Stepping Through

To tell a story on the border of time.

20/05/14

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Serial

Wastes of Life,
Withers of Time.
Work a knife,
Pick-up, pick up.

20/05/92

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Stepping through the doorway from a place, having been familiar. I find myself in a new
world, one of unfamiliar bodies, yet one of memory filled odors, sights and people. A
land where all is comfortable, new and old, with brothers, yet alone. Having passed
conversation with all, greetings round to unknown, and people unaware of where I
come. I think I understand them. J esus stands, faded in color from age, between metal
peacocks over the mantel.

It smells of old here, with numerous curios relatives present. The most notable at this
time a man. A man in terms of physical years. Thick, black unkempt hair, styled to
cover his face, straight cut on all sides and hanging. The only prominent feature, a pair
of magnified pigeon-toed irises peering through brown plastic, horn-rimmed glasses, the
lenses greasy. I believe the frames were once black. You can tell by the worn spot
between the lenses where his finger pushes them up. He appears, then disappears
somewhere in the back. With caution I wonder what he has gone for.

I cant hold it any longer. Directed to the bathroom I enter through a pastel blue door; I
close it for privacy, only to find the lack of a door by another entrance, I can see clear to
the back porch, where there appears to be thousands of kittens outside on its ledges.
My attention directed back to the business at hand it smells like a restroom at a
quarter-mile dirt track I once visited; there is stale urine and paper in the facility. I
decide to, especially, wash my hands, ridding them of anything contacted from
unshackling the visitor who came with me, so he may embrace the curious relatives,
particularly his dying father.





1
In the sink is a tub to catch water from the make-shift faucet which terminates on a PVC
pipe, jutting from a hole in the wall. None of the plumbing or fixtures about the sink are
operable. I am afraid of the water which appears from turning the plastic knob. I chose,
I think, the lesser of two evils and washed my hands, wiping them on my shirt a curse
to touch a towel. Flushing the stale urine soaked paper did not lighten the memory in
my mind of that dirt track.

Standing in front of the facility I prepare myself. I notice a brown spot high above my
head on the wall over the rattling, hissing, now water filled and filling thing below. What
is that? I dare not tell you my thoughts. Careful deduction led me to the answer. The
dying, mostly bed ridden father, feeling strong, sitting in his vinyl chair on a clothe auto
cushion, seems a man of tall stature. The mark left as he props himself on the pastel
green wall.

Finished, again I flush the awful creature, as with the first time using the bottom of my
boot, of course, for the job. Standard sanitation out-the-window, I do not approach the
plastic knob. Walking out the already open, doorless way, I leave the circling, zooming
of cars in my head, yet the smell of old still remains. Walking straight out, I take note of
the numerous kittens scurrying for cover when Im seen.

To the right is the kitchen, a red light indicates the stove is on. Is something cooking?
There are no pots on it; I am too far away to see in the oven. Maybe the red light stays
on. Anyway the stove sits catty-corner to the wall. I cannot tell why.

Someone is watching me. I feel it. Turning around I, I see the man who disappeared
back here from the front sitting room.

The bedroom with a soap opera tuned-in on the television. Entertainment for the dying,
old-seeming man, can be heard from back here, though distant.

15/06/92

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Seating himself on a nearby bed, the man begins fiddling with the five strings on a guitar
through his opaque lenses.

Sufficient time has passed since arriving and I retire through the screen door and down
the tilted, wooden steps. Relatives and their cars have now accumulated out front
under the shade of the sprawling oak tree. I cant tell if they are the same people I
greeted inside but I dont think so. I think there are more of them now. Greetings and
friendly enough they offer me a sip of brandy, I politely refuse.

I am not in a position to pass the time with any of these people since in my mind they
carry the mark of the visitor. Kindly I dismiss myself and retire to the marked car. It is in
the shade-covered car, alone for now, that I prefer to be anyway.


2
3
What an experience, so I begin to write, using the padded steering wheel center as
support. It doesnt take long really, so I feel that something must be missing.
Deliberating this time I write more and almost finish, when a concerned relative
approaches me, preoccupied that it is time for the visitor to leave.

I would like to tell the relative not to worry but I am not in a position to ignore the
preoccupation of another in this case. If a relative, could be sister, thinks time might be
up, then for me time must be up. Perhaps the relatives are more concerned with my
presence there than they are with the duration of the visitor. It could be a combination
of the two of us, me and visitor.

Out of the car I overhear the relatives express continued concern not to tax the dying
father. The situation is a little awkward. It cannot be ignored. Entering the house in the
beginning was a necessity of familiarity in this new place. A need to verify the visitors
intentions.

Shortly the visitor comes out the front door, down the crooked stairs, warmly embraces,
touches relatives, longingly departs. Entering the back door on the passenger side
unencumbered, he waves goodbye to all. Once we are out of sight of the house but yet
not on the main highway I slide open the window and pass the shackles back. He
thanks me for the time and human gesture.

23/11/02

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J ail

Concrete walls color the being,
Pastel colors wall the seeing.

Security persons cover the fleeing,
Uniformed covers person the gleeing.

As internal justices law the tenses,
System laws justice the fences.

All the same, day by day,
Another moment has slipped away.

22/05/92

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