Time carries our dreams – billions of years, billions of stories and memories in clay jars. When humans sleep, tiny grains from these jars fall in your eyelashes to make sleeping sand. When you have a very real and vivid dream it is a grain from these jars of Time, grains of Time, of memory, of your fate, of your past, present and future. It’s so vital and so important to listen to your dreams; to try to remember to write them down if you can. Dreams are messages from you to you, from old you to new you, things your ancestors and your DNA have stored in the jars of Time.
Why, how the years have flown! one says, and tears fill the eyes, soft sentimental tears. How we yearn and long and wish for Time to stop, to capture a moment, to stay in one sweet spot. It seems one day you are only nine and it’s all a big adventure. Then you are nineteen and it is all ahead of you. And then suddenly you are twenty-nine and you laugh at how you know you should know better. And then you are thirty-nine and you are still laughing and acting surprised by where you are. And then if you are lucky one day all of a sudden you are fifty-nine and sixty-nine and then suddenly you are . . .
You. You are always you inside there.
To grow old is a great gift; it is the best of gifts. And when you grow old well, it is constantly nearly Christmas . . . constantly ticking. Listen for it, tick tock tap, tick tock tap. Oh, your teeth and knees; you’ll miss your teeth and your knees. And your hair. You will miss your beautiful hair. And not being tired. You’ll miss not always being tired. You’ll miss having plenty of Time. Inside you, all that Time inside you. You laugh and cry and feel like you: inside you, you are you. Inside the rooms of your head are all the times of you. You laugh like you always did. You have some of the same dreams and visit those castles and forests and those strange rooms you only inhabit in your dream world. That won’t change. Even if you are old now, you can still always fly in your dreams. You may still have some of the same fears and doubts: you are the same, but changed, but you.
In the English language when people die the mourners often say, Oh it was their Time and Time gets all the credit. And they also say, Time heals and again Time takes the glory and I am not having that! And when people die too young or too early, well, again it is Time the human focuses on: how long did they live, how long did they have? Time this and Time that, and we clash and fight over that too. There is a strange love and hate between Time and Death. But a long time ago, back when the world was very young and just evolving, Time gave me gifts, Time gave me space. Time gave me something to work with: the notion of passing, of life passing through to Death’s deadline. In return I gave Time something to work against, something to run from or work to. The beginning and the ending that is never-ending. Death and Time are doing a similar job when you look at us closely. We are as close as we can be without my sister Life popping up and demanding attention and demanding we all have the time of her life.
Lifetime. Life. Time. Life will sing gaily to me, You see, it’s an actual phrase. The human will say ‘time of death’ for a reason, a human being will have only one ‘time of death’, just once, but they can have a life time all the time, life, time, time of their lives all their life! See, it’s all about the phrasing, it’s all down to the phrasing, says my sister joyfully, whilst pushing cherry blossom petals out of her tear ducts so they rain down all pretty all over Japan. Sakura! Life sings, Sakura! Time of your life!
Life is tied to Time. Time consumes Life. Time and Life are lovers on an ongoing seesaw for all of our lifetimes. It is a long love they share that goes too fast. By all accounts they are very happy together. Life is all about Time and Time is all about Life. I go along with it. I smile, I nod, I say nothing. If there is one thing I know, Death knows everything has a natural end. Life is so lively, it’s her nature. Life forgets Time has a relationship with Death. But how would Life be Life if she spent all her time with Time worrying about Death and the relationship of Time and Death? See? Life is Life, why should Life care that Death does Time and Time does Death? Death counts on Time. Time loves a deadline: a dead line. Time loves some finality; my cold and clean finish. Life believes Time is for Life, that Time is for the living. Life is most comfortable living in denial and refusing to believe that Time and Death must also have some sort of love for each other.
Temporicide: a good word. It means to kill time.
I roll the word around my mouth. I imagine killing Time once and for all. Can Death kill Time? What would this world be like without Time? Would the Sun crash into the Moon? Would the sea rise and rise and flood the earth? Is this what is happening now? Is this how the world ends? The death of Time, a slow dripping sound, the melting of ice, the water rising, every day higher and higher. The water, carving through rock and seeping into land, everywhere a lake, then a sea, and the human develops gills and returns to the salt and water and darkness.
Time is subtle. Time is the greatest artist. What an artist is Time: look at the sculptures Time makes of human faces, the carvings Time makes with our feelings, the paintings of our life journeys in our heart’s song. Human faces are the greatest art of Time.
Harder, Time cries.
Faster, Time cries.
Slower, Time cries,
More, more, more
Time sings
But live, damn it, live.
Live awake and live alive
And take your Time.
Take your
Time.
The Desk: Mrs Death’s Office
In Mrs Death’s office the printer sometimes gets jammed. You must understand the problems this can cause. The machine runs out of ink, the pages get stuck together and the numbers repeat.
Somewhere, somebody dies on an operating table. The surgeon wipes his brow and takes off his mask. He sighs heavily and says, We lost him . . . There is a long pause filled with the weight of failure and loss.
But just then the body jolts and appears to come back to life. Bleeeep. Bleeeep. The heart beats, there is a steady pulse, the drama is over. The doctors and the nurses and everybody in the theatre cheer and cry. They wipe a tear and pat the surgeon on the back. Well done. A huge sigh of relief and congratulations and . . . then just as suddenly . . . the patient jolts twice more and then flatlines and dies all over again. This time for good. The patient is really gone this time.
Dead. Twice. Life came and went. Mrs Death was there twice that same day. Do you think that’s intentional? Do you think Mrs Death does this on purpose? No. Mrs Death is a very busy lady. No, believe me, that is a jammed printer. Mrs Death’s system has a system.
It is man-made machines that make errors to torment humans.
Mrs Death in Holloway Prison
Say Her Name: For Sarah Reed, Black Lives Matter
Sarah suffered
Sarah was falsely arrested
for shoplifting in Regent Street
the policeman was seen on CCTV
dragging Sarah by her hair
while punching her
repeatedly in the face
his name was PC James Kiddie
he was subject to a number
of previous complaints
PC Kiddie was a liability
a tragedy waiting to happen
Sarah suffered
mental health issues
ever since the sudden death
of her newborn baby
Sarah suffered
severe mental ill-health
she was detained
under Section 3 of
the Mental Health Act
Sarah suffered
a sexual assault in
Maudsley Hospital
south London
Sarah suffered
Sarah was a victim
of an attempted rape
she fought off her attacker
and injured him
the staff called the police
Sarah was arrested
Sarah suffered
Sarah was ill
trapped in the
justice system
; without medical help
however
throughout her time
on remand
Sarah never received
any medication
Sarah suffered
then on the
11th January 2016
the Reed family
received a phone call
from Holloway Prison
informing them
that Sarah was dead
they were told that
Sarah had strangled herself
whilst lying on her bed
the prison staff said
she strangled herself
they offered
no comfort
or compassion
the family were refused
the right to see the body of Sarah
the family of Sarah Reed
are still desperate
to know what happened
Sarah was buried on
Monday 8th February 2016
in a private family ceremony
say her name
Sarah Reed
suffered.
Mrs Death: Marsha and Martha
Edinburgh, 31st December, 1788
Martha and Marsha or Marsha and Martha, depending which you knew best or more or less. They were identical twins. Totally and utterly identical to look at but polar opposites to speak to, for one was good and one was bad; one was gentle, and one was mad and wild; one had a temper and the other quite kind and mild. But more to the point, one was dead and one was alive. Martha and Marsha, Marsha and Martha, but you see, one was dead and one was alive.
It’s all my fault: I never knew which was which.
You could not tell them apart, they were inseparable, always in the room at the same time, but in another way not, for one was very dead and the other very alive. But which was which? I couldn’t tell. I really didn’t know who was who, and now, writing this down, I believe they did not know: nobody knew. Not even they knew, who was here and who was there, they did not know, not really. Martha and Marsha or Marsha and Martha: which one was alive and which one was dead? It troubles me to this day. Because if they didn’t know, and I didn’t know, then it was as if they were both here and not here, both dead and both alive.
It is New Year’s Eve. Marsha is fixing her hair in the mirror. Or was it Martha? I don’t know. For now and for the sake of this telling, let’s call this young lady Marsha. Marsha. Marsha. She is so vainglorious about her hair, a mane of gorgeous curly hair, the colour of chestnuts in sunlight. She is dressing her hair with pomade and a perfume of sandal-wood pervades the bedroom. She sits and twists her hair in her fingers and places her curls at her temple. She has perfect golden-brown ringlets and black pearl studs in her ears. I am watching. I watch her now and she is sitting at her dressing table in formal evening dress – she wears an exquisite and delicate gown of white lace and pale pink velvet. A silver locket with a rabbit engraved on the front around her throat. She looks into her green eyes, they sparkle, lively in her olive face. She dusts the soft brown skin with rose powder, adds rose oil behind each ear, and she is finally ready for the ball.
There is a draught, the candles flicker, the blue embroidered curtains move and suddenly there behind her in the mirror is her twin Martha. Let’s call this one Martha. Naughty Martha, bad Martha. She grins at her sister in the mirror. It is a monster of a grin, a mania, her head jolts like a puppet. Her bright green eyes shine and spin in their red sockets. She sticks out her tongue, licks her lips and then she pops out her left breast from her bodice and bounces a tit on the palm of her hand. She cavorts, swinging from side to side, her fat brown breast bouncing obscenely. She pinches her nipple and licks her own lips and laughs and laughs and laughs. Downstairs the guests are arriving, the band are playing, the beautiful and the damned. Marsha and Martha descend down the grand oak staircase to the Hogmanay ball. And all of Edinburgh society are there, guests of the Lord Willeford’s mansion all gaze and look upwards at his newest acquisitions, identical twins, girl slaves, Martha and Marsha. Murmuring from the gathered guests below:
I hear he taught these wild savages to read and write!
Well, I never!
Don’t they look exotic!
And to this day I still don’t know why one lives. To this day I do not know which one missed death, and how could I, how dare I, Mrs Death, miss death?
Wolf: The Vanishing
They found your clothes on the beach
we all assumed you’d swum out of reach
they found your shoes side by side
your phone and keys tucked inside
we blame ourselves, we blame the deep cruel sea
you swam away and now you are free
they found your clothes folded neat
you leave this world, your story incomplete
I’ve imagined you, salt water in your lungs
sand in your mouth, crabs feed on your tongue
and you wash up bloated blue
oh we all cry, we all cry for you
without a trace, you disappear
leaving all you love and all you fear
you dissolve out of choice
I phone your answer machine to hear your voice
you turn a page, you make a fresh start
you hardly notice, you break my heart
they found your clothes folded neat
you leave this world, your story is complete
I don’t blame you, I blame the deep cruel sea
I blame this world, how it’s been hurting me
you leave the past on the shore
I give, you give and take no more
Wolf: The Vanishing
Wolf writes to Wolf’s father
‘A member of the public contacted officers fearing someone may have gone into the water. The caller found a pile of clothing folded neatly on the sand, but could not see anyone in the area whom the garments belonged to. A search of the beach was carried out by the local police supported by the dog unit and Coastguard, but no one has been found.’
Ramsgate Herald – April 2008
Dear Dad,
You once told Mum that you’d disappear and that we’d never hear from you ever again. You were drunk. You said that one day you’d walk out of our front door and just never turn back. You laughed. It seemed an odd thing to say, a cruel thing to say. Like you were trying to hurt us. I remember you were laughing, it was a cold laughter. I recall looking up and hearing Mum – her laugh was empty. She said, Don’t be ridiculous, but her eyes were welling up. You were both so pissed. I didn’t know what that all meant, and I didn’t believe it then, but I believe it now.
It’s all our fault, of course, we take the blame. We probably took too much, we asked too much and it drained you and you drained yourself and drained us all. You drank too much. You both did. Those early years are heavy with burden, they are made of a thick and dense material. I was only about five, maybe six years old, but I remember parts of it. Your depression, how the darkness ate everything and how it ate us all up. Mum told me you were haunted by unwanted thoughts. I understand that now: unwanted thoughts. I have unwanted thoughts, Dad. I don’t want these thoughts and these dark impulses, and I wonder if I inherited this from you, Dad? Were you bipolar? I wonder if we were the same and if we could have maybe saved each other.
Nobody knows this but once, when I was around fourteen, I said suddenly to Old Man Willeford that I wanted to die. I think I was trying to shock him. I think I wanted his help. I think I wanted him to see me. I know I wanted to be like you, Dad, and I was trying to understand what this sad black hole was inside me. But now all I remember is how angry this statement made Grandpa Willeford. I remember how he twisted and grabbed me and held me out of the window of the building. His face was spit and fury.
Shall I let you go? he yelled. Is this what you want? Do you want to die? Do you? I struggled and reached for his sports jacket lapels. Grandpa tipped me upside down and out of the window. All the blood
rushing to my head, the traffic, the city all swirling, spinning, all upside down and miles below. For just two or three moments I went limp as if to prepare to fly and fall. Grandpa froze and I froze. I scared myself how willing I was, how willing we both were to let me go. He hated me. I hated him. And he hated that Mum was dead and he was left to look after me. I know I reminded him of his daughter but all wrong and not girl enough. And not boy enough either. But then I lurched and panicked and kicked and grabbed at Grandpa’s arms and shoulders and jacket, I was clawing for dear life. I could have died then. Grandpa could have accidentally lost his grip and I would have fallen to certain death, but he suddenly yanked me back in.
That was a powerful moment. For both of us. For two or three seconds I wanted him to let go. Smack. Crunch. I would’ve crashed onto the pavement ten floors below. My head smashing open like a melon on the concrete pavement. All of the people, our neighbours below screaming at the mess of my bloodied body. But then Grandpa would be a murderer. I said I wanted to die, not I wanted to be murdered, and there is a difference, isn’t there? I didn’t want to be killed. I wanted to kill myself. It’s different: it is about choice. But these thoughts of dying, of killing myself, I still have them, I just don’t talk about them or try to act on them so often.
Dad, you always said we were all cunts. That was your favourite word. You would get drunk and say that I was a cunt. You cunt, you’d say to me. You cunt. You said Mum was a cunt. We were all cunts. You said you could never decide who was the biggest cunt. But in the end, one by one, you left me like a cunt. You all left me. Do I die like this, by being buried alive in all of your shit and abandonment? Just a thought – an unwanted thought. It was always so good of you to remember to tell us we were cunts.
You’d be furious at the television and shout, Cunt! You’d lecture me on how someone was a specific type of cunt, constantly referring to your ever-growing list of cunts. How they tried to fuck us over, our world, our family. People were gonna fuck you, fuck you up or fuck us over. All you knew is that they were some cunt from the old days, who treated a cunt like a cunt for being cunts in the first cunting place.
Mrs Death Misses Death Page 8
