A (23:02)
Sometimes in the. In the dead of night they could hear their old life ringing in the phone line, singing in the wind. But nothing had a shape beyond the foil and the lighter. Nothing was brighter than the vacuum within. When did Ezra stop searching the benches and tents with a photo of Rothko grinning in braces? When he found her again, sitting out with her friends, off her head by the skips round the back of Big say Nos. She had the same face, but she wasn't the same, Though her name was the pain in his stomach. All day he prayed she would change and stay out of harm's way. Please God, keep my child out of danger. But the third time she raided his house for his Ray Bans, his tv, his blender, his electronic shavery, cleaned up the mess and didn't even complain. He tried to give her shelter when the thunderstorm came, but enough was enough. The whole thing was insane and he realized nothing. No one could save her. Even Syed stopped turning up. She'd been banging on the doors for months. I want to see my sister traipsing round dirty squats where furtive teens sold rocks to people who were 40 odd until a thing in her broke. Sara lost Rothko to the fire and smoke. Ah. It happened slowly. She let Rothko go. It was lonely but souls left life. They ran out of road. Ah. Ah. They tried to keep close but time goes by and soon a whole lifetime has passed in the space between meetings it starts over one thing but soon it's just like that. The fight is the reason they're fighting and Sarai can't rely on Rothko for nothing but nightmares. Now Dion in the real world is feeling left behind. She felt like Rothko had betrayed her when they sank beneath the grind the way they did now it's hard when she sees them round town because she used to be there, everything before. But now they're not around, annoyed to the point she gets reckless out, raving, ends up regretful and blaming Rothko for not behaving like they didn't have a thing worth saving. And now it's a stress when they pass in the street. Dee crosses the road and she kisses her teeth when she sees them. Now it's just grief left between them because how can you help when the person you love isn't helping themself and you're burdened enough? These Mama got laid on. Dee had to face up. Real life kicked in. Dee had to wake up. They weren't from the same cloth, boiled in the same pot or carved in the same clay at all. Cause pain is pain. But some people's pain is the story they make up. And some people's pain is a skin they can't take off. The way Dion saw it, Rothko was cushioned by money. The buffer of having somebody to. To be there. Whenever they stumbled, however, they crumbled. Rothko didn't really know trouble. How could they run to the gutters and not make the most of how lucky they were and how loved? It was ugly, the stubbornness of it. So many were willing to help if they'd let them. But it wasn't enough. Rothko wouldn't be budged. It was like they preferred being bang out of luck, stuck haunting the same old patch. All Dion could do in the end was detach. Summer found Roth gold feeling cavalier crusties carting sound systems around, parties in the woods and downs, hitching rides. They'd never felt freer sleeping on a tarp under the pier. But summer never lasts and neither does the gear. In the backlit hours under heavy hands, stranded and sour, Meg went to work tonguing the socket for a second of power until the punters were finally numbed. She dismantled herself for a bag of dread powder. Each stranded encounter, each rancid, devouring creature who rutted and drummed on her body. Each sorry, each please. Filling them softly. She spat on her palms and got down on her knees. You don't get to choose your disease. Dion was a memory. Wolfgang didn't deep it. No, never thought about the past. Now didn't need it. It's me and you. Their habit grew. Every day they woke to feed it. Every night they worked to please it, to keep it calm, to feel its breathing getting heavy in their arms as they rocked it into sleeping. They wanted things they couldn't Name. They wanted rest. They wanted change. They wanted less than all of this. To get out from underneath the shame. They came close to wipe out time after time. But something always pulled them back before the soul began to climb. Bright eyes in low light. The room was a corridor. People got close in the shadow of the abattoir. Some folks don't understand what love is for. Live your whole life too scared to discover more. But from the minute they met, they felt safe. Her name was Penelope. Pen was like a local celebrity. Her stepdad was a big money man in the town. He'd bought half of it up just to tear it all down and sell it on for development. Well, Pen and Rothko, they were in it together, trying to find their way back to forever. And she told them everything. The whole sorry tale. How she could have had it all. But she ended up a failure. She pinned it on the day she told her mom it wasn't right. Her stepdad was touching her in ways she didn't like. He kept coming in her room at night. But telling didn't stop it. Because Mum couldn't believe. So Pen left home. She felt safer on the streets. Barely 15 and she's gone beyond help. Trying to rein in a black hole by herself. Years of it. And now Mum is at the end of her tether, scraping her up whenever she dropped, getting her admitted to center after center, treatment programs. 12 grand a pop dried her out for a bit, but they didn't make her stop. And now here she is at 22 seconds from time's up. Veins fucked. Bowels compacted. Brains fucked. She didn't want to die, but she didn't want to live on his paycheck. Just another property. Something he threw money at till it responded properly. She'd heard about this rehab in Thailand, this monastery. This is it for me, Rothko. It's got to be. It was free to do a didn't there. She just had to get the travel up. The program was hardcore and no frills. You had to really want it. No methadone, no pills. Just graft and prayer. She was ending it here. She was starting it there. She had saved about half the fair. She was doing it Penn left town soon after. Rothko never knew if she made it or not. But sometimes when the nights got hard, they could still hear our laughter. And the dream that she had was one they never forgot. And why not? If she could do it, Maybe they could do the same. If they could just get Meg on the plane. They could see it so clear. Little house by the sea. Couple chickens in the yard laying eggs. They could fix Meg's teeth. She could get some rest. New life, no stress, nice weather. They could do it if they stuck to it together. And every time they thought that thought it was chased by the thought of Penn's stepdad with his fortune in a safe, with his millions to waste with his relentless power. Ah, they can make a few grand in like half an hour. The picture got sharper with every blink. Platinum Rolex lying by the sink, one watch in their pocket. And the skies were pink. They could call time on the filth and the stink. They told Meg they were hatching plans. It weren't a dead cert, but it was worth trying. She was either not listening or didn't believe. My sweet baby. She squeezed them, sighing eyes never not crying, hands never not holding but never quite finding. Now, Rothko was hardly a professional thief. Once or twice they'd tagged along for a night, but they didn't have the worst or the self belief. You had to have a lot of fun to really do a drum, right? So here they were. The house on the hill, the big driveway, the fountain with the cherubs and the lions on the post. They were sure it was this one. 2am Friday. Not a sound. Now off go, quiet as a ghost, jimmying the lock with the comb, foraging for better luck in someone else's well stocked home. It was a mansion. Crystal chandeliers and velvet drapes to draw against the little people full of bitterness and fears. Rothko heard a noise out on the stairs and froze. What ensued were heavy blows thrown with blunt aggression. Rothko exploded. Rothko melted and corroded. They were doing it for Meg, for Dion, for Penelope, for all the things they'd never been and all the things they'd never get to be. Rage bone deep and panoramic. When it came on like this, there was nothing else to see. It swept them out. It pulled them in. It dragged their bones, it tore their skin. It was better to surrender than to try and swim free. And when it cleared, they saw themselves stood above him. Blood leaking from his ears, face messed up, disgusting, white hair turning red. Body shape spread across the rug. They were still waiting for the body to get up. Any minute now, sure he was about to come alive when the judge said manslaughter and she gave them 25. Time inside was different time. It passed. It barely passed. It drifted in through tiny cracks and pressurized the air. It moved across them, crossed them, locked their thoughts and stopped their function. It arrived in flashing ruptures and it left behind a glare Staring through the mesh of their hands head in their lap Time was the stock drop hanging from the tap Their mind was the blocked pipe screaming for release while their hands through the bed sheets covered them in grease stifling and scarred reach Itching from the past swimming fingers pulling at them from the shadows getting clean blood hardening parting their lips but too parched to take sips Watching their head roll away guillotine every follicle and socket aggravated Brain pulsating through their head Agitated and depressed at the same time you're alright but they've been too long in the dark to even know they missed the light Body like a crashed car lungs full of smashed glass swilling round the bottom of the bottle with the dregs Cramps in their stomach, spasms in their legs vomiting forever barely held together by a couple rusty pegs New start nice try, no dice now you're chewing up the mice now you're chewing up the corners with the mice no focus on your hands focus on your hands Broken as the plans sweating through your clothes Eyes as swollen as your glands Choking on your tongue in this pokey little cell Tie the rope around the pangs and keep pulling till the hourglass cracks and the sand gets scattered goes back to the land Time passing not passing stop asking how long it's been. Time wasn't real the world was a smudge There was no point to thoughts anymore just walk in a straight line Talk when you're asked to be normal Laugh when it's time to bury yourself so that no one can find you. Soon enough they'll all stop looking it was sure awake in the fetal position too bored to read too scared to play pool nuggets on Wednesdays blanking the lunch line Hunger was something but Dion in a sundress sitting in the sunshine fuck it just felt too cruel. It's funny how long you can stare at the wall Queuing for the phone when there's no one to call. Violence erupted like weather events they tried being more like the rest cause after a while no one wants to be friends with the kid when they're always depressed it was the loneliness weary from knowing nobody and knowing nobody could know them the sweet ones were bitter was better to steer clear the heavy hitters on the wing with their victories to win loved to make a big deal from the littlest thing Brining in their vinegar pickles in a tin Nothing worked like it did on the outside There was so much to learn and no time for mistakes and you see them swapping packets on association tongue tied clean enough for now but how long till it wakes? Heart palpitations, shakes. Don't want to go back there. God keep me safe. Have to kill the past, kill it all, finish it. Lay myself bare so someone might love me enough to take care. They wanted a friend like the others all had so they tried giving more than their share. Longing for belonging Strong it till you get it or forget it Reforged in the heat of it beaten into shape Banishing the God in them summoning the evil ape. It was the only chance of escape because when the world plays dead play deader gets small and at the end of every tether is the last thread gripped against the fall and if Rothko couldn't feel then they hadn't lost it all. Numb as anyone who lives to satisfy the others Their old self was smothered and killed but what was hidden still spilled. You could hear them punching up the walls after letting girls they didn't like destroy them in their cell at night and why not? Time was a mass without an outline Pound signs flashing on the slots at chucking out time Blood from their cut legs splashed made the ground shine Sing along sessions in the next pad Bound for the reload drowning beneath it Crowd surfing a room full of demons the hole in their spirit was getting hard to plug they wanted God to kill the parts of them where all the dem darkness was. They were dying to live but time after time something always pulled them back before the soul began to climb bite down into the pillow, let it out in desperate shouts Then pull yourself together, raise your head and close your mouth because people fall apart in front of people. You can fall apart alone but what good does it do you? Are they gonna get through it or let it beat them? You're all right. Rothko had a word with himself and kept reaching Rothko had a word with himself and kept Rothko had a word with himself and kept Was that a year gone past or just a breath? Meat wagon on the a roads shipped out bashed around in the back going places Every new landing was a sleeping volcano Same old stories told by new faces they understood the rules now that had a little taste they saw the test they were assigned by restless screws with dirty minds who's hurting who who's worth avoiding? Who's for loving, who's for spoiling as cruel as time became they set themselves against the fade and tried their best to get their head down and make everything okay they had a reason to keep going they had something to become for the Roth gold that there used to be when every everything was young. They learned the power of routine. They learned the strength of clear instruction. They learned the looks, the books, the crooked methods by which people functioned. How to get by without ever getting anywhere, when getting through a minute was infinite and every ending they achieved was still only the beginning. And soon they soon, soon they learned to count the time and blame. They had been left behind by life. And really, someone had to pay. Because where was Meg in all of this? Still out there in the filth, conducting manic sermons for anyone who'd hear about her youngest daughter, taken off her by the courts until she got enough to score and make it all disappear. Rothko sent her letters back, but she was still there in the mirror. The smaller she made them, the bigger she loomed, ringing out forever through the ruins and the fumes like the last note in the tune. Ah. Inside, time was like water through a sieve. They were sure they had more to give, but they had no evidence to prove to themselves they could grow out of their smallness and live. How long were you out there looking for me? Were you waiting back then when there was nothing to see? Was it you? Did you touch my face when my face was a shadow and tell me you hoped I would learn how to be? Was it you I could heal when I strayed too near to the edge? Was it you that I felt the soft word when I caught the rough end of the belt and I had given everything to giving up on myself? Was it you? 15 years unleashed on a Monday morning the sky was like a ride at the fun fair Falling, terrifying. Time was a nutcase running up behind them they couldn't block it out, it had found them final. Time was a bird in a flight path. Time's up. Time was the first dance, the last leg Staunch as a dead branch Sleeping till spring for the relaunch Let the pipes burst, let it all come unstuck Bypassed by life trying hard to remember this was the beginning, not the end of it Time Time was all right just having the one glass Time was a high class brass with a dry laugh who'd read it in the tea leaves Cast in dried up, put it on red and bought our own nightclub Time was a dead end Time was a fine chance Time was a butcher, a lion dance get it, bro. Time was a predator soaring, digging its claws in Time was a hoarder Time was a shadow in the water Time was a warning Time was a tourist of course a taurus he brought the bull fight to the ballroom, a ball ache abroad, a maudlin performance. Pause for applause, not that important. Time was an unexploded mortar. An empty chair in a porch in the autumn, the boarded up windows, the whole thing reeking of boredom. Times on the phone said it's time to go home now. Edgecliff calling. But were they getting free or were they falling? The truth was in doing it was either resolve or ruin. Deep breath, no way out but through it. What else could they do? They took the only path that they knew. Was it you I could heal? When I strayed too near to the edge? Was it you that I felt the soft word When I'd caught the rough end of the belt and I was giving everything to giving up on myself. Was it you? That's when time delivered. Rothko pushed them out into today. 20 years in free fall, in a vacuum of delay. The beginning had begun for the Rothko that they used to be. When everything was young, they'd run as hard as they could run, but they could never get clear. They were coming back to life. They were free and getting freer. But in the corner of their smile there was a weight there, the child they had been. The denial and the grief. It's not as simple as captivity, release or transition. Then relief. But Rothko was alive at last. Or Rothko was alive, at least now. That first morning underneath the heavy rain that came falling on the roof, like it was trying to explain that the source and the solution are the same. They saw it so perfectly dirty and plain, the glory of the mundane. Rothko didn't want luxury or anything as vain as entertainment. They just wanted to live in the day that sustained them. Their wriggling shame was a bitter refrain. But maybe there was life beyond the limits of the frame, because pain is pain. But some people's pain was the place that they came from. And some people's pain was a state they attained in the dark that spurred them to waking and taking the whole thing apart. Like I used to think one day I'd start. But now I think maybe today could be day one. Now I think maybe today could be day one. Now I think maybe today. What if the main thing in changing isn't the change, it's the facing of things that could never be faced without breaking before. If it's alive, it will not stay the same. And the base of it still is the will to maintain, the will to be thankful for whatever comes and make peace with whatever came. They saw it in small things, a thank you from God when the bird on the Low Branch didn't fly off, but lingered to sing or out on the beach, lifting their palms through the wind, through their fingers, or watching the light from the trains hit the cliff wall and flare into pictures that merged in the distance. Elation. But what they didn't see when they were looking at the trains in the station, plugged into the mains of creation, is they were held in the arms of every first and every last, every future, every past that every present must contain. It was all coming for them. Slow motion, this moment. Time had them in its teeth. It dragged them by the throat until it dropped them into day and said atonement.
