Twenty-seven - Volteface

I awoke this morning, not with a start, that never happens anymore. That seems more like a distant childhood memory than a true possibility. The end of sleep came like it always did, with the realisation that life was beginning around me, birds chirping with the rising sun, the sound of water hitting the tiles in the shower in the apartment above. Today it was the thrumming of an engine. The sound enters my sleep, a short-lived sleep as I felt my thoughts had pestered me all night, and yet with a mind as alert as if I had never been asleep I know what it is. A new day is before me and as usual I awaken more tired than when I went to bed. To make things worse the knot in my stomach is still there, an unfailing reminder that I hate my life and what it is doing to me.

I don’t get out of bed in a traditional manner; it’s more of a crawl and then a stooping walk. I attempt to stand at the archway that separates my bedroom and bathroom from the rest of the apartment. I reach up with hands flat on the cool surface of the arch and force my body to straighten. My spine uncoils, but I know it’s an illusion, I need work on this body of mine, with every day that goes by I regret the punishment I have given it and lament the future quality of life I will enjoy.

I walk across the lounge room and pull down on the cord that will bring the blind up. I reach for the latch that will unlock the balcony door, reaching for the handle I attempt to pull the door open with little success. The bloody security lock stops me. I reach down to the bottom and pull the rod, shots of pain fire through my lower back, my arthritic fingers close around the rod and pull, releasing it from the grasp of the lock. Forcing myself up I open the sliding door, looking beyond into the sky, clouds are ranging.

Reaching at my armchair I fidget through the pockets of my jacket until I find my cigarettes and lighter. For some reason I kept that armchair in all it’s art deco horror, I never sit in it, these days it acts as my clothes stand, but back in the day it had served its purpose, the only seat in the apartment when my television sat elevated on a plastic milk crate and the only other sticks of furniture in the joint were my bed and book shelves.

I fumble with the packet to pull out a cigarette; I hold it, a finger crossed under it ensuring that I won’t dip the opening in case the tobacco should fall from its paper cylinder. I light it as imagine Winston Smith would, careful to ensure that the cigarette wouldn’t be wasted. After all this is the best part of the day. Only my craving exists at this moment and as I enjoy that precious moment of a need satisfied, I already know the finest part of the day is behind me.

I inhale deeply and my mind wanders to my thoughts of the night before, the usual listing of offences against me were tallied, some old, many new, and then in the final throes of lucidity one word echoes in my mind, Caesar. For only the second time in my life I seriously considered what it would be like to live in another time and place. I mean this in a manner that is not the usual daydream, but a serious examination of what turn my life may have taken. Greece would be the place for glory, fighting in the Persian Wars, but Rome, Rome would be for the party.

I contemplate what I am to do with this day, the heavens sprinkle and my mind is made up very quickly, a day spent indoors, away from the world, away from people, a day of quiet contemplation is in order. I stub the cigarette out into the overflowing ashtray. I turn the television on, scan the channels, thanking the Gods above that I didn’t have cable, otherwise I would have to surf through more useless, pointless mind numbing garbage. I scan my DVD’s, looking for something that would break me free from my melancholy. I always boasted that I had enough DVD’s that I would never need to watch or rely upon programmed television, but they all seemed old and tired now, even the most exciting and intriguing viewing could not entice me. I knew what would happen, I would put something on, something I hadn’t seen in a while, a movie that had been as exciting as anything I had ever seen in my life, and in the end I would fidget, I would scrounge, I would pick up a magazine, a month old, already read, and before I knew it the day would be over and nothing would be achieved.

I walk aimlessly through my apartment, scanning my shelves for a quick read, something quick and easy to digest. In truth my mood would not stand for that, I needed something more, not a graphic novel or a fast food novella, I needed something dense, something all consuming. I spot the silver hardcover with its blue title on the spine. It’s in a pile of new books, another book retelling the history of the Spartans, another on Greek civilisation, several others about new age thought on synchronicity, and still more by Solzhenitsyn which I had picked up at a second hand book store. And still, the silver hardcover stood tall amongst the other books that I knew would also be a prized read. And yet the silver book still stood out because it provided a challenge.

For most, reading is a challenge, I live in a generation in which reading is not a given. People don’t read, and if they do they stick to the best sellers list and rarely venture forth and explore the world beyond the accepted. People who know that I am a reader will find it utterly fascinating and will respond in two ways. They will either laugh that laugh that belongs to stupid people and smile while announcing with great pride that they have read two whole books in their life and that they have no need to read any more than that because in their opinion they have done just fine with their lives, or they ask me what books I recommend. As a rule I never tell them a single title or author, it’s not my place. I abhor the fact that others will recommend books to me, what do I care what they have read, for me reading is a journey and it is up to those who choose to take part to decide and find what they want, what will fill them with knowledge, it’s not up to me. And yet the silver book provided a challenge, because a work colleague who swore that I would love it had handed it to me. I took it from him in pity, knowing that I would probably never read it. Then he hit me with the line about the actual book being an imported copy. That meant expensive, but also a surety in his mind that he was absolutely correct and that he trusted me to do the right thing with it.

I had read the first hundred pages or so, it was a pretty standard fantasy that had failed to capture my imagination and for six months it had sat on the shelf collecting dust. It just seemed to start like too many other books I had read, going over the same old tired track that so many had ridden before and I could not bear to think how it might affect my thinking on other works. And yet the temptation was great, had someone finally handed me a book that I could enjoy, allowing it to fill me and take me away from this world, if only for a few hours.

And so I read, of a King, a shadow of his former self, a Queen who despises her husband, a brood of children who share her hatred and of her brother, the shining king slayer who had forfeited his honour in years past to bring peace to a kingdom and to end the rule of the dragon line. This cauldron of malaise had travelled north to visit a friend, an honourable man and defender of the kingdom, who was torn from his family to take up a new role as trusted advisor to the King. Honour bound he takes up his new position and slowly starts to see the corruption of the court and wonders what he can do, but it is too little too late as a King is slain, a secret is discovered of an unholy union of brother and sister and of their bastard children who will take up the throne, the great protector, ever loyal to his King dies, his body hoisted up on to the ramparts, and at this darkest of moments his own family goes to war against the kingdom, it would appear that all is lost as the whole kingdom tears itself apart to share in the opportunities and spoils of war.

I close the book, it is dark outside now and I don’t ever remember turning the light on. I don’t remember eating, hell, I don’t even know the time. I curse that I had wasted six months not reading this fantastic piece of work, but fortunately I remember my work colleague telling me that he had the next two parts. Finally, something to look forward to, I needed to know what would happen to the family from the north, what would become of the bastard boy King and his mother, her brother, his father and his dwarf uncle who seemed to be more cleverer than all of them put together, of the wolf and his mountain of a brother, to the Dragon princess who had married a King across the ocean, of a son attempting to avenge his father and hold together what was left of his family, and of a bastard hidden in the north who may very well be the key to uniting all the disparate factions.

As exhausted as after the hardest day of work I decided to turn in for the night, I read the appendices of the book with glee under the dim lamp light, I was a young child again, waiting for Christmas morning to bring its surprises, I went to bed, not thinking of the world and all that is wrong with it, instead I went to bed with adventure in my heart, a song so strong that nothing could stop me. My journey had taken me to another fantastic realm, and despite the depravations and losses felt by those in the book and my own sorrow at seeing such sterling personalities ripped from the very passages of the tale, I knew that this world I had discovered would bring colour to my own grey days ahead.

As the rain continued to tap its rhythmic beat on my bedroom window, I felt filled with hope for the first time in a long time, tomorrow would be a little easier to bear, perhaps my depression would ease as the new day would give me another chance to visit the world I had just discovered, another chance to partake in the fantasy another writer has created, probably never knowing how much his work, his desires, his ability and his efforts have meant to me this day.