Sunday, 8 January 2012

Degrading Haystack With Red Moons Printed Across Part 2

She follows me, accusing the assistant that I know her. She takes my sleeve and gives some random cd which I definitely hand and I look her face hidden, rather half of the moon hidden under her black fringe. Do I know her?

I thank her and kiss her cheek, kiss her lips and let her go.


The moon splashes and she follows me backstage, as I never glance at my assistance accusing words, grabbing the girl’s hands as I feel a shiver run back and forth. I realize how uncomfortable I am in the tight clothes so as soon as I am back I strip myself back into my daily attire, glancing at the girl hiding her moon behind the fringe, now a bright red. I take something not black, running a hand through my hair making it messy but then it was. I glance at the scissors near the mirror.

“Can you cut my hair?”



I take several steaks cutting them in half watching them fall, as they tickle my nose. I stare at the dark haired girl stare as how the hair falls. I can’t help but watching at the hurt expression plastered on her light face. She pulls the threads of black lace surrounding her face behind her ears, watching as I cut my hair shorter.

I cut the hay in half as well, taking the bits and pieces into my hand, blowing them against the mirror watching them hit the mirror without a sound in the mute room, as the girl stands up.

She takes her foldable ladder, as my gaze travels towards the lace caught in the ladder. Hair, stardust, still falls from my shoulders as I glance at her, realizing that I know nothing aside the lace stuck in her ladder. I sit on my knees and take it out, looking up at her, waiting for something, waiting for watching her wait.

She glances at everything her eyes can find my skin still pale from the hay scene, bright red gloss now smeared on my chin, as if I had been licking it down, stretching it out for fun.

“Macy.” Pause. I fiddle with her lace skirt. I like it how it matches her black slightly transparent tights and combat boots which seem to be for kicking out teeth, but not today. I look at her in surprise my tongue numb from the constant monologues and flicking the boa behind me, pretending it to a wing or an antenna to lure the hay, of course. I glance at my fingers with a piece of hay sticking vertically from between my fingers causing a dull pain.

“That’s my name.” “Oh.” I say nothing aside that, expecting her to know my name from the countless press, I keep fiddling with the lace wondering if I ever had to wear any. It looks pretty on a girl, but I wouldn’t want to wear it. I apologize as I shake my head getting loose strands mixed with sour sweat and sweet hay out and into the lace. I yank the hay out, realizing that it may be rough. I do it softer, finding none left nothing but the black ornaments then I look to see a bit of hay on the hem of her purple shirt. I stand up and take it out.

I wonder how it feels to be her, to see me take hay out of her. I look up trying to slice her face to get the expression out and savor it. Is that why I was considered a freak with my eagerness to copy the emotion, to show it the way it should have been?

I stand up and she takes a step back, I hesitate about her age, fiddling with my fingers, wondering, trying to look behind her make-up and fake eyelashes.
“Macy?” She looks back up and I catch the good bye glimpse to her combat boots. There is nothing to struggle, just choose the right emotion, the one which should be inside her, in the scene not breaking the performance, making it in balance and making it natural, like a regular sunny evening after a storm. I glance at the girl’s foldable ladder with the pain lightly damaged on the side which faces me, that I feel if I’ll run my tongue upon it I’ll cut myself.

“What’s the ladder for?”Is it polite, but then there are no borders now, well, not as much as their used to be. I was always amazed by how people eased even after the faintest brush of the opposite person’s lips or maybe even the identical?

Who did people search for? A walking copy then why not carry a big fat mirror with the self, grin widely and declare the new dater, the end of struggling at night, biting the pillows after dreams of having nobody asides from gray old cat curled in a corner because even the fluff thing doesn’t handle it, but then what should the expression be then? I don’t like mirrors.

I wait for Macy’s explication as her eyes run across the mirror and I wonder if she’ll walk up to the reflective glass and kiss it as an act of-


“Um, just, some, y’know, belief. You have to find the right time or rather wait to get there.” A sign to the ceiling. “Only sometimes I feel like getting there myself what if I’ll get dropped, what if I’ll get sick or what if I’ll see the crack to lure myself inside?” Religious? Where were the onions wrapped around the neck, crosses and prays coming from the lips?

“Like suicide?” Sacrifice?

“No.” Macy shakes her head, tightening her grip on the ladder as it’ll fall and break, like a doll with its head off to be used like a banana lollypop dipped in chocolate for safe keeping from the mice and bees.

“Oh.” It still seemed like suicide to me only the one going to the opposite direction, upwards, upper into something which was once forbidden and now caused fear in my stomach as the possibility of freaking something once holly to ancestors seemed to bother me. Maybe I just played them a lot, memorizing the phrases, the clothes wrapped, the beliefs, living with the lack of electricity to get the feeling and bonding with blood causing some light disease I got yelled at the hospital for. I told them to keep their noses in their jobs and I’ll keep my own in my role studying.

But then maybe the ladder for her is like a staircase to something, something she couldn’t find or doesn’t want. I watch her closer, as it taking her in my palm, closing the other and watching with my Devyn vision, like x-ray only broken and something I was actually born with like a blessing.

Maybe it’s like the small attached microphone as you know that everybody hears the final words, before the scarf is yanked forwards with the rest of the crew as you pray for a safe landing.

And it happens, just because you were a good boy and studied well, to make your parents proud if they ever were. If they ever were ‘kids’ or maybe were too long to never dig into the words and meaning of false, true, sweet lie and sour truth just to make everything collide in the heads, cramped together  because there never was the need.

Until you find your son in a haystack on a page of a newspaper to say what disgrace it brought, selling the body to act in front of others who cannot act but enjoy watching people who can, because they, unlike the ones who brought me to this world or rather met me, my fall, from the ladder and shoved me into a cart hiding that glossy staircase along with the ladder down, in case I fail and tend to believe like in the leftover scattered ashes into the wind, which were once hearts or still are but now are stuck in my nostrils or golden lungs as the packet of cigs had a gold cover, hinting that I was smoking pure gold into my lungs to turn into a golden boy before dying foolishly.

On stage, I hope.

To collapse near it, backstage, but there, just there alone with the scent of the fabric coming from the fresh leather and bright fabric chairs, like a candy with a bright colour to attract, thinking that it shall dye your tongue that colour and indeed,

it will.

part 3

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