But as I listened to the fierce notes, nothing happened. No images, no words and dare I say it, no feeling. I flinched at the staccato and wondered about the softer notes. Still, revelation was no more mine than that of one stuffed in their own blubbering ignorance without a clue as to how to cut themselves free.
Why could I not feel an F ?
I tense and my mind begins to move things, objects, people, buffeting them across the floor like a violent wind, and yet the air is still. How light, how silly they look, the shock on their faces, the hatred and fear in their eyes which a ghastly recognition sparks in them.
My head and arms burn. I dismantle the chest of drawers, just to show that I can do it, cheap wooden panels clattering neatly to the floor, screws flinging themselves in all directions. He does not notice. He must think that I am using a hammer.
With my father's back is turned, I take another step back and force the drawers back together again, retrieve the nails with my eyes and ram them into the panels.
At first he looks at me, then he realises that the chest of drawers are behind him, far from us both. Then there is a look, a paling of his face. He looks around at the drawers just as the last screw grinds into place. It is silly, this wobbling set of drawers, slightly lopsided having been ripped apart and thrown back together in seconds, but it is also real, and only the beginning. Disgruntled, yet betraying in his voice a shakiness, he says to me: "What happens now?"
Don't hurt him, I told myself, don't be tempted to imagine anything that might do him harm.
My palms tingling, I flatten my desire and turned away. My mind an awesome rebel, in possession of much too much power.
Why could I not feel an F ?
I tense and my mind begins to move things, objects, people, buffeting them across the floor like a violent wind, and yet the air is still. How light, how silly they look, the shock on their faces, the hatred and fear in their eyes which a ghastly recognition sparks in them.
My head and arms burn. I dismantle the chest of drawers, just to show that I can do it, cheap wooden panels clattering neatly to the floor, screws flinging themselves in all directions. He does not notice. He must think that I am using a hammer.
With my father's back is turned, I take another step back and force the drawers back together again, retrieve the nails with my eyes and ram them into the panels.
At first he looks at me, then he realises that the chest of drawers are behind him, far from us both. Then there is a look, a paling of his face. He looks around at the drawers just as the last screw grinds into place. It is silly, this wobbling set of drawers, slightly lopsided having been ripped apart and thrown back together in seconds, but it is also real, and only the beginning. Disgruntled, yet betraying in his voice a shakiness, he says to me: "What happens now?"
Don't hurt him, I told myself, don't be tempted to imagine anything that might do him harm.
My palms tingling, I flatten my desire and turned away. My mind an awesome rebel, in possession of much too much power.
