The Maniac.

Dear Universe,

Forgive me for I have sinned. It’s been 34 years since my last confession (assuming that I came clean just after emerging from my mother’s womb) and I can’t keep it to myself any longer.

I have raised a blood thirsty murderer, a crazy killer who plays games with his pray and tortures them for hours. It all started so innocently: first it was a cockroach that I thought he’d caught in the house. I was proud of him for keeping the pest at bay and patted him on the head like a good boy. This spurred him on and a couple of days later it was a gecko in his mouth. As time past the frequency with which he brought similar bugs home became closer and closer together, and although these specimens satisfied him for awhile I came home one day to find a mangled chameleon lying shattered at my front door. Since his head was missing I couldn’t find out for sure if my suspicions were correct and I chose to turn a blind eye Universe. I am a mother after all. I didn’t last long though. One night I came home to find him lying in the lounge with a mouse in his mouth looking utterly pleased and somewhat hungry. Then a dove that he must have poached out of a tree.


Oh Universe, what am I to do?? How do I stop this path of destruction that has opened up under my roof? How do I convey my condolences to the small furry creatures that live in my neighbourhood? How do I warn them of his crazed obsession with anything that moves quickly or scuttles about? Besides, his disguise is top notch: a black coat that covers his whole body. An unmatched agility and a fondness for climbing trees at night. What will he bring home next Universe? A squirrel? A poodle for God's sake??

Dear Universe, have mercy on the animals in my neighbourhood. Let them sleep with one eye open and tell them that Swarties the Siamese has moved in. They need to watch their backs because if he finds them… Oh if he finds them Universe, the games will go on for hours.

The Tortoise and the Hare

I jog for my sanity. It makes the vacant space in my head lessen for just enough time to figure out what I’m supposed to do on said day. Soon after the jog the veil comes down again and I turn into The Vacant Lot of Nothingness, but for that one hour I have some vision. (It’s a small window, but enough for now.)

I run along the beach front, and faces become familiar after a couple of weeks: the anorexics, fatties, rugby players, professional runners, the gaggle of older woman. Mostly they're white people. There are black people who also run, but they’re usually in work clothes and trying to actually get somewhere quickly instead of just running for the sake of it, or to lose weight or the like. Some people walk their dogs, others sit on benches staring out over the sea. There’s a girl who jogs past me every single day with her dog tied around her waist and gum in her mouth. (Surely that’s a health risk?) A couple of perverts roam around, bums litter the tarmac.

Frilly Broekies (pants) is my favourite. She must be in her late forties and she runs every day. She runs far, I’ve tried to establish the length of her route but it’s much longer than I’m prepared to go and so it remains a mystery. Her outfit begets the name: a strappy little black top with matching black frilly broekies that just cover everything it’s supposed to. Her hair is a matching black bob, her eyes dark to boot. Her pants are incongruous with her age though and so she always stands out when she comes past. I never miss her.

My nemesis is a man we'll call The Destroyer.  He's there at the same time as I am and so we compete.  Most days he wins, but not for long my friends.  I'm planning on taking him out.  Just because he's eighty doesn't mean I should give him some kind of special treatment, not where I come from.  I run like a maniac and then walk till I catch my breath, at which point I start running like mad again. The Destroyer keeps a steady pace but just keeps going and going and going, and so I will overtake him with speed when I’m running but sure as fuck, after a bit of walking there he will be, passing me again, driving me to drink. He's a machine I tell you.  He never stops, but just you wait Mr Destroyer, just you wait...

Back to front.

Life happens. I get distracted. I stop writing. I spend a lot of time worrying about the future. What work will I do, where will the money come from. I forget to focus on the things that feed me, I find it harder and harder to concentrate. “Ifs” and “whens” start to rule my life. I'm back in the corridor, waiting for life to happen. I yearn for the emptiness of travel, the immediacy of the moment. I'm Alice caught behind the mirror again and find myself peering through it to see the vague reflection of another world on the other side.

I have settled on this side of the mirror for now. I have a home, I’ve unpacked my life. Where I was always eager to write about my travels whilst I was away I’m now impatient to get it done so I can move on to the next thing. My life slowly becomes a trance again, one which I will continuously try to escape from, mostly without luck. My head becomes filled with empty space, cotton wool. Words escape me. My shopping lists get longer as I spend more and more time at home. I am restless, lonely. I read too much into what other people say and talk my mouth off when I see them, which is rare. I have settled.

Could there be anything less rewarding?

Vacancy

I’m having a Blank Stare day. Maybe you know this one.


Wake up and feed the cats: blank stare. Go for a run: blank stare. Sit down behind my computer: blank stare. Make some tea: blank stare. Really, really try to work: blank stare. Drive to the shops, pick up some stuff, run some errands: blank stare. I win the lottery on tv and the presenter says: “So Alice, tell our viewers how you feel!” Blank stare. Walk, sit down. Blank stare. Blank stare. Write. Blank stare.

I am one with the blank stare.  I go deeper into the blank stare.

My brain is a marshmallow.
I am an empty vessel people.

Focus.

Consciously fill you life with meaning everyday.

If you don't, someone else will fill it with nonsense.

Dear Lovelies,

Apologies for the silence. 
Alice is writing her fingerprints off on another project and fantasizes about writing her blog at night when she gets falls into bed.

I'll be back Captain, I'll be back!