The Crib
When he thinks about it, which he rarely does, he cannot remember a time when the space inside his head was not partitioned off into different areas, like the rooms inside a house. When thinking, or just being, when there inside his head, he moves from room to room. Certain thoughts can only be carried out in certain rooms, whilst others have free reign and can be indulged anywhere.
In that special place behind his eyes, his favourite place, the bay window, his thoughts are always calm and peaceful, unlike the thoughts that he has when he finds himself in that dark and musty little alcove under the stairs.
He thinks a lot. His rooms are very well used, some more than others. Some rooms are comfortable and relaxing, bright and airy, and his thoughts are light and pleasant when in them. Some seem to pulse with darkness, and when in them his thoughts are heavy and unpleasant. Others are dimly lit and oppressive and are used only for standing very still in, his mind a blank. Thoughts carried out in certain rooms become the precursor to action, to the carrying out of deeds, to “doing” stuff. Thoughts in other rooms produce emotions, the “feeling” of stuff, sometimes good, sometimes not so good.
Over time he has come to think of the rooms inside his head as his crib; he’d tried other names but none of them seemed to fit.
When in his crib he is very much aware of being observed. He is not alone in his crib; there are two others in there with him. There is a presence that he never sees but that he very keenly feels, and it always knows what room he is in and what he is thinking and doing in there. The other presence he sees only in his periphery. No matter where he looks or how quickly he turns his head, it is always just there, in the corner of his eye. This is the presence that “does” stuff.
Time spent outside his crib no longer feels real to him, it feels as if it is all being done by somebody else. Walking down the street, engaging in conversation, effecting payments at till points, doing the laundry, preparing a meal, driving to work; all feel like watched events, something he observes but is not a party to, and which he very often is barely aware of.
This feeling of being an observer, not an active participant, is especially true when he follows a certain routine, a routine that is now pretty much “run of the mill” This routine has him washing his hands, over and over, after shoving some of his bloody clothes into a garbage bag and putting them into the dumpster behind his building. The sense that he has followed this routine fairly often makes him feel a little uneasy.
When he stands at the bay window looking out, he knows that it is then that the presence on his periphery is at its busiest, it is then that most of the doing “gets done”. At some level of awareness, which he doesn’t pay much attention to, he knows that things “get done” when he is in his crib; the presence on his periphery conveys this to him. Communication is by way of a slight nod, a movement that he feels rather than sees. He never engages with this presence, details are never conveyed; their interaction is more of a subtle change in the atmosphere than the passing on of information. He cannot pretend that he hasn’t noticed that slight nod. The presence always knows that he has seen it. If asked, he will admit to the notion that that slight nod is given by a head in which eyes darkly twinkle and an impish grin furrows gaunt cheeks.
When he first became aware of this presence he did find it to be a little unnerving, but he has gotten used to it, and, like a creaky tread on the stairs, when you get used to it, it really is just another part of the house, and, when taken as part of the whole, is acknowledged but not worthy of undue concern or focused attention.
It’s Sunday morning and he is lying in bed deciding what he is going to do with his day, an indulgent lie-in after a rather stressful week at work. Breakfast will be a lazy protracted affair which will include the morning news-paper and lots of coffee. He is languidly stretching, deciding whether to have another five to ten minutes under the covers or to get up and have a shower, when there is a loud knocking on the door to his apartment. He is startled by the noise and tries to ignore it. The knocking gets louder and is accompanied by shouts. Pulling the covers up to his chin he closes his eyes and moves into his crib. The presence on his periphery gives a slight nod.
He goes straight to the sun lounge, it’s bright and airy and he decides that he will spend some time in there. The commotion outside the door to his apartment is none of his concern, a consequence of something that was “done” last night while he was standing at the bay window, content and at peace.
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