The Correlation

Sam arrived today, replacing Derek, and before Derek there was Peter, and before Peter the bed had spent a long time easing an A-Z list of illnesses to recovery. Some chronic, some temporary, some accidental, others fatal.  Sam had a broken nose, jaw and internal bruising which put him in the temporary bracket. It would have been labelled fatal had he received another blow to his head, he could smile about that, but as he tried the true centre of irreducible pain pushed flat on his heart.

Confined by these four white walls, and an absent of movement there was little Sam could do but wrestle with his thoughts, which mostly concerned girls.  Girls fascinated Sam endlessly and confused him inexorably.  It was the one thing in his life that he just couldn’t figure out.  And if he couldn’t figure this thing out then he couldn’t figure out the entire architecture of the Human Relationship, so would have missed the major part of what it meant to be Human at all. It was that thought which paralysed him more than the pain burning from his jaw to each retina.

He needed to move away from these four white walls before a tick landed in the psychosomatic box. But he knew all that awaited him were patients shuffling around on their sinewy yellow legs, stiff and thin like uncooked spaghetti. It was catch 22 on the ward; you'll recover from smashed bones and a burst diaphragm but you'll be crying at the loss of  your grey matter. It was so easy to picture the correlation on a graph. Length of time in hospital equals degree of insanity. He thought about documenting his hospital admittance in the good name of science, but the more thought placed upon his mental stability, and the pleasant nurses the less convinced he became of the theory. 

‘‘Do you want anything Sam?’’the nurse pointed at a trolly which revealed various liquids and little dishes of runny tapioca pudding . He dare not ask for a blowjob, so opted for some Vitamin C in the form of orange juice.

Marigolds

Dave says his brain can only flow with alcohol, and despite the car crash he still holds this mantra. I watch him hobble around on his zimmerframe mumbling harmless merriments, ‘‘where’s my 2pm visit? I want my back massage’’. Even though massage is code for Russian Vodka he's still my favourite patient.

He has the kind of appearance you’d avoid walking towards on the same side of the street. Sits down on a bus, and someone gets up. Definitely not the kind of character your nan would invite into the house for a cup of tea and biscuits, but a guy you’d see in your local park lazing his bony discrepancy on plastic blue swings, with his liquid habit to his mouth like a kid with a Cornetto. A shame, ‘cos his heart is plump, and conversation fat with jokes. His face shows a life dedicated to years of true decadence. I wish I could say those bursting capillaries weaving manically around on his bulbous nose came from the work of hard labour. But they are definitely the work of hardcore pub time, nine till five.

I also have a fondness for Mary, a seventy-two year old recovering from a hip replacement after a nasty fall, which smashed everything below her waist to dust. When I bathe her, she puts on a pair of diamond drop earrings and matching pendant, says it gives her nakedness aristocratic style. And as I wash under the folds of her once desired, pendulous breasts, I see it too. You should see Dave and Mary when they get together, their hilarity pops a pin in ward life. So I tell them to go fourth and spread their seeds of glee like good disciples of the hospital.

Most of the other patients don’t take to the ward with such light affection as Dave and Mary. Most expressions mirror the multicoloured wilting flowers homed on their drib bedside tables, kept there from day one. For them, everyday is like stepping in shit. And I’m tired of their shit filled footsteps snailing around the ward, for the perkier souls to potentially stand in. I call these patients the ‘Weeds’- their sole purpose being to strangle their roots of pessimism around the marigolds. Dave is a marigold, but he isn’t to be strangled. For I the Gardner waters the vibrancy of his pretty, orange mane every morning and night.

The Dentist

I completed my sixth and greatest Sonata four months ago. It will be performed by Vienna’s most regarded pianist, and I look forward to that with infallible joy. What inspires me is a question I have been asked repeatedly, but the truth could lay my success open to great perils. So I will leave the truth enamelled to assumption.  And tell only you.

I am dentist by profession, but a composer by default.

I discovered the slenderness of her neck as her head tilted back, her alabaster skin brought out a dewy pinkness in her lips, as they open from bud to bloom. The music followed. Every tooth had a letter assigned to it, A, B, C, D, E, F, G. Letter G landed soulfully on her molar, her canine was distinctly F sharp, and the piece ended exquisitely on high C, upper incisor.

I have saved a few select casts from the most instrumental mouths. Placing them on my baroque mantelpiece and depending on my company they pass as contemporary art. Often, upon catching sight of my ornamental teeth the tips of my fingers tingle, and arch up eagerly to play the teeth like the keys of a piano. Of late Debussy has been thoroughly enjoyed.

One of my most well received Sonatas came from a set of short, tightly screwed teeth. They weren’t by any means lacquered with a Hollywood gleam, but their gritty strength made way for an effective staccato.

Braces have the power to change the melody of the mouth; they cause a transformation from the disjointed to the sublime.

Foie Gras

''I’ve got to get her back, you listening? I’ve got to get her back!’’

My consciousness flickers, becoming momentarily aware I’m being spoken to, so I mumble threatening obscenities, exerting as little energy as possible in hope of returning back to sleep.

My roommate Karl begins to irritate me further, ''Mate, I saw Lorna, walking with some dirty ass cockroach of a guy, no way can she be seeing him, has to be her friend!''

''Your attempts will be all in vain, I’ve heard some guy from Oxford got his hands on her during the summer, it’s probably the cockroach you’re speaking of.'' I was never one to beat around the bush.

''Pffff, she loved me, and I didn’t finish with her in a nasty way, I never said anything bad to her'' Karl protested, but his voiced sounded fairly uncertain.

''It’s not what you say, it’s what you do that can hurt Karl.'' I stared at him with one eye, whilst my other tried to preserve sleep, but he just kept silent, letting his reflective grimace tell me to shut up. Which pleased me fine.

Karl had been seeing Lorna for most of the second year at uni, but broke it off when she started getting clingy. They didn’t match anyhow, Karl was an arty guy, cigarette always flapping from his bottom lip, and he talked about art like the media talked about celebrity. And he constantly wore yesterday’s clothes. Not that he was lazy, but rather, maintaining personal hygiene came far down on the list. Whereas Lorna, I saw as being a square, a pretty one though.

I met Karl, in our first year of uni, we had both joined the Literature society, and that’s where he met Lorna too. I remembered him because he called me Michael straight after I had told him my name was Miguel. I tried to have a conversation with Lorna that same day too, about poetry, I shared my liking for Ginsberg, and she replied that his political and social voice was vulgar. I gritted my teeth at that pompous, little remark. And when she gushed about Sylvia Plath I groaned,

''I got half way through that, and went looking for a rope and stairs'' which surprisingly didn’t go down well. I remembered her glass black eyes narrowed. I smiled.

When I thought of Karl and Lorna, it was difficult for me not to refer to the Oedipus complex; she was always mothering him, and he lapped it up like an impressionable foetus. Cleaning up after him, blowing crumbs off his face more than kisses, telling him the do's and don’ts of table etiquette. She fed him like he was foie gras about to be splattered on a Parisian plate. She had a marvellous way for making a capable adult look embarrassingly incapable, so when I came into the room one time and saw her feeding him nipple shaped strawberries, I left bemused. That may explain why he wants her back, there would be no dirty washing crammed under the bed, less takeaways, less questionable smells, and more finger fed food.

Throughout the first year, I didn’t really connect with any girls, I was quite satisfied simply admiring their hypnotically, gyrating buttocks glide past me, but saw few faces I wanted to talk to. It’s not often I’ll talk to a girl first, unless I’m really attracted to her. And in the second year, I was too busy scrambling for good grades. But now in my third year, I think I deserve a little light relief amongst all the books, so I’m open to suggestions. Got to try a little I guess.

I picked up the phone and dialled Lorna. Twirling my fingers around the cord.

False Advertisement.

In his retiring manner Bill strolled into class, and expecting to see his creative writing class it came as a surprise when he was greeted with a class full of unrecognisable faces. But instead of attending to his surprise, he nonchalantly brushed it aside by taking a seat in the class to merge with the newbies. His arrival stirred no raised eyebrows since it was still the first week of uni. Various smiles, and hung-over expressions outlined the tables.
    Still set in sleep mode, a disproportionate amount of time was spent with a glazed look over his face. Thoughts drifted to the patchy accounts of the night before and to the content of his fridge, which homed a sorry supply of beer. Inexcusable since he'd taken advantage of coupons which entitled him to a ‘buy one get one free offer’ and every so often his attention would revert back to the class and each time he did, he would be comforted by discussions which made him curiously glad that he had taken a seat in this unknown territory.
    Bill glanced at his neighbour’s module handbook which was entitled Advertising. It went against his believes of consumerism; having enough unwanted clothes, gimmicky buys, and skint related aneurysms to learn that the art of media persuasion was bullshit not to be bought. But he was comforted with statements like ‘Making things that make people happy’, and although blurred with skepticism, the thought of making others happy pinched him with contentment. Maybe if Bill had been feeling cynical he would have thought a degree in Advertising would be sucking Satan’s cock, but he wasn’t and the debate with his inner self justified that he could do good things with advertising.
    The layout of the classroom was such that the students sat in a ‘U shape’, a layout which allowed Bill to get acquainted with the various faces without struggle. None of the faces were particularly striking to Bill, aside from two. One guy had a prehistoric look, like he was missing several genetic links in the evolution stage. And then sat quietly among all the erection killers, there was a girl who sent his imagination into pockets of deep filth.
    After the two hours were up he approached the teacher who had the register, and whether Bill had advertising in mind, the curiosity of the unknown, or the girl, his pen appeared before the sheet, and without little analysis of consequence, his name was added to the list, along with the final thought it's just a ride.