The Cemetery Date

“Surprise me,” he said.

And so I did.

I waited outside Mile End Station, chuckling to myself.

The Man with the Hair arrived.

He has an enviable fro of curly hair (—tied back tonight). We crossed paths when my students curated his artwork. I clocked him at the opening event, but stayed away; the lavishing of attention on attractive people annoys me, so I deliberately ignore them. However, we exchanged words and details when he collected his work the following week. I proceeded to invite him to an Anti-Valentines Action Dinner at Performance Space, to which he came and held his own. There ensued sporadic virtual communication, until I secured tonight’s date.

To the rattling of wine bottles in my shiny pink backpack, we walked to Tower Hamlets Cemetery.

“What are we doing here?”

“I’m luring you into a raping,” I said. “There’s a knife in my boot.”

He laughed, to which I replied, “You obviously trust me. Following me into the dark forest like this. You don’t know me. I could be capable of something terrible. Anything could happen.”

“That’s true…”

We stopped at a tomb (the tomb of Ann) and clambered (I clambered) to sit on it. I insisted on a moment of silence in respect of Ann before breaking out the wine.

“You can have summer red or White Zinfandel.”

“I quite fancy the white.”

I took several generous swigs of the summer red before hitting him with some poetry.

“This is a poem about staring into darkness: Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore…”

On and on, I rambled over The Raven’s rippling rhymes while he listened (My, what a lengthy poem it is). I also presented him with a bag of pink marshmallows and a pumice stone (“For sloughing dead skin. Fancy a bit of exfoliation at my place?”).

Poems later, we chatted. I asked him to tell me something pathetic about himself, to which he revealed financial impotence, self-consciousness and 39 years of age.

In exchange, I explained that I can be a bitter and jealous person, subject to social anxiety and occasionally reluctant to leave the flat for days. However, “My New Year’s resolution is to be a better friend and I am succeeding in that capacity.”

Other topics of conversation included my desire to be a rap superstar, self-proclaimed writing ability, and my imaginary penis. I had, by this point, downed a bottle of wine on an empty stomach. I suggested we relocate to a “more ominous” part of the graveyard in order to “commence the raping.” Stumbling, we worked our way through nettle trappings to settle into a remote and concealed grave. In the background, we heard the shrieking of the yobs. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you. I’m all over this,” I insisted.

We both had to pee. I think I might have fallen over in my attempt. And I remember thinking, “Ah, yes, I’ll take out my bloody tampon in case he fingers me. A small tribute for the grave I’m pissing on.” I suspect the alcohol flooded my head at this point because I hardly remember thereafter. I seem to recall a rather abrupt end to the date by his volition, and feeling (and concealing) annoyance, but I can’t remember leaving the graveyard.

I arrived home, pissed as ever, to my wife and houseguests and the realisation that I’d lost the mobile phone I’d recently paid £240 to reconnect. Gutted, I proceeded to throw a tantrum—literally, I lobbed the contents of the lounge into the kitchen. I could hardly listen or string a sentence, and ended up face down and fully dressed in bed with the trash bin.

I woke with a start (still mildly drunk and/or hungover) at the crack of dawn. Must. Find. Phone. So I set off with my trusty hound, back to the cemetery in the rising sun and spitting rain. I quickly found my way to Ann’s tomb, decorated in wrinkled sheets of poetry (which I decided to leave for Ann), but alas, no mobile phone.

I’d retained no defining characteristics about the second grave we’d visited and the cemetery appeared wide and winding in the daylight. How could I possibly retrace my drunken steps to find that deliberately hard-to-reach location?

I wracked my brain, but conjured only darkness. “C’mon Lucky, sniff out my urine and bloody tampon. You can do it, hound dog.” An hour passed and nothing. I felt increasingly hopeless. All the graves and trees looked the same. Needle in a haystack. My phone lost somewhere in a graveyard (Oh Ann, you’ve failed me).

I’d recently surmounted a fortnight of phonelessness and £240 reconnection fee, only to lose my fucking phone at the soonest occasion. I was kicking myself for being a lightweight, a lush and a lunatic lothario—stupid piss-taking cemetery date—when I caught a glint of glass (only the neck of a wine bottle!) in the corner of my eye. There. I scrambled through brambles to the very spot I’d graced hours before. I found a couple of empty wine bottles (one intact; one smashed to pieces) and the gift of pink marshmallow peeking atop a wet and leafy grave belonging to a one Mister Clark.

I kicked up the leaves and—unbelievable! —there lay my mobile phone (backlit by a photo of Lucky eating an ice cream cone) in working condition no less! I’d found my motherfucking mobile phone (Clark, I could kiss you!) and dutifully cleared the glass from the grave.

Disbelieving, delirious and dehydrated, I dragged my dog through the still morning and towards home, grasping the soggy handset in my pocket.

I’ve heard nothing of the Man with the Hair. But I’ve been creasing with laughter all day.

I Can't Get No Satisfaction

I can’t sleep. I feel terrible. So much is wrong, I can hardly write it. Lying stiff as a board, glaring into darkness, skin burning, blood throbbing, a deep dull ache, gnawing until I give in and rise from bed.

I’m so very tired. And everything hurts. I’m meant to wake in three hours, followed by a hectic ninety-minute commute to the worst job I’ve ever had. I’m supporting seven-year-olds with serious behavioural problems. The worst of them, Joshua, spends a good deal of time plotting and attempting to kill me. My shins are purpled with evidence of his clunky rubber shoes.

The red of an alarm clock beams through the dark, a flashing reminder of dwindling time. I dread the piercing sound at 6am. I’m awake. The realisation settles like a pregnant cloud on my chest. Nothing has changed. Another day facing the ruin of my life.

I listen to my boyfriend’s breathing. Is he awake? I’m really sad. We’re going to split up. As usual, we had a stupid fight (too stupid to write). He instigated it as I climbed into bed, thus murdering my chances of sleep. He’s so fucking passive-aggressive. It’s hard work. Everything is hard work.

Often, we’re fighting before I realize what’s happening. He’s tricky like that. He’ll drop a bomb and fall out before the smoke has cleared, leaving me alone in the fog. After fighting, I wanted so much to forget it, to feel better—I slid down his legs, taking him into my mouth, his penis springing to action…

he flips me over and enters the race, a epileptic contender. I grasp for something, anything, my grip loosening as he nears the finish. The dark seems endless as he jets inside me. Full, but I feel so empty.

But how can I tell you? Surely you know it already? Sex has become a pointless exercise. Empty a cartridge and chuck the rifle over your shoulder. It’s time for a nap.

Except that I can’t sleep. I’m meant to be waking in two hours and I can’t sleep? I steal away, menstrual blood running down my thighs, the white screen pierces the dark and burns my weary eyes.

I have a sore throat. I’ll call in sick. I can’t call in sick. I’m trapped. I desperately need the money.

Which is worse: getting back into bed or not getting back into bed?

I can’t remember what Sun Tzu writes in The Art of War about backing your opponent into a corner. Will the underdog rise when ultimately trapped? In the eleventh (fourth, actually) hour with nothing to lose? Or, lacking the possibilities of escape and retaliation, will the underdog be vanquished?

The blood pools and the stain grows on the armchair cushion beneath me.

I'll turn it over later.

The Wayward Warrior

Well.

I’m not a social being. In fact, I spend a great deal of time avoiding the things that normal people do.

Grocery shopping in the middle of the night, for instance; busying myself with fine print or dashing round corners to dodge the handful of other humans that, like me, desperately seek reduced produce as the sun comes up.

Going to the shop has often been the major activity of a day (or night). Often, it’s all I can muster. The familiar soothing tits of consumerism. I’ve used the mental arithmetic of an eight-year-old to compare sizes and prices and now, I’ve bought something. Everything will be OK. Yes, planting herbs on the balcony in the middle of the night will make me feel better. And when these supermarket-chain herbs die in a week, it’ll be a perfect excuse to plant new ones.

Sometimes I force myself to sleep with carbicide. How many pieces of buttered bread can I stuff into my bloated body before it literally shuts down? I lose track as a soft sleepy feeling creeps over me. It’s a damn shame, given how intensely I love and crave health and fitness.

The self-hating masochist in me seems to be winning at the moment.

My blood runs bitter. I am filled with spite and it’s scary. It’s the worst thing in the world. My growing self-resentment turned out into the world like a shield. I’m unhappy with myself and therefore unhappy with you.

All the time, I remind myself to keep a lid on the darkness. I need an attitude change, an attitude change. No one can ever see the darkness that lingers like a cloud over my intentions. (Don’t worry, the silver lining of mania also ensures optimism and compassion, bordering on hysteria.)

But where to go if not inwards nor outwards? How can I expel the darkness? I’m beginning to think I must acknowledge—record even—the dark set before drawing the backdrop of light. So, let it be here (and only here), uncut, inhumane and burning like the application of salt and ice to unsuspecting nipples, the honourable quest to quell unspeakable darkness and to march backwards into the symbiosis of life.

May it blind me!