I Choke

“Drifting body, soul in search of…”

Part One

All I wanted to do was hold her; to feel the curves of her body flow into mine. Have her knowing that comfort could be found in my arms. Or simply to feel something…

Something other than hate.

So beautiful she looked and full of grace as she stood above me, stacking spare stock on the top shelf. Blonde hair curling down to the nape of her neck, the back: statuesque and carved out slightly to hips that rested on thighs, giving the perfect suggestion of feminine strength.

To reach out and touch those thighs and have her crumble at my touch, to feel her sinking into my arms and giving in to

Whatever.

I handed her a small pile of books and she smiled at me. I nearly crumbled.

I want you, I say. But she doesn’t hear because I’m too scared to open my mouth and voice the words – to give meaning to what I feel.

I feel weak.

Once I was strong (I think), but now I face a wall ten years thick.

And the wall is untouchable.

* * *

“Oh no,” Susan said with a roll of her eyes. “Kristian’s working today.”

From beside her Jane groaned. “So the creep comes back.”

They shared the joke with a giggle as Kristian walked up to the counter, eyes darting here and there before his gaze rested firmly on the floor. “Hi.”

Susan backed off, obviously inconspicuously. Jane turned a straight-faced glare at her that pleaded desperately, don’t go! Don’t leave me alone with him, I’ll do anything if you stay, and finally, I’ll get you back for this! But Susan was gone, behind shelves tidying.

Jane tried to ignore his presence. Perhaps he would eventually go away, get bored and look for something else to do. Unlikely, considering the message that was drummed into every new staff member’s head, as well as those who forgot: “Always have two people at the counter.” The boss’s irritating voice pounded the message into everybody’s head whether they wanted it or not.

So here she was, stuck with a dark and greasy, heavy breathing freak, who seemed to be inching closer and closer – like a virus invading her body. Jane thought she might be sick. If he got any closer, she surely would be.

Just ignore him.

But she couldn’t.

Look at the way he served customers. Was a grunt a “yes” or a “no”? And what does a smirk mean? Didn’t he know how to smile? Jane wondered if any of the customers would come back. Ever! His feeble attempts at kindness only seemed to scare them. “No, I don’t know where the c-cooking books are.”

The lady looked displeased. “Why not?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Because I don’t.” He turned to Jane with a disgusted look on his face.

How could somebody like this get a job in the first place?

“I’m sorry, he’s new.” She pointed to the left, past Kristian’s furrowed brow. “Over by the gardening books, two rows down from here.”

The lady thanked Jane and walked off.

He served some more, just purchasing items, but with little recognition to any one who came to the counter. Jane knew that learning could be difficult, but this was ridiculous. All he had to do was smile and say “thank you”, or at least just smile.

After serving the last customer he stepped back from the counter seemingly downcast.

Great! Am I supposed to feel sorry for him now?

This quiet moment seemed to go on too long, especially with Kristian fidgeting like an insect beside her. She decided to break the silence, say something nice. Maybe he just needed to be spoken to, helped or encouraged to try a little harder.

“Hey, don’t worry about it. You’ll soon pick it up.”

He glanced at her. “Pick what up?”

“How to do everything, y’ know, learn where everything is.”

He didn’t say anything, just looked away again. Jane didn’t know if anything more should be said, so she thought back to her first day on the job. Hadn’t the other staff members encouraged her to learn where everything was? “When you can, just take a walk around the shop, find out where everything stays. For example, the book section over there; to your left, the stationary…” But Jane had been willing to learn; Kristian on the other hand was barely even making the effort to smile. She felt obliged to say something, but how? Casually: “Hey Kristian, just try to make the customers feel welcome, y’ know, smile a bit more.”

“Oh, is that all I have to do?” He looked really annoyed.

“Well, yeah.”

He turned away. Maybe she was being too forceful. Encourage him, say something nice.

But it came out wrong… “Y’ know, kindness doesn’t come without a smile.”

He turned to face her, a gaze that hid itself under that low furrowed brow, and said: “who taught you to smile – a hyena?”

No, don’t say anything. But Jane wasn’t sure she could say anything, so she turned her head away from him. Turned her whole body too. Now he wasn’t worth noticing or paying any attention to, because he was just a joke – nothing more.

“How could you do that to me? No, don’t laugh. It’s not funny damn it.”

“Yes it is.” Susan slapped her thigh as Jane sat shaking her head slowly.

They were on their break, seated on the other side of the complex, away from the mid-week customers mingling about looking for bargains; unafraid to talk out loud now they were both away from that creepy freak.

“Oh poor me. Do you know I was nearly sick when he looked at me.”

This comment caused more laughter to burst from Susan but Jane continued on.

“Why do we have to be stuck with this creep?”

“Evil creep,” Susan insisted.

“Urgh. I hate the way he looks at you, like he’s imagining all the gross things he would do to you if he had the chance.”

“Oh and I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

“What!?”

“When you turned away from him today, guess where his eyes turned down to.”

Sound travels. And Jane’s scream bounced off almost every wall that existed in the complex. She slapped a hand across her mouth, but Susan wasn’t finished torturing her yet.

“I think it’s obvious he likes you.” She cocked her head to one side and asked brightly, “are y’ gonna ask him out?”

“Don’t do this to me.” Jane’s hand covered her whole face, trying desperately to cope with the pressure.

Susan suddenly grabbed her arm. “He’s probably got a shed at home where he keeps his corpses, people he’s hacked to pieces and stored away so that every night he can go in and look at them and gloat.” This idea plunged her into a deep thought and she started biting a thumbnail. “And falling in love with each one like some sick psycho.”

“Now I know I’m going to be sick.”

But this just caused Susan to burst into even more laughter.

As the days went by, it seemed as though Susan was on a mission to perfect the art of ‘backing off’. The amount of times she had actually stood next to Kristian for more than five seconds could be counted on one hand. More and more it was Jane who was left at the counter watching over his sad attempts at serving while Susan wandered the shop pretending to look busy.

If having to stand next to him wasn’t enough, she also had to put up with him looking at her – very suspiciously. Whenever she turned towards him he would suddenly look away or let his gaze fall to the ground in a show of embarrassment. But occasionally she would catch him viewing her like she was just some object, and Jane became more and more uncomfortable with it. To the point of letting the assistant manager know, even – only she felt this option to be a little extreme and would probably end up feeling guilty about ‘dobbing’ someone in anyway. Besides, the assistant manager was so hard to approach sometimes. Always walking the shop in a rush, like she had important business to do, eyeing her workers to make sure they were actually working and not slacking off – that was almost as bad as Kristian, but not quite.

So what was she to do?

Tell him. Be strong and let him know that you feel uncomfortable and that it is your right to not feel uncomfortable while at work.

Again she was stuck at the counter with him and again he was looking sideways at her – ‘checking her out’ (which was okay in itself once or twice, if he appreciated how she looked, but when it didn’t stop and went on day after day, it became very distressing).

She waited for him to finish serving, turned to him and spoke. “Kristian, I’ve noticed you have been constantly looking at me and I don’t want to sound mean but I’m starting to feel uncomfortable.”

She waited for him to say something. He just stood there looking directly into her eyes. Waiting.

“Well, so, I would sort of like it if you stopped looking at me like that. Okay?” She felt her insides curl. What else could she say?

He turned and said, “Fine. I’m sorry.”

But he didn’t look sorry. He looked annoyed and put off.

And now Jane felt even more uncomfortable, like she had found a place within Kristian, a place he believed in, and squashed it.

The clock read 10:30. Half an hour before she would be released from this torture.

Oh where was Susan when she needed her? Giggling from behind a shelf, not in the least bit sympathetic – just a work mate who pretended to be a friend, but when the friendship was asked for she would run at the first chance she had.

Poor me.

* * *

Her name is Ryoline. Part Scottish, the other half lost somewhere in the Afrikaner.

Assistant Manager.

Eyes that shine, a smile that warms.

I feel strength when I’m near her, a great comforting glow that leaves me thinking how great life could be if only I could reach out and touch her.

But I can’t.

I feel the glow leave my body, strength dissipating and I start choking on the emptiness again. Drowning me.

Like love,

But harsher.

Ryoline drifting about

Like a dream,

Kristian watching himself

Fall on knees.

I kick and scream

Falling again and again,

Make me blind, I must not see!

* * *

Healing, Injury and Death in Video Games

There is/was an interesting discussion at AWTR¹ about the healing mechanic in games and their ability to break verisimilitude in games “in a way that magic, dragons and sword-fighting don’t.” Personally, I find just dying breaks verisimilitude in games. Every death reminds me that I am just playing a game after all, and not living through an immersive experience along with the character I am controlling.

The discussion focuses intensely on RPGs because the author is “less interested in [FPS-type games] in general” but I would like to look at two games outside of RPGs as ways of exploring the idea of realistic healing, or injury, mechanics.

The first is Dead Space. One of the aspects of losing health in Dead Space is that Isaac Clarke’s body slows down and at it’s lowest starts staggering with heavy breaths. It’s a great mechanic that adds intensity to the game when you are also low on ammo and you know that the last batch of necromorphs were a struggle to dispatch and if you don’t find health soon, those next lot of necromorphs down that dingy looking corridor are going to be the ones dispatching you. It’s intense and at least semi-realistic. That is, until Isaac finds health and all of a sudden he’s back to his old boot-stomping, leg and arm decapitating self again. It’s amazing what Med-Packs can do in the future!² Could Med-Packs actually work that quickly in the future? Well, I guess it’s possible. With a little adrenalin mixed into the concoction, I’m sure a standard Med-Pack could get you back into tip-top condition almost immediately.

I would like to propose a way of getting around that in a more contemporary scenario without the mechanic causing frustration for the player. Imagine being injured; you struggle, you limp, but you can still shoot – that’s important of course, and no programmer would be daft enough to take that away from the player. But what about after finding your health pack? Do you just spring back into action like you have just been injected directly with heroin? Perhaps. If the health pack had heroin in it … So let’s assume that it doesn’t. Maybe it takes time to heal properly. Not an overly long period of time, but just enough for the player to still be cautious about what they do with themselves, where they tread, how often they recklessly poke their heads out from behind cover, knowing full well that they need to nurse that wound like their life depended on it. Because after all, that’s exactly what an in-game injury should simulate.

There is also the scenario of being able to mix different concoctions. Say a Med-Pack is slow working but heals you fully when the healing is complete, and an adrenalin pack gives you that much needed stamina boost. Mixing those two together would literally cause you to spring back into action allowing the healing pack to still do it’s work in the background³.

I like the idea of healing having a real-time consequence, especially in games like Dead Space, where your injury causes tension in high-strung scenarios. It seems to have a lot less consequence in Fantasy-based RPGs when magic is flying all over the place and healing happens as quickly as inflicting damage. In fact I want a game where being injured is a huge factor, and where injuring an NPC is just as consequential for them – they stagger, they limp, you get an easier target, but at the risk of being hit by the stray bullets that the NPC is now recklessly firing at you to try to keep themselves covered. Although I may not be a huge stealth game fanatic, Dark Souls definitely tested my patience (I passed!), while Deus Ex: Human Revolution gave me the enjoyment of choosing stealth if I desired it. Maybe it’s a case of programming, where the logistics of dividing pixel bodies up into parts that are affected accordingly might end up taking up all your programming resources. However, if Fallout 3 could do a minor simulation of it in an open-world, I don’t see why a linear shooter couldn’t do it to an even greater extent.

“The healing mechanic is perhaps small fry in relation to the overall issue of integrating storytelling and gameplay. […] But when I look at such actions from a distance, they do affect the degree to which I'm immersed in the story, and looking ways to increase immersion is never a bad thing.”(sic)

I would argue that the healing mechanic is only ‘small fry’ because no one has found a way to integrate it with a story that continues to move forward. This is where every environmental object has weight and is able to be used as cover, something to lean up against, something to rest and inject yourself with a health pack, or drink water and allow for the time to heal; a chance also to check directions, clues and inventory items. Like in Dark Souls and Dead Space where inventory checking does not pause the game, it would seem logical not to be doing this out in the open but in a secluded or safe area – the bonfires as an example in Dark Souls. Waiting for your leg to heal might be a good time to check some details with that sidekick of yours that hangs around also. I just like the idea of an injury that takes real-time to heal, creating a cautionary play-style for the player. It’s something that could do wonders for the stealth game, or the tactical horror game.

Down on page 3 of the fifteen (!) pages of comments, CultureGeekGirl says:

“I feel that the idea of death and respawning in a video game is more immersion-breaking to me than any other mechanic possibly could be. The death mechanic is deeply engrained in the way games have worked from the very start, so you have to have that to some extent, but dying always kind of jolts me out of any reality I may have invested myself in - even in really game-y games”

But no mention was made of that much maligned game Prince of Persia (2008) where death was skipped altogether and whenever you screwed up you were saved by the comforting hand of Elika. While many saw this as making the game too easy by not dying therefore not learning a lesson, few realised that it was the gameplay that didn’t make the game challenging enough, i.e. ‘teach the player anything’. Dark Souls has one of the most integrated versions of respawning to story and setting that I know of,⁴ but despite the ‘YOU DIED’ in red fading into my screen, I never actually felt like I died in Dark Souls. Sure, my humanity was stolen from me, but respawning is respawning; it’s still not dying and the game loading to a previous checkpoint as though nothing happened. Instead, it’s like being killed figuratively but still being able to keep all your memories and inventory of collectibles and losing only your souls (‘money’) and humanity (‘human spirit’), and then restarting from a previous checkpoint.

With Prince of Persia (2008) I had finally found a game that made internal sense in relation to the story that it was telling. If the character is going to win, because that’s the role of the hero in the story, then he literally can’t die. In Prince of Persia (2008) the Prince doesn’t die, he is saved each time by the hand of Elika. “Where is the fear of dying to create the challenge for the player?” asks the detractors. Admittedly, in this game, there was little challenge. But that had nothing to do with the ‘no-death’ mechanic I would argue. That had everything to do with the environmental challenges, the boss battles and the general fighting mechanics themselves being too one-button easy to traverse.

What the ‘no-death’ mechanic did was not only eliminate the loading screen, but also keep the player’s story immersion intact. Very rarely did I ever feel like I wasn’t a part of the game.⁵ Also, just as a minor note, PoP (2008) had an injury mechanic, though very basic and pretty ignorable. If the Prince was hit while in battle, he would clutch at one arm.

“The death mechanic is deeply engrained in the way games have worked from the very start.” We know, as discussed in a number of other online critiques, that win states are a simple part of gaming that drives player accomplishments, and dying seems to be tied up in the failure state. But that certainly doesn’t mean it has to be. It’s just there because so many games are combat based and death seems the logical failure of playing these games - “you’re supposed to stay alive, idiot!!” But why can’t it be “You’re supposed to traverse that area without the walls collapsing around you and setting you back at the start and needing to find a new way, idiot!!” Sounds like too much thinking would be involved. But I do like the idea of being injured setting you back as a failure because now you have to work harder to achieve the goal that you could have achieved easier if you weren’t injured. See, now that’s an injury that makes sense and would become a challenge to overcome: “Don’t get shot! No, you’re not going to die, but you are going to have to work a whole lot bloody harder at this section now that your injury is slowing you down, idiot!”

Past/Present Identities

Would there be stagnation with no past identities? Or are past identities constructs that determine our own present identities, rather than our present identities being built purely on actions and nothing else?

Who is the You?

My face is blue from all the lying I did for you,
My tongue is tied from all the crying I did for you,
My lips are parched from all the sighing I did for you.

For who is the you in love with the blue,
That closeted the hope in love with the dreams?
And who upset the path that saw the light,
Screening down walls to blend with the night?

My tears are true from all the falling I did for you,
My hands are raw from all the lifting I did for you,
My chest is tired from all the breathing I did for you.

For who is the you that speaks of the true,
That dares to call a foul on the broken seams?
And who denied the chance to leave behind,
What wasn't ours but always abides?

I am the Local Atheist: Sample

If I hadn’t known any better I would have thought that God was washing the streets of Invercargill down, or at least, making a valiant attempt at it. Sometimes I admired God’s resolve to wash as much crust off the earth as possible in one foul swipe, but here it looked like rain had been an afterthought without any enthusiasm. The gutters, on the other hand, ran their streams of water down the street like there was no tomorrow. For them judgement day had arrived far too early, so they had filled up and put as much effort as they could muster into their man-made purpose. The bus stop was left to fend for itself, giving as much shelter as it dared without encroaching too far onto the footpath, as though that was dangerously close to feeling the wrath of the gutters in all their pleasure. And I was left to sit on its light blue bench with my feet being spat at from above. Thanks.

I tried to tuck them under me but the seat had been attached just low enough to make it uncomfortable. So I just sat there looking out at the rain, noticing the swaying of trees under the weight of their saturated branches in the park over the road, the falling of droplets from the cross beams framing the bus stop. It was unusual to see them fall like that – like I had never paid attention to such a simple thing before. Each droplet that fell transferred itself from one place to another – in this case, from the bus stop to the ground – and forever changed its very nature.

It was suicide.

Just as the newspaper had reported: “… girl kills herself by jumping off the overpass into oncoming traffic.”

A year later and that headline still made me feel sick.

I looked up the road to see if the bus was in sight. Nothing but tired bursts of rain pelted the streets. I sank back into the shelter.

It was so strange hearing about suicide in such a small tight-knit community, especially when God was supposed to be watching over those of us who were in His care. The shock-wave passed over at least half the town’s population, not just a small segment of family and friends like it might have in a larger city. Mum had told me that the churches were “praying together” though she didn’t actually see any of them get together: “I guess it’s the thought that counts,” she said, blowing smoke and looking sideways out of her kitchen window.

I was completely unaware of what anyone else had to say since much of the details had remained behind closed doors – doors that had been closed to me for as long as the article had been burned in my memory now; longer in fact. It had quoted an outspoken congregation leader who was more than happy to pass the blame onto the girl’s failure to attend church (“a lack of faith”), peer pressure and drugs as though that was all that was needed to explain it, as if one person’s crises could be condensed into a few catch-phrases. But one person’s transition from a natural state into a falling fragment of a larger issue could never be understood if blame and finger-pointing were all that was required to assert some kind of resolution.

I hated the way church leaders got themselves up on a pedestal once a microphone had been stuck in front of their mouths.

I didn’t like thinking about it either: It reminded me too much of the crises that Lisa had been through a year earlier and the attempts I had made at trying to help her.

The splashing of tyres ploughing puddles out of the way brought me out of my reverie and I stood up to attract the bus’s attention. The drains flooded over and washed ever closer to my feet as the bus slowed down to a sneak, almost as though the driver wasn’t sure about who they were picking up: a standard passenger? or some crazy hitchhiker waiting to take out his vengeance on a world that had deserted him?

The doors opened and I tried to keep my head low, eyes staring at the ground.

“Art Gallery please.”

“Dollar-fifty.”

I placed my coins into the dish of the ticket dispenser. I hated those damn things – I could never tear the tickets off properly. And this one didn’t do me any favours. I tugged at it, but it didn’t rip, so I twisted it and tried to tear it sideways but it only pulled more ticket out instead.

The bus driver got impatient and reached his hand over to help but I said “I can do it”.

He didn’t care and replied “Here, do it like this…” but I was too concerned about proving that I could do it that our hands began competing for the pull of the ticket.

“Just let go, kid!”

Fuck him. “I can do it!”

“Just leave it.”

“It’s alright!” Both our voices were nearing shouting level.

“Y’ fuckin’ ruining the machine – leave it!”

I let go and took a step back. My heart was beating a strong thud that echoed in my ears. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t care y’ little shit. Just take the ticket and sit down.”

I took the extended ticket from his fingers, feeling as though his eyes were about to throw fire-balls at me.

I moved down the aisle as faces turned away in quiet astonishment, a few eyebrows raised as attention wandered elsewhere. I sat as close to the back doors as possible so I wouldn’t have to move past anybody when the bus stopped to let me out.

The steel bar that separated my seat from the doors was still cold from the morning’s frost, as though an afternoon that was supposed to warm everything up had nothing to say for itself. I placed my arms down on it and buried my head in the folds of my jacket trying desperately to calm the thoughts that wanted me to get off the bus and just go back to my bedroom where I would be safe again, unmolested by a world that constantly demanded answers from me.

I found solitude and silence, but once my thoughts became quiet, the world outside began to rise into recognition and conversations took the place of my abandoned thoughts:

“Where you off to today?”

“Heading to town for food. So cold in the flat.”

“So sick of being cold too.”

“I know, Chris was gonna steal some wood from the neighbour’s wood pile because we ran out and our student allowance doesn’t cover warmth. Tertiary education? Yes; Food? Yes; warmth? No!”

“The government is way to stingy to provide that kind of help. New casino? Yeah totally, we’ll help pay for that…”

“That store is the shit man, they got the best games at cheap-as prices.”

“Dude I don’t know man, I got some pretty cheap games off the net. And most of those cheap-as games are second hand.”

“Yeah but postage is crap, especially from overseas – I ain’t payin’ for that. I’d rather just walk into town just to warm up and have something to do than sit in my crappy uninsulated student flat ordering online and trying to coax as much heat as possible from the computer’s processor…”

“The gallows, of course, were originally designed to be an example of punishment being met and justice prevailing, but as Dickens was quick to observe, those who turned up to watch were only there for their own perverse viewing pleasures and the gallows were no longer about punishment but about propagating a system of belief. The gallows lost all their ability to become a deterrent from crime after seeing so much of it: if you got caught you got caught, if you didn’t you were lucky and could live to thieve another day.”

“Dickens was a pessimist.”

“No, he was the supreme optimist, who believed in the good of man prevailing. Not only does A Christmas Carol show this but practically all his other novels in one way or the other.”

“I can’t be bothered with old fat books that do nothing but exemplify nineteenth century attitudes…”

I couldn’t be bothered paying attention to a discussion that exemplified people’s opinionated beliefs. I wanted to be in my bedroom wrapped up in blankets, staring at the wall – doing anything but facing a world that hated me; that I hated for hating me.

Though I knew it was near, the gallery seemed too far away, occupied by people that I had to hide from, make myself inconspicuous and not draw attention to for fear that they find out who I was. I had thought that there would be consolation knowing that Lisa would be there, someone I knew and had spent valuable time getting to know, someone whose life I knew I had had a positive effect on and helped bring light that had lifted her out of darkness, but thoughts of her and our quiet estrangement over the past year and a half only created more anxiety that I had to deal with.

The bus lurched sideways and screeched to a halt, knocking several passengers against the walls. I stood up and got off as quickly as possible without bothering to thank the driver, as I used to so often do, thinking that they would appreciate it. Did they care? I don’t know. I didn’t care – and that was all that mattered.

No one was entering the art gallery when I got there. No one had gone in as I had crossed the road and walked up to a building that loomed over the street corner with the scars of age peeling from its pale exterior; I had the feeling of complete emptiness surrounding me – a dead town with a ghost walking the streets.

The entrance was a subtle corridor of steps that raised the level of the building above ground zero; paintings had been hung to each side – simple pastel portraits that did little but diminish the inner glow of their subject (too many greys). The inner room opened up to me with a deep red lining the wall behind the hung paintings. Numerous bodies shuffled about on a light brown carpet, dodging the occasional painting that sat on the floor or leaned against a wall as though it were too cool to be hung like a martyr for everyone to stare in wonder at.

I let myself disappear as best I could behind a group of people, slowly making my way around to the wine table of which was just a wooden barrel off a farm that someone had attached a round plank to. A large bowl of grapes centred the weight allowing the glasses to sit precariously round the edge and the wine bottles inside of them. I kept my head low, not daring to meet any eyes as I filled a glass to the brim and returned to my place against the wall behind the same group. The wine was very smooth, almost palatable enough to appeal to a wide range of tastes – hardly a drink to offend people with or cause any winces of distaste. I winced as it slid into my empty stomach and highly regretted not having something to eat before I left the flat.
My attention turned to a number of paintings that hung close by, each exhibiting random collections of shapes that left trails of black dust behind them. I wondered what the artist had been thinking. Random shapes? Black dust? The painting said nothing; perhaps abstract expressionism had betrayed the artist this time around and shown what they lacked instead of what they were trying to bring forth from deep within. A larger painting was nothing more than colours smudged into each other – and not even colours that stood out or attracted the viewer towards it. How it ended up on a wall in a gallery was anybody’s guess.

The paintings were boring. The rest seemed to meander in defining the artists’ abilities rather than invoking a sense of the paintings’ subjects. I did not care for these works. Even the angels frolicking in their wispery garden couldn’t let go of their own self-righteousness to portray anything beyond human grasp, anything worth striving for, anything worth believing in: serenity, peace, happiness; they did none of this, merely danced and held each other’s hands in the light of watercolour desperate to show something but failing to portray anything. I hated this town!

I moved along the walls among the rest of what the gallery had to show for itself, trying not to edge too close to the special ribbon that marked off the area where the new artist’s exhibition was to be unveiled. I ended up in a corner, peering down at a collection of small amateurish-looking paintings that seemed to be gathered in their very own space – why I don’t know, I can’t even remember the stupid things; perhaps they were trying to absorb the conversations that drifted by, a means of becoming something that they simply weren’t. I became the corner too.

“Very impressive detail.”

“I like the subtlety of light that exemplifies the structure of the building.”

“Yeah, I was actually talking about the snacks on the table here. You know I didn’t come for the art, right…?”

“It is true though, he was avoiding the meeting. I tried to convince him to change the time but he’s so stubborn. I’m glad though, it meant he got to spend time with his son some more, and I’m cool with that…”

“There were some paintings I saw in New York once – did I tell you that I went to New York…?”

“Art today seems so void of inspiration, true divine inspiration. For me, it’s just one big nod towards the loss of piety in the world.”

“In other words, the world is going to the dogs?”

“Yeah, and Art along with it. Atheists can pretend to be good all they like, show virtue and respect, but at the end of the day, good will towards fellow human beings won’t guarantee them an escape from the afterlife.”

I looked for a way to move myself away from the nearby voices, but couldn’t get out of the human trap of surrounding bodies that I had cornered myself in.

“Pessimists and free-will advocates will always try to tell you that ‘good’ and ‘bad’ are merely human judgements and nothing more, yet our redemption through the saving power of Jesus is proof that ‘good’ and ‘bad’ are real concepts that exist as part of God’s great plan.”

“Bad day at work, Jim?”

“Huh. Just sick of atheists trying to pretend that good will represents some kind of be-all and end-all of behaviour. I respect them for having that moral code, but not trying to lord it over the rest of us as a defining good.”

“Are you implying that atheists are inherently bad?”

“Well, if they have chosen to ignore the call of Christ, and allow their souls to perish in hell, then yes, that is bad. Would you dare let your son grow up without Jesus in his life?” There was a round of “No”s from the rest of the group – the women clasped themselves in astonishment, as though the unthinkable had been spoken. One of them seemed to get up enough courage to say “No. Then I think that would be bad of me, and unfair to not allow him that opportunity of knowing Jesus – it would be bad to deny any of my children that opportunity.”

That would mean that my mother and father had been nothing but good, as they had insisted that I be at church every Sunday morning getting to know Jesus. I wondered though what that made me. Had I deserted Jesus, or had Jesus deserted me? I wanted to believe that it was the latter, but knew deep inside that it wasn’t. Knowledge of this made me feel terrible, so guilt-ridden and ashamed. I hated Jesus for making me feel this way.

The woman, on the other hand, was obviously feeling quite righteous as she let go of her husband’s arm and began taking a stand for her own opinions. “It would be nothing short of immoral, degenerate!”

“That is right. Atheists are handicapped from living a full life because they have no support from a higher being, no one who will love them unconditionally. Putting faith in Jesus allows us to live the greatest human experience without fear of falling. And without Jesus to lean on, atheists fall. A long way. They fall into the never-ending spiral of moral decay, and it is only Jesus that can ever save them from that.”

“Why, no wonder there are so many young people on drugs, so many homeless…”

I stopped listening. Some conversations can’t help but reduce themselves to displays of ignorance. Not knowing Jesus had nothing to do with why people did drugs, or why there were homeless in the streets (I had no idea what she was talking about in the latter case – she must have been thinking about the homeless in other cities, other countries…); but knowing Jesus had certainly given me focus and something to believe in outside of myself.

But where was that now? I felt like I had nothing. Handicapped and unable to bring myself out of this hole that had been dug for me.

A streak of wavy light brown hair caught my attention: it belonged to a girl standing amongst some fellow companions. And all of a sudden my heart raced. The head began turning; I knew who it was: Lisa. She saw me; we both turned away.

When I had stood in the same place for long enough staring at the same painting without any recognition of its artistry, I glanced back to where she had been standing but there were only strangers there. I thought I was as far into the corner as you could stand, but I felt a finger tap me on the shoulder. It could only be one person… and she was no longer standing where I had last seen her.

I turned – ever so slightly – remembering everything as they came into my vision: the shoulders, square with a woollen jersey casually hanging from them and falling down to a large waist; feet firmly planted on the ground in loose fitting sneakers – the shoelaces hidden under the ends of casual slacks.

“At least you’re not staring at my breasts.”

www.smashwords.com/books/view/387012

Ours

They call me a musician,
But all I do is philosophise on ideas.
They call me a painter,
But all I do is rape the canvas.
          I burn the body
          to raise up new standards.

I wanted to create, to make, to build. But it was all destruction, a seasoned professional turning into a fool. I sympathised with losers like it was a winner's game, but nothing was so perceptive as the hours disintegrating.

They call me a saviour,
But all I do is retrace old footsteps.
They call me a delinquent,
But all I do is summarise my feelings.
          I burn the temple
          to heighten the senses.

I wanted to share, compare, and fill. But it was all emptiness, a burdened excuse for realising the truth. I distinguished the difference when all of it was the same, and nothing was so deceptive as the hours disintegrating.


  - 27/09/13, Auckland

The only wrong choice is the one you can't commit to.