Photo by Carl Cheng on Unsplash
Isn’t everything patchy? We are all waves travelling from peak to trough. Straight lines are illusions. In reality we are cobbled together from mistakes and successes. We are the resewn shirt, made to fit us even though we are twice as tall as our brother was at this age. There are gaps of presence, when we fade out thinking of the past. To try and patch things together is a human response to the world. It is our inherent maternal instinct. We see something broken and so try and fix it. This paragraph is not different. A cobbled together mess of ideas. Patches are a part of everyday life, they are fundamental. There are gaps of meaning and lapses of reason. We wear them like badges. Our fractures become emblems of our identity. Patches that we have sewn into our skin, in place of something we haven’t found yet. Everyone is searching for that piece that fits, that can heal, that will patch up the wounds for good. What is it you are missing?
The story today is a mess. It is missing meaning. I have a few ideas to correct that, but for now this is what I have:
The signal was drained of colour. A humming failure, rods of electric black static.
“Can you hit it?” Brak was too busy to get up, or too comfortable. Dorothy gave him that look. It had become more common over the years.
“I’ll hit you if you don’t get off your arse,” she said.
BUZZ.
It didn’t come from the TV. A black dot was darting across the room.
“Oh, great.”
“Must of smelt your corpse.”
BUZZ.
Brak extended his legs and leant back. His skin was rife with black holes. Tiny specks of darkness. Little glimmers of light seemed to escape their grip, glinting as they dripped of his nose. His eyes were fixed. Every other body part would twitch, or fidget but the eyes, they were fixed. His pupils inhaled the TV, like it was air.
BUZZ.
“It’s too hot in here.” Dorothy batted at the fly as it flitted by her ear.
“We’ve got to get a new TV.”
“Like we’ll ever have money...I’m too busy looking after you.”
“If you won’t give it a thwack pass the remote.”
Dorothy ignored him.
BUZZ.
The TV was displaying a scene from the old west, a cowboy spinning his revolver back into his holster. The image is punctured as if someone had been putting out their cigarettes on the picture. They must have been a heavy smoker.
BUZZ.
“Something needs a knocking,” said Brak, slliding his arse back further into the armchair, eyes still fixed.
“Don’t get me started.”
“I tell you, I’d look good in cowboy boots.”
“If you could fit in them.”
BUZZ.
Brak’s face flickered on the TV. It didn’t suit a cowboy hat. His feet weren’t in the frame.
“What the hell!”
BUZZ.
Dorothy was busy tracking the movements of the fly. Brak smiled onscreen. His teeth didn’t have the charm of an actor’s. They were known for their handsomeness, their beauty, their ability to make a grin that wasn’t hokey. Brak was trying to tap Dorothy’s shoulder, but she was just out of reach.
“I’m a star. Told you I’d make a great cowboy.”
Brak didn’t get a response. Holes were burning into the screen. He could see himself on the horse, riding away into the distance. A sunrise infront of him. The body was bulging out of its shirt, but not because of swollen biceps. His belly was bursting the buttons. He was not actor, no star. The horse was struggling, limping rather than strutting. Dorothy was right, the boots didn’t fit. None of this stopped Brak smiling, his yellow teeth matched the sun on the TV. The sound was crackling now. Clunking hooves began to hiss. There was a harmonica trying to make a melody, but the speakers chopped it into a bad beat. A remix out of tune with the world. The screen was warping to fit all of Brak on to it.
“Cmon Dor, I can’t see a thing. Give it kick of something. You know I’ve got a bad back.”
“Don’t call me Dor, I’m no door.”
“Dor, you know its affectionate.”
The image was flickering back and forth between the chilsed statue of an actor and Brak’s lard lump. This scene was dragging on. Each time the horse made progress, it cut back to Brak. The version in which it was now dragging its back legs forward. The horse on the TV collapsed, unable to carry Brak’s weight anymore.
“This film is shit, the horse has gone and died on me.”
“Oh shut up, you’ve been dead for twenty years.”
Here are my notes:
