Stowin' away the time?
Are you gatherin' up the tears,
Have you had enough of mine?
― Walter Carl Becker / Donald Jay Fagen
Light vs Darkness
The only thing worse than living in a gloomy house is returning to it after dark. Theres' something about night that's illusory―not enough light, not enough actuality.
It's something primal in us, probably an ancient self-preserving instinct buried somewhere in our genes that alerts us to things that go bump in the dark.
No doubt, it's the same defence that allows us to bury unpleasant memories but doesn't erase them, because we need an early alert system to anticipate future attacks.
Hence my take on an old saw―if I didn't have bad memories, I'd have no memories at all.
Seems to me when a man's running away from his past, there's always a woman mixed up in it somewhere―that's the only descriptor I'll use for Marianne.
Two years of purgatory being purged of her memory.
I could say more but don't want to swear, or feel anything for that matter. Let's leave it at that―I'm glad she's out of my life.
Moving on...the thing that scares the hell right out of me was the cult my parents got roped into, and me along with them.
When I have night terrors that's what they're about. It seriously warps you having the devil cast out of you at ten, spiting demons into a Kleenex, or confessing uncommitted sins.
But that's a blind alley of pain. To put it succinctly, the pigs in the parlour aren't always demons.
So, where does this leave me now? That's simple―marooned in a house full of shadows having endured a nightmare of debt and the subsequent psychological turmoil.
I left out a few things though, such as, being left out myself, by people I counted on, but Bill Sines stuck with me.
So Simon, my therapist, is right―I should give Bill a call and see if he feels like a night out tonight―my treat, of course.
I text him and just punch in a line before he texts back,
Sounds great! How about The Jolly Miller at 8 pm?
So, The Miller it is―
Would that the rest of my life could be this easy...
I check the time on my phone―just turned 6 pm.
I could eat a quick supper of leftover chilli or order in. I make a quick call to Pizzaville and order a large pepperoni and two cans of Diet Coke―it's a gesture to watching my waistline.
But in the meantime I sit before the fire with a glass of wine and free associate. Okay, some call it daydreaming, but for me, it's an occupational necessity. I'm a writer and that's how I get my inspiration.
Problem tonight is that when I close my eyes, I see Marianne, so I picture myself back in the law office with Victoria.
Yeah, it's the old trick of fighting fire with fire―kind of like the exorcists' trick of putting matches under a demoniac's fingernails and lighting them.
Except with me, it doesn't work. I'm doubly consumed.
Yeah, I'm incorrigible.