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THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS - [Excerpt]
I loved to watch my mother smoke. She looked like Lauren Bacall as she lifted the lighter to the cigarette that perched on her parted lips, then she’d flick the gas spark, a perfect flame igniting the crisp white tobacco paper. As she drew a long deep inhale her cheeks became concave with the power of the suck. She would tilt her head back ever so slightly, then at the point when she could suck no more air into her mouth, she would release the cigarette, making a soft popping noise with her lips as she lifted it from her face in an upward arcing motion. With an open mouth she breathed in the accumulated smoke, laconically, deeply, right down into her torso. I would imagine the smoke swirling, descending, filling the entire cavity of her chest, she would hold it there and seal her lips. With every drag she gave the smoke time to sit in the nooks and crannies of her lungs and when she could hold it no longer her jaw would lower, her lips shaping into a perfect ‘O’ around her mouth, her cheeks sunken and her chin slung low. With a jolt of her jaw she would expel a perfect ring of blue smoke. We would watch it ascend into the air above her, keeping its roundness, floating up like a rising spirit. When the ring reached its heights it hung for a few moments and then slowly began to shift shape, distorting into skewed spherical forms, falling back down into the stale room to merge with the rest of the diffused smoke on the couch and carpet. She would repeat this transfixing smoke dance several times, puffing out little blue circles that waltzed through the air in our living room.
Her defined jaw, the purse of her lips, the tilt of her chin… mistress of the blue rings.
As the air became denser towards nightfall her face would soften out of focus. Her usually sharp features became vague, she had heavy eyes and sleepy brow, soft lips, the silhouette of a Hollywood icon. But like a Hollywood icon she was out of my reach, untouchable, I only held her in my head. We never spoke in the evenings. We watched TV, getting dizzier and dizzier as the smoke spun us into a drowsy stupor.
*
The entrance to our tenement was a wide-stretched mouth past which only darkness was visible. Looking on from the street, what lurked beyond the opening was impossible to make out. The concrete walls of the corridor and stairwell were two-tone: the top half bare concrete, the bottom half painted with a glossy high alert red. In the darkness of the hallway where the dim fluorescent strip lights flickered, the red resembled the deep crimson of spilled blood. Over time the paint began to peel away in chunks like congealed scabs curling over dried up wounds. The close was usually empty but the vivid red seemed to spread taking up the whole space. Once there was a long smear of faeces along the wall leading up to the first-floor landing. It dried and faded over time until one day it vanished completely. We never did find out who had smeared it there or if the faeces had come from dog or human.
The thrumming buzz of the strip lights hurt the head, offering no invite to loiter and little relief for eyes straining to see ahead. Leaving the bright of day to enter the shadows of the twisting tenement close brought waves of fear. Each landing at the top of each flight brought a new corner to turn. The windows were useless. Thick frosted glass layered with black dust and grime, obscured by a wire grid overlay. They might as well have been walls.
Even on a scorching summer day the tenement close was dead cold, the deep stone of the stairwell never heated by sun or man. Stepping in from the outside caused an immediate pimpling of skin. Passing through was always done in haste, feet scurrying to a door of safety. Each flat was a mystery, the residents inside hermits, always in a hurry to slam the door behind them.
Returning home, I would hold my breath as I stepped from the path into the close, only breathing again once I reached the threshold of our flat. The heat in my chest would counter the goose bumps forming on my bare legs. In those moments, passing through the stairwell, I wished to be invisible. We lived on the second floor and I had four sets of stairs to run up, key at the ready. By the time I reached our door my legs would be shaking, stomach twisted and I never inserted the key into the slot first time.
*
Selective Mutism is a situational anxiety disorder defined as a fear of initiating speech or being heard. The trigger for a mute episode can be a specific individual such as an uncle or parent or sibling, or more generalised such as groups of teachers, adults, strangers.
When mute, there is no air in the mouth. It clamps shut like an oyster, the upper and lower jaw weld together. Teeth clench so tightly that they reconfigure the bite. There is an immediate awareness of the tongue and its strength as it presses hard against the roof of the mouth. By the will of the mind this thick obedient muscle bends and twists, rolls and flaps. There is no eating or speaking without this fibrous patty of flesh that softens and hardens immediately as instructed.
With no bone to weigh it down, it is free in its springy flexibility, comprising several different muscles that entwine and merge into an agile muscular hydrostat. The ligaments of which attach to the base of the skull, throat and palate, anchoring it to the jaw lest it back flips like a gymnast straight out of the mouth. The surrounding muscles that support the tongue cut it enough slack to propel itself through an array of movements, contorting in a split second into whatever the brain requires it to be. It lengthens and narrows, curls and flattens, swirling and tossing food and liquid, flipping the contents of the mouth up like a washing machine before thrusting it down the throat.
To speak the tongue must soften, relax and show delicate touch, controlled and nimble. To form the complex movements required to make the sounds of language this mega muscle must dance spritely and accurately to shape the sounds as they emerge from the throat. To produce the flat ‘A’s and ‘U’s of low vowels, it drops to the floor of the mouth. To toss out the quick hard ‘T’s and ‘D’s it flips to the roof and tucks in behind the teeth. A vital instrument of speech, without it there is no articulation. But the muscles of the tongue are merely humble servants to the brain’s frontal lobe. Directly connected to the brain stem, the tongue receives orders through the Hypoglossal nerve that controls the movements of this anatomical force. At the forefront of the brain sits Broca’s area, where the signals pulse from mind to tongue, to make possible expression of thought.
In Selective Mutism, somewhere between brain and tongue, a severance occurs, a disruption of communication. Sitting in the cavity of the mouth, the tongue becomes an overzealous soldier awaiting orders, but the telephone lines are down.
Kalos Eidos Skopeo
Once, he broke into a thousand pieces, and his colours faded. Shattered into tiny fragments of himself, scattered across the room, every bit of him strewn, dispersed and disparate. Each dejected section of him uneven, asymmetrical, unrecognisable but for some larger parts that hinted his prior identity; and minute imperceptible debris, unfamiliar and jagged edged, invited unease. He was no longer whole, the sum of his parts, but a sprawling of scraps and slivers, impossible to reconcile back to the man he was. But I gathered him in anyway, because I loved him, and piece by piece, splinter by splinter, delicately, carefully, so as not to lose any edge of him, as, unaware, he gently sliced through my nurturing hands, ripping my skin to shreds. Mindful not to bleed upon him, to stain him with my own cuts, as over time, over a long time, I assembled his brokenness into a chaotic fusion of his parts. Unable to recreate him as he was, an impossible jigsaw, I kept him clutched close. Cocooned in our relationship, colour seeped back through his fractions, and I placed my scarred hands around him and I turned him, continuously, tenderly, and spun his spiky shapes until they responded with jerks and twitches, pulsing his colours back to life. I observed his many beautiful forms, shaping into new patterns, his symmetry restored. Configurations of him that could only have been created by his shattering. He returned to me, exquisite in his vulnerability, striking in his sparkling shards, and his fragments danced with one another, under my watchful eye, as they reflected his wholeness, beautifully damaged, in the protection of our kaleidoscope.
Dense Space
There is nothing of interest in her grandmother’s spare room. No toys or games or pens, not even books save a Gideon’s Bible that has long sat, unread, by the side of the bed where Rosa is to sleep tonight. But she won’t read that. Her mother would not approve. The smell of the bedding reminds her of her grandmother, musky, and masking an odour she can’t place. Damp or age or illness. The room’s stale scent hangs heavy, the windows long closed to fresh air.
The absence of a table lamp means relying on the central ceiling light. But it is a wide downlighter shade that allows the bare bulb to cast its intrusive glare across the barrenness of the room. Aside from the bed there is empty furniture; a chest of drawers, a wardrobe and a large trunk at the foot of the bed. It’s been a long time since anyone stayed here and little dust is generated to settle on the surfaces of this patient guest room. Her grandmother liked to keep the bed made for unexpected visitors but no one visits anymore. Tomorrow they will empty the house, and leave for the last time. Rosa has been told to sleep but she is alert to the harsh lighting, her usual light a dim lamp that radiates a gentle glow.
She peels back the bedclothes which have moulded to the shape of the bed and pulls them out from under the mattress, relishing the rumpling of the stiff sheets. It is deep winter and the sky outside is solid black. She is bored, in the absence of colour. And too aware of the night to sleep.
On the window sill, tucked behind the curtain, she finds a clear glass paperweight, the size of a small orange. But it lacks colour. It is completely transparent but for its thickness of glass that gently distorts her vision. She reaches for it, intrigued by its smooth exterior and inner clarity, a small globe of purity. Roused from her restlessness, she lifts the cold solid object to the light. Its weight surprises her. It fits perfectly in her palm and she cups both hands around it until it is fully enclosed, hiding it away. A portable world of infinite possibility. A secret. She imagines herself entering the globe and looking outwards from the inside, from its very centre, through clear thick walls, and she wonders if that’s how it would feel to be in there, safe and unaffected by the outside. Once, in a book, she saw a photograph of a snowflake that had been preserved in glass. It was as perfect as if it were freshly made and still falling gently through the sky. She wishes she were the snowflake that lived forever and thinks that might make a lovely story to read.
She smooths her thumb and fingers over the globe, over and over, rotating it upside down as she caresses every inch, reassured by the lack of irregularities. She is curious about the small flat base that keeps it steadfast. She wishes the globe was a whole sphere but without the base it would be unstable, and it pleases her that it would not roll away if she were to put it down. She wonders what sort of person uses a paperweight. She has only ever seen them as ornaments in old people’s houses and smiles to herself thinking that maybe not one single paperweight has ever been used to weigh down paper. She’d like to give it a new name but she can’t think of a concise way to describe the tiny ball that holds an entire universe.
She continues to roll it slowly in her hands, giving it warmth as she maintains a steady rhythm. She imagines the heat from her palms causing it to melt, over time, returning the glass to its molten state before it had been given a shape. She closes her eyes and visualises the hard ball melting into hot liquid that seeps through her fingers, dripping onto the floor and soaking into the carpet, with no form to hold. It would leave no stain, and never take shape again.
She shifts her stance, shivers and takes a step towards the window, gently placing the paperweight behind the curtain. Her palm instantly feels colder than the rest of her body, and the curl of her hand is now awkward and redundant. There is a void where once a dense space filled.
Alice in Wonderland Chapter 3 1/2
The pitter pattering grew louder as Alice discerned that it most certainly belonged to more than one pair of feet. Looking all around, there was no one to be seen so she began to question if the footsteps were coming from inside her own head. ‘Ridiculous!’, Alice said to herself. ‘I’m not the sort of girl who hears things that aren’t there’; although it was true to say that she was the kind of girl who now saw things she never thought she’d ever see. Alice was troubled to admit that all that shrinking and growing might have affected her ears. And if so, how should she ever be able to listen in lessons again with all this stomping in her head?
Alice began to feel a little odd. ‘Well I shall think nothing of hearing things now that I appear to be seeing things too!’, whispered Alice, as she glanced down to see that the ground beneath her seemed to be moving. On closer inspection, Alice was slightly alarmed to see an army of ants circling around her feet. Each ant boasted six legs and each leg had a tiny shiny boot on its foot. ‘Aha! That explains the peculiar spectacle, and all the noise’, thought Alice, ‘but why on earth are they marching around my feet?’. They certainly seemed to be preparing for something of great importance, such was suggested by their synchronised trooping and exceedingly sombre expressions.
Before Alice could make an enquiry, one of the ants, the largest of the perambulation, had climbed onto her left shoe and began removing its boots. Alice thought it terribly rude of the ant to not ask permission; furthermore, she didn’t appreciate that she would now be required to stand still for fear that the ant might come to harm. Alice was keen to hurry along and make amends with the mouse and couldn’t do so with a little ant on her shoe. And it would surely be truly ghastly to be an ant squisher!
‘Oh, excuse me you Miss Ant, would you mind finding someplace else to rest from all your marching?’. The ants on the ground stopped in their tracks.
‘How very dare you!’, said the ant on the shoe in an intolerably shrill voice.
‘Oh, but I… I thought perhaps… it’s just that you are so small and maybe you ought not to all be circling around my large feet and resting on my shoes’.
‘I am NOT a Miss’. Ah, that explains the bad-temper, thought Alice. It was always somewhat awkward to mistake one gender for the other.
‘Oh, I do beg your pardon, Mr Ant…’
The entire colony of ants let out a gasp, some frantically muttering under their breaths. Indignant, the ant on the shoe glared ferociously at Alice. Having presumed she was showing kindness, Alice was then perplexed to witness the ant’s terrible manner. She hadn’t meant to offend and wished she was someplace else conversing with a more agreeable creature.
‘It’s Queen Ant to you and you’d best remove yourself from my shoe before I lose my patience’.
‘But this is my shoe’, laughed Alice in disbelief. ‘I’ve been wearing it all morning’, said Alice.
‘And I suppose you think all these little ants should live their last days on the ground?’, enquired the Queen Ant.
‘Why not at all, but they can’t spend their last days in my shoe’, said Alice before realising what she’d said. ‘Their last days? Oh, I’m ever so sorry’, said Alice and she was pleased with herself for remembering to offer sympathy to the ants for it is always right to commiserate those in unfortunate circumstances.
‘You mean my shoe?’, said the Queen Ant.
A frown appeared on Alice’s face. ‘You must be mistaken. This is definitely my shoe. I have one just like it on the other foot. See?’, verified Alice, lifting her right foot for all to see. The ants darted towards the left foot in a mad flurry, completely deserting their beautiful lines. ‘Why, I polished it myself this very morning!’. Alice felt a little tear at the corner of her eye and thought to herself how far past morning it was, and wished she was back in the kitchen polishing shoes with Dinah at her ankles instead of a queer troop of ants.
‘My shoe!’, said Queen Ant.
‘My shoe!’, said Alice. ‘And what do you mean by their last days?’.
The Queen Ant snapped, ‘Haven’t you heard of the Queen Ant who lived in a Shoe?’.
‘No but I’ve heard of the Old Lady Who Lived In A Shoe and I’m perfectly positive it wasn’t mine!’. Alice’s kindly temper was beginning to wilt.
‘That’s not my rhyme at all’, guffawed the Queen Ant before beginning to recite a very curious nursery rhyme;
‘There was a Queen Ant who lived in a shoe
She had too many ants to fit in there too
So she sent some to London
And some to the zoo
Then pulled off the others' legs two by two.’
The colony of ants cheered. Alice was appalled. ‘You can’t mean to say that you are going to pull off the legs of these little ants?’
‘You really are a senseless sort of a girl!’, exclaimed the Queen Ant. Alice believed she was making perfect sense and supposed that the Queen was definitely unkind and she’d undoubtedly like her off of her shoe please.
‘There’s no use pulling their legs off outside of the shoe. How on earth would they get inside?’, queried the Queen Ant.
‘But why would you pull off their legs at all?’, cried Alice.
The Queen Ant retorted, ‘So they can rest, of course.’
‘But that’s silly,’ said Alice, ‘they’d be resting all of their days if you pulled their legs off!’.
‘That’s the point. Now please get out of my shoe so we can go inside and get on with it!’. The rest of the ants were cheering in rapturous applause and seemed quite content to have their legs pulled off two by two. Alice was terribly hot and bothered and wanted to scoop up all the tiny ants and put them in her pocket to save them from becoming legless. But they all looked rather hopefully at the Queen Ant and she thought she ought not to interfere with their strange ways as one mustn’t meddle with the natural world; even if it did seem cruel… ‘How very odd’, thought Alice, who was still convinced that legs came in rather handy.
‘Well it’s my shoe and you can’t come in’, said Alice.
The Queen Ant turned to face her subjects; ‘Prepare to invade!’, rousing the ants to attention.
‘Oh, please, this is nonsense. Kindly get off of my shoe, I really am in a dreadful hurry to find a mouse’.
‘A mouse! Company, RETREAT!!’, hollered the Queen Ant as it leapt off Alice’s shoe. The colony squealed in horror and scattered in great haste as quickly as they’d arrived.
‘Thank heavens for that’, sighed Alice, then she spotted someone running towards her. Not a cantankerous Queen Ant, she was relieved to find, but a familiar creature who wasn’t at all fussed for shoes.
@ VICTORIA LOTHIAN