When will I see you again?

     November 20^th 1983

Living in a doll’s house is every young girl’s dream. You have the perfect life, flawless home and textbook family. Your dog doesn’t bark or make a mess, you don’t have to do the washing up, you don’t have to mow the lawn and your neighbours aren’t utter vexations. The white picket fence never needs touching up as the paint shimmers in angelic glory and the house remains triumphantly immaculate.  You have an attentive husband and well-behaved children, your dinner parties are the talk of the town, your only concern being everyone looking in. Mama always bored me with her lectures on how I should aspire to marry well. I will, but when I find a man I truly care for was my rehearsed reply.

                                                                                                            November 21^st 1983

I often mill around the house trailing my finger in the hope of feeling an imperfection, a misplaced ornament, a mirror violated with finger marks or some graffiti on the Parisian wallpaper of stick men standing outside their stick house with red crayon grins taunting me. I have taken an interest in tea; I’ve recently discovered Earl Gray, an unusual tasting tea, but perfection at the same time. From counting the cups on the table one would infer that I’m drinking between ten and twelve cups a day - black, of course.

                                                                                                                November 22^nd 1983

Two hours had lapsed since entering Marcie’s Tea Room. It was a new addition to the classy High Street that was already littered with quirky boutiques, over-priced grocers that sold pretentious vegetables and shops that weren’t quite clear as to what they were selling from looking at them. It had stone paved flooring covering every inch, decorated with white iron garden furniture that curled at the feet, tie on cushions plagued by floral designs and potted plants spaced sporadically. On the walls hung pictures of swans by lakes, kites fluttering high above the tree line and other such scenes - they were quite tranquil.  However, I couldn’t help but sense a clique within the women who occupied those seats; legs crossed, pinkie stretching out at the perfect angle. They would look up as the chime jingled upon my entering, but would immediately return to their prior engagements, not paying me a blinds bit of notice, except for the quiet mutterings.

When I arrived back at the house I felt a sense of unfamiliarity, there was a cold stillness hanging in the air like a foggy Monday. I paced around for hours looking in on the many rooms we have. I noticed the piano sitting there draped in a white sheet just asking to be touched, to feel the warmth of someone’s hands caressing it sweetly. The awful truth is I don’t remember if that someone is me or not. I don’t think I know how to play the piano. I continued through the house, looking in on the children’s rooms, their beds made and rooms mirroring that of a showroom. I’d taught them well; they may have their allowance this week. I ran my finger along the surfaces.

                                                                                                                 November 23^rd 1983

Over the last couple of years I keep experiencing a gut wrenching feeling that something isn’t quite right, a sort of longing every now and then. I do feel sometimes lost. I presume it may be due to my husband always being at work, which I gather from his newspaper changing shade and the coffee staining his cup. He really does slave away; we are saving for a conservatory that we want in time for the summer. As for the children, they must be at school or studying for examinations. They really are bright children; Oxbridge children in the making, they definitely take after their father.

                                                                                                                 November 24^th 1983

I’ll sit for hours flicking through old photo albums, running my fingers over the smiling faces of my handsome husband and infant children. They were splendid days; take for example the day we spent in Hyde Park during the summer of 1931. The park was full of life with families out having picnics on that scorching Sunday; trousers rolled up to the knees, shirts unbuttoned to the naval. It was a lovely day. I remember Michael and Charlotte hurriedly devouring their ice-creams, getting most of it around their mouths, so as they could row on the Serpentine. Bert was sprawled out on the grass with his hands tucked behind his head, smiling as he slept. I sat there for hours reading a book and observing my family, such a delight. It feels like a lifetime ago now. I can’t remember the last time we sat down as a family and just talked.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                 November 25^th 1983

Today I remembered the Serpentine accident.

                                                                                                                 November 26^th 1983

Our house is quite grand, I can go anywhere I like, but my favourite spot is sitting in the conservatory with a cup of Earl Gray looking out onto the garden remembering times past. As the sun chases the moon and the moon chases the sun in return, like a game of tag, I sit there, remembering. Remembering to remember. I’ve often watched the leaves go from an effervescent green to a warming red, followed by a cosy orange before dropping to the ground as a crispy brown, crumbling upon impact. Sitting in the conservatory is like being in my very own looking glass, a glass panelled house with a view in every direction. I often momentarily feel as if I might be a pilot of an aircraft or submarine, but these are just silly thoughts, a woman piloting an aircraft would be quite the scandal.

                                                                                                                                                                                        November 27^th 1983

I went to see Sarah today, like I do every week, to show her my diary. I sat in her creased olive green arm chair that squeaks every time I redistribute my weight. It’s very distracting. Sarah was sat right in front of me this week, which was unusual as she’s usually sat behind her glossy desk scribbling away as we talk. It’s as bad as that? I thought to myself. I remember her telling me some very distressing news, but for the life of me I do not remember what it was. As hard as I try to remember, the more distant it appears to be. Her face was a mixture of sadness and frustration; perhaps she’s having problems at home? I do hope not, she’s a lovely woman.

                                                                                                                 November 28^th 1983

I spent today like most days, floating around the house like a misguided ghost, the days all seem to blur. I was in the attic for a few hours rearranging some of the children’s toys and a few of Bert’s old newspapers. I better go get dinner ready, they’ll be home shortly.

The Capsizing Bench

Cowardice can be seen as running away and not facing the vulnerability, fear and hardships that life can often pose. You are often emasculated by your peers for possessing such a quality.
             Take, for example, that man sitting on the bench over there; head in his hands slouched over as if he’s perched on the side of a boat about to fall, not dive, into the dark gloomy waters beneath which are occupying his mind. His actions leave him hoping to be swallowed up by the cold harsh body. Saturated, weighed down as he sinks further and further into the murky waters hoping to hit rock bottom, hoping that it can only get better from there. Desperately gasping for breath as he’s consumed, still fighting, but to what avail? His lungs spilling over, full to capacity as the light becomes a distant flicker tantalising the surface.
            Wrinkles plague this man’s face. He is a defeated silhouette of a man, who stoops as he walks; he is the personification of disappointment.
            He didn't mean to react the way he did, he didn't mean to hurt anyone, but the pressure got to him, he couldn't take it anymore, he was crushed. Constant questions, constant demands to know his thoughts on which colour looked best, because there is a noticeable difference between maroon and burgundy. He didn't like being the star of the show; a show that had rocketed from town hall to Broadway, the constant attention was too much. It was no longer just the two of them.
            Were his cracks not evident? The water spilled in, dampening his mood. He wasn't himself, reverting into his shell to hide from it all. His life was going to change, he knew this, he welcomed this, but he didn't realise it would be such a big leap. Why did it have to be such a spectacle?
            He sits on the bench. He is a broken cowardly lion who will never find his bravery. He should have been standing there, watching her glide down the aisle; serene and tranquil like an untouched lake.
            Were his cracks not evident? The water gushed in, knocking him from his feet. He was quiet. He had little input. She spoke and he listened. Not uttering a word. Nodding like the dog who sits in the back of your car. He spent more time at work. He hated work, but it meant he didn't have to deal with the wedding. That and he needed the extra money. Scared of opening his wallet in case that cliché moth fluttered out, laughing at him as it reached heights he was unable to achieve.
            In  the months leading up to the wedding he sat on that bench many a time, wondering what to do, how to approach the issue, but each time walking away none the wiser. Red palm prints embedded in his forehead as the weight went unsupported. Not knowing how to get out of this, not knowing how to make it right. He could try and swim to the surface but the arms of the ocean pulled him back, flailing, but never letting him go. 
            This man knows what he must do despite the weight crashing against his chest, only eased as the tide retracts momentarily. If you were observing this man you would see that he is torn, unsure of what he might do next, staring from beneath at the fractured moonlight on the surface.
            The Heavens opened, each drop bruising his peachy skin maroon and burgundy in colour, forcing him to seek shelter. The wail of the rain carries her sobs in every pitter-patter. He imagines her sitting at her dressing table, staring at her cracked reflection as she’s battered by the rain at an angle. Dripping as her hair desperately clings to her face; she continues to sit, solemn, shivering and wondering what she’s done wrong. Tears and rain becoming one create black streams down her face, as she remains dull and expressionless.
            He loosens his cravat, takes off his jacket and slings it over his shoulder, his rose falling into a puddle. As he goes to pick it up, he sees her reflection through the ripples, broken.  The wedding is exactly what he wanted, yet he remains on the bench fighting with his demons. He couldn't help but cower from the shotgun wedding. Wiping the rain from his face he breaks into a run, and then a sprint, leaping over puddles as mud clings to the bottom of his trousers, he imagines himself hurdling. As he runs he realises he doesn't care about anyone else, he doesn't care about the flower arrangements, or who sits next to who, he just cares about her, she is his life and he needs to fix this, before it’s too late.
             He can breathe; he can exhale deeply and feel relief, and no longer is it a struggle. He shakes his hair like it’s his mane, from side to side, emerging as a new man, a man who is going to take control and lead with pride. Everyone makes mistakes, he realises this, but mistakes can be corrected. He runs with desperation, he runs with determination, he runs carelessly. He realises the church is on the next block, and runs faster than he is capable of, but he can’t afford not to push his limits. He realises he spent too much time sitting on that blasted bench.

Johno Fagan

2012

So it's the middle of January and I'm yet to blog, time to wipe the thick layer of dust that has gathered me thinks.

My Creative Writing coursework has been handed in (hurrah!) and I now patiently await judgement. In the mean time I thought you could have a look at the end result and let me know what you think.

=]