My mac is back! My life is back!
My ‘puter had a stack & the guys out the back
didn’t know what
but cleaned out the lot.
Final theory : “May be a corrupt file“.
And flashbacks brought the tear that drove me here
and nothing mattered again but to speak aloud, to yell and beat
upon the hearts with no conscience meter.
Thank you for coming by WordsFallFromMyEyes. And they have. Still do.
Below is a video reading, with asides, of the chapter far below.
The chapter is in print for beautiful people like LadyWithATruck, Carrie, who can’t get video on their contraption.
life lived love.
“Beloved Daniel, my son,
It is near midday. You’re asleep in your cot. We had a big morning, including going to the pool where first I put you in the crèche, do laps, then come out and get you and we play together. In the car on the way home you babbled animatedly with some authority on whatever it is you were on about. By your tone, as we drove the sunny streets of Perth, you seemed to be giving a dissertation on something which, I have to confess, was completely beyond my comprehension.
We then hung the washing and I chased you, giggling, all the way up the path to our door. When I put you to bed you didn’t want to sleep and cried a bit, because it was so much fun being up with mama.
Anyway, I knew you were tired and visited you three times, calming you, before I didn’t return. After about two minutes of protest this last time, you’ve finally crashed.”
It was clear the cop was a rookie. He looked scared in the eyes when I asked why the fuck should I get into his paddy wagon; I hadn’t done anything wrong. He looked briefly at his partner, who jumped at the opportunity to assert herself and told me in manner of order, “Because you’re under arrest! Now get in the wagon!”
“What am I under arrest for? He was ASKING for it! HE assaulted ME! How come you’re not arresting HIM?”
With no tolerance for civil questioning, let alone disobedience, the female Officer physically forced me into the rear of the police wagon. When the lock clunked shut behind me, I was hit by a deluge of claustrophobia. I didn’t see that coming.
“LET ME OUT!” I screamed with all of the rage and rampant recall of all that was wrong with my life. I heard the two officers close their doors, and the ignition start.
“I’m a royal subject of the Queen Mother’s Tongue of England! LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT!” I screamed, for continuum.
“The other night your daddy and me took you to the beach playground. I like the man who is your daddy, but not entirely. I didn’t feel comfortable with him as I do with others, feeling that we are on a different wavelength.
When we first met he was a blessing to my jaded spirit for we swapped massage giving, and ate well and went to the pictures, but slowly I came to realize an arrogance and a surfaceness and showmanship I don’t like a bit, but yet his spirit I do respect.
We are not enemies, your father and me, and we will together always do good, do our joint best, for you.“
The Officers were doing a good job of ignoring me, and the drive was brief before we arrived at the police station.
When they unlocked the rear of the paddy wagon, I made sure to eye the Officers each with insolence, before duly stepping out, punk boots stomping on the pavement. The heavy pounding of my feet was near enough to hit the beat, then playing in some dingy basement bar deep in England’s dark night, spiked hairdos of clef-stompers spraying sweat across the concrete walls.
I was led into the police station, the recruit assessor shadowing us, watching all our conduct and ticking boxes addressing The Law.
“A letter came to say the results of DNA tests came through. We have to see that lady at the Child Support Unit again. The letter says, ‘Please arrange an appointment to see Ms Soper, when convenient, to arrange to receive your copy of the report.’
It annoys me that the doctor didn’t simply give me a copy of the report with the letter he sent. Why are the people the centre of an action always swept to the perimeter of an action when you involve professionals? I mean, I am your Mother: I paid half for the tests: I deserve a copy of the results outright. It’s just annoying.”
Waiting in the police station to be processed, I began to feel bored. I looked at my arresting officers and they seemed to be stuck on some paperwork issue. Another recruit had joined in their concern and they were fumbling and questioning each other about the “right” thing to do. The assessor remained in the background, watching them, but I could see irritation alive in his expression. It was like invisible ants were running all over his face, twitching his muscles.
I looked at other recruits behind the station desk. They were sort of tripping over each other trying to look busy. I could see they were all a bit lost. My job as an actor was to be real, to give them an experience in dealing with the public. I began to consider: how many assaulting teens would wait quietly on the bench like I was? A thought crossed my mind on how to shake things up. But dare I?
What I like about being me is that more often than not in life, I dare.
“I rang your father to ask if he would sign a concession that you are his son, now that the results prove it. If he did this, it would avoid us going to court, but he would not sign admittance that you are his son. So we must go to court.
How can he bother – why does he bother – to string along the inevitable (being ‘made’ to support you) like this? chris is avoiding financial responsibility of you, just like every other man. Why he won’t contribute is so purely selfish.
Everyone protects their money. And yet then he takes me to a Mother’s Day breakfast with his family and girlfriend, openly saying you are his son..? I do these things occasionally – get together – because I believe it’s important for you to see your mum and dad together. Things are not perfect in the reality, but I will make well of ill – you’ll see.
The DNA tests prove you are unique. You are totally unique. There is no-one else in the world even like you. You’re just unique.”
Sitting on the bench in the front of the police station, waiting to be processed, I took a few deep breaths, quietly. I then imagined I had been on drugs that day, and they were wearing off. I was feeling agitated. It was time for more drugs. Time to get out of this shit-hole and get back to my life. What was I there for, what was I waiting for? WAITING! These guys were keeping ME waiting!
“I could have claimed money from your dad for nine months of pregnancy plus all the way to now but I will not. I can’t, really, for it is work who supplied you with all those gifts in the baby shower. I cannot pretend we never received that avalanche of goodwill, and claim I bought them, and claim it as due from your father. It feels too wrong in my heart, and as such, not possible for me to do.
I am exhausted sometimes. Other times I feel great. We have great times together, Daniel.
You walk very fast. You look very proud and sure.
I am tired now. Here are more papers about your life.
Love, xxx Mama”
With my last deep yoga breath I screamed with all the energy I had banked up against the dam, simultaneously standing up, squaring my shoulders and eyeing my arresting officers, “WHAT THE FUCK AM I WAITING FOR?????”
The whole population of the police station froze. Even the other actors on the bench, after jolting, looked up at me in horror – and froze. I was afraid of what effect I had had, but I could not back out now.
“WHAT THE FUCK AM I WAITING FOR????”
I screamed again, intoning demand that the officers answer me.
“I’VE GOT A LIFE, YA KNOW. I GOT THINGS TA DO PEOPLE TA SEE!
AN YOU GOT ME JUST SITTING HERE LIKE A
WAITING TO BE SHOT DOWN BY YOUR FUCKING PAPER PLANES!”
No-one knew what to do. Even I didn’t know what to do. I wouldn’t make a run for it, because I wasn’t sure if anyone really would. It would just complicate things for them when they were finally caught.
The assessor was the first to move. I was enormously relieved.
“Go on! That’s a fair question!” he barked at his recruits. “Why is she waiting? You’re standing there debating over Form A or Form B and you’ve got a live one on the bench there ready to do God knows what! Get her into the cells! Now!”
The male Officer jumped into action, practically dived over the counter, and took me by the wrist to the recruits at another desk, ink pads at the ready, forms in order. They with command told me how to present my thumb, roll it without pressing too hard, inside the square – not smart-arsed on the line of the square, guiding me. I mumbled a bit under my breath during the process, while the rest of the recruits recovered their senses and everyone was suddenly genuinely busy keeping law and order there in the little cubicle at Maylands Police Academy, Western Australia.
Life appeared to be going well. I was fully enjoying my casual working hours, Chris seemed to be maintaining his responsibility as Daniel’s other parent/carer, and Daniel seemed well when I collected him alternatively from Chris or from his sister Karen.
Daniel’s aunty, Karen, gave me written reports of Daniel’s food intake and bowel movements. I found this sweet, going the extra yard.
2.30pm Pea and potato and pork meant porrich one bowl”
I noticed she headed the page with Daniel’s first name but his father’s last name. It appeared either Aunty Karen did not accept Daniel was born into my name, or Chris had maintained his charade that he and I were married and Daniel was our beloved son, together. I thought this was a charade Chris wanted to present only on that first day we together met his family when Daniel was newborn. I had told him on that day I could not answer the question “Are you Chris’ wife?” dishonestly, so no-one better ask me (despite his earnestness I say we are married). I don’t know why, I thought it was a convenience to Chris he lent to that day. I did not imagine he would carry it into the future.
I was conscious that when Chris – for instance, on Mother’s Day – was seated at yum cha with Tracy his mistress on one side and me his… what did he call me?… on the other side, that he must look so well set, in his family’s eyes. Yet, I attended these occasions so Daniel could hear his father’s tongue amongst his family, be amongst his kin, and see his father and me not in argument but accordance. We were after all the leaders of his life. We were the beacons lighting Daniel’s way.
Within, however, remained an unsettling. Was I, allowing Chris to present in “his” world this illusion of prosperity, as fool I thought Tracy to be, allowing Chris to meander through various women’s lives and most intimate walls while he remained “promised” to her?
Copyright Noeleen&Daniel 50/50
but thanks Etsy the clef pic
& thanks especial to
Des Hicowe’s student film ‘Mere Mortals‘
- for the aside shots I’ve aired,
which lent comment to where I was at
upon a time,