Thursday, 21st December 2006

Novy Mir. It's the second morning after my return home from my first chemotherapy cycle. Last night I was full of thoughts.

It's very much to take on board;
My ignorant crew of nieve men,
Can'st handle the inconceivable truth when;
They ship a captainless vessel, without their lord.

I dreamt I was a dreamcatcher, catching the worlds in my mind and publishing them into well-written short stories. Unfortunately I woke up much more selfish (the lack of a better phrase) and less able (the lack of a good writing arm, or two). I refused, amongst the many tosses and turns, to get up and write my thoughts onto paper. For several hours. However, after a very long-drawn nose bleed and further attempts to re-kindle my night's rest, I sat up, dead on 8am, clambered over to my desk and sat down to write left-handed for half an hour and read A.A Milne's The House at Pooh Corner as I listened to music. I'm afraid, for myself, this is where my true comforts reside. May I ramble. I haven't conciouslessly chosen to wake up, planless, somewhat urgeless, before the hour of 11am, let alone 8am for what can't be less than four years. I will add John Frusciante and Elliott Smith made it a more than worthy accomplishment though.

My humble GP is popping round today, health check-up and whatnot. He's solely the most adorable general practicioner i've ever fallen into the hands of, so I have nothing to worry about. I'm experiencing weird taste sensations and nose bleeds but the projectile vomiting has stopped and the nausia must be getting bored, so I've decided to give a little glimpse of a very short draft story I wrote over the last couple of hours.

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Anna Lakos - S. A. Lakos

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As usual, the reveille-like applause sounded down dimly-lit Colney Hatch Lane surrounding the derelict chapel at Muswell Hill. The intermittent sounds were those of a small audience in response to a frequenting display of entertainment, vaudeville.

'Huzzah huzzah, I've killed the Devil!'
Strewn away with Judy and the baby; the professor, the puppetmaster, marvelled at the wooden carved chin on his Punch glove-puppet as he placed it carefully in his wooden case and clambered out the small manhole in the back of the nuns confession box. A fixed smile on his face. Here, is where he mysteriously scarpered from all of his plays.

The applause slowly ceased, but everything in the chapel still felt like a dream when Anna rose from her pew on the floor. The chapel was mostly dark except for the mild yellow light cast on the wooden floor through the stain glass windows on the west side of the remain. Anna caught a glimpse of the declining sun through one of the glass cracks purtruding from what she recognized as a mossy alter. Evening was nigh, and the only arguement she could possibly present to her father for being out so late was that she was in the safe company of Mrs Ealey and her candles.
For the better part of a week, Anna had not missed a single of the puppetmaster's shows at the chapel. Where once, the audience of this little secret had held only two or three members, seven or eight now filed out the retreat toward the back end of the remain. She waited until they had all assembled out and leant over to blow out the candles on the window sill. She had been given the candles by Mrs Ealey earlier that day, a well
thought of present for her only parent, her sick father. She drew the old haggard curtain across the now empty, small stage and turned her back on the scene to head in the direction of the earlier departures.
Candles in hand, Anna climbed the high-rise cobble stairs at the end of Hatch Lane, two at a time. One hand on the railing, she passed the number plate '6' outside Mrs Ealey's apartment as she made her way to her own numberless apartment at the top of the building. Too many war-stricken houses in Muswell Hill, 1918, were without number plates, but the Lakos apartment had other distinguishing factors to compensate it's appearance.

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