OK, so here's a story. Story, as in fiction. If there is such a thing as autobiographical fantasy fiction, I suppose this is it. I've toyed with 'outing' this story for quite some time now, partly because I do not know if it is any good as a piece of writing, but more because ... well, with some fantasies once you speak them they can never come true. You'll see what I mean. Right then. (Breathes in, breathes out.) Here starteth the story:
* * * * *
It's such a quiet and beautiful place
out here, but the sky plays funny tricks on you. Driving all those
miles across the flatlands, the big blue seems to swing between being
a cool wedge above you, almost oppressive, as the tall whipcane and
dense shrubs press close to the road, then suddenly it splits
completely apart like the pages of a book falling fully open as the
taller scrub rhythmically clears, and you can see forever – the
heavens now a majestic, immeasurable lightness all around. I'm glad
we came.
Then you come to the gorge, another
sudden thing. There is no warning, no real incremental change in the
complex patchwork monotony of intertwined tall scrub and flat low
desert grassland; you just, well, you reach a carpark. And there it
is. That arching infinitude of sky now plays another trick when you
step out of the van and walk to the edge; you can feel it pouring in
to the massive cleft – you can almost imagine the potent air
rolling about the chasm of ancient fossil beds and red rocks like a
second river above the silvered thread of water that runs far below,
the sometimes-mighty Murchison. It's like the sky has vertigo.
I wonder what B's thinking now. I bet
it's something like “What will I tell her?” or “How will I tell
her?” Maybe not. Maybe he's not thinking much at all just at this
moment; just letting it all sink in. It's very early in the day
after all, and we sat up late last night around the campfire not
saying much, just enjoying the peace and the sky, so maybe there's
some thought like “Well, it's not like there's any hurry to sort it
all out now.” Probably though, underneath it all, B's really
pissed off at me, as well as sad. I would be if it were the other
way around, but I know that he knew that I knew that he knew that
this moment, or something like it, or even totally different but with
the same end result, could have happened at any time on one of our
trips. It does not strike me as especially odd that I find myself
unable to read B's thoughts; nothing new there. It does strike me as
odd that I find myself here at all though. I am dead, after all.
B must feel so incredibly alone right
now, out here at the edge, looking down unseeing, knowing that
somewhere down there my torn and useless body lies silent and still –
I wonder if he can only imagine it whole, or if he has more
horrendous visions, you know, of parts and flesh and bones sticking
out and such. Of course, he is in no real doubt about what has
actually taken place, he is as sure as anyone could ever be right
now, but to have this burden placed so brutally on his shoulders, to
feel this loss, this hurtful love, and undoubtedly some sense that he
must now do the right thing also,
well, it's not something one could ever take lightly. I may not be
able to read his mind or his heart, but I can still feel, I
notice, and I do feel for him deeply. And too I feel deeply that he
will do what's required, in his own way, perfectly. Such a friend,
even now.
It's funny, as I got sicker and slowly
more and more limited, the 'Lotto Dreaming' changed. You know, most
people have it; the instant set of answers to the questions of what
you'd do first if you got a large lump of money suddenly. Better
house with leafier views and more quiet, that stayed. Philanthropic
ambitions towards helping my fellow-travellers and our planet stayed.
But things like new cars and travel plans changed a lot, as it became
obvious that I wouldn't even be able to drive a car soon. I'd let go
on motorbikes already, as it got too dangerous riding my last bike.
But the urge to travel did not abate, as I've always loved to move
through the landscape, and seek connection with the earth and her
people in different places and ways. Nature travel, that's me. And
when I thought of travel, I thought sometimes of travel as a couple,
and other times of travel without her. I'd imagine special places
experienced together, a refreshing of our loving bond in the
cathedrals of the world away from civilization, in the forests and on
the coastlines. And equally, of visiting such sacred places as just
… me.
But I'd need a travelling companion for
that, either way. There was always going to be a clear first choice,
old friend B. So you can imagine my delight when a little money did
come our way, and my weird joy that it was, in perfect reflection of
the modus moriendi currently expressed in my illness, not an
extravagant sum but instead just enough to do a little more with
life. Improve the house a little. Upgrade the car a little. Do a
little travel. Importantly, not to have to concern ourselves with
the usual bills and such for a few years if well-husbanded. Just the
right amount, really.
So re-started my adventures with B. We
used to live in the same town and once were thick as thieves, living
an oddball bromance as extrovert cafe-culture cognoscenti, doing life
as art and damning the consequences, he the errant artist and me the
young gadabout musician. Japes and scrapes, beauty and abandon, all
that romantic stuff without the homoerotic undertones. Times changed
but our connection only deepened, even when we moved apart. We found
ourselves in the same city again later on, and began a new chapter of
our odd and intense little friendship. And again, apart. Always
there for each other in spirit, if not fleshly available. We had the
sort of friendship that spawned its own culture of in-joke and
innuendo, language and the transcendence of language, and the sort of
mutual respect that can only come from knowing precisely what it is
about the other that really gives you the shits and which you judge
so harshly, acting it out, and getting over it. Letting each others'
sleeping dogs lie comfortably, whilst not transgressing our own
moralities and ways. Where you can spend the whole day being an
asshat if you need to be, and knowing that your friend will see
straight through it, and be OK anyway.
Then there was the thing about The
Road. We'd often hatched great dreams of travelling adventures, many
times designed around some artistic notion or endeavour or event but
mainly just for the fun of it.
Thus is was that we started our first
little trips together. It worked out that buying a decent older
large campervan with a view to re-selling later on, or maybe giving
it to B at The End, was going to be smarter than hiring. And then
you can have fun with fitout. Ours had an annexe attachment too, so
there was a whole extra canvas room where B would usually sleep,
unless he slept out under the stars, which happened a lot as we
chased fair skies whenever possible. The first shakedown trip was a
blast, all full of laughter and giggles and good weather – and
enough space for he and I to properly see how well I was able to
manage this and that, to adjust to a new relationship reality. For as
much as we were equal friends, there was always underneath the issue
to be settled, of transactions. He was driver, and in a large way
carer. Contributed no money. I covered our costs and was
essentially looked after. Decisions were mainly mine, based on where
I wanted to go and how much travel I could manage on any given day.
It took time for it all to be OK, for the power dynamics to go away.
For us to feel out and accept the unseen edges, those things that
need to go unspoken so often; like exactly how much monetary freedom
there was, and wasn't, when it was only one of us doing the paying.
Forests and beaches and the wonderful
nostalgia of sitting in a sidewalk cafe, the two of us as of old, in
what amounts to eccentric dress and style most everywhere we go,
especially when I have my coffee in a “small jug, double shot
espresso, a dash of cold milk” through my feeding tube. All those
years spent idling, 'contributing culture' as we liked to say, in a
cosmopolitan port city, now writ small and a little gentler, but no
less close and alive, in small towns along the way. Parking the van
in a fine quiet spot in the bush nice and early, making a fire and
not talking until tomorrow, as the stars come out and wheel about.
Driving down “that road there” because it looks like it might be
a more fun way to get close to our originally intended daily
destination. Some days not having one at all. After all, at every
moment, for me at least and often poignantly for B I'm sure as well
was the underlying knowledge that this would likely be my last
time here. My last time anywhere, even.
Right at the outset, I had laid it out:
my illness might rear up and suddenly make me very ill, threatening
to kill me, and possibly doing so in a quickish fashion. That was
fine by B, naturally, in theory. But what to do in such a moment? I
had to be explicit, to feel safe. If it was a case of creeping
'unwellness' then we'd manage it in real-time, and head homewards if
possible. Hospitals were to be a very last resort. In all other
cases, there was to be no panic, and no resuscitation. I may for
example begin to choke on my own secretions and be unable to clear
them. It would be ugly to watch me drown, but there it is. One of
the whole deep meanings of our travels for me was to live out the
dream of “at any moment,” and to walk a meditation on “in any
place.” B needed to be OK that he might have me die on him at some
point. Typically, he allowed that he might do the same. Snap.
Philosophical intent notwithstanding, we had forged through the years
a most loyal trust, and with this sprinkling of sunlight, this little
explicit commentary, it was recharged and avowed afresh. He would be
my friend as I died too, and I his, if it came to that. We would
allow each other choices that included not being 'saved'.
We used to be such talkers. Then as my
speech got harder and harder and eventually all but disappeared, we
fell more and more silent together. B was still happy to ramble and
be heard on whatever topic took his fancy, especially when he'd had a
toke at the end of a day's driving, and I was happy to listen and nod
and enjoy. It rather polished my own habits of speech really, the
difficulty of it. Timing was impossible, so I became a speaker
(using my text-to-speech program on my smartphone mainly) of
one-liners. Zen-like utterances. Pithy witticisms. Such speech
tends towards the surreal, really, and after a time it became a habit
of the mind, to think in shorthand as well. That's what led to me
one day mentioning, as we drove, that “An accidental demise would
be just so much neater, all things considered.” I watched B's face
as he took this in, his eyes ahead on the road, poker face in place.
I caught just the slightest micro-flash of twinkle before he abruptly
and expertly flinched at the wheel, wobbling our van alarmingly for a
moment, then bestowed upon me his beamiest and most mischievous,
loving smile. It said “I'm with you, brother. I get it.” The
details we once would have chatted about, back-and-forth, for hours,
enumerating all the practical, emotional, personal, omenological …
any and all the reasons that a sudden death would trump this
agonising lingering that had become my life, and just as importantly,
defined so much of the lives of others. One other in particular. Oh,
the relief to know that she is free of the attrition at last.
The wind blew quite hard last night for
an hour or two, enough to polish the top layer of dust around the
campsite and remove all yesterday's foot prints and scratching, if
not the tyre tracks. So what an observer from up here would see,
surveying the scene from above, is very little, in terms of clues.
Footsteps fro the van to the fire and back, a few times. A dead-end
trail to the edge of the scrub, still the odd droplet splashmark at
the end of it, under the shrubs, if you were to look closely. And
two sets of footprints only leading from the fire to the edge of the
gorge; one of which of course is B's.
He squats on his haunches, curling in
upon himself a little, sobbing gently now. Again I am keenly aware
of just how much I feel for him right now, feelings clearer and
stronger than those I had only yesterday, when I and my body were all
of a piece. The hurt is profound, and I am sorry. I feel no
remorse, I am not sorry for what has happened, but I am sorry for B's
pain. I wonder if I will see her again now. I do not feel
pain for her. Perhaps because this is not yet real for her.
It's right there, right up close in his
face, you can see the lines and ridges reflected in his glasses.
Stands up at length, stretches a little, wipes his eyes and drops his
hands heavily to his sides. B looks out and up, far away, then his
gaze slowly, slowly lowers. From the horizon, the opposite side of
the gorge, down through the strata of fossil layers, back in time,
playing along the sparkling kinks and bends of the river, down to his
feet. He breathes in slowly, deeply, knowing he is not thinking this
all through properly, but that it doesn't matter, this is right.
Breathes out. You can see the tingle of fate about him, you know this
is one of those moments where lives turn and gyre into their new
directions. Watches himself as if from above, as if from where I am,
pushing one foot forward. Shuffles it out to the side, and then in
one-two sweeping motion erases the five letters written there in the
sand with a stick, in clear hand, only very recently: “I fell.”
You can help me with the cost of my natural burial here, if you wish. Thanks.
You know, no matter how far away i am told he is, i always check behind doors expecting him to be there.. and inside the odd wardrobe.. then he other times he just appears and scares the shit out of me.
ReplyDeleteThis is a beautiful story, I am so grateful you shared it. Some things need many forms of honouring... and understanding the power of holding them in words is a wonderful gift indeed.
with the big Love
A.Joy
A beautiful piece of writing. Thank you so much for sharing. x
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