A prose piece about how much society needs doctors and the strange power they have.
Doctors: picture a world full of doctors, doctors walking everywhere, everywhere you go you see doctors in white jackets.
Doctors from the mould, doctors in white jackets. The only way to tell male from female is short hair or hair tied up at the back. They all look alike, like shapes cut out of paper.
There are doctors, everywhere you go, doctors, in and out of every train door, revolving door, and shop door*. Doctors not smiling because they are serious, they are doctors, and they fill the planet.
And what do they all do, all these doctors? I am the only one left who is not a doctor. I run naked down a brightly lit corridor and out into the street screaming. I climb a high building and then I jump, then, doctors like clumps of snow crowd around the last pool of red blood that they will ever see.
*The sliding doors of the underground train; the revolving doors of banks; the glass doors of department stores.
There’s a Place in Boston
A lyric about how the wealthy can neglect their children
There is a place in Boston Where the people are so perfect
And anyone who starts to scream Is treated like a convict.
There isn’t a wrinkle in a sheet And they always say their prayers
But I don’t think God listens to them I don’t think he even cares
There are the homeless on the street And therapy is just in reach
And everyone is secretly In the bell jars of society
The heart is broken like a plate And when it breaks it leaks our hate
For all who scream to be set free From the perfect people who won’t leave be
And as you walk the Boston break-yard Where the freight trains alone can scream
Where you climb aboard an empty boxcar For it’s the only place to dream
As a child I experienced loneliness and fear at school
I was just a child. I was placing my feet precisely in the center of the paving tiles as I walked, hoping that no one would hurt me anymore if I did not step on the cracks.
I had no idea what unhappiness was or why I felt it all the time.
The idea occurred to me like how the smallest of wild flowers suddenly appears in the shadow.
Stepping across the tiles like that gave me a feeling of security like how the feeling of a small key would feel to a wind-up toy.
And that’s how I discovered the meaning of feelings, of security, unhappiness and, strangely, the existence of a Me.
Where I lived there was a brick wall
As a very young child living in a slum I couldn’t make sense of all the wlls around me
Where I lived there was a brick wall and in the wall, there were several crumbling bricks.
I would see the wind hammering at the bricks trying to get through. I would see the winter weather eating away the cement and the broken bits of bricks.
Then one bright spring day I looked and I could see right through the wall at the sun on the other side and I watched as the wall sagged and then caved in and then collapsed entirely.
And there are parts of society that thinks itself strong like a wall but they never ever talk about there feelings and some of the children in that society grow up having never expressed how they feel about anything that has happened to them. Then they are made to see a doctor, then they are put in a hospital, then they kill themselves.
And it’s a sign about the wall; that the wall is growing weak and that the wall will someday collapse because it’s a wall with no feelings, it’s a wall without love.
Prose exaimining how society can set thepath of your life for you
Some machinery released the trapped gas in the bowels of the earth. It travelled along pipes into a factory to be cleaned up than along more pipes until it popped up out of the gas ring where it tried to escape to freedom, and then it was set fire to, in the blue flames that were destroying millions of years of formation.
You had been in the womb for a long time until formed into a baby you; you travelled through a tunnel and into a place where you were cleaned up. Then you were taken by car to a house (did you see the engine that turned your relative into exhaust fumes). There in a house it was both hot and cold. Your mother loved you; your society awaited you. There in the house, you received mixed messages; your mother nurtured you and society waited for you like a wolf.
You expect society to be like a home, but instead, your mother let you go free and society turned you into a blue flame.
In a Cosmic Mist
I have known friends who spend time in mental hospitals
In a cosmic mist where no real people could live was a hospital with six beds and one electro shock treatment room.
The nurse and the warden came silently through the pinpoint of reality gate and down the long white corridor into the ward where Henry VIII’s six wives were sitting on their beds.
She was taken down into the dark cavernous basement. She looked up but she could not see a roof in the thick black silence.
The fat Henry the VIII bird flew onto the warden’s shoulder. It had a tasseted breast and a gold chain around its neck and a hat tilted roguishly on its head.
She lay down on the contraption and the nurse and the warden strapped her down. An order was made and a great bolt of lightning passed through her temples and she became unconscious.
In the evening, a little recovered she joined the rest of the wives in the ward. Their faces were bright white. The room was bright white and everyone shone with a jangling brightness, from the earth people talked in wonder of the new constellation of six stars, bright as gleaming toothpaste blobs, icy white. There was a droning noise coming from it as if it were trying to give birth to a boy.
The Falling Gate
A prose story cartoon about the neglected child in me
The big gate fell down and shut me outside. It was a grey morning; I looked through the iron grill at the creature inside. Who are you, didn’t I know you once? This creature was black with dirt and long black uncut hair and rags … and was crying.
The inside of the dungeon room was small; there was nothing to give light. It was black as jade.
Who was this person? Did I know them?
I felt cheerful in spite of myself, cheerful to have my freedom, to see the winter light of a cloudy day.
I struck a match and looked into the darkness. I was looking into a mirror. There reflected back at me was myself.
Am I real? Is this really me outside here or is it my imagination? Am I really the person locked away in the dungeon?
I sat on the old crumbling ivy covered wall opposite the arched dungeon under the railway bridge and as night drew in, I seemed to disappear
– Like a phantom into the night.