"Of course I know what my name is, its...
Aren't your teeth lovely and white?"

She adjusted it's weight on her shoulder as it coiled her neck.

"I'm going to go about mine."
Turning towards us she pulls bottom lip back, just a little, matching the cuttle fish bone washed up on pebbles or artfully placed on an unknown beach in an unknown season; the camera's presence is obvious not absent.

The wheelchair twisted, metal spiral topsy turvy, then not. The hat fell separately leaving his head almost immediately, whilst his arse stayed longer in the chair and they united again before the ground came to meet them.

I don't know if she ever told me that the cuttle — suspended above sand with water only in plastic troughs at either end of the open, nothing hidden, contained space of cage — originated in the sea.

He saw the space and knew the perfect moment had come to put full force on the wheels, he'd perfected his grip and upper arm strength, what else was rehabilitation for.

"A wig, I'll have a rust wig like her colour."
To the assistant's hunted, (briefly) upturned lips she returns a beatific grin from eyes to heart, and without wavering too, until the beige coats are spotted. Earlier it was black bras which courted her; a favourite for as long as I can remember.
"They don't go dirty-looking; white does."

[On landing he sped away. His friend, walking along the street, had to run to keep up with him]

As he carried the pile of things for me, loaded with associations, and failed a number of times turning to me helplessly, a man spoke for him,
"He can't help it he's dead."

We stood for a while but then sat in the bright, sweet coloured easy chairs, displayed in the almost full length window; a larger than life confectionary.

We waited for her identity to be determined.

The projector’s too low, didn’t do anything, except trying to work things out. I am afraid of nothingness (reality is a bit of fantasy to comfort and stave of nothingness), both aspects

The two documents given had each been found wanting; her name was handwritten not typed as required. One, her national insurance card, still yellow as the lemon on a washing up bottle, was at least forty years old. The other was a medical card, of official fawn and old, fifty or so and age stained too. She matched them, though as an older sister or no, probably as a parent at eighty three of a mere forty and fifty year olds.

She didn’t like the lack of order either; some things up, some down. She tried to get used to this. To be like this and live in this disruption gladly because she thought it was true what he implied, no, what he said, that I don’t, won’t create because I’m not free. Spontaneous too, I suppose he’d mean, because I’m restricted, restrict myself, self-censor.

"An electricity bill?" we’re asked.

The snake, a python pale and muscular, alluring to some, phallic of course, to others repellent, slowly repositioned it's self after her slight shrug of loosening.

"No? What about a television license?"

I inquire, "What else would you take as proof?"

The man aggravated the situation. He lay down in the middle of the entrance, keeping the automatic doors open
[Or would they attempt to close? That would be preferable. Gently pushing at his feet. The lift doors with their insistent clanging as they make to close but fail as they jar against an obstacle]

She turns away. "What else would we accept for her identity?" she asks the walls.

It distributed it's weight to suit itself not her old body. She didn't look as old as she had when she lived at home, though never old then. Her walk was quick like a child released from school.

Bedecked in banking’s shell of assiduity, she goes away again to ascertain if a free tv license will evidence selfhood.

We need a King-Kong Charity girl, all fibre glass, with her wading across the Thames, dragging buildings along in her caliper and using successful artists for her pleasure.

Fumbling round the stumpy ground, grazing her body on flat fields, lying there without shelter, she relieved herself. Now the daughter came out and spoke.
[We're too far away to hear, unless one of you can lip read? No. Right, we remain in that dark which so often happens when we think something of interest is about to be said by strangers; some intimacy revealed. Of course it’s usually as banal as our own communications, or relates to events we don’t know anything about and should, therefore, be boring to us but seldom is because we feel we’ve gained something not intended nor allowed by those speaking and so the life soap operas retain their draw.]

Then the next time, without her glasses, her walk was lumbering. They couldn't find them. "She takes them off all the time." they said. So aren't they employed for just such eventualities; to replace the glasses when she removes; to find them when they're lost. After all they must be in the building, in some room or another, some drawer or locker.

You know how it is: you don't really know if something's there until it's not, so was the fence?

Still woke regularly every hour or two - felt down again, fearful of the empty, the nothing - I'm a sheet and Ida was contained in her self substantial. I am spread. I'd wrap my sheet around her, hide her, stifle her, perhaps, be rlled and packed under her arm, carry her aloft on it's carpet surface, sheter her flying above, now what is sustenance for me?

Perhaps in a commode being washed, like the false teeth were, waiting for paper to wrap them in. Perhaps already snug in a roll of toilet paper, resting up a sweater sleeve, neatly tucked to prevent falling. All this painstaking effort rewarded by a shrug of their shoulders.

We noticed the hole yesterday when we got back, then, as if back-

They wait, terror suppressed to, get on with survival, for why be terrified of one death if you court another by not getting food, drink, pay the heating bills and protect your shelter. They wait, a he, a she, another and other, on empty men not dissimilar to her son, who she sees often but he never speaks to her as he did when he was little and her reward, nor her husband who is so needy in private.

The manager repeats, when the receiver is passed to him, 'With all respect.'
“With all respect. With all respect, we can't make the optician come on a visit" as I ask him to ring again and push for a specific time; not waiting on his call, sometime never.

tracking, I saw the fence post had gone. It seemed to reiterate the leaflet pushed, not fully, through my letterbox. From 'Your Local Police Unit' written in red.

High-speed wind stream flowing from a hole on the sun. At one point she bends her body in an arc, lifts a leg, and scratches her shoulder; leaving a disheveled spot in her hair. Sky watchers were dancing wildly for about an hour and a half, in Minnesota, North Dakota and parts of Canada.

The manager repeats, when the receiver is passed to him, 'With all respect.'
“With all respect. With all respect, we can't make the optician come on a visit" as I ask him to ring again and push for a specific time; not waiting on his call, sometime never.

A thin sliver of information printed on a detail-less face: 'CRIME HOT SPOT' in green capitals. Today I realised that someone hadn't just left me the gift of a hole, so easy to break a bone, but had taken the post.Much later a new fence replaced this post, as secretly done as the removal.

FREAKERY - I could just not help watching again and again as they walked; doing the normal walk. These people oh so normal. trying to perfect it; they failed. Little steps out of the ordinary, or angles of knees, hips, pelvis, even shoulders and arms stopped them cloning in perfect array. I watched their normal stand, their normal reach, their normal bend, their normal stare and our eyes clashed until, in their normal way, they blinked.

She will fall. She's used to her glasses; worn them for forty, fifty years. They’re the strongest lens they can give her. 'With all respect,' with none at all.

Surely I couldn't be married and not remember it, there would've been consequences, but the documents said and the consultant believed.

She doesn’t hold me, I sit like two watery aubergines, with the plastic bag wrapped in pleats around me. We wait for my mummy’s daughter coming, with her long doll’s legs, along time. I cannot escape the plastic bag and hold on; I don’t know if I’ve ever wanted to. Though my mummy doesn’t hold me on her knee she clutches the bag, afraid we’ll stray apart.

The python seemed to relax in the cold, as she got cold. It didn't seem to like the gyrations but then her hips didn't gyrate with ferocity or languor now, not often anyway, though did any woman's as a movement to pursue the everyday?. Was the rarity sexy then? Or perhaps male eyes are formed with gyrations already fitted so it's what they see, like the multiple lens of the fly but not so useful.

Did Grindle stay in New Zealand in 1994? Why did she go? The letter didn't say and why had someone I've forgotten completely, called Janet, buy me the book where I found the letter? You'd think I'd remember the name 'Grindle;' it's unusual around here, but then where was 'here' then?

Please remove me from your mailing list.

She so wants to finish her work, sometimes waiting, wanting me to come and collect her, take her away. She scowls an instant.

The python moves at her agitation, then relaxes in a firm way.

Even though she was forced onto it by the man - "Where was the man?" - it was much wider than she'd imagined ledges to be. No you couldn't march armies, nor even a two people stroll, side by side. Though straight people, with no curves and crooks in their backs or knees, nor flexion in their hips,

Someone's mouth filled with codeine tablets, tasting bitter and crowded - but why? This question poses the problem. The thought, suicide, long and strong - the feeling, suicidal, sweeps in like ocean storms on any pretext but no reasons, not solid, or insubstantial.

could pass by each other nestling in chests, or one passive whilst the other's arms moved tentatively (or intensively searching for a hand-hold to cling with a life grip) up over shoulders and around, fastening in forearms - unless thinking beforehand arms were lifted away from body to steady them both against a wall - genitals stroking, hopefully not too protruding, buttocks. None of which applied to her

The tablets pushed out onto the pillow — she lies on her side — only wet not melting at the sides; still solid. Left without reason or the solace of suicide, but only fleetingly, it never leaves, stays this second breath since she breathed her first almost.

The other, the man, was nowhere to be seen but neither was the way she'd got here, so no return that way, and she couldn't walk and when she did it was with luscious swoop and sway, or each step would swing and grate and knock boulders tumbling. Still she had got this far.

as in disappearing into, gone and being a consciousness in this nothing (my father dying; my horror, not just grief or depression but vast, a continual horror-struck; everything different, everything horror); just a consciousness, thoughts but nothing to plan for as nothing just consciousness of nothing -

The ledge narrows at the corner without seeming to, making a perfect square, edges curved not worn. Are the windows of the life drawing room beneath, is that where the man went, getting involved with the charcoal. It could be another institution, corridors and papers, a department store.

and all this reality is just fantasy. Nothingness is all, surrounds all.
Somehow I thought she, or I, made into a strength which could re-create a reality-fantasy to vie with nothingness, at least some of the time. Of course she, or I, couldn’t and now she’s proof of the fantasy of reality with no strength whatsoever even in the moment.

The voice split a passage, a red dress took over my life

He looked down on leaving the shelter of a cinema, pulling away as if heading into a storm. I said,
"it's alright I'm wearing an imitation to match, seamless. You don’t have to look and see what you can’t take, the space, the flatness where it was rounded with it's twin, even though what you saw was never as in your fantasy"

Perhaps I could do one of the past, or would I feel a failure?

She moved her arms dancing to Beethoven like a spider; leaning back, face upturned to the stars if the ceiling hadn't interposed, daylight too not quite coming to rest on the plumped up quilt of my bed.

I feel now the failure, or the absence, I paused too long, probably it won't return. This is what comes of forcing though.

"That was a good piece of me." and started la- lalling his 9th symphony — didn't think she knew it so well.
"I'm not going to kill anymore dandelions no I mean..." her voice trailed off, possibly thinking of spiders which she didn't kill but caught in cups and liberated to cold rainy windowsills and the guilt was too much.

The world disappears.
It was there, then it’s not. I don’t know how long it’s been gone. I think of looking back but can’t. I try a sideways glance but this is too hard; perhaps this has to be learnt, attempted again and again. Then I lose what I was attempting; cannot bring it to the forefront of what? The forefront of something, though it lingers somewhere, I keep telling myself longingly.

"I could've gone asleep then." The drums roll thunder.
Her word telepathy amazes and disturbs she's always done it; fit the self-same words I'm thinking into strange contexts not-matching.

Probably the other room is unsuitable to use, it’s a restricted space.

The spider dropped from near the ceiling, in spite of the glare from a nearly-full moon. Each day it did it the sound got louder yet the distance the same. I thought my long hair falling out naturally with time, wrapped itself so relentlessly round my arms each day or when I sat for long uknown moments doing something else

Earth is exiting the wind stream flowing from a hole on the sun and the chances for more are low.

"When that man starts talking I have to creep out." Those TV figures have such sway; an unaligned power.

.

Playing it again her arms sweep up. Lifted like balloons she drags them back, controlled in hand clasp on her knee.

Bodies of Difference
A Different Body Experiences
A Different Universe