[ prologue ]

That which is me lies now alone on the cold sand. The Sun has gone with my friends to the Goodtime places. I was not invited, so here I stayed.

The beach is all sand: sand dunes, names written in the sand, sandcastles melting in the sullen wash of tepid water. I traced my name in the sand but it was swept away by indignant waters. I have trespassed into a further dimension.

Night is falling. Yellow lights flare across the cove. Flecks of illumination scatter like lost dreams on the ebony water.

I have been asleep on the sand; now I rise, remembering what I am. I remember how my friends left with the Sun a thousand years ago.

That which is me rises, devoid of physical effort, for there is no physical part of me remaining for such sensations.

I had a flesh-vessel once, but it was never used for its purpose and eventually fell away...

...leaving that which is me

...Immortal.

i [ priorities ]

Out from the Grey House, into the dampness of night, away from the people who plan; walking in the coldness, the evil cold that has drained all life from the flat dog in the road. I look up at the road-side sign that flickers... Coca Cola ... oca ola ... Co Cola ... oca la There is unreality in this thing.

Flicking and spitting at the evil night.

I hunch down in my coat, clenching fists in deep pockets, never slowing, always fearing the pursuer.

I see a stick lying on the ground like a dead lizard. I stop walking, daring the pursuer to take action against me in the night.

Bravely the left hand ventures from its womb in the Gaberdine (coat). Long unbended back bends in all proper places. Right leg extends like a balancing pole to steady me as I reach for the Lizard Stick.

All these movements I am making are of the automatic sort, so unfamiliar they are to my normal actions. I believe that if I were out of my body I would not notice, but here inside the loose flesh that should not yet be here, I am in wonderment at the circus which is me.

Hand is now grasping Lizard Stick.

Legs are swinging back into motion.

Hand grasping Lizard Stick, arm extends. Thuck-thuck-thuck-thuck-thuck. Stick is dragged along the mesh wire fence to my left.

Thuck-thuck-thuck-thuck-thuck-thuck...

How long I have been walking is an unknown quantity, X. Lizard Stick dropped from the hand at the time which the end of the wire fence was reached. Thus, the hand only has knowledge of its existence in the past. Brain knows of it, but has no way to give it a time of being. Can it not be about to exist in the future?

No evidence, therefore it is not a memory.

Hands in the coat pocket, warming.

Specks of rain, falling. (What purpose have you, rain?)

There is no answer to my polite question.

The rain is without time for answering the trivial questions of the ignorant bodies which walk in the cold of the evil night.

Rain is much more greatly occupied than myself. No time is to be wasted on me.

Subdued and humbled, I continue with the walking in silence. Brain knows that the path being walked will lead the walking body back to Home. Brain will sleep again. Mind that is me takes over.

ii [ encounter ]

I am sitting in the park. A boy (youth? man?) walks down the path. There is a Look.

Like Albee's Martha, I have no shame.

I am waiting before following.

Across the park I see a friend of mine. She is talking to a young man with whom I am not acquainted. I see, though, that he is attractive. He has most blue eyes. I can see this from my seat here because his eyes are a most bright blue.

I must rouse myself now or I shall lose this boy/youth/man I saw.

He has gone a long way down the path. Hurryhurryhurry. I follow, walking briskly.

I see he is passing a rose garden. He walks into it.

There are many roses and many roses of different colours. He is leaning about, smelling the roses. I am now most near to him. He is smelling the roses. I am now most near to him. He is smelling the roses, not seeing me.

I stop now, behind a tree, so that he will not see me. I must plan the approach. I see this boy is younger than myself.

I am not the sort of girl who cruises parks and seduces young boys. I must not appear to this boy to be one who does.

I look now at him and notice he has very large ears.

He leans now to a particular bloom. Both hands go to the stem, below the second pair of leaves. In a moment the rose has become a single flower.

Water in the eyes shows the foolishness I feel now.

This boy has of course a girl to whom he is going to give the rose. He is not to be taken by me. He has already found someone to appreciate him...

...and yet I am wrong!

He has approached me with the rose.

-I am Marland- he says, -and I have seen you before. Here is a rose for you, that you do not look so sad always.- He holds out the rose to me.

I take it. It is a very red rose, this rose.

I take the rose. A thorn is pricking. (Seeing on the hand a drop of blood. Feeling in the hand a prick of pain.) I put the hand to the mouth and the blood is licked away.

The boy and I stand facing each other. He blushes. I do not know what to say.

-Thank you.- I say. I feel hotness in my cheeks, too. I wonder what picture I am: red of face with half-dry tears on that red face.

-Thank you.- I say again because I do not know what to do.

Marland smiles at me and I smile at him. Easily because he has such a sweet face.

I believe he is seeing someone because his eyes flick over my shoulder with some apprehension.

-I have to go.- he says and steps past me. And stops. -I do not know your name!- he says to me. I see a large woman waddling towards us.

I am lost in an unreality. A question has been asked of me but I cannot remember it. A face swings past me. It is that of a boy.

A marble ashtray is wrapped in a formal gown of turquoise taffeta and thrown from the top floor of the Berger paint tin factory. There is a pain in the head. Am I being attacked? Am I knocked over by a a car on the road, or thrown on the shore by pounding surfs?

I do not know.

iii [ surreal ]

I am lying on the path in the park. Red rose petals are scattered around my head.

The head turns. Eyes are rolling and seeing the petals.

My friend I am seeing, approaching. My friend who was talking to the young man with the blue eyes. I see he is still standing, remaining, on the opposite side of the park, but his eyes follow the movements of my friend, my friend who approaches.

-That'll teach you- she is saying, standing over me. -to stop terrorising young boys!-

Lilian is a good friend. She is always advising me not to terrorise young boys.

-Get up.- Good friend Lilian tells me to get up and I do obey her.

-Who was he?- she asks, and I answer -Marland.-

-Was that his mother?- His mother?

-Perhaps so.- I answer.

-She didn't like you talking to him, I think.- she continues. -She pushed you away from him and tore up the rose.-

Not knowing how much she saw, whether she knows the rose is from him, I say -The rose?-

Lilian is looking at me again. I am standing and she is standing.

-Yeah. The rose you were holding. He looked quite upset, poor little boy.- She is laughing, holding me in contempt for my ways.

Now her friend, the blue-eyed young man, is crossing the park.

He arrives at the position we occupy.

His hand rests on her shoulder.

They draw close. Close.

I am jealous. To hide my hurt I kneel, gathering up shreds of torn rose.

-I want to introduce you.- Lilian is saying. -This is Alec.-

I stand, looking at Alec. Did I say before he looks attractive? Perhaps...

I am standing, looking at Alec. He is taller than both myself and Lilian, through not tall by average standards. His hair is brown and wavy. His eyes are very. Very...blue.

-Hello.-

-Hello.-

-We must go now.- Lilian has said, and already Lilian and Alec are becoming very distant to me.

Alone to myself in the park. Hands clutch at shreds of rose. Of rose. Of memory.

I am leaving the park now with this rose. The rose will go home with me to become rejuvenated. I shall be loving this rose, as I could be loving Marland, had I the chance. This rose I associate with Marland because it is the evidence of his existence. Mind knows he exists, as I would not otherwise have the rose.

I am going from the park. Going from it with the rose. The palms are warm and sticky around the rose.

The rose is in my possession, a proof that Marland is real, actual, perpetual. Eyes, though, can no longer see him, except when they pretend to do so; this causes pain to heart.

Pain. It is the pain I disprefer.

Taking the rose to the street, considering the possibility of pain. If the flower be kept, then surely will I the pain also keep?

And if the lifeless petals I scatter now about me, I shall wonder, Did I ever meet him?

I said that the rose would be loved by me. I have no courage against the agony of doubtings. The rose must be of another fate.

From the park I am walking to the hollow street. I undo the fingers which jail the rose.

Slackened petals stick wetly to clammy hands...

Blood on the hands where the thorns have pierced the skin... Salt stinging in the eyes when the pain and blood are realised...

A young man is walking across this street towards me. Presently he arrives at my left side. He looks at the hands. I look at him. He is looking at the red hands, looking at them strangely.

Now that he is here I can rest and not worry what people may think when they see me. He has seen the rose and the thorns in the hands. He will be the witness when I sit down on the paving and put the rose onto the ground. When other people come, he shall tell them how I came to be there, and they will not think about the crazy person with bloody hands sleeping heavily on the paving.

Turning to the young man, I say to him, -Thank you for stopping here so I can rest.- And I see his eyes are hazel, his hair has been dyed orange and purple but I imagine that beneath this it is brown. He wears a white Tshirt on which the logo BLONDIE has been stencilled. This is on the back. On the front is a stencil of Deborah Harry and the name HARRY. I am wondering if there is co-incidence in this.

His trousers are of black vinyl.

And he says, is saying to me as I lie on the pavement, -Gee, how psychedelic you are. I like the meaningful demo with the flower. It's groovey. Go to many parties?- Before I can comprehend what he has asked of me he is away, stepping over the...

rose.

The rose is dead.

iv [ nexus ]

The black river is dead. Dead and unmoving.

It was not always this way. It used to be blue. Blue, it gushed and rushed, and, I imagine, knew nothing of being still.

I remember being by this river once, when it was alive, and seeing a man crossing the bridge above the river.

That day it was very blowy, and whippets the colour of dirty tennis whites raced in the sky.

The man I observed was not particularly conspicuous, being dressed in a normal way, wearing a red Effingham (scarf), a blue jumper over a white shirt that may have been of cheesecloth, faded blue jeans and black suede slip-on shoes.

I saw all this. It is in my mind as a memory.

The man was walking over the bridge, walking to the bank opposite myself.

I know he saw someone because he shouted to her. I saw her too, and I knew he could not have been talking to me because we were not acquainted.

-Carol!- he shouted to her. She was walking from the same bank which was his intended destination. In my opinion of that moment, I saw her as being quite attractive. She had pale orange hair cut in a punk style, green eyes and pale, freckled skin. She wore a large lacy cream-coloured blouse tucked loosely into a beige-tinted pair of baggy canvas jeans. The shoes I liked especially, being ankle boots of soft leather, once red but now a washed-out pink, and bearing chrome-plated metal studs upon them...

Then she saw him. She had been walking, and he was walking, and perhaps they would have met?

But she stopped.

He was stopped.

They were looking intently at each other. He, more timidly, expectant, anxious; she, surprised perhaps? Apprehensive? Annoyed.

She was turning, going.

-Carol! Wait! That business with Madeleine was all a mistake!- he yelled to her.

I feel that she did not want to hear. She strode quickly away.

And a thought pierced my consciousness. Madeleine is my name also!

The fact, while familiar, startled me.

The feet, no longer in strict control of the brain, moved on the wet pebbles by the river. The body, which was in a hunched position, extended and occurred contact with the water.

There was a splash. The man on the bridge was startled like myself. He did not know what had made the splash. Carol had walked out of his sight. He heard a splash. He did not know it was me, Madeleine.

-Madeleine has fallen in the river!- I shouted, to inform him that it was not his beloved Carol who was becoming drowned.

I am lying in this black water. When I was startled by realising that my name was also Madeleine, I slipped on the wet pebbles and fell in the river. I am surprised that I still become startled when I think of this incident. I have lost my concentration, moving from the nostalgic squatting stance to a lying position in the river.

The face is down and I am holding the breath. When this happened before, the man on the bridge ran down to the shore and helped me out of the water. He introduced himself as Lyle.

-I thought you said, =Madeleine has fallen in the river.=- he said, holding my shoulders. I was replying -I am Madeleine. I shouted so you would know it was not Carol who was drowning.-

We smiled at each other. He took me across the bridge to his car and drove me home.

But he did not take me home immediately.

Before taking me home we went to a café. The name was Goodtime Café. Lyle kindly bought for me some cups of coffee, and we each ate a piece of the cheesecake-of-the-day.

He told me about Carol.

-Carol came here from England about two years ago.- he said, and sighed. -She changed her name and got a job in hairdressing. She says that's what she did in Hampshire.- Lyle sighed again. -When she first came here, she went out with a guy called Vince Avconti, a friend of mine. They broke up about eight months ago.-

While he was telling me this, I felt that he needed some person that would give him sympathy. My sympathy I gave, but no honest pity. He went on. -I met her at the party of a friend of mine. Until two weeks ago we were quite happy together. We'd been together nearly six months.- he added, almost apologetically.

-What happened, then?- I asked, in what I believed to be a kind tone. He paused for something I judged to be a minute, then answered, with a wry smile. -There is a very sad-looking girl at my work. She is efficient at what she does, but has few friends. One day, as a friendly gesture, I invited her out to lunch with me. I told Carol about it, just mentioning that I'd had lunch with her. Carol was fine about that, but then this girl rang me at my place when Carol was there. Of course, Carol answered, and when the girl asked to speak to me, Carol became very angry, and ended our relationship there. All the girl wished to say was that I had left my umbrella in her car, and wouldn't I be needing it as it was a very wet weekend.- Lyle sighed, staring in a morbid fashion into his coffee.

-Of course, she... I mean, Carol, won't listen to anything I say. I'm still very fond of her but she's made me so miserable.- He breathed deeply and sipped at his coffee. -Then I turned, in desperation, to Madeleine Kailey, an old friend. Carol, then, refused to even speak to me. Now I don't know what to do.-

Lyle trailed off. I returned to my cheesecake. Lyle wept soundlessly into his third coffee.

We left the Goodtime Café two hours later. Lyle drove me to my tiny flat on the opposite side of the town. He did not speak again until we arrived.

-Thank you for your time, er, Madeleine. I hope you don't catch a cold. I'm sorry if I...-

I assured him that I was glad to help him in any way I could. I got out from the car: I remember it was a red hatchback, although I did not notice the make; but he did not drive away immediately. He waited until I was inside the door. I thought and still think him very kind.

But now I am lying in the river with no-one to pull me out. I believe I will be drowning soon, but this does not worry me as I have kept up with the payments on my flat and television set. There are no outstanding debts in my life.

The breath I am letting out, but I do not breathe water in all at once. A small breath and that is water. Again, and that is water also. And again. And again...

...and ag a i

v [ adventure ]

I am awake, and not drowned. This is confusion of the most epitomical kind. The brain struggles but finds no comprehension. The mind writhes in indecision and fear, but realises no memory to fit the circumstances it is perceiving. Body convulses in shock, only to discover itself retained by straps of some nature. A thick syrup of noise leaks in my ears, and a sense of forged serenity impales itself upon my nervous system.

I know myself to be in hospital. Voices in the corridor, and one I recognise.

-How'd you come to get drowned?- Lilian asks me jocularly, pushing open the door. I notice I am accommodated in a private room, and I am wondering who will be paying the expenses.

I am not myself. I have no answer to give Lilian. I regard the other person in the room with some suspicion. Lilian, friend that she is, sees fit to make an introduction.

-Madeleine,- (she is saying to me) -this is Sherron Deepwater, a friend of mine from Dubbo. Sherron, this is Madeleine French.- I nod at this girl Sherron because I do not think I am yet able to speak.

-Hello.- She is hesitant to address me. Is it a possibility that I frighten her?

-Madeleine?- It is Lilian who talks this time. -Do you want some water? There's a glass here.-

I nod. Lilian fills the glass and I drink, but the water in the glass recalls images to me that are both unpleasant and happy... Remembering Lyle and the dead river, Carol on the bridge and myself in the water, the bitter coffee of the Goodtime Café. I am screaming and trying to be free of the straps. The confusion is at a peak and my fear is great. Lilian I can see through a haze of dull red, like seeing the world through the bruised rose petals.

Marland! Where is he? Is he being tortured by the woman in the park? Is he dead? Did I ever meet him or was it something from the imagination?

A pain in the arm and a prick like that of the thorns. I am grabbing with the fists in the air: I must reach the rose! The hands are touching the curtains which border the bed, but there is no rose. The darkness falls and I float away.

It is dark. The hospital is quiet, and the only noise I can hear is a far away bell. I am deciding that the state is night. If this is the true state of this place, I am confident I can escape. I must make an escape from the hospital, for I have no money to pay the bill and know of no person who could pay it for me.

I am being careful with the straps. The body wriggles and slides down in the bed. The head is under the blankets. The sheets smell of lemon and rustle with the contact made with them by the head. My head goes under the first strap and then I wriggle back up the bed. It is stuffy under the blanket and the breaths are not easy to take. I remember being under the water and panic fits a vice around my skull. The strap catches on the night-dress and I hear cloth tearing. But I am as good as free. With the arms out of the strap I can undo the three further restricting straps.

This, my first attempt to stand, is not good. The legs are weak and do not obey the anxious brain. I am sitting on the floor, the cold plastic floor where I have fallen. I rub the legs and soon, now, I am feeling the pins and needles as the blood is forced to circulate.

The pain in the legs is passing. I stand. I walk, looking for my clothes. I find them in a cupboard along with my watch, necklace, bracelet and wallet. I dress in the dark.

I am ready quickly.

Going out into the corridor, I am a little surprised. I am expecting the whiteness to assault the eyes and the lights to show up my escape. But there are no lights, just a dull glow from a long window at one end of the corridor. The floor is carpeted, and I am grateful as the sneakers that I wear on the feet make squeaking noises on the linoleum.

My escape is going well. I am out of the corridor and walking down the fire escape stairs. I have encountered no-one. I am wondering what sort of hospital I am in, where no doctors or nurses are patrolling and escape is so easy for a person such as myself.

There is a wide foyer. To get to the door I must pass a reception desk. The nurse on duty there is facing the wall, reading a magazine. I believe I can crouch down, so that I am not visible over the counter, and crawl out the door.

I have been deceived by the door! Beyond the obvious door is a corridor. At the end of this is the real door. Brain perceives the door. Mind believes it to be the exit sought. Body moves, and the door becomes larger to the eyes. Again I marvel at the circus which is me.

I am dismayed to find another obstacle between myself and the outside. A youthful man guards this door.

-Good morning.- I say to him.

-Who're you? What are you doing here?- He is not expecting to be seeing me here.

-I am leaving the building.- I reply. I am pointing down the driveway. -Is that the way out?- I am enquiring of him. He scratches his head, peering at me in the early morning light.

-Yes. Are you a patient?-

I must be careful in answering the question; not lying, but not getting caught in the hospital again. Carefully, I say -I was visiting, but I fell asleep.-

In my mind, I should not be at the hospital. I should not be a patient there. Yet I was there. Mind and brain believe I was only visiting.

He is saying -I must make checks. What is your name?-

Quickly I make up a name. -Joanna Miltora.-

He is asking a question about my eyes, height and age. I am giving him the answers of green, 160 centimetres and twenty-two. He is going to a booth in the wall where there is a telephone. I see a seat across the driveway and know that I must escape now.

-Excuse me, do you mind if I wait on that seat over there? I have cramps in my legs.- I ask him. It is quite light now and I must be clever to get away unnoticed. He is looking deeply at me, and as he nods, I realise he reminds me very much of Harry.

My chance comes. He cannot watch me while he dials the number he wants. When he turns away, I see that his left ear is crooked.

I run up not down the drive. I am running to a door that leads into the canteen.

Inside the canteen, I am waiting to hear sounds. A woman enters the canteen from a door marked To Cafeteria. I am horrified to see that it is the woman who was in the park with Marland. I move to a bench and begin to butter some slices of bread. She is barely noticing me. She picks up a tray of salt and pepper shakers and goes back out the door. I see a door marked To Goods Entrance which I am sure to be the proper exit.

From the hospital I walked in the street until I came to a post office. I waited hours until it opened to send a telegram to Lilian. From there I walked to where I am now: the zoo. I am visiting here.

I drink from a fountain and it tastes like champagne.

There is a postman here, also visiting. I have fallen in love with the postman. I will write him a love letter. He has qualities reminiscent of Marland.

I want to see my favourite animals, the tigers.

I pass a rosebed, but all the blooms are dead. I wonder, Was there ever a rose?

The tiger cage is empty, and there is blood and flesh on the ground in front of the torn mesh wire.

And I wonder, Were there tigers?

[ epilog ]

That which is me lies now alone on the cold sand. The Sun has gone with my friends to the Goodtime places. I was not invited, so here I stayed.

The beach is all sand: sand dunes, names written in the sand, sandcastles melting in the sullen wash of tepid water. I traced my name in the sand but it was swept away by indignant waters. I have trespassed into a further dimension.

Night is falling. Yellow lights flare across the cove. Flecks of illumination scatter like lost dreams on the ebony water.

I have been asleep on the sand; now I rise, remembering what I am. I remember how my friends left with the Sun a thousand years ago.

That which is me rises, devoid of physical effort, for there is no physical part of me remaining for such sensations.

I had a flesh-vessel once, but it was never used for its purpose and eventually fell away...

...leaving that which is me

...Immortal.