My Falling Down House

by Jayne Joso

  It’s not good. It’s far from that. But somehow I cannot let things get the better of me. So far I have not come across a mirror here, and for that I am grateful. Emaciated, hairless, my skin turned grey. For sure, I cannot venture outside, certainly not in daylight, certainly not on the street side with all its passers-by. People might have noticed me before, unkempt, a man without shoes. A stranger here. Nothing more. But now my appearance would terrify them. And how better to raise suspicion? They would summon someone, someone in authority, someone with power, officials, perhaps specialists, medics, police. They would take hold of me, question, examine and detain me. Still I would not have answers they would care for. Still I would struggle to persuade them that I meant no harm here, or even that I am who I say I am. And in this state it would be impossible to find man or woman who would vouch for me. I doubt my own family would know this wretched guy. Who would recognise me anymore? I could fail to know myself. And I would surely stand accused, or diagnosed, and either way I would be cast aside and removed somewhere, to a place of total isolation, a place without light, without windows, and no legal exit. I see it all now, and vividly. It would not go well. Whatever else, and no matter how swift my progress with the notes in here, I will now have to stay at least until my hair grows back. How long will that be? I cannot say. But I hope and pray it comes back soon, and thick and black, just as it was… I sweep up these limp white strands, hard to believe that these were ever mine. What comes next? Truly. What else will come? I don’t have answers. It is as it is. But the questions had better stop. They drive a man insane. And self-pity? It only ever undermines a man.

  Nothing in my head. Nothing on my head. It won’t always be that way. I will have to wait. Just wait. Let things be awhile, and I will surely be restored.

  I will make do with the rice a bit longer. And so what? It will last some months yet, and if I don’t overly exert myself it will go further. For certain I will have recovered and left this place long before it’s all used up. As for dreaming, the lack of clarity at moments; the slight, unsteady grip of reality, perhaps it is not the meagre diet that causes these symptoms, but just my state of mind, some strange internal cause, and like a machine, in some automatic way, I am generating stress, hallucinating some phantom condition. My mind, cranking things up in just the wrong way, making the body sick, perhaps for lack of stimulus? If this is this case I had better keep myself busy for longer, my mind distracted that it cannot fret or idle too long and conjure things which are not there and so insidiously steal my health.

  By now I have made attempts to fix what I can in the room I sleep in despite a growing fever, but with my head now bald, perspiration simply pours over it and soon I grow cold and afterwards I shiver. I have found some cloth to cover my head and hope it will be enough. But I have to work! Longer. Harder. There is still the entire upper floor left to explore, and so many things to be noted down, yet to be made use of. The boxes. So many boxes. Perhaps a project of their own. A box dwelling? A rather brilliant box dwelling. Why not?

  Tears come, but I can make no sense of them. Unless they come to celebrate the things that lie ahead? Might be. The simple anticipation of recovery bathed just now in sweet and salty tears. I let them settle on my cheeks.

  Cat has arrived. He settles himself near to me. I stroke his back, under his chin, behind his ears. I have lost my hair, Cat. He does not seem to mind. He does not seem to notice. I am glad. Soon, I tell him, soon I will make strides again, back into the world. More behind the ears, he bids.

  14.

  No voices or sounds in my head these last days, and I have not sensed the presence of the shapeshifter for some time and so my courage grows. I had been determined to start on the box room but the fevered nights had left my body weak. I drastically needed to refuel but I had been retching for several days and it had been difficult to take the rice. Hard to know if I should force some down, even taking it in the smallest amounts, but my bowels were in poor shape again and I feared being in a state I lacked the strength to cope with. I could not bear it if I wasn’t able to keep myself clean. I had to keep my dignity; it might be the case that this is all that can remain. And so just now I did not eat. Eat? Don’t Eat? Work? Rest? Work harder, faster, more? It tires me. Circles. And endless contradiction. What best to do?

  I lay myself back down. Days elapsed, though in truth I could not measure how many. The fever came back, then would seem to subside only to rise again. A tormenting tide. Pains shot through my head. I slept but did not feel rested. At times I dreamt. Horrible scenes. My stomach growled, perhaps for food, perhaps in anger. I could not tell. My eyes felt sore; my mouth was dry, the skin, cracked. I was hot, and cold, and my body ached throughout. At times of waking I was restless but lacked the strength to move. A man should eat. And a man should take water. This is always the minimum. But still I did not move.

  Somehow, finally, I slept more decently, and in the days that followed the shapes that moved around me in the half-light, did not seem to trouble me. Perhaps the fantasy that someone watched over me. Cared, fed, and covered me. I know that I drank water. I recall it leaking from a cup, run from my lips. Someone was here then. Someone took a cloth and wiped my chin. Did I imagine that? I cannot say. But there is a cover over me just now, and I am sure that I took water.

  Cat returned. Once more he swaggered in with pride, a gift between his teeth. It twitched, and with the quickest snatch of teeth, this stolen breath was to be the creature’s last. I felt myself recoil. It was nature, but I wished he would not do that.

  I bathed, and finally I managed some rice. Then I took a cloth and carefully I wiped away the dust from Cello. Cat removed the remains of his small prey, and returned again with eyes bright, tail high. He nestled close by. Some momentary order was restored.

  After some time, and with some trepidation, I ventured into the box room. I quickly made new discoveries and easily felt lifted by this: several deep wooden boxes containing tools; inks in special glass bottles; and a few ceramic pieces - perhaps the possessions of some former artisan, for like everything else I came across they had the appearance of things abandoned long before. Covered in dust and cobwebs, I found them romantic. They seemed to ask that they be used with care and with respect and I nodded assent. I made myself some space and knelt down to examine the things more closely. After a while Cat joined me, curling his body around my back, then standing to speak in my ear.

  More rummaging produced a set of make-up boxes. At first I could not identify them, just guessing at their use. Perhaps antiques. Some of them were decorated, a few were empty but many still held remnants of powders and colour. Most of them coated in dust, matted threads and hair. Some of the boxes would clean up well but for others I was not so confident. The lucky ones had been wrapped in neat cloth bags. Inside another cloth I found brushes, I guessed for the powders. The things that Yumi had were very different from these fine things. I didn’t know if it mattered whether I used them for the ink, but if I found no others, then that’s what I would do. Cat postured now, demanding attention, striking poses. I might try to sketch him, I thought, but later. I gave him a look and he let me alone.

  At the bottom of one of the deeper wooden boxes I found combs and other old and ornate-looking hair accessories. My mother would have loved them. I ran my fingers across my bare head.

  As for the stacks of cardboard boxes, these had all been rather expertly collapsed out of shape, and judging by the markings on some, were mostly packaging for household electrical goods, some of them were huge. I chose one and brought it out and into my room. My default space – I had the run of an entire house, a huge house, I could divide my needs between them, but I did not. In truth I sense that might only have added to the loneliness.

  The box I picked was one of the larger ones, formerly the cardboard casing of a refrigerator. So far I have only reassembled it in as much as it is now once again a three-dimensional, fully recognisable box shape. Even this minor move has filled me with
excitement, it feels so good to return to my plans. I have also found some tape and knives which will be helpful when I come to do more intricate work on the place. Place? Why do I call it that? It is a box. Just a box. But place it is. There is no one is here. I shall do as I please. Name things as I want. A box is a house is a place.

  Strange to think that I first did something quite like this under my office desk when I was still a full member of society. That box was smaller, and soon I will have constructed a superior box home. A bigger one at least. And so as to continue the theme of this current dwelling of walls within walls and holes within holes, I have decided to carve out windows and let in the light. It is also fitting that the material for my new compact dwelling will be cardboard, for I’m heavily drawn to the qualities that paper has to offer. When compressed into these clever box walls, it is, from my experience, both thoroughly sturdy and more than adequately insulating. Reasonably durable in the short term, though careful use must surely increase longevity. And I realise now, that in my box-dwelling history, I have really been most fortunate – I have so far not had to face being outdoors in a box, and have therefore not had to deal with any officials, police or general passers-by, nor have I met with drunks or anyone given to violent attacks or unkind remarks; and I have not had to consider the weather at all. Incredible good fortune. To be genuinely homeless? I try to imagine it. To be utterly without shelter and with precious little to protect you from those who would harm you, beat you, burn you; or lashing rains, the force of a storm, or in other circumstances, a penetrating heat; or deep snows and the fear of perishing in the coldest temperatures. Really. Imagine. Truly. Imagine.

  Sometimes thoughts like that almost choke the life from me. I feel my head as though it is pulled from my spine. I jerk upwards in a vain attempt to breathe, to snatch a breath, to taste some life again. And I see myself in the distance, tiny, so tiny, and I am picked up and dropped into a similar circumstance as this, but lack the shelter of a house. A box in a street. A man in a box in a street. And rain. Cold, cold rain. I hold my breath. My lips are dry. My mouth dark and wide, so wide. I try again to breathe.

  I kneel and reach forward and gently rest my head upon the ground. When I next encounter anyone who has fallen on such hardship I will lie prostrate at their feet.

  Boxes.

  There is a knife in my hand. I had better be careful for I realise that I must have been wielding it about quite absently and have created cuts in this box which I did not intend – albeit only minor penetrations, but that’s no use. Not what I want. Not how to work. I take some water, letting it rest upon my tongue. I must make the best box dwelling I can. That being the intention, I will apply my best efforts just as a child would, just as a professional, just as an artist would. For I need to fill a hole inside a heart behind a wall inside another.

  I must consider where to position the box, and how best to make my interventions, how best to cut the windows that the box forms a relationship with the external landscape, the habitat here, as it presently exists. There are precise measurements at play; a sense of balance, and the box dwelling must somehow emerge in a way that is entirely in keeping with this. Principles must be applied, and in all aspects of the work I must be skilful. If further cuts are wrongly made there will be no going back. I feel rather like a surgeon. Though I know full well that I am not and no one would die here were my hand to slip. I could simply start afresh with a new box. But I will not. I desire above all else not to be wasteful, not to be frivolous – except in thought, and that, only in the pursuit of creative and, so to say, useful design. If I need to practise I will do so on ‘dead’ box material: the type of cardboard which, try as you might, would never make a living, breathing box dwelling. And so, I set to work on prototypes. Prototypes! That’s it! And like a surgeon in training I will become skilful and assured before I attempt the work itself.

  This might take some time, but cut away from the world like this, indeed, cut out of the world, I have something very much greater than time. I have the absence of it. The absence of time and the presence of a box. A brand new box. It’s going to be wonderful.

  15.

  Cello watches over me as I work, and I find it ridiculous that I cannot play – if I did it would quickly be the end of things. I would be discovered here in the shadows, sitting naked like a fool – for I have long since taken mostly to being undressed. I don’t have many useful clothes and feel I should try to keep the few I have in good condition for the time that I might need them – and so, if someone came, they would find this small thin naked man without shoes or hair, in a state not easily measured or understood; a cello singing wistfully into his heart; cicadas outside crazed with love; a sack of old rice for sustenance; notes and a journal, and boxes. Boxes, sir. These are boxes. And what could they think? Useless to explain. Something bad would surely follow. And so, Cello, you will have to sing alone for now, in my heart, and in my head.

  As for the box dwelling itself, rather brilliantly, it has already set new challenges. And I have started to experiment, adding in markings of my own, treating the printed refrigerator branding and associated text (dimensions, weight, model number and so forth), as the starting point from which I build up seemingly random text, something coded – and as it develops this will vary in size and hopefully offer a more interesting finish; it is also a means of embedding notes that I prefer to be kept secret (again, in the first instance I am using the dead box material to practise on). From a distance I think the box might eventually appear to have a textured finish, something not easily discerned but rather intriguing nonetheless.

  And now, what is this curious sequence? It’s strange how easily patterns can emerge even when trying to avoid them. I don’t really want patterns because they are a reminder of the existence of time. I would rather not reference time at all. And since thoughts regarding my hair loss alternately thrust me back to babyhood – an entirely useless state just now – or forwards into old age – which would be truly unfair since I would not like to forgo the intervening years – I have decided to do more than simply ignore time, and have elected to banish it. And strangely, it might not be that difficult. I will take the move from night to day and round again as nothing more than a variation in the colour of the sky and depth of vision, and refuse to note the frequency with which this happens. Something messes with my health and attempts to steal my strength, but I will not be beaten. I return to my box.

  16.

  It does not work. I busy myself, body and soul inside this place, but just now my heart begins to sink. Between the stretches of work on the box and my notebooks I still pursue repair work to the house, and it is useless. My skills are limited, and some of my methods even prove self-defeating, the repairs come undone almost as soon as I have made them. This place, it creaks and shifts about, new fractures appear so easily and I struggle to patch them before they are tested once more. Sores open up everywhere, blisters, sores, lesions. The house, how it moans, and my attempts to soothe it are always so inadequate. The earth of late, it trembles, and again and again it jangles my nerves. On top of this, it is certain that the typhoons will gather themselves and strike again quite soon. I am choked with worry. I feel it, I feel it intensely. The enemy army of endless ‘WHAT IF?s’ circle in on me. And who knows how long it takes them to deliberate, to ready and brace themselves and order their number into the most menacing interrogators, the most brutalising guards, the most efficient killing squad. At times I am certain I hear marching, I feel their tread as it shakes the ground, I picture the butts of their rifles and recoil in pain as though already knocked down by them. I touch my head; I feel the moisture there, certain it is blood.

  It is sweat. It is only sweat. Now breathe. But for certain, at some point, they will come. And they will order an investigation, a terrifying, ruthless, sleep-deprived interrogation.

  Sounds enter just now. I do not know them. Sometimes voices. Perhaps it would help if I kept notes of this. If I tried to map it.
And if I took such notes, what should I do with them? They could end up as evidence and work against me. Best I don’t write that stuff down. Not in any form. Oh, but what should I do? I don’t know what is real? What is sure? What is phantom? What happens? I should do something to recover myself. But what could that be? I would lie here as still as the dead, and for days, if I thought that that would help. Would it? But I must move. That must be the better plan… And I must eat!

  I have money ... for sure I do, and so I will dress, cover my head, and bind my feet well enough that in darkness no one need care, and when the light fades I will sneak out of this place, taking the street side, and I will enter the best restaurant my nose can find and eat my fill. No one will bother overmuch. I will mind my own business, they can keep their eyes on theirs.

  Still too early, too light. And truly I would shoot the sun just now if the night would come here faster. I sweat so much I begin to fear that when I step outside passers-by will think I carry some infection. I should wait before I dress, and let my body cool as night draws in. For now, I remain bare, laying out the clothes in readiness. Fresh cloth for my head, and strips to wrap my feet.

  Reacquainting myself with Cello would be the perfect activity to fill this space, but since I must not play I settle myself opposite her, communicating in nothing more than the ripples on the summer heat, the tender silence hereabout.

  Settled facing her, I position myself appropriately as if to play an imaginary cello, all the while enjoying the spectacle of a real and very beautiful one, as though in a mirror. I take up my imaginary bow and play. My invisible cello singing here, warm and whole in the fragrant quiet. A shiver down my too-hot spine. I grow animated and will play with great vigour. I laugh inside, and close my eyes, returned just now to childhood, to stolen time, to secret places.