This Field Remains–for Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark

1 Stanlow

The unshaven man follows the curved road, the giant rock to his left looking like a mountain with its red skin and long shadows cutting into the dirt, the crevices drawing in the black bits, secret particles filtering in the cracks like decay in a fractured tooth. The driver feels solace in the bubble of the vehicle. The mountain-like rock is outside, threatening only the land surrounding, the expanding clouds gathering bits of pinks and purples with the setting sun. The Annex is far away. The vehicle journeys in the space between the Annex and the Rock and the Destination. On the passenger seat there is an open map with a circled city: Sealand. He travels from north to south, through a valley, in a field, no bodies of water to guide, just the promise of the end.

The tape plays its last song on the first side and he begins to dread the click of the cassette. He knows he can fast-forward, rewind, listen again, but the song ticks on and it’s hard to enjoy it knowing the loud click will follow. He’s listened to it many times but it is not one of hers. Driving up, reaching the top of the summit, the light pierces his eyes in a starburst forcing him to close them for one second, then another. A mountain forms a line on the horizon. There is another mountain behind it which forms its line and the two lines overlap and he thinks of a song where two singers sing at the same time and volume but with different words and he was never sure which one to follow. Before the song finishes, he presses the “stop” button and ejects the tape.

The rock which looks like a mountain forms up from the ground, red and shimmering, and if he were a giant as tall as a god he could take the rock and crumble it in his fist like a clump of dirt and it would disintegrate like coffee grounds. He’d blow it into the wind and it would scatter over the land in a million pieces of rock-mountain. It would end up on a woman’s front lawn and she’d never know the dust was a part of this once magnificent rock.
He doesn’t think about the letters he left behind, space forming between them with the curve of the land, valleys between words.

I can’t imagine how this ever came to be.

A clock beats at the back of his head like a synthesizer or drum machine or some kind of computerized box with knobs that he doesn’t know the names of. He’s traveled so far, traveled by car, but he’s forgotten why he went, why he’s going, back, he wants to get somewhere but this isn’t it. This is the start, the beginning and the end.

2 Crush

The Annex is cold and a film coats the surface of everything, all the objects, fingerprints, red frame/white light. The detective uses a specialized brush and tape to dust and lift the prints, sliding them into miniature manila envelopes and fastening with string. He writes in black permanent ink, labels and tags and measures and sticks and seals in zipped plastic bags. He takes pictures with a camera lens and stores them in his mind. There is a black lead to a dial and a phone, a grey book: 632-3003. He writes on a yellow notepad with faint blue lines. There is an open cage, the feather of a white bird lays in a curl on the counter. An unmarked audio tape sits on a metal shelf next to an empty glass vase. A flash bulb electrifies the red frame.

I’ll close my eyes, I’ll shut my brain.

The unshaven man looks out a window, sometimes the window is in a small hotel room, sometimes it’s in the car, an aeroplane, a camp, sometimes it is sitting in a second story apartment at a round metal table with a white teacup in hand, looking out to the empty street with the rain pouring down. The day turns from afternoon to late night. A television flickers in another room, something in a foreign language. There is broken glass on the floor. He’s longing for something else, someone else, afraid that he’s lost everyone at home. He is filled with a deep kind of longing, so much that it causes him physical pain, the corners of his eyes, the back of his throat, the centers of his ears, they are swollen to the point of bursting.

Oh my god, what have I done this time.

There’s a painting on the wall that wasn’t there at all ten minutes ago. She won’t let go, the figure in white gliding from room to room. A dark wash slides over the colorful cityscape. She calls for him. Everything slows down, a kind of haunting. The lights are going out one by one across the world.

3 Sealand

She’s leaving. She waited for so long. The world is filled with street cafes, fresh sourdough bread, steaming cups in bone saucers, iron chairs with curly-qs, rain dripping off vines, plinking on copper kettles. A souvenir, a little ball of memory to take home, she keeps it in the back of her throat, a private song. She wonders what it means to be a traveler, a soldier, a foreigner, a killer, a messenger. All those letters, where are they now? Her feelings still remain, there in the Annex, the letters in a bundle tied up with string, thrown into the fire, not even, that would be too romantic, too dramatic, they have not even been kept, they were discarded as soon as they were opened, long ago, read only once and led from his hand to eye to garbage, there to roll and churn with the wet coffee grounds and spoiled leftovers.

The light is never on.

There is a crying-like Hum, maybe a drone, a plane in the outer banks, another plane of existence. Fields crisscross in plaids and argyles, the lines are smooth and perfectly straight, level, like water. The Hum rises up again, penetrates the air, the Annex windows rattle, it’s all-encompassing, surrounding her from every angle, no one point of focus, direction, she turns to face it but it’s everywhere. There’s nothing to see, only hear. Is she imagining it? Then the Hum fades, blends into the background, trickling into a put-put motor droning in the distance. She imagines a faint trace of smoke left in its wake, a snail trail in the sky. She is gone.

They haven’t fixed it yet.

She walks along the shore onto the dock, the wind blowing orange flags, seagulls taking turns flying and perching, the sound of metal being hit in the distance, boats coming in and out, a low moaning foghorn, the sky bright white and blinding even though the sun is invisible. The dazzleship is waiting.

4 Navigation

She is gone. In the Annex, the metal shelf is cold. Red on grey, numbered calls, selected places. The detective reads her bundled letters. One of them says, “Someone advised me to die.” She has a grey look. He listens to the unmarked tape. There is a bird chirping in the background. He zips her inside the plastic bag. He hasn’t got long. There is a black lead to a dial and a phone. It leads to her killer. A giant rock that looks like a mountain is on his left. He follows the red road to Stanlow.

This is the feeling they warned me about.

The unshaven man travels from room to room, road to road. Shutting his brain, he ejects the tape and throws it out the car window. His vision is changing by degree. She haunts the Annex which haunts him. She whispers into his ear and he swerves on the road. Her hands are washed. He cut her off at the mains.

It’s something to do when it rains.

5 Messages

He said: “So take me away. Life is never this strange. Counting your blessings, when you’re out of rain.”
But I thought he said: “So take me where life has never been strange. Count your blessings, when you’re out of breath.”

These kinds of misunderstandings happened all the time. How many other lines were never understood the way they were meant to? Maybe it would’ve been different if we’d spoken face to face.

Eat green fruit, no don’t touch. Mmm-mmm.

It wasn’t the tape that was broken, it was the sound. The connection never seemed right, but I was powerless to change it. The dialog would remain unfulfilled up until the afterlife.

I’d write and tell you that I’ve burnt them all but there’s nothing to burn and we are not in the position to write. And all the order in our lives left some time ago. Me at home and you out there and on your way.

Coded messages, poison letters.

I am sailing, not by sea, not by land. You can be assured that we will meet again. And when we do, you will answer my letters, my calls, my tapes. You will answer me even as your throat bleeds.

The night will hide the sound.