1001 Nights Cast

The thing was—or the thing wasn’t—I knew her so well. The thing was—or wasn’t—I—who knew nothing and everything—and you—or should I say she—or we—or who—who knew enough—or not enough—at least knew her so well. So. Well.

And we were divided. By an essence—or existence—or oblong—or an unknown. To be divided—fenced off—struck down—like a phrasal verb—was to know her more. Even if the fence was painted in rose-tinted hues. I (me, it, they) when struck down (or fenced off) having felt her (its [your]) power, came to know her-it-you. By being struck. By her power. To know someone is to know—feel—taste—someone’s power.

Division is drunken and lonely. The grass is always greener on the other side of the et cetera. Even through rose-tinted et cetera. Division is self-righteous and uncomprehending. A message from one self to herself—itself—themselves—myself. Myselves. One word. My selves. Two words. Mice. One word. Elves.

The thing is—isn’t—that once the self has divided—molecularly—particularly—quarkly—charmingly—it is doing one of two things: meiosis or mitosis.

A door shuts somewhere. Some here. There is someone else in the house. Why am I scared? Because that is—isn’t—the cliché. Because the thing is abrupt. A door slamming means she—you—it—they—have come inside the fenceline.

By invitation.

By force.

By dint dent dunt—don’t!—of random impulse.

So I leant forward. And kissed her. Tongues penetrating. Soft porn. Tissues near. As now.

We were on the plane. Above and beyond fences. Doors dangerous. Temperature an odd hot cold.

Married. Beyond invitation, force, dint, division and selves. On a plane to the Balkans (above and beyond fences). Via Paris and London (ditto). In love.

And we were circling the airport.

And we still are.

Or were we?

To make a connection—a Dr Cohen. He knows a thing or two, she said. To me Dr C was just a flitting reference who might never be made flesh. Another collector. I who cannot retain have collected nothing. Except her.

The thing was—or the thing wasn’t—I knew her so well. The thing was—or wasn’t—I—who knew nothing and everything—and you—or should I say she—or we—or who—who knew enough—or not enough—at least knew her so well. So. Well.

I knew her—the thing was—or wasn’t—knew her enough. And we were divided. By an oblong essence, a fence in rose-tinted hues—like a phrasal verb. By being struck by her power. To know someone is to know—feel—taste—someone’s power.

Division is drunken and lonely. The grass is always rosier et cetera. A message from one self to herself—itself—themselves—myself. Myselves. One word. My selves. Two words. Elves.

Divided. Molecularly—particularly—quarkly—charmingly. Meiosis—mitosis.

A door has slammed. There is someone else in the house. Why am I scared? Because that is—isn’t—the cliché. Because the thing is abrupt. A door slamming means she—you—it—they—have come inside the fenceline.

By invitation.

By force.

By tint tent tunt—don’t!—of random impulse.

We were on the plane. Above and beyond fences. Doors are dangerous ten thousand metres up. So no slammings. Temperature an odd hot cold.

Married. Beyond invitation, force, dint, division and selves. On a plane to the Balkans (above and beyond fences). Via London. Paris. In love. It’s hard to speak about the holes. He wondered. Was there a problem with Dr Cohen? The danger had been known. But then there was a gap. I who can retain nothing. Except a brain injury. A broken cobweb of hints hents hunts. In mufti. It was all starting to feel like Casablanca. We’ll always have Paris, even if we’ve gotten divorced before we reach the Balkans.

And we were circling the airport.

And we still were.

Or were we?

The thing was—or wasn’t—I—who knew enough—or not enough—at least knew her so well. So. Well.

And we were divided. She who sees only shadows. I who hear slamming doors. By an unknown. A slammed door. Fenced off by rose-tinted hues. Struck down—like a phrasal verb having felt her its your power. To know someone is to know—feel—taste—power.

Division is drunken and lonely. Myselves. One word. My selves. Two words. Elves. Mice. Meiosis. Mitosis. The self has divided—molecularly—particularly—quarkly—charmlessly.

A door shutting some where. Some here. There is some one else in the house. Why am I scared? The cliché. Thing is abrupt. She—you—it—they—has—have—come inside the fenceline, trampled the roses, punched Hugh in the noses. Hugh is our billy goat.

By invitation.

By forceful invitation.

By dint dent dunt—don’t!

Long pause.

Just give us our fucking roses.