[spectre] Window (marc garrett)
furtherfield.org
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Sun, 11 Nov 2001 01:34:46 +0000
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Window
(Memories
of
a
Bastard)
Witness my personal depiction of a male’s deep unresolved
insecurity. Reach deep inside of your soul and acknowledge
the truth. Open that window a little wider for you are about
to see a micro situation of every day life that occurs all
over the world. Of course my story is not unusual. You too
may have memories of personal pain wrapped up in twisted and
dysfunctional angst. I dare you to open your arms out to me,
hold me, thus holding yourself, whilst accepting deep
torment. Kiss my pain, become part of my memory, live it for
a moment. Yes open that window, that’s it, a little wider…
My father lays stony cold and wrinkled by times uncaring
scars. I could smell his raw shit wallowing around the
shuttered room. Even though pride was an asset that pushed
his chauvinistic attitude to the limits. His eyes penetrated
through me as his mouth released an angelic smile
conveniently forgetting all the torment that he had created.
It was as if he felt forgiven. I suppose he was. He can now
claim his honour and of course death forgives. Now I can feel
guilty for wishing him dead. A wife beater and a child hater
has turned me into a father hater and a man hater.
I left the hospital room and sat outside not able to deal
with the confusion. My mother stayed in the room. I pulled
out my small personal radio set from my coat pocket and then
inserted the single earphone into my ear. I listened to the
music blaring its independence. It felt warm. As if it wanted
to be a part of me putting my mind some place else. It seemed
as if the music was deliberately whisking me away out of the
battlefield of dysfunction and placing me into an environment
of virtual love.
It had escaped me what the day it was today. The music
suddenly ended. A solemn voice announces the time and the
date. 11 o'clock. 11/11/77. A silence followed....
I thought of my father and his relentless one-dimensional
onslaught on all our family. Perhaps you've had a father like
that too. As the silence reigned its power over me it offered
a sense of timelessness. The sensation to cry began to take
hold but I couldn't. I had to be strong. For today is a
special day. At this moment in time a window is open and it
is waiting for the inevitable change. A feeling dominates
giving me the sense that life is going to be different from
now on.
I turned the volume up and the silence was loud. The crackle
of the radio's white noise was cutting deep into my cranium.
Two minutes silence...
As I received the signal of that silence it expounded a
loudness so penetrating that I began to imagine the ghosts of
Slaughterhouse 5, Nagasaki, Hiroshima and all the other
killing fields where many men took it upon themselves to make
the decision to kill others. My witness to all these deaths
have always been via the television screen, eyes catching the
visual demolition of millions. People that I have never met
and never will. It felt as if I had an affinity with these
dead people in my own small way. I also new what it was like
to be tortured and exploited by an insecure male. I knew that
if my father had a gun and a deluded cause, he would be happy
to exterminate others at whim. He would carry any flag for
the chance to wield his wrath upon the unfortunate.
Dinner had to be placed on the table at the same time every
day at the hour of six o'clock after he had finished a day's
work without fail. If my father's demand was not delivered he
would stuff my mothers head in the oven. "You're nothing but
a fucking, selfish bitch." My brother and I would watch
helplessly as this ugly man physically abused our mother.
"You miserable slut!" Like animals we were all beaten down
into a position of a state of submission. If we tried to stop
the violence his fists would hammer into mine and my
brother's stomachs until we were sick. Often after the event
of being punched in the gut we would huddle together,
clinging to each other inside our frightened world of tears.
His dad used to beat him to a pathetic whimpering pulp so he
thought it natural that he should do the same to us.
Sometimes when hiding in the bedroom. With my crayons I would
inscribe the image of my father. He would be held captive in
a cage surrounded by strong iron bars. This image was always
on my best paper. His face would be contorted, snarling at me
with his relentless vicious hate and anger. The colour was
always red mixed with a deathly black. I would slowly scratch
him out with a blunt pencil while he was snarling at me. Soon
he would be completely gone. It would signify the end of the
drawing and the end of him.
Once dad got carried away with hitting me and my face was
battered and it was covered with cuts and bruises. Mother
took me to the hospital. I was told not to mention how the
marks had come about. Mother told the doctor that I was
always getting into scuffles and fighting at school. A male
Doctor patched my wounds. Instant fear arrived as I
associated the Doctor's authority with my fathers. When
mother left me alone my screams filled the ward.
The Doctor asked if my dad loved my mother and me? Love was a
word that at the time could not be comprehended. All that I
could relate to was that love could mean need. I was
certainly needy. So the answer was yes he did love us.
Life turned into a dream as soon as I returned and the family
was laughing together again. Country walks became a regular
event and mother and father kissed in front of us. This made
my brother Steven and I feel happy. It felt as if the pain
put upon me was of some significance and influence to this
positive outcome. Mother said that Dad was very sorry about
how horrible he had been to us all.
However time soon ate away the glorious joys and smiles that
we had suddenly grown accustomed to. Pain re-entered killing
off the hopefulness that had flourished and turned into just
a memory. A past-dream. I soon woke up.
As soon as the marks on my face had faded, my father
possessed an urgency to renew them. Arguments filled the air
between my parents, mother seemed to be getting stronger
against the ogre. Yet he sustained dominance using his
predictable unimaginative bullying tactics.
Here my father lies on the hospital bed unable to move. While
he was at work some scaffolding had collapsed onto him,
breaking his spinal cord. Clamps were inserted into his
forehead suspended by weights. We were told that a bone at
the back of his neck was no longer working. The nerves that
usually transmit signals to the arms and legs are now
incapable of functioning due to this mishap. Never again will
he be able to walk or move his arms and legs. My mother asked
the nurse in the room to leave us with father for a while.
The nurse nodded and then left the room leaving my mother and
I alone with my father.
We sat in silence staring at the once strong monster now
helpless at the mercy of fate's deciding conclusion. Not
knowing how one should act I decided to cry because that's
what people do.
"Blow your nose Sammy." Mother handed me a handkerchief. I
grabbed the piece of pink cotton and placed it over my nose.
Muffled, sniffles passively filled the room.
"Is he dead mum?" "No." A shudder leapt into my bones, I
cried again. Mother clasped my hand and guided me into the
corridor, shutting the door behind me. Nurses and doctors
were rushing by and tending to various broken people in the
building. My feet decidedly wandered the length of the
corridor, shuffling meekly. So many people in pain. A smell
aroused me. A smell that now can only be associated with a
hospital. And now my mother also...
"Sammy!" I turned round, my mother was standing in the middle
of the hallway. A couple of nurses were rushing into my
father's hospital room. Mum knelt down onto the sparse,
spotless, corridor floor with her arms open. I ran into my
mother's arms as she wrapped them around me.
"He's gone son, he's gone."
END
An extract taken from a larger book called frailty. By Marc
Garrett 1999.
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<blockquote>
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
<blockquote><b>Window </b>(Memories of a Bastard)</blockquote>
</blockquote>
</blockquote>
</blockquote>
</blockquote>
</blockquote>
</blockquote>
</blockquote>
</blockquote>
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<tr>
<td>
<br><i>Witness my personal depiction of a male’s deep unresolved insecurity.
Reach deep inside of your soul and acknowledge the truth. Open that window
a little wider for you are about to see a micro situation of every day
life that occurs all over the world. Of course my story is not unusual.
You too may have memories of personal pain wrapped up in twisted and dysfunctional
angst. I dare you to open your arms out to me, hold me, thus holding yourself,
whilst accepting deep torment. Kiss my pain, become part of my memory,
live it for a moment. Yes open that window, that’s it, a little wider…</i>
<p>My father lays stony cold and wrinkled by times uncaring scars. I could
smell his raw shit wallowing around the shuttered room. Even though pride
was an asset that pushed his chauvinistic attitude to the limits. His eyes
penetrated through me as his mouth released an angelic smile conveniently
forgetting all the torment that he had created. It was as if he felt forgiven.
I suppose he was. He can now claim his honour and of course death forgives.
Now I can feel guilty for wishing him dead. A wife beater and a child hater
has turned me into a father hater and a man hater.
<p>I left the hospital room and sat outside not able to deal with the confusion.
My mother stayed in the room. I pulled out my small personal radio set
from my coat pocket and then inserted the single earphone into my ear.
I listened to the music blaring its independence. It felt warm. As if it
wanted to be a part of me putting my mind some place else. It seemed as
if the music was deliberately whisking me away out of the battlefield of
dysfunction and placing me into an environment of virtual love.
<p>It had escaped me what the day it was today. The music suddenly
ended. A solemn voice announces the time and the date. 11 o'clock. 11/11/77.
A silence followed....
<p>I thought of my father and his relentless one-dimensional onslaught
on all our family. Perhaps you've had a father like that too. As the silence
reigned its power over me it offered a sense of timelessness. The sensation
to cry began to take hold but I couldn't. I had to be strong. For today
is a special day. At this moment in time a window is open and it is waiting
for the inevitable change. A feeling dominates giving me the sense that
life is going to be different from now on.
<p>I turned the volume up and the silence was loud. The crackle of the
radio's white noise was cutting deep into my cranium.
<p>
Two minutes silence...
<p>As I received the signal of that silence it expounded a loudness so
penetrating that I began to imagine the ghosts of Slaughterhouse 5, Nagasaki,
Hiroshima and all the other killing fields where many men took it upon
themselves to make the decision to kill others. My witness to all these
deaths have always been via the television screen, eyes catching the visual
demolition of millions. People that I have never met and never will. It
felt as if I had an affinity with these dead people in my own small way.
I also new what it was like to be tortured and exploited by an insecure
male. I knew that if my father had a gun and a deluded cause, he would
be happy to exterminate others at whim. He would carry any flag for the
chance to wield his wrath upon the unfortunate.
<p>Dinner had to be placed on the table at the same time every day at the
hour of six o'clock after he had finished a day's work without fail. If
my father's demand was not delivered he would stuff my mothers head in
the oven. "You're nothing but a fucking, selfish bitch." My brother and
I would watch helplessly as this ugly man physically abused our mother.
<p>"You miserable slut!" Like animals we were all beaten down into a position
of a state of submission. If we tried to stop the violence his fists would
hammer into mine and my brother's stomachs until we were sick. Often after
the event of being punched in the gut we would huddle together, clinging
to each other inside our frightened world of tears. His dad used to beat
him to a pathetic whimpering pulp so he thought it natural that he should
do the same to us.
<p>Sometimes when hiding in the bedroom. With my crayons I would inscribe
the image of my father. He would be held captive in a cage surrounded by
strong iron bars. This image was always on my best paper. His face would
be contorted, snarling at me with his relentless vicious hate and anger.
The colour was always red mixed with a deathly black. I would slowly scratch
him out with a blunt pencil while he was snarling at me. Soon he would
be completely gone. It would signify the end of the drawing and the end
of him.
<p>Once dad got carried away with hitting me and my face was battered and
it was covered with cuts and bruises. Mother took me to the hospital. I
was told not to mention how the marks had come about. Mother told the doctor
that I was always getting into scuffles and fighting at school. A male
Doctor patched my wounds. Instant fear arrived as I associated the Doctor's
authority with my fathers. When mother left me alone my screams filled
the ward.
<p>The Doctor asked if my dad loved my mother and me? Love was a word that
at the time could not be comprehended. All that I could relate to was that
love could mean need. I was certainly needy. So the answer was yes he did
love us.
<p>Life turned into a dream as soon as I returned and the family was laughing
together again. Country walks became a regular event and mother and father
kissed in front of us. This made my brother Steven and I feel happy. It
felt as if the pain put upon me was of some significance and influence
to this positive outcome. Mother said that Dad was very sorry about how
horrible he had been to us all.
<p>However time soon ate away the glorious joys and smiles that we had
suddenly grown accustomed to. Pain re-entered killing off the hopefulness
that had flourished and turned into just a memory. A past-dream. I soon
woke up.
<p>As soon as the marks on my face had faded, my father possessed an urgency
to renew them. Arguments filled the air between my parents, mother seemed
to be getting stronger against the ogre. Yet he sustained dominance using
his predictable unimaginative bullying tactics.
<p>Here my father lies on the hospital bed unable to move. While he was
at work some scaffolding had collapsed onto him, breaking his spinal cord.
Clamps were inserted into his forehead suspended by weights. We were told
that a bone at the back of his neck was no longer working. The nerves that
usually transmit signals to the arms and legs are now incapable of functioning
due to this mishap. Never again will he be able to walk or move his arms
and legs. My mother asked the nurse in the room to leave us with father
for a while. The nurse nodded and then left the room leaving my mother
and I alone with my father.
<p>We sat in silence staring at the once strong monster now helpless at
the mercy of fate's deciding conclusion. Not knowing how one should act
I decided to cry because that's what people do.
<p>"Blow your nose Sammy." Mother handed me a handkerchief. I grabbed the
piece of pink cotton and placed it over my nose. Muffled, sniffles passively
filled the room.
<p>"Is he dead mum?" "No." A shudder leapt into my bones, I cried again.
Mother clasped my hand and guided me into the corridor, shutting the door
behind me. Nurses and doctors were rushing by and tending to various broken
people in the building. My feet decidedly wandered the length of the corridor,
shuffling meekly. So many people in pain. A smell aroused me. A smell that
now can only be associated with a hospital. And now my mother also...
<p>"Sammy!" I turned round, my mother was standing in the middle of the
hallway. A couple of nurses were rushing into my father's hospital room.
Mum knelt down onto the sparse, spotless, corridor floor with her arms
open. I ran into my mother's arms as she wrapped them around me.
<p>"He's gone son, he's gone."
<p>END
<br>
<br> </td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>An extract taken from a larger book called frailty. By Marc Garrett
1999.</td>
</tr>
</table>
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