Helen Caulfield and the taste of amphetamines., chapter 6
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He came into my room, his blazing blue eyes absorbing the mountains of spiral notebooks from my lectures, my...odd arrangement of posters, my patchwork quilt that I made one boring as hell summer. He sat down - all edges- on my less than comfortable desk chair.
"Can I smoke?" he said, fingering softly a small tin box. It looked old and smooth as a pebble. I imagined his fingers running over it, like water over a jagged piece of glass, until it was smooth, shapeless and serene. I guess that's what a mental institution must be like. They keep you in when you are glassy, brittle until you are calm enough and you're pushed back out into the harsh reality again. My Aunt Mathilde (She was French-Canadian) was sectioned for thirty months. When she came out, she scared me and my cousin - Philippe - with tales of electroshock therapy and injections and cruel, foreboding nurses. The next day she got knocked down by a 16 wheeler. Phillipe moved back to Quebec be with her sisters and such and we never saw them again. I snapped out of my remembrance and crap, so I could talk to Elijah without crying or talking on and on and on about my goddamn life story or nothing.
"Sure." I said, opening the window slightly. I thought to myself that he would stay longer if I let him. He opened this tin and pulled out a cigarette. He let it up and inhaled the smoke slowly, I saw him savor the scent.
"So...what do you do?" he eventually said. Poor bastard didn't know what to say.
"I go to university. You?" I replied politely.
"I don't do anything. I'm just waiting." he babbled. He picked up one of my notebooks and started flicking through it. I was rather annoyed at that. He didn't even ask, he just picked it up. I was going to ask exactly what - or whom- he was waiting for. "You write poetry, huh?"
"Yeah. Want me to read some aloud?" I said, slightly snottily. "I mean, I don't have to, but I can, if you want." I said, taking the book gently from his claws. He nodded gently, letting me stutter out the words.
Danger, hold back my hair,
vomit! Executioners' table, leather straps,
like heavy guilt bind me, still as a
dead cat, an aura of formaldehyde.
Dancer, pretty pointed toes, on ancient maps,
guide me home. Beautiful compass, take my
soul fifty million miles away. Abide
with me on Sirius, dog of shining light.
Calculator, mere sheet of ill produced
silicon and solder. I am no soldier.
Anthony, hold my hand
from the grasp of this asp. Tapestry
of frizzy thoughts, cloth ears!
Scarred forehead, tell of my inner anguish,
they took the spots of rot, so metaphysical, and
removed my imagination. I am a
communist! Big Brother stole my sun and
eternal son! Tripping over their barricade from
freedom's so-called proclamation.
We talked some more afterwards and he left my room at about 2am. I was feeling really damn tired. I made myself a cup of lukewarm coffee and climbed into my bed. I couldn't get Sara out of my head. I looked up, and I could see her, not literally but you know what I mean. I actually let my hand wander and I closed my eyes.
I couldn't think what ever happened to Andy Armstrong's boy. I wasn't sure why I was thinking of that, but I couldn't help it.
"Can I smoke?" he said, fingering softly a small tin box. It looked old and smooth as a pebble. I imagined his fingers running over it, like water over a jagged piece of glass, until it was smooth, shapeless and serene. I guess that's what a mental institution must be like. They keep you in when you are glassy, brittle until you are calm enough and you're pushed back out into the harsh reality again. My Aunt Mathilde (She was French-Canadian) was sectioned for thirty months. When she came out, she scared me and my cousin - Philippe - with tales of electroshock therapy and injections and cruel, foreboding nurses. The next day she got knocked down by a 16 wheeler. Phillipe moved back to Quebec be with her sisters and such and we never saw them again. I snapped out of my remembrance and crap, so I could talk to Elijah without crying or talking on and on and on about my goddamn life story or nothing.
"Sure." I said, opening the window slightly. I thought to myself that he would stay longer if I let him. He opened this tin and pulled out a cigarette. He let it up and inhaled the smoke slowly, I saw him savor the scent.
"So...what do you do?" he eventually said. Poor bastard didn't know what to say.
"I go to university. You?" I replied politely.
"I don't do anything. I'm just waiting." he babbled. He picked up one of my notebooks and started flicking through it. I was rather annoyed at that. He didn't even ask, he just picked it up. I was going to ask exactly what - or whom- he was waiting for. "You write poetry, huh?"
"Yeah. Want me to read some aloud?" I said, slightly snottily. "I mean, I don't have to, but I can, if you want." I said, taking the book gently from his claws. He nodded gently, letting me stutter out the words.
Danger, hold back my hair,
vomit! Executioners' table, leather straps,
like heavy guilt bind me, still as a
dead cat, an aura of formaldehyde.
Dancer, pretty pointed toes, on ancient maps,
guide me home. Beautiful compass, take my
soul fifty million miles away. Abide
with me on Sirius, dog of shining light.
Calculator, mere sheet of ill produced
silicon and solder. I am no soldier.
Anthony, hold my hand
from the grasp of this asp. Tapestry
of frizzy thoughts, cloth ears!
Scarred forehead, tell of my inner anguish,
they took the spots of rot, so metaphysical, and
removed my imagination. I am a
communist! Big Brother stole my sun and
eternal son! Tripping over their barricade from
freedom's so-called proclamation.
We talked some more afterwards and he left my room at about 2am. I was feeling really damn tired. I made myself a cup of lukewarm coffee and climbed into my bed. I couldn't get Sara out of my head. I looked up, and I could see her, not literally but you know what I mean. I actually let my hand wander and I closed my eyes.
I couldn't think what ever happened to Andy Armstrong's boy. I wasn't sure why I was thinking of that, but I couldn't help it.
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