ELEMENTALS

I often see her in music like this.  Moving between the beats, the flickering of neon strobes.  Square light-drops rain down.  Across the walls.  Down the floor.  Moving arms rolling to the sound of bass.  She’s like an apparition, skipping and rolling to broken beats, a stone being propelled by moving water, deep down.  Rapidly receding into darkness.  But for now; for now she’s lying here, beside me on her bedroom floor, and she’s as real as this cigarette burning between my fingers.  She leans back, and I breathe out.  Listening to her music.

  “What tune is this?” I ask.

  And she lights up.

  Martine’s lying with her back against the wall.  Her right arm resting on the foot of her bed.  Between us is an ashtray.  We stare at the vinyl spinning at the other end of the room.  She takes in some smoke.  Her thin shoulders shrug.  Not in answer to my question; her hand is flicking over the ashtray.

  “Roller’s Instinct,” she says.  “The Mutant.”

  She exhales.

  I follow the movement of her smoke, past small pictures housed in crude, wooden frames.  Abstracts of eyes and ears.  A pair of parted lips.  Teeth lost in sequences of red.  A silver cup beside dried flowers on her desk.  I know it contains residue of burnt incense, because the smell of jasmine and patchouli’s strong.  She has a sculpture on her bedside table.  It’s made of broad metal strips, twisted to form a rough definition of a human head, the space between each strip widening for the eyes, the nostrils, and the mouth.  Giving form to empty spaces.  And my fingers begin to trace a pattern on the worn and faded rug I’m lying on.  Red frame with spiralling yellow and blue colours.

  I tell her this is the only music I know, that if you stop up your ears and just watch the people dancing, you’d swear that they were each dancing to something different.  But Martine’s eyes are closed.  And she’s swaying to beats.  She’s smiling, but saying nothing.  And I know the feeling, of settling into sound.  It’s like you’re dreaming.

  And she asks me: “What are you thinking?”
  Of apparitions.  But I tell her I’m thinking of dreams.

  Now the system has picked up on a new tune, and it’s one that I recognise.  It’s Skanna’s ‘Find Me’.  Martine gets up slowly.  Moving toward her desk.  She stands there for some time.  And I watch her.  Fishing through her jacket pockets, and finally turning.

  “Here,” she says with a smile, and places some more stars in my hand.  “This should help you find those dreams.”

I let the moment continue a while longer.  It’s a moment that is nothing.  I think about the smoke and the cigarettes, her smiling young face, and then I slip them in and down, and I’m ready to re-enter

 

the flowing river of ash-trayed tables

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              that broken world of bass and strobes

 

turning off my sound system.  I feel energised.  Grab my pack of cigs and matches, throw my turquoise sweater on, straighten its hood, and I’m ready.  Anything else?  Money.  I tuck some in my pocket.  Enough to get me through the door is all I need.  I pull my jacket back on, scan my room once then tap Flynn lightly on his knee.

  “Let’s go,” I say, and he gets up, having swallowed his stars.

  Lights out, door shut, Locked.  We’re off.  The streets are packed tonight, cars parked everything.  That’s a good sign.  A good vibe in the air, like beats one can almost dance to.  My hands in my turquoise pockets, wrapping my sweater tightly around me.  I breath out and say it’s cold tonight, and Flynn agrees.

  He has a ciggy burning close to his lips, a pinpoint of light that differs from those shining down the rain-drenched street.  In colour and texture, more real, it fades with the outpouring of smoke.  And I’m beginning to like the sound of my sneakers on this wet tar.

  We pass by an old restaurant on the corner.  Lamplight-lit an eerie white, inside as bright as yellow.  Waiters—not to be confused with people—walking up and down as if in some kind of submarine, and I say hey Flynn, I used to work there.  The two of us walk slower, looking.  Flynn says we should go take a look inside, but now I don’t think that’s such a good idea and we carry on walking.  I tell him about the time Renny and Alix and me were going—and he seems different, offish—and I say is something wrong? but he says no.  Well, Renny, Alix, and me were on a massive acid trip, but I never listen to Alix, especially on acid.  So I went to work, and what an experience cos everything smelled so good.  I was leaning over people’s plates and asking if their meal was fine.  I swear that peas and carrots have never looked better together on a plate before.

  Flynn’s not saying anything, just walking.  So I say nothing, too.  And we carry on walking with only my sneakers sounding.  I’m thinking that maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned Renny, but that’s dumb.  Why not?  And I’m thinking, Martine, don’t let him put in you in a bad mood now, just when you’re feeling happy.  It’s none of his business and it’s over anyway, so just carry on walking.

  And we do.

  And it all fades as the beats of distant drums grow louder to a pumping rhythm as we approach Syzygy.  Greens and blues and yellows tinting the windows from within as strobes flicker, with the shapes and familiar shadows gathered at the door.  I feel freer already, and Flynn is lagging slightly behind.

  Alix’s at the door, as always.  Smoking spliff and blending.  She’s all teeth and laughter and smoke.  A big smile, we hug.  Hey, Flynn, she says, and they hug, too; but he is somewhere else.  And Alix laughs.  Starts talking.

  “Renny’s inside.  He’s been moping around, looking miserable.  I think he’s missing you,” she says with her eyes beaming me.

  And I say good for the little fucker, lighting myself another ciggy, because Alix always gets me started.  Doorman joins us with a smile and an offer of some candy.  But Flynn and I are too starred up and Alix is off her rocker anyway, with or no, so we say save some for later for when we’re coming down, and Alix laughs some more.  Doorman says the turnout’s good.  And from the vibe emanating from behind the black sheet, he seems right.  So I say later to Alix, and move through the darkened doorway, into blackness.

  And sound.  Pulsating beats passing through air, through neon light and darkness.  No empty spaces, a movement of people, like a black tide to get lost in, of familiar faces.  And I’m moving, too, my feet cutting jagged steps to those beats.  My arms weaving through rhythms, tracing patterns in the air.  Becoming real as I move with the tide, lost as I swim through the sound.

Sandro’s playing his main tune.  With one ear to a headphone, he cuts from ambient to breakbeat.  And then back again.  The tiny light playing over the turntables.  His fingers tapping cutting rhythms over the vinyls.

  I see Renny sitting, not far off.  He’s lounging on the sofa against the far wall, watching.  And I don’t think he’s seen me, cos he’s not looking my way.  So I carry on dancing, but with my eyes peeling his way every so often, just in case he glazes me.  And then he does.  And his eyes do glaze over so that I look away.  Angry at having been caught watching him.  He remains seated, however.  And I spin away, between moving bodies, deeper onto the dance floor.

  Nothing but sound now.  Arms and bodies.  Beating against me.  The strobes flickering into a dizzying kaleidoscope of colours.  Making all movement still.  And I’m sweating.  Levelling now.  I start outward, towards the staircase at the far end leading to the toilets.  Sandro looks up from his deck.  A wink and a smile.  He knows.  I make my way up the narrow staircase.  My hand feeling the few remaining stars in my pocket.

​

SHIT HAPPENING

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it says on the door, so I wait.  Standing in the narrow alcove and thinking thank God Renny didn’t get up, or I didn’t go to him, that we’re surrounded by music, and yet playing it out in silence.  Much easier that way.  Cos no one gets hurt.  Just a cold, comfortable numbness that’ll eventually fade.  The bolt on the door kicks back and Dreadlocks steps out, waving a hi in my general direction.  I’m in no mood, so I half-smile back at him and make a move through the open doorway.

  Finally alone, with an even number of stars in my hand.  Make a wish, Martine.  And then down.  I take in some water, swish it around in my mouth a little.  Then let it follow the stars down.  I stare back at my mirror-self.  Dribbles of water on her chin.  And I didn’t realise her eyes were so muddy-brown.  I look closer.At her pale lips and skin.  And this is me, I think.  This is all that I am, all that they want.  Except for Flynn.  He’s looking for something more abstract.  But that’s not what I am.  And then I’m heading back.  Descending.  Into the mass which Sandro is spinning.  Out of control.

  And as I spin, too, I see a man seated at the bar.  Long black hair and beard.  And earthy eyes.  Watching me.  Taking me in.  I stare back, but his eyes never waver.  They have settled on me, through the smoke from his mouth, and I’m feeling grounded and heavy.  I tell myself that it’s the stars.  That this will pass.  And it doesn’t, it stays with me.

  I look up.  Away.  At the periphery of the dance floor, I see Alix.  Laughing and dancing.  Doorman there, too.  And Renny, no longer sitting, but up and moving.  Slowly.  Without much energy.  Alix’s probably had that candy.  And Flynn.  Flynn’s at the other end, not dancing.  Sitting and watching.  All of them around me.  While I’m here spinning.  And starring.  And in all this time, his eyes never wavering.  He shifts on his stool, moves with my movement.  He stays with me

​

    with my hands in my turquoise sweater

 

                    And my hands now sweating

 

moving shadows on the wall.  The tinkle of glasses, the flow of conversations from nearby tables, of drinks being poured.  There is a low drum of voices behind resonant bass.  Shadows gather around me.  Seated at a table, sipping cool, iced drinks, the conversations flowing through me, the shadows moving over my hand.  I feel I’m connected to cold, wet glass.

  Martine’s off dancing somewhere, among the myriad bodies.  I see her from time to time between the flashes of strobe and limbs of light.  She gyrates off into the distance, and she is lost to me once more.  Somewhere beneath this there is a beat that resonates through me, through these moments, breaking through the shell of life.  Like how we got here.  That walk from her room, down the narrow streets packed with cars.  All has been compacted into a point in time, a nanosecond to be discarded and forgotten.  I sit back and relax.  Take in the flow.

  She gyrates into view again.  Big smile.  The look of bliss.  She drops onto the stool beside me, cigarette in her mouth and a box of matches in her hand.  The tip flares and she takes a drag, looking back over her shoulder from where she came.

  “Looking for someone?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “Looking for someone.”

  It’s not longer a question.  I know her too well, better than I know myself.  We share the same ghosts, and I can see she’s on the qui vive for one of them.  I try to break my connection to the shadows, to the conversations that don’t concern me.  This isn’t easy.  The voices have a way of conjoining, becoming one voice, like broken glass mingling with the pinpricks of light that move across the floor, across my hand.  They remind me of stars.  I wish that reflecting ball would stop gently turning.

  “Can we go now, Flynn?” she asks.

  “But we’ve only just arrived.”
  A moment ago it had seemed like days.  But now she’s looking earnest, and I’m fumbling for my jacket amid the stars.  She is standing, waiting.  Looking over her shoulder.  I finally extricate my jacket from where it had fallen.  We head for the door, pass through the draping black curtain.  Somehow I know or I feel

​

    it’ll continue raining light-drops

 

                through the early hours of the morning

 

as we’re making our way home.  Our shoes spattering on the wet tar with every step we take.  It’s quieter now, that early morning quiet when everything is sleeping.  Quiet except for the sound of our shoes and our breathing.  And I don’t feel like talking much either.  Scared of unravelling, like that sculpture on my bed-side table.  Empty eyes, ears, and nostrils, all the senses, when that is all that I am.  I tell myself again, I am not an abstract.  And I wish Flynn would hear.

  We pass by the old restaurant on the corner.  Lamplight-lit an eerie white, but now dark on the inside.  The submarine’s shut down.  All the people have gone home.  And now I so much want to take a look inside.  But Flynn’s no longer keen, he’s carrying on walking, not having noticed that I’ve stopped.  Turning.  I leave the old restaurant behind, and skipping over the myriad, reflecting puddles of water, move to catch up with him.

  The puddles at my feet: a reminder to take a shower when I get home.  When the music’s gone and I’m finally alone.  And stars will scatter through the spray, pure pinpricks of light, to be felt this time.  A tiny stream that’ll wind its way drainward, the water washing it all away, all the grime that has clung to me for far too long.  And standing naked in the shower, I will feel free, freer and cleaner than I’ve felt in a long time.

  We’re at my front gate, and I say goodbye to Flynn, and he stands there for some time as if he has something more to say.  But he doesn’t.  And realising the futility of it all, he finally says goodnight.  And feeling that maybe I owe him something, I give him all that I’ve got—the remaining stars in my pocket.  And I watch him as he turns away, retreating

​

    between the lights of the overhead street-lamps

 

                        into the cold, early morning darkness

 

while the vinyl keeps on spinning.  I’m lying here, alone beside my bed.  And outside it is still dark, though I can feel the new dawn coming.  I stub the last of my cigarettes out in the ashtray, considering the possibility of sleeping.  But I’m done with that.  And dreaming.  The bed itself is uninviting, and so I continue to lie here, counting the uneven number of stars she gave me.

  I wrap them in a piece of paper.  I fold it so they won’t fall out, and stick it in my drawer.  Crawling over to my system, I lift the arm and place it back at the beginning.  The same old tune starts playing.  And I think how this is the only music I know, that if you stop up your ears and just watch the people dancing, you’d swear that they were each dancing to something different.  Swaying to beats.  Smiling, yet saying nothing.  I breathe out.  Thinking about how often I’ve seen her in music like this.

 

…ends