' T H E E N D S O F T H E B O T T L E '
'A drink a day keeps the joy away' - Dad told me, as he downed the rest of his famous grouse.
Smacking his arm across the door, falling to the floor as he cried out in pain I looked into the eyes of the grouse as the bottled rolled towards me. Seedy, Beady and Mona Lisa-esque. I blamed this little grouse for all my misery.
It’s not his fault I thought, it’s the illustrator who created him, to lure people in, he had no part in the role he has been destined to play.
Did he just..? Yep... Dribble now rolling down his chin as he incoherently mumbles my name. I wonder who decided this fate for him?
I am looking around searching for the wall to throw my shit at, hoping it might stick. Blame is easy and everywhere, in everyone. Take responsibility, take control. My mantra for this moment rung around my head like a yoga teacher telling you, to ‘just... relax’ when your torso feels like it will rip in two.
Being born... I didn’t have the choice. He said it was unplanned, that, aged 2 she left because I arrived, two years late, but Mum's arrival came as quickly as her departure. I wonder what she felt when I was inside of her. Could she taste me? Sense me growing, maturing from foetus to a um... foetus with finger nails? If I had consciousness I would have used those nails to claw my way out, alien style.
I took the empty bottle to the pan on the stove and began my methodical peeling process. Removing the label with the utmost care. Ready to add to my montage of crazy, something I hope the paramedics will smile at when they find me on the bedroom floor. My ode to the Grouse.
I reflected on the speed at which the famous grouse is brought. Consumed and turned into a sick but reliable method of easing my pain. Everything else follows the same pattern… finish/leave as soon as it begins/arrives. Unfortunately though not the things that would lend well to this neat system. My depression, the sense of worthlessness, fear of loosing the only monster I have. Footprints moulded into aged concrete. Whose to blame? The builders or the size 7 man with a mark to make in this world
Dad makes a noise again, at first I think he says ‘find the tree nut! I wonder what a tree nut could look like, I think about crushing it in my hand and sprinkling it on my porridge. Ah 'time to clean up’ he repeats ss he gestures to the bottles not knowing I have already commemorated them on my bedroom wall.
The empty ones I use as candle holders on my windowsill each with a different coloured candle. I let the wax drip to the floor where a rainbow pool has forms. In the throws of an acid trip its the most beautiful sight, sober it upsets me, that’s probably why I leave it there.
I choose to leave it there, muddled on the floor, confused and beautiful and like my dad, it upsets me but I choose to leave him there.
I light an incense stick, and a joint and as I look around my room I remember that all we have is creation. Creation of thought into action. Grouse into wallpaper, candles into pools.
We have creation and choice at our finger tips, us the lucky ones. We get to thrive to create, not just survive and yet we choose to lye on the floor, dribble over ourselves and them blame our each other for our despair.
Who decided this for him? Surely no man would choose this existence but this existence is the envy of millions.
I find peace in his suffering, insight in his pain and I remember that its just another Tuesday night at home, and we are the lucky ones.
Goodnight friends, I smile towards the wall, and nod to my pool of rainbow wax'