![[ CRACKTOWN ]](http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ETCSVDAp_cw/TfSlJiIZX9I/AAAAAAAABQc/LVSSR1j6rj8/s660/00%2B-%2BBanner.jpg)
Sharlotta (as Nymphetamine);"Tā nakts kad zvaigznes notrūka no debesīm un iekrita jurā" /
"The Night The Stars Became Unhooked From The Sky and Fell Into the Sea"
He always cries. Even when he climaxes, his face is more contorted with sadness than ecstasy. I don’t know why he always goes through with it. With having these sessions with me, I mean.
You see, his father died late last year – murdered, really – kicked to death in the street by a gang of hooded jeering demons.
I started seeing D____ S_____ five days after his father’s funeral; a very sorry soul indeed. I didn’t think I had ever seen anyone as close to dying from grief as him (and I’ve seen a lot) on that first bleak session. We just talked, and I hugged him. He didn’t ask. I just couldn’t stop myself from embracing him. Of course, he says now that he has no recollection of that first “time” spent with me. But I do. I remember it with diamond-sharp clarity.
“It made page 17.”
“Sorry?”
“My father’s death. The article. Page 17 in Quicklime News. You know what made page 1?”
“No”
“An article about some fucking ‘contemporary art’ exhibition. Some stupid Florian bloke who made some vulgar cartoons - or something.”
…
“You know what made page 16?”
“No, but look – your time…”
“Page 16? The page before the report on my father’s murder? Have one guess.”
“I…I don’t know. I’m sorry”
“Page 16 of that rag was mostly filled with an in-depth report on a local Wetherspoons pub finally winning funding for an “Old West” makeover and rebranding. Cowboys and stuff. This glorious piece of stellar journalism was titled; “We Hope There’s No Tumbleweeds in ‘ere, Pardner.”
“I really am sorry.”
“Yes…I am too.”
“Did they include a photo of your dad with the article?”
“…Yes. Smiling. Arms around my mother…sorry… do you have any tissue - thanks.”
“What was your father’s name, sonny? – If you don’t mind my asking.”
“My father’s name was…is…Abraham S____.”
“I knew an Abraham once. A friend of my Tēvs’. An old friend.”
“Right. Well, umm, what do we do now?”
“Anything you want, baby.”
“Can we just sit and talk for a while, first I mean?”
“Anything you want, baby.”
“You know what I miss?”
“What’s that, my love?”
“The Summer. Why is there NEVER a summer in Cracktown any more? The constant, smothering clouds. The bastards. That’s the after-effects of HAARP for you. Since the fucking floods the weather never amounts to a hill of shit, I reckon. You know, when I was ten my father took me down to the Lilith Plantation – the woodlands near the Swaffham Cageworks – you know them?”
“No, hun, never been.”
“They’re still there – apparently. Unchanged – apparently. Not allowed to go in there anymore. Dunno why. Can I get a glass of water?”
“Sure. Won’t be a sec.”
…
“There you go.”
“Cheers.”
“You were saying?”
“Umm… Yes, the trees. My father took me down there, in the woods, when I was ten years old. I loved being there. We ran. We played hide ‘n seek. Made a den of bracken. It was at the very height of summer. Humming with heat. Rabbits. Birds. Bees, even. Remember them?”
“Of course.”
“Hmmm… You know what I did? Back in those old woods? I completely stripped. Completely.”
“You took off your clothes?”
“Yep. Sure did. As soon as my father left to take a business call…I think…Anyway, I had an hour there in the woodland. On my own. I found a hilltop clearing in the woods, stripped naked there and then – on the spot – neatly folded my clothes and turned to face the baking summer evening sun.”
“After a time of just standing there on the hill, taking in the whole of MY Kingdom (the naked King standing defiant and proud in front of nature’s multi-layered creation), I just laid down on the cool wild grass and daisies.”
“What did you do then?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Absolutely nothing. Don’t forget that this was pre-regeneration, so the skyline was yet to be jagged with chimneys, silos and factory sculptures. Just pure peace and rural solitude. Feeling and hearing my heartbeat through my naked chest. Truly blissful. Have you ever been outside, completely naked, and felt the summer breeze gently kiss and caress your skin?”
“Not really – I was naked outside once, for my job, but it certainly wasn’t like that.”
“As I say, blissful. Simply divine. There were some reddened clouds on the horizon, but these were the days of the Sun. The Sun OWNED the sky back then.”
“It sounds a little different to these times.”
“Oh, it was! No grey. No gulfs of machine-smoke. Just pure Vitamin D sunlight. And butterflies. A beautiful giant butterfly landed on my chest as I lay there naked. It walked around a little, occasionally fluttering its hypnotising psychedelic wings.”
…
“Breathing in pure, clean air as your company is kept by such a heavenly and wondrous creature as that? The very stuff of joyous, unsullied memories.”
“Okay, baby, its time. Lay back as I do my own heavenly thing for you today…”
Sharlotta.
