DARK DAYS

Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, the words simply won’t come. This is an attempt to put down into words just how gut-wrenchingly bleak that feeling can be. It’s kind of in the spirit - if not the style - of the late, great Douglas Adams who had a theory that you can always try to turn the problem into the solution, and, in trying to come up with something that was highly improbable, came up with the “Infinite Improbability Drive”. This is nowhere near as witty, but it does have an angsty adolescent “leave me alone” feel going on which I quite liked.

Feeling very low today. A black fug has descended and everything seems pointless and worthless. Every word I find seems leaden and damp. Any sense of vim or vigour, or shine or sparkle just seems a long forgotten memory or something that only other people have the key to unlock.

The black dog is barking and only I can hear its roar. The endless grind of gears spinning and whirring and screaming in the dark. I look around, the simple secret of happiness seems known to everyone but me as they plod along - oblivious - through their sad and pointless days. Can’t they see it? Don’t they understand the emptiness of it all? The hollow core at the centre of the day? The nothing…? The nowhere…?

It’s inevitable really. Unavoidable. Every up must have its down, every yin its yang. Somewhere there’s a party, another place a wake. The darkness must chase away the light, the day must be swallowed by the night. The balance of the universe, the equilibrium of existence, an infinity of blackness divided by the light remains an infinite night. Every smiling face must be counterbalanced by another one which wears a frown. Every happy event finds someone holding back the tears. For every birth a death. For every death a birth. Only because of this can harmony be maintained, balance retained. The world always keeping its accounts in check.

I can hear the noise of others living their lives. Oblivious. How can I unpick the mystery? What is their secret? How did they find it out? This secret they all seem to know, so simple for them to find but still lost in a swirling labyrinth of the unknowable to me. Did they lower their expectations? Don’t they care? Or do they just not see it? Do they not have any perception of the yawning abyss or do they just choose not to think about it, get on with their lives? But how can they? How can they…? The empty hollow tunes blaring out of the radio of life. Popular, empty, meaningless. The three minute pop mantra they all sing along with until the words all lose any meaning, any value. The banging of the hammers and the chisels, toiling away at making the building someone else will tear down again one day. The familiar jokes and phrases they all share, and all laugh at, even though they’ve heard them all a thousand times before. Thing you say. Things you think you’re supposed to say. Things people expect you to say just so they can say back what they’re supposed to say. This hungry blackness is so all-consuming, so overwhelming, how can you carry on as if it simply isn’t there?

I need something to help me turn the corner, pep me up, bring me round… but there’s nothing there to do it, no bright spark to reach for, no silver lining to be found. I’ll just sleep it off instead and hope for the miracle of tomorrow, the something different, the change, the new point of view, the fresh start I hope for but which never actually comes.

Perhaps I’ll wake up and I’ll dash headlong into tomorrow with a mind full of hopes and dreams, and all the dead words of yesterday will dance and laugh and sing, until I hit that wall again and crash back down in flames and learn once again the pointlessness of chasing after those fragments and glimmers of joy that dance in the air like dust in a sunbeam but can’t be held in your hand. The black dog will still be behind me, howling with the thrill of the hunt, and in the end will drive me into another blind alley with no way to escape, and we’ll do our mirthless dance again, as we always do, one or the other winning the round, but the outcome of the game remains in doubt, with everything and nothing still to play for. All still up for grabs. Is the black dog blocking me, or can I block the black dog?

When the words won’t come, it’s so hard to tell.

Block. Block. “Tick-tock, still blocked”.

How quickly the mind unravels, how quickly the bitterness seeps in, how quickly the bleakness gives way to utter despair.

It’s unravelling fast now. Fast… faster still… This whole house of cards collapsing… the hope being swallowed by the emptiness and the darkness that yawns its way around me and swallows me… devours me.

Darkness falls.

I see a sea of blackness all around me. A thick, sticky blackness that clings to me no matter how much I claw away at it.

It’s everywhere. I can smell it… Taste it… Hear it… Feel it…

Feel it flooding my mind.

A void. An empty nothingness…

Nothing I do… Nothing I try…

Nothing has value… Nothing has point… Nothing has substance…

Nothing matters…

To nobody…

…and never will.

ART IMITATING LIFE IMITATING ART IMITATING LIFE…

Here’s the story behind a story which might be of interest to anyone who saw it and is hopefully the last you’ll need ever hear on the matter…

I’m not the world’s most sociable soul. In fact the thought of attending any kind of social function can put me into a tailspin of fear that can lead to the kind of self imposed mental and physical torture that really isn’t anyone else’s problem, but can be not a lot of fun to live with. Once more I raise a metaphorical toast of thanks and gratitude to the elusive beloved and her infinite patience with and understanding of me and my little ways.

Anyway, because I was feeling a bit lost, I stuck my nose out of my hovel and decided to engage with the world for a little while and see whether it still remembered I was here, and so it was that I found myself dallying with the dubious delights of electronic communication and, as luck would have it, chose a time when all manner of chaos was breaking out amongst a certain section of my friends and former colleagues.

Somehow, mostly due to my own idiocy about these things, but also due to a certain amount of needing to insulate myself from the pain that friendship can bring along with it sometimes, I had managed to lose all touch with pretty much everybody over the years, and was rather resigned to my new non-existence as “the forgotten man” when a short email popped into my inbox, courtesy of those little electronic feelers I had so tentatively put out with such little expectation of result, telling me of this impending crisis and other news of a shocking and disturbing nature. In my head people should always remain the same as when I last saw them, so major changes in their life tend to take me a long while to adjust to, so anything like that shocks and disturbs me. Think about how much your own life can change in a decade and you’ll hopefully realise a little why I have a tendency to run away from you screaming.

Anyway, a few days later, another email arrived telling me that in order to “celebrate” the passing of the company that had so long employed them (and for a decade or so back in the day, myself as well) they had decided to throw a party. I was confused for a while about this. Was imminent mass unemployment a cause for celebration? I know that if I’d been in their position, I’d’ve been running around in headless chicken mode, howling with rage and panic and fear and probably disappeared under the duvet for six months, emerging only for the occasional whimper. “Obviously these folk are made of sterner stuff than I am”, I thought, but it threw up another problem: The party was open to any and all past employees too, and would I like to attend?

Tailspin.

Weeks of fear and dithering and non-commitment followed and ultimately I did go along, had a great time, renewed some old acquaintances and everything was fine and lovely and smashing. In case you were concerned, they all seemed to be doing reasonably well in themselves despite it being a terribly difficult time for them all. They’re a strong and supportive group who are looking out for each other and hopefully will continue to do so.

At about the same time as the initial email (“of Doom!”), I got another email telling me that the local amateur theatre that I still have (very) loose connections with were planning an event to help launch their new Studio Theatre project and they were interested in presenting some new writing as part of an evening of entertainment, short pieces of around ten minutes if at all possible.

I had nothing.

Nothing at all.

But I had a couple of ideas, and over the next couple of days “Alaskan Ally” was born. “A jolly little tale of suicide by the great outdoors” as I later dubbed it. I don’t know whether it’s really any good or not, but people who’ve read it seem to have enjoyed it. The other idea was more of a problem. I’ve been thinking about a “workplace comedy” for a while now, but nothing seemed to gel. Perhaps if I sat my five lads (later four - “Andy” was despatched to wherever great beyond unused literary creations go, but I hope he and “Aunt Agatha” are having a nice chat wherever they are now) down at a table in a pub on the night their old firm closed down…?

Pretty soon the four old lads were sitting in that very anonymous pub discussing the demise of their firm and were later joined by a sinister misfit who they vaguely remembered working with a dozen or so years earlier. Once again, my jolly little comedy had turned into something a tad more sinister with a little hint of the consequences of careless talk and the horrors of stalking thrown into the mix. One short slice of an evening of their lives in which they failed to discuss their worries about future employment (that came after a few more beers, I’m sure) but touched upon pretty much everything else. All of this because I was a bit frightened about going to a party and so I had to consider what the worst that it could be might possibly be.

So, I’ve explored those characters now, and they now seem to live and breathe in my head as fully rounded individuals with unique and distinct voices, and hopefully I can now take them on into their journey, and start on the full length drama that will be joining all the rest in that dusty drawer sometime in the near future. Or maybe I won’t. Maybe, if the workshops ever happen, everyone involved will all discover more about them too, but for now, they’ve only got that ten minutes to shine in, but I hope people enjoy being in their company for that brief moment.

As to myself, I know that having actually enjoyed my night out won’t stop me feeling terrified and anxious next time an invitation comes around, but the point I think I’m trying to make here is that writing comes from the stuff that’s happening all around you all the time. You pluck these little moments from your life, turn them around in your imagination, and turn them into something else. “The Bitter End” (as I eventually called that piece) is not autobiographical and no real people or events are involved in it, but it was born out of my own fears and doubts and worries about what such an evening could be like, and probably, in the end, says more about me than it does anything else.