Marina Benjamin’s feedback-looped response to Life Ain’t no Musical

Thoughts Reconstituted from a Randomised Mapping of Words

1

Safe as houses? I know, I know….not you.

But I am safe. Inside my four-walled fortress, my roof overheadmy hearth aflame,and my fridge nicely stocked.

Don’t forget hot and cold running water.My utilities – the supply of which legitimates me when I go to the bank and open an account.

Don’t slip up on the soapy cleanness of my floors.Don’t sit on my freshly ironed bed sheets.Don’t look at me as if I was guilty.Don’t force me to think that one day, maybe, this comfort might end.

Like it did for you.

The wheel has to turn. But should you get off on the upswing or the down? And who will break your fall?Protect your skull from cracking and your soft brain oozing.You can only hope.

* * *

I can’t tell what your feeling.But I know what your thinking.We’re wired the same way, you see.Same neurons firing,same nerves tinglingBut I’m nerve-wracked and you’re nerve wrecked,defeated in heart and soul.

2

In the beginning, you say, was breath, then rhythm, then words.But what about mother’s milk, the love and the nurture?Didn’t you get some of that?

You want, want, want,I have, have, have.But we both know it’s not as simple as that

You talk of universal law.Is that the law of the jungle,or book law,or religious law?Sharia -ah -ah -ah

What of story telling?You don’t say anything about the story of a life: Folk loreYou say every journey has a beginning, middle and end.But life’s a journey, too.And it can trace a jagged arc, with precipitous peaks and fearful troughs, nasty turns of fortune, hopeless turns of the wheel.

Where does the pattern lie, within the jumble of abstractions we work with to find meaning in our lives?Is it in the eye of the beholder, or in the random beauty of the lottery ball machine?

Number 12, dig and delve, drop out of school, play the foolNumber 48, remember and negate, wipe out the pain, try again

You want to be free from anger and the empty soul, Well, me too.

* * *

I see you and I don’t see you. Do I know you?I know that I’ve known people like you. But yours is a face that swims, its features jiggling and muddying, evading recognition. It’s a face I can’t read.

Like a closed book. The synapses fizz but don’t connect.You’ve learnt to hide what you’re feeling, of course. So you can survive the streets and the cold, the stupid dangers, and the hard unyielding faces that belong to passing traffic.

3

When you look in the mirror you try to fit in,But I long for my reflection to misbehave. To float away up towards the ceiling, like some malevolent sprite, then fix me with an impish grin.

Ooh, that would feel good. Is that what they call subjective dissonance?

I know you’ve been travelling.You look time-worn, weather beaten, life-whipped.But I’d like to travel, too,And I don’t mean Thomas Cook it.

I want to travel beyond the confines of my precinct.Feel the seasons change, greet the elements,stop the clock, jump off the conveyor belt.Leave the race to the rats, and start again.

You should focus on the future, maybe.Dream up a new beginning.The wheel will turn.I’ll help you climb.

You ask me to sing with you,but I’m too shy to sing.So I’ll whisper.Give me your ear and I’ll pour in what I feel.

{the following should be read in a whisper}

You think I’m alright jack, with my snail’s shell into which to retreat. And I won’t justify myself to you.

Won’t get un-housed to make us equal in the eyes of jungle lore.

But I won’t rebuff you either. I won’t say ‘there’s a lot you don’t know about owning a house.’I won’t whine about mortgage payments and leaking roofs.Won’t tell you that ownership is a burden.I won’t complain about mowing the lawn, painting the plasterwork, keeping the windows clean. And, oh, the difficulty of finding reliable workers.

I won’t condescend.

You ask me to sing with you.But I can’t hit the right notes, somehow.Not the way I can with words.So I’ll whisper a secret that is seldom shared.

Owning a house is like a small kind of dying. A dip in the embalmer’s oil.A move from light to shade, An entombment. It’s an end alright, but it’s no achievement.A whiff of the mausoleum seeps inside my four walls, and my roof, my vibrant green garden and my constant tending. An acid tang, suggesting decay.

* * *

Now I recognize you!But I can’t remember your name. Wait a minute, it’s coming. It’s at the front of my head, it’s bristling my cortex, tipping and tripping over my tongue. I know I’ve seen you before, but your name….Gray matter, white matter, what’s the matter?I know I’m tartling, but bear with me.

No. Can’t do it.Sorry.

What is your name?