Nescio (6)

NESCIO (6)

The sister and brother, once close to another, were now separated by geography and time. Politely brought up, if stuck in a corner, they'd both say they felt fine.

But, the prickly priestess,
Though partially blind,
Saw through their facade
And it troubled her mind.

Her home was a mess: full of clutter and memories. She housed millions of testimonies of those who had visited her and begged know of their fate, then bequeathed her their property when they found it too late to atone for their past and recover their future.

She hitched up her knickers and located the step-ladder.

In the attic she found what she'd been searching for: she crept down the step-ladder and closed the loft door.

Well. As far as she could see (limited, certainly) the brother was settled: sort of happily. But the sister, she continued to roam, always alone and in search of a home.

'The child needs love', the priestess decreed. Then she got out her culdren, began cooking with speed.

I give you the gift
Of a love unconditional.
The caveat:
It can't be eternal.

She decided she deserved a bottle of wine to celebrate her act of good will.

Nescio (5)

NESCIO (5)

The priestess - the oracle - woke in a rage. 

She'd abstained from the bottle for what seemed like an age.  (At least forty-eight hours since she'd cracked open a wine and, so long as she slept, she sort of felt fine.)

But, she ached when she stood and was now pissing blood. Her ankles and belly were swollen. She cursed those idiot gods, for it was they who had stolen her beauty and youth.

And, for what?

(Long time ago, she had struck a deal. Foresee the future, but, cease to feel. The deal she'd cut had long lost its appeal.)

And, so, the brother and sister - so close to each other - began to play on her mind. (She'd negotiated prescience in place of being kind but now, starkly horribly, she saw her mistake. It's clever to be able to speak the future, but you should never lose sight of what's at stake: the tragedy of living in the present.)

She began to devise a plan. She would dare to intervene. The gods were known to be vengeful (and the priestess was prone to being forgetful) but, if she could just keep her eye on the ball perhaps, then, she could still save them all . . .

She prised opened a can of alcohol-free beer with her teeth.

Nescio (4)

NESCIO (4)

Many years passed by; all in all, happily.

The brother, he married - quite successfully. He worked in the City and adopted a cat. He ran a good car and bought a nice flat. 

He was a gentle man, no question of that. No streak of violence except - perhaps - his hideous silence that chilled to the bone. He was happiest when he was left on his own. 

The daughter left home as soon as she could. Afraid of the prospect of womanhood, she developed a strategy. Call it a ploy. She starved her body and looked like a boy. She kept her black hair cut short. 

The daughter, however, desired to roam - the same boredom-gene that had made her leave home. Seduced by a longing for wanderlust. For years, she roamed forests and deserts of dust.

(The grass will be greener on the other side, she muttered as she walked.)

She climbed backwards up mountains. She swam against the tide. She hitch-hiked the world always riding beside lonely old men, who were weary and tired. 

She was happy to sit there and chatter. She'd learned young how to cajole and flatter.

In the meantime, the earth went on spinning on its axis and the priestess - for the record -  took to growing amaryllis. As each scarlet trumpet withered and died, she bit off the bloom and sentimentally sighed. In moments of clarity, sobered by sanity, she conquered her pride and her terrible vanity. 

She thought of the children, the sister and brother - the sister and brother so close to each other - who had risked an adventure and ventured to see her.

Despite her best intentions, they had made her feel maternal. Was her prophesy right; were they really damned eternal?

She liked herself better when she hoped this was not the case.

Nescio (3)

NESCIO (3)

Many years went passed: all in all, happily. The father was gone; he'd decided to flee from the family home, from his kids and his wife. He had married another and found a new life.

And, though, in their dreams they recalled the priestess - partially dressed, with her hair in a mess; with her hair all tied up in bracken and moss, the priestess who, frankly, could not give a toss - they began to forget what she said she could see, they began to lose faith in her bleak prophecy. For, how could the son commit patricide when the father himself had decided to hide?

And, then, the mother took a lover.

The sister and brother stay close to each other, they learn to depend on - rely on - each other.

But, the sun clouded over, the birds ceased their song. Earth turned to ash. The world had gone wrong.

Such was their fate.

It was the sister (the younger) who said to her brother: 'I must consult with the priestess'.

The brother (the older) agreed that was best.

They set off for the place where the priestess hung out. Where the wind rattled madly and trash blew about. Where rats ran unheeded dogs wailed their lament below brutalist towers of modernist cement.

They arrived there quite late.

The priestess regarded them, rose from her bed. (She'd downed a good white and uncorked a good red). 'You', she said.

'Yes.'

'And what, my sweet children, do you want to know now?' Her armpits were sweating, as well as her brow.

'Should we hope for much less or pray for much more? Please tell us, oh Priestess, just what is the score?'

The priestess began to pluck hairs from her chin. She drew kohl round her eyes and lipsticked a grin. She spotted her cheeks with a finger of pink. Then, pulled down her knickers and pissed in the sink.

She said:

'You can run but you can't hide. You know you're obliged to follow the tide. The brother will yield and take his bride. The sister will marry though she chokes on her pride.

'The alternative: loneliness. Only you can decide.'

Nescio (2)

NESCIO (2)

We sat at the feet of princes and kings and begged that they tell of the world, and its things. But, their eyes soon grew dim and their words quick grew faint; the woodfire flickered and spat in its grate. Sentimental, nostalgic: it was getting too late. We turned out the lights as we left.

But, there was one: an old queen. He had nothing to say except, 'talk to the priestess. She'll show you the way. Though her sight is nocturnal (she's blind to the day) she'll foretell what the fates have decreed you'.

We found her asleep; her bed was a mess. The mattess was straw. She was partially dressed. Her hair was all tangled with bracken and moss. She opened one eye, said: 'I don't give a toss why you're here but, given you're wasting my time. just pass me that bottle. I'll pour me some wine'.

The wine worked its wonders; she soon came to life. She said, 'I fancy some cheese. Pass the butter-knife please. I fancy some gherkins, some mayo and bread. While you're at it, you couldn't just uncork a red?'

The priestess then added (her mouth full of food), 'now, ask me your question. I'm in a good mood'. 

We glance at each other - so close to each other - there is nothing so special as sister and brother. We glance at each other. He takes hold of my hand. And, though he is older, I soon understand. It is me who must speak with the witch.

'Please tell me, oh priestess, just what is in store? Should we pray for much less, or hope for much more? And, what of our parents; just what are they for?' My brother is silent, his eye on the door.

The priestess adjusts her breasts in her bra; repositions its strap on her shoulder. The sun has begun to rise in the East. She is looking decidedly older.

She said:

'The brother and father will kill one another, but, it ain't up to me to say how. Nor is it my job to advise in which order but please note these words about mother and daugher. The former will start to depend on the latter. She'll demand from her child things I'm not sure she oughta.

'Stay children as long as you can.'

Nescio (1)

NESCIO (1)

She said:

The long and the short of it

Haven't a clue.

When all's said and done

I don't know what I do.

I haven't a clue

What it is that I mean.

Don't know where I'm going
Forget where I've been.

Fractional Posts - Nescio (I Don't Know)

Nescio (I Don't Know)

Nescio's 'freeloader', Japi, wrote notes on his wall

Dammit

Dammit

Dammit

Dammit

Dammit

Dammit

All right then

Before he walked off a bridge; inevitable death.

Was he talking to God 

Or just to himself?

from: Nescio, 2012, Amsterdam Stories, p33

Fractional Posts - An Atheist In A Bolt-Hole

AN ATHEIST IN A BOLT-HOLE

She rang me to tell me about the Vicar.
His sermon-words that so bewitched her.
He said, she said, apparently:
You'll never find an atheist in a fox-hole.

Indeed.

You'll find him in front of the firing squad.
You'll find him in front of the tanks.
You'll find him protesting,
Outraged and restless
Aimlessly firing blanks.

The humanist: him
With persuasive reason.

And, then.

You'll find him dying in a hospital bed
Waving the chaplain away.
Reduced to nothing
Skin and bone rotting
With little much left to say

Except: help me, please.

But, it's not God
He's talking to.

Fractional Posts - Writing Life (Partially)

WRITING LIFE (PARTIALLY)

The father fell out
Of love with the mother.
And, soon, declared
Marry another.

The mother broken.
Too much heart
Left her bitter.

Refused to get over
The fact.
He'd quit her.

A veritable show
Of power.

Fractional Posts - David Levinthal

DAVID LEVINTHAL

Remember David Levinthal's 'American Beauties'?

When visiting my mother
Was pleased to discover
The artist's latest work
Reproduced on a paper napkin.

Fractional Posts - Dans Le Sac

DANS LE SAC

Fractional Posts - Clay Head

CLAY HEAD

Fractional Posts - Arret (Stop)

ARRET (STOP)

Last year, a fractional colleague and friend of mine died.

When diagnosed with lung cancer, she was given six months to live.

You'd think, given the deadline, her friends would have dedicated their free time to her remaining time.

But, it seems, the full-on full-time nature of our lives prevented this from happening.

When she died, I hadn't seen her in months.

Fractional Posts - Wired

WIRED

When the boundaries have been breached, reinforce the hole with a new piece of wire; like papering over the cracks.

A fraction will do.

I, for one, always carry a pair of pink-handled wire-cutters with me. (Trespassing is my pastime.)

But, most people don't.