the ocean

by *seanfl





One of those English dreams

I asked you where to start my dream and you said “In the middle”. I never listen to you.






“Do not touch,” says the writing on my pedestal. People stand around and look at me as if I am a person. They read on. Now they all thinks that I was crafted by an unknown oriental master, that his firm hands shaped me into what I am now, a vase. I let them think what they want. People crowd around me, intrigued. They press the air closer and study the patterns on my sides. They say my patterns are flowers, warriors, princesses, faraway lands, epic battles, ancient deities and unintelligible writings all at once. They say that my lines intertwine, interfere, and intersect with each other, allowing everyone to see what they want, and not what is actually on my clay skin. I have never seen my own patterns and so I wonder if they lie. People stand together, surrounding me. They scratch their heads, necks, and cheeks; they whisper, trying to cover up their conversations with the backs of their hands; they look at me. When they cannot take the dizzying intensity anymore, they look away. It feels as if all their fingers want to touch me, hoping to alter my patterns at least by an inch or a sign, just to make sure that they are real. It is in their eyes: the doubt that I am a vase and not a girl, that I am not a girl who wishes to be a vase, or a vase which is thinking about being a girl in a vase museum. They try to make sense of that thought. That is the only thing stopping them from extending their hands and sweeping me off my pedestal onto the hard marble floor, created especially for shattering glass.



A child’s hand reaches to me and I feel myself shiver and shake. The hand hangs over me for a moment and then drops a piece of chewed gum into my inner emptiness.



I am nowhere.

The universe has probably created a little black hole especially for me.

I am trying to sleep, trying to fall asleep.

Oh, I am very tired.

Stupid sheep; they never help;

I cannot even close my eyes.



But I do feel like I’m missing something.

Probably a double espresso, but I cannot be sure. Perhaps a simple cappuccino.

It’s a craving. Yes, it’s definitely a craving.



Oh, I wish I could work for a nice old king with a good sense of humour.

We would drink coffee and tea during weekdays and play cricket on the weekends.

Once every month, we would play hide-and-seek in the palace.

Once every year we would go and live in a shack by the sea.

I would tell the king my wonderfully odd stories and little tales.

He would teach me how to look intelligent while having no idea of what is happening.

But I realize this is all just a silly fantasy: charming old kings with a sense of humour do not exist.

There is only one way out of this: I will have to make up my own kingdom.



But plans never work out. Either because we don’t follow through or they get lost on the way. Gosh, when will I fall asleep?



Do I believe in Gosh?

Wait, somebody else said that.

That’s not my line.

I’m not funny. I’m very tired. I’m old.

Growing old.

Like the tree I used to see all the time.

That tree was seriously funny.



You and I, we sit on a branch of a gigantic oak tree that has grown behind our country house for about a hundred and two years. I’m trying to guess how long it would take me to fall down and you are just lying on your branch, a few metres away, stretching and relaxing, whistling a tune about a monkey who wanted to buy bricks. Monkeys are way cool. “We’ll walk away into the cheapness of the night,” – you say, looking smug, looking like young Tom Sawyer. - “Don’t worry betsy, we’ll be alright.” Betsy is what you call me. You do not mean it as a name, but as a position, a calling, a type of friend, who does not believe in what you are saying, yet never shows it. I try to rid myself of these stupid pointless thoughts that prevent me from falling asleep. An even better idea would be to rid your careless head of ideas like that, but your head is too far in the clouds. I wonder if it’s raining up there.



My skin is bathing in the soft greenish sunlight and I enjoy it, like I always do. You do not focus on the details, you just cannot shut up. You ask me to run away with you to distant countries, of which I have never heard. You ask me to run away with you to the peaks of the highest mountains, where no lama would ever go; to isolated uninhabited islands, just to check if cannibalism was doing well; to uncharted jungle paths, which I blame for the sad fate of Doctor Livingston; and, for some reason, to an Armenian wedding, which I can only justify by the amount of singing and alcohol involved. Every day you ask me to run away with you, but you never act on it, we never leave.



Yesterday I made little wings out of colour paper and candle wax. I could fly away. You will be left here, sitting on this tree until five o’clock – the coffee break. I would go visit old granny Europe and take a few pictures of her with my trusty Nikon. You would not miss me and I would not miss you, since we never knew each other that well.



You are Frank, the hippie that I created in my head. You are my favourite character, my favourite dream… But wait, that means I am sleeping… slipping, slips, slippers… I never wear flip flops. Neither do you.



I jump off the tree and fly towards nirvana, where orange monks wonder around without a sense of direction, looking for their Llama.



I do not know why, but my spitefully sweet nirvana is full of slender white flowers. I have walked around them for more than fifteen minutes now, unable to bring myself to find out what they smell like. On one hand, my inner Alice is really curious about it. On the other, I read too many reliable books on Venus’ flytrap that attracts insects and then eats them, clashing its jaws, champing, chewing, and finally burping and opening up for another victim.



I think I’m being chewed. All the time.



I do not want to be the fly. I do not want to be the flower either. What I want is a little oxygen intoxication and a little soft feeling in my ear.



My ear is being whispered in. I am walking in the London Zoo with a miniature copy of Lewis Carroll on my shoulder. Carroll tells me his thoughts on life and sometimes nags about his sore throat.



“Now, then, you see, a dog growls when it's angry, and wags its tail when it's pleased. Now, I growl when I'm pleased, and wag my tail when I'm angry. Therefore I'm mad,” - he says matter-o-factly.

“I met an elephant once. He was too much into monologues. We never talked again,” - I reply and nod.



I nod. Carroll nods. The monkeys nod. The public nods. Time bends.

It is the first and last time, the “never again” time. Never again will I

forget my keys at home and try to break into my own house

feel Chanel #5 in the air around an expensive bathroom

scrumptiously inspect the sky for signs of recognition

steal a piece of your cigarette from a full ash tray

call my close friend and ask, “is it really you?”

grab my old life by the throat, leg or hand

listen to a band for five hours straight

taste the first snow of April 1997

see moments



I will again never. Time, again, never the last first

Time slo…w..l..y sto…p……...s.