Sunday, January 29, 2012

The old record-player

As I try to collect my thoughts my mind races from one flashback to another.

It's unsettling to be so unsure of my past but if I let the thoughts race I'm hoping I can piece together at least some semblance of a memory of my life before now.

This place so familiar yet so strange - perhaps it needs to be caught on camera. Perhaps if I can film my surroundings it will help me to stabilize it, help me to remember.

I like to film things. I remember that. Maybe I have a movie camera.

Now something pops back into my mind: A distant memory: As a boy I wanted to make films, and on one memorable birthday as I began to open an impressive present, I thought I spied a silver lens. However, that moment quickly passed as a second similar shape emerged. In fact these were not silver lenses but silver controls on a wonderful record-player.

This present spoke to my other passion I now recalled: Music. Then suddenly I realized, this was my family home. This was the house where I grew up. Though none of my family were now in it, surely the record-player was upstairs in my bedroom. I ran up the stairs, turned right at the top double-backing across the landing to the large bedroom I knew to be ours.

There it was: The record-player from my youth. At once I put on some music. I was in the mood for the blues.

Saturday, January 28, 2012

The House with the Pink Door

Three days have passed since my dream of the derelict. I've spent that time trying to familiarize myself with my surroundings. When I woke up that day, I no longer knew where I was. Feelings of deja-vu came upon me often as I slowly started to recognize the old place.

The old place: I know I've been here for so very long and yet still it seems strange and new. This place could use a lick of paint or perhaps a stick of furniture or two. I can't remember why the place looks so bare. I just know this is how it's meant to look.

It's always spartan in decor. It's always the same grey walls. It's home though. It's the base. I know that. Then there is the outside: The outside holds some kind of menace. I can;t put my finger on it yet, It;s a different kind of threat outside the front door to that outside the back door.

The back door leads to the back yard which is open and that's where things tend to get physical. I don't quite know and can't put my finger on it exactly. I just sense that there are tensions that side of the house sometimes and the threat is physical. You need a way to retreat back into the house through the back door. You need to always keep that exit route close.

The front door though leads out onto a more public scene. There's no immediate threat there. It's just a more hidden, organized, watching menace you have to watch out for. You can step outside and venture a lot further than you can out the back. You can walk even as far as the end of the street right to where it opens out on to the main road that leads into the town.

You can even venture some way towards the town. So long as you come back. You must always come back. Back here. Back to the house. Back to the house with the pink door.

Wednesday, January 25, 2012

The Derelict

Last night I returned to Walker Street. It was early evening and
curiously bereft of souls. I walked through the dull grey evening light down the
steep tarmacadammed road staying, for some reason, in the middle of the road.
As I moved slowly down the hill I felt strangley intimidated by the old
stone houses on either side of me. I don't know why but they were blackened as if
by soot.

I approached the row that ran perpendicular to the rest near the bottom of the street.
These houses, I thought to myself, had long been unoccupied and stood derelict
with their windows black and ominous. Though this feature disturbed me, it also
drew me closer, almost close enough to peer inside the dirty, empty, glass
blackness. As I stopped to satisfy my unexplained curiosity in front of the first
of these houses, I stared into the gloom.

That's when it happened. Their faces startled me - the old couple suddenly appearing
behind the glass and staring right back at me. They were dressed in shoddy clothes,
looking as dilapidated as the house they suddenly appeared to occupy and their stares
were as vacant as the old black house should have been,

Looking closer at the face of the old man, I shuddered at the sight of his deep, black
souless eyes like deep endless pits of despair that seemed to draw the life right
out of me.

All at once, I awoke.