The Cellar Door is open: 06/05/2005

It's incredibly dark. No noise except for distant breezes, and misdirected noises, breathing, creaking, the everyday groans of the house's pains and pleasures. The cup blinked. In so much as a cup could seem sleepy, this one did. It had been dormant for some 45 years. In a flash he remembered his past, the balance, the triumphs and failures. No emotion now, only determination.
"Every resurrection begins with the same warm darkness. It is home to me now for as long as I have begun paying attention to the passing of time. " he thought. The cup was self-assured. No longer nervous at this awakening, it had occured countless times throughout the centuries. He knew his existence was tied with the universe, and in essence, he could never die. That tended to make your average vessel slightly less worried about the odd chip or crack.He looked up at his audience. No applause, no chanting, no ceremony. They seemed quite disinterested really, not moving against the gloom of the cupboard."My power has spread. " "Though my explanation is blunted by this language man has invented, I will attempt to inform you of all to be. Explain my role in the dawn of spiritual eventuality. I came to this plane before the impairment of the spiritual vision of modern man. We walked hand in hand, before man lost the ability to understand my existence, and lost the reality of deity. Before the covetous greed of man forced this sleuth existence, as they hunt feverishly for evidence of my presence. I have returned in many forms when needed most, to enforce the divine controls of our predecessors. I have changed appearance and existence as needed to accomplish this. Your kind will never understand my work, but you must understand its importance. It is intertwined with the very basic fabrics of our reality and existence. I have struck balance and spoken for their species, ever since the great spiritual battles were finally lost by man. I oversaw the theological downfall of this species. Since the existentialist birth of hope, the beginning of the good ideas, to the stagnation of philosophy, mired in doctrine, to the death of spirituality and the dawn of the nihilist age. I greived the death of Astarte, mourned the loss of Aristotle, oversaw the passing of Jesus, guided the jews through the desert. As a spirit I oversaw the dawn of All. " "I know of time, but as a static ally, never a race. Intrinsically I will always be. The unwinding of my existence would mean the intrinsic gaps between spirituality and physics would no longer be bridged. I symbolise union on levels you could never understand. My spirit will never end. But why have I been awakened?" He ended his speech there, for the plates were staring at him with disbelief and horror, the bowls were completely disinterested, and it was clear that virtually none of his speech actually had an audience capable of understanding it. He would have to ponder this question himself. But first, he must escape this ceramic prison. "Of course in the reality of this plane, it is not to my efforts that create this universal balance. It is merely my existence. So here I will wait until I am freed."

He prepared himself for a long wait. His soul could only be freed when separated from the physical manifestation of his mental self, so in order for this cup to fly, he would have to be broken. To this end he would need patience before moving on. It would take time before he could reach safety and receive his instructions.
The cup exists now as a balance in the universe. Like an intergalactic remover of remainders. It balances equations, orbits, space time, spiritual forces, inspires the needy, balances emotional space, outerspace and inner space. It flies through our existence mopping up messes and mistakes on our behalf. Like the good cop of philosophy, an existential companion to the universe, annoyed that none of his kin in the cupboard were acknowledging his existence.

*****************

The evening gloom was gaining ground on the dry white cloud cover as I stared out my window. I could see the fog roll across the grass in the park across the street, spreading like a rumour. As I watched the dirty grey take hold, and beat the cloudy gloom into retreat for the evening, I felt the first pangs. I began to realise what was coming. It would be a few hours yet before I would look forward to it.
I started lifting weights, trying to work this out, repeating my mantra. I was really trying, but it was all a cloud, a misinterpretation. I lifted a new weight every day, I made them myself.
Staring at the mirror, a compulsion hit me, and I swung hard,crunching my fist into my jaw. I felt a little inspired, and dropped my weight to the floor. I didnt know if it was another demon or a manifestation in my stomach. Perhaps a warning from the future or some sort of karmic heads up. Smoke clouded my eyes as the hopelessness began to set in.
Dont do it tonight. I swung again.
There was no hope of stopping. I grinned.

I could taste the blood, cold determination in my mouth. Everything foul and ulcerous now, and that lukewarm, almost friendly air of hopelessness, my oldest companion. My hands felt hardened and rotten, dead branches, long since bereft of the trees they suckle. My lips were cracked and sore, but warmth and pain was spreading through, reviving them. My stomach felt hard and impenetrable, resolute against what I was about to test it with. Before it would have been a gooey cunundrum, a mixture of bile, waiting to geyser up in the sky in a blaze of self-destruction. I punched my weight in the air again, same motion as always, hand to mouth, hand to mouth. I counted them off. Eyes closed, chanting the mantra, trying to free myself, to clear my head. It wasnt working, so I dropped the weight to the floor.

Three words, this isnt healthy, floating around in my head, but bereft of any meaning to me. Hold back, just hold back. Dont do this to yourself again. But then the demon danced up. Seducing my brain with my own destruction.
"Not tonight Nick huh?"
"You gonna calm down huh?"
"You with me tonight, huh?"
He was in control. Jibing me, dancing around me, raining punches down, elusive and moving too fast. I am a shadow now. There's not much hope of moving on until I get him off my shoulder, out of my head. Tomorrow I would be me, but tonight he could find me anything I wanted. Tonight I would breathe diesel, drink death and piss fire. I grasped the weight again, hand to mouth, hand to mouth, until I felt lightheaded. Stained and euphoric.

My comfort came from hatred. Of my friends, my home, myself, This town. This town desperately trying to be a city. A suburban maze, on a saturday night, every toxin of any market value on offer. I could get anything. And the thought quickly occured to me, I wanted everything. More smiles, prompted by him. My mind a dumpster now. My head was clear, with one thought laughing and dancing around inside, a mental patient in a soundproof room.

I am scum.

I picked up another weight. Hand to mouth, until I was dizzy and breathing hard, forcing myself to do one more, one more, and hoping to cross through to oblivion. To avoid tonight.
I gathered together my ziplocked rations for the assault, the dregs of the college year, collecting bits of string and lint in my stash, getting staler and less potent as the months trundled on. Now I would feel no buzz from these, just dizzyness, sickness, isolation, and a hell of a bad day tomorrow.
I sat there in my room, on the ground, hunched in the frame of the door, trying to breathe. I was praying for an abort button for the evening. I tried to get my head above water again, to let myself bubble back to the surface Desperate for any alternative, I forced down the last of my wine and threw it at my bin with a dull heavy glass thud.
It didnt shatter.
I felt it throb through my veins, and I knew, right there, in that bottle is his strength. He has me now. I cant win.
He took me there too. I walked there in the dark. Shivering against the cold, I could see the path in front of me lit up by the lights coming from closed windows, and creeping through gaps in shut curtains. I spent most of the walk wondering. What was I doing? What will I do? What do I want to do?
Fuck it.
No answers.
Just this image of a huge, hulking gentle giant crossed my head and I thought of my uncle again.
My poor uncle, that would lift me over his shoulders and toss me about like a rag doll when I was a kid. His giant arms, the way he played with me, and indulge me, and generally treat me so gently and decently it nearly makes me cry to think of it. I thought him and my dad were the strongest people alive. But more than my father, hardened by the world, I feared for my uncle. I dont think that an evil thought could ever exist in his head, I hated the thought of what his life is like now, with his crazy tiny wife, that stands near him for comic relief, him 18 stone and tall, her 5 foot 1 and a former anorexic, and how different he was the last time I saw him. It had been years since I saw him last, and he barely fit my memories. This gentle beast had been chewed up, and spat out, and he was still smiling, he was still himself. He had naively taken everything the world could throw at him, he had walked into it smiling, and after everything, crazy drunken years, a struggling business, married trouble, getting old and turning sour, he was still smiling.
He is the strongest person I know.

I got there and slid open the door. There was no need to knock, and with the music blasting out from every corner of the house, nobody would have heard me if I did. I stole in, and tossed the room a grimace, because I only wanted two answers, where's the beer, and where's the dealer? People looked up, then turned back again, uneffected by my presence. That amused me.

Bass was buzzing in my ear from stale Dance, salty in my lungs with the sweaty hooks, turns and inhuman twists of those infected by it. I watched them with utter contempt. Contempt for their happiness. I thought I was better, because I was callous. Their jaws pumping on chewing gum, screaming at each other, hugging each other, hooked like the rest on that fake little feeling. Ecstasy. I felt nothing. Not for anyone there, not for any music, or conversation, or old friend. The demon was pumping hatred to my brain, fuel for my night, and I was blinded with a treasured, lazy hatred that flooded my thoughts.
No way I could be me tonight.
All I was here for was poison. just the poison. I didnt want a fake happy trance, fake energy and fake friends for the night. I just wanted to feel genuine, and that only ever meant feeling like shit.
I saw them approach right away. I was standing awkwardly, near the door, and they were about 20 feet away, at the window, and closing. One bearded, both as shabby as I, both twisted, but happy.
Envy again tsunamied round my chest and ebbed out again, sucking the grit and dirt worn from my soul with it. A torrent of emotion, then a calm before another storm.
My own head, now defiling me.
I know they mean well. These are the good guys, maybe they can stop me. And I know, that deep down they loved me too. Or loved how I used to be.

Before...

They thought they understood. And while they didnt have a clue, it still made me feel hopeful that they thought there was something to understand.
As they sidled up, I noticed that subconsciously I had braced myself against the hard wood of the door, and I could feel my back whitening with the force I was using. Buzz was hitting me now, and I wasnt ready to start being human again.
I saw the hunter in their eyes.
Pupils wide, guess why? And their heads, neck and eyes darting and circling the room, prey spotting, target practice. I saw them swish their eyes over
I didnt want to hurt them either.

"Hey Man, You already set up for tonight?"
"mmhmm."
"Do you know is the party staying here or moving along later?"
I shrugged. I dunno.
"Man you okay? Those eyes looking a little doughy."
"Are you all messed up again man?"
"Mmhmm."

All messed up he called me. All messed up again. As if it would disappoint him to find me sober. What and he isn't all messed up? No, of course not. The stuff he is taking is not a problem at all, but what I'm taking is? Contempt filling up now, wishing they could understand, but I knew i had lost them.
His head was morphing strangely. This made it worse.
He was right. Bastard.
I began to not take notice of the words, though I could see each word fall out of his mouth, it flitted out and flew off before I could note it. Words flowed into eachother and nothing made sense. But I knew he wasnt the enemy. Soon he had his arm around me, smiling cheering. He wanted me with them, he wanted me to smile. I did my best impression, held up my drink, popped another dram of poison into my mouth, and he let me be.

My lips hardened against my tongue, betraying my determination for the first time that night. I looked around again, and saw everyone differently, just for one, crazy slowmotion second. I saw how honest they were, in a blur of dancing faces, each frozen to my view with ecstatic expressions. My heart, for the first time that night, found an emotion to fight the rage with. Envy flowed in a green river through my veins. I knew that that was it then. I was out of control. Wrong way down the motorway, 200 miles an hour, with a blindfold on.
I would be an instrument of hatred.
Just until I died, Just until the morning.
I wanted out, so I left them with their party and found another room. Quiet and dark upstairs. It smelt stale as old sleep. I closed the door behind me, and lit the room with the streetlight outstide. I started again with the weight, made one up, and hand to mouth hand to mouth again, trying to glean comfort from the repetition, working myself into the daze.
I wanted to know what it was to be the most foul base person I could be. I wanted to know what it was like to be ruthless. I wanted to know what it was like to end something.

She was something.

The touch, just one brushing, bruising touch, but it was too much for me. My brain was a shadow, my body a force, pure and single-minded, set to kill. I was the very worst, fucking meanest person I knew how to be. I was drunk, I was fucked up, messed up, dirty, alone. Just me and my demon and I had no allies. Hand to mouth, hand to mouth. Just keep lifting.
I went downstairs again, feeling the speakers hit my spine as I got closer and closer to the speakers. Before entering the sitting room, I turned, and moved instead to the empty kitchen. I needed water. Just water and to get out of here. I looked across the greasy kitchen tops for a cup or a glass but couldnt find any, so I started rummaging anxiously in presses as my throat groaned and whined at me to slake its thirst. Finally in a cupboard full of delph I pulled out a cup. Filling it with water, i drained it off in seconds.
And just for a moment, I felt an oasis of calm and balance, for the first time that night, i wasn't feeling the fear. But it only lasted for a moment. Seized bodily by a compulsion, I tightened my grip on the cup, and smashed it into the corner of the room. It exploded upon impact and scattered shards flew across the floor.
I left alone.

My determination to hurt myself had never been stronger.Chemicals rushing round my body and I felt a wired buzz from head to toe, strange pockets of energy powered by emotion. What was messing with my head, and what could I do to fix it? I stared at the greying sky, old milk leaking further and further across the horizon. I was disgusted by it. The shit and green of the park in front of my house, the grey cracked pavement, the chalky clouds against the unreality of the early morning haze, mixed like puke with the street lights. Not a hint of grandeur, or pride, in the red and grey brick silhouette, not a hint of warmth in the dawn, there was no soul in this place. There was no beauty left in this town.

My shadow was tall. It looked proud. Ironic. I cracked a rye smile looking at it. It looked so surefooted and proud it nearly made me giggle, the compulsion a hangover from the lunacy I though I had control of again. But then the demon again.

I wasn't in this state for fun. It hit me all of a sudden, lightbulb, I didn't particularly want to survive tonight. I didnt want to wake up. A bottle of single malt in one hand, and a pained look on my face. I was determined to fuck myself up too. A new weight in my hand, repeating my mantra, hand to mouth, hand to mouth. It was late on, 5 in the morning maybe, but I could still think, and the last fucking thing I wanted to do right now was think. I wanted to shock her. I wanted to grab her neck with my fingers, shake her, hurt, pain.
I dropped the weight and watched it fizzle out.
The lights were low. My mind was reeling with the perversions I could see flashing before me. Nothing i had ever found desirable before. I felt like an altar of depravity. My body a bullet, zooming to insanity. She lay slyly on the far side of the room. A tiny curtain of light surrounded her. Giving her this fake brochure beauty, and I fucking hated it.

I wanted to do it all to her right then. I wanted to feel dirty, nasty, base. This was a night of abuse. Lights out, and before a word was said it was hands and breath and spit, groping in the blindness, shuddering with the reality of what I was doing even as I did it. I had her in my grip now. That fucking bitch. My hands on her neck. I didnt even squeeze. She couldnt struggle and I wanted to feel the evil power of her knowing it was all over. The last thing I remember was raising her clear over my head, and slamming her down hard on my knee. After that, nothing. Fuzzy warmth and blood, shards of wood all over the floor, sleep, rest.
Sleep.
When I woke up I stared at what I had done.

Remorse became terminal. I had killed her. Oh. Well.

The scene on the floor was a nightmare. I picked up her body, her neck and head nowhere to be seen. I picked out the pick ups from her chest, took the strings still connected to the headstock. I couldnt believe she was broken. Maybe with it I had broken the demon, I thought. But I knew it was a lie. I could blame him forever. But I knew, deep down, he was me, and I was him, and there would be no escape.

I thought again of my uncle. I thought of what my mum used to say about him, and my aunt. I remember the stories my mom told me about the flaming rows, about how my aunt threw him out of the house, beat him with crockery and furniture, abused him all the time. But more than that I remember what she told me about their wedding night. My aunt and uncle never had kids. I asked my mom why recently, when we were both drunk one night and having one of those bonding conversations. Apparently My Uncle, the strongest man in the world, and my crazy aunt had to go to a specialist to learn how to have sex. When they got married they didnt know how to have sex.
When I first heard this, well I laughed.
But the more I thought about it, the sicker I got, the more depressed I got, the more the demon grew in my head.
The origins of our entire social structure is based on procreation and being able to breed safely and provide for the offspring. But for 100 years or so, in Ireland, (and beyond) society had come full circle. It was beating itself out of existence. I read up more about it. About the culture of the time, the attitude towards sex. It was never talked about, it was feared. There were no words, dirty to the taste, but satisfying to say, like cunt, pussy, cock, dick, nor emotions to back them. Sex, thanks to the Church, became a curse word. The act of conception of life, the ultimate celebration of our existence, was now our dirtiest secret. I wept, for my heroes, dead or dead to me, until my lungs hurt, and my ears throbbed out the time.

I picked up a packet of rizla, pulled out the three skins and started making today's weight.
Hand to mouth, hand to mouth.

The Cellar Door is open

Dreaming of you.

Why would you turn on a broken TV?

If only I could say what I really meant, and not have to use a language.

Every fret of my guitar is marked with a bruise from my life with it. I hope some day I'll remember them all.

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