Hierarchy Of One

A dusty word-cupboard down a dark corridor in a forgotten corner of the internet

[hierarchyofone]

Sun God One

He padded through the deserted corridors and hallways, calling and not caring who heard him.  Darkness followed uncertainly behind him, waiting to reclaim the space he lit up, not daring to  challenge his authority.

Any voices he heard, be they prayers or curses, were beacons for him to home in on.  His greetings always boisterous, overpowering in their affection.  Often he bore gifts, the carcasses of those who had come to his notice while hunting. A reversal of the traditional relationship between god and worshipper.  He would bring the bodies to us and ask questions regarding them.  What manner of creature were they?  What purpose did they serve?  His curiosity insatiable, but mind too distracted to take in the information given.  He would perform his own investigations, often forensic in nature, then leave dissatisfied.

I wish you could have seen him before they got to him.  

Darkness has ruled here since his passing. Though her ministrations are kindly meant, they cannot extinguish our yearning for the light.

[hierarchyofone]

Ice Age

Here’s to you dear.

I was drunk enough to accept what you told me, and lonely enough to help the illusion along. I made it past the photographs of you and your partner, the open wardrobe with two people’s clothes in it, and both toothbrushes in the bathroom without stumbling over a single emotional tripwire.

Of course, I hate you now. In the space between sex and sleep you left me to feel. This morning I’m back to my usual frozen self. I’ve helped myself to breakfast and am sitting, watching you turn uneasily in your dreams. I’ll enjoy seeing you wake, your blurry confusion, the desperate attempt to remember my name.

We’ve no use for each other in the cold morning, a sense of inevitability shares the room with us. I’ll leave you my number, which you won’t call until you’re next drunk and alone in the night-time. Your call will wake me, but I won’t answer.

There’s a feeling I associate with these nocturnal sleep-disturbers. The pleasure of being thought about, tempered with the knowledge that I’m not being called to ask how I am, or if I’d like to go on a date. Each time I’ve picked up those night-time calls, the invite is always to a house or apartment, never a restaurant or theatre.

What lovely words you used last night, and the expense! I almost felt sorry for you. Once you’d paid for the drinks and the cab, and spent the evening fussing round me, all you got for your time and money was a feeling that didn’t last as long as the ice in this gin.

I raise my glass to you my lovely, to beautiful lies and cold winter nights.

[hierarchyofone]

The Sound of Music

He walked. A dust covered man in a land of burnt crops and howling winds. Rainless storms passed with jagged lightning striking the ground. The scorched earth smelt bitter, and was crisp to the touch.

This place was a hell. To Samuel F. Johnson it was a place, like most places, to be passed through, never to return. Occasionally a feral dog would howl from inside an abandoned farmhouse, and Samuel would clutch his button-less jacket, holding it tightly around him. These dogs were danger, left to survive as best they could, their territorial nature and extreme hunger meant that their territories widened as far as necessary to feed themselves. They found shelter in the heat of midday, but in the early morning and the cool evening they hunted. Passing within two miles of a farmhouse at the wrong time of day could lead to confrontation.

The valley was long. Samuel had descended into it four nights ago, with supplies that he hoped would see him through to the other side. Now his supplies were running low. He had begun to walk at night when it was cooler, in an effort to preserve his water supplies and avoid the risk of detection. The sand-coloured mountains that marked the edge of the valley had become noticeably closer, the air smelt of mould and citrus.

Samuel began to climb the foothills, leaden-legged and thirsty. It was then that he heard it. Piano and violin, sombre and yet powerful, playing a melody so sparse and distant that he wondered if he were really hearing it. His original intention had been to pitch camp, his muscles were beaten and his feet painfully sore. Instead he climbed on, his feet crunching on the uneven stone. Stunted yew bushes that smelt of the sour earth acted as handholds as he pulled himself up.

He had been without water for almost a full day, and yet the music gave him strength. It was as he worked his way around a jutting outcrop that he first saw the source of the music. A precariously perched cabin, brightly lit from within, only a few hundred feet above him. He resumed the climb with renewed energy. It seemed to Samuel that the closer he got to the cabin, the easier the climb became.

Samuel felt as though he had floated up the last hundred feet of the escarpment on which the cabin was perched. And then he was stood on the ledge, with the music playing so loudly that he could feel it through his feet. When he looked to the east, the dawn was coming.

It was beautiful. The music in his ears, the dawn in his eyes, and the smell of clean air. He forgot that he’d been cold, tired and thirsty. Sam stood until the sun was half-risen, then turned and entered the shack. Sam had been expecting a pianist and a violin player, instead he glided in through the door and found everything. Sun, moon, stars and earth. As he understood, he began to cry, but his tear-ducts were dry and his heart and belly refused to follow him into his intended expressions of grief. His corporeal self had faded, and who can be sad when they’ve finally found their place in the world?

[hierarchyofone]

Autobiography

My grandmother suffered from dementia. I lived with her in the period between it becoming unsafe for her to live alone, and the time when she required care of a nature that was awkward for a grandson to give.

It was a warm June day, with a breeze that blew the treetops in her garden when she first mentioned them to me.

‘Can you see those people, sitting on the branches out there? It can’t be safe.’

I peered from the window, looking at the trees that lined the garden. There were leaves certainly, and the breeze was moving the limbs of the trees, but I could not see people. I said as much.

My grandmother was incredulous. ‘Can’t you see them? I can see them. I'm going to ask them to get down.’

I followed her out into the garden.

She engaged the tree-dwellers with great dignity and consideration, her concern was primarily for their comfort and safety. Would they not step down from the trees and join her in the garden? She was happy to make tea.

I could not see a soul. She continued to make eloquent and increasingly impassioned appeals for those nesting to disembark and return to solid ground. As she became upset by their lack of communication, I guided her inside.

Inside, she rinsed the teapot and talked of a family that picnicked in the back garden on a daily basis. I had been living with her for several months at this point, and had never seen or heard this family. She spoke of their lives, their habits, their impeccable manners. How the father of the group always removed his hat when she ventured out to them, and how they always spoke pleasantly and at length of their own hopes and fears.

It was several months after this that her care became more than I could cope with and I moved out, allowing professional carers to perform tasks that I, as her grandson, could not. There were several more months before she died. Found at the bottom of the stairs, having had a combined stroke and heart attack, by the carer that visited her in the mornings.

All I can tell you is this:  It felt that it was I, and not my grandmother, whose senses failed them in the back garden of her house that day. I watch the trees for dipping boughs with no obvious cause. I wonder when I will be granted the wisdom that allows me to see those family picnics in Edwardian dress. It seems my brain applies the filters that it believes necessary to live now. I'm not yet sure how to override it, but I hope I find a way before the evidence of my eyes is discounted as senility.

I ask this of all of you:  Watch the trees.

[hierarchyofone]

Lines

In joining the conspiracy to keep you reading from a screen, I feel that I am a traitor to myself and to you. When Google unveil their hierarchical organisational chart of the world, I hope I won’t be alone in rising from my desk and giving them a slow handclap. Will they remember the dotted line that stretches from everyone to everyone?

Will psychologists and counsellors simply recommend hitting the reset button, or will Tabula Rasa still be achieved via gin?

As our technology continues to improve, and our microscopes attain greater levels of magnification, we will have ever more metadata. At the same time our displays will increase in resolution, and our networks will become exponentially faster, allowing us to display images of our navels in ever-increasing levels of detail. Friends, strangers, companies and governments will store this data, seeking new ways to monetize us.

I approve of this new world that keeps us safe from the old one. Outside the window, the snow falls gently, dotted white lines from servers unknown. I zoom in on an individual flake until it pixelates.

[hierarchyofone]

Mindhugger

It was busy in there.  You were sat alone by the fire, just another night, staring into the embers.  We were all together, talking loudly; I asked if we could sit at your table.  You gestured your acquiescence.  You seemed quiet, lost in your own space.  We wanted to draw you in, help you feel included.  Somebody invited you to join our conversation.

You spoke.

We staggered away from the table, some sobbing, some laughing hysterically.  Each of us left alone that night, and walked in a different direction.  The shrapnel from your words lodged into each of us.  You remained impassive, eyes on the fire as I left.

I have never been back, but over time your words have worked deeper.  I have often thought of you, was there relief in a burden shared?

And we, your unwilling disciples, have not sought each other out.  In fact, as I age, I find myself seeking the company of others less and less.  I prefer solitude and the warmth of the fire.  

[hierarchyofone]

Teething Problems

The fluorescent lights overhead pulsed as he accelerated into the tunnel. He watched dispassionately through the windscreen as the light striped above him. His tongue absent-mindedly probed a loose tooth; he tried to ignore his headache.

The vibration of the tyres on the poorly surfaced road caused a low level rumbling. He ran his tongue around his upper teeth. They felt misshapen and flimsily attached. The same for the lower set. He kept his foot pressed firmly onto the accelerator.

A sound like the popping of popcorn, then a toothless smile. Blood poured down his chin as he spat dead lumps of enamel and pulp.

[hierarchyofone]

Symbiosis

At first she thought that he was just digging in the garden. Pretending to plant flowers and vegetables as he played make believe, dressed in his cowboy outfit and scooping up soil with his bucket and spade. After a while she noticed that every now and then he lifted something to his mouth. When he turned toward her, he seemed to be chewing.

Leaving her vantage point at the kitchen window, she ventured to the patio door and called out to him. ‘Michael, what are you eating?’

‘Spaghetti!’ he shouted back proudly.

‘Let mummy see darling,’ she said.

At her request he reached into his bucket and proudly pulled out three pink juicy earthworms. She screamed and ran toward him, pulling him up and away from the border while kicking the bucket across the garden. He burst into tears, aware that his mother was terrified and angry, but not understanding where the threat was.

Inside, she tried to explain to him that worms were animals and not ‘live spaghetti’. He frowned and listened and tried to understand.

…

At first she thought that he was just digging in the garden. Planting some seeds for the summer, dressed in his old gardening clothes. It was good to see him out there and active, he’d been listless since the diagnosis.

Every so often he would stoop slowly and painfully, reach down, then pop something into his mouth and chew. After a while she grew curious, and stepped out through the French doors to see what he was doing. She gasped as she drew nearer, where the daffodils had been was an eight foot by three foot hole in the ground.

‘What my mother failed to appreciate,’ he grumbled, without turning round, ‘was that nature is cyclical.’

He climbed down into the hole and lay flat on his back, closing his eyes and crossing his arms so each hand lay upon the opposite shoulder. One eye opened briefly and fixed his wife with a steely stare. ‘In capitalist Britain,’ he remarked, ‘the spaghetti eats you.’

‘What are you doing?!?’ she exclaimed, ‘Get out of there!’

‘Eliza, my love. When it’s time, when it’s really time. No casket please.’

She returned to the house without speaking.

[hierarchyofone]

Soft Reset

We crawl from under our duvets, amputee spiders whose webs have been disturbed.  It is always our animal needs that force us to move.  Bladders, bowels, stomachs.

A peek beyond the curtains, eyes water in milky sunlight before we retreat as if stung.  Happy New Year. 

Sitting, stomachs of butterflies and bile, too lethargic to leave our den, we drink water and contemplate solid food.  We're not ready yet.

This is our fresh start.  A soap opera omnibus and the brief cessation of internal hostilities.  Then the traditional New Year breakfast.  ‘Shall we go out?’

‘Not yet.’

How many new leaves have we turned over?  Living room like a winter's wood.   We in the middle, leaf mould the perfume that unites us.  Nothing really changes here, lost in this permafrost forest.  

[hierarchyofone]

Scythe

‘Why is it that the sunlight seems brighter here, and the sky a clearer shade of blue?’

I thought I saw you shrug, not knowing and not caring.  I couldn't really see you, laid out in the long grass; all I could hear was birdsong, punctuated by an occasional aeroplane.  

I picked a stalk of grass and chewed thoughtfully on it.  The grass tasted like the memory of grass.  At lunchtime I'd eaten fresh bread with some cold chicken and salad.  The bread had tasted like the idea of bread.  

I still don't know how you managed it.  Somehow you could make the reality as good as the idea. I only found out later how difficult that was.

[hierarchyofone]

Our Olympics

I walk in through the door, and am greeted by cheers and a sea of expectant faces.  They’re all there, from Sam, our youngest at two years old, to Kieran who’s fourteen now.  Molly, my wife, is here too, looking like a besieged general who’s pleased to see the reinforcements.   We've seven in total, it’s a bit of a squeeze, but we love them all, even if we don’t get any peace.   It’s the price we pay for love, Molly says. ‘What’s for dinner?’ I ask.  Six crestfallen faces look up at me.  Sam is too busy hitting a toy car with a drumstick to pay any attention.  Molly is trying to hide a smile. ‘But Dad!’ comes the chorus, followed by six different variations on ‘The Olympics are starting!’ I feign surprise, then appear deep in thought.  ’Hmmm.  The Olympics you say?  I've heard of ‘em, but I'm not sure what they're about.’ The answer is unanimous, six raised voices cry ‘Burgers!’  I prepare to resume my traditional role of human cash dispenser. ‘Right then,’ I begin, handing Kieran and Paul a twenty pound note each.  ’First event, is the men’s three thousand metres.  We’ll be needing bacon double-cheeseburgers all round, with large fries and a few portions of the onion rings.  Don’t get their drinks, we’ll get the girls to sort those out.’   We pile out the door, Sam on my shoulders, and draw a chalk start line between the lamp-post and our garden wall.   Kieran and Paul get on their marks, I count down from three, and we all shout ‘Go!’   Paul is younger and shorter than Kieran, but more determined.  They’re neck and neck as they turn the corner out of sight.   ‘Next event!’ I cry, ‘The women’s 800 metres!’  Sally and Beth take their places, I hand a five pound note to each competitor.  ’Could you two grab a couple of the big bottles of Coke each?  Get a bag if you can't carry ‘em.’ There is another chorus of ‘Go!’ and I watch them carefully as they hare up the street toward the grocers on the corner.  ’Final event!’ I announce theatrically, ‘The five yard dash.  Last one in won’t get a seat on the sofa!’ Unfortunately, I am slower to react to my own announcement than the rest of the family.  By the time I arrive in the living room the sofa is full, and I am being openly mocked and accused of senility.  I am about to sit in the less comfortable chairs on the other side of the room, but am informed that they are for competitors only.  I accept my fate with good grace, and park myself on the floor, removing Sam from my shoulders.  This frees him up to join in my chastisement.  He picks up his drumstick and beats out an erratic rhythm on the back of my head, to loud encouragement from the posh seats. ‘How long do the Olympics go on for?’ I ask. ‘Seventeen days.’ says Molly, in a voice tinged with both sympathy and amusement.

[hierarchyofone]

Unreleased Backgrounds

Here we are, waiting, in unloved space.  Yet to be summoned by director, writer or storyteller.  There’s no action around us, nothing ever happens where we are. Yet, we dream.  We dream of being the scenery in a big fight sequence, or a road that somebody must travel down.  We dream of being the scene of the murder, or the location of the steamy bedroom scene, or both. We dream of being brought alive by camera, pen, or human voice. Each time there are footsteps, or the sound of a vehicle, we pray that our moment is here, that we will become ‘the place where something happened’.  Each time the footsteps continue oblivious past us, or the vehicle drives on, we lapse back into sullen silence. After your long drive, we are the stretch of road you can’t remember.  We're the scenery behind you in the dream where you can’t turn round.

[hierarchyofone]

Chickenland

Look at this, there are thousands of ‘em.  Scratching in the dirt, hunting for seeds, vegetation or insects. 

They move across the dust, the strong ones in front getting the best of what’s left.  The rest follow behind.  The weak, the old and the sick straggle at the rear.

Occasionally one of them decides they’re not up to the struggle.  They fall back and are abandoned.  They don’t survive long.  Lean famished things glide over the ground toward them, or shadows fall upon them from above.

The boys don’t strut and preen like they used to, there’s a hungry look in their eyes.  Even the toughest of them move with economy.  The girls look beaten, dusty and dishevelled, the days of easy living are over.

And the sun, oh the sun, a yellow heat that pulses.  The ground fries.  At night the air freezes.  They will huddle together for warmth, and each morning some from the periphery will be gone.  Nobody speaks of their losses, and by the time the sun has risen they will be moving again.

[hierarchyofone]

Placebo

We troop in dutifully, softened and prepared by weeks of carefully planned and placed material.  There is shuffling and coughing and a hundred different hands reach for their mobile phones.  Whispered conversations are brought to a premature close by the dimming lights and the opening curtain. Silent in the darkness, we bask in the light reflecting from projector, to screen, to eye.  Invited to sit in shadow, and be overwhelmed by an experience that is overwhelming by design, we become receptive and passive.  There is a tendency to relax our critical faculties, to allow images and sound to flow through us.  Value judgements are suspended; scenes and dialogue are stored for further processing and discussion.  We may say we hated a film afterwards, but we tend to see each through to the finale. It is at the end, when rising lights and rolling credits inform us that our presence is no longer required, that we resume our lives.  Our aching backs are stretched and our tired eyes readjust to the bright lights of the foyer. Is anything else happening?  The walk to the exit seems heavy-footed and unnatural and our responses to each other seem slow.    Is there more?  Is it possible that over the coming days the fresh cultural references we have absorbed will be regurgitated into our everyday lives, and a desire to be ‘in the know’ will drive our peers to undergo the same painless procedure we have just experienced ourselves.  We have not been harmed, and yet we have been changed.  We have exchanged time in our lives for a shared entertainment experience, and this perhaps is a pleasurable diversion, because looking at what is around us too closely can raise feelings of uncertainty or helplessness.  There is medicine to prevent feelings like this.  There is medicine for everybody, and near infinite methods of delivery.  Our power and control in our lives is that we choose our medicines and dosages.  Neither of us is certain that this is a true representation of freedom, but there is a tacit understanding that to discuss this openly is more than we can bear.  As we stumble unsteadily from the cinema, arm in arm, we avoid making eye contact with those that we pass on the journey home.

[hierarchyofone]

What The Paramedic Whispered In His Ear

Ripped apart, fucked beyond understanding.  Crumpled on the floor, surrounded by fragments of glass and hypotheses.  A physical manifestation of a lack of structure.  There’s a fragility here that has wider implications when viewed via the geometric patterns of molecular biology, but is neither detectable nor comprehensible when magnified more closely, or viewed from far distance. 'Before you try to speak sir, are you certain that you speak with the agreement and authority of every cell?  We replace many of the cells in our bodies over time.  Are they vetted for their political views, or potential for cruelty to animals?  Is a discarded cell from Fidel Castro finding its way into an elderly Republican the true definition of cancer?’

He coughs and tries to speak, but is unable to articulate beyond a groan. ‘There are a number of ways this could go.  You could persist sir, you could sit in meditation and heal, while a succession of moulds and parasites make your body home.  You could even give yourself up to a higher power, a third-party of your choice.  Your triumphs and tragedies would no longer be your own, but you would have an idea to talk to in the dark.’

An eyelid flickers, an abortive attempt to move. ‘You know your own mind sir, even now, which is a great comfort.  There’s little more we can do for you. Baby steps sir, we wish you every success.'

The paramedic’s footsteps recede, and an ambulance door slams.  The engine fires up, and its sonorous note recedes into the distance.

[hierarchyofone]

Bone Castle

Footsteps clatter, but they will not find me.  Of this I am certain. Did you ever catch yourself mirroring the body language of the person sat opposite?  Or trying to ingratiate yourself with somebody that you didn’t like through an eagerness to avoid a scene? I have become hermetically sealed, vacuum packed against reality.  I see life approach, and then it hits the packaging and slides messily around me.  It doesn't touch me, and as long as I don’t reach out, I don’t touch it.  Safe. The electro-chemical signals continue their fruitless march, I persist in my isolation.

[hierarchyofone]

Still in Love

His bony fingers were resting in her flame-red mane.  “What do you love about me?” she asked.  “I love your hair,” he said, grinning at her, “it doesn't decay.” They were as close as they could be, gazes fixed on each other.  “It’s like staring into dark stars, like being sucked into an empty space,” he said.  She was grinning back at him, “I love your weight on top of me, bone against bone.” Above them in the cemetery it was a cold windy night, but deep under the ground, skeletons mingled, they both felt happy and warm.