Has Mrs Death gone now?
Has Mrs Death left me?
Where did she go?
Will she be back?
I don’t know any more. I miss her so much.
I miss Mrs Death, does Mrs Death miss me?
When tea is made I leave the kitchen and walk along the corridor and towards the first set of narrow and winding stairs. There is a raven above the dungeon door and I say kraa-kraa-kraa. The raven isn’t real, or is it? The dungeon door is open, a black mouth, an alarming gaping darkness. I walk into the dungeon. It is cold. I sit in the gloom and drink my tea for a while. I have put myself in prison.
My first thought: who has been here before?
If you sit in a prison, you think, who was here before me? Were they innocent? Were they guilty? Did they die in here? Were they changed and reborn? Did they walk out of here a new person? Who decides how long they stay in here? And what is law and what is wrong and right and what is guilt and what is innocence? Who decides who is imprisoned and who is free? Who keeps the key and keeps us captive? Do we imprison our own selves? Like me right now sitting in this dungeon and sitting in a cage in my head. I sniff. It smells dusty in here. What is the meaning of freedom? Who is truly free? I ponder on all of this for a long while, sipping my tea, and the tears that fell have dried on my cheeks.
I leave the dungeon to walk along the corridor and climb the narrow wooden stairs. The steps creak with each step. The tower is strong and square, a window on each side. I gaze down and out of the four windows. I look north, south, east and west; I can see everything from up here, I feel like I am in a lighthouse. I peer at books on the shelves and art and paintings left by the last visitors here. I look around the room and think about setting up a good place to do some writing. There is a green desk by the easterly window that’ll do nicely. But then I decide to go for a walk to see the sea and check out the beach. I decide to write a poem on the tongue and to record it, looking out at the sea and the sky. I lock the door and leave the tower. The fat robin stares from the lavender. I nod to the robin, We
will be friends, I tell it, don’t you worry, I will feed you toast crusts every morning. The robin makes as though it has heard and understood, it nods and hops along the wall before perching back in the lavender. I pull the old creaky gate to and head down towards the beach.
Outside and walking I go: Left leg, right leg, one foot in front of the other.
It is a windy afternoon, above me a hazy sky and a taste of salt. There’s nobody around, not really, it’s dead, dead quiet. I walk and listen to the world, to birds, to seagulls and a distant crashing of waves. I walk down the lane and towards the sea. Take it all in. Breathing in and exhaling, in and out, whilst watching the froth and crash of waves. This is a magic place, the colours are beautiful, the sage, virides-cent sea and pale lilac skies, with a shock of yellow gorse on the cliffs and banks. I keep walking and take the high road up the cliff path, up and up and upwards to get a panoramic view, higher and higher, up and upwards towards the church ruins. Slippery. Be careful. Should have worn boots . . . yes, but I don’t own any boots. It is all very well saying should’ve worn boots when even I know I don’t even own any boots even, even . . .
I walk slowly, take it easy, stopping once or twice to look back down at the bay of Cushendall beach. So still, so peaceful. I gaze ahead and out to sea. In the far-off distance one can just about make out the Mull of Kintyre. I reach a peak, a curve in the cliff face. I sit on the edge, on the soft green grass, the lush and new springy grass. I need a smoke. I look for a cigarette, something to smoke, did I bring smokes? Do I have any tobacco left? I cannot remember. I feel in my jacket pockets, ripped pockets, the pockets of the jacket lining are destroyed, my things get lost inside the jacket lining fabric, I tut, and no, and then, hang on, maybe in my jeans, jean pockets, something, and there is something and it is then I find the locket, that silver locket. The silver locket with a rabbit engraved on the front. I put it on, I feel it around my throat. Ha! So there is some proof it was real, it is real. I am real!
Tilly Tuppence, she was real. Martha and Marsha, they were real. They are all in me. It was ALL me and it is real. The desk is real. Mrs Death is real. Not a dream. And not a manifestation, not a hallucination, but a real, real, real, real . . . memory.
Mrs Death, can you hear me? You were real! We were real! Mrs Death, are you going to talk to me? We were all here, all of us live inside me here, all of us live always!
My feet dangle. Rocks. Jagged. Rocks.
There is nothing but miles of air and the thundering waves below me. The water is smashing and crashing at the sharp rocks, miles beneath my feet. A strong sea wind picks up and whips the vivid yellow gorse bushes that line the rough cliff face. My hair is wild and in my face; it’s getting in my mouth. There are thick prickly hedges and the deep sea froths and crashes to rocks below.
I could jump now.
Unwanted thought.
Is that what you want?
Jump.
Unwanted thought.
No.
That was an unwanted thought.
Just one wrong foot.
Unwanted thought.
Just lean forwards.
Just let go.
Give up!
I imagine it.
Wolf. Imagine it.
I imagine falling. Vividly. Why? Just imagine it. Why? Look down. Vertigo. Stomach flips. I feel dizzy. I see the rocks. I see coloured spots. What kills you? What would kill me first? The rocks, the water, the current, the fall, the shock, the cold, the tide, the sharks? Which would kill me? Would it be the rock smashing my head open or the waves dragging me under? Drowning is a beautiful death, isn’t that what everyone says? What if I misjudged it? What if I didn’t even hit the water and landed all crooked there, on those rocks and gorse bushes? What if I landed on the rock and broke my back and had to lie there as eagles swooped down and feasted, picked at my eyes and ate out my liver and kidneys? What if I lived only to be drowned a few hours later as the tide came in and pulled me away under the waves? And what if they never found my body, like my father? What if I leave my clothes, folded neat, so it looks like I dived in, like a mistake, like I’m a healthy joyful person who likes swimming? They would find my phone and shoes and know I am vanished. I imagine that too much. I could do that, I could fall and I could disappear under the surface like my father.
Listen to the ocean. Listen to the water. The ocean never changes her mind, the ocean, she says what she wants to say. Today we shall say what we mean to say. Say what we mean to say. Say it.
I know a lot of living people now.
I hear a voice:
I know a lot of living people now.
She speaks to me:
I know a lot of living people now. And I know living is inevitable and necessary. Without breathing you wouldn’t live; without knowing you breathe this would be endless. That is why you need to breathe. Without breath this would be a never-ending conveyor belt of sensation. You would be nothing without living in your breath. So breathe. Take five deep breaths. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
Breathe. To imagine your own life is to be living. To be friends, to be friendly with the knowledge, the knowing that living is now, this should make you try harder to be living, to be fully alive and lively. Surely you know you are alive? You know, you all know, that you’re here and now and only here and now? This should make you want to be good, to be better. You know, since you are here and shit, you may as well give a shit.
To imagine your own life is to imagine that this is all. To visualise the life of your elders, your parents, your siblings, your children, your lover, your world, to imagine these loving lives should make you try harder. In theory. It should make you try hard to be a better person. What a glorious mess this living is. And you can call me Life.
Have we met before?
I’m not sure we have, Wolf.
Are you Life?
Yes. Are you alive?
&n
bsp; Who, me?
Yes, you. Yes or no? It’s a very simple question I ask. Walk with me, come and walk with Life. I am Life and I am here to be with you. I am I. I am me. I am you and you are alive. I am your Life.
Smell that sea salt on the air. Remember salt is in everything. Take everything with a pinch of salt. Open the windows in your head and let the light in. Let the light in your head pour into your beating heart. Can you feel me? Come with me, Wolf. Walk one step at a time. It is your turn now. This is your life, your one precious life, it is your time to walk with Life, this is your time, time for the time of your Life.
And the light of your Life, I can see it, it is here inside you, you have so much Life ahead of you.
So, it’s an easy choice, yes or no, is it yes or no? Do you want to walk with the living, to really live your one Life or will you continue to pretend to live? Do you live a lie or do you live your truth? Think about it, take your time, take all the time you need, take one day at a time. Do your lifetime in your own lifetime.
It’s a very simple question that Life asks: Will you walk with me?
Wolf’s Tower Diaries
Ireland, April 2o18
April 1st
I walk along
a cliff path
sea salt and
yellow gorse
I’m on my own
and
I don’t know
where this path
will lead
but
I am here
and
here
I am
April 2nd
At night
the tower
comes to life
the walls talk
a fear
consumes me
my heart is loud
dum-dum
dum-dum
no sign of
it’s dead quiet
I miss Death
April 3rd
In the village
the florist
sells sad tulips
and candles
of St Francis
I tell her
I stay in the tower
the look of dread
on her face is priceless
she shakes her head and
forewarns me
666 is written in Layd
April 4th
Fear of solitude
fear of the dark
fear of the unknown
fear of the dead
fear is in my head
tricks of the mind
tricks of light and shadow
the heart is a mimic
boom boom boom
the heart goes
thumping like a rabbit’s foot
but there’s nothing there
nothing but your own fear
April 5th
The butcher
sells me
five sausages
and an onion
as big as my face
he knows
I stay in the tower
the look of joy
on his face is priceless
he smiles his big smiles
have you been to Layd
666 is written in Layd
April 6th
In the village
I go to the library
and read the
local newspaper
Thirty years to this day
when she was last seen alive
the police say they
have fresh leads
What happened to Inga
the girl
they found
in the woods
April 7th
I climb the path
to visit Layd
old church ruins
and a graveyard
high on the cliff top
beautiful view
I’m roaring
and it rains
and it pours
April 8th
The china rabbit
sits on my desk
I can do this
I slept well
last night
no nightmares
my feeling today
I can do this
my own heart says
live, live, live
I am alive in here
says the rabbit
April 9th
The fire is my friend
glowing there
in the corner of the room
when the fire is
roaring and crackling
I am not alone at all
I talk to the fire
I am good at keeping
the fire going
the conversation
with fire burning
April 10th
Today I wrote about people vanishing
I wrote about disappearances
as I walked down a sea path
that led to nowhere
the destination
vanished off
a cliff edge
April 11th
Time and Death are lovers
Life will not concern herself
with the romance
between Time and Death
Life loves a good Time
Time is an unfaithful lover
Time be just like my father
Death be just like my mother
April 12th
Sometimes
I think I can do this
I fetch the coal or
I make tea
then a light bulb blows
and I am lost
in the dark
again
April 13th
I don’t know why
I put the china rabbit
in my suitcase and
brought her to Ireland
I sit her on this table
looking at me
as I write this
there are things
that we hold on to
we hold on tightly
time can pass
and years go by
and these things
and these objects
and these people
and these ideas
that we held so tightly
we have to let them go
we hold them in
hold them down to be
who we think they are
what we want them to be
and what they mean to us
and holding on to people
like old ideas and bad habits
or like china rabbits
now we don’t need to be
doing that now
do we
April 14th
The tower is an old lady
and she is full of wind
she keeps popping her head in
with draughts and spiders
I try to be polite and listen
she’ll let you know
you’re in her home
she makes her walls
groan at three a.m.
here is the murder hole
here’s the dungeon
yes, I know
but I’m
trying
to sleep
April 15th
I go to Ballypatrick forest
where they found Inga
I picture her running
through the bluebells
through the woods
through the trees
running for
Life
April 16th
I thought it was a good idea
to live in a tower
with spiders and shadows
and write about Death
but the more I write this book
the more I see the chinks
of light and humour
Death is not
locked up in a tower
she is dancing
on the beach
salt and sea spray
in the bluebells and woods
the yellow moss-covered rocks
the patches of blue
above the green
open sea
April 17th
In the village pub
there is a man
called Seamus
he says he loves
Dwight Yoakam
but nobody else in
Cushendall does
he laughs
he says he thinks he can sing
like Dwight Yoakam
but nobody else in
Cushendall thinks he can
April 18th
We dance around
a talk of Death
there are so
many words
so many ways
to avoid it
passed
passed over
passed away
what is this
odd language
we use around
Death?
these words
we hide behind?
she is dead
he is dead
I am mourning
I say it to myself
they died
so I must
be mourning
say what has happened
use the language
the words you know
we often hide behind words
we often say nothing at all
April 19th
The dead of night
the tower screams
give up give up give up
it shakes with the wind