“Churn and Churn and Churn”- text written as part of workshop with LungA School, 25/08/24

I snap my eyes open and look up at the ceiling. I can tell that underneath the light, the ceiling must be a neutral colour, but the light from somewhere has stained the ceiling a dirty orange. I watch the light ebb and flow for a second as I try and get the feeling back into my fingers and toes. I wriggle them, and get the confidence to bring my fingers to the sides of my body. I am wearing some sort of fabric, which is relieving, and it feels thick as I start grasping it and screwing it up in my palms. My eyes don’t dare look down just yet, I fear the worst as always, so I watch the safe light a little longer, pulling the fabric in and out from my body. 

I get the confidence to sit up, heaving from my waist, sucking my naval up towards my spine, the weight of the thick fabric and blankets draped over me making it somewhat of an effort. I am draped in blankets, which is good. The warming feeling that I have been covered up sparks a little cockiness in me, and I start to think about where the embers of light are coming from. I move my hands to the soft jersey blankets, which I nuzzle in between skin between my pointer finger and thumb, I turn my neck from left to right. 

The room has four walls, as they tend to do. They are covered in a deep, textured wall paper, covered in swirls and paisleys that stand up out from the wall like a relief. Little shadows fall to the right, and turn the reds, yellows and greens in the paper into blurring shades of brown. On the left is a vintage wooden dresser, about waist height, and risen off the ground with carved feet that look like little animal paws in the shadows. There is a little white china dish on top of the dresser, that seems to have something in it, but my eyesight is quite poor and so I do not see it from here. The wall paper on the wall directly in front of me is clearer and I see the old fashioned colours glow hypnotically until my eyes droop and my jaw softens. I sit kneading at the fabrics on top of me for a little while, treating myself to the little bit of time before I know. 

Then I notice the mirror in the right hand corner of the room. Leaning up against the two walls, I can see from here that it would be far taller than me. Its glass is clean, and there is some sort of back lighting behind it, so it casts a shadow that reaches the tip of the bed. I am in a bed, I realise now, which is good. The bed is a similar style to the dresser, vintage and wooden and raised off the ground. I lean over the right hand side, dragging the blankets with me, to feel on the detailing around the bed frame. I touch its grooves, digging my greedy fingers in the dips until they start to hurt. I imagine it tells a story like a tapestry, and I try to read it using my hands. A blanket tumbles off the bed and I notice that it is some of the blankets I had in my living room. This one's pink, with frayed edges, and a repetitive pattern of a cartoon grey cat eating cookies and doughnuts. I step out the bed to pick it up, noticing the fabric I’m wearing coming with me. I bring the blanket to my lips for a kiss, and place it back on the bed with the other blankets from home. I see now that the bed is very large. I see now that the back of the room is on fire.

//The source of roaring orange light on the ceiling, the source of light casting shadows on the magic walls, the source of heat in my chest, bleeds up from the floor and hit the four corners of the wall. I fall onto my knees, bracing my hands as I collapse, slipping on the fabric bunching around me.

The fire churns and churns, the wall paper thinning into black whisps, escaping the flame and twirling quickly onto the carpet, singeing it slightly until the embers in the edges blink out. On instinct I want to reach my heels out to stamp out the burning paper like a cigarette on the pavement. But they do not need me, and so I take this as my que to let my tears come. The poor mes rip through me, which isn’t mirrored by the fire, which contains itself.

Neatly scorching the corners, the smoke doodling black swirls into the ceiling, it stays in one spot. I reach my hands out to it now, and the heat hits me thick and real. I hesitate slightly, shuffle forwards and sit back up onto my knees. I plunge my fingers into the flames, and breathe for a few seconds through the sensation of my skin scorching, before making a choked yelp and pulling my hand out, blowing on the tips of my fingers and cradling them in my hands. The fire remains controlled, mocking me. 

It can do what I could never do, quietly staying where it should. Burning bright but being good with it, sensible. I spit on it, hoping the dampness in my mouth will ease it's laughing, but it doesn’t. I thump my feet and fists on the ground like a child and scream and gurgle and groan. When I get sick of the feeling of no one paying attention to me,  I wipe my eyes with the back of my heavy sleeve. The wallpaper has almost entirely been burnt away now, the pale plaster underneath exposed. The perimeter of the carpet has turned black. I remember that most of the skin on my arms is marked by burns, raised and purple and blistered and old. Fire has never been my friend. //

Then, an arm emerges out the wall of flame. It is larger than a human arm, the circumference of its bicep taking up about a third of the wall, right in the center. It is wearing a white undershirt that comes up to its wrists, with a plain laced cuff. This sleeve is tight on the arm, the light casts soft grey shadows across the folds as the arms sways ever so slightly. Just before the elbow sits a heavy gold tunic, with a billowing sleeve that hangs down off the body. The gold is ordained with threaded detailing that mimics a floral pattern. It fits nicely with the old fashioned wall paper. The hand itself is large, of course, yet dainty, long elegant fingers with clipped, clean fingernails that shine in the light. The skin on the back of the hand looks flushed, as if being warmed by the fire, but I do not know if it feels like I feel.

 In between the thumb and the first three fingers on the hand it gently grasps a heart. The heart is bright, artificial red. It appears to be a rubbery texture, and moles slightly to the grip on the fingers. The heart isn’t the heart like inside a body, but like you would draw in the corner of a piece of paper. Or like a heart you would adorn someone’s name with when you’ve written it on an envelope containing a birthday card. Or like the heart I have cut into the low left side of my stomach, linear and white, that you can only see when I pull my skin taut.

The arm hinges at the elbow and holds the heart to the wall for a few seconds, until it catches alight, then it straightens it again. I notice that I am not screaming, but that I am babbling. Bargaining with the arm I’m sure, asking for it not to drop the burning heart on my head, asking it not to touch me, asking it where it got it’s nails done. 

Out the heart now, pops a figure. A Virgin Mary. Like I put a coin in the machine, so the cogs turn. She sits there, shrouded by the burning heart, shiny like porcelain, the red flame turning her pale skin pink. Her robes are blue, as they usually are, and her face is sad but calm. The halo illuminated her plain, beautiful face. I’m sure I hear a hum of a tune. I watch her there, cradled by a soft heart and a strong hand. I feel my insides turn green, I feel my cheeks flare. I stand, I walk up to her, held just above my eyeline. Her face painted on doesn’t stir, but mine is pulling all sorts of unflattering shapes. I am looking up at her, the arm is swaying slightly, as if trying to avoid contact with me. What the fuck does it want. 

I can’t be as angry as I want, I feel very tired now. The fire must be sucking the oxygen out the room and making me lightheaded. I am getting very bored of getting back up again, of pretending not to feel embarrassed, of waking up in rooms I didn’t fall asleep in has no impact on me. I bring my fingers to my face to check my piercings are still there, which they are, and the metal is hot. I toch my fingers to my neck to see if my necklaces are still on, which they are not. 

A voice comes now from behind the wall, booming and echoing around this room, this bedroom I guess. I’m not really listening, not letting the words settle as I turn around and start walking away from the wall, so tired and so hot, beads of sweat pricking on my forehead, rolling onto my eyelashes and as I blink and they plunge to the carpet. The heat from the fire dries the wet spots instantly.

 The few words I catch, indicate the voice is listing commandments, or commands, which are specific to my flaws. I start to circle the room, clockwise, gripping the fabric in my hands and hiking the garment up so I can move my feet easier. I parade the room while catching the voice reminding me to subdue my greedy urges or whatever.

I pass the dresser, seeing the white china dish, which I now see holds a bright, sparkling gold rosary. I drop the fabric and reach out to touch it, it’s warm, and I gather it up eagerly in my hands, thumbing the beads in my fingers, before wrapping it twice around my wrist, the cross burning indents into my palm. I resume my walk, fixing my destination to the mirror, my feet dragging on the carpet, I am wearing no socks, no shoes so I’d feel every loop scratching as I step. I step into the mirrors shadow, the wallpaper turning tricks in front and behind me, the flaming wall and flaming heart just visible over my left hand shoulder. I give myself a good long look. 

I am wearing a long black robe, covering from my neck all the way down to beyond my feet. The sleeves are so loose they hardly touch my skin. They come down just to the center of my palm, so my fingers peep out and you can see where the gold rosary is dangling out from my wrist. The robe trains behind me in a large circle, so large and baggy that it hardly seems that there is a body underneath. But of course there is, because it is my body and I am in it. The hems on the neckline and cuffs are crude and sloppy. Around my head is a habit, hiding all my hair, starched out nicely so that it has four stiff corners. I reach my hand out to touch it, to pull on it, and it jiggles but it doesn’t come off. I like it. My Face is all exposed like this, barely a head just a face. My face is red and sweaty, my lips swollen yet cracked from the heat. My eyes big, my pupils blown and desperate. I laugh, from my gut, but it’s barely heard over the sound of the voice in the room. I think I look pretty cool. 

I give myself a twirl in the mirror, watching the sleeves curl around my arms, and the habit shake with the movement. The gold cross of the rosary hits the ligaments in my wrists. I put my hands on my hips and cock them, the fabric gathering under the touch. I pout and laugh again. The voice stops talking, and I see in the mirror, in reverse image, the mary pop back into the heart, the flame around the heart go out and the arm retract back into the wall. The fire continues to blaze.

I bring the rosary to my lips for a kiss. I walk over the bed, make room for my body and the robe under the blankets, heave us all in, and snuggle down. It’s really very warm. I close my eyes.