One Two Three

I saw this guy on TV once talking about how when he tried to kill himself by jumping off the Golden Gate bridge, the moment his feet left the ground, he instantly regretted it. Well, I can tell you that you will have the same reaction if you put a rope around your neck and kick the chair out beneath you because that is exactly what I just did and it hurts so much and I am flailing around like a seal — and I too wish I hadn’t just done this.

The difference between me and old-mate is he lived.

I am going to die — soon.

I made sure of that.

∞

I remember someone telling me when I was a kid what takes hours in your dreams happens in seconds in your mind. I’m don’t know about dreams, but I do know about right now, and seconds seem very long. I think they must have been right.

∞

I used to believe people when I was young: when my mind and body, light and time, were in sync. But then life became a race. Light, time, and my body were left behind when my mind ran off, trying to win, trying to get there first — the implausible trying to outrun the inevitable. Like trying to follow a bubble in a beer all the way to the top.

The mind goes faster than the body.

The body goes faster than time.

Time goes faster than light.

∞

All I ever thought I wanted was to be someone, to be something special — to be unique. An identity. And it’s almost funny to realize now that I spent my whole life running around trying to catch the bubbles instead of stopping to notice what I was.

A husband.

A father.

A son, an uncle, a nephew, a friend, a colleague.

None of this was enough. Everyone had it better. There were so many glasses and so many bubbles that it was easier just to pour another, and it didn’t matter if you lost track because you there was always another beer and another bubble and another and another and another.

It’s even funnier that after all those years of wanting an identity none of it matters anymore because from now on, I will only ever be a statistic.

A painful statistic.

Forty-something. Male. Suicide.

∞

To think I wanted people to talk about the contribution I made.

I wanted them to say the world was a better place because I was in it —

to which I know now the answer depends only on whom you asked.

I wanted everyone to talk about me enthusiastically —

yet now they will speak about me cautiously and in accordance with a style guide: ‘there were no suspicious circumstance’, ‘a spokesperson for the family said …’, ‘if this has raised concerns for you…’.

I wanted to be an outlier —

instead now I am hanging from the top of the bell curve, swaying in a breeze of standard deviation.

I wanted. I wanted. I wanted.

One hundred and twenty-three a day. One of thirty-five-thousand this year. That’s my number now.

I guess I always liked the number 9.

Never this much.

∞

Light is catching time.

There are no dreams anymore.

They’re all about to cross the finish line: light, time, body, and mind.

It’s a draw.

A photo finish.

∞

It’s my wedding day.

Photos lie, but lies tell the truth.

Bravado masks fear.

Sand, champagne — a new suit, polished shoes.

Platinum because it’s stronger than gold Babe — just like us, I said.

I am scared; scared I can’t live up to what it means to be a man. To be a husband. To be a lover. Afraid I don’t know even know what these things mean. The other men are making jokes — bad jokes, dick jokes, wife jokes.

Now, remember, the first time you do the washing, throw in a red sock …

The scared ones are laughing the most.

Her friends tell me how lucky I am. My friends tell me the same.

Here she comes. She is beautiful. She is late. She is pregnant.

It’s OK, babe, I’m scared too. But we’re in this together. I love you.

I …

My mind won’t let me think the words I can’t say.

And besides, it would be an insult now.

∞

It is the afternoon.

I am sitting on my own at the end of a pier, fishing — but there are no fish.

The sun is low and warm on my face, and the breeze is soft from behind the trees on the far bank of the estuary.

I am peeling shrimp; their flesh is taut and salty — it tears between my teeth.

The juice tastes like blood as it runs down my chin.

I squeeze the tails between my thumb and finger then suck out the last meat before I throw the tails and wipe my hands on my shorts. I look down. My feet dangle over the edge — above the silent shallows.

Sand-clouds, undulating ripples of flesh — a stingray.

He seems cautious.

He must have been watching me for some time, but the surface is the border between our worlds. I guess this makes him feel safe. He hovers over a shell then retreats before returning again, slowly. This time the shells disappear inside of him — like a flying saucer. He hovers over the other shells until they disappear, slowly, one-by-one.

I have already chosen to not stop before I have even started.

I am feeding him now, not just scraps — this time a whole prawn.

He looks at me again. If this is trust, he is weary. I think he knows, but his eyes are forgiving. Maybe this is what hope looks like. Maybe he can see inside me what I choose to ignore — like the weariness I ignore in his.

Betrayal cannot exist without trust.

Planning to be sorry.

Watching your actions in a slow-motion replay.

Ignoring foresight.

Regretting hindsight.

I don’t want to do it. There is no good reason, but at every point I don’t stop myself. I keep going. My body can’t catch my mind. Time can’t catch my body. Light cannot catch time.

I put a hook into a prawn. I cast out and land it right in front of him.

He takes the hook and I know what I’ve done is wrong but it is too late. My line unspools as he flies away under the water to the safety of where he cannot be seen.

The hook is deep inside him and it will be there till he dies.

Never to trust again.

∞

No more breaths. I am wrapped in a barbed-wire blanket.

∞

Time is catching body.

I am holding my son, he is only seconds old. Light, time, body, and mind have collided into a new life. He is an anchor but has no weight. He smells antibiotic; his head is contorted, puffy eyes, swollen lips, red testicles — bloated and waxed. He is perfect, but not perfection. I smile, but I am scared.

Hold him to your skin, they say. It’s important for him to feel you too — it will make him feel safe.

He can’t see. I have to look for him. I have to listen for him.

I have to protect him.

From what?

Betrayal?

It is Christmas morning. Wrapping paper floors and chocolate breakfasts.

A new bike. A new, bright-red, shiny bike.

Look, Dad. Look how fast I can go.

Be careful. You need to slow down. You need to learn how to stop.

We ride down to an empty shopping-mall carpark. It is flat and safe, and no-one is here because they’re all at home rolling the Christmas day dice. We ride in-and-out of the lines; we dodge and weave.

Woohoo, he screams, his little legs pedaling as fast as they can.

The whole time I am petrified, praying he stays upright. There is an umbilical cord between us. When he falls, I fall. When his bottom lip quivers, my heart stalls. He is fearless because I am scared for him.

Blood flows back to the heart.

I wonder if trust is finite, like sandstone cliffs: breaking down as they’re weathered and eroded by broken promises and disappointment until, one day, they’re just sand.

Hey Mum, you should have seen me — Dad showed me how to stop.

∞

I don’t remember not being held.

I don’t remember blame. I don’t remember Christmas and the fights and the drunk, and I don’t remember that Santa really doesn’t come to bad children, and I don’t remember that there are two ways of doing everything — the right way, and my way.

This is what I used to remember.

Now I only remember what I won’t forget — and that is that they looked for me, they listened for me — and from now on they will keep looking for me and listening for me, but they won’t find me, and I won’t be able to say what I don’t remember and I can’t say what I won’t forget.

I left no note. No sound, no song. A silent quaver.

Guilt is a weapon.

∞

Body is catching mind.

∞

I am Dancing. There is Music.

Sound is light: slow light, light at the end of the spectrum.

Time is rhythm.

I am on stage with the band. My body and mind are dancing, coming together, holding each other in a sensual embrace. My fingers don’t need to be told because they know what to do. There is no distance between my mind and my hands. The connection is faster than light, faster than time. The lights are bright, shining in my eyes.

Sex is dancing.

Sex is music.

Sex is light.

I run my fingers over her neck, her frets, her strings, her bridge. She responds in syncopated breaths. It is my first time. It is the last time. It is every time in between.

∞

There is no time anymore; no light, no sound, nobody, no mind.

Only smell and taste.

An oyster.

Nag champa.

Chocolate, red wine, pussy, tarragon, cocaine, Pernod.

Truffle, old-spice, 4–7–11, bepanthen, bergamot, jasmine, black pudding.

Peppermint, toast, bacon, thyme, vinegar — shit.

∞

The finish line.

I am still.

It doesn’t hurt anymore. If I could, I would choose pain.