Rollo Kim's

World of the Strange
Lilly had been involved in one of those witness relocation programs. She said that one of her identities had been white. She has the hands of a child, and quick, hesitant movements. Resentful of her own gentleness, she is too quick to deny herself, cuaght up in a complicated cover story of contradictions.
So I assume the identity of a 'glamour photographer' called Steve; what the eye don't see, the eye don't see. I am across the street from my 'apartment' right now, sipping my tea, in search of a couple I've been told about who do the 'full lesbian thing.' But disaster strikes when their pimp appears, demanding the money in advance. A mad dash across the town in search of an ATM machine that will accept Steve's imaginary credit cards.
Billy the Kid, my alcoholic companion, is torn between the need for sleep, and the need to finish his drink. His whole arm shakes as he tries to drain his glass. Aware of his predicament, he offers me a self depreciating smile, tears well...
I am a stickman drawn in an arthritic right hand, a mindless mannequin. My innocent self gets trapped half way down and cannot speak. The number stamped on the luggage label around my neck has reduced each time I notice it. I have to get to a telephone, so I am binding my knees together with my belt and my laces, inching my way to the phone box on the corner of Pork Hill and North Road. But if I open my eyes too wide, the sun gets into my head and I have to start again.
And I gaze down at my feet to see that I am wearing these awful black plastic slip-on shoes, and no amount of straightening my trousers can hide the fact that my socks are white.
We arrange to meet, but only in secret. And follow me three streets until you speak to me. Maintain a sense of adventure at all times. Meet me at seven. Follw me three streets until you speak to me.
She makes a fist, down by her side, screws up her face, narrows her eyes; shaming him down into himself. All of our innocent looks have gone, packed away, never to return. And it is only a matter of time, maybe less than a day, before the world comes crashing in around us. And we exhaust ourselves with the expectation and we never really sleep.

 

 

 

written and assembled by rollo © escapeart 2001

embarrasing contributions gratefully received

mart

gilbert

lee 'brenda' hadlington

jaqui potatoes

all others anon

 

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