The Next Day of Your Life, Bright Eyes

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The Next Day of Your Life, Bright Eyes

This is the first day of your life.

This is the nine to five; the game shows on an x-inch plasma screen; 5-star spa hotels; life insurance

to cover death; Big Macs to cause death; credit cards; the uniting World Wide Web; skipping

breakfast; made in china; clean and green; four-wheel drives; the super-super-supermarket; this is

the accidental tourism that is the first day of your life.

This is every day of your

life.

This is the next day of your life.

Its a thin street, only two cars wide, that youve just pulled into. End to end stand towers at least six

or seven stories high, looming over you like the shadow of a tunnel. Its not the way you remember

it. Even here, the house you grew up in, the last remaining house on the street, now wedged

between towers,Suncorp and Amazon, is being crushed by the perfect, pristine pavement spilling

over onto the dusty property. The cottage lets out a melancholic wheeze as you creak open the old

door. What brought you here?

. ,

#

Hours before, youd stopped at the side of the motorway. Youd found the now familiar scent of salty tears, dry upon your face and youd listened to a tape.

Positive thoughts you will use for better living, it began. Relax your mouth and jaw; hands; arms;

legs; stomach. You shifted uncomfortably. Repeat: Every day, in every way, Im getting better and

better, healthier and healthier, happier and happier. Silence.

¬¬

~

What brought you here? A disruption of your routine?A disturbance in your accidental tourism?

A death your fathers.

You step inside the cottage, which is smaller than you recall and cool, but warmerthan the sharp,

chilled shade of the towers outside. Immediately, you shake off your choking, black blazer and tie

and hang them up by the door. This house is sad, alone. In conclusion to this long, tiring journey you

decide to retire to your old room. Exhausted, your feet drag along the dry floorboards, craving

company.



This is a dingy, stale stench of a room. Open a window! You think. Too tired to observe your own

advice, you collapse on the childs bed and a rush of painful relief fills your flattened muscles. Still

wearing the black pants, white shirt and polished shoes you outgrew years ago, you sleep for several

hours, promising yourself youd work on clearing out the house in the morning.

_ _ z z

o

Morning. Did you dream? It was the atrocious sound of honking horns which woke you. Where are

you? Oh yes, your fathers. It was once the tune of morning birds on the windowsill, singing to the

sunrise that woke you, here. Stretching from your bed, you do begin to remember your dream:a

fever that would not sweat out; a winter that would not end; and a void-full of reasons to carry on.

Today, you will dig through the house; sort the eBay worth from the freeBay worth-less; spinning

circles in this mnemonic maze.Even here, in your old room, you look around and see attached to

everything, like pleasant clothing labels hanging from spiraled strings, a price tag; and a memory:Antique, wooden, handmade rocking horse. Original. Very heavy. In reasonably good condition.

Rare. $900 Once, when you were young, you and that horse flew. The reins, slack in your palms,

you trusted his guidance. You let go and spread your arms, wide as that Dorothy Dickson, vast on

thehorizon. In that moment, he was alive, warm beneath your buttocks. You closed your eyes and

listened. The morse of his shoes clickity-clacking said enough.

Were free! Were almost there! You both shouted. You trusted him.Suddenly, in the heat of it all,

you slipped off the side. Before you could notice, the world around you began to spin.

You remember now. Your father caught you. What a sturdy man he was. His thick, safe arms

wrapped around you and his whiskered chin tickled your neck. You both laughed and laughed. Thats

all you remember about that rocking horse. Thats all you have time for.

$ $

0

Quickly bored of sifting through the drawers of the lacquered bureau in your fathers study, you take

a large swig of the ale you found in the cellar and plunk yourself into the red velvet chair. Through

the window, you watch the pedestrians briskingin the shadow tunnel that the towers have cast. At

the right time of day though, as they walk past your fathers cottage, a penetration is thrown upon

the street; a wondrous bubble of enlightenment; a perfect paradox of sunlightthrough the gap inthe towers. You notice the eyes of each figure crystallize as they enter your luminous, sun-drenched

pool. Upon their exit, you wonder if theyve changed; you wonder if theyve taken light with them;

you wonder if you will take the light with you when you leave.

Suddenly, a beat at the door.

Knock, knock.



Whos there?

Apple Computers.

You pause for a moment.

Apple Computers, who?

The door knocks again. You open it and find a tall, bland suit on the doorstep. It blinks and stares youup and down, then pulls a wide, pearlyteethed grin.

Good afternoon. I dont have much time, so Ill be blunt. Let me just leave you with this contract and

when youre finished you can mail it to the supplied address. Thank you, Sir. Have a wonderful day.

And off he went, with barely a breath of sincerity in his goodbye, you decide. And now you remain,

slouching in the dowdy doorway, the contract sitting stiff in your awkward pinch, weightier than the

average stack of paper. In the corner of the topmost sheet is a silver, wonky shaped circle, with a

bite missing and an odd, self-conscious leaf above it. Youd never perceived it this way. An apple?,

you sarcastically ask the house.

After skimming over the contract, you eventually find, beyond the uninterpretable legal jargon and

countless demands for impressions and initials, an offer, along with anx-digit figure, for your

fathers vast property. You return to the living room and plunk again, in the red velvet chair by the

window.

Now, with the setting of the sun, the ephemeral, light-casting gap between the towers is closing,

leaving only a whisper of a glow, flashing like enflamed bark. There is a glass framed painting on the

wall. Was that always there? You move in for a closer inspection. A dusky, dark blue background,

with a new moon, empty, followed by a waning crescent and the other phases, all circling one full

moon. You stand there, watching it, admiring, waiting for something to happen; quietly shining to

the quiet moon.

Suddenly, in the briefest of moments, you tilt your head and see a sliver of movement in the

reflection of the paintings glass. Itsonly you, tilting your head, but in instinct, you leap back,

frightened, flailing your arms. The painting is knocked from its hook and begins to fall, corner-first, to

the hardwood floor. You watch it slide down the wall like an angels hidden agenda, finally reaching

the fateful bottom where it splinters into a million faultless shards of glass.

* *

_

You bend down in a silent horror, to the painting you made in primary school when you were only

eight. You remember now; your father stuck it to the fridge. What is this? A folded white slip is

peeking out from behind the upturned picture. You draw it out slowly, like pulling off a painful band-

aid. You unfurl each piece with care. This is old. This is written in your fathers royal hand. It reads:



It was the happiest moment of my life, though I didnÆt know it. Had I known,

had I cherished this gift, would everything have turned out differently? Yes, if I

had recognized this instant of perfect happiness, I would have held it fast and never

let it slip away. It took a few seconds, perhaps, for the luminous state to enfold me,

suffusing me with the deepest peace, but it seemed to last hours, even years. In that

moment, on the afternoon of Monday, May 26, 1975, at about a quarter to

three, just as we felt ourselves to be beyond sin and guilt, so too did the world seem to

have been released from gravity and time. You were born. You should know that

your mother was not the girl that I immigrated here from England with.

Rather, she was an Aboriginal girl,Lua, with the most flowing, wondrous hair

that shone like the moon. She died that day, giving you life, and so I

havecommemorated her, through you. Always remember, like the moon,everythingÆs of cycles; let it come to you, and when it does, youÆll know what to do.

Your stance weakens. You listen to the overt silence, like television static, stinging your ears.

Again, you stare down at the broken glass, fragmenting your opaque reflexion. Your eyes

clear. Your lips calm. As the sun finally sets, the room darkens, deepening your reflexion. You

turn towards the now dark window, lift Apples contract to your fathers letter and raise

them above your head like a prosperous oblation. You take a BIC lighter from your pocket,

flick the flint with the corner of your coarse, callused thumb, and watch the spark tear from

the tip, launching itself at the papers, breathing life into them. The flames head emerges

from them in an instant, wailing like a newborn baby.

They burnnow;heat, at your naked feet. Their words coil in smoke from the pages, weaving

like a homemade sweater that was knitted by a Chinese child labourer, on a Japanese

sewing machine, designed by a German engineer, shipped there by a French plane, owned by

an American company, through the winds, older than Rome. You must remember, into the

waters of tomorrow, with just our memories and our love, we must plunge.

This is the next day of your life.

Word Count: 1684

The Next Day of Your Life, Bright Eyes

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