[Nettime-bold] WINDOWS...

[furtherfield <info@furtherfield.org>]

Manıs Brutality


WINDOWS & a fatherıs love...

Ever since that fated day windows have given me a reference a kin to agony.
Whenever I  try to look through them my mindıs eye pictureıs a mist.
Memories pour into my mind-scape, flooding back like a cascading waterfall,
drowning my immediate vision. It takes me back to a place, a moment in time
when I had no control over my own life. I was a prisoner, a child lost in an
isolationist ward called a family unit. Outside of that family unit, no one
would know what went on behind the buildingıs walls, it was effectively
hidden from the prying eyes of the rest of the world.

All families have secrets. And ours was sacred, we had to harness this
secret as best we could. We were told that if anyone found out the family
would be split apart and we would never see any of our brotherıs, sisters,
our mother and of course father ever again. If I knew what I know now. I
would of told everyone, I would screamed till my lungs were sore. But
instead the secret became a sort of religion, a purpose for the familyıs
existence. A spurious bonding emerged out of keeping the secret.

I can see it in slow motion, like an action replay over and over again. Her
head slowly collides through the window and the glass bursts around her face
and scatters around the kitchenıs vicinity. I am sitting on a stool
witnessing the act of violence as my father pushes my motherıs head through
the window. The glass smothers my body, cutz into my cheek, once splinter
finds its way into left eye and rips into one of my arms. My mother screams
and falls unconscious onto the glass on the floor. Her head is now resting
in a puddle of blood. My mothers face is now unrecognisable, she is quiet
and I think to myself that she is dead. I scream then my father picks up a
flannel and swipes it across my face, I slip off the stall and my
unconscious mother breaks my fall. I scream even louder, fear has turned
into a total hysterical attack. My father lifts me up slowly and hangs me in
front of him. I look into his eyes, shaking, now not able even to murmur
caught in the flux of ultimate fear. In his his angry eyes, I see the
reflection of what is left of the window behind me. His fist pulls back as
if he about to fire an arrow, he drives his fist into my face. From then on
everything vanishes into a hazy mist....

I look through a window and the scenery of the world outside appears. I can
see many people on the streets passing by like traffic. My memory has
suddenly vanished. I can feel my face becoming warmer, tighter as tears
trickle out of my eyes running down my cheeks. With my index finger I lift
the tear drop and then place it onto the windowıs glass surface. I watch it
drip down hitting the wooden payne.

A tragic sound bounces around the four walls of my room, it's the
television. News on the WTC terrorist attack and issues about violence
engulfing this vulnerable planet exudes its dominance. I look at the screen,
viewing another window onto another world...He's back!!!

marc garrett 

http://www.furtherfield.org

 



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