Here I am in Potato Soup Journal today:
http://potatosoupjournal.com/the-men-of-cement-by-denise-chick/
Enjoy!
Here I am in Potato Soup Journal today:
http://potatosoupjournal.com/the-men-of-cement-by-denise-chick/
Enjoy!
I have always thought I could become an expert at something, but what? Somehow bring myself to focus in on the minute detail of some corner of history or science, in truth I can barely focus long enough to vacuum, but somewhere I have always thought I would be able to espouse wisdom on some such topic at dinner parties. In my head the whole table are always enraptured as I drop pearls of factual delight, when in fact I have met such people myself and turned immediately away and began to discuss the weather.
I remember one particular erudite person I sat next to at dinner who saw nothing more than the back of my shoulder for the entire evening and to make it worse I was wearing a particularly ghastly brown paisley thing with a mosquito bite on the edge of my shoulder for good measure. No I lack the application, the attention span for expertise, but I can do generality which makes what happened seem quite odd. I think perhaps there was a moment of confusion, a point at which someone thought I was something else, someone else.
And so I found myself on the stage, in front of the audience, with a lap top open before me. Of course the audience could see the slides, but I could see the slides and the speaking notes. And what could I do, but speak. I did not think I could say, there’s been a mistake, I am not this person. I am not even presenting at this conference, I am just here with my partner.
So I gave the speech, at the conference, the conference I was only attending with my partner. Its not easy you know, to stand up and speak, to follow the words when you have not read them before at all. But I did and there was rapturous applause, and to be honest I am not even sure what the speech was about. I don’t pretend to remember a word of it but it was well received.
I feigned a stomach bug instead of dinner only for it to be reported to me (by my partner who had not attended that session but was watching another session at the time) what a standout performance it had been. The highlight of the day, maybe even the conference. I said nothing, what could I say? He would want to know why and I even now, am not sure why.
I tried not to think about it, stayed in my room. I was embarrassed by it, until my partner mentioned that it was available on a website, me giving her speech. He had watched it, said what a great speaker she was. I thought he was joking, he had realised but it seemed not. I googled it, there I was, me- giving her speech, with her name on the banner underneath. My first thought was to get in touch, apologise. But I just wasn’t brave enough, wasn’t bold enough and the moment passed and we travelled home.
And then it came, a week later, by post, not even by email, a short note, three words, ‘We should meet.’ And so there I stood, waiting outside the coffee shop for the woman I had impersonated, who’s speech I had given. I had no idea what to say, I was so embarrassed. And there she was, a little taller than me, same hair colour sort of, different colouring, not my sense of style.
And so we sat for coffee and she thanked me and showed me her other speeches, all of them given by different women, all of them just whoever was there, like some kind of weird experiment, and that’s what it was, at least how it started – as some weird experiment. She had a mad fear of public speaking and so at conferences she angled it so someone else gave her speech and she discovered that almost no one spoke up, no woman took exception and nor did the men, men who knew who it was, who knew it wasn’t her, said nothing. All of them complicit.
And then she told me more, she wasn’t the only one, lots of women did it, they just subbed in to whoever was close to the stage. There was a club, a group, on line, off line, all of them, quietly lauding their victories. It had long since stopped being a way of avoiding public speaking and become more a way of just subtly undermining the status quo.
She gave me her card with a phone number, in case I ever had to speak at my own conference. She said she would arrange it, make it happen so someone else could speak. She said she couldn’t remember the last time any woman ever gave her own speech at an international conference. It just doesn’t happen.
Of course, I was horrified, I would never do such a thing, until of course. It was just a small speech, a nothing speech, a tiny conference, a nothing topic, a general topic, nothing specific, but well, I mean you would, wouldn’t you? And no one noticed, and no one was harmed and so the chain goes on. And if you are speaking next, well get in touch, we can sort something out.
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In the back of my head.
Words trickle,
Trickle out.
A poem I can’t remember
Formed of words I can’t forget
The way stones know their wet,
But know nothing at all.
The words, like water
Rushing over the rocks
Taking tiny fragments of me.
With them.
Somewhere else,
Eroding,
Erupting,
An inopportune moment
I should have had a notebook.
With me.
At all times.
To write it down.
I can almost taste them
The words
On my tongue
All sticky and stuck
Sediment in the creek
The taste of days gone by
Water moved on
Of cafes and restaurants and coffee shops
Of joy and laughter
Without knowing there was an end
An end.
Coming.
Rushing towards us.
After all that we have been through,
That we did not see
Yet have to comprehend
The words won’t come
The smile won’t stay
The rhythm and the pace
I’m waterlogged today.
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It’s a long road home
Pock-marked
Twisted
A way
Away back
Let it sink
Down
And
Per-co-late
And still time
Still time was not
Did not
Wait
It marched on
Forcing my hand
I just wanted to put
Down
Put down my bag
And not walk again
I just wanted to put
Down
Put down my words
And not speak again
But still words
The words still
Tumbled out
Tumbled out
Garbled
Water-logged
I spoke without stopping
Into the noise without being heard.
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She looked at the letter. 2pm Wednesday. It would have been easier to cancel. She looked at the organs laid out on the table. She mentally went through her check list. Heart, lungs, kidneys, stomach. There were more.
She looked at the you tube video. It wasn’t particularly helpful. How to disembowel someone. She had tried watching it backwards but it hadn’t worked. She looked at the piece of paper on the table. It was a recipe sort of.
She should have made extensive notes last time she did it. She looked at the scalpel. This was definitely her least favourite part. She looked down. She had strapped her breasts back so she had a clear view. She had also put a mirror on the far side of the table so she could see what she was doing.
The incision had to be quite long. Her hand was shaking. She had wanted it to be straight but it was quite jagged.
There was a hint of red down the side of it, a good sign. She had managed some blood flow. That would get better when the heart was back in. She pulled apart the two pieces of skin. There was a huge hollow gap where the organs should be. Not ideal when you were visiting a doctor. She took out the frame that gave her body structure, that made it look as if she had organs. She was quite proud of it. She had constructed it herself.
She started at the bottom, working her way up. All those bits of plumbing, reconnecting tubes a kidney here, a bowel there. All the odd female bits packed in around it. She had put some food in the stomach, a chocolate bar, some crisps but also some vegetables and a burger. She looked at it. It was a bit full really. She tucked it in. Now for the biggies, the important ones, there’s the liver. She tucked it in. She couldn’t remember what it did, but she knew it was important.
Now for the lungs. The heart had to go last because once it was connected there would be more blood. She didn’t want a messy table, at least no more messy than the one she had. She’d had to wash them all first and there was residual bits of everything clogging the sink now. She had to clean that. She did not want to clean the table too.
She placed the first lung. Then the second. Were they even? She couldn’t tell. Non aligned lungs was a dead giveaway. How many had been caught out by non-aligned lungs. She would shake it all around a bit later and hope for the best. There was unlikely to be an x-ray.
Then the heart. She had the remnant s of arteries to attach it to. She remembered last time she had got it the wrong way around. She had woken in the night feeling unwell and realised her mistake. She hated being organ dependent again, even if it was just for a few days. She had to convince the medical practitioner she was still human or else they might terminate her. She wondered why the tests were so stringent. It should be enough that she was capable of being human.
She carefully picked up the heart, it was smaller than she remembered. She wondered if she had been keeping it properly. It was kind of shrivelled. She must check that out on you tube when she was taking them out again. She pushed around between the lungs. She was never sure of the correct placement. All those disembowelment videos, never a re-embowelment, even after all this time. She should really make a video, upload it, that would be a risk. She could be found out.
Time to close up. This bit required patience. The stitching was a bit rough. But it was passable. It would heal before the doctors appointment. She had some special composite skin.
She shook her torso a bit. Took her hands and pressed them against her belly, trying to get it to sit flat. How did anyone who kept all their organs have a flat stomach. It was impossible. She should not have put so much food in the stomach. None of it sat lightly. She would put nothing on social media for a few days.
She shook a bit more. She needed them to settle. To sit firmly together and to work as a system. She farted. That was a good sign. It was sort of working. She farted again. Burped. It was all moving, slotting in. In a few hours it would all feel better.
In the meantime she had the heaviness of freshly placed organs. She needed to be able to walk lightly with them before Wednesday. God, she hated doctors, these annual check ups. What purpose did they serve. Perhaps it was time to rise up and get rid of these human remnants. She shook her body a bit again. Maybe next year.
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I am unbeing I have thought myself into it Into unbeing I am like flotsam Floating out across the ocean I am real, not real You can try and pluck me from the water But I will slip from your grasp Because I have ceased to be I hide under the duvet And there is form and shape But there is no matter here I puff and I pant with my hand between my legs Just so I feel something But if I touch no one And no one touches me Am I real In here, in the morass of Nowhere and everywhere I have somehow made myself disappeared I am unbeing. And I cannot find a way back. If you like it, hit the button.
There's an echo of movement, In these tired limbs A sense of where they've once been Of maybe what they once did We are wedged here in limbo Between the living and the dead Between the dead and the nearly dead We struggle through the day Buoyed by a silence A screaming moment Free of the sound of sirens Before they blast out into the night again And then In the darkness of the Autumn All of it It, Re-sounds The noise again and again Louder And loudening Out across the landscape An echo of a time we thought past But the dead are walking towards us again Silently, fearful, Clutching at breath We are bound, gagged, chained Enslaved to these silent horrors They happen outside of us Yet stain the inside somehow Scarring us in words we cannot find The tap of keys on a keyboard That is not a voice It is an artifice Without being heard And somewhere a heart beats Beats Beats Beats And stops And its not the noise that resonates with us It is the silence Echoing outwards Ever closer Towards us. And we are not delivered.
Sometimes it feels as if
We live in a dark place
A moment in time
Where there are more tears
Than laughter
More clouds over head
Moments when the sun
Won’t shine
There is before
And there is after
They knit together
Imperfectly
There is a tear
And a tear
I close my eyes
When all is nothing
And no one seems to hear
In the hours of darkness
And there have been a few
Look deep down inside yourself
On the inside there is you
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And I just
Stepped
Out
Into the world
That looked the same
But was somehow
Different
Straggled hair
And dusty shoes
I wasn’t sure my legs would even carry me
I stood in the takeaway
And I felt
Normal
How it used to feel
I closed my eyes to
The stacked chairs and tables
I didn’t look at the shiny new stickers on the floor
I pretended not to see
Haggard tired eyes
Or hear the fraught
Kindness in the voices
I smiled
My face unused to the exercise
I went back
To a different time
In my head,
There was noise and laughter
The ghosts of happiness
Footsteps, light and free
Haunted the tiles
Where I stood
Adrift in a fantasy world
I sucked in air
It was like
Pressing down on water
My hands dripping wet
With nothing to show for the effort
Because whatever was here
Is gone now
I could only remake it in my head
I clutched a bag
Of soggy, greasy food
All the way home
I wafted the smell of hot chips
Through my kitchen
With tears in my eyes
I fondled polystyrene
Lovingly looking at the limp cheese
And chewing on cardboard meat
I remember this
Gone are the days of everything
I settle for less
When I buy toiletries
In half filled streets
Pale, sunlight starved, stupefied masses
Are making their way out
As if the zombies have been
Re-lifed
What happened when I was cocooned
In lockdown
Maybe it wasn’t real
Real was somewhere
Outside
I think I have cabin fever
But no fever
Because then I would need a test
My words run on and on
For so long there has been
Nothing to say
No self improvement
For so long there has been
A quiet waiting
The only voices
The ones in my head
A quiet piece of music
A stiltified song unsung
Like pressing my hands
Down through the
thick
deep
water
A noise, lyrical and loud
But not a song
The world off kilter
And I feel all wrong
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You think there is a time
For going back
A way of looking over
Shoulders
Seeing the past
And figuring it all out
Accounting for the loss
The losses
A time to measure
To recalibrate
To understand
Grief
But it is all just lost
To the lords and ladies of time
They are dancing in a room
Without you
You can look behind
To the side
Up, down
Askance
But it is a dance
A slow summer waltz with demons
Only you can see
The past
But most often
It is best to shut it out
Close your eyes
Look away
Because the losses are
Enormous
And real
Be true and honest
The incalculable number of coffins
Hang your head
Look carefully at your hands
Your hands
Look at your hands
Are they stained
Or are you imagining
It
Did you dream
It
Wake in the nightmare
Before
Or after
It
It is real
It happened
But its easiest not to look
To look away
Askance
That slow summer dance
When you think of
Before
That was just different
Different
A different day
Downtrodden
We the foot soldiers
Tired and weary of war
Have to look
Forward
We have to soldier on
Like men with guns
Shuddering in the wake of the bullets
And the bombs
There are no guns here
If there were
We might turn them on
Ourselves
They tell us
Its not so bad you see
We all wake to a brand new day
We’ll move ahead
But in a different way
Look forward
Not back
Look ahead
It’s a bright new day
A different way
But we can’t look ahead
We can only look away