My Falling Down House

by Jayne Joso

  Sitting alone, a man plays an imaginary cello in the hopes of winning the heart and approval of a real one. She listens attentively and applauds. A silent rapture.

  It is dark outside. I have slept. But how was it that I played so hard and collapsed again into sleep? And what did I do? My legs, wrapped around my cello, the real and true cello… My body twisted in embrace as though she was my love. I don’t know how this came about, how I come to be positioned like this. I had been sitting some distance away. I moved … I must have moved. Taken hold of her, held her close, and in my sleep my limbs grown so entirely stiff about her shape that now I cannot easily let go. In fact, I cannot feel my legs at all. Entangled, I try to move but I am in pain. How was it possible to sleep this way? And now my concern is very much greater than these few minor ailments, for since I don’t know how I came to be entwined like this, what else might I have done? Swept up in emotion, and in the moment, in a kind of heat-induced, sleep-induced craze, did I forget myself, and the rule I set? That I must not truly play! Have I been playing?

  The door is still closed tight. I see no signs that anyone has been inside, and if they had I would surely have been taken from here immediately. Arrested. And if the police did not come, then perhaps some casual passer-by. In that case there would be a natural delay in my arrest while they withdrew to inform the authorities of my trespass. If so, they must have done so by now, and the police are on their way, about to smash inside this place at any moment. Oh please god that this is not the case, and no officials come. If I have been witnessed in this state, lying here, my body naked, draped about a cello as though it were my lover, for certain I will end my days in a mad house, an institution aimed at the reform of such delinquent behaviour, but perhaps never fully reformed and therefore detained indefinitely. I have read of those cases. It never goes well. The people who slip through the cracks, those who withdraw or fall away from society, so entirely dispossessed not even a child would vouch for them... You have to be known, identifiable, someone must always be available to speak for you, to state your case or you really are quite lost. That being the case I had better quit this place immediately, forget everything.

  Just run and run.

  The door won’t open. That isn’t true. It will, it will. But I cannot move. It is not for the deadness, neither the cramp. In fact, I don’t know what it is prevents me, but the fact remains, I cannot move. Again that isn’t true. I can by now move any part of me, my limbs are painful and somewhat stiff, but in essence, everything required for moving through a doorway is operational. Then what detains me? I cannot hear anything, I see no one. What is there to frighten me? It is dark for sure, but that is the safest condition in which to flee, to run as fast as my feet will take me from a place where I might soon be set upon. I must go before police arrive, and truly, who knows what they might do. They might be accompanied by medical specialists who will assist in my suppression, take pleasure in my sedation, collude in my detention. I can see it! I have to go, and now. But I simply cannot ‘exit’. I hold the door; I feel the air outside. It grows quite cool just now. I must do something soon or someone will see. They might not care. But when they find themselves questioned later, and under pressure, for sure they will remember the strange little man who fled this place in haste. And still I cannot do it. I don’t know why. I have closed the door.

  I am losing myself, the walls fold away; the mind, with nothing to hold it … what can it do?

  I must act. Perhaps in some extreme way. A violent rebalancing, so to speak. Some brutal measure.

  And so...

  I picture the foods I gorged at the temple dwelling. I see myself, the saliva; eyes grown large and round; lips cracked, parted, gnarled like the forced oyster shell. The growling in my head. The temple voices in the background, nearing. Adrenaline coursing through my body, and shots of pain, and the deep joy of flavours. My pockets, full.

  I see how firmly madness has me in its grip. And I know now what I will do. And so, tomorrow, when it has grown freshly dark, I will make my second move across the temple garden. So much already lost, the rest … splintering, coming apart, taking flight. Soon there will be nothing, I expect.

  Sorrows gather. Like birds they swoop.

  17.

  Tonight, as I enter the temple spaces my approach must be quite different. It was only luck that I was not caught out the first time, and now my ambition is very much greater, for I will make a move on the temple itself. My mind set firmly on the offertory box. From here on, what is there to lose?

  A blue-black sky. I dress, and as I do so, calmly, in my mind, I carve out a course that cuts smoothly through the temple garden. I must be quick and clear in my moves. Ever more, I care to answer to no one. I place Cello in a cupboard, and close the door upon her. Not an easy thing to do. Cat looked on disdainfully, but it seemed it would be for the best.

  Ready now, I place the cloth about my still-smooth head. I step outside and the darkness closes in.

  It is a strange activity to wait here in the shadows, listening with such great care, trying to judge whether footsteps truly retreat or whether a lapse in tread indicates a turn on a heel and the possibility of someone’s return. Some people hereabouts possess the lightest tread. I have observed one monk who quite literally seems to glide. And if I am caught by anyone it will most surely be by him, the light-footed menace.

  My senses on high alert, I choose my moment. I watch for Light-foot. He is almost a shadow there deep inside the temple. I see him. His profile. He changes direction. I see his back. The edge of his robe. But then I fail to make out his movements and so I pause again. I must not step inside until I am certain of his whereabouts.

  The insects make a lullaby, not much longer and their favourite season will be gone.

  Lightfoot seems truly to have retreated, perhaps the end to his duties here this night. But I wait a short while longer. When I was a child we would visit the temple near our home, and I remember the fun of dropping the coins my mother gave me deep into the offertory box. I liked the sound of them as they shivered against the wood and crashed against the coins there down below, invisible save for a tiny glimmer in the deep dark box – and perhaps I only imagine the last part, still, I take it as memory.

  My hands sweat. I hang my head in shame, but I see no other way. You are the man you have come to be. I did not want to be a thief but so it is. I face what I have become. Back at my dwelling the silk tie slipped from the lacquer box so easily, and the money inside climbed into my hands. I glance back across the garden. The wind is getting up. A tree shakes itself in front of the moon as though it dances for favours. I almost fell, losing my footing in the darkness; someone’s voice? Light-foot? But no one comes. The air is still again. I step and breathe alternately. I drop my paper money, the gambling stash in its entirety, between the wooden slats, careful that it is not taken by the wind. But why the tears? My chest is tight, but full of joy. Relief.

  Back at my place once more I take off my clothes. Small, tight, dirty muscles on bones too thin. I gaze around in the darkness. Still besieged by hunger. My fat and greedy eyes that would devour all. Wild as a dog. A man can last some while without food. This I have come to know. Rice and water, it’s enough. It must be. But for all my father instructed me upon, there is something that he missed:

  Whatever else in life, don’t ever, be a shit!

  AUTUMN

  1.

  A man with no more substance than a pencil drawing, an image scratched in sand.

  I checked the surface of my hands. I no longer knew them to be mine. My toes had begun to move at times in an involuntary way, as though they might leave without the rest of me. No one would choose to be depleted like this, but in some last urgent moments, you have to take hold of things and, at your weakest point, somehow find strength.

  I needed to take stock. I realised that my plan to escape time was hugely flawed. Such a fool! Wanting to live outside or beyond it? It really isn’t possible, because th
e idea, the reflection, at the very least, an impression will remain no matter what. And being detached or disconnected? That’s not so simple either. I had truly thought I might banish time, or hoped at least to ignore it well enough. I imagined I could throw it off, just as I might a jacket, that I could lay it down somewhere, and that it would lie there inert, that it would not trouble me. That’s not how it is. It seeks you out. And even without the devices that count away our lives in the smallest increments, you cannot readily escape the moon as it rolls away the sun, and you cannot ignore the dance and battle of nature as it wrestles leaves from trees or forces blossom from tight-fisted buds.

  Here, the temple chrysanthemums have withered and the distant maples reveal a change in season whether I want to admit it or not. And though I cannot deny the beauty of those crisp red leaves against a bright and brutal sky, they are evidence of my many long weeks here. Autumn has come. There is much to do.

  Without another thought I threw myself into my work as though operating on reserve tanks, driven by a kind of self-annoyance, impatience, the need to push on, to make things happen, to get things done, and what I had in mind now for the boxes was really far from the improvised dwelling of my office days. Ideas streamed through my head. A viral highway, an ice-cold sake feeling, and with it, the sharp rush of adrenaline I got from placing bets – truly, not a bad feeling at all.

  At first I took an experimental approach, tearing at the cardboard, savaging the boxes I deemed spare and sacrificial, fashioning them however I wanted, however I could, with whatever my fractured mind and calloused hands would permit. I pushed myself, doing whatever it took to get me to the prototypes. Then I practised how to carve into the boxes, carefully, and with little damage to the walls. Rows of dead boxes mounted up neatly about the room, whilst others lay strewn across the floor, proof of my frustration and lack of skill. Getting the lines exact and leaving the corners intact (those I wished left intact) was troublesome, but I did it.

  Next up was the coding. I had decided long before that I would not write the code in any known language but invent my own. A code within a code, so to speak, that no one, unless making a deliberate investigation of it, would recognise it as a means of communication at all. And indeed, perhaps it is not, if it communicates with no one but myself. Is that what I intend? There’s no way to answer. But I have worked at this in the manner of a complete fanatic. One of the trickiest parts has arisen over the use of ink, and trying to prevent it from bleeding into areas I would rather it did not. And yet some of these accidents have led to intriguing designs. Perhaps they are, rather, anti-designs, since they were not intended. And so, excited by this, I have named them:

  ‘The anti-designs of Takeo Tanaka’

  - created by an ordinary guy, with ordinary eyes -

  I pause for water. There are deep cuts now to one of my hands, but mostly on my fingers. I didn’t notice, I didn’t feel anything, but I had better wrap them. The green strip from the insect box is dirty. I had better root around for something else. Truly, not even a rat lives like this. Ha!

  Alright then, the upper floor. Let’s see what lies up there. I breathe. Strange to think I have not climbed these steps before. The journey up is brief; and since they are old and wooden, the stairs creak just as I imagined. An oddly reassuring sound, and I step lightly as though concerned I might disturb someone.

  The sun lies in a broad stretch up here, and slants its weight heavily through the windows, thick and yellow. It seems it takes up residence and is not merely passing through. It is musty up here, and the dust lies heavy. I stand awhile, the light upon my back, for I have been too long away from sunlight and its warmth upon my skin. After some moments scanning the room my eyes settle on a series of long slim drawers, wooden with neat handles. Row upon row. Something magnificent. I wonder what they hold. Perhaps special drawings, or maps, but certainly some great treasure, for no one made cupboards like this for ordinary things. They slide open with ease. A mark of precision. But no map. And no rare manuscript. I take each drawer now with extra care, for I must not bleed on them. Teasing them open from the outer edges with the one hand and, using my face and chin, I evolve somehow a funny but effective way to take the drawer a little further. There is cloth of some sort, fine cloth. Silk. Folded neatly. I take it out. A very fine kimono. In the other drawers the same. On closer inspection they are the finest I have seen. But what are they doing here? No one comes to this place. No one uses them. It seems that no one misses them? I have not quite opened all the drawers but as far as I see they each hold a woman’s gown, and it is curious, but this discovery has lifted my spirit greatly. Gently, I slide them back again each inside its wooden bed. How sad that they just lie there. For now I let them alone, resting in their own clever space. But for sure I will visit them again.

  A thin trail of blood marks my journey. Nothing here to bind my hand. I had better wash the green silk strip, it might do well enough.

  2.

  Once the silk had dried I kept the fingers of my left hand bound up tightly. Then I stole upstairs again and took out one of the kimonos, it had to be acceptable to use just one. I took it as a coat, draped about my shoulders. Truly, what a wonderful thing. I thought about the elegant and fashionable kimonos I had seen at different times in my life, and also the simple ones, the rather basic, practical ... versions ... ‘types’… my mind driven suddenly now, and high speed, back to the prototypes. This was what it was all about! First, there is always a prototype, a basic type, always, of anything, and from there you adapt, you develop. Adding, subtracting, fine-tuning. There was no way to guess if there would be a demand for beautiful dwellings in miniature, perhaps not, but I knew there was need of box dwellings. A great need.

  When a person faces challenging times they do not lose their desire for comfort. And beautiful or not, they need shelter. In my case, I have lived in a box inside a building, so to say: a box inside a box, but there is huge scope to adapt this box home. Huge! And perhaps I could specialise, focussing my attention entirely on the plight of those who find themselves homeless, improving the box dwellings, rendering them capable of surviving the perils of street life, of rural outdoor life, of post-disaster landscapes... Boxes. That’s all that we need. My spirit lifts.

  Filled with eagerness and mischief, I hunted around the place some more. What else might I make use of? What more is there in here that will inspire? It was a pure and private pleasure to discover each new room alone like this. And insane that I had not done so already somehow. But anyway, who cares! House, I am getting to know you!

  Straw and bamboo hats sit in an adjoining room, another brilliant find, a huge stack of them. I like their shape, their texture, and how they are constructed. And I am deeply curious about the materials: straw and bamboo – cheap and natural, adaptable... I might find other uses for them and they will surely last quite well. Typically, I know they have been worn by farmers and other outdoor workers for hundreds of years, and this has to bode well. They use them even now. Such a simple sort of headgear, keeping off the sun, protecting from the rain. Cleverly woven. It must be the weave that provides the strength, or does that merely increase it, enhances it perhaps? The weave accounts for their flexibility also? For sure they are robust. I like these questions. I like this simplicity. I like it a lot. Oh, I wish that Cat was here; we might dance awhile to celebrate. Impressive longevity, that might be the most important quality they have to offer; and varied application, especially bamboo. I will teach myself to weave, and see what other discoveries can be made. As for the boxes and the prototypes, I have decided for a time to work some of these in shoji paper. I need to further conserve the box supplies, so I will store them out of the way, there are a few plastic sheets that I can use to cover them; and I thought to cut and carve bamboo struts to reinforce the shoji boxes.

  Dismantling some hats just now, unweaving to weave, I make notes as I go and sketch a few ideas. I am curious as to how they are constructed. Then I weave some afresh
and others into something new, nothing too ambitious, mere shapes, whatever they will take, small practice elements. I collect up junk and reconfigure it, shaping, making, re-making, making better, and discarding that which does not work so well. Truly, there is an entire world inside this place. If the world rejects a man, he must simply make his own.

  3.

  I have slept some good long while and deeply. I touch my head. Still entirely smooth. The skin on my body, rough to the touch, thin like paper. The light filters in as though it dresses me. A yellow wash over dust and dirt-covered limbs. Black and purple bruising. I reach for the kimono but it is gone. I look about, but can’t see it. And now that I am fully awake I feel certain that though I have slept (I think perhaps waking and sleeping on again), something here has been coming and going, almost as though there was a flow somehow in keeping with the rhythms of my sleep. Something comes here, I know it – the shapeshifter? – and it has been coming here perhaps some while now, and yet I do not see it. Why not? I don’t know if it truly stays when I am sleeping, but afterwards there is the trace of something, and an impression I have of a presence and of repetition. Then there is the time that I sipped water from a vessel, did I dream that? But wasn’t a cover then placed over me? That seems gone … I can’t recall. Does it mess with me? This thing? Really, I am a fool, I ought to be mindful, for though it has not so far harmed me, that might not always be the case. I have shown so little concern, and I know full well what happens when I am too casual in my behaviour. I cannot deny that I am an intruder here myself, perhaps small proof that not all are dangerous or pose a threat – but still, it would be wise to take more care. But truly, I don’t understand why I have not yet seen it.

  I look around again for the kimono. It’s not here. Perhaps I didn’t wear it? I dreamt that too? I bolt upstairs. There it hangs! Placed as though with care, as my mother or aunt might do, that it might air well enough. The lining is dirtied, proof of my clumsy use. But I did not bring it up here. I took it, that’s for sure, but I did not take care of it, and I would not think to air it. Well, there are sounds now, and I’m not certain if they are inside or outside my head. Steadily, I take the steps back down to my room again. Somewhat faint, I sit cross-legged, and close my eyes awhile.