of it. By
this point though, I was as alert as I’d ever be, and so in preparation for Harlow’s garden party decided to tend to tasks long overdue. The function was twofold; on one hand I would
begin to get my house in order in a way I never quite seemed to do when I had nothing but spare time on my hands, and secondly I would have something to discuss - perhaps even offer as an excuse
for my otherwise empty day - come the time for socialising.
I was to construct a shed, ostensibly for storage, but that would also serve as my own corner of the world. Somewhere I would have to make the effort to visit, even if the effort did just amount
to walking across my back yard. Perhaps somewhere I could write to you from, and carve shapes and familiarities from discarded blocks of wood. My mother, in one of the few memories I have of her,
had a vanity mirror. Now, years later, it mystifies me as to how she came to own such an object. Our home was not what you would call decadent, in fact in hindsight I think it would qualify as a
shack were prizes ever awarded.
Her secrets were kept hidden in those dusty drawers, so easy to open yet respected, on the whole, as sacrilege to enter without permission. Of course as we grew older, maybe eight or nine, we
began to explore. My brother would lead the way. First just peeking; playing with the ornaments that dotted the desk beneath the mirror, feeling like trespassers in our own home. And then into the
drawers themselves. The findings seemed unremarkable at the time: a photograph of a young man we didn’t know, a stub of scarlet lipstick that smelt mild yet exotic, a half consumed packet of
tablets. The first sip of alcohol I ever took was from a hip flask hidden in the bottom drawer as my brother poured its contents into my mouth and shrieked with glee as I lay on the cold floor,
rasping for breath and holding my eyes tightly in place through fear they would fall clean out of my head. Even when they found her body that mirror was just about the only thing in the bedroom
left intact. My father was sentimental like that.
The point being that I wanted somewhere just like that. And for some time now have been accumulating the resources to go about achieving it. The piles of smoothed wood have
been slowly gathered from various sources and tethered to the side of my fence. Tins upon tins of treatment and fresh brushes sat on groundsheets in my kitchen. The only thing left was to
build.
But first I had to remove what was left behind. So I spent my first waking hours getting stung and sweaty, filling waste bags with dirt and handfuls of other people’s lives which they
seemed so unwilling to deal with or carry with them wherever they went next. Though mostly garbage I did find a pristine axe-head, sharp as candlelight and engraved with someone else’s
initials. I placed it safely to one side after tending to my wound and will insert a new handle once I have completed the task at hand.
I raked and pulled at the twigs and thorns. Barbs caught on my hands and drew jewels of blood that stung and smeared onto my vest. And then I made my own little offering to the God of New
Starts. In a giant tin can I stuffed the remnants of the rubbish and lit a match, before standing back and watching the fire spread like amber bloom.
I worked for four hours before realising the time. My glorious shed remains theoretical, I am sad to say, though the garden was by that point as flat and habitable as could be. I gave myself a
fifteen minute break (how easy we become conformant!) as I observed the cooling bush now smouldering only dead smoke, and stared proudly at the tidy borders of my patchy yet trimmed lawn, before
beginning the most pressing task of the day: my very own restoration.
My appearance has never been my strongpoint. Though I hold a certain sort of attraction to a certain sort of woman, often inspired by mass consumption and miserly standards, I
have thus far relied on talk to
this point though, I was as alert as I’d ever be, and so in preparation for Harlow’s garden party decided to tend to tasks long overdue. The function was twofold; on one hand I would
begin to get my house in order in a way I never quite seemed to do when I had nothing but spare time on my hands, and secondly I would have something to discuss - perhaps even offer as an excuse
for my otherwise empty day - come the time for socialising.
I was to construct a shed, ostensibly for storage, but that would also serve as my own corner of the world. Somewhere I would have to make the effort to visit, even if the effort did just amount
to walking across my back yard. Perhaps somewhere I could write to you from, and carve shapes and familiarities from discarded blocks of wood. My mother, in one of the few memories I have of her,
had a vanity mirror. Now, years later, it mystifies me as to how she came to own such an object. Our home was not what you would call decadent, in fact in hindsight I think it would qualify as a
shack were prizes ever awarded.
Her secrets were kept hidden in those dusty drawers, so easy to open yet respected, on the whole, as sacrilege to enter without permission. Of course as we grew older, maybe eight or nine, we
began to explore. My brother would lead the way. First just peeking; playing with the ornaments that dotted the desk beneath the mirror, feeling like trespassers in our own home. And then into the
drawers themselves. The findings seemed unremarkable at the time: a photograph of a young man we didn’t know, a stub of scarlet lipstick that smelt mild yet exotic, a half consumed packet of
tablets. The first sip of alcohol I ever took was from a hip flask hidden in the bottom drawer as my brother poured its contents into my mouth and shrieked with glee as I lay on the cold floor,
rasping for breath and holding my eyes tightly in place through fear they would fall clean out of my head. Even when they found her body that mirror was just about the only thing in the bedroom
left intact. My father was sentimental like that.
The point being that I wanted somewhere just like that. And for some time now have been accumulating the resources to go about achieving it. The piles of smoothed wood have
been slowly gathered from various sources and tethered to the side of my fence. Tins upon tins of treatment and fresh brushes sat on groundsheets in my kitchen. The only thing left was to
build.
But first I had to remove what was left behind. So I spent my first waking hours getting stung and sweaty, filling waste bags with dirt and handfuls of other people’s lives which they
seemed so unwilling to deal with or carry with them wherever they went next. Though mostly garbage I did find a pristine axe-head, sharp as candlelight and engraved with someone else’s
initials. I placed it safely to one side after tending to my wound and will insert a new handle once I have completed the task at hand.
I raked and pulled at the twigs and thorns. Barbs caught on my hands and drew jewels of blood that stung and smeared onto my vest. And then I made my own little offering to the God of New
Starts. In a giant tin can I stuffed the remnants of the rubbish and lit a match, before standing back and watching the fire spread like amber bloom.
I worked for four hours before realising the time. My glorious shed remains theoretical, I am sad to say, though the garden was by that point as flat and habitable as could be. I gave myself a
fifteen minute break (how easy we become conformant!) as I observed the cooling bush now smouldering only dead smoke, and stared proudly at the tidy borders of my patchy yet trimmed lawn, before
beginning the most pressing task of the day: my very own restoration.
My appearance has never been my strongpoint. Though I hold a certain sort of attraction to a certain sort of woman, often inspired by mass consumption and miserly standards, I
have thus far relied on talk to
Similar Books
