Ouroboros

“The living being had no need of eyes when there was nothing remaining outside him to be seen; nor of ears when there was nothing to be heard; and there was no surrounding atmosphere to be breathed; nor would there have been any use of organs by the help of which he might receive his food or get rid of what he had already digested, since there was nothing which went from him or came into him: for there was nothing beside him. Of design he was created thus, his own waste providing his own food, and all that he did or suffered taking place in and by himself. For the Creator conceived that a being which was self-sufficient would be far more excellent than one which lacked anything; and, as he had no need to take anything or defend himself against any one, the Creator did not think it necessary to bestow upon him hands: nor had he any need of feet, nor of the whole apparatus of walking; but the movement suited to his spherical form was assigned to him, being of all the seven that which is most appropriate to mind and intelligence; and he was made to move in the same manner and on the same spot, within his own limits revolving in a circle. All the other six motions were taken away from him, and he was made not to partake of their deviations. And as this circular movement required no feet, the universe was created without legs and without feet.”

And thus Plato described the ouroboros, ancient Greek for 'tail devourer', the serpent who circles.

Some days rage consumes me. I swallow my own shit, there is the endless repetition and eternal return. Birth, life, death ... the earth orbiting the sun ... eat, shit, sleep ... questions, answers and then more questions.

I did not like school. It was an old red-brick building with large, dull, blue, wooden doors. Inside the classrooms were arranged around a rectangular hall. I only remember three things about this, my second, school.

One. We practised a dance routine to 'Save All Your Kisses For Me'. I had to make my toes go in and out by swivelling on my heels, while keeping my thumbs tucked into the waistband of my skirt. I found co-ordination difficult. I was not one of the beautiful girls. I did not have long, blonde hair. My face was fat and freckled. My teeth stuck out. My mother made my clothes, mainly from polyester. People laughed at me. I got expelled from the group. The rest of them went on to perform the routine in front of the whole school, at assembly. Everyone clapped.

Two. My best friend was called Carol. She had short hair and a fringe. There was something vaguely dirty about her. She was unpopular and so was I. We spent playtimes huddled together. She used to pick her nose. All the other children rushed about, 'British bulldog 1,2,3', 'Acky 1 2 3', I sneered at their number limitations. In the winter, camped by the logs, we covered ourselves with our coats. Under the padded fabric we were protected from not only the cold, but also, the stupefied gazes of 'the others'. Carol's cunt smelled musty, but it was soft and warm to the touch. My fingers found hers and her fingers found mine. The first time I thought I had wet myself.

Three. On the day I left that school, prematurely, because we were moving house, the teacher stood at the front of the class and wished me luck. The girls, seated at the desks behind me, snickered. I scratched my nails into the soft wood. Detritus collected and I nibbled it out, nervously. I felt hot. No-one cared whether I left or stayed. Miss Woodcombe's speech was merely a form of politeness. Paul, who I sat next to, and who was the best looking boy in the class, turned round and hissed at the girls. They were instantly silenced. He had his hand on my shoulder. Tears washed about under my eye lids. He said goodbye and kissed me on the cheek. I walked out of the big, blue door smiling.

Father was a consultant electrical engineer. The word 'consultant' was a very important part of his job description. Mother always used it, when she puffed out her chest and spoke clearly. She was unabashed, because status allowed her to feel superior. Our house was always described as 'detached'. Beef was said to be 'steak'. Mother took special care to pronounce 'croissant' correctly. It unnerved her that father said “PuG E ot” instead of Peugot. He was a literal man, with a Geordie accent. If something was bollocks, then he would call it “Bollocks”. Film was “Filum”. Any form of stupidity was challenged with “Don't be so bloody soft”. He spat when he talked. Insults exploded out of him.

He worked for Coventry City Council, designing the installations for street lighting and planning out the electrical systems for hospitals, schools and other municipal buildings. Occasionally he would take me on a tour. He explained the difference between mercury vapour and sodium lights – the former being white and smeary, the later being insipid yellow. He was particularly proud of the systems relating to Birmingham Airport.

Father took me to a lot of places. He was a volunteer for a charity and repaired the reel to reel players blind people used to 'read' books. He had to visit them in their homes to perform this task. He never used a map, always driving by following his nose, with the help of a compass that was attached to the dashboard. It looked like an eye, swivelling about in its liquid, searching this way and that for magnetic north. We'd bumble along streets. He knew most of Birmingham like the back of his hand.

The backs of my hands were small and pale. I imagined that blood vessel cars were driving along my veins, millions and millions of them, rumbling along a red stained highway. I had seen that film, the one where scientists shrink down a bunch of doctors and inject them into a patient. Everything goes wrong, it always does, but the final survivor escaped through an eye, washing up against the lashing beach, soggy and gasping. I think it was a happy ending.

I could see roads in my eyes. When I looked up, if I squinted hard, little threads drifted about, a foot or so away from my face. I tried to work where the map went, but the streets were all disjointed and they would float about chaotically. I asked my sister once, whether she saw fractured maps. “It's just your own veins.”
“What veins?”
“The ones in your eyes. You're looking at the inside of your own eye.”
“But how can I do that? I'd have to be looking backwards inside my own head.”
“Oh I don't know, but that's what it is.”
“How do you know that's what it is when you don't know?”
“Good God, why are you always asking questions?”
“Father Boundy says you shouldn't use the Lord's name in vain.”
She rolled her eyes.

They sacked him, Coventry City Council. It was part of a series of redundancies. He was like a cog in a machine, but once obsolete he did not know what to do with himself. He tried to get another job. They said he was too old. They said he was underqualified, because he did not have a degree. Father had worked every day of his life. He had no idea how to be at leisure, and we needed the money.

The house was sold. Mother had never liked it anyway. It was like the Firth of Forth bridge. No sooner had a job been done at one end, than another popped up somewhere else. I don't think Father minded that. It kept him busy and while he was busy she could not interfere with him.

We moved into a small, purpose built apartment, hundreds of miles away from our big house. It had been mother's dream for some time. It was the poshest area in Birmingham. Of course, practically all our furniture had to be got rid of. There was no room for the dining table, or chairs. The mangle was thrown away and replaced with a spin drier. The sofa remained. Father's desk was downsized. I do not know what he did with all his papers.

The flat, known as Augustus Court, felt empty, a flat flat. What toys I was permitted to keep were shoved into the built in wardrobe. My centrally heated bedroom was warm and cosy, but all my corridors were gone. There was no garden and, therefore, no faeries.

Father got a job abroad, in Saudi. We watched Lawrence of Arabia on the television. It seemed like he was going to another planet, inhabited by men drenched in white and scorched by an unrelenting sun.

He left one Friday. I had the day off school. The whole family went to the train station to wave him off. Mother said I was not allowed to cry, because it would only upset my father. He held my hand very tightly as we went down the escalator to the platform. His hands were big. He put my wrist between his little finger and the next finger along. I had always hated this. I did not like to feel that tiny bit of webbing rubbing against my skin. All of a sudden, I wanted that sensation more than anything.

The train came. The sound of its brakes ran a knife along my teeth. He picked up his suitcase. He hugged my sisters and my brother-in-law. He squeezed his grand children. I stood with my arms by my side, my scarf scratching against my neck. It was cold. I had a hat on, a red, woolly one. It muffled all the voices coming in through my ears.

The guard blew the whistle. Father rubbed the top of my head and kissed mother. She was crying. When tears came out of her eyes she would wipe her nose over and over. She had very blue eyes. They always looked watery. Her bottom eyelids were pink.

He picked me up and cuddled me. I felt like a board. I had to be all dead straight, because I did not want to upset him. He would be pleased with me if he thought I was brave. I was singing “Onward Christian Soldiers” in my head. He rocked me backwards and forwards but I did not bend. I was rigidly dry eyed. He put me down on the floor and I held out my hand to shake his. He laughed. I did not understand the joke.

As the train pulled away he stuck his head out of the door window. I remembered those black and white films that were on the television on Saturday afternoons. The women and children always ran down the platform, next to the train, sometimes waving, sometimes crying. I decided that I was going to wave. Mother shouted at me to come back, but I did not want to. All my energy was in my legs, especially my tearing energy, so my feet could go very fast.

I ran and ran, waving and shouting, laughing and crying all at once. Father hung out of the window. I could see he was crying but I told myself it was the wind in his eyes. He took off his glasses. I kept going, but I was running out of platform. I could see it sloping down at the end, into the big, dirty stones that were spread between the tracks.

He was shouting something to me. His words were getting stolen by movement, ripped off and away like a balloon in a hurricane. I stopped and cupped my hands around my mouth. “I can't hear you.”
Muffle, blow, clattery clatter, clattery clatter.
“I can't hear you,” I screamed. The train had nearly slithered entirely out of the station. Father's head was becoming a small dot and then it disappeared into the carriage. The metal snake had taken him, swallowed him up. Father was gone.

Read more!