The Great Comfort of Unconsciousness

Daniel and me had dinner and a quiet night of doing little, just letting the seconds fall from the clock until a pool of time had collected around us and we ought to bed before we drowned in the liquidity of existence.

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Daniel was a bit hyper and difficult to settle, so I had to attack him with tickles and nonsense for some of his unspent energy to be expelled in giggles and gurgles.  The simple joy of my affection upon him that shone from his eyes was a gift to behold.  I felt awed at my own self that I could give so much, so easily.  I had never been inclined to babies, but here was my own born, and a love that I never knew myself capable of, flowed from me.  I realized, bending over the cot and laughing at Daniel’s closed eyes, chubby cheeks and smiling mouth emitting the music of happiness, that my own son had taught me love.  For the very first time in my life, I felt love.  I had not ever felt it from my father, could not consciously recall it from my mother, my sisters were basically strangers with the familiarity of family – and other people, well, they were just people in my life.  In truth and fact, for all my time on this planet, for this century at least, I had not felt love outward or inward.   If ever I were to write a book, I would inscribe at its opening:  ‘To my only son, Daniel, who taught me Love’.

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When finally Daniel was in his cot with the white teddy I’d slept with while pregnant, to infuse it with my energy, and laying on his side eyeing me, I sat propped in my bed, the Bible in my hands.  As determined that morning, I would read the word of God until I literally collapsed into the arms of sleep.  I would keep vigil for however many nights it took, to show the spiritual visitors that this was our territory and we were protected by God.

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Oh God, was it really the word of God?  Had only man said it was? I had been told by Nuns when I was a kid, that it was.  And who told them?  Their parents?  They had faith it was; I was to have faith it was.  I had heard the argument of atheists that people believe in God “because people need to believe in something”.  I had heard the belief of Buddhism that we each are Buddhas/Gods.  I remembered as a child being taught that God is within each of us.  What is true and what is illusion in this life, I just do not know.  But I know, absolutely, that we had been haunted, and of all that I had tried, this was my only resource that I could conduct myself, put out there myself, until we won – won our home back.

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Why hadn’t the Priest blessing the place worked, I wondered.  I then suddenly wondered whether, if I flung holy water at the electrified air space that night, like I had flung my urine; if it would have caused a hissing sound too.  How curious, I wondered, wondered.

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I looked at Daniel’s eyes, anticipant, looking at me.  He knew I was doing something different tonight and watched me curiously.  I bet he was glad I had returned my bed to his room, nearby his cot.  I had separated us, thinking it was “time”, that I should for his independence, and here we were cloistered together, the door shut, me ready to speak the spirits away.  And they would listen to me?

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I wondered whether at this age, Daniel yet thought ‘why’?  Would he think, ‘Why is Mum reading aloud tonight in her bed?  Why is Mum’s bed back in my room?’  The child health nurse told me there will come a ‘why’ stage.  Not even I know what answers I will give.  I never guessed that I would be in a position this lifetime, of teaching another generation ‘why’.  Some of it will be the factual why, and some my own moral and spiritual why.  I will actually be teaching my offspring my own beliefs of existence and purpose, reason and, well, why not rhyme.

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To think I will be affecting another human being with my own mind of things is really pretty heavy going.  I had hardly been taught myself.  I had to “make of it what I could”, mostly.  I was given Roman Catholic direction from the time of the orphanage – age six, and while living with Aunty Betty, but once I reached dad’s domain, that’s when I was left to try and survive the years best I could,  and find within myself whatever I could to endure.  And I had been a ship adrift.  And I had been an island.  And I had been madly driven at times.  And I had been so depressed that darkness was the only light I could see.  Oh, what kind of God gave to me this beautiful child – me, my damaged psyche, depressed heart, my suicidal ideations that consume me for days on end?  It is the same God that gave me the heart which flutters with a butterfly’s wings as I watch it hovering over golden flowers, sunny days, feeling warm sunshine on the crown of my head, smelling ocean in the air, marvelling at the colours of nature, and dreaming as the butterfly leaves the flower and flutters off into a distance, into its own existence.

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Oh, my head – I need to put it to bed! Too much.  I smiled at Daniel, said, “Shhhhhhh, sleeeeeeep,” and opened the Bible.

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I suddenly thought of Chris.  Given my desperation when I rang and he came over with the Chinese written signs to ward off the unseen presences, and when I rang again to say that hadn’t fully worked – something had galloped up my belly in the middle of the night, literally, physically, and pounced off my chest; given the terror of what I was experiencing, I was amazed he hadn’t rung to see how I was – and had the flinging of the urine gotten rid of the energies/powers wandering spirits/ghosts, or whatever the hell it was that had terrorized me these last weeks?  I didn’t need Chris to care about me, but as the mother of his child, given his child was involved … again, I just did not understand Chris.

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Skipping the puzzling begat and begotting, I read that God had made the world and created man.  I read how he put man to sleep, took a rib, and created woman from him.  I read aloud and clearly what I believed to be the word of God, so that the vibrations of His word would fill our room, be present, and be the charge of our room.

“This is now bone of my bones

and flesh of my flesh:

she shall be called woman (f)

for she was taken out of man”

(f) The Hebrew for woman sounds like the Hebrew for man

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I read how Eve was tempted by the serpent, the apple, and how she and Adam hid from God as he was walking through the garden of Eden because they were suddenly ashamed of their nakedness, having eaten from the tree of knowledge of good and evil.  I wondered why we humans ought not know of good and evil.  Maybe that was heaven, how things were back then:  living, doing your daily work, God walking by every now and then in His resplendence.  What could progress from that, though?  Nothing, so we would just exist, emanating joy.

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I read about Cain and Abel, the sons of Eve, but was confused when the Bible said that “Cain lay with his wife, and she became pregnant”.  The only way Cain could have had a wife was if Eve gave birth to a girl before she gave birth to Cain.  As “Adam named his wife Eve, because she would become the mother of all the living”,  I accepted that maybe people lived hundreds of years in the beginning of time.  Maybe Eve did have a daughter first who grew up, and then she had Cain and then she had Abel – but why was the birth of Eve’s daughter not worth a mention?   “Adam lay with his wife Eve, and she became pregnant and gave birth to Cain. That made it sound like her first born.  I didn’t quite get it.

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I read onward, including that Cain’s son, Enoch, was born a son named Irad, and “Irad was the father of Mehujael, and Mehujael was the father of Methushael… Lamech.  Lamech married two women, one named Adah and the other Zillah.”  The Bible continued to only mention women as appendages to men – the ones who “gave birth to a son”.  With all this giving birth to sons, I didn’t comprehend where the women were coming from.  And really, did it have to start with the birth of man in time that men had two wives?  What, in moral conscience, is the purpose of two wives?  I could only see that it would serve ego, and as it was fine for Lamech to marry two women, the service of ego seemed to be condoned.

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I found the Bible difficult to swallow.  I was only on chapter 5, ‘From Adam to Noah’, and it seemed to have regard for the importance of only one half of the human race.  I couldn’t remember learning this when I was a child – that the birth of girls are not worth mentioning, but when they are a wife and bearing a son they are worth mentioning.

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I had to not think too hard, and continue reading aloud the word of God.  I had to have faith this was the answer:  the word of God filling my home so that nothing else could fit into it.  I looked at Daniel, and his eyes were half shut.  This should work a double treat.

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I read past midnight, when I was slumped against my pillow and Daniel was safe in unconsciousness.  I felt mild fear of what the night would bring, the hours 3-4 a.m., when things usually happened, and I didn’t want to be awake then.  I wanted to be asleep – safe in unconsciousness like Daniel.

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I continued reading aloud to just after 1 a.m., when my mouth was dry, my eyes too, and I decided to lay fully down.  With the light still on, for I was too scared to turn it off, I lay with the closed Bible next to my head.  I put one hand on the Bible, and closed my eyes. 

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I opened my eyes again.  It was so frightening to think that if I dared close my eyes, ‘they’ may creep up on me, creep up alongside my bed – but I had to not think those things.  I had to believe, have faith, that I had put hours of vibration of the word of God into my home, and it resonated from the walls  and, like Tom once said, “Picture a white light around you – you and Daniel.  Nothing can get through that white light.”

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With these thoughts in my head, time reached up and pulled closed my eyelids so that I met unconsciousness, the great comfort of unconscious-ness.

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Copyright Noeleen&Daniel 50/50

The Law does not waiver

There is an awful isolation in normality, as much as there can be comfort.  The people were busy with normality around us.

 

Standing on Marine Parade, wondering what next to do with our lives, I felt isolated in that things were not normal for us.  Normality was everywhere, but not within our home.  With people commonly talking of problems with relationships, a delivery they were expecting not arriving, their baby teething, our problem seemed too insane.  It could not be shared, and thus we were isolated.

 

It’s the same as when you’re unemployed and people rush past you on their way to work, or to the supermarket to buy what they need – but you are standing alone, unable to work for you have not been chosen by an employer, and not able to afford what you need.  It’s not that you don’t wish to be in step with the normal (well….), but just that you have fallen behind and are losing your place in society every day you can lesser afford your rent, lesser afford food, lesser afford electricity and gas.  You want that normal not because you love it, but because normal – keeping a job, paying our way through life – is the foundation of our freedom to live howsoever we want.

 

Joggers panted past us, dogs wagging tails erect with delight at simply being, mothers in groups so together together, I felt so alone.  I decided to find haven in a beachside café and moved us off the street, to a window seat where Daniel could sit on my lap and watch the awakening of the day, human lives, while I took to coffee and thought.

 

It is in stillness that our instincts arise most clearly, I feel, for while we experience instincts in sudden moments, say of panic, we often think them away, logicise them out of the picture, think we should do this/the other instead.  So in the stillness of our moments in the café, Daniel on my lap, enthralled by pieces of marshmallow I fed him, squishy in his fingers, sweet on his tongue, my instincts rose to be heard.  As instincts do, they arise not in mind but in a decision that I suddenly, inexplicably, felt was right: I would remove Robert’s manifested dust, remove Chris’ notices, remove my bed from the sleep-out into Daniel’s/my old room; and I decided that we would sleep with the door shut.

 

I looked out at the people on the beach.  Some stood at shore, hesitating whether to embrace the rawness of nature as it was bound to bring discomfort to some degree – chill, sand, sticky saltiness.  Yet others dived in, just as I wished to, and were lost immediately to the waves, froth and foam rumbling to shore.  They disappeared deep in the rolling emotion of nature, and emerged with straggled hair, gasping at the full body sensations, laughing.

 

I decided also without thought, that I would get the Bible I had always kept amongst my books but had never read, consulted or done anything with – it’s just that I couldn’t bring myself to throw a Bible away – and I would read aloud from it every night until sleep claimed me. I would maintain a vigil until I could remain conscious no more, and the last words on my lips, the last vibrations in our room each night, would be the word of God.

 

I had once tried reading the Bible, but I couldn’t get past the begat begot begut. It was a narrative of origin I just didn’t (be)get. It was interesting though, that the human family tree had been recorded from the beginning of time – or the beginning of the time when man had evolved. It would be so awesome if that family tree was maintained generation upon generation, to 5:41 pm, 25 March 2012: now.  Imagine, I thought, if just as my homo sapien predecessors had scribed it on their tablets of stone, cave walls, papyrus, pyramids – I don’t know, I didn’t pass History – alike too I sat in my room in Australia, scribing into cyber space, “And Noeleen and Chris begat Daniel” and some year hence, Daniel added his leaf to the family tree, “And Daniel and Eve begat XX” – or adopted XX, or perhaps he would just partner a person, and may not beget anyone, just like my sisters three. I looked at him.
“Will you be doing any begetting, Daniel?” I asked gently, and smiled as his large brown eyes looked at me, his chubby cheeks chewing mallow, then gazed beyond, out to sea.

 

I can’t remember the name of the last recorded begotten, but it would have been so amazing if we continued the records. It would have to be kept in vaults in every country, I thought. And every life would have to count.
Oh.
Watching as a father helped his toddling daughter down the sandy concrete steps to the water’s edge, I realized that was our failing: not all lives are determined to matter. I thought of infanticide in China, orphaned children in institutions in Russia, the birth certificates of children whose mother had not listed a father’s name. We couldn’t possibly keep such records beyond the Bible’s first listing of the begotten; we are too human.

“Can I get you anything else?” the girl smiled, taking my coffee cup. She smiled beautifully at Daniel who had spun his head around to see this new person, talking to us.
“No, that was just great, thanks. Really what I needed.”
The waitress went away and I cuddled Daniel. How misplaced are our lives in the hands of time. We had been up something like three hours already. When the normal were sleeping, we were treading the dark through to dawn. I really, really had to normalize us.

 

***

 

In one month, I thought as I held Daniel in one arm and dragged the folded pusher behind me with the other, we will have the blood test Chris has forced us to get, and then it will be established he is Daniel’s father, and at last at last I will have some support. It felt absurd that after the blood test in January, we had to wait eight months – to August – before we could face court and have delivered orders declaring that by the law of humankind, Chris is Daniel’s father. Spiritual law knows it, Chris knows it and I know it. Whether Daniel knows it, I am not sure. Yet, why such a charade must we play? Why was he making me go through the legal hoops before submitting to his role – well, one part of his role, of Daniel’s father? I felt very sure that “the other mother” who didn’t “ask for money (so why should I?)” had simply not asserted the rights of her child. I could not begin Daniel’s life like that. We would not be victims of circumstances laid to the plan of Chris, benefitting himself. We had to try and establish the law of humankind, as he was not conceding to moral law.

 

Down by the ocean, pepped with coffee, I played with Daniel in the sand and shallows. It really was precious that I was not working at this time, could be with Daniel so, but I felt worried about my capacity to work in the future. Would I be able to work in the courts again? My court reporting had become shabby due to late nights and drinking alcohol while doing tapes, so I had no reputation to bridge me to such opportunities. Perhaps I could try being a legal secretary. I was due to act at the Police Academy from January, which I was looking forward to, but beyond then, when I wanted full time work – where would be my place in society then?

 

It angered me that Chris kept his work, his place in society, his flat and life without the financial burden of offspring to care for. He was cheating both Daniel and me in his commitment to not paying (and his daughter), and it angered me deeply.

I did not want to harbour anger.  

So should I just let it go?

Yet nor did I want to not stand up for Daniel’s rights for he was born, with great fortune, in a civilized society. Women stranded, babes in arms, dumped because life got too hard for the man (those unattached) of the child; they had fought for those rights of the child newborn. In that, I could not let it go.

How could I deal with what I was feeling?

 

As I poured sand over Daniel’s palms that faced the sky, now warmed by an illustrious golden sun that seagulls glided through, his little fingers tinkling beneath the flow, I decided that I would persist and pursue. And what was more, I would get a good job when it came time to work full time again. I would aim for legal PA, although I had never done anything like it. I would sell my experience as a court reporter as the perfect grounding, and with words sharpened by my will to succeed beyond what could be an average fate, I would land a good job, good money, and Chris could do whatever the hell he wanted.

 

 

Copyright Noeleen&Daniel 50/50

Today, we shall take this good with our bad

They say ‘They never show the good news, only bad’,

and They say, ‘Well, that’s because good news doesn’t sell like the bad’,

to which I say, “This has totally made my day.”

I can’t help it.  I just have to share this with the world as it has totally MELTED me.  I’ve watched it a few times, shown it to Daniel.  It is just so, so wonderful, I smile, cry, love it, laugh it.

It’s a whale watching a mariachi band – but not just watching; when they tip their heads, the whale responds to communicate same back.  The whale has a huge grin on its face (I think they were born that way, but when you know they’re loving something, it just seems more pronounced) as it listens to the vibrations of the music tinkling through the glass, into his water filled capture.  You can almost picture the notes dancing in the water around him.  

Then, at the end, the whale does all it can to say thanks, without breaking the glass.

I have just got to say, this really, really, REALLY made my day.  With you all, because you’re a family of sorts to me, I so had to share.  :)  

Let’s just call it another commercial break.

The best of LIFE

Time distorted my, Time

Another chapter to the days passed,

attempting logic half-assed.

BELOW, is what I narrate above.  For you, my readers

Time can play tricks.  That’s why it intrigues me.  It’s intangible, but exists.  It just is.  There is no grasping it, explaining (I don’t think), or pausing it.  From the moment you slip into this realm from the vault of origin, Time is ticking – in fact, it was ticking before you entered this plane, and will continue infinitely, I believe, after you have closed the door behind you.

From your first breath through infant lungs, curled wet lips, eyes scrunched, to your final gasp in sombre contemplation of what has been the meaning of your Time on this earth

or cold abandon of your damages cause

or trembling conscience in realization you own all you did, no one else does, can or ever wil

or solemn surrender to the Universe without a God, you believe

or frivolous mirth at the joke of your existence, now timed out – no matter by which stance you meet your death:

bowed

petrified

on your knees blubbering repentance

resigned

or awed that this is ‘it’, your big Death; there is no undoing.

Time advances you.  Where you stumble, it nudges you forward.  You can only go forward, not back to live your life again – only forward into the consciousness of Death, breathing in the shadows before you.

Time threaded you from your birth through its tapestry.  The years were yarns unraveled to be knitted into the masterpiece of purpose, meaning, beauty, life.  You coloured the yarns with your soul.  You bled red when punctured by experiences you later matured to, to a rich burgundy the colour of port old tawny.  You poured aqua blue from your eyes at times.  Golden yellow and orange tinkled in laughter from your lips, purple spirituality beat from your heart and emanated over the tapestry surrounding you, like a landscape you had gathered up under your arms, draped around you, wore in your otherwise naked purity.

Time inescapable, irretrievable, unstoppable.

‘Time’, my father wrote in his birthday card to me recently, ‘Time heals all wounds’.  I was angry at the words.  The words did not speak apology, did not acknowledge actions which impacted so adversely on my Time age 10 to Time age 17.  If it comes to pass I need to apologise to my son, Daniel, for my human failings, I will.  I will reach out my hand with the power to heal and lay it warm upon his shoulder as I express in vibrations borne in my gut, choked through my heart, fallen from my lips, the words that heal:  ‘Sorry’.  ‘Sorry’, I will say, for whatever it is I have done to him and most truly never meant to, in my failing, being, human.

But my father’s card spoke no such healing.  The words only told me to be patient because throughout the course of my life Time would (and had) spread layer upon thin layer upon veil of healing, to cover the wound.  Indeed, Time would bring the wound to a close, but without contrition, there bears a scar.  My father could have prevented a scar if he had thought to dress the wound with that which mends – love, remorse – but he did not. He left it gaping open.  And now, all these years later, wrote to me that Time (not he) would do the job of healing me.  He completely absolved himself of responsibility.  And ‘Happy Birthday’ it said in marketed script, and ‘Dad’ in his jaunty writing.  Maybe I am a soul too cold, but there was no value in what I held in my hands, and easily I tore it into pieces six: down the middle, across and across, and tossed it in the bin.  Am I a rock that needs to be chiseled, am I that hardened?  How ugly.  I would shame.  But I had no other impulse, and so that I did.

Daniel could never know how many times I stood over his cot as he slept, thinking like this, recalling, aching to do better, willing to change, wishing for strength, praying for love, fortitude.  I took the marshmallow soft blanket from where it had twined around his plump fleshy leg, straightened it out across his body, and lay it down gently, with love.  In years to come he would be toddler, teen, adult, and have no conscious recall that I stood like a flame near his bedside, love radiating from me in such waves of power that I quivered, and sometimes fell a tear, for so enormous was the volume of love I felt, it broke from me like water from a dam, walls busted.

Time had played its tricks on me tonight, and it was 11.19 pm.  I can recall what we did throughout the afternoon, but it felt as if I had walked from the phone call which interrupted our sleep in the lazy afternoon, to Daniel’s cot where he now lay in the arms of Angels unseen, 11.20 pm.

I was too tired to care, to fear the unseen forces which had invaded our home this past week.  Chris’ signs seemed to have done well enough for there was no more energy dark, menacing.  There had been no further seizure of my body by what force I do not know, which pinned me, powerless, to the bed.  That had only happened once, which set me on this journey of having our flat blessed, of removing the painting by Cherie, of putting up Chinese signs.  I was just too worn thin to keep another night’s vigil by light sleep, lapsing into the rest I needed so badly, but bolting upright and forcing myself to remain awake.  I just couldn’t continue this way.  If the greatest horror I would experience was the trampling of tiny feet over my body mid the night, then I had to accept that as the most I could manage by way of truce between our worlds.  I would not sleep on my back, though, never again.

That was all he could offer me, Chris had said – that and the pissing in a tub of some kind, to keep at my bedside.  What if they crept in, those presences, and saw my proposed urine attack – could they upend the cup over my self?  Did they have such power?  I could never know.  Did Chris’ vinegar at his front door keep ill spirits away?  I could never know.

As ridiculous as it was, I wanted enough peace of mind to be able to find sleep, and the cup of urine beside my bed gave me that peace of mind.  So absurdly, hardly believing my own self, I placed the warm cup down and pushed it under the bed just a touch.  It was ridiculous my Time on earth had come to such a moment, but I just did not think I could sleep unless I had armed our home with all that I could, to be safe in the night, to sleep.

I still could not bring myself to turn off the lounge room light and so in the semi dark I lay on my side, facing the back door-window curtains.  I closed my eyes and my mind called for sleep.  ‘Sleep?  Sleep?  I am ready now, please take me away.’ 

The night, so quiet.  Daniel so deeply asleep, I felt almost alone.

‘Sleep, my arm reaches out for you.  Please grasp it and deliver me to my dreams.  I so wish to dream.  Bring me to those magical lands, a kaleidoscope of my unresting consciousness collided with memories of the day, and past days, actions, moments.’ 

I rested, I fell.  Fell deeper.

‘Oh, sleep, on the back of your wings I can fly through the Universe, slide along the shimmering vapours of the Milky Way, dive into black holes and land in other expansions of Time, fragmented moments, mirrors reflecting portals of imagination.’ 

I wondered if my visits of other realms bothered other realms like their visits bother me – and heavy, was my breathing;

I wondered if I created any wind, whirling around the Universe like I do in my dreams – and leaden were my eyes;

I wondered if the people in my dreams were real people and I was really in their life, only not now – and weighted was my body, so relaxed, in the bed;

like maybe de ja vue.

Was the de ja vue we feel, was that recall of real, sigh, lives, like, our life – and… lapse.

I was gone.

I was gone to sleep.

 

Copyright, Noeleen&Daniel 50/50

Beauty is in the eye of my Mother

It’s approaching midnight, Monday March the 5th.  

I’m in bed, the window open, cool night air curling in through my flyscreen.  Daniel & my two cats are somewhere in the dark of my room. I can’t see them as the computer is bright in my face, beyond which is blackness, but I can hear them. They lick, occasionally purr, sometimes one will jump up onto the window ledge to stare, alert at stirrings in the night.

I’m not feeling sad, just pensive.  It’s OK – I’m at peace with it now (Mum’s suicide on March 5, two days after my birthday March 3).

It’s just that, I was going to write, but after catching up on emails & blogs I love to visit, & a few randoms, I felt unfinished of the day.  A thought crossed my mind:  to bring back up a video I once made.  I made the video at first in honour of Mum because AT LAST I had the means to “put my own words in the newspaper” (which I couldn’t when 6) – only I didn’t place an ad., I made a video.  

And as it turned out, the video speaks inspiration, strength & will that those contemplating suicide…EARNEST will, that they truly deeply think it through, who it will affect, & more:  to know they CAN get a grip on THEIR life.  You are possessed of a life; it is yours; you can make change now.  You can make change now.

Yes, I decided I would.  Then I think I will be able to sleep.  So in closure of today, March 5th, I light this candle for my Mother – this video.

Thank you for your time, those who have interest in this subject, who have been hurt by this subject, who realise the gravity of this subject , or who are just interested to see what I make of this subject – & if all is well in your world & you’ve known nothing like it:  wonderful .

 

Video&words copyright, Noeleen 

A very different girl in repose

I felt a gentle touch to my cheek.  It pressed down, as you might touch a cushion, checking whether it were soft or hard.  I opened my eyes just as Daniel’s hand landed on my nose.  The tip of my nose was cold; his hand was warm.  When Daniel saw my eyes open, he smiled and gurgled with joy.  He then touched my eyes, which made me blink, and I moved my head aside.

 

I was in Daniel’s cot.  I was curled over a space where obviously Daniel had slept, but where he now sat, inspecting my face.  I wondered what he saw.  As he would not see “age” per se, for he was not yet conditioned to, I wondered how he read me.  This face before him, unavoidably a portrait of my reflection in this world; what was his impression?  The tiny wrinkles at my eyes which society kindly donned ‘laughter lines’; the turn of my lips up, determined to smile through it all; the hint of my outer lips down, fate befallen; the freckles impact of sun I chose not to defend myself from; my eyes ocean blue now looking at him with love.  Having woken me, Daniel’s next move was to stand up, leaning on my hips for balance.

“Ma ma ma ma MA!”

Was I a work of art, I wondered – a caricature? piece de resistance? stencil of my father’s ‘belief’ in me?  charcoal abstract?  a painting rich in depth but still dripping with paint tears drying?  I don’t know; I should know.

“Good morning, sweet heart,” I said.  Remnants of dreams were stuck in the inner corners of my eyes.  I rubbed them to loosen the debris, let it fall.  My son had heralded the new day.

 

I reached up and tried to pull Daniel down, to give him an enormous hug, but he wasn’t willing. 11 months old, and so alive and kicking.  He tried climbing onto my hip, to step up to the rim of the cot and make his escape over the edge, but I sat up so that my position no longer aided him. Daniel turned to me, and made a whingeing sound.

“Just a moment, darling,” I said.  “One moment, for Mum.”  But he didn’t want to hear me – he continued whingeing.

 

Holding the side rails, I guided my great, heavy being to a standing position.  I felt mentally gluggy, and the weight of a sack of sand. I was so, so worn out from night upon night upon night of disturbance.  I stepped over the railing.  Daniel’s arms reached up, anticipant to follow.  I jumped to the ground, then leaned in to take Daniel under the arms and lift him up, over, and place him on the ground.  He whinged – wanted up.  Sigh.  I picked him up.  I punished him by giving him the big hug I wanted to earlier, and kissed him on each cheek.

“Mummy loves you, Daniel,” I said.

His arms outreaching, one bent inwards.  A little hand landed on my head, tiny fingers curled my hair, scrunched it, then let it go.  I felt like I’d been blessed.

 

Carrying Daniel to the back patio/mini garden, I tried to remember when I had climbed into his cot.  I remembered staring at him sleeping for ages.  I had felt like a sentry watching over a prince.  Daniel: the tiny life I was entrusted to the care of this lifetime.  Spiritually, I had been granted the contract to be his guide to age 18.  Men mattered not, compared to this purpose.  One half of me, before giving birth to Daniel’s spirit, had lived largely driven by my desire for men – their smell, what they released in me that left me (temporarily) sated, their lustful grip of me.  Even a rough grasp of my being, my body thrown upon a bed, entry with all the aggression of invasion, withdrawal and departure after a conversation of sorts; even that I trembled for, in my need to be loved.

 

I remembered the one and only one-night-stand I ever had in my life.  This one-night-stand, it was a sexual encounter I had no expectations of – no delusion it could lead to a relationship, to someone caring for me, coming to know me over time and consider me worthy to partner, with whom to walk the slow and winding path to our deaths, pointing out scenery along the way, jumping onto life’s carnival rides, scrambling off, laughing and embracing.

 

My one-night-stand I determined to happen when I was dealing Two-up at Burswood Casino, a croupier being my first job upon leaving the marriage.  It had been months since James the Inspector dropped me, on finding his ex-girlfriend, also an Inspector, wanted him back.  A rookie at the casino and broken in by James, my engagement with him no doubt inspired her renewed interest.  My first love interest post- marriage, I was drunk with newfound feelings, sexual positions and locations; a new man to inhale, savour in the odd hours we kept at the casino – 3 a.m., 4.30 a.m., 2 in the afternoon.  But I was dismissed; my heart tossed aside like a chocolate wrapper, the sweet having been devoured.  With melted me remnant on his tongue, James returned to her.

 

Daniel in just a nappy, was touching the wet flowers of the morn.  His fingers explored the velvet texture of the petals.  I had to stop him from eating them.

“Bad for you, Daniel, no good” I said, shaking my head.  He looked at me, the decider of fun/not fun, permission/none, venture/depressed reclusion.  He decided to squash them, let the juice perfume his fingers, taste it, and fling dew drops from other petals.  It was magic to see the wonderment in Daniel’s eyes.  Nature, the blessing constant.

 

That night at the casino, I had just learned from another female croupier what the male inspectors, on high stools, were having an in-joke about.  They looked down upon us and made signs to each other, and I wondered what was going on.

“They try and tell if you’re wearing a g-string or knickers,” she said.

“WHAT?  You can’t be serious?”

“Yep, that’s what they do.  If they can’t tell, they decide you’re wearing nothing.”

“Wow” I said, incredulous.

I looked up at the inspectors.  They had huge grins on their faces.  I, the subject for amusement, with no control over what their imaginations might decide.  What idle, idle minds, I thought to myself; unattractive.

“Your turn” Florissa said, handing me the coins and Two-up paddle.

“Give us yer luck!” the men started yelling – or ordering.

“C’mon Noeleen, you can do it!”

“Make it tails!  Make it tails!”

“Lady Luck, you’re the only one I’d like to – “

“No more bets,” Florissa announced.

Then, just as I had been taught, with that flick of the wrist I dispensed the coins from the wooden paddle and flung them high into the air.  The crowd hushed and watched them flip.  Lives, prosperity, marriages, were suspended momentarily, and then the coins landed.  Amidst cheers and cries of despair, I made the call, and began paying out.

 

Daniel moved across to another part of the courtyard so I followed him, watching, thinking.   Ever since I can remember I have thought, deeply.  I have been constantly processing my existence, and am still doing it, without conclusion.

“You’re a very different girl in repose, Noeleen,” my Aunty Betty had said to me when I was eight years old and living with her, after the orphanage.  I had been staring out a window, not heard her approach.

“What’s repose?” I asked.

“Never mind,” she said.

And thus by this adult word, that I determined I must find out what it meant, she struck a mark in my years, unforgettable.

 

He was an Italian guy, my picking.  He had charisma, was very cheeky, and we both talked the same language, our twinkling eyes agreed.  When we finally arrived at my tiny bedsit at the end of my shift, I commented that I must be mad, letting him into my home and not knowing him.  He replied, eyeing the photograph montage on my wall, “I don’t know.  Looking at these, I think I should be afraid of YOU!”  The photo montage was a mess of my life from childhood to present day, including the photos I used to take as a teen, of my large doll.  The doll was literally waist height, and I used to photograph her in all manner of distress – her arms bent awkwardly, tomato sauce slashed across her dress (blood) and the like.  I don’t exactly know why I used to do that, for a hobby.  Satisfaction in expression of emotion, I guess.

 

The day following being with I-can’t-remember-his-name, I could not linger and lie about.  I had another shift at the casino.  I did not want to kick out a sleeping man, and so left him there.  It was only when I was on the casino floor did I realize he knew where I was, where I would be kept for eight hours, yet I had no idea where he was – could he have organized mates to come in and clean my place out?  Driving home, I gathered anxiety by the mile, and raced upstairs, put the key in my lock.  I felt so relieved to find all of my possessions, and my cat, in place.  I could not believe how foolish I had been, how regrettably I lacked boundaries.  I am glad Mr Stallion did me no harm, but I needed to get a grip on living with some kind of value about me.  Yet how to live with value in yourself, when you feel none, was a true conundrum.

 

Surprising Daniel and me both, my neighbour’s cat jumped up onto the ledge of the fence.  It eyed us, then placed a paw on the paneling, hesitated to gauge its landing, and jumped down.  Daniel immediately began “speaking” and gesturing for the cat to come close.  He trundled his way toward it, half walking/falling/crawling.  The cat, eyes alert and ears pricked for any sound of danger, stood in the rear grass patch and stared at Daniel.

“Wait, darling.  Wait for puss to come to you.”

Daniel ceased his gait, looked at me.  It sort of fascinated me that Daniel should listen to me at all.  I remembered my fear in pregnancy, fear absolute, that the child to be born to me would not listen, for I the “authority”, I knew, was NO authority.

Regardless of all my lack, fate brought Daniel to me.  And having done, she stood back smiling, as we in the garden figured our lives out.

“Just wait, Daniel. Patience.  Puss will come to you.”

By Daniel’s look, he was in conflict.  He clearly thought that trampling through the grass and flowers to puss would enamour puss to remain still and wait, patiently, for his dedicated pat.  But then, Mum may know something that he does not.   Indecision.  Daniel’s mind ticked over.  Then he decided to trust me, and he stilled.

 

Puss, having waited for the humans to act as they should, acknowledged our obedience by standing up and, despite looking about and seeing more interesting scenes to be part of, choosing to grace us with his presence.  He stepped through the grasses toward Daniel.  As soon as he was close enough, Daniel touched puss, stroked him, fascinated at his fur.

 

Puss accepted a few strokes from Daniel before walking across to me – he needed attention from me, too.  So I leant down and patted him.  Daniel trundled over and we together indulged puss with all of our attention – a perfect start to puss’ day.  Daniel spoke to puss and I smiled.  I then squatted down, my son under one wing and puss under my other.

 

After this, I decided, I would ring Chris and see what he had to say.  His signs had some kind of effect, I guess, but there were still cracks in the velvet black night, and I wanted them sealed.  I did not want a single paw reaching through, feeling for a body to land on, and finding me.

 

 

Copyright, Noeleen

WordsFallFromMyEyes

There was a message from Chris when we arrived back at the flat.  He said he would be passing on his way home from the Fremantle markets and could drop in, so call him back.

I wondered if Daniel recognized Chris’ voice when he heard it on the answering machine.  I wondered too what emotion, if any, Daniel felt on hearing it – the voice of the man he would learn to call Dad; or the man who is dad really, though he denied Daniel be blood, in court.  I wondered also whether Daniel had learned anticipation on hearing Chris’ voice – that having spoken on the machine, Chris may drop in some time later this day, or alternatively; not be seen for a month.

I stared at the photographs on my wall as Chris spoke, and Daniel at my feet amongst the shopping, stared at me.

My bosom literally weeps for Daniel if we are too long apart, and me; I ache.  A part of me resides with Daniel.  So his father:  does a part of Chris reside with Daniel, too?  And when Chris chooses to not see Daniel for a month, does he feel it at all?  He seemed so emotionless when we were together – a guarded manuscript written only because the years etch lives unfold; not at all with will, with want to be told.

If I could not evoke emotion in the man, had the birth of his son perhaps paved a way?  Was Daniel crawling through the rubble of Chris’ heart through time, establishing new ground?  That flame within Chris’ soul which united with the flame in mine, I wondered, did it lean toward our boy, even just a whisper?  Chris’ non-commitment to Daniel’s raising, lack of support of the expense and needs of Daniel, spoke opposite the character of love, but what was within this man I still did not know.  Deadpan he was in issues of the heart, but could that be love; that chink in his armour I detected?  And his daughter, whom Chris also did not support: what did his heart hold for her?

I decided to pause before ringing Chris back, just unpack the shopping first.  Daniel watched as I unloaded items from the various bags and hid them in the cupboards.  He chatted and raised his arms when he saw something that looked yummy.  Would he really grow from there on the floor to my size and beyond?  I spooned some yoghurt into a bowl, added some tiny chopped up pieces of banana, put Daniel into the high chair and let him enjoy it.  I sat down, and thought.

Chris and me never declared love on each other in the three months I knew him.  Nor did love soften his gaze when he looked upon me.  This was fine:  I was used to not being loved when embraced, expected nothing more from men than to have my availability engaged for a while.  But Chris’ actions spoke gentleness at times – massages, bringing me concoctions from the Chinese doctor when I wasn’t well.  It was confusing his bulldog exterior belied this occasional, inexplicable tenderness.  And if you pointed to the tenderness, he became instantly gruff, denying it, and would bark that I think too much, feel too much, talk too much (notice too much).

Daniel was loving his yoghurt.  His fingers fished through the creamy milky substance to discover the banana pieces.  A couple of times I tried encouraging him to hold the spoon and use it properly, but I was scattered inside, tired.  It was too much effort to be mother today; I would teach him tomorrow, as I had yesterday.  And too, I was distracted.  I did not acknowledge it but I knew it:  I was afraid of, gaining in anxiety at impending nightfall.

All those months ago – a year now – I was on the verge of interpreting Chris’ random tenderness as care for me.  I was preparing in mind to flatter myself so, when I discovered he had a long standing relationship already.  And what did Tracey later say? – yes, she accepted Chris’ infidelities because he had “been hurt by love”.  At any stage of life, on any occasion, we can decide “that” is why/”that” is my licence to live a certain way.  I am human:  I have done it too.

Chris had at some stage in his life decided he would have loyalty to no-one but his own desires, and Tracey, who knows when she chose this:  chose to accept being not special enough to warrant loyalty, undivided time, undivided love, honoured by union twined by devotion.  Me, I turned away, an unseen child within my womb yet I not knowing, and laughed unsmiling at myself for nearly being fooled into thinking a man had really liked me.   Always the interpreter, defines the meaning.

“Hello, Chris here.”

“Chris, hi.  It’s Noeleen.”

“Oh, yeah, I at the Fremantle markets.  I maybe getting work here.  I leave at 5.00.  Can I come and see Daniel?”

“Sure,” I said, “That’s fine.”  How could I say no, really – ever.  Who knows when he’d call, when he’d find himself passing, when he’d decide he was available for his son?  If I let him see Daniel when he wanted, Chris just might grow a relationship with him and by that relationship, actually want the best for Daniel and be willing to contribute from his personal life, to make it happen.  I had easily turned over all I possessed to my son when he was born:  all I would earn, could earn; my life, energy, time.  But with men – or sigh, no, with Chris, it seemed to be something that had to be induced.  If he saw how wonderful Daniel is, cherishable, what promise he held, perhaps he would naturally choose to no longer measure Daniel’s needs against his bank balance, choosing to shelter his money before Daniel.

“Oh darling!” I said, after hanging up the phone to Chris.  Daniel had made a royal mess of the high chair tray, his fingers and face were sticky and his expression was all giggles.  I stroked his head and put my face near his and said “messy!”  I then kissed one cheek, said “messy!” – at which he giggled – and kissed the other cheek.  I lifted him out and set about cleaning up.  My body did the actions of wiping over the tray, rinsing the bowl, laying Daniel down for a change of nappy, wiping his face, and all the while I thought of Chris.  Once when we were together, before Daniel was conceived, he was barking at me that I was foolish in my life because I didn’t have a strong sense of direction.

“I ask you this,” he had said to me, us standing on his ninth floor balcony, post-coital, overlooking the Swan River, “Who do you live for?”

Who do I live for? I contemplated, Who do I live for….?  I stood looking at the dazzling sun shimmering off the deep blue waters of the river.

“Who do you live for?” he repeated.

“Just a second” I said.  I really wanted to consider this.  Who, indeed, did I live for?  I slowly, sadly realized:  I lived for no-one.  I felt heavy human failing in that I was not giving my life to any good purpose.  Certainly I was not a natural Mother Theresa but the least I could do was be volunteering at the local animal shelter.

“Who do you LIVE for?” Chris barked at me, impatiently.  “Who do you live for, who do you die for?”

Die for, I thought to myself – that was another proposition entirely.  Who would I give my life for?  Who would I save, defend, stand in the face of danger to protect?  No-one, I realized again.  This was terrible, my life was even more futile than I had already thought.

“You stupid!” Chris had then said, losing patience, and stormed off inside.

“What, why?  That doesn’t mean I can’t find purpose!” I appealed, following him into his tiny bedroom.  Chris swung around and beat his chest as he declared, “I live for ME!  I die for ME!  You need to live for you!  Die for you!  You are stupid, you don’t even know who you live for, who you die for!” and he went off into his tiny lounge space and busied himself with I don’t know what because I was struck dumb.  It had seemed mildly a trick question at first and I really wanted to search my heart for the honest answer, when ultimately I should have said without hesitation that I was living for me, and I would die for me.   I, what I stood for, lived, would be worth defending to the death.   And once again we had one of those afternoons after sex where he would be grumpy and at a loss with me, and I would be at a loss with me too.

“Hello?”  It was Ann.

“Come in!” I called, finishing Daniel up on the change table.  As usual, I had the wire door unlocked, and Ann made her way to the bathroom.  She immediately cooed over Daniel, which he lapped up.  How many more faces would present today?  How many more smiling people would he see?  His life seemed to be visiting face upon visiting face, in between periods of time with mum alone – sometimes she was so cheerful and sometimes so distant.  Daniel had an affected mum.

It was good to have the distraction of others for Daniel, when I was not all there.  I just wasn’t all together, today.  I let Ann hold Daniel and took the opportunity to walk us down the side of the block of flats to the clothes lines where I unpegged our washing, dropped it into the basket and carried the load back indoors.  Ann played with Daniel and spoke to him while I did this, and all the while I wondered how I would say “it”.

When finally we were settled of activity and Daniel was on the floor between us, an array of toys surrounding him, I told Ann outright the bizarreness of the past week.  I told her how Robert had brought manifested dust into our home, in case it was important in the unfolding of things, and put it near my Jesus Christ statue that I’d had since age 8, when I lived with my aunty (after the orphanage) after Mum’s suicide.  Ann wanted to see the dust and I let her, and she marveled at the story that this ash-like substance had been created by the rubbing together of two fingers.  Robert claimed to have seen it himself, to have received it himself, directly made.

“Do you believe it?” I asked Ann.

“I don’t know.  It’s hard to believe.”

“I agree.  I don’t know either.  I don’t know what to make of it.  I’m scared to eat bits of it like he suggested, in case it’s not what he says it is.  It’s like taking cocaine off someone and just believing it’s cocaine, but you don’t really know the origin.”

“I guess so,” she said.

“But anyway, I just leave it there.  Robert said it was supposed to be good.”

“Do you trust Robert?”

“I hardly know Robert.”  I didn’t tell her about the ambush, running semi-naked from his friend’s house, throwing my clothes on, on his front porch, betrayal throbbing in my temples, burning – or how I had genuinely liked Robert, what I had sensed.  But again the interpreter, defines the meaning.  I just said he was a senior trainer at the dojo.

We moved from the subject of the dust to the night I felt almost completely drained of qi, how the experience had left me empty as a shell the next day, how I’d felt fragile, weak.  She was awed.

“Do you believe me?” I asked her.

“I do,” she said.  “It’s not the first time I’ve heard of this sort of thing.”  I was relieved at this.  It still seemed impossible to me, even as I spoke it.  It seemed wildly imaginative and completely delusional.  And had I not experienced it myself, I would have had great difficulty believing it the way Ann seemed willing to.

I then told Ann how I had dragged myself through that day, completely out of sorts, but physically capable of loading bricks and working, and having a meal with my yoga teacher and his ex partner and child – my spirit meanwhile crouched into a corner, head down, recovering.  Next, I told Ann of waking up and feeling the energy in the room, how palpable it was, and how terrifying it was to have a human instinct knowing but being completely unable to see anything.  It felt so good to out with it all.  I told her of all three experiences, of Daniel crying and being unsettled since I moved him into the sleep-out for his independence, but how I then took on the sleep-out and let Daniel have my huge room where he was sleeping fine.

“Why don’t you just go back to your own room?” Ann asked me.

“Because I rented this place for a purpose – for Daniel to have a room, as well as me.  I don’t want one room in the place unoccupied, steered clear from.  I want, I don’t know, I want it gone.  I’m petrified, Ann.”  And for some reason, I started crying.  Daniel looked up at me from the floor.  I wiped my tears.  But it was fatigue streaming from my eyes, and being at wits’ end, being too scared to sleep, and I couldn’t control it:  I cried more.

Ann left her chair to comfort me, and Daniel stopped playing.

“Mum’s fine, darling,” I smiled.  “Just tired.  Mum’s just a bit tired.”  His gorgeous brown eyes looked deeply at me.  Intelligence shone in them.  He was astonishing.

“I just wish you could stay or Dave would, or anybody.  I don’t want to be alone at night any more,” I gulped and gasped.  “It’s like if I sleep, this intruder WILL come in.  I’m really, really petrified, Ann,” I sobbed.

Ann’s hug was warm, it was nice.  She said maybe I could try a different Priest, and that made me laugh.  That was enormously funny, really.

Ann sat back down and Daniel slowly started playing again, looking up every now and then to check on mum.

“I don’t know.  I don’t know, Noeleen, I really don’t.”

“No,” I said, “I don’t either.”  I took a huge sigh.  Physically, I felt a little alleviated.

“So you really had seen a ghost, so to speak,” she said, after a minute.

“Yep,” I responded.  And we said nothing for a while.

It was when we were sitting like this, that Chris walked through the front door.

Copyright, Noeleen

Indeed.

And so it was Sunday.  And so the sun shone, the birds chirruped.  I could count down another day in my life as having passed.

Daniel roused.  I would have to be upright, functional, alert for the next 10 hours at least, and would have to resist sleep thereafter.  This was too impossible.  I had to find resolve.

Leaning over Daniel’s cot, I tried to hoist him up.  But he was heavy, so heavy in my fatigue – like a sack of wet concrete.  I only got him half way, and then placed him back down.  Confusion crossed his eyes.

“Sorry, sweetheart.  Mum – ” I sighed, gave it another go.  HUP!  And I had him. 

My sweet son.  It was December already.  His birthday was 24 January.  I wanted it to be special.  I had in the back of my mind, to bring together all the people I know (so what if none are deep friends), and call it a party – call it Daniel’s First Birthday party.

The routine of the day commenced, and like pushing a cart up a hill which has no descent, or really I am going backwards the descent, I moved us forward through the day.  I was laden, sleep deprived, feeling weak.  I had not my usual energy for Daniel and he knew, as he would have had to become accustomed by now, that it was “one of those days”.  Some days, mum just isn’t really there.  Usually it was depression which shrouded my soul, but this time it was something alternative entirely.

After cleaning the yoga room, which was so wearying, I walked us slowly down the steps of the building.  I paused halfway.  I looked at the cars in the car park, observed a businessman stride quickly to his vehicle, point and “beep” to unlock it.  I watched as he busied himself with preparing to drive off.  Off he would drive, into his normal day.  Normal.  Everything around me was normal, and I felt I was in the grip of something so abnormal, so freaking abnormal, I was entirely alone.

There was no group I could join, to stand at the podium and confess, “Hi, My name’s Noeleen and my flat is invaded at night by some kind of energy which petrifies me.  It sucked the life out of me Friday night and stole my peace last night.  And I’m here to give it up.”  And others would speak their experiences, and we would exchange ideas of what to do.  I felt, holding Daniel – as really, I had so often felt before:  we, so isolated.

With us halfway down the stairs and me staring at the normality laid out before me, Daniel made impatient sounds.  His angelic voice asked me to move on.  And so I moved on.

While packing Daniel into the car, while putting my foot down on the clutch, guiding the gears, stopping at red and going at green; while passing shops, people, parks, I suddenly thought of Robert.  It was one week ago – just six days ago – he had slapped my arse, called me bitch, and claimed ‘she loves it’ as he tried to force his erect self-definition into my tensed naivety.   And that slap still stung.

I had liked Robert, really liked what I saw and felt.  Yet I seemed to possess such faulted judgment of men, I could not trust myself to go near one.   I suddenly remembered, pictured, my sister Wendy’s t-shirt she wore one day:  ‘Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?’ – a saying from some pulp fiction comic.  Indeed.

A boy on a scooter, as the pedestrian light flashed ‘walk’, pushed off earnestly, beating his sister across the road.  But they have to wait for mum as she strolls to meet them, a half smile slapped lazily across her face, a dream in her eyes.  Safely on the other side together as a family, the boy eagerly pushes off again.

Why does mere survival of the days consume so much energy sometimes?  Is life like this for everyone?  Life presents a problem, you have to find a solution.  But why so many obstacles all my years, so many problems inner and out?  Why so many doors slammed shut in my face while – yes, sure, life begifts that another opens; so I change direction and ‘bam!’ just when life seemed to be possible to live rather than merely survive – BAM! ANOTHER DOOR.  I’m like a mouse in a maze, this lifetime, with the passage only narrow enough for me, standalone, to keep scurrying forward looking for exit or reward, whichever may come first – and I keep having to change direction.  I have read a few new age books.  I know ‘they’ would say, “Your life, your living is NOW; not something to be found/later.”  And I would say, “Well what’s this misty and cold, darkened room I’ve found myself in now?  How am I supposed to live and love this?  Here I am, having to find my way out of the dark again.”  And little white mouse me continues to scamper about in the dark, my nose bumping into walls, sniffing along them, trying to smell with instinct, trying to find an opening.  Sigh.

“Mum-ma” Daniel sang, and then jabbered.   He was so, so full of life.  All I had to do was give him food, shelter, and assurance by the rays of love beaming from my heart, and he was fine.  It is all so simple at his age, but yet a year.  It is all yet to be discovered – the complications of life; which are the reflection, I do think, of the complications of one’s heart.

We pulled up at the Swanbourne shops.  Swanbourne, the nudie beach.  How I wished to lay out in the sun, eyes closed on the warmth, the ocean in perpetual swell and shallow before me; such a calming sound.  But I cannot go back to the single days of life being mine alone.  I held it in flimsy grasp anyhow; aimless, futile, existent, aching to be worthwhile on this Earth but only being another person on the beach, a head full of tangled snakes, a heart burning through my chest; a soul cramped, begging me to let it spread its wings that it may be what it was born to be; I the human containing it with my lack of wisdom, re-entering my little bedsitter at the end of the day, having another drink.

No, I couldn’t go back.  And I didn’t want to.  My life has now been spliced with a newborn spirit magically ignited in time in this Universe, in my womb.  We are now one.  Then in time (again), the connection is destined to thin sufficient that Daniel may be released from my hold and turn away from me with his eyes on the sunrise of that day.  Its light will shine in his brown eyes, flickering hope, as he looks toward his future.  And I will hold tears and gasps in my chest as he steps away.  I will, and hope, to do a worthy enough job of raising Daniel that he does not grow like I did, grabbing that connection to parent in two hands and yanking, yanking and yanking to loosen it day upon torturous day of my teen age, constantly sawing away at it with blunt knives – my lack of potent ammunition in dad’s household.  I willed and willed for the year I could flee – only to find myself connected still, and I spent my next years turning around and tearing at the connection with my teeth, wanting to gnaw it to shreds, to break it off entirely, throw it back in my father’s face; separate myself from him absolutely.  So much energy this little white mouse spent dumbly gnawing, while my energy could have turned to self-discovery, which is living.  But such was the prison in my head, which caged my soul.

With Daniel in the baby backpack, weighing my shoulders backward, and the shopping loaded in two hands, weighing my shoulders forward, the thin plastic cutting through my fingers, I stood staring at the supermarket window, at handwritten ads. placed by locals.  I wasn’t reading, I was just staring.  Daniel was occupied looking at people pass by, so many who smiled at him, I sensed, as Daniel ‘spoke’ back to them.  I then looked at his reflection, his open smile, his tiny hands moving about.  I stood, gazing, my eyes glazing over.  It felt like time was still.

“Hi Noeleen!”  I heard the voice of a female.  I recognized my name.  I felt faint, weak, slight.  I felt I could carry all the load I was carrying, as long as I didn’t move.  But the longer I stood there, I felt I was becoming stuck, sunk into the ground by gravity.

“Noeleen?” 

I stopped staring at Daniel’s reflection and turned toward the voice.  It was Ann, a friend of Dave’s, that had moved into the flats across the road on Stirling Highway.  I stared at her; her brown hair, light complexion, brown eyes.  I think my mouth was a little open.  I looked puzzled, as if she was just a vision.  She was so close up in my face.

“Are you all right?”  More words.  Words from her mouth dissipated in the air, bubbles popping.  Her eyes queried me, waited for an answer.

“Er,” I said.  My mouth was dry.  I swallowed.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” she said, with half a smile.  A ghost.  What a choice of words.  I would have to write that in my journal when we got home.  She said ‘ghost’, she said I looked like I had seen a ghost.  I really must have looked like I’d seen a ghost, then.

“I have,” I said.

“What?!”  Now there was puzzlement in her eyes.  She didn’t know what to do.  I was being socially abnormal.  I was meant to say with a big smile “Hi Ann!  How are you?  How’s life?  Oh, Daniel?  He’s so wonderful, sleeping well and my, he’s eating so much lately.  The only bad thing he does is shit.  I’m sick of changing nappies.  Hah hah! but that’s life! (smile, smile, smile).”

“Oh,” I said.  “No, just joking.”

“Seriously.  Are you okay?”

I snapped out of it, took a big gulp.

“Oh,” I said, and smiled.  “Sorry Ann, just – do you want to visit maybe?  We could talk?  Are you free?”

“Well, I haven’t done my shopping yet,” she said, “but I can come over after it, if you like.  Is anything wrong?”

“No.  Wrong.  Oh, hmmm.  Wrong…” I said, my voice drifting, and my eyes following, away from Ann’s face, off into the traffic.  There was pause.

“Hmm.  Well, I can visit after shopping if you like.”

“That would be great,” I said.  Ann, being a friend of Dave’s, would have been bound to have had chats with him about this kind of thing.

“See you about 4.30 then?” she asked, and I nodded.  4.30, yes.  Then it would become 5.30.  Then 6.30, 7.30, and night; then there would be night.

“Okay” Ann said, waving us off as she went into the supermarket.  When she passed from my range of vision, I saw people coming towards me, walking casually down the street, talking with each other.  They passed me.  Then people came out of the supermarket, stepped around us.  I heard the cash register.  I heard mumbling.  I heard the door of the butcher nearby swinging open and shut.  I saw a little girl with her mum.  I saw a bunch of flowers.  There was a can on the ground near the bin – why didn’t they put it in the bin?  Some impatient person was beeping someone else on the road.  And then an old lady, dressed so well with earrings and make up, her hair in a bun, walked slowly out of the store, went off up the street, two bags of shopping.  I watched the back of her.  I would be an old lady one day.  Some time between now and then, I would have had what you call ‘a life’.

Copyright, Noeleen

 

 

Note pingback below (here’s hoping it works)…& my next post which will be a gift to you from another reader

WordsFallFromMyEyes

HELLO!  WELCOME

THE VIDEO ABOVE IS A READING

OF MY BLOG BELOW – Oh, with a bit of imagery thrown together too

Our bodies salt-infused by the in-rolling waves of the Indian Ocean – salt, so cleansing; foam and froth; wet with the cool that rushed about my knees as I held Daniel, the sunset laid out before us, and dipped down to let him be sprayed gently by the salt water off shore; meanwhile sinking myself in for a quick soak; Daniel wary but trusting, gripping the soft flesh of my upper arms as the mighty ocean rolled before us, but then calming as he could see I had our lives in good hand, backing away and walking in at safe pace and distance; our nostrils full of the fresh breath of tide; barefoot, my feet crunched the sand before stepping up onto the concrete steps, making the rise, walking down Marine Parade, and securing Daniel into the car.  We both felt good.

My solid old Holden brought us home safely, where I unlatched Daniel from the baby capsule and carried him, with all of my love, indoors.  I had the chore of adulthood:  having to shake out my towel, run us a bath, unpack the bag, ensure Daniel didn’t spread his sandy self all over the floorboards, take one of my mushy pre-prepared dinners out of the freezer, and so on as life requires, before we descended into a tepid bath, another experience of cleansing entirely.  I didn’t really want to wash the salt off us, wanted to smell it when finally I would rest this night, but I knew what had to be done.

When the clock struck 9.10 and it was dark outdoors, and soon I would not have the company of my child – or comfort; I tried to trust, I did, but anxiety struck a flame of doubt inside me.  While I was busy with Daniel, and listened to Dave’s answering machine message that he had paid Father Ryan “the difference” but “don’t worry about it” – during all of that, the flame burned.  Just a little flicker, it was, but still it existed, and intent though I was on not giving mind to this energy or darkness materialized or whatever it was – still, in my human self, remained a shred of fear.

10 pm and I was tired, and on an ideal evening – such as one week ago – I would lay myself to rest after Daniel, turn off all the lights, and sleep with such a depth of departure from this realm, I would wake “reborn”, so to speak; refreshed, renewed.  But could I still bring myself to turn off the light, when it was in darkness that the unseen had made with stealth to my bed?  Could I do it?  I hesitated.  I decided to stay up a little longer, just busy myself, get really tired.

While re-setting Daniel’s toys as he slept in the purity of innocence, I admonished myself for lack of faith.  I needed to have faith – not that “believing” makes any difference to the reality; it never does, but just, I should rest, with peace.  Trust.

Near midnight, it was, that tired and worn – from such physical work, alertness being with Tom and his family, watching Father Ryan bless my home and assure me all was well, and our time at the beach:  it all lay heavy on me now, was pressuring me to lay my body down.  My shoulders sagged as fatigue insisted I let go of holding up my physical being, place a blanket over me, and with the light off fall,

fall,

fall,

to sleep.

It is in the quiet of night, its fingers reaching toward dawn, that stillness exists most intense.  Millions of heads lay upon millions of beds in darkened Australia as the planet turned on its axis; a God’s-eye view being surely nothing but specks:  human ‘ants’ stilled in their flurry of soul-searching, murder, life-affirming, rape, love, abuse, parties and suicide – most of the population now stilled, sleeping.

And so too it was in one small unit in Cottesloe, the west of Australia, lay a woman in the semi-dark, R.E.M. fluttering her eyelids as in the next room, just through the indoor window, lay her son at rest.  His little fingers curled in a dream, his lips plump pink, parted, his satin finish dark brown hair mildly mussed from his movement in the cot.

And the woman, if you were to look upon her, was deep in sleep.  Her heavy body, human, solid in the bed; her light spirit other, not venturing far; hovering; wanting to sail on moonlight’s silver slivers but not, not venturing far.

With an enormous gasp I sat upright, my eyes wide open.  In the semi-darkness I saw only the shadows of the lounge at the foot of my bed, but I felt the sparks of electricity in the air – the energy.   It prickled all around me, like pinpricks, and petrified, I suddenly yelled:  “GO BACK TO THE LIGHT!”  Daniel began crying – a burst of vocal spraying through the airwaves like a burst water main.

I feared to get up in case “it” blocked my way.  Still, I stood on my bed, so acutely aware of something, something.  A tear sprang to my eye:  grief. I wanted freedom and the simplicity of life, though complex it was to me, I possessed but a week ago.

Through the energy, fearing its block, still I walked down my bed to its foot, to the doorway into the lounge.  The energy was alive but I didn’t have to force my way through it – it was more like it parted; no, I parted it.  It couldn’t stop me, I could walk through it and it had no option, bearing no real power, but to drop away.  Realizing this, my pace quickened.  I jumped off the end of my bed, turned on my light, went straight out my door, left and into my old bedroom.  I didn’t turn the light on, but went to Daniel and picked him up.  I started crying, in distress, and held him.  In my old bedroom at what – 3-something a.m.? – I stood looking into the lounge, feeling I couldn’t leave where I was.  With Daniel, innocence in my hold, I felt I could not step out.

But I was occupying one room, while I paid rent for two rooms, a mini lounge and a kitchen.  Suddenly, in protest, I walked determinedly through the lounge and turned on the light.  I went into the kitchen and turned on the light.  I jiggled Daniel, and swallowed my tears.  He was crying hard because of the alarm of sudden wakefulness, and I feared the neighbours would hate us.  We had been contained until now, but suddenly we were making noise, being noticed – I did not want us to be noticed.

Standing in the lounge with Daniel in my arms, I looked into my bedroom/the sleep-out.  My bed sat there, the ruffled sheets, the picture Cherie painted, which I bought from her, thrilling her with my $80, sitting at the head of my bed, nothing on the floor.  In my stillness, Daniel quietened.  I decided to go into my room (the sleep-out).

Holding Daniel, I walked in.  It had dispersed.  It was still there, but dispersed – not intense, thick as it had been. I gulped.  Holding Daniel’s head down into the cradle in my neck, so he wouldn’t be flooded with light, I decided to sing ‘Amazing Grace’.  I had sung it to Daniel before, and he liked it.  So in the small space, then strolling into the lounge, into my old bedroom, back into the lounge where I turned the light off, I sang Amazing Grace.  “Aaaamaaazing Grace, how sweeeet the sound, that saaaaved a wreeeetch like meeeee….”

I continued to stroll, Daniel in my arms, around our tiny flat, and as my confidence grew that I owned our space again, I turned off the lights – all but one:  the bathroom, and continued.  “I onceeeeee was lost but nowwwwww am found, was bliiiiind but now, I seeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.”

Daniel calmed, and over half an hour, I did too. As long as I was awake, I could see, my home remained ours.  Thus, I cradled Daniel and continued to sing, further.   “Twas grace that taught my heart to fear, by grace, my fear releaaased.”

Time.  It is always time.  Time brought night to the end of its reign, and Dawn began to speak.  Twitters of birds.  I had lain Daniel back into his cot and he continued to sleep like a cherub on a fluffy white cloud while I, gripped in fear, pale, remained on my feet, not daring to be prostrate, not daring to be unalert, not daring to be at rest – while I, staring out the patio window at light’s touch upon the leaves, gentle, wondered what had happened in the space of one week that should bring into my physical, down to earth world, something so unreal.

My eyes, bloodshot, refused to sleep, and I stared like a zombie, even as the first beam of sun, pale, struck the concrete path, just a corner of, then spread – over time, it spread, and I stared, and it strengthened, and expanded, and I stared, and it shone, eventually, brightly, the light of day.

I turned away.

I looked at my bed.

Daniel was still sleeping.

It was 7.18 a.m.

I wanted to sleep, I did, but felt safety only in the knowing that life all around me was rousing, stirring, putting kettles on and sprinkling sugar onto cereal, and cats were licking milk as worms were digging into the earth, while magpies they plucked what they could – the weaker, slower, now sorry worms.

Hearing the traffic on Stirling Highway comforted me by the idea that I would be safe because there was so much life abuzz now, that Death could not move.  Death moves only in the still of night.

Freaked, I was, completely freaked.  If the Priest’s prayers had not worked, if God’s Holy blessed water had no power:  then where did that leave Daniel and me?  No God to pray to?  Did we all pray to the wrong God?  Was he like that guy behind the shade in The Wizard of Oz? – you know, the enormous voice amplified by a microphone, without which, you could not hear; for the owner of the voice had no great volume of his own.

I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling.  I just didn’t think I could sleep ever again, not until this was sorted.  I didn’t know I could sort it.  I was in a newly entered one year lease.  I was just me and Daniel.  The Church hadn’t the power.  So where could the power come from?

copyright, Noeleen

Part of the scene

The Priest followed Dave through the wire door, and closed it behind him.  He eyed my sign overhead the entrance  –

“THE CHALLENGE

IS TO BE TRUE

TO EACH STAGE OF LIFE”

- and followed Dave through.  We gathered in the lounge.

Daniel, curious at hearing a new person in my life, crawl-walked his way from my old bedroom, where he had been occupied in his toy corner. He looked up at the Priest, who said “Helloooo”.  Daniel didn’t respond though; only stared.

“Um,” I said.

“This is Father Ryan,” Dave said, “And this is Noeleen.”

“Thank you for your time” I said.

“That’s fine,” said Father Ryan, thinking a $50 donation was coming his way.

Father Ryan looked briefly around at his surrounds, at all the things that represent me, my life: photos on the wall – happy snaps of me partying, pre-Daniel; when I was filming; in a bikini; Daniel – the large wooden writing desk I had taken with me from the marriage, which almost consumed the lounge space – nowhere to sit but at the desk or on a papasan – the connecting kitchen with no table or chairs, a fridge with baby information clipped onto it.  Whenever a stranger enters your home, you suddenly wonder how you must “seem”, to them.

My place was clean, it always was.  I had floorboards in the unit, but got down on my hands and knees and cleaned them over with a rag. They looked good the day you cleaned them, but always became dusty soon after.

“Which is the room?” Dave asked. “It’s this one, isn’t it?” he said, walking through to the sleep-out.

“Yes, that’s the one” I said.  Suddenly we were all in the small space – one bed and a few feet to the rear glass doors – with Daniel on the floorboards in the lounge, having manouvred himself into position to peer in at us.

“Okay,” Father Ryan said.  “I’ll start at the entrance.”

Father Ryan went back to the front door, and I looked at Dave.  Father Ryan started saying prayers and throwing Holy water about.  Daniel shuffled his way across the floor to the kitchen, where he could see the Father in action.  My entrance has a small hallway which opens to the kitchen on the right and the lounge ahead, with the kitchen and lounge being open to each other.

I didn’t want us all staring at Father Ryan so I plucked Daniel up, jiggled him on my hip, and then took him into the lounge, as the Father had now started walking through the kitchen.  Daniel craned his neck around to keep his eye on him.  He was enormously curious at this man’s activities in our home.  But I kept moving us to a space where Father Ryan was not, to give him room to do his thing.  He spent an extra minute in the sleep-out, and then returned to the lounge where Dave had remained the whole time.  I came out to the lounge too, as Father Ryan was putting his Holy water holder back onto his person.

“So, I mean – have you ever needed to do this before?” I asked him.

“Yes, he said.”

“Has it worked?”

“Do you doubt it?”

I felt that was rude.  Holy Shit, I was allowed to doubt:  I am human.  “I don’t entirely doubt it.  It’s just, it was horrific.  It was petrifying and I really want it gone.”

“The Holy water is sacred,” Father Ryan said.  “I believe your home is safe now.”

I sighed within before I sighed without, an exhale of relief.  I wanted so much for that to be true.  In honesty, however, I was still scared.  I had met something unearthly, unseen, of power, that I still felt terror to recall – hence consequent fear of recurrence.

“Well, thank you,” I said.

Father Ryan nodded, Dave smiled, and then there was a moment of nothing.

Oh! The ‘donation’! I had thought about it, and my money had been too hard earned to hand over to a Priest who was probably going to have a roast dinner tonight, though it was Saturday – with gravy and vegetables, followed by apple pie of thick, melting crust and lashings of cream.

I believed this because when I was a teen, in my starved teen age, I went for a trip with the girl across the road, called Jana.  It was just a day trip, for her mum to visit a Nun up the country on some kind of business, and we were invited to lunch.  We had an enormous lunch, which to me was like a Christmas feast, which finished off with apple pie and cream.  It was a huge slice of apple pie too, not meager.  I had asked the Nun, “Do you eat like this every day?” and she smiled, “Yes, we do.”  I then decided I might become a Nun.  I could write in my little room – if I didn’t have to share – and be really well fed, and probably all I had to do was have the discipline to get up early to attend Mass.  Obviously when you get up at an “ungodly” hour to attend Mass, that shows your extreme devotion.  I then thought, involuntarily, that it must be after Mass, when they are disrobing, that altar boys are most at risk of being sexually molested by Priests.

When I returned to school the next week, I asked the Nun who taught us Religion, could I maybe see the Nunnery, just in case I was thinking about becoming a Nun.

“Are you thinking of becoming a Nun, Noeleen?’ Sister Mary asked me.

“Well, I’m considering it,” I had said.  “I was just wondering what the life was like.”

Sister Mary seemed to like the idea, and decided to expand my request to include all young girls with an interest in convent life (next door to the school).  I believe she had genuine hope of saving one or two of our budding bossoms and succulent pussies from mortal mauling in favour of spiritual leaning.  She told me she would organize a trip to her convent, “And give others the opportunity to see it too.”

When we did go to the convent, I learned that they had to take turns cooking.  I didn’t like that.  Also, when we went into the kitchen there were a few Nuns sitting about, chatting, and I wasn’t the chatty type.  I liked to be alone a lot, and I wondered if I would be forced to socialize.  During my school days, if I felt capable of maintaining a façade, a persona people favoured – “You’re so funny, Noeleen!” – I would be out amongst them; but if I was depressed and focused on suicide, I would crouch amongst the teachers’ cars at lunch time, out of view of all, and wish I had the guts to run onto the busy highway, and just die. 

“Where were you at lunch, Noeleen?”

“Looking for you!  I was looking for you everywhere!!”

Also, I spent many afternoons after school in the Church – upstairs where you are forbidden, in the choir block – just lying on the floor in peace, absolute peace.  I would do this for hours, before acknowledging I had no real choice but to return “home”.  I was discovered only once (as no-one ever usually went up there) and fortunately heard the footsteps up the stairs in time to quickly position myself in a dedicated kneel, my head bowed, and to look up, disturbed in my private moment with God, at the Nun who – God knows why – had wandered her way up there.  She retreated.

The convent was quiet, a sanctuary, but I wasn’t sold on how much time I would get to myself, so I gave up the idea.  I didn’t tell that to Sister Mary bluntly, I just said that it had been a very thought provoking visit.  She never pushed it with me, but forever after looked at me with a twinkling smile, as if I were a young girl troubled, torn, struggling with the decision and on the verge of deciding, but being persuaded back to common mortal life; my heart moving toward God and swinging away from – and she gave me the space to decide.  I appreciated that.

“Oh, okay”, I said. 

With Daniel on my hip, I went to my purse which was purposefully on my writing desk.  With my hand on my purse, I said, “Father, I greatly appreciate your time, I do.  I thank you dearly, with all my heart, and may God bless you too.  It’s just that” – and I opened my purse so that it gaped in his direction to show only a $20 note and a $5 note (I had hidden the other two 20s of my $60) – “I am of difficult means this week.”  With my two fingers I slid the $20 out of my purse and closed it.  “I think Dave told you – I am a parent, unsupported.”

Daniel looked down at the money in my hand, watched me pass it across to Father Ryan – that which Tom had passed across to me this afternoon.  How interesting is money: valuable, invaluable, valueless.

I thought as I handed the $20 to Father Ryan, Will your manner be dismissive now at this mere donation – or will you still respect me as a human being, of what means I am?  What about that parable in the Bible where the rich man gives a donation of thousands and the poor man gives a donation of a few coins, but it is the few coins that is the greater donation, for in truth, the poor man GAVE more.

 

Father Ryan received my offering.  There was the mildest flicker of a look toward Dave, and Dave looked at me as if I had broken a promise.  Yet I had never committed to giving $50.  I was giving what I could, that was it – the rest was for Daniel and me.  Hell, it would have been nice if Father Ryan came along with a hamper of food and baby goods for the “single mother”.  After all, I am the “single mother”, right?  What a lovely gesture of Christianity that would have been. I guess it never occurred to him.

“Thank you,” Father Ryan said.  What lovely manners!

“Well, I’ll drive you back now,” Dave said.

“Dave,” I said, following them to the front door, “I really, really appreciate it.  Thank you for driving Father Ryan here.”

“It’s fine,” Dave said.  “I hope you sleep well tonight.” *

“Thank you,” I said. 

“Thank you, thank you” I repeated as I stood at the open wire door and they walked down the flats, to the back lane.  When they were almost out of sight I again shouted “Thank you!”  I don’t know why, I just had the impulse.  Dave turned and looked at me like I was a looney.  I giggled.

I returned indoors, Daniel still on my hip, and put the $40, hidden under my dictionary, back into my purse.  I then put my purse in my bag, which hung over the bedroom door.

“Well, that was interesting, wasn’t it, sweet heart?” I said to Daniel, smiling.  I felt better, sort of protected.  I had the mildest fear in my heart, though.  It was impossible not to have, after what I had experienced.  It was like if your home was broken into at 4 a.m. – the front door broken down with an axe and machete – and you were violated, but are later told, “The police have him now”.  You feel better, though there remains a chance, just, that “he” could break free – or maybe even return if let free on bail.  But mostly, I felt okay.

I decided Daniel and me would catch some of the sunset on Cottesloe beach.  I was too fatigued to walk anywhere, so settled him into the baby seat in my car, brought a big warm baby rug though it was about 23 degrees, 6 pm, and drove down Eric Street, Cottesloe.  When you come to a certain rise, you see on the horizon the ocean, vast, and you sort of “drive into the scene” of people;  kids eating ice creams, dogs lapping up melted or over-licked droppings from them, teens on skateboards, weaving their way down Marine Parade, all to the background cacophony of early evening cheers and music at the pub on the corner, men drinking and talking what men do; and women clinking glasses, giggling, flirting, sobbing soul, or living.

Having found a park spot and got Daniel out of the car, I looked around to see in which direction I would enter the scene – stage left, or stage right?  I decided we’d go past the café, and down the stairs straight onto the beach.  Having decided, I made our approach.  

When I stepped onto the footpath,

we then became,

part of the scene.

 

 

 

 

I later learned that Dave gave Father Ryan $30 to make up for

my lack of ‘donation’, which was a nice choice of his.

Copyright, Noeleen         

WordsFallFromMyEyes

http://vimeo.com/34722026

Below, in case you can’t play videos, is the words I read above…

 

Night.

Black.

Depth.

Still.

 

Cats astray,

crouching in bushes and ’neath trees

peep out.

They see.

 

Retroreflective eyes

visual acuity razor sharp

watch,

as whispers past what?

that rustled the leaves so faintly in its flight.

 

Some humans would question

what animals know.

 

Instincts ignite alert,

cats huddle deeper,

dogs lift their head in kennels, sensing,

birds remain still, unnoticed in nests, camouflaged.

Stars, they twinkle tribillion-zillion-gazillion years away,

a distance which cannot be fathomed

by your average body sleeping

in their bed,

REM.

 

Some humans would question

what astronomers know.

 

To where and why to?

the unseen in swift passage

slither through the cracks between worlds like ants scurrying from nests.

Quick, for their time is limited,

relies upon the ticking of the clock in the human world

which reflects when is night, before day.  The witching hour.

 

Still,

some humans would question

what others

involuntarily

now know.

 

AWAKE SUDDENLY.

From deep sleep to stark consciousness I was mercilessly ripped.  Conscious, my senses were immediately alarmed and I made (in my mind) to get up.  But I couldn’t move.  I was immobilized.

I wasn’t paralysed, because I could feel, could feel weight on me.  It wasn’t a human weight, it was – NO!  It was not a weight, but a force.

I wanted to open my eyes, but couldn’t.  I wanted to, wanted to, but couldn’t.  I knew no human was sitting on me, pinning me to the bed and doing – nothing?

DRAINING ME.  I could feel my energy draining.  I could FEEL it.

There is power and there is strength, but will of neither could grant me movement.  I was terrified, petrified.

 

Was Daniel okay?   I wanted to open my mouth, call out, but realized I could not. I had no  voice, no sight, no capability of movement.  I was weighted to the bed like concrete sunk to the ocean floor.  I could not swim my way out of this.  My arms only floundered in my mind, my legs only kicked in my mind – my mind!  I still had my mind!  My brain was in my skull but my mind was free.

Suddenly I began praying in my head.  I repeated ‘Our Fathers’.  I prayed and prayed.  I focused on the words, truly willed to reach God – there be a God.  Was this real?  Was this happening?

Still, I repeated mentally that prayer which Aunty Betty “made” me learn when I was 8: ‘Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done…but deliver us from evil.  Amen.   Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name….”

***

What else had I heard in movies or wherever:  ‘Go back to the Light’.  Yes!  I started shouting ‘Go back to the Light!’ in my mind.  I couldn’t move my lips, my eyes were blind by force, my body but flesh – power of spirit being siphoned from, and my voicebox was gripped by an iron fist unseen.   Yet still, in my head I began to shout ‘Go back to the Light!’ and ‘In Jesus’ Name, be gone!’ and ‘By God’s command, LEAVE!’

 

With my mind, I imagined opening my mouth, imagined vocalizing.  I imagined and imagined with my free roaming mind, as hard as I could, speaking out.  My voice box tried so SO hard.  ‘Go back to the Light!’  ‘In Jesus’ Name, be gone!’

 

Well, what do you do?  You are being attacked, spiritually, by an unknown, unseen force.  It’s not a movie:  it is real and it is now:  what do you do?  Had this happened to you, would you think, “Oh buggar, I’m an atheist” – or suddenly do you realize there is something dark unseen:  could there be light too?  For dark cannot exist without light.

 

ALL of Aunty Betty’s prayers flooded back to me.  Well, the ‘Hail Holy Queen’ she taught me I had forgotten the words of – but I remembered the rosary, being on our knees once a week – or was it month? – saying it aloud and together like a ‘family’.  It was all I had:  all I had, was all I had learned. 

 

In panicked seconds, in the ‘dead’ of night, where seconds seemed to count for life or for death – and the referee in the ring, he counts:

“One…two…

eight…nine…

oh no, she’s up again!”

- a slight, so slight utterance forced itself from the clutch on my throat, rose to my lips, made verbal in the room.  For one second, the force lightened.

Like a boxer who had gained a physical inch a psychological mile, I shouted again in my head and imagined – tried forcing my lips to say it:  ‘In Jesus’ Name, be gone!’

 

I told my voice box to shout it, commanded my lips to deliver it, I repeated and repeated it – ‘In Jesus’ Name, be gone’.  Wrestling with the unknown, my mind my only available force, with great difficulty a strained version of the words eventually vibrated from my voicebox:  I made more sound.

For one second again, it abated, and I rushed to shout louder in my head:  ‘In Jesus’ Name, be gone!’   ‘J’, I was able to vocalize. ‘Je’, I tried so hard.

 

And it left.

 

I opened my eyes immediately.   It was semi-dark, light enough only for shadows and illusions.  I wanted to jump from bed and turn on the light, but it was hard to get up because I felt weak.  I felt empty, drained.

When I did make it to the light and turned it on, I felt cold.  Scared.  I could not believe what I had just experienced.

I went into my old room.  Daniel lay sleeping soundly.  I looked closely, in case he was dead.  But no, he was in the comfort of innocence, surrounded by his blankets, looking so peaceful he could be thought to be cradled by a Guardian Angel – for he knew nothing, what had just entered our home.

A tear broke from my eye and ripped its way down my cheek.  It felt like a razor was slashing my cheek.  Perhaps my body was so heightened of sensitivity.  It burned, seared its way down to my chin, dripped off.

I returned to the sleep-out.  It was empty:  there was no force, no energy, no feeling, no sense:  nothing.

I went into the kitchen, turned on the light, sat on a chair.  I stared at the table top.  I was not scared, but I felt very very alone.  I whispered, “Dear God…”

***

I was not game to sleep again.  It was 4.14 a.m. when eventually I looked at the clock.  I don’t know, the clock, it gives you some perspective.  You may think you’ve been sleeping for hours to find it was only minutes; you may think you’ve been unconscious a day to find you were in a coma for years; you may think you were dreaming, to find that you are dead.

 

And as dawn arose fresh in light, life and oxygen; when the birds began to twitter; when I heard the first cars on Stirling Highway – then, with hope Daniel would be ‘out for the count’, I returned to my bed in the sleep-out and attempted sleep, unconsciousness.  But how to meet unconsciousness, when you have been brought aware?

 

 

Copyright, Noeleen