Invisible Ink We Sink…

11 Jul

I remember as a child, I used to sit in the porch – close the door behind me to the middle-room and just be – in that space that smelled of slate, beeswax and snail mucus (I didn’t know if it was that, but I imagined that the silvery trails had a smell).  Late afternoons seemed always to pour orange light through the glass panels of the door.  Nearly always, this acted as my Narnia – opening out into a secret garden – like Ferngully – there were no white witches, no Aslan, no moth-balls or snow.

Cracking open the pod of a fresh bud on a tendril poking through between the paving- slabs, it oozed jellied liquid on to my hands.  Nature’s invisible ink.  Etched carefully – words and flowers – petals and bumble bees.  Vanishing as fast as the sun could bake us.  It didn’t matter, though.  I knew I had written it, my head no longer had to carry it.

Tonight she felt elegant, sleek, hot, even.  Dressed all in black – as she walked, her skirt floated and offered a chink of a charmingness that only she could carry, only anonymously.  Her low-cut vest plunged deep between her small breasts and her tanned skin created a flattering shadow that – apparently – most men found a turn-on.  She couldn’t help it – she wondered if it was her own self-conscious approach to life – but she seemed to attract some sort of magnetism from complete strangers.  At the subway stop, one guy stared just a bit too hard.

“Sorry, excuse me, do you know me or something?”  She challenged him for once.

“No, er, no…”  He continued to stare but answered her directness.

“Okay.  So please don’t stare at me, then.”  She floated past as though she were someone important – someone she idolized – a musician, an author or a theatre dancer.

All those things she dreamt of as a kid.

Apparently dreams know us better than we know ourselves.

Some evenings she would do everything to stop herself from falling asleep.  She knew it wouldn’t be long before she was back in the dark, wood-panelled cubby-room in the middle of nowhere – sliding down a shoot to a fate that she could not escape.  Old brewing jars, honey canisters and cobwebs filled the space – an old washing machine, a white cord strung from one side to the other and a scent of must mixed with red wine lingered in the air.  There were windows – greened-up like the algae on a fish-tank, shattered and distorted – but the claustrophobia that ensued gave the impression that this place was far, deep, under the ground.

The sides of the tube tunnel were metallic, slippery and there was no way in hell she would climb her way out.

Body memory stays with us in an embodied fashion – some people are better than others at covering their pain, their history and their episodic moments that have lead them to this present point.  I guess these people are maybe experts at a term that I never really knew the meaning of – until I lived it myself.

Compartmentalism.

The act of safely storing away a moment, an encounter, a part of ourselves – and shelving it on the highest, out-of-reach ledge.  We know it’s there – but, unless we suffer from obsessive traits and have the need to go back and check on it frequently; there’s no need to revisit it.

Just like the invisible aloe-ink.  Words and pictures drawn into slates.  Baked in the sun until they totally disappear.

I guess that is what drew me back here.  At the risk of sounding cliché, I always travelled with my magic pen.  So, if I stumbled across the place which felt my footsteps, as though I had never been away – over uneven, red-brick paving stones – the words, those memories would never be completely lost.  Even if we find ourselves off-course, in a place we never wrote into our own story, the tools we carry can reveal secrets to us that we’ve been forever searching for.

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One Response to “Invisible Ink We Sink…”

  1. melz82 July 11, 2012 at 9:06 pm #

    Reblogged this on influenza2011.

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