Schizophrenia by Adam Parry
Little did they know
or do they care
That there’s a civil war beneath my hair
but, no-one knows
and everyone’s dead.
In no-man’s land
the women pitch up their tents.
A HUNCH OF HAPPINESS
A hunch of happiness, shoulders level like
hungry miners about some gold.
a pyramid of heads downturned
staring at the unshirted God
entombed and pink and soft-white coal.
The N-trance by Adam Parry.
The dream therapist led him to a room with a yellow door
that he hadn’t been through before. She smiled at him as he crossed over the
door’s threshold. He had always thought she was pretty-not film star or advert pretty-she
was too old for that kind of prettiness, but the way her hennaed hair framed
her face brought a replica of her smile onto his lips.
Narelle said:
‘I’ve got to go now,’ she turned to move away.
‘Wait,’ Alan demanded, but she didn’t wait for him, she was
gone through another door and Alan was alone.
He stepped into the darkness of the room with the yellow
door that shut behind him.
A Daliesque melted clock told him in High German that it was
two o’clock . And amazed at some implausible coincidence thought it was always
two o’clock.
When he had been in Narelle’s office the grandmother clock
had told him with gold-plated, intricate hands that it was always two o’clock.
‘Well’, said Narelle in a low voice. ‘Look I don’t know
what’s stopping you dream, but I’ve read a BMJ article about past life
regression and the author e-posted me a basic technique. They’re pretty routine
and I’m sure you could pick up the techniques yourself’ – but you’re too far up
your own arse to try, she thought to herself meekly. – ‘If you’re willing we
should give it go.’
‘How much will it cost me?’
‘If you smile I’ll throw it in for free.’
‘Oh how generous of you.’
‘Alan I feel I’ve come to know you, that we’ve become
friends and…’
‘And when was the last time we drank a bottle of wine
together and I didn’t have to put up with your hand in my pocket…?
‘Oh shut up Alan do you want me to do this or not?’
‘Yes. Alright then.’
Thank the Goddess, she whispered, yet not loud enough for
Alan to hear, because he was too busy adjusting the change in his pocket.
‘What do I do?’
‘Nothing’ she did. Narelle touched a finger to his brow and
he fell fast asleep.
In the room with the yellow door in a hallucinogenic green
haze sat The Members of The Order at their consoles. Alan with the knowledge
that dreams gave knew they were The Members of The Order, but of which order he
hadn’t a clue. He presumed after a while everything would become clear.
Some sat at organic consoles, their human fingers dancing
over pulsating keys, or nodes, that wavered and sang in a high pitch each time
they were touched. Others with human-like faces talked into hanging
microphones, yet not in any human tongue:
‘Garan van nolixicanta baragze.’ It was incomprehensible to Alan who sometimes
had problems with English. The music of the consoles held more meaning for him,
it was if The Members sitting there were playing musical instruments-yet he
knew instinctively that the meaning of the consoles ran deeper than that.
Then as he listened, and the music of the consoles and the
strange language mingled and overlapped in his mind like a piece of blue in a 1000-piece
jigsaw, and like the unlocking of a door a figure appeared as entirely him as
human as himself.
‘Do you want to stay Alan? You can see what we do here,
can’t you…?’ and Alan did, this was where, or one of the places, dreams were
made. Were they really being giving an invitation to sit here at one of the
consoles-how beautiful they seemed-the figure pointed to an empty stool.
But, then a thought crept into his mind: they want you be a
tool on their stool. Fool. Fool. He couldn’t keep the thought out of his mind
like a desire suicide that wouldn’t go away. And he called out Narelle’s name,
but it seemed no-one could hear him, or if they did, no-one could understand
him.
As if reading his thoughts The Translator frowned and turned
into a very white cat. This is getting weird, Alan thought, having completely
forgotten that he was in the dream therapist’s office. She, beside him in the
office was slightly concerned by his manic, mischievous grin. (She had never
seen Alan so relaxed, so happy, and she had seen him drunk, stoned, sexually
sated and psychotic. He seemed as if he were about to levitate and a little
concerned wondered if she should bring him out of it. Then, however, she
smiled. Let him have his fun.)
The cat led Alan up the escalator from the Underground
station where The Order was housed. Alan presumed it was morning here, there
was no-one about, yet it was chilly as most mornings can be. Far from it, yet
the light, for there was no sun, seemed to come from the Underground station
and the escalator was taking him up and away from it.
The very white cat ran on ahead then stopped on the pavement
just before a bridge and the Translator’s frown appeared on the cat’s face.
Alan wasn’t sure if he should go across the bridge and before he could decide
the cat ran passed him back down the escalator. Even though Alan called the cat
back, he never did.
Alan walked in the mist that came from the river and covered
the bridge. The mist was cold on his brow(as far away Narelle kissed him on the
same place she had touched him only minutes earlier.) With the mist came a cold
wind that swept a newspaper into his face-he awoke.
For a moment he couldn’t speak, couldn’t understand where he
was and he wanted to back where he had been. In waking up he felt such a
loss-because all at once the world with Narelle and her desk, her couch and her
grandmother clock sitting around like stern chaperones (he could see in an
unused segment of his dream their atoms collide and dance) all seemed small and
insignificant to what he had lost and left behind.
As the days wore on The Dream by increments drove him mad.
He saw it’s aspects mirrored in everything, yet to him unobtainable. So, in his
greed for the lost power of The Dream, he lost all interest in life except for
what he could obtain for others. He lived in a ridiculous parody of his Dream,
and because it was only a parody and empty, it ate him alive with yearning.
As the years passed and madness turned to forgetfulness and
medicated silence one day he found himself once more back into The Dream. And
it was real, as real as any TV hallucination. Alan found himself back in the
Control Room of the Council(of Peace, this time instinctively he knew) and the
Translator appeared amidst the music and the gobbledegook.
‘Why am I here? I thought I could never return,’ his voice
as forlorn as the silence he had lived with for so long.
The Translator replied with a grin like a cat’s:
‘We’ve come to offer you one last chance.’
‘Do you mean I can stay here?’ And he stared about him at
all the wonders of The Dream, amazed once again with the Councillors with their
consoles whom he knew were as human as he, Alan. ‘Can I stay?’
‘No, not anymore Alan. You’ve stayed here too long. It is
time we set you free.’
‘Why?’ Alan said, not understanding and almost bursting into
tears like a child that never gets his own way. ‘Why?’
‘Because we love you.’
And the Translator kissed him twice on his cheeks with his
catlike grin and vanished.
With him went The Dream and from without, about him in its
place came the dream therapist’s office with Narelle holding his hand and the
grandmother clock told him it five past two already.
A future road by Adam Parry
Tall straight trees
beckons us, before us
goes our laughter
mingling with the songbird’s song.
Grass waist high
blown with our breathes.
Wild cats watch from high rocks
as we dance and play
children again
like no children have ever been.
Together your hand in mine
We go.
Oh pardon me! by Adam Parry
Oh pardon me!
the many masks of a Father, I drape myself
in an old Swastika
and never praise the Dawn, never
reach out beyond myself
to the past I'll always
belong.
Oh pardon me
this gift-less Father
as he falls featherlight
into dreams
I went out in a rainstorm, I made my way looking like something other down my usual route laughing at the rain as if it where a friend that shared an in-joke. On the way back home though I sheltered under a pear tree half hoping someone I knew would pass by, I thought of my car friend I hadn't seen for years since I declined a lift she offered. Cindy where are you now when I need you? But obviously she didn't drive by, the road was a river and the rain dripped through the umbrella of my pear tree.
I waited just in case.
Later the last time I saw her I mentioned how she had been missed and ranted on a little about the Car People to which she took offence, I added the only time I like a Car Person is when my own need supersedes, she laughed. But, it was good standing beneath my pear tree waiting for a hero to come along, but I could've sheltered there all day long, but soon the rain had gone.
For the future
I strained for the future
I was almost there.
Dew drenched I fell into a pool
so deep as deep as the sea I dropped up to
my legs like wheels
washed into cold salt from a fissure of magma
spewed out from earth fire
up, up to the turning beat of tides,
I found myself swimming
over waves surfing,
salt streaming
my tears away
walking over the wavelets
to that fresh beach beyond the rivers and rivulets
of the stars.
Feeling how heroes feel.
Feeling how cripples feel.
Feeling how the happy feel.
Feeling.
First Love by Adam Lee Parry
She lived now for the moments, so few and far between. But,
this moment she knew she deserved she’d waited for it so long. She was talking
to Anna when he came to the garden and plonked down his backpack, as if it
belonged in that particularly space crushing the grass and the dandelions, and
himself beside it, pulled out a ciggie, for a moment seemed to decide to take
something from his backpack, then exhausted just by the thought of it lay back
smoking staring up at the weekend’s ration of sunshine and blue skies. Looking
at him, still as an artist’s model, Martha pondered, wondered. Is that him?
Anna was asking her something, something about tomorrow’s
Dress Rehearsal.
‘What was that?’
‘Have you told everyone that we can’t use the theatre
tomorrow?’
‘Yes, I’ve told everyone twice.’
‘What about Sam?’
‘I texted him three times.’ Martha sighed. ‘No-one knows
where he is after last weeks shambles.’ There was a pause, she could almost
hear the profanities escalating to Anna’s tongue. She cut her off:
‘Who he?’
‘He who?’
‘Him.’ Martha pointed to the still life half asleep in the
parched grass.
‘Oh, him he’s the just in case, The saviour of the no shows’
‘What’s his name.’
‘Joe. He’s actually a professional actor unlike the almighty
Sam. Costing us an arm and a leg, but he knows the part backwards. I had to
think ahead after last year’s disaster, all the hard-work we all put in and
that idiot spoiled everything. Again.’
‘Why did you even give Sam the part?’
‘Well he’s the only handsome hero type in a thirty-mile radius.
Sam alone would guarantee a full house.’
‘Come on Anna you still have a soft spot for him.’
‘And? Despite popular culture and stereotyping I might be
old and fat, but I still have hormones and I know how to use them.’ On cue
Martha laughed at the old joke. ‘Well, we better start soon or that lot will be
pissed,’ she pointed to the kitchen where Lady Macbeth and her nurse were doing
shots. ‘Go and introduce yourself to Joe.’
Then, suddenly, Martha was alone in the garden emboldened by the moment. She walked over to
him.
‘Hi.’ Slender and tall, her leggings as bright blue as the
clearings of the sky above. Tidy curls danced about her forehead and ears. She
waited for him to open his eyes and blink at Martha as if is eyes were stung
with salt water or chlorine. ‘Hi. She said smiling.
‘Yeah. What a day.’
‘Have you come far?’
‘I cycled here from Cataline.’
‘That’s a long way.’
‘More fun than the bus.’
‘We’ll be starting soon; come in and have a drink and some
of Anna’s soup. There’s plenty of soup left.’
‘Don’t bother yourself. I just want to take in this place
for a while, let it whisper to me , or sing. Some places I’ve been to play the
trombone.’ Martha laughed.
Then for some reason she sat, plonking herself down onto
cross-legs as he had done. Did he see the same shapes in the swift clouds as
she did? Or did he hear the vibrations as the clouds met and melted into each
other? Or that crow ragged and weathered by too many season, croaking out
Bohemian Rhapsody?
‘So, what part do you play? He asked.
‘Can’t you tell? Well I’m witch number one.’
‘So, you’ve not many lines?’
‘Thank God. I’m also the Stage Manager.’ They were silent.
Anna’s voice could be heard from the kitchen.
‘Macduff put down that vodka. Right everyone. Five minutes.
Please.’
‘Oh well it’s time to do some work,’ Joe sighed and stood
his hand grasping the air above as if it were Martha lifting him into the
moment.
It is him, she thought, how could I have been so wrong about
everything?
As Anna dished out her notes from the last rehearsal Martha
couldn’t stop looking at the back of Joe’s head. I never thought it possible.
Here I am two years from a bus pass and I fall in love between one blink an another and the world
changes around me as if subtle scene shifters transform a stage. No I never
thought it possible.
Turn around McBeth just for a moment.
Anna had stopped dishing out misery and threats and en mass
the unhappy band of players lurched out to the garden taking the last of the
vodka out with them.
With his sobriety and newness in the group Ray found a spot
on the grass, apart. Even so Martha thought he looked happy enough.
She grabbed a half bottle of wine from the Porter’s hand,
filled a glass and sank a grass. AA’ll understand. Then she went over and sat
beside him.
‘You are very good,’ she tells him.’
‘I put it down to my first director, Lynn. Never be late and always know your lines and
every else’s. Got me where I am today.’
‘A garden in Stoney with a lot of pissed folk.’
‘Being where you are is probably the best place to.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Told me. I just made it up, but it almost sounds true.’
Martha laughed.
‘Anna’s got a room made up for you.’
‘Great. I’m so tired. Maybe get the bus the next time.’
He followed after Anna who was jabbering at the air ahead of
her, she was telling Ray something about the boiler, but he wasn’t listening. He
listens to harpists on the wind, the singing in the grass the same song Martha sang accompanied by the
chords of the blue unblemished blue of the sky in in her eyes Martha’s bursting heart that told of true loves and
the only ones. Singing he had always her and she his, singing of all those unbelievable
and improbable things like that, and of love at first sight.
The 3rd Way: joy, love. Freedom
by Adam Parry
After so much silence joy spoke
I lifted up my feet into a helter-skelter of
dance, frantic, ecstatic
opening my eyes wide
to the love in their sighs, dancing
slow, around, inching laughter-lines
up
from their lips
knowing for a moment
that their heart beats as fast as mine
and so slow as the song
always calling us to awaken
from the half-light
and dance beneath
lamp-post in the street
as children do
as we never expected to do.
