CLAUDE

By blowing gently over the tops, Claude could produce a strange array of notes from the ten bottles of varying sizes that were lined up on a small Flemish bond wall. Through the hedge could be seen the half built housing development project. Started no doubt by those who take advantage of the temporary nature that is the marketplace of speculation. This familiar Pompeii has now become an adventure playground for the local children. Huge vacant sewage pipes now rang with the echoes of pirate smugglers and Robin Hood outlaw style bands.

ELIZABETH'S VISION


There are 24 different types of violin shoulder rest 'on the market'
The propane stove sputtered then went out. Every time you fill up
a new bottle, you know that someday it'’s going to die. So you can
either sit there mourning it'’s loss, or clear the fire pit of leaves.
Brophy had decided to visit Elizabeth in hospital.

She blinks white in her private room
She is lighter than before

The corridors are dim and musty, his feet as he walks churn up the dry
flower petals. The dust is like a thick smoke. It becomes harder for him to
breathe, his eyes are stinging at the edges.
Pain begins to stab up her wrist. She lifts her arm and its like lifting an
empty mug that you thought was full. Why did her arm feel lighter?
Why did it bend like a feather when she waved it through the air?
(He wanted power on his knees)

The sackcloth and ashes that carried his sin
When God exploded a little piece lodged under our flesh
Sin/skin

“I read about you in the paper, I brought these

He rests the garden picked flowers on the bedside table next to
a jug of stagnant water.

" Thank you that'’s very kind, but I don'’t understand why you came here"

" I care about you that'’s why"
.
"I never met you before did I ?"

The dust had left its aridness at the back of his throat. He gave a sharp
cough, curling whips of dusty smoke floated from his open mouth.

"Factories have been built in the name of music, it could be so much more,
it all could be so much more".

She doesn't weep at the sight of her bandaged stump, but seems to drain
the reserves from her fractured being. And at that moment she becomes a
symbol of strength. Brophy breaks the skin on the water pouring himself
a drink.





A vibration starts somewhere at the center of him, it resonates to a louder pitch.
It grows higher and louder until the whole hospital is shaking.
It's coming alive, she thought.
The jug of stagnant water shudders off the table.
He instinctively stuck out his arm to save it and for a split second had been
unable to see his hand, misjudged his reach, shattering the jug with his knuckles.
The lights flickered then flashed brightly on. The air fans whirred into motion,
from on top of the roof clouds of dust were sent drifting across the orchard.
Like a toxic spray it lingered in the tree tops.

His hand is bleeding, a spatter drops on a pile of bandages at the Elisabeth's
bed. They coil themselves around him, first one leg then the other. He is being tightly
bound, wrapping his arms and waist.

"“Elizabeth, please help me"

"I can only feel the pain,"” she said

He pleaded with her again, before his mouth was covered by the strips of bandage.

"“You took my hand, what right did you have to maim me"”?

He can not speak so has to think and listen.
The bandages become another skin, sealing his face in an identical mask.
To all outward appearances he looks like himself, but the real one is now
underneath. This new layer knows how to function in the present framework.

A small hammer hits some where at the heart of things. An obese fist squeezes juice from the gristle lump. The quivering trumpet muffler announces the catastrophe, as the still-life fruit gallery opens it'’s contrite doors; a cameras eye follows my side step. I can'’t breath. I can‚'t move. I'm buried like a beach toy. Stewing in my own broth. Trapped in my own narrative. We will scrape the waxy fuzz from your shiny apple world.


Dear Elizabeth,


I feel you have unhooked the silence between us,
have demanded what might be a miracle. That day at the hospital I could
detect in your voice, at the end of your prolonged sentences; that you were
fighting your own irritating goliaths. The ammunition was prised out of the
pleats of memory. I can't tell you who to take aim at, it's hard to know what's
right and wrong anymore.
I tried to listen to your pain. Across the hall I could hear the spasms of congealed
sound, a commotion of stereos, a reception of cluttered fragments. I dwelt on just a
few of your words, the signals of your body and eyes. You spoke some more of your
pain. I was left behind, always trying to catch up. I heard the library paper rustle. I
heard the sigh of a snow boot. In your kitchen I heard the oil that lubricates the potatoes
creaking, hiss and spit in the saucepan. But I couldn't hear your pain.