. Gladys had warned about taking dangerous short-cuts home from school as it was believed Lauren had done the day she went missing. As one hour late turned into four, Gladys waited for a call that never came before making a call of her own. The community rallied and posters were made. Two days later, Lauren was found a few feet away from the spot where Gladys and Michael used to play.

Gladys never understood why people made memorials at the sites of accidents. She’d drive and shake her head in confusion at wooden crosses, flowers and stuffed animals left at the side of the road where people had lost those they loved. A guard rail, large tree, or steep ditch did not represent their lives, she thought. Why give that place meaning? Why mourn there? Yet, a year after losing her daughter, Gladys found herself visiting the tracks more and more – more than she visited the cemetery. She didn’t bring flowers or teddy bears, but sometimes she’d bring one of Lauren’s favorite books and read aloud for hours.

When she read, she thought of her time there with Michael less. It was as if the sound of her voice kept the memories at bay. But if she paused to long, and allowed herself to get lost in thought, she’d inevitably end up back in time when she was only one year older than Lauren was when she died. She didn’t have to think about her daughter’s pain and fear. She didn’t have to think about Lauren’s body lying in the snow for two days. Instead, she was with her first love and they were racing along the tracks.

Tracks

Nina Perez — Sun, 07 Mar 2010 14:04:18 +0000

Glass Breaking

Rivka Jacobs — Sat, 06 Mar 2010 02:03:57 +0000

She stood facing the carved oak credenza and mirror behind it, trying to remember what she was doing there. She contemplated the three rows of clean wine glasses, the amber and cobalt-blue water goblets that sat sparkling on the polished wood. It looked like they were waiting for something she couldn’t quite recall.

“Maya, Maya….” someone said from behind her. Someone … was it her sister? … touched her arm. “Maya, leave it alone, go sit down,” the voice said impatiently. “I’ll get you something to drink.”

Maya turned unsteadily, the anger rising despite the effects of the Klonopin. “I don’t want to sit there any longer,” she hissed at her younger sibling Julie, vaguely aware of the happiness she felt when she was as far away from her family as possible.

Julie straightened. Her dark bangs and short straight bob made her sour expression look prankish and silly. She stuck her fists on her hips, her skinny elbows splayed under the loose sleeves of her black silk blouse. “You have to sit down,” she said. “As the wife….”

Maya turned her back to Julie, looking at the reflection of her sister’s pinched and reddening face. “You go do the Jewish thing, I don’t care,” she said, trying to make her lips work.

“Jeff was a devout Jew, you have to sit Shiva for him,” Julie said, raising her voice.

Maya shrugged, and gazed at herself in the mirror. She looked like the picture of an old-world widow, her black suit jacket torn over her heart, her golden hair frizzing around her face like a nimbus, her blue eyes nearly obscured by the puffiness and bruising caused by constant crying. She wasn’t crying any more. The Klonopin was working wonders. But the world seemed to be sliding back and forth, in and out of frame.

Julie was calling “Mom, Mom,” now as she spun around and then disappeared into the living room. “I’m going to tell mommy on you,” Maya said to herself in a mocking, high-pitched voice, and then emitted a “hmph.” She leaned forward, peering at her face. “Did I put on any makeup? Oh wait, I’m not supposed to wear any for seven fucking days. Nice one, Jeff. You weren’t supposed to leave the stage at the age of forty-two, you bastard.” Progressing nicely to the anger stage, she said to herself.

Behind her she heard a commotion coming from the large and lofty living room where low stools and benches were arranged in a semi-circle for the immediate family. She dimly listened to the doorbell; more visitors, bringing more food for the bereaved. She thought she heard loud, wafting exclamations, “Rabbi, we’re so happy you’re here….”

“Crap,” Maya said to her reflection. All these Jewish rites and rules were meant to comfort the mourner, to bring a family together in mutual support, except she had never gotten along with any member of her family. Her best friend, her soul mate, her husband who loved her and made her understand she was good, beautiful, and special, he was Jeff Adler and he was dead.

She straightened and took a step in the direction of the French doors that led to the kitchen, but wobbled and grasped the back of a chair for support. “Wow, benzos kick ass,” she said. She studied the polished oak-parquet floor under her black stocking-clad feet. She beheld the fine workmanship of the massive dining table they had found in Italy. The chair she held on to was one of a matching set of eight, commissioned by Jeff, hand-made and upholstered to his specifications.

“Crap,” she said again, and half turned back towards the credenza, reaching for one of the wine glasses that glimmered like a rainbow in the sheen of the antique brass chandelier overhead.

She barely brushed the stem with her fingers when the entire glass seemed to fly out and away from her. She watched as if paralyzed as it hung in the air, spinning slowly.

Maya, Maya, she heard … it sounded like a male voice, but was melodious, sibilant, and sweet.

She slid her eyes to the right, abruptly unable to move any other part of her body. She saw, standing between the large window at the back of the dining room and the wine glass still in the air, the figure of a tall beautiful man dressed in a white three-piece suit, a white fedora at an angle on his head. The sunshine coming in behind him seemed to illuminate him, as if he were translucent, and a glow collected around the outline of his form.

The wine glass hovered slightly, the cup upended as if caught in the middle of a rotation, then it began to float downward.

Ma ‘inyanim, Maya, you should not drink alcohol while taking your medication.

The wine glass was now on its side, drifting like a soap bubble. Maya shifted her eyes back to the visitor. “Who are you? What do you want?” she tried to say; her mouth didn’t move but she could hear her own voice.

He looked directly at her from under his hat brim; his eyes were colorless and crackling with electrical fire. He lifted both his hands, palms out. Be at peace, I will not take you today. There are times when I stop to talk with the sons and daughters of Adam. I offer you my condolences. Your husband was a remarkable human being.

“And you are?” she was certain she said, tracking the wine glass as it was poised about a foot above the parquet tiles.

I am the Ma’lak Hamavet, the one and there is only one.

The wine glass soundlessly appeared to contact the floor, the cup was suddenly crisscrossed with a myriad jagged lines.

“You’re the ‘Angel of Death?’ And you want to chat with me? When you’re not killing people, don’t you usually spend your spare time with Moses or King Solomon or famous scholars and rabbis? Why me?” She felt giddy, certain she was hallucinating. She tried to smile, and the man or angel before her seemed to flare.

Because the Talmud doesn’t record my conversations with women of great mind and spirit, doesn’t mean I haven’t paused to converse with them.

Maya considered herself more of a teacher than a scholar. She taught ancient Middle Eastern and Biblical history at a private Pennsylvania college. She had studied hundreds of different texts, in the course of her research. To her any religion was something to be deconstructed and analyzed, an expression of the human unconscious filed under the heading of mythology. Religious practice in her view was nothing more than ritualistic behavior married to habitual doctrine.

Her guest beamed, a white-yellow shell of brightness shimmering all around him. Yet your husband was devout, and attended Sabbath evening and morning services faithfully. You kept the laws of kashrut for him.

“My Jeff never imposed his views on me, and I didn’t force mine on him. We got along fine. I kept kosher out of respect for him, not because he made me do it.” Maya rolled her gaze downward. The fracture lines of the glass were widening, the cup had taken on a convex, ovoid shape in front of her visitor’s white gleaming shoes. Tiny broken edges were beginning to lift, glinting with pinpoints of light. She still couldn’t move anything except her eyes, which she slipped upward again, staring into what was now a pulsating glare around the angel’s face and shoulders. “Did you also stop and shoot the breeze with any of the people chosen to live at Auschwitz while their loved ones went up the chimney in smoke?” She mentally flinched as the figure in front of the window brightened further.

Yes, I have.

“My husband just had a heart attack, did you cause that?” Maya reflexively noted the wine glass had ceased to exist. In its place was a cylindrical section of stem and a spray of glittering glass chips and sharp pieces frozen in the air just above the lustrous oak floor.

There are many paths that bring me to your door. I obey my orders.

“You are only following orders…?” She felt contempt and anger and a pinch of fear.

The shards and scintillating spots of glass billowed upward and outward, suspended in luminescence like flecks of mica in granite.

Your husband came to me a happy and successful man. You live in a fine home, in a peaceful town, in a time when you will be afforded all the rights of property and ownership, and will be accorded respect.

“So I should be humble and grateful at my good fortune? I should feel guilty for being angry and saying you and your Boss can kiss my ass?”

Is that a question?

The spray of bits and slivers of glass spread more fully and hung in front of her hands, arms, and breasts like twinkling stars. The brilliance of the human form in front of her was so overpowering it was hard to keep focused on it; she slipped her eyes to either side as she attempted to confront this presence. “What is it that you actually do, anyway? If a man waits in an alley and decides to rob and kill someone walking by — where do you fit in all of that, exactly?”

I am his arm, I am his knife, I am his murderous thoughts.

The radiance seemed to grow more dim. Maya fastened her sight on the man in the white suit once again; his face became fluid, with eyes, nose, and mouth indistinct and in motion. The enormity of the concept impacted her and she felt a sudden surge of sorrow. “So, for the entire history of humankind, you’ve been every death, every thought of death, every instrument of death, from a flint ax to a copper-jacketed bullet to a bomb or crystal of Zyklon-B?”

I am the mind and matter of death. I am myself as well. For eternity.

He was melting now, flowing into the sunlight streaming through the window. Glass was all around her like a cloud, with the chunk of stem already resting on the floor. She felt pity for him, sympathy. “I’m sorry,” she tried to say. But he appeared to understand. “Is that why you visit with people, then? You have to, to preserve your essence, to define yourself. To remind yourself there is a God.”

There was a clicking in her ears, a static fuzz. Her eyes began to blink, her fingers twitched. The figure in front of her swirled into a small white cyclone.

I will see you again in forty years, he said inside her head, and then there was an explosive crashing, clinking, tinkling that startled her and made her jump. Grains and larger fragments of glass pricked her skin, spattered her black skirt and studded her stockings. Behind her excited voices were calling to her, telling her not to move. Julie bounded to her side.

“We’ll clean it up, Maya, don’t worry about it,” her sister said.

Maya shuddered and breathed, in and out, deeply. She tilted her head, giving a quizzical look at her mother-in-law, her husband’s brother, and two of his cousins who were all over her whisking off glass, putting Kleenex and handkerchiefs to bleeding cuts, leading her away.

She tried to twist all the way around, to look back at the window. Nothing was there but her fancy made-to-order drapes over a Belgian-lace panel.

Her own mother arrived, haughty and bossy as always, giving orders for someone to “Call the doctor.”

Maya smiled to herself as she was lead to the stairs leading to her bedroom on the second floor. “That wasn’t the Klonopin,” she said out loud. She still didn’t like the people around her very much, and she didn’t feel any closer to them. But she knew she had forty more years. She began calculating how quickly she could sell this house, and the rest of her belongings. Life was waiting.

The Hangover

Simon Smithson — Fri, 05 Mar 2010 12:04:30 +0000

Bacon.

Give me bacon.

Hash browns. Sausages. Fried eggs. Toast. Mushrooms. Tomato. And bacon. More bacon. As much bacon as you can possible get on the plate. Bring a side plate if totally necessary. I don’t care. Spinach, too, yes, just a little, but not too much. If I eat too much I’m going to think about the consistency of it and that’s going to make me nauseous, and none of us want that at this point.

Not coffee. No coffee. Maybe some mineral water? No, better make that still water.

Dry toast first, please.

Tomato juice. Yes. Oh my God, I hope I didn’t say what I think I said last night. Or at least, I hope no one remembers. Salt. Pepper. No, no pepper. Salt. Lots of salt.

Gatorade! That’s it! Lots and lots of Gatorade. Rehydrate me. Flood my damaged cells with water and electrolytes and amino acids. B-vitamins. Can I get a shake, or something? Some kind of apple, berry, tomato, banana, mango, grape, orange, lemon, shake? And bacon. Throw some bacon in there too. I don’t care. I just want bacon. I need it.

My head really hurts. Please have sympathy on me. I’d have sympathy for you in this situation.

Sunlight. Problem. Sunglasses. Better.

Wheatgrass. Spirulina. It’s totally worth a shot.

This is horrible. This is truly horrible. I have never felt worse in my life.

I am never drinking again. I know, I know, I’ve said that before. I don’t care. This time I mean it. Maybe a couple of wines, or something, or a casual beer or two, but no. This is ridiculous. Why didn’t I learn in high school?

More bacon.

I just need to get this food down. Get my salt back. Hydrate. Repeat. I’ll feel fine tomorrow. Oh, God, why?

How much did I tip the cab driver last night? I thought I had more money than this in my wallet. I don’t care. You know what? I don’t care.

Jesus, that was a bad night’s sleep.

More bacon.

Layers

iansharman — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 18:52:17 +0000

Somewhere, off in the next room, Conscious could hear Collective Unconscious indulging in a rousing chorus of “Livin’ On A Prayer.” He sighed and sank down into the plush, leather armchair, tightly clutching the blue glass which was now half full of Coke. Opposite him, sprawled in a leisurely manner, sat Subconscious, an unsettling grin playing across his lips. Off to one side, passed out, and almost slipping off his chair, slumped Unconscious. The three of them had retired to this more peaceful corner of the house as the party had rumbled into the wee small hours of the morning.

“All I’m saying,” grinned Subconscious, “is that you need to stop being so damned paranoid, and accept that you’re generally well liked.”

“Oh, oh, sure,” replied Conscious, “people seem to like me, but deep down it’s all a sham, they’re just pretending.”

“What makes you think that?” asked Subconscious, taking a swig of Coke from a clear glass, which Conscious suspected was laced with something a little harder.

“Past experience,” Conscious frowned, “you were there, you know what happened. Remember? Lots of people claiming to be my friends, and yet the stabbing of the back, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera… Just because you’re paranoid, don’t mean they’re not after you.”

“Nirvana lyrics?” scoffed Subconscious. “You’re really going to quote Nirvana lyrics to back up your argument? Yes, I was there, you weren’t exactly being honest with everyone either, you weren’t exactly being true to yourself. Why do you hold other people to ideals which you yourself refuse to live up to?”

“Stop making good points, do you know how annoying it is? Besides, I thought I was doing the right thing.” Conscious got up to refill his glass, nudging Unconscious as he squeezed past.

“Parfait…everybody likes parfait…” mumbled Unconscious, as he tried to get back to sleep.

“I think it’s simpler than that, anyway,” continued Subconscious, “I think you think everybody hates you because, deep down you hate everyone. You’re just projecting your own views onto everyone else.”

“I resemble that remark!” exclaimed Unconscious, before sliding back into oblivion.

“What? Why do I hate everyone?” protested Conscious.

“Because you think you’re better than them!” Subconscious replied.

Just then Ego popped his head around the door, screamed “Damn right, you’re awesome!” and left again, leaving everyone a little startled. Conscious’s phone bleeped, and he struggled to fish it out of his pocket to check the message.

“Oh, good grief,” sighed Subconscious, “we all know you’ve got an iPhone, no-one’s impressed. Who’s it from?”

“It’s from Id, he keeps sending me these really disturbing picture messages,” frowned Conscious.

“They’re not of fluffy bunnies, are they?” asked Subconscious.

“No, why would they be of bunnies?” Conscious replied, not looking him in the eye. “I like bunnies, is that okay? Is that a crime? Am I not allowed to like bunnies or something?”

“Did I touch a nerve?” laughed Subconscious. “Anyway, as I was saying, you look at everyone else with contempt.”

“That’s just simply not true, you’re generalising and oversimplifying. You can’t make such a broad statement about my opinion of everyone else on the face of the planet!” argued Conscious.

“No, you’re right, I was just being annoying,” smiled Subconscious.

“I hate you.”

“See…I knew it…classic case of self loathing…you ought to see a therapist…”

The Glass Door

Bridgeen Gillespie — Wed, 03 Mar 2010 15:51:03 +0000

That week in Cyprus was like temporarily living in someone else’s dreams where only the bits they cared about were well imagined.
The picturesque ornate orthodox chapel on the hill – check.
The wedding service and late night reception meal – check.
The twilight cruise and stunning sunset photographs – check.
But I resided somewhere on the periphery of all this. Still inside the dream but closer to the edges where the details get a little fuzzy, or sometimes disappear altogether. Picture a T.V show or movie set; when the camera pans too far past the hotel and you realise the beach is man made, artificial, dropping off into concrete and rubble, not rock pools and pebbles. The shops too in the hotel apartment village are facades only. And the much anticipated Greek food replaced by bland English substitutes.

I spent my days in the sun feeling a combination of lonely and out numbered. A fish out of water, a family holiday had never been my idea of fun. And doing it with some one else’s family didn’t make it any less painful. Every nerve in my body was telling me I didn’t want to be there. I took valium to subdue the anxiety, but it made little impact. So I relied on alcohol to calm me instead. It didn’t, I just felt more out of control and out of my depth. The drink lead to minor rows in public and unfettered arguments in private. In all this high drama I was turning into someone that I didn’t like. I had yet to realise that I was so weakened by insecurity and an insidious self loathing that I’d forgotten all about self respect. In a freak incidence of life imitating art my choice of holiday reading, a biography of Philip K Dick, did nothing to settle my paranoia or my growing sense of unreality.

A week out of life to observe someone else’s dreams come true, too dumb still to realise my own were ending. A black swan, it should be obvious but its not. Like the glass door I walked into face first at the reception’s restaurant. A perfect a living metaphor for my own romantic humiliation. A blow to the head to prompt a slow dawning realisation. My own marriage into this family would never come. I’d hit my glass door literally, and with a public audience.

The morning after the wedding I woke up alone on the apartment couch with a bruised forehead and an empty wine glass on the table beside me. Paracetamol pills were spilled on the floor. Angry snores could be heard in the bedroom next door. We had fallen out again, judging by the evidence, but I couldn’t remember the argument. This should have been the ending really, but somehow extenuating circumstances meant it wasn’t. No, the real ending would come ten days later, and it would still come as a terrible surprise.