comes hard and Cornelius leans in closer again to its great force; he is held there.
Cornelius?
Now, John.
John tips his toes up close to the edge and closer again to the sheer fall and closer.
Cornelius?
Go on.
He leans over the edge and the wind holds him perfectly there.
Do you see, John?
Maybe.
Do you see the trick of it, John?
I think so.
No fear.
Part Three
EVERY DAY IS A HOLIDAY AT THE AMETHYST HOTEL
The suitcase is ancient. It could be out of Lime Street station in 1925. Leather and belted; a stout little general. He wears the dead father’s suit over his high-top purple trainers. The sun is psychedelic in hot streaks across the water. He looks back at himself from the water’s surface. His eyes are glazed with shell-shock and paracetamol. The suitcase is by his feet and contains all of his supplies and somehow his aspirations. He worries a bit about this brown leather suitcase. Open it up and the past might tip out—
on rum parade.
I’m sorry, John?
Nothing, Cornelius. My mind is tipping out my mouth.
That would often be the way. Rum I never drank.
Cornelius rocks the boat free of its berth and aims it over the stones. He mutters blackly beneath his breath and swears vengeance against the waves and world. He pushes the boat out to the water. He works at the ropes and works at the motor—
Bastarin’ fucken thing!
The seabirds hover watchfully with their mad eyes, all wing-span and homicide. He doesn’t know the names for birds. Which is neither here nor there. He kneels down by the water to find his face come closer—
fuck me.
The shock of the age that’s gone in. He looks older than Father fucking Time. Anxiety and fear and weight-of-love—these are the lines of his face.
Cornelius works the boat.
The motor catches and the rope unspools.
John climbs in and he almost falls but rights himself again—he’s awkward as a duck.
The boat puts out to the water.
———
Tell me again, John.
Okay.
You’re going out to this little island to scream?
I may well Scream.
You mean you’re going to be roaring out of you?
It’s certainly on the cards, Cornelius.
Like the crowd on Achill.
Oh?
But what’s it all about, John?
Primal scream therapy was devised by Dr. Arthur Janov.
I never heard of him.
He lives in California. He has a clinic there. I spent three months with Dr. Janov. He taught me how to Scream.
What’s it you’ll be screaming about?
It’s a technique for getting at buried pain and childhood trauma.
Why would you want to do that?
Because it weights you down.
And you want to be lighter on your feet?
Exactly so.
How light do you want to be?
How’d you mean?
What if you took off into the fucken sky?
You’re stuck in your ways, Cornelius. You don’t want to have your little world opened up.
My world’s about as far a ways open as I can fucken handle. What kind of pain have you buried?
Same kind we all have.
On account of being a child?
Well…
We were all children, John.
I lost my father. He went away.
We all lost our fucken fathers.
I lost my mother. She went and died.
We all have the dead fucken mothers.
So tell me how you get by, Cornelius!
It’s simple, John. I listen to what’s around me.
Okay…
And then?
Yeah?
I react.
You listen. And you react.
Because everything you need in the world is there to be heard.
You have my interest, Cornelius.
You can see very little in this world, John. But you can hear fucken everything.
———
He lies down on the boards of the boat as it edges out and moves. He fixes the suitcase for a pillow. He falls back into the grey-blue sky and the day augments itself by patches of cloud and patches of blue as the boat moves out across the bay.
Abroad in the fucking world.
Beg your pardon, John?
He closes his eyes and listens hard—the world is full of hollows—and he is sixteen again and coming down Bold Street—or maybe he’s seventeen—and he wants to fuck everything that moves but
Cornelius?
Now, John.
John tips his toes up close to the edge and closer again to the sheer fall and closer.
Cornelius?
Go on.
He leans over the edge and the wind holds him perfectly there.
Do you see, John?
Maybe.
Do you see the trick of it, John?
I think so.
No fear.
Part Three
EVERY DAY IS A HOLIDAY AT THE AMETHYST HOTEL
The suitcase is ancient. It could be out of Lime Street station in 1925. Leather and belted; a stout little general. He wears the dead father’s suit over his high-top purple trainers. The sun is psychedelic in hot streaks across the water. He looks back at himself from the water’s surface. His eyes are glazed with shell-shock and paracetamol. The suitcase is by his feet and contains all of his supplies and somehow his aspirations. He worries a bit about this brown leather suitcase. Open it up and the past might tip out—
on rum parade.
I’m sorry, John?
Nothing, Cornelius. My mind is tipping out my mouth.
That would often be the way. Rum I never drank.
Cornelius rocks the boat free of its berth and aims it over the stones. He mutters blackly beneath his breath and swears vengeance against the waves and world. He pushes the boat out to the water. He works at the ropes and works at the motor—
Bastarin’ fucken thing!
The seabirds hover watchfully with their mad eyes, all wing-span and homicide. He doesn’t know the names for birds. Which is neither here nor there. He kneels down by the water to find his face come closer—
fuck me.
The shock of the age that’s gone in. He looks older than Father fucking Time. Anxiety and fear and weight-of-love—these are the lines of his face.
Cornelius works the boat.
The motor catches and the rope unspools.
John climbs in and he almost falls but rights himself again—he’s awkward as a duck.
The boat puts out to the water.
———
Tell me again, John.
Okay.
You’re going out to this little island to scream?
I may well Scream.
You mean you’re going to be roaring out of you?
It’s certainly on the cards, Cornelius.
Like the crowd on Achill.
Oh?
But what’s it all about, John?
Primal scream therapy was devised by Dr. Arthur Janov.
I never heard of him.
He lives in California. He has a clinic there. I spent three months with Dr. Janov. He taught me how to Scream.
What’s it you’ll be screaming about?
It’s a technique for getting at buried pain and childhood trauma.
Why would you want to do that?
Because it weights you down.
And you want to be lighter on your feet?
Exactly so.
How light do you want to be?
How’d you mean?
What if you took off into the fucken sky?
You’re stuck in your ways, Cornelius. You don’t want to have your little world opened up.
My world’s about as far a ways open as I can fucken handle. What kind of pain have you buried?
Same kind we all have.
On account of being a child?
Well…
We were all children, John.
I lost my father. He went away.
We all lost our fucken fathers.
I lost my mother. She went and died.
We all have the dead fucken mothers.
So tell me how you get by, Cornelius!
It’s simple, John. I listen to what’s around me.
Okay…
And then?
Yeah?
I react.
You listen. And you react.
Because everything you need in the world is there to be heard.
You have my interest, Cornelius.
You can see very little in this world, John. But you can hear fucken everything.
———
He lies down on the boards of the boat as it edges out and moves. He fixes the suitcase for a pillow. He falls back into the grey-blue sky and the day augments itself by patches of cloud and patches of blue as the boat moves out across the bay.
Abroad in the fucking world.
Beg your pardon, John?
He closes his eyes and listens hard—the world is full of hollows—and he is sixteen again and coming down Bold Street—or maybe he’s seventeen—and he wants to fuck everything that moves but
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