Edith Neurotoxin’s Paradise Pissed

In the summer heat the crowds spilled out up through the double swing doors, propped open, and spread across the tiny square. I elbowed and struggled my way down into the deep shady recesses of The Bordello. Dolly and the Marquessa were snuggled in the shadows, chatting and giggling, hugging each other and weeping with merriment. I was already turning on my heels. “Bella! Bella!” Dolly called after me. She was waving a xeroxed copy of something. “The deal has worked out. I’m going to be working the ‘Mr.Smiths’ with the Marquessa. A double act, like we’re sisters.” I was feeling a bit sick in the heat, so I barged my way back out into the blinding sunlight. Dolly was still with me “This is the story I’m going to tell. I wanted you to be the first to read it. Even the Marquessa hasn’t seen it yet. I’m showing it to her at script meeting next week I’ve written the details on the back there. Will you come with me?” But I wasn’t listening, I needed to be on my own, quick. I wandered aimlessly with a ripped carrier bag of dirty linen, seeking anonymity in laundrettes, not wishing to go home.

Finally I settled down in a park, and through heavy dark sunglasses I read Dolly’s script

Under The Surface.

I saw it with my own eyes. I don’t know what I saw, but I have to believe it, what ever it was, and how ever long ago it was. It was a long time ago, but I remember I saw it. When I was a child of six, and I had mum, dad, older brother and sister.
I shared a room with my brother. My sister, being the only girl, had her own room, she was the oldest. Much older. Me and my brother were closer, maybe only 5 years apart, but my sister was maybe 7 or 8 years older than me. She slept in a different room, came and went at different times, I never knew her well. I felt closer to my brother. My sister seemed like a grown-up, an adult woman to my six year-old eyes.
What I saw is difficult to recall in detail, not because it was so long ago, but because I have always tried not to remember it. Because I didn’t understand it. Now I want to remember, because I need to find some sense it. I need to know if I understand it yet.
That year we went on holiday. I don’t think my sister wanted to come with us on holiday. Now I remember there were lots of rows with my parents, but I didn’t notice at the time, my sister didn’t speak to me much, she didn’t speak to anybody much. I don’t remember her doing or saying anything much that holiday. Except for that one day.
We were on the beach, as usual, except this day my sister was with us. I remember her suddenly jumping up off the sandy beach blanket and enthusiastically challenging me and my brother to a race into the sea. Frankly, she startled me, frightened me. She wasn’t usually so boisterous, I preferred her sulking. I ignored her for a while. So did my brother, he didn’t want to race with her anyway, she was bigger than him, she’d easily win, she always won. I think that’s how he saw it. I was just frightened by her. We ignored her.
Eventually my parents intervened and ordered me and my brother to race her into the sea. I started running as fast as I could for the shoreline, but my brother and sister weren’t really running after me. They were sort of jogging, arguing. I just kept on running.
They overtook me just as I reached the waters edge, splashing me and knocking me down. I began to bawl my eyes out, hoping they’d stop shouting and comfort me. They ploughed on into the sea, yelling, throwing punches at each other, leaving me on my arse in the shallows trying to rub sand and salt-water out of my eyes.
When I finally stood up to look for them, they seemed to be far out at sea. I couldn’t hear them anymore, but I could see them far out, up to their shoulders in cold seawater, grappling, struggling, twisting.
Then they went down.
Splashes rose from the surface, once or twice, but I couldn’t see them anymore. They were under the surface of the sea, kicking and punching and biting. Swirling in elegant patterns of bubbles in green window-pane of water. A fight to the death. Maybe. I was alone staring out at the vast empty seascape of the ocean, huge waves rolling in the sea misty distance, the sun, a great orange globe sinking behind a bank of incoming mist, catching pink and ochre in the scattered evening clouds and jet-engine smoke-trails.
Suddenly my brother burst up from the tranquil surface of the water, as if propelled, flying backwards out, thrown five feet through the water, crashing with a huge splash back down under the sea.
Stillness of sunset dropped over the horizon.
Then he rose back up and bobbed statically in the ocean, scanning the sea for a long time. Maybe he was watching the sunset, like I was.
Finally he turned heavily and swam unevenly back to the shore.
He was running, stumbling towards me on the shore, I heard him shouting
“Run, for fucks sake, get outta here”
It was an accident, not a common one, just a horrible one. I never saw my sister again.
After that my brother became quiet and withdrawn, like my sister had been. And as time passed he moved into her vacated bedroom, and he became even more distant from me.
A lot of unaccounted for time must have passed in this way, because I then have memories of him later, his hair much longer, spending hours alone in his bedroom or in the bathroom preening, sulking in the garden in my sister’s sun dress, arguing with my parents in the kitchen late at night. My brother seemed to become my sister, seemed to take on her traits, routine, appearance, her clothes and jewellery. He was different, like a grown-up woman to me.
He was removed from school and a psychologist suggested sending him away from the family. He agreed to go and live with my grandparents in Sidcup.
The day that he left he ignored me, sullenly leaving with a small vanity case containing a change of my sister’s underwear. He had a single ticket to London and a transfer to my grandparents’ house. But he never made it to Sidcup. He phoned Mum and Dad from London, to tell them he was okay and this was goodbye. I never saw my brother again.
I don’t suppose I really know what I saw at all, I didn’t really see anything that day on the beach. Whatever really happened, I didn’t see, it happened under the surface, under the sea, deep in the dark of the ocean, while I was blinded by salt water. I still don’t understand yet.

It was sunday, and I was late again. I was reading Dolly’s script, to check I’d got the meeting place right.
The eternity heavy slow movement of dark wood and brass rotating doors spin in soporific circles, delivering me into an age-old hotel lobby off the high street. I gaze dumbfounded around the vast cavern inside, from the nicotine brown ceiling, the throb of the lighting barely piercing the gloom, to the arrangements of low-slung leather chairs, hardwood circular coffee tables and the polite coughing of the aging patrons desiccating in air dark with constantly re-respirated smoke of century old acrid cigar. I slipped into the vacant seat beside Dolly, they had already begun to discuss differing levels of reality and authorial identification in specific literary texts.
“No No No, you’re wrong!” screamed the Marquessa “If you tell the story as its written, and I’m supposed to be your sister, then people will automatically think the story is about me” “But it’s obvious that I wrote the piece in the first person using a fictitious authorial voice” “I think it’s quite clever” I chipped in. The Marquessa glared at me “If you can’t say anything useful, then don’t say anything at all” She snapped “But she’s right” Dolly was continuing “You said to write a story about a sister…” “And you said…” “And I said I didn’t have a sister…” “And I said…” “And you said it doesn’t have to be true” “And that’s exactly what she did” I chipped in again. “When I said write a story about your sister that isn’t true, I meant something like I..oh, I don’t know…I remember when…da-di-da-di-da..you know the kind of thing…blah blah…” It was rapidly turning into a blood bath Dolly says “I didn’t realise that when you said I you really meant I and not the not-I that is the I in the Universal-I. I don’t think you’re capable of separating the egotistical from the transcendent. Can you run that past me again?” I stood up and staggered to the lavatory.

I sat with my head in my hands, watching plot-lines spiral off in a myriad of oxymoronic conclusions. The sun set burning weak yellow into my eyes, rainclouds bursts furiously in the last rays. I looked behind me. “Looking for rainbows?” Asked the Bigman. “Always” I replied. He points me to The Cavern of Forgotten Dreams, there’s nobody around and I slouch into a corner. Mimi’s lurking in the shadows. I said “Hola chica”, She replied “You are Spanish” in English, I nodded and left it at that, I didn’t fancy chatting anyway. Mimi performed some amusing mimes, an attempt to engage me in conversation “Horses? Do you understand horses? Horses? Do you like horses? Do you know horses? I like horses. Can you get me some?”. Then Mary-Jane arrived and I escaped Mimi’s attention. “Where have you been, sister?” Mimi yelled across the empty bar, “Killing swine” Mary-Jane replied. “Hail Sonja” they both called as Sonja appeared in the doorway “Where have you been?” “A sailor’s wife had chestnuts in her lap, her husband’s gone to Aleppo, and the rump-fed ronyon says ‘Arroint thee, witch’ .So I said ‘In a sieve I’ll thither sail and over his head I will pale, weary seven nights times nine, shall he dwindle, peak and pine’ “. The three wise women laugh at this “For though his boat can not be lost, yet it shall be tempest-tost. Look what I have here” Mimi and Mary-Jane were clambering all over each other in the excitement “Show me! Show me!” Sonja hushed them with a wide sweep of her arm, in her hand she held a small blackened tin, easing off the lid she showed the contents to them, paused for effect. “Here I have the pilot’s thumb, wrecked as homeward he did come”. They all three howled, their laughter rang through the empty bar, coarse, abrasive cackling.
I slip away through the shadows and wander off to the Doc’s nearby consulting room where I knew I could settle down for a civilised afternoon of chemical education.
“The time has come” the Doctor said “To speak of many fears, of skips and tricks and acid trips, and whether walls have ears”, but I wasn’t listening, I’d begun to notice a swirling orange mist, spiralling in across my vision, blinding me with mind-colour, superimposing another time and another place. Negotiating the Madrid metro, the dull sweaty air on my skin, the breathless crowded corridors packed with wild-eyed jabbering bodies of people. Up escalators around blind corners up cracked steps and out through creaky metallic glass doors, exit exit exit and out. The cold twilight breezes like a glass of cold water thrown in my face. I stand momentarily disengaged in the cavern of Castille Square. The huge sloped leaning twin Europa Towers there rising out of the gloom, sharp neon street lights punctuate and accentuate the vast darkness of the towers. Rising up at gravity defying angles, the empty towers printed intensely black against the velvet blue early evening sky. Awesomely still monoliths lurking impassive over the manic distressed crowds jostling for rush-hour buses in the confusion of the station.

As I floated in and out of the softening reality of Doc. Gordon Tripp’s Laboratorium he related to me the story of his first wife, the woman who had first turned him on, tuned him in and then dropped out of his life. His old friends still referred to her as the Acid Queen. “At some stage, I don’t remember quite when I first noticed it, but she underwent some sort of spontaneous internal combustion, she seemed to think that she was burning up from the inside, “I’m on fucking fire!” She would often scream out in the middle of the night for no apparent reason.
She began to ‘write’, bizarre prose-poetry, peppered with unnecessary expletives. Like this piece” The Doc sneered, tossing a sheaf of paper into the air.
I caught two sheets of the manuscript as they fluttered to the floor. I began to read…

Edith Neurotoxin’s Paradise Pissed All reality becomes persecutory.

This is a testament to the terror, harrowing persecution and gross violation of human rights that I have been subjected to these past years.
I trust that you will show this document to no body until after my (doubtlessly suspicious and sudden) death ; my life is in danger if THEY discover that I have written to you. I am already guilty of thought crime and now fear further recriminations.

The facts are as follows :
The secret police acting on information gathered from mind control, followed me, shaking with numb cold, dragging on a cigarette for sympathy, the morning after alcohol sick and shame. THEY inserted a foreign object, a so-called brain transmitter into my head through the right nasal passage. THEY tried to place me in a mental hospital, I resisted and so THEY recruited my husband as a double agent to spy on me. THEY used radio hypnotic intercerebral control and electronic dissolution of memory, and micro-technological stimulation of the brain, that constitutes what is included in biotelemetry, the complete mind control. The full monty. Sleeping the passed out late sleep. Living the daily pissed-up death, their micro-frequencies affected my speech, balance and judgement. In wakeful sleep I wander, lead-limbed and slow-motion living compressed behind the thick pint-mug bottom. Duralex tattooed across the sky. Destiny, my evil destiny, lay in wait for me again! Hypodermic on the bathroom shelf. Heavy but unable to sleep I die into the darkness crushing unconsciousness that is called after hours. Many transmitters were implanted in my head, which are active day and night, year after year. I watched my vomit flare out and splash into the gutter, the bubbling gushing puke pushed itself through my right nostril, throat and mouth, up out, oh look! I’m vomiting gloriously. My mental and psychological abilities have been greatly altered, these transmitters have greatly changed my life in many ways and torment me through their constant use. The pain was so great, the pain was so intense that I screamed. THEY controlled my laughter, my thoughts and caused pain to various parts of my body. How did I end up home, a can finished fizzing stale on the bedside table? Mute flakes of blood under my fingernails, a stinging silence in my memory. Sometimes voices can be heard in the head from the effect of microwave pulse radiation which causes acoustic oscillations in the cranial cavities. Single stop frame image flashes in and out of focus, pink lumpy vomit pouring into the pan, or an alleyway, or somebody else’s floral sofa.
I was used as a guinea pig for weapons of ultrasonic electromagnetic field acoustic and death ray type, my central nervous system has been seized so THEY can control my brain with microelectronic technology. Symptoms of ultrasonic radiation are headaches, dizziness, honed instruments of surgical torture, desire, love, disorientation, visual impairment and death. The finest pointed needles known to humankind, intricate filigree razor blades, degeneration of the intellect and a long thin double-edged dagger handle like a lopped off cock encrusted with bloodstones, flaming needles down the spine and visceral pain, cauterising befuddled nerve endings. In a nebulous confusion THEY forged their name on my burnished skull, burnt red hot commandments inside my eyelids so that I know them even when I sleep. This can shatter all organised activity, these weapons introduce chaos into ones life. THEY laid me down crumpled broken and arse-shafted me with the dagger THEY called love. I woke into one drug stained day after another. It started with pains in the back, which rendered me bedridden, and so the patterns and urgencies of drug abuse determined the state of my mind, I needed only to read the label on a pill bottle. From then on strange phenomena were observed in my room, light would sear through the walls, a gaping hole in reality, shooting stars hovered above his head. Papers stapled to the walls rolled themselves up, teaspoons and later dessertspoons went missing, paper wrappers tumbled to the floor, I lived in dread of pricking myself on poisoned needles. Feelings of burning heat, spreading through the skull, into the mouth searing through lungs. Several people noticed that they felt unwell after spending even a short time in my presence. From the corpulent genital bursting excesses of christmas to the tight-lipped brutality of march’s drugged but not pleasantly snatches at reality.
It is completely unthinkable to live this way. Truth drug leaks through the blood brain barrier, and the headaches, mute flakes of blood under my fingernails, arms bloodied and bruised. The frequencies affected my neurological functions, my cognitative abilities, even my memory became impaired. I woke into one drugged stained day after another, single frame stop image flashes of persistent brutal intensity. I suffered amnesia when ever I entered the room, words spun unasked into my mind, digital implant suggestions centrifugally flung themselves against the walls of the derelict house inside my skull. I began to suffer a damning and vibrant ache through my bones and an almost permanent immobility, flu symptoms and uncontrollable shakes, sudden blindness, the loss of whole days, twenty four hours at a time. Even the shortest possible time in the room brought on an attack. I could not see an end to their telebionic psychic surveillance psychosomatic onslaught, I left my husband.
I have gone my separate way, where Lethe, the river of oblivion rolls her watery labyrinth, whereof she who drinks forthwith her former state and being forgets.

The drugs are in the green cabinet.

Pray to god THEY do not find me.

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One response »

  1. Pingback: Thee Twisted Times Ov Bella Basura | Thee Twisted Times Ov Bella Basura

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