Lëmoshë

A revelation, death-defying miracles and the joys of the Jobseeker’s Centre.

Something In The Water

First published on 365 Tomorrows in February. A little more speculation.

Technomystic

Divining the future with a broadband connection.

Three Verses On Football

First performed at Ufton Court, August 2010

Breakfast

Sometimes it is simply too early to converse.

The Underwhelming Feeling of Enlightenment

They both agree: sometimes it is simply better not to know.

Raven

A lone raven delivered a surprising message to me this week.

Chicken Enthusiast

In memory of Carter F. Wray. Born human, died chicken.

Legs

The right leg goes first. The left leg is usually two or three days late. Which is typical of my left leg: can’t even dissociate on time. The left has no sense of timing. Anti-rhythm, I call it. If I want to dance, I have to dance around it. Usually I don’t bother.

But anti-rhythm is the least of my leg troubles. When the dissociation comes, there is nowhere to hide. No escape from the alien feeling. Nowhere to run to – unless you take the legs with you. You want to get away from them, they want to get away from you. But you are inextricably linked. Like living in a failed marriage: dependency and resentment.

You know when it’s coming. One morning, you wake up with a taste of iron in your mouth. The taste of blood. You can feel your teeth, like they are bigger than they were yesterday. Maybe they itch. First day, you can wash away the taste with your first sip of tea. A few days in, nothing gets that taste out of your mouth. Then you know you’re headed for a falling out with your legs.

There will be environmental pressures too. You are dog tired, regardless of whether you work like a bitch or loaf like a couch hound. There will be stress, barely manageable. Suddenly you can’t open the mail or answer the phone. Maybe you have to lock yourself in the house, and double check the lock every couple of hours. Imprison yourself with those legs, the legs of a stranger.

Because the next thing that happens is, your legs dissociate. One after the other they change from being tired to being different. Not yours. Alien. It is a sick feeling. You want to run. You feel like they’ve got their own brain, and they are thinking, we want to run too. Away from you. If you walk, or run, the feeling subsides. You have to work together. Bipedal motion, balance, instinct – a million years of genetic imprinting. But pause, just pause for a moment, the conflict returns. Genetics count for nothing. Sit down, they rock and shake, tapping out out a manic rhythm to the beat of growing anxiety.

Maybe you’ll have to run forever. Until you drop. Run, Forrest, run!

So far, that hasn’t happened to me. A few days in, crushing tiredness, the taste of blood subsides, my legs reconcile. So far, I haven’t had to run and run and never stop. So far.