Winter Solstice - Part II

The sun seemed permanently glued onto the horizon, the nights now warmer and rich with sea salt brazen on the breeze. He was deep in thought when two men arrived. The smaller, pudgier one coughed timidly, his cheeks burning scarlet and clashing with the tiny patch of off-white hair sitting crookedly on his head.
“Good morning…Harlowe Brown?” he inquired, peering down at this clipboard with squinted eyes.
“Yeah, that’s me.” Harlowe peered curiously up towards these two men in suits.
“We’re here on behalf on Mackay Council,” he continued, although this time rather arrogantly. “Our records suggest that you haven’t paid last month’s rates or the maintenance fee” he began, his eyebrows knitted together.
“What’s this about?” cut in Harlowe, who had noted the muted man’s uneasy glance, scribbling furiously every so often as he glanced towards the carpets, the windows, even walking outside to inspect the exterior. The sight of the dilapidated gutter, hanging dangerously from the roof, saw the man fanatically flooding the page with illegible scrawlings. He would softly shake his head, peer at the roof, down to the paper, and then inside towards Harlowe. “You’ve ignored the council’s letters.” The man retorted, equally as blunt in his reply. “You were formally required to contact us by January 1, 2006. Perhaps you require lessons on how to use that calendar” He dryly joked, signaling towards the wall behind him.
“Ok, yeah, so what now? I’m only a few weeks behind”
“- A bit over a month, actually” he corrected. “Anyways, we are here to let you know the gravity of this. If you still lag on these financial concerns, and we have to come back, legal proceedings will be underway.” Harlowe failed to absorb any particular detail, catching only snippets, rather bored of the statistics and dates drooping off the debt collectors tongue. He placed a thick stack of papers on top of Harlowe’s desk, his ceaseless chatter finally coming to a halt as he rounded up his porcine friend and headed out. Harlowe too, now weary with his nagging reality, decided to head out shortly after the departure of these unwanted guests.

Illy. Gotta see her for a sec. She’ll take my mind off it, somehow. She’ll chatter away for a bit. Fill me in on her writin’ and her cookin’ and that damn cat.

The beach buzzed with childish excitement, the heat radiating off the sand until simply focusing on the chaos below became excruciatingly painful. The faint sound of an ice cream truck immediately captivated pudgy-faced toddlers, who swarmed over their mothers, tugging and pulling until the women reluctantly gave in. From the pathway, the beach looked like a colony seized by an army of frenzied ants; the pale sheet below replaced by a tapestry of colour, with now burnt beauty queens blending perfectly with their fluoro towels. She wasn’t there though, he could tell instantly. Her retreat, the northern dune near the velvety rock pools, stood isolated and barren against the sea breeze. He stared towards the water, swirling black and foaming. He noted the calm patches, froth sitting peacefully on the surface. Invisible was the force beneath which battered seaweed against the shore. The shrubbery looked patchy today, as though it was somewhat barer. There was only one other place she would be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

And there it was. That smell. The smell of burnt butter and banana muffins, lingering on the air as if waiting to be savoured. He found himself standing under the peeling paint of the doorway, watching flour sift like snow into battered bowls, the sound of cracking egg shells and whirling cake mix failing to bow to the persistent chirp of the cuckoo clock. She had spilt the milk, the river of white liquid quickly absorbed by receipts, prescriptions and various novels which happened to be lying nearby.
“Isn’t it time for a break?”
She briefly looked at him.
“What would you know about cooking, anyway?!” She retorted, drowning in pots and pans, flour sticking to her cheek. Her face was dewy with sweat as she stood in front of the oven, one hand on her hip, and already forgetting his presence. It was as if, at times, she saw straight through him, his face familiar but meaningless. Judging by several ‘well cooked’ batches, he knew she had been fanatically playing Chef for most of the day.
“You love my cooking! I will bake this for everyone and everyone will say ‘Oh Illy, how well you cook! You must become a chef! You will be famous!’ More famous than anyone on television! And you will say Oh how I was stupid to have told you to go to bed! Because I will work for my cake, and tomorrow, I will buy a restaurant, in fact, I think they are going to call me tonight, do you hear the phone? If you hear the phone…” Harlowe strained his ears, but her mutterings faded as delirium spread across her face and jerked her body like a deranged puppet, furiously pulling more bowls out of the cupboard, spilling the milk on the floorboards, emptying the entire packet of sugar clumsily until it overflowed.
“Illy, s-stop…Slow down…What’s goin on? You busy?”
“Busy?! Busy! I’m simply over my head in orders! You wouldn’t know what busy meant! The director’s in tomorrow you know, for the pastry for his crew!”
Harlowe’s jaw dropped, his eyes protruding as he scanned the face of the woman before him.
Another concave cake, lumpy, sits by the sink. Black-topped muffins perched over the stove. The radio blared in her ears, the lights suddenly radiating a golden glow, a fairytale, as she danced through the kitchen, pouring milk and sugar into the plugged sink. Incoherent wasn’t the word. Harlowe stuttered, approached the kitchen bench yet stepped back as soon as Illy glared up at him.
“What are you doing, what are you doing?! Get out! I can’t cook with you looking on! I just can’t! Ok?” her voice had crescendoed, and she was waving her tea towel at Harlowe. He backed out of the kitchen and set out towards his caravan, with confusion weighing down on him, heavier even than the thick humidity engulfing the night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Days lazily stretched into months, and Harlowe convinced himself that God must have absently allowed the sands of the hourglass to coagulate. Weeks were expelled in clumps. Stringy segments of time trapped him in a web of oppression and constant angst.
Where is she?!

Day and night no longer felt like distinct opposites, as they sloppily melded into each other. Without her ceaseless chatter and careless visits time seemed to have halted to a grinding atrophy.

Sizzled skin faded, as though it had sacrificed its intense hues to the surrounding shrubbery, which now stood out like glowing embers against a charcoal sky. Walking up her driveway, he noted the newspaper colonies settling around the letterbox. Skeletal trees were surrounded by a sea of copper leaves, and every so often the wind picked up and gave flight to the bronze confetti. He knocked for a third time, dashing between the front door and adjoining window as if animated in a childish game, catching sight of skirts and stockings dangling morbidly on the clothesline. She was home. His voice, tainted by panic, rang in quivering tones.
“Illy!
Illy open up!
Right now, c’mon! Open this bloody door! I know you’re home!
Ignore me, aye!
Goddamn it! Illy I said now!”

Somehow, he had unconsciously begun to kick the bottom of the door in his state of acute frustration, unaware that she stood only centimetres away.
She did not need the metallic racket created by aged Blundstones, nor the dent it left behind. She persisted in ignoring him until his heavy sigh signaled defeat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The clock flashes at me. 3.47 am.
Bright red, flickering, a distress signal echoing through the night.
“Look at the time!” it exclaims, in a voice high-pitched and shrill.
What is its relevance?
There is nothing that defines this moment.
It is only a fragment of memory eclipsed by the coming of another.
“Look! Just Look!”
It irritates me, it nags like the rest.
It annoys me like that bundle of nerves attacking my door.
It restricts me.

I abruptly swing the clock around; here – nag the wall!
I snigger, and sink back down into the cheap cushions behind me.

This tortuous pain I’ve once gotten rid of. Yet when I did, it unveiled a hunger, an ache. It is this black cat of the shadows which I have grown to love; intangible, but as real as the wind.


I see it creep in,
Stretching its paws on the table,
Rubbing against the soft wood.
Green eyes shoot me,
Its claws revealed,
Teeth gleaming.
I encourage it,
cooing it;
amidst the fear is the rich promise of exalted emotion.

It pounces.

I find myself in a realm separate to this grayscale flatness,
Shattering the vials
Thoughts break free from sanity’s chains,
Shocking those who are poisoned
By custom and familiarity.

They are scared to face unbound emotion;
They inhibit tiny caves sheltered from the storms.
Laced with synthetic happiness,
Permanent smiles tattooed over tears.

There is always a battle between darkness and light
Both around me and in me.
The wind ruffles my page again, and darkness seeps in.

I wonder if the two are working in cunning unity?

This was indeed a game of endurance, and I felt myself succumb.

The gloom slowly dissipates
The tones of darkness fade into softer shades of gray for a mere moment.
I’ve decided to greet the onset of morn.



He stood against the wooden planks, pausing as he overlooked the endless sheet of sand stretched out before him. From this humble path above the shore, Harlowe watched her intently, as she ran her hands through the sand, sitting on the dunes and looking outwards. The sun peeked over the horizon, soon enough the navy velvet would begin to shimmer with the light of a new day. He was certain she had been awake all night, yesterday’s colourful wraparound served as indisputable evidence.. She wasn’t ignorant of the turning temperament of the tides; there was a precedent fury behind such beauty. He stood transfixed for quite a while, feeling the morning sun begin to provoke an uncomfortable sweat through his ragged flannelette shirt. His eyebrows creased as he watched from his niche, a secret lookout where the ugly fingerprint of prejudice faded from his knotty conscience. Despite the many thoughts swarming through his mind, caution disguised his affection as simple, lukewarm concern.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Hi Illy, need anything?”

Why are you following me Harlowe, with your dry voice, parched life and pity?

“No.”
“…It’s beaut here, isn’t it? Weather, and all” Harlowe queried.

No. It’s not “beaut” here. The sand is coarse today, grinding.
The sun burns.
The salt stings.
The seagulls screech, they deafen.
Now you’re going to try and pull me from the raging waves.
You and your naive might.
Can’t you feel that breath of wind from the wings of madness?

“I, do you…you should eat” He continued, aware of her silent scoff.

“Not hungry.”

You and your empty breaths, comfort starved.

“Well…Illy, I’ll be at the tavern. If you…when you…I’ll just….or you call…if you want…”

Choking on your words, as per usual.
These steel gray clouds hang heavy on the horizon, draining you out.

His sigh escapes, his mouth is dry, and the beach is a blur until he blinks. She is still the centre of this smudged picture, but now smaller, less vibrant.
Her hands grip the sand, clutching onto shambles.
They both freeze for a second, laughter resounds somewhere far off. Harlowe turns, shoves a cigarette between wrinkled lips, and forces himself to leave. His heart and her happiness elope, sunken together somewhere, an anchor in icy waters looking up towards the glassy surface.

Tiny stick figure fading across the sand, your footsteps washed away by misery, grey smoke rising and lost on the wind. There’s no direction now.
~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harlowe, sprawled out on the couch, had been aimlessly flicking through the channels. “An icy night forecast for the highlands, as a cold front is expected to sweep across later tonight. Its forecast to bring us some heavy rains and plummeting temperatures overnight, so rug up! Back to you Rhyse.” He had turned up the volume in hope that the monotone voice of the news reporter would offer him some comfort and drain his thoughts of Illy, and her sudden disappearance.

Happy-go-lucky Illy. That cheesy damn smile plastered ear to ear. Always laughin’ like the sun was shining outta her damn arse. So since when was she such a goddamn ice queen?

~~~~~~~~~~~~

He had been prodding at the remnants of a microwave dinner with revulsion, when an animated discussion and hues of colour suddenly caught his peripheral vision.
“We’ll get a patient order on this one, Jerry. Phone back McHill, tell him the complaint at…Mackay Tourist Stay is taken care of.”
The uniformed man muttered, taking a quick puff before he trod on the last embers of the cigarette butt. Harlowe reached for another swig of whiskey, attempting to paralyse the panic that was slowly but surely poisoning his thoughts.
He fumbled in the half light of his caravan, attempting to silence the blaring television. The remote’s batteries had died, and Harlowe kicked it across the room out of sheer frustration. He limped out of the caravan barefoot, his toe throbbing.
“What the hells going on?!” Harlowe yelped, staggering towards the two men standing cross armed outside Illy’s caravan.
“Residential complaint, buddy. You’ve got to be crazy if you’re going to let her roam around like this.” He pointed towards her. The fanatic figure flailed her arms, semaphores to some nonexistent entity. Desperate wails were accompanied with a dissonant symphony of profanities. She was screaming at someone with utter conviction, yet pointed at nothingness.
Harlowe squinted, the blackness of night flooded in around him as he attempted to identify these talking silhouettes and the agitated figure standing near. The pulsating beams shone on her pudgy yet distorted features, and any hope that it wasn’t her who was causing such commotion evaporated instantaneously.
“She’s just…moody! Sh-She’s… always been a little emotional…y-you can’t arrest her!...Can’t arrest her on the grounds,…on the grounds of being a woman!” urged Harlowe, attempting to conceal profound worry with dry humour. The drink was kicking in, and he almost choked on his laugh. The resulting snort sounded like a convulsive spasm had gripped his throat, leaving him speechless and gargling like a baby. The officer raised his eyebrows, peering up and down at Harlowe, who stood ridiculously before him in striped pyjamas.
“Significant risk to bodily harm. Look what she did to my leg! Stabbed me with a fountain pen and said ‘Told you not to interrupt, daddy , the Lord’s waiting for you’ ”
Sure enough, Harlowe peered down as the officer slowly revealed his calf, rolling the saturated leg of his pants up slowly, and grimacing every so often. Soaked bandages and coagulated blood were noticeable even in the darkness.
“Lucky we called the ambo for good measure. She’s a psycho! Felicity done me a few good stitches, but she says I gotta go get it cleaned up properly later.” He nodded towards the petite blonde leaning wearily against the ambulance.
“But…”
“Probably get a temporary patient order after this mate; she might be gone for a while.” He briefly gazed at Harlowe, before limping to the aid of his colleague, who was attempting to force Illy into the paddy wagon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Take her away! Dear Lord! Take her away now!” A mass of curly orange hair spat orders like venom, pointing towards Illy. This one tenant, wrapped up in a faded nightgown and furry slippers, snarled crooked incisors at the police. She peered into the open front door, hanging destitute on its hinges.
“Look at it! It’s a complete mess! I bet she has rodents of all sorts living there, not to mention the music, all hours of night!”

The caravan stood crooked and derelict. Although the same untamed wilderness waited inside, it no longer offered excitement and intrigue. The mess lay alone in cold light, the cat slumped over the books, peering outside as though it too was drained by melancholy.

Harlowe remained plastered, motionless, with both hands sunken into gritty pockets, scuffing his feet in the dirt. Breathing became a superhuman task; worry had constricted his chest and made him queasy. Outwards was the highway that delivered her into reality’s fierce arms. The moon swiftly peeked out from beyond broken clouds, but evaporated as quickly as it came, weaving a blanket of confused darkness in its absence. This early-morning commotion had shook awake the adjacent caravans, curious eyes now indiscreetly peeping from behind curtains. Words hung heavy, spoiling the air. A sigh of achievement leaked from ugly lips, as the wretch next door stood proud with her smug proclamation burning through copper eyes - “She’s gone.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

He stood over the stained sink, enveloped in the smell of old cat, tied to the ground by chains of unforgiving destitution. He knew not how long he stood there, under the bleached light and amongst the piles of impatient laundry crawling up his ankles. Smoke surrounded him like a malevolent spirit, swirling until it hit the ceiling, could go no further and descended again towards him. Several cigarette butts clogged the sink, ash smeared over the basin like an ugly, messy handprint left behind by a mischievous child. He added another to the pile, as he fumbled in the sterile light for the whiskey bottle left by the windowsill. He hungrily devoured the last drops, feeling it incinerate the back of his throat, longing for the pain to last a moment longer. The ticking of the clock was knocking at his head, poking him slowly and relentlessly, cresendoing until all he could hear was the tribal drumming resounding in his ears. He clenched his fist, now leaning over the sink, his unwashed hair plastered to his face, stubble marking the beginning of his spiral into desolation. The cat was meowing somewhere under his feet. Or was it under the mountain of clothes? Who knew, and at that moment he wished suffocation on the ragged beast, but knew he would envy it.

He waited for the water to turn a murky white, anticipated the steam, and submerged his head under the burning liquid. He would fight the numbness gnawing at his chest; escape the remnants of her littered carelessly through every corner. The initial soft pink of his face boiled with the water until it turned a furious red, his cheeks a fiery canvas, his nails etching sore details into the morbid artwork as he gripped his face with brittle hands. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted something glisten in the half light. He soon picked up the fragment of gold with shaking hands, which had been held fast to the basin by the soapy residue surrounding the sink. He glared downwards towards the sole lotus leaf earring drowning in his palm, clutching it firmly with both hands and pressing it to his chest. He bit his lip as if to repress the growing sea of emotion rising like a sudden tide, but only a moment passed before he threw himself back against the sink with all remaining energy, as if attempting to disperse the torment. He sunk downwards towards the frozen tiles, his back sliding along the metal, until he was nothing more than a mere clump at the foot of the sink, wildly weeping.
Another pile of frayed, worn-out rags.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The centre of the room was adorned with a humble mattress, and otherwise surrounded by a stark emptiness, padded walls, and a fan reverberating from the ceiling. This was a world, savage in its protection, a place of ravaging emotion soured by the stagnancy of oppression and authority. She wasn’t bohemian in a strict sense, yet she could never be moulded into the conventional cast. There was a rare mix of eccentricities that Harlowe could not rightly comprehend, as he remembered that face; a canvas of delusion tainted by the subtle presence of awe; strangely enough composing an individual which, in her blatant, raw existence, painted a concise picture of his reality.

Wiry blonde hair seemed to saturate every corner, untamed and unkempt, yet captivated him as she possessed a fragile gift that sowed life and vitality; futile soil alone not enough to restrict even this aged rose from full blossom. She was an animal out of territory. Euphoria had once stained her lips, ignited in deep turquoise eyes.
In times past, she never spoke.
She had sang, in a tone elevated beyond a midday sun.
To him, she was the language amongst silence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Here again I see,” the doctor muttered to himself, fumbling with documents as he peered through the window at the solitary figure. “She’s still refusing to take her meds, isn’t she?” The doctor inquired, now addressing Harlowe directly. A lingering silence followed, the thick tension pressing down on the sterile, disinfected air. Harlowe’s eyebrows creased, and wrinkles swallowed the leathery skin around his eyes. The thick fog which had clouded his thoughts had now dispersed, shedding a golden light on the shadows left by prior months.
“750 micrograms of Seroquel.
Twice daily.
250 micrograms of Lithium ; morning only.
She will get a break. She can go outside when the rest go for a smoko. ”

The doctor continued, his words quick and sharp; the smile appearing on his face only enforced the grey marble in his eyes. The fresh air was not a necessity, but a luxury. Was it cold impatience or simply the battle to stay sane? The doctor stood tall, yet seemed to question Harlowe through his wide-eyed stare. The beauty and ugliness of emotion served only to erase reason, and they both stood there shell-shocked, reminiscent of the drug-laced mass of flesh occupying the chair before them.
“She may seem…a little knocked out. She will recognise you, but I’m afraid her perception is…vague.” He concluded, running his hand through his mass of black curls.
Harlowe remained silent, staring through the small window into the unfurnished room. The doctor impatiently tapped his biro on the corner of his clipboard, unsure as to whether to repeat himself, deciding against it and instead hurrying off towards the next room.
Harlowe watched her. Her face, blurred silence. The doctors hover closeby.
She remains a dull pebble, skimming along the hospital waters until she sinks like the rest of them.

“Hi…Illy” his voice shook as he timidly walked towards her, the nurse quickly locking the door behind him. Illy momentarily looks up from pages of coloured scribble. Triangles, geometric shapes, all written with blunt pencil despite the sea of sharpenings littering the floor. Harlowe’s scanned the room, capturing a glimpse of her with eyes closed. A blank slate of nothingness remained, her mind lay buried beneath the rubble of sedated thoughts. Her once chaotic, exuberant imagination stretched lazily across her memory, refusing to budge, succumbing to sleep like an obese farmer yawning over too much wine and too little work. She would decay, yield no promise, her art would be nothing more than drought-stricken crops wilting under a merciless sun. Her eyelids flickered awake after a mere moment only to reveal all colour faded. Lifeless sockets glared back at him, abysses bordered by grey bags, skin seemingly suctioned onto her cheekbones, outlining every crevice of her sunken face. Her lips were the palest pink, sickly and chapping, her white gown hanging off her shoulders and blending with the pallid skin beneath.

Illy.
Bloody hell, Illy.
What have ya done?!
Left me. Left me again.
I liked your charcoal muffins, I did.
Liked the way ya sat there in front of that damn oven.
Always watching those precious cakes.
Goddamnit Illy!

“I”…she smiled again. “I drew this!” and with a flick of the hand, she held up a cartoon of a woman on the beach. The head was out of proportion, the legs stretched, the sun taking up the whole sky, the entire picture scrawled in red crayon, the lady’s face crossed out furiously in black. Unrecognisable. Onlookers smiled.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Harlowe sat on the edge of the step. A small man had emerged from the van parked before him, peering down towards his clipboard and towards the letterbox. He held the package in his hands, locked the door and approached Harlowe.
“Uhh…looking for an Illy Bowen? This is number 54, right?” he smiled, eyebrows half raised.
“Yeah, she’s not here.” Harlowe scuffed his feet, peering wearily towards the figure.
“Could you sign for her mate? Some package”
Harlowe nodded, pulling the clipboard towards him. “Thanks” the stout man smiled, quickly turning on his heels, & hurriedly returned to his car.

Harlowe weighed the yellow package in his hands, examining the stamp on the far right corner of the envelope and staring at the block letters peering up at him. ArtRush Poetry Prize. It was addressed to her, he thought, but he had somehow taken responsibility for both her caravan and cat in her absence. In that case, he surely must be entitled to look after the mail too. He slowly opened the package, feeling the air begin to nip at his cheeks. The enclosed letter fell onto his lap. He read the first few lines in their entirety.

“Dear Illy,
We hope this letter finds you well. We have tried several times to contact you by phone, however there is no response. We urge you to ring us as soon as possible and would formally like to congratulate you on being the recipient of the ArtRush Poetry Prize for 2006. We have a publisher lined up, ready to print, so please contact us soon.
Yours Sincerely
M.Mclocklen,
ArtsRush Board Director.”

The dusk was creeping in, the sky a melting pink against the bordering blackness. The cat crept out from behind the shrubbery, peering up at him hesitantly. He smiled briefly, before returning his attention to the package. He emptied the remaining contents onto his lap. Staring down at the brown hardback cover, he felt the cat intertwined between his legs, rubbing softly against his calf. He caressed its matted fur, and opened the book, the cat now glaring intently.

To Harlowe.