Fiction – The Saturnine

‘Look dad I don’t exist on your TV channel. I’m not in your life. I’m not the latest natural disaster. And stop predicting me in your weather forecasts.’

These are words that me Victoria, am rehearsing in my head for when I talk to dad next. I’m thinking how absurd my existence. I came into this world as nothing, and what father says about me on TV makes it worse. I will never be a low trough passing out to sea. Not a sink hole. I’m not an earthquake. They were caused by something. I’m no cause. I can’t remember what my mum has said about me. Maybe she hasn’t said anything. I don’t think I ever had a mum.

For a saturnine person like me there is only darkness after darkness; as it was and as it is to come. That’s a fancy word saturnine, isn’t it? Got it from Google. I feel good using it. Better than the ordinary gloomy. And when darkness comes, it comes together, outside of any Cause. That’s how it is, me alone, sitting in my flat, contemplating. I reckon I’m fighting a heavy slumber. I’m in slumber-land because I sleep a lot.

‘You’re not the cause of me, dad. You say you are, and I will convince you that you are wrong.’ I get up from my bed and look at my tattoos. The mirror’s down so I try the bathroom window. I’m getting a new one soon.

What other people tell me, and what I’ve read in books is bunkum. No brainwashing means no ‘what’s good for me’ words people say behind my back. All I do is remind myself I don’t need to know the big stuff anymore. I don’t need anyone.

Yesterday all I wanted to know was how to score a gross of grass to help me get through another night of supermarket shelf stacking. I’ve got rent to pay. And when I’m out of it and writing my poetry I’m a mellow person. And to me it’s the good stuff, urgent like Sylvia Plath. I work hard on emptying my mind and staying hungry like Knut Hamsun, and write. That’s all I really want to do.

‘Dad your cause troubles me because you say everything has a Cause.’ You know, a couple of religious people came knocking on my door awhile ago. They told me about their certainty of a perfect life after death. They said all who walk with them out of humanity’s sinful cause will reach eternal salvation. Their motive was to convert me into believing that everything has a Cause. I told them I didn’t care, I’ve still got my dad’s belief in me to sort out. To make peace I suggested we share some LSD laced weed. Strange that they didn’t hesitate. We smoked together and then they went all quiet. Soon after they left. I guess they had to leave because they were scared of finding their true selves in their hallucinations. I felt sorry for them. ‘Not you dad. I dread your addiction to me.’

By the way Dad’s a TV weekend weather seer who tells everyone my existence is a gift from Cause. He says he has one lovely child, and she is a gift to him and to the world. Even before I was a teenager, I kept telling my dad I’m uncaused. Mum was long gone. But all he does is go on TV every week and predict me, like I’m some atmospheric High. He’s even got a YouTube video, a Facebook page, and a Twitter account dedicated to what he has caused, his only daughter.

‘Dad, religious people say the lifeless Supreme Being they believe in is of and for itself, and from it there came everything else. But only what is found outside of nothing is the true Cause of everything. But all I worry about is what you’ve already said. And memories are the best thing for troubled folk like me. The trouble is dad, I am really uncaused, and what you say about me being some deep depression hovering near the coast is untrue. It’s hovering over me!’

I tell myself I have no father, no mother, no siblings and no genealogy. I do agree that this is difficult to prove because there are official records of me in a hospital and in the church where I was baptized; and there are pictures of me in my school yearbook.

‘Alright dad. I’m may not be able to absolutely deny you just yet. There is still evidence of me lying around. The religious school you sent me to nearly brainwashed me. They told me I had a mum and dad just like Jesus did. Look at my twisted face in the yearbook. Look at my face in the mirror. The two faces look the same, and I don’t believe you and the woman formerly known as mum made me look like them.’

I smoke some weed to soften my hard thinking. I want it to be hallucinogenic so I can see things. When I do that, like people do when they are praying, I bring up a thesaurus of doubt in me. It like psychedelically explodes in my head, telling me the insane reasons for my life. I don’t want to return to reality all upset like praying people do. Sometimes my grief is hallucinogenic.

Once I saw a stand of drunken people on a footpath and I wondered whether, if they floated above the ground, would they still stand together. I guessed they were religious because of the caring way each was propping the other up. And because of their mutual dependence, would their embarrassments leave them while floating in the air? I get all philosophical after I’ve had a few. And if they really were suspended in the air would they cause each other to remain upright? But there is nothing in the air which can cause them to stay upright. Only faith, but that would be ridiculous. It’s the dirty ground that causes them to float in the air. Filth is God’s gift to them, and yet they will not lie in it because they believe they were caused by Him.

I have to work toward a non existence because I believe I was never given it by anyone. A true giver can only give outside of everything, like God, which means God’s offspring have never done it right like they think they have. Only nothing can cause something, like the nothingness out of the marriage of light and darkness, or God’s Cause. I can’t have been caused by the man who calls himself my father and by the woman formerly known as my mother, even if she wanted to find me to say that she did.

When I call him next, and I’ll get him when he’s half asleep, I’ll try and convince him that I am forever uncaused, and he has no right to talk about me on TV the way he does, like he owns me or something. He’s got to understand that my mum doesn’t own me anymore and nor should he. And mom did it successfully, by leaving me when I was too small to cry.




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