Writing From Below | skiptoend - Virginia Barratt

skiptoend

Virginia Barratt

               … and just what is my relationship to memory? 


sea eyes turning perlite.


she’s staring at the back of his head, her legs folded over the back of the iron bench, still in fluffy pyjamas, butt balancing on a narrow beam. he’s staircase suntrap sitting, cigarette rolling, damiana and tobacco. she’s judgey about the smoking. you know.


               well yes. exactly


she bottoms out for a breathless moment when she realises what he is saying/not saying.


she thinks: guess i thought that nobody else knew. or see my holes.


there’s a patch of hair he’s missed with the clippers. she imagines the awkward position of the arm getting the spot behind the crown. elbow bent like a broken wing, scapula poking bluntly through the skin. the articulation of the interior. he’s going going gone grey. she’s gone every colour grey.


               problems with retrieval. cough. mmmmmfragments.


she says/thinks.


               not so much fragments. as. huge bloody gaps. cache erasure. i mean, we’re 

               talking lacunae, blind spots, chasms, whacking great bleeding bloody

               nothings.


he says/thinks.


they both nod, traversing emptiness.

i remember coming home one afternoon when we were sharing that place  

               and seeing 

               the corner of your nice rug hanging out of the dumpster. i liked that rug.


               oh! what did the rug look like? knitted? squares? yellow, red... ?


               mmmm… I’ll send you a photo


later, he sends her a [photo] and a [message]


               looked like this. handmade crocheted, black squares with various brightly 

               coloured centres not unlike the one i found in the cupboard here. 


she thinks: maybe i threw it all out with the rug, into the skip outside the flats on


                                        clyde street: the back garden shed which was more 

                                        garden than shed was gradually made into a by-the-

                                        hour shanty. rotting chairs and carpet rolls dragged in

                                        off the street created a dank boudoir for the working 

                                        girls. the atrium that opened out onto the street and 

                                        the hallway through to the back verandah became an 

                                        all-day thoroughfare for the girls and their johns. hi. 

                                        g’day, hello. cup of tea? outside the bedroom window: 

                                        sleepers, or dead people. 


she doesn't remember throwing her life into the skip. well, maybe she does and maybe she doesn’t. blank(et)ed. problems with retrieval. fossicking through the odds and sodden ends, 


                                        shadowing her eyes against the sharpness of a million 

                                        refractions. the broken hill bottle dump, glittering, like a 

                                        shattered sea. pellucid, cloudy glasses and bright. surgent 

                                        shard heaps, crunching underboot. she doesn’t survive well 

                                        away from the sea, beachcombs the tip as if it is the littoral

                                        zone. 


              searching for a memento. what to do with a life-to-date and its accretions? you put it all neatly to bed in a skip, covered by a favorite rug, the crocheted op-shop rug, the comforter. you leave one woolen corner draped over the metal edging. a friend recovers the coveted comforter. it becomes part of the archives. the mongrel archives. the shapeless and fluxing interpretive archives, boxes growing soft with time and slumping under the weight of stories. 


               so whose rug is this?


they wonder, together.


               and whose story, then?


whose rug, so tenderly rescued, bed-ended, lap-draped? and whose story, wet with tears and sharp with hurt? full of scissures, seizures and slippages. all this boxed and under-the-bed. dormant, quietly sporulating, two of everything, biding, awaiting exhumation.


his head makes small movements as he talks. she can’t see his face. said he pulled on the corner of the rug and like a strand of hair you drag out of the drain it dislodged sludgy enmeshed remains. abject but fascinating. body parts fused to light paper. smiles fading. love running away in writing. 


               so i pulled on the corner of the rug and disturbed your sleeping or dead 

               people. retrieved that lot for you. for later. after the flood.


she nods. sun illuminates. she is a see-through membrane. she almost 


                                                                                                                   remembers 


                                        the yellow skip, like a boat, a rusty metal boat on land, on 

                                        asphalt, conveying broken half-lives to the place where they 

                                        all rot together, sorting out their differences in a heated 

                                        compostable earthing. there were three on the street, an 

                                        uncomfortable three catastrophising love. three bodies 

                                        suddenly erupting into an intimacy of fists connecting with 

                                        skins sliding across bones, the fluids of three bodies 

                                        mingling in a loud puddle of tears. a cartoon scuffle, a 

                                        souring of desire, a breaking of hearts you can hear. crying. 

                                        she watched from the window sill, the scene speeding away 

                                        in a perspectival dissociation. all she wanted to do was 

                                        throw them and everything they had ever touched into the 

                                        boat and float it off down the inner city river of muck with 

                                        all the rusty bicycles of dread. 


cough-cry. blush. flood sigh laugh. memory wounds bloom and bloom, like blood curdling in milk, boiling crimson. a persistent florescing. petal after petal unfurling, falling, unfurling, falling, in a time-lapse of fresh new colour fading into deadheaded entropy. 


               are you ok?


overcome. she. just with the breath and under the influence whispers


               hhhhhh. yes. mmmmmmnnnnuhuh. [nod] 


                                        flood memory: adeline tried to hang herself, she was 

                                        amber’s girlfriend. amber was mean, and stole bikes. river 

                                        stole bikes too, and one morning real early she was banging 

                                        at the huge front door screaming for us to let her in. she'd 

                                        racked someone's bike and wanted to hide it in our backyard 

                                        until she could respray it, sell it. river was, oh river was. 


                                        samara's lover, eventually. how did we all end up in a hazy 

                                        warm tangle of sheets and limbs. with with withwithwith. 

                                        such fucked bed. familiar and different skins.


her heart is busy in her chest. he doesn’t hear the banging.


                                        how indeed, ending or seeming to, asleep in a double bedded 

                                        dumpster with all the lovers, tangled in sheets, stiff with salt 

                                        and iron. It starts here: in the front seat of a rusted carbody. 

                                        yellow corrugated awning: SMASH REPA RS AND TOWI G 

                                        a blue car and an awkward, uncertain kiss. ask if it’s ok. yes. 

                                        nods. there’s this space between them, and their mouths part, 

                                        and they watch each other’s lips and they inch forward. two 

                                        wounds kissing, open wounds. mash repairs. is this how it 

                                        starts?


stammerstartttstutter


her heart. busy in her chest.


               i know how this sounds, i know, i know. believe me. i know how this 

               sounds. 


               well you were, you know, in a liminal place…


               marking time in fits and starts.


                              there was an architecture i used to go from here to there, and um, 

                              yeah, a crossing ov


               so


               er

               to you liminal means the point at which things change, because to me 

               liminal means the point of uncertainty, the point between certainties


               well, yes, this thing called instability


               she is breathless. she holds it.


                                        we are breathless together, stealing the air in a hyper 

                                        ventilation. my desire bleeds out of me. our dreams riot and 

                                        slam. she takes my arm gently and tells me what will happen. 

                                        i perform the gestures of receiving as if i know them. 


he breathes in and out, smoke escaping the top of his head, it dances in curlicues and impressionistic ampersands as he fleshes memory to word. 

               laughing, a tangential reflection: one day i was standing at the sink and 

               watched as someone feebly attempted a very stoned break in. i mean, the 

               window was open, right! he got his head through the window and saw me. 

               oh sorry mate, i didn’t think there was anyone home… got any money?


laugh, he and she both. laugh cry cry laugh. she even says


               christ! [so queasy] i hurt so bad for myself. then and now. she

                                        makes a patchwork rug for her bones. makes it from a 

                                        suffocating love. makes it from her own skin. wraps it around 

                                        and around a hundred hundred thousand times, but not too 

                                        tightly. sews up the little grazes, the nicks cuts tears that love 

                                        has inflicted upon her with a small golden needle. 

               this one time. we were really close to the television, the image broken up 

               into coloured snow, everything was partial, nothing resolved. lying across 

               the bed, chin resting in hands. i’m swinging my feet into the air and then 

               letting them drop, bouncing on the mattress. substances for days and a 

               destitution of sleep. 


                                        i perform the gestures of receiving as if i know them. 


               we’re laughing a bit, buzzing a bit, in a not unpleasant way. my cheek 

               resting on the crochet rug, the one you rescued. 


he nods, remembering the open window through which


               so anyway i’m watching her and she’s looking away from me at the wall. 

               she’s watching a spider crawl up the wall. except, see, there is no spider. her 

               head is following the spider-that-isn’t-there up and up. and i’m thinking: 

               necks don’t twist that far. suddenly she’s a body in flight, or rictus. she’s 

               dancing the epileptic tarantella and i’m ringing 911 and wondering why no 

               one answers and freaking out watching limbs do things limbs should never 

               do, but she’s in flight. i listen for the sound of breaking bones. eventually, it 

               feels like eventually, there is just labored breathing and mouth froth and 

               dead eyes. looking into the face of, of what do you call that? it’s breathing, 

               so not dead, autonomic. i want to reach inside those huge black pupils and 

               drag her out. calling her back, calling her back. 


                                        kitten, kitten.


               i ended up on a bloody hospital gurney myself that night, white waffle 

               blanket muffling my panic. amygdala running hot. 


he turned around to look at her, one eye closed against the brightness of the sun. her head disappearing in a nimbus.


               and not for the last time.


                                        curtained cubicles hospital gurneys waffle blankets we 

                                        always stole rubber tubing gauze kidneydishes starched 

                                        pillows cases laughing nurses flickering fluorescent tubes 

                                        ignore the junkie ignore the attempted suicide ignore the 

                                        nutjob ignore the flicker flicker flicker dance dance dance 


her voice emanating as rays from her sun-head. hot words and blind.


               no, not for the last… not even for the last. time.


                                        we all fall down among the pungent flowerings


               i am a lifetime of conflicts, an archive gone bad, a slump of cardboard, a curl 

               of paper, a ravel of threads, a stolen bicycle, a schiz of vision. and you. you 

               in your blue you in your red, your pink, you in all the hues, you shame me a 

               sham a shame, a vocabulary of sighs, a library of lamentation, you. are so. 

               sanguine. to my green. there are seven fat shivering drops. lachrimae. music 

               accompanies the fall. i have them still, stiff little spots on linen. they hold all 

               the information i might ever need. this is the archive. 


               seven 


               drops



 

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